Fins to the Left, Fins to the Right

At about 10 years old, teachers, relatives and a few fast-tracking neurotic kids started asking me about what I wanted to be when I grew up.

In the fifth grade, we all were beyond the astronaut, President of the United States, superhero, and Radio City Rockette kind of answers. Following the mandatory presentations on puberty, and made hyper-aware of our impending adulthoods, our teachers and school nurse encouraged us to become more serious about future career choices based on what little we knew about the world and how it worked.

My best buddy Hailie had traveled to Nags Head, North Carolina over the summer and I had traveled to Homestead, Florida, over winter break. Returning home beautifully tanned and full of souvenirs and ramped up stories, we'd both become infatuated with and scared to death by the idea of man-eating sharks in the ocean. Jointly, based on our travels and subsequent anecdotes, we decided that we were going to be marine biologists.

As kids, we were confident enough to take the single thing that frightened us most, gave us the craziest nightmares, caused us to shriek in ponds and lakes when wading amongst plant material, and made us wear diving masks in chlorinated pools so we could see what was sneaking up on us, just in case...and make it the focus of our future career aspirations. I think back and I'm in awe. Really, do you miss those pre-teen attitudes and ideals where deliberate bravery, possible stupidity, and optimism ruled? I most certainly do.

When Hailie and I had library time at school, we raced to where the books on great whites, oceans, and Jacques Cousteau were held. We were Marine Biologists in training and everyone knew it. The cards in the back of those heavy, cerulean, glossy volumes had only two names, line after line, inscribed in loopy penciled script on the yellow date stamped rectangles of paper. Of course, they were mine and Hailie's. The grand plan between the two of us was to read and keep poring over and exchanging all the books. We figured we'd share information until we knew everything there was to know about the briny seas and all of their creatures. We also were anxious to learn how to deep sea dive and not get the dreaded "bends", which was a mammoth fear of ours. For our age and what we had available to us, we felt mildly successful. For example, we learned what colors not to wear in the ocean (red and silver, still useful to this day) and how to bop a shark on the nose if ever confronted unexpectedly (not sure how useful that would be).

To celebrate Easter 1980, I traveled to Connecticut with my parents, and several other family members, to the estate of my Great Aunt and Uncle. My Great Aunt did not work outside the home, though she worked long and hard inside the home, a large brick turn of the century colonial with 5 bedrooms and scads of bric a brac requiring endless dusting. My Great Uncle did not approve of his wife wearing pants; he grew and harvested all of his own pesticide free vegetables before organic gardening was trendy and proudly built airplanes as a vocation after having grown up poor during the depression. The two of them were childless and enjoyed entertaining a houseful of people. We were welcomed heartily upon arrival.

Dinner was served upon a beautifully appointed pastel linen and antique china bestowed table. The first question, after having said grace and being asked to pass the ham was "What are you thinking of doing when you grow up?" The gravelly voice boomed in my direction from my left where my Great Uncle held court, almost pulpit style. I gulped my milk down, wiped my mouth on my lace napkin, and said assuredly and declaredly "Marine Biologist." He chortled, took his fork and poking an air trajectory toward my face, declared that this was no career plan for a landlocked, upstate New York, silly little girl who was still taking Red Cross swimming lessons every summer. Our crowd giggled softly and passed the vegetables and potatoes. Embarrassed, I hung my head down, pushed my food around with immeasurable dejection, and barely ate anything that day. I'd had plenty of honest discussions about real life topics; my parents rarely sugarcoated things with me, but career goals were not routinely discussed and Hailie and I were just completing 3 solid months of successful shark study! I felt like he had tossed me off of a ledge into nothingness. Sitting on the floor next to a marble topped table for the rest of the afternoon, I listened to the adults argue about politics while I twirled Made in Occupied Japan dancing porcelain pixie figurines around under the watchful eye of my nervous Great Aunt who sat on the couch behind me, also seemingly sad and ignored. I might have left a hard boiled egg in the drawer of that cold hard table buried beneath some old TV Guides when she wasn't looking because my feelings were hurt and I had no other way to make that known.

The first time someone sharply and sternly tells you that you may NOT consider what you had hoped to achieve in life becomes a moment very hard to forget. Sadly, I also learned that day that people having an opinion about me that runs contrary to how I feel and calls into question my abilities and decisions does not make me love them measurably less, but it makes me love myself measurably less. It also makes me question everything I know that feels authentic and real. My Great Uncle's brash, abrupt statement about how I didn't deserve and had no right to my dreams would not, as you can imagine, be the last time someone brushed off my ideas and ambitions.

I wrote my first creative piece that year, assigned by my 5th grade teacher. The general gist of it was a treasure hunt myth of sorts plotted on a deserted island; but the real gold to be found in the groovy tropical tale was the inclusion of most of my classmates into the story. They absolutely and unexpectedly went wild for it. Being named in the tale was like being part of some fantastical fraternity of sorts. I was actually asked by some of my classmates, after it was read aloud, to please write a sequel, and write it fast. Kids gave me Pop Rocks, Turkish Taffy and stickers as bribes so that they might be main characters. I think I was bitten hard by the writing bug right then and there.

Three years later, I was invited to our local hospital as an eighth grader because I was testing exceptionally well in science, and the hospital wanted students my age to become oriented to hometown medical careers by visiting with doctors in a variety of disciplines. I recall being taken down to the morgue and seeing a horror show which led to the vivid realization that although medicine was intriguing, I absolutely did not want anything to do with the dead or dying. However, I also learned that I liked the hospital jobs which focused on the brain. Psychiatry, brain surgery, neurology, it all sounded exciting and I fancied the idea of being helpful to someone who had compromised gray matter. I dropped the writing as a career idea because I felt this made better sense. I knew doctors but I didn't know any writers.

Heading back to Connecticut for Easter in the Spring of 1983 I wore a pair of green pants with a matching striped Izod shirt knowing full well this might tweak my Great Uncle's sensibilities as he and my Great Aunt were probably expecting a smocked bodice dress and smart new shoes. Head held high, and ribbon barrettes blowing in the car window breeze, I was duly prepared for the career question. I felt so ready, and the anticipation of having a better answer to share made me giddy.

At the museum quality table, several minutes into dinner I had not been asked my burning question or acknowledged, so I enthusiastically piped up with my news about the hospital program which had, by then, met a half dozen times. My Great Uncle listened for about one minute, then noisily put his fork down, picked up his knife, and poked circles in the air across the table from my head and shoulders as he pronounced, silvery tip held aloft like a baton designed to perforate and masticate fantasies:

"Nurse. Teacher."

"That's what you'll choose from if you want to be a success" and then he moved along to other conversant topics like ways to save money and how the best strategy to keep blonde hair a youthful buttery yellow was to use the water from boiled green vegetables as a final rinse every day. People chewed and nodded. No one looked in my direction.

I'd been shut down again. This time, though, I spent the rest of the day wandering through the orchards and gardens in the back of the house. I had nothing left to say. No one seemed to mind. My parents, tired from the holiday and just wanting to get home with a long drive ahead, said nothing after my goals had been labeled as unachievable pipe dreams for the second time. Reading quietly on every car trip with my red dime store flashlight and never ending supply of books was normal behavior, so my silence wasn't a clue to them that what was said was bothering me.

The next day I wrote about my feelings in my diary. Nothing against nursing or teaching but they hadn't been on my radar since I was much younger and role playing at other kids' houses when we needed a game that everyone could relate to so we played "school" and "hospital". Ironically, I then gave up on and stopped attending the hospital program having lost confidence that neuroscience could possibly pan out.

We students took aptitude tests toward the very end of our tenure in middle school and mine showed promise for a few different things. Psychological sciences, communication arts, and...very specifically, deejaying! I remember focusing on the deejay possibility very closely when our grey and white bubble sheets were handed back to us. My 8th grade Guidance Counselor, a jolly bald guy with an affinity for pointy toed cowboy boots, big belt buckles, and gentle flirtation with all the single female teachers in the hallways, didn't seem to care what I focused on as long as I didn't bug him about it too often. Deejaying! Woo hoo! How had I not seen this? My favorite class was music appreciation! Every penny I had was spent on records and cassettes! I begged, borrowed and stole to get into every concert in town! I stayed up late at night behind my closed bedroom door in the dark waiting for the King Biscuit Flower Hour! I adored percussion but our band teacher wouldn't let girls play the drums and playing the triangle for the next few years didn't seem like a great use of my time so I had no musical talent to speak of but deejaying, hey! This was definitely a career I could excel at and learn to love.

That plan for my future lasted until my mother got wind of it and said, "No way." She encouraged me to read, learn and do my best but to leave the job title "on air personality at a radio station" in the dust. She was convinced I'd be bored and underpaid. Not knowing what to do or how to reconcile my chances for success along with what was on my bubble sheet, I continued loving music as a hobby but the microphone would stay silent, at least for me.

It took until my senior year of high school to even slightly figure things out. My mother suggested I  pursue becoming a lawyer. She said this because I argued with her and we agreed I was pretty adept at arguing. My father was as undecided as I was. All he knew was that I felt lost, which I think made him uneasy but also unwilling to suggest anything lest it be the wrong recommendation. We all knew a tremendous amount of money was going to be spent on college. No one wanted to be responsible for interjecting something that would eventually require rethinking, change, and additional stress. Then, like a flash of light, my senior year English teacher told me to write a book. (I think his exact words were "Write a damn book.") He encouraged me to continue with the pouring out of my guts;  lofty stuff I wrote for him despite it not ever seeing the light of day because it was far too controversial to be read in front of the class or sent home. Sharing life's tragedies and teenaged traumas in a public way were not what we did in the 80s, unless apportioned on paper, occasionally in rhyming pentameter, tucked away in the Trapper Keeper, fat red "A" in Sharpie marker within the margin.

I read and wrote non stop in college, receiving consistent praise from my poetry teacher and creative writing professor. My editing skills were honed by proofreading papers regularly for a few boys in my Psychology classes for eight semesters straight. In order to get my double major requirements fulfilled within those four years, I had to do two challenging independent study classes in Behavioral Psychology and Experimental Psychology where all I did was read textbooks and write papers proving what I'd learned from week to week. I was a scribing machine. However, as graduation loomed, I grappled my way toward a more lucrative career and put writing, at least as a profession, aside.

Do you write too? Do you fill notebook after notebook with drafts and scribbles and narratives and anecdotes and thoughts and quips and lists on napkins and ideas and scraps of paper? Do most of them end up in the garbage after years of being stored away in boxes in closets and under the bed? I feel you. Something happened though, this year, upon turning 50. Something broke hard and deep inside me and after all this time and all the waiting, I need to tell all the pieces of my stories. Desperate to let my characters breathe and determined to stop squelching my voice, I am working on finding and supporting that ten year old girl who took what she was most afraid of and made it into her career choice. I want to be her again.

Last week, I submitted a blog post to a magazine; a piece of recent and decent writing for them to consider. This is all new to me. I'm just trying to find my way. Hey, maybe they'll want to use me but I know it's a long shot. My Great Uncle, may he rest in peace, would probably tell me that a thousand other people submitted stories this week too. He'd tell me that quitting my job was careless in a way that he cold not possibly fathom. Plus, if he knew how much I spent on hair dye between 1989 and 2017 instead of pouring broccoli water over my head, he probably would have disavowed me on the spot, eating utensil in hand, gesturing and lecturing.

BUT...

Many people are conditioned to have lower expectations for what life has to offer.

Read that again.

Many people
are conditioned
to have lower expectations for what life
has to offer.

And I'm utterly done being one of those people.

And I might not be bopping sharks on the nose but I am looking fear in the face and telling it to bite me.

~ ~ ~

For your visual pleasure, below I have included some of my awesome drawings from 1980. Ha! See the shark? I am still in love with and scared shitless by them.

And I'll never lose my passion for the ocean and everything in it.

And I can't seem to stop starting sentences with the word AND. My apologies to the English professors, I sincerely extend.

Oh, good vibes about the magazine are appreciated, thank you so much...and thanks for reading what I write. I am grateful for the support, suggestions and kind words you have sent to me.

#1970s #1980s #sharks #marinebiology #fins #mushroomtumbler

The Hip Hooray and Bally Hoo...or..."Musical Compatibility"

Did you ever take one of those love quizzes?

I'm sure someone has asked you, at some point, to list what attributes you find most attractive in a potential mate.

What stymies me is that almost never does a quiz or questionnaire offer a check-box for musical compatibility, when really, this deserves some careful consideration.

Starting with sense of humor, followed by desire to put me on a pedestal (I mean, let's be honest, here), I'd give love of music the next most prominent spot on the list. I mean, if you're serious about someone you are basically stepping into the longest car ride of your life. Do you really want to fight over the channel?

It used to be easy to eliminate guys who weren't for me; all it took was a 10 minute look at their music collections. Those enterprising teenaged boys who joined Columbia House under the name of every family member, including the dog, for the sake of getting multiple stabs at those 13 records and tapes? Well, they were definite contenders for companionship.

My musical persnickity-ness started young. I remember one kid in particular who sort of invited me to the movies when we were 13. I was heading home from my summer job and saw him half waving as I pedaled by his big front porch. I stopped, he invited me to sit, and we talked about the movies for a minute, nervously planning an afternoon out at the mall. He then flipped over a cassette which had been silent, pressed play on his boom box and ran inside to grab a newspaper. Out came some whirly swirly tune which seemed mildly but irritatingly familiar. Surreptitiously taking a look at the plastic cases he had left stacked on the horizontal porch railing I saw a total of five; all Peter Gabriel era Genesis, which made me squint as though microphone feedback were imminent. More than a few minutes of extended length prog-rock jazzy jamming makes me want to tear my ears off. As the kid bounded back down the steps, enthusiastically spouting off movie times, I faked mononucleosis and saw Stroker Ace with a different dude the following week.

Different dude and I both heartily agreed after seeing the film that it was crap, which added a little tread to the ol' compatibility tire, but, as you can imagine, musical trouble was just around the corner. We were sticking uncomfortably in our nylon Dolphin running shorts to his Mom's Versailles-styled plastic covered ivory brocade couch, listening to the latest Police release, the almost perfect Synchronicity. I'd enjoyed the album at least a dozen times previous to that day and loved it all except for the song  "Wrapped Around Your Finger", which then began to play.  A self-professed 'huge' Police fan, he looked at me and blankly stated, "I will turn your face to alabaster." Raising an eyebrow, I said, "What?" unsure about this weird lyrical suggestion. Then he sighed and slowly and methodically professed, "best line ever" and...poof, like Sting knocking over a candlestick, the flame, for me, was extinguished. I knew this 'colossal fan' had barely given Andy, Sting and Stewart a listen based on that pronouncement. I mean THAT's the song? And the BEST lyric? Good God, I can think of four songs on Outlandos d'Amour alone that are better than this odd, mythically peppered tune about power dynamics. Oh well, I thought, peeling my thighs off the vinyl coverlet, too bad. He was cute, too.

Another boyfriend had played a lead role in all of the musicals offered at his high school. Not knowing him well because he was from a neighboring town, I simply assumed our constant and repeated listening to Carol Channing's "Hello Dolly" was because Horace Vandergelder needed to learn and memorize all his songs. Then, months after the play, and with Dolly successfully packed away, his family opened their Olympic sized swimming pool complete with perfectly piped surround sound. I was so excited because I couldn't wait to lay my towel down and stretch out under the hot sun, strumming my fingers on the wet concrete to all kinds of anticipated popular music. I pictured some Journey, maybe some Boston, and definitely U2's new album, The Joshua Tree. On the inaugural day of the family pool opening, I sprinted through the sun room and onto the pool deck first, leaving him behind so that he could deejay. He came out to join me, super happy in his striped Alexander Julian swimsuit, and next thing you know, 42nd Street comes playfully tap tap tapping out of the speakers. What is happening? Ok, I love musical theatre as much as, or in actuality, way more than, the average person, but really? Could we listen to something that doesn't involve a full orchestra and shuffling off to Buffalo as I gulp down my Clearly Canadian? After an entire day of him rhythmically tossing his moussed hair back and forth and snapping his oily Coppertone fingers to "We're in the Money" on a never ending loop, I risked getting kicked out of the theatrical poolside retreat by starting to complain about the lack of musical variety and rolling my eyes (although they were behind my darkest Wayfarers). I also inadvertently pissed him off by repeatedly singing the Milford Plaza commercial lyrics over top of the "Lullaby of Broadway".  Finally, when I threatened to drown myself if I had to listen to "I Only Have Eyes for You" one more time, he went inside and returned with his brother's 5150 disc, (which, to me, will always be a Van Hagar production) proclaiming that it was THE BEST Van Halen album ever. Ack! Blasphemer! That's pretty much the day I knew we were doomed.

Nowadays, I hope if you're single and mingling, that you get to date someone with a Sirius XM radio subscription, because even though you're probably not going to get your hands on that person's phone to look at his or her iTunes, and almost no one under the age of 30 has a physical music collection, you can at least see, when you enter their vehicle, what stations they have preset. This can tell you quite a lot about a person. For example, if you are a Hair Nation girl and his preset number 1 is Prom Radio, you'll want to have a little chitty chat about this.

My beloved spouse enjoys his music and when time allows, pens lyrics that resemble a Morrissey/Toby Keith hybrid of sorts...picture a brooding, emotionally isolated cowpoke. Anyway, I do love that we were musically compatible right from the start. When he got into my car the first time, he picked up two heavily scratched silvery circles off my console, both soundtracks to popular Quentin Tarantino movies. He squinted at them, shrugged and said, "These look good" . He didn't flinch when I cranked Link Wray as high as I could and when I got into his, he had Alanis Morrissette's Jagged Little Pill playing. A guy who tolerates my music and listens to alt rock songs wailed disparately by a jilted and angst-ridden girl? I predicted endless possibility for empathy there (good call - to this day that suspicion rings true). My cassette collection does not bother him, nor do my bags upon bags (upon bags) of CDs or the 15,000 songs I've downloaded on my iPods or my regular splurge of 10 additional songs per week. My propensity toward every genre no matter how obscure flies just fine with him as long as he gets his Brantley Gilbert and Zac Brown fixes. I always ask him what he wants to hear and about half the time he comes up with a suggestion. The other half, he tells me to play whatever I want, as long as it's not sensational songstress Streisand which we've agreed that I only play when he is out of the house because he can't do Babs. This, my friends, is love.

I have a physical therapist working with my shoulder right now who says she has no favorite song, no favorite band, no favorite album. She admits to not recognizing, ever, who sings what by hearing it on the radio positioned near her table in the medical practice. She says she just knows if she likes the song or not. She does not hum. She does not sing along. I can't help humming and singing along, even when she is yanking the snot out of me.

I wonder how she knows who to go out with and whether she will be compatible with the guys she dates. At first, I leave her feeling a bit of motherly worry, like, she is missing so much! But then I wonder if maybe I could have been a physical therapist if I had room for something in my head besides singers, song lyrics and band names. Eh, just kidding. I'll take the music.


~ ~ ~

Thank you for reading this blog.
My readership is actively growing.
I am currently looking for a publisher or a gig writing for The Goldbergs, my favorite show.
Chuck Klosterman are you out there?
Adam F. Goldberg, do you need a contributing writer?

#1970s #1980s #chuckklosterman #42ndstreet #hellodolly #siriusxm #adamfgoldberg #thegoldbergs #mushroomtumbler

Art for Nostalgia's Sake

My beloved junior high art teacher, Mrs. Eleanor Rowland, used to routinely ask, "WHAT IS ART?" 

I was doing online research for mushroom tumbler yesterday and came across this pair of prints. I admit, I squealed like a child in the midst of a sugar rush upon seeing them. I even did a happy dance, fist pumping and butt shimmying (while sitting on the couch in my rough and tumble bathrobe, not sure it was my finest moment). 

This exact set adorned the walls of my best chum's bedroom when we were kids and I was overjoyed when they appeared magically before me. It was like running across two old colonial friends! They are 1970s Sears and Roebuck primitive prints and I, at the time they hung on my friend's wall, thought they were the absolute highest pinnacle of home décor. 

Elated, I quickly sent my bosom buddy the link to the page on which they were being offered for sale along with a quip and my memory. She replied, "I vaguely remember something like this. Are you sure? Why would my mother put such weird art in our house?"

And then her mother chimed in by saying, "I think she is right, though they are creepy."

With my hand twitching aloft the mouse, wanting to click and remit my 35 dollars plus shipping because I was captivated, I felt awash with joy; these prim and proper faces transported me right back to 1978. So, I expressed this purchase plan to my friend, and she exclaimed, "DO NOT!" (along with an emoji which looked like it was in pain).

And therein lies the difference between me and others (read: normal people). 

I am one hundred percent lured, roped in, and suckered by nostalgia.

I really want those pictures. 

I still might buy those pictures...

despite the fact that my husband will freaking flip AND I have no place to put them. 

"But honey", (as I tear open the cardboard box and moths fly out) "it's ART!"

Is art, strictly for nostalgia's sake, art? What if just looking at it brings me throwback joy, Mrs. Rowland? 

As common as these prints are, as out of style as they may be, and as weird as I am for feeling entranced by and desiring them, I think my junior high teacher would back me up on this. 

As Mrs. Rowland used to preach, "ART reflects what is IMPORTANT to us!" 

Encouraging our ever-developing imaginations, she would peer over the top of her smoky lenses at what we were creating, murmuring "very goods" and "mmm hmmmms". With her mellow countenance, a classic ash blonde up-do held securely in place by a hipster tooled leather barrette, and an ever-present monstrously large copper bib style necklace, she neither grossly flattered nor harshly corrected anything we created. That's a recipe for conflict-free art with teenagers, for sure. 

She'd have us sit with our eyes closed at the start of class to imagine what we were about to put down on our blank canvases. I still routinely practice that visualization technique today. 

"Aaaaahhhhhrt." she stressed. "It's whatever is important." 

As I think of my family's domain, it occurs to me that my parents never changed what art had been initially arranged, once placed and straightened accordingly. Our interior décor was not fixed according to whim, modified seasonally or altered in keeping with what was popular. It just was.

I think again of Mrs. Rowland, who said ART reflects what is IMPORTANT to us. Therefore, is art which reflects what we love noticeable within today's homes? Is nostalgia, because it's not trendy, actually reflective of what we love but...going by the wayside in favor of HGTV style refurbishments?

Does what hangs on your walls, enhances your tables, and prettifies your nest say something about what is cherished in your life? I think it does. Whomever enters your dwelling undoubtedly sees objects which bring you joy. I just love a house full of stories and memories. 

With my eyes shut, in a room by room scan, I am now thoughtfully cataloging each wall of my childhood home. A host of artful images is coming to mind. I haven't thought about some of this stuff in over 30 years. Alternately joyful and sorrowful on this emotional tour, I'd like you to come along. 

Upon setting foot in our entryway, you'd see it decorated with several small pineapple prints and figurines; pineapples being the universal symbol for welcome. Our living room had a nautical theme, each piece of art handpicked by my mother in a very deliberate way. Paintings of boats sailing in rough waters, a ships wheel clock and a map of Cape Cod, Massachusetts stand out very clearly in my mind. Mom covets the Cape, so our living space reflected her desire to be surrounded by that which brought her delight. 

Our kitchen art consisted of glossily framed finger paint animals from my preschool years. My rooster was all red and angry next to our avocado colored refrigerator. The dining room walls held large canvases; mellow saffron sunflowers and bold white daisies in front of weathered old graying barns, juxtaposing both new and timeless beauty shoulder to shoulder. Our upstairs hall contained two antique pieces, a faded picture of the founding fathers signing the Declaration of Independence; and a black eagle spreading its colonial wings above its branch and arrow grasping talons, safely guarding our manor. 

My bedroom featured richly hued needlepoints lovingly crafted by my mother, along with a few Ziggy (the little bald white guy donning an orange sweater along with his dog, often pictured making the best of being rained upon for some reason) posters and, eventually, my favorite rock and rollers. I also had a primary colored rainbow that, when unfurled, measured 5 feet wide and took three tall teenagers to hang. My parent's bedroom boasted our family photos, my K through 6 school pictures, and a small reminder which spelled out house rules (if you drop it, pick it up...etc.). These were the things that were of value, collectively, to us. None of it, aside from my Ziggys and my rainbow, was trendy. None of it. 

We had a den which showcased vivid and beautiful wildlife photos from a local photographer who routinely sold prints at our town's annual summertime art festival. They flanked our satin black wood burning stove aside a gargantuan picture window facing our backyard. Our den was a room for contemplation, watching nature, and stillness. It was also a wonderful space for rainstorms, and snow days because the space had an out of doors feeling while offering cozy and restful protection. 

My home today is a reflection of all that I love. My "art" is eclectic, maybe a bit cluttered and I presume nothing I own would be featured in a spread about color scheme or proper ornamentation but I dig it. I hope your "art" brings you a waterfall of warmth, and fond remembrance for all that was and is good in your life. If not, maybe throw a little nostalgia here and there. 

P.S. After I finished writing this, I Googled Eleanor Rowland and found her obituary. She only died one year ago. May she forever rest in peace. 

Finally, please take a moment and shine a spotlight on local artist Eric D. Crisler who travels the outdoor Northeast on a daily basis capturing photographs of wildlife both in action and at peace. I have a print of his on my wall. It's only a few years old but because I have known Eric for 38 years it's certainly sentimental. I have included some of his photos, with permission, just in case you wish to contact him and buy something you love for your wall. (You can find his business on Facebook by searching his name.) 

#1970s #1980s #artclass #eleanorrowlandartist #ziggy #mushroomtumbler

Silver Sisters

"Your growth is showing. Did you make an appointment to go to the salon?"

"No. I refuse to dye my hair any longer. I am intentionally going gray." 

"But you're so young!"

Do those sentences give you any sort of reaction? 

Do you automatically assume those conversing are women?

I know I would have.

Men go gray and become distinguished. 

Women go gray and people's reactions are very mixed. 

Why is this?

In fact when aging men dye their hair, they are sometimes subjected to ridicule. 

Why?

When you think of gray haired women, do you have any overriding images?

Do you think of your grandmother, if you were lucky enough to have known her? 

Do you think of feminists protesting against the patriarchy?

Do you think of matronly cat ladies who are "letting themselves go"?

Do you think of celebrities starting new trends by dying their hair purply silver?

Or do you think Jane Fonda who recently sat in a colorist's chair for 7 hours to get her real color back for the Oscars so that she, presumably, can appeal to an even broader audience of women?

Whew! 

Maybe you just think, hey, she's embracing her authentic self. 

That's what I'm going with.

That's me holding the phone. I am 50 and I am gray. It's been a righteous journey.

I started seeing gray hairs, I think, when I was in my 30s; tough to tell because I had been adding color to my hair in one way, shape, or form, since I was thirteen and in the 9th grade. I had spray in colors, temporary dyes, glitters, metallic mousses, and more. Anything I could get my color starved hands on, I'd put in or on my hair. 

I had professional help in college when the cherry coke color craze hit my campus in the late 1980s, courtesy of all the hip and fashion forward Long Island girls. I, too, wanted a dark brown dye with pomegranate overtones. A birthday present from my father, he booked me a visit at a Paul Mitchell salon for that look where the tip alone was more than 50 dollars. I left the chair, sprayed on my Designer Imposter version of Dior's Poison perfume, yanked on my black studded Zodiac cowboy boots and boom! It was a Cher in Moonstruck look. 

When glam metal bands like Motley Crue and Guns n Roses became a monumental phenomenon I got my crazy curls frosted by a cap wielding wizard, named Sandy or Candy or Brandy, I can't remember which. I left the salon, cranked up my car stereo, pulled a single large gleaming cross earring out of the pocket of my white fringed leather jacket and hit the road, dizzy from the joy of a hot new look...and possibly hairspray fumes. My boyfriend had an internship at the coolest local radio station and got free tickets and backstage passes to everything that swung through the area. Between his long black hair and Drakkar Noir and my fresh frosty 'do and Exclamation, we were ebony and ivory, a deliciously olfactible pair. One night after a show, Jason Bonham offered to sign my clavicle, but I think the heir apparent to Bonzo, who was clearly working on growing his own rock and roll mane, just wanted to get a close up look at my wintry crowning glory. 

After a few years of choosing colors not found in nature, I started sensing that my hair was wearing me instead of me wearing my hair; plus a trusted advisor (well, I'm not sure how much I trusted her but she had a real career) told me if I was going to get a decent job after college I needed a more delicate look. A demure look. A hire me because I am not out until 2 am drinking Bacardi look. So I got a chin length bob, colored light brown.

Then, when the great paying highly coveted job didn't work out the way I'd hoped despite having that perky lil' Debbie Gibson look, I shaved it all off, or, rather, paid a beauty school student to shave it off. In addition to just about scalping me, the eighteen year old amateur colorist attempted to dye the remaining stubble pink (her idea...I was just along for the cheap and tawdry ride at that point). The dye didn't take on my hair but it did adhere beautifully to my scalp and gave me a jumbo Easter egg look.

Upon driving home, alternating between hysterical laughter and heinous wailing every time I caught a glimpse of myself, I also saw that the pink tint had dribbled and dripped down and stained the sides of my neck but good. There was no scrub in my bathroom (or possibly the universe) that could get it off. The next day at work my boss told me I looked as if I'd been bludgeoned (her exact words.) She also quietly but energetically moved me from the front counter where I'd been interacting with the public (I worked in an office) to the very back of the room. I didn't care. I was secretly pleased to have been able to listen to my Red Hot Chili Peppers CD without anyone bothering me, grooving at my desk chair like a headphone wearing Funky Monk (track four on Blood Sugar Sex Magik). 

Hair color was amusing to me because I could alternate my look on a whim. For me, it was like changing costumes backstage in a play...ahem...in the next scene I will be playing Marion the Librarian...please queue the cat eyed glasses and the blonde pageboy! But then when the gray became quite pronounced and I started coloring purely to conform to societal norms of what was young and pretty, I began buying boxed color and dying at home. If you've never had to do this, consider yourself lucky. It penetrates your nose like a nasal spray made of ammonia and daggers, the gloves in the box made to protect your skin are sized to fit Jiminy Cricket and you'd better be damn sure not splatter it on the walls or any porous surfaces, like towels or clothing. I hated every stinky, hand cramping, collar ruining minute of it and when all was said and done, my hair, but for all the effort, didn't look that snazzy either. 

Once I became able to afford it, I went to the salon and had it dyed - a two step process of root coloring and foil bleaching. I admit, it looked amazing but after 19 years of that I just decided to stop cold turkey. First, I had a horrifyingly bad color experience, then a growing lack of resources, increasing sensitivity to chemicals, and a chronic illness so I just quit it all and never looked back.

It's been two and a half years of silver growth and I am ecstatic about how it looks. I've honestly never felt more beautiful. As a bonus, I joined a new community of online silver sisters who are the most bad assed beauties. We are taking back our authenticity, our natural sparkly silver colors, our ideas of what it means to age beautifully and gracefully. These ladies have taught me that hair color is only one piece of reclaiming our true and beautiful selves. Some of them have lost their hair due to medical treatments and when it grew back silver they decided to just love what is. I am learning a lot from all of their examples; there are so many brave middle aged women in our group enjoying new adventures. They're quitting jobs that no longer serve them and going after more joyful means of making money. They are unearthing and embracing ideas that they have had but somehow put aside all their adult lives. They're stepping out of relationships that no longer serve or support them. They're being more creative through art and words and song. I am so grateful to be a part of it all. 

My newest silver sister girlfriend is Silvana Bishop. A chanteuse, she sings from the heart, records herself in harmony, and puts her side by side style videos on YouTube. English is not her mother tongue so not only is she taking a chance baring her soul for the world but she is performing in another language. I love her spirit. I love her intrepidness. I love her voice. I love that she started showcasing her talent once she went gray and genuineness just came pouring out of her. If you want to see what embracing your natural hair color can inspire you to do next, look no further than Silvana.

P.S. I'm not sure if my You're Such a Lovely Audience We'd Like to Take You Home blog post inspired her but I'd like to think so. This is her latest cover. 

Enjoy. 

#1970s #1980s #Bonham #goinggray #silversister #silverhairsupport #silverfoxy #rhcp #janefondagray #redhotchilipeppers #motleycrue #gunsnroses #mushroomtumbler

New Profile Picture

A fellow blogger told me not to put your picture, facially speaking, on your blog.

I'm not sure what the rationale is but I did put my hand and my photo bombing flip-flopped foot on it today.

My old profile photo was an apple in my lap; first, because I like the image but also the nonsensical phrase "apple in the lapple" (which is what I thought when taking the photo) makes me smile.

Anyway, the blue mug in my hand in the new photo is a favorite of mine. I use it a lot when I don't feel like doing things. Inspiration comes in the oddest of places. Like, if I ever get to be a writer of books and someone asks me, "What inspires you?" I get to say, "My mug." Then they'll stop asking me questions, I suppose.

I really just wanted to thank you this morning for reading my words. I check my google produced "stats" every day like a teenaged dreamer and they are growing...a lot...especially for a blog with a weird-assed title that people are probably not googling on the random.

And because the blog post wouldn't be sufficiently mine without a little music, I also wanted to tell you that I listened to Led Zeppelin for a long while yesterday. They are one of my go to bands when I need a kick in the pants. I was bratty and ridiculous and lazy yesterday but then I heard When the Levee Breaks and I cried. I cried because if it keeps on raining the levee's going to break and that made me think...if the numbers keep increasing on this blog the book needs to come. Then, for the legitimately real first time since 1986, when I was told by my English teacher, a man who did NOT give praise to kids, to WRITE A DAMN BOOK...I am going to try.

Thank you from the bottom of my guts for making it rain over here on the levee. And proper thanks and praise to Kansas Joe McCoy and Memphis Minnie for first writing and recording When the Levee Breaks in 1929, about the great Mississippi flood of 1927.
I was unceremoniously copied and ripped off by another blogger once, so I know how it feels to be screwed by someone you trust. Giving proper citation and credit is important to ethical writers.
Led Zeppelin absolutely gave credit where credit was due to Kansas Joe McCoy and Memphis Minnie in the liner notes of the Runes album or the Zoso album or Led Zeppelin IV...or whatever you call it in your house.

And look! I'm learning to insert videos! Woo hoo!

Peace out! ←My friend Pamma Jamma says that all the time. She's got it on her license plate. We love her for it.

#ethicalwriting
#dontstealmyshit
#everypoetisathief
#theleveesgoingtobreak
#ledzeppelin
#kansasjoemccoy
#ledzeppeliniv
#memphisminnie
#mushroomtumbler

Come Meet your New Sister at The Penny

In the 1980s, orientation of college freshmen was quite a contrast with what goes on today. In my day, I arrived a full week prior to the beginning of classes to get used to all that was new - location of classes, eating in the dining hall, quarter driven laundry facilities, and where to buy all my textbooks, 3x5 notecards, folders, and notebooks (there were no computers, folks!). At-risk students were cared for an entire month prior, carefully taking zero-credit primers for college and meeting regularly with counseling staff so that they got off on the right foot.

After the moving in, which consisted of: posters for the wall; two suitcases (one of which held shoes); a Columbia backpack, which would be for carting books but was at that time full of personal hygiene items and makeup; my well worn yet well loved 8th grade boom box and my purse, we were thrown into two full days of carefully orchestrated orientation activities, some of which were helpful and most of which were fluff. The part of early arrival I liked most was the opportunity, as a brand new freshman, to find some friends and start creating a social circle before getting down to the brass tacks of book learning.

Upon arrival I found an orientation packet on my bare mattress. I'd been assigned a big sister named Karen. A female mentor of sorts; she was an upper classman who'd kindly volunteered for the role. Her duty as assigned was to be available to me in a one on one capacity should I need any help adjusting during the first week. I was given her full name, major, and room location. Then it was up to me to find her if I wanted to.

Karen was an orientation leader so I bumped into her on day two without having to seek her out. Most of the orientation leaders acted as though they'd multiple pots of strong coffee; there was so much yelling and dancing and jumping in order to prove to us how much fun we were going to have at college, but Karen was reservedly chill in her approach. Looking around at those clowning and leaping about, she presented her points about how to be a successful note taker quite succinctly and without any unnecessary cheerleading. During the required introduce yourself in a circle exercise, she heard my name and after she was done with the notetaking information blitz, sat next to me on the grass. Down to earth and self assured in her popped collar black Izod shirt and armfuls of colorful woven friendship bracelets, she sized me up, asking a few pointed questions. Finding the answers apparently suitable, she invited me to come to her room the following day. She lived in one of the many (carved up) Victorian style homes on campus and I was dying to go inside one as I lived in a sterile five story dormitory with all the rest of the freshman. She said I could meet her house sisters and learn about what they, as junior class members, were all about. I didn't feel like I needed mentoring but I wholly looked forward to making friends who had some expertise about college survival.

On day three of orientation week, I went to Karen's room. She and three of her sisters were lounging about, smoking cigarettes and day drinking. I was completely surprised by this since throughout the course of orientation there were almost no overt references to room gatherings of this type. Karen was so relaxed she seemed medicated. Her door was wide open, there was no fear of anyone walking by and "busting" them like the highly caffeinated orienteers warned about, they had Bad Company playing on the stereo and my presence made no ripples.

No one got up, so I just went in and sat on the side of a nicely made bed. I saw lots of photographs, and noted their huge shag carpet remnant, suggesting there would be a lot more floor sitting and casual gathering going on in there. Karen introduced me around the room.

The first girl I first met was Karen's roommate Lissa, overly dressed for the occasion. I later learned that she suited up like she was heading to work in Manhattan no matter what time or day of the week it was. She was always outfitted in heels (every.single.day.), super tight pencil skirts, long jewel toned blazers with contrasting pocket squares, a full face of heavy, almost theatrical, makeup and mountains of shoulder pads. She had been blessed with thick, shiny black hair as evidenced by her family photos but she had bleached it during her college years to a jarringly brassy blonde. It was sprayed and teased in true Bon Jovi style, bangs reaching for the sky and the rest of it reaching halfway down her back in a woolly convergence of overly processed curls. Although she was the quietest, by sheer appearance she drew the most attention.

Karen's other friends hanging out in the room were Chrissy and June. They were a rather tall and very short dead ringer for one another. Coca Cola rugby shirt and jean wearing mulleted besties, both dating suitemates in one of the more large and modern dorms, they finished each other's sentences and pantomimed as though they were constantly responsible for entertaining kindergarten children while speaking.

Karen, Lissa, Chrissy and June were all elementary education majors. When I asked about their confidence in their major of choice, they all groaned. They talked about how difficult is was going to be to get jobs when they were done with school. They talked about having to have reliable transportation to make it to their student teaching experiences had proved difficult. They talked about how teacher pay sucked and how they'd need to find roommates (or husbands) before graduation in order to be able to afford both an apartment and the expense of attending graduate school part time in order to fulfill our state's new Masters degree requirements.

I felt uneasy listening to their words and worried about my future before school had even begun.

Two of the four had those initially super sounding suitemate boyfriends. But then Chrissy lamented how crappy their relationships were and how they had to constantly chase these guys down to get them to pay a smidgen of attention to them. June cataloged and gesticulated as though she had a large invisible list in front of her about how the boys' basketball practices and games, dorm parties, and, later in the evenings, their jobs at a local beer distribution center were their true priorities; their schoolwork came in a distant fourth. The girls, who appeared to have been with these guys a while, didn't even register on this 'list'. The two of them exchanged knowing glances and physically reached out, during what I perceived as their glum cautionary tales, touching each other's knees while reassuring one another with 'uh huh' and 'oh I know' as though this shoddy rapport cheerless sorority of sorts was all they expected and deserved.

Now I was distressed about both my educational choices and the availability of a decent future boyfriend.

Lissa placidly and tactfully followed their tales of woe by explaining that she was newly engaged and her fiancé also lived on campus. They hailed from the same hometown and would both return there to become teachers at schools they'd already picked out. Their lives, at the tender age of 20, were thoughtfully planned. They were an anomaly.

Karen, completely nonplussed by any of what had been shared, seemed to like the idea of not being tied down. She used her speaking turn to count the many different guys she'd gone out with over the years, unimpressed by the lot of them. As their names and attributes were mentioned, the other three girls would make comments, mainly about what idiots they all were. There was a lot of genuflecting and ceiling pointing, particularly by Chrissy and June, and giving thanks to God as they exhaled grandly and stubbed out their cigarettes, that Karen didn't submit to lifelong companionship with any of these losers. Karen then concernedly warned me to be wary of the senior guys because freshman girls were easy targets for them. I wasn't sure I totally understood what she meant by targets but I took her warning and later that day passed it on to my dormmates with my eyes bright and my arms, newly inspired, moving wildly about with this bit of advice.

The four girls were heading to a local bar that night and invited me to come along. Not knowing them well enough to be in a position of assuming a ride, I asked if I could meet them there and bring along some other freshmen. They basically told me that this was fine as long as they weren't inexperienced goofballs (in other words, don't embarrass us). I was assured that no identification, fake or otherwise, would be needed. The bar was not known for checking such things. Also sensible footwear was recommended as the bar floor was old and syrupy and sticking to it while standing was an absolute inevitability.

That evening, I, along with five other freshmen girls, made our way out to to find Karen and her friends. The bar was a couple miles from campus, which surprised me, but we came upon it without any problem. A dark, modest place, the sheer loudness made up for what it lacked in size. It was packed with students. There was a retro style jukebox, with pulsing colorful tubes of pink and green light, terribly large for the space in which it was situated. The bar itself was a work of art with a surface comprised of copper pennies. Over the course of that evening I saw more than one wall eyed patron with his nose pressed against it trying to read their dates or perhaps just resting amidst their rusty glow.

The songs which the colossal and colorful jukebox spit out were all of the singalong variety and if you didn't sing, people would move away from you as though you had a social disease. We'd been there about twenty minutes and became inundated by senior guys (good warning, Karen) as we tucked into a small spot near the music. Duly prepared for this swarm of weirdness, I was polite and smiled at the guys who were crowding me but I kept cupping my ears saying "WHAT? I can't hear you!" and eventually they just drank their beers and stood among us. When Mony Mony, remade by Billy Idol, came blasting out of the speakers directly behind me I flinched and spastically spilled part of my drink on my hand and the floor. The seniors standing in our midst started hurtling and hollering the testosterone laden chants about getting laid while throwing their fists in the air and as we freshmen focused amongst each other, it became clearer as to what Karen's warning, thoughtfully reinforced with a pointed look every time she walked by us, was about. We huddled closer to protect our feet from being landed upon and our sneakers glutinously cemented floorward.

The other hot songs I remember from that night were Paradise by the Dashboard Light (which I knew by heart, sang while standing on a rickety wooden table, and was therefore ceremoniously lauded for), Sweet Caroline, We Are the Champions, and Brown Eyed Girl. I think we may have heard each of those titles a half dozen times that night. Even if you arrived not knowing the words, you at least knew the all the choruses by the time you left.

I wore my baggy, torn acid washed jeans, a white long sleeved tshirt with a surfer scene on it and an oversized Brooks Brothers men's oxford in purple and white stripes, unbuttoned. I also remember white slouchy socks and Keds that were bleached more than once after seeing their scuzzy surfaces in the daylight later the next day. No one dressed up to go out. We were strictly comfort driven back then.

Lucky for us, we all arrived back at the dorm arm in arm, completely unscathed after our first big night out. My new roommate's two friends were less fortunate. One of them was hooked like a fish by a fist pumping senior who ignored her the rest of the semester after sharing his bed with her. The second got in a ketchup fight with a girl from another college after one too many rum and Cokes. (The ketchup fight story is rather vivid in my mind because she came back to the room I shared with my roommate instead of her own, rolled herself in my white eyelet comforter without undressing and was snoring on the floor by the time I returned. Nice manners.) Both of these girls had already been on campus a month. Part of that orientation should have probably included how to successfully navigate the bar scene.

I went to 'The Penny' on only three other occasions that semester, setting foot in it for the very last time during November of freshman year. The walk back to campus seemed too long after standing and singing and, let's face it, drinking for hours. The drive back to campus was impossible for the same reason. I heard rumors about a few student DUIs that year, with police cruisers rightfully parked on the street between the bars and the schools. My big sister Karen and her friends remained friendly to me, and I ended up very briefly dating the other suitemate of Chrissy and June's beaus that October. He, just like they predicted, paid absolutely no attention to me.

Thinking back, the very tender beginning of college has the potential to set the tone for the rest of a person's scholastic endeavors. I am glad that I was exposed to these people right off the bat. In their own ways they helped me avoid a few potholes and decide what was right for me. When I hear about my friends' children, some of them freshman right now and having a difficult time, I want to tell them it'll all be okay, but will it? Do they have big sisters to tell them who to stay away from? Are they being glommed onto by the wrong kind of people? Are they uncomfortable saying no to things that they suspect aren't right for them? Is their group of new friends savvy enough to not let things get out of hand? Are they grown up enough to handle this stuff on their own? Do they have enough experience from high school to not be labelled inexperienced goofballs?

I think of Karen and hope she found something in life to light her fire. I think of Lissa who presented as one hundred percent sure of everything. I wonder if all the things she and her fiancé worked to achieve came to fruition with staying power. I think of Chrissy and June, who over the course of their remaining two years, fawned, cajoled and kowtowed to those two guys who never treated them like anything more than a pesky extra appendage. June did marry her boyfriend two weeks after graduation, or so I heard. I wonder if he even realized what she was planning. I pray that he grew to appreciate her. I also hope Chrissy found happiness being who she is without needing the occasional approval of a guy she ran laps around but who could hardly have cared less.

Ahhhh, life. My mind is full. I have lots more stories to share.

Someone recently asked me how I choose what to write about. Well, I thought of all of this "stuff" today because Lissa's fiancé, the schoolteacher and husband to be, was a relative of actor Kirk Douglas who passed away last week at the age of 103. Small world.

Hey! Try SUBSCRIBING to this blog by entering your email above, just under the mushroom tumbler graphic. Let me know if you are successful by graciously sharing a comment. Thanks!

#1980s #monymony #paradisebythedashboardlight #wearethechampions #browneyedgirl #BillyIdol #barculture #copperpennypub #keds #mushroomtumbler

Reader Help - Subscriptions and Translation

Dear Readers, Thank you for coming here and reading what I am writing.

I have added a subscribe via email feature to the blog. It's under the mushroom tumbler graphic. I apologize for the antiquity of having an email subscription but that is what Google offers me as a blogger on their platform.

Also, there is a Google translation button at the bottom now since I seem to have an international community building.

If you try these functions and they do not work, please contact me by commenting.

You are valuable to me. I know your time is valuable to you.
Thank you for spending some of it here.