Who's the cutest of them all?

Entertainment news headlines today have announced the death of '50s television and sometimes film star David Nelson. He and his parents and his brother Ricky formed the iconic Nelson family, who modeled the ideals to which all American families were expected to aspire. As I recall, the byword in my family went something like this: "Ozzie and Harriet we aren't." That was one of my earliest experiences with understatement.
David Nelson was 74, the news articles say, and he passed after a bout with cancer. Despite the facts, I cannot picture him as an elderly man ravaged by illness. I, like many women who grew up in the '50s, remember his engaging grin, his spats with Ricky and his fading in the shadows of Ricky's fame as a recording artist. Even though I knew all the lyrics well enough to sing along with "Travelin' Man" and "Poor Little Fool", mourned over "Lonesome Town" and danced with my friends to "Hello, Mary Lou," I never thought Ricky Nelson was such a hot teen idol. His voice was nasal and wispy, and he tried too hard to imitate Elvis. The truth of the matter is that I was in love with David. Sweeter, shyer, often the fall guy, David captured my heart.
In the '50s, the type of guy you dreamed of marrying some day defined you in many ways.
Spin or Marty?
Pat Boone or Elvis?
James Dean or Tab Hunter?
Good kid or rebel? White bucks or blue suede shoes? Crew cut or greaser?
David Nelson was clean-cut, the kind of boy your father would let you date, except if you had a father like mine. He did not have the word "date" in his vocabulary, and he would have preferred that I remain his little girl in taffeta dresses, petticoats, lacy white anklets and black patent leather shoes forever. I always hoped, though, that he would allow David to come calling, should the occasion arise.
RIP.

Seeing blue

My blue plates have found their home once again.
They have moved from domicile to domicile, each relocation requiring me to find a suitable wall large enough to display them without looking garish or pretentious. They even accompanied me to Hawaii, where they remained in packing boxes because I had not researched the housing market well enough before I moved. Even though I did eventually find a minuscule apartment I could afford, the cement block walls did not lend themselves to hanging plates. With that exception, I have displayed them -- regardless of nuisance, regardless of the necessity for precise measuring, regardless of having to envision and re-envision a pattern that works -- no matter where I have gone. I have hung them so many times that I have memorized the dimensions. Each plate hanger must go 10 inches from another.
These are not just any blue plates. These are Royal Copenhagen Christmas plates. The Danish company has a remarkable history dating from the mid-1700s. It prides itself on superior craftsmanship in its trademark blue and white porcelain. The Christmas plates gain their value as collector's items based on a variety of factors, but their value to me is primarily sentimental.
My mother began gifting me with a plate each year, starting in 1962, for 25 years. I'm guessing the starting date must have had something to do with the first Christmas after I graduated from high school. Apparently she thought this rite of passage marked a new level a maturity, probably her wish more than a reality. Nonetheless, I have guarded them carefully through the decades. I have lived, at least with regard to the plates, up to her expectations.
This may account for her oft-repeated question during the process of my most recent move.
"Have you hung the plates yet?" she would ask each time I spoke to her on the phone.
"Not yet," I would reply, somewhat dreading the prospect while at the same time appreciating tradition.
I called her the moment I finished.  I've made her proud.

Ebb and flow

 As is my custom on a Sunday evening, I walked along a favorite stretch of beach in Carlsbad, California, breathing in the sea air, listening to the sound of the Ancient Mother and marveling at the sunset.

 I noticed lovers kissing, families gathering up their colorful towels,  huge umbrellas and traditional beach toys after a day in the sun and surf, athletes running, elders strolling and women chatting. People walked a variety of dogs -- here a stately white standard poodle, there a chestnut teacup chihuahua, then a regal golden retriever, a frisky Yorkie, a pair of adorable Maltese, a yapping terrier and an abundance of lovable mutts.
  I smiled to myself as I recalled a wonderfully giddy phone call earlier in the day from one of my dearest friends, who told me he finally had proposed to his lovely (and patient) girlfriend of several years. I celebrated their joy long distance as they described the event, which took place along the Makapu'u Lighthouse trail on Oahu, a hike we had all made together a few months ago.
 I watched as the nearly full moon climbed in the sky at the same time as the sun began its descent, becoming a molten glow on the horizon as it passed through clouds. It reminded me of the time I stood at Kilauea Crater on the Big Island a few years ago. Sweet moonrise and dazzling sunset, combined with the powerful flow of lava, enraptured me. My soul thrilled to God's displays in nature.
 Thus, on this evening, I savored what felt like perfect summer with signs of life and love surrounding me everywhere. And it was. At that moment and in that place, it was.
 Nonetheless, a dark stain of grief crept into the scene as I remembered the mourning of my friends the same afternoon as they lay to rest their youngest child. My mind replayed the father's words as he choked on his tears: "It doesn't get any worse than this. It isn't right. A father isn't supposed to bury his son." My arms still felt the mother's embrace as she clung to her friends, knowing that we, as mothers, too, had some small sense of her devastating heartache. I listened as she questioned God and herself.
 I thought about a former student who, while planning her wedding, waits anxiously for her fiance to come home from a war zone in Afghanistan. While children here romp in the sunlight, children there cringe at the sounds of gunfire. While men and women here roast marshmallows over a fire pit at dusk, men and women there forage for scraps of food.
 I was reminded again that the ebb and flow of the ocean is the ebb and flow of life. I was reminded of the limitations of our experience and our vision. I was reminded at how little we can control. I was reminded of a sense of the divine mystery in all of life. I was reminded to express gratitude for being part of it.

Beautiful day in the neighborhood

  Coming from a neighborhood where the dreaded "codes, covenants and restrictions" of a homeowner's association prevail, I find particular delight in visiting my dear friend Lydia in rural West Virginia, where the nearest neighbor is barely visible through the woods. Though she rues increasing development in the area where she has lived on her beloved 18-acre Iris Mountain property for that past 40 years, she still has the pleasure of privacy in a setting where the sights, sounds and smells of nature prevail.
Zoning regulations, for the most part, don't exist, although this fact has roused the interest of locals who fear that developers theoretically could come onto vacant property and build anything from a chemical plant to an adult bookstore. The issue came to a head when one neighbor, in a deliberate, although facetious, attempt to call attention to the issue informed the local governmental officials that he wanted to have a roller coaster in his yard. Much to their surprise, they could find nothing in the law that would prevent this.
  Thus, the Simpsons are on board a roller coaster on the property of George Farnham, who has organized, among other things, "Outhouses of Unger" to protest development with a bit of whimsy. The Simpsons, along with the Midas Muffler Man, Santa Claus, Wonder Woman and assorted other characters, demonstrate not only Farnham's humor with a purpose, but also provide entertainment for visitors like me.
And to think that my son recently got a warning ticket from the security patrol for parking on the street instead of in my driveway on a recent visit to my neighborhood. Admittedly, I can feel secure in an area where strange vehicles cause alarm. On the other hand, I need permission to plant a tree. Or build a deck. Or change a window into a sliding door. Should I paint the house a different color? Unthinkable.
   I suppose I won't even bother to ask if I can have a way larger-than-life Paul Bunyan in my backyard.
   http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/06183/702858-85.stm

Movie nostalgia

When I couldn't find a friend to join me at the movies on a recent Monday afternoon, I decided, as I often do, to go by myself. As I entered Theater 14 in the megaplex, I stood in momentary disbelief when I realized that not only did my friends have something else to do, apparently so did everyone else in Vista and the surrounding communities. The theater, except for me and the camera's whirring, was empty. I wondered how long the complex could stay open if this were typical, and then struggled with the even more pressing problem of how I would drink my contraband soda if I couldn't become invisible in a crowd.
 Having my pick of seats, I chose a center spot in a row where I could put my feet up if I so desired and sat back to watch the monotony of candy advertisements, movie star quizzes and fascinating Hollywood facts. As I waited to don my 3D glasses for the feature film, the thought of this new-old fad sent me into a spin of nostalgia.

 All of sudden, I saw myself on the outdoor theater lawn at Lake Winola, Pennsylvania. Wrapped in blankets with my friend Nancy, whose parents owned a lakeside cottage, we settled in to watch the latest in 3D with our red and blue glasses. Sunburned from our day motoring around the lake in her family's outboard or canoeing carefully among the lily pads at one secluded spot where fishing was best, we laughed about boys, ate popcorn and screamed at whatever monster might leap from the screen. One of our favorites, though not in 3D, was Vincent Price's "The Fly," which prompted the loudest screams of all. For weeks, we devised play situations, and even a few pre-teen crank calls, where we could huskily whisper, "Heeeellllp me, heeellllp me!" We knew all our friends had watched as Price morphs into an insect after experimenting with scientific transference. We knew they lived in fear. We capitalized on it.
  We also loved "The Blob," especially watching the slimy monstrosity grow redder and redder as it wreaked havoc in the community. We sang, "Beware of the The Blob . . . it creeps and leaps and glides and slides across the floor, right through the door . . ." and collapsed into paroxysms of laughter to cover up our nervousness that this creature might enter our bedrooms at any time.
 I loved movies as a child. My father often took me, and I remember walking down the street holding his hand, feeling secure and loved, eagerly awaiting whatever might unfold on the screen. Oddly enough, the film "Sayonara" stands out in stark relief in my memory. Why this would appeal to a child, I'm not sure, except to say I already apparently was developing a sensitivity concerning racial bias. My heart broke when Red Buttons and Myoshi Umeki committed suicide rather than face separation.
   I must have wished, as I saw this movie many times over, that somehow the romance would turn out differently. I wished it again years later as the love between Tony and Maria in "West Side Story" ended in disaster. Little did I know that I would experience my own real-life drama concerning an inter-racial relationship during my college days. No one died in my case, except for a piece of my heart.
   I also cried each time I watched Melanie's death scene in "Gone With the Wind". The ominous aura created in the candlelit room as she begs Scarlett O'Hara to watch over Ashley, apparently naively unaware that Scarlett has lusted over Ashley from the beginning, both disturbed and entranced me.
 Just as I began to realize that I must not have seen many comedies in my childhood, the theater darkened. A few more patrons had come, and we put on our glasses to watch the Mad Hatter, the Cheshire Cat, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee all become larger than life in the 21st-century adaptation of "Alice in Wonderland."
.

Thanksgiving in July

Snickers Salad prompted the idea.
In a getting-to-know-you conversation with my youngest son's girlfriend, she mentioned that Thanksgiving is her favorite holiday. I concurred, and off we went on a verbal holiday meal tour. When she said her favorite dish is her aunt's Snickers Salad, I have to admit that I, well, snickered.
"It's so good," she raved. "It's made with apples, walnuts, chunks of Snickers bars, all mixed in a dressing of mayonnaise and Cool Whip."
"It sounds like some kind of Waldorf Salad on steroids," I said, and then went on to reminisce about my grandmother's Holiday Fruit Salad, which I prepare for every special occasion. It, too, is a fruit concoction, only made of grapes, pineapple, pecans and mini-marshmallows in a dressing of whipped cream and a blend of eggs and lemon.
Thus, when Joey and Sonia spent the July 4th holiday weekend with me on the eve of his departure to Melbourne, Australia, for a three-year job stint, I came up with a plan. We would have a Thanksgiving meal in July. Joey will be Down Under in November, and Sonia will be with her family in Iowa, as is her tradition. Focusing on gratitude year-round makes sense to me anyway, so out came the recipes for my grandmother's salad, my pecan pie, and my dad's favorite banana bread.
Even though cranberries are not in season, and even though we did not roast a whole turkey, we captured the essence. Even though one of my grandsons has an apparent genetic defect that causes him to dislike mashed potatoes, we allowed him at the table. Even though she feared no one would like it, Sonia whipped up her Snickers Salad. Since little of it was left over after the meal, her anxiety was allayed.
We sat around a table decorated with fall foliage and a representative pilgrim and Indian maiden. We shared about those things that fill our hearts with gratitude. We laughed over the silliness that playing "Catch Phrase" brings forth. We celebrated tradition. We celebrated Thanksgiving.
(In photo: Joey and Sonia)

Kona speaks out

While she is not looking, I will take over her blog.
She has ruined an otherwise completely glorious morning. She tricked me. We took a long walk along the beachfront, our customary Friday morning practice, and we even lingered to watch a pod of dolphins leaping gleefully in the surf. We noticed some pelicans skimming the waves in search of food. The warm sun belied last night's chilly winds and lower than average temperatures for late April. What a doggy delight morning!
When we came home, I snuggled up for a nap, only to have her snatch me out of my bed and plunge me into the tub. Before I knew it, she had drenched me. Well, yes, okay, the water was warm; nonetheless, I felt outraged at the trickery. And well, yes, okay, it probably made me smell better as a result, but here's the thing. She rubbed me with conditioner after the shampoo, and now I smell like a coconut. What self-respecting male dog smells like a coconut?
I showed her, though. After she finished drying and combing me, I did a few donuts on the bedroom floor. I messed up those carefully brushed ears. Ha!
I want you to examine this picture closely. Does look like the face of a happy, content dog? Do I look appropriately mistreated and forlorn?
I suppose I must accept this occasional abuse. After all, she has control of the food.
And no, I'm not going to show you how terrifically fluffy I look. It could work against me. And no, I'm not going to admit that I enjoyed my favorite peanut butter-flavored treat afterwards. I could barely smell it for the coconut.