CLEARING ONE'S CONSCIENCE

At 4:30 a.m. this morning the cat decided it was time for breakfast, and to make sure I got the message, she jumped up on the window sill and proceeded to push each of my California Raisin Jazz Band off onto the floor one by one. I'm sure she understands that it's the "THUNK" they make as they hit the metal base of a floor lamp nearby that rousts me out of bed.

I got the message all right, but it also occurred to me that perhaps if I showed you my musical California raisins, you would balance out yesterday's critique of certain kinds of jazz with the pleasure I get in seeing these little guys ready to make their kind of music. These raisins aren't playing avant-garde stuff but rather good Dixieland jazz. And the smiles on their faces really reflect mine when I hear jazz I can understand.

TOO BAD! SO SAD! YOUR DAD!

A small private university near us sponsors a monthly jazz concert. The price is right (free), the participants are all professional musicians and because this event is held in a small alumni house on campus, we are able to sit really close to the performers, enabling us to watch them in a way that one can’t ordinarily do at a big concert. As the name of my blog might indicate, I prefer “cool jazz” but that era is past, so I listen to that jazz at home and take pleasure in what is offered at these little concerts.

But last night’s concert – at least the half that I was there for – was just not my cup of tea. And I’m sorry to say we left at the intermission. We arrived a bit early and I heard them rehearsing after they got set up. It did not sound like music. And what followed – the opening number on their program – was more of the same.

I try to be open to different styles of music. Much of what I don’t like is because I don’t understand it. I was hoping that when this piece was completed, the “leader” would say something that would help me understand what was played. But no, all he said was that the name of it was “She” but was being changed to “Woman.”

I first got interested in just more than “listening” to music when I was in college. I sang in the choir and we did some pieces that were full of all kinds of dissonant chords and changing tempos. Most were quite hard to sing initially, but once they had been mastered, it turned into great fun to do a good job on them. Our prof took us to hear the Roger Wagner Chorale rehearse George Antheil’s *Eight Fragments from Shelley” and while parts of it didn’t sound like music as we knew it, we learned to love it just as we learned in English Lit to love Shelley’s poetry.

What I heard last night was the same kind of surprise that a newcomer to orchestral music might feel if he or she had been familiar with traditional musical works of Brahms or Beethoven and then sat down totally unprepared to listen to Stravinsky’s “Le Sacre du Printemps.” Or more contemporaneously, John Adams’ new “City Noir.” To say this person might be nonplussed is an understatement.

That’s pretty much what I felt last night when I heard a bass, piano, sax, trumpet and drums, not to mention lots of little clangs and dings from various metal things lying around on the floor, play a piece of music that had, to my most virgin ears, no beat or tune, no rhyme or reason…. I know it was all there but I just couldn’t hear it and certainly couldn’t feel it.

In fact, when it was over I told Jerry that the nearest way I could describe it was that it was the way my chest feels when I am experiencing a bad spell of heart palpitations – but that’s another story. To be honest with you, I don’t like how I feel when that happens, and I don’t like how I felt when that piece of music was being played.

I admit that the problem is mine, not the musicians’. I tried my best to see it as an aberration in an otherwise good program, but it really wasn’t; and it wasn’t until about the sixth offering, a much more traditional bluesy piece, that I found a tiny bit of enjoyment. I really hated to leave at the intermission; I felt it wasn’t a nice thing to do to those fellows (AND a young female jazz pianist), but the idea of sitting through a second half on the hope that I would have some great enlightenment that would make the music suddenly enjoyable was just too much of a longshot. So we left.

Yes, I feel bad that I did. I can sit through the Rites of Spring and I can sit through City Noir, but last night I couldn’t sit any longer to hear that jazz. With apologies to the group.

THE 1940s WOMAN

This is a picture of my mother. Anyone my age can take one look at it and know it was taken in the early 1940s. It's the hairdo that shouts that era the loudest.

It was the time when "rats" were used for many of the hair styles, rats being "stuffing" of a sort that the hair was wrapped around and then pinned in place, making pompadors that framed the face. Pincurls instead of rollers or blow-dryers were used to make curls.

I have lots of snapshots in my albums of mother during those years, always wearing her hair in what she called an "up-do." But that's really not the way I remember her.

She was always pretty, but I remember her mostly in "house dresses" - washable cotton dresses that were worn in the daytime, and mostly with an apron over it. The apron always had a bib on it and it was functional, used to keep the dress clean so when Daddy came home from work she looked fresh and not like she had worked hard cleaning the house, doing the laundry, ironing the clothes, sewing dresses for my sister and me, and all the other chores that fell to the "housewives" during those years.

I wear an apron when I cook and when I do dishes. People my age do, but for the most part the next generation doesn't even know what an apron is. I don't think they know what "house dresses" were and I KNOW they don't know what rats were.

I do have later pictures but still this is my favorite picture of her. Her name was Virginia Louise Ryland Dobbins. She was born in Colorado Springs on June 14, 1911 and she died on February 3, 1982. She was a good wife, a loving wife and loving mother.

GOSH DARN IT!

IN THE PAST

Picture this: you’ve parked your car, done all your errands with great success and now it’s time to head for home. But wait, some jerk has squeezed his car in behind you, leaving you with about 6 inches of space in which to maneuver.

Thinking maybe he’ll be back soon, you kill some time getting your coffee at Starbucks and then head to your car again. Nope. Nothing has changed. You’re going to have to see if you can work some magic and get your car out of that space.

You know you not only are going to have to work your car forward and backward but you must also insure that you move laterally toward the street. You don’t dare get your back wheel against the curb because if you do, you’re going to find yourself SOL!

ANOTHER TIME, ANOTHER PLACE

Now picture this: The big 340 ton rock that you’ve waited to see leave its quarry in Glen Avon is on the move. It started about 10:30 pm and right now it’s getting ready to make a left hand turn from a two lane frontage road onto a freeway overpass. It’s a four-lane overpass but with high metal fences, big metal pole holding stoplights – and not a whole lot of options for that huge rock strapped into its 200’ transporter.
It starts the turn – and at that point there is no difference between the car that has 6 inches to play with and the transporter that simply has to make that hard left turn happen.

So this is where we were last night. We arrived at our chosen vantage point at 10. We posted ourselves at the south end of the overpass, where we could see the rock coming down Granite Hill Road, make the turn onto the overpass, come up and over – and then pass by in front of us.

No one told us that it was going to take an hour and a half to go around that corner. At 1:30 a.m. the rock was still maneuvering. We had been alerted to the possibility of “something” happening by two loud honks from one truck and two smaller responding honks from another. But to our eyes, there simply was no movement. I could picture, as clear as day, that transporter going forward two inches, backing up one, manipulating the steering wheel, cranking it in the opposite direction.

I did not ever in my dreams picture 90 minutes of seeing nothing – added to the already almost 2 hour wait we’d already experienced for the rock’s three mile trip west on Granite Hill Road. We had come prepared: I was wearing jeans, a tee shirt, a sweat shirt, a car coat, gloves, hat and a warm blanket. Jerry was similarly attired. We had brought camp chairs to sit in but quickly learned that if we didn’t stay moving we froze in place. It was one of those rare COLD California nights, and only pacing or jumping jacks kept us from leaving prematurely. We may be old but we aren’t sissies, we thought.

However, at 1:30 we called it a night. No turn yet, no waving as the rock went by, no being one of the few who actually was there to see it pass. But sad to say, we gave in and headed for home. And even more sadly, from the warmth of our bed about a mile from this overpass we heard the big truck lay on its horn twice, the little horn respond twice, and then all the horns honk as the transporter obviously made its laborious trek across the overpass while we were flat on our backs, warm as toast.

In light of missing the big show, was the evening an entire flop?

Well, not exactly. Our son Garry was there with us, as the company he works for has produced the steel frame that will hold the rock in place at LACMA. It is always fun when you can spend quality time with your kid. And there was a documentary company on site who asked if we could be interviewed about why on earth we were there at such an ungodly hour watching a stupid boulder move. We may never see the documentary, but of course Garry, whom they interviewed mostly may turn out to be the next Brad Pitt or George Clooney.

So all was not lost. Still, I admit to disappointment. Today we can run down to the nearby corner of Mission and Bellegrave and walk around that rock and its amazingly-engineered transporter. But it’s not the same as watching it successfully navigate the turn off Granite Hill Road onto the overpass and come charging down Mission Boulevard at its maximum speed of about 8 miles per hour.

HERE COME THE CHICKENS!

Surely you have heard that big things come in little packages. It's never been truer than with this amazing memoir of Alice Walker's hands-on affair with her chickens.
In case you can't read the cover of this book, after "The Chicken Chronicles" Alice adds "Sitting with the Angels Who Have Returned with My Memories: Glorious, Rufus, Gertrude Stein, Splendor, Hortensia, Agnes of God, the Gladyses & Babe: A Memoir." Now if that doesn't entice you to read this book, perhaps the rest of my blog will.

As some of you know, I am pre-disposed to like chickens and often bemoan the fact that in my lifetime I've never had one to call my own. So I was set to like this book from the outset. I have always known of Alice -- I mean, how can you NOT remember that this is the writer of "The Color Purple," a Pulitzer-prize winner and an advocate for the world's dispossessed. That alone should make you want to see what she has to say about chickens. That, and wondering what kind of person would name a chicken "Agnes of God?"

Even though I admit to not understanding poetry - and there was a tinch of poetry in this book - nevertheless I found this one of the most touching, life-affirming and thought-provoking books I've read in a long time. Made up of 37 small entries, her words encompass everything from her back yard to her past to her family, to world leaders and, of course to her beloved chickens. Her sensitivity to both big and small often made her words carry with them the ability to put a lump in my throat.

Here's an example: Babe, one of her chickens meets an accidental death. She find the chicken, holds it on her lap for a while and thinks about suffering before death, hoping that Babe didn't experience it.

"On one of his tapes, my teacher Jack Kornfield talks about what we are likely to think about as we are dying. The most important question we will ask ourselves - having long given up asking such questions of others - is, "Did I love well? After all, we're the only ones who could know. I think an acceptable answer is: I loved as well as I C\could.

"What helps me with Babe's death is that the day before, not knowing the future, I sat with her on my lap, stroking and admiring her. It delighted me that her experience of being a chicken on Earth among humans was a loving one. That she ate only the best food, slept in a clean chicken house, had a nest ready for her and her eggs, should she ever happen to lay any. If someone had tried to tell Babe about the cruelty done to chickens by humans, and she could understand the language, she would not have believed them. Her experience, until a human accidentally closed the door to the outside world on her head, was that we are OK. Decent creatures to have in the service of chicks. For that, too, is how she had experienced humans."

This is a tiny taste of Alice's words and, well, of her nature.

I can't remember when I've been so touched by a book. And a writer. The books calls out to be read again and again. Even in its small size, it's too big for just one reading.

A GOOD DAY WITH THE NEWS

1. California Department of Transportation has given up on a surface connection between the end of the 710 Freeway now near Alhambra and the 210 Freeway in Pasadena. However, there is SOME discussion of a 4.5 mile tunnel connecting the two.

MY TAKE: NO WAY! Not in earthquake-prone Los Angeles, where we are vastly overdue for another big one. We had major earthquake in the 70s (Sylmar), the 80s (Whittier Narrows), the 90s (Northridge) – and no biggies since.

I consider myself, as a native California, not all that concerned about earthquakes, but I do admit to being nervous whenever I am caught at a red light while under a freeway overpass. There is NO WAY would I ever travel in a 4.5 mile tunnel in the L.A. area.

~~~~~

2. Headline: Porn studios weigh fleeing or fighting L.A. condom law.

MY TAKE: GO! GO!

~~~~~

3. Story about what Republicans need in a candidate: “We need to have somebody who brings us back to the basics of home and family” – spoken by a middle aged woman.

MY TAKE: Whoa! Our country is not looking for a PTA president or a church leader. Parents, not Presidents, are in charge of home and family.


~~~~~

4. OP ED: “The risk factors are well known: potential Iranian retaliation in the Levant, the Persian Gulf and perhaps against Israeli and American interests abroad….”

MY TAKE: There is lots of thought-provoking material on an Op-Ed page. I’m not saying writers need to talk down to readers, but let’s face it, the use of “Levant” will cause many readers to skip over it because it is NOT a common word in today’s vernacular. Not knowing the huge area covered by that term lessens the very impact the writer is trying to make. (Or maybe she’s only aiming at the educated elite.)


Thanks to Wikipedia for image above.

~~~~~

AND FINALLY --

5. Family ties in governmental departments: City policies on nepotism are in place but no one pays attention to them. Professor of Political Science calls it “Political incest.” Case in point was 12 positions available, nepotism policy on the books, 40 applications for those jobs; 12 picked – one was son of the Mayor and another was the husband of a councilwoman.

MY TAKE: Ah yes. I know someone who works in a government department of 12 employees, of which two are blood relatives to higher-ups and two are related by marriage. Is a nepotism policy in place? You bet. Is it ignored? You bet. Not good, not good, but apparently everyone all the way up can't say no because they might want a piece of the pie at a later date.

NOW AS POGO SAYS: WE HAVE SEEN THE ENEMY AND IT IS US.

ABOUT FACE!

I was lucky enough to give birth to three daughters. Whereas some families have children who bear a physical resemblance to each other, and some have children who have the same temperament (making them kind of like peas in a pod), the three girls that I have are as different as finding in that pod -- a string bean, a lima bean and a black-eyed pea – all members of the bean family but oh so different.

I should not have been surprised; my sis and I were not at all alike either. What I was, she wasn’t, and vice versa. Our commonality was parents and reading. That’s about it. I’m not really going to compare my daughters here, but begging the pardon of my middle daughter, I’m going to share with you my surprise at the way her life has gone.

Bryn was the smallest of my children, built very daintily if there is such a word. She also had blond curly hair and a fantastic temperament. She always went along with whatever was called for. She had no tantrums, made no demands on anybody; she smiled whenever she had to wait and charmed everyone she met. Her big brother and sister catered to her, causing her to call on their kindness to bring her what she needed. Because of this she didn’t need to walk early to get things herself; she just sat and smiled until she was 16 months old, when she upped herself and took off. She was baby #3 and I truly appreciated this sweet child.

Growing up she was the one who liked dolls of any kind, loved pink and purple in her clothing, in her hair ribbons, on her bedspread and on her wallpaper. She loved her cat Babby, her pajama holder “Peli” and her cedar chest stuffed with things like Beatle Bobble-heads and all kinds of saveable things.

She married, had two sons, became the forerunner of today’s “soccer mom,” and ran a sno-cone booth singlehandedly for all those years the boys were in AYSO. This and holding down a full-time job. She never met a person who was a stranger and for the most part kept all of them as friends through her whole life. She navigated through a divorce, several years of single life, and then…


...she remarried and went to Alaska when a job opening happened up there. This is when Bryn became someone else. I need to preface the rest of this by saying that I genetically haven’t an athletic or sporting gene in my body. I didn’t think Bryn did either, so this is the biggest surprise.

I started getting pictures of moose standing in the snow in her front yard, along with tales of trying to find a place to let her doggies do their business without meeting a bear nose to nose. I got e-mails from her describing how her job was to hit the salmon over the head to dispatch them after they had been caught. I read all these things with interest, but honestly, I could hardly visualize my dainty little daughter killing anything, much less in such a gruesome way. I, who can hardly bear to kill a spider, breeding a daughter like this? How did it happen?

Well, in Alaska it does. I suppose Bryn put aside her early sensibilities and simply went with what Alaska had to offer. However, who ever thought MY sweet daughter would morph into someone who sends her mother a picture like this:


I have never been to Alaska and in spite of Bryn being up there, probably won’t. My idea of fun is being in San Francisco or even Los Angeles. I love big cities. At one time I thought living in a rural area would bring contentment but have since learned that even as slightly rural as Mira Loma/Jurupa Valley is, I’ve just not the temperament for it. So the majesty of outdoors Alaska does not call to me, although my daughter, of course, does. But I prefer that to be on my turf, not hers, and age has its privileges!

When I received this picture from her, I wrote back and said, “Tell me this isn’t you!” But alas, it was. I think it is a great pix, taken by her husband, obviously, and it shows Bryn in the full glory of her new life. However, I can’t help but laugh at it. Where is that dainty daughter I once had?

Ah, she’s out having fun in the cold Alaska sunshine. I think she’s buried somewhere down inside that bundle of coats and jackets. And if I were to guess, if you could peel a few layers of her wrap off she would no longer be wearing pink or purple, either.

Can we change as we mature? You bet!