holiday music chain

Harriet has strated a chain of bloggers to talk abouit holiday music.

I think that one of the terms is that I need to post a link to her blog about this - so here tis!

http://spynotes.wordpress.com/2012/12/02/holiday-music-blog-chain-sign-up/

(Apologies - my blogging skills are a tad rusty...)

thank-you, Moose

I've done more lecturing than I would have preferred this semester. Never having taught at this university before, I didn't know what to expect, so I defaulted with, "I'm a very good and reasonably interesting public speaker" which has served me well in a pinch before.

Mostly the class likes my jokes, and every now and again I throw something in for a specific part of the audience, which keeps me, at least, amused. I know for a fact that a small group are keeping track of how often I say one word in particular, so I will include it on purpose from time to time; I know that it also slips out. No, it's not a swear word!

One of the people I could count on to smile always sits in the same seat, which isn't surprising, and has dark red hair, a useful combination to me as I tried to learn everyone's name. He wears the same t shirt a lot, but so do a lot of other students; he, at least, seems to wash it on a regular basis. I also noticed that he embraced a girlfriend right before class each day and then she went to a different classroom - nothing over the top, but he did it every day. It's not in the least bit creepy but, let's face it, in 2012 it's definitely unusual. (Then again, so is the laundry.)

Over the semester, I slowly put together some cues - he's very bright, but speaks at a very rapidfire pace so that it can be hard to understand him unless you really focus. He remembers everything I say, but rarely makes eye contact when we talk. His knowledge goes beyond polymath, but he's not always aware that one Monty Python sketch might be more appropriate to a class topic than another...

A few weeks ago, it hit me: Asperger's.

I'm very grateful for this guy's humor and enthusiasm; he's been a huge help to me. Nothing at all has changed in how I handle him or see him as a student, which I think (hope) says a great deal about us as a culture and as a society. Believing this to be the case, though, does make me think of Moose every class and grin.

Grateful as I am for this student, I'm even more grateful to Rob http://chesterley.blogspot.com/2012/11/education.html and his wife http://chesterleyschild.blogspot.com/ for sharing their son, aka Moose, with me. To be fair, I'm also grateful for their cooking and their TiVo and their laughter and their wisdom and their truly awesome dog, but their son most of all. Knowing Moose, watching him grow up, hearing him laugh - I'm such a broader person, and that helped me understand this suent with the dark red hair. Thanks.

By the way, speaking of cooking, we owe you supper.

fingers crossed

I truly intended to turn this blog into at least something of a meditation upon the books I read, and I probably will at some point again. In the last few months I've read several that I really wanted to talk about in more detail that just, "hey! this is such a great book and you should all read it!"

Then I got distracted. It's a good distracted. I picked up a class at a local university. Well, I say 'picked up' but it fell into my lap not unlike sixty pounds of furry dog, so here I am, three months later, staring down the end of the semester.

I've taught well, thoroughly, and I'd give myself a solid B+ for the semester. Now, of course, with the semester ending, I'm looking at the students to whom I gave a second chance, and seeing how right I was. I'm getting better at this.

Two months ago I predicted one woman would make-up the missing work and complete the class, but as a solid C student. Yup.

 By the way, anyone who can fall asleep in class when I am talking about what people do with dead bodies is by definition a C student. Sheesh.

The one I thought wouldn't make it, sure enough, isn't going to make it. Naming no names, I will say that I am pleased. The one who isn't going to make it can check Facebook and Twitter at McDonalds, rather than in class and distracting me. 'nuff said.

The one I feared would withdraw passing despite the extension did. (I have daydreamed about hunting her down this time next year to see if her life got any better.)

There's always one student who breaks my heart, no matter how hard I try, and sure enough, I have one this time around. She earned a second chance, but there are only twenty-four hours in a day and she needs at least thirty-six.  If she makes it, with the proverbial 'gentleman's C' it will be by the skin of her teeth. I hate taking the role of parent with other people... but I fear the student advocates.

The student advocates are an official branch of the university, and they can throw bureaucracy unending my way and as a lowly adjunct, I might not get asked back ever again. So I parent. I would note that the advocates make a living wage and have health insurance.

Then again, the faculty member sent to evaluate me still has not sent his evaluation to the chair, so this concern about getting asked back may all be moot! Anyway, it's nice to feel satisfied at the end of a term.

Meanwhile, you should all read White Cargo: The Forgotten History of Britain's White Slaves in America.

Dyan Cannon & Katie Holmes

I read most of Dear Cary: My Life With Cary Grant at the pool yesterday. It's a good pool book.

The marriage didn't last all that long, and Cannon very wisely writes only about the relationship, with a very small amount of context from her pre-Cary Grant life, so it's a shorter than expected memoir. Cannon is very open about the areas in which Cary Grant did not do well as a husband, but also about the areas where she could have responded differently as a wife.

Today's issue of People Magazine has, as I knew it would, a large picture of Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise and a very lengthy article about their relationship, marriage, parenting and break-up. Just a few thoughts:

1) Holmes and Cannon both fell for an older man, one they knew and admired from the movies and whose off-screen personality radiated charm, wit, energy and romance. The more they got to know their husbands, the more Holmes and Cannon found that they matched the personna and the performances. I don't think either woman fell for a dream; I think both knew their man.

2) Marriages with large age gaps can work, but with both Grant and Cruise, the husbands tried to mold and shape their wives, picking their roles, giving them material to read, etc. Inevitable? Or just something that goes along with Cruise and Grant having lived through lousy childhoods and risen to fame as adults?

3) Holmes tried Scientology, Cannon tried LSD. I'm not saying that religion is the same as a drug (Grant insisted to Cannon that LSD was a chemical, not a drug, and therefore safe; the therapist who treated her for post LSD mental problems disagreed rather forcefully) but both wives were introduced to these life-changing all-encompassing activities so as to broaden their minds.

4) Both women became mothers right away, which certainly led Cannon and I would suspect Holmes to stay in the marriage a lot longer. (It certainly cemented Diana's position in the Royal Family, but that's another blog post.)

I'd be curious to know if the two women have ever met.

P.S. Cary Grant gave away Cannon's dog when Jennifer Grant was born. So far as I know, Tom Cruise has not done anything to any of Katie Holmes' pets. Edge to Cruise.

light reading

Books currently in process:

All Things Wise and Wonderful James Herriot
Neither Here Nor There: Travels in Europe Bill Bryson
The Day the World Ends (poems) Ethan Coen
Dear Cary: My Life With Cary Grant Dyan Cannon
America's Great Debate: Henry Clay, Stephen A. Douglas, and the Compromise that Preserved the Union Fergus M. Bordewich
The Body in the Gazebo Katherine Hall Page
Journal of American History June 2012

Um, yeah. Maybe I should finish a few of these before I go to the library again.

clean the fan

Lemming Headquarters is still pretty cool, thanks to temps in the lows 60s last night. I'm holding off on turning on the fans as long as I can, so as to enjoy the quiet. The dog is still sleeping (a very vigilant sleeping, of course, as he's on duty at all times)on the carpet as opposed to the tiled floor of the bathroom that will soon be his primary domicile.

I love summer, but I hate the heat. Check that: I hate the heat when I know I'll have the air conditioning off out of necessity. People cannot fathom why I am doing this, even as I'm told that I need to cut expenses and spend only on the important areas of life.

I feel guilty about bringing a dog with a heavy coat into a summer like this, but he's young and I can cool him down with a bath if need be. I wonder if I can borrow a kiddie wading pool from someplace and see what he thinks.

coming around again

There are the annoying constants in life we expect, such as taxes or annoying people ahead of us in line at airport scanners. Then there are the constants that keep cropping up, unexpected, but so often that after a while you'd think a person would know better.

Mine seems to be air conditioning or, rather, the lack of air conditioning. Now, this was fine when I was a camp counselor and, let's face it, part of being a college student is learning to live under odd conditions with a smile. (Well, for me it was, at least; I realize that for others it was not.)

As a quasi-adult, though, I'm heading into my fifth summer without air conditioning because I cannot get mine fixed. Each time the repair has been a small and simple one, and I am sure that it is this time, too. Granted, I choose to spend money each month on luxuries, such as fresh vegetables and an Internet connection, and, at the end of the day, I'll choose them again.

However, I reserve the right to curse at my student loan check sitting in the mailbox.

The Wrong Words Can Be The Right Ones

I have a long history of having the wrong reaction when someone comes out to me. I was fifteen the first time. Scene: a group of us at summer arts camp, sitting on the grass in front of my elementary school, eating lunch and having ordinary conversation. One guy, who struck me as studious and serious said something as part of the conversation on Greek Mythology and concluded with the words, "I'm also a homosexual."

Clayton. The guy's name was Clayton. My first thought was, "look, I think you're wrong about Icarus - oh, wait, should I say something about that homosexual thing?" None of my time at the library had prepared me for moments like this, and so far as I can recall, no one said anything; we went right on talking about Greek Myths.

With hindsight, I suspect that this was probably a huge moment for Clayton, that he had geared himself up to insert this in the conversation, to say this to people not form his school and community (possibly safe?) who seemed to like him. I can't speak for everyone else, but I don't remember that our attitudes toward him changed at all after that revelation. Clayton being from out of town was far more significant to us than that he was homosexual or that he was black - oh, did I mention that? Yeah. The adult me wonders what happened to him.

When my closest friend in high school came out to me, my response was a brilliant, "I knew that. So what?" Again, I was the first person he told, and I'm pretty sure he knew I wouldn't care one way or the other, but the adult me kicks teenaged lemming for not having a more meaningful reply. Supporting that friend proved an interesting dance. I didn't face any repercussions, but as he became more out with his sexuality, some of his male classmates did respond by vandalizing his possessions, making threats, etc. What fascinated me was that a few of the guys who took no stand in public gave him support in private. About five years later, one of our classmates contacted my friend to say that he too had known he was gay and stayed in the closet through fear of exactly what my friend experienced, "but I was with you and behind you and rooting for you."

My track record of brilliant responses continued - I think the most classic might have been when one friend said, "I'mgayandIdon'twantyoutohatemeandIjustthinkthatmenareattractiveok?" and I blurted out, "hey, I think they're pretty attractive too!" Yeah, real supportive, lemm.

When my oldest friend finally got around to telling me, I did better, I hope. The last time someone came out to me, I responded, "to be honest, I could never figure out why you were married in the first place" but only after I'd said, "thanks for telling me - it makes no difference."

In all honesty, I didn't think that my voice or my words in all this counted for that much. I vote, I speak out, I've attended rallies in support of gay marriage, and I have tried desperately to understand the other point of view, from a religious and a legal standpoint. I'm slowly realizing that being a heterosexual woman in favor of gay rights does carry meaning. I'm a small voice, but my saying anything at all, even the wrong words, carries weight to those I know and those I don't for whom this is so personal. Some may know me as "lemming, a person" but that simply as "that white straight woman who thinks we're OK" is a powerful small-scale act.

The news from North Carolina really hit me hard yesterday. I can cite all of the usual frustrations - the age gap, people drawing assumptions about gays because they don't think they know any, and as a teacher I wring my hands over people saying, "I'm not very religious, but I am a Christian, and the Bible says that marriage is between a man and a woman" from people who set foot in church twice a year if that. To say, though, that all of the people who oppose gay marriage are ignorant and unread is easy, but wrong. There are plenty of intelligent, articulate, well-read people who oppose it. Some have given it more thought than others, some cannot divorce their religious reasons from their legal ones (which is why they also oppose civil unions) and there are some very careful, well-thought out arguments against it that can be framed within the context of church history as well as scriptural interpretation.

Not all of the Loyalists supported the British during the Revolution through snobbery. Some held very strong religious and cultural beliefs against rebellion, and they get very short shift in today's classrooms. The same goes with the suffrage movement; many women opposed getting the right to vote and worked very hard against it. Again, we don't discuss them in the classrooms.

 I believe that gay marriage will become more widespread in my lifetime, though I fear that, like abortion, it too will face legislative challenges that open endless sets of additional problems and quite possibly lead to further reduction in opportunity. All very safe, all very legal, mind you...

When the history of this period is written by future generations, I hope that my lifelong "so what?" attitude is the one that prevails in the classrooms. I fear that the opposition will be written out to be flakes and fools, and I worry about the partisan legal battles that are to follow. Whatever comes, I still believe.

Clayton, I hope you've led a glorious life, wherever you are. I don't care whom you love, and that's good.

Davy Jones?!

While I am saddened to hear of the death of Davy Jones (sixty-five, heart attack) I'm stunned by how quickly the news reached #1 on the BBC's news feed.

In juxtaposition with Houston's death, Jones' life raises the long-standing problem of "what do you do when you reach fame by being a fresh faced kid and then grow up?" to which there are no easy answers. For every Natalie Wood there's a Matthew Waterhouse. Mickey Dolenz has successfully reinvented himself as an "adult" in entertainment, and I confess that I admire Wil Wheaton's evolution into maturity.

Jones seems to me to have floundered a bit here and there and managed to come out singing, but I'm sure the news feeds will tell us more all too soon.

Anyway, enjoy Davy's singing on Scooby-Doo.

women in their forties

I've read a couple of pieces lately which indicate that college educated women between the ages of thirty-five and forty are more likely to be married than high school educated women of the same age. Other articles have noted that thirty-five through forty-five are the ages when people are most likely to get divorced.

College educated women are more likely to remarry.

I've been thinking about what happens during these years in the last day or so because of the death of Whitney Houston. Houston, like Judy Garland, did not commit suicide, but certainly facilitated her own death through substance abuse linked with her own set of personal demons. Both women sought help, though I'd argue that Houston stood a better chance at long-term recovery because she came to substance abuse later in life and had a better support system around her, family and otherwise.

Perhaps inevitably people have drawn comparisons between Houston and Amy Winehouse; Winehouse died in time to fall into the "dead at twenty-seven" category that places her with so many other very talented musicians who died terribly young. I'd argue that it's the Garlands and Houstons we should look at more carefully.

Garland died at forty-seven, Houston at forty-eight. I think this is telling, and I've made a note to look for other women who fall in this category. For Winehouse and Hendrix we can say, "ah, how tragic, so young" but for these women the two additional decades produce more of interest. I'd also note that they both produced children whom they adored, thus "fulfilling" woman's traditional role. Did aging out of reproduction play a part in their addiction and demise?

Houston died less than a week after Madonna's Super Bowl extravaganza. I read a great deal of catty commentary about her age, most of it, I suspect, written by people who wouldn't last five minutes in her heels, let alone be able to dance through a twelve minute dance number. Madonna has always seemed to me quite canny. She's less of an artist than Garland or Houston, and I think she knows it. Certainly Madonna has filled her fair share of tabloid inches and has made some questionable choices, but allegations of excessive reliance upon drugs or alcohol are not among them. She stays in shape and, interestingly to me, adopted children when she passed child-bearing age - roughly the age of Houston and Garland.

I'm not claiming that motherhood is all that defines a woman and can keep her sane, not do I downplay the challenges to breaking an addiction at any age, but the contrast between these three women strikes me quite forcefully.

Oh, and for those of you who think Houston lacked talent, I present Whitney Houston's isolated vocal track on How Will I Know.

A Song From Your Childhood

For all that I cannot read music, I grew up with a fair amount of music around me - well, music composed prior to about 1960. I'm a killer with musicals and learned a fair amount of folk music as a youth, though my parents missed the Beatles, so I did, too.

My knowledge of Disco was limited to Sesame Street. Wait, bear with me.

The disco version of Rubber Duckie is, may I say so, a true moment of musical greatness.

Think about it. "Rubber Duckie" is one of those songs that can be reliably cross-referenced in almost any setting and people will know at least some of it. Even kids whose parents held nothing but rabid hatred of PBS and all for which it stands could not possibly have escaped life without hearing this tune, and that goes double or nothing if your parents are college educated and placed strict limits on your television viewing.

(I will never understand why I could watch wildebeests getting devoured by lions on Nova but not Mork & Mindy. I will never understand this thought process. I'm not even sure that they'd seen the show; it aired on commercial television and that was enough.)

The creators of Sesame Street for my generation recognized that parents, older siblings, babysitters, etc. would end up watching the shows, at least in passing, with the toddlers. The occasional "late night special" included plenty of nods to this audience. For one special, shot ~1970, the cast got locked into the Met for the night. (Just try making a show with that premise that post 9/11. There's not a kid in New York, let alone by isolated rural town, who would buy it.)

Titled "Don't Eat the Pictures" (a name later used by the Met for an exhibit)the story is a hoot and a half even to me as an adult. Cookie Monster sings: the title track , which I loved as a kid and still sing in museums.

Don't even get me started with Mr. Rodgers...

A Song That Makes You Feel Guilty

huh?

I cannot think of a single song that makes me feel guilty.

Cleopatra: A Life

Cleopatra: A Life by Stacy Schiff Little, Brown & Co; 2010


Opinions on this book seem quite divided within our group. We all seem to have taken an informal approach to it, so I will join in that vein. ("Baaa, baa," I hear you cry. Cleo trained to be a ruthless and clever schemer; I trained to make intellectual comments about the development of their romance novel over a thirty year period.)

Some of us disliked the speculative nature of this book. I didn't mind that angle at all, particularly given that, as Schiff notes, it's difficult to preserve papyrus and Alexandria is underwater. With the passage of time and the handicap of history written by victors, a paucity of direct and flattering information on Cleopatra is inevitable at best. ("[T]he turncoats wrote the history." page 297) To my mind, Schiff did an excellent job at presenting the culture around Cleopatra; she even managed to make me interested in the many intersections between political, personal and family power over the years.

Perhaps it is my love of mystery novels that slants my bias, but I enjoyed reading what Schiff could tease out from the narratives of Cleopatra's enemies toward presenting multiple possible motivations and opinions. That which the turncoats wrote guarantees that many layers of myth could and did build up, which makes what lies beneath all the more interesting to me. I am not left persuaded that Cleopatra harbored any deep emotional affection for Mark Antony, Taylor/ Burton/ Shakespeare be damned, but I do come away persuaded that she understood Antony far better than perhaps anyone else in her life.

I'm most struck, though I'm not sure Schiff intended this, by the immense lack of privacy in Cleopatra's life. Obviously the standards for privacy two thousand years ago for a woman born a goddess differ quite a bit from my own in 2012, but to have one's every moment known widely abroad, and almost certainly used as a weapon later on, must have taken an immense toll upon Cleopatra and her contemporaries. The need for large-scale public demonstration of status to as to maintain that position eliminated a certain amount of security.

In a perfect world, I could assign Chapter IX, "The Wickedest Woman In History" to a wide audience. Schiff delineates the ways in which a life gets recast and revised (reshaped, etc.) to fulfill particular agendas that change over time. In an era when we keep being promised "unbiased" news, Schiff offers a healthy reminder.

I grew up with an image of Cleopatra as a clever and capable ruler, one who killed to preserve her own status and one who took life on her own terms; I admired this. It was disconcerting to learn later on about "evil Cleopatra" she who slept around, seduced "innocent" men like Caesar and all of that therein. Elizabeth Taylor might have sullied Cleopatra for a generation, but I have to ask how many people who might sneer at Cleopatra today have seen Taylor in the role. Most of the people I meet read Shakespeare only in high school, and they read one of the tragedies, or possiblyA Midsummer Night's Dream. In my biased opinion, Cleopatra primarily lives on in pop culture as Queen of Egypt, rather than as Shakespeare and his kith saw her. Example: she gets a passing reference, with the implication that she's a desirable woman whom the Doctor knows well in the new series of Doctor Who.

To be remembered as a ruler, beautiful and brilliant, with the men of her life a bit vague, is pretty good for a woman whose deeds live on through the words of the turncoats.

A Song You Wish You Could Play

I'm not sure how this differs from the previous topics, but I hate to give up so close to the end.

As I've said, I am not particularly talented at any musical instrument, but I've already had to ponder what I would play if I could play an instrument... so I suppose this topic is supposed to be a piece of music suited to something I can play that I just can't perform.

I started singing in the church choir when I was six and I've sung in a variety of different capacities since then. As more than one person has told me, sometimes kindly and sometimes not so kindly, I cannot read music and I audition terribly, which definitely limited the experiences I could have that might possibly have, you know, improved my ability to read music and perform better at auditions. There's nothing wrong with my voice (and I did have the lead in the high school musical, thank you very much) (the director knew I could sing, just not audition) but it's been next to impossible to find a situation in which I didn't have to audition but would be pushed enough to learn.

About two years ago, I switched congregations and joined the church choir. This I do not say lightly, on either point. The church appealed in part because I wanted a place with strong solid music, and I spent several months listening to the choir and thinking that there was absolutely no way that I would ever be able to pant behind the group, let alone keep up. Note that I joined *after* Christmas and well before Easter; I thought I would escape challenges for a while. Ha! They threw me into Evensong rehearsals right away.

This choir is hard core, work you hard, push you harder and then give you an extra shove. Because God is kind, the woman who sits next to me teaches music to grade schoolers. With a great deal of patience (I marvel at how many times she is able to calmly remind me of the same basic principles of music theory) I am slowly but surely learning stuff I wish I'd learned at six or sixteen or even twenty-six. I can often, though not always, hear a chord, and where I fit in it. I know what's a crunchy chord and why they can be good. When I mess up I am more likely to know that I have messed up, though that's not to say that I get it right the next time through.

By the by, I should say that this choir laughs a lot and that it's a really incredible group of people. All of this work is fun (work, but fun) because of them, and the director works hard to keep it that way.

Last year, because this is a hard core choir, we did Bogoroditse Devo as part of Christmas. Yes, that is High Church Slovonic. Yes, it is a bear of a piece, and we sang it about twice as fast. Really. Last year, I would have listed this piece as my goal, the Song I Wish I Could Sing.

We did it again this year - with the help of the endlessly patient teacher, I did it. Ha! Take that, High Church Slovonic sadists!

I suppose that my goal this year is to approach a Mag & Nunc, any Mag & Nunc, without fear and trembling. 'cos they last a lot longer...

A Song Your Wish You Could Play On an Instrument

I come to the conclusion that as this meme wore on, many people grew tired. I base this assumption on the many titles I have seen for today's question.

Despite effort and hopes, I am a terrible instrumentalist. To quote a report, I "lack subtlety, have no sense of emotion and play piano as though attacking the keys."

Ouch.

Anyway, were I able to play the piano, I would tackle either part (two pianos) to the Overture to the Fantastiks.

a song you can play on an instrument

Back when Jimmy Cater was president, I took recorder lessons. I wish I'd stuck with them - recorders are lightweight, can be safely broken down into many pieces, and they make a cool noise. I moved on to the clarinet, at which I was pretty lousy, and my feeble attempt to learn piano in college merited only snickers and pity. (Musical subtlety is not my talent.) A year ago I held a clarinet again after twenty seven years and I didn't remember where to put my fingers.

However, I still remember all of the theme to Star Wars on the recorder, and play it when no one else can hear me.

I've also been known to play a little J.S. Bach Anna Magdalena Notebook but only when I cannot be heard.

mortality

Bill died.

Bill had cancer, beat it and treated every moment afterward as a gift. Bill wasn't the type to take up sky-diving or try to bed as many blondes as possible. Bill ate good meals, watched multitudes of documentaries, and enjoyed needling all of us.

The cancer came back. I didn't hear from him. I knew it was coming. I still wasn't ready.

You rested on your laurels at your own expense - Bill knew no respect. Bill's redemption? He knew that sometimes a person [b]believes[/b] and there is no justification; you believe with every fiber of your being. Bill held that in highest esteem. He pushed everyone, and he rewarded those who pushed back; he esteemed those who put their beliefs into deeds. He worked me harder than any other student ever will.

Since he did not believe in a higher power, I will not pray or light candles for Bill, though I wish him peace. I will miss saying, "yes, you think Zinn is wrong, but you need to know what he [i]says[/i] and Bill agreeing that I might be forty years younger than he, but that I'm right, liberals can be thoughtful, and that he should think about issues all the way through to present day, be it current events or tobacco planting in 1610.

Also his chicken recipe. It's tasty.

Damnit.

review of Cold Comfort Farm

Review for the Invisible Friends Book Club -

While reading Cold Comfort Farm last night (it’s a good ‘one sitting’ book) I had a nagging feeling that the storyline and the main character, Flora, reminded me very strongly of another book and protagonist, but couldn’t quiet pin it down.

This morning, I realized – author Stella Gibbons is taking a leaf out of Patrick Dennis’ classic (In My Humble Opinion, and this is my blog) novel Auntie Mame.. For those of you whom haven’t read Mame and, no, the movie and the travesty of a movie musical are not the same, Dennis’ novel starts with the narrator reading a piece about an Unforgettable Character. The Unforgettable Character is generally a maiden aunt, gray haired and sweet, who suddenly acquires a baby, whom she then raises while facing a series of life challenges. Each chapter of Mame opens with an update on what the typical Unforgettable Character would do when faced with a challenge (unemployment, wartime, impending marriage of loved one, etc.) that would somehow make everything work out splendidly.

Naturally, Dennis’ heroine, Mame, is faced with challenges and meets them, but always in over-the-top style, her subtlety often shrouded in camp and dramatic flair, but all is right in the end and Mame’s wisdom proven yet again. (I think this was also the plot-line used for most episodes of the sit-com Cybil but I digress. Both Gibbons and Dennis did it better.)

Gibbons gives her readers an Unforgettable Character, in this case the nearly penniless and orphaned Flora. Flora, unwilling to take up a trade, elects to approach her nearest relatives for a home. Most Unforgettable Characters would appeal to such relations in a spirit of humility, mercy and desperation. Flora? She’s far more practical, almost mercenary, about this approach.

“I am only nineteen, but I have observed that while there is still some foolish prejudice against living on one’s friends, it is perfectly respectable to ask one’s relations to provide one with a one. Now I am peculiarly (I think if you could see some of them, you would agree that is the correct word) rich in relations, on both sides of the family.” (page19)

Naturally it is the dullest of her relations who offer to take Flora in, with the lone mysterious note that something that will never be told happened such that the family owes her a favor. The family turns out to be quite peculiar (milking cows in their sleep) and live in peculiar circumstances and in a peculiar house, surrounded by peculiar neighbors and a peculiar town. Everyone has an unmet need, and Flora, who feels that she is adept at creating order from chaos, sets about meeting each one in eccentric fashion. Note: she does take the precautionary measure of asking a friend to send her boots.

The Mame meme continues – from the names of the livestock to Gibbons’ manufactured bits of Sussex dialogue, Gibbons is determined to make the reader laugh along and recognize satire and, moreover, to enjoy them. Dennis would have approved, and Cold Comfort Farm is an enjoyable read, but I have to say that I think Dennis did it better. I never did figure out why so many people in Sussex did as Flora told them. Mame used her charm, her wealth and her love; Flora arrived at Cold Comfort Farm and immediately started bossing people about. Did they obey out of habit?

One aspect that drove me wild with frustration is that Gibbons gives no indication as to when this story is set. She would drop in a hint and I’d do some quick math, only to learn a few pages later that my guess had to be off by several decades, if not centuries.

This is a thoroughly enjoyable book, I hasten to add, a really great romp, and I think that the best bits are the woodcut illustrations throughout the book. The one on page 44 “There’s no butter in hell!” (great line) looks like something from Lewis Carroll, but reminded me most of Uncle Andrew in The Magician's Nephew.

A Song That Makes You Laugh

Plenty of music makes me smile. A song that makes me laugh is trickier - I love a good laugh, but Eddie Izzard doesn't sing.

Note: I have watched this Izzard routine over and over and over and it cracks me up every single time.

I haven't heard Gimme That Old Time Religion since my freshman year of college, but I still laugh at:

Let us pray with Aphrodite
let us pray with Aphrodite
She wears that see-through nightie
and it's good enough for me

We will pray with Zarathustra
we'll pray just like we usta
I'm a Zarathustra boosta
and it's good enough for me.

We will pray with those old Druids
They drink fermented fluids
running amuck in the woo-oods
and it's good enough for me.

I know who played me the LP of this song that I liked, but no idea who sang it. I'll have to ask him for details one of these days. (Um, yeah) Ah, the man who got away... wait, that's a different song.

A Song You Want to Play at Your Funeral

I do not wish to play any song at my funeral.

First of all, I will be dead, and thus in no condition to perform in any capacity as relates to music.

Second, though I do like music, I'd rather have someone else perform. Preferably this person or persons would be good enough to raise a tear or two, and inspire people to say, "gosh, this church has some nice tunes." A lot of the people I would hope would consider attending my funeral aren't really church-goers, so I'd ideally get to share with them some of why I am.

Sheesh, but I sound preachy: sorry.

For the sake of argument, I'll assume that the question's intent is, "what song would you choose to have performed at your funeral?"

Serious answer: lots of good, loud, chestnut-style hymns. I tend to like some of the quirky ones ("Come Labor On" "God is Working His Purpose Out") that not a lot of folks know and fewer like. I want this music to be fun and moving for those who sing it yes, congregation, I mean you) so something such as For All the Saints, which goes on for many verses, would be ideal.

Note: I picked this YouTube version because it's a kid playing with mastery of the instrument, and you can his see feet and hands: way cool, very well done.

OK, so the funeral is over and some of my loved ones have no desire to set foot in a sacred space again - what now? Something pretty and soft, please - maybe a little Mozart.