I have remarked in the past that I have a remarkable facility for hanging on to garbage that later proves useful. Not a pack rat, I. I'm delighted whenever I can jettison needless things that are clogging up my space. But I've grown to respect a certain instinct I have for detecting needful things amongst the dross -- a pang that tells me, "Hang onto that. It will prove its worth."
I was struck by just such a pang recently, only to have it come to fruition mere days later. Raking I was, and tidying my backyard in preparation for the winter. As I sorted through the dregs and ends of vegetable matter, I came across the rather sad, bedraggled remains of an old bird feeder. Installed by the previous owners, it hung from a hook on our porch until the rope finally gave way, its mouldering roof and rusting suet baskets too disgusting even for the local wildlife.
Not too disgusting, however, for the local children, who immediately saw its worth. A barn it could be. A house. A tiny fort. The plastic panes that held the seed in could be endlessly removed and replaced. Thus it was played with until pieces of it began to fall off, and Jack, Sam and company discovered other delights.
As I was raking, it was this sad specimen of avian eateries that crossed my path. I picked it up to pitch it in the trash. Then I stopped. I imagined the next wave of wee ones -- Nolan, Caroline, Brady, James, Miles -- and pondered the fun hours I would deprive them of if I gave the birdhouse the boot. It just seemed to hold still too much in the way of wonderment, so I tucked it back under the porch.
Flash forward a week, and I've just returned from a four-day Thanksgiving sojourn. I check my email, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but this missive from my neighbor Ann:
Hi Kay,
Jack and I were setting up the manger scene yesterday and we thought we'd like to get away from the tin foil this year. We went outside to scout for more natural materials to use. We searched in our garage and yard. The Cancillas invited us to search in their garage and yard as well but to no avail. However, on the way back from the Cancilla's we spotted something under your deck. We apologize for not asking your permission but we just couldn't wait, we got so excited. Check out these photos and you will see why. We will be happy to put it back under the deck at the end of the season.
How was your trip? Restful and relaxing I hope.
Ann
Behold the splendor.
p.s. Those keeping track may recall that this not the first time that the Caseys' nativity scene has made an appearance in Crazy Crap. Behold!
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #247: The part where I record a wee tidbit about Chicago living
Here in Chicago, we are lucky enough to have a dedicated corps of folks committed to ensuring that all our refuse is hauled away in a timely fashion. I speak not of those valiant fellows of Chicago Streets and San. Their efforts, though helpful and courteous, leave a residue of refuse that still must be contended with. These items are typically claimed by the Chicago alley trash pickers.
An unafflilated band of helpful do-gooders, these are fellows who comb the alleys looking for good things that people are throwing out. Often, the items they rescue are re-sold, or sold as scrap metal. This can be useful, as it means never having to worry about whether the trash man will haul away large or unwieldy items. The trash pickers gain access to an otherwise untapped source of revenue. Everyone wins.
There is, however, a wee problem. These snappers-up of unconsidered trifles have a very loose and generous notion of what is being "thrown out."
To wit:
-- A guy down the street reports that he came upon them trying to haul away his lawn mower. He assured them he was still using it.
-- My neighbor Ruth offered me an in-table sewing machine whe wanted to get rid of. She called to let me know she had just put it in the alley. By the time I had hung up the phone and walked out there, the sewing machine had been removed.
-- Ruth, similiarly, had a rain spout that had become detached, and had leaned it up against the house, still in the gutter. It disappeared like the fine morning mist.
-- My friend Will was working on rehabbing his basement, and had removed the door for easier access. He leaned it against his fence, and when he returned, someone had walked off with it.
My neighbor Ann claims that if you stand for too long in the alley, they will swipe the metal shoelace eyelets right off your shoes.
I hear it's worse in Detroit, though. A friend of ours told us about a guy he knew who was barbecuing steaks in his back yard. He went in to get a beer, and when he returned, the steaks were gone.
Such is city life.
An unafflilated band of helpful do-gooders, these are fellows who comb the alleys looking for good things that people are throwing out. Often, the items they rescue are re-sold, or sold as scrap metal. This can be useful, as it means never having to worry about whether the trash man will haul away large or unwieldy items. The trash pickers gain access to an otherwise untapped source of revenue. Everyone wins.
There is, however, a wee problem. These snappers-up of unconsidered trifles have a very loose and generous notion of what is being "thrown out."
To wit:
-- A guy down the street reports that he came upon them trying to haul away his lawn mower. He assured them he was still using it.
-- My neighbor Ruth offered me an in-table sewing machine whe wanted to get rid of. She called to let me know she had just put it in the alley. By the time I had hung up the phone and walked out there, the sewing machine had been removed.
-- Ruth, similiarly, had a rain spout that had become detached, and had leaned it up against the house, still in the gutter. It disappeared like the fine morning mist.
-- My friend Will was working on rehabbing his basement, and had removed the door for easier access. He leaned it against his fence, and when he returned, someone had walked off with it.
My neighbor Ann claims that if you stand for too long in the alley, they will swipe the metal shoelace eyelets right off your shoes.
I hear it's worse in Detroit, though. A friend of ours told us about a guy he knew who was barbecuing steaks in his back yard. He went in to get a beer, and when he returned, the steaks were gone.
Such is city life.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #246: The part where I finally recount the doings of our summer block party
It's October now, and there's a pre-winter chill in the air. Which means it's high time -- well past high time, in fact -- that I recount our most recent block party.
The date was August 29, 2009. The theme: the '70s.
Those of us involved in the planning and execution of this theme had concerns. Was the '70s too vague a theme? Would it even be grasped by the younger set, who bring such hilarity to these events.
Our concerns proved to be ill-founded, as the first ever 1970s block party proved to be, possibly, THE GREATEST BLOCK PARTY IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND.
Here's a bulleted blow-by-blow of the doings, viewed, as always, from my point of view. Allowances are to be given for any of my biases or limitations in my perspective, as I am the one doing the typing, and therefore have a right to edit, enhance, or embellish as I see fit.
The date was August 29, 2009. The theme: the '70s.
Those of us involved in the planning and execution of this theme had concerns. Was the '70s too vague a theme? Would it even be grasped by the younger set, who bring such hilarity to these events.
Our concerns proved to be ill-founded, as the first ever 1970s block party proved to be, possibly, THE GREATEST BLOCK PARTY IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND.
Here's a bulleted blow-by-blow of the doings, viewed, as always, from my point of view. Allowances are to be given for any of my biases or limitations in my perspective, as I am the one doing the typing, and therefore have a right to edit, enhance, or embellish as I see fit.
- Morning started early, as always, at 9am, with coffee and donuts at the Bertogs. The traditional repast was enhanced by a variety of theme-appropriate treats including Honeycomb cereal (Honeycomb's big... yeah, yeah, yeah!) and Pop-Tarts.
- Before visiting the breakfast buffet, however, I slipped outside to construct my "What's Your Sign" house display, the designated design for this party. Some, including the Harris-Wattses, opted for a pictorial display of the astrological signs of family members. I, however, realized that since my sign is Leo, my good friend Lulu the Lion (originally named Frazier on account of mistaken gender) could play a role in my display. And thus she did.
- I then slipped into my costume for the day, a look my father has dubbed pregnant Earth Mother -- which would be fine, if I was actually pregnant. Daishikis, I have found, are not flattering.
Since I've mentioned my costume, I feel I should enumerate the get-ups of others.
- Rose Cancilla appeared resplendant in her costume as a Venice-beach visiting roller disco queen, sometimes appearing instead as a roller derby maven.
- Not to be out-done by his wife, Chris Cancilla donned his best '70s-era porn star costume.
- Ann borrowed every last bit of my pale blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick to emerge as a flower-loving flower child.
- John Calto took a simple, understated approach to the era, and let his hair do the talking.
- Megan Calto was also not to be outdone, and is seen here with Kim Cavitt and Annie O'Neil as a trio of '70s sitcom lovelies.
- Later, Chris Cancilla emerged with a fantastic '7os 'fro, a chick magnet if ever there was one.
- Eamon thought outside the box, and outside this realm of consciousness, taking a guise as Hunter S. Thompson.
- Thankfully, I had the good sense to purchase a large number of fake mustaches for distribution, to enhance the appearance of those had not opted for full costumes. These were overtaken by the 8 and under set, seen here, here, here, and here. This also led to a misapprehension of the mustaches as contributing to an Old West theme.
- There was also tie-dye in abundance, as evidenced here, here, here, and here.
Now, on with the day, and the next big event:
- After breakfast, Eamon re-emerged, bursting from our front door with his Thomspon-esque cigarette holder clamped tightly in his lips. "Want to see my pet?" he bellowed. He called to all the children, insisting only the bravest among them to view his pet ... a pet rock, which he displayed with a flourish to the suitably amazed children.
- After ascertaining that they wished themselves to capture their own pet rocks, he led them down the gangway and into our backyard.
- There, he instructed them that they were in the very midst of pet rocks, who could be captured and tamed as pets, and the hunt was on!
- Captured rocks were inspected and approved, and then taken out front for decorating.
- Then followed a training session, in which the new pets were taught to "stay" and "sleep."
Lunch followed, a psychelic hot dog fest offered by Megan Calto, and then an afternoon of lounging and hijinks, which included:
- Participation in a very difficult Brady Bunch quiz.
- Examination of a posterboard filled with photos of neighbors and our neighborhood as they appeared in the 1970s,
- Leisurely enjoyment of anecdotes and frosty beverages, seen here, here, and here.
- The decoration of vehicles large and small, seen here, here, and here.
- A visit from the City of Chicago's Bicycle Ambassadors, who amassed our small pedalers for a lesson in bike safety, and then ran them through a challenging and competitive obstacle course.
- Groovy tattoos and body adornment for all!
- Daring and dangerous versions of vehicular madness.
As afternoon shifted to early evening, the mood changed, the tunes cranked and we enjoyed:
- Era-appropriate hors-doevres including my patented rumaki and cheesy delicacy smuggled from Wisconsin by the traitorous O'Connors.
- Live jazz hits offered up by Jon Hey and one of his many fantastic musical ensembles.
- An aborted cocktail contest, which ended up being merely a frenzied binge of exotic liquors hosted by Kevin.
Also to be noted are the creative activities of some of the young ladies of the block -- namely Bridget Verdon and the Brenner twins, Claire and Simone. In addition to enhancing my astrological display with a romantic dinner salad crafted from grass clippings and an exploration of the possibilities of the questionable beaded curtains I had purchased from Uncle Fun, these young ladies craftily constructed a "hippie van" from cardboard boxes, a wagon and embellishments, seen here flanked by me and my good friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt.
The cocktail hour was followed by a potluck dinner buffet featuring taste treats from the era, many in casserole form.
Afterwards, we premiered an all-new and soon-to-be repeated tradition, our rendition of The Gong Show. Sadly, no photos or video exist, as the event took place after hours, but here are some highlights:
- We constructed a gong, consisting of the Daly trash can lid (painted gold) hanging from a ladder.
- Chris Cancilla donned his best Chuck Barris wig and a fine be-ruffled suit for his role as emcee.
- Celebrity judges included Mark Spitz (aka Tim O'Neil), Jamie Farr (aka Christopher Piatt), and JP Morgan (Katie Heilman, seen here with me).
- Winning acts included Calvin Keyes burping the alphabet and teeny Caroline Verdon dancing to her mother's ring tone.
- James and Jack Casey also treated us to a jaw-dropping magic act, while Jim sang and accompanied himself on the guitar. Ann Casy, however, trumped them all, placing among the prize winners with her singing of the Coke song and God Bless America to the accompaniment of a lit sparkler while donning a costume approximating the statue of liberty.
- Gonged acts included: mine (fish riddles told via ventriloquism with a barracuda puppet); Sam's amazing sock-and-ball maneuver (ball in sock, swung around); a duo of pre-teens attempting "Who's on First"; Rose and Annie presenting "Pigs in a Blanket" (oinking loudly while wrapped in a blanket); young Matthew Waller and Casey Cancilla clashing in light-sabre combat. Many other also, too numerous to recount.
- Bridget and the Brenner twins dazzled many of us with their original song about the '70s, which I am still humming.
The best-remembered high point, I believe, was the quickly gonged original sketch featuring a hot-tempered John McEnroe, who jeered the crowd after his defeat. At the end of the show, he returned to the stage, and berated the audience, whipping the children into a frenzy. Soon, he took chase, with the entire contingency of Edgewater children on his feet. As judging and prizes were determined, he and his hooting, angry mob swept up and down the street, and included among their ranks a pogo-sticking Casey Cancilla. It was surreal, to say the least.
After prizes were awarded, a screening of the Brady Bunch followed for the kids. The remaining grownups, now in high spirits, retired to the benches to enjoy a wood fire, frosty beverages, and an extended booty dance by Megan. And thus, the '70s party ended as the '70s themselves had, in a haze of debauchery and shoddy pop culture.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #245: The part where James ensures his own survival
Halloween is less than a month away and, as such, I spent a lovely Sunday afternoon decorating. I've yet to document this year's splendor, but it's very similar to last year's, which can be seen here.
As always, I was assisted by many small "helpers," who offered up useful suggestions, sage opinions, and dubious hand-eye coordination, all in support of my efforts.
Young James Casey, newly turned 5, was particularly assiduous in offers of "help," viewing my decorating activities as an opportunity to slip into my house, harass Eamon (who was ailing on the couch), bang on our keyboard, and otherwise explore. So bold he was, in fact, that as I was rooting in the basement at one point, I heard tiny footfalls on the floor above me. I was, as a result, not surprised when he appeared, cautiously working his way down our rather rickety and cobweb-festooned basement stairs.
James: Watcha doing?
Kay: Talking to Pumpkinhead.
For those unaware, Pumpkinhead is a legend in a neighborhood, a figure of mystery and terror. He made his debut some years ago, on Halloween. Appearing at first as a large pumpkin perched upon a festive holiday display, he would leap up when approached and menace costumed passers-by, to terrifying effect.
Pumpkinhead's first arrival inspired nothing but terror on the block. But soon, cooler heads prevailed. Around age 5, the smaller denizens of Norwood begin to suspect that Pumpkinhead is indeed Eamon. But they aren't quite sure yet, and there's too much at stake to assume he does not, indeed, exist.
On one occasion, James' brother Jack discovered the pumpkinhead itself in my basement, and loudly announced, "See! Pumpkinhead is Eamon!" To which I replied, "...Or, Eamon defeated Pumpkinhead, captured him, and trapped him down here to keep you all safe." This gave Jack much food for thought, and he soon began proposing the rules by which Pumpkinhead operates. To wit:
"If you say Pumpkinhead's name while in Kay's basement, he will come to life and chase you."
Now, at age 8, Jack seems pretty assured that Pumpkinhead is but a costume. James, however, is not so sure. Which brings us back to last Sunday.
James: What are you talking about with Pumpkinhead?
Kay: I'm asking him which child he intends to grab on Halloween.
James (decidedly): He should grab Sam.
Kay: No, he wants a smaller child.
James: Well, if Miles and Nolan come to our block, he should grab Nolan.
Kay: He says he wants someone a little bigger.
James: Then he should grab Miles.
Kay: No, he wants someone with lighter hair.
[James begins to nervously stroke his blond forelock.]
James: He should grab Jack.
Kay: I think he wants someone a little smaller.
[Pause.]
James: Are you giving me clues?
Kay: Yes.
James: I want to decide. Tell him to grab Sam.
James may not know if Pumpkinhead is real, but he surely knows how to save his own bacon.
As always, I was assisted by many small "helpers," who offered up useful suggestions, sage opinions, and dubious hand-eye coordination, all in support of my efforts.
Young James Casey, newly turned 5, was particularly assiduous in offers of "help," viewing my decorating activities as an opportunity to slip into my house, harass Eamon (who was ailing on the couch), bang on our keyboard, and otherwise explore. So bold he was, in fact, that as I was rooting in the basement at one point, I heard tiny footfalls on the floor above me. I was, as a result, not surprised when he appeared, cautiously working his way down our rather rickety and cobweb-festooned basement stairs.
James: Watcha doing?
Kay: Talking to Pumpkinhead.
For those unaware, Pumpkinhead is a legend in a neighborhood, a figure of mystery and terror. He made his debut some years ago, on Halloween. Appearing at first as a large pumpkin perched upon a festive holiday display, he would leap up when approached and menace costumed passers-by, to terrifying effect.
Pumpkinhead's first arrival inspired nothing but terror on the block. But soon, cooler heads prevailed. Around age 5, the smaller denizens of Norwood begin to suspect that Pumpkinhead is indeed Eamon. But they aren't quite sure yet, and there's too much at stake to assume he does not, indeed, exist.
On one occasion, James' brother Jack discovered the pumpkinhead itself in my basement, and loudly announced, "See! Pumpkinhead is Eamon!" To which I replied, "...Or, Eamon defeated Pumpkinhead, captured him, and trapped him down here to keep you all safe." This gave Jack much food for thought, and he soon began proposing the rules by which Pumpkinhead operates. To wit:
"If you say Pumpkinhead's name while in Kay's basement, he will come to life and chase you."
Now, at age 8, Jack seems pretty assured that Pumpkinhead is but a costume. James, however, is not so sure. Which brings us back to last Sunday.
James: What are you talking about with Pumpkinhead?
Kay: I'm asking him which child he intends to grab on Halloween.
James (decidedly): He should grab Sam.
Kay: No, he wants a smaller child.
James: Well, if Miles and Nolan come to our block, he should grab Nolan.
Kay: He says he wants someone a little bigger.
James: Then he should grab Miles.
Kay: No, he wants someone with lighter hair.
[James begins to nervously stroke his blond forelock.]
James: He should grab Jack.
Kay: I think he wants someone a little smaller.
[Pause.]
James: Are you giving me clues?
Kay: Yes.
James: I want to decide. Tell him to grab Sam.
James may not know if Pumpkinhead is real, but he surely knows how to save his own bacon.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #244: The part where I receive an amusing request and a delightful compliment, both by way of Mr. Czajka and Laura Ingalls Wilder
Incident #1
So, as I have mentioned before, my good friend Mr. Czajka is more than just a little fond of "Little House on the Prairie." He has virtually memorized all the Little House books, and wrote fantastic online reviews of all season of the television show. He has traveled to all the major Laura Ingalls Wilder tourist traps, investing at each a small fortune in books, souvenirs and other praire-bonnet paraphernalia. (He's also obsessed with the Mormons, but that's another story.)
As an, I guess, not unexpected result of his fanaticism, coupled with his remarkable connections in the world of public television, Czajka was recently offered a plum side project: to act as historical consultant for a new musical of "Little House," starring Melissa Gilbert in the role of "Ma." He negotiated a deluxed compensation package, which included samples of all the show's branded souvenirs and a new I-Phone, which he claims was payed for by Ms. Gilbert herself. (Get a load of the excellent educational guide he produced for the show.)
Coinciding with the premiere of the show in Minnesota, Mr. Czajka was quoted in a CNN article, saying this and that about the history behind the production, half-pint, and other related topics.
Some weeks later, what should appear in my inbox but an intriguing missive begging to be forwarded on to Mr. Czajka himself. The writer of said email identified himself as an author who had published articles on one Ms. Anne, the lass of Green Gables, Canada's answer to Lil' Laura. He had found my multiple mentions of Czajka in this very blog, and wished to apprise him of a poll designed to determine who was more popular: Anne or Laura. I, of course, forwarded it on immediately.
Later, I received another missive from said Anne expert, pointing me to the outcome of his tussle with Czajka and Half-Pint. Let the games begin!
Incident 2
As Little House, the Musical, just had its first public appearance at the Paper Mill Playhouse, Mr. Czajka was on hand to see how things went. He notes, "They've done alot to it since last summer and it's looking pretty good. I cried four times. . .while taking three pages of historical notes for the director."
But his report on the Little House opening included a curious note for me personally, one that put quite a little bounce in my step, I must say. To wit:
Anyways, the artistic director of the Paper Mill Playhouse is Mark Hoebee. 'Memba him. I've got to say that he has a mind like a trap. Iwas talking with one of the producers and he came up to me and said,"Did you go to Northwestern?" Mind you, I recall having two conversations with the man. Never took a class with him.
He asked me when I was there, and I told him, and rattled off the shows I worked on. And he said, "Oh! Meet Me in St. Louis! There was that Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers number with that guy. . .Ben. . .and that woman. Cute short brunette." To which I replied "Yes, Kay Peterson." And he said, "YES. She was always so great on stage. She did Nunsense, didn't she?" And I said yes, and he said, "Is she here now? Is she acting?"
And I told him that you had given up the wicked stage and were a matron in Chicago.
Even we matrons like a little recognition now and again.
So, as I have mentioned before, my good friend Mr. Czajka is more than just a little fond of "Little House on the Prairie." He has virtually memorized all the Little House books, and wrote fantastic online reviews of all season of the television show. He has traveled to all the major Laura Ingalls Wilder tourist traps, investing at each a small fortune in books, souvenirs and other praire-bonnet paraphernalia. (He's also obsessed with the Mormons, but that's another story.)
As an, I guess, not unexpected result of his fanaticism, coupled with his remarkable connections in the world of public television, Czajka was recently offered a plum side project: to act as historical consultant for a new musical of "Little House," starring Melissa Gilbert in the role of "Ma." He negotiated a deluxed compensation package, which included samples of all the show's branded souvenirs and a new I-Phone, which he claims was payed for by Ms. Gilbert herself. (Get a load of the excellent educational guide he produced for the show.)
Coinciding with the premiere of the show in Minnesota, Mr. Czajka was quoted in a CNN article, saying this and that about the history behind the production, half-pint, and other related topics.
Some weeks later, what should appear in my inbox but an intriguing missive begging to be forwarded on to Mr. Czajka himself. The writer of said email identified himself as an author who had published articles on one Ms. Anne, the lass of Green Gables, Canada's answer to Lil' Laura. He had found my multiple mentions of Czajka in this very blog, and wished to apprise him of a poll designed to determine who was more popular: Anne or Laura. I, of course, forwarded it on immediately.
Later, I received another missive from said Anne expert, pointing me to the outcome of his tussle with Czajka and Half-Pint. Let the games begin!
Incident 2
As Little House, the Musical, just had its first public appearance at the Paper Mill Playhouse, Mr. Czajka was on hand to see how things went. He notes, "They've done alot to it since last summer and it's looking pretty good. I cried four times. . .while taking three pages of historical notes for the director."
But his report on the Little House opening included a curious note for me personally, one that put quite a little bounce in my step, I must say. To wit:
Anyways, the artistic director of the Paper Mill Playhouse is Mark Hoebee. 'Memba him. I've got to say that he has a mind like a trap. Iwas talking with one of the producers and he came up to me and said,"Did you go to Northwestern?" Mind you, I recall having two conversations with the man. Never took a class with him.
He asked me when I was there, and I told him, and rattled off the shows I worked on. And he said, "Oh! Meet Me in St. Louis! There was that Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers number with that guy. . .Ben. . .and that woman. Cute short brunette." To which I replied "Yes, Kay Peterson." And he said, "YES. She was always so great on stage. She did Nunsense, didn't she?" And I said yes, and he said, "Is she here now? Is she acting?"
And I told him that you had given up the wicked stage and were a matron in Chicago.
Even we matrons like a little recognition now and again.
Friday, September 04, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #243: The part where Lisa offers an apt descriptor
Recently, there's been a new addition to the hijinks on Norwood, a young lady whose antics I've yet to describe.
And that is too bad, as this young lady has much potential for mayhem and hilarity. She is Caroline, our resident toddler-ish young lady. I'm awful in guessing kids' ages, but I'm going to estimate that she's in the terrible twos. She is the third -- of four, mind you -- children of our neighbors Lisa and Don Verdon. All of the Verdon children -- four, mind you -- are adorable -- but Caroline has a special, and some might say remarkable, charm.
In looks, she is commercial-grade pretty. Big blue eyes, a flirtatious grin, a sweet shy air. At neighborhood events, I end up taking photo after photo of her because I always seem to catch her just in the midst of Gerber-style adorableness.
But do not be deceived. This little cookie is tough as nails. She stomps around on solid, slightly bowed legs like a little bulldog, barking orders at her siblings in some incomprehensible form of gutteral English I've yet to decipher. "Little Mama" is her moniker in the family. "Go tell them to come in," Lisa will tell her, referring to her older siblings, Bridget and Brady. "Braaaahhh! Cahhhh wahhh!" she will bellow as she staggers down the street at them, pointing accusatory fingers.
She is also a lady her knows her own mind. This came to the fore just yesterday at the benches. Megan had brought out a delightful repast of mini Nilla wafers, which soon took centerstage as the focus of all attention, wheedling and surreptitious cookie-stealing the main objectives.
"Maaah!! Wahhhh!" Caroline repeatedly told Lisa, holding up a finger to indicate "Mother, I feel that due to my efforts on your behalf, I deserve one meager cookie." This was repeated something like 20 times, at which point, Lisa cut young Caroline off.
Undeterred, Caroline kept an eagle eye out for Lisa, and when it was determined that "Maaaahh" was intent upon a conversation, she sidled up to the bowl and whisked away a cookie, saucer-like blue eyes never leaving her mother.
Of course, I had to rat her out, just for comedy's sake. "She had her eye on you the whole time," I informed Lisa.
"She is cunning," was the reply.
And that is too bad, as this young lady has much potential for mayhem and hilarity. She is Caroline, our resident toddler-ish young lady. I'm awful in guessing kids' ages, but I'm going to estimate that she's in the terrible twos. She is the third -- of four, mind you -- children of our neighbors Lisa and Don Verdon. All of the Verdon children -- four, mind you -- are adorable -- but Caroline has a special, and some might say remarkable, charm.
In looks, she is commercial-grade pretty. Big blue eyes, a flirtatious grin, a sweet shy air. At neighborhood events, I end up taking photo after photo of her because I always seem to catch her just in the midst of Gerber-style adorableness.
But do not be deceived. This little cookie is tough as nails. She stomps around on solid, slightly bowed legs like a little bulldog, barking orders at her siblings in some incomprehensible form of gutteral English I've yet to decipher. "Little Mama" is her moniker in the family. "Go tell them to come in," Lisa will tell her, referring to her older siblings, Bridget and Brady. "Braaaahhh! Cahhhh wahhh!" she will bellow as she staggers down the street at them, pointing accusatory fingers.
She is also a lady her knows her own mind. This came to the fore just yesterday at the benches. Megan had brought out a delightful repast of mini Nilla wafers, which soon took centerstage as the focus of all attention, wheedling and surreptitious cookie-stealing the main objectives.
"Maaah!! Wahhhh!" Caroline repeatedly told Lisa, holding up a finger to indicate "Mother, I feel that due to my efforts on your behalf, I deserve one meager cookie." This was repeated something like 20 times, at which point, Lisa cut young Caroline off.
Undeterred, Caroline kept an eagle eye out for Lisa, and when it was determined that "Maaaahh" was intent upon a conversation, she sidled up to the bowl and whisked away a cookie, saucer-like blue eyes never leaving her mother.
Of course, I had to rat her out, just for comedy's sake. "She had her eye on you the whole time," I informed Lisa.
"She is cunning," was the reply.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #242: The part where Halloween holds new thrills
As is well known, Jack is a bona fide Halloween fanatic. 'Round about May, he starts asserting that Halloween is next week, and suggests that we start planning our costumes and other hijinks.
So when a catalog arrived from a Halloween costume company -- in the high-summer season of late August, mind you -- I knew what to do with this.
"Can I have it?" Jack asked with wonder in his eyes as I handed it off. I assured him he could.
He immediately plunked down under a tree on our parkway with catalog in hand, accompanied by Sam and James. I went on my merry way.
Later, I passed by, only to hear Sam leading the trio in cries of, "Sick! Gross!" I had to investigate.
My inquiry led to a furious whipping of pages, accompanied by "Show her! Show her!"
At last, they lit upon their quarry. It was a photo of a cheery model wearing an adult-sized Wonder Woman costume.
"SICK!" they cried out.
"But that's Wonder Woman!... WONDER WO-MAN!" (This last sung from the theme song from the 1970s TV show.)
"But look what it says!" Sam directed, and I beheld standard-issue costume catalog copy.
I looked at him, puzzled, and he continued, "It says she's sexy."
"Yes?"
"Ewww. That's sick!" Sam asserted, and Jack and James chimed in assent.
There was a long pause. Then, Sam continued.
"What does sexy mean?"
And... scene.
So when a catalog arrived from a Halloween costume company -- in the high-summer season of late August, mind you -- I knew what to do with this.
"Can I have it?" Jack asked with wonder in his eyes as I handed it off. I assured him he could.
He immediately plunked down under a tree on our parkway with catalog in hand, accompanied by Sam and James. I went on my merry way.
Later, I passed by, only to hear Sam leading the trio in cries of, "Sick! Gross!" I had to investigate.
My inquiry led to a furious whipping of pages, accompanied by "Show her! Show her!"
At last, they lit upon their quarry. It was a photo of a cheery model wearing an adult-sized Wonder Woman costume.
"SICK!" they cried out.
"But that's Wonder Woman!... WONDER WO-MAN!" (This last sung from the theme song from the 1970s TV show.)
"But look what it says!" Sam directed, and I beheld standard-issue costume catalog copy.
I looked at him, puzzled, and he continued, "It says she's sexy."
"Yes?"
"Ewww. That's sick!" Sam asserted, and Jack and James chimed in assent.
There was a long pause. Then, Sam continued.
"What does sexy mean?"
And... scene.
Crazy Crap Item #241: The part where Jack joins the dance
It's been very busy of late, and I've not been able to frequent the benches and lounge with my neighbors, as is my wont.
Earlier this week, however, I was able to steal a few golden moments, and headed outside. Before I could even make it out to the benches, I encountered Jack and James, who were loitering on their front steps with a languorous air.
My inquiry into their doings returned the usual "Nuffing" from James, but Jack had things to tell.
"We're looking for Sam and Emmett, but we can't find them. They haven't come out. They're keeping something from us."
At that moment, I happened to glimpse Sam as he poked his head out of his front door, and informed Sam. Jack's cries, alas, were not heard, and Sam popped back inside.
At that, Jack shifted his focus. "Bridget and Claire and Simone are keeping secrets. They keep coming over her, and then I have to chase them."
"Well," I started in, hoping to be helpful, "You could just ignore them. Then they'd get bored with it and leave you alone."
Jack's face shifted.
"Sometimes I like it when I have to chase them."
"Adds a little drama to your life?"
"Yes."
And so it begins.
Earlier this week, however, I was able to steal a few golden moments, and headed outside. Before I could even make it out to the benches, I encountered Jack and James, who were loitering on their front steps with a languorous air.
My inquiry into their doings returned the usual "Nuffing" from James, but Jack had things to tell.
"We're looking for Sam and Emmett, but we can't find them. They haven't come out. They're keeping something from us."
At that moment, I happened to glimpse Sam as he poked his head out of his front door, and informed Sam. Jack's cries, alas, were not heard, and Sam popped back inside.
At that, Jack shifted his focus. "Bridget and Claire and Simone are keeping secrets. They keep coming over her, and then I have to chase them."
"Well," I started in, hoping to be helpful, "You could just ignore them. Then they'd get bored with it and leave you alone."
Jack's face shifted.
"Sometimes I like it when I have to chase them."
"Adds a little drama to your life?"
"Yes."
And so it begins.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #240: The part where I learn a new excuse
As is known by some, I just had a birthday. In the Daly household, birthdays are things that stretch out into experiences of remarkable longness. Birthday, we ask? Nay, birthmonth.
My celebration started the day before my birthday (August 8), and took the form of a friday-night block-party planning meeting. As it was raining, we met inside the Daly household. I provided a delicious Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake, and we whet our palates on a delightful pre-mixed sangria, straight from the box. Such class.
My birthday proper, the following day, dawned sticky, hot, and nasty, so we sealed off the house, turned on the AC, opened out the sofa bed, made a grocery store run for junk food, and spent 48 birthday hours in icy isolation. Delightful.
But the shenanigans did not end there. You see, some time ago, Eamon and I attended a charity fundraiser, at which we won in silent auction a "luxury Chicago weekend": one night at the fabulous Fairmont Hotel, a gift certificate for dinner at the French bistro Marche, and another certificate for $75-worth of spa services at Mario Triccoci. My birthday wish was to add another night's worth of stay and call it a birthday. The Fairmont was all booked up on my birthday (Lollapallooza-ites apparently having swarmed even the swankiest of luxury accommodations), so we opted for the weekend following.
It turned out to be a lucky thing -- a very blessing in disguise -- as the weather was slightly less horribly hot and stinky than my birthday weekend proper, and we had only the moderate crowd spillover of the Air and Water show to contend with, as opposed to swarms of drunken concert-goers.
Behold, the festive times that were had:
* A deluxe CTA bus ride to the hotel from our Edgewater home.
* A complimentary chocolate cupcake-ish sort of thing, with "Happy Birthday" written on the plate in chocolate.
* A delicious nap.
* Attendance at Mission: Red, a cocktail fundraiser for the Red Cross, where we supped on tasty hors d'oevres, browsed the "candy bar" and sipped many a signature cocktail.
* A marathon night of rest, arising only at the very crack of noon.
* Lunch on the outdoor, open-air terrace of Sixteen, the restaurant at the new Trump Tower (the perfect location for witnessing some of the airborne mayhem of the Air and Water Show).
* A stroll through Millenium Park (with a dipping of the toes in the spitting face fountain) and down through Grant Park to the Museum Campus.
* A sumptuous dinner at Marche, capped by our very favorite of desserts, ice-cream filled profiteroles.
* An early evening of hotel lounging and TV watching.
* Late arisal at the very crack of noon.
* Lunch at the Park Grill, located just below the famous Bean (though we were scandalized to learn that they no longer serve my most favorite of cocktails, a sweet blue martini garnished with a silver-plated jordan almond. It went by the fabulous moniker of the "Bean-tini." R.I.P. Bean-tini. You served us well.)
* Considered shooting a game of miniature golf in Grant Park, but were dissuaded by rain and general ickiness.
* Retired to the hotel for a sumptuous afternoon snack of champagne, a flight of chocolates, and a huge chocolate brownie sundae.
All in all, and excellent birthmonth.
But, friends, the weekend was not just one of festivities and hijinks. Great knowledge was also shared. You see, at the charity event we attended, there was ... a tarot card reader. Those who know me well know that I cannot turn down any offer to read my cards. And when said reading is free with admission, well, that just about seals the deal.
And blissful I was, waiting in line for my reading, until it became clear that this reader -- a psychic numerologist, it turns out -- was not kidding around. One would expect speedy five-minute readings at such event. One would be wrong. This scrupulous individual lavished a full 20 to 30 minutes on each reading. Do the math, and you quickly discover that you are in for a very, very long wait.
Once this fact became clear, I suggested to Eamon that I could miss my reading. To which he replied, "What else have we got going on?," alluding to the fact that we would either stand here, sip cocktails, nibble hors d'oevres as they passed and chat while we waited, or we could leave the line so that we could stand somewhere else, sip cocktails, nibble hors d'oevres as they passed and chat. His logic was unassailable.
So stood we did, some two hours (this is not an exagerration), chatting, nibbling, sipping and so forth. We joked with the fellow in front of us, when he returned from the men's room, that he was not allowed to cut in line. He indicated he understood far too well what sort of dire straits cutting in would cause, and that he would defend the integrity of the line to the very end (well, that was the jist of it, anyway).
And so it went, until a glamorous blond came bouncing up and started chatting with this fellow. Hackles were raised. It was easy to see that her game was to chat her way to the front, where she could bypass the rest of us. I overheard her wheedling with the fellow in front of us who, sweet as pie and dimpling charmingly, indicated that she was shit out of luck.
Still, she hung on, and I rankled as only a plain little brunette can when a frowsy blonde tries to trade on her charms. I expressed my concerns to Eamon, who assured me, "Don't worry, I've got this."
So eventually, some 2 hours plus after first getting in line, we near the very front, and I seat myself on some cushions that indicate you are in the home stretch. The frowsy blond asserts to Eamon, "I'm next!" To which Eamon replies, "No, you're not."
She insists she is with the dimpled fellow in line ahead of us. Eamon laughs (aforesaid fellow had spoken of his absent girlfriend), and assures her she is not with him.
Seeing that her charms are getting her no where, she drops all pretense and queries, "Why do you have to be an asshole?"
Eamon chuckles again, and tells her that we've all been in line for a very long time, that we know she is simply trying to jump the line.
Eamon's assholishness is once again surveyed.
To which Eamon says, "Where are we? At a charity event. How about behaving with some charity?"
It is then that frowsy blonde delivers her coup-de-grace.
"But I'm a cancer survivor!"
To which, Eamon simply laughs and says, "I don't see how that's relevant."
Seeing her wiles, her blonde locks and her most likely fictious hours logged in arduous chemotherapy will get her nowhere in the face of Sir Daly, off she flounces.
(In fact, she makes a beeline for a fellow who had been in line behind us, but gave up to go mingle with the singles, and tells him "That guy stole my place in line," in response to which she received a silent and slack-jawed stare. Apparently, her cancer-survival was no longer relevant.)
I finally did receive my reading, some 2 1/2 hours after getting in line, and my faithful fellow defended my right to psychic insight to the very end.
But all of this raises a question for me. Apparently, cancer survival gets you a free pass to cut in line. I've not had cancer, but I did have benign fibroids removed. What does that get me? The right to pull someone's chair out as they're about to sit down? The ability to push over one senior citizen with impunity? A lifetime of wet willies to anyone who comes within finger-distance of me?
I only want what's coming to me.
My celebration started the day before my birthday (August 8), and took the form of a friday-night block-party planning meeting. As it was raining, we met inside the Daly household. I provided a delicious Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake, and we whet our palates on a delightful pre-mixed sangria, straight from the box. Such class.
My birthday proper, the following day, dawned sticky, hot, and nasty, so we sealed off the house, turned on the AC, opened out the sofa bed, made a grocery store run for junk food, and spent 48 birthday hours in icy isolation. Delightful.
But the shenanigans did not end there. You see, some time ago, Eamon and I attended a charity fundraiser, at which we won in silent auction a "luxury Chicago weekend": one night at the fabulous Fairmont Hotel, a gift certificate for dinner at the French bistro Marche, and another certificate for $75-worth of spa services at Mario Triccoci. My birthday wish was to add another night's worth of stay and call it a birthday. The Fairmont was all booked up on my birthday (Lollapallooza-ites apparently having swarmed even the swankiest of luxury accommodations), so we opted for the weekend following.
It turned out to be a lucky thing -- a very blessing in disguise -- as the weather was slightly less horribly hot and stinky than my birthday weekend proper, and we had only the moderate crowd spillover of the Air and Water show to contend with, as opposed to swarms of drunken concert-goers.
Behold, the festive times that were had:
* A deluxe CTA bus ride to the hotel from our Edgewater home.
* A complimentary chocolate cupcake-ish sort of thing, with "Happy Birthday" written on the plate in chocolate.
* A delicious nap.
* Attendance at Mission: Red, a cocktail fundraiser for the Red Cross, where we supped on tasty hors d'oevres, browsed the "candy bar" and sipped many a signature cocktail.
* A marathon night of rest, arising only at the very crack of noon.
* Lunch on the outdoor, open-air terrace of Sixteen, the restaurant at the new Trump Tower (the perfect location for witnessing some of the airborne mayhem of the Air and Water Show).
* A stroll through Millenium Park (with a dipping of the toes in the spitting face fountain) and down through Grant Park to the Museum Campus.
* A sumptuous dinner at Marche, capped by our very favorite of desserts, ice-cream filled profiteroles.
* An early evening of hotel lounging and TV watching.
* Late arisal at the very crack of noon.
* Lunch at the Park Grill, located just below the famous Bean (though we were scandalized to learn that they no longer serve my most favorite of cocktails, a sweet blue martini garnished with a silver-plated jordan almond. It went by the fabulous moniker of the "Bean-tini." R.I.P. Bean-tini. You served us well.)
* Considered shooting a game of miniature golf in Grant Park, but were dissuaded by rain and general ickiness.
* Retired to the hotel for a sumptuous afternoon snack of champagne, a flight of chocolates, and a huge chocolate brownie sundae.
All in all, and excellent birthmonth.
But, friends, the weekend was not just one of festivities and hijinks. Great knowledge was also shared. You see, at the charity event we attended, there was ... a tarot card reader. Those who know me well know that I cannot turn down any offer to read my cards. And when said reading is free with admission, well, that just about seals the deal.
And blissful I was, waiting in line for my reading, until it became clear that this reader -- a psychic numerologist, it turns out -- was not kidding around. One would expect speedy five-minute readings at such event. One would be wrong. This scrupulous individual lavished a full 20 to 30 minutes on each reading. Do the math, and you quickly discover that you are in for a very, very long wait.
Once this fact became clear, I suggested to Eamon that I could miss my reading. To which he replied, "What else have we got going on?," alluding to the fact that we would either stand here, sip cocktails, nibble hors d'oevres as they passed and chat while we waited, or we could leave the line so that we could stand somewhere else, sip cocktails, nibble hors d'oevres as they passed and chat. His logic was unassailable.
So stood we did, some two hours (this is not an exagerration), chatting, nibbling, sipping and so forth. We joked with the fellow in front of us, when he returned from the men's room, that he was not allowed to cut in line. He indicated he understood far too well what sort of dire straits cutting in would cause, and that he would defend the integrity of the line to the very end (well, that was the jist of it, anyway).
And so it went, until a glamorous blond came bouncing up and started chatting with this fellow. Hackles were raised. It was easy to see that her game was to chat her way to the front, where she could bypass the rest of us. I overheard her wheedling with the fellow in front of us who, sweet as pie and dimpling charmingly, indicated that she was shit out of luck.
Still, she hung on, and I rankled as only a plain little brunette can when a frowsy blonde tries to trade on her charms. I expressed my concerns to Eamon, who assured me, "Don't worry, I've got this."
So eventually, some 2 hours plus after first getting in line, we near the very front, and I seat myself on some cushions that indicate you are in the home stretch. The frowsy blond asserts to Eamon, "I'm next!" To which Eamon replies, "No, you're not."
She insists she is with the dimpled fellow in line ahead of us. Eamon laughs (aforesaid fellow had spoken of his absent girlfriend), and assures her she is not with him.
Seeing that her charms are getting her no where, she drops all pretense and queries, "Why do you have to be an asshole?"
Eamon chuckles again, and tells her that we've all been in line for a very long time, that we know she is simply trying to jump the line.
Eamon's assholishness is once again surveyed.
To which Eamon says, "Where are we? At a charity event. How about behaving with some charity?"
It is then that frowsy blonde delivers her coup-de-grace.
"But I'm a cancer survivor!"
To which, Eamon simply laughs and says, "I don't see how that's relevant."
Seeing her wiles, her blonde locks and her most likely fictious hours logged in arduous chemotherapy will get her nowhere in the face of Sir Daly, off she flounces.
(In fact, she makes a beeline for a fellow who had been in line behind us, but gave up to go mingle with the singles, and tells him "That guy stole my place in line," in response to which she received a silent and slack-jawed stare. Apparently, her cancer-survival was no longer relevant.)
I finally did receive my reading, some 2 1/2 hours after getting in line, and my faithful fellow defended my right to psychic insight to the very end.
But all of this raises a question for me. Apparently, cancer survival gets you a free pass to cut in line. I've not had cancer, but I did have benign fibroids removed. What does that get me? The right to pull someone's chair out as they're about to sit down? The ability to push over one senior citizen with impunity? A lifetime of wet willies to anyone who comes within finger-distance of me?
I only want what's coming to me.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #239: The part where I come face to face with carnage
So, some several months ago, my dear friend Mr. Czajka came to visit. He was in town to provide a conference hall of bored holy folk with educational materials to enhance some PBS show on religion that is watched by a grand total of 3 people nationwide. His presentation was scheduled for a Tuesday, so he flew in on Saturday to spend a leisurely weekend with the Dalys and his other Windy City buddies.
The weekend held many delights:
The weekend held many delights:
- An arrival during a backyard fete at the Caseys, just in time to roast marshmallows and watch children merrily cavort on my good friend, Lulu the Lion.
- Dinner at the always delightful Pizza Antica with Kristen Freilich, at which we got to ogle the outlines of a naked man showering in an apartment bathroom just across the street.
- A visit to the ever-popular Bong Ho (actually named Cafe Bong) for tunes late into the night.
- A sumptuous breakfast at Walker Brothers Original Pancake House with Ms. Katie Heilman.
- An attempted bus trip to Boys Town, that was stopped by some sort of traffic accident snafu, leading to a leisurely stroll down the Southport Corridor.
- A sidetrip to a resale/retail shop in Boys Town, where I tried on some odd piece of clothing that looked like a cross between a dress and a bathing suit, and would have suited Betty Boop quite nicely.
- Drinks and bar food at Castaways of North Beach (it looks like a boat, but it's a restaurant! Imagine!)
- Attendance at Ms. Freilich's improv show at Second City, joined by Mr. Bryant Dunbar and his sometime swain Rich.
- A trip to Sidetrack, where we enjoyed sights of burly men and '70s disco videos, all accompanied by fruity slush drinks.
- A visit to Northwestern Campus, for a walk down memory lane, and the witnessing of a daring rescue undertaken by a passer-by climbing into the lagoon to free a fish trapped in the rocky breakwater. (It was quite thrilling.)
- Dinner at Gullivers with Mr. Dunbar and the lovely Ms. Carrie Houchins-Witt (one of the ladies from the famed Rochester Odyssey), accompanied by raucous theater and road trip war stories.
But of all these travels -- fascinating and varied as they were -- the most psychologically and aesthetically impressive was our trip to a newly discovered font of all that is fabulous, "Lost Eras." When Mr. Czajka told us to travel east on Howard from Clark to find this fabled storefront, we thought him mad, and we told him as much. Nothing was on that stretch of Howard. Nothing of worth.
But lo to our wondering eyes should appear a remarkable place--a wonderland, really--of vintage antiques, costumes, props, used books, and all other manner of flotsam and jetsam. They rented props, you see, to theater students at Northwestern. $50 to fill a bag with all you can carry.
We perused the front room of antiques; browsed the swords, guns, and other tools of mayhem; examined a wall full of monocles and cigarette holders and pirate hats. Then we wandered through two or three large rooms stuffed to bulging with racks and racks of costumes -- Henry VIII costumes, hippie costumes, superhero costumes, Southern Belle costumes, a dizzying array.
It was only then that we discovered...the downstairs. Rooms and rooms of vintage clothes -- wedding dresses, smoking jackets, christening gowns, tuxedos -- all lining racks in dusty, low-ceilinged rooms. And antique props of every description -- old roller skates, irons, bicycles, and more.
As we perused the ladies' wear, Mr. Czajka and I came upon an alarming rack of white, fluffy suits. Bunny costumes, you see. Scads of them. But the biggest shock was to come, a disturbing vision of horror glimpsed just at the end of the aisle.
I'll never be the same.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #238: The part where I spend the weekend communing with the saints and the spirits
*** WARNING : This post is LONG. Bookmark it now and plan to return to it later. ***
This story starts a year ago, when I entered into what has to come to be known as the worst summer ever. My dear friend, Mr. Czajka (Chris) experienced the worst of it, losing his partner of 12 years, Jonathan, after a 3-year battle with leukemia.
During those dark times, while waiting for the inevitable in the lounge of cancer ward at Mount Sinai Hospital, Czajka made a vow. "If we make it through this horrible summer," he said, "we will reconvene next summer in Rochester, and sample the many wonders of upstate New York." Rochester, he told us, is more than just his bucolic childhood homestead. It is a stone's throw from the birthplace of Mormonism. It offers the wonders of the nearby Jell-O museum and the further-off splendor of Niagara Falls. And, most tantalizingly, it offers close proximity to Lily Dale, a lakeside resort and home to the American Spiritualist movement as well as many real, live, bonafide mediums. If we survived, sane and intact, the vicissitudes of the summer, all these glories would be ours.
And so it came to pass that in the summer of 2009, a group of us made an journey to upstate New York, confronting the terrors of JFK and O'Hare airports, wending our tired way to the sylvan suburbs of Rochester. What wonders we saw! What mighty spectacles and spine-tingling phenomena! Here, I record it all.
The Prelude
Let us begin with the cast of characters:
Chris Czajka: Czajka (Chy-ka), as he is known, has been a good friend of mine since my days at Northwestern, where he served as stage manager of Sunday in the Park with George and director of Meet Me in St. Louis, two productions in which I appeared. In the late '90s, he and I penned a web-based serial novel, Waylaid on the Road to Riches. He has a number of obsessions, and can be considered an expert on the following topics: The Wizard of Oz (book and movie), Gone with the Wind, Little House on the Prairie (book series and TV show), the sinking of the Titanic, natural disasters of all sorts, and homesteading on the American frontier. He also reads tarot cards. He has made several previous appearances in this blog.
Kristen Freilich: Kristen is also a veteran of the above-mentioned Northwestern productions, where she played (a.) my patient/employer, and (b.) my sister. She is a talented actress and singer on the Chicago theater scene, and has a day job as a web guru. She stood up (and sang) at my wedding. As an interesting side note, she appeared in Waylaid on the Road to Riches as the character "Leia Freitag." She has also appeared many a time in this blog. She is best described as "Carol Burnett on crack."
Billie Lape: Miss Billie is one of Czajka's oldest and dearest high school friends, and still resides in Rochester, where she works in insurance. She has an adorable 4-year-old son named Ian. She was a major linchpin during the dark summer of Mount Sinai, serving a constant vigil during Jonathan's painful last weeks. She is also an English Renaissance freak like myself, and delighted me by knowing of an obscure authoress with whom I am currently obsessed. She also boasts a collection of wee plush figurines of Henry VIII and his wives that I secretly covet. She is not to be trifled with.
Katie Heilman: Like Billie, Katie has known Czajka since his school days and hails from Rochester, although she currently resides, by sheer coincidence, in Chicago. Like Czajka, Katie is given to obsessions, her chief one being Russia, about which she knows everything. She can tell you anything you need to know about Rasputin and the Romanovs, and has served as host to important diplomats from Russia. She owns an antique samovar, which she received as a high school graduation gift from her father upon her request. She exudes the air of a Victorian lady trapped in the wrong century. This is not an insult, merely a observation.
Kelly Demaret: Kelly is also a Northwestern crony, but was unknown to me until the worst summer of all time. She is a glamourous NYC actress, and recently made an appearance on TV's Law and Order. She once stole a shower (see below) and, with Carrie (see below), tried to sneak into David Koresh's Waco compound as a Spring Break lark.
Carrie Houchins-Witt: Also a member of the Northwestern theater mafia (as it is known), Carrie shares a fascinating history of travel and adventure with Kelly, with whom she spent a year rambling around the country attending annual events and festivals and stealing showers (too long a story to be recounted here; soon to be recorded in a blockbuster book, if I can get them to dictate it to me). Currently she resides in Chicago with her husband and two darling sons, where she makes her own yogurt and picks up pin money participating in focus groups.
In preparation for our journey, we were given two bits of required reading, both of which I highly recommend:
Under the Banner of Heaven, by John Krakauer
A thrilling history of Mormonism interwoven with an account of recent outbreaks of violence in extreme LDS splinter groups. Includes a full account of the founding of Mormonism, the early phases of which take place in Palmyra, NY, not far from Rochester.
Lily Dale: The Town That Talks to the Dead, by Christine Wicker
A journalist's insights into the town that serves as the center of American Spiritualism, as developed over a series of visits and interviews. Very entertaining light reading.
The Trip: Arrival
And so it came to pass that on July 17 in the year of our Lord 2009, I embarked upon a none-too-roomy United Express jet and hurtled eastward to the Rochester airport. Mr. Czajka arrived in the same locale (from his westward hurtling embarking from JFK) mere minutes before me, and gave me a quick tour of none-too-bustling Rochester terminal en route to ground transportation.
We were picked up by the venerable Billie, and I was introduced to 4-year-old Ian, of whom I had heard many tales prior to this. I told him as much, to which he replied, "Everyone knows my name."
As the venerable Billie taxied us along, Mr. Czajka provided a dandy nickel tour of his hometown burg -- pointing out an outpost of the Underground Railroad and a doll museum -- accompanied by the tuneful strains of one of Ian's favorite songs, "Little Red Monkey."
Upon our arrival at Czajka's childhood home, we were treated to delightful conversation and a tasty repast of pizza, chicken wings, and cookies by Czajka's parents, Barb and Duane. As Ian's bedtime approached, we piled back into Billie's car and were squired to her home, where I was treated to a glimpse of the fabled plush Henry VIII dolls and a Sesame Street-style puppet approximating the Statue of Liberty.
And so it came to pass that poor Billie was very tired, and asked if I had a drivers' license. When it was ascertained that I did, it was determined that I should squire her vehicle back to the Rochester Airport where we would pick Kelly up from her 11pm flight. Aside from nearly backing Billie's car into a ditch as she looked on helplessly from the top of her uncannily dark driveway, the trip went off without a hitch. With Kelly in tow, Mr. Czajka and I headed back to Casa de Czajka, where we rendezvoused with Kristen, Carrie, and Katie, who had all taken the late flight in from the Windy City.
I will pause to note that everyone on this trip, with the exception of the venerable Billie, has a name that starts with a "K" sound. There is no significance to that fact. It's merely interesting.
At this point, any sane individual would go to bed to rest up for a full weekend of enlightening and enlivening experiences. This is not, however, what came to pass. Instead, we stayed up, along with Barb, till some wee hour in the morning -- 3am, I think -- discussing the history and theology of Mormonism. As it turns out, such a discussion was necessary, as -- ahem -- some of the participants had not done their required reading! Shocking, I know.
As we reviewed the various ins and outs of the LDS church -- the battle of the Nephites and Lamanites, the mystical Urim and Thummim (I imagine them as some sort of 3D glasses such as you get at the movies) that Joseph Smith used to read the "Reformed Egyptian" of the original Book of Mormon, the fact that Indians are red because they are 'evil', the violence of Mormon persecution and the horrific Mountain Meadow Massacre -- Kristen kept a tally of everything she 'had a problem with' by holding her hand aloft with her fingers keeping count.
We also discussed our earlier broached plan to masquerade as a husband and 6 sister wives, and bemoaned the fact that we had not found matching gingham dresses to wear. It was determined that we would designate the order of sister wives according to the length of time we had all known Czajka: Billie, Katie, Kelly, Carrie, Kristen, Kay. This means that I, despite being the oldest of the group, hold the position of "hot, young wife" about whom the patriarch still holds some glimmer of sexual attraction. Funny, that.
It was also noted that in penning the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith clumsily adopted many pat phrases cribbed from the Old Testament, including the utterly superfluous transition "And so it came to pass."
Finally, Kristen announced that Katie must take her home as she was about to pass out from exhaustion. I concurred. We three retired to Katie's parents' home, some blocks away, where we would be lodged for the duration of the trip. Kelly, Carrie and Czajka presumably headed to bed at this point, though I wouldn't put it past them to stay up yet longer.
We slept in on the following morn, and reconvened at Chez Czajka for a delightful afternoon of bocce ball, barbecued chicken, and a lovely beverage known as "Yellowbird." We were joined by Czajka's brother Jeff and his girlfriend, the always charming Aunt Bev (another stalwart from the worst summer ever) and her son Andy. Throughout the afternoon, Ian entertained us by singing the "Little Red Monkey" song, playing a keep-away game called "Monkey in the Middle," and offering a lively rendition of the classic children's tale Caps for Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys and Their Monkey Business. It was an afternoon replete with monkeys.
The Trip to Palmyra
And so it came to pass that approximately 4:30pm in the afternoon, we had had our fill of chicken and yellowbirds and thirsted instead for spiritual fulfillment. Ian and the Venerable Billie loaded into their car, while the remaining K-named individuals piled into a large van rented especially for this occasion, and we all embarked, caravan-style, on a trip to Palmyra, NY, the birthplace of Mormonism.
To pass the time on the trip, Mr. Czajka prepared a diversion -- an audio game involving a CD of appropriately themed music and related trivia questions. Participants were invited to shout out their answers to the questions about the songs as the answer struck them. The first person to bellow out a correct answer -- determined by Mr. Czajka -- would receive a small toy farm animal, dispersed from a stylish purple sack. The contestant with the most farm animals at the end of the game would win a gift bag full to the brim with gifts appropriate to the journey. The game was to be a two-day affair, starting with Mormon-themed songs and questions for the car trip to Palmyra, and finishing with Spiritualist-themed songs and questions for the trip to Lily Dale.
It is with great pride that I announce that at the end of the first of half of this game, I was far and away in the lead with 12 farm animals, dazzling my fellow K-named individuals with answers including "The Mormon Tabernacle Choir," "Marie Osmond," "The sinking of the Titanic," "Thanksgiving," and "Bringing in the Sheaves." Kristen launched her own coup, randomly shouting out the correct answer of "Nearer My God to Thee" before the song had even begun to play. It was not enough, however, to overtake my monumental lead.
Upon arrival in Palmyra, Billie and Ian parked for a nice nap at the site of the Hill Cumorah Pageant, while the K-van sped on to the historic Joseph Smith Family Home and Farm. It was here that would take in many sacred sites of the LDS Church, including:
* The sacred grove where young Joseph Smith was visited by Jesus and God, who told him that he should not adhere to any faith as there was one true religion that would later be revealed to him. I was intrigued by the sacred wasps' nest, which was pointed out to us by a church elder. It was later surmised by the K-group that it was a fake, planted to keep tourists such as ourselves from wandering off the path.
* The holy visitors center, where we checked out some kind of spooky-looking paintings of the various high points of Joseph Smith's revelations and where Mr. Czajka was asked where our "family" was from. We all looked confused, and I fear the cat was out of the bag that we were not a God-fearing Mormon family. That, and Czajka's beard, since facial hair is forbidden to men of the LDS faith.
* The hallowed restroom, where all the ladies except me took a pee. I ascribe my lack of need to pee to the miraculous workings of this most holy of sites, as I have the tiniest of bladders, and usually am the first to declare the need for a pit stop.
* The venerated log home, or rather, a reconstruction of such, where the angel Moroni appeared to Joseph Smith and told him something important that I can't quite recall. We make a short-lived attempt at taking a picture in the famed attic of us quailing in fear at the site of the angel, but were interrupted by some devout visitors and felt it would be disrespectful to be caught in such an act. We all agreed that the missionary/tour guide at this stop seemed like she was ready for fight, and looked uncannily like Kirsten Dunst.
* The blessed but rather stuffy frame house, where the Smiths later lived, and where they stashed the gold plates that held the original Book of Mormon when pillagers swept through and tried to take them (for reasons that are yet unknown to me). We were given a preamble to the house by a Mormon elder, who recounted how the Smiths bought and later lost these farmlands, an exchange I found confusing, as it seemed to suggest that a lender can simply say, "You have only two payments left on your mortgage, but I want them now, so you lose your farm." I'm still not sure how that works.
* The sanctified but not very compelling barn, which did not hold enough appeal to make us stop, so we passed it on by in our zeal to get a good spot at the Hill Curmorah Pageant.
One thing to note before we leave the historic home and site: It was here that we were introduced to an interesting, seemingly institutional quirk of Mormon tour guides and ambassadors. After providing the standard tour-type info of the site in question, each guide finished with a sort of testimonial to the truth of Mormonism, introduced by the phrase "I know." To wit: "I know that the scripture of the Book of Mormon to be true, and that the angel Moroni appeared on this very spot." It was unnerving and a bit Stepford-ish.
The Hill Cumorah Pageant
And so it came to pass, after browsing the many states represented on the license plates in the historic farm parking lot (Massachusetts, Ontario, Quebec, West Virginia, Michigan, New York, and, of course, tons of Utah), we piled back in the van and headed to our second Mormon site, the Hill Cumorah.
To those unfamiliar with Mormon lore, let me explain. The Hill Cumorah is the site where Joseph Smith was reputedly directed by the angel Moroni to dig, and where he uncovered the famed golden plates upon which are recorded the Book of Mormon. Each summer, there is staged a vast, spectacular pageant that acts out the high points of this book of Scripture on an outdoor stage. Did I mention it's free?
We arrived, and noted many fundamentalist protesters gathering to dissuade the faithful. Mormons, it seems, are like poison to fundamentalist Christians, a fact of which I was not aware. Since we had access to the intertrons by way of many a phone and Blackberrys, we quickly consulted the two websites we were directed to: http://www.josephlied.com/ and the rather bulkier URL, http://www.whatmormonsdonttell.com/. Neither was terribly satisfactory. We also noted the excellent level of parking-lot guidance, in which we were situated in the lot based upon which direction we would be heading after the pageant. This excellent service, we noted, was provided by almost exclusively bearded men -- thus not members of the LDS church.
And so it came to pass that by providential guidance we found Billie and Ian nearly immediately, and repaired to the spot they had marked out for us on the grassy field behind the seats of the pageant area.
At this point, all the K-folk headed toward the visitor center, as we had been promised a glimpse of a talking Jesus statue. Along the way, Carrie -- who it was later revealed has never met a stranger -- encountered a woman wearing a t-shirt commemorating Carrie's mother's high school. A short chat uncovered that the woman and her friends knew many of Carrie's relatives and that -- wonder of wonders! -- Carrie's mother's cousin was actually in attendance at this very pageant. And lo it was that the Hill Cumorah reunited never-before-acquainted members of the Houchins family.
Next, we finally arrived at the visitors center, and after a short wait, were ushered into a rotunda that featured a large statue of Jesus surrounded by small divans. We were given small cards upon which to inscribe the names and addresses of any friends and acquaintances that we wished to receive a visit from representatives of the Mormon faith. My friends and acquaintances will be relieved to know that I did not submit a card.
I regret to report that the alleged talking Jesus statue did not talk at all; rather, it simply stood there as a piped-in voice recounted some speech attributed to the Son of Man in the Book of Mormon. It was disappointing in the extreme. Next came an address by a young, perky missionary, who stuck to the "I know" formula of all such tour addresses. She polled the audience for our responses to the talking Jesus and, after receiving none, awkwardly acknowledged that such feelings were very personal and hard to share.
And so it came to pass that we were ushered into a small screening room, where we were told we would be presented with a short film about the experiences of Joseph Smith. The perky missionary noted that boxes of tissue would be posted in the front and back of the room for our convenience. I was puzzled by this until the elderly lady began dabbing her eyes almost as soon as the opening titles began to roll.
After the film, which I am pleased to report was produced according to fairly high standards of the cinematic arts, we passed into the museum area of the visitors center. Here, we gazed upon a real, authentic replica of the gold plates, which looked -- as Mr. Czajka had promised up -- like a Trapper Keeper wrought in gold tin foil. After much fuss, lost companions, regained companions, and trips to the restroom, we departed.
We repaired to our spot on the lawn, where we had set up chairs and a cunning table for our comfort. En route, some of our clan stopped for a photo with the Old Testament-costumed cast members who were now prowling the audience. Katie and I, bashful as we are, put our heads down and walked on.
Upon our arrival at our picnic spot, we remarked upon the good luck that we had brought so many blankets, as it was unseasonably cool for July. And this it was that began to feast on many tasty comestibles, thoughtfully packed for us by Duane and Barb, including : Doritos, Pringles, cheese and crackers, Twizzlers, cherries, Jell-O (a Mormon favorite), and M&Ms. As we supped, we enjoyed the spectacle of our young, Sephardic-looking Ian as he romped and played with blond, blue-eyed Mormon children.
As twilight approached, we in turn were approached by two cast members: a be-wigged fellow who looked uncannily like the father on Malcolm in the Middle, and his similarly clad wife, who announced with relish that she was to play "an evil woman" in the evening's pageant. They were a friendly but vaguely unsettling couple -- a strange cross between straight-laced Mormon and dewy-eyed flower children rhapsodizing about Woodstock. They asked Czajka the ubiquitous opening question of Mormon country -- "Where is your family from?" -- and informed us this was their third year in the pageant. Their three kids were also in the cast, and they had all been sleeping in a tent for the last 21 days.
The husband seemed torn between twin impulses: to proselytize his beliefs and to advertise his role in the pageant and the fact that he knew the guy who played Jesus. Eventually, he took a knee, cracked open his Book of Mormon, and showed us the scene in which he appeared. He segued seamlessly from a discussion of scripture (the familiar phrase "I know" eventually came out), and he noted that performing in the pageant provided a sense of intimacy with the savior that was touching and inspiring. His wife agreed, and told us the pageant was really something, and that it was amazing when they lowered the savior down on wires from 50 feet above the stage. "Well, it's not 50 feet," her husband scoffed. "He comes down from 50 feet, and it's really something!" she repeated. "Not really 50 feet," her husband countered. We chatted a bit longer, and the husband asked if any of us had the book of Mormon. With our varied and unconvincing answers, he seemed to sense we were not worth the effort, quickly stood, yanked his wife up, bid us adieu and went on his merry way.
As darkness began to fall, it came to pass that it was time for the pageant to begin. Then it was that we were treated to many a spectacle, including fire effects, explosions, waterfalls, the aforementioned descending Jesus, the building of a ship, the battle of Nephites and Lamanites, the horrible inhumanity of man to man, the intractable wickedness of even the favored and sometimes pious Nephites, the burying of the story of the Nephites by Moroni, and the discovery of said plates on this very spot in the 19th century.
More on the pageant: it features of a cast of nearly 750 volunteer actors on a mammoth platformed stage perched on the summit of the Hill Cumorah. All audio is piped in, and the actors simply mouth the words while gesturing wildly to ensure those of us even way in the back can tell who is talking. It really is a wonder of stagecraft, special effects, directional acumen and people management. The Theater Department of Brigham Young University should be very proud.
Another note: The music for the pageant is rather odd and, in parts, sounds much like an MGM musical. The opening strains quite distinctly echo Gypsy, and a grand scene of baptism was accompanied by strains recalling The Wizard of Oz.
During the pageant, it seems the miraculous expansion of the tiny bladder failed me, and I had to pee. Knowing that it would be nigh unto impossible to access the can after the pageant when the throng of humanity was pushing toward the parking lot, I opted to head out during the final battle of the Nephites and Lamanites, which due to its graphic nature, spread sufficient illumination onto the lawn. Sadly, plot and lighting failed me upon my return, as Moroni buried the plates in a single pinspot, and left me on a plain darkling. I had to edge along, foot by foot, on uneven, pitch-black sod, sidestepping groups of the faithful as I went. My fanny hit the seat again just as Joseph Smith made his fateful discovery.
Leaving the pageant, we found the parking lot crowded but fairly convivial. The fact that we were waved into the flow of traffic as quickly as we were is a testament to the fact that Mormon doctrine, if it teaches nothing else, instills its members with nice manners. As we departed, Mr. Czajka noted that the young actor who had played Joseph Smith in the movied we had watched was "totally gay."
The Journey to Lily Dale
And so it came to pass that it was a good thing that we all went straight to bed after the pageant as Sunday, July 29, in the year of our Lord 2009 was to be a full one.
After an early arisal, we left the house at the bleary-eyed hour of 8:30am to meet Billy at the local Ted Horton's. Coffee, donuts and breakfast sandwiches obtained, we hit the road for Lily Dale, the center of American Spiritualism.
En route, we continued our audio game, this time answering questions relating to the realm of the spirits, and identifying music from Poltergeist, The Lady in White, The Amityville Horror, and Ghostbusters. It must be recorded that I did not turn in as stellar a performance as I did on the previous day, but due to my staggering lead, I still managed to win. My prizes included:
* A CD containing all the songs used in the game
* A t-shirt commemorating "Rochester, NY, Lilac Capital of the World"
* A refrigerator magnet in the shape of New York state, with Rochester prominently marked
* My very own copy of the Book of Mormon
* A DVD of the PBS series The Mormons
* A book entitled Devil's Gate: Brigham Young and the Great Mormon Handcart Tragedy
* A book entitled The Reluctant Spiritualist: The Life of Maggie Fox
* A pencil stolen from Lily Dale
As we pulled off the expressway after more than two hours of travel, Mr. Czajka adjured us that it was now time for a few moments of quiet reflection. We had scheduled private readings with one of Lily Dale's registered mediums, Marti Hughes, and she had directed Czajka that we should "pack our trunks" with our dead so that there would be much for her to unpack in our readings.
Just as we launched into this moment of reverie, Katie caught sight of a Bob Evans, and launched into a vituperative tirade upon the poor quality and value of the food at said diner. After several minutes, it was noted that this was to be a moment of silence. Undaunted, Katie continued her rant, noting that everyone had told her how good Bob Evans was, but that it really wasn't, especially for the money you pay, and why would you go there anyway. Just as she started to settle down, someone in the car, it might've been Carrie, inquired as to some particularity of Bob Evans, and the rant renewed. I commented that we would undoubtedly encounter the spirit of Mr. Bob Evans in all our readings.
Despite Katie's outburst, I managed to ponder who I would "bring along" to my reading. My life is surprisingly unencumbered by dead people. The most recent ones I could think of -- namely, Jonathan and my neighbor Dolores -- seemed unlikely visitors. I couldn't imagine either had anything to say to me (apart, perhaps, from Dolores inquiring whether I was still enjoying her hand-me-down tupperware), and I was not special enough to either warrant an appearance. Going back further, I knew grandparents were my fallback option, but I wasn't particularly close with any of them. It struck me, however, that I might like to hear from my maternal grandmother, as she suffered from the same late-in-life health issues my mother currently suffers from, and I thought she might have something to say on the matter. So I dedicated a few minutes thinking of her, even though I was not convinced that mediumship consists of anything but a great ability to read subconscious cues and provide vague guesses.
A few words on Lily Dale and the surrounding area: it is a small community on the shores of a lovely lake surrounded by sylvan splendor. It was founded in the 19th century, during the height of the craze for spiritualism initiated by the rappings and tappings of a famous family of psychic siblings, the Fox sisters. The Rochester/Buffalo region, in fact, is frequently referred to as the "burnt over district," as waves of religious passion and evangelism passed through country in the mid 1800s. Spiritualism, Mormonism and the Shaker movement are among these waves. Lily Dale hit its apex at the turn of the century, and has sagged a bit since. It's really a rather charming little community, boasting quaint, peeling Victorian houses, a hotel, library, museum, and a big, general-use auditorium -- a fantastic open-air structure that looks like is should be housing a carousel.
To hang out your shingle as a medium in Lily Dale, you must past a certification process -- testing and such -- though some scoff that it's "all political." Some claim there are "vortexes" in the region -- centers of spirit that put the "other world" in closer contact here. There is also "Inspiration Stump," a site of "profound spiritual energy" in a nearby forest clearing where mediums provide messages from beyond twice a day during the summer. Did I mention it's free?
But while the message services are free, entry to Lily Dale is not, and so it came to pass that we forked over $10 a head and entered the hallowed gates. From there, we located Marti Hughes' home, where she does her readings, and then repaired to one of the community's three gift shoppes, where I purchased my very first pack of tarot cards.
Our private readings were scheduled throughout the day, and interspersed with other, otherworldly experiences. I wasn't in attendance for any of the private readings but my own, so I'll capture a few recollections and recounted details here (I regret that my account of details from my reading are, naturally, the fullest):
* At the start of Czajka's reading, Marti told him there was a young man standing in the corner, arms folded, looking annoyed. We assume this was Jonathan, who had been to Lily Dale once in life, and had declared it a "dump." During the last horrible summer, he assured Czajka that he would never make an appearance there. During the fall of last year, Czajka made a visit to Lily Dale with Billie and had an uncanny experience during a private reading which suggested that, if such things are possible, Jonathan had changed his mind and showed up. But he swore he would never return. Hence the spiritual annoyance.
* Marti described Czajka's two grandmothers in such stunning and accurate detail, he was shocked.
* Marti told Czajka he was "worth his weight in gold" to his current employer -- a palpable truth -- and told him he had a job there forever, which both encouraged and dismayed him.
* In my reading, she started by noting she sees me teaching, but not in an academic setting. She also noted that I had no trauma in my life (largely true) -- that she usually spent her days helping people deal with traumas, but that I had none. My life, she said, generally works out for me (echoing, uncannily, a former roommate, who once called me "Fortune's darling"). I live "a life of preferences," choosing what I wish to do, and filling in the blank canvas of my life. She told me that in my work, I probably never had to look for clients; they just come to me. All this, largely true. She said I need to keep being grateful for this.
* She also told me that I'm "very open to guidance from the universe," but that I'm not aware of it. Things, she said, just come to me when I need them. I always am prepared and have what I need, but I never consciously do this. Anyone who knows of my basement knows this to be true.
* She identified one individual who was with me, and surmised it was -- ahem -- my maternal grandmother, who was presenting me an old-fashioned layer cake. A lemon layer cake. She asked if this particular grandmother was "old-fashioned." As it happens, she was -- my other grandmother was kind of stylish, voguish lady, but mother's mother was a classic 1930s-style grandma with white hair and housedress. Her message, Marti said, was that like the old-fashioned cake, she was an old-fashioned lady, and for all my modern ways, I was an old-fashioned girl. True that. (And, one week before, I sang "I'm Old-Fashioned" at Davenport's Open Mic Night.)
* Much to my surprise, Marti told me there was also a "gentleman" present, and that he rolled his eyes when she said "gentleman." She indicated it was Jonathan. I was surprised, as I didn't think that -- if spirit visits were possible -- Jonathan would stick around for me. Either Marti picked up on this, or Jonathan felt the same, as she then reported that when she asked what message he had for me, he "shrugged his shoulders." She said, "That never happens, it's a conundrum." Then she laughed and reported that he said, "Conundrum, that's a good word." Which actually seemed like something Jonathan would say.
* Marti also correctly identified that I had recently been through a "long night of the soul" in which I had given up faith and, in her most vivid evocation, flipped off God. This is true.
* I was less convinced later in the reading, when she told me that Jonathan felt I should not only sing in a group, but should take to the stage solo and "strut my stuff like a hot mama." "It's all in the shoulders," she said he said, shimming his spectral shoulders. This strikes me as drawn more from the sack of homosexual male stereotypes than from our actual Jonathan, unless the ectoplasm has gone to his head or something.
* Kelly was not impressed with her reading, which she felt was full of cliches and counseling, and not much that could be counted as "otherworldly."
* Billie's reading opened with the identification of two men who were protective, who Billie felt were her father and uncle. Marti noted they were confused and scratching their heads, and then asked, "Who is the mystery baby?" Billie was amused, as her son Ian is the produce of IVF by way of an anonymous donor. "They want to know why you didn't do it the old-fashioned way."
* Marti also informed Billie that Jonathan had his two cents to add, and some choice words about the handling of some of her personal affairs. Jonathan, Billie described it, "yelled" at her. According to Czajka, these sentiments were totally consistent with our dearly departed's feelings on this matter.
* As Billie was leaving, Marti noted that Jonathan pointed to his feet, and noted that he was now not wearing socks. In life, Jonathan never went barefoot, so noting the change was meaningful. He also noted that he "now wears loafers," a sharp departure for the living Jonathan.
* Kristen, like Kelly, was not terribly happy with her reading, as none of her dead relatives showed up. She thought it felt like run-of-the-mill counseling, and was confused by a tangent about how one could teach a course on theater online.
* Katie, like some of us, enjoyed a visit from Jonathan, but it was, as she put it, "an uncharacteristically nurturing Jonathan" who didn't yell at her at all.
* Carrie felt her reading was "all misses." Marti asserted that she had had a difficult pregnancy when, according to Carrie, her pregnancies were "textbook." Marti also asked, "Who's the butcher?" When Carrie asserted that she knew no butcher, Marti kept asking about it -- a ploy, Carrie felt, for covering up a patent miss. She also asked Carrie about someone who knitted in the family. Misses all, Carrie told us. More on this anon.
* Marti also told Carrie not to "drive too fast" after we left Lily Dale.
And so it came to pass that we enjoyed the all the many pleasures Lily Dale affords, including:
* Not one but two services at Inspiration Stump, where four mediums come out for 15 minutes of cold-reading of people drawn from the audience. These range from the eerily dead-on ("Your aunt's name is May." "Yes.) to the pathetically vague and inaccurate ("There's a spirit from the mother's side of the house and she wants you to know she's so proud of you.")
To our grave disappointment, no one in our party received any messages at either service. This led us to surmise that perhaps there were all sorts of angry spirits and negative energy hovering around us, since our required reading had taught us that the mediums of Lily Dale would not convey negative messages.
We were also struck by the strange verbal formulations of the readings -- rather like the interpolation of the "I know" statements by the Mormon tour guides. One medium interspersed "please" throughout her messages ("There's a man here, please, who was hit on the head, please, and his name starts with J, please"). Nearly all mediums ended there stump messages with the phrase, "I leave that to you with God's Blessing," which became the refrain of the rest of the trip.
* A visit to the Lily Dale museum, where we browsed bent spoons and brass trumpets that had been levitated by mediums of an era past.
* A viewing of a film, "Welcome to Lily Dale," at the library, which unfortunately coincided with my private reading, so I am unable to convey its contents.
* Luncheon at the Sunflower Cafe, not worth reporting on.
* A guest lecture at the auditorium on the difference between choices and decisions given by a resident psychic, directing us to consider with each decision how we will be impacted in 10 minutes, 10 months and 10 years. This led to the repetition of this formula for nearly ever decision made on the rest of the trip.
* Yet another message service following the guest lecture with a medium who was uncannily dead on in many of his pronouncements. To wit, the woman who he identified as wearing her mother's necklace, which she was.
At the end of the afternoon, it came to pass that Kristen departed with the venerable Billie, who spirited her away for an evening flight from the Buffalo airport. The remaining K-folk embarked upon a tour a mysterious Lily Dale attraction called the "Fairy Trail."
What we expected was a trail in the forest where fairies are reputed to be seen. What we got was a forest trail bestrewed with offerings for said fairies, constructed largely from bird houses, glitter, figureines, and sequins. As I told Mr. Czajka, I could live the rest of my life there. We resolved that on our next visit, we would construct a multiroom house to be left on the fairy trail, and that each participant would be required to decorate one room with fairy fancies. A contest, you see. For another valuable gift bag.
We Flee to Canada
And so it came to pass that we departed Lily Dale and all its gauzy wonders and headed west (!) to Canada and Niagara Falls. Along the way, Kelly read to us from intertrons on the subject of fairies, about which we now had many questions.
We arrived on the U.S. side of the falls, and headed to a nearby casino, where we dined. During dinner, Carrie again bemoaned the fact that her reading was so full of misses, including the laughable statement that she had a difficult pregnancy.
Kelly, who had not yet heard this detail, chimed in, "But you were in labor for 36 hours and had an emergency C-section."
"Does that count?" Carrie asked. We assured her it did. Score one for Marti.
Dinner was a leisurely affair, not concluded until 10:30pm. At this point, we had to flee to the falls, as we were not sure when the lights would turn out for the evening. An inaccurate casino employee told us the bridge to Canada was a five-minute walk away. He lied. Thankfully, suspicious heads prevailed, and we cabbed it to the bridge, then to the famed "Horseshoe" on the other side.
As we gazed upon the sliding waters as they fell inexorably away, I mused on the fact that this entire weekend had been a meditation on the subject of suggestibility. Our trip to Palmyra raised the question of how one could believe that the age of miracles was still with us. Our foray into Lily Dale teased us with hits and misses, daring us to believe, then chiding us for our gullibility. Now this natural wonder was working its magnetic force, beckoning me over the edge in a way that speaks not so much to self-annihilation as to wanting to join a mighty force already in play.
And then, we visited a gift shoppe, and I joined the flow of commerce by purchasing a puzzlingly ugly commemorative shotglass. After a few misturns, we found our way back over the border, and Carrie made yet another friend with the border agent, who hailed her on account of her West Virginia t-shirt.
And it came to pass that the entire remaining K-crew, with the exception of myself, enjoys the gaming tables, and so remained at the casino for 15 minutes of gambling as I dozed on a lobby chair. It was now 1:15am.
To ensure that Carrie remained awake during the drive home (she being behind the wheel), Czajka decreed that we would play a game inspired by the cabaret open mic I had attended earlier that week. We were to go through the alphabet, naming shows for each letter, then singing full out a song from each show. We did very well, but unaccountably had trouble coming up with a good "T" show (we chose Tommy but realized no one knew any of the words).
Thanks to "Officer Krupke" (or perhaps to Katie's rant about how awful a song "Officer Krupke" is), we managed to miss both Rochester exits, and swung a bit out of our way. As we left the expressway to backtrack, we heard the unmistakable sound of cars crashing. On the underpass below us, there was a collision, and two cars had spun out. Carrie, whose reflexes were unexpectedly spry for 3am, spun a u-turn and parked us on the side of the road behind one of the cars. Czajka ran to check, and discovered the driver of one car injured and pinned by his airbag. The other driver, a young woman, was undeniably drunk. Kelly dialed 911, Kate gave the operator directions. We waited till the police arrived, who told us to leave, as we had not witnessed the crash.
We mused that it was lucky that we were not going, as Marti Hughes had warned us, too fast, or we might have been part of that accident. Or we might have missed the chance to help.
And so it came to pass that exhausted but exhilarated, we were soon safe in our beds, 'round about 4am. I arose at 7:30am, was cheerfully driven to the airport by Katie's charming father, and arrived home some time around 3:30.
Coda
Later, we all received the following missive from Carrie:
Wanted you all to know that I spoke with my mother. Her Aunt Judy was a butcher her whole life. My mother said "She would be the one person I would have wanted you to hear from" in Lilydale.
Did I mention that Aunt Judy was also a knitter?
I leave that to you with God's Blessing. Thank you.
This story starts a year ago, when I entered into what has to come to be known as the worst summer ever. My dear friend, Mr. Czajka (Chris) experienced the worst of it, losing his partner of 12 years, Jonathan, after a 3-year battle with leukemia.
During those dark times, while waiting for the inevitable in the lounge of cancer ward at Mount Sinai Hospital, Czajka made a vow. "If we make it through this horrible summer," he said, "we will reconvene next summer in Rochester, and sample the many wonders of upstate New York." Rochester, he told us, is more than just his bucolic childhood homestead. It is a stone's throw from the birthplace of Mormonism. It offers the wonders of the nearby Jell-O museum and the further-off splendor of Niagara Falls. And, most tantalizingly, it offers close proximity to Lily Dale, a lakeside resort and home to the American Spiritualist movement as well as many real, live, bonafide mediums. If we survived, sane and intact, the vicissitudes of the summer, all these glories would be ours.
And so it came to pass that in the summer of 2009, a group of us made an journey to upstate New York, confronting the terrors of JFK and O'Hare airports, wending our tired way to the sylvan suburbs of Rochester. What wonders we saw! What mighty spectacles and spine-tingling phenomena! Here, I record it all.
The Prelude
Let us begin with the cast of characters:
Chris Czajka: Czajka (Chy-ka), as he is known, has been a good friend of mine since my days at Northwestern, where he served as stage manager of Sunday in the Park with George and director of Meet Me in St. Louis, two productions in which I appeared. In the late '90s, he and I penned a web-based serial novel, Waylaid on the Road to Riches. He has a number of obsessions, and can be considered an expert on the following topics: The Wizard of Oz (book and movie), Gone with the Wind, Little House on the Prairie (book series and TV show), the sinking of the Titanic, natural disasters of all sorts, and homesteading on the American frontier. He also reads tarot cards. He has made several previous appearances in this blog.
Kristen Freilich: Kristen is also a veteran of the above-mentioned Northwestern productions, where she played (a.) my patient/employer, and (b.) my sister. She is a talented actress and singer on the Chicago theater scene, and has a day job as a web guru. She stood up (and sang) at my wedding. As an interesting side note, she appeared in Waylaid on the Road to Riches as the character "Leia Freitag." She has also appeared many a time in this blog. She is best described as "Carol Burnett on crack."
Billie Lape: Miss Billie is one of Czajka's oldest and dearest high school friends, and still resides in Rochester, where she works in insurance. She has an adorable 4-year-old son named Ian. She was a major linchpin during the dark summer of Mount Sinai, serving a constant vigil during Jonathan's painful last weeks. She is also an English Renaissance freak like myself, and delighted me by knowing of an obscure authoress with whom I am currently obsessed. She also boasts a collection of wee plush figurines of Henry VIII and his wives that I secretly covet. She is not to be trifled with.
Katie Heilman: Like Billie, Katie has known Czajka since his school days and hails from Rochester, although she currently resides, by sheer coincidence, in Chicago. Like Czajka, Katie is given to obsessions, her chief one being Russia, about which she knows everything. She can tell you anything you need to know about Rasputin and the Romanovs, and has served as host to important diplomats from Russia. She owns an antique samovar, which she received as a high school graduation gift from her father upon her request. She exudes the air of a Victorian lady trapped in the wrong century. This is not an insult, merely a observation.
Kelly Demaret: Kelly is also a Northwestern crony, but was unknown to me until the worst summer of all time. She is a glamourous NYC actress, and recently made an appearance on TV's Law and Order. She once stole a shower (see below) and, with Carrie (see below), tried to sneak into David Koresh's Waco compound as a Spring Break lark.
Carrie Houchins-Witt: Also a member of the Northwestern theater mafia (as it is known), Carrie shares a fascinating history of travel and adventure with Kelly, with whom she spent a year rambling around the country attending annual events and festivals and stealing showers (too long a story to be recounted here; soon to be recorded in a blockbuster book, if I can get them to dictate it to me). Currently she resides in Chicago with her husband and two darling sons, where she makes her own yogurt and picks up pin money participating in focus groups.
In preparation for our journey, we were given two bits of required reading, both of which I highly recommend:
Under the Banner of Heaven, by John Krakauer
A thrilling history of Mormonism interwoven with an account of recent outbreaks of violence in extreme LDS splinter groups. Includes a full account of the founding of Mormonism, the early phases of which take place in Palmyra, NY, not far from Rochester.
Lily Dale: The Town That Talks to the Dead, by Christine Wicker
A journalist's insights into the town that serves as the center of American Spiritualism, as developed over a series of visits and interviews. Very entertaining light reading.
The Trip: Arrival
And so it came to pass that on July 17 in the year of our Lord 2009, I embarked upon a none-too-roomy United Express jet and hurtled eastward to the Rochester airport. Mr. Czajka arrived in the same locale (from his westward hurtling embarking from JFK) mere minutes before me, and gave me a quick tour of none-too-bustling Rochester terminal en route to ground transportation.
We were picked up by the venerable Billie, and I was introduced to 4-year-old Ian, of whom I had heard many tales prior to this. I told him as much, to which he replied, "Everyone knows my name."
As the venerable Billie taxied us along, Mr. Czajka provided a dandy nickel tour of his hometown burg -- pointing out an outpost of the Underground Railroad and a doll museum -- accompanied by the tuneful strains of one of Ian's favorite songs, "Little Red Monkey."
Upon our arrival at Czajka's childhood home, we were treated to delightful conversation and a tasty repast of pizza, chicken wings, and cookies by Czajka's parents, Barb and Duane. As Ian's bedtime approached, we piled back into Billie's car and were squired to her home, where I was treated to a glimpse of the fabled plush Henry VIII dolls and a Sesame Street-style puppet approximating the Statue of Liberty.
And so it came to pass that poor Billie was very tired, and asked if I had a drivers' license. When it was ascertained that I did, it was determined that I should squire her vehicle back to the Rochester Airport where we would pick Kelly up from her 11pm flight. Aside from nearly backing Billie's car into a ditch as she looked on helplessly from the top of her uncannily dark driveway, the trip went off without a hitch. With Kelly in tow, Mr. Czajka and I headed back to Casa de Czajka, where we rendezvoused with Kristen, Carrie, and Katie, who had all taken the late flight in from the Windy City.
I will pause to note that everyone on this trip, with the exception of the venerable Billie, has a name that starts with a "K" sound. There is no significance to that fact. It's merely interesting.
At this point, any sane individual would go to bed to rest up for a full weekend of enlightening and enlivening experiences. This is not, however, what came to pass. Instead, we stayed up, along with Barb, till some wee hour in the morning -- 3am, I think -- discussing the history and theology of Mormonism. As it turns out, such a discussion was necessary, as -- ahem -- some of the participants had not done their required reading! Shocking, I know.
As we reviewed the various ins and outs of the LDS church -- the battle of the Nephites and Lamanites, the mystical Urim and Thummim (I imagine them as some sort of 3D glasses such as you get at the movies) that Joseph Smith used to read the "Reformed Egyptian" of the original Book of Mormon, the fact that Indians are red because they are 'evil', the violence of Mormon persecution and the horrific Mountain Meadow Massacre -- Kristen kept a tally of everything she 'had a problem with' by holding her hand aloft with her fingers keeping count.
We also discussed our earlier broached plan to masquerade as a husband and 6 sister wives, and bemoaned the fact that we had not found matching gingham dresses to wear. It was determined that we would designate the order of sister wives according to the length of time we had all known Czajka: Billie, Katie, Kelly, Carrie, Kristen, Kay. This means that I, despite being the oldest of the group, hold the position of "hot, young wife" about whom the patriarch still holds some glimmer of sexual attraction. Funny, that.
It was also noted that in penning the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith clumsily adopted many pat phrases cribbed from the Old Testament, including the utterly superfluous transition "And so it came to pass."
Finally, Kristen announced that Katie must take her home as she was about to pass out from exhaustion. I concurred. We three retired to Katie's parents' home, some blocks away, where we would be lodged for the duration of the trip. Kelly, Carrie and Czajka presumably headed to bed at this point, though I wouldn't put it past them to stay up yet longer.
We slept in on the following morn, and reconvened at Chez Czajka for a delightful afternoon of bocce ball, barbecued chicken, and a lovely beverage known as "Yellowbird." We were joined by Czajka's brother Jeff and his girlfriend, the always charming Aunt Bev (another stalwart from the worst summer ever) and her son Andy. Throughout the afternoon, Ian entertained us by singing the "Little Red Monkey" song, playing a keep-away game called "Monkey in the Middle," and offering a lively rendition of the classic children's tale Caps for Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys and Their Monkey Business. It was an afternoon replete with monkeys.
The Trip to Palmyra
And so it came to pass that approximately 4:30pm in the afternoon, we had had our fill of chicken and yellowbirds and thirsted instead for spiritual fulfillment. Ian and the Venerable Billie loaded into their car, while the remaining K-named individuals piled into a large van rented especially for this occasion, and we all embarked, caravan-style, on a trip to Palmyra, NY, the birthplace of Mormonism.
To pass the time on the trip, Mr. Czajka prepared a diversion -- an audio game involving a CD of appropriately themed music and related trivia questions. Participants were invited to shout out their answers to the questions about the songs as the answer struck them. The first person to bellow out a correct answer -- determined by Mr. Czajka -- would receive a small toy farm animal, dispersed from a stylish purple sack. The contestant with the most farm animals at the end of the game would win a gift bag full to the brim with gifts appropriate to the journey. The game was to be a two-day affair, starting with Mormon-themed songs and questions for the car trip to Palmyra, and finishing with Spiritualist-themed songs and questions for the trip to Lily Dale.
It is with great pride that I announce that at the end of the first of half of this game, I was far and away in the lead with 12 farm animals, dazzling my fellow K-named individuals with answers including "The Mormon Tabernacle Choir," "Marie Osmond," "The sinking of the Titanic," "Thanksgiving," and "Bringing in the Sheaves." Kristen launched her own coup, randomly shouting out the correct answer of "Nearer My God to Thee" before the song had even begun to play. It was not enough, however, to overtake my monumental lead.
Upon arrival in Palmyra, Billie and Ian parked for a nice nap at the site of the Hill Cumorah Pageant, while the K-van sped on to the historic Joseph Smith Family Home and Farm. It was here that would take in many sacred sites of the LDS Church, including:
* The sacred grove where young Joseph Smith was visited by Jesus and God, who told him that he should not adhere to any faith as there was one true religion that would later be revealed to him. I was intrigued by the sacred wasps' nest, which was pointed out to us by a church elder. It was later surmised by the K-group that it was a fake, planted to keep tourists such as ourselves from wandering off the path.
* The holy visitors center, where we checked out some kind of spooky-looking paintings of the various high points of Joseph Smith's revelations and where Mr. Czajka was asked where our "family" was from. We all looked confused, and I fear the cat was out of the bag that we were not a God-fearing Mormon family. That, and Czajka's beard, since facial hair is forbidden to men of the LDS faith.
* The hallowed restroom, where all the ladies except me took a pee. I ascribe my lack of need to pee to the miraculous workings of this most holy of sites, as I have the tiniest of bladders, and usually am the first to declare the need for a pit stop.
* The venerated log home, or rather, a reconstruction of such, where the angel Moroni appeared to Joseph Smith and told him something important that I can't quite recall. We make a short-lived attempt at taking a picture in the famed attic of us quailing in fear at the site of the angel, but were interrupted by some devout visitors and felt it would be disrespectful to be caught in such an act. We all agreed that the missionary/tour guide at this stop seemed like she was ready for fight, and looked uncannily like Kirsten Dunst.
* The blessed but rather stuffy frame house, where the Smiths later lived, and where they stashed the gold plates that held the original Book of Mormon when pillagers swept through and tried to take them (for reasons that are yet unknown to me). We were given a preamble to the house by a Mormon elder, who recounted how the Smiths bought and later lost these farmlands, an exchange I found confusing, as it seemed to suggest that a lender can simply say, "You have only two payments left on your mortgage, but I want them now, so you lose your farm." I'm still not sure how that works.
* The sanctified but not very compelling barn, which did not hold enough appeal to make us stop, so we passed it on by in our zeal to get a good spot at the Hill Curmorah Pageant.
One thing to note before we leave the historic home and site: It was here that we were introduced to an interesting, seemingly institutional quirk of Mormon tour guides and ambassadors. After providing the standard tour-type info of the site in question, each guide finished with a sort of testimonial to the truth of Mormonism, introduced by the phrase "I know." To wit: "I know that the scripture of the Book of Mormon to be true, and that the angel Moroni appeared on this very spot." It was unnerving and a bit Stepford-ish.
The Hill Cumorah Pageant
And so it came to pass, after browsing the many states represented on the license plates in the historic farm parking lot (Massachusetts, Ontario, Quebec, West Virginia, Michigan, New York, and, of course, tons of Utah), we piled back in the van and headed to our second Mormon site, the Hill Cumorah.
To those unfamiliar with Mormon lore, let me explain. The Hill Cumorah is the site where Joseph Smith was reputedly directed by the angel Moroni to dig, and where he uncovered the famed golden plates upon which are recorded the Book of Mormon. Each summer, there is staged a vast, spectacular pageant that acts out the high points of this book of Scripture on an outdoor stage. Did I mention it's free?
We arrived, and noted many fundamentalist protesters gathering to dissuade the faithful. Mormons, it seems, are like poison to fundamentalist Christians, a fact of which I was not aware. Since we had access to the intertrons by way of many a phone and Blackberrys, we quickly consulted the two websites we were directed to: http://www.josephlied.com/ and the rather bulkier URL, http://www.whatmormonsdonttell.com/. Neither was terribly satisfactory. We also noted the excellent level of parking-lot guidance, in which we were situated in the lot based upon which direction we would be heading after the pageant. This excellent service, we noted, was provided by almost exclusively bearded men -- thus not members of the LDS church.
And so it came to pass that by providential guidance we found Billie and Ian nearly immediately, and repaired to the spot they had marked out for us on the grassy field behind the seats of the pageant area.
At this point, all the K-folk headed toward the visitor center, as we had been promised a glimpse of a talking Jesus statue. Along the way, Carrie -- who it was later revealed has never met a stranger -- encountered a woman wearing a t-shirt commemorating Carrie's mother's high school. A short chat uncovered that the woman and her friends knew many of Carrie's relatives and that -- wonder of wonders! -- Carrie's mother's cousin was actually in attendance at this very pageant. And lo it was that the Hill Cumorah reunited never-before-acquainted members of the Houchins family.
Next, we finally arrived at the visitors center, and after a short wait, were ushered into a rotunda that featured a large statue of Jesus surrounded by small divans. We were given small cards upon which to inscribe the names and addresses of any friends and acquaintances that we wished to receive a visit from representatives of the Mormon faith. My friends and acquaintances will be relieved to know that I did not submit a card.
I regret to report that the alleged talking Jesus statue did not talk at all; rather, it simply stood there as a piped-in voice recounted some speech attributed to the Son of Man in the Book of Mormon. It was disappointing in the extreme. Next came an address by a young, perky missionary, who stuck to the "I know" formula of all such tour addresses. She polled the audience for our responses to the talking Jesus and, after receiving none, awkwardly acknowledged that such feelings were very personal and hard to share.
And so it came to pass that we were ushered into a small screening room, where we were told we would be presented with a short film about the experiences of Joseph Smith. The perky missionary noted that boxes of tissue would be posted in the front and back of the room for our convenience. I was puzzled by this until the elderly lady began dabbing her eyes almost as soon as the opening titles began to roll.
After the film, which I am pleased to report was produced according to fairly high standards of the cinematic arts, we passed into the museum area of the visitors center. Here, we gazed upon a real, authentic replica of the gold plates, which looked -- as Mr. Czajka had promised up -- like a Trapper Keeper wrought in gold tin foil. After much fuss, lost companions, regained companions, and trips to the restroom, we departed.
We repaired to our spot on the lawn, where we had set up chairs and a cunning table for our comfort. En route, some of our clan stopped for a photo with the Old Testament-costumed cast members who were now prowling the audience. Katie and I, bashful as we are, put our heads down and walked on.
Upon our arrival at our picnic spot, we remarked upon the good luck that we had brought so many blankets, as it was unseasonably cool for July. And this it was that began to feast on many tasty comestibles, thoughtfully packed for us by Duane and Barb, including : Doritos, Pringles, cheese and crackers, Twizzlers, cherries, Jell-O (a Mormon favorite), and M&Ms. As we supped, we enjoyed the spectacle of our young, Sephardic-looking Ian as he romped and played with blond, blue-eyed Mormon children.
As twilight approached, we in turn were approached by two cast members: a be-wigged fellow who looked uncannily like the father on Malcolm in the Middle, and his similarly clad wife, who announced with relish that she was to play "an evil woman" in the evening's pageant. They were a friendly but vaguely unsettling couple -- a strange cross between straight-laced Mormon and dewy-eyed flower children rhapsodizing about Woodstock. They asked Czajka the ubiquitous opening question of Mormon country -- "Where is your family from?" -- and informed us this was their third year in the pageant. Their three kids were also in the cast, and they had all been sleeping in a tent for the last 21 days.
The husband seemed torn between twin impulses: to proselytize his beliefs and to advertise his role in the pageant and the fact that he knew the guy who played Jesus. Eventually, he took a knee, cracked open his Book of Mormon, and showed us the scene in which he appeared. He segued seamlessly from a discussion of scripture (the familiar phrase "I know" eventually came out), and he noted that performing in the pageant provided a sense of intimacy with the savior that was touching and inspiring. His wife agreed, and told us the pageant was really something, and that it was amazing when they lowered the savior down on wires from 50 feet above the stage. "Well, it's not 50 feet," her husband scoffed. "He comes down from 50 feet, and it's really something!" she repeated. "Not really 50 feet," her husband countered. We chatted a bit longer, and the husband asked if any of us had the book of Mormon. With our varied and unconvincing answers, he seemed to sense we were not worth the effort, quickly stood, yanked his wife up, bid us adieu and went on his merry way.
As darkness began to fall, it came to pass that it was time for the pageant to begin. Then it was that we were treated to many a spectacle, including fire effects, explosions, waterfalls, the aforementioned descending Jesus, the building of a ship, the battle of Nephites and Lamanites, the horrible inhumanity of man to man, the intractable wickedness of even the favored and sometimes pious Nephites, the burying of the story of the Nephites by Moroni, and the discovery of said plates on this very spot in the 19th century.
More on the pageant: it features of a cast of nearly 750 volunteer actors on a mammoth platformed stage perched on the summit of the Hill Cumorah. All audio is piped in, and the actors simply mouth the words while gesturing wildly to ensure those of us even way in the back can tell who is talking. It really is a wonder of stagecraft, special effects, directional acumen and people management. The Theater Department of Brigham Young University should be very proud.
Another note: The music for the pageant is rather odd and, in parts, sounds much like an MGM musical. The opening strains quite distinctly echo Gypsy, and a grand scene of baptism was accompanied by strains recalling The Wizard of Oz.
During the pageant, it seems the miraculous expansion of the tiny bladder failed me, and I had to pee. Knowing that it would be nigh unto impossible to access the can after the pageant when the throng of humanity was pushing toward the parking lot, I opted to head out during the final battle of the Nephites and Lamanites, which due to its graphic nature, spread sufficient illumination onto the lawn. Sadly, plot and lighting failed me upon my return, as Moroni buried the plates in a single pinspot, and left me on a plain darkling. I had to edge along, foot by foot, on uneven, pitch-black sod, sidestepping groups of the faithful as I went. My fanny hit the seat again just as Joseph Smith made his fateful discovery.
Leaving the pageant, we found the parking lot crowded but fairly convivial. The fact that we were waved into the flow of traffic as quickly as we were is a testament to the fact that Mormon doctrine, if it teaches nothing else, instills its members with nice manners. As we departed, Mr. Czajka noted that the young actor who had played Joseph Smith in the movied we had watched was "totally gay."
The Journey to Lily Dale
And so it came to pass that it was a good thing that we all went straight to bed after the pageant as Sunday, July 29, in the year of our Lord 2009 was to be a full one.
After an early arisal, we left the house at the bleary-eyed hour of 8:30am to meet Billy at the local Ted Horton's. Coffee, donuts and breakfast sandwiches obtained, we hit the road for Lily Dale, the center of American Spiritualism.
En route, we continued our audio game, this time answering questions relating to the realm of the spirits, and identifying music from Poltergeist, The Lady in White, The Amityville Horror, and Ghostbusters. It must be recorded that I did not turn in as stellar a performance as I did on the previous day, but due to my staggering lead, I still managed to win. My prizes included:
* A CD containing all the songs used in the game
* A t-shirt commemorating "Rochester, NY, Lilac Capital of the World"
* A refrigerator magnet in the shape of New York state, with Rochester prominently marked
* My very own copy of the Book of Mormon
* A DVD of the PBS series The Mormons
* A book entitled Devil's Gate: Brigham Young and the Great Mormon Handcart Tragedy
* A book entitled The Reluctant Spiritualist: The Life of Maggie Fox
* A pencil stolen from Lily Dale
As we pulled off the expressway after more than two hours of travel, Mr. Czajka adjured us that it was now time for a few moments of quiet reflection. We had scheduled private readings with one of Lily Dale's registered mediums, Marti Hughes, and she had directed Czajka that we should "pack our trunks" with our dead so that there would be much for her to unpack in our readings.
Just as we launched into this moment of reverie, Katie caught sight of a Bob Evans, and launched into a vituperative tirade upon the poor quality and value of the food at said diner. After several minutes, it was noted that this was to be a moment of silence. Undaunted, Katie continued her rant, noting that everyone had told her how good Bob Evans was, but that it really wasn't, especially for the money you pay, and why would you go there anyway. Just as she started to settle down, someone in the car, it might've been Carrie, inquired as to some particularity of Bob Evans, and the rant renewed. I commented that we would undoubtedly encounter the spirit of Mr. Bob Evans in all our readings.
Despite Katie's outburst, I managed to ponder who I would "bring along" to my reading. My life is surprisingly unencumbered by dead people. The most recent ones I could think of -- namely, Jonathan and my neighbor Dolores -- seemed unlikely visitors. I couldn't imagine either had anything to say to me (apart, perhaps, from Dolores inquiring whether I was still enjoying her hand-me-down tupperware), and I was not special enough to either warrant an appearance. Going back further, I knew grandparents were my fallback option, but I wasn't particularly close with any of them. It struck me, however, that I might like to hear from my maternal grandmother, as she suffered from the same late-in-life health issues my mother currently suffers from, and I thought she might have something to say on the matter. So I dedicated a few minutes thinking of her, even though I was not convinced that mediumship consists of anything but a great ability to read subconscious cues and provide vague guesses.
A few words on Lily Dale and the surrounding area: it is a small community on the shores of a lovely lake surrounded by sylvan splendor. It was founded in the 19th century, during the height of the craze for spiritualism initiated by the rappings and tappings of a famous family of psychic siblings, the Fox sisters. The Rochester/Buffalo region, in fact, is frequently referred to as the "burnt over district," as waves of religious passion and evangelism passed through country in the mid 1800s. Spiritualism, Mormonism and the Shaker movement are among these waves. Lily Dale hit its apex at the turn of the century, and has sagged a bit since. It's really a rather charming little community, boasting quaint, peeling Victorian houses, a hotel, library, museum, and a big, general-use auditorium -- a fantastic open-air structure that looks like is should be housing a carousel.
To hang out your shingle as a medium in Lily Dale, you must past a certification process -- testing and such -- though some scoff that it's "all political." Some claim there are "vortexes" in the region -- centers of spirit that put the "other world" in closer contact here. There is also "Inspiration Stump," a site of "profound spiritual energy" in a nearby forest clearing where mediums provide messages from beyond twice a day during the summer. Did I mention it's free?
But while the message services are free, entry to Lily Dale is not, and so it came to pass that we forked over $10 a head and entered the hallowed gates. From there, we located Marti Hughes' home, where she does her readings, and then repaired to one of the community's three gift shoppes, where I purchased my very first pack of tarot cards.
Our private readings were scheduled throughout the day, and interspersed with other, otherworldly experiences. I wasn't in attendance for any of the private readings but my own, so I'll capture a few recollections and recounted details here (I regret that my account of details from my reading are, naturally, the fullest):
* At the start of Czajka's reading, Marti told him there was a young man standing in the corner, arms folded, looking annoyed. We assume this was Jonathan, who had been to Lily Dale once in life, and had declared it a "dump." During the last horrible summer, he assured Czajka that he would never make an appearance there. During the fall of last year, Czajka made a visit to Lily Dale with Billie and had an uncanny experience during a private reading which suggested that, if such things are possible, Jonathan had changed his mind and showed up. But he swore he would never return. Hence the spiritual annoyance.
* Marti described Czajka's two grandmothers in such stunning and accurate detail, he was shocked.
* Marti told Czajka he was "worth his weight in gold" to his current employer -- a palpable truth -- and told him he had a job there forever, which both encouraged and dismayed him.
* In my reading, she started by noting she sees me teaching, but not in an academic setting. She also noted that I had no trauma in my life (largely true) -- that she usually spent her days helping people deal with traumas, but that I had none. My life, she said, generally works out for me (echoing, uncannily, a former roommate, who once called me "Fortune's darling"). I live "a life of preferences," choosing what I wish to do, and filling in the blank canvas of my life. She told me that in my work, I probably never had to look for clients; they just come to me. All this, largely true. She said I need to keep being grateful for this.
* She also told me that I'm "very open to guidance from the universe," but that I'm not aware of it. Things, she said, just come to me when I need them. I always am prepared and have what I need, but I never consciously do this. Anyone who knows of my basement knows this to be true.
* She identified one individual who was with me, and surmised it was -- ahem -- my maternal grandmother, who was presenting me an old-fashioned layer cake. A lemon layer cake. She asked if this particular grandmother was "old-fashioned." As it happens, she was -- my other grandmother was kind of stylish, voguish lady, but mother's mother was a classic 1930s-style grandma with white hair and housedress. Her message, Marti said, was that like the old-fashioned cake, she was an old-fashioned lady, and for all my modern ways, I was an old-fashioned girl. True that. (And, one week before, I sang "I'm Old-Fashioned" at Davenport's Open Mic Night.)
* Much to my surprise, Marti told me there was also a "gentleman" present, and that he rolled his eyes when she said "gentleman." She indicated it was Jonathan. I was surprised, as I didn't think that -- if spirit visits were possible -- Jonathan would stick around for me. Either Marti picked up on this, or Jonathan felt the same, as she then reported that when she asked what message he had for me, he "shrugged his shoulders." She said, "That never happens, it's a conundrum." Then she laughed and reported that he said, "Conundrum, that's a good word." Which actually seemed like something Jonathan would say.
* Marti also correctly identified that I had recently been through a "long night of the soul" in which I had given up faith and, in her most vivid evocation, flipped off God. This is true.
* I was less convinced later in the reading, when she told me that Jonathan felt I should not only sing in a group, but should take to the stage solo and "strut my stuff like a hot mama." "It's all in the shoulders," she said he said, shimming his spectral shoulders. This strikes me as drawn more from the sack of homosexual male stereotypes than from our actual Jonathan, unless the ectoplasm has gone to his head or something.
* Kelly was not impressed with her reading, which she felt was full of cliches and counseling, and not much that could be counted as "otherworldly."
* Billie's reading opened with the identification of two men who were protective, who Billie felt were her father and uncle. Marti noted they were confused and scratching their heads, and then asked, "Who is the mystery baby?" Billie was amused, as her son Ian is the produce of IVF by way of an anonymous donor. "They want to know why you didn't do it the old-fashioned way."
* Marti also informed Billie that Jonathan had his two cents to add, and some choice words about the handling of some of her personal affairs. Jonathan, Billie described it, "yelled" at her. According to Czajka, these sentiments were totally consistent with our dearly departed's feelings on this matter.
* As Billie was leaving, Marti noted that Jonathan pointed to his feet, and noted that he was now not wearing socks. In life, Jonathan never went barefoot, so noting the change was meaningful. He also noted that he "now wears loafers," a sharp departure for the living Jonathan.
* Kristen, like Kelly, was not terribly happy with her reading, as none of her dead relatives showed up. She thought it felt like run-of-the-mill counseling, and was confused by a tangent about how one could teach a course on theater online.
* Katie, like some of us, enjoyed a visit from Jonathan, but it was, as she put it, "an uncharacteristically nurturing Jonathan" who didn't yell at her at all.
* Carrie felt her reading was "all misses." Marti asserted that she had had a difficult pregnancy when, according to Carrie, her pregnancies were "textbook." Marti also asked, "Who's the butcher?" When Carrie asserted that she knew no butcher, Marti kept asking about it -- a ploy, Carrie felt, for covering up a patent miss. She also asked Carrie about someone who knitted in the family. Misses all, Carrie told us. More on this anon.
* Marti also told Carrie not to "drive too fast" after we left Lily Dale.
And so it came to pass that we enjoyed the all the many pleasures Lily Dale affords, including:
* Not one but two services at Inspiration Stump, where four mediums come out for 15 minutes of cold-reading of people drawn from the audience. These range from the eerily dead-on ("Your aunt's name is May." "Yes.) to the pathetically vague and inaccurate ("There's a spirit from the mother's side of the house and she wants you to know she's so proud of you.")
To our grave disappointment, no one in our party received any messages at either service. This led us to surmise that perhaps there were all sorts of angry spirits and negative energy hovering around us, since our required reading had taught us that the mediums of Lily Dale would not convey negative messages.
We were also struck by the strange verbal formulations of the readings -- rather like the interpolation of the "I know" statements by the Mormon tour guides. One medium interspersed "please" throughout her messages ("There's a man here, please, who was hit on the head, please, and his name starts with J, please"). Nearly all mediums ended there stump messages with the phrase, "I leave that to you with God's Blessing," which became the refrain of the rest of the trip.
* A visit to the Lily Dale museum, where we browsed bent spoons and brass trumpets that had been levitated by mediums of an era past.
* A viewing of a film, "Welcome to Lily Dale," at the library, which unfortunately coincided with my private reading, so I am unable to convey its contents.
* Luncheon at the Sunflower Cafe, not worth reporting on.
* A guest lecture at the auditorium on the difference between choices and decisions given by a resident psychic, directing us to consider with each decision how we will be impacted in 10 minutes, 10 months and 10 years. This led to the repetition of this formula for nearly ever decision made on the rest of the trip.
* Yet another message service following the guest lecture with a medium who was uncannily dead on in many of his pronouncements. To wit, the woman who he identified as wearing her mother's necklace, which she was.
At the end of the afternoon, it came to pass that Kristen departed with the venerable Billie, who spirited her away for an evening flight from the Buffalo airport. The remaining K-folk embarked upon a tour a mysterious Lily Dale attraction called the "Fairy Trail."
What we expected was a trail in the forest where fairies are reputed to be seen. What we got was a forest trail bestrewed with offerings for said fairies, constructed largely from bird houses, glitter, figureines, and sequins. As I told Mr. Czajka, I could live the rest of my life there. We resolved that on our next visit, we would construct a multiroom house to be left on the fairy trail, and that each participant would be required to decorate one room with fairy fancies. A contest, you see. For another valuable gift bag.
We Flee to Canada
And so it came to pass that we departed Lily Dale and all its gauzy wonders and headed west (!) to Canada and Niagara Falls. Along the way, Kelly read to us from intertrons on the subject of fairies, about which we now had many questions.
We arrived on the U.S. side of the falls, and headed to a nearby casino, where we dined. During dinner, Carrie again bemoaned the fact that her reading was so full of misses, including the laughable statement that she had a difficult pregnancy.
Kelly, who had not yet heard this detail, chimed in, "But you were in labor for 36 hours and had an emergency C-section."
"Does that count?" Carrie asked. We assured her it did. Score one for Marti.
Dinner was a leisurely affair, not concluded until 10:30pm. At this point, we had to flee to the falls, as we were not sure when the lights would turn out for the evening. An inaccurate casino employee told us the bridge to Canada was a five-minute walk away. He lied. Thankfully, suspicious heads prevailed, and we cabbed it to the bridge, then to the famed "Horseshoe" on the other side.
As we gazed upon the sliding waters as they fell inexorably away, I mused on the fact that this entire weekend had been a meditation on the subject of suggestibility. Our trip to Palmyra raised the question of how one could believe that the age of miracles was still with us. Our foray into Lily Dale teased us with hits and misses, daring us to believe, then chiding us for our gullibility. Now this natural wonder was working its magnetic force, beckoning me over the edge in a way that speaks not so much to self-annihilation as to wanting to join a mighty force already in play.
And then, we visited a gift shoppe, and I joined the flow of commerce by purchasing a puzzlingly ugly commemorative shotglass. After a few misturns, we found our way back over the border, and Carrie made yet another friend with the border agent, who hailed her on account of her West Virginia t-shirt.
And it came to pass that the entire remaining K-crew, with the exception of myself, enjoys the gaming tables, and so remained at the casino for 15 minutes of gambling as I dozed on a lobby chair. It was now 1:15am.
To ensure that Carrie remained awake during the drive home (she being behind the wheel), Czajka decreed that we would play a game inspired by the cabaret open mic I had attended earlier that week. We were to go through the alphabet, naming shows for each letter, then singing full out a song from each show. We did very well, but unaccountably had trouble coming up with a good "T" show (we chose Tommy but realized no one knew any of the words).
Thanks to "Officer Krupke" (or perhaps to Katie's rant about how awful a song "Officer Krupke" is), we managed to miss both Rochester exits, and swung a bit out of our way. As we left the expressway to backtrack, we heard the unmistakable sound of cars crashing. On the underpass below us, there was a collision, and two cars had spun out. Carrie, whose reflexes were unexpectedly spry for 3am, spun a u-turn and parked us on the side of the road behind one of the cars. Czajka ran to check, and discovered the driver of one car injured and pinned by his airbag. The other driver, a young woman, was undeniably drunk. Kelly dialed 911, Kate gave the operator directions. We waited till the police arrived, who told us to leave, as we had not witnessed the crash.
We mused that it was lucky that we were not going, as Marti Hughes had warned us, too fast, or we might have been part of that accident. Or we might have missed the chance to help.
And so it came to pass that exhausted but exhilarated, we were soon safe in our beds, 'round about 4am. I arose at 7:30am, was cheerfully driven to the airport by Katie's charming father, and arrived home some time around 3:30.
Coda
Later, we all received the following missive from Carrie:
Wanted you all to know that I spoke with my mother. Her Aunt Judy was a butcher her whole life. My mother said "She would be the one person I would have wanted you to hear from" in Lilydale.
Did I mention that Aunt Judy was also a knitter?
I leave that to you with God's Blessing. Thank you.
Crazy Crap Item #237: The part where my basement expands to next door
Oft and anon, I've noted that everything I need is located in my basement. Neighbors have marveled how fabulous stuff, stuff I don't even know I own, leaps forth from this wonderland of discarded goodies, seemingly at the bidding of unseen hands. Just recently, my neighbor Jim asked whether I had any of "that spongey shelf paper, the kind with holes in it." I produced it (the product is known, apparently, as "grip liner"), and his wife Ann asked, "Was it in your basement?" It was.
So, just this morning, I emailed the local listserv, Ruth's List, because I needed a notary public for some financial papers. I could go all the way down town to Charles Schwab and have them notarize it, but that would necessitate leaving my house, something I avoid at all costs. Minutes after hitting send, I received the following email from Ann:
Jim is a notary but he's out of town. He could bring his seal home on Thursday night if that's not too late for you.
Once again, what I need is just under my nose, as the boundaries of my basement expand to next door.
So, just this morning, I emailed the local listserv, Ruth's List, because I needed a notary public for some financial papers. I could go all the way down town to Charles Schwab and have them notarize it, but that would necessitate leaving my house, something I avoid at all costs. Minutes after hitting send, I received the following email from Ann:
Jim is a notary but he's out of town. He could bring his seal home on Thursday night if that's not too late for you.
Once again, what I need is just under my nose, as the boundaries of my basement expand to next door.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #236: The part where Jim Croce follows me wherever I go
Lately, my life has been a veritable whirlwind. I've been researching and writing about Iceland, Italy and Scandinavia for various and sundry travel brochures. I started on a new pro bono project with Taproot Foundation. I've been girding my loins for a weekend away with Mr. Chris Czajka and company for a tour of all upstate New York's most glamourous phenomena, including attendance at the annual Hill Cumorah Pageant (a fabulous outdoor presentation documenting the founding of Mormonism; I've got my fingers crossed for the Angel Moroni suspended on fishing wire); private medium consultations with a psychic at the center of American Spiritualism, Lily Daly, NY; and (yawn) a visit to Niagara.
This last weekend alone was a maelstrom of activity. After a Friday night on the town, I sang at a Saturday night concert by my a cappella group, Faces for Radio, followed by zany karaoke hijinks at our favorite dive, Cafe Bong (affectionately known as "The Bong Ho"). First thing Sunday morning, we met for brunch with James Eason, an old friend of mine from high school, then sped out to Pilsen for a soon-to-be-disclosed art project of epic proportions.
Given all the mayhem, it's no surprise that I had failed to follow up on the strange arrival in our household of a stray Jim Croce CD.
Now, I know Mr. Croce of old. I grew up in the '70s, after all. Many's the time my mother would dance about the kitchen, crooning of bad, bad Leroy Brown ("Badder than old King King,/ Meaner than a junkyard dog"). I have not, however, had any contact with the works of Mr. Croce since then, or ever expressed any desire to own his greatest hits.
Despite this lack of interest on my part, there it was: "The Greatest Hits of Jim Croce," courtesy of my father. I assumed my father had meant to have this item sent to himself, but had a pre-set address on Amazon for my abode. I thought nothing more of the matter.
On Monday, despite my tornado-like weekend, I ventured out to Davenport's Piano Bar. This fine establishment boasts a cabaret open mic night, an event which my must have been invented solely for my own amusement. A fantastic accompanist and a bunch of friendly folk singing showtunes, old pop songs, standards, original compositions, you name it. (This is not to be confused with Petterino's Monday Night Live, which is a much more formal and daunting affair).
So, there I sit with my good friend Lindsay, nursing a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and contemplating my next tune, when a fellow gets up and sings a song about being in love with a roller derby queen. This is, of course, amusing to me, as Eamon is an official for Chicago's women's roller derby league, The Windy City Rollers. I text him about the song, and like magic, he walks in the door (mere coincidence -- he as actually at derby practice that night, which is not far from Davenport's). I recount this mystifying bit of synchronicity.
The week plods on, and I finally chat with my father on Wednesday. He asks if I received the Jim Croce CD. Memory jogged, I exclaim, "I've been meaning to ask about that. Did you send that to me on purpose?"
Yes, he assures me. "Number 14 is for Eamon."
After we hang up, I hunt down the CD and check the song list.
#14: "Roller Derby Queen"
Jim Croce and the derby girls, they follow me.
This last weekend alone was a maelstrom of activity. After a Friday night on the town, I sang at a Saturday night concert by my a cappella group, Faces for Radio, followed by zany karaoke hijinks at our favorite dive, Cafe Bong (affectionately known as "The Bong Ho"). First thing Sunday morning, we met for brunch with James Eason, an old friend of mine from high school, then sped out to Pilsen for a soon-to-be-disclosed art project of epic proportions.
Given all the mayhem, it's no surprise that I had failed to follow up on the strange arrival in our household of a stray Jim Croce CD.
Now, I know Mr. Croce of old. I grew up in the '70s, after all. Many's the time my mother would dance about the kitchen, crooning of bad, bad Leroy Brown ("Badder than old King King,/ Meaner than a junkyard dog"). I have not, however, had any contact with the works of Mr. Croce since then, or ever expressed any desire to own his greatest hits.
Despite this lack of interest on my part, there it was: "The Greatest Hits of Jim Croce," courtesy of my father. I assumed my father had meant to have this item sent to himself, but had a pre-set address on Amazon for my abode. I thought nothing more of the matter.
On Monday, despite my tornado-like weekend, I ventured out to Davenport's Piano Bar. This fine establishment boasts a cabaret open mic night, an event which my must have been invented solely for my own amusement. A fantastic accompanist and a bunch of friendly folk singing showtunes, old pop songs, standards, original compositions, you name it. (This is not to be confused with Petterino's Monday Night Live, which is a much more formal and daunting affair).
So, there I sit with my good friend Lindsay, nursing a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and contemplating my next tune, when a fellow gets up and sings a song about being in love with a roller derby queen. This is, of course, amusing to me, as Eamon is an official for Chicago's women's roller derby league, The Windy City Rollers. I text him about the song, and like magic, he walks in the door (mere coincidence -- he as actually at derby practice that night, which is not far from Davenport's). I recount this mystifying bit of synchronicity.
The week plods on, and I finally chat with my father on Wednesday. He asks if I received the Jim Croce CD. Memory jogged, I exclaim, "I've been meaning to ask about that. Did you send that to me on purpose?"
Yes, he assures me. "Number 14 is for Eamon."
After we hang up, I hunt down the CD and check the song list.
#14: "Roller Derby Queen"
Jim Croce and the derby girls, they follow me.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #235: The part where I tend to a long overdue memorial
I told myself I wouldn't let a year pass before I tended to this, but here it is, a year later, and I've yet to post.
What I'm referring to is a sad event that transpired one year ago today: The passing of Dolores McDermott.
Please don't misconstrue the long delay. It's not that Dolores' death passed unnoticed, or that her absence wasn't mourned. It's just that tributes are always hard to write, and particularly so when the person you're memorializing took on mythic status. That's the case here.
In a way, this entire blog serves as Dolores' memorial. What else can be said about someone who appeared so often in these pages?
But it's not just a matter of frequency. Any account of 1500 Norwood would be incomplete without the tales of Dolores. She was a fixture, an icon. "The lady in the lawnchair," the first harbinger of spring whose habitual appearance seated in the folding chair in her driveway signaled that the fine weather was finally here.
She was the "mayor of Norwood," constantly observing, always with a bit of news about this neighbor or that. Passersby would stop to say hello; sometimes cars would even stop. Anyone who doubts the ominpresence of Dolores need only visit Google maps, and take a street view of our block. Dolores sits there to this day in her lawnchair, enshrined in Internet glory.
It's only on a block like 1500 Norwood that you'd have a Dolores -- the sometimes sweet, sometimes crotchety old lady who knows everyone and everything that's happened in the last 40 years on this block. What's more, she assumes you know them as well -- "You know, Bill on Glenview. He was the one who lived in the blue house when the dime store caught fire..."
I don't even know how long Dolores had lived on Norwood, but it was a long time. I estimate it must've been at least 100 years. In my mind's eye, I see her in a 1930s housedress, Marcel waves in place, calling in the kids to listen to "Little Orphan Annie" on an enormous wood-paneled radio. That's all wrong, of course; Dolores would barely be a baby in the early '30s. But there was something so undeniably old-tyme about Dolores, so Depression-era, so much of deep roots and cherished traditions, the image feels right. She was like a throwback, an icon of old-ladyness from another time--not unlike her block, a throwback to the old-fashioned Chicago neighborhood.
In fact, I'd say it's not simply that you cannot describe 1500 Norwood without mentioning Dolores. I'd suggest she herself was a sort of emblem for everything that's special about this block. She embodied the permanence of a neighborhood where people don't move away, and where old ladies stay in houses that are too big for them long after many would retire to the nursing home. She was a living example of the shared memories, the traditions, that makes community on such a block coherent.
She wasn't just sweetness and light, some latterday Aunt Bea. She was Chicago life, warts and all. She got crabby and complained about her relatives to anyone who would listen. She spied. She harbored a long-time feud with our other neighborhood stalwart, Bernadine.
But she also held up the pillars of community by keeping tabs on all our neighborhood doings. It was she, long-term readers may recall, who revealed who stole my Autumnal pumpkins, and who pooped on my lawn.
There was a certain shamelessness to Dolores that was the hallmark of old-ladyness, the privilege of living into your 80s. She never hid the fact she spied on you; she blithely proclaimed she had watched you doing thus and such. Often, she skipped a greeting altogether, and launched into her latest complaint instead--the fact that her grandkids hadn't washed the dishes or that someone had looked at her squinty-eyed--followed by an exasperated rolling of the eyes.
But her shamelessness was coupled with an oddly circumlocutionary way of addressing matters. She was paradoxically direct and indirect at the same time, skipping the niceties of normal human discourse. I fondly recall the time I came home, and as I pulled up to the curb, she beelined straight for me, waddling into the street on her characteristic blue Crocs. "I'm going to a wedding Saturday, and I need a dress. I wanted Ray to take me to the store, but he's not home. He said he would but he's not there..." To know Dolores was to realize that what she was really saying was, "I want to go dress shopping, I want to go now, and you're going to take me." Who was I to disagree?
But she was also generous. Nothing gave her more joy than discovering she had something she could give you. One time, she complained of a deli-quality meat slicer that was taking of space in her pantry. "Does your husband like meat?" Soon, we had a meat slicer. And bags of tupperware. And a tub of frozen cookie dough.
In the few years I knew Dolores, I got small glimpses of her life before old age. Once she told me of how she loved to sing when she was a little girl. She laughed at herself, showing me how she'd sit tipped back in a chair in her backyard, crooning to the moon.
Another time, she told me about how she'd take her many (8? 9?) kids to the dime store, which was at that time located about a few blocks north of us on Clark. She described leading them down the street, and how they'd have to stop and inspect each and every gangway. The trip would take hours, she recalled.
But these were only snapshots, and after she passed, I was delighted and surprised to get a fuller image of Dolores from the remembrances of her children at her wake and her funeral. Dolores loved to dance. She was committed to family traditions, particularly at the holidays. She raised her children with love, joy and energy.
Finally, it must be recalled that it is thanks to Dolores that Eamon and I ever came to Norwood. After viewing our house, we loved our house so much we decided to go all in. We made an offer of the highest amount we could pay, knowing it was still under the asking price. Our offer was politely declined. Later, mysteriously, it was accepted. Dolores later gave her version of the story. She'd met Eamon when he came back to see the house, and took an immediate liking to him. When she heard that our offer had been declined, she told the owners--the O'Malley kids who had lived across the street from her nearly all their lives--that we were nice people and they had to sell to us. We were the sort that needed to live here. The rest, as they say, is blog history.
So that's Dolores, our Lady of the Lawnchair, Mayor of Norwood. As a final farewell, let us pause to recall her legacy:
Crazy Crap Item #6: The part where my pumpkins go missing
Crazy Crap Item #61: The part where I see the first robin of spring, Norwood Street style
Crazy Crap Item #94: The part where we light the torch on the summer block party tradition
Crazy Crap Item #111: The part where I experience the joy of city living
Crazy Crap Item #115: The part where I document the first robin of spring
Crazy Crap Item #136: The part where Delores experiences an upgrade
What I'm referring to is a sad event that transpired one year ago today: The passing of Dolores McDermott.
Please don't misconstrue the long delay. It's not that Dolores' death passed unnoticed, or that her absence wasn't mourned. It's just that tributes are always hard to write, and particularly so when the person you're memorializing took on mythic status. That's the case here.
In a way, this entire blog serves as Dolores' memorial. What else can be said about someone who appeared so often in these pages?
But it's not just a matter of frequency. Any account of 1500 Norwood would be incomplete without the tales of Dolores. She was a fixture, an icon. "The lady in the lawnchair," the first harbinger of spring whose habitual appearance seated in the folding chair in her driveway signaled that the fine weather was finally here.
She was the "mayor of Norwood," constantly observing, always with a bit of news about this neighbor or that. Passersby would stop to say hello; sometimes cars would even stop. Anyone who doubts the ominpresence of Dolores need only visit Google maps, and take a street view of our block. Dolores sits there to this day in her lawnchair, enshrined in Internet glory.
It's only on a block like 1500 Norwood that you'd have a Dolores -- the sometimes sweet, sometimes crotchety old lady who knows everyone and everything that's happened in the last 40 years on this block. What's more, she assumes you know them as well -- "You know, Bill on Glenview. He was the one who lived in the blue house when the dime store caught fire..."
I don't even know how long Dolores had lived on Norwood, but it was a long time. I estimate it must've been at least 100 years. In my mind's eye, I see her in a 1930s housedress, Marcel waves in place, calling in the kids to listen to "Little Orphan Annie" on an enormous wood-paneled radio. That's all wrong, of course; Dolores would barely be a baby in the early '30s. But there was something so undeniably old-tyme about Dolores, so Depression-era, so much of deep roots and cherished traditions, the image feels right. She was like a throwback, an icon of old-ladyness from another time--not unlike her block, a throwback to the old-fashioned Chicago neighborhood.
In fact, I'd say it's not simply that you cannot describe 1500 Norwood without mentioning Dolores. I'd suggest she herself was a sort of emblem for everything that's special about this block. She embodied the permanence of a neighborhood where people don't move away, and where old ladies stay in houses that are too big for them long after many would retire to the nursing home. She was a living example of the shared memories, the traditions, that makes community on such a block coherent.
She wasn't just sweetness and light, some latterday Aunt Bea. She was Chicago life, warts and all. She got crabby and complained about her relatives to anyone who would listen. She spied. She harbored a long-time feud with our other neighborhood stalwart, Bernadine.
But she also held up the pillars of community by keeping tabs on all our neighborhood doings. It was she, long-term readers may recall, who revealed who stole my Autumnal pumpkins, and who pooped on my lawn.
There was a certain shamelessness to Dolores that was the hallmark of old-ladyness, the privilege of living into your 80s. She never hid the fact she spied on you; she blithely proclaimed she had watched you doing thus and such. Often, she skipped a greeting altogether, and launched into her latest complaint instead--the fact that her grandkids hadn't washed the dishes or that someone had looked at her squinty-eyed--followed by an exasperated rolling of the eyes.
But her shamelessness was coupled with an oddly circumlocutionary way of addressing matters. She was paradoxically direct and indirect at the same time, skipping the niceties of normal human discourse. I fondly recall the time I came home, and as I pulled up to the curb, she beelined straight for me, waddling into the street on her characteristic blue Crocs. "I'm going to a wedding Saturday, and I need a dress. I wanted Ray to take me to the store, but he's not home. He said he would but he's not there..." To know Dolores was to realize that what she was really saying was, "I want to go dress shopping, I want to go now, and you're going to take me." Who was I to disagree?
But she was also generous. Nothing gave her more joy than discovering she had something she could give you. One time, she complained of a deli-quality meat slicer that was taking of space in her pantry. "Does your husband like meat?" Soon, we had a meat slicer. And bags of tupperware. And a tub of frozen cookie dough.
In the few years I knew Dolores, I got small glimpses of her life before old age. Once she told me of how she loved to sing when she was a little girl. She laughed at herself, showing me how she'd sit tipped back in a chair in her backyard, crooning to the moon.
Another time, she told me about how she'd take her many (8? 9?) kids to the dime store, which was at that time located about a few blocks north of us on Clark. She described leading them down the street, and how they'd have to stop and inspect each and every gangway. The trip would take hours, she recalled.
But these were only snapshots, and after she passed, I was delighted and surprised to get a fuller image of Dolores from the remembrances of her children at her wake and her funeral. Dolores loved to dance. She was committed to family traditions, particularly at the holidays. She raised her children with love, joy and energy.
Finally, it must be recalled that it is thanks to Dolores that Eamon and I ever came to Norwood. After viewing our house, we loved our house so much we decided to go all in. We made an offer of the highest amount we could pay, knowing it was still under the asking price. Our offer was politely declined. Later, mysteriously, it was accepted. Dolores later gave her version of the story. She'd met Eamon when he came back to see the house, and took an immediate liking to him. When she heard that our offer had been declined, she told the owners--the O'Malley kids who had lived across the street from her nearly all their lives--that we were nice people and they had to sell to us. We were the sort that needed to live here. The rest, as they say, is blog history.
So that's Dolores, our Lady of the Lawnchair, Mayor of Norwood. As a final farewell, let us pause to recall her legacy:
Crazy Crap Item #6: The part where my pumpkins go missing
Crazy Crap Item #61: The part where I see the first robin of spring, Norwood Street style
Crazy Crap Item #94: The part where we light the torch on the summer block party tradition
Crazy Crap Item #111: The part where I experience the joy of city living
Crazy Crap Item #115: The part where I document the first robin of spring
Crazy Crap Item #136: The part where Delores experiences an upgrade
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