My husband and son are rooting for the Texas Rangers to win the World Series. I don't have anything against them really. I like Texas in general, but my heart roots for the St. Louis Cardinals, despite the fact that I refuse to watch the games. I find baseball on TV very boring, but I still stand beside the Cardinals in spirit.
The reason I stand with St, Louis is akin to the reason why I like the Miami Dolphins football team. I loved them because my big brother loved them, and I still have stout feelings for that team despite the fact that they have no Dan Marino anymore and I rarely get their games on TV here in Arizona. Nevertheless, my hatred for the Dallas Cowboys is a legacy of my loyalty to Miami, and it will always persist.
With St. Louis, the history is longer. My dad has always rooted for St. Louis. Maybe he inherited it from his dad, for he often told us kids how much our grandfather loved baseball (I'm pretty sure that's why my brother signed up for little league all those years). I also know that my grandfather's dad moved from Missouri to Idaho as a young man.
And I have good memories with my own immediate family tied to Missouri, tied to its baseball team. On all the trips west from Tennessee to Idaho to visit relatives as a child, we passed through St. Louis. The St. Louis arch wasn't just "the Gateway to the West", it was our gateway to the west, to our extended family, to my parents' beginnings. We always stopped. I have memories of the arch growing in the horizon of the front dashboard, of looking up at the great curve of the arch as I stood on the pavement below, of the brown and broad Mississippi River with its slow barges, of my dad perusing all the Cardinals baseball memorabilia in the souvenir shop at the feet of the huge structure.
But to really cement the history and my loyalty is the recollection of all the nights my family spent outside on humid summer evenings or chill autumn nights listening to baseball games on the car radio. I don't know how the tradition started. Maybe that was during the period when we had no TV, maybe Dad went to the radio to catch all the games not shown on TV, or perhaps he simply preferred the experience of sitting and listening beneath the open sky. Sports broadcasters, good ones at least, can make the game a carnival for the ears with their phrasing.
On those outdoor baseball nights, Dad and Mom snuggled up together in the car, windows rolled down to let in the breeze. We kids were allowed to drag ourselves and our blankets onto the hood of the old sedan. There we stretched out to watch the stars, stare at the moon. The game on the car stereo was merely a pleasant background hum for our stargazing, sibling poking and laughter. Only occasionally did Dad shush us or punctuate the broadcaster's words with exclamations of delight or disgust. Sometimes there was the excited tempo of his encouragement as he leaned forward toward the dashboard, momentarily drawing his arm away from my mother's shoulder as he prodded his team - "C'mon, C'mon, C'mon..."
Man, I'm grateful for those memories. They make you feel like you come from somewhere. I come from a man who loved the St. Louis Cardinals baseball team. That man came from a man who loved baseball. My grandfather came from a man who once had a farm in Missouri. And so, even though I won't watch a single game, I know where I stand and who I'm rooting for in this World Series.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sped Forth - Contagious
I had a funny feeling about pork yesterday. About the bacon I was cooking, about the bacon tossed out because its seal was broken while it resided with our deli meat and cheese in the refrigerator drawer. Damn! Keep raw meat and prepared food separate, people! I can testify about the clammy hands, the clammy mind as you stare and wonder if there are malignant micro-organisms colonizing your ready-to-eat food.
But, well, I had also seen Contagion in the afternoon, and a pig plays an important part in that film, to such a degree that you speculate about the feasibility of never consuming a fellow animal again.
Contagion made me think quite alot. At the end of it, I made the smug, self-righteous comment to my friends that it was a " feel bad about humanity movie". It points out a pretty blatant truth - it only takes a little panic, a little mayhem, a little fear to de-civilize us, to degrade our humanizing rituals, to make us prowl like savage animals.
We talked a little about the London riots, how it was difficult to remember what kind of protest it sprang from, because it is so easy to feel contempt for people who use a cause as an excuse to steal or destroy others' property or lives. One of my friends said calmly and with grace, "I've seen some of those things (rioting, looting portrayed in the film) during our civil war in our country. You never know what you would do until you're in that situation." For the sake of my Christianity, if not my humanity, I hope I would not do much to preserve myself at the cost of others in an extreme crisis, but for my children? I would do a great deal to keep them fed and safe.
The film does show altruism, too, though not nearly as much. Kate Winslet's character is outstanding. You know little about her background, her state of life, but you feel her lonliness drawing you into her world thoroughly. Her outcome haunted me a little, and she certainly made sacrifices. On the other hand, the selfish blogger in the film with his such and such "millions of unique visitors" irritated the hell out of me and drew only a drip of sympathy that quickly evaporated.
But the movie was good grisle for discussion. For two hours after the movie my friends and I talked, and our conversation wandered down a long and winding road. One friend related how a rat had jumped out of her compost bin that morning and how she kept a boa constricter in her garage. I never knew; I don't think you can forget something like that if someone's told you. I told her that keeping a boa consticter in your garage is something you tell a friend, and then you take them to see it. I brought up an article I'd read about the plague. Scientists have mapped its DNA, using black powder (dried, ancient blood they believe) drilled out of the teeth of those who succumbed to it centuries ago. They discovered it has changed little, extraordinarily little over time. Thankfully, human beings have changed much - not just in our immunity but in our quality of living, our innovations. Quite simple anitbiotics can destroy the grim grip of the plague in our day. Good news for mankind, we agreed.
But is the scenario of Contagion plausible? Viruses are fascinating and terrifying, like a tornado. I read the analysis of the movie Contagion from various healthcare professionals. Most agreed it realistically portrayed the breakdown of society that would occur in a major epidemic, as well as the unique way in which a previously unknown "super bug" could set about decimating humanity. It's happened before, most recently in 1918, but I sincerely hope it will never happen again. I nearly believe it. I have a lot of faith even yet.
But I still feel funny about that pork.
But, well, I had also seen Contagion in the afternoon, and a pig plays an important part in that film, to such a degree that you speculate about the feasibility of never consuming a fellow animal again.
Contagion made me think quite alot. At the end of it, I made the smug, self-righteous comment to my friends that it was a " feel bad about humanity movie". It points out a pretty blatant truth - it only takes a little panic, a little mayhem, a little fear to de-civilize us, to degrade our humanizing rituals, to make us prowl like savage animals.
We talked a little about the London riots, how it was difficult to remember what kind of protest it sprang from, because it is so easy to feel contempt for people who use a cause as an excuse to steal or destroy others' property or lives. One of my friends said calmly and with grace, "I've seen some of those things (rioting, looting portrayed in the film) during our civil war in our country. You never know what you would do until you're in that situation." For the sake of my Christianity, if not my humanity, I hope I would not do much to preserve myself at the cost of others in an extreme crisis, but for my children? I would do a great deal to keep them fed and safe.
The film does show altruism, too, though not nearly as much. Kate Winslet's character is outstanding. You know little about her background, her state of life, but you feel her lonliness drawing you into her world thoroughly. Her outcome haunted me a little, and she certainly made sacrifices. On the other hand, the selfish blogger in the film with his such and such "millions of unique visitors" irritated the hell out of me and drew only a drip of sympathy that quickly evaporated.
But the movie was good grisle for discussion. For two hours after the movie my friends and I talked, and our conversation wandered down a long and winding road. One friend related how a rat had jumped out of her compost bin that morning and how she kept a boa constricter in her garage. I never knew; I don't think you can forget something like that if someone's told you. I told her that keeping a boa consticter in your garage is something you tell a friend, and then you take them to see it. I brought up an article I'd read about the plague. Scientists have mapped its DNA, using black powder (dried, ancient blood they believe) drilled out of the teeth of those who succumbed to it centuries ago. They discovered it has changed little, extraordinarily little over time. Thankfully, human beings have changed much - not just in our immunity but in our quality of living, our innovations. Quite simple anitbiotics can destroy the grim grip of the plague in our day. Good news for mankind, we agreed.
But is the scenario of Contagion plausible? Viruses are fascinating and terrifying, like a tornado. I read the analysis of the movie Contagion from various healthcare professionals. Most agreed it realistically portrayed the breakdown of society that would occur in a major epidemic, as well as the unique way in which a previously unknown "super bug" could set about decimating humanity. It's happened before, most recently in 1918, but I sincerely hope it will never happen again. I nearly believe it. I have a lot of faith even yet.
But I still feel funny about that pork.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Trick-or-Treat, Elephant Snot
Come late October, fall reigned in Tennessee. The changing leaves, overhead and under foot, always thrilled me on the walk down the lane to catch the bus as a child. The cooler weather with its sighing breezes invigorated me, and though it stripped away, patch by patch, its exotic, multi-hued cloak that hid our little home from the world, late October brought with it Halloween. In all its trick-or-treating glory, it presented us with a new multi-colored splendor to relish: candy.
There was very little decorating in our house. The only thing I can remember is a scarecrow with accordion legs dangling from our living room closet door. How I loved to see that scarecrow! He cemented my admiration for all such persons fashioned from straw, sticks and old clothes. But no ghost, witch or ghoul friends bore him company in the vigil for Halloween.
It didn’t matter that decorations were sparse; no trick-or-treating would take place at our home or those of our neighbors. Trick-or-treating would have entailed walking the half mile or so between houses - uphill both ways, of course - and likely as not, if we had attempted it, we would have been greeted by bemused stares and given a crumbly corn muffin, hint of mashed potatoes on the corner, left over from our neighbors’ dinner.
So we ransacked our house on Halloween night to find the things that added up to a presentable costume (like a scavenger hunt, you couldn’t be sure what it all might signify at the end), and anyone who needed make-up of some sort presented themselves to Mom. Then we drove 30 minutes into the town of Dickson, and Dad navigated the car into one of the fancier neighborhoods where we were certain to amass a splendid cache of sweet booty. Out of the car we four kids spilled onto the sidewalk. Costumes straightened, treat bags ready, Dad would point out the first street to attack and away we’d sprint.
Looking back, Halloween was like a date night for my parents. I envy what they were able to glean from it. They strolled down the tree-lined sidewalk, holding hands. They had their conversation, and Mom’s laughter would drift through the air to us kids as we stood before a door with treat bags spread wide. They seemed so relaxed, so thoroughly in the spirit of things, and thankfully oblivious to the school day usually waiting on the morrow.
Occasionally, they did call out to us to keep us in line, prevent us from tripping over garden gnomes or yard lights or from decimating flower beds in the eager rush from door to door, and to keep us from grabbing more than our fair share from unattended candy bowls with signs that courteously commanded, “Please Take One”.
We cut through a lot of yards on Halloween night, flashing through the easygoing grass. The only lawns to which we gave a wide berth were those inhabited by vampires and smoke, webbing and bubbling witches’ brew. Inevitably, Nate and Annie egged each other on to those houses, returning with abundant candy for their bravery.
When our bags strained our wrists, we beat it back to the car where Dad popped the trunk for us to spill our treasure into waiting receptacles. Then with empty, expectant bags we felt re-energized and doggedly pursued fresh streets with untried houses.
So it continued until we stumbled to the car at an hour when most respectable revelers conceded to give up the treat hunt, leaving the teenagers to toilet paper houses and smash Jack-o-lanterns until some ungodly hour of their own choosing.
The car ride back to the boonies let us weigh the fruit of our efforts by the amount of pressure our bags put on our tired legs, and it also served as a necessary opportunity for our stomachs to settle with all the candy we had sampled between doors. Heaven knows, as soon as we dumped out the glorious piles of booty on the living room floor, we would eat a hearty second round of gut-busting sugar with unabashed glee.
And that’s when my sister Vinca and Dad unleashed their strategies. Vinca waved all kinds of miraculous bite-sized chocolate bars and little bags of candy corn in the air to beguile us into relinquishing our stores of bubble gum. We were weak and took what she proffered, trading over fat rounds of Dubble Bubble. Unfortunately for us, our candy always disappeared much quicker than her gum stores. She would make them last for months afterwards, and we were left to ask covetously now and then, “Is that from Halloween?” Vinca would nod, chew, and blow boastful bubbles without even looking up from her book.
Dad, of course, sat in his chair and called for his “daddy tax” (most have heard of this tax, because dads are upfront in their claims on candy, while moms, cackling like wicked chocolate-seeking witches with lusty thighs, simply raid the bags when their sweet, silly children are asleep). My dad demanded his share of Sugar Daddy suckers, and, as most would agree, they had his name on them, so it was only fair. Besides, we couldn’t begrudge him the suckers, because the only other thing he really took was something we didn’t want at all: Elephant Snot.
“Ewww,” we’d say when we’d find them, “Gross!”, or “Uggh, not these again!”
And then Dad would grin and wave us over, “Bring them here,” he’d say. “Bring me the Elephant Snot, kids.”
So we’d pick the plain orange or black wrappers out from our decent candy between thumb and forefinger, taking handfuls over to dump on Dad’s lap. He’d unwrap them and stuff the wrappers in the corner of his recliner as he chewed comfortably on their peanut butter filling, saying for our benefit, “Umm, Elephant Snot – good stuff!”
I never knew the proper name of the candy. Dad’s pet name for it seemed so much more appropriate, especially given its color. They were bite-sized chews with peanut butter inside and I don’t know what kind of horrendous coating on the outside, almost like peanut taffy. I haven’t seen any in years. Perhaps people wisely stopped patronizing their manufacturer, perhaps they were banned for their atrocious flavor by the FDA, or maybe my dad orders buckets upon buckets of them for himself each Halloween, and so there’s none left for the stores. But if I ever see any Elephant Snot come through my kids’ treat bags, I know just where to send them, along with the memories that spring from their gaudy little wrappers:
For you, Dad
With love
Some elephant snot
Happy Halloween!
Love, Hoodoo
There was very little decorating in our house. The only thing I can remember is a scarecrow with accordion legs dangling from our living room closet door. How I loved to see that scarecrow! He cemented my admiration for all such persons fashioned from straw, sticks and old clothes. But no ghost, witch or ghoul friends bore him company in the vigil for Halloween.
It didn’t matter that decorations were sparse; no trick-or-treating would take place at our home or those of our neighbors. Trick-or-treating would have entailed walking the half mile or so between houses - uphill both ways, of course - and likely as not, if we had attempted it, we would have been greeted by bemused stares and given a crumbly corn muffin, hint of mashed potatoes on the corner, left over from our neighbors’ dinner.
So we ransacked our house on Halloween night to find the things that added up to a presentable costume (like a scavenger hunt, you couldn’t be sure what it all might signify at the end), and anyone who needed make-up of some sort presented themselves to Mom. Then we drove 30 minutes into the town of Dickson, and Dad navigated the car into one of the fancier neighborhoods where we were certain to amass a splendid cache of sweet booty. Out of the car we four kids spilled onto the sidewalk. Costumes straightened, treat bags ready, Dad would point out the first street to attack and away we’d sprint.
Looking back, Halloween was like a date night for my parents. I envy what they were able to glean from it. They strolled down the tree-lined sidewalk, holding hands. They had their conversation, and Mom’s laughter would drift through the air to us kids as we stood before a door with treat bags spread wide. They seemed so relaxed, so thoroughly in the spirit of things, and thankfully oblivious to the school day usually waiting on the morrow.
Occasionally, they did call out to us to keep us in line, prevent us from tripping over garden gnomes or yard lights or from decimating flower beds in the eager rush from door to door, and to keep us from grabbing more than our fair share from unattended candy bowls with signs that courteously commanded, “Please Take One”.
We cut through a lot of yards on Halloween night, flashing through the easygoing grass. The only lawns to which we gave a wide berth were those inhabited by vampires and smoke, webbing and bubbling witches’ brew. Inevitably, Nate and Annie egged each other on to those houses, returning with abundant candy for their bravery.
When our bags strained our wrists, we beat it back to the car where Dad popped the trunk for us to spill our treasure into waiting receptacles. Then with empty, expectant bags we felt re-energized and doggedly pursued fresh streets with untried houses.
So it continued until we stumbled to the car at an hour when most respectable revelers conceded to give up the treat hunt, leaving the teenagers to toilet paper houses and smash Jack-o-lanterns until some ungodly hour of their own choosing.
The car ride back to the boonies let us weigh the fruit of our efforts by the amount of pressure our bags put on our tired legs, and it also served as a necessary opportunity for our stomachs to settle with all the candy we had sampled between doors. Heaven knows, as soon as we dumped out the glorious piles of booty on the living room floor, we would eat a hearty second round of gut-busting sugar with unabashed glee.
And that’s when my sister Vinca and Dad unleashed their strategies. Vinca waved all kinds of miraculous bite-sized chocolate bars and little bags of candy corn in the air to beguile us into relinquishing our stores of bubble gum. We were weak and took what she proffered, trading over fat rounds of Dubble Bubble. Unfortunately for us, our candy always disappeared much quicker than her gum stores. She would make them last for months afterwards, and we were left to ask covetously now and then, “Is that from Halloween?” Vinca would nod, chew, and blow boastful bubbles without even looking up from her book.
Dad, of course, sat in his chair and called for his “daddy tax” (most have heard of this tax, because dads are upfront in their claims on candy, while moms, cackling like wicked chocolate-seeking witches with lusty thighs, simply raid the bags when their sweet, silly children are asleep). My dad demanded his share of Sugar Daddy suckers, and, as most would agree, they had his name on them, so it was only fair. Besides, we couldn’t begrudge him the suckers, because the only other thing he really took was something we didn’t want at all: Elephant Snot.
“Ewww,” we’d say when we’d find them, “Gross!”, or “Uggh, not these again!”
And then Dad would grin and wave us over, “Bring them here,” he’d say. “Bring me the Elephant Snot, kids.”
So we’d pick the plain orange or black wrappers out from our decent candy between thumb and forefinger, taking handfuls over to dump on Dad’s lap. He’d unwrap them and stuff the wrappers in the corner of his recliner as he chewed comfortably on their peanut butter filling, saying for our benefit, “Umm, Elephant Snot – good stuff!”
I never knew the proper name of the candy. Dad’s pet name for it seemed so much more appropriate, especially given its color. They were bite-sized chews with peanut butter inside and I don’t know what kind of horrendous coating on the outside, almost like peanut taffy. I haven’t seen any in years. Perhaps people wisely stopped patronizing their manufacturer, perhaps they were banned for their atrocious flavor by the FDA, or maybe my dad orders buckets upon buckets of them for himself each Halloween, and so there’s none left for the stores. But if I ever see any Elephant Snot come through my kids’ treat bags, I know just where to send them, along with the memories that spring from their gaudy little wrappers:
For you, Dad
With love
Some elephant snot
Happy Halloween!
Love, Hoodoo
Monday, October 3, 2011
Short, mostly unedited post #3 - Chicken Noodle
I walked into my kitchen early Saturday evening, and I smelled home. It was emanating from a large blue crock pot on the stove. I breathed in deeply and sighed. My tiny little kitchen smelled and therefore felt like home, and I had warm feelings for it despite its diminutive size.
The smell was a whole cut-up chicken simmering in broth and a potpourri of onion, celery, bay leaf, carrot and thyme. The soup was a Mama's love offering for my eldest boy who was running a fever. Thankfully, it wasn't interfering with his appetite, for every time he passed the kitchen, he exclaimed, "Ummm! That smells good."
Of course it did. Fresh chicken, fresh veggies. Old memories. Homemade chicken noodle soup has been a part of my life since childhood. My mom used to make it with handmade noodles - not those fancy kind that pass through the pasta press a few dozen times, but rough, country style ones - thick, doughy and delicious. My dad was very particular about how long the soup should cook after the noodles were folded in and spread thickening flour ribbons through the pot. Off from the burner the soup must come after the last noodle entered the heat. Then it rested for only a couple minutes before my mom presented a steaming bowl to her husband.
Though Mom's chicken noodle soup nurtured me as I grew, it betrayed me when one cool autumn evening in Idaho, I hovered at the edge of the counter and asked self-consciously, "How do you make it, Mama? Can you show me?"
My mom practically giggled over the implications of my request, and I saw her grin and wink at my dad. I had never asked to be shown how to make anything. Of course she guessed what I myself barely knew: I was becoming serious about Matthew.
But not all memories can be satisfying, no matter how sweet the conjured smell. After a few years of marriage I made the soup for My Man's family, hand-rolled noodles and everything. He has four brothers, and some of them have wives and children, so I had to double the recipe, but I neglected to double the seasonings. After my unaccustomed labor, I heard low voices saying, "It's a little bland." Missing something...." "Does anyone else want the salt?"
I tried it and got a familiar sinking feeling. It was indeed bland and pathetic, like my every other attempt to impress my husband's family with my kitchen skills. Thwarted again! A curse!
But never mind. Let by-gone bland soup be by-gone. On Saturday evening I heard the noise which always signifies a happy family at dinnertime - the eager click-clack of spoons on bowls.
The smell was a whole cut-up chicken simmering in broth and a potpourri of onion, celery, bay leaf, carrot and thyme. The soup was a Mama's love offering for my eldest boy who was running a fever. Thankfully, it wasn't interfering with his appetite, for every time he passed the kitchen, he exclaimed, "Ummm! That smells good."
Of course it did. Fresh chicken, fresh veggies. Old memories. Homemade chicken noodle soup has been a part of my life since childhood. My mom used to make it with handmade noodles - not those fancy kind that pass through the pasta press a few dozen times, but rough, country style ones - thick, doughy and delicious. My dad was very particular about how long the soup should cook after the noodles were folded in and spread thickening flour ribbons through the pot. Off from the burner the soup must come after the last noodle entered the heat. Then it rested for only a couple minutes before my mom presented a steaming bowl to her husband.
Though Mom's chicken noodle soup nurtured me as I grew, it betrayed me when one cool autumn evening in Idaho, I hovered at the edge of the counter and asked self-consciously, "How do you make it, Mama? Can you show me?"
My mom practically giggled over the implications of my request, and I saw her grin and wink at my dad. I had never asked to be shown how to make anything. Of course she guessed what I myself barely knew: I was becoming serious about Matthew.
But not all memories can be satisfying, no matter how sweet the conjured smell. After a few years of marriage I made the soup for My Man's family, hand-rolled noodles and everything. He has four brothers, and some of them have wives and children, so I had to double the recipe, but I neglected to double the seasonings. After my unaccustomed labor, I heard low voices saying, "It's a little bland." Missing something...." "Does anyone else want the salt?"
I tried it and got a familiar sinking feeling. It was indeed bland and pathetic, like my every other attempt to impress my husband's family with my kitchen skills. Thwarted again! A curse!
But never mind. Let by-gone bland soup be by-gone. On Saturday evening I heard the noise which always signifies a happy family at dinnertime - the eager click-clack of spoons on bowls.
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