All I Want for Christmas

I never had the pleasure of knowing my great-grandmother, Berthamae Howard, but if Gammy (my paternal grandmother) is to be believed, she was a very special lady. When Gam passed away last year, my dad came into possession of a book concerning our family history that was compiled by my Grandmother Howard, and it contains many anecdotes typed on this Smith Corona Electra 110. It's a big, dusty old thing, and it doesn't much please the eye, but it types beautifully in cursive.

It was purchased in the 1970s from a store that no longer exists--the Hannibal Typewriter Service at 277 Broadway. It didn't become mine until a few years ago, and I've been lugging it around ever since. The poor thing has endured all manner of dents and dings, but the motor still purrs like a sewing machine when you turn it on. That's not to say, however, that it couldn't use some love and attention. The space bar only works when it wants to, and the "u" hammer sticks, among other things...

After doing a little research, I found a handful of typewriter repair shops in the Chicago area, but typewriter repairmen seem to be a dying breed. It's important to me that we spend the money to get it fixed because the time is fast approaching when no one will know what to do with a vintage typewriter, and I'd hate for it to fall by the wayside (as these things often do). I can only hope the repairs will be affordable. The sentimental value far surpasses its monetary worth, so it will be difficult to decide how much is too much.

...I'm a bit of a romantic, if you haven't noticed. I can't imagine anything better than sitting in the window and typing letters to my friends and family on the very same typewriter my great-grandmother used to record what is now her legacy. I think the day will come, too, when it is my turn to do the same for my children and grandchildren. By then, though, my little Vaio laptop will likely be the relic...

How I Got My First Monet

One day (last spring, I think), I arrived for my shift at the art museum, and there was a man in the rotunda who'd brought in a couple of Japanese seashell reliefs for appraisal. After talking with the curator, he paused at my desk to ask if I'd like to come out to his van and see an original Monet he hauled around with him. Had he tempted me with a box of Krispy Kremes, he might have had a new skin suit that weekend, but since I wasn't buying it, he brought the murder-bait to my desk instead...

Because entertaining crazy people is a hobby of mine, I oohed and ahed in all the right moments, but when I declined to purchase the painting (for $10.00), he insisted I keep it anyway. He then left, never to be seen again (at least by me), and there I sat with a dusty old painting and WTF written all over my face. It was given to me, ostensibly, because the canvas was torn in one spot, and this greatly reduced its value.

The first thing I did was call in Birgit, another volunteer from the gift shop, so she and I could share a laugh and puzzle over the painting together. Neither she, nor I, saw anything to indicate it wasn't real, but that's because we're a couple of noobs. I've since chosen not to inquire about it's authenticity, both for fear of humiliating myself and being forced to conclude a once great story with "...then they laughed me right out of the office, and I cried myself to sleep in a far corner of the bathroom. "

SEEMS LEGIT.

Suffice it to say, the mystery is of greater value to me than the painting itself, but hopefully I haven't committed an egregious error in taking it home and shoving it in the closet. Should my descendants ever discover it is real, I ask that they make a generous donation to the museum and write a public apology to the nameless man whose intentions I misinterpreted. I don't foresee that happening, but why not cover all bases?

As a side note, I think it's worth mentioning that around the same time, my Mom and Ross stumbled upon another mystery Monet at an auction in South Carolina. It's authenticity is also in question, but we now have, not one, but two Monets? in the family.

Go figure.

Philosophos, "a lover of wisdom"

It's so weird that no one ever took any interest in ancient Egypt. A large portion of my day was spent reading all about it, and now that I'm an expert, I'm pretty sure people should start making movies and writing books on the subject. I would even suggest that it be taught in classrooms, and maybe I'm getting ahead of myself, but wouldn't it be cool if someone spent $44 million making a movie about Cleopatra?

Oh, wait a minute. Someone did.

Phil and I started watching Cleopatra (1963) last night. We decided to break it up into four one-hour segments because it's absurdly long, and due to an obnoxious compulsion to dissect every movie I watch, I couldn't fully enjoy it without a better understanding of Alexander the Great. So I started my morning off with too much coffee and a short documentary about Alexandria, Egypt...

A kindly British lady (whose name I didn't catch) informed me of Alexander's thirst for knowledge and how it set the stage for Alexandria to become the epicenter of intellectualism in the ancient world. The city's Great Library, established circa 300 BC, managed to amass a collection of 500,000 books in a time period when all of six or seven people knew how to write [citation needed]. But in spite of the massive effort by the Ptolemaic dynasty to gather all the world's knowledge within the walls of the Royal Library, it was eventually destroyed and everything was lost.

The only book present in both my "library" and the Ancient Library of Alexandria.

...which brings me to the point I've been dying to make for several paragraphs now. Even though the ancient library was destroyed, Alexandria maintains a library today that contains roughly 500,000 books. What's better still is that they house a supercomputer, and it's only purpose is to record the entirety of the worldwide web every couple of days. You know who that includes, don't you? 

YOURS TRULY. 

My inner narcissist did a cartwheel when she heard the news. If the modern Library of Alexandria sees fit to record my thoughts, then they must count for something, right? It's surely the end result Alexander desired! Now, here's hoping an alien race one day discovers my memoirs and bases their entire perception of humankind on my blog alone. Feel free to record your legacy in the comments section. 

The Final Frontier

I've never been a fan of Classic Film. Over the years, I've seen a few I fell in love with, like Jeremiah Johnson, The Trouble with Angels, and damn near anything starring Toshiro Mifune, but I never fostered any serious interest in the genre. I'm thinking it may have been the natural result of growing up in the movie theater of a town that offered little in the way of entertainment. Once you've grown accustomed to the stylized, fast-paced films of modern Hollywood, the subtler appeal of classic cinema seems a bit lackluster by comparison, and it can be a difficult thing to un-ring that bell.

In my early twenties, I developed the nauseatingly pretentious habit of denying myself the pleasure of viewing any movie that wasn't foreign. I exposed myself to a number of amazing films this way, and I did so at the expense of all those around me who were forced to listen to me opine on the sterility of mainstream cinema (in between clove cigarettes and swigs of *white zinfandel, of course). I'm certainly /facepalming in retrospect, but I'd be lying if I said I haven't developed some tenderness for the little asshat I so reveled in once being.

But I digress...

Classic Film is unchartered territory. Because I've spent such an inordinate amount of time watching movies, trying to find something to watch on a Wednesday night has become all the more difficult, and I'm being forced to branch out. In these last few weeks, I've seen Bonnie and Clyde (1967),  Chinatown (1974), and The Seven Year Itch (1955). I enjoyed them all immensely, but I'm so biased that I continue to wonder if it's by sheer coincidence that I watched three classic films that happened to be entertaining. Apparently, my mind isn't yet ready to accept that American classics might actually be able to hold their own against modern cinema.

*White zinfandel is what classy people drink, right?

Red, White & Blue

Dear Kirste,

11:46 a.m.

If you're reading this, it's likely 2016 already. I'm watching the news right now, much as it drives me crazy, and history is unfolding without us. President Obama is holed up in a shoebox of his own somewhere in the city, and he's awaiting the results of the election, just like me. He voted early, on October 25--and you, Kirste--YOU could have gone out and invalidated the President's vote had you registered in time. But you didn't, and shame on you for that...

I mean, you moved to Chicago way back in July! You had plenty of time to get registered. You even had time to send for an absentee ballot in Missouri, but you waited too long. You didn't realize you had to register 28 days before the election, or that you could only apply for an absentee ballot through a tedious process of snail mail communications with the Old Country...

Your first impression of Chicago politics was probably made when the Teacher's Union went on strike in September. You got a chuckle out of the circular firing squad formed by Mayor Emmanuel and the Union leaders, but it wasn't really funny. Earlier in the summer, you walked past picketers outside the Hyatt, too. You even read a proposed amendment to the Illinois constitution...but your voice wasn't heard, not this year. Sure, it's blue Chicago, and your red vote probably wouldn't have amounted to much, but that's not the point. You had Principles to uphold, and you failed to uphold them! Dead folks all over Illinois took the time to go out and vote today, and you--a living, breathing citizen of the United States of America--couldn't be bothered.

1:00 p.m.

"THOUSANDS OF VOTING CONTROVERSIES REPORTED NATIONWIDE ON ELECTION DAY," the news is telling me. Big surprise. You'll have to let me know whether the headlines have changed by 2016.

2:10 p.m.

"OHIO VOTE COULD BE PIVOTAL," they're telling me. Remember that? I bet it's true every election.

Meanwhile, in other states...

"EPA approves measure allowing biofuel providers to divert supplies to New Jersey to alleviate shortages caused by monster storm Sandy...barge bearing 17.6 million gallons of fuel is expected to arrive in New Jersey by Thursday...New Jersey senators Frank Lautenberg (D) and Robert Menendez (D) requested the move."

"Gay Marriage and marijuana legalization on the ballot in some states...Maine, Maryland, and Washington are voting on whether to legalize same-sex marriage, while Minnesota is voting on whether to ban gay marriage...Washington, Colorado, and Oregon could become the first states to legalize recreational use of marijuana."

As a staunch fiscal conservative, this is the first election I've felt I have an actual stake in. Same-sex marriage and the legalization of marijuana were things I had strong opinions about when I was a teenager, but in recent years, those subjects have found their way onto the back-burner. I'm still pretty moderate where social issues are concerned. Live and let live, that sort of thing. It'll be interesting to see if any Firsts occur today, though.

6:50 p.m.

Polls are closing from east to west. There are only ten minutes left to vote in Chicago. I've been checking the news intermittently, and it looks as though the electoral votes are 3 for Obama and 49 for Romney. Only 270 are needed to win, but I am not so naive as to get my hopes up. There's a long way to go yet. It's almost like a sporting event...

7:15 p.m.

Just 25 minutes later, the electoral votes are 78 for Obama and 82 for Romney. It looks like it's going to be a close race. Do you remember how exciting it all was?

8:31 p.m.

The candidates are tied up on electoral votes (153 each), and that's including Texas. You'll have to excuse my pessimism, but all hope just dried up. On a brighter note, I crocheted an infinity scarf and started a new painting while watching the news. So pat yourself on the back, Kirste. You did something productive today, after all.

I think I'll go ahead and accept the inevitable: Obama is going to be re-elected. It's not a terrible tragedy, but I can't help feeling a little disappointed. I certainly don't hate the man; in fact, I kind of like him. He's wily and charismatic. I just think he's wrong for my country.

Wherever you are when you read this, I hope you registered to vote already. Don't forget to write back.

Sincerely,

A younger, dumber self

P.S. Tell Phil he sucks too. For all the same reasons. :)

Itemizing the Inexplicable

I've compiled a short list of things I just can't do (for whatever reason).

1. Keep my fingernails looking nice.

I'm a woman. I wanna look nice (from head to toe) if I can manage, and like many women, I've got a crusty bag of nail polish under the sink. In it, there's a color to satisfy whatever my whim, but choosing which to use, unfortunately, is only half the battle.

I've got painting my right hand down pat. It's the sticky aftermath that troubles me, that thirty-minute period where your fingernails feel dry to the touch, but they're still susceptible to bumps and scrapes of infinite variety. I can entertain myself for the first ten minutes or so, but as time ticks by, confidence waxes and vigilance wanes. I'll set about doing something, and even with the utmost care, the inevitable smudging occurs, at which point caution is thrown to the wind and thoughts of 'to hell with it' win out.

2. Have a drink nearby while painting.

Like all the best lessons, this is one learned the hard way. When I get it in my head that I'd like to paint something, I first undergo a ritual of preparation meant to prevent even the slightest inconvenience occurring while I'm elbow-deep in acrylic. This ritual used to involve setting a drink nearby so that my baser human needs did not interrupt the genius that was sure to unfold (or more accurately, to spare me the trouble of having to tip-toe to the kitchen with paint-speckled feet later on).

...but lo! It doesn't matter if my drink is a can of soda or a cup of coffee or any number of beverages lacking any resemblance to the cup of water I clean my brushes in. I WILL, as sure as the sun sets, lift that cup of sullied paint-water to my mouth instead. It could have twenty paintbrushes resting in it, and I would still try to drink it. What this says about me, I'd like not to consider...

3. Throw out the old.

Let's first acknowledge the fact that there are things worth keeping, and let's second concede that those things are not usually what clutter the metaphorical studio apartment of Life. Many useless things are taking up valuable real-estate in the limited surfaces of my mind and my apartment, but I can't bring myself to get rid of them.

Yes, I am referring to the headless Precious Moments figurines I keep stashed away in a box within a box, but I am talking, too, about those useless memories and ideas that linger for the sole purpose of giving me a swift mental kick when I'm down. This clutter is called to attention when sifting through the stuff in my trunk, or when I'm in an emotionally masochistic mood and wish to flagellate myself for all of my perceived failings (of which there are many).

I can live with smudged nails, and I can be thirsty while I paint, but this last one is something I'll have to work on.

Once Upon a Time

As the holidays draw near, I can't help but be reminded of my great-grandmother--Mildred Harrison. She passed away shortly after I moved to South Carolina in 2010. I knew when I went to visit her at the nursing home the day of my departure that it might be the last time I saw her. Just before I left, she asked me to write her while I was away, and I promised I would...

Grandmother and Granddad, pictured on the right.

My sister, Tiffany, and I spent a lot of time at our Grandmother and Granddad's when we were little. They lived in a big house with a big yard, and it came with a few peculiarities that I remember well--particularly a rock wall in the back. The landscaper had placed several large geodes alongside it as he found them in the yard, but the idea that someone may have discovered them before Tiffany and me was inconceivable. I don't know how large they actually were, but I do recall having a great deal of trouble lugging the largest up the back-steps and into the kitchen where I could show Grandmother what I found. Fortunately for a five-year-old's fragile ego, she was kind enough to act surprised.

The house itself was chock-full of rooms, and each had a name of its own. There was the Victorian room, filled with antique furniture, oil lamps, and glass figurines; the Safari room, so named for its excessive use of cheetah and zebra prints; Elizabeth's room, adorned with family heirlooms and flowered wallpaper that was fuzzy to the touch; and then there was JuJu's room, with it's bright red carpet and our family's over-sized wedding photos mounted along the walls. I usually wanted to sleep with my sister in the Safari room, which was hers by tradition, but my room was JuJu's. I slept in it every night we stayed there, and before me, my father did the same.

Grandmother, Tiffany, and I spent most of our time together in the Victorian room. This was where we toasted marshmallows and threw tea parties. It was imperative that there be a tea-party every time we went to Grandmother's house. It would sometimes take us half the afternoon to prepare all the little snacks and dishes, my favorites being the sandwich squares and strawberries dipped in sugar. When the time came, Tiffany and I would wrap up in feather boas and put elbow-length gloves on, all the while cooling ourselves (whatever the temperature) with a couple of sequined folding fans she bought for us.

Occasionally, Grandmother would pile us into her long, white Cadillac and take us down to the riverfront. She always enjoyed the shops down there, and each time we went, she allowed my sister and I to pick out an item we wanted to take home with us. On one such occasion, she bought Tiffany and I each a little porcelain tea-set. I still have mine (and the folding fan) today.

After dinner most nights, Granddad would take the three of us out to Grandview Cemetery to see where their son, Leo Jr., was buried. This was a daily ritual that I didn't understand until I was much older, but I enjoyed collecting the fragments of plastic flowers that littered the cemetery lawn. From there, we would return home, where the rest of our evening would be spent with Grandmother in the master bedroom. Tiff and I would get comfortable on the day bed and watch I Love Lucy while Grandmother tended to whatever business was necessary, oftentimes bringing in clothes hung to dry from the roof of their screened-in porch. (It could be accessed through a door in their bedroom, and I was always considered too little to venture onto the roof, so it was only when I could steal a minute alone that I would even dare.)

Should Grandmother ever require any alone time, my sister and I would watch television or entertain ourselves at the saloon-style bar in the basement. It was such a fascinating old house. Grandmother always had an affinity for cowboys and Indians, so we would take turns waving around an iron pistol or running amok in a full-sized Indian headdress...

...but Grandmother's house wasn't the only venue in which she entertained us. We would often hang around her desk at Harrison Motor Company, too. It was "the shop" to us, but "the place of business" according to Grandmother. Four generations of Harrison men, beginning with my great-great-grandfather, all worked in the shop at one time or another, and to this day, what Grandmother did there is still unclear to me. But there she was just the same, and I could always rely on her to save me a cake doughnut with white icing. Those were her favorite, and mine too, coincidentally. Whenever I exhausted myself roller-skating up and down the showroom floor, my doughnut was waiting for me at Grandmother's desk.

As I got older, so did Grandmother. By the time I left for South Carolina, she was no longer the person I've described and she hadn't been for many years. I wrote her a letter as promised, and it was delivered the day she went to the hospital. In the melee, Granddad was unable to check the mail, and she passed away before getting to read it. I was devastated by this, as was Granddad, but he photocopied the letter and we placed the original with her in the casket. I like to pretend it wasn't too late.

Reimagining the Pearl

I decided to rearrange the furniture in my apartment. I like to do that every now and then. I think it makes your home feel like a new place, and sometimes, that's needed (at least for me). While I was moving stuff around, I noticed that the wall above our bed was looking a little empty, so I rolled up my sleeves and broke out the canvas.

Back when I was an angst-ridden teenager, I mutilated dozens of books, tearing the pages out one at a time. I plastered hundreds of them on every wall in my room, including the closet. When my mom eventually sold the house, it all had to be undone, of course, so I aimed to recreate that in a way that would be a little easier to remove.

Because I wanted the painting to complement my bedspread, I set to work mixing a grayish blue-green color. After ripping the pages from a drugstore edition of John Steinbeck's The Pearl, I used the paint rather sloppily as an adhesive. This gave the piece a crude appearance that I find attractive.

...before I continue, I want to take a minute to explain why I chose The Pearl. John Steinbeck happens to be one of my favorite authors, and this particular copy was one of several books I took from my grandma's house when she passed away last year. It was of no great significance to her or anyone else, but I wanted it for the simple fact that it was hers, and the story, to me, was special. Maybe it's unclear why I would do this to a book that means so much to me, but the answer is easy: because it means so much to me.

Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, the painting.

My next order of business was to tape off sections of the canvas and wet only the surfaces I was going to repaint. I then whipped up a plum purple, a burnt orange, and an earthy yellow. With the wet canvas angled as it was, the paint dribbled down to give it more of that processed inelegance I'm so fond of.

As soon as the second layer finished drying, I went over all of it with slight variations of the same colors.Using a wet brush, I lifted off some of the paint to give it a little more transparency. It was important to me that the story seep through in the end.

And there you have it! The finished piece. It may not sell for millions, but I think it has served its purpose.

A Blast from the Past

Phil and I got up bright and early yesterday so we could be at the Museum of Science and Industry by 7:30 a.m. We bought tickets last month for a tour of the German U-505, and first on our schedule was breakfast with a few volunteer navy vets from the '50s and '60s. These men were kind enough to come in on a Saturday morning and answer whatever questions we had about the submarine over coffee and donuts.

The U-505 at the Museum of Science and Industry.

I don't think I'll reiterate ALL the facts and tid-bits I picked up yesterday, just the few that left me reeling. I'll start with a picture I took of the sleeping quarters.

Now, I don't know how well you can see through the hatch, but there are a series of bunk beds lining the walls, and  between them is a 3,200 pound torpedo. It took roughly 60 men to operate the submarine, so it was two to a bed at any given time, and did I mention that water was in such short supply that showers were totally out of the question? Not only were these German sailors sleeping in four hour shifts, they were rooming with dozens of unwashed men, legions of lice, and several hundred pounds of explosives.

This image gives you a better idea of how big the cots were.  They're 67 inches in length and were likely a tight squeeze for the grown men expected to sleep there (and like it).

Moving on down the line, we pass by what can only loosely be described as a kitchen. Consisting of three hot-plates and an oven that is literally the size of a shoebox, I feel it necessary to remind you that these appliances were meant to accommodate no less than sixty men.

Because we were in such small confines, it was difficult for me to get a coherent photo of the control room that followed the galley. There were so many buttons, levers, and valves that it was difficult for me to believe that anyone could operate it, but operate it they did,  and oftentimes in the dark. The valves and cranks are of so many varying sizes and shapes for the express purpose of being recognizable with little to no visibility. It was of such necessity to conserve battery-life that only the most important instruments were dimly lit when submerged. Hopefully the photo below will give you some idea of what a perfect mess the whole thing was.

To give you an even better idea of how cramped we were, I've included a photo of Phil and I in the control room with five other people.

This is all the more space we could fit between us, and we were unable to move from this spot until someone else exited the control room.

As the tour moved on through the boat, we came next to the diesel engine room:

We were told that the temperature in this room would, at times, get upwards of 110 degrees. The extreme heat, coupled with the stench of unwashed bodies and cologne (which failed to compensate), made for harsh living conditions aboard the U-505.

In contrast, American submarines of the same time period came equipped not only with air conditioning, but with ice cream machines, and the differences didn't end there. American ships boasted not one, but two galleys, along with 70 beds (for 60 men). The most noteworthy difference, however, was that an on-board septic tank was provided for American sailors, while their German counterparts tended to relieve themselves in buckets that were emptied only when the submarine re-emerged...

I really didn't think it would be this hard to condense all the information we were given into a simple blog post, but I think I'll have to go ahead and take you outside the U-boat and talk about the weapons it carried before I develop arthritis.

The U-505 was armed with 22 acoustic torpedoes which responded to sounds characteristic of enemy ships in the water. They were guided by sonar to their intended targets at speeds of approximately 30-40 knots, and they could travel as far as six nautical miles once fired. And the price tag on one of these babies? A mere $10,000.

The ship was equipped, too, with an anti-aircraft machine gun on deck. Extra men were brought on-board the ship in anticipation of heavy losses when firing from the conning tower.

...and for all the information I've included here, there's even more I'll have to leave out! If I learned nothing at all yesterday, I did leave the museum with a better understanding of how much havoc was wrought by these machines on Allied forces in the Atlantic. It's sometimes difficult in a museum setting to bear in mind that these things were operated by real people and that they played a pivotal role in world history. Where I walked and snapped pictures, men once ate, slept, and administered war.

It blows my mind.

I Heart October

There's a beautiful day outside my door.

I don't think there is any place that's ugly in October. I spent the first twenty-two years of my life in three places that have played a large part in making me who I am: small-town Missouri, rural Georgia, and upstate South Carolina. For these three reasons, I moved to Chicago with a pair of indignant, country-loving lenses on. I didn't anticipate the different kind of lovely I would find in the city, but October has amazed me again this year.

The sky is blue, the air is crisp, and the leaves are turning. After walking the dog this morning, I trekked downstairs with The Book Thief in hand and spent a few hours on the River Walk. I don't know why I was surprised, but I found a person on every bench with exactly the same thing in mind...

That's what October does to people. Not only is it gorgeous, but it brings with it a number of things we forget to look forward to after the excitement of more notorious holidays at year's end. Everyone forgets about pumpkin lattes, wheat beer, corn mazes, apple cider, and scary movies until they sneak back up on us. It's an entire month made up of the Small Things that make our lives imperceptibly richer.

...and my birthday happens to be in October. I like to think this hasn't swayed my opinion at all, but I have my suspicions. I don't suppose it really matters in the grand scheme of things. Besides, is there another time of year when the city of Chicago dyes its fountains orange? I think not.

So maybe there aren't any of Missouri's rolling hills, and you won't come in with Carolina clay on your heels after a day outdoors,  but you can experience all manner of amazing things here. Even if city-lights have replaced the stars and the riverbanks are poured concrete, I still say it's lovely in its own right, and I'm sticking to my story. :)