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.

Eat, Drink, & Be Merry: Part II

I got a pot of coffee in, and I'm back in the saddle for part deux. I covered eating and drinking in my previous post, and in this second one, I'm gonna get to the the merry-making. We spent a lot of time traipsing all over Chicago this past weekend, seeing and doing things we've never done before. The reason it warranted a post all it's own is because the city put on a happy face while Mom and Ross were here, and I've got photo evidence to prove it.

Anish Kapoor's Cloud Gate, otherwise known as "the Bean."

When we left the apartment Saturday morning, we had every intention of walking to the Field Museum. We were off to a good start, I think, until we realized we had no idea where we were going. The rain was coming down in sheets and I was making my way through the streets bent over at a 90-degree angle to keep the wind from blowing me back across the Chicago River. As time passed by and the maelstrom subsided, we threw our hands up and settled for a tour of the city instead.

After living here for all of four months, Phil and I had yet to go check out the Bean in Millennium Park, so it was a happy accident that we came across it. We stumbled upon several parks along the way, but this was one photo-op I couldn't pass up.

Once we oriented ourselves and took back control of the day, the four of us decided we would go check out Wrigleyville and see what kind of action was brewing in a part of town Phil and I rarely visit. As we wandered, I made a mental checklist of all the food I was going to eat (and where) in the years to come. First on the list is La Tacorea, a restaurant specializing in Asian-Mexican fusion, something that only previously existed in my wildest dreams. Well played, Chicago...well played.

Later in the evening, we made our way back home on the Riverwalk. While strolling around, all fat and happy-like, I realized how much prettier the city is when it's wet. The streets practically glittered, to my mind, and this made it all the easier for me to pretend I'm living some sort of story-book fantasy.

Just derpin' around like it was all made for me.

The Awesome captured is directly proportional to the amount of purple lighting in any given photograph. 

These next photos are of Gajin Fujita's Chi-town (2012). I've been to the Navy Pier several times since we moved here, but this was my first time seeing the graffiti-style mural on lower Lake Shore Drive. It's so well-done, and I really envy (and admire, but mostly envy) Mr. Fujita's talent. I honestly can't fathom how someone can exercise so much control with a can of spray paint. I struggle to replicate some of these effects with a pencil, and that has to be the most user-friendly medium on Earth...but I think I'm saying more about my own capabilities than his, at this point. I'll let his work speak for itself.

It's bittersweet when other people are THIS MUCH cooler than me.

But I better get used to it...

Eat, Drink, & Be Merry: Part I

I wanna state right off the bat that goodbye never gets any easier! Phil and I dropped off Mom and Ross (my stepdad, but more aptly, a great friend and confidant) in Franklin Park this morning. After all sorts of hugs, kisses, and tears, it was time to part ways. It's hard to be too sad when you've had such a fantastic time together, but it's always tough to see them go. 

Because Phil and I won't be able to make it back to South Carolina for Christmas this year, our Carolina Christmas came to us (albeit, a little early). Mom packed a boxful of homemade baked goods, some canned veggies from their garden at Clay Heels, as well as a couple of bottles of Ross' muscadine wine (made from local Scuppernong grapes). 

They were kind enough, too, to bring us some coffee from the Leopard Forest Cafe in Travelers Rest. I don't care how much you love Starbucks, this is the finest coffee I have ever had the pleasure of drinking, and if you ever find yourself in up-state South Carolina, it's a must. 

We got into the Christmas spirit by popping in a jazz CD (yes, I still own CDs) and putting up the tree. It's a little bitty thing, but it suits our purposes nicely, and once it was up, it was of course time for the photo-shoot.  Phil loves photo-shoots. I especially like this picture of us because it looks like he has a halo, and it's not immediately noticeable that I'm sucking in like my life depends on it. I don't even think I was breathing when this was taken...

Oh, yeah...the tree. Pretty, huh?

I promised myself I would cook a goose for Christmas dinner, but when I saw the $60.00 price tag, I chickened out (no pun intended, it just happened that way) and went with a $17.00 duck instead. I'm happy I did, too, because after four hours (and 18 minutes, but who's counting?) of tender loving care, it turned out beautifully. And it didn't taste too bad either! Mom also made some homemade rolls, and we whipped up a white chocolate pumpkin cheesecake for dessert, but I'm being pretty generous in giving myself any credit on that.  I mostly just crushed up gingersnaps for the crust and made a run to the grocery store to pick up the vanilla extract. I'm Ms. Reliable in a crisis...

All of these things made for a great Christmas dinner, and Ross' wine really tipped the evening over into awesome. You know you're enjoying good food with even better company when opening presents is only half the fun. I was overwhelmingly grateful for the knit scarf and goose-down jacket this morning, and they couldn't have come at a more perfect time. After being on her best behavior all weekend, Chicago dropped down into the 30s...

Yes, this is Duck.

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.

500 sq.ft. of Awesome

I think, for my first entry, some introductions are in order.

I'll start with Woodstock (a.k.a. Wood, Woody, Dog, etc.):

In all his splendor.

Wood and I have been friends a long time. He was given to me by my mom for my fifteenth birthday. Being the fattest of his litter, he was the clear choice for me, and as soon as he was old enough, mom brought him home with her one evening after work. We've shared many a misadventure since then, and after bouncing around the continental U.S. for the last five years, we've finally settled down in Chicago, Illinois.

The photo above is one of my favorites of him, and even though it's only a few months old, it's a tad misleading. Shortly after moving to Chicago, Wood developed a limp which we later discovered was caused by a malignant bone tumor. To prevent the cancer from spreading, we decided to go ahead and get his right foreleg amputated. He's in the recovery process now, and I'll be sure to follow-up on his progress in subsequent entries. 

Home from the hospital on October 6. Happy birthday to me. :)

But enough about Woodstock. It's time to introduce Phillip (a.k.a. Pil-lip, Pip, Pipop, etc.):

Phil and Phil's hair.

Phil's my sweetheart, my boyfriend, my best guy, and a number of other things (most of them flattering). Originally from South Korea, he and his family immigrated to the United States when he was nine or ten years old. By the time Woody and I stumbled upon him, he'd been living in Charleston, South Carolina for a number of years, and the rest, as they say, is history...almost three years of history to be semi-accurate...

Maybe Phil's intro is a little underwhelming after Wood's, but my fingers are getting tired and I still have one person left to introduce, so forgive the brevity. These people (yes, Dog's a person) are the cohabitants of my 500 sq.ft. slice of Heaven (pictured below), and my purpose in sharing them with you is to provide some faces to go with the names that will likely resurface again and again and again.

The living room/bedroom (a.k.a the only room).

And that leaves only one: yours truly. If you don't know already, my name is Kirste, but I'll talk about myself plenty in entries to come. Suffice it to say that, since moving to Chicago, I've become a student (sometimes), a painter (other times), and a live-in girlfriend/chef/maid (at all times). 

I think that about sums it up. More later...