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.

War and Winter

In case anyone failed to notice, let me tell you: November's here. It's a good thing people have lots of food and family-time to look forward to because I find myself a little underwhelmed by bare trees and gray skies, but in all fairness, October's a tough act to follow...

I've committed myself to a huge undertaking this month. Rather than continue to inflate my progress on the "List" by picking off the lighter, less challenging reads, I am going to dedicate November (and probably December, maybe even January) to getting through Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace. This is one of those books I bought because of its reputation as a novel that everyone should at least pretend to read before they die. I wanted to challenge myself, and I'm of the general opinion that they're classics for a reason. Few disappoint, and when I'm done with this one, I can feel as though I've redeemed myself in advance for seeing Breaking Dawn, Part II. Not that I would ever watch something so vapid and shallow...but yes...yes, I would.

So here's hoping Mr. Tolstoy keeps me warm this winter. Wish me luck, everybody!

On an unrelated note, I've been overloading my instant queue with WWII documentaries lately. Ever since Phil and I watched Schindler's List a few nights ago, the Hitler-centric documentaries Netflix is constantly inundating me with have seemed all the more intriguing. The one I watched this morning, called Imaginary Witness, examined Hollywood's portrayal of the Holocaust. It was an interesting approach to the subject, but what I think most struck me was the fact that there are so few survivors left in the world today.

As one man explained it, the window on that time period is closing, and it won't be long before there's no one left to ask about this turning-point in humanity. His statements, in context, were meant to emphasize the importance of accuracy in depicting such things as the Holocaust, but he opened my mind to a perspective of history that I hadn't previously considered. It may seem like a simple notion, but it really drove home for me the idea that history is happening all around us. Even today, I'm bearing witness to events that will one day be understood in a very limited way if they aren't forgotten altogether. It has increased my awe of (and respect for) the world around me.

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. :)

A Surprise Package

Part I: The Package

Phil and I received a package yesterday from his mother in Charleston. She just returned from a trip to Japan and Korea last week, and she brought back a few things for Phil and me. We get one or two packages from Korea each year, and they almost always include dried seaweed and squid. Fortunately, this was no exception, but it also included a few bonus goodies and gifts that I'm excited to share here.

From left to right: seaweed, microwaveable fish, and two different kinds of squid. 

I don't know if you can see it, but there are two small boxes at the top of the photo; one red, the other yellow. They are Morinaga's Milk and Azuki caramels from Japan, and they're freaking amazing! Phil and I lay in bed this afternoon sucking on a couple of pieces, seeing who could make theirs last longest. I won, for the record, and since they're only 35 calories a piece, I was able to enjoy them without feeling guilty.

Little wooden figurines and a postcard from Phil's mom. :)

Phil's aunt and uncle also purchased these wooden dolls for us in Kyoto. I'm not sure what they are exactly, but they're cute, if you ask me. It's a shame we don't know what the placards they came with say, but maybe we will find someone who can translate for us one of these days. In the meantime, I think I'll just leave them on display with the dolls.

Part II: A Day Away from the City

We made another trip to H-Mart this morning! For those of you who don't know, H-Mart is a Korean supermarket/mini-mall in Niles, Illinois. We try to make it over there every couple of weeks to stock up on authentic Korean foods. Phil could probably spend an entire paycheck in one trip if he wanted to, but there's only a handful of things that we absolutely cannot leave the store without: 

Brown rice green tea, bulgogi marinade, kimchi, and HooRoo Rook instant noodles.

I'm not a fan of kimchi, myself, but it's hard to pry Phil out of the kimchi corner empty-handed. He can't get enough of the stuff!

No, this isn't our fridge.

That about covers our Saturday outing! It's really nice to get out of the city every now and then, even if it's only to go grocery shopping. I think now we'll spend a quiet evening at home. Have some brown rice tea and go for a walk, maybe.

More later...