The Wild Things: Coyotes on the Creek

Dear Readers,

Last week I responded by email to a phone message from my neighbor concerning prolonged, suspicious, loud, non-human noises emanating from the creek that runs in back of our houses. I inquired from some other neighbors if they knew about the coyotes. One said, "Well, of course! Are you talking about the one who accompanies me and my dog on our walks?" Another said, "Oh yes, we've always had a coyote lurking about." 

There are two schools of thought concerning this strange species of dog whose natural habitat is Dallas, Ft. Worth and their sprawling suburbs. (& yes, he thrives just about everywhere else in Texas!)  The majority of upstanding citizens would like to eradicate them wherever & whenever because one never knows for sure when or what he will attack. The minority is more laid-back, thinking that it's virtually impossible to get rid of them, & that furthermore they are part of the eco-system.

I don't know what will happen to the Freds, but I do know that even if animal control finds and kills them, others will come along to replace them soon enough. The coyote is hardly an endangered species. 

Dear Ks,

I'm sorry I didn't make it over to talk to you about the fracas about a week ago. Yes, it was very close to my section of the creek. It indeed woke me up, but Ol' JJ slept right through it & only awoke after I shook him vigorously. He said, "All I hear is a dog barking. Why did you wake me up?" & it was true. The ado had awakened a sleeping dog on the other side of the creek. But, it was truly an amazing listening experience of the ways of wild things, n'est-ce pas? 

We have known for some time now that Mr. Fred, as Ol' JJ calls him, was prowling around. But, we also know that there is a bobcat, too, though OTHERS have sighted him & we haven't. But Fred makes RARE appearances as he saunters carelessly along the back of our cyclone fence. Once we watched him from our sliding glass doors as "he," or a healthy "she" sallied into the back yard. Thinking better of it, Fred/Fredna waltzed right out again without a care in the world. Ol' JJ spoke to a man who lives near our mutual artist-friend on the other side of the creek on his evening walk. This distant neighbor believes that we have a small family of Freds. 

As you know, we have probably had a coyote or two at any given moment of our residence backed up to the creek. They are always in fine health and I believe their pelts would fetch a pretty penny in another environment...or at least that's what we read in Wikipedia. Now we have another view of this creature than most: We think we ought to let him be! He/She does a find job of keeping our creek clean of riff-raff. What's that? Too many squirrels, opossums (way too many of those!) & those pesky racoons. All of these are big FAT animals that need to be controlled. Fred really doesn't care about our dogs, cats, or children. (Has there EVER been a story of him attacking these precious family members?) There is no end of good fresh game in his territory, & the hunt is what he's made for. Too bad if some "ears" caught the family at work the other night. Someone might call animal control to root them out.

About 10 years ago now, I read a wonderful novel by Barbara Kingsolver, Prodigal Summer. B.K. really did a lot of research on the coyote and structured a novel around the protagonist (a woman scientific naturalist) who was in favor of protecting them and the antagonist (a rought-tough guy sheep herder from Wyoming) who wanted to "get em." I guess we should make sure that they don't over-populate, but from what I understand the nature of predators is to kill off OTHERS of their species when there is an encroachment on territory. 

We moved to this house to be on the creek and enjoy NATURE. We already knew from tales we'd heard that there were all manner of critters. & Oh! the birds!!!  (Katie, I'm jealous you have all the Goldfinches, I'm sure!) We even knew of one family that moved to sanitized Coppell so that it could escape the Wild Things! I just wanted to tell you these things because you are our wonderful neighbors & I like to keep the channels of communication wide open. We cannot expect to see eye to eye on all things, but I think the overall harmony in our corner is remarkable. 

We certainly WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS DAY AND FIN DE SAISON with Alissa, relations, and friends.

As always,

Joanna

Revisiting "A Christmas Carol" in the 21st Century

I recently received this email from #1 who lives & works in Moscow. He frequently travels to Germany, France, Britain. 

Dear Mother,

Let’s revisit "A Christmas Carol," shall we????

A person most ambivalent and ambiguous will open the Christmas conversation, to kill time between meetings and business discussions, or during a boring train ride in Germany. Germans know so well how best to kill time and remain perfectly subdued and à propos. The monotony of life which they themselves created bears the consequences to moan, mope and complain. Such is their linear and yet predicable life; alas, it is indeed, in a Kantian way, hence they will ask: “So, what were you doing at Christmas Time? 

Dare they ask this russified Franco-American citizen? He is still estranged to the perfectly organised and synchronised Teutonic background that momentarily surrounds him. Yet through some miracle of memory cells, he is still capable, despite a decade of intense brainwashing in Soviet lands, to express himself in high German. 

“Well…there was not much too eat…; that is to say; I was on a diet imposed by a demanding Russian swimming aerobics  trainer....so eager was he to tone my belly down. Then there was not much sleep because of a business submission deadline,...a synonym for clients’ endless barking at work... that would need to be completed before the New Year. Then, those much despised Jingle Bells Christmas computer viruses that haunt your PC to Kingdom Come. I could not count on sleep to recuperate some of my faculties. Anyway, there was not much to see with my tired eyes because the sky in Moscow, even under the brilliant strides of politically correct Putinia, is dark and murky from 4:00 p.m. to 10:30 a. m. And then, unlike the Coca Cola jingle of the early '80’s which hoped for a world in perfect harmony if only one drank Coke, there is not much to hope for because of complex global macro-economics....So, what’s left?—Was bleibt übrig?... 

Well, the consolation prize, after much practice in poorly lit neon rooms with no ventilation and the smell of rancid armpits, lousy acoustics, and an impossibly moody choir director it is.....Handel's Messiah! From such modest elements the meaning of life springs from divine singing & great hope for the future in biblical terms, in a world where most of the ‘old’ continent has forgotten the meaning of God and Christianity altogether. The feeling of believing is so intense, so earnest, so as not to perish.

There is much friendship and love from fellow human beings of so many different social milieus, choir-mates, male or female, forgotten Russian souls, who just have a voice (the whos in Norton hears a who?), a glimmer of hope outside the routine box, but not much more. There are rents to pay, kids to feed, and uncertainty at the workplace. Is it another model of Dicken's Christmas Carol, just in the 21st century? Notes and lyrics date from a time when electricity, typewriters, and email were still  undiscovered! A mesmerizing time when people still believed in the beauty of Divine Creation…Yes, this must have been many years ago….(sigh!).

Well, then there was the Performance….and that was the best Christmas present ever!!! Singing with a choir of so many wonderful, motivated, talented singers from the most modest of Russian profiles. No, there was no time to dress up right for another business cocktail party. These people got up, as I did, after countless rehearsals in dimly-lit, putrid smelling rehearsal rooms, and at the crack of dawn they smartened up, white tops & black bottoms, to sing Handel’s illustrious masterpiece. It was a hit and the singers especially felt it.

Take it easy. No, this was not on WRR with Robin Matthews and some warped CD. This was real….in Moscow, in one of the many concert halls, with a live baroque orchestra, who, like the singers, rubbed a lot of elbow grease to pull the performance together.

Sit back and enjoy the few excerpts Katrina was able to take with her i-phone, as a witness to the scene. 

Merrry Christmas…..from the Moscow Grinch….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pyAFEO1Pj9c&feature=youtu.be

A Tale of Two Teachers

Dear Readers,

I recently had an email exchange with a high school classmate, Robert Fisher. The following contains the rest of one story, Thora Jean Tampke’s “Go-West Show,” for which I will fill in the gaps. It segues into another story. Since I admire Robert’s writing, I will not try to improve it. My part is in italics. 

In the spring of 7th grade our core (English/social studies) teacher, Mrs. Tampke must have felt like she had enough talent in her class to produce a little variety show on the theme of Westward-Ho! of the 1860-1890’s. I have kept her name as is because most of her students will remember her for all the right reasons. We all just loved her. She was a wiry little silver-haired woman, inspiring to the max, but who stood for no nonsense, and who treated us like we were her extra-special (brilliant!) class of 7th graders. Once she showed us the covers on the projects of students from a bragadocious neighboring teacher, and said, “Look at this!"  She held up a booklet with a large object hanging on it and some lettering in gold glitter. "Isn’t that silly to have pasted a whole tip of cowhorn on colored construction paper! How long is that going to stay on? How is anyone going to read what’s inside? I don’t think Mrs. So-&-So has any idea about proper artwork for project covers. I am so happy with my student’s covers! So many wonderful ideas, and so much good, hard work. I’m so proud of you all!” She'd lowered her voice, as she spoke to us confidentially. We didn’t dare repeat it outside the class or she might never tell us another juicy secret again!

In the planning stage of the Go-West program the students really “helped” Mrs. Tampke by submitting writings and poems for presentation.  In my case, I opened the show with the folksong “Sweet Betsy.” From then on I was known as a singer. Robert’s email was an inquiry about the verses of this song….which are many and not very standard because it recounts all the terrible episodes experienced by the Overlanders traveling to the Great West. I told him that there were as many versions as there were minstrel travelers. He continues…..

The western theme presentation for Mrs. Tamke's class was the beginning of the grim slide for me. I was terrified of speaking in public, and had to turn down the big part she had assigned me. One twit who was temporarily bigger than I was made fun of me for that. Hard to believe, now people ask me to speak at their parents' funerals and their daughters' weddings, and I love it. No bigger ham anywhere.

Seventh grade was also when I learned the importance of boys having muscles, and I didn't have any. Again, too late to do the child any good, I lifted weights for forty years and at age 58 could put lots of kids to shame on the bench press. That is all gone now, but the memories are terrific. And my sons loved it.

Well, this is disappointing. (Here, Robert is referring to a rousing marching song about entering 7th grade and going to Jr. High.  He thought I was responsible, though I was not.) I wonder who was responsible? The only other female that comes to mind was Belle Marie Dawson. Not sure how musically oriented she was. As a fifth grader at Arthur Circle she did cause a row in Mrs. Scalf's class.  Perhaps that is why she is memorable. 

Mrs. Scalf was an older woman (probably all of 40) poised to shower terror and pain on anyone who got out of line, especially mean little boys who talked back. She would either throw chalk or grab the offender by the collar muscle. 

Poor Belle Marie was at the uppity little girl stage of her life and would quite readily talk back. More importantly, she had developed an almost involuntary response of exasperation that included a shoulder shrug and a ceiling sweep of the eyes.

On this day to be remembered, she crossed Mrs. Scalf in class over some matter, Mrs. Scalf cautioned her, and, really involuntarily, Belle Marie gave the shrug/sweep response. This absolutely infuriated Mrs. Scalf. As we fifth graders watched, the warning-response cycle repeated itself several times until chalk was thrown AND the collar muscle was grabbed. Belle Marie was sobbing but could not stop the reflex. "Don't look at me like that!" " I will not tolerate that!" "Owwww!!"

Nobody laughed. We could not accept what was unfolding. Belle Marie was powerless to stop her response, and Mrs. Scalf grew more furious with each cycle. 

I do not recall how it ended. It seemed it went on15 minutes, but probably took only a minute. It was the basis of legend, though. Even today I can email John Stahls  in Tyler, Texas and say "Belle Marie" and he'll know what I'm dredging up.

OK, you didn't write the song. Yes, I was in Mrs. Tamke's class. Another story there.

I’ve discovered that memories from 5th to 9th grade can be pretty indelible. Mrs. Scalf has gone down as a cruel teacher who overly humiliated and punished Belle Marie.  I don't recall a teacher being that mean to any young student during my 1 through 12 school years. There were some teachers with harsh tongues & mean glares, but I don’t think anyone ever touched a child aggressively.  

Tales of Junior High: Stage Fever and a Great Idea

When I was twelve my family moved from a blue to a white collar neighborhood within the same city. We moved during the summer which was without a doubt the most wonderful summer of my entire youth. After a series of auditions my younger sister and I  were selected to be in the large cast of children for Rogers and Hammerstein’s “The King and I.” This musical inaugurated a new facility offered to Centenary College which bore the name of the major donor, The Marjorie Lyons Playhouse. It was state of the art and the premiere production was meant to be a statement of excellence for the Shreveport cultural community. It was directed by a very savvy man, Joe Gifford, who was given carte blanche to obtain the leads and specialized choreographer that he needed. They were brought in from more sophisticated cities, Houston and New York. No expense was spared for sets, lighting, costumes, and make-up. It was grandiose. It was SRO for the six weeks that it ran. Those who saw it or were in it never forgot it. 

The theatre was constructed so that backstage the kids-- there could have been twenty-five from ages 4 to 13--would not disturb the show in progress. We had a double classroom room, divider pushed back, at our disposal to play and talk quietly. Between our scenes the older children were allowed to go outside when they got tired of indoors. The stage manager was happy for the kids to be happy and knew how to call us in time. 

Chula-longhorn, the Prince, had a few more scenes with the King and some superb chances to emote, especially at the end when the King, his father, dies. Some of us were really into theater and very impressed with every aspect of the production. Others were less so, but still enjoyed “the smell of greasepaint & roar of the crowd.” We all made instant friends, as kids will do. In the case of the Prince, he staked out a special girlfriend, a beautiful, dainty 8th grader. His romance took place only outdoors with the tweens ogling & listening to the pair’s “love talk.” Poor Prince! The beautiful 8th grader did not return his affections, though she was very kind about it. He was crestfallen! It was drama before our very eyes under the moon and stars, in the summer heat, more than 90 degrees. My interest in love-stuff had yet to awaken, so, for me, the failed romance of the Prince was a passing side-show. 

The passion of some of us was to be just like the grown-up cast, to be able to do everything they did, & just as well.  My not-so-secret desire was to be a singer onstage. I found Jordan, a girl of 11 and an aspiring dancer, who matched my verve.  At the end of the production we, the King’s kids, wanted to perform the ballet, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”: Jordan would choreograph the other kid-dancers and, of course, dance Little Eva. I would lead the chorus telling the story, as Tuptim--the captive Burmese Princess, grouped and sitting on far stage left.  Everything we said & did was about our project. Actually, it was a joy to put everything together because we, as little mimics, had our parts down pat. We had learned every line, every dance step, and every song. All the participants invited the adult cast, our parents, and friends by word of mouth. Our show would take place after the last Saturday night show of the run. Even after 10:30 p.m., they did not disappoint us: they all came to clap and cheer our big effort. 

Jordan, who had a last name for a first long before it was fashionable, and I were stagestruck. We were thrilled for our chance to show what we could do.  As it was, we already had dyed black hair and a topknot. But Jordan said that to be really complete we needed body make up. Jordan was wearing the Little Eva Headdress but she still needed body make-up…..on her exposed legs, of course. They must look dark tan, just like the Siamese people. As Tuptim, I only needed face and neck because the rest of my body was modestly covered by a brilliant costume--borrowed and altered--of silks and brocade satins. In the dancer’s dressing room Jordan had whitened her face and drawn on exaggerated slanted eyes & brows. She returned to the children’s quarters with a round, shallow tin, resembling Kiwi shoe polish. I eyed it curiously. 

“What’s that?” I asked. 

“Well, it’s pancake make-up, but we’ll have to spread it on with water,” She added confidently, “We have to do our makeup like the grown-up cast.”

“Where are we going to do that?” I asked.

“Well….let’s just slip into the toilet stall in the ladies bathroom.”

“For what?”

“Well, to use the water in the toilet and apply the make-up.” 

I was shocked but, also amazed at her brilliant idea.  “Are you sure about this?” 

“It’s okay”, she said and added to reassure me, “I’ve seen it done like this before.” 

“Really?…. Sure it’s okay?”

“Of course. I promise, it’ll be okay.” 

“But isn’t the water dirty?”

We entered a completely deserted ladies room. Jordan chose a stall and once we were both inside I latched the door. With a look that said, see-I’m-checking-it-out Jordan peered into the toilet bowl. “Water looks clean enough to me.” We got busy fast. If anyone came in, no one would know what we were doing. After all, do grown-ups need to know everything? Our task took about ten minutes after which Jordan squeezed out the round sponge applicator & I  flushed the cloudy toilet water. After all, we were conscientious to a flaw and did not want to leave any traces. We walked out perfectly turned out for our long awaited presentation. We felt so Siamese! Our show was a howling success.

As it turned out Jordan did make a career as a dancer in NYC and she also did stage directing for opera. But as things go, our friendship only lasted for the show’s run. Jordan was in 6th grade at elementary school & I was entering 7th grade in junior high. A few years hence, she danced the bird in “Peter & the Wolf,” while I got to turn pages for the pianist. How I admired her! There was envy, but not a shred of jealousy: She was the dancer and I was the singer.  Oh, but that girl had brilliant ideas.

A Sunday Lesson - Part III Conclusion

Yet, the bird kept pace pecking and squawking as Regina veered down the longest street lined with beautiful homes, mature trees, manicured lawns, and flowered beds. The occasional Sunday gardner stopped to gape at the strange sight of a Sunday-dressed school girl, pony tail & streamers flowing in the wind chased by a little white rooster. Pious church goers began to slow their cars to gaze in wonder at the fast moving duo.  One car had young people inside who paused to cheer her on, “Hey, Gal, you can beat that ol’ Rooster!” They hooted with laughter, tooted twice and sped away. Regina, who had been thumping the concrete in her now painful pumps, began to realize how silly she must look. Filled with embarrassment and rage she nevertheless could do nothing else but run.

Her side began to hurt. Her throat began to burn. Her face felt flushed. She was heaving and sweaty. White Rooster was still on her heels. Regina looked ahead to see the only red light intersection she would have to cross. How she hoped that the light would be green so she could run across. Who knew? Maybe a car would run over that stupid bird. No luck. She had to stop for the red light while the rooster kept pecking at her heels.  She fended him off swinging at him with her straw purse, jelly beans flew his way, as she hit him twice. Fighting valiantly, she could see the pedestrian light blinking in the corner of her eye. The cross street was quite wide and the light very short. She darted across without a second look behind reaching the church’s tall orange brick wall, standing like a protective sentinel. She sank against it, caught her breath, & gazed back to find her feathered enemy. 

But where was he? She squinted to check for a dead white mass  in the middle of the intersection. No sign of him!  Reassured in a instant with not a moment to waste, Regina walked briskly toward her Sunday School classroom. She might be just in time for Mama’s check-in. Mama would never suspect a thing. 

As it turned out Mama never even checked. Regina clomped  home at noon on sore, blistered feet. To avoid another encounter with the rooster she took the wide, commercial street. When at last she passed through the side gate Rooster was there, peaceably picking at the ground with the three hens. She slipped into the house blessedly unnoticed.  At dinner, after the blessing Mama said with a soft, sly laugh, “Well, I guess you got a good Sunday lesson today. A little bird told me that a mean ol’ rooster chased you all the way to church. My oh my,….The Lord works  in mysterious ways.” 

A Sunday Lesson - Part II

With a hustle and rustle Regina did an about face, took a deep breath, & marched purposefully across the house to the lonely sound of her heels: tap, tap, tap, tap....  Her marching tempo halted briefly to grab a handful of jelly beans from the clear glass jar, hidden in the back of the pantry. She glanced at the wall clock as the hard beans snake-rattled to the bottom of her purse. "Oh dear!" she exclaimed.  Already 9:15 and only fifteen minutes to get to church. She would have to run to beat Mama’s check-in. “Oh darn!” she muttered, thinking her heels would probably rub a blister. “Well, and maybe not,” she added with confidence. 

She stepped lightly out of the back door, and down the concrete stoop into a long back yard, a swath of St. Augustine green shaded by mature pecan trees. It was already quite warm. The sunshine bathed her in happiness. Four little white chickens rushed toward her cheeping loudly for feed. Wasn't it nice to be appreciated and loved?... even if it was by these dumb clucks that had shed quickly their yellow down feathers & turned into into little white chickens. The only yellow that remained was their sharp, pointy beaks. Regina had worn down her mother’s resolve with all the arguments as to why she should have those Easter chicks sold at the T G & Y. Mama had finally been won over by the fact that her elder brother would be helping to feed and take care of them. But now they weren’t as cute as when they were fresh-hatched jumping around, so tiny, fluffy, and cheeping away. Only yesterday Mama had said it was time to find another home for them because soon they would be scratching up the grass, and they would be way too big to keep in a city neighborhood. That was fine with Regina because they weren’t very much fun anymore, always begging for attention. Brother had already lost interest. 

Suddenly, with mischief in her heart she spied one that didn’t quite look like the others. My goodness! He was just a little bigger and he had some red flesh starting to grow around his head. Would this one be the rare rooster? She crept up close to him, lunged toward him, throwing her purse with both hands at his head, she shouted “Boo!” Just as suddenly, he flew back on the attack with a great squawk. She turned and ran around the side of the house, slamming the gate to the back yard. Undeterred the rooster squawked again & flew over the chest high, wire gate, and began to peck at the heels of Regina's shiny learner pumps. 

She thought that by the time she reached the sidewalk the bird would just give up and go back to his usual habitat. After all, wasn’t he just a dumb ol’ chicken?  Oh no, this rooster had a purpose, and that was to catch Regina’s shiny black heels. By now she was running faster than she ever had, even in a Field Day relay... but, she couldn’t seem to lose that bird. If Mary had a little lamb, Regina now had a little rooster….except that Mary’s lamb was nice and tame, but her rooster was menacing and mean. Her heels clopped noisily, trying to keep beyond the reach of the sharp beak. Surely he would give up at the next turn, for how would he know how to get back home? 

to be concluded.....

A Sunday Lesson - Part I

To my readers: I have had several requests to publish the following tale about my sister as a "tween." The whole thing was rather long for a blog post. I was advised to merely cut it into 3 parts. 

My youngest sister at age 12 was on the path to becoming a serious backslider.  She thought that church was “for the birds,” and she had more pleasant things to do on Sunday morning than attend church. Short of a switchin’, Mama had to apply serious pressure to get her to church on time. 

“Regina! You lazy thing, you! I got you up in plenty of time to get ready & go with us. You’ve dawdled your time away and now you’re not even ready. You just get yourself ready and you’ll walk to church in time for Sunday School. That mile trot serves you right. I’ll be checking to see that you made it to Sunday School.” Mama’s high heels clicked as she walked out, screen door slamming in her wake. Regina grimaced and continued to ponder how much she did not want to dress for church. She loved her lilac organdy dress with the ruffled, full, stand-out skirt, and puffed sleeves. It was her special Easter dress. But oh those ol’ hot hose! As a “big” girl, she must now wear that uncomfortable garter belt and pull those sticky, hot hose over her prickly, as-of-late shaven legs. How she hated them! Why couldn’t she just go back to not shaving her legs & wearing white Buster Brown socks which were just fine? 

She looked at the clock. Only 8:30! Good! There was still almost an hour until Sunday School at 9:30. She leisurely ate a big sugar-glazed bear-claw and washed it down with a tall glass of cold milk as she devoured the Sunday color funnies. Feeling full and fine, she sauntered into the living room and sat down at the old Sohmer spinet. She couldn’t resist playing one of her favorite hymns, “This Is My Father’s World.” Then she flatted a few keys which turned a rousing tune into a sad drone. She laughed wickedly. Regina could do as she pleased and no one would stop her. Back in her room, inspired by the funnies she reached for some lined notebook paper and began to sketch a cruel cartoon of her least favorite teacher, Ol' Maid Sadie Jones. She chuckled as pinned it up on her personal bulletin board, and sighed as  she turned to the task of dressing up.

Underwear and hose on, dress buttoned down the back and sash tied, she slipped on her new black patent Sunday shoes with a “learner heel” (she hated those, too!) & grabbed her 6” by 6” woven, straw clutch purse filled with 7th-grade items: tiny note pad & pencil with eraser, light pink lipstick never applied unless she was playing dress-up, a rat-tail comb. The latter reminded her that she hadn’t fixed her dark, waist-length tresses which hardly matched the just-so rest of her.  With brush in hand Regina expertly swooped her hair up into a tidy pony-tail to which she tied a matching lilac grosgrain bow with extra long streamers. Like Mama taught her, she checked herself out in the long mirror on the inside of Mama’s closet door. She would add some hard candies to her purse on her way out. She knew she would have to make up for missing early church by attending 11 o’clock service, but she had no plans to listen to the sermon, though she might sing the hymns. Naturally she would sit in the balcony with other teenage rowdies, quietly doodle on her notepad, and suck hard candies. If she didn't have to go to Sunday School church could have been almost fun.

To be continued.

Chris Horner Lost in Spain's Corner

In January of this year (2013) I submitted an entry entitled, “Lance and France.” I got quite a lot of commentary, enlightening and enjoyable. As a follow up I would like to report that last month, September 2013, Chris Horner, a 41-year old American won the Tour d’Espagne, an unexpected feat for a veteran cyclist. In fact, Horner was the oldest winner of any major tour in history.* 

This should have made headline news in our press.  But, alas it did not, as our press after having taken the wrong side in L'Affaire Armstrong would not talk about any other cyclist. If our journalists had done their homework they would have discovered that Horner had won fair and square.  For twenty years Horner had been reduced to the rank of domestique because he had never been earmarked initially as a potential champion.  Therefore, he had not been offered drugs like his leader, Lance Armstrong.

The magic portals opened for Horner when the cycling authorities succeeded in eliminating doping. Without asking anyone's permission, Horner decided to peddle his own race in the Tour d'Espagne 2013, a particularly difficult grand tour because of the many mountains that the cyclists had to climb.  Lo and behold! Horner showed that he was the best.  His win is all the more outstanding because he made it on bad knees. Following the advice of his son he decided to put off surgery and compete.  With only steroid injections into the knees -- which are allowed -- he won against much younger, fitter cyclists. One of these was Vincenzo Nibali, 28, who won the Tour d’Italie in 2012 and 2013. 

Just as we believe that the election of Obama made "race" a non-issue, we hope that Chris Horner's win will be the marker of a new era in cycling in which "doping" is also a non-issue. In light of Horner's victory we think the press should take a fresh look at a sport which is breathtaking on TV and exciting to the max.

*There are 3 big competitive races: Italy in May, France in July, Spain in September. Americans who are less interested in competitive cycling than Europeans, mostly only pay attention to the Tour de France. Maybe that should change. Ol’ JJ had a hard time finding any reporting on the daily progress of the Spanish race, but finally found Vuelta A España 2013. 

"Pensativa" - A Thoughtful Book

My 94-year old father is a retired dentist with the memory of an elephant. He use to tell his  stories to patients sitting in the chair with their mouths wide open so they’d be entertained instead of pained. Recently, he must have needed to tell a story because he said, “Say, Joanna, do you remember the one about “Pensativa?” The immediate truth was that I couldn’t recall. I really had to dig back deep into my memory. And yes, he was right, & there it was. 

First one needs to understand that when I was in high school I was a twit. I was clueless about so many things. Such was the case about learning Spanish. I just loved Spanish, but I could hardly scrape out a “B” & most of the time it was a C. My idea of Spanish was going dancing at the Pan American Club weekends with Conchita Chavez, and learning to sing intoxicating boleros. It certainly wasn’t about memorizing verb tense endings and churning out intricate translations. Yet, in Spanish IV, my senior year, I borrowed a book from my teacher, Senora Brown, that I could actually understand & I was quite surprised. The title character, Pensativa, was everything I imagined a beautiful Mexican woman could be, especially deeply pensive, as her name suggested. She was sultry but never vulgar. She was coy but never cruel. She smoldered with passion, ever so controlled. All the men lusted after her, but she was cool. Now I can’t remember what her problem was-- because she had to have a problem or else there would be no novel--but I just remember for a short moment in my youth she was my idol.

I have no idea how long the cherished book had been in my possession, but one morning I passed Senora Brown in the hall passing between classes. I said in my pitiful Spanish, “I’m the one who has the book “Pensativa.” Me le gusta mucho! (I just love it!) I just wanted to remind you that I have it.” She harumphed with a glint in her cold, ice blue eyes & replied, “ Lo veo.” (I see.) And that was that. Still, there was something discomforting in they way she had replied. Wasn’t she glad I told her? But, since I was used to being discomforted by her I just shrugged it off. 

Here I must digress because of the event later that day. Twit that I was, I had no idea about the grand scheme of things, especially time.  School time was based on tests & assignments. A six-weeks grading period seemed rushed because I never had enough time to raise my less than stellar grades, but, a semester was an eternity. & though I had borrowed “Pensativa” from Senora Brown, I honestly had no clue how long I had it in my possession. I was about to find out. 

At the end of the day about 10 minutes before school was out we always had announcements. Did I ever really listen to them? Suddenly I heard as loud as a megaphone: “Would JOANNA SEDLEY please return the book “Pensativa” to Mrs. Brown in room 208?” And just to be certain that JOANNA SEDLEY had heard the announcement the voice repeated: "JOANNA SEDLEY should return “Pensativa” to Mrs. Brown as soon as possible to room 208!”

Of course, I was mortified and furious.  Hardly Pensativa-like, I fulminated, “Why did she need to do that? After all, I  told her. All she had to do was say she wanted it back!” Well, have to say, this once she got my attention and her book back.

Carmen the Modern Woman

I wrote this entry a couple of months back & didn't post it. I was afraid of attracting a feminist troll...& I might still. Those gals tend to have no sense of humor. JJ & I are in France now where the French have groused for the entire month of mai. The sun never came out, it rained everywhere--even the midi. It was so chilly they couldn't even throw off their scruffy neck scarfs, or leave their umbrellas at home. When I get a chance I'll be telling a funny story or two. 

So...as I mentioned, we listen to the matinee of the New York Metropolitan Opera on Saturdays, including the interviews and games at intermission. Recently a young diva was being interviewed she was asked to compare two characters, Gilda & Carmen. She said that Gilda was an old-fashioned girl and that Carmen was a modern woman. Honestly I found this appraisal quite shocking. That Gilda is old-fashioned is cliché, but is Carmen really a modern woman?  

I see these two characters from an historic perspective: Gilda is the modern woman and Carmen is the fossil. Before recorded history, we know that humans roamed the earth for eons relatively free of a moral code. I imagine those days when might made right & females were brutalized chattel. With the advent of civilizations came moral codes that protected women and children. Women were expected to adhere to the rules for their own good and the good of society. A woman who lived freely & thumbed her nose at common decency was seen as low, merely reverting to her animal instincts. The good woman was enlightened and rewarded; the bad woman had not evolved properly & she would suffer the consequences. 

I want to understand how Carmen is modern woman. If she is, then Bizet’s tragedy is no tragedy, at all, but a mere a tale of two hapless lovers. His gypsy woman sings her first aria (the famed Habanera in minor mode) warning her would-be lovers that she is free as a bird and she follows no rules. I find that rather fair-play of Carmen. She then proceeds to beguile Don Jose, a military officer. She will drop him without pity when she moves on to her next conquest, Don Escamillo, a toreador. Carmen is definitely the initiator & closer of her affairs. Since she can do as she likes, Don Jose, surely a modern man, should accept that she’s through with him & move on in a gentlemanly fashion. For modern times, this should be the tale of an uncontested modern woman, but surely not a tragedy. There’s no need for Carmen to die because she is within her rights. Only Don Jose should die for his murderous jealousy. (Of course, they both die.)

In my mind the definition of tragedy is when flawed characters die at the end. Gilda is “good” in the old-fashioned sense, but she allows a moral weakness to trump the social code. But, Carmen as the modern woman is not flawed. As the new norm she perfectly within her rights. If Gilda is no longer the standard, and Carmen is, then what of civilization? If Carmen’s freedom & sexual equality are now taken for granted all she must do is protect herself and carry on. 

The worm has indeed turned: Meet Carmen, the modern woman and Gilda, the relic. 

As Scott Walker might say, “Ms. Darcy meet the new world.”

A Jolt in the Night

May 2, 2013 - The Flight Over

There were two notable events on the flight from Dallas to Paris. But before I relate them I should tell you that JJ & I didn’t sit exactly together. Those who have read my blogs know that often we sit apart. Sometimes it’s more interesting, such as at dinner parties and church discussion groups; and at others, it’s the practical thing to do, such as posting in 2 different lines, or general reconnoissance. For the 9 or 10 hours over the big pond, we each opted for an aisle seat. (We never forgot the big fat woman who had obviously taken sleeping pills, inert for entire flight duration. Try climbing over that.) 

I tell you this so you will understand what I’m about to tell you. JJ’s good fortune was that the seat next to him was vacant. That just means he had the luxury of a little more space. But I had a seat-mate next to the window, a 30-ish man who was keeping to himself. I couldn’t say what the ethnic diversity was among the passengers, but one thing I do know is that, as a group, these were a well brought up lot because the toilets stayed clean & no one trashed or clogged the aisles. The few small children who were on the flight were shushed soon after trying to begin a crying session. Collectively it was to be a satisfactory experience. 

As #3 would say, American Airlines is just the most bare bones company possible for an overseas flight. The food is fair & the movies are not even worth renting the earphones. The flight attendants do their best with the little they have. So, maybe it’s not so much la luxe, but other things that made the trip bearable. In this case the cabin staff was down to earth, relaxed, & doing the necessary with good humor. Which brings me to the first event.

The overhead screens went out for sleepy-time. I noticed there wasn’t even one reading light. All, even the babies, seemed to be in the land of Winkin’ Blinkin’ & Nod. When all of a sudden there came a great turbulence, so very unusual when planes are obviously flying so high. There had been a little here and there, such that we should all have been seat-belted. Nevertheless, there came a huge exterior blow to the aircraft which scared the living daylights out of us all. There were no squeals or howls because we were all drowsy. But, it was a jolt which lasted about 20 seconds & awoke us all with a start which caused a flutter of low comments. But then everything calmed almost as quickly as it came. The only repercussion was that we were all wide awake, never to return to sleep for the rest of the trip which was at least another 4 hours! Even without a sleeping pill most travelers are able to nod off for a short night’s sleep, so that they can almost make it through the next waking day in Paris. The upshot for us all would be that we’d have serious some jet lag.

(When I asked an attendant about it, she told me that the captain had informed the crew to expect some serious turbulence. She admitted that it was stronger than she had usually experienced.)

The second thing was was meeting my seat-mate. The Great Jolt turned out to be a blessing because, as I said, it  opened conversation. It’s my policy to refrain from intruding on a stranger’s privacy, but as we noticed the sun gleaming through the cracks of the window shutter, I wanted to see a glorious sunrise at such a great height. My seat mate lifted the shutter to take a photo of it for himself with his IPhone. I asked him to take one for me with my small camera, which he was glad to do. In such a way was the ice broken. Doesn’t take much, does it? 

As it turned out my seat mate was an executive chef at a posh country club in Oklahoma City. At 38, he & his wife were expecting their 3rd child. We had a lot in common as he told me he had graduated from a Baton Rouge high school, at about the same time my eldest boys were finishing another B.R. high school. He had formed his culinary palate in New Orleans and Baton Rouge. “My sister & I always got in the kitchen & cooked for friends and family.” His formal chef’s training was in a noted Houston Institution, but he insisted that the palate had to be acquired, it couldn’t be taught. “You either have it, or you don’t. Recipes & books aren’t going to provide that.” He explained that he would be in France for about two weeks looking for new culinary ideas & fresh plating presentations from among famous French restaurants. 

JJ & I have always believed that the top ranks of chefs are among those who, as my mother once said, “never had a choice.” From tender beginnings the talent manifests itself & no other direction is possible. I felt privileged to be able to “interview” this unpretentious executive chef who supervised six other specialized chefs, plus a staff of over 150. Who knows? Without the great jolt I might never have met him.

Just call me Stew

No matter how long the trip, I stew. I worry about everything, from how I’m going to pack to how I’m going to get everything arranged before departure. This trip is what I’ll call a real doozy. Ol’ JJ & I will need duds for two seasons, which includes some wedding outfits for #3’s big day in Paris. The family house in Dallas, designated by our kids as The Ranch, must seen to for 2 months. Plus, I needed to get a cat-feeder. Details, details! I still must email my catty-corner neighbor to tell him we aren’t there.

For the benefit of my readers I should tell you that this year we will be touring mostly France. We’ll be in England 6 days before we fly out of Heathrow. JJ’s family is vast & welcoming, although for the most part we won’t be staying with them, but near them in some kind of cozy accommodation. I’ll tell you all about it. 

Rigoletto on Reality Radio

On Saturdays around mid-day it’s our tradition to listen to a live matinee performance at the New York Metropolitan Opera while we clean our house. We especially like the intermissions when there are interviews of producers and singers, & guessing games. Last Saturday the opera was Giuseppe Verdi’s Rigoletto. It’s what I call a “war horse” because it never fails to bring out the crowds &, by the end, have them weeping in the aisles. I learned during the interviews that Verdi had a profound love and respect for Shakespeare. He believed that with Rigoletto he had created a tragic character almost equal to those of the Bard. Many times have the poet’s plays been produced in modern settings. Has it ever really worked? Would Rigoletto stand the same test? 

As we mop floors & scrub toilets we imagine Rigoletto, a burly basso clad in brilliant satins of his court jester's garb. The joker’s cap of floppy points covers his piteous smile belying great anger and passion. Rigoletto is hell-bent to protect his precious daughter from the predaceous Duke, even if he must conspire to commit murder by proxy. Gilda is surely the most beautiful, sweet-young-thing in opera, as she graces the stage bouncing her mass of blonde tendrils in her modest, frilly, pastel gown. She loves & respects her father; nevertheless, she is seduced by the dapper Duke. This aristocratic dandy prances around in his pale hose, shiny knee-high boots, short puffy pantaloons, slit-sleeved waistcoat, & cocky plumed hat. 

We toil away at mundane tasks as we are transported in time & place to 16th century Italy. Of course, we know that by Act III the Duke, a heartless cad, has moved on to his next conquest, & though Gilda sees it, she won’t believe her eyes. Secretly we all want the professional hit-man to kill him, but that’s not going to happen. Rigoletto is in the wrong & he is going to pay dearly for his sin. In a twist of fate the hit-man murders self-sacrificing Gilda. (Ach!) With his daughter dead in his arms Rigoletto closes the opera with "Oh the Curse!" He will live out his days ruing his misdeed while the Duke--never the wiser-- continues his life of lechery. Life can be so unfair. C'est la realité. 

Opera lovers don’t question ridiculous plots or obsolete characters, but the intermission interviews have made me aware of the great difficulty for 21st century productions to be relevant.  Who would be a court jester in the world of modern politics? Is it important for Gilda to remain a paragon of purity? Would her father need to protect her so fiercely? And the Duke? Didn’t he go out with the French Revolution? These days all sorts of sexual predators abound regardless of class or privilege. 

I really do like the opera radio hostess for these broadcasts. She’s a competent messenger, who delivers in detail the plot, sets, costumes, & curtain calls. But when I realized that she was describing a contemporary Rigoletto, I thought, “Are you kidding me? Get real!” When I tried to visualize it, I just LOL-ed. At the close of each intermission I immediately went back to my own private version. I was glad to be a listener, & not a spectator. For me Rigoletto in 2013 is utter nonsense.