From the Archives – August 1, 2004

As a writer, I’m always interested in ways to hone my skills; so, from time to time, I do practice exercises. Recently I came across one that set me thinking. The assignment was to spend ten minutes writing down everything you remember about your first grade teacher as a way of developing characters for stories.

Ten minutes, I thought. I can do that. So I sat at my computer.

Two minutes ticked by, and in that time all I could remember was my first grade teacher’s name. It was Mrs. Cary. But was she tall? Thin? Stout? Short? Grandmotherly? Or young? I cannot picture her at all in my mind’s eye.

Five minutes ticked by. I recalled things about my classmates and the school bus that turned around in my front yard, since I lived farthest from Virgil Central School. I remembered the classroom itself and the play yard. Even Darla and David, the twins who lived next door and rode the same bus. They had eight older brothers and sisters, some of whom also piled onto the bus. But beyond her name, nothing stands out about Mrs. Cary.

Do you remember your first grade teacher? If so, maybe you could spend ten minutes writing about him or her and email me some good descriptions. Perhaps we’ll even discover the art of character description together. Send your memories to Anne@AnneBrandt.com. I’d be grateful.

From the Archives – November 5, 2004

The hardest thing I do every day is sit down and begin. And since this activity occurs several times throughout the day, it is always a challenge.

Sit down and begin means to focus on the task at hand and move all other issues to the side. Whether it’s getting out of bed at a certain time or spending an hour practicing piano, I’m not good at it. Never have been.

Take waking up each morning. My mind, which is on full alert, wanders around its universe while my body stays snuggly in place, resisting anything resembling a vertical position. Finally, I arise, but it is with great difficulty and two jolts of caffeine.

Then, if I’m not careful, I can spend an entire day puttering, rearranging this book and that, rereading the newspaper, and checking email. I can play with my hairstyle, redo my nails, and plump the pillows that huddle on my bed. But this isn’t really productive.

What I need to do instead is focus on something I want to achieve, something I want to have finished by day’s end. To do this requires constant guard. If I’m getting up, I can’t rationalize reasons why I shouldn’t. If I’m settling in to write, I can’t answer the telephone. If I’m analyzing data, I can’t be distracted by music in the background.

I don’t know if others have this dysfunctional problem; so if there is anyone else out there, then please let me know how you cope. I could be so much more productive if I didn’t have to force myself to sit down and begin.

From the Archives – June 17, 2016

I’ve never been to Duluth, MN, and might never have come now except for my son Kevin’s plans to participate in Grandma’s Marathon tomorrow. It’s the fortieth anniversary running of this event; and it’s being acknowledged in a big way.

This is Kevin’s eighth marathon; and I’ve traveled some distances to be there for more than half of them. There was Chicago, Lake County, Rome, and Boston. Now Duluth.

We were reminiscing and plotting this morning where I would be along the course to yell Kevin’s name and spur him on. Other runners often just see their families at the finish line. But I try to study the course and figure out where I might surprise and encourage him.

Chicago’s course, for instance, made it easy because it was a narrow loop. I could be at the five-mile point and then walk only a few blocks west, see him again at the nineteen-mile marker, and then hightail it to the finish line. The same was true of the cobblestone route in Rome. But Boston and Duluth are point to point courses. And given the traffic on Race Day it is extremely difficult to wait along the way and then get to the finish line to meet up.

My current plan is to be somewhere near the twenty-two-mile marker. Once Kevin passes I’ll walk the remaining four miles to the finish line, rather than drive through the spectator throngs and rerouted traffic patterns in a city I don’t know. I assure you he’ll get there long before I do. Still, this is our tradition . . .

Perhaps I should ask Kevin to consider only looped routes in the future if I’m to continue following him around the country and the world to yell, “Go Kevin.”

From the Archives – April 7, 2005

My favorite movie in the whole world, “Casablanca,” airs tonight for the umpteenth time. And, for at least half that many times, I’ve watched it. The lead actors and actresses are all dead, since the movie premiered in 1942, but there on the little screen they are as alive and passionate as ever.

Basically, the story revolves around one Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart), owner of a cafй in Casablanca, Morocco, during the Second World War. He’s nursing a wounded heart, having apparently been jilted a few years earlier by a woman he’d met in Paris before the Germans occupied it. He’s come to Casablanca to forget.

But the war has caught up with him. And so too has the woman, played by Ingrid Bergman. Ilse’s married now – in fact, was married when she and Rick had their affair – and is trying to help her husband, a leader of the Resistance, get out of the country. Rick holds the key to their escape.

There are myriad legends that have grabbed hold about the making of “Casablanca,” directed by Michael Curtiz. One was that the script was noticeably loose, that from day to day the actors did not quite know what came next, and that – until the very end – the Bergman character didn’t know if she would stay with her husband or go with her former lover.

If this notion is true, then I think it added to the intrigue of “Casablanca.” The movie itself is about wondering whether the characters get out of their situation alive; in real life, not knowing whether they do or not until the end makes their performances more real.

There are so many lines in this black and white film that have become standards in conversation. “Play it again, Sam.” “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.” “Here’s looking at you kid.” “Round up the usual suspects.” “This is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.” The movie was made on back-lot sets for one million dollars, and the mega-budgets and location choices of today don’t hold a candle.

So if you’re not doing anything tonight, tune in to Turner Classic Movies and catch one of the best of all times. Here’s looking at you.

From the Archives – September 20, 2004

I own five or six hundred books at most, since I’m not as interested in owning as reading them. I’m prone to recycling with friends, giving to the Salvation Army, and generally keeping books I might have to move to a manageable level.

But yesterday afternoon I wondered what book I have held onto the longest. Which one had followed me more places than any other? It isn’t something one can positively determine from the publishing date; rather, I looked for inscriptions on the flyleaf from the books’ givers. In the meantime, I was rewarded with a variety of memories about the givers themselves.

The book that took the title of having hung around the longest belonged to Robert Louis Stevenson, he of Treasure Island and Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde fame. This book, called A Child’s Garden of Verse, was published originally in 1885.

From the handwriting on the inscription, I see that my maternal grandmother, Anna Catherine Bannon McDonald, gave me this book in 1950, when I was a mere six years old. I also see the scribbles I put around her words, as if I were decorating them while learning cursive in second grade.

Given its age, A Child’s Garden of Verses is in remarkable condition. The hardback cover is a bit ragged, but the spine holds strong. The illustration on the front is faded, but still recognizable. And inside are the poems that R. L. Stevenson wrote almost 120 years ago. I enjoy them still, and I enjoy as much the fact that my grandmother, who has joined Stevenson on the other side, thought enough to add her own dedication over half a century ago.

From the Archives – June 17, 2013

Where I live in southwestern Michigan it’s time for fruit and veggie stands to crop up, almost as plentiful as weeds but much more appreciated. Already asparagus has come and gone, and now it’s strawberries’ turn.

For the past week or so, we have been inundated with the homegrown, sweet, red fruit.  Within walking distance of my home is a patch where you can pick your own or purchase quarts of ready-picked beautiful berries.  However, I came by mine free via a friend who got more than she could handle.

So Earl and I have been eating strawberries for almost a week.  Tonight, we had them for dinner.  Under the adage that “Life is short so eat dessert first,” we dined on strawberry shortcake as our entrée.  It was delicious and also reminiscent.

We recalled that Earl’s mother made strawberry shortcake using those round spongy mattress-like things you buy at a supermarket.  I assume she added the requisite berries and whipped cream and did the entire thing in about five minutes.  He loved every bite back then.

My mother, on the other hand, was a purist. Well, almost a purist.  She used hot biscuits with butter as her base.  I must admit she didn’t make the biscuits from scratch, but I never noticed.  What I did notice was that her strawberry shortcake blended a warm buttery taste with a cold sugary flavor topped with whipped cream. And I make mine the way she did.

Which is what I did tonight.  We sat on the patio in the cool evening and ate our dinner and recalled our mothers’ methods.  I suspect both would have approved, even if neither of them would have offered dessert for the main course.

From the Archives – August 11, 2007

I pulled into the South Shore Health and Racquet Club this morning, intent on getting my daily dose of exercise out of the way as quickly as possible. As I climbed from my car, a cheery voice said, “Hi.”

I looked up to find three women standing by the car next to mine. I’d casually noticed them as I pulled in, but had no intention of socializing. But when someone addresses you, even with a casual “Hi,” it’s rude not to return the greeting. So I did. The woman who’d spoken initially walked toward me, holding a camera in her hand.

“We’re wondering if you would take a picture of the three of us,” she said. I looked from woman to woman to get a clue as to why they wanted a photo in the middle of the parking lot. They appeared to be a little older than I, all neatly coifed and smiling.

The woman continued: “We’re here for our fiftieth reunion at Benton Harbor High School. We all graduated together in 1957.” She asked my name, and I gave it. In return she introduced herself and the other two women. Between the reunion’s organized events, they’d come to play tennis, although only one of them had played regularly since graduation. She sported the tennis rackets on her arm. The other two were just along for the ride.

The three of them squeezed together to fit in the camera’s viewfinder. I took my time, and managed not only one picture but two in hopes that at least one showed them all at their best. As they posed, I asked if they’d kept in touch since high school. Oh, yes, was the answer; every five years they get together.

My duties done, I went on my way, but I felt honored to be part of a fifty year celebration. My own fiftieth high school reunion is a mere four years off, and I honestly can’t say I’ve done a good job of keeping up with anybody from Mount St. Mary’s Academy. I’ll have to work hard between now and 2011 to be included in a group photo, even if it’s only one of three women laughing in a parking lot.

From the Archives – April 25, 2005

It was merely coincidence this afternoon that I entered the local supermarket just as the high school, which is exactly across the street from the store, let out for the day. By the time I gathered the couple items I’d come for, the entire supermarket was awash with youngsters who hardly looked old enough to be shopping without parents. But I chalked that up to my more mature age, which causes young people to appear even younger than they probably are.

The supermarket has a Starbucks just inside its door, and usually when I go for my latte, the students are in school. Besides, I never imagined high schoolers had been introduced to coffee creations; but there they were, ten deep waiting for their turn with the barista. While they stood, some of the girls helped themselves to the free samples as if they were meant to be lunch. Finally, the barista said, “You’re supposed to take only one free sample per customer.”

The students weren’t particular rowdy, but it looked as if they’d claimed the market as their hangout between the last class and the time they had to be home for dinner. They pushed the tables in the little cafй together, swigged colas and coffees, and demolished a large bag of potato chips in record time. Bookbags and their contents were history for the moment.

The girls flirted, while the boys punched each other in the shoulders. As more and more students streamed in, those already there greeted them as if they’d been separated at birth. I noticed people my age looking at the group, but I couldn’t read any conclusions from their carefully modulated facial expressions.

At first, I told myself I’ll never shop here again at three in the afternoon. But as I thought about it, I recalled my own high school days and Ellsworth Drug Store, which my friends and I invaded every day in a similar fashion. Ellsworth’s didn’t have tables to push together, and the proprietor wasn’t as patient as the Starbucks barista seemed to be; but it was the same ritual. We hung around Ellsworth’s corner and flirted and shoulder punched, all the while eating some snack or drinking some pop. It was an audible and collective sigh of relief at being released from the school routine.

As I walked to my car and the exuberance of youth receded in the background, I smiled.

From the Archives – November 27, 2015

Today is the real Black Friday, even though retailers have been touting it all fall. And even though I already have my shopping done, I’m still perusing catalogs. But it’s not for more gift ideas. It’s for laughs.

I love sweatshirts with pithy sayings, and there’s none pithier than what is found in “Catalog Favorites.” So when you return from fighting the masses at Target and TJ Maxx, sit down and enjoy a chuckle.  I’ve culled them for you.

“Never laugh at your wife’s choices.  You are one of them.” “I can explain it to you, but I can’t understand it for you.” “I’d grow my own food if I could only find bacon seeds.” “Nurses – We can’t fix stupid but we can sedate it.”

And, finally, “Exercise?  I thought you said extra fries.”

I probably would never spend money to wear one of these sweatshirts, but I do enjoy a good smile.