?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Elvis and Earl

Earl has the same eating habits as Elvis Presley had: a penchant for anything laden with sauce or butter. This includes Southern-style food like ribs, comfort food like macaroni and cheese, and soul food like greens cooked in bacon grease. But the strangest thing is grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

Last month I met my son Keith in Memphis, Tennessee, for a long weekend. We toured Elvis’s home, Graceland, and got a bite to eat at a cafй decorated to resemble a diner from the nineteen fifties. The menu was fifties as well; and, sure enough, it included a grilled peanut butter and banana sandwich. In honor of Earl, I ordered one while Keith took the saner route of a hot dog. When the food arrived, we both snatched our cameras and took a picture of my sandwich to prove to Earl I actually ordered it. Here it is.

There is no picture of my eating this sandwich, however, as one bite was all I needed to determine that I’ll never order another. It’s strange, as I like peanut butter very much. I like bananas too, and I’m fond of a grilled sandwich every now and then. But putting these ingredients together tasted smarmy. The banana was overly ripe; the peanut butter didn’t go to the edge of the bread and the bread itself was nothing special. I’d venture to say it was from the fifties too.

When I returned home and showed Earl the photo, he nodded with pleasure and reached into his memories to extol the virtues of the sandwich. I should have let it go at that; but I didn’t. Instead I reached into my memory and described my revulsion in no uncertain terms. Poor Earl.

The only thing I can say is that he is in good company. We own a copy of Fit for a King: The Elvis Presley Cookbook; and on page 166 there is a recipe for peanut butter and banana sandwiches. The commentary suggests Elvis ate them five at a time. Maybe one reason Earl and Elvis love them is because both men have their family roots in Tennessee. Me? I’m from Idaho.

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Not Just Maybe

When I returned to blogging this past January I started with an essay titled “Maybe I’m Back.” It was meant to provide wiggle room in case I found blogging wasn’t interesting any more. But with the technical difficulties that have haunted my web site the past three weeks, I’ve changed my tune. It isn’t about maybe; it’s about definitely.

I’m still not sure I want to blog every day, but I know I don’t like not being able to blog at all. This is what the past three weeks has taught me. I want the option of writing in the public domain even if I don’t take advantage of it daily.

While my web site was struggling, I found I felt more and more disconnected, even though I write primarily for myself and not for the review of others. At the same time, I like that others out there come to my web site and read my musings. I don’t know who you are but I thank you for your attention.

That said, my web site has been upgraded to allow for photos that might enhance my words. So look for this feature starting tomorrow. Especially if you like peanut butter.

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Coming Soon

Starting May 1, I will be back to blogging on a regular basis. The technical difficulties are fixed and life is good. Until then, you can scroll to the bottom and see what were my favorite blogs of 2006. Thanks, Anne.

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Friday Night Date

Every Friday Earl and I go out to dinner. Sometimes it’s a casual place like Pauly’s in Benton Harbor; other times it’s more upscale like the Bistro at the Boulevard or Tosi’s. But wherever we land, we have a grand time.

It’s not that we don’t see each other or converse together during the week. With both of us working from home, it’s hard NOT to run into each other. But for some reason, having a couple cocktails and dinner in a restaurant on Friday night elevates our conversation to the level of a date. Even if we’re dog tired and have nothing new to say.

Maybe it’s the ambience of eating out instead of eating at our dining table at home. Maybe it’s being served instead of having to cook it ourselves. Maybe it’s just a habit we’ve gotten into, one that works.

I don’t know yet where we’re going tonight, but I’m already looking forward to it. We drive to some restaurant, leave worries in the car, and for a couple hours every Friday night revel in simply being together. Like the credit card company says, “It’s priceless.”

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Duke and Rutgers

In March 2006, three members of the Duke University lacrosse team were arrested and accused of kidnapping and raping an exotic dancer. The three — Reade Seligman, Collin Finerty, and David Evans — steadfastly maintained their innocence through a storm of public media scrutiny, university chastisement, and community isolation.

Yesterday, they were declared innocent of all charges, although the situation is far from over.

Last week, radio jock Don Imus used racially charged slurs to describe women on the Rutgers basketball team that played for the NCAA National Championship. He too experienced a storm of public media scrutiny. While Imus has issued an apology, this situation is far from over as well.

What has struck me most about these two situations is how the Duke men and the Rutgers women handled the eye of the storm. In both case, they remained calm, determined, and confident of their position. No doubt each man and woman has had personal moments of anguish, but they confronted their situations with enormous dignity.

After the verdict of innocent was read, the three Duke men each issued statements. I was impressed with how they put their experience into a universal context as they wondered aloud that if such injustice could be done to well-to-do families with the means to hire high priced lawyers what could happen to the less well off? And what’s happened to our legal system when “Presumed guilty” has replaced “Presumed innocent?”

The Rutgers women and their basketball coach, C. Vivian Stringer, were no less thoughtful. While various sponsors pulled advertisements from the Imus show and various black leaders called for the show’s cancellation, the team members remained focused on using their experience to raise the level of awareness not only of black women but also of women of every color. In the end, Imus got the axe.

In time, I hope these young people will not be defined only by these incidents, although I suspect each will be shaped by them. All I can say is that they behaved better than the elders around them who postured and posed and pressed. In contrast to yesterday’s blog, it’s refreshing to see students approximately two generations younger than I behaving with such maturity.

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Anna and Don

Anna Nicole Smith and Don Imus have both had their fifteen minutes of fame, maybe even more. They haven’t done much except lead trashy lives or believe than anyone else is fair game for insulting comments. Neither has made a break-through in medical science or in peace initiatives. Yet, their current woes have been headliners in the local and national news media for the past week.

I’m not sure why.

One could argue that the media promotes them. They ask who is Daniellyne’s father? Why did Imus make those racist remarks? On the other hand, one could argue that the general public’s fascination with vapid contemporary culture encourages the media’s effort to provide fodder to ramp up viewer statistics and woo advertisers. It’s the chicken or the egg, revisited.

I don’t watch much of it, except this morning I endured both Anna and Imus for the sake of seeing a short snip about my son’s company that was to have been on one of the morning shows. It never appeared. When I questioned my son’s media person, she said the clip was preempted for more important news.

Naturally, I’m biased for my son’s company; I would have loved to see it gain some national press. But even if this weren’t the case, I don’t see what important news occurred, given the content of the show that I watched for two hours. Instead I’m more convinced that we are becoming a nation of vapid voyeurs. It doesn’t really make me happy.

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Blogging

I started writing a blog to keep my mind and my fingers nimble, to maintain a facility with words I’d gained as a freelance writer of long standing. That was almost three years ago, when I quit the freelance world but still wanted to hold on to my skills.

Today I write a blog because if I don’t I won’t write anything at all. Even though plots and characters and scenery dance in my head. I quit blogging for almost six months in the hope of turning those characters and scenery into words-on-paper; but I didn’t write a
single line. So I nudged myself to resume blogging this past January so that I don’t lose my knack in case the characters and scenery force themselves to center stage. If that happens, I’ll make time for them.

Blogging is an interesting phenomenon from my perspective. It’s become almost a national obsession, at least with certain age groups; yet, what is written out there in the ether world is often banal. Often tedious. Also often grammatically incorrect.

Someone’s chronology of his or her day isn’t good writing; it’s merely list making in essay form. Someone else’s description of something that has been described upteen times before isn’t original; it’s regurgitive. And someone’s comments about something on YouTube® isn’t literary because he or she creates an entire blog around a link.

Blogging in pure form is like reading a daily column in the newspaper. The content appeals to a general audience; it addresses a general topic but provides the authors unique spin on it; and it adds information rather than refers someone to another site to find it.

I don’t know where the world of blogging will end; suffice to say, it’s a work in progress. The one thing it has going for it in my world is that at least I write a minimum amount of words most days. I post them and hope they hit home with others somewhere. Judging from the statistics my site gathers, there’s a small group of you out there who read me. Thank you.

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Libby and Technology

Neither my ex-husband Jack nor my good friend Libby has a device to answer their home phones when they’re out. It’s not that I have great occasion to call my ex, but I do like to check in with Libby every now and then. When I do I realize how attached most of us have become to our technology gadgets

I don’t consider myself particularly technologically savvy, but I do have an answering machine for my land line, a cell phone, an iPod, and a PALM Pilot. I don’t have a Blackberry or a car that is also a telephone and dials a number automatically. But my friend Peg does!

I’ve been trying to reach Libby for five days, calling every night in the hope of catching her at home. I’ve come to the conclusion that either she must be out of town or has a very active social life. Since she’s an octogenarian, I suspect the former.

I’ve talked with Libby about her aversion to answering machines; but she says people know that if she’s home she picks up the phone. And if it rings an inordinate number of times, then she’s just not there. She has little interest in discovering who calls in her absence; as a consequence, we all call back without her making any effort to track us down. I begin to see the logic.

She doesn’t have a cell phone or an iPod or a computer either; rather she listens to music on the radio and writes copious, detailed letters on some sort of fancy typewriter. She uses an old-fashioned tape recorder, one the size of a toaster. She doesn’t own a car. While technology might have passed her by, it is with her blessing.

This is not to say Libby is stuck in some middle twentieth century. What’s certainly twenty-first century is her mind, her interest in others, her continuing to grow regardless of age. She is intelligent, analytical, and thoughtful. And that’s what I like best about her. Even if I have to call several nights in a row to get in touch.

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Birthday Approaching

Two months from today is my birthday. I’m quirky about that. I notice every month how far it is in days to the next birthday or how far it was from the last. Maybe it’s because birthdays are special in my life.

This doesn’t mean that every one has to be celebrated high on the hog. Rather it means that I celebrate each one in a given way, regardless of what others do. In fact, I don’t expect a lot from family and friends beyond either calling me or emailing me and saying they remember the day. It’s not about money spent, but about thoughts offered up.

What do I do to make my day special? I do anything I want and I don’t do anything I don’t want. Most years I’ve refused to work at gainful employment. Most years I make sure I spend some part of the day on a beach, soaking in the sun and absorbing the joy of early summer. Most years I take time to remember past celebrations.

I credit my mother for this. When I was growing up, she had little money; but she always fussed over my birthday. “What do you want for your birthday?” she would ask, a couple months out. I’d think about it and give her a list of ideas, always including a special dinner either at home or in a restaurant. She always obliged me too, even when funds were short.

I remember one year when we went to the Bevo Mill for lobster; I remember another year when we had lobster at home. Both were exquisite, made so by her effort to grant my every wish. And part of every birthday dinner was a recalling of the chronology of other birthday years. Mother usually began.

“This time last year, we went to the beach,” she would say. “This time two years ago we went to the Bevo Mill.” And she would continue backwards as far as she could remember, which was impressively far.

Now she’s gone eleven years, so I’m left to do the counting myself. I don’t know what I’ll be doing on my next birthday yet, but I do know the countdown has begun because it’s two months from today.

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Good Friday

Today is Good Friday. In another time and place I would be spending the evening in church. That was when I attended St. Louis Cathedral Catholic School in St. Louis, Missouri, about fifty years ago.

Back then, I went to a Catholic grade school and religious participation was a cornerstone of my education. It meant attending daily morning mass as part of the student body during Advent, Lent, and the month of May. It meant attending the Stations of the Cross during various other prescribed periods. It also meant saying the Rosary, morning prayers in class, and a dozen other rituals that brought a student in touch with his or her religion on a daily basis.

I’m not sure exactly when I began questioning; but I know it was a gradual process, probably started when I went to Loyola University of Chicago. As I read and studied more — I have a minor in religion — I began to question more. And, as time passed and my life’s situations intervened, I began to feel that the Catholic Church’s teaching were not particularly what Jesus Christ taught.

Maybe some would say I found it convenient to stray from the dogma I’d stuck to through my elementary and high school years. Others might say I’d lost the gift of faith. In either case, I don’t honor Good Friday as I once did. I don’t honor Easter the same way either.

But I haven’t completely turned astray. If that were so, I wouldn’t even remember that this is Good Friday. Or that once I kept silent for three hours in the afternoon on this day. Or that those Latin chants we sang in church half a century ago still echo in my head.

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