Messing around with a little practice needle-turn this afternoon. It ain’t perfect, yet, but so what? I love applique! Photo: Me.
Over the years of being around quilters, hearing quilters’ stories, and telling my own, I’ve come to believe that for those of us who come to quilting later in life—by that I mean people who did not grow up sewing and making quilts—there are two paths that lead us to the quilting life: joy…or pain.
Think about it: happy events like the birth of a baby, a graduation, or nuptials are perfect occasions for the gift of a quilt and indeed, many quilters point to such an occasion as the reason they got started in the first place. The baby quilt is such a popular rationale for a person’s first quilt, we in the business like to joke that it’s “the gateway drug.
Intrigued? I hope so!
That’s an excerpt from my latest Quilt Scout column, which went up today. My friend and colleague Rhianna — named after “Rhiannon,” the Fleetwood Mac song, how awesome is that?! — at Quilts, Inc., said it was her favorite column I’ve written so far. Thanks, Rhi.
Click over and read the full piece if you like, then swing back through the ol’ PG and tell me: How did you come to quilting?
Advertisement from a magazine published in 1892 that I think was called “The Century” but the Wiki entry is kind of confusing. Image: Wikipedia.
Heaven knows why I remembered this the other day but there it was. Gather ’round, and I shall tell you about the time a man named Python made me calf’s head soup.
It was 2003. I was living with my friend Will on Winona and Broadway, working as a brunch waitress on the weekends and trying to get my freelance writing career off the ground. I was at the Green Mill poetry slam every week, doing high school poetry gigs here and there, and basically hustling, as 24-year-olds do, to make ends meet while trying my best to have some fun. I managed the first thing okay and boy did I nail the second part. I was a wild child that year, for better and (mostly) worse.
At the restaurant, I worked with Norma. One part Rizzo from Grease, two parts Anita from West Side Story, twice my age and fond of Misty ultra-slim cigarettes when she took her break, Norma was the best part of my job. I adored her. (I wrote a poem some years later about her and the mischief we would make when we went out on the town.) One Sunday, Norma and I finished our shift and met back up at a bar around the corner from my place. The Lakeview Lounge closed years ago, but it was a tiny, crummy, hole-in-the-wall staple in Uptown for many decades. There was a minuscule stage behind the bar where — and I say this with love — crusty burn-outs — would play Lynard Skynard while they sipped warm Michelob and chain-smoked Camel hard pack cigarettes. Because of course in 2003 in Chicago, you could still smoke in bars. Heck, maybe the Lakeview closed down after the smoking ban went into effect. That place was 10% furniture and people, 15% alcohol and 75% pure cigarette smoke, both fresh and stale. Without any smoke, maybe it just ceased to exist.
Anyway, that night, the bartender brought over a round of drinks. “From the gentleman over there,” he said. The bartender’s beard was scruffy but not in a sexy, scruffy-bearded bartender way; it was just scary. He jerked his thumb over to a man sitting at the far end of the bar nursing what Norma and I would learn was a generous shot of Jameson’s and a Budweiser back. The man was forty-something, we guessed and wearing a fisherman’s jacket that may or may not have contained fishing lures and/or bait.
Norma and I raised our glasses to thank the man; he raised his glass back. And because that was how things at the Lakeview Lounge worked (and that’s how these things work everywhere, I suppose, if certain conditions are right) over the course of the night, Norma and I got to know Python. His name really was Python. He was from Transylvania — as in Transylvania, Romania — and he was a world-famous pinball designer. Only in Chicago, baby, and maybe only if you hang out with me. Unusual things do tend to happen in my life; hanging out with a celebrity pinball designer from the place where Dracula was supposed to be from could be considered unusual, right?
I liked Python. He was funny, strange, and a real b.s’er, kinda like me back then. He was also the most talented illustrator I had ever met and he really was famous in the pinball/early video game world; if you remember the arcade game Joust — the one with the knights on ostriches — then you know Python. He was one of the lead artists on that game and many other famous ones that gamer geeks admire a great deal. He hung out at the Lakeview and Norma and I (sort of) hung out at the Lakeview and so over the course of the next few months, I got to know him and he would draw little drawings for me. We became friends and talked about art and politics. He told me about the horrors of living under communism; I recited poems for him, which he loved. He never tried to take advantage of me and even though he was much older than I was, I was never creeped out by him. In the spring, he asked me if I wanted to spend the weekend at his ranch in Michigan and I said I’d love to go.
This is the sort of thing, by the way, that makes me feel okay about not having children. I mean, how did my mother survive me literally saying following sentence: “Hi, Mom! I’m going to spend the weekend in Michigan with a guy twice my age from Transylvania. His name is Python. His accent is really terrific. He designs pinball games. See ya!”
But the weekend was great. Python was a real outdoorsman, so I got to shoot a bunch of guns. I ate bacon straight from the smokehouse he built on the property. There may have been live chickens, but it was a long time ago, now. And on Saturday morning, Python asked me if I had ever had calf’s head soup. I said that no, I had not had the pleasure. He got very excited and said that he happened to have a calf’s head handy, so dinner was settled. I felt very scared for the first time that weekend but I helped chop carrots and celery, anyway.
I would learn later that calf’s head soup is also called mock turtle soup and that it’s not so crazy to eat if you live in certain parts of the world (e.g., Romania) or if you were fancy and lived at any point during the Victorian-era in England or the U.S. when it was all the rage among the upper crust. All I knew at the time is that there were chunks of a dang cow head boiling in broth all afternoon and that the clock was ticking: I was going to have to eat the stuff at some point and eat it, I did — and more than just the head meat, too. You see, Python insisted I eat one of the eyes.
“Oh, that’s okay, haha,” I said, feigning an eyeball allergy. But he wouldn’t let me off the hook.
“It’s the best part of the animal,” he said, holding the thing up on a spoon. “Just eat it, Mary. It’s so good for you! You will feel like Supergirl! More Supergirl than you already are.”
I can be brave when I want to be. So I did it. I ate the eyeball. And wouldn’t you know it: I felt like Supergirl. It was all the phosphorous. And yes, it was really, really gross. It was like a hard-boiled egg except that IT WAS AN EYEBALL.
I’m sorry to say that Python died a few years ago. I can’t remember how I learned of his death; we hadn’t been in touch in a long time. He had cancer. An article I read told about how all his friends and fans from the pinball and illustration world rallied around him to raise money for his medical bills. I hope he felt all that love when he was sick.
Remember me, Python? That poet girl? I’ve come a long way. Thanks for the snack.
This isn’t a picture of my dishwasher, but she sure is a beaut’. Photo: Wikipedia.
Happy New Year!
I have a feeling of contentment and I must give credit to my dishwasher. As in, my dishwashing machine. I don’t have like, a personal dishwasher who washes my dishes. That would be extremely weird.
My dishwasher is to thank because though yesterday’s shows were amazing, though we’re at the start of a fresh year, it’s important to stay in the moment and at this moment, my dishwasher is running. For me, the sound of a dishwasher washing dishes is heaven sent. (A washing machine or dryer does it for me, too, but I don’t have one of those in my unit.) When I was growing up, we didn’t have a dishwasher: It was all hand-washing, all the time. When I moved to Chicago, the apartments I could afford were most definitely not dishwasher-level apartments. I’ve lived in a lot of different places and maybe there was one in there at some point but really, not till I was 31 did I have a dishwasher of my very own. My love for these machines, I assure you, is real.
It’s the quiet whish and swish. It’s the click when you shut the door and the “thwonk” as the latch locks. When I was cutting fabric a little bit ago, I decided I needed more water in my water glass. I went into the kitchen to get it and ah, yes, there was the sweet hum of the dishwasher, confirming that the machine was busy with its task: sudsing up and rinsing off and washing daily dishes clean. Maybe it’s the sound of “I don’t have to do that” that makes it so sweet; maybe it’s the sound of technology that moves me. I mean, I have no idea how a dishwasher works. All I know is that icky dishes go in and pretty, shiny, dry dishes come out. It’s pixie dust in there.
The sound of a dishwasher running is the sound of calm, I suppose. Calm and reassurance. It’s like, “Dishes are being cleaned in here. Go do that other stuff you need to do. I’ve got this.” The sound of a dishwasher running is the sound of a peaceful home.
I wonder if some are laughing at me right now, waxing on about the sound of a dishwasher. But the simple things in life, if they can make us happy, this is lucky. The happily-running dishwasher does it for me, what can I say?
You all mean so much to me. I’m not good enough with words to tell you — each one of you — just how much I appreciate you. There is no PaperGirl without you. May 2017 be a year that brings extravagance and passion, art and love; may it bring wild, ecstatic compassion and connection — but may it also bring simple pleasures. If you look around, you might find they’re already with you.
Actual application (p. 3) and actual address! Please send all kinds of wonderful things. Photo: Pendennis.
Today is a great day!
I’m writing to you from inside the grand, achingly beautiful Merchandise Mart in downtown Chicago. Have you ever been to the Merchandise Mart? Do you know about it?
“The ‘Mart,” as it’s affectionately known in Chicago, is truly a marvel of architecture and city history. When this art deco masterpiece was built in 1930, it was the largest building in the world. The whole world! Because it comprises 4 million square feet. Four million! (When I lived in New York, Yuri and I had something like 840 in total, fyi.) The Mart had its own zip code until 2008 when some lame thing changed. This building had its own zip code!
Wanna know who built it? Why, Marshall Field & Co.! Yes, the department store guy.
(Hey, did I ever tell you that my grandparents on my father’s side met in Chicago and they would rendezvous under the Marshall Field’s clock when they had a date? They’d set a time and meet under one of the clocks at good ol’ Marshall Field’s. That’s pretty cute.)
And guess who owned the building for like half a century? The Kennedys! Yes, the Kennedys! Isn’t that interesting?? I love learning things.
The Merchandise Mart has been a place for commerce since it was built; it’s mostly wholesale showrooms for interior decorating and design and lots of offices and there’s a bunch of other stuff in here that I would love to know about but what is most exciting — perhaps the most exciting thing that has ever happened to/at the Merchandise Mart ever, in 85 historic years — is that there is now a post office box in this place that will take your PaperGirl mail!
I got a post box in the Merchandise Mart! For you! For us! For mail!
It’s high time this happened. I get requests for my address frequently because someone found a wonderful pencil they need to send me, for example, or because someone wants to donate to the blog (or maybe buy Pendennis lunch) but doesn’t use PayPal. Totally understandable. Also, this holiday has brought several gifts via my mother or the Iowa Quilt Museum (hi, Tammy!) and while it’s interesting to think about the journey of such things, let’s make this easier on everyone!
There is a post office much closer to my home than the one here inside the Mart and this branch has limited hours. But there is no other place worthy to receive your correspondence. I mean it. I wish you could see this place. It’s magnificent. Even the sign for the post office on the first floor is beautiful, set in an art deco frame with sconces around it, throwing this golden light upon it, saying, “Welcome, Mail!” The wide, marble floors in the gilded halls (currently draped with holiday garlands and bunting) are polished to a shine. The squeaky clean picture windows look out onto the city that I love so much, that I shall never take for granted.
So please, send me mail! Of course, yes, you may send donations if you like. The box cost $166 for the whole year if I paid it all at once, so I did. If everyone sent in a penny — wait, wait. That’s not funny. Please do not send me pennies. You don’t have to send money. Send me letters or drawings or stories or chocolate or other items of interest. I would like to start sharing your mail on the blog. (If you don’t want me to, of course I won’t — just let me know.)
The address is shown up there in the photo, but just in case you can’t see it, ahem: Mary Fons — PaperGirl, P.O. Box 3957, Chicago, IL 60654-8777.
The photo also shows the third page of the application. I actually listed Pendennis as someone authorized to pick up the mail. Pendennis does not have fingers, nor can he take the train. But just in case, he’s official.
I’m so excited. I love mail so much. Let’s have fun with this. Let’s put the “paper” in PaperGirl.
Ensemble photograph of the Neo-Futurists c. 2009. That’s me in the scarf — and Greg in green.) Photo: Andrew Collings Photography, Inc.
If you didn’t read yesterday’s post, definitely catch up first.
Okay, you back? Good. Did you change your hair? You look great. Here’s a tray of light refreshments and a beverage. Where was I? Ah, yes. Hand me the pecans. Okay.
In 2011, the Neo-Futurists suspended Greg from the company. Put more simply: We kicked him out. Remember, this person’s behavior over the decades — decades! — had been destructive and poisonous, but it hit a crisis point that year (and if you want details, just google “neo-futurist greg allen tml closing” and you’ll get all the news stories and at least some of the awful details.) Calmly, firmly, the ensemble informed Greg that he was not allowed to be in Too Much Light for awhile and that if he wanted to play again, he would need to petition the ensemble to come back and then be a better person. He never petitioned.
The show went on. I went “inactive” in 2012 because of Quilty and Love of Quilting, a divorce, more health problems, a move downtown, etc. And while the show was going on and I was doing my thing, it appears that Greg was plotting revenge. This is my theory. This is only speculation. You come to your own conclusions when I tell you what happened next.
One month ago, the Neo-Futurists got a surprise. After being in negotiations with the company about how much they would pay him for the rights to perform Too Much Light, Greg went quiet — and then came a press release.
In the press release, Greg said that he was pulling the rights for the Neos to perform Too Much Light after 28 years running because of Donald Trump. If you’re scratching your head, here are a couple highlights from the press release:
Faced with the pending inauguration of Donald J. Trump, Allen has decided to let the existing Chicago Neo-Futurists’ license come to an end so that he can rebrand the show with a new diverse ensemble that embraces a specifically socially activist mission.”
“[The new Too Much Light ensemble] will be comprised entirely of people of color, LBTQ+, artist/activist women, and other disenfranchised voices in order to combat the tyranny of censorship and oppression.”
“I could no longer stand by and let my most effective artistic vehicle be anything but a machine to fight Fascism.” [Greg quote.]
Oh, the trouble with this. There are almost too many problems to list. But let’s try!
The current Neo-Futurist ensemble is made up of all kinds of folks, many of whom fit the description of the “new diverse” company he wants to build. So this can’t be his main goal.
By doing this with no warning, Greg instantly put around 12 hard-working, low-paid-but-paid artists out of work. How is this being visionary?
There is a New York City company and a San Francisco company, both of which also pay Greg to perform Too Much Light. He did not yank the show from them, only from Chicago. Interesting.
The Neos have always done interesting, highly-political work — and there were a variety of political opinions expressed on the stage, at least when I was around. And all kinds of people who fell on different places on the political spectrum came to the show. To make an ensemble that exclusively makes theater about one perspective on Trump/his cohort, this is not going to create conversation. This isn’t even going to sell tickets. I hope Greg is shopping for choir robes for his new, uber-progressive ensemble, because whatever show they make is going to be a lot of preaching to the choir.
So that’s all the bad stuff. Guess what? There’s good stuff.
The good stuff is that the Neos have been working so, so hard to get a new show up in the next few weeks. They’ve been raising money and have almost reached their goal of $50k. (I wouldn’t be a good Neo if I didn’t ask you to consider putting a buck or two in the hat; it’s easy and you’ll feel good knowing you’re…fighting fascism?)
And the other amazing thing is that when the news came out, all the alumni from 28 years of Too Much Light and the Neos, we circled the wagons, we lit the flares, we came together in support of the current ensemble and we’re doing a big benefit show for them on New Year’s Day. It’s the most extraordinary thing. You can’t get tickets because they sold out in five hours; I posted a note on Facebook and within minutes, it was too late. There are dozens of Neos, some coming from far away, to be in the show and be together, to remember, to play, to laugh, to cry. All that stuff.
We had a rehearsal on Tuesday and will rehearse all day Sunday leading up to the double-feature that begins at 7 p.m. The oversold house and the enormous cast, we will be proof that you can’t stop art — you can’t even contain it, can’t make it hold still.
By the way: New York and San Francisco? They quit. After hearing about all this, they didn’t opt to renew their rights to do Too Much Light. They’re standing with Chicago. Greg’s plan backfired.
As I said yesterday, being part of that company and being lucky enough to get to do TML for those years was like finishing school for my soul. I worked with people so talented it was almost embarrassing. We were rock stars. We were friends. The best art I’ve ever seen or made for the stage was the art I saw or made for Too Much Light and the Neos.
Too Much Light is dead. Long live the Neo-Futurists.
Jumping for numbers in Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind. I think that’s Kurt. Hi, Kurt! Photo: Neo-Futurists.
Many people who read the ol’ PG started coming around because we share an interest in quilting. You saw me on TV or online and poked around and hey, look: blog. You know by now I’m glad you’re here.
But there are other readers. The survey this summer (which you can still take if there’s nothing good on TV) showed me a goodly portion of people are here because we came in contact with each other via the world of Chicago performance. In 13-ish years in Chicago I’ve logged untold hours as a performance poet, I do a lot of “live lit” events around the city, and from 2006-2012, I was an active ensemble member of a theater company called the Neo-Futurists.
When I am dying — hopefully a long time from now, on a divan with comfy pillows, lipstick perfect — I will look back on my life and see plainly at that time — just I do now — that being a Neo-Futurist was one of the most gratifying and soul-affirming experiences of my time on Earth. More on that later.
Tonight, I want to tell you what’s going on with that company right now, for there is news. I aim to share the story so that anyone reading this blog, whether they’re Quilt Camp people or Chicago Performance Camp people, will come along. (And both of those things need to be actual camps.)
The Neo-Futurist ensemble was formed 28 years ago, back in 1988. The group became famous for a show called “Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind: 30 Plays In 60 Minutes.” I’m not going to describe the show too much here, except to say that yes, there were 30 plays, we only had 60 minutes in which to perform them, the ensemble wrote all the plays and the show changed every week. It was not improv (go to Second City for that), and the short pieces were always true to our lives in some way.
This is because the aesthetic, or guiding principle, for the Neos was — and still is — to never pretend to be something we’re not or be somewhere we aren’t. So if I do a cheerleading routine with two other girls in Too Much Light about how I had my colon removed and how it really hurt, the audience at a Neo show knows that what I’m talking about really did happen. (I did a lot of plays about my colon circa 2011 but I never did a cheerleading routine. That would’ve been awesome.)
The one other thing to know about Too Much Light is that it was a phenomenal success. There were three performances every weekend; people would line up around the block to get in to see this thing. Our 120-ish seat theater would sell out most nights. Too Much Light became the longest-running show in Chicago theater history. Twenty-eight years that show ran.
Until it ended, very abruptly, at the beginning of this month. Which brings me to the meat of my tale.
Though the show changed every single week, the 30 plays/60 minutes format was created by a man named Greg Allen. Greg founded the company and owns the trademark and copyright to Too Much Light and the concept of “30 Plays in 60 Minutes.” Every year for a lot of years, the company would pay Greg for the rights to keep doing the show.
This was a terrible situation for the company to be in. The “rights thing” became a rug Greg could whip out from under us at any time. It didn’t have to be that way, but it was.
This is because Greg wanted it that way. A corrosive figure who behaved abominably within the ensemble, Greg abused his position of power in the company as Founding Director over and over again for years in ways too numerous and varied to detail, positioning himself for personal gain (e.g., teaching opportunities, lecture gigs, etc.) while the ensemble made the art and ran the day-to-day operations of the theater. His misdeed are legendary; every ensemble member since the company started has horror stories. He antagonized or manipulated the board of directors; he harassed ensemble members; he offended everyone; he hurt people. My grandmother would have called him “a real rat fink.” My grandmother would not like to hear what I call him.
You needn’t worry that I’m getting petty or assassinating his character: This has all been corroborated in the papers over the past month. The Tribune, the Sun-Times, the Chicago Reader, TimeOut Chicago, they’ve all covered this story because in Chicago, it’s pretty big news, what Greg did. Wanna know what he did?
Greg used the election of Donald Trump as an excuse to pull the rights to Too Much Light.
Yep.
For the rest of the despicable story, for more juicy details, for my best attempt at an explanation of this foolish person’s behavior, and for a whole bunch of beautiful silver linings, tune in tomorrow, my gorgeous ones.
This is what we call “the good old days.” Image: Wikipedia.
My friends Mark and Netta sent me their box of Christmas goodies this year as they do every year. The pecans! The fudge! The humanity! Mark and Netta, you have some good mail coming your way as a token of my appreciation, though I should turn you over to the police because that fudge should be illegal and those fresh Florida pecans are criminal. You should be in jail for what you’ve done, but don’t worry: I’ll make sure you get out before December next year so you can send more.
Mark and Netta, you’re my mind tonight not just because I have pecan dust on my front but because you are some of my most-cherished, loyal-est readers, with me from the start, almost exactly ten years ago (!) when I began writing this blog. For those looking for the entries from 2006, for now, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.* When I switched servers at one point, all the old stuff went away — except that I have everything in hard copy from 2006-2012, hurray! It’s all in a big, red binder.
Tonight I pulled the binder out to see what was going on 10 years ago on PaperGirl — and I hit pure gold.
This is because when Liberty was here to visit, I thought very deeply about the cell phone thing with the kids these days. The girl is on her phone a lot — and I don’t even think she uses it as much as a lot of kids (or adults, for that matter) use theirs. I really struggled with the whole thing, though. I really, really hate it when people have headphones in while they’re with other people. What is that about? And I despair that for so many people, when there is the slightest lull in a conversation, this is a cue to pull out a device and start flicking through whatever. Can you just be for two seconds? Can you wait?
But I use my phone. Not as much as many 12-year-olds, but way more than some people. I was just on the train for 35 minutes coming from the north side of the city; you better believe I was listening to music and scrolling through Instagram. But I was alone, on a commute. That’s okay, right? Or should I just be bored and let my mind wander because that’s a good thing to do? It’s complicated.
In light of all this, my entry for December 27th, 2006 is of particular interest.** Mom, I’m sorry, but I gotta throw you and this adorable story under the bus. Enjoy!
My mother told us all a secret tonight.
We were in the middle of a particularly hot round of Apples To Apples with family friends, talking about games of all kinds: board games, card games, electronic games, mind games, dating games, etc. Pac-Man was mentioned as a favorite early video game.
“Remember that Pac-Man game you all got for Christmas back on the farm?” Mom said, looking mischievous. Biccy and I nodded, wistful.
The game she was talking about was a self-contained, yellow plastic bubble device shaped like a Pac-Man. There was a small screen and a little console below that with up, down, and sideways buttons. There was a button and an on/off button and that was about it. The game was Pac-Man. It was only Pac-Man. The ghosts gave chase, the Power Pellets got chomped, the electronic beeps sounded out the Pac-Man theme over and over and over again. Nothing was worse than watching the screen slowly fade, signaling the death of the four C-batteries required to run the thing, which I think was produced by Texas Instruments. Everything electronic in the 1980s was produced by Texas Instruments.
Mom went on: “I played that thing for weeks before I gave it to you. I would stay up at night for hours, secretly mastering Pac-Man.”
My sister and I looked at our mom like she was some weirdo woman who had just walked in off the street to play Apples To Apples with us and eat our Royal Dansk cookies.
“And you know,” my mom said, “several of my friends revealed to me that they did it, too. Marty and Jan gave that Pac-Man game to their kids only after getting sick of it themselves. Hours and hours they said they played, after the kids went to bed.”
Mom popped a Hershey’s Kiss into her mouth with a satisfied smile. She and her friends had gotten away with something.
I’m still shocked. Mom was so anti-videogame! She still is. She resented my grandpa for years after he surreptitiously purchased a Nintendo for us, and here it comes out that she was fiending for power pellets long before we were.
And then she went and waxed everyone at Apples To Apples. My mother, she is complex.
*I plan to make these available. Stay tuned.
**I’m a better writer today than I was 10 years ago. I’ve got a long way to go, but guess what? It appears that if you do something a lot over the course of 10 years, you get better at it.
Today was the last day of the Christmas holiday for most of us; for me, was the best day yet.
Not only did I go ice skating today, I got to skate with my mom and also I got to teach someone to skate who had never stepped a toe on the ice. She did so well and it felt terrific to share something that I love so much but had never tried to teach to another.
Mark is my step-dad, as many readers know. Mom and Mark have been married for 16 years now, and though Mark didn’t raise me from a whelp (I came home from college for the wedding) I love Mark. He’s a good man. He’s also a grandpa, which is lucky because Mark does a lot of grandpa-like things, e.g., takes naps, gets grumpy about his knees.
Mark’s granddaughter Liberty is 12-year-old. This year, Grandpa’s big gift to her was a week-long visit to the continental United States. Liberty was born and is currently being raised in Hawaii. Mark’s daughter Alison settled there years ago for some strange reason that must have to do with the beautiful beaches, cuisine, and fascinating culture, but that’s just a guess. Liberty was flown all the way from Oahu and came to Chicago for three days here; tomorrow they’re all headed to Iowa for the second leg of the trip.
I loved having Liberty here. She’s smart, funny, interested in things — though I will speak at a later date about my feelings on The Youth and their Cell Phones — so when Mom put ice skating on the itinerary, the girl was game even though she had never skated before in her life.
Learning something new is so scary, especially when the new thing involves blades and ice. Liberty put on her skates and the first 20 minutes on the ice were just painful, and that was without a fall. She had a deathgrip on the railing and she moved inch by inch on the ice ribbon, her whole body rigid, breathless with anxiety that she was going to fall.
“You’re gonna fall a lot” I said, there right next to her. “But it’s no big deal, I promise. I will also probably fall at some point.” (I did.)
Though I’ve never taught a person to ice skate, I have taught lots of people how to make patchwork and I’ve taught a goodly amount of writing and performance, too. I realized today that at this point in my life, I have what you could call “an approach.” My approach — what I tell students — is essentially: “Give yourself permission to be wrong, fall, un-sew, and write really lousy first drafts. Then go from there.”
My approach deepened today, though. I remembered something my mom told me about how she raised me and my sisters. She read a book called “Between Parent & Child” by Dr. Haim G. Ginott and his thing was, essentially, that kids are who you tell them they are. So if you say to your kid, “You lied to me — you’re a liar,” or “You’re stupid,” or “You’re in big trouble! Why are you such a bad kid??” your kid is going to internalize all that. They sort of figure, “Well, I’m already bad, and a liar, so I might as well just lie and be bad.”
It works the other way, too.
“If you girls were fighting,” Mom told me once, “I’d think of Dr. Ginott’s method and say, ‘Now, Hannah. You girls love each other. Why are you being so mean to your sister?’ Or if you took something that wasn’t yours, rather than say, ‘You little thief, put that back,’ I’d say, ‘Mary, you’re an honest person. I’m surprised and disappointed that you took that. Put it back.'”
Personally, I think this is genius stuff and it came to me today on the ice when, thirty minutes into the skating lesson, I had convinced Liberty to release her death grip on the railing only to find her death grip was now on my right forearm. Hm, I thought…Liberty is an excellent swimmer at school. She also likes skateboarding and is generally athletic. Let’s try something.
“You know, Libs,” I said, “Swimming has given you such a great sense of moving your body through space, this is really kind of an extension of that. You’re such a physically capable, body-smart person. Ice skating is another manifestation of what you already know, in a way. Does that make sense? You’re doing great. I think your body just naturally gets this stuff.”
I swear, five minutes later, that girl let go of my arm. Oh, she fell plenty. She may not be slaloming or skating backwards by tomorrow. But she went from no-no-no-don’t-let-go to death grip to less death grip to “I think I can try it on my own” to “I’m doing it! Grandpa! I’m doing it!”
The takeaway here is not that I should get a World’s Best Ice-Skating Teacher Award. The takeaway is that it was true what I said to her: She did know how to skate. It was an extension of her other physical activities. She had the ability — she just needed the perspective. She needed someone to remind her that she was honest. I mean athletic. I mean kind. I mean powerful. I mean full of grace. I mean perfect.
The girl from Hawaii ice-skated today because she showed courage and got some encouragement.
And at the risk of dipping into serious Cheeseland, I just realized that that first word — courage — is embedded, nestled, wrapped and supported by the other one: Encouragement.
Thanks, Wikipedia! Lyndon B. Johnson and his family on Christmas Eve in 1968. Yellow Oval Room, White House.
A Merry Christmas Eve to you!
Did you ask for a brand new shoe?
Did you request a cockatoo?
Merry Christmas Eve to you.
It’s Christmas, everyone!
For our presents, how we run!
(Henry shoved aside a nun!!)
It’s Christmas everyone.
Let’s all have some pecan pie!
We can get some from that guy!
If he’s all out, we’ll have to buy
Our Christmas pecan pie.
You scream, I scream, we all scream for vanilla bean ice cream with the pecan pie because really, nothing else will do but vanilla bean on pecan pie, am I right about this?
Santa’s hat, it ‘shore is red!
Think it makes for a real hot head?
And is the white part WonderBread
On Santa’s hat so red?
Tomorrow, all the stores will close:
Better not need a rose,
A garland or a garden hose —
All the stores will close!
Best to go and get some rest,
Tomorrow morning will be the best!
Go brush teeth and use your Crest —
Then lay down to rest.
An illustration of John (white and black) painting Puppy (gray) by Sophie Lucido Johnson.
When I wrote about Berlin and the terrorist, I spoke about my bosom friend Sophie’s kitty, how he was very sick. And yesterday, I told you that I had sad news to share. Here goes.
Sophie’s cat died.
Jean Baptiste Lucido Johnson Hoar de Galvan — “John” for short — was just one year old.
I have made the acquaintance of many a cat, but I said to Sophie on Sunday, when we spoke about me getting one of my own that I was especially fond of John. He was soft and gentle. He was a fluffy, furry, purrbox. I always felt at ease with him. John loved Sophie and Luke like crazy but I think he loved Puppy even more — Puppy is Sophie and Luke’s second cat. Those two cats were in loving cahoots, you better believe it. As Sophie put it in her blog, “[Puppy and John] were always together, lying so close to each other (even in summer, when it was too hot for that to feel good) that it was hard to tell where one cat ended and the other began.”
I wonder what Puppy is doing right now, if she feels sad.
It turned out that John had a severe heart disease that caused his blood to clot. On Sunday night, he meowed and meowed and this was highly unusual because John was not a meower, according to Sophie. After being sick and meowing and meowing for some time, suddenly John’s hind legs wouldn’t work. My friends took John to the emergency vet; for the next two days, the veterinarians did what they could, but they ultimately could not save the beloved pet. Yesterday morning, Sophie and Luke made the call. John was put down.
This year, my friend Heather had to put down good ol’ Steve McQueen, her cat for many years. And when I told Heather about John The Cat, she let me know that just last week, our mutual friend Holly — a quilter I admire a great deal and a person of inestimable warmth and goodness, I’ll have you know — had to put her cat to sleep.
Good grief, that’s three remarkable women with three remarkable cats and so much heartache. How many cups of tears could be measured out as a result of these deaths? It’s too much, too much. These animals were family members.
I am certain each of these friends would say that yes, pets die eventually and that that is terrible and sad but the alternative — not knowing these creatures at all, ever — would be worse. They would each agree it’s all worth it, I’m sure.
Still. When I hugged Sophie yesterday morning and felt how sad she was, so full of grief, I thought, “I am not that strong. Maybe I should wait.” But that thought, though not meant to be a consolation, was no consolation at all.
Well, tomorrow will be Day 15, so I’m a little ahead of myself. But for all intents and purposes, I’m in the middle of this thing. Let me tell you some things I’ve learned.
1) Coming back to a yoga practice — or really anything you used to be really good at and then you stopped doing — is really hard.
Because you used to be good at it. And now you’re not. You used to be able to stand on one leg and kick the other leg out while sweat dripped into your eyeball and you could hold it there and breathe and go deeper and deeper but guess what? Not anymore, toots. Well, not right now, anyway. The frustration floods in and you despair. Why did I stop practicing? How much better at this could I be right now if I hadn’t drifted away? How long will it take to get close to where I was before? Have I gained a lot of weight or just a little weight?
2) Coming back to a yoga practice — or really anything you used to be really good at and then you stopped doing — is a gift.
Every yogini has bad habits. A bad habit in a yoga practice would be something like cheating out of a posture a few seconds before the teacher calls to release it, doing lazy sit-ups between the postures on the floor rather than really trying to make them crisp and intentional. (I just said “crisp and intentional.”) Everyone has bad habits, including me. Well, coming back in and feeling totally new and raw again, I have the opportunity to change those bad habits. I’m so open to everything, you know? I know how badly I need to be in that room and I’m putty, baby: Change me.
3) I missed this Mary.
There are many Marys. There’s Mary Sewing At Midnight. There’s Leading The Class Discussion Mary. There’s Mary On a Date. There’s Mary on TV. There’s Bookish Mary, Flirty Mary, Mary The Sister, Mary The Daughter, Shy Mary, Mary The Fool, Mary The Selfish, Flirty Mary, Goofball Mary — and on and on, just like anyone else. But you know which Mary I really dig? Athlete Mary. Now, if you would’ve told me in the sixth grade that Athlete Mary existed, I would have said something like “Gag me with a spoon!” because it was the early ’90s and I loathed and despised gym class more than anything in this universe or the next. But it turns out that I’m super athletic in the stuff that I like, like Barbie dance aerobics* and Bikram yoga. The other day in class I was pouring sweat and very intent on my posture; I looked incredibly determined (remember, Bikram yoga is done while facing a wall of mirrors, quelle horror) and I had a pang of love and longing. Because it was like, “Oh! Hi! Hi! Oh, wow! I know you! I missed you. You are such a bada*s, Athlete Mary. Okay, now don’t lose your balance.” It’s been too long since I hung out with that Mary and it feels really good.
4) If it was easy, it wouldn’t be hard. Or worth doing. Or… Just go to class, kid.
I didn’t want to go to class tonight and I drank too much water halfway through and felt like I was gonna spew. Yesterday’s class was so hard and awful and I had to go across town to the other studio to make it work with my schedule. My challenge means that I will do a class on Christmas Day (not a huge deal, but it impacts the day with family, nonetheless.) All of these things are annoying and nobody likes spewing or making a workout a priority when there are so many other awesome things one could prioritize, like chocolate pretzels, for example. But enough. Do you want this or not? Remember why you do. And go to class.
Happy Holidays, everyone. I’ve got sad news to post tomorrow and a big, ugly topic to tackel here on the ol’ PG that I’ve been procrastinating about. That’s all coming this week. Maybe I’ll get the gumption to write it all because I’m meeting my yoga challenge, day by day, pose by pose.
That’s a picture of the beloved Christkindlemarket in Chicago, just ten minutes from my door if I hop a cab. I could walk there in twenty. Last year, I asked Claus if he wanted to go, it being Christmas, him being German, and the Christkindlemarket being pretty. I told him it’s the largest Christmas market in the country and is full of delicious smells and good people-watching. We went ice-skating instead, but we might’ve gone. It’s so close.
Today, a man drove a truck into the Christkindlemarket in Berlin. He did this to pledge allegiance to a cause and to a political leader. He wanted to make a statement, you see.
Twelve people are dead. Forty-eight people are injured. When I hear “injured” I think about how “injured” means “broken arm” and “concussion.” It also means “in the ICU, on a ventilator, with a swelling brain, paralyzed.” That sort of injury is what happens when a truck drives into a crowd of people.
Claus lives in Berlin. Claus didn’t go over to the Christkindlemarket today, but he might have. He’ll go see his mother outside of Hamburg on Sunday; surely he’ll take her a gift. He could’ve gone to the Christkindlemarket in Berlin, not far from his home. He didn’t, though, so Claus is not dead or injured.
But someone’s Claus is.
Last night, Sophie texted me. In a awful coincidence, the very day we were talking about my desire to get a cat and her deep, abiding love for her own two cats, one of them, John, experienced heart failure. He’s at the emergency vet even now, in a glass cage, on oxygen. He’s not aged. He was not ever visibly infirm. We don’t know what’s going to happen. Soph and Luke do not have the thousands of dollars it is costing to care for John in this way. It’s just… It’s so hard.
To the man who drove the truck today:
Did you ever have a cat who got sick? Did he die? Did you feel so, so sad? Don’t you think that life is so hard, so hard anyway, without purposefully causing more pain? We don’t have to make more suffering. You don’t have to do that. Your brother doesn’t have to do it. I don’t. None of us.
Things we love get sick. We are disappointed and crushed a hundred times a day. It’s all so hard already. Please, please, please.
Come on, John. Come on, injured ones. Pull through.
Bavarian kitteh playing with a chandelier on the floor, c. 1999. Photo: Wikipedia.
I hinted at something a few days ago. I hinted that I was thinking of getting a pet.
And it’s true that I have been thinking. And researching. And thinking some more. And looking at pictures. And watching videos to educate myself. I’ve been thinking of logistics. And problems. And joys. And I’ve come to a decision. A firm-but-not-final decision…to get one.
If all conditions were perfect for a pet in my life, I would get a dog. Not just any dog: a caramel-colored Miniature Maltipoo. These creatures are technically dogs, but only technically; really, the Miniature Maltipoo — a mini Maltese and Poodle mix — is a teddy bear that is alive and made of Pure Good. I have a folder of pictures of these criminally perfect…objects on my computer and I look at them when I feel sad, happy, or confused about any number of things, really, because no matter what my state of mind, the Mini Maltipoo makes everything better.
But Philip Larkin (for I have picked out my puppy’s name and he shall be named after my favorite poet) is not going to happen. There are a number of reasons I can’t have a dog right now in my life. They include:
my goofy schedule (not okay for a pup)
dogs are not allowed in my building (bit of a deal-breaker)
Philip Larkin would be so cute and perfect and lovable I would hug and hug and squeeze and squeeze him and love him so much I might squish him! (a legitimate concern)
My friend Sophie was over today and we had such a wonderful time. I sewed and she worked on a commissioned illustration.
“You’re getting married. You’re pregnant. You’re going to Australia.”
“No, no. I have been thinking of getting a pet.”
Soph gasped, so excited by this she nearly knocked over her bottle of ink. I confessed to her my perfect pet would be Philip Larkin but that since Philip and I can’t be together right now for the reasons listed above, I have been considering getting… A kitty!
“You know, Soph, I think a kitty—”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you think that would be sort of great? I mean —”
“Yes.”
I’d never seen this woman so serious. “It would be good for me, honestly, to take care of a —”
“Yes. You. Mary. Cat. Yes.”
Sophie is one of the smartest people I have ever met. She loves me a lot. She has a heart as big as they come and she is also the owner of two cats that I happen to adore: Puppy and John. Sophie allayed my fears that getting a cat was some kind of a second-best option or a placeholder for Philip Larkin.
For me to have Philip Larkin, I would need to move, change careers, and/or live with another human being who could help me care for him. It seems a shame to have Philip Larkin or no pet at all, ever — or until my entire life looks different than it does today. This is not dress rehearsal! If I wait for the perfect time to go to grad school, do a 30-day yoga challenge (I’m on Day 11!), or design a line of fabric, that time may never arrive. We can all relate to this, no matter what the dream, the desire, the project, the life change. You wait and wait…for what? The perfect day may never come.
There could be a little cat in this world who needs me.
Something has been shifting in my heart over the past six months or so. I kinda want to take care of a being. A furry one, mind you; some will wonder if this is a biological clock thing and that’s fair, but I’ve searched myself and it’s really not a driving factor or a subconscious one, far as I can feel. My longing for a pet has something to do with the Literary Animal class I took this term. It has something to do with winter. It has to do with curiosity — about myself and about love. It definitely has to do with love.
I’m researching makes and models. (That’s a joke!) Some cats are better on their own than others. Some are more affectionate than others. I’m interested in shorter hair than longer hair. I’m going to go visit shelters and talk to cat owners. Sophie’s a great resource and has already agreed to come cat-sit if I’m going to be gone very long. I’m not 100% certain about this, but I am what you would call “seriously noodling.” The kitten would move in after I come back from Berlin, in mid-January.
Meow?
p.s. Possible names include: Stevie Smith (other favorite poet), Pal, or…Philip Larkin.
My building takes up a quarter of a city block and has two different entrances.
The front door is manned by a doorman; the back way puts you out into the alley that runs between my block and the next one. The Green and Orange line El tracks run overhead the whole length of the alleyway, so when you’re back there and a train goes by overhead, it’s pretty loud — loud enough to do a terrific impression of Liza Minnelli when she screams with the trains in Cabaret. Not that I ever do that.
There is a conscious decision to be made when I’m coming or going as to which door I should take. Mostly, the circumstances of my arrival or departure dictate which entrance is best; the building is big enough that the entrances really affect travel time, depending on where you’re headed or coming from. My mood factors in, too. And lately there is another consideration which I’ll get to in a moment.
Reasons for coming/going through the front door may include:
I’m carrying heavy bags of groceries and need a hand
I’m headed to/home from the airport and am lugging two suitcases, a purse, and a totebag and my brain and need a hand
I’m going out on a date and feel like making a dramatic exit
I’m coming home from a date and feel like making a dramatic entrance
I wanna say hi to Stanley or J.C. (favorite door guys) if they’re working
I’m headed south or east
Lazybones
Reasons for coming/going through the back door, through the alley, under the El tracks may include:
I’m going to yoga (I shave about 4 minutes off the walk this way)
I need to pick up packages (the receiving room is in the back hallway out to the alley)
I’m not really wanting to chat with the doorman (even Stanley or J.C.) because I’m grumpy
The alley is pretty awesome in a gritty city kind of way
Lazybones
You may be thinking, “Hm. Big city alley. Loud train overhead… Are you sure you should be using the back entrance much Mar? At least at night, maybe you should take the front door.”
While you are nice to be thinking of my safety — and right to question it — in many years of living down here, I’ve never felt unsafe going through the back way. My neighborhood is a busy one with many college campuses sort of crammed on top of one another (e.g., East/West, Columbia College Chicago, Roosevelt, Spertus, and SAIC not so far, either) and there’s heavy foot traffic around the entrance to my alley most of the time. There are huge blocks student housing nearby, a 24/7 gym on the corner above the 7-11, a Peet’s Coffee not far away, and I’m not the only person who uses the back entrance, either; I often say hi to neighbors who are also lazy or anti-social.
But over the past month or two, something’s changed.
The beginning of the alley is the back of a Lou Malnati’s pizzeria. All the restaurant’s dumpsters are clustered back there, nestled in what could accurately be described as a cove. (In fact, let’s call it “The Cove” for the purposes of this story.) There’s a huge space between the actual alley street — like where cars drive through — and the entrance to Lou Malnati’s, and an enormous overhang shelters this area. It’s really hard to describe but trust me: There are many hundreds of sheltered square feet as private as a restaurant dumpster area in an alley can be. Put another way: If you lived on the street, this spot would be an excellent find — and I’m not trying to be funny.
Over the years, I have come to expect there will be people hanging around The Cove from time to time. Sometimes I see kids bumming around smoking cigarettes there, but usually it’s an older, sadder crowd: mostly homeless men or men who appear homeless and are certainly living far, far below the poverty line. Sometimes there will be someone sleeping there; sometimes there will be someone peeing there.
And not until recently did I feel that it was a drug spot. But I think it is, now. Something’s changed at The Cove. There are rougher-looking characters there and more of them at once: five or six people congregated instead of the usual two or three. When I pass, I really get checked out. No one says anything, but I am being scanned for sure: Am I a threat or not?
I can’t be sure there’s drug stuff going on, though. And it’s so cold. Tomorrow it will be -8 degrees in my city. People who live on the streets have to go someplace, don’t they? It’s a really good spot, I can see that. And no one at The Cove has ever made me feel that I was in danger, so I had major guilt when I thought about alerting the authorities.
Still, I had a bad feeling. I do get skeeved these days when I walk by. And anxious. What if letting the cops know about the increase in traffic back there could keep something bad from happening to me or someone else? And if these folks are in need of shelter, the cops could help them find a way better place than The Cove — a place with blankets and food that isn’t garbage. I looked up online what to do about such a situation and found great information from homeless coalitions and social services organizations who did encourage me to call 311.
So I did. I chatted with the lady about the alley and told her how conflicted I was about the whole thing. She said it was the right thing to do to let them know and that they’ll keep their eye on it. I told her I give to the Chicago Food Bank but other than that, I feel pretty helpless about the homeless problem in my city or in any city. She agreed that it’s really hard, especially in winter. We hung up. I felt like I had tattled to the teacher or something. I felt weird.
“Pieced Quilt” by Phyllis Palmer and Ann Saunderson; 85’’ by 104’’. Plate 16, Quilts & Coverlets: A Contemporary Approach, by Jean Ray Laury, 1970.
I was working for some time on a post about the folks who hang out in my alley by the Lou Malnati’s Pizza dumpsters. More and more often they are there; there are more of them all the time as the temperatures fall.
But such a topic requires much thought and sensitivity and the post just isn’t ready. It’ll be done by tomorrow for sure, but for now, I’m going to direct you to my latest Quilt Scout column. This is certainly not some kind of sloppy seconds; my column for Quilts, Inc. is far more professional than the ol’ PG. I mean, Quilts, Inc. doesn’t have a monkey as a mascot for heaven’s sake.
The first column for December is about weird quilts and how much I love them (and you should, too!) I suppose the piece is also a book review, but the book came out in 1970: ten years before I was born. It’s a good thing there’s no expiration date on weird.
I’ll get more pictures. You can’t see it as well from this distance but I wanted to show you how much there is on any given day. Maybe I should start an Instagram account just for this! Photo and forensic-looking annotations: Me.
There’s mystery afoot!
Actually, it’s underfoot — and it’s time to blow this thing wide open. I’ve been intending to write this post for months. Here we go.
Every time — and I mean every single time — I enter or exit the southwest entrance to the Red Line subway at Harrison, fresh, multicolored chalk is present on the stairwell down to the trains. These crumbles of chalk are fresh: Without fail, random, chocolate chip-sized chunks of yellow, blue, pink, purple, and/or white pieces seem to have been (very) recently crushed into the tiles in different spots on the landing between the two flights of stairs to and from street level, every time I come or go.
Yeah, it’s weird. I know. But I’m telling you: Someone is regularly dropping colored chalk on the Harrison Red Line subway stairs.
But who? And why?
Maybe the delay in sharing this peculiar discovery with you is due to my embarrassing — okay, delicious — fear that these chalk droppings (ew) are some kind of sign or signifier for a secret society and by noticing it and then cracking the case, I’m essentially making myself a character in a Dan Brown novel: The innocent blogger heroine plunged into the sick, twisted world of…something weird.
The novel — the first in the series, of course — would be called The Chalk Leaver and I would be very, very beautiful i this novel and in grave danger, having poked my nose and my laptop into places it does not belong! There would be a smolderingly attractive, precocious-but-mercurial young man who has crucial information that could be the key to everything — but he’s trapped in the receiving room! I would be on the run from this secret chalk society and at some point, me and the mercurial young man would be trapped in an elevator together and probably kiss. The end of the book would end with me and the mercurial young man in Tuscany, seamlessly blending into a crowd on a piazza. We wear Ray-Bans and…a map. Or something.
The second book would be titled something like Chalkduster and this book would go deep into my psyche as a character but also we’d get a lot of information about the secret society that marks its paths — its secret paths! — with chalk markings. Someone would die. I’m not sure who. Not me. Actually, the main villain would die but it would be revealed that he wasn’t even the baddest baddie and now that he’s gone, the real bad guy emerges in a cliffhanger for the third book!
The third book, Chalk Is Cheap, would be the best one yet, according to the New York Times. I’d definitely almost die. There would be a new love for sure, maybe a tall German…doctor. Something like that. And some of it would take place in the Sahara so that I could wear gorgeous khaki items and Isadora Duncan-y scarves and a pith helmet. There would be something about jewels and stolen art in this book. I would definitely be able to fly a Cessna in this one.
Seriously, though, I am really curious: What’s up with all that chalk at the Harrison stop? Has any other person in Chicago who uses this stop regularly noticed this? It’s kinda driving me crazy at this point; I do want to know. It’s weird, that fresh chalk all the time.
I would like to close on a dramatic note in the spirit of the Dan Brown novel series that is clearly good enough to option for a movie by this description alone. You’re going to help with this. Please imagine me in some kind of physical peril, like… Picture me dangling off of some craggy precipice — or at least imagine me very thirsty and underfed. And I look really good and I have lipstick on. Got it?
Okay, your line is:
YOU: Why, Mary? Why did you ask about the chalk? Just… Dammit, Mary! Why did you have to go looking for trouble? You could’ve just — (You turn away and put the back of your sleeve to your face , ashamed to let me see you cry.)
ME: (Smiling, sweet and frail.) Never stop looking at your feet, darling. You know that. You never know what you’ll find if you don’t look down. I think… I think it’s time to look…down at the world, now…
YOU: (Whirling on me, you shake me; I”m losing consciousness.) NO!!!
Me and Butter! This photo is really a screenshot of a video because the lady who took it (Butter’s mom) had her hands full with Butter and took video instead of just a plain picture. I think it works, anyway.
It’s been awhile since I was a college student — ahem 15 years ahem — I forgot just how stressed out people get at the end of the semester. It’s pretty tense around here.
At the School of the Art Institute (SAIC), “Critique Week” is, I’m realizing, only the half of it. There are still papers due, presentations to make, big projects to turn in, and if you’re studying painting, I suspect you’ve got some painting to do, too. Blech: painting under deadline. Sounds lousy — kinda like quilting under a deadline. I’ve been there, Picasso. You’ve got this. Just take it daub by daub.
The Student Programming Board at SAIC knows that everyone’s freaking out a little bit — Irena who works on the school paper with me has three papers due tomorrow! — so a few years ago they made the final week of school “De-Stress Week.” The Board provides “pop-up” activities around school to help students relax for a moment or two in this busy, anxious time. There was a hot tea bar yesterday, for example, and they’ve served “Breakfast for Dinner!” at the Neiman Center, our student union-y place.
And today? Today, they offered three hours of “animal therapy!” There were pups to pet! I got to pet pups! At school!
I should’ve done undergrad here, too. This is the life!
There were three therapy dogs at the Neiman Center today and I got quality time with two of them: a Golden Retriever named Sedona and Butter, the Irish Wolfhound in the photo. All the dogs were trained as canine companions. As I stroked Sedona’s soft, rust-colored hair, I felt the knots in the shoulders of my very soul melt away. Petting a dog is sogood. As I watched Sedona’s belly rise and fall (she was laying on the floor, the epitome of chill, while four of us students ooh-ed and ahh-ed and stroked her) I asked her handler about what it means for a dog to be trained for therapy.
“It’s a lot of work,” she said. “They have to learn the usual commands: sit, stay, and so on. But they also have to learn not to grab for things like medical equipment, for example. Tubes, machines — sometimes those things look like toys or interesting objects to them, you know? We don’t want them to lick too much. And they have to be okay with strangers.”
I was a stranger to Sedona and Butter for less than two seconds. That’s how they both made me feel, anyway.
Wanna know a secret?
I’ve been thinking seriously about getting a pet. More later.
Mmm. Chocolate-y and hot and vanilla-y. Photo: Wikipedia.
WARNING: This post is full of admittedly lame stereotypes (e.g., women love chocolate) and also conclusions drawn from non-scientific data. Enjoy!
You will often find me enjoying a hot beverage in the afternoon. Sometimes, I drink alone. Sometimes, I will have female company, such as a sister or girlfriend. Other times, it’s a fella I’ve got with me as we order drinks and then try not to burn our mouths on our drinks.
Maybe I’m at a rehearsal and a male colleague and I pop over to Starbucks for a quick break. Maybe a hot beverage occurs because a gentleman and I are on a date in the afternoon and we decide to do something cute, like walk, and a warm drink sounds like a good addition to the moment.
Yesterday, because I was with a dude and we got hot drinks, I realized something:
Dudes like hot chocolate. It’s a thing.
I’m making this claim because I have a ton of anecdotal evidence to support it. (Please add your own evidence in the comments and let’s see if we can really give this silly, useless-but-still-interesting-slash-endearing observation some legs.) Here are four examples of guys liking hot chocolate. I’d like to call them Choco Case Studies.
Choco Case Study No. 1
Technically, my first date with Claus was when he saw me performing onstage at the Green Mill and we stayed up talking until the wee hours. But our first official “Do you want to go with me to _____?” date was at a restaurant on Michigan Avenue the following afternoon. I, being hungover and a lady, ordered a kir royale — and Claus ordered a hot chocolate. This struck me as adorable, especially after my second kir royale. Over the course of the next 18 months, I would see Claus order many hot chocolates.
Choco Case Study No. 2
My friend John? Hot chocolate-holic! He’s always drinking them, even in warmer weather.
Choco Case Study No. 3
Juan Carlos, a new friend I’ve made at school, suggested the other day that I could come hang out at his photography studio and work on my big project for my Design For Writers class while he finished preparing his critique. “We could get a lot done,” he said, then: “We could have hot chocolate.”
Choco Case Study No. 4
Why, just yesterday I had a bite to eat with Brian, another new school friend who also works at the newspaper. When the waiter put down our mugs — it was the brunch hour — mine was full of coffee. “What did you order?” I asked, eyeing his cup’s foamy top. “Hot chocolate,” he replied, and took a swig. This is when I realized a pattern was emerging.
What is it with dudes and hot chocolate? I don’t know any woman who orders hot chocolate unless she’s ice skating or carolling.
Personally, I don’t order hot chocolate because I usually have some kind of chocolate in my purse, which means I’ve probably recently had some chocolate and I’m good. This always-at-hand chocolate leads me to order a black coffee, for example, when making my hot beverage selection. Do men order hot chocolate more than women because they have low blood-chocolate levels? If this is the case, we need to fully support these hot chocolate orders.
Perhaps men like drinking hot chocolate because it’s an historically manly thing to do. I did some research (e.g., googling “what’s the deal with guys and hot chocolate?”) and it turns out, history is full of stories of conquistadors and explorers drinking great quantities of hot chocolate on their travels and pillages. Robert Falcon Scott trekked through Antarctica in 1912 and survived (at least for awhile) on stew and hot chocolate. Before that, Aztec heavy Montezuma drank something like 50 goblets of it a day. Even if a goblet is not that big, that’s a lot of cocoa.
Maybe “guys” don’t drink a lot of hot chocolate at all; maybe I just happen to know a bunch of guys who do. Maybe I’m dealing with grave confirmation bias.
Or… Oh, dear. Maybe all the Choco Case Studies I cited are flipped around entirely and I’ve really got this whole thing wrong. Maybe Claus, John, Juan Carlos, and Brian have all thought at one time or another, “Why is it that when I’m around Mary Fons I want to drink hot chocolate?”
From Wikipedia: “Spc. David Kocian from the PA National Guard’s 28th Combat Aviation Brigade teaches a yoga class at Camp Adder, Iraq. The 21-year Army veteran began teaching yoga during the 28th CAB’s mobilization when soldiers showed significant interest upon discovering he was an avid student of yoga.”
I have committed myself to doing a difficult thing. I didn’t want to say anything here until I had actually begun the thing because I suppose I needed a head start or something. Here goes, for accountability’s sake:
Today was Day 2 of my 30-Day Bikram yoga challenge.
Bikram yoga, for the uninitiated, is a 90-minute yoga class that takes place in a room heated to 105-degrees. There are 26 postures and two breathing exercises; you do everything twice. The room has mirrors at the front and side. Everyone basically wears slingshots and hotpants because within 60 seconds of practicing the yoga, you are positively drenched with sweat. To say something is “hard” is to make a qualitative, subjective statement, I realize. But Bikram yoga? S’hard.
If you’ve been reading this blog from way back, you know I used to be a real Bikram nut. Almost daily, you’d find me in the hot room. I once did 100 classes in 100 days straight just to prove I could do it. I also did it because there is nothing, nothing like the feeling you have when you finish a Bikram yoga class. Even the ones that almost kill you — especially those. And I believe that several of my surgeries went better because I was doing regular yoga. Who knows? It didn’t hurt.
So why did I stop? In the past eight years since I found Bikram yoga, I have ceased my practice twice.
The first time I stopped was because something really awful happened. It’s so awful that it’s hard to say it but I am so buoyed and encouraged by the past couple days’ post comments, I truly feel like I can do anything — and that nothing feels better than telling the truth.
The first time I stopped my practice was because my ostomy bag leaked in class.
Yep, I did hot yoga for a number years while I had my ostomy. (I talked about it a couple times including in this post.) It was a pain. I’d tape it up with athletic tape and the top of my shorts would come up over it and I got so I timed when I ate and when I practiced so that nothing would be, um, active during class.
But accidents happen. I was doing the spine series, which meant we were all on our respective bellies doing locust and cobra poses and things. Well, I had a leak. When I got up to flip around and do the next posture, I had leaked onto my towel and mat. It could have been so much worse. But it happened. I just quietly gathered my towel and held it against myself, grabbed my mat and gave the teacher a, “I’m okay, but I am leaving now” look — I still remember what teacher it was and where I was in the room — and I didn’t come back for a long time. Maybe a year?
It wasn’t just the leak. I was probably burned out, which means I was probably doing the yoga for the wrong reasons or something, I don’t know. But I was so tired of being afraid that my worst fear would come true that when it finally came true, I had an excuse to rest. I think that’s called “giving up” and you know what? Sometimes, we give up.
But not for good! I returned! I was once again sweaty and half-naked in public while I was living in NYC and it was good. But then everything got so sad and tumultuous with Yuri. I tried to practice when I got to D.C. but I just didn’t have it in me. This yoga is the best medicine for anything — heart, mind, head, body, all of it — but it takes commitment and determination. All I could commit or dedicate myself to in D.C. was trying to learn a new world and let go of Chicago. I’m thrilled I gave up on that one.
So why now? Because I miss myself.
I miss hanging out with the me that can stand on one leg in 105-degree heat as sweat pours from the top of her head down into her eyes. I miss seeing that girl in the mirror. I feel like I’ve been making choices lately that aren’t serving me at all: late nights, too much wine, stuff like that, and I feel bad and sad about that a lot lately. It’s gone on too long. Besides, my shoulder still hurts terribly bad and my knees, too. I’m a jalopy right now and Bikram yoga is a body shop. In 30 days, I’ll walk out of there looking and feeling like a Maserati. Trust me. I’ve done it before.
So, yes. Every day. Thirty days. I promise I will not write about yoga much. But I’m doing this. For me. And now there’s no turning back the cat’s officially outta the hot, sweaty, bag. Gross!
p.s. Is there a Bikram studio near you? Wanna do this with me?? Woah, that would be so cool!!! There could be prizes!
The deer is my power animal. So here’s a deer. Image: Wikipedia.
I posted Tuesday that a woman who knew my father from way back when — never a good thing, trust me on this — would be on my first grad critique panel. I was extremely nervous about it and then you all responded with such a tidal wave of “You got this, girl!” and “What, you worry? Pshah!” that I literally put my head down on my desk and made a whimpering sound. The sound of pain came from not knowing how to thank people that I mostly don’t know for being so righteously great. I mean, who are you? Who does that? How do I thank you for rallying around me in my moment of faltering? From the sub-cockles of my heart, with a kind of helpless, blissful bewilderment: Thank you. Thank you for that.
And yeah, it was super, super weird — both the crit itself and that this woman who knew my dad had a position of authority in a room with my work. More on that in a minute.
The critique structure itself is problematic and I learned this firsthand yesterday. I’m certainly not the only person who feels this process is far from perfect. In fact, it’s nuts: You’ve got under an hour, it’s five panelists on one artist, and the work the artist is showing is in progress, so an onslaught of feedback at that raw stage is really only helpful if the artist is expressly looking for it. There was a moment yesterday morning when I thought, “I could totally go off the rails if I listened to everyone’s opinion right now. Stay the course, Fonsie.” It’s not that I wasn’t receptive — I need all the help I can get, trust me. But there’s help, there’s insight, and there’s noise.
There were several times when there was agreement or consensus from the group about a certain passage and a couple times they all had similar questions about this or that concept and that was helpful for sure. If five people agree that there could be more cinnamon in your apple pie, you should probably increase the cinnamon, you know? In this way, the critique was valuable.
And as for the lady? Well, at one point I almost started crying. I didn’t cry. But I’ll tell you what made my eyes burn.
You all don’t know this because I’ve never said anything about it, but my father is an aspiring writer. He’s been aspiring his whole life. He’s never published a book. I don’t believe he’s published anything, though I can’t say for sure. A search online yields only his website and there are no publication credits there. (Note to self: Make sure to include my publication credits in bio for new website.) All I know is that my dad’s whole life has been this quest to write the Great American Novel or some canonical book of poems or whatever and so far, he ain’t written it.
I’ve heard stories about my dad’s attempts at writing. The manuscripts he burned because no one would publish them. His refusal to be edited because he’s such a genius, I guess. From what I’ve read, his work could use an editor and guess what? Everyone could use an editor. All of us. Me. You. My dad. The most terrifying thing about writing a blog — aside from delving into really, really deep waters like I’m doing right now — is that you have no editor before you hit the “Publish” button. Every one of these posts is a first draft, basically, and really, it’s ridiculous. Any decent writer knows she needs an editor, that your piece is only as good as your editor. The blog, it laughs at this truth and I do kind of love the immediacy, but it’s foolish unless you take it seriously (I do) and treat it as a way to practice writing and to connect with people. Check and check.
My point is that I try every single day to successfully put words together for this blog, for papers, this book I’m writing, my column, all of it. That my father has been unsuccessful in his writerly ambitions is heavy, guys. It’s really heavy. Heck, my mom’s writing a novel, too. What if they’re both no good? Where does that leave me? I know I’m not a great writer, but I’d like to be decent and I’m trying to get better. Nothing matters more to me. What if my book stinks? What if it goes the way of my father’s many novels: burned, trashed, unfinished, or buried in a desk somewhere, never to see the light of day? It’s possible. It’s more possible than running into someone who knew my dad from 30 years ago, I’ll tell you that much.
When I was looking at a page of my chapter yesterday in that room and that woman made some comment about it, that’s when I thought I might cry. Because all of that Dad stuff flooded in. It’s bad enough that my father shows up sometimes in the fears I have about being a bad writer; it sucked that he had to be there in flesh and blood while I was trying to be a good one.
I told you last week that my first art school critique is tomorrow. Thanks to all who wished me luck! I took it then and I’ll take it now, especially because the crit happens is bright and early tomorrow morning and a few days ago, I got some weird news about it.
There was a panelist added to the group of people who will be critiquing me. She’s a multidisciplinary artist who has done work at/with the School of the Art Institute (SAIC) before, though I’m not sure what. I didn’t dig too deeply but I know she has some connection to the Writing Department and was part of an event in the spring.
She emailed me to ask me if I was related to John Fons, if that might be my dad. Apparently, she knows my dad.
This email stopped me cold. Not many people ask me about my dad — and never by name. His world and my world exist in galaxies far, far apart from the other. Finally, after years of trying to close the space between us, I have come to understand that it’s better like it is. To get an email from a (female) stranger asking me about my father made my stomach lurch. I thought, “Oh, great. One of Dad’s ex-girlfriends is going to be reading and critiquing my writing. That’s super. That’s just great.”
The email so shocked me that I spent a day trying to figure out how to answer it. I finally sent my reply (I wrote: “It’s possible. Looking forward to meeting you!”) and then I thought about it some more. By the time I stopped brooding and mentioned this to someone, it was really too late to ask to be moved to another panel or to not have this person on the panel. Because the more I think about it, the more I’m not so sure about this. Am I being too sensitive?
Because what was their relationship? How long ago did it occur? I’d like to think they were just colleagues, but then why didn’t she say so? She didn’t say, “Hey, I knew your dad from [this]!” It was so vague, like, “I knew your dad…” and I pictured her like, staring into space and getting…wistful.
Can I barf during a crit? I know some of you brilliant PaperGirl readers said you were art school graduates. Any pointers on barfing during the actual critique session? Should I bring my own fancy barf bag? Perhaps something I’ve collaged?
We know the world is small. I think we forget — I certainly forget — that the world is smaller than a matchbox. Or a match. After burning.
That’s a good-lookin’ cup (atop Mom’s kitchen sink in Iowa.) Photo: Me.
Today, the second half of the interview — and it gets extra good today. Catch up right here if you missed yesterday’s post. See ya at the theater!
PG: Tell me about these mugs.
R: We knew a long time ago that we wanted to have a booth at Covered Bridge Festival this year.
PG: I love Covered Bridge Festival so much. It’s like, pure childhood magic.
R: Totally. Second weekend in October, every year. Well, we planned to do tours of the theater under construction and we’d sell said merch. We sold almost all of the t-shirts and all 70 mugs! They are really good mugs; like from an old-fashioned diner! You feel like that cup of coffee will be the best cup of coffee you’ll ever have when you drink it out of these mugs.
PG: The logo on it looks so good!
R: My lovely friend and graphic artist Mary Eileen Hayes worked with us on it. We just got a new shipment, too! The mugs and t-shirts — my husband looks very handsome in his, by the way — are available right here and you can also get mugs at the Madison County Chamber of Commerce.
PG: I love everything. Okay, talk big ideas. Mission. Passion. Mom, what’s your vision for the Iowa?
M: I see The Iowa becoming once again be the heartbeat of Winterset’s downtown area. A movie theater most of the time, the theater will also offer live performances of all varieties. We will be the official home of The Winterset Stage, our community’s live theater group. Music programs, magic shows, dance recitals, open mic nights, educational programs, and more will take place on the theater’s once-Vaudeville hardwood stage. The Iowa will be a “second run” theater, which means we’ll show movies 4-6 weeks after they’ve hit theaters in bigger cities. We hope people will love their theater so much they won’t mind waiting.
PG: I never did.
M: But we’ll have other, special movies, too: We plan to screen John Wayne classics and other old movie favorites, and movies for families and kids.
R: It’s going to be a multi-purpose art space for the community. I have these little daydreams all the time — ideas about what we can do, because the sky is kind of the limit.
PG: Like what?
R: Like, what if we did a “poster contest” with the elementary schools, and kids could draw their favorite scenes from their favorite movies, and then we framed and hung those posters all around the lobby of the theater?! I’m currently in love with that idea—can you imagine little crayon drawings of Frozen and Finding Nemo, nicely framed and on display for everyone to see?! And one of the artists coming to see a movie with their whole family and being able to point to their work and feel that ownership and excitement?!
PG: ARE YOU KIDDING ME THAT IS AMAZING REBECCA. I CAN’T EVEN USE PUNCTUATION THAT IS SO AWESOME. YES.
R: I know, right?? I also want to work with the high school to form a film club. I was a real nerd in high school, but I found my tribe of people and together we made high school pretty fun for ourselves. I’d love to have a teen film club, 10-12 students who love film and who could meet to watch films together and then program a film presentation every month at The Iowa where they introduce the film and then present some sort of talk-back after.
PG: Teens love to talk back. Ha! Seriously, though, I love that. You’re so good at this.
R: Well, I was the Education Director at the Chicago International Film Festival, so a lot of my programming ideas filter through the lens of “Can this be for young people, and can we find federal, state or private funding for it?” Now, every trip I take and every conversation I have, I find my vision expands from there.
PG: Like…
R: We’ll talk to a bank about their programs for seniors and it’s like, “Hey, we could have a program that transports senior citizens to The Iowa door to door.” And we could do sing-a-longs to The Sound of Music, or Frozen.
M: I’ve never seen Frozen.
PG: I actually haven’t seen it, either, all the way through. We probably shouldn’t admit that, Mom.
R: Definitely not. Oh, one more idea! We are going to sell beer and wine, but when we do special John Wayne movie screenings, I want to offer Wild Turkey, neat — because that was supposedly The Duke’s favorite drink!
PG: How fun to play with these ideas.
R: There’s a lot to do. But to have a canvas as lovely as The Iowa — and how lucky to have 140 seats to fill, not 500! — and to be able to explore the intersection where these ideas and the needs of our community meet is a true creative and managerial joy.
PG: Is the equipment gonna be real fancy and stuff? And what about the popcorn?
M: We will deliver movies using brand new, state-of-the-art digital equipment with surround sound. We will serve popcorn with real butter, classic theater candy, locally produced wine and beer, and Coke products.
R: They used to serve Pepsi products but… Ew!
PG: This is the one problem I have with this project. I’m a Pepsi girl. Little-known fact. Okay, you two. Let’s wrap this up: What’s something you want everyone to know about the theater?
M: A theater is a place for shared experience, whether it’s a movie or a live performance. It’s a place to dream and learn, a place to fall in love. We are so lucky our town’s theater is a beautiful gem that was just waiting over the decades to be polished and reset. We are working daily to make The Iowa everything it can be — for the enjoyment of everyone in our community as well as visitors to our town and county.
PG: Woah, you’re good. That was beautiful. Rebecca?
R: I grew up watching movies, I went to film school, I worked at a film festival. Film is my magic, my escape. Think of a memory you have with a movie: Did your grandma take you to see Little Mermaid and hold your hand in that scary underwater storm scene? Did you have your first big make out sesh at a movie theater? Did your family rewatch a movie every Christmas or every Halloween? We want to give you new memories like that. Bring your honey or friend, your kid or a co-worker. Settle in and let a film be magic for you and create new memories. And that’s just the movies part of the theater! You might watch your child perform on our stage — or perform on our stage yourself someday! The Iowa is YOURS to enjoy. We can’t wait to see you there.
PG: Aaaand I’m crying. Thanks. I love you both so much. Good luck. Please don’t hurt yourselves doing things with…boards.
The Iowa Theater, Winterset, IA town square, 1951. Photo: [TBD]
For those with a need for the backstory, it’s right here. For those who know my family is rebuilding the old movie house in my hometown, here’s the first of a two-part interview with the two Fons women in charge. Boy, are they great. There’s Marianne Fons, a.k.a., “Mom,” and my younger and far more talented sister, Rebecca. Enjoy!
PAPERGIRL: So, Mom and Rebecca. How’s the theater buildout going? What’s happening with construction?
REBECCA: It’s kinda like, what isn’t happening? I used to look at this project as a single, long road: Do this, then do this. A to B to C. But now I realize it’s more like a bunch of roads parallel to each other. The foyer is being worked on while the wiring is being figured out. The fundraising is happening while the money is being spent. It’s a huge, living project.
MOM: Contractor Steve Reed and his workers are currently focused on the renovation of the marquee and the adorable ticket foyer. Last week I personally unscrewed hundreds of brass screws to release the old wiring and light bulb sockets from the marquee panels. By the way, “marquee” is my new favorite word.
PG: It’s a good word — and that’s a lot of screws.
M: Despite having been in place out in the weather since 1928, each screw came out with just a few twists of the screwdriver. I listened to that band Alabama Shakes while doing this work. Our electrician will rewire the marquee with 100s of beautiful LED lights.
PG: I love it that you’re getting your hands dirty.
R: When we were doing the clean out early on, Mom and I did a lot of the labor because we wanted just that — and it was work that made sense. If we could lift it and take it to the dump, we did.
PG: This is what I’ve marveled about all along: How are you two even doing this?! You both have a zillion skills and experience in big projects, but neither of you has ever built a movie theater.
R: So much has been a lot of guess, test, and revise — but we really, really know how to throw out trash and clean, so we started there.
PG: When I was in Iowa, we talked over the paint colors of the lobby/vestibule.
M: The foyer ceiling will be a metallic antique gold — very Hollywood — with crimson walls to match the vintage Art Deco one-person ticket booth and coordinate with the terrazzo floor.
PG: Fancy.
M: Rebecca has selected the two small chandeliers that will illuminate the spaces to the right and left of the ticket booth.
R: I never thought I’d be able to pick out chandeliers. It was very fun, and we landed on the right one pretty quickly. I think Mom and I both have a similar aesthetic.
PG: You dress in the same colors!
R: She gives me stuff she doesn’t want anymore and vice versa. It’s been great that we haven’t struggled to land on paint, carpet, etc. We are also both very aware we are just two people, so we’ve tried to get outside opinions from friends, other family, and other theater friends we have made on everything from what kind of candy we should sell — Raisinets for sure! — to what color the ceiling should be in the ticket lobby: gold.
PG: How about all the beautiful wood? What’s going on there?
M: All the original oak trim and the oak doors will be refurbished.
R: It is going to be cozy, elegant, and sturdy.
PG: I cannot wait to go into that place and see a movie.
M: “Refurbished” is one of our favorite words, too.
PG: Rebecca, you amaze me with your talent for managing this huge project.
R: Thank you, sis; that means a lot to me. I have extensive event planning and management experience, but I still feel like I’m about 16 years old most of the time, so the faith the family has had in me and Ma to do this — the support and the faith — has been invaluable.
PG:What has been the most fun for you so far in the process?
R: The most fun thing, honestly, is working with Mom. And coming home to Iowa. When I was a teenager I just wanted to get out of Iowa. I was very self-conscious, I guess, and I feel bad about it because now I look forward to coming home. I love having long talks with Mom about the future, brainstorming about exciting programming ideas, and eating tacos with Mom and Mark.
PG: I totally get it. I loved coming home for TV.
R: I worked at the Chicago International Film Festival for almost ten years, and though that job was often very exciting, it was ultimately a desk job. Being able to be on my feet, interact with new people, and collaborate with Mom, who is truly one of my business/career idols, has been really, really fun.
PG: What’s the hardest part?
R: The most challenging thing is when I’m not there — when I’m back in Chicago. I’m a little OCD and I like to be super involved, so it has been hard being away. I’m essentially a third in Iowa and two-thirds in Chicago, but that will flip starting in 2017.
PG: How has the community of Winterset and beyond responded to The Iowa Theater renovation and renaissance?
M: Winterset and Madison County citizens couldn’t be more excited or supportive. Soon, they will have the opportunity to show their support in a very tangible way. We have applied for 501(c)3 nonprofit status and expect our designation any day. Once that day comes, we can begin accepting donations. The project has so far cost over $350,000. We’re hoping the community will step up and match this amount and there’s no contribution too small or too large! We really, really want to finish the job and open as planned this spring.
R: People. Are. So. Psyched. And it is SO great because, of course people would be happy that any awesome new “thing” is coming to town because it would provide jobs and business, but this is a MOVIE THEATER. Our movie theater! And everyone loves movies! Date night, family night, getting out of the house, warm buttery popcorn, cold soda. It’s America and it’s our childhoods. I loved that movie theater when I was a kid, so when I put myself in the place of myself back then and imagine it being closed and then reopening… I would be counting down the days.
M: Rebecca, what a great idea! When we get closer to opening we should figure out some kind of visual way we actually CAN count down the days to opening!
PG: I love how many ALL CAPS are happening right now.
R: YES! Truly, the support of the community — both in thumbs ups and high fives and Facebook likes keep us going. The thing is, we have something special with The Iowa. The town of Winterset is lovely; there are beautiful hanging baskets of petunias hung all around the square in the spring and summer that the MAYOR and his wife water every night from the back of a truck; there are quality, well-managed, new businesses like the Covered Bridge Winery and longtimers like the Ben Franklin store; there is the incredibly curated John Wayne Birthplace Museum, which expanded in 2015; and there are things like The Iowa Quilt Museum — nice work, Mom! — that have been shaping Winterset into, or back into, a gem.
This is sorta how I’m feeling about it. (El Capitan, Yosemite National Park, USA. Photo: Wikipedia.)
Dear Final Project For My Design For Writers Class:
It’s time we talked. Past time.
You are aware at this point that I’ve been putting you off and I apologize. It’s just that you seemed so far off and so achievable, though I knew as the weeks went by all term I should’ve been working on you or I’d face long hours (right about now) in front of a computer staring at InDesign files on my computer, drinking cup after cup of tea. Working on you just a little more here, a little more there over these months would have made such a difference, Final Project For My Design For Writer’s Class (FPFMDFWC) but instead, I did X or Y. Even Z, the ol’ caboose, got done several times over. Also, I went to Kansas City and Houston and stuff and had work.
Yes, there was always something that needed my attention just a little bit more. But the time has come to make things right. In fact, there’s zero time left to put you off longer, so here I am!
Beginning tomorrow — even though I am sick and I want to do very little but lay on this couch and have soup — I will tackle you. In case you’re not familiar with that slang term, to “tackle” a project is a good thing. It means I’m going to attack you. Okay, that doesn’t sound very good, either. You’re going to get made tomorrow. Why are you suddenly a character in Get Shorty, FPFMDFWC?
Starting in the morning, I’m going to stop thinking about you and make real progress. There are 12 pages of you to figure out and that’s not a big deal, really. I’ve worked on all kinds of magazines in my day and you’re just the latest issue — a very special issue, of course. The most special mini-magazine in the world. The most exciting, well-designed, slick n’ pretty mini-magazine that anyone ever did see. Pendennis is in it — how can it go wrong?
Please, please, please be nice to me and don’t eat my files like you did two weeks ago because that did not help the situation.
Berlin, looking very winter wonderland-y. Photo: Wikipedia.
I am excited for 2017.
This is partly because 2016 has utterly exhausted everyone, including me — and it ain’t over yet — and also because seven is a fetching number to have in a year, don’t you think?
There was something else… Oh! I’m going to visit Claus!
My dear friend, my favorite philosophy professor: Claus. You know the fellow: movie dates, trips to visit my family’s old farm, the one-man paper supply. When I was notified a very, very, very cheap ticket to Berlin online the other day (seriously, that ticket was so low I’m concerned they’ve got me on a kite or a pigeon or something) I rang the man up. And we made a plan. And we celebrated, because Ze American and Ze German are going to have a week in January together in Berlin. Sure, it’ll be cold, but that’s what wool coats and hot coffee are for, right? I have already practiced the following two German words:
But isn’t this just the best? I haven’t been out of the country since 2011, I’ve never been to Germany, and even before I met Claus, Germany was at the top of my wanna-go list. But of course the reason 2017 is going to be good is because Claus is there — at least for a week in January — and I miss that person.
There will be many pictures, much rejoicing, and probably strudel.
![The Iowa Theater, Winterset, IA town square, 1951. Photo: [Checking on it!]](https://www.papergirltoo.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/1950s.png)
