7 Aug 2017

A Flowering Birthday.

by | posted in: Family, Luv | 17
A picture of a birthday flower bouquet with “Happy Birthday!” featured prominently…in German. Thanks, Wikipedia! You shouldn’t have.

 

My birthday this year was so good, it’s going to go down as one of the best in my life. I don’t make such a statement lightly. Birthdays can be just the absolute pits, some years. This one wasn’t at all.*

There were so many perfect things that happened. I think the first thing I’ll tell you about is the flowers.

So there I was, sitting in my jim-jams and robe yesterday morning, reading a book at the kitchen bar, idly chatting with my family, sipping tea; you know, all that strenuous Island work.

There was a knock at the door. Deducing that we had company (it seemed logical) and that it was sub-optimal for me to receive guests in my ‘jams, I leaped up and scrambled into the shower.

Shower complete and dressed like a person should be dressed at that hour of the day, I peeked my head out of the bathroom to see who had come to call. But there was no guest. Instead, Mom, Rebecca, and Jack, the three of them there in the living room, turned my attention to an absolutely enormous bouquet of the most gorgeous flowers I have perhaps ever seen: Black-eyed Susans, crown vetch, lilies, tiny-purple-flowers-I-don’t-know-the-name-of, mini-cattail thingies, lush greenery, and more. In its generous vase, that bouquet measured about as tall as I am from my waist to the top of my faux-blonde head.

I was confused. What? How did —? Did they come from my aunt? That was nice of her, but… The peanut gallery flapped their arms and pointed and said, “Read the card! Read the card!”

Slowly, I turned back to the flowers and inspected. There, tied with a ribbon wrapped around the glass, a simple message on a small, white square of paper: “Happy Birthday, Mary — With Love, From Claus. xoxo.”

What would you have done?

Me, I made a little squeak and blinked back the tears instantly springing to my eyeballs. I had a towel around my shoulders to dry my wet hair and I kind of pulled it up and over my head. I needed to hide for some reason. I still peeked out from the top of my head-towel burrito with big, wide eyes, scanning every petal.

“Claus sent me flowers?” I said, and a big, fat tear rolled down my cheek. I looked over at my family. My heart was like, foofing around, doing some sort of foofing maneuver.

“Nice guy,” Jack said, and went back to the newspaper. “I always liked Claus.”

“Rebecca helped him arrange it all,” Mom said. She kind of sing-songed it. “Flower delivery, on an island, on a Sunday morning. Not baaad.”

I looked back at the flowers. They just didn’t seem real at all. My sister Rebecca was at her laptop on the couch. I asked her if it was true, if she worked on this with Claus. She nodded and said, “Sure did.”

Later in the day, Claus and I skyped. We’ve been doing that a lot lately, video chatting across continents. It’s so hard to love a person so much and they’re not here and you remember the last time you saw them wasn’t so great but that person is great so then you think you’re nuts but then you just feel so sad when you’re in contact but have no semblance of any next step, exactly, except/and then you remember how this person is not perfect but then you remember you’re not, either, Mary Fons oh my good lord in heaven, and then you feel like throwing up your hands and then you just feel like throwing up and then you get flowers, on your birthday, across an ocean and a lake. And that person sent them.

What then?

There’s no florist shop on the Island. Claus and Rebecca worked with the lady who simply “does the flowers” up there. That means that all those perfect blooms and blossoms were culled from fields and gardens on Washington Island. They were all local. They were of — and in — the moment. Just like me. And Claus.

That’s the flower story.

 

*There’s even more birthday to come. Sophie, the World’s Best Birthday Celebrator, has plans for me on Friday. Zounds…!

6 Aug 2017

Sweater Girl, or: “Rebecca Tells a Shopping Story”

by | posted in: Family, Fashion | 26
Publicity photo of Patti Page, 1955. Image courtesy Wikipedia.
Publicity photo of Patti Page, 1955. Image courtesy Wikipedia.

 

Two quick items of business:

  1. Thanks to all of you, Mom procured the fabric she needs to finish her quilt. If this is the world’s first instance of crowdstashing, I am happy to report we are all batting 1000. It totally worked for Mom and me and it can work for you, too. (And yes, XX, there should be an app.) Thank you all for the tips, the bon courages, and to the lovely lady who is FedEx’ing the exact amount of the exactly-right fabric. Incredible. Everyone is magic.
  2. Today is my birthday. I’ve had one of the best birthdays of my life. The day involved, among many other things, a trombone serenade, a special delivery from Germany, and a power outage. Those things are all true, though they are not related.

But the birthday tale has to come later. Tonight, it’s time to post a monologue. I worked on it on and off all day and I think I’ve got it right.

You’re about to read a true story which has been carefully reconstituted from the copious notes I took down last night at dinner. Mom, Jack, and my sister Rebecca and I were eating grilled pizza and drinking wine and my sister was (hilariously) expounding on the reasoning behind a certain wardrobe item in her possession. I grabbed my laptop and got down everything, pretty much word for word. (In case you don’t know, Nordstrom Rack is the discount joint run by the people behind the fance-schmance Nordstrom’s department store. It’s a magical place.)

Enjoy!

REBECCA

Two weeks ago, the “Clear The Rack” sale happened at Nordstrom Rack. “Clear The Rack” is a big deal for us ‘Rackies, a real affair to remember. You get 25 percent off the lowest ticketed price! It’s the best sale and it does not happen often. Maybe twice a year. So I go.

There I am, clicking through a rounder, and there’s this light gray, cropped cashmere sweater with a hood. This kind of garment — though it rarely looks like much on the hanger — is my jam. I see it, lift it up, admire it. But there was a problem. Even though it was hanging in the “M” section of the rounder, the tag said “XS/S”, though it was very roomy. It was a roomy Small. Still, I put it back and went off exploring.

By the time I was done wandering around, though, that gray sweater was still on my mind. What the heck, I thought, and I decided to try it on. Trying on clothes is a victimless crime. It’s like testing out a lipstick: No harm, no foul. That’s my advice: Whatever it is, try it on. Go to an expensive place! Try on a pretty gown! Do it! That’s what I say. I’m a modern woman.

Oh, and the sweater’s original price? It was something like 500 dollars, which was silly, but after a zillion markdowns, it was cha-eep. Cheap. Plus an extra 25 percent off?? I couldn’t afford not to try it on, in this economy.

So I take it back to the dressing room and pull it over my head, and as goes over my face, the most glorious, pleasant, feminine, like, parfumerie bouquet envelopes me. That sweater smelled so good — there just are no words. None. It was the smell that really good perfume takes in certain clothes, like sweaters, after a person wears it and then you put it on and it smells faintly in that perfect way. I was completely overtaken by this fragrance. I was like, “I’m buying this.”

It was so clear what happened. This girl, this woman, bought the sweater — full price — and took it home. She went for  a swim at The Club, played tennis, took a shower, used her fancy creams, spritzed her perfume and everything, but she didn’t blow dry her hair. That’s important. Then she put on the sweater on and — well, it wasn’t quite right.  It made her look hippy, maybe. So she pulled the sweater off over her hair, still wet and fragrant from her incredible hair care products. That’s important. She puts the sweater back in the Nordstrom bag and then, a couple days later, very much at at her leisure, she returns it. And it goes on the Rack.

I thought of this woman taking exotic journeys in foreign lands. She’s sitting in the airport and gets a chill, so she just casually dons her gray, cashmere hooded sweater. That’s the narrative I created.

All of this was instantly coming from the sweater. It smelled clean, and like new clothes, but it was more than that. This sweater smelled like…effortlessness. It smelled like someone who just…shows up. It smelled cool. The girl who had this sweater before just smells cool. If you went to dinner with her, you’d get a whiff of her at the bar or whatever and you be like, “This girl? This girl is cool.”

Look, I’m happy with who I am. I have my shampoo. I have my deodorant. But I always wonder how I smell and I wonder how I smell to others. You can’t ever know. Do I smell cool? That’s what you want to know.

Clearly, I bought it. And I’ll never clean it. I could spill a pizza on this sweater. A saucy pizza from the sky could fall on this sweater and I would not clean it.

[the end]

EDITOR’S NOTE: My sister brought this sweater up to the lake house this weekend and I can attest to the fact that no garment has ever smelled so good, ever, and we have been burying our faces in it intermittently for two days. That is, until Rebecca began to snatch it away, worried that we’d over-sniff it and the scent would be gone forever.

30 Jul 2017

Today, Sophie Is Published In The New Yorker.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Luv, Work | 9
An excerpt from "Horrible Phone Calls I Assume I'd Have If It Wasn't For The Internet" by Sophie Johnson. Image COURTESY OF THE ARTIST BECAUSE I ACTUALLY KNOW HER, AGGGHHH!
An excerpt from “Horrible Phone Calls I Assume I’d Have If It Wasn’t For The Internet” by Sophie Johnson. Image COURTESY OF THE ARTIST BECAUSE I ACTUALLY KNOW HER, AGGGHHH!

 

Today’s post is pure joy to write.

Sophie Lucido Johnson, a bosom buddy friendship in my life on the level of Anne Shirley and Diana Barry, is published this very day in The New Yorker. She wrote and illustrated a wonderful comic entitled, “Horrible Phone Calls I Assume I’d Have If It Wasn’t For The Internet” and, as you will shortly discover, Sophie’s cartoon is brilliant.

Being published in The New Yorker is a mammoth achievement. I probably don’t need to say that.

Maybe you read the magazine, maybe you don’t. Maybe you have a stack of New Yorkers on a chair in your apartment because you buy them when you’re in the airport and you swear you’re going to get through them all by the end of the summer (cough, cough.) Regardless of your relationship to the magazine, it cannot be denied that the editorial standards over there are about as high as they come. You gotta be good to get in that door.

And how do you get good? You know the answer.

You work.

And that’s what Sophie does. The girl. Practices. Constantly. She’s always writing, drawing, looking, thinking. When we’re in meetings or in the audience for something, Sophie pulls out her drawing pad and a pencil and sketches. She’ll draw people or things. She’ll make a cartoon or do lettering. She does it because she wants to get better and she’s willing to do the work. Of course, Sophie draws and writes because she loves it, too, but I want to drive home how hard she works at all this.

Being published in The New Yorker is pretty glamorous. But I assure you, and Sophie as she reads this will be nodding her head vigorously: Making art and writing is not glamorous. This stuff is frustrating, it takes forever, you fail, you get sad, you ignore other things, you doubt. But then, if you’re like Sophie and a handful of other people I know, you go back into the salt mines. Because you have to. Because that’s what it takes.

This beautiful girl works so hard. She works so hard, she got a comic in The New Yorker.

Congratulations, Soph.

27 Jul 2017

Time, The Revelator (‘Reunion Report’ Conclusion, At Least For Now.)

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Paean | 7
High school yearbook photos from 1942, somewhere in the middle west. Image: Wikipedia.
High school yearbook photos from 1942, somewhere in the middle west. Image: Wikipedia.

 

This will be my third and final “Reunion Report.” For now, anyway.

It’s just that there was so much to think about. I had to space things out. I had to plug in the iron, really press and smooth. I can’t figure anything out unless I write it out, as I’ve said. It’s been this way since I was in sophomore study hall, scribbling poems on the rubber sole of my Converse sneakers. I mention this again in case anyone from the reunion started reading my blog and is right now shaking their head, legitimately wondering why I can’t just chill and let the reunion be what it was: a great party. But I can’t help it. A sandwich is never a sandwich around here.

Whatever the occasion or experience, as time passes, impressions solidify, or they cauterize, or they get frozen in amber, or they disintegrate completely. Six-ish days after the reunion, I can finally get to what for me was the heart of it all. The thought started on Saturday evening and survived the night itself, the hangover on Sunday, the mulling, and the return to the city.

Time is the great equalizer. That’s what survived.

Every classmate I talked to last weekend, regardless of the tenor of our conversation — which did range from convivial to dark — was an adult. Time has no caste system, has no opinions about what you do for a living. I talked in the last post about “reverting to type” and I did, but not the whole time. Most of the time, I just felt like a person with people I admired simply by virtue of the fact that we’ve gone through a good deal of life since we were all in a room together. It’s been 20 years. Think of that.

Think of that.

Births. Deaths. Suffering. Ecstasy. Loss. Windfalls. Horror. Bliss. Addiction. Recovery. Jobs. Ruin. Success. Disappointment. Marriage. Divorce. Second divorce. Aging parents. Sibling pain. Fears for children, worry for friends. Disease. Redemption.

Living history, in other words.

The history we’re making and have each made in 20 years, all of us in our different ways (which are the same ways), that is the great equalizer. Time flattens us all and in this case, it’s a good thing. When I go on about feeling awkward, I’m being paranoid and small, even just taking up space to say that. Most of that night, we were all just folks, connected by the fact that two decades after we crossed the stage in the gymnasium wearing long robes and weird, betasseled cardboard hats, we are alive and we have earned — and paid dearly for — the space we occupy.

That’s what I figure. There’s more, but tomorrow I want to talk about how I rearranged all the furniture in my apartment this evening. What else am I supposed to do after seeing the grand pageant of humanity in the faces of my graduating class?

Move the couch, that’s what.

25 Jul 2017

Reunion Report, Part Two: The Fails.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 6
I like this guy. Image: Wikipedia.
I like this guy. Image: Wikipedia.

 

Yesterday, I shared what I managed to get right at the reunion. Now, it’s time to confess at least a few of the things I got wrong.

Fail No. 1 — I reverted to type. 
If you are an adult with siblings, and the bunch of you get together for holidays or large family functions, you likely have witnessed or experienced yourself a “revert to type.” To revert to type is “to come or go back, as to a former condition, period, or subject.”

For example, if your younger brother, who yanked your ponytail constantly when you were growing up but is now actually a mature, stand-up person, totally yanks your ponytail every time you’re both at Mom’s, he’s reverting to type, slipping into the kid brother role he had for so long. Meanwhile, you can’t believe the Typical Older Sister stuff coming out of your mouth. Reverting to type might not feel great, but at least it feels familiar.

Well, I reverted to type the other night. I got nerdy. Nervous. I tried to be funny and sort of was, sometimes, but mostly I was just clammy and didn’t know where to put my hands or how to not say lame things to people to whom I always managed to say lame things. I wasn’t hopeless in high school, but I had frequent clammy encounters. Anyway, it happened at the party and it was weird. I’ve come a long way since high school — so how come I forgot all that stuff when I tried to insert myself into conversations?

Fail No. 2 — I drank too much. 
(See: reverting to type.) Not that I drank in high school — I could count on one hand the times I did. No, I mean that because I felt nervous, my cup was never empty. On top of that, I’m on a new medication and I think the combo made me pretty spacey. It’s not like I had a lampshade on my head at the end of the night, but I spent the next day feelin’ barf-o-riffic, indeed. Go high school!

Fail No. 3 — I didn’t take many pictures. And I didn’t tackle the hosts to thank them for everything before I left. Super lame.
Okay, so that’s two in one. I probably wasn’t the only reveler who sort of drifted off as the party broke up, but that’s not usually my way. And though I can’t do much about the first thing, I’ve got an idea to remedy the second.

Now that done a little get realin’, it’s time to brush my teeth and go to bed. Oh wait:

Fail No. 4 — Definitely did not brush my teeth before I went to bed Saturday night. 
I was so good about that in high school.

24 Jul 2017

Reunion Report, Part One: The Winners.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 4
I really need to start taking more pictures. This is a high school reunion photograph from 1947. They look pretty good — but we looked better. I'll see what I can do. Image: Wikipedia.
I really need to start taking more pictures. This is a high school reunion photograph from 1947. They look pretty good — but we looked better. I’ll see what I can do. Image: Wikipedia.

 

The reunion was not about me.

But while I process the trillions of impressions I had that night, about that night; while I reflect on the brilliance and fascination of the people who were there — which is, of course, what the reunion actually was about — I gotta buy myself some time.

And so, a pair of lists: What I got right, and what I got wrong, at my high school reunion. First up, because you should do the worst first, and because good news is harder to write than bad, here’s what I got right a couple nights ago.

And so, a pair of lists. Namely, what I got right — and what I got wrong — at my high school reunion. First up, because you should do the worst first, and because good news is harder to write than bad, here’s what I got right a couple nights ago.

Itemize with me, won’t you?

Win No. 1: I went with Sar.
I could start a whole new blog and call it “SarahGirl” or “PaperSar” and write it for the next ten years and still be unable — as a writer, you understand — to portray the wonder and depth of that woman. When I say she is my “first friend,” I mean it in the literal sense: Sarah and I knew each other in utero. Her mom and my mom have been friends longer than the two of us have taken breath.

At 5:30pm on Saturday evening, I picked Sar up at her house. Sar’s house: the house six blocks away from the Fons’s. A house I know so well, I could find it blindfolded. The house that still has the same phone number after all these years — and you better believe I still know that sequence by heart. Sar and I went to the party together and we left together. Obviously.

Win No. 2: No wardrobe malfunctions!
Darlin’, you haven’t had a wardrobe challenge until you’ve had to figure out what to wear to see classmates from 20 years ago, in a meadow, in 90-degree weather, with the very real possibility that you may consume heroic servings of vodka lemonade, not that I would know anything about that. Think about it: You must look cute, but you can’t wear your criminally hot YSL pumps — what are you, nuts?! Hello, gravel roads?? Start over. Okay, next up: You must stay cool, temperature-wise, but showing too much skin? No way, and besides: mosquitoes.

After three changes*, I went with the following: pale pink chinos; crisp white shirt w/tiny red clip-dot; super-fancy, slingback Oxford loafers I got super-cheap on clearance; and sensible-but-beguiling gold Jason Wu hoop earrings. Oh, and a watch I borrowed from my mother’s jewelry box, except it wasn’t keeping time. The battery was dead. But of course, on Saturday night, I didn’t care what time it was. And I put it back before I left.

Win No. 3: I made it.
A few months ago, I shared about my friend Heather. In that post, I confessed that while I’m not a bad friend — what would that even mean? pom-pom sabotage? hair-pulling? — I could be a more even one. Smoother, you know? It’s like, I want to show up more; I just don’t always know how. My point is that this weekend I knew how. I made it to the field, you know? I got on the train.

Tomorrow, the paces. Also, I mised you.

*four

20 Jul 2017

“Sar’s Picking Me Up At The Station: A Song In Four Verses

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 9
Osceola train station. Not pictured: Sar. Pictured: Some Dude. Image: Wikipedia.
Osceola train station. Not pictured: Sar. Pictured: Some Dude. Image: Wikipedia.

Yesterday, I was crackin’ jokes. A few days before that, I was going on about television. What is this, an entertainment blog? Am I here to amuse?? Let’s get one thing straight: I’m deep. I’m deep!

I wrote the following jaunty tune on the train to Iowa tonight, which should be abundantly clear. (I’ve come here for my high school reunion, remember.) You will be happy to know that I sang this actual song to its actual subject while we waited for the train to clear the tracks outside the Osceola station. I should’ve warmed up, but that would’ve been hard to do in coach.

As you sing this song — to yourself, please — a couple notes:

1) Text inside the square brackets should be understood as information outside the lyrics of the song — a kind of aside from me to you. I probably don’t have to say that, but I’m thinking you’ll need all the help you can get with this.

2) The meter does work, but only if you put the emphasis on a specific word in each line. It has been noted for you with a bold underline. What can I say? I’m a generous person.

That’s it. Have fun. And hey: The next time someone you love comes to pick you up at a dinky train station 40 minutes from town and waits around an hour for you to actually get there, I recommend writing her a song. It gives you something to do and your friend gets a Snickers bar — if you do it right.

Sar’s Picking Me Up At The Train Station And I Can’t Wait To See Her. Sar, My First Friend and Bonus Sister In This Life, I Love You More Than I Will Ever Be Able To Properly Express And I’m Sorry My Train Was An Hour Late
by Mary Fons

I’m on a train to Iowa, Iowa, Iowa,
I’m on a train to Iowa, going to my house.
I’m gonna sleep in Iowa, Iowa, Iowa,
I’m gonna sleep in Iowa, because I am a mouse.

[whatever, let’s just keep going]

My kin’s from the Heartland State, Heartland State, Heartland State,
My kin’s from Heartland State; we’re lucky so n’ so’s.
So I’m goin‘ to The Heartland State, Heartland State, Heartland State,
I’m goin’ to the Heartland State, ‘cause that’s the place to…goes.

[stop asking questions!]

Ohhh!

Been on this train for six full h’ars, six full h’ars, six full h’ars,
Been on this train for six full h’ars, I’m ready to be there.
‘Cuz when I get to Iowa, Iowa, Iowa,
Oh, when I get to Iowa, I get to see Sar!

Sar’s the best gal in the land, in the land, in the land,
Sar’s the best gal in the land, and that’s for sure a fact.

Ohhh!

[Allargando!]*

Thank you, Sar, for pickin’ me up, pickin’ me up, pickin’ me up,
Thank you Sar, for pickin’ me up —

I — brought yoooou — a snaaaaaaaaack!

[produce a half a Snickers, end of song.]

*Italian music term meaning “slowing down and broadening, becoming more stately and majestic, possibly louder”

22 Jun 2017

I’m Not Saying, I’m Just Saying: Philip Larkin!

by | posted in: Family, Philip Larkin | 23
Can you tell I'm crying? I'm crying. Photo: Sophie Lucido Johnson.
Can you tell I’m crying? I’m crying. Photo: Sophie Lucido Johnson.

 

I spent a good deal of the day recuperating, which was smart. Then, late in the afternoon, motivated by a number of deep-seated needs, I put on my sandals and my favorite blue- and white-striped shirt and ventured north to a pet store. A tiny puppy pet store. 

I went to pet little puppies. Remember Philip Larkin? Me, too.

I’ve been researching. A lot. I’ve been emailing breeders across the state, breeders all the way into Iowa, looking for people who are handling these lil’ pups right. I have been combing the Midwest for highly-rated, respectable breeders who safely and humanely breed Teacup Maltipoos. Because Philip Larkin is my dream dog. I dream of Philip Larkin a lot right now. I even have a YouTube playlist with videos of the kind of puppy I love. I watched those videos last night! It’s getting intense.

Please know that I understand why some may raise an eyebrow at my “designer dog” desires. Some good people will surely press me to consider a rescue animal instead of what’s considered a “boutique” dog. I get it, absolutely. I’ve been thinking about a dog for some time, now, as you may know. Those who support and participate in rescue animal adoption are people I respect very much and admire very much. The rescue pet owners I know — including Sophie and my sister Rebecca and Dave, my older sister’s roommate (aka, my “brother-from-another-mother” who is a legit Broadway star!) are people I respect and admire for their animal rescue efforts and rescue animal success stories. I love them and I have loved/currently love their pets.

For me, though, there’s a specific breed that will work for my life right now. It has to do with health needs, work, my travel demands, and my living space, all of which impact the animal’s quality of life and the owner’s life, too. The way I figure, whether it’s an adoption or a purchase, a person who really, really wants a lil’ pup really, really wants to give that pup a loving home, an not everyone’s path is the same. If I sound defensive it’s because I am: There are dogs that need homes but who I can’t adopt right now for a lot of real reasons. Just because that’s true doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad about it. I looked at the sweetest dogs today and they cost money to take home; rescue animals would give anything to be taken home tonight. I don’t know what to do with those emotions. I don’t.

What I know is that when Sophie walked into the place, I had been petting this particular puppy for about 10 minutes and had started to cry because I loved that little creature so much. Soph walked up to the petting area and when she said, “Mary! Hi!”, I looked up and my face was all wet. (Can you tell in the picture? It’s a little like this one, in which I am also crying and also Sophie took it so what’s up with that, Sophie??) Everyone in the puppy-petting area looked at me, a crying weirdo, and I felt silly but also not silly at all. The place was basically women petting puppies; I think they got it.

There’s a lot more prep to do if I want to really have a doggie; there’s a lot more research to do and money put aside. But the venture out today, the move from video to real-life puppy was a big deal. I petted three puppies. They all broke my heart in the best way.

19 Jun 2017

Print Is Not Dead (And That’s Weird.)

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 1
screen-shot-2017-01-10-at-1-01-44-pm
A janky screenshot of a janky scan of an old newspaper. Image: Me, sort of.

A few months back, my sister Rebecca told me she had looked up something in the online archives of The Madisonian, our hometown newspaper. I decided to log on and see what I could dig up. Investigative journalism, basically.

Before I tell you what I found, two notable facts about my hometown newspaper:

  1. The Madisonian is the nation’s oldest continuously-circulating newspaper west of Des Moines.
    That’s a big deal! A guy named James Iler started the paper way back in 1856. Back then, it was only four pages and was called The Pilot! [That exclamation point is mine, unfortunately; every newspaper should put an exclamation point at the end of its name, don’t you agree?] I could go down the rabbit hole on fascinating facts about this paper — like how during the Civil War it was called The Red Hawkeye! — but I won’t.
  2. My dad worked at The Madisonian for a number of years as a reporter. My family’s interest in print and publishing comes from both sides, see.

The first thing I did was type “Fons” into the search box. What, like you’ve never googled yourself? (If you haven’t, good for you; it’s weird.) Searching the Madisonian archives was like that, just more…old-fashioned, but without the microfiche.

A lot of what came up was pretty dull, just town listing stuff or mentions of me or my sisters in the fall play or going nerdy state speech tournaments. My dad’s byline came up, of course, and it will come as no surprise there were lots of hits for Mom; she’s been a recurring “local gal makes good” story over the years. She didn’t even have to hire a PR person!

But there were other, meatier clips. Like the one up top, there. Unfortunately.

I hadn’t thought about Tractor Girls in ages, but there it was in a December Madisonian from 1996. Tractor Girls was a play — actually, a series of seven monologues for seven actresses — written by yours truly my junior year. My speech teacher sent it (did I send it??) to the Theater department at Simpson College in Indianola, a town about 40 minutes away. To my shock and amazement, the theater people decided to produce the freakin’ thing. Of course I was insanely happy, overjoyed, all that. And of course I invited all my friends to come with me to opening night. Super fun, right??

To this day, I am amazed I got out alive. Not because the play was bad; actually, I remember it being pretty good. The danger I was in that night was due to my friends’ collective murderous rage: I based all the play’s characters on them.

I know. I know. It’s so awful. It’s just the worst thing ever. Ever!

Pals, I swear to you, with my dumb hand over my clueless heart (which was even more clueless at age sixteen, no surprise), I meant no ill will! Truly, I didn’t realize how totally uncool it was to plumb my friends personal lives for material. I changed their names, didn’t I?? Oh, the shame! Even though no one from Winterset came to see the play and no one who did see it had a clue about my…source material, my friends were furious and had every right to be. It blew over eventually, but it took awhile.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes since then but I haven’t made that mistake again. Case in point: There’s another gem I unearthed in my archive search worth sharing, but I have to get my sister’s permission first.

30 May 2017

Exclusive Interview: The Iowa Theater Three

by | posted in: Family, The Iowa Theater Winterset | 4
L-R: Rebecca, Mark, Marianne. No longer on the couch but at Mi Pueblito, the local Mexican restaurant. Photo: Meee.
L-R: Rebecca, Mark, Marianne. We moved from the porch mentioned below to Mi Pueblito, the local Mexican restaurant. Photo courtesy PaperGirl Photo Editor. (That’s me!)

 

It’s Iowa in May. It’s 7:30 in the evening and it is gorgeous. I’m sitting out on the back deck of the house in Winterset. We moved here when I was in fourth grade and I left this home when I headed to college at seventeen. It’s a good house. 

My mother, my stepfather Mark, and my younger sister Rebecca and I have decided to have a glass of wine out here. I have decided that I ought to interview the people I have just dubbed The Iowa Theater Three. What follows is the conversation, edited for length because we had to leave to get some food for heaven’s sake. We got Mexican food at Mi Pueblito. (See above photo.) 

PAPERGIRL: Mark. The theater is officially open. How does this change your life?

MARK: Having the theater open will allow me — and everyone else in town, as far as I can figure — to stop having to go into Des Moines anytime we want to see a movie. I like the big screen. I like the movie experience. Having the theater back in town saves us an enormous amount of money and time and grief because we don’t have to drive into Des Moines to see one.

PG: And how about, like, domestically?

MARK: My home is a storage warehouse! I’m hoping we can get some of this stuff out of here, now! (Laughter.) You can’t imagine. Everything you can think of that you need for a movie theater, it’s all in the house: candy, cleaning supplies, cups, straws, napkins, office supplies. And it’s in the garage, too! An old rewinding machine, an new desk, still in the crate.

PG: You’re a good man, Mark. Mom, how has Mark been helpful in this process?

MARIANNE: There’s no better cheerleader than Mark Davis. He just rolls with it. And I have to say this: As a man who loves order, he has been very understanding of the — well, it’s not chaos. We’ve been doing all this in a very orderly way. But he’s been so good about the usurping of his space. Mark has been as supportive as a person can be. You know he sold his boat and donated all the money to the theater.

PG: Incredible. Mark, how much did you sell the boat for?

MARK: $3400.

MARIANNE: His name’s on the donor wall, now. And he drove two-and-a-half hours to Breda, Iowa —

REBECCA: To Snappy Popcorn —

MARIANNE: — to Snappy Popcorn to pick up five boxes of coconut oil for the popcorn machine. That trip saved us over $200 in shipping.

PG: Mark, you’re a good man. Now, the donor wall is something I wanted to ask about. It’s looking great. But I have a concern that now that the theater is open, people will stop donating. There’s still so much to do, but now that it’s an operating theater, I just wonder if people will understand that fundraising hasn’t ended — and people may not even understand that the Iowa is a non-profit. So Rebecca, can you just tell me a little more about where you guys are with donations and more about the choice to build the theater as a non-profit in the first place?

R: Sure. So, when Mom and I were first approaching all this, of course we had long conversations and did a lot of investigating into for-profit vs. nonprofit business plans. Mom’s background is in for-profit businesses; mine is in non-profits. When we did the pie-chart for a for-profit, it was basically ticket sales and popcorn. Which is risky, for one thing. But it wasn’t just that: It was that with the non-profit model, you get so much more involvement with the community. In applying for grants, sponsorships, and donations, or launching things like membership groups, the foundation of the organization becomes way more interesting.

PG: Right. Like, the grants you apply for become part of the story.

R: Yeah, like… Like we could apply for a grant from the state to preserve a piece of Iowa history with a renovation project. That kind of thing.

PG: So you’re always going to be grant writing and fundraising. It’s a living, breathing thing.

R: Fundraising is ongoing and always will be. Of the million dollars it has taken to do all this, we’ve got $200k in debt to pay off. There’s a lot to do — and we still have construction to finish.

PG: The office and the green room, right?

R: Right. And as you said, now that we’re open, some people will say, “Oh, well, they’re open, why should I give money?” And some people won’t give. Other people will give with their patronage, which is obviously important and valued! But some people may have been waiting to give until they saw the finished product.

PG: Ah. I didn’t even think of that.

R: Yeah, I mean, everyone who gave before the theater was open gave out of faith. Some people have been waiting to see if we could pull it off. For some, seeing is believing.

PG: Rebecca, that should be your new fundraising slogan: “The Iowa Theater: Seeing is believing.”

MARIANNE: I love that! By the way, Mary, in the two years we’ve been working on this, Rebecca and I made a number of field trips to other small, independently-owned theaters in Iowa. All these single-screen theaters are non-profits. We’re part of a trend. At the end of this fiscal year, and every fiscal year, the idea is to be in the black and the profit for the theater equals $0.

PG: And then you might even be able to invest in other non-profits.

R: Exactly. And one last thing from me on this: With non-profit status, we can do great fundraisers and offer tax deductions. Rather than this theater just stopping with the Fons family, it’s something bigger. The income goes to the space and the staff.* We have grants we have our eyes on for programming and historic improvements like a permanent display of the evolution of the building from the 1800s to now; a film club for the high school. Soon we want to offer pre-movie ads for local businesses and we want to get ready to rent the space for weddings and parties. And we want to do a yearly fundraising party! A special screening of Gone With the Wind, maybe. Oh, and we could live-stream the Superbowl.

PG: That’s amazing. I don’t even care about the Superbowl at all and I’m coming to that. I mean… The Superbowl in a movie theater?? Can I throw stuff?? Not at the screen. I just want to throw stuff. Like in the air. Not a football. Just things. And I want to shout.

MARIANNE: We’ll save you a seat. Look, by being a non-profit, our cultural mandate is clear: We want to provide a multi-use cinema and performance space for the community of Madison County and beyond.

PG: Mark, should we go get something to eat? Are you ready to head out?

MARK: Honeybun, I’ve been ready. Let’s get a move on.

PG: Okay, last question for Mom and Rebecca. I said the other night that the party was a smash. Truly a night to remember. Mom, what was your favorite moment of the evening?

MARIANNE: Standing at the mic with Rebecca.

R: I was going to say the same thing.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: They’re both tearing up.]

PAPERGIRL: Thanks, you guys. I think we can end there for now. Mark, let me just get my jacket and we can go. Are we gonna get the con queso?

MARK: You bet.

[end of interview]

*The Iowa Theater created eight new part-time jobs in Winterset: two managers and six staffers.

28 May 2017

The Iowa Theater Is OPEN!

by | posted in: Family, The Iowa Theater Winterset | 14
Ta-da! Photo: Rebecca Fons.
Ta-da! Photo: Rebecca Fons.

Wow!

I’ve been pourin’ wine and stackin’ chairs. I’m wiped. I’m also happier than anyone in Madison County tonight. Well, except for countless people in my hometown and environs who are thrilled have a movie theater in their hometown again.

To those people: Thank you. Thank you for buying a ticket for the screenings/gala tonight. Thank you for giving to the Kickstarter campaign, Thank you to the businesses, the clubs, the associations. Thank you to the crew. The staff. The cheerleaders. Thank you Mark, my stepdad; to Jack, my brother-in-law. You all/we all, have a part of this thing. How I feel, the fullness of tonight, it isn’t my joy. The reopening of The Iowa and the excitement and glitz of tonight, it’s our thing. It’s our Winterset thing. Doesn’t it feel good to do something together?

My eyes are closing because it was a busy day full of tasks, and I did 50% of what Mom and Rebecca did, believe me. This is partly because they had more to do. It’s also because part of my day was taken up with eating a good deal of the local, organic, fully-buttered, Iowa Theater-popped popcorn we serve at The Iowa. Let me tell you something: There’s nothing quite like watching a batch of fresh, Iowa-sourced popcorn burst out of the movie theater popcorn maker in your family’s own movie theater. It doesn’t get much better than that — until, of course, you butter that popcorn yourself, using the popcorn butter thing, which runs on a sensor, and that is rad.

But it gets really good when you get to cram your paw down into a paper bucket (filled by your other sister) and then you get to cram that mitt full of popcorn into your mouth while your sisters make you laugh and your Mom takes your picture. Did I mention there were Junior Mints in the bucket? There are Junior Mints in the bucket and they are melty in the popcorn and you have your mouth full and the whole theater smells so good because everyone in your family smells amazing. It’s perfume and deodorant and shampoo. Who knows what it is. You smell good. It’s something you can count on, weirdly.

What I’m trying to say is that everything is perfect. Life is full of terrifying things. But sometimes, you get to stick a mitt into a bucket of popcorn and it’s really, really special popcorn.

Life isn’t always so terrifying.

12 May 2017

That’s What Friends (and Friends’ Babies) Are For.

by | posted in: Family, Sicky | 12
Me n' Kin-Kin on the set of Quilty. Kin-Kin, this was 2015, right? Photo: Matt Gonzales
Me n’ Kin-Kin teamed up on the set of Quilty. Kin-Kin, this would have been 2015, right? Photo: Matt Gonzales.

 

A few weeks ago, I confessed that I had been putting off seeing my GI doctor out of fear of what she would tell me. Many of you sped to my digital side to give me a digital hug and say, basically, “Go see your doctor, kid. We like you. We want you to live.” It was the encouragement I needed to make the appointment and keep it. Thank you.

Well, I went to see Dr. Yun yesterday. But I wasn’t alone.

Regular readers of the ol’ PG know my friend Heather. I have mentioned her many times, perhaps most notably in a series of posts last summer when she had her first child, Julia, and I was present for the birth. (There were also frequent Heather sightings while I lived in NYC and D.C., as I stayed with her and her delightful husband when I was in town for business or holidays; there was also this post about the Dairy Queen blizzard.) Those who loved classic Quilty know Heather that way, too; she was assistant producer on the show four out of the five years we made it and appeared as a guest on the show many times, too.

There are many qualities that I admire in Heather. She is generous, as evidenced by the number of times she has given me keys to her home. She is dependable, the proof there being the years we worked together with nary a hiccup. Heather is funny. She’s a great designer. She’s clearly a wonderful mother (more on that lil’ rascal Julia in a minute) but there’s something I admire most in Heather and I’m blinking back a tear or two as I type this: Heather is steadfast.

Forgive me for making it about me for just a moment, but to properly describe Heather’s steadfastness, I need to first describe what it’s like to be my friend. It’s not very…even. I’m out of town a lot, for one thing. When I finally get home from being among a ton of people, I’m in desperate need of recharging. As an introvert, this means that I need to be alone for awhile, otherwise I’m no good to anyone, including myself. Sometimes, I fall in love with a boy and move to New York City, but then we break up and I move to Washington, D.C. and when I get home, I start graduate school. Crafting chains of events of these kinds is a specialty of mine, but I end up with few opportunities to go to matinees or maintain a weekly sew day, for example. And then there’s the writer thing. Writers are weird. Most of us have some measure of social anxiety — yes, anxiety with people we know and love very much. I’m raising my hand, here.

But Heather is true. She loves me because I’m Mar, I think. She sees my wild life and it’s okay with her. Even if we don’t see each other for awhile, when we get together, it’s great. We’re peas n’ carrots. I’ve told Heather things I haven’t told other people. I’ve relied on her. The fact that I know I can absolutely rely on her says much about how she loves me, the very nature of Heather. Her steadfastness makes the world a better place. Now, she knows I love her fiercely — I’m not completely hopeless at friendship, I just show it in different ways, cough, cough — but she does such a better job at staying connected and I am grateful.

Yesterday, I dragged myself out of bed, dragged myself to the train, dragged myself up to the 16th floor of the Lavin Pavillion at Northwestern Memorial. But though I was anxious and gloomy, I made it. I made it because Heather texted me that she and Julia would be there soon. Sure enough, moments after the nurse left me alone in the exam room and just before I started biting my cuticles, I heard a soft “knock, knock” on the door. I jumped off the exam table as my beautiful friend pushed open the door with Princess Julia in her stroller. They had come to be with me in a place that feels to me like a dark forest.

Forests are no match for true friendship and the sweetness of an eight-month-old baby. That child is incomparably adorable. Julia has discovered her tongue (wonder of wonders!) and sticks it out with glee as often as possible. Heather looks great. Between chatting with her and watching Julia rocket around the room on all fours, I had no time to be afraid. When Dr. Yun came in, I answered her questions without crying even once. And suddenly, the appointment was over. Honestly, it could’ve gone on longer and I wouldn’t have minded at all.

Heather and Julia came with me for my blood draw, too. Dr. Yun wants several tests done; I’ll go under for those. Really, that’s the scary stuff. The tests and the news afterward. Heather and I have already talked about another rendezvous.

Love you, Kin-Kin. Thanks.

11 May 2017

I Want YOU To Help Open The Iowa Theater! (Yes!)

by | posted in: Family, The Iowa Theater Winterset | 5

Friends! Readers! Countrywomen and several countrymen! I blow a great trumpet! My call to thee riseth upon the winds that sweep across the fruited plain and swoopeth down to alight on thine ears! Hear ye, hear ye: The Iowa Theater is going to open at the end of this month!

IT’S HAPPENING!

If you didn’t know, my sister Rebecca and my mother Marianne — with the help of the community of Winterset and so many people in Iowa, e.g., business leaders, generally great Midwesterners — are renovating, rehabbing, and restoring The Iowa, the wonderful little theater-on-the-square in the town where I grew up. (Aye, as a wee bairn, how I loved to see the grrrreat films of yesteryear and — sorry. I’ll stop.)

The renovation project/non-profit startup has been a massive undertaking. It has taken much, much money so far and great quantities of elbow grease. In fact, as I gear up to ask something of you, I would like you to picture my poor, poor little sister and my poor, poor mother, both of them working so hard for the past year that they may have no elbow grease left! Oh, the humanity! Dry, dry elbows, all for the good of their community and movie-theater popcorn and the love of small town U.S.A.!

Will you donate a little bit of money? Just a little. Or, hey, a lot! I would not presume to tell you how much money to donate to such a wildly wonderful project. I mean, I don’t have to tell you. You’ll see when you watch the video that The Iowa project is really special. The Kickstarter campaign my sister speaks about is specifically to help restore the marquee, but believe me: There’s a lot more left to do and you shouldn’t hesitate to donate, even if the goal is reached for that portion of this thing.

Here’s who should donate:

people who put Junior Mints (or M&M’s, Raisinets, or Reese’s Pieces) directly into their popcorn when they go to the movies
people who love John Wayne
people who love an American town square
people who smile at babies
babies who smile at people
people who were thinking about buying something online within the past hour that they did not need (*do this instead!)
people who scream when the movie is scary
people who cry when the movie is sad
people who cry when the movie is beautiful
people with kids (*hello, date nite!)
people without kids (*hello, just go see a movie!)
people who like it when something good happens in the world (*because there’s so much other stuff that does not feel like this)

and

high school kids (*because the balcony has been restored, you guys, and that means you just got a prime freakin’ make out spot, okay, so you’d better fork over whatever cash you made delivering pizzas last week because you’re welcome.)

Here’s the link to the campaign. If the goal is reached by the time you get there, please donate! That’s not the end of the fundraising, trust me. The money is needed and will be used to make The Iowa great. You’ll have a hand in it, you really will.

Thank you.

24 Apr 2017

It Was Bat Appreciation Day and You Missed It! (I’m Here To Help.)

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Word Nerd | 2
As much as I like bats, they're not exactly handsome creatures. I went with free clip art. Image: Internet.
As much as I like bats, they’re not handsome creatures. I went with free clip art on this one. Image: Internet.

 

A couple weeks ago, Sophie and I took a trip to the Montrose Point Bird Watching Sanctuary. This sweet enclave of brambles and bushes and trees has gotten the nickname “The Magic Hedge” because over 300 species of birds can be found there, according to the Illinois Audubon Society. The Magic Hedge is one of Sophie and her partner Luke’s favorite places to go because Sophie and Luke are legit bird-watchers. In fact, the first time I ever met Luke, he and Sophie had just come from bird-watching. I swear the crazy kids were wearing matching shirts with birds on them. I might be making that up but it’s definitely something they would do.

The love those two have for birds has had an effect on me; I am more in awe of birds because of their interest and joy in seeing them. But the coolest thing Sophie and I saw at the Bird Sanctuary wasn’t a bird.

It was a bat! Yeah, a bat!

We were going along a hedgerow, picking our way along the path, when an elderly fellow coming the other way stopped us, pointed to a branch mid-way up a tree, and whispered, “There’s a red bat just up ahead. Look there!” There it was! A wee, sleekit bat was hanging upside down, sleeping the day away! Why, he looked like a little pussy willow up there, only with a reddish hue to his fur. Sophie and I couldn’t believe it! A bat! We looked at him for awhile. He didn’t do much but he was great. Then, when a lady came along the path, heading in the direction of Sir Bat, I stopped her and told her about the bat, just as the nice man had done for us.

The bat was probably my favorite thing at the Bird Sanctuary that day. My second favorite thing was witnessing Bird Sanctuary etiquette. I love when people get excited by simple things and help other people get excited about them.

Anywhoo, the very next day I was in the newspaper office looking at a website that lists the National Days. You know, National Donut Day, National PaperGirl Day, stuff like that. Well, what do you suppose I saw? I saw that not only is there a National Bat Appreciation Day, but it was coming up in a matter of days! Amazing.

So I wrote up a short, fun little item about this for F Newsmagazine and I thought I’d send you over there to check it out. I really stand by the reading selections I give you in this article. I know many of you are big readers and I promise: You cannot go wrong with the recommendations offered, even if you aren’t so sure about the subject matter.

Also, “Read All A-Bat-It!” is maybe the best headline I’ve ever written, so there’s that, too. Enjoy!

 

28 Mar 2017

The Chocolate Muffin O’ Love.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Paean | 7
Nothing has changed except my shoe size, I suppose. Photo: Mom or Dad c. 1981.
Nothing has changed except my shoe size, really. Photo: Mom or Dad c. 1981.

 

In the newspaper office yesterday morning, Sophie asked me the best question I have ever been asked. 

I was at my computer and Sophie was at her computer and she turned to me with her beautifully lipsticked red lips and her gorgeous tortoise shell glasses and she addressed me as “Miss Mary” because that is how Sophie often addresses me and I love that and she said:

“Miss Mary,” she said, “I made paleo chocolate-banana muffins last night. I have them in my knapsack. Would you like one?”

I know what you’re thinking. “That’s the best question you’ve ever been asked?? What about ‘Will you marry me?’ What about ‘What do you want for Christmas, little girl?'”

No, no, no. Sure, the proposal was great, but we know how that turned out. And Santa? Please. He’s creepy and you never really get what you want, anyway. What you want for Christmas is for peace on Earth and to be deeply, purely, supremely happy forever, which is impossible. No, a question can’t be perfect unless the answer is a) easy to give and b) certain not to ruin lives, regardless of what that answer is. Let’s look at Sophie’s question again:

“I made paleo chocolate-banana muffins last night. I have them in my knapsack. Would you like one?”

Saying yes to this is easy because Sophie’s baked goods are made of unicorns and nutrition. But even if I didn’t want to eat one of these (perfect-for-my-ruined-guts) muffins, no lives would be ruined. So, you see? A perfect question.

When I took a bite of that muffin, I broke into the biggest smile. I actually started laughing, that’s how good it was. Its consistency? Angelic. The chocolate-to-banana flavor relationship? Harmonious. My only complaint? Too small.

How I needed that muffin moment! How I needed Sophie’s unicorns and nutrition. I was coming out of my funk and this was the final, gentle push. I know, I know: It was a freakin’ muffin. But the timing. The timing, you guys.

Eating that baked good — it took three bites and then I licked the paper — I felt like a baby trying chocolate for the first time. That’s how great. And I knew about that feeling because of the picture you see above.

That’s me up there, out at the farm in Iowa, in the Yellow House. I’m pretty sure the photo is capturing my first chocolate experience, though Mom could say for sure. When I ate Sophie’s muffin yesterday, I was instantly reminded of this photo of myself — there’s actually a series of them. I emailed Mom for the picture, apologizing for the random request. But I felt the only way for me to express my gratitude to Sophie and her gift was to show her that picture, show her how she gave me more than a baked good. She gave me a memory of joy.

Mom wrote back right away:

“Hi, honey. Mark and I just arrived on Washington Island…but I have that picture on my hard drive. Tell Sophie hi. Love, Mom.” 

10 Mar 2017

Movies That Made Me The Woman I Am Today: Ode To “Baby Boom”

by | posted in: Art, Family, Paean | 9
I love absolutely everything about this picture. (Screenshot from "Baby Boom".)
I love absolutely everything about this picture. It was also very, very hard to pick a single image for this post. (Screenshot from “Baby Boom”.)

 

Awhile back, I praised one of my film heroes: the outrageously brilliant Goldie Hawn. I wrote about my family’s fierce love for the movie Overboard, Goldie, and Goldie and Kurt Russell’s love. My love was echoed by many people in the comments and on Facebook. Lots of us love Overboard and that’s why the world is gonna be okay. (Maybe.)

Someday, I will talk about my all-time favorite movie ever, on Earth, ever, ever — which would be Tootsie — but not tonight. Tonight, I need to talk about Baby Boom. 

If you haven’t seen Baby Boom, allow me to summarize the plot. No spoilers, don’t worry:

A high-powered New York City executive, J.C. Wiatt — played by the incomparable Diane Keaton  and more on her in a minute — gets a call in the middle of the night. She has inherited something from a long-lost cousin who has died suddenly. When she goes to pick up her inheritance, it’s a baby. She inherited her cousin’s baby Elizabeth. (More on that baby in a minute, too.)

J.C. Wiatt is like, “Are you crazy?! I’m a high-powered executive! I can’t have a baby!” and she tries to get rid of Elizabeth but guess what? J.C. Wiatt becomes attached to the lil’ peanut and can’t bring herself to give Elizabeth back. J.C. is forced to admit that she kind of hates her hectic life and her lame boyfriend and so she gets out of the game and moves herself and Elizabeth into a dream home in rural Vermont where she meets a hot, hot, hot veterinarian, played by Sam Shepard, and I’m not waiting to talk about him. Sam Shepard (the actor/playwright/mystical creature) is so incredibly handsome and charming in this movie, you will literally stomp your foot and slap your leg and go, “Oh, come on!!” because he is just ridiculous.

Anyway, J.C. goes stir-crazy out there in rural Vermont (she’s a high-powered executive!) and her house nearly bankrupts her because it’s a lemon. Besides, it turns out she misses the hustle n’ bustle of New York. At some point during the interminable winter, J.C. starts making homemade baby food for Elizabeth. Soon, she’s selling it in farmer’s markets and country stores around New England and before you know it, J.C. Wiatt’s got a tiger by the tail! Country Baby gourmet baby food is a hit! She’s back in the game!

Will she leave Vermont, the house, her new friends, and the hot, hot, hot veterinarian and sell Country Baby for millions? Will she move back to New York City with Elizabeth and raise her daughter in the most exciting place on the planet or stay in the slow lane? You’ll have to watch the movie to find out.

So now let me tell you something fabulous that I just discovered, unless you’re already clicking over to rent the movie on Amazon, a decision I fully support. Just come back when you’re done.

Check this out: Baby Boom was made in 1987. It was directed by Charles Shyer. It was written by Charles Shyer and Nancy Meyer. Guess what other brilliant Goldie Hawn movie my family loves as much as Overboard? Why, Private Benjamin,  of course. Well, guess who wrote Private Benjamin?? Nancy Meyer and Charles Shyer!! And Shyer directed it, too! And it came out the same year as Baby Boom! 

It feels great to be so consistent. It’s like, “Oh, no wonder I like this thing. It’s exactly like this other thing!” I love it when that happens.

So there are many reasons why Baby Boom is so good: comedic timing, pathos communicated without schlock, and swift pacing all come to mind. But most of all, I love that movie because of the character of J.C. Wiatt, the way Diane Keaton plays her, and — wait for it — J.C. Wiatt’s clothes.

The 1980s are not often given credit for being a fashionable decade. It’s generally understood that the 1970s were worse, which is something, I guess, but people think of the 1980s and they think of neon, shoulder pads, big hair, and acid-washed jeans. But this is so not all the 1980s were in terms of clothes!

J.C. Wiatt proves this. Her thick, cable-knit sweaters. Her luscious scarves. Her swingy, belted dresses with yes, shoulderpads. (They make a waist look smaller and shoulders broad and handsome, if you ask me.) Her handbags, her shoes, her broach. Her other broach. Her big glasses! Oh, those great big glasses. I love it all. So does my younger sister. We have been known to just randomly email each other screenshots of Diane Keaton in Baby Boom with the subject line: “FASHION GOALS.”

The clothes look great on Keaton because Keaton is gorgeous (she was 41 when she made that movie, by the way) and because J.C. Wiatt is a great character. She’s a woman who wants it all — and wanting it all is complicated. She’s got a big heart and big ambitions.She’s conflicted, but she’s trying her best. She’s smart. She’s funny. When I watch that movie, I find myself wanting to either be Diane Keaton and/or J.C. Wiatt, be best friends with Diane Keaton/J.C. Wiatt, have Diane Keaton and/or J.C. Wiatt suddenly be my other mother, and also be like Diane Keaton and/or J.C. Wiatt when I grow up. And then there’s Sam Shepard in the mix, so watching Baby Boom is an intense experience.

Tonight, Baby Boom, I salute you. You really have had a huge impact on me and my sisters. We look up to you and we appreciate you. Also, J.C. Wiatt has a quilt hanging in her dining room, so that pretty much seals the deal.

 

4 Feb 2017

The Pet Update.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family, Philip Larkin | 21
I know. Photo courtesy a google search, as Wikipedia doesn't have any pictures of miniature Maltipoos, yet.
I can’t. I JUST CANNOT. Photo courtesy a plain old google search, as Wikipedia doesn’t have any pictures of miniature Maltipoos, yet. If I get one, I’ll post one.

 

Back in December, I shared that I was thinking seriously of getting a kitty.

Most of you loved the idea and your enthusiasm was powerful. I had visions of little Pipkin (brilliant, Lesley!) licking his whiskers, curling up for a nap on a stack of quilts. I even emailed the pet adoption center downtown and filled out the application form to foster a kitten after several readers advised me to start there. It was all very exciting.

Just a few people said, “Hm… Are you sure, Mar?” and I was glad that those voices were there because as much as I hated to admit it, I had a small but real hesitation in my mind about getting a cat. If the “Hang on there, cowgirl” people hadn’t spoken up, I might’ve ignored that little doubt and there could be a kitten on my lap right now.

(Oh, wow. There could be a kitten on my lap right now… That sounds really great. Wait! No! Focus, Mary Fons! Focus!)

Here’s the problem: As I said in the original post, I really, really want a little dog. I love cats. I do. And we know from this Quilt Scout column that I’m not sold on the idea that “there are two kinds of people in the world” and therefore there are cat people and dog people and ne’er the twain shall meet. Truth be told, I’m actually afraid of big dogs; I’ve personally known two people who have suffered dog bites — bad ones. Like, face bites that required surgery. (I know; it’s really, really horrible.) But even not-so-big dogs can freak me out: One of my best friends from back home, her dog when we were growing up was mean as a snake, barked incessantly, and snapped at me whenever I got near her and she wasn’t much bigger than a Big Wheel.

But the truth is, like a young girl who has watched way too many old-school Disney movies dreams of her Prince Charming, I dream of my teacup Maltipoo, Philip Larkin. He’s a teacup Maltipoo and he’s my guy. My problem with getting a cat is that really, I want a dog and I’m not ready to be mature and wise and gracious and giving and get a different species entirely because I can’t have him, yet. (If you haven’t read the original post, the reasons I can’t have Philip Larkin right now are listed there.) I just have this Phil-or-nothing mindset. It’s like I’m practicing pet chastity or something, saving myself for…marriage. (That’s a super weird line of metaphor that I’m going to drop immediately, even though it is weirdly accurate.)

Perhaps what cinched it for me was my learning from all of you about how cats really need to have a feline companion, especially if they’re alone for long hours in the day. Having two cats makes total sense and if I ever have a cat, I’ll have two. But that was just it: Instead of not having one dog, suddenly I had two cats. And it felt wrong.

For now, I shall wait. I will pet my friend Sophie’s cats. I will pet my friend Heather’s cat. And I might still foster a kitten at some point, just to make sure! But several people have asked me about the Cat Question and I thought I’d update you.

Someday, little Philip Larkin. Someday, buddy.

 

9 Jan 2017

Berlin, Here I Come! (Also: Friends.)

by | posted in: Family, Luv, Paean, Travel | 11
Claus sent me this when he got to Berlin this summer. It's on the fridge.
Claus sent me this when he got to Berlin this summer. It’s on the fridge. Scan: Me.

 

On Wednesday, I am going to fly on a plane and land in Berlin! Just over a month ago, I got a cheap, cheap ticket for a quick, quick trip and now the journey is almost upon us.* It’s been over five years since I left the country so as you can imagine, I am very excited to go.

But if I was just going to Berlin for the heck of it, just to see Berlin or take a trip to a foreign land because the price was right, I’d be excited with the kind of excitement you get when you get a cupcake at a cupcake shop (yes, there are shops that only sell cupcakes and this is why I live in a big city.) You take the cupcake out of the box and peel back the paper and open your mouth to take the first bite and to be sure, this is a great level of excitement. But it’s not as good as it gets.

Because I know this wonderful person in Berlin. And I get to see him after saying goodbye to him seven months ago. So the kind of excitement I feel about going to Berlin is like getting a homemade cupcake from someone who made your favorite kind — yellow cake, vanilla fudge frosting with sprinkles — and not because you asked but because they love you. They love to see you smile. My friend Sophie made me a Funfetti birthday cake this summer, so I know these things do actually happen, these people do exist.

Tonight, I was fortunate to share a glass of wine and some french fries with two of my favorite people: the birthday cake-maker, Sophie, and Brian, a hot chocolate fan. Six months ago, I didn’t know either of them; we connected because of grad school at SAIC. If I get nothing but these friendships out of the experience, grad school will have been worth it. Seriously; come have wine and french fries with us and you’ll see what I mean.

We talked about our respective love lives. I asked Sophie about a possible engagement ring in her future; Brian spoke to the situation he finds himself in lately, introducing his newly-relocated-to-Chicago girlfriend to his friends; I spoke about my ongoing, satisfying dalliance with a certain young man. Of course we talked about my upcoming trip. Suddenly, the conversation went to a very deep place. Discussion of jobs lead to passionate feelings about Big Stuff — life and money, goals and reality, art school, the meaning of happiness, success — and several things were touched off in each of us that, over the course of the conversation, created some tears and frustration. (Full disclosure: I cried a lot.)

People will tell you that folks are most guarded and sensitive when talking about sex, but it’s not true: Jobs and income and money and making a living, owning what you have, wanting what you don’t and even not wanting what you do have — this is far more intimate stuff to talk about. We went there tonight and it wasn’t easy, but it was really important. If you don’t get vulnerable to the point of tears with other people at least sometimes, you forget that you can do that and the world doesn’t disintegrate and they don’t run away. And you don’t run away. And this can be the biggest revelation of all.

The reason I’m telling you about this in the same post about going to Berlin is because it’s all related.

I live by myself. I like living by myself. I like my tea in the morning and a hamper filled with only my underwear. But I am the opposite of alone. The people in my life, they push me to think harder, love better; they correct me, they encourage me. Berlin, Chicago, Australia (hi, Yuri), Iowa, or New York City — in these places, I am never alone. And when I’m in between those places? They’re with me in those places, too.

Ocean, schmocean. You know?

And then there’s you. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you what’s been coming in the mail. File my whole life under “Embarrassment Of Riches.”

*You think I’d go without you??

 

29 Dec 2016

Too Much Light Is Dead: Long Live The Neo-Futurists, Part II.

by | posted in: Art, Chicago, Family, Paean, Rant | 11
Ensemble photograph of the Neo-Futurists c. 2009. That's me in the scarf — and Greg in green.) Photo: Andrew Collings Photography, Inc.
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!

  1. 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.
  2. 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?
  3. 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.
  4. 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.

 

28 Dec 2016

Too Much Light Is Dead: Long Live The Neo-Futurists, Part I.

by | posted in: Art, Chicago, Family, Plays, Rant | 11
Jumping for numbers. I think that's Kurt. Hi, Kurt! Photo: Chicago 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.

26 Dec 2016

An Ice-Skater Is Born.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 9
Woman ice skating, 1930. Photo: Wikipedia.
Woman ice skating, 1930. Photo: Wikipedia.

 

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.

 

24 Dec 2016

Merry Christmas Eve! A Silly Poem.

by | posted in: Family, Poetry | 12
Thanks, Wikipedia! Lyndon B. Johnson and his family on Christmas Eve in 1968. Yellow Oval Room, White House.
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.

Merry Christmas, beautiful.

 

 

 

8 Dec 2016

The Crit: What Happened, And What Happens.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 49
The deer is my power animal. So here's a deer. Image: Wikipedia.
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.

 

6 Dec 2016

So My Dad Is Going To Be At My Critique, Apparently.

by | posted in: Day In The Life, Family | 27
Father with child. Photo: Wikipedia.
Father with child. Photo: Wikipedia.

 

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.

5 Dec 2016

The Iowa Theater Renovation: Interview With The Fons Girls, Part II

by | posted in: Family, The Iowa Theater Winterset | 12
That's a good-lookin' cup (atop Mom's kitchen sink in Iowa.) Photo: Me.
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.

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