To Those Who've Gone On, We Salute You

By Mike Nettleton

 They say a sign of getting old is knowing more dead people than those who are living. I don’t know if I’ve gotten there yet, but I find myself inexplicably drawn to the obituaries these days. 

The local newspaper just ran the yearly list of notable who passed away in 2013. Some of them, I knew about. Others came as a surprise. I’d either skipped reading the paper or watching the news that day, or it had slipped what’s left of my mind.(A regular occurrence)

Some of the deceased were important players on the world’s stage, like Nelson Mandela, a man of incredible courage, intelligence and capacity for forgiveness. Or, long-time UPI White House correspondent Helen Thomas, whose blunt and penetrating questioning could make even the most poised world leader sweat bullets. But the names that caught my attention this year were somewhat lesser figures, but whose contributions had an impact on my life in some way, shape or form.

Annette Funicello. 70-Mouseketeer turned sex symbol. As teenaged boys, we flocked to the next “Beach Party” flick to see if she’d finally hear our psychic pleading and wear a two-piece swimsuit.

Andre Cassagnes 86-The guy who invented the “Etch-a-Sketch". Just one of the many toys, I never got the hang of, along with erector sets, Mr. Potato Head and paddle ball. (The rubber ball kept hitting me in the head).

Jonathan Winters 87-Wild man comedian who could, without fail, make me blow a recent mouthful of Coke up through my nose. He could take any ordinary object and improv on it with hilarious results.

Charles, “Chuck” Foley 82-The inventor of the game “Twister.” Genius, really, a way to legitimize groping one another in the name of good clean fun. An ancestor of twerking. 

Lou Reed. 71-He didn’t exactly sing, he just kinda talked rhythmically. Who can stop smiling when they hear: “and the colored girls sing doot-dee-doot-de-doot-de-doot-doot,” from “Walk on the Wild Side?

Peter O’ Toole. 81-One of my all-time acting faves. His scenes with Katherine Hepburn in A Lion in Winter rank as the state of the art hilarious on-the-screen most creative bitchiness ever filmed. Nominated 8 times for an Oscar and never won.

Honorable mentions include Chrissy Amphlett, lead singer of the punk group Divinyls, famous for “I Touch Myself,” James Gandolfini “Bada bing-badda-boom," and C. Everett Koop, the Amish-looking surgeon general who helped nag me into stopping smoking.

That’s the list. I’m ready to stop looking back and leap into 2014. Chief among my resolutions, “stop procrastinating (a holdover from last year), Take singing lessons and audition for the Metropolitan Opera, and finally, master paddle ball and the etch a sketch.

 

Going Gray – Part II

August 29, 2013

 Carolyn J. Rose
 

December 8, 2013

"It’s not bad now,” my hairdresser said as she trimmed off split ends a few weeks ago, “but it’s going to get scary when you have more gray showing.”

Scary?

Since my decision to stop coloring my hair cut into her income, I didn’t expect her to applaud and cheer me along.

But scary?

I found myself tipping my head to get a better view of the process underway since the end of the summer. Yes, there’s a definite line of demarcation. Yes, it’s obvious I haven’t been touching up the roots. Yes, it’s clear that there are strands and streaks of gray and even white.

But is that scary?

And if so, why?

Because we fear aging, fear the wrinkles and sagging and graying? Do we see those things not as symbols of wisdom and experience, but simply signs that time is passing and we’re no longer young?

If so, is that fear rooted in opinions about outward appearance? Is it based on what the makers of cosmetics and creams and diets and exercise programs tell us?

Or is the fear deeper, primal, coded into our DNA? Is it a fear of loss of ability and power and place in society? Is it fear about what comes next?

I have no idea. Do you?

SO MANY WORDS, SO LITTLE TIME

I’ve always loved words. Early on, I would remember words I heard on television or radio, or from grown up conversations and try to work them into my own spiel at a later date. Several times, repeating words I heard my father’s friends say in “guy” bull sessions earned me a corner table at the Lifebuoy Soap cafe, with the entree delivered by my mother. If you catch my drift.

My enthusiasm for the sound of words may have contributed to my career choices: semi-professional radio pronouncer and disk-jockey (reinforced by my love of music) and later on, writer of stories, books and doggerel. To this day, I continue my life-long habit of incorporating fun-to-say words into my day-to-day speech. Words such as: marginalia, kumquat and brap-a-dap-a-dap-a-dap.

Etymology, in itself a fun word to wrap your lips around, sounds like it should be the be the study of someone’s dining habits as in “I et last night at Tommy O’s and the night before I et at that Russian sushi joint over on Maybe Street. But, as I’m sure you know, etymology is the study of word origins. 

The internet is a wonderful place, allowing us to dig for information on a wide range of subjects. Occasionally, the excavated facts are even true. This is a great boon to a dedicated amateur etymologist like me.  Here are a sampling of my current favorite words and a brief explanation of their roots. 

·       hornswoggle—meaning to embarrass, disconcert or confuse. Nobody’s quite sure, but  they think it was one of those farcified words settlers in the American West liked to invent to confuse the tourists.

·       bamboozle—A cousin of hornswoggle. To practice trickery—to take advantage of someone. Again, they’re not sure, but think it might have spun off the Scottish word “bumbaze.” If you’ve had a few “wee drops” of single malt and a mouthful of haggis, it’s easy to see how it could evolve.

·       Unctuous—a favorite because it’s so perfectly descriptive. It means excessively smooth, suave or smug. With a side order of insincere. The word comes from Middle Ages Latin.

·       Wanker—This one is British slang. Used as a pejorative. Shows disdain for the person described.  It’s roots are 19th century British working-class and derives from a form (ahem) of self gratification. Thus the verb form “to wank.”

·       Snogging—another British slang tongue tantalizer. It mean’s kissing, cuddling and perhaps anything short of actually tummy bumping. The roots are uncertain but first turned up amongst U.K. hipsters in the late 50’s.

·       Pejorative—Expression of disapproval or contempt. Roots are Latin and adapted by the French because it was fun to pronounce through your nose. 

·       Loofah—sounds like it should be some sort of exotic sports chant, doesn’t it? Yes, the Samoans have scored again here at the exfoliation bowl and their fans reward them with their trademark cheer: “loofah, loofah, loofah.” It’s called the vegetable sponge and is the fruit of the Luffa plant. Arabic in origin.

So, now, it’s your turn to etymologize. Remember, if you can dazzle ‘em with footwork, baffle ‘em with B.S. Share a fun-to-say word or two in the comments.

Designing a Coat of Arms

Carolyn J. Rose

A few years before he died, I watched my father using a drill to shave away a sixteenth of an inch of plasterboard in a bathroom ceiling.

My father was a carpenter, so this wasn’t an act of born of ignorance. Rather it was an act of expedience. The exhaust fan almost fit. It was almost time for lunch. He was almost out of patience. Using the drill was quicker than going to the garage for a saw.

“If our family had a coat of arms,” I told him when the fan was in place, “it would have a picture of a man using a drill for a saw.”

“And a picture of a woman holding a drill behind her back while denying she’s done the same thing,” he shot back.

True. I had done that. Several times. I am, after all, my father’s daughter.

A few days ago I recalled that incident and started thinking about what would be on my coat of arms if I had one.

 I doodled a shield on a piece of scrap paper and traced the outline of the Catskill Mountains across it. I was born in those mountains, and they are ever in my mind.

I divided the shield into quadrants and, in the top right one, sketched a grove of white birches between a stone wall and a meandering stream.

In a second quadrant, I drew a camera and a television to symbolize my 25+ years in TV news.

In a third, I roughed out a stick figure holding a drill in honor of my father and to represent all the home repair projects I tackled—some successful and some downright disastrous.

Finally, I drew my husband, my dogs, and a pile of books. Then, in the interest of honesty and full disclosure, I added a sack of cheesy snacks.

I am, after all, still my father’s daughter. And we never met a cheesy snack we didn’t like.

If you had a coat of arms, what would you put on it?

A So-so Sewing Experience

Carolyn J. Rose

While subbing in fashion marketing class, I watched students creating designs for dresses and stitching them 

up using toilet paper instead of cloth.

If you think that’s difficult, you’re right.

Their frustrations and triumphs took me back to junior high and those then-obligatory Home Ec classes—or Home Ick classes as I called them—and the sewing projects that stood between me and a decent grade.

The first was an apron. (Note: this was back in the day when every woman I knew wore an apron, some all day long. Nowadays, if there’s no way to avoid cooking, I throw on an old T-shirt.)

The plan for the apron was to attach a small square of fabric to a larger one using a long strip that would tie around the waist. A loop attached to the smaller square went around the neck.

To make certain we all got a good foundation for the project, the teacher had us measure, measure again, pin, cut, pin, mark, baste, and sew. In my case, there were additional steps: rip out and sew again. By the time I presented it to my mother, my apron looked like something assembled for Frankenstein’s monster.

The second project was a skirt—a gathered skirt. It’s a fact of fashion that gathered skirts were designed for women with waists like Scarlett O’Hara and not too much in the hip department. It’s a fact of life that I’m not one of those women. I petitioned to be allowed to make a straight skirt and began another round of pinning, marking, cutting, basting, sewing, and ripping out.

With a week left in the semester, my skirt was still in pieces, ragged and frayed pieces, because of the many times I ripped out seams and darts. At the end of her rope, the teacher allowed me to take it home and finish over the weekend. At the end of my rope, I handed it off to my grandmother, the woman who made many of my clothes from the time I was born.

She had it completed and ironed by Saturday afternoon. With a smug smile, I turned it in Monday morning.

On Wednesday I got my grade: B-.

I was fine with that, but my grandmother was livid. “B-,” she raged. “That skirt was perfect. I’m going to complain to the teacher.”

“And admit you did the work?” I asked. “And watch her give me an F?”

Caught between the rock of getting her darling granddaughter in trouble and the hard place of swallowing the poison pill of that grade, she swallowed.

Looking back, I see that I learned larger lessons, lessons that had nothing to do with how to make an apron or cheat at making a skirt. I learned that love can trump pride. I learned that more patience would serve me well. And I learned that I wanted to have a career that paid well enough so I could buy clothes off the rack.

The Loneliest Things

Carolyn J. Rose

Last weekend, during a wind-lashed downpour, I stared out the window at the soggy chaise on our deck. Just a few weeks ago, when the nights were warm and the air was soft and fragrant, I lounged on that chaise with a book in my hand, waiting for the tiny solar lights in our garden to beam on and the bats to emerge and flutter above me. Now the chair hunkers in the gray rain alone.

Yesterday I hunted through drawers and cabinets in search of a thermal sock, a Christmas gift from Mike and mate to one in the corner of a drawer. The search was in vain. The sock in the corner remains alone.

This morning a single goose flew over. Had it, like the sock, lost its mate? Mourning the loss, had it fallen behind the others in the chevron headed south? Would it ever catch up?

Unlike the last cookie on a plate or the last shot in a bottle, these are lonely things. I know that cookie will be eaten—probably by me—and that shot will be poured.

I don’t know if that goose will find its way. I don’t know if I’ll find the missing sock. I don’t know whether I’ll be here to lounge on that chair when summer returns even though it will wait for me through the dank days of winter.

What says “loneliness” to you?

Humming Right Along



My son called the other day to remind me that I’m getting old.

No, it wasn’t anything obvious, like “Hi, dad, you’re really an old fart, aren’t you? The conversation went more like this:

“Hey Dad, it’s Rob. How you doin’?

“I’m good. What’s up with you?”

“Listen, I didn’t just call to say hello. I had a favor to ask.”

Uh-oh. Now, in the old days those words would have started my antenna tingling. It usually meant he needed money or wanted to move back in with me for a time. But since he’s middle-aged, has a stable job and makes more money than I ever did, I doubted that was it. Actually, that particular telephone call will probably originate on my end if I tap out on my retirement money.

“A friend of mine has a song running through his head and he can’t remember the name of it. All he’s got is the opening riffs. So I told him I’d call my old Deejay father and hum it to him and he’d come up with it.”

Now it made me proud he had that kind of confidence in me. And old. Okay, okay, it’s true. I started doing radio gigs when we still cued up 45 rpm records by hand (ree-raw, ree, raw) and the turn-tables were kerosene powered. Rob spent his ankle-biter years sacked out on a sleeping bag in the control room of radio stations in small cities while his dad ran the “yawn patrol” morning show.

“Piece of cake.” I lied. After all, what were the chances he could hum it so I could recognize it? Or that the cranny of my brain that regurgitated that kind of information might have an “out to lunch” sign hanging from it.

“Dah, dah, dah, duddah, dah dah dah. Dah, dah, dah, duddah dah, dah, dah.” He hummed.

“Them Changes” I blurted out. “Buddy Miles. Late sixties, early seventies.”

Rob checked it on You-Tube, then whistled. “You’re the best, old man. Thanks. See you soon.” I’m sure the “old man” was meant with affection and not intended to rub it in.

What most amazes me is the capability of my brain to spew stuff like that. I often can’t remember the names of people I’ve met repeatedly, my social security number or whether or not I’m checking a book out of the library I’ve already read. Yet, I can hear the first ten seconds of almost any song I’ve ever played on the radio and name it. Often, I can give you name of the songwriter, the label it appeared on and how far it rose on the charts.

Selective memory, as handy as it may be in avoiding household chores can be scary. What if I find myself parked somewhere in Chehalis and can’t remember why I’m there? Will a time come when people around me will have to try to find diplomatic ways of telling me I’ve forgotten to wear pants? Is there some kind of memory trick I can use to recall peoples names?

Maybe I could get them to hum it for me. By the way, here's the link to "Them Changes."  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w05CYrXe4p4