AliThinks

Just One Of Those Things

As I was reading a friend's blog entry (and it was the included image that made me think of this, but the post is worth reading), I was reminded of a time when my paternal grandmother corrected me. I was young, maybe six, maybe a little older, and I was talking to her about Nancy Drew. I mentioned Nancy's tit-ee-an hair, and my grandma said, "Tee-shan."

My grandmother was of country stock, she lived on a dirt road, and yet she knew how to pronounce Titian. She'd been to college. She also knew how to make whoopie pies, which she we called devil dogs. She knew a whole lot of stuff, and I wish I could hang out with her for a while. I left the country at the end of 1992, and my grandma died in 1999. I saw her in between, but she had Alzheimer's, so it was hard. I don't know if she knew that the baby she held in 1996 was my daughter Charlotte.

This is just one of those things. Tonight I made Christmas-y treats with two of my friends, and our significant others were there too. We had a great time. But S. reminisced about her grandmother's bun recipe, which no one had managed to write down, and I thought about my grandma's cooking. We have her recipe for Texas sheet cake, Ranger cookies*, and some other things. I feel sure, however,  that there were things that Grandma made without a recipe, and we've probably lost those forever.

*I preferred chocolate chip cookies, but Grandma seemed to always make Ranger cookies.

And so we go on. If I have grandchildren, they may not care that I correct their pronunciation of Titian; they may never encounter that word. And that's okay. (It took a lot for me to write that.) I do hope that I can give them some memories, and more importantly, some recipes.

Which means, oh hell, I need to start writing my cooking down.

First Of All,

thank you. I really appreciated your comments, some of which surprised me. I have lurkers!

And while I haven't looked at my stats, I'm sure that if there's a high point, it's because of all you commenters. Which brings me to:

You like me! You really like me! (Apologies to Sally F.)

It seems a little like vouja dé. I feel like I've done this sort of "zOMG, do you laaaiiiiiiike me?" thing before, and that troubles me. 

Because really, à la base, and excuse my French, isn't blogging supposed to be about the blogger rather than the audience? (Here's where you chime in "Why yes, Alison, yes!")

And so I guess I will start thinking of myself and what I want to say. If you want to read my words and thoughts, then that's great. If you don't, that's fine. I think I'll keep writing for ME in this space. If I move from here, I'll let you know.

In Praise Of Locally-Owned Joints

A few days ago a locally-based independent bookstore announced that it had filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy, about a week after announcing it would close two of its stores in Charlotte and Pittsburgh. Now, Joseph-Beth will also close stores in Cleveland and Nashville.

I work in a locally-owned (not -based, nuance) independent bookstore, and I do not relish this news. Joseph-Beth's Lexington store (their flagship) will remain open. So that's good. This town has several book stores, and I believe it's a big enough town that we can all co-exist.

The announcement last week got me thinking about the nature of bookstores. Say what you will about digital media and "the death of print," but there is still a place in society for bookstores. One of the common complaints I've heard about Joseph-Beth is that it sold so much besides books. "It's like a gift shop that has books," is the refrain. That kind of store has its place for sure. But Joseph-Beth and Barnes & Noble are such big places that when you go it becomes a "shopping experience."

The bookstore I work in is small. Many people think that it is a used bookstore, because they are not used to seeing such a small bookstore with new inventory. And at least once a week, we have a customer who says "I had no idea this place was here!" or "I'm so glad I found you!" and that feels really good.

About a year ago, my friend Nick wrote a piece for a local weekly alternative paper, and he spent some time at the Morris book shop talking to my manager, Hap. The resulting essay was long, but what Nick wrote stayed with me: the idea of a bookstore as a cultural commons. Here's a PDF link to the paper the article was in. (The article starts on page 5; incidentally, there is an awesome review of the Twilight series by another friend on page 1.) Here are some choice phrases that Nick wrote about the place I work:

Local bookshops are able to
provide the interpersonal intimacy
absent from the digital realm. More
specifically, a transaction at a shop
like Morris establishes a relationship
beyond mere commodity, or informa-
tion, exchange. The shop is a nexus
for community interests, interests that
one shouldn’t have to—even virtually—
leave his or her community to explore.
Its connective tissue is simply people
(who are your neighbors) and books.

...

There’s no telling what will happen
to the printed word in the future, but
places like Morris needn’t worry any-
time soon. By providing a venue for
the community to educate itself and
learn about one another, it connects
to its customers by establishing bonds
that transcend typical commodity
transactions. While its fate is beholden
to the industry it operates within, it
sees itself—and deserves to be seen—as
something greater than a middleman. 

Nick wrote some good anecdotes about that afternoon he spent at the Morris book shop, so if you have a few minutes, the entire article is worth a read. What I've quoted here is the crux of it, however. A bookstore is a gathering place for ideas. Sure, coffee helps. But we don't have coffee at the Morris book shop (yet), and I have to tell you, I have been privy to — and participated in — some incredible conversations over the past 18 months that I've worked there.

I'm not so starry-eyed as to think that these kinds of "cultural commons" discussions don't happen outside of small, independent bookstores. Of course they do. Connections are made all the time, in all kinds of places. But places like the Morris book shop, or Third Street Stuff and Coffee, or Coffee Times, or the Co-op have an intimacy that larger stores do not. These are community-oriented, locally-owned places. Their patrons are community-oriented as well. These are the places where ideas are discussed, fleshed out, perhaps even come to fruition.

I've no doubt that Joseph-Beth was once this kind of place. And I think as we move forward, we need to look back to a time when homogenization was only something you associated with milk. There will always be chain stores and restaurants. Some folks crave the stability of having the same offerings no matter what city they are in, and I kind of get that. But in our own towns, let's embrace the local joints: not only are they motors of the economy, but that's where stuff really happens.

Planned Obsolesence

I'm sure that the manufacturers of our refrigerator weren't really thinking that. I have faith that they believed their products would last years and years, if not a lifetime.

Can you feel my sarcasm?

The refrigerator that Allan bought seven years ago (after the Ice Storm of 2003™ killed the one he had) kicked the bucket last Thursday night.

And because the cost of repair is comparable to the cost of a new appliance in this disposable society, we bought a new refrigerator.

We went to a local store Friday morning (because hey, they offer super duper service and competitive prices in addition to being local, woo-hoo!) and measured a few fridges. We quickly realized that it was going to be hard to fit a refrigerator into the space we had, because of the cupboard that was just above said space.

Our kitchen was last remodeled in the mid-70s, and refrigerators have gotten bigger and taller (and better) since then. We've planned to remodel the kitchen since I moved here four years ago. It didn't take long for Allan to suggest we rip out the cupboard above the fridge, so that we didn't have to worry about height. (I must add that the fridge that just kicked the bucket had a kind of "lip" on the top of it that made opening the cupboard difficult. So it wasn't hard to agree to Allan's idea*.)

*Of course, we've got Allan's parents' china sitting on the dining room table now. We have to decide where to store it.

We decided on a fridge, purchased it, and went home and set about removing the offending cupboard. It took a while to figure out which screws were actually holding the thing in place. When we finally got the thing down, my vantage point allowed me a view that made me laugh out loud.

Somebody had trouble finding the stud in the wall.

Our new fridge was delivered the next day. It's pretty fantastic. I love that it's described as "French door." I'm not sure if that refers to the double-door opening (which is referred to as a "réfrigérateur américain" in France) or the freezer on the bottom (which is pretty standard in France). Anyway, long may she live!

Metropolitan

Allan and I just finished watching Metropolitan, which I'd begun to believe I'd imagined. Our local Blockbuster (before it closed for good) didn't have it, and our local local (that's a double local, y'all) video store didn't have it either. Last week we got our Netflix for Wii disc, and we set up a queue of films. I pulled Metropolitan out of some distant place in my brain. You know, that bit of 1990 that we all don't remember.

I saw this movie back then, because I worked at an independent cinema on the grounds of the Chautauqua Institution. And I loved it. Here's a pretty crappy description of the film*: 

In an apartment on Manhattan a couple of friends from the New York upper-class meet almost every night to talk about social mobility, play bridge and discuss Fourier's socialism; the cynic Nick, the philosophical Charlie, party girl Sally and austenite Audrey. They are joined by Tom. His background is much simpler and he is critical of their way of life. But he finds a soul mate in Audrey, who without his knowledge falls in love with him.

*Yeah, no. I'm not going to spend any time thinking of clever shit to use as a title.

At the time, I was in this weird relationship with a guy; he and I met in college, but he was transferring to another school, and Chautauqua was near enough that we saw each other fairly regularly that summer. I'll call him Clay, just for anonymity's sake. Clay was from a large city in a western state, and had gone to boarding school in another large city in another western state. He and I were, in the common parlance, fuckbuddies. I wanted more; I thought I was in love with him (I probably was, in all honesty).

Clay had spent a year in France during high school with a program that teamed his school up with other boarding schools. This was a seminal year for Clay, and his best friends, which he made that year, had gone to Exeter.

Clay told me stories about his time in France with his friends; he also told me stories about going sailing with said friends once they were back in the States. They did all kinds of things, he and his friends. For this preacher's kid from suburban Pittsburgh, it was all unbelievable yet desirable, because it was way, way out of my league.

And so the first time I watched Metropolitan, I imagined that the characters were Clay's friends (never mind that Clay didn't live in New York, and I had no idea where his Exeter friends were from). I imagined that this was the kind of life he led when he was with his friends (never mind that he lived in a fucking western city in a western state).

I wanted to watch this film again, not because of Clay, but because I remembered that we had it at the Chautauqua Cinema back in the day, and I remembered that I really enjoyed it.

And I watched it, and I enjoyed it, but this time I saw the characters from a completely different point of view. These poor rich kids who quote Jane Austen and have to live up to impossible standards, well, I felt sorry for them. Twenty years ago I wanted to be them. I wanted to be like Clay, who'd been to boarding school, and who had other rich friends whose families had fleets of Range Rovers, or second homes in Breckenridge, or who were simply named Breckenridge (Breck for short, of course).

I don't remember laughing when I watched Metropolitan back in the day. Tonight I laughed. I know so much more now than I did then.

Edit: Siskel and Ebert on Metropolitan. Much respect!

Day 4

And I almost forgot to write something here! 

The big news is that my kids are here for their vacances de février, or winter break. Their dad and I have been switching around breaks, which has been really nice, and if we're counting, I'm actually ahead. One perk is that the kids are experiencing other seasons here than "summer" and "Christmas," something they never got to do before. They also get to see more day-to-day "normal" stuff. Not that Summer and Christmas aren't normal, but they're special times. 

Everyone's asleep but me. Miles Davis is on the radio. The cats are padding around, trying to figure out what's going on. (It takes them a day or two to acclimate to the kids' presence, and equally as long to adjust to their absence.)

Tonight I watched two TV shows for the first time: Ghost Whisperer (in syndication) and Bones. I never watched GW because I don't much like the star of the show (for no good reason. I just don't like her). I never watched Bones because...I don't know. We don't watch much TV. I really, really enjoyed it, though. I also liked the character, Temperance Brennan, because I've read Kathy Reichs's books about her. Woo-hoo for that!

OH, but wait! The TV character was apparently based on Kathy Reichs herself, not the Tempe Brennan of her books. Hmmm...interesting.

Anyway. These are shows my kids watch in France. It was cool to hear my daughter say things like "Oh, I so love her voice," because they see a dubbed version over there. 

And so it goes on a Thursday night here in Ali-land.

Hoo Boy

After the craptastic start to my week, today was better. I won't go into too much detail as to why, because I need to keep some things close to me still.

But there was bodywork, and then there was Bikram yoga. Both have left me wrung out (like an old mop, if you want a crappy analogy), but I feel that good fatigue and am in a great mood.

I'm settled on the couch, cozy in my robe, and will watch my guilty pleasure, American Idol (if I can stay awake until nine).

No Triskaidekaphobia Here

None. Today's a special day. It's my husband's birthday! You can go wish him a happy birthday, if you want. Or you can just sit here and smile, like I'm doing now. ("How did I get so lucky," I'm thinking!) 

Happy Birthday, Allan. I love you.

Here I Go

OK. I'm going to try NaBloPoMo again. If anything, it will be a good exercise in writing and self-discipline, right?

I've been rather silent here about personal things, but if we are friends on Facebook, you'll know that Allan and I have a pretty rich social life. I suppose one could blame Facebook on what seems to be an across-the-board lassitude with blogging. I'm not the only blogger who's cut way down on posting. To some degree I suppose it's true: Facebook has a more immediate feel to it, plus, you can really control who sees what you post there. 

In any case, let me write a bit about an activity (and a big part of that rich social life I mentioned) that's held me captive (in a good way) for the past 8 months. I'm in a marching band. I play the flute.

This is not just fanfares and John Philip Sousa. This is funked up music performed by some of the most creative people I've ever met. We play music written by Quincy Jones, James Brown, Squirrel Nut Zippers, and Edgar Winter, among others. We have a troupe of dancers called hoop girls, who accompany us with joy, grace, and beauty.

We've been noticed, too. We were asked to play at Louisville's Forecastle Festival this past summer, and last night we held the attention of 1000 people who were at Buster's to see Man Man.

But this isn't just about patting the collective group on the back. (Although, seriously, people? We. Are. Awesome.) It's about how much pleasure I get from playing music again, performing for people, seeing their reactions to the marching band (which really ought to have air quotes around the "marching" part; we strut and mosey and dance), and feeling the creativity and love pouring out of my fellow band mates. 

It's hard to find the words to express all my feelings about the March Madness Marching Band. I'm out of practice with writing, and feel I'll fail if I even try to explain. And while it might sound hyperbolic, I'm pretty sure this is one of the best things that's ever happened to me.

Revisiting Old Friends

Writers need to read. Every writer knows it. I've been absorbing books lately. I'd say I was devouring them, but that seems like a cliché, doesn't it? It's apt, however. I'm ravenous for stories.

I'm in the middle of rereading the Austin Family Chronicles by Madeleine L'Engle, who's one of my favorite authors. I loved her Wrinkle In Time books as a teen, and was comforted by The Summer of The Great-Grandmother when I was a new mother. That sweet child of mine is now fourteen, and the Austin Family books are hers; they were a Christmas gift, and she left them here.

It's been 25 years since I've read these books, and they're still relevant. In fact, these books are 40+ years old, but it doesn't matter. Only a few things seem dated. The interactions and relationships are still fresh, but human nature doesn't change much, does it?

I remember the characters well, and I'm pleased to be spending time with them again. 

Who are you spending time with these days?

I've Let Myself Get Behind

When I last blogged, I was still all high from the English Beat concert (and no, I don't mean that kind of high).

This past Thursday night, I said to Allan, "I feel fortunate to live here." We were driving back to Lexington from Berea, where we'd just seen Habib Koité and Bamada perform. Allan replied "It's amazing how much great music we've heard in the past week." And he was right. It was a banner week for Lexingtonians Who Love Music. Here's a recap of what we saw:

Friday, April 17: Ellee Ven and Big Fresh at Give Into The Groove.

Saturday, April 18: Robert Schneider, Chico Fellini, Ben Sollee, The Sundresses, and Attempt (a Trevor Tremaine creation, and I can't find a specific link for Attempt), all at CD Central for Record Store Day.

Sunday, April 19: The (English) Beat at The Dame.

Thursday, April 23: Habib Koité (link in French) and Bamada at Berea College, Berea, Kentucky.

I've got photos of all the events, but most of them are just hanging out on my hard drive. I did make a Flickr set for Record Store Day. Here's a photo I've posted of Habib Koité.

Allan was right: we've seen an amazing amount of music in the past week.

Music is a balm to my soul; it soothes this savage breast (apologies to William Congreve).

I feel fortunate to live here.

Edit: April 26 also marks the day in 2003 when I decided to stop lurking at the internet radio station I'd been listening to for four months, so I created an account and started commenting. Hoo boy, the website was waaaay different back then. But the important thing is the music. And that's six+ years of aural goodness in my life, and let's not forget that balm thing. Or that soothing thing. 

Des Bloggeuses à Paris

Yesterday (this would be Wednesday, July 2; I'm not changing the time stamp on my blog just for three days, and it's nearly 5 am in Paris right now) I had lunch with one blogger and dinner with another.

Polly and I connected recently, and I was delighted to meet her at the same café I had a Perrier with Jeorg at last year. (And it was a total coincidence, which makes it even better). We had each had a tarte salée, salad, and a glass of rosé for lunch, then coffee. Then another coffee. The second coffee we had out on the terrasse, because the rain had stopped, and coffee on a café terrace is one of life's better pleasures. See here:

Polly's lovely daughter and her adorable friend joined us for a while, then we all went off to do other things. In my case it was a reconnaissance mission at La Droguerie.

Samantha and I arranged to meet at 7 for dinner somewhere. She crossed the Seine and we met at Les Halles, which was kind of her, since it meant I only had to walk about 300 meters. She'd heard of an Italian restaurant with great ravioli; I knew there was one on the rue Montorgueil. It turned out the be the same place, so we had ravioli (hers with figs and Parma ham, mine with truffles, Parma ham, and button mushrooms) and the house red.

By 9:30 I was back in my room, exhausted. An hour later, I was asleep. A dream woke me at 3:00, and here I am.

But what matters here is the people I met. Blogging is such an amazing thing. (YES. I know I said I thought about quitting.) You encounter people via the blogosphere, and if you're lucky enough to meet in person, you automatically have a connection. My jetlag-addled brain can't think of a better way to say that.

In any case, spending time with Polly and Sam was a great way to spend my first day in Paris. (My second day in Paris will actually involve fast trains, the city of Bordeaux, and picking up my children.)

Merci, les filles !

(Now, do I try to sleep a little more, or do I hit up the hotel breakfast in 40 minutes?)

The Backyard

We have a husband-and-wife rabbit couple who live in a warren somewhere in the bushes that edge the far end of our backyard. The two bunnies spend time in our yard in broad daylight, munching on the clover and dandelions. They're not afraid of us anymore.

Tonight as we ate our dinner of ribs and salad o'CSA goodness, the rabbits ate theirs. Clover, clover, dandelion, clover. Monsieur was feeling randy, and hopped close behind Madame, who lay her ears flat and tried to make her way back to the safety of the bushes. She didn't seem in the mood.

I'm pleased that we have these creatures sharing the land. We may live in the middle of the city, but we still have Nature.

23 Years Of Friendship

This weekend Allan and I attended the wedding of my best friend from high school. Back then we didn't call each other "BFF," but rather Befri St. End, after the way the words were split on the heart-shaped necklaces that you can still buy today.

We haven't been in constant touch over the years, but we have shared joys and sorrows with each other. It was a joy to see D. wed to her soul mate. I wish them many years of happiness with each other and ALL THOSE BOYS they have. (They each brought two sons to the marriage.)

For your amusement, there are a couple of photos after the jump. 

The Storms, They Are A-Comin'

Literally, there is a line of storms racing across the US and Canada. I can see the lightning and hear the thunder and look at the weather radar on the Internerd.

Figuratively, there are storms in my brain. I'm not saying this is a bad thing (FLASH! CRASH! BOOM! RUMBLE! outside), but it's happening.

Morphine on the radio, it's all buena buena, good good good.

March 4, 1936

That's the day my mother was born. She would be 72 today.

I miss her; it's hard to believe she will have been gone fifteen years next month.

R & R

Allan and I decided to Get The Hell Out Of Dodge™ last week. We came to visit our friends BlueHeronDruid and hobbitt in the Pacific Northwest. It was quite a spontaneous trip, and we had no agenda.

Today Allan and I went to Seattle to meet up with a couple of friends from Radio Paradise. I also have a couple of blog friends from Seattle: Margaret and Sizz, and I don't think Karan is too far away either.

I really thought about contacting my blog buddies while we were in the area. But then I thought about why we were here. And I didn't want any stress in planning*. Today was easy because Tommy isn't working at the moment, and Saundrah just met us for lunch at a tasty place she suggested. Tommy took us around the city, as much as you can do in a few short hours.

We visited Pike Place Market, Post Alley, the Sculpture Park, and Kerry Park. We also got to walk through a bit of Capitol Hill.

Today was a great day. And it's been a great week. This is a gorgeous area of the country. We'll be back. And you can see some photos of our trip here and here, although as I write this, most of the Seattle photos have not been uploaded to Flickr.

*Forgive me, blog friends.

Somebody, Please

Explain to me why I woke up singing Foreigner's "Double Vision"? And no, it's not because I overindulged at the launch party for 24 Hours of Flickr. 

(Now you hate me because you're singing that song too, now, aren't you?)

The Flickr shindig was a lot of fun. I went not knowing a soul, and got to meet a number of VERY cool people, including some of my Flickr contacts. It was a great way to spend my first night in town. Also? Yahoo! knows how to throw a party. The venue was intimate without being crowded, the food was spectacular, the wine was delicious, and the music wasn't overpowering.

This morning I'm having coffee with Jeorg. We live in the same damn town and never see each other, so I'm laughing at the fact that we are meeting here in Paris. And this afternoon I'm having coffee with Gentry, although she has also told me we'll be eating cakes as well. In between the two coffees, I have no idea what I'll do. The French have a great word, flâner. Je vais flâner dans les rues. I'm just going to mosey about.

I love this city. My children are the reason I came to France, and I can't wait to see them tomorrow. But I'm glad to have this time in Paris; I visited only a handful of times during my marriage, and that was early on.

There's more to say (there's always more to say about Paris), but I'll leave it for now.

In Which I Stop Being A Whiny Whiner

A little while ago, a friend IMed me:

Her: So have you stopped being a whiney whiner?
Me: Fuck off.
Her: And will you forgive me for saying so?
Me: LOL
Me: Yes.
Me: To both.
Me: I just wanted to say fuck off.
Her: Hello, my dear.
Me: Hi!

******

I have GREAT friends. Not only did C. rightly give me the what-for for complaining, but our friend A. stopped by, bearing Woodford Reserve bourbon balls. She had sent me a message (regarding my previous blog entry) a bit earlier:

You do NOT go out in the rain to get chocolate. 

a) it will ruin your straight hair, believe me. 

b) I'm bringing you some b4 I go to work.

Here is a photo of the last bourbon ball, about thirty seconds before I popped it in my mouth:

I'm done complaining, at least for today. And really, how can I complain? Allan is in the kitchen making soup for dinner. I have some chocolate in my tummy. It's warm in the house, and I can look out on the cold rain from the comfort of this couch.

So yeah, it's actually been a good day.

Wow. I'm In A Good Mood.

The meds have kicked in, apparently. And my upcoming trip to France is kind of organized. All I need is a train ticket and a set of wheels at my destination. And I have new kitty shoes, and a new purse, and a couple of tiny new hoops for my ears, and one or two other new items (see one of them here).

But life is not all about material goods, no way.

Allan and I have a couple of new friends that we met at Radio Paradise: local people who are VERY cool. We've been out with them a few times in the past couple of weeks. It's great to expand your horizons, and I really feel that A. is a kindred spirit.

And then there's the knitting. You can see my creation here; I have decided that I need to cast on some more stitches and start another practice swatch. My goal is to become dexterous enough to knit with ease. But, hehe, I'll never be really dexterous, because I'm sinister. I kill me.

I'm so out of practice with blogging; I don't know how to write a coherent post anymore. Forgive my blathering. It feels good to want to blather, though. It's been a long time.