Red Nose

The One about the Donniker

Okay! The donniker story!

As I mentioned, circus folks have a language all their own. One of my favorites is donniker, which means toilet. Merriam Webster Online says it probably has its roots in the word dunnekin, from an old English dialect.

Well, be that as it may, of the four circuses I worked for, only one had its own donniker. The others either brought in Porta-Potties (which we still called donnikers) or played venues that actually had restrooms. This wee circus, however, had its very own, an outhouse on wheels.

It was a basically a box. The outside was painted beautifully; the circus logo prominently displayed in red, white, blue, and gold. Inside, it was plain wood. The back held the... container, if you will, with a hole cut in the top. No seat, no paper, no water -- just a hole. This thing had probably been around for 40 years, ever since the little show's heyday in the 30s and 40s.

So. How do I put this delicately? It might have really worked and been a boon to the showfolks if it had been cleaned and emptied even once in awhile.

But alas, it never was. After just a couple of weeks, it was foul. A horrible brew of shit, piss, and whatever that liquid they put in Porta-Potties is festered in the box, filling the inside with a stink rank enough to gag a maggot. After the first couple of times that I used it, I couldn't go back. I preferred finding an actual bathroom. Some of the gazoonies, though, weren't so picky, especially when they'd been partying a little too hard.

Anyway, you'd think that the management would do something about this, but you'd be wrong. Every teardown, they'd hook the donniker up to a truck and pull it to the next lot. The driver would drop it as far from the big top and backyard as he could. So it just sort of followed us along, sloshing and stanky, a brightly painted box full of shit.

Then we got to Poughquag, a tiny little town in upstate New York. The lot was in a lovely, wooded park that had a beautiful lake. This lake had been built up at one end so that it was almost like a swimming pool. Naturally we took full advantage of this wonderful perk. The grass was lush and the air was cool, and we had good audiences. All in all, a great place for a circus.

It was a two- or three-day stand. After the show, I went to sleep in my little blue van. There I was, sound asleep on a starry night, when I woke up to shouting and general brouhaha. I stuck my head out the door and saw an eerie orange glow in the distance.

The donniker was on fire, blazing in fact, the flames leaping up toward the trees and sparks flying everywhere. Who knew poop was so flammable? Gazoonies were grabbing buckets and filling them from the lake, trying to keep the fire from spreading. Remember -- this the 70s, before cell phones, so whoever called the firefighters had to find a phone first! I don't know if there was a pay phone in the park, but I assume there was, for the firefighters arrived soon after I woke up and extinguished the conflagration.

I went back to bed.

The next morning, only charred wood and smelly debris remained. We never did find out who started the fire, but a couple gazoonies were gone by the time the cops showed up to ask questions. The rest of the gazoonies cleaned up the remains and carted them off -- I have no idea where -- and we proceeded to whisper and snicker about the Great Donniker Fire.

Relatively Speaking

Last Sunday, I had brunch with my second cousin Meg (I think I've got that relationship right). Until she read my post about my grandfather and sent me an email, I never knew she existed! It turns out that my grandfather and her grandfather were brothers! She and her husband came to town to visit their son, so we got together to exchange our various life stories and get to know one another.

We had a wonderful time! I gave her one of the several milk bottles from the family dairy; she gave me a ton of ancestral information, including a great photo of my great-grandmother, Mary Jane Cummings Wise. She looks a little grumpy in this photo, doesn't she? But I'll tell what, the resemblance to my grandfather and my Pop is eerie.

Meg also gave me a picture of our mutual great-uncle (I think) John, who was a Jesuit! Just like the Pope! I found a later picture of him in my mom's collection of her favorite pictures, so here he is as a young priest and as an old priest.

We yakked on and ate a great brunch, and parted with promises to keep in touch. I'm going to send her a geneology that I have from another distant cousin. I'm pretty sure that Meg can fill in some of the holes, because I think her whole branch was left out.

A whole lot of other stuff happened last week -- including an overnight trip to Seattle -- but all that is for another entry.

 

Chocolate Cannoli and Penny Candy

When I was a little girl, my mom did her grocery shopping at a tiny family store at the end of our street. It was called Fowler's Market -- owned (of course) by Pa Fowler. The store was in the front of the house; the family lived in the back and the basement. The counter was just inside the door to the left, with a big old fashioned cash register and big jars of penny candy. There were root beer barrels, Mary Janes, Nik-L-Nips, and licorice in the jars, and lots of other candy bars behind the counter.

Pa would let his regular customers charge their groceries. Of course, he kept track of everything by writing it down. Mom would sometimes charge her groceries if she didn't have enough cash with her, then she would pay off the account every month.

When I was eight or nine, I figured out that I could walk down to the store, pick out a few candy bars and a grape Nehi, and then tell Pa to charge it. Free candy! The second or third time I did this, Pa asked, "Does your mother know you're doing this?" Busted!!

He stocked potatoes and other veggies in bins along one side of the store. There were shelves of cereal and dry goods; Cokes and Nehis were in a cooler. In the back of the store was the meat locker. If you wanted a pound of hamburger, Pa would go into the locker, get a slab of meat, and grind it up right then and there for you. Same with steaks and chops and roasts -- I guess he kept sides of beef and pork in that locker; I never saw the inside.

Eventually Pa Fowler's Market became an country store, selling antiques and overpriced gifts and tchotchkes. More recently it was a little restaurant that specialized in fried chicken and rudeness.

Now, however, it is a wonderful Italian trattoria, called Pacci's. Joe and I had dinner there tonight. Instead of penny candy and bins of potatoes, there is a nice bar, pretty wooden tables, and a wall of wines. The walls are a soft yellow and feature old-timey wall sconces. Red curtains frame the two big front windows. It's simple, lovely, and homey.

I had a delicious ravioli bolognese, the big pillows of pasta were stuffed with creamy mozzarella cheese and covered with a hearty, meaty sauce. Joe had pasta and Italian sausages, which he raved about. We got to try a sample of the appetizer special, a pan seared tuna served on steamed wasabi seaweed. I was a little hinky about the seaweed, but it was yummy and really complemented the medium-rare tuna.

And that cannoli? Oh holy dear sweet Jesus! The shells were covered in chocolate; the filling was light and just sweet enough.

I'm going to enjoy going back -- to reminisce about the past and to enjoy the present.

Pacci's Trattoria

 

Hallelujah

I'm sitting on the sofa listening to Handel's Messiah.

It was years before I knew that there was much much more to Messiah than the Hallelujah Chorus. When I did find out, it was like I'd been given a present. I love this music so much.

My first inkling that there was more to the piece was in high school. I was an alto in the glee club, and we sang a few of the choruses for our Christmas concert: Oh Thou Who Givest Good Tidings to Zion, For Unto Us a Child Is Born, and (of course!) the Hallelujah Chorus for the big finish. A couple of the girls with really good voices got to do solos; I was not one of them. My favorite of the solos (arias?) is He Shall Feed His Flock.

I used to sing it to SonnyeBoy as a lullaby, so sweet of a tune it is.

Anyhow, one of our assignments was to listen to the entire oratorio. When I did, I was transported.

I have seen Messiah performed live twice, both times at Washington National Cathedral, a fitting place indeed. The combined men's, boy's, and girl's choirs backed up the guest soloists (one year, there was a countertenor!) and the Baroque orchestra played the music. It was sublime.

So on this quiet Christmas, with Joe relaxing downstairs and SonnyeBoy on his way, I am letting the music wash over me and thinking that it is, once again, the best Christmas ever.

The Ruby Anniversary

Forty years. The ruby anniversary.

When I did the math today, as I must do every year, it came as a little bit of a shock. But there it is: forty years ago tonight I was gang raped. (Yes, I've written about it several times. So be it.)

It feels strange to think it was so long ago, because I can bring that night up so clearly in my mind.

It was cold. A friend of mine called me and cajoled me into going to the movies with him that night; we went to see Greta Garbo in Camille.

When I got back to my dorm, all of the parking spaces in front of the building were taken, so I parked in my regular lot. I was wearing jeans, a parka, my favorite Frye boots. I slung my purse on my shoulder and stuck my hands in my pockets and walked toward my dorm.

I heard footsteps behind me. I felt my shoulder being grabbed. I saw the gun.

I asked, "Are you going to rape me?"

The one with the gun said, "Are you going to give it?"

I said, "No."

They took my keys. I had to crouch on the floor of the back seat of my car. I tried to remember turns, look out the window to try to see where we were going, but I couldn't. I stared at the one in the back seat with me -- the one with the gun -- because somehow I knew I had to memorize his face. When I got scared of being obvious, I stared at the driver. Finally they put a jacket over my head. They didn't take it off until they were done raping me, the four of them, in a dingy bedroom of a ground-floor apartment.

I smelled the joint they smoked. My joint, which they stole from my purse, along with the antique silver dollar my Pop gave me.

And then they drove me again, in the back seat of my car. And they raped me again, in the parking lot of a discount store, before they left me in the car on a bridge. I was surprised, at a loss; I had been prepared to die, and I was alive -- alone, in the cold, in the dark, on a bridge. Had they not thrown my car keys away, I would have driven myself back to my dorm and tried to forget about it.

But they threw the keys away, and I had to get help, and I had to talk to the police, who helped me. They took me to the hospital. They called my parents, who came immediately, in the early early hours of that cold morning. They drove me around to see if I could remember, but I couldn't. At the police station, I wrote a long statement, drawing on the details that I made myself remember, while my parents waited to take me home.

And when I left, I saw the sun rise, a beautiful, spectacular sunrise, on the first day of winter, forty years ago.

Visiting Santa

 

 

Here I am at age 2ish, terrified of Santa Claus. Aren't most little kids terrified of the strange old guy with the big white beard? I do give my Mom a lot of credit for having the sense of humor to keep this one.

I don't remember this, but I do remember later visits to Santa. I enjoyed seeing Santa Claus quite a lot! Seeing Santa was quite an event. I vaguely recall going "all the way downtown" to the big Woodward and Lothrop store to see Santa, but mostly we went to the local department store. We always got dressed up; after all, we were getting our picture taken!

I was five in this next picture, wearing my best winter coat and hat. The coat was nice enough; it had a velvet collar and cuffs, but I loved that hat! It was black velvet and had a little white fur pompom hanging down the side on a velvet ribbon. It was the cutest thing ever. I figured if I wore it, Santa couldn't help but remember me and my wishes.

Santa, on the other hand, was kind of drunken and pervy looking.

Home For The Holidays

 

My Pop served in World War II; he was a Lieutenant Junior Grade in the Navy. As Christmas approached in 1945, he was in Manila, Philippines, waiting to come home. He sent this standard notice to my Mom and to his friends.

My parents' dear friend, Helen Hodge Cox, sent him this reply, signed by her and her family:

I wish I could have been at that party; knowing my folks and their friends, I know it was a blast!

Back To The Stars

Image from BOTA.org

My brother-in-law died last Wednesday morning, the day after surgery. His vascular system was too weak to sustain his blood flow.

I miss him.

I was going to post a picture of him, but none of pictures I have really captures his smile, his gravelly voice, his unique sense of humor.

He answered the door one morning; the guy at the door was delivering a dumpster.

"Hi, I'm from Solid Waste," said the guy.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, man," said my brother-in-law.

He knew more about esoteric disciplines than anyone else I know. He met a Mason once and stunned the guy with how much he knew about Freemasonry.

"Only Masons are supposed to know that," said the guy.

"The knowledge is out there, man. You just have to look for it," said my brother-in-law.

When we were busy cleaning and painting Joe's parents' house, an evangelical Christian proselytizer came around. We sent him to the side of the house to talk to my brother-in-law. My brother-in-law talked to the guy for around an hour, explaining the hidden (dare I say "occult"?) meanings of the Bible verses the guy quoted. He quietly blew the proselytizer's mind.

"Keep on reading that Bible, man, but look deeper," said my brother-in-law.

I didn't see him all that often, maybe once or twice a year. He had such a presence, such a good, loving heart, that I just... miss him being on this Earth. Knowing him, though, I'm pretty sure he'll be back.

Ancestors, Hon!

My Facebook friends know that I've been doing some family research on Ancestry.com. I was particularly interested in seeing what I could find out about my mom's father's family.

Well, I hit the jackpot!

I was able to trace my grandfather's family back to his grandfather -- my great great grandfather. He was born about 1803, my great grandfather was born about 1824, and my grandfather was born about 1869. We're all Maryland born too, which I find pretty amazing given the time span.

Here's a picture that I have of my grandfather as a baby, with his mother.

It was really cool to see images of the various census records -- a real treasure trove of information! Take a look at this snippet from the 1880 census:

So this snippet lists my grandfather's family. My great grandmother was a widow with 10 kids! My grandfather was Jarrett, the eighth of the 10. Six of the children were working; I guess they had to! The oldest, William, was a locomotive engineer. This makes perfect sense, because my grandfather was a stationmaster for the B&O Railroad. The second oldest son was a Teamster.

But look a little more, and you'll see that four of the siblings worked in a cotton mill, including 13-year old Celia and 15-year old Jacob! (I remember my Mom talking about her Uncle Jake and how he used to take her on motorcycle rides around Loch Raven reservoir.)

What you don't see on this snippet is that the family lived in the Hampden neighborhood of Baltimore. So I did a little Googling and found out that yes, there were three cotton mills in Hamden; they were founded in 1839 by David Carroll and Horatio Gambrill. I come by my Bawlmerese honestly, Hon!

This is definitely a working class family -- the kids supporting their mom, with even the young teenagers working in a mill! With all the other kids working, it makes me wonder what was up with Lizzie -- at 18, she was "at home." Maybe she was helping care for the little kids, or maybe she was helping her mother in "keeping house."

What a story, right?

I think I may have to pull the trigger on the two-week free trial and see what else I can dig up!

 

He May Be 30, But...

When I was in my 30s, married, a mother, and a grown-ass woman, I had appendicitis. After spending the day in the ER, I was admitted to the hospital for surgery that same night. Joe, having spent the whole day with me, went home to take care of SonnyeBoy. He called my Mom to tell her what was going on. She and my Pop were in Ocean City at the time, but as soon as she heard I was in the hospital, having surgery, she grabbed Pop and made him drive all the way to the hospital.

Visiting hours were over by the time they arrived, but that did not deter my mother. She and Pop couldn't find the ER entrance, so they waited at the front door until somebody left, then quickly slipped into the hospital. Somehow Mom bullied her way up to the OR and insisted on seeing me.

Meanwhile, I was lying on the gurney, floating on Demerol, when I heard a nurse say, "It's her parents!" And I knew immediately that it was MY parents she was talking about. Sure enough, Mom got in, made sure I was alive, talked to the surgeon, and then, satisfied that I would probably survive until morning, left.

But I told you all that so I could tell you how unlike my mother I am.

In practice.

In spirit, I am exactly like her.

So last night Joe and I were lounging around the living room watching The Thief of Bagdad on TCM when we both got a text and picture from SonnyeBoy. The text read: 

Guess who won't be going to work for awhile?

And here's the picture:

Well, as soon as I saw that, I grabbed Joe and...

No, I didn't. We did call immediately -- got voicemail, left a message -- and text furiously.

And he did call. He hurt his knee in the line of duty. It's in a soft cast until the swelling goes down, then an orthopedist will determine the actual extent of the damage.

He's got plenty of folks making sure he's okay. I'm sending him a care package shortly.

But I still kinda wanna jump in the car.