Red Nose

Condition Is Everything

I meant to write this last night, and then Gilda started up on TCM and I got distracted by Glen Ford and Rita Hayworth. Did people really dress like that? I suppose the rich did.

Anyway, here's what I started to tell you.

Back in the dark ages, I did a lot of community theater. (I was going to be a famous actress back then and it seemed like a good way to get some acting chops.) Because of my many important community theater connections, I happened to get a gig at a dinner theater. I landed the plum roles of the maid and the female dinner guest in Blithe Spirit. It was really fun -- a good cast, a fun play, a nice director.

Seeing as how this was dinner theater on the cheap, we pretty much supplied our own costumes. As the dinner guest, I wore a lovely red velvet, empire-waist gown that I had worn to a formal dance a couple years before. The director supplied a cool necklace: a large pocket watch hanging from a chain.

The show ran on weekends for three weeks or so, then I got a phone call. The dinner theater had abruptly shut down and the building closed up tight, so no more show. Everything associated with the show -- costumes, props, sets -- was left behind.

Except the pocket watch. The director told me to take it home every night because it was valuable, so I did. He never got in touch to ask for it back; I didn't have his phone number or address. I went away to college; I ran off to the circus. Life happened.

The watch rested in my jewelry box -- close to 40 years.

When I did the flea market a few weeks ago, I toyed with the idea of selling it, but decided not to. It really didn't seem like flea market material.

I thought I might try selling it on eBay. To do that, I figured I better do a little research. I found out a lot about Elgin antique pocket watches, the most important bit being that the serial number that matters is the one on the works, not the one on the case.

I managed to pop open the back and got the serial number. I found a web site where I could look up the number, so I did.

The watch dates from 1891. There was a lot of other info that meant nothing to me, but that date was kind of exciting. A little more googling led me to a DC auction house, Weschler and Sons. I found out that they offer free auction-value appraisals the first Thursday of each month. No appointment needed; just show up with your swag.

This was last Wednesday, so that seemed to be sign.

I headed over to the shop on Thursday. The storefront for the shop was full of furniture, so I asked the guy supervising where the appraisals were.

"Next entrance, third floor. Hope you get rich!"

Another sign? Perhaps.

Up to the third floor I went. A very nice lady asked if she could help me.

"I'd like to get a free appraisal," I said.

"What have you got?" she asked, somewhat skeptically.

"I have this," I said, pulling out the watch and handing it to her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, sounding impressed. My heart did just a little flip. "Let me call John Weschler," she said, "wait just a moment."

As I waited, I thought about all the ways I could spend my new-found fortune.

A couple minutes later, a very businesslike gentleman came out and escorted me back to his office. I handed over the watch.

He was not nearly as impressed as the lady.

"It's gold-filled, not gold," he said. He popped open the cover.

"There's some damage to the face," he said. He popped open the back and looked up the serial number.

"1891," he said.

"Condition is everything with these pieces," he said.

"Auction value is $100." He handed back the watch.

"Thank you very much," I said.

Oh well. Not gonna be rich. But the vanilla bean cupcake I treated myself to was delicious!

Big Sister, Little Brother

I have always liked this old photograph of my grandmother and her brother, my Great-Uncle Earl. Gramma was born in 1883; Uncle Earl in 1890. Judging by her dress and her beautiful young face, I think she must have been about 16, making Uncle Earl about 9.

Doesn't he look mischievous? I wouldn't be surprised if he had a frog in the pocket of those knickers. And what about her, with that sweet butterfly ornament in her hair? She definitely looks peeved at her little brother. I wonder what happened just before this picture was taken... Maybe she elbowed him a good one, or maybe she's just trying to keep him from touching her lovely white dress with his grubby hands. But he knows he can get her anytime he wants, so he grins, ever so slightly... Come to think of it, it would be way more fun to know what happened right after this picture was taken!

Words of Counsel

Friday night was packing night; we gathered at Mom's house to continue boxing up her life. We continue to find amazing things from our distant past, like the big, old family Bible that originally belonged to my great grandparents. It's literally falling apart. My Pop used that old standard method to repair it: duct tape. Yes, duct tape. Sigh.

Between the Old and New Testaments is a space for family records; my great grandfather meticulously recorded births, deaths, and marriages. It's easy to tell where my grandmother takes over, recording her children's births and marriages. Then there are a couple of entries in my handwriting and a couple in my sister's handwriting, where Gramma asked us to continue the records of the generations.

Stuck in the Bible was a little book called "The Wedding Day," by John F. Hurst, copyright 1888. It was given to my grandmother at her wedding in 1907. It's a really curious little thing -- it contains the service, a marriage certificate, space the signatures of witnesses and guests, and several chapters of advice for the bride and groom.

In the "Home Beautiful" chapter, Dr. Hurst advises the new couple to be sure to have fresh flowers in their home.

The sight of a few flowers adds to the beauty of even the humblest home. Even a sprig of arbutus or jessamine, or a lily of the valley, on the table, will make every meal the sweeter.

Yes, indeed! But then it gets a little strange:

The Germans of the poorest class, all over the Fatherland, never forget to have flowers in their lowly homes.

He likes the Germans. In the "Forebearance" chapter, he says:

I believe the Germans excel all other in literature in their warm tributes to the faithful love and devotion of their wives.

He also gives advice on reading, encouraging the bride and groom to read daily and build up a home library. Again, good advice! But he cautions the new couple, too:

Avoid too much fiction and a superabundance of periodical literature. One popular magazine is enough.

Aw, darn!

Rerun: True Love

Note: This entry was originally written on February 14, 2004 and posted in my late, great (well...) Diary-X diary. It still applies, so here it is.

With the approach of Valentine's Day, I've been thinking a bit about love.

In writing Girl Clown, I got immersed in remembering one of the Grand Passions of my youth. He was tall, well-built (impressive shoulders!), blonde, not traditionally good looking, but hot as all get out. He was also great in bed. Helluva combination, eh? I was totally hooked on him, madly in love with him. He could have asked me to walk behind him on my knees and I would have happily done it.

I knew very little about his past. He was born and raised in Paterson, New Jersey. The name he went by was not his given name; I found out his real name when I saw his driver's license. (I wasn't snooping; he asked to hold it for him after we had been in a bit of a car wreck. I simply took advantage of the opportunity to find out some details.) He was four years older than I chronologically; probably 20 years older than I emotionally and experientially.

He had a sister, with whom he was close. He lived in San Francisco when he wasn't putting up tents. He worked in a waterbed store (how cool was that?). I actually spoke to his parents once on the phone; they seemed like very nice folks and gave me his sister's number.

He got busted for possession of hashish while still in college and served some time in prison. It only added to his mystique and made him even more attractive.

I never asked questions. I just took in information as he gave it. Maybe I was afraid to ask questions that I didn't want to know the answers to. Questions like:

Are you married?
Do you have a girlfriend?
Am I your girlfriend or just the girl you fuck?
Do you love me?

I was so young, only 24. Twenty-four is so terribly young, from where I sit.

We did have a lot of fun together. He taught me how to drive a standard shift, three-on-the-tree, in Jackson, Mississippi. We survived a shakedown by the Mississippi State Police, near Natchez. We drank a lot and smoked a lot of pot; listened to loud rock and roll and walked through the French Quarter. He liked Willie Nelson's "Red-Headed Stranger"; I think he identified with it. He smoked unfiltered Camel cigarettes and was a little too fond of cocaine.

He once told me that he thought "Jessica" by the Allman Brothers Band was full of pain. (I always thought it was kind of joyful.)

Once, in the night, I whispered that I loved him, just loud enough for him to hear, not even looking at him. It was the biggest chance I ever took with him. He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tighter than I'd ever been hugged, but he said nothing.

I took that as "I love you, too."

I was an optimist.

We managed to get jobs on the same show. He hated the bosses; they hated him. He got fired after a week and left. I wanted desperately to go with him; he wouldn't let me. I got a long letter from him shortly afterward; it made me absurdly happy and hopeful that we'd be together eventually.

A couple weeks later, when I was feeling depressed, I wrote a needy, tearful, horrible letter and had the bad judgment to mail it.

I never heard from him again. I don't know whether he even got that letter, but it doesn't matter.

I choose to remember the fun things about him; I fictionalized him as loving me back (though in reality I was never sure). He remains a Grand Passion; a fond memory of that time of my life.

But you know what? Looking back, I'm glad I never heard from him again. Because while he may have been a Grand Passion, he was not my True Love.

It's an important difference. Grand Passion is a part of True Love, but only a part. True Love is so much more. Grand Passion enslaves your heart. True Love frees your heart and lets it soar.

Happy Valentine's Day to my Joe, my one True Love.

The Old Church

Isn't this a beautiful old church? Go take a look, and read the caption. I'll wait.

Even though I don't attend Mass anymore and don't even consider myself Catholic, I still think of this little church as my church.

Down the hill from the church is a little street, and across the street are two old houses. My mom grew up in one of them; my dad grew up in the other. Yes, Mom and Pop first met when she was 8 and he was 11. Mom says she knew right then that she was going to marry him.

All of us were baptized in that church. Inside, it's lovely: two banks of pews with a center aisle, a simple altar set in an alcove (it worked out nicely when Vatican II changed the orientation of the altar to facing the congregation), two statues on either side of the alcove. The stained glass windows are immensely beautiful.

When I was in fourth grade, the parish built a new church, a much larger, modern structure adjacent to the elementary school to accommodate the increase in parishoners. A new convent for the school's nuns and a new rectory for the parish priests were also built. The old rectory remained; I can't remember what it was used for after the priests moved to the new one. (Note to self: Ask Mom.) The Masses at the old church were reduced to two: 7 a.m. and 10 a.m. We continued to go to the old church -- why drive two miles when you could walk up the hill?

I went to Mass there almost every single Sunday of my childhood, 10 o'clock in the morning, where we sat in one of front pews on the left side. Pop was one of the ushers. When he collected the offering, he'd always bonk us kids on the head with the long-handled basket. And we weren't the only kids he'd bonk -- any little kid was fair game. No one seemed to mind; everyone pretty much knew everyone else, so a little gentle kidhead bonking was more of a joke than anything else. Not only did he play jokes on the kids, he'd shake the basket in front of his pals, as if to ask for more dough. At the end of Mass, when the priest intoned "The Mass is ended; go in peace", my Pop always said, "Thank God!" instead of the prescribed "Thanks be to God" -- another of his jokes.

When I was a teenager, I got to play the organ for the 7 a.m. Sunday Mass, mostly because Father Kennedy was a friend of my folks. Father Kennedy always said that early Mass, and he was famous for getting it done in 20 minutes flat: one brisk collection, no sermon (just announcements), and the fastest Communion in Christendom. Of course, it helped that only 15 or 20 people ever attended that Mass. I'd slip up the hill about ten of, climb into the creaky choir loft, and play simple hymns before Mass started, at Communion (using lots of tremolo and reed stops), and the recessional, where I'd literally pull out all the stops and play at full volume. It's a wonder those beautiful windows didn't shatter. By the time I finished playing the hymn, the church had been empty for five minutes and Father Kennedy was itching to lock the door.

When I got engaged, I knew I wanted to be married in that old church. My mom had to get a little forceful with the pastor, reminding him that she had been a member of the parish for over 50 years and contributed much money to the coffers. The pastor, knowing when to cut his losses, simply said, "Would 10 o'clock in the morning be acceptable?"

Ten o'clock. Oh yes. At least it wasn't seven.

Land Sakes!

Back in August, I wrote about my paternal grandparents and how I found some records from the Maryland archives. Those archives listed all these interesting foreclosure actions taken against various people, mostly over parcels of land.

What I absolutely loved about these records were the names that the owners gave their land! I wrote down a few of my favorites, with my own commentary. I swear to you; these are actual, real names. Honest.

Gay's Enlargement: I think this one speaks for itself.
Gist's Inspection: The gist of the matter is this: did it pass inspection?
Bear Wallowing: In what?
Gay's Favor: Help a brother out!
Short Legged Tom: I hope it wasn't too swampy.
Maiden's Choice: I'm glad she had one.
What's Left: Not much, apparently.
Worthington's Neglect: No wonder they foreclosed!
Batchelor's Refuge: Getting away from Maiden's Choice, perhaps?
That or None: Take it or leave it, I guess.
Elizabeth's Diligence: You think she worked hard?
Polly's Habitation: Polly, on the other hand, just hung out.
Ely's Neglect: And Ely! What a slacker!
Dorsey's Industry: Dorsey would get along great with Elizabeth.
Jacob's Beginning: Beginning to what?
Brown's Struggle: Life was not easy for Brown.
Richard's Entire Conclusion: The End.
Elizabeth's Fancy: Geez, I thought she was kind of plain. But diligent.
Johnson's Adventure: See Gay's Enlargement.
Soldier's Delight: See Johnson's Adventure.
Shaw's Fanny: See Soldier's Delight.
Buchanan's Palace: See Maiden's Choice.
Vaughn's Disappointment: See Maiden's Choice.

So, when you acquire your acreage, what will you name your estate?

The Stupidest Prize

My pal Stephanie wants to know how my brother set the woods on the fire and how I managed to choose the stupidest prize on the local kiddie show.

I live to serve.

I really don't remember all that much about my brother and the woods -- but I do know that he and his buddy Michael Feeney were playing with matches in the woods, with predictable results. It wasn't a huge fire, but the fire department got called to the fire and my brother got called on the carpet.

I can, however, tell you all about the time I picked the stupidest prize.

DC had a pretty rich selection of kiddie shows back in the 50s and 60s, from the network offerings of Howdy Doody and Captain Kangaroo to shows produced and broadcast from the local stations. I loved Ranger Hal. Ranger Hal played a park ranger, so the show was oriented to nature. His main sidekick was a big floppy rabbit named Oswald Rabbit, but the puppet menagerie also included Eager Beaver, Dr. Fox, and Marvin Monkey. The show featured cartoons, skits, and educational lessons on nature.

And a contest.

Which, when I was nine, I entered. I don't remember the contest; I only remember having to send in a postcard with the answer to a question on it. Winners were chosen at random from the correct entries.

I was getting ready for school one morning when my brother came running out of the living room to say that my entry had won! I would get to appear on the Ranger Hal show and pick out my prize!

I almost wet my pants, I was so excited. I could hardly wait for the show.

See, on Saturdays, Ranger Hal hosted a lot of kids live on TV -- a birthday party group or two and that week's contest winners. Each prize winner got to sit right beside Ranger Hal and select a prize from the amazing treasure trove of toys surrounding the kindly Ranger.

The event is kind of a blur. I only remember sitting at a table as Ranger Hal spun the magic wheel to see which winner got to go up and pick out a toy. I watched as every prize I craved got selected: the beautiful Madame Alexander doll, the collection of sparkly rocks and minerals, the dinosaur model kit. Of course, there were amazing prices that went unpicked, like a full-size swing set (complete with teeter-totter!) and a polished wooden tobaggan.

Anyway, Ranger Hal almost forgot about me. I even had to remind his assistant. When I realized that Hal was about to stop the prize giving, I very shyly said, "I'm supposed to get a prize."

So up I went, sitting beside Ranger Hal, so nervous I could barely see straight. All the best prizes were gone! What could I choose? The swing set would be great, but I couldn't figure out how we would get it in the car to take it home. Of course, it didn't occur to me that it would come unassembled. And the toboggan -- I couldn't think how that worked, and it was awfully big, and I already had a good sled.

Ranger Hal gently hurried me along. I panicked and quickly pointed to the toy he was holding -- a big, metal child's adding machine. It was a weird contraption -- I don't remember exactly how it worked -- but it wasn't at all cool.

In fact, it broke in about a week.

I tried to make the best of it. I told my brother and sister that it was what I wanted. I didn't want the swing set or the toboggan or the Monopoly game or the set of picture books. My brother, as older brothers are required to do, teased me unmercifully about it.

He still does.

At least I get to tease him about setting the woods on fire.

Santa's Little Helper

Once upon a time, in a journal entry far, far away, I wrote about the various jobs I've had in my life. I identified one -- Santa's Helper -- as the worst job in the whole entire world.

Stephanie asked why.

Oh, let me count the ways!

First off, I had to wear actual work clothes, rather than my usual jeans and tee shirt. I got the job so that I'd have a little cash in between circus gigs. I had one relatively decent looking pantsuit (Yes, pantsuit! It was even -- dare I say it -- double knit.) and a couple pairs of non-jean pants.

I wore the pantsuit to the cattle call interview. When the hiring managers saw that I could actually speak in complete sentences and could add numbers with a reasonable degree of accuracy, I was hired.

And then the horror began.

After getting trained in the photo-taking, money-taking, and receipts-reconciling procedures, I was ready for the big time.

Oh, the screaming! From the parents, not the kids!

I realized very quickly that a lot of kids hate Santa Claus far more than they hate clowns. And yet, Mom and Dad have an irrational need to preserve an image of their little tyke screaming in fear on Santa's lap, especially after waiting in line for an hour with the little darling. They'd cajole, they'd bribe, they'd threaten, they'd scream, they'd even spank their precious darling child in an effort to get little Susie or Johnny (wait, I mean little Heather and little Jason -- this was 1976, after all) to smile and laugh and tell Santa what they wanted for Christmas.

These were the same parents who didn't want to buy the picture. This was before the era of the instant photo. When we took the picture, we had to give a numbered receipt to the parent, who had to sign up to get the photos. The finished product usually arrived in the mail a couple of weeks later, after which the parent would come to Santa's Kingdom at the absolute most busy time and demand their money back because the picture was awful.

I always gave them their money back. In cash. Because I didn't care.

There were some cute kids, and a couple of the Santas seemed okay, but the girls I worked with were way too perky, as was my boss. She tried to befriend me, but I was in no mood. I just wanted to get the damn hours in so I could go home and get stoned. (Or rather, get more stoned than I already was. It was that bad.)

As the mall got more and more crowded and noisy and the endless piped-in Christmas began to wear down the little bit of sanity I had left, I began to harbor terrible thoughts. It would easy to pinch a kid on the way up to Santa's lap, but I figured that the kid would quickly rat me out. Besides, was it really the kid and the poor kid's frazzled parents who were at fault? Or was it the corporation? The soulless picture-pimping company foisting artificial memories on these families?

Ah, the answer was clear.

On Christmas Eve morning, I called my ultra-perky boss and quit.