Sound Affects

 

image by Gordon Johnson on Pixabay (after Munch's "The Scream")

“Yeeeeargggghhhh!” 

 If you’ve ever heard that particular, blood-curdling scream, in the movies or on TV, you may have wondered about its origin story. No? Well, here it is anyway (whether you want it or not😊). There’s a scene in the 1951 movie Distant Drums, where a character is attacked by an alligator. The accompanying shriek, which has been named for the character Private Wilhelm in the later film The Charge at Feather River, became a very famous sound effect. It has been sampled more than 400 times, and can be heard in Star Wars, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Toy Story, Pirates of the Caribbean, Lethal Weapon, etc. It’s really bone-chilling; in fact, I suggest that the makers of pepper spray and other bad-guy deterrents, program it into their devices. Imagine the effect it would have on a would-be mugger! “No, no! Anything but the scream!!!!” (runs away).

 

“Chuckle. Hahahahaha. Ho ho ho ho ho!”

 

If you’ve ever watched a sitcom, you’ve heard that long eruption of delight from the “audience,” when a character says or does something funny. So prevalent was the laugh track, that it was jarring to watch a comedy without one (nowadays, they are rare.) The thought behind the track was that if you were home alone watching, you’d be much more apt to howl with mirth with the cue of fellow laughers (comedy loves company?) Imagine Leave it to Beaver without a laugh track! Would we KNOW that Eddie Haskell was a regular riot? Legend has it that a specific canned laugh track from I Love Lucy is still in circulation, even though those laughers are very likely in the Big TV Studio in the Sky by now. Turns out that is not strictly true—Lucy used only its live studio audiences’ actual laughter. But that live laughter WAS recorded, and was used again in other shows.

 

After Rose graduated from Berklee with a degree in sound production, some early jobs involved “Foley” (named for film sound pioneer Jack Foley). She would be tasked with creating sounds such as footsteps and creaking doors, to be added to movies in post-production (real steps and door creaking in the scene were often too faint to be picked up). Rose’s out of that biz now, but I bet she could still come up with some cool audio effects -- “once a Foley artist…” after all.

 

How do sound effects, affect us? I remember performing our children’s shows in elementary schools. We wrote them to get laughs, but often the principal would introduce us by saying, “Now I don’t want to hear ONE PEEP! Welcome our guests, boys and girls!” and the confused but obedient kids would sit in total silence the whole show. You haven’t been mortified until you go onstage dressed as a giant dog, and NO ONE LAUGHS.

 

So, don’t be afraid to make some noise (joyful, terrified)! And who knows? YOUR voice could be captured for posterity—maybe for Die Hard 30!

At the Gratitude Meeting

We'll all get there eventually, right, yogis?

For savasana at the end of my weekly yoga class, I frequently read a poem or other passage to the supine assemblage in our sangha. I select these rather haphazardly; sometimes it’s a Zen-ish piece on being one with the universe, other times I am in more of a playful mood. 

This past Wednesday, in the face of our collective national angst over the upcoming election, and a heavier-than-usual list of prayer concerns (with which we always begin our practice), I decided to go for the funny. I found a terrific poem by Paul Hostofsky, “Late to the Gratitude Meeting.” It begins:

 

The guy in front of me in traffic
is letting everyone in,
waving at the cars like a policeman
or a pope--
and I really have no patience for all
the indulgence
and magnanimity at my expense

because I'm late for the gratitude meeting,
which is only an hour long.
And if I miss the first ten minutes
of silent meditation I'm going to scream,
because it's my favorite part and because
it helps me remember to breathe.
And I'm going to throttle this guy…

Ironically, as our friend continues to seethe, he is completely mIssing the fact that his actual gratitude teacher is that other, serene driver, generously waving people on.  Ha ha! What a dunce!

 

Except that dunce is usually me.

 

How often do I tick off the to-dos like a madwoman, oblivious to the multitude of Life Lessons that are right there, free for the learning? And even when I am cognizant of those golden opportunities, I’m too busy thinking about how I will use them in my writing. I’m walking through beautiful Hershey Gardens with my future daughter-in-law, taking endless photos of the flowers and butterflies (for my blog? My newsletter? That piece I’m working on for the spiritual magazine?) “Pix or it didn’t happen”? But it did happen, and I didn’t allow myself to just relax and experience it. I don’t trust that the learnings will sink in without my ultra-efforts to capture them for posterity. And, parenthetically, will I ever again look at most of the zillions of iPhone pictures I’ve taken? Will my survivors save them, or will they (much likelier) dump them all? 

 

Clearly, I need to change my focus (and not camera focus either). As I write this, it is very early Sunday morning. I am alone in Patrick and Ashlyn’s kitchen. Out the window, there is an awesome cloud formation in the shape of a big fish, its “scales” tinged with sunrise light. Those well-known Sunday Scaries have not yet arrived. The challenges of the week ahead are still a comfortable distance away. Can I jettison all those to-dos for once, and replace them with thank yous?

 

On this journey we undertake together, we'll all get there eventually, right? I sip my cup of coffee, savoring this brand new day. And I pray, right now, that I’m not too late for the gratitude meeting that is my life. 

Hello, Sunday!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Cleanup on Aisle Five

image by Erio Noen on Pexels

There’s nothing quite like shepherding a small child through a crowded store. It’s a combination of Demolition Derby, and Chevy Chase doing his classic, stumbling Gerald Ford routine (and if you have to ask, you’re too darned young!) Crash! Boom! Splat! Any item within reach (especially the enticing stacked pyramids of canned and bottled goods) is fair game to be swiped at or grabbed for. While my personal children weren’t major offenders, I’ve certainly seen my share of kinder-meltdowns in the aisles, along with the tut-tuts and nasty looks bestowed upon the helpless and mortified parents by people who clearly have never made a mistake in their lives. 

While it would be only fair to put a big push broom into little Susie’s hands and set her to work on cleanup, that’s not a practical option. So it’s left to the store employees to sweep up the broken glass, and straighten the toppled cans of beets. Soon the supermarket is all tidied up—until little Billy arrives ten minutes later, of course. Splat! Boom! Crash!

 

Life (my life, anyway) has felt like one big self-created mess after another, from saying the wrong things, to doing the wrong things—and, conversely, neglecting to say or do the right things. Ugh. How I long for a “spin doctor” to explain away my gaffes! I need a savvy PR type to re-direct the public’s focus away from my disasters, ideally to blame my missteps on somebody else! Nowadays, a lot of celebrity behavior (politicians and sports folks’ too) is really rude and/or profane. “Exaggerations” are rampant, as prominent people stretch the truth like Silly Putty. Granted, we all are guilty of pedestal-izing the rich and powerful, so maybe we asked for it. But after loudly cheering for this or that famous figure, we often deal with their revealed imperfections with denial, to save face (our own). 

 

“Sanewashing” is the new buzzword for those who attempt to paper over certain outrageous comments and actions. In the hands of these clever wordsmiths, even the most preposterous sayings and doings are “totally normal.” It’s either “He didn’t say that” or “He didn’t mean that” or even, “He said it, and he meant it, but it’s perfectly fine!” We Americans have been real pros at sanewashing a good bit of our crazy history (Columbus discovered America! The Native peoples were thrilled to be herded onto reservations! At least the slaves had food and shelter!). It’s a tough sell persuading many of us to let go of our harmful national myths.  

 

So, before we all wake up to reality, permit me a dab of sanewash. I did NOT send a very personal email to my entire contact list! I did NOT badmouth someone to someone else who happened to be their closest relative! I did NOT ask non-pregnant women about their due dates, nor did I ask a thirty something if she was going to prom this year. 

 

And if I did, it’s perfectly fine.

image by Carola68 on Pixabay

Memento Mori

Saint Oswald's Churchyard Grasmere, UK

Cemeteries are not usually very entertaining. I have been to my fair share of graveside services for folks I knew and loved over the years, and I readily acknowledge the solemnity of these places of remembrance. When we lived in Massachusetts in the 1970s, making grave rubbings was all the rage, and teenaged me visited churchyards in Boston, Concord, Plymouth, etc. to gather rubbings of epitaphs engraved on stone. There were prominent people and families galore in my collection, from Thoreau to Emerson to Alcott. There were also the heart-tugging memorials to deceased babies and children (SO many too many of those).

In my own family, we’re more fans of cremation than burial, so very few tombstones for us. However, my sister Maureen is buried at Arlington Cemetery in Atlanta, GA. When she was killed in 1981 at age 23, there was no hesitation about her marker. Mo was devoted to Saint Therese (the “Little Flower” of Jesus), whose feast day (October 1) was the same day as Maureen’s death—and Therese was Mo’s age! Hence the inscription: “Our Beautiful Little Flower” marking the spot where my sister was laid to rest. I go there whenever I return to Georgia, and am comforted by the lovely site, on a hill by a pond, with tall Georgia pine trees all around. And the fact that the entire hillside, once rather bare, is now totally covered in graves, is mute testament to the large number of people who have left this earth over the years.

 

Gone, for the most part, are the days when families habitually brought flowers to Granny and Gramps at Meadowview Cemetery on Sunday afternoons. We 21^st century denizens HATE to be reminded that we will die at some point, and besides, Sunday afternoons are for football on TV, right? 

 

I am personally torn, as I reckon with my mortality. I would much rather be cremated/donated to science than placed in a casket and buried six feet under. Yet, there is definitely an urge to have some sort of permanent memorial for posterity—you know, a sacred space where my children can feel sufficiently guilty over NOT visiting. 

 

My solution? A website with a virtual tombstone! Not sure if I just invented these, or if they are already a thing, but what a cool concept! Meeting my descendants where they are, which is onscreen! And this way I can program a changeable series of snappy sayings too! Imagine my busy, but bereft, kiddos, grabbing their phones to play Candy Crush—but first they pop over to momsrestingplace.com, curious to see what witty/sentimental inscription is posted today! In less than two minutes I am remembered, often with a chuckle, with no need to make any effort, or travel anywhere at all! 

 

Kicking around a few ideas for online epitaphs:

 

ELISE SEYFRIED (1956-20__?)

 

HAVE AS HAPPY A DAY AS POSSIBLE, CONSIDERING I’M DEAD!

HERE LIES THE WORLD’S GREATEST MOM--THIS IS MY REWARD?

SORRY/NOT SORRY YOU’RE SO SAD!

 

Your suggestions welcome!

Walking on Eggshells

photo by Peter Werkman on Pexels

I believe that all of us, at some point in our lives, have to deal with explosive people. You know, the easily angered, in extreme cases road-ragey types. Most of the time we can navigate fairly well (with a work colleague or even a difficult family member), but it often means making an extra effort not to trigger an outburst. So we tiptoe around, walking on eggshells as it were, to keep the peace.  

That kind of eggshell-walking just enables the offending person to keep on being—offensive. And it is so exhausting, always having to anticipate and try to head off trouble at home or work. I always considered myself more of an eggshell-walker, than an offender. But now, to my everlasting regret, I look back at my childhood, my marriage, my parenting, and see a very strong, rather demanding, personality (mine). When I was a kid, there was a lot of yelling and fighting at home, a verbal free-for-all, and each of us participated. I learned to be the best in the family at this game, giving as good as I got, and when I was in a certain mood, I knew that others would try to avoid my wrath. 

 

My early marriage to Steve was an attempted escape, not just from a chaotic home, but from a part of myself I hated. Alas, “wherever you go, there you are” proved true, and soon I was picking fights and insisting on winning every argument. Luckily our union survived, and it has been the greatest gift of my life. Not only do I have a world-class husband, but we were able to have our five amazing children. 

 

Raising our kids, I tried not to be an eggshell mom, but I could never be a sweet and gentle and permissive parent, not for long. I was never at all abusive, but I was fairly strict, and didn’t shy away from a confrontation, often ending with a too-loud, “BECAUSE I SAY SO!!” Do I feel my brood was afraid of me? Maybe. Sometimes. When those eggs cracked and crunched underfoot, I did not react very well. Of course, menopause and my mental illness did nothing to help the situation.

 

Nowadays, my moods have regulated much better, and the idea of shouting matches has zero appeal. But I do hope my attitude doesn’t devolve as I age. I would really hate to be the miserable old woman in the nursing home (the one everyone goes out of their way to avoid). 

 

We all need to stand up for ourselves in this world, for sure. But we also need to be there for one  another—and that involves copious amounts of kindness and empathy. It’s an age-old problem, painfully obvious in our current, bitterly divided world, and I wish we could solve it. 

 

We’ll continue to deal with eggshells as we bumble our way through life. But maybe we can find a way to use those proverbial eggs, to make each other omelets. 

Dimitri is counting on us to figure it out

Signs, Signs (Everywhere, Signs)

 

But I Speed Up for Scarlatti?

I come from superstitious Irish Catholic stock. My family tends to see signs from God (honestly? It’s usually the Blessed Virgin Mary) EVERYWHERE. You think that photo of the piece of toast that looks like Jesus is silly? I don’t! Why wouldn’t our Lord show up on my breakfast table to encourage me/warn me/whatever? I'm super big on statues that cry real tears and miraculous cures at Lourdes, and even though I’ve been Lutheran for decades now, I still believe in Messages from Above.

 

But this post isn’t about THOSE signs. No, this concerns the more commonplace signs one might encounter in a store window or on a car bumper. “No shoes, no shirt, no service!” scolds a sign outside a clothing store in the mall. I can’t help but think this is a poor idea—I mean, don’t you WANT shoeless, shirtless folks to enter your emporium in need of purchasing those exact items? Back in the day, dry cleaners offered “One Hour Martinizing!” Maybe they still do? I may award a complimentary martini (get it?) to the first reader who can explain what the heck martinizing is.

 

I am often amused by the stickers affixed to the cars in front of me on the road. There’s the “Student Driver” (I REALLY need to get one of those for myself, so that people stop expecting me to be a good automobile operator!), and the “Honk If You Love Jesus!” (I worry about that one, because what if the honking is because there’s a significant road hazard up ahead, and I just blithely assume it’s the other driver merrily toot-tooting in praise of the Lord?) Then there’s the ancient VW bug with so many old, peeling stickers (most involving the Grateful Dead) that the vehicle’s color is impossible to ascertain. 

 

It's Election Season once more, so many yards are festooned with political signage. I am very sad that posting a sign in support of your favored candidate or party now IMMEDIATELY invites animosity, and even theft of said placard. I read about Ye Olden Times, when one neighbor had a Goldwater sign and the guy next door had one for LBJ—and NOTHING HAPPENED. They even remained on speaking terms, arguing only over borrowed and unreturned lawn mowers! 

 

I am reluctant to put up any kind of sign, because frankly I’m not passionate enough about anything to risk trouble—oh, I’m Pro-Ice Cream and Anti-Tofurkey, but I’m not going to scream my preference to the world. I’d rather remain an enigma, a woman of mystery. Let others plaster their yards and cars with their opinions. I’ll leave you guessing! It’s safer that way.

 

Seriously though, I know I’m being cowardly, and right now none of us can afford to be that. At the risk of alienating my fellow travelers, I really should put out a lawn sign or two, just to take a stand. 

 

What do you think of:  “In This House, We Support One-Hour Martinizing”?

 

So there!

 

I feel much braver already.

Safety First!

In uniform, ready for duty!

Most of the time, and in most places, I have felt relatively safe through the years. I credit much of that to my intensely risk-averse personality. It would never occur to me to approach a ledge at the Grand Canyon, jump into a zoo enclosure with a tiger, or even park for two hours and one minute in a two-hour parking zone. Since I began traveling abroad, I came to realize that the United States has SO MANY WARNING SIGNS, everywhere. Sure, it’s most likely due to our very litigious culture, though I like to think it's because Uncle Sam just really loves me lots.   

Whereas in other lands, safety measures are largely left to the individual. I’ll never forget being at a waterfall in Costa Rica. The steep cascade of pounding water could definitely break your neck if you stood under it, and sure enough there was a sign, in Spanish. But did it say “Beware of dangerous waterfall?” Nope! It translated as “No kissing.” The real risk was being swept away, not literally, but romantically!  

As a mom, I did my darnedest to keep my little ones from harm—though looking back at the primitive car seats, cribs and high chairs of the day, maybe they weren’t quite as safe as I thought they were. We actually never bothered to take the outlet covers and safety cabinet locks off, even though we went 15 years without a small child in the house. We have smoke alarms and carbon monoxide detectors and motion-sensitive lights in the upstairs hallway. The most dangerous activity of my adulthood was wearing stiletto heels during my bipolar manic episodes. Now, I cannot imagine risking a twisted ankle for the sake of fashion, and feel much more grounded wearing flats.    

I will leave a discussion of gun safety, and our horrific gun-worshipping culture, for another time and forum (though, you may have gathered, I have intense feelings). I remember when nearly all discussions about safety at school revolved around the dire consequences of “running in the halls.” Mind you, running around on an asphalt playground at recess was considered A-OK, but you picked up your pace heading toward the cafeteria at your peril.   

Aiden is now in fifth grade (“senior year” at our elementary school), and the first week of class he received the dayglo yellow belt of the safety patrol. He will proudly perform this sacred duty until the holiday break, and so far he seems to be doing a fine job preventing running in the second grade hallway. That is Peter’s class hallway, so hopefully he won’t push against big bro’s rule enforcement.   

I think giving the children a taste of responsibility for other people’s well-being is a fabulous idea. As human family members, we all should be caring for one another, every minute of the day.  Let’s model a world where we each don a symbolic yellow safety patrol belt, and create spaces where we all can thrive, and live in peace.

This was the waterfall! Yikes!

Menopost

Yeah, no

 (image by Jimbo457 on Pixabay)

“There is no greater power in the world than the zest of a postmenopausal woman.” That quotation appeared in a 1992 New York Times opinion piece, “Mighty Menopause.” Wow!! I never knew about my amazing superpower!! And here I was, making notes about my slowing reflexes, my fading memory, my glacially paced metabolism. All this time I have paid my turbo-zest no heed whatsoever!! Perhaps because it has been so well hidden!

To be fair, my menopause was a tad extreme, ushering in my bipolar disorder. I didn’t know if I was having a hot flash, or my brain was overheating because I hadn’t stopped talking in 72 hours. Somewhere in there my child-bearing years came to an end, but with five young kids I scarcely noticed a fertility slowdown. Frankly, that whole time of my life was a giant mess, and I have memory-holed most of the misery. 

 

But now I am enlightened, and called to embrace my post-menopausality! Though I had a really rocky journey through my change of life, no matter! Time to rev back up and conquer the world! I do wonder how the guys would fare after the massive physical and mental upheaval we gals endure. What is their MENopause like? If it’s anything like ours--and it isn’t--I feel like they might need at least a decade or two to recover from the bizarre menstrual cycles and massive mood swings, and society would emphatically NOT expect them to perform better than ever before. 

As women, we are eternally held to a higher standard of achievement (sometimes, alas, by other women), so why should our Fabulous Fifties and Swinging Sixties be any different than our earlier, frenetic years of accomplishment (climbing that steep corporate ladder in our heels--carefully!--random babies clinging to us, while still remaining fetchingly feminine?) 

 

Don’t get me wrong. It is truly wonderful to have a Presidential candidate who is a postmenopausal woman, not to mention older female powerhouse CEOs, doctors and artists. I’m honestly thrilled at the progress, but there’s a teensy part of me that wishes for fewer role models in my age group. Wouldn’t it be relaxing to settle into our advancing maturity the way our grandmas did, rocking those flowered aprons and orthopedic shoes? After countless years of go go go, is there NEVER going to be a rest stop exit on the highway of life? You know, with bathrooms and gas stations and coffee? A place to take a breather, to be, maybe, a little less zesty for a bit? Are we ALL expected to channel Jane Fonda, who’s still impossibly sharp and chic at age, what is she, 120?

 

Today I am announcing the birth of a new (slower) movement: Postmenopausal R&R. Our choice of course, and some will still scurry hectically along, but let’s not stigmatize those women who decide to dial it back a bit, as our calendar pages turn. 

 

Who’d rather think of Zest as just a brand of soap.

Focacciart

My Still Life with Veggies

“I like the feeling of being able to confront an experience and resolve it as art.”—Eudora Welty

Eudora Welty is one of my favorite writers. She was a master of the short story and the novella, the brevity of which I, with my ADHD, find endearing. Her backdrop was the mid-20^th century American South, her subjects the (many) eccentric characters to be found there. I direct you to any of her works—there’s the Pulitzer-winning The Optimist’s Daughter, but then there’s also The Robber Bridegroom and The Ponder Heart and Delta Wedding and and and…

 

I love the above quote, and the image of Eudora doing battle with her experiences (which we all do, no?), trying to wrest meaning and beauty from them. There are times when we are the losers, and we emerge from the conflict bruised, battered, and as confused as ever. But there are other times when we engage with some really tough stuff, and find the nugget of meaning and beauty hidden within. 

 

So what does this have to do with Focaccia Art?

 

During the height of the pandemic, a lot of us creative types struggled to make artistic sense of the difficulties we were facing. I know I wrote a lot, including several one-post-per-day blogathons. Others (like my Rose) returned to pursuits such as sewing, or picked up dusty musical instruments to practice. Still others began or continued rigorous fitness regimens, or adopted pets. Many of us emerged from the darkness of COVID lockdowns with new insights; some of us emerged with unwelcome new poundage as well (not ME. Some of us. Well, OK. Me.)

 

As much time as I spent in my kitchen whipping up calories, though, it never occurred to me to use a slab of bread dough as a canvas for vegetable art. But it was, apparently, a 2020 thing. I recently stumbled upon several Pinterest pages of gorgeous designs crafted with peppers and olives and parsley sprigs. Amazing!! It was like that ephemeral Buddhist sand art (painstakingly created, and quickly destroyed), but edible. I decided to give decorative focaccia a whirl last week when Patrick and Ashlyn came for dinner. The whole process is very Zen: you can’t begin to place your designs until after the second dough rising, and then you only have about 30 minutes to complete your handiwork and get it in the oven (over-risen bread dough is a flop). I sketched out my flower garden, then carefully (but hastily) placed each item. 

 

I was inordinately proud of my baked result (though it was very “loving hands at home,” compared to the kitchen artistes who duplicate Monet water lilies and Van Gogh starry nights.) And my culinary experiment lacked the poignancy of those created in those weeks and months of isolation (I could run out, unmasked, to buy more yeast any time). But nevertheless I, like my idol Eudora, did confront an experience--in my case, dinner for loved ones--and resolved it as a sliced red onion that looked, if you squinted, if not like art, at least a teensy bit like a tulip. 

 

 

The Optimist's Daughter by Eudora Welty