Topic 98: Human Parasites

Carol:

Megan:

I have come across several first-time pregnant women who referred to their unborn child as a parasite. It seems to be a way of whistling in the dark. In college, a classmate gave birth to a baby boy the spring semester of our senior year. I remember sitting next to her at a college function when she was heavily pregnant, watching her stomach bulge out in random sharp jabs where the baby was kicking. She would hiss, and rub her belly and tell the child to go back to sleep. It was sort of amazing to watch. Later, just before graduation I sat with her on the steps in front of Café Susie’s while she changed his diaper. She cooed to him and wiggled his legs and said, “Boy, you and I haven’t spent one moment apart in 3 months. I think we have a codependent relationship.”

I think what my friend was just beginning to realize is something that expectant parents must not yet understand – that the parasitic relationship will continue for at least the next 18 years, or if you’re really unlucky, the next 30. Books have been written about this topic  -- about adult children living at home for indefinite periods of time.  New York Life refers to the phenomena of  “Boomerang Kids” – I guess because you sent them out, but they came flying back again. I of course, do not have any children of my own, but I have plenty of experience being the kids who comes back again.

The past 7 months have been the longest amount of time I’ve lived with my parents since I “left home” at 18 to go to college. We’re all relieved it’s turned out so well, but maybe if I wasn’t so comfortable I wouldn’t still be here (just kidding, mom!). I try not to think of our relationship as parasitic so much as symbiotic. I do a lot of cooking, most of the grocery shopping and nearly all of the driving. I’m inconsistent about cleaning, but that’s a trait that runs in the family.  I have also taken over kid-duty when my cousin needs someone to watch her children. These things all contribute to the well-being of the household and maybe the conveniences balances out the financial burdens.

Today both the parents are sick and staying home. I am torn between looking up a  chicken soup recipe, or taking off for the day to enjoy my health before I inevitably come down with the same illness.  Ok, I’m actually not that torn.

Topic 97: On Grooves and Graves

Carol:

                       Lookin’ for Graves and Feelin’ Groovy
 So, Megan,I have this idea for a theme vacation. We talked about taking a road trip before you start your job, whatever and wherever that job is. We could just hit the blue highways on a journey without a destination.  Or, and this idea is just too cool, we could visit famous graveyards, preferably of people in the arts and letters. I know you’d like it because we have already experienced the thrill and awe of standing in the Poet’s Corner at Westminster Abbey. This would be the American version, and I wouldn’t mind including some of those ancestors I’ve been researching for the last three years.
 

Certainly, there is no American equivalent of “The Poet’s Corner,” but the biggest conglomeration of famous groovy but dead people is in Los Angeles County. Forest Lawn Cemetery is the eternal home to such celebrities as Gracie Allen, Gene Autry, Lucille Ball, Humphrey Bogart, Nat King Cole and Benji. Let’s be accurate here, Benji did not get his own tomb; his remains were put in the casket of his trainer, Frank Inn. Another notable cemetery is Westwood Memorial Park, the final resting place of such notables as Eddie Albert, Jim Backus, Rodney Dangerfield, and my beloved SF author Ray Bradbury. Ray Bradbury? He isn’t even dead yet. Futurist that he is, he has already reserved his plot. But, since we go to LA several times a year, I propose heading east instead. 

We can fly into Boston, rent a car and spend several weeks visiting the graves of some of our greatest American authors and musicians and still hunt for the graves of our not-so-famous relatives. I know how much you want to see the 9th great-grandfathers I’ve been researching.
 

Our first stop on the “groovin’ graves” theme trip can be Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, Mass. To say a pilgrimage to Sleepy Hollow would be transcendant is, well, the literal truth. Located in Sleepy Hollow are the family plots of the Alcotts, the Emersons and the Thoreaus.  It is also the forever home of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Ephraim Wales Bull, the original cultivator of the Concord grape. We have a lot of Bulls in our family—a lot of bull, too. Perhaps, Ephraim is a relative.
 

From there we would head down to New York, Brooklyn to be exact. Two cemeteries caught my attention.  First is Green-Wood Cemetery, home to Leonard Bernstein (section G, Lot 43642), inventor Samuel Morse (Section 25/32, Lot 57161-69), and Roger Williams --the famous religion guy not the famous piano guy. Green-Wood Cemetery itself is worth the visit because it is not only the highest point in Brooklyn, but it is a 478-acre National Historic Landmark. And, roll of drums, it is the forever home of my great-grandparents John Edwards and Emma Olssen Edwards, their oldest daughter Helen (all in Lot 4436 sec 101), Emma’s nephew William Olssen, his wife and their children (Lot 6429). I’m sure we would stumble across more Edwards and Olssen graves as we stroll through the beautiful grounds of Green-wood.
 

The second cemetery is also conveniently in Brooklyn, Woodlawn, which really adds the groove to graves. Instead of the aged rusticity of Sleepy Hollow, or the lush landscape of Green-wood, close your eyes and imagine the finger-snapping sounds of such jazz greats as Duke Ellington and  Miles Davis. Or hum the famous notes of “White Christmas” composer Irving Berling and “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” composer Johnny Marks. We might even do a little fox-trot around the graves of Irene and Vernon Castle before marching past Butternut Plot, everlasting home of George M. Cohan.
So, what do you think, Megan? 

 Source:
All information for daily theme 97 came from the grooviest grave site of them all, Findagrave.com.
http://www.findagrave.com

Megan: 

How grooves can become graves

When we pulled this topic, my mother and I both groaned. She reminded me that if we threw it back, we’d still have to deal with it eventually. “Maybe it’s an expression,” I said, “like ‘shit from shinola.’” That doesn’t seem to be the case, not according to Google anyway.

I could only find 4 results not related to our website or the book, and two were set in a religious context, one in a poem and one an apparent advertisement for an air conditioning unit, but reads like poorly translated science fiction. The poem makes sense, because alliteration can be a useful tool.

Somehow the spiritual references make sense too. “Don’t let your grooves become your graves” is the title of one. The suggestion seems to be that grooves and graves are both pits  in the ground into which you may fall, but only one need be permanent.

So, how does one prevent a groove from becoming a grave? The answer is not in the ensuing entry, which is about revivalist prayer. Instead, I’ll attempt to answer the question based on my own interpretation. 

First,  we must have definitions! I think we can all agree that a grave is a hole in the ground in which a dead body is placed. The word groove, however, has many different meanings. It seems to me that there are dangers which might affect any of the definitions and turn a groove into a grave. Let’s address them one by one:

1. a long narrow channel or depression
I was walking through some farmland once and came across a long irrigation channel at the end of the property. Instead of walking a mile to the next crossing, I decided to jump it. I underestimated the width of the groove, and began sliding down towards the icy water. Luckily, I managed to grab a handful of vines and stop my descent. Unluckiliy, the vines were stinging nettles. As I was hanging there in the side of the ditch, I tried to decide which would be a worse way to die – hypothermia from the water or stinging. Anyway, I managed to pull myself out eventually but my hands had a rash for days. 

2 a fixed routine : rut b : a situation suited to one's abilities or interests : niche

I need the routine of having a job -- something to keep me occupied or else I dissolve into a little puddle of inactivity. Ever since we started this website, the routine of writing daily is enough to keep me sort of focused on what else needs to be done. It feels like a job. But there’s no money. Or accountability. The past 7 months have disappeared into what feels like one long day. This is the one that will kill me.

3 top form <a great talker when he is in the groove>
I’m not sure what to say about this one… but top form is as high as you can go. If you think this is the best you can do, you’ll probably never do this well again. And then you’ll die. 

4 the middle of the strike zone in baseball where a pitch is most easily hit <a fastball right in the groove>
This is a very dangerous groove.  If you’re standing there, you could get hit by the ball or the bat or both and the force of contact could kill you.

5 an enjoyable or exciting experience
Ever heard the expression “too much of a good thing”? That’s right. It’s called an overdose, and people die from those all the time. 

6 a pronounced enjoyable rhythm
Has music ever killed anyone? I knew a prisoner once who got beat up for having his radio too loud. Just because you like the song doesn’t mean everyone else does. And then maybe they’ll kill you. 

Topic 96: Gasoline and Onions

Carol:

State of the Onion 2011

This week we recorded President Obama’s State of the Union Address, so we were able to fast forward through the pre-speech news commentary, the countless handshakes and cheek busses, and the interruption of “spontaneous” applause.  The President was on his game, putting forth a three-pronged approach to “winning the future” that included such benchmarks as:

•    1 million electric vehicles on the road by 2015
•    80% of electricity coming from clean energy sources by 2035
•     High-speed internet access to 98% of Americans by 2016
(source: State of the Union Address 2011)

Whatever your political leanings, whether or not you agree with the priorities set in the State of the Union message, here’s a proposal that would challenge each of us to apply innovation, education, and rebuilding through a single project: the 100 Mile-Diet.
 

The “100- Mile Diet” concept comes from Canadian writers Alisa Smith and J.B. MacKinnon,  a challenge the authors gave themselves  to restrict their diet for one year to foods grown within 100 miles of their home. The project required not only changing where they bought their food but, of course, their eating habits. Innovation? They had to think outside the box-store, beyond the typical grocery list and supermarket, searching out local growers and markets and finding creative uses for a wider range of foods. They educated themselves about the sustainable food movement and preparation/storage of non-processed foods. They had to rebuild  their relationship not only to food but to the whole culture of eating—the easy and cheap “Fast Food Nation” mentality.

Smith and MacKinnon’s subsequent book  encouraged families and communities to accept the “100-Mile Diet Challenge,” if only for a week or a month.  But, is the 100-Mile Diet just a quirky fad that is too time-consuming, expensive, and complicated for 21st  century Americans who drive farther and worker harder to pay their food bills than ever before?
What are the benefits of a “buy local, eat local” lifestyle?
 

--Energy Impact: according to 100-Mile-Diet.org, a study in Iowa showed that “a regional diet consumed 17 times less oil and gas than a typical diet based on food shipped across country.”  Sustainable Table.org talks about “food miles,” the distance a food travels from farm to table, noting that food miles for the average grocery store item is 27 times higher than for goods bought from local sources. The refrigeration needed to haul produce across the country or the globe further contributes to energy waste.
 

--Economic Impact: A “locavore” approach to eating supports the survival—and revival—of family farms and local businesses. According to Sustainable Table.org, only about 7% of food dollars spent at a typical grocery store chain stays within the local economy, with the greater portion going to a global food infrastructure of processing, packaging, shipping costs, etc. That number rises to 40% with a regional buying approach, and when we by direct from local farmers, 90% of that food dollar goes back into the farm.
 

--Dietary Impact: The sustainable/local food movement is about diet for health and nutrition. Buying locally means eating fresher foods, expanding our repertoire of recipes to incorporate more flavors and textures, eliminating additives, and artificial flavor enhancers from our diets.
 
The 100-Mile-Diet challenge  is a great one for the whole family. Most communities have farmers markets, whole foods stores, and food-coops to supply your own table. Local restaurants have begun to advertise a “buy local” menu including regional wines and seasonal menus. And, all the information you need about where to find local foods is available on the internet.
 

Best of all, create/innovate with your own or community garden, Educate yourself about the various seeds and growing conditions for your climate zone. Rebuild your yard with raised vegetables beds. Imagine the whole new repertoire of taste and color you will add to the family cuisine when you grow  your own healthy, luscious, tasty….onions. 

Think of the gas you'll save

Sources:
2011 State of the Union Message
100-Mile Diet.
Sustainable Table;

Megan:

Why I hate skunks

Who made up these topics? What were they hoping to inspire?
Gasoline. And Onions. 

Things that smell bad and make you cry. 

What else smells bad enough to cry? Milo’s farts.  Skunks.

Recently some skunks (and a raccoon) murdered most of my cousin’s chickens. I say murdered because they killed the birds but did not eat them (the raccoon ate his). This makes me not like skunks very much. I’ve always hated their smell, but as a far as mammals go they look cute and cuddly and not like vicious killers.

Anyway, here are three other reasons I hate skunks:

1.    The Incident with the Dog
When I was about 11 or 12, I let our dog Trixie back in the house for the night. She came running in and immediately started rubbing her face all over the carpet, like she had something in her eyes. It took a second for the smell to catch up with her, but when it hit, we all started yelling. My mother was not home, she taught night classes sometimes. My father ran upstairs calling over his shoulder that Trixie was our dog so it was our responsibility. He went in his room and shut the door. My brother and I looked at each other. Marshall was about 9. “Tomato juice?” he suggested.

We only had V8.  Long expired gallon tins of V8 from the back of the cupboard. We wrestled the dog into the bath tub which was not easy because I had traumatized her as a puppy with an icy bath when I thought she might be too hot. Her claws scritched on the tub, and I held her collar while Marshall dumped the V8 on her face. I don’t remember what my mom said when she got home, but she can’t have been very impressed with my father.

2.    The Incident in the Garage.

This one is kind of sad. Someone trapped a skunk in our garage. It tried to get out around the mechanisms of the door, but somehow got its head stuck. It must have thrashed around because it knocked over an open can of oil, which soaked through its body and into the plasterboard wall. So, at some point the skunk sprayed and filled the garage. When the doors are shut, the garage ventilates into the basement, which is where the A/C and the furnace are. I can’t remember if it was summer or winter, but one or the other was on at the time. The spray got into the vents and was blown into every room of the house.

3.    The Incident at Mary Morse Hall.
This one could have been worse. 

My college in Oakland had a beautiful old dorm designated for the freshwomen to all live together. While I was there, it was called Mary Morse hall. It had a front desk, and a room for gentleman callers to wait for their female escorts. 

Anyway, I was siting on the front steps one day thinking about life when I heard rustling from the garbage can next to me. I turned to find a skunk, not 2 feet away from me, chewing open a plastic bag. I leapt to my feet and ran into the drive way. I called to the open windows above the steps and someone stuck her head out. I pointed to the skunk.
“Can you come down and open the door for me, and then I’ll run inside really fast?”
“You want me to open the door while it’s right there? No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What? Please.”
“You’ll have to wait.”

I went around back and then crawled through an open window in the laundry room. So much for the security of the front desk.

Topic 95: Human Blindness

Carol:

Justice Blindfolded

Not all talk at our dinner table is about punctuation, genealogy, and dogs.  Table talk  also reflects my husband’s interests, such as the latest issue of BMW Rider’s Magazine, hot headlines from the New York Times, and The Law.  Contrary to the lawyer/shark/bottom feeder jokes, Marc and I both consider his career an honorable profession.  So,  when we drew topic 95,  I thought about  the symbolism of the famous statue “Blind Justice.”  My subsequent search for information about the term led me in several very strange directions.
 

The most common Google links led to films and TV. The 1994 HBO film  centers around a gun-fighter who was blinded in the Civil War.  The 2005 TV series involves a New York Detective, oh my, blinded in the line of duty.  Despite creator Stephen Bochco’s success with such mega-series as Columbo, Doogie Howser M.D, L.A. Law and NYPD Blue,  Blind Justice didn’t make it past the first season(source: IMDB).
 

My next search  led to a forty-page pdf document called “Blind Justice: Juries Deciding Life and Death With Only Half the Truth.”  The report was written by Richard C. Dieter, Executive Director of the Death Penalty Information Center whose website provides easily accessible fact sheets and educational materials indicating that Lady Justice is not blind to color. For example,  DPIC’s “Facts About the Death Penalty” (updated 14 Jan. 2011) cites several studies showing that the odds of a defendant receiving the death penalty increase  when the victim is white, regardless of the race of the defendant (source: DPIC website).
 

My search for “blind justice” next took me to a book called Blind Justice (2009) The cover photo reveals that its author Craig B. Brown is also Judge Brown, so I skimmed  several pages of the introduction out of curiosity.  Much to my surprise, his title is, oh my, a play on words; the now retired honorable Judge Craig B. Brown of North Carolina is blind.  Since I could only read a few pages of the introduction without having to buy the book, I googled Judge Brown to find out more about him, expecting a fascinating story. Which I got.
 

Judge Brown had  been the subject of controversy  over a 2008 high-profile murder case where 17-year old Lawrence Lovette was accused of murdering two North Carolina college students. During a bond hearing,  Judge Brown called on state law-makers to enact legislation to curb gang violence in what amounted to a four-minute speech. This diversion from typical proceedings in effect “branded” the defendant as a gang member, such prejudicial, unsupported assumptions potentially tainting the jury pool.  Defendant Lovette is still awaiting trial, ineligible for the death penalty because of his age at the time of the crime. His older co-defendant pled guilty to avoid the death penalty. His plea bargain was supported by the family of 22-year-old victim Eve Carson, who have publically stated that neither Eve nor her family believe in the death penalty.  Judge Craig Brown resigned two months after the controversial bond hearing, a year later releasing his book (source: Winston-Salem Journal). If you want the “rest of the story,” Brown writes about the case in Chapters 14 and 15 of Blind Justice.
I don’t know what new project Stephen Bochco is working on these days, but there is a story to be told. A blind, retired Judge from the South becomes a writer-advocate to fight street violence. The series will  need a catchy title, though, a play on words perhaps?   
 

Sources:
Blind Justice (2005). ABC Television program       
“Blind Justice: Juries Deciding Life and Death With Only Half the Truth.” 

Brown, Craig. Blind Justice. Google Books. 2009
Death Penalty Information Center
Death Watch North Carolina “Durham Judge Who Made Gang Plea Resigns.” Winston-Salem Journal 07 May 2008
  
“Judge: Nc. Needs Anti-Gang Laws Now. WRAL.com. 19 Mar 2008.



Megan:
I didn't write today because I was preparing for a phone interview. 
So, I'll be back tomorrow.  

Topic 94: An Apology for Bores

Carol:

   An Apology for Schmucks

Dear Family:
 

I have been distracted from my daily theme responsibilities, what with Christmas preparations, having family home for the holidays,  taking the California trip, acting as tour guide for my Canadian visitors, and… yada-yada-yada. Some might call my routine boring, but I like knowing where I will be on Monday through Friday at 7:15 a.m. (walking the dog) and Monday through Friday at 9:15 a.m. (writing the daily theme).
 
Writing takes concentration and quiet, which I have not had. My work has suffered, the typos left unattended and my standards slackened. I am beginning to sound like a bore, worse yet a bore who can’t  spell. Not so today. I am back from (walking the dog), all is quiet, and I have 2 hours to devote to my writing. I am setting a new standard,  no banal or boring attempts to address the topics.  I am a writer, not a hack.
 

First, I do want to remind you that the word “essay” comes from the French,  meaning” to attempt.” And, an apology by definition  is more than an “I’m sorry.” It is also an argument, a logically-constructed  defense of a position. The professors who assigned topic #94 to their Ivy League students in the 1920’s expected these future politicians, tycoons, and academics to apply formal philosophical principles to the debate of any topic, no matter how seemingly inane.  In fact, the challenge would be to elevate the banal by the skillful use of vocabulary, logic, and appropriate humor. One might even  write an “An Apology for Boring Topics,”  arguing that anyone can write an interesting essay about a unique or challenging topic but it takes extraordinary skill to “essayer” an essay about something boring: hairpins, dogs, bank accounts.

Dear family, you may be wondering at this point why I have addressed topic #94 specifically to the people who know me best when there must be at least 8 people outside the family and our college roommates who regularly read “The Daily Theme.” Well, I’m just going to come out and say it. I don’t want to write an apology for bores today, I want to write a confessional.  I apologize.  I am supremely, contritely sorry for having myself become the biggest bore you know.
 

I intended to write a carefully researched essay on the world’s most famous bores, or a clever comparison of the delightful 1998 French film The Dinner Game-- as the French called it Le Diner de Cons-- and the 2010 American yawner Dinner for Schmucks. But,  as my brain is wont to do when I take the Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday etc. 7:15 a.m. walk with the dog, I realized  in mid-stride at 7:20 a.m. that the only person I know who would  be invited to a diner de cons or  dinner for schmucks is… ME.

I hope that my zeal for language,  literature,  movies and books has been equally interesting and entertaining for my family and friends. In retrospect, I realize that my passionate enthusiasm for learning can be overbearing and, yes, overboring.   I have begun to intuit that my latest passion, three years of intensive family history and genealogical research, has stretched your patience to its limits. I seem to punctuate all of my dinner-table revelations with “I know you get tired of hearing about this, but…” or “Can I just tell you one more thing I learned today about…”
 

So, family and friends, I have used today’s essay not to craft an apology for bores but to profess an apology from a bore. After all these years of carefully explaining the nuances of language, the importance of, nay the beauty of, linguistic precision, I hope that you appreciate the difference between the two.
                    Your humble wife, mother, sister, and friend
                                                       C. H.  

 

Megan:

I don’t think I know any boring people. Sometimes I am bored by what interests other people, but that’s not the same thing. I don’t hold it against them. It bothers me when people don’t get to the point fast enough—when they are more concerned with accuracy than telling a good story:

“Six years ago… or was it 5? Bush’s first term it was, so that must make it… Junior was still in college so …” That makes me crazy. I’d rather tell a good story and sacrifice any semblance of accuracy. I believe the technical term for this habit is exaggeration.

Anyway, I had a prisoner who worked for me who told the longest winded stories ever and it was a real chore not to completely zone out. Sometimes he would tell the entire plot of a TV show, and it would take longer to listen to him than to watch it live. I could always tell when he was gearing up for a long one when he would lean against the counter, take off his glasses and run his fingers through his cropped short hair.
    “Well, Megan, did you uh happen to catch last night’s episode of True Blood on BBC One?
    “No Joe. I don’t have a TV.”
    “Oh that’s right you told me that before. Don’t know why I can’t remember. But you are familiar with the show?”
    “Yes.” This is the fatal mistake.

We always let him talk though because he didn’t fit well into the prison. He was older than most of the other inmates, but only recently been convicted. His wife had killed herself and his children did not visit him, and in an alcoholic black-out he beat to death his 87 year old neighbor who had refused to loan him money.

I once overheard him discussing his crime with the other orderlies who worked in the library – the only time he didn’t go into detail. “I can’t remember doing it, but the evidence was there. It must have been me.”

Most of the time people get bored because they do not understand the details, and the topic does not inspire their imagination. Sometimes the language gets in the way; the jargon can be distracting. I don’t understand the language of geneology, which is why its sometimes hard for me to get excited about 9th great-grandfathers. I’m never sure how related we are. In England, I didn’t have a TV so I was never able to participate in the daily recaps of popular shows with my colleagues. Instead, we found other things to talk about, like books and movies, and the prisoners we served.

Sometimes its hard for me to talk about my job, because librarianship does not seem like an interesting occupation. For many incarcerated people, prison is their first experience with libraries. That’s why it was so important to be friendly and welcoming and professional.  Most people’s opinions on librarianship have been shaped by their experience as a patron, and whether or not the staff were helpful. In many libraries, it is often impossible to distinguish the librarians from the assistants,and from the pages and volunteers;  a library is judged by the quality of its customer service as much as its resources. This makes sense, but it limits the general public’s awareness of the variety of duties and the skills required to perform them. Mention a cataloging problem to anyone but a librarian and it’s like hitting a snooze button. I try to get around this problem by reeling my audience in with a prison anecdote and then I hit them with the library.

Sorry.

Topic 93: The Glamour of the Past

Carol:

Upside, Downside
 

Glamour is not a word I use very often, and I associate it mostly with Gloria Swanson, Marlene Dietrich, and other Hollywood stars of the thirties and forties who glide out of their boudoirs in slinky dresses, hair shimmering in waves, puffing on gilded cigarette holders. Glamour is about attraction and artifice, trompe l’oeil. Scarlet O’Hara understood glamour. My everyday world isn’t about glamour, which is just fine with me. I know people who are beautiful, even elegant, but I don’t know anyone who is glamorous. Well, that’s not true. Have you met the Crawleys?  

It should be no surprise that a retired English teacher would be addicted to European period pieces, and right now that means Masterpiece Theater on PBS, specifically Edwardian England and the seemingly glamorous lives of the Crawley family of Downton Abbey, the latest import from Great Britain’s ITV 1. At first I thought the key theme of the mini-series mimicked Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, with its gaggle of girls and preoccupation with arranging good marriages, and financial security, for a houseful of young women.  But, as the episodes take us more closely into the lives and worldview of Lord Grantham, his American wife, and their three daughters, we see more complexity in their relationships and the whisper of the social and political upheaval that will amplify with the Great War and Depression.
 

Most English period pieces are also about class, distinctions of birth and upbringing that have nothing—and everything—to do with money. Sometimes, listening  in on the servants’ gossip as they relax “below stairs” after dinner, I am reminded of the 1970’s Upstairs, Downstairs, the first Masterpiece Theater program I ever watched, which ran for sixty-some glorious episodes. It too began in the days before the Great War when the aristocratic world of the English class system was beginning to fray around the edges before it would be ripped apart after World War I, but Upstairs, Downstairs was plunked right into the elegant heart of London where Downton Abbey is set in the lush Hampshire countryside of the imposing, elegant Highclere Castle.

 

Whereas Upstairs, Downstairs moves the audience between the interior worlds of the Aristocrats above and the servant class below, we might almost rename the current series  "Inside, Outside."  The audience is taken from the opulent but sometimes stifling interior of the Abbey--with its elaborate staircases, corridors and rooms within rooms—to the incredible, spacious expanse of lawn and lake surrounding the Abbey. After the drama and intrigue of Inside, we take a giant, relieved breath of the fresh Outside.
 

Most significantly, the Abbey becomes a character in the drama, and we begin to understand that Lord Grantham’s primary concern is not the future of his daughters but the future of the Estate. And, not as a piece of property, but as a living entity with its own complex eco-system.  We also begin to understand that the Abbey gives as much as it takes; the valets, butlers, housemaids, chauffeurs, grooms and cottagers on the Estate, whose jobs seem so redundant and ridiculous to outsiders, all play a role in the life of Downton Abbey, and in turn are provided security and stability. One of the most revealing and dramatic scenes takes place between Robert Crawley and his distant, middle-class cousin Matthew Crawley. Lord Grantham politely but firmly rebukes the young heir to the Abbey for humiliating the valet  Moseley by not letting the man do his job. By dressing himself, serving his own food, and letting Moseley stand by idly, Matthew demeans the servant and makes his job seem ridiculous.
 

I am ecstatic to find out that Downton Abbey has at least 4 remaining episodes after I watch Episode 3 tonight. I get at least another month of vicarious living in the elegant, glamorous world of Lord and Lady Grantham. And, when the season is over? Good news, those of you who enjoy the glamour of the past…. a brand new mini-series is in mid-filming for 2011 release,  an English period piece called…. Upstairs, Downstairs.
                           
Sources: 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Upstairs,_Downstairs
http://www.itv.com/dramapremieres/downtonabbey/ 

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1606375/


   

Megan:

After reading the topic I first thought of my journals and questioned the motivation for documenting some of my very worst behavior… nothing glamorous about the feelings I have while reading what I was doing this time last year.

So, instead I though of nostalgia for the Good Old Days and some of the popular entertainment, which inspires that feeling through Masterpiece Theatre/BBC productions of period pieces, fashion trends and archaic writing equipment. You watch a show like Mad Men  and although it's sort of a dystopic view of history, with infidelity and alcoholism and sexual harassment, everyone gets really excited about the accuracy of the wardrobe.

And I thought about my courtyard flat in England and how it was a perfect vision of a country cottage, straight out of Cranford or Sense and Sensibility. The big house was even called Norland. In addition to cobblestones, ivy covered rock walls, tiny door ways and hidden staircases, and exposed beams, my little flat also had no central heating, damp mold in the corners, uneven floors, weird drafts and a beautiful Georgian window with little panes of lead glass. The window was added part way through my stay at Norland. My landlords were doing restoration work on the 250 year old property to fix some of the shoddy modernizing construction that happened over the centuries. A fireplace so large you can stand in it was discovered behind a wall upstairs. My landlady ran screaming through the court yard calling to all her tenants that she had discovered history. 

They also restored the barn and carriage houses adding 3 more apartments to their tenancy. I was offered one of the new flats, but even the addition of a clawfoot bathtub didn’t seem worth all the effort and paperwork it would take to change my address from Flat 4 to 6. And still there would be no central heating.

When my landlords decided to change my window from a large single pane to authentic reproductions of the original lead paned sash window, I was sure they told me the window would be energy efficient and warmer. That turned out to be a lie. The first window they bought did not fit, but they didn’t realize that until the old window had already been taken out. So, while waiting for the replacement to be built, I got a board instead and had no natural light for 2 weeks.  The flat had never been warmer.

My flat. Left window was authentic, Right window replaced after this photo was taken.

Topic 92: The Futility of the Practical

Carol:

                 Papa, Mama and Baby Bear Go Shopping 

Look for the Best Deal
When I first met Marc he was driving a Volkswagen Beetle like most of our college friends, but the car taught him a hard lesson.  Marc had found a job right after receiving his student loan check, so he decided to buy the VB with cash. He chose a year-old model expecting a better deal but didn’t do his research. Soon after, he found out he could have paid less for a new model. A couple of days later he was fired from his job and evicted from his apartment. He became a master at frugal living out of necessity.
 

Marc is still motivated by finding the best deal, but he carefully researches major purchases and is an expert negotiator. Nobody gets better deals on vehicles or appliances than Marc. I try to remember that when he comes home from a trip to Costco.  He is a sucker for buying in bulk. If we need a quart of milk, he will buy two gallons because they are “a better deal.” Our hall closets contains gigantic  boxes of crackers, gallon-size containers of juice and stacks of tuna cans that won’t fit in the kitchen pantry.  The humongous packs of paper towels, toilet paper and Kleenex are stuffed onto shelves in our laundry room. What the heck, they were the best deal.

Save on What You Need to Buy What You Want
My parents paid for my education and gave me an allowance so that I didn’t have to work in college. When I started dating Marc, I realized pretty quickly that if I let him pay for everything (still common in 1969), I would never get to go anywhere. Going Dutch was the practical solution.
 

I have my own consumer philosophy.  On big purchases, I know exactly what I want and am willing to wait until I find it, whatever the cost. But, I have an almost obsessive, prideful frugality about daily necessities.  I collect store coupons and carry cloth bags so that I can buy expensive cage-free eggs from happy chickens. I own an expensive, extremely comfortable desk chair and a brand new computer, but my books are stored on a  wobbly bookshelf that Megan helped me put together. The kits were so cheap that I bought three. I put the first one together by myself, but when Megan helped me put the second one together, she got so mad at the complicated instructions and the poor quality of the materials that she refused to help me with the third. It’s in the garage next to the huge bag of dog food Marc buys in bulk.  

What About Common Sense?
Megan is one of the smartest consumers I know, which makes her the most practical. When she was younger, she would never ask us to buy her anything until she had researched it  and created an argument to go with the research. When she started college, she talked us into letting her have her own credit card to pay off $10 purchases each month that would allow her to build up credit in her own name. By the time she was living in England, she was able to broker a sensible car loan. Maybe she listened to her Dad’s VW story.
 

Megan recently bought her own bathroom scale. She was tired of weighing herself on the heavy, ugly, inaccurate one Marc bought at Costco. She found a sleek and accurate model in the mid-range cost. Baby Bear has taught Papa and Mama Bear that common sense consumerism is NOT futile.

Megan:

This topic makes me think of the prison. My staff and I did a lot to try to make the library feel un-prison-like (and in some ways, un-library-like). We painted the walls a bright blue. We played loud music, we shouted across the room. Once we had a contest with giant rubber bands, trying to knock books off the shelves.  We did this as much for ourselves as for the prisoners, if not more so. When I say the prison could be a depressing place to work, most people nod their heads like they know what I mean. They don’t, but it doesn’t matter. But when I say it was also a lot of fun, they assume there’s something off about me. My anecdotes sometimes come off as unprofessional, but those antics were part of coping with the environment, just like gallows humor, and keeping your back to the wall.

A lot of my responsibilities took me outside the library and around the rest of the jail. I enjoyed this because it gave me a chance to remind the rest of the prison that there was a library, and me a chance to find out what was happening in other areas. I sat on several committees with members of the senior management team. The management structure of a prison is complicated, and I’m not going to waste words here with a detailed explanation. Simply put, the head of the prison is the Number One Governor. He (or she) is responsible for everything, if there was an escape, or a murder he would lose his job. Under the Number One is the Dep(uty), and then there are governors (managers) of each area – Security, Operations, Health & Safety, Diversity, Learning & Skills etc. All rules and policies put in place by the senior management team are implemented by the uniformed staff – the Officers and Senior Officers, and the civilians contracted in like me, the education staff and the nurses in the healthcare department. That’s as brief as I can describe it.

In a prison, the biggest gap in communication is between the SMT and the officers. The officers and the prisoners are closer. Some of the prisoners and staff had been living and working together since the jail opened in 1992. For the most part, they had good relationships. You’ll find the odd prison officer who hates the prisoners and treats them that way, and vice versa – there are prisoners who do not communicate with staff. That relationship, between prisoners and staff, is complicated and dangerous. Prisoners, understand why they are there and why the staff are there. Most of the inmates are murderers, arsonists, gang members, drug addicts and mentally ill. Keeping that environment calm and safe for everyone involved is the biggest part of everyone’s job. Over time, years I mean, one develops what is known as jail craft, the ability to assess a person or a situation, evaluate risk, negotiate and if necessary, use force. My four years was nothing – especially for a civilian; a well-run prison trusts the experience of staff to uphold its primary duty which is to protect the public.
 

In the time I was there, we had three Number One Governors, and four Deps. The rest of the SMT shuffled responsibilities every few months at the whim of the Number One in an effort to meet whatever performance targets or audit requirements had been set by the Ministry of Justice. Shortly after I left, the third Number One resigned under allegations of serious professional misconduct involving swapping difficult prisoners with other jails during inspections to improve  scores. One of those difficult prisoners committed suicide.

Prisons are an unfortunate, but practical neccessity of civilization. But the idea that anyone is really protected or helped in a prison is an illusion, an exercise in futility.

Topic 91: Traveling and Arriving

Carol:

So Long, Farewell

We have just said good-bye to our Canadian friends Bonnie and Michael after a wonderful four-day visit. When we weren’t sightseeing through Northern  Arizona, we were reminiscing  at length about one of our favorite topics, travel. Right now departures are more on my mind than arrivals.
 

Bonnie and I spent the summer of 1969 together in Europe, a trip planned while I was studying in Aix-en-Provence, France and she at the University of Manitoba. Our travels took us through France, Spain and Italy before we ended the summer in Switzerland.  Bonnie would travel alone for several more weeks before returning to Canada.  I would return to the States and classes at the University of California, Riverside.
 

But, first I detoured to Aix to pick up my ticket for a cheap charter I had arranged through a student travel agency. When I got to the travel office, the building was locked, the travel office closed for the summer. I couldn’t remember what Belgian city I was departing from, what airline or time, just the date. In a panic, I telephoned my parents who were not happy that I could be so immature as to pay for a ticket without getting any paperwork. I had almost no money and no credit card, so they had to make all the arrangements through telegrams and wire transfers. And they would had to pay for an exorbitant last-minute, one-way ticket from Paris to Los Angeles.
 

Marc and I spent the summer of 1971 together in Europe. I had met him at UCR in fall 1969 and convinced him that he too should apply for a study abroad program. In fall 1970, he left for Bordeaux , so I spent the year planning the trip with my roommate Clarice and her friend Meg.  You might think that I had matured in those two years since the debacle of the airplane ticket. Well, I had…sorta. 
 

Our June charter flight from LA took us to London, where we would stay for several days before meeting Marc in Amsterdam. About an hour outside of London, a thought popped into my head. I hadn’t really looked at my passport in a while, what if my paperwork was incomplete? When I opened the passport, sure enough,  my passport had expired. In another panic, my imagination went into overdrive, I would be hauled off to a London jail for illegal entry, I would miss our flight to Amsterdam, I would never see my boyfriend Marc, and worst, I would have to telephone my parents to help me out of another travel fiasco. Luckily, the flight attendant told me that I could get my passport renewed in London with little more inconvenience than the loss of a day spent filling out paperwork at the American Embassy.
 

 I arrived at the Amsterdam airport three days later with a brand new passport and thoughts of seeing Marc for the first time in 9 months. By the time we debarked from the plane, I was so overtaken by nerves that I hid in the bathroom for 20 minutes. Finally, Marc sent Clarice in to find out what was wrong, and she pushed me out the door for what I thought would be a public but nevertheless sentimental reunion.    

There he was, outside in the hallway.  He grabbed my hand, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and greeted me with the kind of romantic words I have been hearing now for 40 years. “Hurry, we have to run. If we don’t get to the Heinecken Brewery in 10 minutes, we’ll miss the free beer.”

Megan:

In Bruges

December 22, 2002
Sunday
Bruges, Belgium

“Before Snuffel’s Sleep-In was a youth hostel, it was an information booth, where backpackers and other travelers congregated to rustle up some guidance about Bruges. To snuffle means to sniff out information, like hunting dogs, or drug dogs. Thus, when converted into a hostel, the information booth became Snuffel’s, with a dog as the mascot”–Kelly

Kelly wrote that before she started back to L.A. today. I went with her to the train station and then spent the rest of the afternoon walking around the city and doing laundry. Tried to see a movie but I got lost. When the barman at Snuffel’s gave me directions, he mentioned there used to be many cinemas but now only two. I didn’t come across either of them, and wandered for a couple hours along the canals trying to find my way back to the hostel. Unlike Amsterdam, this city does not seem to focus around something huge you can see from far away (like a train station). I walked through the town center three times, walked past the Church where they keep bits of Jesus blood. Kelly and I tried to see it, but it was encased in a tabernacle type thing, so who knows if it was even in there.    

Now I am back at Snuffel’s, drinking Snuffel Beer and waiting to check my emails. Tomorrow I’m going to get up early to go to Brussels and from there, Paris. Then I’ll see how to get to San Sebastian, but I don’t want to arrive anywhere after dark and have to find a hostel. I’m excited to travel alone because I can just wander and take it in. You can’t do that in a large group.
    

Right now, in the bar, there is a drunk American. He exclaims about the beer: “Its more like champagne! It’s way too carbonated and sweet! This will give you a hangover!” He laughs like he’s had plenty of hangovers. He’s the type to constantly compare America to Europe– usually in the U.S.’s disfavor, so loudly and dramatically that the barman and probably every other European look at him and see what they hate about the U.S.
    

Another man we’ve met is Vittorio di Lorenzo, whom Kelly nicknamed Father Time on account of his advanced age, which is probably only late 50’s. We made dinner together in the Snuffel Kitchen, I had pasta and he had veggies. He’s a Londoner who is traveling because the housing rates in the U.K.  are too high. Essentially, he explained, it’s cheaper for him to travel frugally all around Europe than to rent a room in London.
    

Back to the Drunk American. He is making conversation with the poor attractive barman (all the barmen here are attractive). Barman pays close enough attention, makes decent conversation, occasionally has input. But the Drunk American still only wants to talk about the beer. “All American beer is shit,” he says. “But this, this is not beer.” Barman responds that its 9% alcohol, therefore stronger than the American shit anyway. Barman admits that he is hung-over.

 Apparently the Drunk American buys all his clothes with Camel Cash– he has a Camel Jacket and a Camel Fishing Vest. He says that “Amendments” have been passed to raise taxes on cigarettes and beer. “In 100 years, the whole world will be a civilized country– except America.” His theory is apparently that civilized countries ought to provide cigarettes and beer as free services. A large group has gathered around the Drunk American. I hope they gather because he is a freak and not because they agree with him.
    

My main problem with the Drunk American is that I share many of his theories and now I am ashamed. For example, between the coasts of the U.S., there are only farms and nothing else of value– that too once crossed my mind. I also observed that the beer had a champagnesque flavor, but I did not actually speak these thoughts aloud.  I wonder how he came to be here, but I don’t wonder enough to ask.

Topic 90: College Libraries as Social Centers... sort of

This is the last day of our Canadian friends' visit, and Carol doesn't feel like writing today because she is a slacker.

Topic 89: My Ailments

Carol:

Wouldn’t You Rather Hear About…

 Even though it’s against the little rules Megan and I established for ourselves with the daily theme essays—stick to the assigned topic--I have been having such a lovely time visiting with my high school girlfriend and her husband, I just refuse to write about Topic 89, “my ailments.” Wouldn’t you rather hear about our trip to the Grand Canyon?

It was a lovely, crisp morning as we set off on the two and a half hour trip up to the Canyon. Marc had the day off because of the Martin Luther King Holiday, so he drove our hybrid electiric vehicle, a smooth, beautiful, quiet ride. Thank God because I have a couple of little problems on car trips, pesky little physical things, you know. One is that my ears have become very sensitive, so changes in air pressure or road noise really drive me crazy. Just rolling down the window to get a little fresh air is enough to make my ears start throbbing. The other is that I have a sensitive stomach that doesn’t take well to twists and turns. I don’t talk about it much—who wants to hear someone complain about an upset stomach—but it’s always a relief when Marc drives so I can sit and nurse the discomfort in silence.

The ride to the Canyon itself was lovely if a bit uneventful. We saw a small herd of antelope just before turning onto Highway 89 at Chino Valley. I almost missed them. They blend in with the vegetation as they hunch over to graze; and, well, I have been having eye problems. Chronic allergies leave my eyes red and irritated even at this time of year. Cottonwood or Juniper season? I am really  a mess then. 

Isn't the Canyon beautiful today?

The Canyon trip. We were quite surprised, and delighted, when we pulled up to the Ranger Station and found out that it was a free day due to the MLK holiday. And, even though most people had a three-day weekend, the outer parking lots weren’t crowded, so we decided to drive straight to the Village on the chance we could find a parking space near the beautiful, historic  El Tovar Hotel where we would have lunch.

We found a great spot right in front of Bright Angel Lodge, an easy walk for the hotel along the Rim Trail. I was so excited to see our Canadian friends take their first view of the Canyon for the first time that it distracted me from the minor but persistent pain in my left leg, the residue of a deep vein thrombosis I got traveling back from England about 8 years ago. I was able to avoid a hospital stay by staying in bed for a month, and I was on medication for six months. I am really careful now when we travel even on short trips to move around and drink lots of liquids, but sometimes the leg swells up below the knee and starts to ache. 

 I know Megan insists on the importance of adhering to the posted topics for our daily theme essays as part of the writing challenge. I hope she doesn’t get grouchy with me for not writing about my ailments. But, after all, wouldn’t anybody rather hear about the Canyon?

Aren't our Canadian friends cute?

Megan:

My Second Belly Button

In addition to periodic bouts with strep throat, and a broken arm as a child, my other ailments have all been connected by virtue of being both disgusting and embarrassing. In reverse chronology, here is a list of my weirdest and humiliating ailments.

I got conjunctivitis from the prison library books, and for weeks I had to smear thick goo all over my eyes 4 times a day. The goo was administered as thick eye drops and for some reason turned my taste metallic. The first time I worked with my friend Sean the Northern Irish Guy, I had just put in the drops when he walked into the library. “What the hell’s the matter with you?“  At the same time as the eye infection, the skin on my scalp and forehead began to peel away. I thought they were connected and that my ancient flat might be filled with dust mites, but the skin condition lasted much longer than the infection. Using Google, I self diagnosed myself with Seborrhoeic dermatitis. I did research, tried all sorts of shampoos and finally gave up wearing dark clothing. It persisted for two years and then as soon as I left the job in the prison, it went away. 

 

Moving back a few years, one week before I was to move to England for the first time, I developed a Pilondial cyst. After suffering for several days, I finally told my mother and went to the doctor once I could no longer sit down. I’ve been going to the same doctor since I was 3, but it was still pretty uncomfortable to lie sideways on a table with my knees tucked up to my chest, while the doctor effectively lanced the cyst and then packed the wound with cotton. The relief was immediate but the doctor told me several things: 

1. Surgery would be required. 
2. The area was infected. 
3. I needed antibiotics to get rid of the infection before I could have the surgery. 
4. The packing and dressings on the wound needed to be changed twice daily. 

All of that was manageable except that I was about to move to England for a year. My father made frantic calls to the study abroad program coordinators to make sure I would be able to see a doctor once I landed. Everyone was very helpful and accommodating but the worst part was that I spent my 21st birthday on an international flight, sitting on a donut shaped pillow. 

And finally (or initially), due to complications from being a Meconium aspiration baby, doctors put a central line through my navel. That left a deep, indented scar on my lower abdomen that I’ve always referred to as my second bellybutton. I wandered through life showing and telling everyone about it until my second year of college when it changed. After 20 years of just sitting there, one day the scar reddened, hardened and then opened. I’m not going to lie here and say I wasn’t completely panicked. I asked my friend’s parents what they thought, but they brushed it off as a skin infection. I said, "But it’s open. My second bellybutton has opened and now there is a hole in my stomach." I made an appointment with the university healthcare and they referred me for an ultrasound to make sure the infection hadn’t spread to my heart. I was told to drink 64 oz of water before I came in, and I did and then had to wait and hold it for a long time before a nurse collected me. She asked how far along I was. I said, "I’m not pregnant. There’s something wrong with my second belly button."  

"Oh," she said, "then you didn’t need to drink all that water." The ultrasound revealed no problems in my heart or belly, and once again I got antibiotics for the infection, which went away.

I don’t show off my second belly button anymore. In the course of whatever that was, the scar changed. It migrated off center. It no longer looks like a bellybutton. It looks like a badly stitched knife wound. No, you can’t see it.