HUNT & GATHER, SMILE & REMEMBER

Occasionally, the Wall Street Journal will, in its Saturday "Off Duty" section, highlight a city or scenic area and create a tightly scheduled, but perfect three day holiday.  This past weekend, WSJ settled on Minneapolis, calling it "The Nicest City in America."  A little over a year ago, my son was transferred to Minneapolis, bought a house and his sweet wife and two adorable children quickly flew there to join him.  We've visited twice since, and would certainly agree with the WSJ...Minneapolis is indeed a very nice place to be.  So nice, in fact, that many of our Arizona neighbors migrate there every summer to escape the dry heat of Arizona.

Since the WSJ, particularly the weekend edition, serves as my go-to coolness indicator, I began skimming their Minneapolis suggestions in hope that we had chosen correctly as we toured the city.  Although our visits lean a little toward lengthy lunches at Chuck E Cheese (the adorables are 4 and 7), we had still managed to visit, walk or drive by a few of WSJ's suggestions. But, generally, their schedule left me feeling a bit unsettled, not to mention uncool.  How could we have missed that many great restaurants and bars, groceries, bakeries and shops?  But wait!  I recognize that!  Scheduled from 2:00 to 3:00 p.m. on Monday afternoon: Hunt & Gather.  Perhaps my favorite antique, oddities, curiosities, and all around interesting shop ever.  Located on Xerxes Avenue among similar venues, one can easily spend half the day on the first floor.  The one hour schedule allotted by the WSJ barely gets you in the door.  Relax, WSJ.  Enjoy.  Smell that bit of mustiness, savor the age, page through that book.  There may be a treasure just around the corner...or down the stairs.  How do I know?
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Because I was lucky enough to find this flawless, beautiful 1936 Royal Deluxe portable typewriter in the veritable rabbit warren that is Hunt & Gather's basement.  I spotted four or five well maintained typewriters, all displayed with equal care, but this one whispered my name as I approached.  My fondness (if not love) for  typewriters began when I was a small child and spent hours at my Aunt Letha's house typing nonsense on her vintage business-sized Royal.  I covered reams of paper with letters, numbers and symbols, and cried when it was time to go home.  When I graduated from high school and received my portable Smith-Corona (gray metal with green keys) to facilitate my college notes, research papers and the occasional letter home, I placed it carefully near my bedroom window and spent the summer typing, and day-dreaming of writing the great American novel.  Occasionally, I would open that window and light a cigarette I'd lifted from my mother's pack of Kools.  I'd carefully blow the resultant smoke out the window and magically become the very image of the Great American novelist.  

That summer, I was a voracious reader, devouring Time, Life and the Saturday Evening Post every week.  Through their pages, I shared Paris with Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Simone de Beauvoir, literary figures typing madly away on their Royal Deluxes or Underwoods.  They were my beautiful people...the glamorous intellectuals living in far away Europe, fueled by booze and the occasional positive review.  They were who I wished I could be.  Unfortunately, they were not who I was fated to be, considering my poor showing in Freshman Honors English.   

   
I have no idea who might have owned my new wonderful typewriter.  I hope they loved it...they certainly cared for it or, perhaps simply didn't use it often, but it's in good hands now.  It has transported me back to those dreamy, sultry summer days at the bedroom window when everything was possible and just around the corner.  Dreams were real and right there for the taking.  It was a glorious time.  Perhaps dreams don't have to end...68 may be pushing it a bit but, Lord knows, if not now, when?       

CURATING, CONTINUED

 

Yes, the curating continues.  Yes, just a bit of the excitement has worn off.  Yes, you're right, it has turned into work.  And, no, BC is not terribly taken with my project.  "But, I won't be able to find things now," he has sadly stated.  I have assured him that everything I've taken from the shelves will be returned, perhaps to a slightly different location, but certainly back on the same set of shelves from whence they came.  He is not consoled.  He is a creature of habit.  His comfort zone has been violated. 

 He does not like to step around carefully curated stacks of books.

 

 

He does not like flat items on the floor that make it impossible to get wherever it is he needs to go. 

 

 

Even I, who thought up this project and consider it a bare beginning to the changes I will create within this home, have a certain Alice in Wonderland, down the rabbit hole, feeling as I sit and survey the world around me.

  

 

And, just like Alice, the world around me is appearing bigger and bigger.  I think it's time for a cookie.

EXCUSE ME, I'M CURATING

A few months ago, I read an article about the popularity of curating book shelves.  It is no longer enough to dust, and--if we happen to be feeling especially creative--rearrange  our shelves.  No.  We must curate.  It sounds rather professional though, don't you think?  "I'm so sorry, I won't be able to attend next week's meeting.  I'm curating the book shelves in our den library."

I think curating sounds like something right up my alley.  And, from the look of the shelves as shown above, curating is way past due at our house.  There is nothing like taking a picture of something in your home to realize either: A--That isn't so bad after all, or B--How could I have let that happen!  In this case, it's B.

Now, I'm assuming the first step in curating is removing everything from said shelves and doing a quick analysis of each item.  What is it?  How does it fit in the general scheme of things?  Which sorting area does it belong in?  What fun!  Look, here's an interesting book:  Veterinary Obstetrics and Genital Diseases.  Sometimes I forget that BC spent the better part of his life as a small town veterinarian, doing thousands of obstetrics cases over that time.  I just had never thought of dogs, cats, cattle and horses worrying about genital diseases.  Every day we learn!  Out of curiosity, I opened another of his textbooks right to the page titled, "Amputating a Teat."  We'll just put that pile over in the corner.

I love the old books I grew up with and forget about from one dusting to the next.  Dorothy Parker's Enough Rope  always makes me plop right down on the divan and flip through its pages.  I love her!  This particular copy, on it's seventh printing in 1927, is inscribed:  "Not because I want her to Hang herself do I give Catherine Enough Rope, but more because I want to Rope her in...Dick"  Catherine is, of course, my mother, and Dick?  Perhaps he's the attorney from Kansas City who she briefly dated during her college years.  But, back to Dorothy Parker.  Whereas, she can be a bit dark and frequents the subject of death (a metaphor for a broken heart, perhaps...take that Mr. Adamany), here's one of her more light-hearted efforts:

By the time you swear you're his,

Shivering and sighing,

And he vows his passion is

Infinite, undying--

Lady, make a note of this:

One of you is lying.

Or another, titled "Indian Summer":

In youth, it was a way I had

To do my best to please,

And change, with every passing lad,

To suit his theories.

 

But now I know the things I know,

And do the things I do;

And if you do not like me so,

To hell, my love, with you!

That may be a good note on which to close, as my pace is slowing with each treasure I'm bringing down from the shelves.  Now I'm quite taken with my Grandmother's textbook from 1896, my father's German prayer book, and BC's Behavior Problems with Dogs, many of which seem to resolve rather easily with a regimen of dextroamphetamine and behavioral training.

Curating may take a bit longer than I thought.   

LESSONS LEARNED, PART I

As of this past May, I have five grandchildren who have graduated from college, two with Masters degrees.  I know it's bragging, but I don't think of it that way.  It's simply a fact.  They are gainfully employed, and relatively responsible members of society.  When they look back on their not so long ago college days, they break out in smiles.  What great experiences!  What wonderful fun!  What cool bars!  And...nearly all of these little darlings have "cum laude" or "magna cum laude" cords hanging someplace on their wall.  Where did these kids come from?  Not from Grandma, unfortunately.  I just don't have tremendously happy memories of college.  For example:

When I went to college (and, trust me, I couldn't wait) I knew I was hot stuff.  I had graduated from St. Mary of the Plains High School third or fourth, maybe fifth, in my class academically.  That is pretty good considering we had maybe 36 people in our class.  Or, was it 26?  No matter.  I had been a cheerleader, third page editor of the school newspaper, and editor of the school yearbook.  Those are hot things.  I had also chosen the theme for the Junior-Senior Prom--Bali Ha'i.  South Pacific (the movie) had been out for a few years but, apparently, had only recently reached Dodge City because I was totally enthralled with it and the Bali Ha'i concept. Obviously, I was ready for college...the big leagues.  Kansas State University of Agriculture and Applied Science, here I come.

On the second day of classes at KSU of A&AS, I was happily hurrying to my Freshman Honors English class.  How did I qualify for an Honors English class, you may ask?  God only knows.  Apparently, there were major problems with the non-computerized standardized testing system of the time.  However, there I was entering a rather dingy classroom wearing my oh-so-new plaid wool skirt and matching sweater and feeling oh, so good about myself.

I think his name was Ralph Adamany, and all of his tall, dark, gorgeousness was casually draped against the drab, scratched  instructor's desk at the front of the rather drab, scratched room.  Without hesitation, I took the seat immediately in front of him.  I was 210 miles from home, I'd just pledged Kappa Kappa Gamma, and God had dropped my ticket to heaven right in front of my eyes.  It could not get any better than this.

Ours was a smallish class made up (as I remember it) of a lot of Kansas City kids.  Big City kids from Big City high schools.  I was undaunted, however.  They may have looked down on St. Mary of the Plains High School and not been able to find Dodge City on a map, but I was fine with that.  I could run with the best of them.

The rather exotic Mr. Adamany began to speak in a beautifully languid tone of his recent time in Italy.  Thank you, Lord.  This is definitely not Dodge City.  He had been studying literature, of course, but way too soon I realized he was also giving us an assignment.  Our first reading exercise would be Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms which we would, of course, compare to Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front.

What!  What?  We are going to do what...before when?  Are you sure?  Big City Hotshot Guy on my left is already letting us know his feelings on Hemingway's style.  I do recognize the Hemingway name but who the hell is Remarque?  Does anyone else think it's hot in here?  Big City Girl behind me has just begun criticizing Big City Boy's Hemingway theories by presenting her own.  Mr. Adamany is looking at her with some interest.  Show Off!  Can someone open a window?  I don't know what these people are talking about and I think I'm just about to topple into a full blown panic attack.

To make a sad story a bit longer, I must tell you that I struggled with Hemingway.  I struggled with Remarque.  I struggled with metaphors and totally missed similes.  Frankly, I was completely over my head.  I was in deep trouble.  I assume it was either Mr. Adamany's  pity, or total ennui that let me escape his class with a C just before I sadly requested he place me in a regular Freshman English Class.  I didn't marry this handsome English teacher, nor did I see Italy until I was pushing middle age.  In fact, within the week, Mr. Adamany not only forgot my name, he forgot I was ever in his class.  Mr. Adamany broke my heart and my spirit.  I was never that young, nor hot again