Monuments Men and When Words Fail Me

On Tuesday I had something interesting penciled into the day planner. I went to lecture followed by a special screening of the Monuments Men movie. You may remember hearing about this George Clooney film when it hit the movie theaters last year. It’s about an actual event in history where men from around the world were charged with finding art works stolen and hidden by the Nazis during World War II. The daughter of one of the actual members of the Monuments Men was the guest lecturer---she was born and raised in a near-by town---and she shared her father’s personal stories, letters and photographs of the recoveries of the stolen art in which he took part. He helped catalog the thousands of pieces of art found in two salt mines and with trying to local their rightful owners.

It was a fascinating story and one the daughter didn’t fully appreciate until a friend called her one day to tell her that her father’s photo was in the latest Smithsonian Magazine. She went online, left a comment on the article and the next day she got an email from a man writing a book about the Monuments Men. He wanted to interview her and her mother and within a week, the author flew in from Texas with a camera crew and he left with some of the memorabilia that her father had kept in a box labeled, “Army Stuff. Do NOT throw out.” Fast forward: The book got optioned for the movie, she was an invited guest at the Michigan premier of the film, the local newspaper picked up the story and she began getting asked to speak to groups around the state.

Once a month I talk politics with a life-long friend of my husbands, or rather I should say we vent to one another. We’re both liberal democrats and as the next presidential election winds up we’ll talk more often. It’s been that way since Don lost his speech and before that it was my husband and his friend who’d have these political conversations. He’s my political ‘pigeonhole’ friend. If I want to talk dogs I call a certain pigeonhole friend and if I want to hear some family gossip, I call a sister-in-law who knows it all. If I want to talk books I’m up a creek without a paddle because no one I know reads for pleasure anymore. Online reviews are a good substitute for real conversations but after seeing what I did on Tuesday I would have loved having a pigeonhole art friend to talk Monuments Men and art with. I still can’t get over the fact that Hitler had left orders---should he die---to destroy all the art that he had his military steal and hide, and they did start that process. It boggles my mind that a person, even Hitler, could be that selfish and vindictive. So many of Europe’s finest treasures---pieces by the likes of Michelangelo, Monet, Rembrandt, Raphael, Vermeer, Leonardo de Vinci and so on---would have been lost forever if not for the quick actions of the 350 men who served in Monuments Men units. 

When my political friend calls we’re usually on the phone a good hour which is a long conversation in Jean’s World where, these days, I can easily go a week or two without talking to anyone except the cashier at the grocery store and the Starbucks speaker. During our most recent political call I realized (not for the first time) that my conversational skills are slipping. I’m not as quick with getting out my thoughts and words. I’m not forming easy comments to his statements like I used to be able to do. Part of that is because since last winter I’m not following the news as closely as I used to do but the other part has me worried. Why? Because I’ve noticed the same, not-as-quick-thing when I’m having shorter, more casual conversations with strangers and acquaintances. What’s going on in my brain? Am I getting rusty because I live alone? Is this just something that happens as we age? Because it’s embarrassing when the words don’t flow like they used to, do we start pulling back from even attempting casual conversations? Ohmygod, I hate thinking about all this!

If nothing more, I think I need to start talking out loud around the house. I don’t even talk to the dog as often as I used because I swear he reads my mind and I know I can read his. He only has a few thoughts inside there. “Give me a treat.” “Play with me.” “Let me outside.” “Let me inside.” “Did you see that rabbit?” “You’ve been in the chair long enough. Put on my song and let’s dance.” With the latter, I go to YouTube and when the music come out of my computer speakers, we take off doing obedience training and tricks as we ‘dance’ through the house. “No matter who you are, no matter where you go in life, you’re going to need someone to stand by you,” the street performer sings. Five and a half minutes later Levi the Mighty Schnauzer in my life is happy. And I’ve done my dog-mother bonding duty but lately I’m left wondering who will read my mind when I’m old and as wordless as my dog. Who will stand by me? ©

A footnote on Tuesday’s lecture: The woman who gave us such a wonderful view of her father didn’t take the speaker’s fee the senior hall pays out to the people we book. She asked that we donate it to the Monuments Men Foundation. How cool is that!

Stephen King and the Widow's Nieces

Writers write. Okay, so I’m sitting here waiting for inspiration and it’s not coming. Does that mean I’m really not a writer? But I already knew that, didn’t I? I can’t plot my way out of a paper bag, my poems don’t rhyme and my diary/blog groans whenever I get near the keyboard. “Oh, no, not you again!” Sorry, Dell, I have something inside that wants to bleed all over your computer screen but it never comes out the way I want it to. I suspect all bloggers feel the same way from time to time. Pease tell me that’s a true statement of fact! Please tell me other bloggers are like me and wear out their back space and delete keys first.

I’m not fond of Stephen King’s horror genre books but he’s a productive (and many would say a brilliant) writer and two of my favorite movies are adaptations of his stories---The Shawshank Redemption and Stand By Me---which both started out as novellas in a collection of four novellas published together and titled Different Seasons. The following quote from the book is one of my favorites and it fits perfectly to where I’m at in my life:

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them -- words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.”

Where I’m at in my life. Where is that exactly? I’m an aging woman with no children and a dead husband and no one to leave a legacy of life-lessons learned. Well, Levi could out live me but his canine brain has taught me more than I’ve taught him. Smile and wiggle all over when humans approach, it makes them happy. Be sweet but persistent and you’ll get more treats. Listen more than you talk, others need to be heard. That last one is an important lesson to learn and maybe instead of trying to write what seems so important in our heads we bloggers should just tell it to a dog. They always seem to have an understanding ear. But what really bothers me is ‘why.’ Why do I feel compelled to write even if I can’t do it the way I want? Is it a sign that I’m preparing for the next stage of life (dare I say death) that I want to sprinkle wisdom around like fairy dust and hope it grows after I’m gone? Is it a sign of grandiose thinking to even believe I have wisdom worth imparting to the world? I still have secrets to tell. Should I tell…or take them to the grave? I know what Stephen King would say about my back story: “The most important things to remember about back story are that (a) everyone has a history and (b) most of it isn’t very interesting.” He’s one smart guy. Alien abductions really were pretty common back in the 70s. That last part was a joke although Mr. King would probably say if you have to tell someone “it’s a joke” you need to rewrite it.

Yesterday I packed up the dog and we went on a little road trip, south about an hour and half to where my two nieces live. One is out of state and she invited me to use her cottage while she’s gone---it’s the same cottage where I spent all my summers growing up. My other niece also lives on a lake near-by and I invited myself over for a visit. She is one of those people who is perpetually happy and upbeat. Even when she’s talking about something bad that may have happened she has a way of giving it a humorous spin that gets everyone laughing. Her husband has a great temperament, too. It’s like they’ve ridden that same train so long you can’t tell them apart---a perfect match. My other niece and her husband were both well-liked teachers who have a wide circle of supportive friends and they are another perfect match. I would say I’m very proud of my nieces but I didn’t have a hand in forming the wonderful women they’ve become. So instead I say I am proud to call them family.

I have a real aversion to saying, “I’m proud of you” if I didn’t have a direct hand in helping someone reach benchmarks and accomplish goals. Quirky, I know. It’s a common phrase thrown all over the place. Instead, I try to say things like, “Be proud of yourself! It’s quite an accomplishment to….” I also have an aversion to saying, “I’m sorry for your loss.” The “loss” has a name! “I’m sorry you lost Frank or Nellie.” A loss is personal and only Hallmark should be using generic words at a time like that. And they should be a making card that reads, “Dear Niece, if I had a daughter I would be joyously happy if she had turned out just like you.”  

Look! I’ve got my word quota in for today. I guess Stephen King was right when he said, “Don’t wait for the muse.” In other words, just start writing and let the words take you where you need to go. ©

“It always comes down to just two choices. Get busy living, or get busy dying.”

Stephen King, Different Seasons

The Christmas Craft Show Tour in Widowhoodville

I must be a glutton for punishment with no more sense than an amoeba living in a back yard pond. Today I decided to do the annual craft show tour, hop scotching around town to see what the various fairs had to offer to the early Christmas shoppers. It was a tradition Don and I acquitted to support the union retirees at one place and the senior citizens hall at another and it grew from there, adding three more stops on our tour. Don loved the crowds and the homemade baked goods for sale and we’d always ran into people we knew.

As I backed out of the driveway the radio was set on the Prime Country [cry-your-eyes-out] station and as the Chief Glutton for Punishment in the car I didn't switch the channel. When will I ever learn? It wasn't long after that Dolly Parton was singing:

“Why'd you come in here lookin' like that
In your cowboy boots and your painted-on jeans
All decked out like a cowgirl's dream
Why'd you come in here looking like that?”

Damn it! Those words reminded me of Don all dressed up in his favorite attire and that was enough to put his ghost riding shotgun in my passenger seat. By the time I got to my first stop, the senior hall, I wasn’t even sure I could go in. But I did because I’m a super-duper trooper, don’t you know, and who cares if you're misty-eyed at a craft show? Inside, I collected a hug from the center’s director---she cared---and I bought an item from their garage sale room for fifteen cents. It was a wire wreath to hold Christmas cards. I came close to buying one just like it, only new, a few weeks ago but I didn’t like the $25.00 price tag. Okay, that didn’t turn out so bad, I thought. Things were looking up.

The next stop was to the retiree’s hall where I knew quite a few people and several mentioned missing Don. One vendor who had sold Don a handmade item last year that I hated on sight couldn’t say enough nice things about him and that made me feel guilty about giving the piece to Salvation Army a few months ago. Another vendor who is old enough to be my mother talked to me about finding someone else, “It doesn’t have to be the same kind of romance or love,” she said. “It’s just nice to have someone to be with.” “I know,” I replied, “but I’m not ready for that.” Darn those damn tears! They started in again and I had to leave her booth. Whose stupid idea was it for me to go there today? Oh, ya, that would be my own stupid idea.

Back in the car the cry-your-eyes out radio station was blasting out Mickey Gilley singing Stand by Me. I sighed deeply. Instead of bringing tears, though, that song brought a wave of peace over me as I listened. It's always had that effect on my emotions.

“When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we'll see
No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me”

For months on end I played that song every night at bedtime and Levi knew that was his clue to do our version of dog-dancing. It served several purposes one being human-to-canine bonding, another being human and canine exercise, but the most important reason---at least now in hindsight---was that our antics never failed to make Don laugh. Gilley’s version isn’t my favorite cut of Stand by Me, but I can honestly say I’ve never heard a version I didn’t like. When the piece ended this afternoon in the car, I looked over at the ghost riding shotgun in my passenger seat and I said, “Let’s go home. The Christmas craft shows suck this year.” ©

Below is a link to my favorite version of Stand by Me. I love how it keeps building as they add street performers from around the world. If you're not award of the 'Playing for Change' project here is what they say on their website: "Playing for Change is a multimedia movement created to inspire, connect, and bring peace to the world through music. The idea for this project arose from a common belief that music has the power to break down boundaries and overcome distances between people. No matter whether people come from different geographic, political, economic, spiritual or ideological backgrounds, music has the universal power to transcend and unite us as one human race. And with this truth firmly fixed in our minds, we set out to share it with the world."   Playing for Change

On the Corner of Memory and Widowhood Lanes

While waiting at the airport for my long, lost friend to arrive it occurred to me that it took a leap of faith on her part to trust that I’d be there to pick her up. After all, I’m old and old people forget things. Old people also get lost on the way to airports and IN the airports. And we’ve been known to die unexpectedly leaving people stranded and fuming on concourses. Okay, I admit it, I’m a worry wart and worry warts can come up with a 100 troubling scenarios when we have too much time on their hands. Was I waiting in the right place? Would we even recognize the wrinkled versions of our old selves? At one point I even worried that maybe she’d turned into a serial murderer and was coming to poison my pudding, pretend to be me and empty out my bank account. Worry warts are right at home in airports where an intercom voice is constantly implanting paranoid ideas about strangers who might ask you to transport “packages” in your carry-on. And I quickly got the idea that if I accidentally left my purse on the window sill some seriously tense young man from the bomb squad would be in charge of returning it.

But all my worrying was for not. My friend arrived and she was still the same warm, gracious and vivacious person I had met in grade school. And I was there to greet her---me, the same eager-to-follow-her-laughter-anywhere girl I was so many decades ago. Growing up just around the corner from one another we were two peas in a pod and practically inseparable for nearly two decades until college where she found her self a great boyfriend, married the guy and then followed his career across the country.

This week I found out that nine months out from Don’s dying was perfect timing for me to journey to the intersection of Memory and Widowhood Lanes. As time passes, we widows all regret that we get fewer and fewer opportunities to share memories of our spouses and it’s healing when we have a willing listener like my friend was this week We ‘played’ together in the stores, toured our local tourist attraction and took a ride up north searching for the past only to confirm that Thomas Wolfe was right: you can’t go home again---buildings get torn down and others take their places. And through it all we talked non-stop about everything and anything: how our lives and families turned out, the highlights and low points of decades past, our hopes for the future, the world and politics. With a little wine, a few tears and lots of laughter we swapped stories, just two old friends with years of ‘girl talk’ to catch up on.

At one point she said she refuses to admit that she’s getting older, which I found highly amusing because sometimes I pretend I’m older than I really am. Why not? It gives me an excuse for the mistakes I make like this week when I asked someone for directions to the tramp station. “The tram station,” he replied, “is just around that bend. You might find a few tramps over there.” But I see my friend’s point of view on not allowing yourself to think like an old person, let the years hold you back from what you enjoy doing. Back in my forties I was on a kick where I’d tell my nieces to remember I was doing screw ups (like my tram/tramp mix up) all of my life and not to rush me off to a nursing home when I do it in my Medicare years. Some things you definitely don't want to rush. Nursing homes and rusting in place are two of those things. Stay active, stay tuned in. Betty White, I'm coming to audition for your TV series, Off their Rockers.

In the coming of age movie, Stand By Me, the last lines were, “I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?” To that question asked by Richard Dreyfuss’ character, I’d answer, “No, no we don’t.” When you share so many ‘firsts’ and coming of age experiences with another person, you bond in a unique way and that bond is very special, giving you the ability to pick up right where you left off decades later when you meet again in an airport. My visit with my oldest and dearest friend was worth all the worrying. Our bond came with a life-time warranty. ©

second grade, 1950