Bombers, Dr. Zhivago and Icy Roads

I sign up for all the Life Enrichment lectures at the senior hall. This month’s lecture was given by a local woman, Sandra Warren, who wrote a book about her high school’s junior and senior classmates who bought a B-17 Bomber during WWII by selling $375,000 worth of War Bonds and they won the right to name and christen the airplane. It even flew into town for the ceremony and when “The Spirit of South High” flew off, it was never heard from again. Fast forward seven decades later when the alumni from the high school decided to research what happened to the bomber and the research lead them to another project: getting a marker placed in a field near the Meadows of Dan, Virginia, where the bomber crashed on a foggy night during a training exercise---two years after it was built. The bomber never made it to the war.

And I never made it to the lecture. I got up that morning, eager to go because it had been too long since I’d talked to another human being and I promised myself this winter I wouldn’t let the weather wimp me out from going places. I took a shower and told the dog to be a good boy as I walked out the door. I got two minutes from home on a trip that should have only taken another seven to get to the senior hall if I hadn’t been behind seven drivers going 20 in a 55 mile an hour zone. It was 23 degrees and everything was covered by a thin layer of ice. I had visions of someone getting impatient, and spinning out trying to pass, causing a chain reaction accident. Finding a safe place to turn off and head back home, I did just that. The icy landscape came with flash-backs to the days when I used to help my husband salt parking lots and we'd pass by lots of cars in ditches on black ice nights. Small cars like I drive now.

Long nights of plowing snow would often have me thinking about Doctor Zhivago. I had a cassette tape of the sound track from the movie that I played in the truck. Wikipedia says this about the storyline: “It is set in Russia between the years prior to World War I and the Russian Civil War of 1917-1922, and is based on the 1957 Boris Pasternak novel by the same name.” It stared Omar Sharif and Julie Christie and I was in love with that movie back in the ‘60s. There are many snowy scenes in the three hour film but there is one in particular showing the interior of a house covered in white, icy snow. I had romanticized that scene to be the most beautiful winter-scape I’d ever seen. 

I had a chance to see Dr. Zhivago on television last week and was reminded of why I don’t like watching old movies. The interior scene I loved for so many years was not the sparkling crystal, romantic wonderland my mind’s eye had built it up to be. And Julie Christie’s acting was almost laughable, the director seemingly depending on close-ups of her pretty face to carry the story forward. And the Russian revolt, the fighting, the way people starved and fought to get enough fuel to heat their rooms in the unforgiving Russian winters was depressing and strangely seemed like a forecast of what could be coming to us if we don’t start doing a better job of protecting the earth's Breadbaskets from bio-terrorists and climate change deniers. I couldn’t believe the 1965 edition of myself could have loved that movie so much. I know I was naive back then when all I knew about the Russian Civil War came from Dr. Zhivago. Could I have believed that war and all the hardships that come with it would be worth it if only the “right side” wins? Or maybe I just had the hots for Omar Sharif. 

I’ve had Dr. Zhivago loaded on my Kindle for a couple of years, unread. It’s 700 pages long and after seeing the movie again, I doubt I’ll ever read it. The We Bought a Bomber book is 157 pages and I don’t have an interest in reading that either. From the reviews on Amazon, the bomber book sounds like it romanticizes the war effort on the home front which I suppose is to be expected---it was a uniquely all-in, all-for-one period of American history. It’s to be expected because it’s true what they say about the spoils of war going to the winners and that includes the winners get to tell the stories of glory and courage, of shared sacrifices and pride. ©

The Upside Movie Review, Red Hats to Mad Hats and Other Chit Chat

“Every moment of every day we can be our best, most loving and vibrant selves. Together, let’s step up to show up better than yesterday.” Jimmy Rosenberg, the founder of Evolution Fresh, signed his name to that bit of inspirational philosophy on the side of an orange juice bottle that I got at Starbucks this morning. (The company is a subsidiary of Starbucks.) In the almost two decades I’ve been hooked on Starbucks this was the first time I’ve bought an orange there so I don’t know if the same bit of philosophy appears on all its bottles or it changes from time to time like similar words do that appear on the disposal cups you get at this so-called "yuppie, left-wing liberal" coffee shop chain. But I’ve sung my Ode to Starbucks before so I’ll skip to the reason I was up early enough to require a shot of orange juice along the way. I wanted to go the hazardous waste collection site and it’s only open from 7:30 to 9:30 one day a week. I had a twenty-five year old fire extinguisher in the garage that still showed it was fully charged but I wouldn’t trust it after all those years and a gallon of windshield washer that was nearly that old. I don’t even know how to open the hood of my car, much less where to fill the washer bottle. As they say in the better parts of town, “I have people for that” now. 

There was a day, though, in my distant past when I could check my own oil and transmission fluid and top them off, if needed. My dad didn’t think his kids should be driving if they couldn’t do those things plus change a tire and I had to prove I could do it all before he’d let me take the family car. Fast forward to when I met my husband and he did all those things. But Don did put me in charge of tire safety with a ceremonial gift of a tire tread depth gauge. It was a joke gift because I was tire obsessed with the tires on Don’s menagerie of nine pickup trucks and four pieces of heavy equipment, and I made good use of that tread depth checker. He no longer had to listen to me ask, “Are those tires safe?” Instead I got to say, “Those tires need to be replaced” and off we’d go to Costco. I still have that tread checker but I don’t drive enough to put any wear on my tires so it’s in my toolbox now instead of in my glove box. Ya, I know Marie Kondo, the Tiding Up lady, would say I need to honor that tread checker’s history then throw it in the garbage. Hey, lady, I honor it by keeping it! Maybe she can live with just one sweater---white at that---in her wardrobe but I’m a spiller and I’m digressing….

New topic: My Red Hat Society Chapter officially dissolved with our Christmas party. We’ve been together since 2002 and I was one of the founding members. The National organization raised their yearly dues significantly. So we’re changing our name to the Mad Hatters and everything else will stay the same except we will wear whatever darn color hats we want---as long as we wear one to our teas and outings. Other than the licensing rights to use the Red Hat name and logo the National hasn’t been of any benefit in recent years like it was when we were younger and could travel to conventions. Last March I blogged that I was seriously consider dropping out of the Red Hats altogether but I shifted my attitude and stuck it out. Now I go to the fun stuff and skip the things I didn’t like doing like visiting nursing homes and going on endless church tours. Mostly I stopped feeling guilty about skipping what I skip and more importantly I stopped resenting the dictatorial nature of the person making most of the decisions. My philosophy? If you don’t like something either work to change it, move on or find a way to accept it. I choice door number three. 

I saw a good 'dramedy' movie this past weekend, The Upside with Bryan Cranston, Kevin Hart and Nichole Kidman. IMDb sums up the storyline this way: “Philip is a disabled [quadriplegic] white billionaire, who feels that life is not worth living. To help him in his day to day routine, he hires Del, an African American parolee, trying to reconnect with his estranged wife. What begins as a professional relationship develops into a friendship as Del shows his grouchy charge that life is worth living.” The reviewers have not been kind with their ratings—three out of four that I read gave it two stars and the forth gave it three. Two harped on the fact that it didn’t measure up to the French version (The Intouchables). Big deal! How many Americans watch foreign films with subtitles? And one reviewer didn’t like that comedian Kevin Hart took on a roll that included a good deal of serious acting along with the comedic parts in the film. I couldn’t figure out if it was comedians in general, black guys or just Kevin who shouldn’t be stretching their type-casted wings. All I care about is the film is based on a true story and it took movie goers through a full range of emotions from belly laughs to empathy to sadness and back to happiness. I left the theater feeling uplifted and I felt I got my money’s worth. So a pox on the two star ratings! The Upside has a lot of upsides…. ©

Flaky, Polite and Joyful Conversations

But first a message from the whine-like-a-baby-department: Have I mentioned lately that beds are evil? For the second time in my life I tripped while making my bed. The first time was in 1999. That resulted in a long elbow surgery and months of physical therapies that I found out last summer has totally failed. All the screws backed out and a bone is swinging in the wind and gives me pain if I don’t remember not to do certain things. This time I fell on my knee then my hip and only hurt my pride but it took me fifteen minutes to get off the floor with my two fake knees and damaged elbow. I finally did it by butt-crawling to the bathroom where I threw myself over the toilet and used a grab bar to pull myself up with good arm while Levi, my Might Schnauzer, got all concerned from a safe distance. At first I wondered if he thought my whining was catching like the flu but a couple of days later it dawned on me that when my disabled husband would fall Levi was trained to lay down out of the way and wait until Don was back in his wheelchair.  

Monday my Gathering Girls group got together for a two and a half hour brunch at the Guy Land Cafeteria where I suspect eavesdroppers had laughter or friendship envy. We’ve got a lot of life experiences between us to draw on and whenever something gets too serious someone makes an off-the-wall comment that has us all roaring with laughter. About the only topic we don’t discuss is Donald Trump because one of ladies is a supporter so politics only comes up with she’s absent. Mostly we poke fun at ourselves. This week one of the ladies did a rant about how much she hates Wayfair (the online homes goods store) because they send her too many emails and I was trying to explain to her and a couple of other computer literates at the table how to unsubscribe and how not get signed up in the first place. I love Wayfair and I never get emails from them. A guy in his early twenties at a near-by table was no double enjoying our conversation and probably went back to work to tell his buddies about the horse-and-buggy era grandmas at the next table. I can’t complain since I get a lot of blogging material in that place. 

The I-hate-Wayfair lady loves to shop on QVC and I haven’t got a clue how that works. I told her she needs to give me a clothing shopping class---I desperately need a new wardrobe. She said when she was back in the working world she was ‘Mrs. Got Rocks’ and could buy good quality clothing and I guess on QVC you can shop in different price ranges. She’s no longer Mrs. Got Rocks but she still dresses a whole lot better than I do. Earlier, I told everyone about my DNA test results from 23andMe and the line “but I don’t have the Alzheimer’s gene” became my running joke whenever I miss-heard or needed something repeated. Someone asked, “Do they had a gene marker for being flaky?” And I replied, “If they did, I’d probably have that variant.” Like I said, we all have a talent for poking fun of ourselves.

The next day I had lunch with my Movie and Lunch Club. I’d already seen the movie but the restaurant was one I hadn’t been to since before my husband died and I wanted to go there again. I sat at a table with seven others who’ve I’ve known twice as long as my Gathering Girls group but our conversations are day-and-night different…friendly but never getting below the surface, never a belly laugh. Nice women but we’re still in the acquaintances zone where my Gathering Girls group have crossed over into the friendship zone. Wouldn’t it be nice to know the magic ingredient that makes that happen with some people but not others? I suspect that magic ingredient---at least for me---is humor.

New Topic: My house cleaner is such a joy to have in the house. She’s the new-ish one who’s in a grad program to become an art professor and she’s already teaching a couple of freshman classes at a prestigious college of art and design. I showed her a painting I’m working on and she gave me a critique and I hope she wasn’t blowing smoke up my butt when she said she liked what I had going on. She pointed out a place where I had the sunlight showing on the wrong side of the boy’s hand and she suggested a color to try adding to his shirt. We talked so much that I’m sure my cleaning hours will get billed extra this month. But I don’t care.

We also talked about the new guy she’s dating, a boy she knew in grade school but hadn’t seen since she was ten. They had crushes on each other all those years ago and she still has a love letter the 10 year old version of this 27 year old guy wrote to her back then. They reconnected on Facebook recently, talked for five hours on their first ‘phone date’ and they spent a lot of time together over the holidays. There isn’t anything sweeter than seeing the glow in a young girl’s eyes when she says, “I think he’s the one!” I love that girl. She’s not the greatest cleaner the service has sent me but her company is worth the trade-off. After she graduates she’ll no doubt hang up the cleaning job. So for now I’m riding the serendipitous wave that brought her into my life. ©