Turtle Waves

 And other things Daniel taught me

One of my earliest memories of my nephew, Daniel, was when he was almost one year old. I watched him and his mom sharing a sofa, Wanda lounging on one end and Daniel at the other, playing with her bare feet. She wiggled her toes at him, and he kept reaching out to tickle her toes as she pulled them away (yet letting him catch her). It was an afternoon of wiggles and giggles.

You know when a kid you’ve known all his life is growing up, or well on his way, once you realize he’s teaching you stuff.

Daniel was about 14 when we took a trip across country together to visit his grandmother, my mom. They were both excited. I was worried. 

I worried about catching our flight, making connections. I worried at the airport when Daniel started walking faster and pulling away from me. I would not call out to him, revealing the name of a young boy in my charge in a big strange public place with scary people all around. They scared me, anyway. I’m not sure if Daniel knew why I scolded him.

On the plane sitting next to me, Daniel couldn’t sit still, playing with whatever he was playing with—cars, probably—just making a lot of nerve-rattling noise. I was fed up and said “Enough!” He gave me such a look.

Mainly I worried about how much anticipation both Daniel and his grandmother had about the visit, how excited they both were to see each other. One wrong move, and the excitement would reverse. And it did.

Grandma was old, not very fastidious, and had cleaned her house to the best of her ability. The bathroom was still a little grubby, and even the bar of soap showed signs of having recently been used to clean something besides our hands. Daniel had asthma and fussed about cat hair clinging to the blankets and pillowcases on his freshly made bed. He decided to sleep on the sofa instead, upsetting Grandma. They both went to bed mad.

The next day, when Grandma went to the grocery store, Daniel and I “washed the soap.” We put the blankets, sheets, and pillowcases in the washer, then we cleaned the bathroom and kitchen as much as we could before Grandma got back so as not to hurt her feelings. The rest of our visit that week was much more fun.

Preparing to go home, I went into worst-case-scenario mode. I was afraid we’d miss our connecting flight in Dallas because it’s a huge terminal and we had little time between flights to get from one gate to another. So I got on the computer to look up alternate flights, finding none and wondering how I’d get Daniel safely home to Florida. Daniel came out from his “spa” treatment—a relaxing soak in Grandma’s hot tub—took one look at me, and scolded: 

“You worry too much.”

Twenty years later, when I get overly anxious about something, I still envision Daniel telling me I worry too much.

Later, my brother brought Daniel to Maryland to work on cleaning out Granddad’s (my dad’s) house. During some visit to my apartment, in this rapidly urbanizing suburb, we went for a short walk across the street. In the crosswalk, a car was turning the corner and crowding toward us, the driver asserting his impatience. Other pedestrians of my acquaintance would have, in turn, asserted their right-of-way by slowing down in front of such an impatient driver. 

Not Daniel. Seeing someone else whom he even momentarily (and legally) inconvenienced, he scooted on across the street to get out of the driver’s way. It was an easy gesture of simple consideration. I ran to catch up with him.

Twenty years later, I still try to emulate Daniel’s courtesy in such moments. I scoot.

On that same Maryland trip, or one like it, we visited the zoo on a day I’d taken off from work. Of all the elephants and pandas and apes and birds to choose from at the zoo, it was the large open pool of turtles that captured our attention.

A baby turtle kept paddling around an older turtle, which we assumed was its mother. No matter what direction the mama turtle turned, baby turtle would swim around to get directly in her face, stretch out its front legs, and wiggle its fingers at her nose. 

We watched for several minutes and giggled at the baby tickling its mama’s nose. Babies and mamas must all play the same games. I wondered if Daniel remembered his and Wanda’s.

Coming back from the zoo, we boarded a very crowded subway car full of commuters. Another batch of scary strangers separated me from my nephew, and he noticed I kept my eyes fixed on him, showing way too much concern. He looked up at me through the crowd of commuters, stretched his arms out in front of him as if to dive into a pool, and wiggled his fingers at me.

Daniel’s “turtle wave” was his way of reminding me I worry too much. And making me giggle.

Love,
Aunt Cindy (aka, hosaa)
riding the turtle waves

Cindy Wagner, February 7, 2021

Reading 2020

Last year’s New Year’s resolution was to keep better track of the books I read during the year, and I’ve done so by marking start and finish dates on my wall calendar. And with a newly catalogued personal library of more than 600 volumes, I reminded myself that I had no need to buy new books. (We do many things despite lacking an immediate need.) So most of the books I picked out had been on my shelves for years/decades.

Some good books.

I continued my practice of consuming a good mix of readings, including fiction—novels, short stories, poetry, and plays—interspersed with nonfiction—predominantly history as told through biographies and memoirs of figures in a variety of fields. 

U.S. presidential history became a frequent topic on my reading schedule (usually weekday afternoons), and I began and ended the year’s reading with this subject. But despite the urgency of current events, I had no problem resisting temptation (in fact, there was no temptation) to buy or read any of the pieces coming from anyone acquainted with the 45th U.S. president. (This was a person I’d made good effort to ignore since the mid-1980s, up until Clay Aiken forced me to watch Celebrity Apprentice.)

Sorry for the ado, so without further, here’s what I read in 2020, roughly in chronological order:

1. America’s Political Dynasties by Stephen Hess. Political history/biography. Started reading in 2019, going one or two chapters (dynasties) at a time. I got sidetracked with the transition between Taft and Teddy Roosevelt with the mention of their mutual friend and aide, Archie Butt. Interesting person (a hero of the Titanic) who could be the subject of a good play. 
2. Locked in the Cabinet by Robert Reich. Political memoir. Bill Clinton’s first-term secretary of labor has since become one of my moral touchstones on Twitter.
3. “Holiday” by Katherine Anne Porter. Short story.
4. “Why I Live at the P.O.” by Eudora Welty. Short story. (Re-read)
5. “Battle Royal” by Ralph Ellison. Short story.
6. Sanditon by Jane Austen. Fiction (unfinished novel). I was inspired to pull this off my shelf by the Masterpiece Theatre version completing the story. The 11 chapters Austen wrote were wrapped up about half-way through the first of the TV series’ eight episodes. The rest was not Austen. At all. 
7. Henry IV, Part I by William Shakespeare. Play. (Re-read) Of everything I read this year (this was in January), this is the one I simply don’t recall. No wonder I keep having to re-read Shakespeare! I might have to turn in my fangirl Bard card.
8. Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. Fiction. Part I reads like a series of Wile E. Coyote misadventures! The episode on which the famed ballet is based is described in no more than about five pages; I don’t remember enough of Man of La Mancha to know what that’s based on, except that there is no real encounter with “Dulcinea” (Aldonza) in the novel. I could only think a page-by-page adaptation of the whole novel would make a great Netflix series. 
9. King Lear by William Shakespeare. Play. (Re-read) While I did read this straight through on my own, I also took advantage of an online Zoom-around-the-table reading starring Stacy Keach, reprising his Shakespeare Theatre Co. performance (without the nudity).
10. Mansfield Park by Jane Austen. Fiction. (Re-read) It had been long enough ago that I first read this that it was like reading it new. The fun part was going online after I finished it to find other Austen fans offering their reviews of the story and its heroine on YouTube. Try it! Was Fanny the worst Austen heroine or one of the best?
11. Secondhand: Travels in the New Global Garage Sale by Adam Minter. Environmentalism, economics, current affairs. Journalist Minter (author of Junkyard Planet) traces the global journey of your stuff after you (or your survivors) finally get rid of it. He also advises putting your copy of the book into the resale market, but mine’s staying on the shelf awhile.
12. “Protagorus” by Plato. Philosophy. Chapter from The Portable Plato, which is about all I could handle.
13. A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century by Barbara W. Tuchman. History. Plagues, populist uprisings, and religious and political conflicts have played a very long role in human history. Tuchman used one hero, Enguerrand, as a narrative focus, which made the storytelling more compelling. And I keep falling in love with heroes like this, being noble and all.
14. Le Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory. Fable(?) Malory translated French tales of the medieval King Arthur and the knights he enlisted at his Round Table. There are other versions of the knights’ legends, such as Camelot and Spamalot (musicals), Tristan and Isolde (poem, opera). I realized while reading A Distant Mirror I should have reversed reading this one with Don Quixote, at least to stay chronological and to understand the importance of chivalry in the work of knights errant. (And to understand that “errant” didn’t mean error-prone, necessarily. It meant “extant”: knights out in the world doing good deeds, like rescuing ladies from ogres and such.) 
15. Capital Dames: The Civil War and the Women of Washington, 1848-1868 by Cokie Roberts. History. One of Roberts’s excellent series on women who helped shape the United States, both through their direct activism and through their grace and charm in Washington salons.
16. Foresight Investing (draft manuscript) by James Lee. Finance. One of the privileges of retirement is choosing your own pro bono editing projects and learning from experts one trusts (and being paid in chocolate). Jim is self-publishing this book on using principles of futurism to better evaluate businesses worth investing in. The book should be out soon. 
17. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Fiction. (Re-read). I tried re-reading this a couple of years ago and couldn’t get past the first page. Too purple-prosey for me just then. This time it only took a couple of days to absorb. Timely tale of the indifference that unearned wealth breeds. Still too many unlikeable people in the story, however.
18. Push Comes to Shove by Twyla Tharp. Autobiography/arts. Great modernist choreographer tells her life story in terms of how it shaped her dances. Chronicles her affair with Mikhail Baryshnikov, among other episodes.
19. Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. Philosophy. Words of wisdom, some very timely: “To what use am I now putting the powers of my soul? Examine yourself on this point at every step.” (V, 11) “To refrain from imitation is the best revenge.” (VI, 6) “I seek the truth, which never yet hurt anybody. It is only persistence in self-delusion and ignorance which does harm.” (VI, 21)

    

    Some more good books.

    
    
20. The Tulip by Anna Pavord. Natural science/economics/history. Come for the beautiful tulip illustrations, stay for one of those great explorations of cultural and economic history through the lens of a single subject. (Other single-subject cultural histories I’ve loved include Coal by Barbara Freese and Rain by Cynthia Barnett.)
21. Anthony and Cleopatra by William Shakespeare. Play. One of the few I hadn’t already read. Better than the movies! And, as it turns out, pretty close to the recorded history:
22. “Antony” chapter from Lives of the Noble Romans by Plutarch. History. I need to read more of the ancients. Maybe some Homer next year?
23. Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe. Play. Starting my deal-with-the-Devil binge reading.
24. “The Devil and Daniel Webster” by Stephen Vincent Benet. Short story. Dealing with the Devil.
25. Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde, including “The Ballad of Reading Gaol.”
26. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. Fiction. Dealing with the Devil. Enough of that already.
27. Pygmalion by (George) Bernard Shaw. Play. Source material for the musical My Fair Lady includes Shaw’s lengthy explanation of why the artist (Higgins) does not end up with his beloved work of art (the flower girl). See “My Fair Freddy, or Saving Pygmalion.”
28. Leadership in Turbulent Times by Doris Kearns Goodwin. Political history/biography. Focuses on influences and critical events in the lives and administrations of Abraham Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt, and Lyndon B. Johnson. Among these leaders’ shared traits are empathy, charm, curiosity, humor, and humility.
29. “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson. Short story, reprinted in The New Yorker. (Re-read, but it’s been awhile.)
30. “A Village After Dark” by Kazuo Ishiguro. Short story, New Yorker archives.
31. “The Summer After the War” by Kazuo Ishiguro. Short story, Granta archives. Both of these early works by the Nobel laureate seem to be precursors to novels, all of which I would love to re-read before the publication of Ishiguro’s forthcoming book, Klara and the Sun. Thanks for answering my 2019 Ish wish!
32. Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. Fiction. I probably read this classic in school at some point. This Easy Reader edition hit the highlights (with decent illustrations to boot), but I still couldn’t answer the questions at the ends of the chapters. My retention is shot.
33. “The Old Man in the Piazza” by Salman Rushdie. Short story, in The New Yorker. (I subscribed this year to get access to the Ishiguro stuff in their archives. I’ve been reading their poems but confess I almost never understand them. I’ll stick with the articles. And cartoons.)
34. A Promised Land by Barack Obama. Political history/memoir. Great storytelling that also provides historical background for the policy issues and events the 44th president faced in his first term. Illustrates many of the traits Goodwin outlines in her Leadership book (see No. 28 above).

It was a year of fat books with breaks for short stories, plays, and poems (mostly New Yorker) that I could get through in a sitting. I made a point of finishing everything I started, whether I liked it or not, but it turns out I liked everything I read. Lucky year! 

Love, hosaa

(Observation of the year: Reading is fundamentally easier than writing.)

My Fair Freddy, or Saving Pygmalion

Another Mission for Clarence the Wonderful Life Angel

Happy endings being subjective and all, we might sometimes question the wisdom of, for example, sending a young woman of spit and spirit, such as ELIZA DOOLITTLE, back to the intolerant bully who bullied her, even though he offered to improve her future by improving her speech. We might suggest, instead, that such a woman’s future would be brighter with a blighter who adores her, such as, for example, FREDDY EYNSFORD HILL, rather than said bully, PROF. HENRY HIGGINS. 

In what universe should even a common flower girl be expected to find satisfaction fetching Higgins’s slippers? Not mine, nor Bernard Shaw’s, nor, as it happens, the corner of the universe commanded by our elegant MR. JORDAN and his chief fixer, Angel CLARENCE ODBODY, of It’s a Wonderful Life fame.

Here comes Mr. Jordan now.

FADE IN.

EXT. HEAVEN AS FLORAL ARRANGEMENT. DAY

JORDAN wanders through a cloud of blooms, a jungle of pastel mums, carnations, and assorted what-nots. At last he discovers CLARENCE, whose usual accustomed AngelWear gown is now completely covered with flowers. 

CLARENCE (brightly)

Oh what a beautiful morning, Mr. Jordan! I’m so happy to see you, and in full color once again! Living color, if you’ll pardon the expression.

JORDAN (pulling petals from his mouth)

Clarence, darling, are you sure you have the right musical?

CLARENCE blinks once or twice, conveying unfeigned ignorance.

JORDAN

Never mind. If you please, these bloomin’ blossoms are obstructing a vision I wish to share with you now.

CLARENCE (brushing blossoms from the giant cloud-screen display)

Oh yes, of course. Here we go. I was wondering what you might be calling on me for.

JORDAN

“For what you might be calling on me,” you mean.

CLARENCE blinks once or twice, conveying unfeigned ignorance.

JORDAN

Well, what I mean is, there’s a certain professor down on Earth who is meticulous about the use of the English language. He is, unfortunately, not so meticulous in his abuse of Englishmen, or Englishwomen, in this case. Please observe, dear Clarence. Meet Prof. Higgins and his recent protegee, Miss Eliza Doolittle.

CLARENCE (dreamily)

Oooh, I love that silhouette…

JORDAN

Yes, Miss Doolittle cuts a lovely figure. But you see the problem with this tableau, do you not?

CLARENCE

The hats are nice.

JORDAN

What I mean is, our Professor Pygmalion’s smug satisfaction in his student’s subservience is stultifying and egregious.

CLARENCE

I always look up the word “egregious.” 

JORDAN

I’ll try to make this simple, my dear Clarence. Young Eliza Doolittle needs a better fate and, hence, a better mate. We have had a candidate all along. Please meet Freddy—that is, Freddy Eynsford Hill, a young man of good breeding but little fortune and fewer ideas.

CLARENCE

Another nice hat. Is this a story about hats?

JORDAN 

Not at all. (Looking CLARENCE over) But I think we’re going to have to alter our travel arrangements this time. Are you at all familiar with quantum leaping? 

CLARENCE blinks once or twice, conveying unfeigned ignorance.

JORDAN

No, of course not. Well, rather than squeezing you into a suit of an early 20th century vintage, we will simply transfer your essence into an individual who is already on the premises, one who is trusted by all our principal characters. It will be you who is there, but he who they’ll see. 

CLARENCE (brightly)

Him whom they’ll see?

JORDAN

I’m not sure. Let’s move on.

JORDAN waves his enormous AngelWings, sparking a series of sparkly blue bolts of lightning. CLARENCE dissolves into the form of COL. PICKERING, and we are in:

INT. HIGGINS’S STUDY. DAY.

CLARENCE as PICKERING sits at a desk with telephone and some papers.

JORDAN (voice-over)

Remember your mission, darling Clarence, er—Col. Pickering. You must deliver a much happier future for Eliza.

CLARENCE/PICKERING

Righty-oh, boss! 

CLARENCE glances through the papers on the desk, looking for anything that might be useful, such as  an owner’s manual for operating the strange instrument that used to be known as a telephone. ELIZA wanders into the room, forlorn.

ELIZA

Hello, Col. Pickering. I’ve— I’ve come back, but I’m not certain why. He’ll never change, will he?

CLARENCE/PICKERING

Who, Higgins? Why, I suspect not. Confirmed old bachelor, as he has said so often. Good man, though, at heart. Brilliant, of course. And generous—

ELIZA

Generous with his rude ways, you mean. I’ve been a friend to him, though, as you have, haven’t I? Done his bidding, fetched his slippers, slipped a sly one on the dukes and duchesses and such. Not a kind or friendly word out of him. (Exasperated) Oh, why can’t a man be more like a woman? Return a favor, offer a hand?

CLARENCE/PICKERING

My dear, there there. May I ask a simple, or even simple-minded question?

ELIZA

Do you mean: What do I want?

CLARENCE/PICKERING (picking up the telephone receiver) 

I mean: What the Dickens is this thing, and how does one operate it?

ELIZA chuckles indulgently and helps CLARENCE sort through a telephone directory in search of a phone number.

HIGGINS enters, catching ELIZA in her moment of usefulness.

HIGGINS

There, you see, Eliza? You have become an essential part of this household. Or at least essential to Pickering here. You are needed. Isn’t that something? Stay and work for us! There now. 

ELIZA (to CLARENCE)

And is that what I want? To be needed?

CLARENCE/PICKERING

Oooh, oooh, I got this! What you need is to be wanted. Amma right?

HIGGINS

Well isn’t that just what I’ve been saying? Eliza, you’re a fool.

ELIZA (mildly mimicking)

Henry, you’re the fool.

HIGGINS, stunned at the girl’s addressing him by his first name, turns to PICKERING for reinforcement.

CLARENCE/PICKERING

I’m afraid I must agree, Higgins. Now where is that number. This place is absolutely desolate without flowers. We must have masses of bouquets and speedy deliveries.

ELIZA

I could go and pick them out myself at the markets in Covent Garden. And I know all the best nurserymen. Do we have space in the courtyard to plant bulbs, d’ya think?

HIGGINS eyes Eliza’s business-like activity with satisfaction. A KNOCK is heard at the door.

HIGGINS

Who the Devil is making that irritating racket?

CLARENCE/PICKERING (scolding)

Higgins! Language!

HIGGINS 

All right, who the Dickens is making that irritating racket? 

ELIZA

I’ll get it. 

ELIZA goes to the front door and opens it a crack.

ELIZA

There now, can’t you read the sign? “Knocker out of order. Please ring bell.”

SHE shuts the door sharply; the doorbell sounds, and she opens it to reveal FREDDY EYNSFORD HILL.

FREDDY steps into the foyer, dripping wet with rain. Upon seeing ELIZA, he tips his hat and spills a gush of water onto her.

ELIZA (reverting to flower-girl-speak)

Owwww, moynd yo’ weather, Dear! 

HIGGINS (sniggering)

Speaking of fools!

CLARENCE rushes to ELIZA’s aid with a large bath towel that has mysteriously appeared in his hand.

CLARENCE/PICKERING

Oh, thank you, Mr. Jordan. Here you are, my dear. Please go upstairs, back to your old room, eh? Come down again when you’ve dried yourself off.

ELIZA rushes upstairs. FREDDY’s eyes follow her in a dreamy daze.

FREDDY

She called me “Dear”! And, she sounded so familiar just then. I’m having that, oh, whatcha-call-it sensation.

HIGGINS

Deja vu?

CLARENCE/PICKERING

Bless you.

FREDDY

I came ’round in hope of finding Miss Doolittle’s address, and here she is in your kind hands. 

CLARENCE/PICKERING

And we were just thinking of calling you! Small world, small world.

FREDDY

Now that I find you two gentlemen together, I wonder if I might have a moment of your ... uh, each of your ... uh, times.

HIGGINS

We’re in hard times indeed with speakers of our noble language. I can only assume you’ve come for English lessons at Eliza’s recommendation. Well come in, then. Don’t leave a water stain on the rugs.

HIGGINS, CLARENCE, and FREDDY return to the study. HIGGINS begins pouring out port from a large lead-glass carafe; FREDDY takes his while CLARENCE looks up to Heaven for approval before eschewing his share of the port. HIGGINS takes a sincerely fortifying gulp and refills his glass while FREDDY fidgets.

FREDDY

Col. Pickering, Prof. Higgins. You both have been so lucky as to have earned the high regard of my divine angel, Miss Doolittle. Might you tell me the secret to winning her heart? I would so wish for her to return my adoration and consent to be my wife. I'm not nearly worthy of her, I am such a clumsy fool. And I have no income, resources, skills, ambitions, talent, or even ideas. I am connected, however. Surely good connections may be deemed of some worth?

HIGGINS

Eliza doesn't belong to me, you know. She is free to go her own way, just as I am free to kick her out on her floral bouquets. Exactly what do you want of me and Pickering? 

CLARENCE/PICKERING

Ooooh, oooh, I know. Pick me!

FREDDY

Colonel?

CLARENCE/PICKERING

Well, Eliza already knows how much you want her. You have written her many letters on the subject, I believe.

FREDDY

Every day! Sheets and sheets!

CLARENCE/PICKERING (glancing at stacks of paper on the desk)

Just so.

HIGGINS

I see where this is going. Yes, Pickering is quite right.

FREDDY blinks his eyes once or twice, conveying unfeigned ignorance.

HIGGINS

In order for Eliza to want you, you must show her that you need her.

CLARENCE/PICKERING

Yes, indeed, and you hit on all those points just a moment ago.

FREDDY blinks his eyes once or twice, conveying unfeigned ignorance.

HIGGINS

What do you really need to assure your own happy future? In other words, what don’t you already have that Eliza, as your wife, would provide? [Beat] I see we’re going to have to slow-walk this one, Pickering.

ELIZA enters the room to complete the slow-walk instruction.

ELIZA (gently)

They mean “income, resources, skills, ambitions, talent, and ideas,” Freddy. I have all those things, I believe, except for income, which neither of us has in hand. Your connections in good society could give us a wonderful start in life.

FREDDY (nearly swooning)

You said “us”!

CLARENCE/PICKERING

Twice! Miss Doolittle, are you thinking about that flower shop idea we discussed in Act II? About our bankrolling your becoming a lady in a shop instead of a common flower girl?

FREDDY

Common flower girl? Do you mean to say, that was you whose violets I spoiled that rainy night?

ELIZA

An ’ole day’s wages, Dear!

HIGGINS

Common my foot. Through my hard work and instruction, I have made Eliza fit for a king.

ELIZA

S’posin’ I ain’t got use for no king. But yes, Colonel. About the flower shop. I have ideas. With Freddy’s connections, we only lack—oh, what’s the word?

HIGGINS and CLARENCE/PICKERING

Capital. 

ELIZA

And a little bit of luck! And my old Dad's got that by the barrel!

FREDDY blinks once or twice, conveying unfeigned ignorance.

FREDDY 

I say, darling. Just to be clear. Are you asking me to be your—  business partner?

ELIZA

Ow, we are proud. (Laughing) I am asking you, my fair Freddy, to be my husband!

HIGGINS

By Jove, I think she’s got it!

CLARENCE/PICKERING

By Mr. Jordan, too!

FREDDY faints into ELIZA’s loving arms. HIGGINS and CLARENCE/PICKERING tango around the room.

The scene DISSOLVES TO:

EXT. STOREFRONT. DAY

Signage on the storefront indicates that the busy floral shop ELIZA and FREDDY now own and operate is named BLOOMIN’ LOVERLY. 

Further signage elaborates that the establishment serves the floral catering needs for London’s society weddings, inaugurations, concerts, receptions, balls, bar mitzvahs, quinceañeras, gender reveal parties, coronations, etc.

Through the storefront window, ELIZA can be seen advising a well-heeled (and hatted) client. Through a window upstairs, FREDDY can be seen rocking a baby in its crib.

FADE OUT.

---

Author’s note: Previous Clarence adventures may be perused by following the following links.

2013: Saving Mr. Potter

2014: Christmas Belle, or Saving Miss Fezziwig

2015: Saving Mr. Sawyer

2016: Saving Mr. Jordan

2017: Saving “Big” Susan

2018: Saving Miss Gulch

2019: How Now, Voyager? Or, Saving Dr. Jaquith

Happy end-saving! 

Love, hosaa

Edward and Joan

In honor of Edward Duke's 67th birthday, I post this pic from his work with his much-adored Joan Collins in Private Lives.

This was scanned from the program during their stay at Washington, D.C.'s National Theatre. To welcome Edward to town during this run, I'd sent him flowers and chocolates, along with a note letting him know what day I had a ticket for (a not-very-subtle hint that I'd probably try to sneak backstage and see him after the show).

And I did sneak around the backstage area to check in with the security guard and ask if it would be possible to visit Edward in his dressing room. I gained admittance and directions to the stairs (or elevator--I don't remember) to the second-floor dressing rooms. As I navigated the corridor full of various dressing room doors, Edward began calling out to me! The security guard had no doubt alerted him to my impending arrival.

He met me at his door and gave me the biggest, dearest, warmest hug, I think, I'd ever had. But I'm just a fan! A fan who wrote fan letters regularly and hopefully, as though I were writing to Santa Claus.

He mentioned the play I'd written and sent to him--a play he inspired, but at the time I didn't know how closely I'd hit the mark. "You've written a PLAY!" he gushed. "A play about ME!!" I replied as quietly as possible, "I hope not." The play, you see, was about an actor who dies of AIDS.

We chatted as old friends, though really we weren't. I found out he knew Joan personally, not just professionally (she'd recommended him for the part of "Victor," the new husband her character abandons). He even vacationed with her to the Côte d'Azur (French Riviera), yet Edward was a bit intimidated by Joan. He hushed me whenever her name come up, indicating the porous nature of the dressing room walls. And he told me he'd given my chocolates to her: "She's mad about chocolates!"

Edward died in 1994, two years after my last encounter with him in Private Lives. Joan included him in one of her memoirs, possibly Second Act, published in 1997. I didn't buy the book, unfortunately, but remember browsing the passages about Edward's illness (which was ongoing at the time of his tour with her). Somewhere she wrote the words "Only the best."* I'm not sure if she meant this as a description of Edward Duke or simply a motto in life. But it does capture my feelings about the actor and the man.

Only the best and for love alone,
hosaa

ETA - *possibly it was Una-Mary Parker who ascribed this characterization to Edward. I was aware of their friendship and mutual support. It was Una-Mary who designed Edward's costumes for Jeeves Takes Charge and it was Una-Mary who contacted me after Edward's death (he had used her address in London as his official point of contact). She told me she knew my name very well, so it's likely she as well as Edward read my "Santa Claus" letters.

I also think it likely Una-Mary was the one who autographed Edward's photo for me; her handwriting matched. In her letter, she said that Edward had asked her to add "Duke" to her name; other than in her letter to me, I see no evidence that she did so. She also told me that my play "about Edward" was about her as well--the fan who took care of the dying actor. Only now, browsing online, have I learned she died a year ago.

RIP dear sister fan, reunited with a beloved force! Give him a hug from me. xo xo

Isolation (a haiku)

ISOLATION

Read 'til I'm sleepy,

nap 'til I'm not. The violet

keeps silent vigil.

C.G. Wagner

April 7, 2020

Arts Therapy 2020

Never mind it's been November in my soul since the end of August, with last year's retirement begetting a seemingly endless march of funerals (and the one wedding on the fall calendar offset just three weeks ago by the last and most devastating of these rites). The usual course for most people is immersion among more people. This is not my way.

I'd already had a ticket for the February 12 Giselle at the Kennedy Center, starring my oft-discussed Daniil Simkin as Albrecht, and it was an outing I could not deny myself despite that morning's fatal news. My evening of solitary reflection among crowds was briefly and pleasantly interrupted before the theater opened as I sat with a gentleman (stranger to me) who loved music and dance and all things beautiful and heart-swelling. Enjoyable encounter. I even told him about the time I wrote a ballet during a National Symphony Orchestra open rehearsal of Mahler's Fifth ("My, My, Mahler" and "The Mahler Ballet").

That was pretty much the end of the enjoyable encounter with another solitary member of the crowd. The ballet was dreary. Act 1 was all acting, little dancing. Too many people on stage standing or sitting about with nothing to do. And other than a few fireworksy variations from Daniil and his Giselle (Sarah Lane) and the expected excellent corps work in Act 2, not much from Giselle's gang of "ghost bitches" could get my mind away from the personal sorrows at hand.

A week away to tend to the sorrows at hand, and I felt a little more ready to face the crowds for the next outing already on my calendar, Silent Sky by Lauren Gunderson at Ford's Theatre. Science, history, feminism, families, problem solving, romance, humor--a few of the starry elements crossing the sky. The tourist-heavy and generally youthful audience was exuberant and gave a well-deserved standing ovation. I love standing ovations at Sunday matinees. I always smile and say to Edward Duke, "See? They're not the worst houses!"

Ballet, theater ... two of the couches I crawl onto for my art therapy. The other is museums, particularly art museums.

Yesterday's excursion to the National Gallery of Art was inspired by the Washington Post review by Sebastian Smee (author of The Art of Rivalry) of the "True to Nature" exhibit. I got there in time for the 11 a.m. guided lecture and again had a delightful pre-tour chat with two like-minded strangers. Unfortunately I lost them in the crowd that followed our guide through three small and fully occupied rooms. I enjoyed what I could see, cornered by the crowd, but didn't have quite the same reflective experience Sebastian did.

Artist in a Renaissance Costume Sketching in the Arena of Nimes (1822) by Fleury Richard.

crowd

As is my custom, I went directly to the Garden Cafe for a Ladies Who Lunch lunch (alone in a smaller and quieter crowd). I think "garden cafe" is a sweet aesthetic; if and when I move, that might be my new design guide. The mouse (I think) scurrying across the floor rattled me a little, but not enough to scream out. Just pick up purse from floor and rest feet on the cafe table's ornamental iron legs.

Garden Cafe, ornamental legs and shadows

National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.: West facing East

The Sacrament of the Last Supper (1955) by Salvador Dali. (NGA link)

For the remainder of my visit, I went back to some of my favorite rooms (starting in Gallery 71) and looked more closely at pictures, observing specificity without detail (as with the True to Nature paintings).

South Room - Green Street (1920) by Daniel Garber. (NGA link)

Detail--or specificity? Light and reflection.

Wandered around some more, spending more time with each picture, including Albert Bierstadt's epic Lake Lucerne.

Lake Lucerne (1858) by Albert Bierstadt. (NGA link)

  

And many more. Please pardon the colors and blurries. Go in person. It's better.

Love, hosaa
Therapeutic art trekking

Books of 2019 (reading list)

A goal for this year was to keep better track of the books I read, and cataloguing my library (600+) unearthed a few gems. This is roughly in chronological order, with some overlaps (anthologies interrupted for change-of-pace material).

1. Rediscovering Lone Pine by Andrew Popper. Fiction. (Re-read)
2. The Happiness Curve by Jonathan Rauch. Sociology/Psychology.
3. A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. Fiction.
4. Accessory to War by Neil deGrasse Tyson and Avis Lang. Military technology/History.
5. "Master and Man" by Leo Tolstoy. Short story.
6. Nijinsky by Lucy Moore. Biography.
7. A Doll House by Henrik Ibsen. Play.
8. Blandings Castle by P. G. Wodehouse. Short stories.
9. The Art of Rivalry by Sebastian Smee. Art history/Biography.
10. The Mueller Report (2-vol. PDFs) by Robert Mueller. Government report.
11. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Fiction. (Re-read)
12. The Lower Depths by Maxim Gorky. Play.
13. Scoop by Evelyn Waugh. Fiction. (Re-read)
14. Memoirs of Jan and Eva Rocek (unpublished PDFs). Autobiography/History.
15. Meet Mr. Mulliner by P. G. Wodehouse. Stories
16. Diary of a Superfluous Man by Ivan Turgenev. Fiction
17. America's Political Dynasties by Stephen Hess. History/Biography. (In progress)
18. Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. Fiction (Re-read)
19. Nocturnes by Kazuo Ishiguro. Short stories.
20. The Zebra Derby by Max Shulman. Fiction.
21. Why Orwell Matters by Christopher Hitchens. Literary criticism.
22. Paris Sketchbook by Mary Kelly, illustrated by Fabrice Moireau. Travel.

Aside from the books I re-read because I love them so, I most enjoyed Nocturnes by Kazuo Ishiguro (No. 19, but having finished the final story today). Now I am depressed that I'm all caught up on everything he's written. I need more!!

I was most deeply moved by the Roceks' memoirs (No. 14). They were scientists, Holocaust survivors, escapees from communist Czechoslovakia, and our neighbors in Bethesda for a short time in the 1960s--their sons were our classmates in elementary school during a time of segregation I was never fully aware of until we were older.

Not sure what to do with a library that's only about one-third read so far. They'll be hard to move but harder to part with. Culling will be a project for the New Year, but as I discovered with Nos. 20, 21, and 22 above, few books will leave my possession until I've read them. And even then....

Love, hosaa
What's next?