celtic_writer

Happy New Year, Mr. Parsons, Wherever You Are

On this day before New Year's, I am reminded of a time the clan lived in a town in central Connecticut called Simsbury, a then-sleepy little community over the mountain from where Mark Twain penned his wise social commentary in the city of Hartford. We settled in a house on a hill, the road out front perfect for skateboarding, the young people's rage that began way back then in the 60s. It was a place where I let the rather eccentric lady neighbor who lived across the street borrow my skateboard, and watched helplessly as she careened out of control down that wonderful hill, fell off and broke her leg. I can still hear my mother yelling at me, all the way from heaven, about that one.

The trains still ran back then, and you could hear the comfort of their whistles as you walked to town without fearing abduction. The local drugstore was dubbed "St. Doyle's" by the kids who told their parents they were going to Mass and instead ditched holiness for the sweetness of a cola at the emporium's lunch counter.

We also had a bassett hound named Napoleon, a sad-looking yet jolly tri-colored emperor who always slept with his right paw tucked to his chest. Nap was a valiant long-earred soul, always up for a jaunt around the neighborhood, in search of newness while contained in familiar.

It was in the early morning on a New Year's Day that Nap and I encountered an alien. The neighborhood was sleeping off its New Year's Eve celebration, and all was quiet.

As the hound and I walked along the road, we heard the sound of hoofbeats. Up the street came a large white horse, carrying a man who held a Confederate flag. It was Mr. Parsons, an emigrant from a far-away place called Charleston, South Carolina. He had moved his family to New England and opened an industrial diamond business in a small shop on the outskirts of town, and was rumored to be doing very well. Seems to me he had a "III" at the end of his name, and some of his children were called Bradford and Clayton.

"The South will rise again!" he yelled to us as he galloped by, a southern, methinks still-somewhat-inebriated-from-the-night-before Don Quixote.

Nap did what he always did when he was confused. He sat. We watched Mr. Parsons gallop around the corner and down the skateboarding hill, yelling his southern tiding astride the back of the gallant white beast.

I convinced Nap to get up, and we did not encounter Mr. Parsons and his steed again as we finished our saunter. When we returned to the house, my mother was awake, and making coffee in the kitchen. I reported what we had seen, and she responded, as she usually did when confronted with the odd slice of human behavior, "The man is a NUT. Stay away from him."

But I didn't. I ended up babysitting his three little boys at certain times that new year. They were nice lads, but, when grouped together, their blondness reminded one of the movie "Village of the Damned." And I learned more about the anatomy of man thanks to a "family life manual" found on Mr. Parson's book shelf, a place I could not help perusing and a book my innocence would not let me ignore as his young children slept safely upstairs.

I learned a lot from Mr. Parsons that New Year's Day. I already knew bigotry in any form was wrong, so that was a not a lesson I needed to understand. But what I liked about him was that he had the guts to be himself in a strange place. He wasn't afraid to shake things up, even if it was only witnessed by a clumsy teenaged girl and a droopy dog. I always liked that about him, and always will.

So here's hoping you, accompanied by human or canine pal, witness weird things in 2006. It makes life so much more interesting.

Image: A White Horse, Diego Rodriguez de Silva y Velazquez, (b. 1599, Sevilla, d. 1660, Madrid)

Snow Shovels, Bargains and Googlie Glasses

"There is nothing in the world that some man cannot make a little worse and sell a little cheaper, and he who considers price only is that man's lawful prey."
- John Ruskin (1819 -1900)

Way back when, my dear old Dad, Frank J., was always looking for a deal.

Must've been the New Yawk/labor negotiator in his blood.

His own father, once a piano refinisher for Steinway, then a foreman in the vegetable/fruit market in NYC, taught him a thing or two about closing a deal.

My old man was always looking for a "bargain." Just his way of getting one over, of winning the price game. A negotiator till the end.

One spring, when I was a teenager, I accompanied Frank J. to the local hardware store where we discovered snow shovels on sale for the unbelievable price of four for $5.

My old man was delighted. "Four for five bucks," he exclaimed. "Sold!"

To me, these shovels looked and felt like a buncha water-logged toothpicks held together with some spit, doubtful of delivering on any snow-removal promise.

"Dad, these are cheap. They're not very good," I said.

"Who cares," he exclaimed. "Look at the price."

Cheapness in all its forms -- financial, emotional, spiritual -- has always confused me. Why go for something cheap, when you can spend your hard-earned dough or time achieving something of quality? Or if it's cheap, why do you want to have it in the first place? It won't last, and it will only disappoint you. I am not one to step foot in the local dollar store. It holds no thrill for me.

Cheap is not the same as less expensive. Like a lot of folks, I shop at Costco. I save a few bucks here and there. But what I try to buy is quality. Dog food that makes the Labbies coats' shine and helps keep 'em healthy, obtainable in bags the size of human beings; and shampoo in a bottle the size of a bucket that I actually use. I've always thought the best way to save money is not to buy stuff you don't need in the first place.

But I can't stand cheap, and that part of people who, every day of their lives, insist on it, even though they can afford quality. It drives me nuts. Some of the wealthiest people I've met in life are the most miserly, stingy, cut-rate of souls. Seeking only and winning what is, in the long run, cheap, is a misplaced form of power, and a lot of people love it. But the process can creep into our hearts and souls, if we are not careful. And you don't even see it coming.

This week, I again witnessed cheapness in all its tarnished glory when I went on the adventure of purchasing new eyeglasses.

The parlor trick pair pictured above sits on my desk, and are guaranteed to give you a headache when you put them on. Known in the fun world as "nerd specs," niece Emma calls 'em "googlie glasses" 'cause they make you look like a total dweeb or dork, whichever title you prefer.

But, for real, it was time for me to order bifocals. Yes, I have put it off for such a long time. Yes, I finally admit that the phone book terrifies me and my arms aren't long enough to help me comprehend what I like to read.

So, armed with a AAA card that promised a 30% discount, it was off to the local eyewear store to submit, finally, that I can no longer see like I use-ta.

While perusing the selection of eyeglasses available for purchase, I was intrigued to find the majority of prospects making spectacles of themselves in the "discount designer frames" section. These "bargain" frames are guaranteed to make one, truly, no joke, look like a dork. Perfectly nice-looking people were trying on and buying frames in jellybean colors like purple and lime green or with lenses the size of postage stamps and finding delight with their reflections in the mirror. They were even more excited they were getting a bargain.

This experience reminded me just how unhip I am, have always been and always will be. What I also discovered is that I would rather spend the money it costs to look simple, 'cause it has been my experience that simple lasts a long time.

Cheap is loud, especially when there is no reason for it. There was a family...mother, father, two teenaged children...in the booth next to me. The eyewear associate, a Frenchman, had his hands full, as the father wanted to "negotiate" price, and made quite a scene for twenty minutes or so, insisting how he could go elsewhere and that the associate should be happy they were in the store and considering the purchase. The Frenchman was smooth, and very politely explained that he could not negotiate price, and that the estimate was the best he could do. The blowhard bargainer gathered his embarrassed family and left the store, claiming he would never again set foot on the premises, and that he would tell all his friends the same. The Frenchman gathered up the tub of eyewear frames they had been sampling, and walked passed me, muttering softly in French. If I had been able to translate, probably would have heard the words "cheap bastard!"

Not settling for cheap takes longer. The new simple bifocaled googlie glasses I ordered will take two weeks to obtain, and that's OK by me, despite the fact my existing frames are glued together, even as we speak. And maybe I could have gotten them for less money elsewhere, but that doesn't bother me. I did not waste a lot of time finding and ordering them, as time is the most precious thing we have.

So my old man did buy those snow shovels. The following winter he proudly scooped up the first shovelful of wet New England snow on the driveway, and a loud crack was heard. Frank J. stood in the cold, holding a stick with a handle.

He looked at me, laughed, and said, "Don't start."

Free the Nun Bun

LAPSED CATHOLIC CENTRAL, MASON NECK, VIRGINIA, Dec. 28 --

The Nun Bun is gone.

So reports the Washington Post in an article dated December 27th.

Why does this stuff always have to happen around the holidays?

The folks at BongoJava in Nashville, Tennessee reported the theft of the "Immaculate Confection" to police, along with news about the discovery of the divine danish:

"The bun was actually discovered on October 15, 1996 – more than two months before the first bit of media attention. Store manager Ryan Finney made the discovery when he innocently was about to eat breakfast at about 6:45 am before the store opened. Something made Ryan look at the pastry before he ate it and that's when the discovery was made. He waited patiently until 7:00am when the next employee came in and then hurriedly pushed the bun in front of Todd Truly's face and said "What does this look like?" A barely awake and very surprised Todd replied 'Mother Teresa.' The same test on the first few customers who came in that day confirmed the 'miracle.'"

Reports of folks suffering from angst, disbelief and gnashing of teeth have been coming through the wires all day. Here are excerpts from their anguished letters:

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHA"
- J. Landry, poet, New Bedford, Massachusetts

"Some people have really vivid imaginations...looks like pastry to me!"
- D.Shepherd., artist, Mason Neck, VA

"Hmmm. Looks more like one of the Seven Dwarfs to me. Dopey, I think."
- Q. McDonald, jewelry-making dame, Alexandria, VA

"Someone seriously needs to get a life...or a cinnamon bun...I'm not sure which!"
- P. Biggs, music critic, Barboursville, VA

"I swear I was nowhere near the place. I was too busy being tortured by my family at Christmas. You must believe me!!!"
- P. O'C., Irish CFO, Falls Church, VA

"Gezz...that's really creeping me out..."
- J. Amberg, dog walker and future respiratory therapist, Alexandria, VA

"Is nothing sacred anymore? Next they will be stealing all the Elvis-shaped rocks from Yellowstone."
- R. Frank., programmer and cousin, Charlotte, NC

"Maybe Mother Teresa came back and got it... I can't believe someone stole that thing! Bastards..."
- E. Gratto., writer, Iowa City, Iowa

"What dastardly criminal would commit such a heinous crime?  Is nothing sacred!?!?!?!?!"
- H. Masse, nurse practitioner and Zazu restaurant enthusiast, Guerneville, CA

"Is she a saint or a pastry?"
- K. G. Mankin., educator and sister, Lorton, Virginia

And of course, at trying times like these, those free-thinking gosh-darn liberals come outta the closet:

"What did they expect??...How long did they think that something as valuable as that would just sit there???? I think someone decided to set it free...Free the Nun Bun!"
- D. Havens, sculptor and artist, Mason Neck, VA.

Watch these pages for future Nun Bun updates. Must go now. There is a Swanson's TV dinner in Kansas City that's cooking up a resemblance to Albert Schweitzer.

-- 30 --

Seabiscuit Christmas

At noon today, I completed a teaching marathon of 17 days, a race to educate many before year-end. The Bug bought me home through dense traffic traveling south, and tonight I sat down to rest and watch, once again, the movie Seabiscuit.

The story is not just about a scrappy little horse with a big heart, or his over-sized jockey, or the comfort of hearing David McCullough's voiceover. The most compelling character is Seabiscuit's trainer Tom Smith, played by Chris Cooper. At the film's start, Tom Smith is an aging cowboy who is not quite sure where he belongs in the world. He saves a wounded horse from death, and, living alone in the woods, tends the animal. He is considered a crackpot, crazy. "You don't throw a whole life away just 'cause he's banged up a little," Smith tells Charles Howard, Seabiscuit's owner. "Why are you fixin' him?" Howard asks. "Cause I can," Smith says. It's his willingness to be patient, to allow another living creature time to heal, to become itself again, that is most moving. He is odd goodness.

My Irish grandmother Mary told me when I was a child that if you saw seven white horses together in a field, you would have luck. I have seen many horses, but never seven of the same color grouped as in my grandmother's dream. I believe we make our own luck in the world. And it appears most readily through the small peculiar kindnesses given and received every day.

The Zen dudes talk about right intention. How harmlessness, meaning not to think or act cruelly, violently, or aggressively, helps one develop compassion. In the last week I have heard many people comment about the craziness that abounds with folks gearing up for Christmas. Is it because so many people want to control happiness at this time of year? Gathering wish lists, claiming "this is what I want" and "I have to give you as much as you give me."

No, you don't.

Christmas is the mystery of not knowing, the heart of being surprised, a story of the birth of a child surrounded by simple animals and the pure smell of a barn. And it's not about being even. It's the differences that are pure, that are truly meant and passed on. It's having the courage to give without wondering if it will be returned. That is what makes masters, true art, lasting relationships. The courage to create without knowing the outcome.

So this Christmas I hope you receive, and are lucky enough to give so that a child laughs in delight, a friend feels less lonely, and everyone you know finishes this race of a year content in his or her own way.

A Visit with Santa Brings Fleeting Fame

Have noticed Santa is out and about again this year, listening intently to the wishes of kiddies young and old.

I recall a particular visit with Santa that taught me fame is such a fleeting thing.

So here's the scoop. My mother took us to a mall (a "maul" -- appropriate name) in Narbeth, PA, way back in 1959, to a large department store to have our picture taken with Santa. A Philly TV producer, strolling by, sees us, asks my mother if older brother Kev and I (we look nothing alike) could appear in a commercial for sweet potatoes on a "live" afternoon talk show in Philadelphia.

My mother is all a' flutter.  Her "beautiful" children will be famous.

The day approaches. Kev is sick with the flu, so oldest brother Fran must take his place. Meanwhile, my mother, in her best efforts to put my best foot forward, has all my red/blonde long hair baby curls cut off, "for TV."  Scalped, I was.  ("I was robbed, I tell ya. I coulda been a contend-ah.")

On fame day, my mother remains home with Kev, my father takes the day off from work and schlepps Fran and I to Philly, to the studio. All I remember is the Road Runner cartoon running on the monitors. I was so enthralled with the antics of Wile. E. Coyote and Mr. R. Runner that I stand there on live TV, the entire time, with my mouth hanging open in awe.

Here's the proof:

Dig the dress. Paratroopers could wear that dress and land safely from 10,000 feet. And there's Fran, lookin' rather dapper in the bow tie.

Meanwhile, my mother is watching from home, screaming at the screen, "Mary, close your mouth." My father also tried to convince me from the studio sidelines that looking like I was catching flies was certainly not a fetching way for a young lady to act.

So Santa, that was my 15-minutes-of-fame. Mr. Warhol, I blew it right outta the wat-ah.

I have that photo on the wall of my office. If I ever get feeling way too big for my britches, I give it a glance and life is centered again.

* Santa Paint by Number Kit photo from http://www.craft-stop.com

Lennon

If a musician first learns to play guitar, is it then impossible to learn to play the piano?

Six/twelve strings vs. 88 daunting keys.

I took piano lessons when I was 17, from a fellow who had married a dancer who owned the studio where my younger sister took tap dancing lessons. He was kinda goofy, this piano chap, who realized I simply didn't have the apptitude to handle 88 keys, but took the lesson money 'cause he needed it. Except, I did, on my own, figure out one song.

Imagine.

John Lennon was murdered 25 years ago. How is it possible so much time has passed, and that it happened in the first place?

News of his death came on a cold, damp December morning when the clock radio went off and I woke to hear the DJ crying. I lived alone then, in a top floor apartment of an old Victorian house in Rockville, Maryland. The fellow downstairs played jazz guitar; Linda, across the hall, became a good friend, married a wonderful Brit, moved overseas, and was soon gone due to breast cancer at the age of 48.

I sat in bed that morning, looking out at the grey rain through the window and thought about John Lennon, about what his life contributed to the world. He and McCartney made a good songwriting team, but it felt to me that Lennon was always on his own. Being a Beatle woke him up to what that really meant, with its pressures and confinements, and that discovery made him walk away.

In this month's Rolling Stone, there is an article about Lennon, tucked quietly in the middle of the Hip Hop Now issue. It's written by Mikal Gilmore, brother of the infamous Gary who was the subject of Norman Mailer's Executioner's Song. Mikal, who has written for Rolling Stone for more than 25 years, wrote about his brother in Shot in the Heart, a tale "from inside the house where murder is born... a house that, in some ways, [he has] never been able to leave."

And now he writes about Lennon, about John's life before, during and after the Beatles. Mikal Gilmore quotes Lennon, "I didn't become something when the Beatles made it. I've been like this all my life." The story is really about a life transformed to a different kind of meaning. There's the wonderful photo taken by Annie Leibovitz in New York on the day he died. Lennon's eyes are closed. Is he dreaming? I think he looks peaceful, a man who is content because he is making the music he likes with a woman he loves, and he will soon go home to see his five-year old son.

Imagine is still played on the piano, and the radio. And sometimes it still rains. Lennon said, "I sincerely believe in love and peace. I'm a violent man who's learned not to be violent."

What's Really Admirable in Washington

Tai Shan. 5 months old...and memorable.