Susie Duncan Sexton's Blog, page 41
November 3, 2011
Blue Bell Memories
From the Secret Columbia City page on Facebook...
Sue Eberhard Kobuki: "Does anyone remember the Blue Bell factory? I worked there during the summer to earn money for my first car."
Thomas Steiner: "Yes, I sure do remember the Blue Bell factory."
Annette Melvin: "My Dad used to work there."
Vicki Meier Bigger: "Started working there when I was 16."
Bill Hammond: "Mr. & Mrs. Roy Duncan owned it, they were our neighbors on Line Street - the nicest and most likeable people you could ever want to know!"
Susie Sexton: "OH, THANK YOU, BILL! just noticed this...we love you, too! thanks, folks...i write often about Blue Bell in my new book (see below)! ♥! this string made my day!"
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
Sue Eberhard Kobuki: "Does anyone remember the Blue Bell factory? I worked there during the summer to earn money for my first car."
Thomas Steiner: "Yes, I sure do remember the Blue Bell factory."
Annette Melvin: "My Dad used to work there."
Vicki Meier Bigger: "Started working there when I was 16."
Bill Hammond: "Mr. & Mrs. Roy Duncan owned it, they were our neighbors on Line Street - the nicest and most likeable people you could ever want to know!"
Susie Sexton: "OH, THANK YOU, BILL! just noticed this...we love you, too! thanks, folks...i write often about Blue Bell in my new book (see below)! ♥! this string made my day!"
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
November 2, 2011
Excerpt from "Secrets of an Old Typewriter" - “Listen to the Mockingbird” (about singer Susan Boyle)
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," and variations thereof, we learn early. 'Tis amazing how frequently this sentiment reflects the truth, occasionally leading us to believe, somewhat snidely, that there may be no accounting for taste. Until marketers proceed to perfect their grip upon the human psyche, the familiar adage that artificial, surface beauty penetrates only skin-deeply soothes our self-conscious souls, duping us into the belief that we'll be appreciated for ourselves and an abundance of character lurking beneath the exterior.
Then, as we drift through the stages of man, advertisers, promoting peer pressure, convince us to purchase just the perfect combination of cosmetics ("make-up" for deficiencies which we are convinced sorely need "making up", a.k.a. freckles, pimples and wrinkles) aiming for the result of appearing more natural. We'll risk all to acquire the appropriate skin shade achieved through high-priced travel in pursuit of the sun or purchase of either orange-hue-producing creams or time spent roasting inside booths. We part with money for the trendiest or most provocative garments Toned bodies promised through pricey exercise equipment or health club memberships or plastic surgeons as well as hair styles and dyes emulative of celebrities dominate our lives.
Costumed and body-imaged to the height of conformity, certainly mass appeal and approval must follow. That's the unwritten rule. Not always. Not lately.
Though involved in a competitive contest, a Scottish person named Susan Boyle emerged an individual...seeming not to fit any mold. This lady smiled, poignantly felt compelled to laugh at herself, then summoned great courage to allow her spirit to fill an auditorium, quite simply through singing a powerful song to us. Frenchman Victor Hugo awarded 19th century LES MISERABLES to the reading public, while a modern composer and a lyricist set his story, chronicling the triumph of the human spirit, within the context of a Broadway musical. Who knew? One day, Susan would reach far more hearts than either Fantine or Jean Valjean ever won.
Yes, eyeballs no longer rolled upward, nor did audience members sigh in anticipatory disdain. A sweet soul's angelic voice soared. However, an over-eager media commenced immediately to Joe-the-Plumber-ize and second-guess her.
I dream a dream which allows this lovely, genuine human-being, with her melodies intact, to survive the imminent circus atmosphere and to remain a captivating breath of fresh air. As publicity-shy, reclusive, southern author Harper Lee gently warned us, via Chapter 10 of her once-in-a lifetime novel: "Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird."
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
Then, as we drift through the stages of man, advertisers, promoting peer pressure, convince us to purchase just the perfect combination of cosmetics ("make-up" for deficiencies which we are convinced sorely need "making up", a.k.a. freckles, pimples and wrinkles) aiming for the result of appearing more natural. We'll risk all to acquire the appropriate skin shade achieved through high-priced travel in pursuit of the sun or purchase of either orange-hue-producing creams or time spent roasting inside booths. We part with money for the trendiest or most provocative garments Toned bodies promised through pricey exercise equipment or health club memberships or plastic surgeons as well as hair styles and dyes emulative of celebrities dominate our lives.
Costumed and body-imaged to the height of conformity, certainly mass appeal and approval must follow. That's the unwritten rule. Not always. Not lately.
Though involved in a competitive contest, a Scottish person named Susan Boyle emerged an individual...seeming not to fit any mold. This lady smiled, poignantly felt compelled to laugh at herself, then summoned great courage to allow her spirit to fill an auditorium, quite simply through singing a powerful song to us. Frenchman Victor Hugo awarded 19th century LES MISERABLES to the reading public, while a modern composer and a lyricist set his story, chronicling the triumph of the human spirit, within the context of a Broadway musical. Who knew? One day, Susan would reach far more hearts than either Fantine or Jean Valjean ever won.
Yes, eyeballs no longer rolled upward, nor did audience members sigh in anticipatory disdain. A sweet soul's angelic voice soared. However, an over-eager media commenced immediately to Joe-the-Plumber-ize and second-guess her.
I dream a dream which allows this lovely, genuine human-being, with her melodies intact, to survive the imminent circus atmosphere and to remain a captivating breath of fresh air. As publicity-shy, reclusive, southern author Harper Lee gently warned us, via Chapter 10 of her once-in-a lifetime novel: "Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird."
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
October 31, 2011
ONE SEASON FOLLOWING ANOTHER, LADEN WITH HAPPINESS -- AND TEARS (a lyric from FIDDLER ON THE ROOF)
October concluded with much pageantry in the early '50s as "gypsies, tramps and..." pirates (sorry, Cher!) paraded around West Ward classrooms, often returning home through snowflakes. Meandering around yard signs advertising this guy and that guy running for political office, we diminutive students, suffocating beneath our masks, not only dressed up for Halloween back in the day but we also voted in mock elections. What a season!
"I Like Ike" buttons pinned to our costumes, we bad-mouthed Adlai Stevenson and Harry Truman simply cuz our parents did. Columbia City notoriously voted the Republican ticket then as now.
My mother and father, always quite secretive, would not be happy with my reporting that they continued their Southern Democratic style in spite of all the hoopla. Both, however, adored Dwight in spite of themselves, and my mom copied Mamie's hair-do, disregarding the neighbor lady's taunts that according to McCall's magazine or Ladies' Home Journal, "Middle-aged women should never attempt hair-styles with bangs to disguise one's high forehead!"
My folks delighted in the 1960 presidential election when Chairman of the Board Frank Sinatra musically parodied JFK into office, barely, with "High Hopes", minus the "rubber tree plant" reference but retaining the "Oops" and Kerplop"! Respect for whoever inhabited the Oval Office characterized our family. Flexibility is a trait to be admired and luckily part of my upbringing. Would that such a stance might be revisited in this current heated political climate which makes "global warming" itself seem a cool walk in the park.
While experiencing a recurrent attack of nostalgic revelry, I recently dashed to our camel-back trunk brimming with black and white photographs. I hoped to retrieve my sister Sarah dressed as the sweetest-ever, pint-sized devil replete with pointy ears and a lengthy tail and posing third from the left in the front row, captured for posterity within a group photo of her class. Some of the other masked "kids" smiling for the "Brownie" camera? JoEllen Adams, Barbara Carver, Myra Lorber, Marsha Sevitts, and Margaret Ann Moyer. I loved that snap-shot.
Instead, an 8" by 10" glossy, which always gave me pause, materialized. Former neighbors Ed and Carmen Landreth donned in night-clothes stand beside Charlie Chaplin and Daniel Boone.
I have had dreams about that picture. No one ever explained it to me. You see, my mother is the "Little Tramp", and my father is the rugged Tennessee frontiersman holding a rifle and wearing fringe and what later became known to my generation as a "Davy Crockett" cap, apparently fashioned from a deceased raccoon.
"Killed him a bear when he was only three...Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the wild frontier!" Many of us kids wondered, all those years ago, WHO was three? Disney's "Davy" or the bear?
What continues to disturb me is that this photo depicts both of my parents as demonstrating 5 o'clock shadow.
Blue Bell's cafeteria, a replica of my dad's favorite eateries dotting the Southland, became the setting not only for lunch-time crowds of employees and members of the community but also...PARTIES. Doll tea-parties happened there, and Santa visited children with wish-lists early in December. Evidently, costume balls, featuring my slightly older sister as a scarlet-garbed, horned, cloven-hoofed Beelzebub--carrying a pitchfork--as well as my parents looking like bums on a Hollywood back-lot teeming with extras, also transpired in that factory basement. Probably, I was stuck at home driving some baby-sitter to distraction.
Sad, cuz I loved sorting through jingling pocket change to purchase Spearmint Gum from the canteen area as well as about four Dixie cups of Sealtest or Borden's vanilla ice cream solely for the purpose of scraping (a tiny wooden paddle-type spoon my only tool) the congealed stuff off the movie stars' pictures which hid on the reverse side of the tabbed lids. So disappointed when Guy Madison or "Duke" Wayne or Hopalong Cassidy (William Boyd) appeared. Giggling, squealy, and ecstatic when Jane Russell, Esther Williams, June Allyson, Judy Canova or Betty Hutton peeked up to meet my eager gaze.
Roy Rogers, Dale Evans and Trigger or Elizabeth Taylor and Lassie I found totally acceptable, as well as Tonto and the Lone Ranger. "Hi-yo, Silver, away!"
Life's funny. Each night hobbling upstairs to bed, remembering longingly that I once cleared three steps at a time, I pass an ornate plaque propped precariously upon a rickety shelf. Reading the calligraphic "Ancient Scottish Prayer", composed by an unknown author, I am impressed how the words perfectly highlight this season featuring "All Saints' Day" which segues into the comparable "May the Best Man Win" mania of early November:
"From ghoulies and ghosties
Long leggitie Beasties
And things that go
Bump in the night --
Good Lord deliver us."
Happy Tricking or Treating and Voting, too!
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
"I Like Ike" buttons pinned to our costumes, we bad-mouthed Adlai Stevenson and Harry Truman simply cuz our parents did. Columbia City notoriously voted the Republican ticket then as now.
My mother and father, always quite secretive, would not be happy with my reporting that they continued their Southern Democratic style in spite of all the hoopla. Both, however, adored Dwight in spite of themselves, and my mom copied Mamie's hair-do, disregarding the neighbor lady's taunts that according to McCall's magazine or Ladies' Home Journal, "Middle-aged women should never attempt hair-styles with bangs to disguise one's high forehead!"
My folks delighted in the 1960 presidential election when Chairman of the Board Frank Sinatra musically parodied JFK into office, barely, with "High Hopes", minus the "rubber tree plant" reference but retaining the "Oops" and Kerplop"! Respect for whoever inhabited the Oval Office characterized our family. Flexibility is a trait to be admired and luckily part of my upbringing. Would that such a stance might be revisited in this current heated political climate which makes "global warming" itself seem a cool walk in the park.
While experiencing a recurrent attack of nostalgic revelry, I recently dashed to our camel-back trunk brimming with black and white photographs. I hoped to retrieve my sister Sarah dressed as the sweetest-ever, pint-sized devil replete with pointy ears and a lengthy tail and posing third from the left in the front row, captured for posterity within a group photo of her class. Some of the other masked "kids" smiling for the "Brownie" camera? JoEllen Adams, Barbara Carver, Myra Lorber, Marsha Sevitts, and Margaret Ann Moyer. I loved that snap-shot.
Instead, an 8" by 10" glossy, which always gave me pause, materialized. Former neighbors Ed and Carmen Landreth donned in night-clothes stand beside Charlie Chaplin and Daniel Boone.
I have had dreams about that picture. No one ever explained it to me. You see, my mother is the "Little Tramp", and my father is the rugged Tennessee frontiersman holding a rifle and wearing fringe and what later became known to my generation as a "Davy Crockett" cap, apparently fashioned from a deceased raccoon.
"Killed him a bear when he was only three...Davy, Davy Crockett, King of the wild frontier!" Many of us kids wondered, all those years ago, WHO was three? Disney's "Davy" or the bear?
What continues to disturb me is that this photo depicts both of my parents as demonstrating 5 o'clock shadow.
Blue Bell's cafeteria, a replica of my dad's favorite eateries dotting the Southland, became the setting not only for lunch-time crowds of employees and members of the community but also...PARTIES. Doll tea-parties happened there, and Santa visited children with wish-lists early in December. Evidently, costume balls, featuring my slightly older sister as a scarlet-garbed, horned, cloven-hoofed Beelzebub--carrying a pitchfork--as well as my parents looking like bums on a Hollywood back-lot teeming with extras, also transpired in that factory basement. Probably, I was stuck at home driving some baby-sitter to distraction.
Sad, cuz I loved sorting through jingling pocket change to purchase Spearmint Gum from the canteen area as well as about four Dixie cups of Sealtest or Borden's vanilla ice cream solely for the purpose of scraping (a tiny wooden paddle-type spoon my only tool) the congealed stuff off the movie stars' pictures which hid on the reverse side of the tabbed lids. So disappointed when Guy Madison or "Duke" Wayne or Hopalong Cassidy (William Boyd) appeared. Giggling, squealy, and ecstatic when Jane Russell, Esther Williams, June Allyson, Judy Canova or Betty Hutton peeked up to meet my eager gaze.
Roy Rogers, Dale Evans and Trigger or Elizabeth Taylor and Lassie I found totally acceptable, as well as Tonto and the Lone Ranger. "Hi-yo, Silver, away!"
Life's funny. Each night hobbling upstairs to bed, remembering longingly that I once cleared three steps at a time, I pass an ornate plaque propped precariously upon a rickety shelf. Reading the calligraphic "Ancient Scottish Prayer", composed by an unknown author, I am impressed how the words perfectly highlight this season featuring "All Saints' Day" which segues into the comparable "May the Best Man Win" mania of early November:
"From ghoulies and ghosties
Long leggitie Beasties
And things that go
Bump in the night --
Good Lord deliver us."
Happy Tricking or Treating and Voting, too!
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
October 27, 2011
ME & SHIRLEY…SHIRLEY JONES! (I think I love you...)
Celebrating the publication of my first book at age 65 -- and probably my last -- hubby Don, who naggingly urged, “When are you ever going to write your damned novel?” for ages, drove me, MISS DAISY, to Bearcreek Farms – The Hoosier version of Branson, Missouri, the quintessential home of Misplaced-Celebrity-Fests. Why? To meet and greet David Cassidy’s stepmother! Keith Kleespie, NOT Keith Partridge, chaperoned us. We visited James Dean land first, in Fairmount, Indiana, then motored on -- to wheat fields which surrounded a piss-elegant gift shop and expensive restaurant as well as a rather country-fied/westernized theater-barn.
Paying extra cash to “meet and greet” Laurie from “Oklahoma”/Julie from “Carousel”/ Marian the Librarian from “Music Man”/Academy Award winning prostitute from “Elmer Gantry”/Mama Partridge and real-life grandma to 12 ranging from three weeks to age 30, I got pushed—yes, literally thrust—to the front of the line of a whopping dozen “fans”! Proceeding to establish, firmly and without the slightest doubt, that I rank as a star-struck fool, I gushed at the actress, gingerly hugged her so as not to disturb her sparkling sequins nor muss her false eyelashes, and then quickly thrust into the face of MS. JONES a half dozen CDS of Roy the Voice who, to my mother’s mind, rivals Mario Lanza. MOST Michiganders swear by his exceptional, magnificent performances as well as do countless central Indiana Hoosiers -- though perhaps only three and one half relatives. We await his discovery.
Don squeezed Marty Ingels’ adorable, demure wife, proclaiming, “I am Susie’s husband!” Shirley Mae Jones retorted, “Ah, soooo you’re the hubby, and she’s the MOUTH!” I stifled purring back, in this instance of the “pot calling the kettle black”: “Hey, movie star lady, meow? I ain’t the dame who just jetted to a Midwestern barn to sing about 20 songs to an audience predominantly enamored of heart-throb DAVID CASSIDY’S “Partridge” Mom AND real-life stepmother.
Instead, though her vocal register has dropped a couple of octaves and Shirl is a clone of both my cousin Carole and Hillary Clinton, I attentively listened and watched utterly captivated while remembering, at age ten, I sang along with the LPS of her cinematic musical blockbusters (even “April Love” which was rather redundant— recurring in every other cut on the soundtrack?) and bought the sheet music so that I might follow the “bouncing ball” as she, Gordon MacRae, Robert Preston, and Pat Boone sang their little 1950s hearts out.
Other replies I might have shared with Shirley, had we meeted and greeted for more than a duration of three seconds, might have been: “I actually lovingly clipped out, and played for hours with, “Oklahoma” paper dolls when I was only ten and you, Shirley Mae, were say…about 22!” And the clincher: “I am here because I am a latent groupie of your FIRST husband -- the actual father of not only DAVID, but also Shaun, Patrick, and Ryan.”
Jack Cassidy, who languished a bit as MISTER Shirley Jones, stole my heart via several Broadway shows: chief among them SHE LOVES ME; FADE OUT, FADE IN; and IT’S A BIRD, IT’S A PLANE, IT’S SUPERMAN! Handsome! Outrageously talented! Wickedly witty. The wholesome diva left THAT hunk (a title which I seldom, seldom, seldom employ) to marry dimpled, clown-like Mr. Ingels of “I’m Dickens, He’s Fenster” television fame, and the couple allegedly suggested two years ago that the then 75-year-old Conservative Republican Shirley pose in the altogether for PLAYBOY. So “Hef” evidently nixed that proposal?
At any rate, after watching a video of the wholesome former Miss Pittsburgh 1952 (who originally had planned to study veterinary science????) kissing Marlon Brando, Jimmy Stewart, and Glenn Ford, the audience welcomed the opportunity to shout out guess-timates as to Who might have been the best smoocher? Don screamed, “Bob Hope!” Not sure why we weren’t escorted outside into the petting zoo-barnyard to graze with the pigs and cattle at that point…
Plus we got screwed out of complimentary wine-tasting, arriving too late for dining prior to the show. Each of us famished, Mr. Kleespie earlier smuggled, into the theater, three thin plastic collapsible pop bottles and several crinkly packages of crunchy chocolate-covered pretzels. Sound effects! Obnoxious senior citizens behaving like irreverent high school juvenile delinquents eagerly harassing our beautiful teacher from slouchy positions in our third row seats, our personal songbird occasionally squinted into the audience, one hand at her forehead, shielding her eyes from the spotlights—attempting to identify her munching hecklers!
Closing number: “You’ll Never Walk Alone -- Especially Those Gregarious Types with Big Mouths”. We headed to our very own “surrey with the fringe on top” and not the least “afraid of the dark”, we somehow found our way back home still wearing our “Shirley” VIP necklaces and “buttons (picturing Ms. Jones herself)…and bows”!
Hey, stalking cinematic-maturing-wandering-wonders, who travel to our state, is totally worth the bother. Mickey Rooney. Jerry Lewis. (Uh-huh! Both of them)! Shirley Jones!
And I learned to fuh-get about “throwing bouquets” at Richard Rodgers’ and Oscar Hammerstein’s teen ingénue discovery (Gotta be more to that story?) unless I am willing to duck. “Chicks…and ducks…and geese…better scurry!” -- lyrics which continually reverberate within my mind when I review questionable time spent with Mrs. Partridge. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!” Fickleness changed my tune considerably, but IF this effervescent chanteuse ever returns to a cornfield near us, we’ll eagerly follow through the maize maze for the rest of her career, especially if Shirley eventually, graciously thanks us for the CDS and introduces Roy to Stephen Sondheim.
POSTSCRIPT: My husband laminated Shirley’s poster while I wasn’t looking….
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
Paying extra cash to “meet and greet” Laurie from “Oklahoma”/Julie from “Carousel”/ Marian the Librarian from “Music Man”/Academy Award winning prostitute from “Elmer Gantry”/Mama Partridge and real-life grandma to 12 ranging from three weeks to age 30, I got pushed—yes, literally thrust—to the front of the line of a whopping dozen “fans”! Proceeding to establish, firmly and without the slightest doubt, that I rank as a star-struck fool, I gushed at the actress, gingerly hugged her so as not to disturb her sparkling sequins nor muss her false eyelashes, and then quickly thrust into the face of MS. JONES a half dozen CDS of Roy the Voice who, to my mother’s mind, rivals Mario Lanza. MOST Michiganders swear by his exceptional, magnificent performances as well as do countless central Indiana Hoosiers -- though perhaps only three and one half relatives. We await his discovery.
Don squeezed Marty Ingels’ adorable, demure wife, proclaiming, “I am Susie’s husband!” Shirley Mae Jones retorted, “Ah, soooo you’re the hubby, and she’s the MOUTH!” I stifled purring back, in this instance of the “pot calling the kettle black”: “Hey, movie star lady, meow? I ain’t the dame who just jetted to a Midwestern barn to sing about 20 songs to an audience predominantly enamored of heart-throb DAVID CASSIDY’S “Partridge” Mom AND real-life stepmother.
Instead, though her vocal register has dropped a couple of octaves and Shirl is a clone of both my cousin Carole and Hillary Clinton, I attentively listened and watched utterly captivated while remembering, at age ten, I sang along with the LPS of her cinematic musical blockbusters (even “April Love” which was rather redundant— recurring in every other cut on the soundtrack?) and bought the sheet music so that I might follow the “bouncing ball” as she, Gordon MacRae, Robert Preston, and Pat Boone sang their little 1950s hearts out.
Other replies I might have shared with Shirley, had we meeted and greeted for more than a duration of three seconds, might have been: “I actually lovingly clipped out, and played for hours with, “Oklahoma” paper dolls when I was only ten and you, Shirley Mae, were say…about 22!” And the clincher: “I am here because I am a latent groupie of your FIRST husband -- the actual father of not only DAVID, but also Shaun, Patrick, and Ryan.”
Jack Cassidy, who languished a bit as MISTER Shirley Jones, stole my heart via several Broadway shows: chief among them SHE LOVES ME; FADE OUT, FADE IN; and IT’S A BIRD, IT’S A PLANE, IT’S SUPERMAN! Handsome! Outrageously talented! Wickedly witty. The wholesome diva left THAT hunk (a title which I seldom, seldom, seldom employ) to marry dimpled, clown-like Mr. Ingels of “I’m Dickens, He’s Fenster” television fame, and the couple allegedly suggested two years ago that the then 75-year-old Conservative Republican Shirley pose in the altogether for PLAYBOY. So “Hef” evidently nixed that proposal?
At any rate, after watching a video of the wholesome former Miss Pittsburgh 1952 (who originally had planned to study veterinary science????) kissing Marlon Brando, Jimmy Stewart, and Glenn Ford, the audience welcomed the opportunity to shout out guess-timates as to Who might have been the best smoocher? Don screamed, “Bob Hope!” Not sure why we weren’t escorted outside into the petting zoo-barnyard to graze with the pigs and cattle at that point…
Plus we got screwed out of complimentary wine-tasting, arriving too late for dining prior to the show. Each of us famished, Mr. Kleespie earlier smuggled, into the theater, three thin plastic collapsible pop bottles and several crinkly packages of crunchy chocolate-covered pretzels. Sound effects! Obnoxious senior citizens behaving like irreverent high school juvenile delinquents eagerly harassing our beautiful teacher from slouchy positions in our third row seats, our personal songbird occasionally squinted into the audience, one hand at her forehead, shielding her eyes from the spotlights—attempting to identify her munching hecklers!
Closing number: “You’ll Never Walk Alone -- Especially Those Gregarious Types with Big Mouths”. We headed to our very own “surrey with the fringe on top” and not the least “afraid of the dark”, we somehow found our way back home still wearing our “Shirley” VIP necklaces and “buttons (picturing Ms. Jones herself)…and bows”!
Hey, stalking cinematic-maturing-wandering-wonders, who travel to our state, is totally worth the bother. Mickey Rooney. Jerry Lewis. (Uh-huh! Both of them)! Shirley Jones!
And I learned to fuh-get about “throwing bouquets” at Richard Rodgers’ and Oscar Hammerstein’s teen ingénue discovery (Gotta be more to that story?) unless I am willing to duck. “Chicks…and ducks…and geese…better scurry!” -- lyrics which continually reverberate within my mind when I review questionable time spent with Mrs. Partridge. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!” Fickleness changed my tune considerably, but IF this effervescent chanteuse ever returns to a cornfield near us, we’ll eagerly follow through the maize maze for the rest of her career, especially if Shirley eventually, graciously thanks us for the CDS and introduces Roy to Stephen Sondheim.
POSTSCRIPT: My husband laminated Shirley’s poster while I wasn’t looking….
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
October 24, 2011
I AM A TRUTH SEEKER AND A PUBLICIST FOR TRUTH...WHAT A GREAT CALLING, RIGHT?
From my pal Eddie Mah:
And some additional info from another pal Philip Fullerton:
I AM A TRUTH SEEKER AND A PUBLICIST FOR TRUTH...WHAT A GREAT CALLING, RIGHT? i started out as an accidental vegan...then a misguided society interrupted me! shame on ... society! seriously! the medical problems which developed among my immediate family can be directly tracked to misinformation from a corporate world...ain't in the genes...IS in the toxic and cruel menus foisted upon mankind. bless, eddie for persistence! that is key, NEVER GIVING UP!
the changes are interesting...and the feeling is a good one. speaks to the wisdom of naming animals and revering them rather than ever eating them...
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
We don't need to eat Protein !!Yes, you heard right. We need Amino Acids so our bodies can turn into useful Protein. Animal products do not supply our bodies with the right amino acids which we can use. When we eat flesh, our body has to break down the improper Protein back to Amino Acids. Then it has to compose it to the Proteins which we can use. This is very inefficient. This process also helps develop high Cholesterol; leftover item from unprocessed flesh. We put so much extra pressure on our organs, like Kidneys, Liver, Pancreas. Pancreas failure causes diabetes. We also end up clogging up our arteries, resulting in heart attacks and strokes. We have long intestines like a cow or a horse. We can digest a simple food like a Piece of Lettuce and turn it into a complete protein; Similar to cow eating only grass. Go Vegan and thrive in good health!
And some additional info from another pal Philip Fullerton:
I had to respond because of the comments about getting iron. All those veggies high in iron mentioned are not usable sources of iron...unless...you incorporate ascorbic acid (vitamin c) into it. Eat an orange, then eat spinach. Otherwise, you will still be anemic. I had this same problem when I kept trying to be vegetarian earlier in life. Also, blackstrap Molasses has a more absorbable form of iron. I had the same problem and this time I've been vegetarian 4 months and no problems.
I AM A TRUTH SEEKER AND A PUBLICIST FOR TRUTH...WHAT A GREAT CALLING, RIGHT? i started out as an accidental vegan...then a misguided society interrupted me! shame on ... society! seriously! the medical problems which developed among my immediate family can be directly tracked to misinformation from a corporate world...ain't in the genes...IS in the toxic and cruel menus foisted upon mankind. bless, eddie for persistence! that is key, NEVER GIVING UP!
the changes are interesting...and the feeling is a good one. speaks to the wisdom of naming animals and revering them rather than ever eating them...
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
October 22, 2011
New Review of "Secrets of an Old Typewriter"
Review from J.A. Hernandez on Amazon.com: "Poetic, energetic. Sentimental, temperamental. Those stories I could relate to were easy reading and enjoyable. Some I just didn't get and a few weren't in line with my political bent. All things considered, it is a fun read and I would recommend this book to some of my friends."
i am certainly a unique politico...i tend to see all sides...for what they are...and say so! ;D an unusual position these days to say the least! love it!
HEY, I WROTE A BOOK. HURRY TO THIS WEB-SITE TO DOWNLOAD...KINDLE ME! ONE WILD RIDE -- MEMOIRS OF A DAME WHO REALLY SHOULD HAVE GONE THE "HIPPIE" ROUTE AND IS MAKING UP FOR LOST TIME! ;D NO VANITY PRESSES INVOLVED...A LEGIT ACCOUNT GONE GLOBAL. RATED PG-13 DUE TO LACK OF NUDITY OR A PROVOCATIVE COVER OF UNCLAD MODELS! WHEEEEEEE! WHOLESOME AND OCCASIONALLY WICKED THOUGH! ♥ ♥ ♥!!!!!!
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
i am certainly a unique politico...i tend to see all sides...for what they are...and say so! ;D an unusual position these days to say the least! love it!
HEY, I WROTE A BOOK. HURRY TO THIS WEB-SITE TO DOWNLOAD...KINDLE ME! ONE WILD RIDE -- MEMOIRS OF A DAME WHO REALLY SHOULD HAVE GONE THE "HIPPIE" ROUTE AND IS MAKING UP FOR LOST TIME! ;D NO VANITY PRESSES INVOLVED...A LEGIT ACCOUNT GONE GLOBAL. RATED PG-13 DUE TO LACK OF NUDITY OR A PROVOCATIVE COVER OF UNCLAD MODELS! WHEEEEEEE! WHOLESOME AND OCCASIONALLY WICKED THOUGH! ♥ ♥ ♥!!!!!!
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
October 21, 2011
Writer Types, Stereotypes, Daguerreotypes, and Archetypes
Feeble-minded knaves label writer types,
Forcing free spirits their genres to declare.
Novelist? Poet? Playwright? Stereotypes!
Squeezing into one round hole a peg so square.
Participles! Fear not. Feel free to dangle.
Infinitives ought (surely) be…split in two.
Preposition proposition? Not to mangle
Grammar RULES! Still go wherever you want to!
My mom’s at her desk striking keys, worlds away.
Correspondence to and fro, letters, notes…DING!
“May I try now or wait for another day?”
Hunt, peck -- keyboard’s not arranged A-B-C. I’ll sing.
Over-bearing teacher strolls aisles. Stop-watch time.
“Minimize errors while increasing speed NOW!”
Concentrate? (Self-conscious teens flirt—not a crime.)
31 WPM! She scowls--that cow!
Powder blue Royal portable, we’ve been dumped.
Four years -- c-o-l-l-e-g-i-a-t-e. Ribbons we’ll replace.
Though White-Out’s not invented, let’s ne’er be stumped.
“Onion skin” typos successfully erase.
Cheerleaders strut extrovertedly and split
Their flipping appendages, then “pretzel” up
Squealing empty rhymes as if in Tourette’s fit
Barking through megaphones – worse than any pup.
Pianists ripple ivories—some compose.
Dancers tap, pirouette, joust, leap, polka, clog.
Painters, sculptors—we all endure some of those.
We observe all that stuff sometimes in a fog.
Pontificate, explain, camouflage, justify.
Establish themes, annotate, preen and impress.
Be something we never were to merely get by.
Sooner or later, we must stop to undress.
Lessons learned tapped upon a jumbled keyboard
Release the demons from their self-imposed hush.
Stanza-ed, paragraphed, free-versed or untoward.
Enlightening, numbing. Language often does crush.
My TYPE writer’s resurrection from basement
Corpse happened “twice before its close” once to fill
Out child’s scholarship forms to be stamped and sent,
“Royal’s” swan song a play’s “prop”—“best on the bill”!
Imitations’s the sincerest form of VAIN.
Allusion’s of grandeur stuffed within essays
Theses, editorial turns, critiques reign.
Ferlingetti spaghetti, Millay displays.
How lonely I’ve been when I’m never alone.
So many people I’ve known whom I have not known.
My Type writer’s no metaphor—but my heart.
I offer IT up for the sake of My art.
Dedicated to Mis-judged Gargoyles, Over-rated Angels
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
Forcing free spirits their genres to declare.
Novelist? Poet? Playwright? Stereotypes!
Squeezing into one round hole a peg so square.
Participles! Fear not. Feel free to dangle.
Infinitives ought (surely) be…split in two.
Preposition proposition? Not to mangle
Grammar RULES! Still go wherever you want to!
My mom’s at her desk striking keys, worlds away.
Correspondence to and fro, letters, notes…DING!
“May I try now or wait for another day?”
Hunt, peck -- keyboard’s not arranged A-B-C. I’ll sing.
Over-bearing teacher strolls aisles. Stop-watch time.
“Minimize errors while increasing speed NOW!”
Concentrate? (Self-conscious teens flirt—not a crime.)
31 WPM! She scowls--that cow!
Powder blue Royal portable, we’ve been dumped.
Four years -- c-o-l-l-e-g-i-a-t-e. Ribbons we’ll replace.
Though White-Out’s not invented, let’s ne’er be stumped.
“Onion skin” typos successfully erase.
Cheerleaders strut extrovertedly and split
Their flipping appendages, then “pretzel” up
Squealing empty rhymes as if in Tourette’s fit
Barking through megaphones – worse than any pup.
Pianists ripple ivories—some compose.
Dancers tap, pirouette, joust, leap, polka, clog.
Painters, sculptors—we all endure some of those.
We observe all that stuff sometimes in a fog.
Pontificate, explain, camouflage, justify.
Establish themes, annotate, preen and impress.
Be something we never were to merely get by.
Sooner or later, we must stop to undress.
Lessons learned tapped upon a jumbled keyboard
Release the demons from their self-imposed hush.
Stanza-ed, paragraphed, free-versed or untoward.
Enlightening, numbing. Language often does crush.
My TYPE writer’s resurrection from basement
Corpse happened “twice before its close” once to fill
Out child’s scholarship forms to be stamped and sent,
“Royal’s” swan song a play’s “prop”—“best on the bill”!
Imitations’s the sincerest form of VAIN.
Allusion’s of grandeur stuffed within essays
Theses, editorial turns, critiques reign.
Ferlingetti spaghetti, Millay displays.
How lonely I’ve been when I’m never alone.
So many people I’ve known whom I have not known.
My Type writer’s no metaphor—but my heart.
I offer IT up for the sake of My art.
Dedicated to Mis-judged Gargoyles, Over-rated Angels
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
October 19, 2011
BEAT ME DADDY--13 TO THE BAR or PRAISE SLITHERS A ONE-WAY STREET THUS FAR
"Lord, why's all of fickle LIFE this persistent scramble?"
"It is written...in the constitution's preamble!"
"Heathens' roll call lists females, Arabs, and freed up minds."
"Heritage, bigotry, isolation--all that blinds."
Forced conversation with a power so divine, supreme--
Wilts, defeats, seldom ever fulfills. Much rather scream!
Measured syllables, sans internal rhyme, squash free verse.
As their sing-song tantalizes, "hang-loose" poets curse.
"Hey, Babe, dry up, be silent, quietly disappear.
Prior to exiting, kiss Pretense's f*cked up rear."
"Sorry, I babbled achingly soulful poetry
Expectant of overdue response. I paid no fee."
"Mental stability questioned. Dunno my meaning?"
"Truthfully, the age-old terror lay in your leaning."
"What is your expectation? Forgiveness I implore."
Quoth those gods who preen, suffocate, trample: "Nevermore."
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
"It is written...in the constitution's preamble!"
"Heathens' roll call lists females, Arabs, and freed up minds."
"Heritage, bigotry, isolation--all that blinds."
Forced conversation with a power so divine, supreme--
Wilts, defeats, seldom ever fulfills. Much rather scream!
Measured syllables, sans internal rhyme, squash free verse.
As their sing-song tantalizes, "hang-loose" poets curse.
"Hey, Babe, dry up, be silent, quietly disappear.
Prior to exiting, kiss Pretense's f*cked up rear."
"Sorry, I babbled achingly soulful poetry
Expectant of overdue response. I paid no fee."
"Mental stability questioned. Dunno my meaning?"
"Truthfully, the age-old terror lay in your leaning."
"What is your expectation? Forgiveness I implore."
Quoth those gods who preen, suffocate, trample: "Nevermore."
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
October 17, 2011
Playing the Hand One's Dealt
(“You play the hand you're dealt. I think the game's worthwhile.” ~ C.S. Lewis)
Admittedly, personal discussions which focus upon politics, religion, finances, in-laws, the questionable necessity for either camouflaged Rambo-type hunting or Betty Crocker-ish canning and preserving, "Which arrived first, the chicken or the egg?" or "Is it acceptable to wear white after labor day?" all qualify as verboten. Where does that leave us, then, in the time-honored pursuit of short and snappy fun and merriment among casual acquaintances?
Why, the "devil's in--the details" of... 52 (or more) plasti-coated BICYCLE CARDS! "Luck, be a lady!" A return to the gaming tables. Warning: "Ya gotta know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em!"
My parents, hailing from Southern Baptist heaven deep within the heart of Dixie-land, pulled their blinds when newly married! In order to play pinochle, gin rummy, or euchre (for which the "joker" got himself invented), they became surreptitious, deceitful seekers of...FUN. Who knew when my devout schoolmarm grandma might have dropped by, reminding the couple to attend church services, only to discover their deviant behavior? The newly-weds became foxy, recognizing the familiar sound of her orthopedic shoes ascending their tiny front steps. Edna and Roy made me who I am today.
Once my mother became a..."mother", her own roguish wickedness continued. During the fabulous post-war late '40s and Eisenhower-led early '50s, my sister Sarah attended West Ward grammar school at a time encompassing that era in which CANASTA became roaringly popular within the United States. Melding, wild cards--deuces and jokers, magical sought-after RED threes ("treys"), "freezing" the stack or gleefully grabbing it up, "going out" on an opponent sitting across the kitchen table and caught holding "close to the vest" a fistful of cards suddenly representing negative points--A KALEIDOSCOPE OF A GAME! The Spanish word "Canasta" appropriately translates into "basket"! Well, my mama would meet little "Sass" at the front door--after school--hang up her child's tiny coat and then...challenge her to a 90 minute round of the enticing new game. Sarah grew up to become the family mathematician!
Our family, never wealthy yet always frugal, creatively sought out fun and relished being at home more than anywhere else in the world. Seldom vacationed...in fact, never. Frequented "dollar days" downtown. Drove old cars. We sisters wore hand-me-downs or dresses/sweaters courtesy of our seamstress/knitter mom--almost exclusively. If we bought material possessions, they stayed in the family for generations. My clothes and toys enjoyed second lives with my darling nieces. Hmmmm. Particularly, the toys I still wish I had! ARGHHHHH!
However, well-worn decks of kings, queens, jacks, aces--those "ratty-packs"--never left the premises. Spread across table-tops! Scattered over tiled/hard-wood/carpeted floors! Stashed in bureau drawers! Four suits of spades, hearts, diamonds, and clubs always at the ready. Their configurations into various games held such promise.
Fond memories of Blue Bell foremen conducting their Christmas celebrations (a.k.a. "office parties") in our dining room, counting their poker chips and pocketing winnings of small change (while Mrs. D. served fancy ham salad sandwiches as well as that other kind of "chips" and a few cocktails) are interrupted for a second as I recollect that disapproving protesters occasionally dropped by and exited prior to the decadence that would follow. (Always gotta be a party pooper or two.) Poker boasts "zero-sum-game" status which factors in Keynesian Laws of Economics, after all. Looking on the bright, wholesome side, those guys enjoyed a "busman's holiday" maybe? Time and a half? Ah, well, more frolicking punctuated my "coming of age" years when visiting engineers from Greensboro, Chicago, or Waterbury spent evenings with us playing "Thirty-One", betting pennies and following the rules by "knocking" on the kitchen table, warning of "one more round--then game's over--highest score wins the pot"! A rather frenetic cut-throat contest where we kids were included! Those days of "Mad Men"--wonderful!
Thoughts turn to the pursuit of Bridge--in all of its forms whether duplicate or contract or rubber--where folks are forced to "connect" albeit competitively yet with fellowship intact. Many "dummies" (authentic Bridge term) and much "trumping" and "finessing" puckishly continue to haunt this house. VIsitors included Dr. Minear and Helen Markley, Dr. John, Kleespies, Smiths, McNagnys, and sundry progressive Tri-Kappa-Luncheon/Bridge-Combo Fund-Raiser participants (but NEVER Lowell and D'maris Grant who qualified to compete in California-Style TOURNAMENT BRIDGE matches with the likes of Omar Sharif, the Egyptian movie star/gambler/card-playing genius). When a partner was "in absentia", I got to play cuz the adults "needed a fourth"! Mrs. Langohr and I both possessed the same edgy, risky bidding habits a bit beyond the reality of the situation. Remembrance of a famous quote from my Dad, "Margo, you're NUTS!", never failed to send her into gales of good-natured laughter.
My parents, the Bonnie and Clyde of the "According to Hoyle" set, did not cease their insidious influence with their children. Oh no! All grandchildren were ritualistically brought into the "family" as well. My son Roy, now a seasoned card shark, survived (and thrived upon) initiation at an early age via the now-forgotten classic "Kings on the Corner." Following clearance from the breakfast table of left-over corn-bread, eggs, and grits--also cutlery, plates, water glasses, and cloth napkins--the decks were "cut" and hands were dealt! Vigorous card wars ensued. What happens at grandma's kitchen table stays at grandma's kitchen table...another helping of Southern-fried "omerta" please! Incidentally, Roy now owns a Phi Beta Kappa key and considers himself "home-schooled" for all intents and purposes?
Professor "Music Man" Harold Hill, sang, "We've got trouble, my friends...trouble right here in River City." Show me, though, where it is written: "Thou shalt not partaketh of good clean fun." No, please don't! Some of us never are too pre-occupied or busy to stop to promote and enjoy an impromptu window of opportunity for gamesmanship. My current "shuffle up and deal" family--in my dreams--consists of Russell Crowe, Hugh Jackman, Al Pacino, and Javier Bardem. Hey, kids, we've got a foursome! I'll set up the Bridge table, provide the score pads and tallies, prepare refreshments and happily kibitz!
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
Admittedly, personal discussions which focus upon politics, religion, finances, in-laws, the questionable necessity for either camouflaged Rambo-type hunting or Betty Crocker-ish canning and preserving, "Which arrived first, the chicken or the egg?" or "Is it acceptable to wear white after labor day?" all qualify as verboten. Where does that leave us, then, in the time-honored pursuit of short and snappy fun and merriment among casual acquaintances?
Why, the "devil's in--the details" of... 52 (or more) plasti-coated BICYCLE CARDS! "Luck, be a lady!" A return to the gaming tables. Warning: "Ya gotta know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em!"
My parents, hailing from Southern Baptist heaven deep within the heart of Dixie-land, pulled their blinds when newly married! In order to play pinochle, gin rummy, or euchre (for which the "joker" got himself invented), they became surreptitious, deceitful seekers of...FUN. Who knew when my devout schoolmarm grandma might have dropped by, reminding the couple to attend church services, only to discover their deviant behavior? The newly-weds became foxy, recognizing the familiar sound of her orthopedic shoes ascending their tiny front steps. Edna and Roy made me who I am today.
Once my mother became a..."mother", her own roguish wickedness continued. During the fabulous post-war late '40s and Eisenhower-led early '50s, my sister Sarah attended West Ward grammar school at a time encompassing that era in which CANASTA became roaringly popular within the United States. Melding, wild cards--deuces and jokers, magical sought-after RED threes ("treys"), "freezing" the stack or gleefully grabbing it up, "going out" on an opponent sitting across the kitchen table and caught holding "close to the vest" a fistful of cards suddenly representing negative points--A KALEIDOSCOPE OF A GAME! The Spanish word "Canasta" appropriately translates into "basket"! Well, my mama would meet little "Sass" at the front door--after school--hang up her child's tiny coat and then...challenge her to a 90 minute round of the enticing new game. Sarah grew up to become the family mathematician!
Our family, never wealthy yet always frugal, creatively sought out fun and relished being at home more than anywhere else in the world. Seldom vacationed...in fact, never. Frequented "dollar days" downtown. Drove old cars. We sisters wore hand-me-downs or dresses/sweaters courtesy of our seamstress/knitter mom--almost exclusively. If we bought material possessions, they stayed in the family for generations. My clothes and toys enjoyed second lives with my darling nieces. Hmmmm. Particularly, the toys I still wish I had! ARGHHHHH!
However, well-worn decks of kings, queens, jacks, aces--those "ratty-packs"--never left the premises. Spread across table-tops! Scattered over tiled/hard-wood/carpeted floors! Stashed in bureau drawers! Four suits of spades, hearts, diamonds, and clubs always at the ready. Their configurations into various games held such promise.
Fond memories of Blue Bell foremen conducting their Christmas celebrations (a.k.a. "office parties") in our dining room, counting their poker chips and pocketing winnings of small change (while Mrs. D. served fancy ham salad sandwiches as well as that other kind of "chips" and a few cocktails) are interrupted for a second as I recollect that disapproving protesters occasionally dropped by and exited prior to the decadence that would follow. (Always gotta be a party pooper or two.) Poker boasts "zero-sum-game" status which factors in Keynesian Laws of Economics, after all. Looking on the bright, wholesome side, those guys enjoyed a "busman's holiday" maybe? Time and a half? Ah, well, more frolicking punctuated my "coming of age" years when visiting engineers from Greensboro, Chicago, or Waterbury spent evenings with us playing "Thirty-One", betting pennies and following the rules by "knocking" on the kitchen table, warning of "one more round--then game's over--highest score wins the pot"! A rather frenetic cut-throat contest where we kids were included! Those days of "Mad Men"--wonderful!
Thoughts turn to the pursuit of Bridge--in all of its forms whether duplicate or contract or rubber--where folks are forced to "connect" albeit competitively yet with fellowship intact. Many "dummies" (authentic Bridge term) and much "trumping" and "finessing" puckishly continue to haunt this house. VIsitors included Dr. Minear and Helen Markley, Dr. John, Kleespies, Smiths, McNagnys, and sundry progressive Tri-Kappa-Luncheon/Bridge-Combo Fund-Raiser participants (but NEVER Lowell and D'maris Grant who qualified to compete in California-Style TOURNAMENT BRIDGE matches with the likes of Omar Sharif, the Egyptian movie star/gambler/card-playing genius). When a partner was "in absentia", I got to play cuz the adults "needed a fourth"! Mrs. Langohr and I both possessed the same edgy, risky bidding habits a bit beyond the reality of the situation. Remembrance of a famous quote from my Dad, "Margo, you're NUTS!", never failed to send her into gales of good-natured laughter.
My parents, the Bonnie and Clyde of the "According to Hoyle" set, did not cease their insidious influence with their children. Oh no! All grandchildren were ritualistically brought into the "family" as well. My son Roy, now a seasoned card shark, survived (and thrived upon) initiation at an early age via the now-forgotten classic "Kings on the Corner." Following clearance from the breakfast table of left-over corn-bread, eggs, and grits--also cutlery, plates, water glasses, and cloth napkins--the decks were "cut" and hands were dealt! Vigorous card wars ensued. What happens at grandma's kitchen table stays at grandma's kitchen table...another helping of Southern-fried "omerta" please! Incidentally, Roy now owns a Phi Beta Kappa key and considers himself "home-schooled" for all intents and purposes?
Professor "Music Man" Harold Hill, sang, "We've got trouble, my friends...trouble right here in River City." Show me, though, where it is written: "Thou shalt not partaketh of good clean fun." No, please don't! Some of us never are too pre-occupied or busy to stop to promote and enjoy an impromptu window of opportunity for gamesmanship. My current "shuffle up and deal" family--in my dreams--consists of Russell Crowe, Hugh Jackman, Al Pacino, and Javier Bardem. Hey, kids, we've got a foursome! I'll set up the Bridge table, provide the score pads and tallies, prepare refreshments and happily kibitz!
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
October 15, 2011
Excerpt from Secrets of an Old Typewriter: "Come back to the corner of Van Buren & Main, Jimmy Dean! Jimmy Dean!"
Sometime during the summers of 1955 or '56, my big sister Sarah and I engaged in our happy walk of a couple of blocks to attend a block-buster which our mother recommended. Edna, an avid reader, boasted often, "Hmmmm, this movie...not nearly as good as the book," and the transplanted southerner usually wasn't "just whistlin' Dixie "!
However, George Stevens' adaptation of Edna Ferber's sprawling, atmospheric novel, chronicling that mighty "country" of Texas, decidedly approached a perfect blend of magnificent story delivered with superlative filmic skill. Giant—Technicolored, panoramic, epic and positively "cine-magical"—boomed onto the screen with a roar and a wallop. Elizabeth Taylor as Leslie Benedict rivaled Vivien Leigh's Scarlett O'Hara of Gone with the Wind fame. Rock Hudson swaggered and suffered as Bick Benedict. No Tara Plantation; instead, Reata Ranch! Both of these beautiful people stood possibly 10 feet tall, projected upon that screen one newly air-conditioned day. Yes, the Columbia Theater only recently had installed a curious system, which encouraged a noticeable bump in attendance—new-fangled enhancement for your viewing pleasure and comfort. Myriad fountains of cool, cool water shot skyward from the roof as we approached the building. Such an exciting afternoon for us all, almost as fine as attending the Clyde Theater or the Embassy or Rialto, all fronted by elaborate marquees, in near-by Ft. Wayne. Our daddies would have had to transport us for half an hour and a distance of some 20 miles away for those family-type experiences. We were big kids embarking upon a local adventure,
an event in our own neighborhood—three hours, split by an intermission, which we would remember for years thereafter.
Thus, all by our lonesome, little independent selves, Sarah and I hoofed it down Line Street, navigating a quick left onto West Jefferson, looking both ways as we crossed red-bricked Chauncey, finally arriving at busy, traffic-laden Main Street, the prettiest residential, tree-lined roadway in town, ranked immediately after our own North Line. We sensed the sprinkles of the shooting sprays of air-borne, then cascading, roof water lightly splashing onto our up-turned faces as we rounded the corner to enter the front lobby or "foyer". Coin purses in hand, we shelled out a whopping total of 50 cents' worth of change into the waiting, open palm of Mr. Hancock whose blondish, movie-starrish head poked through an arched, interior, ticket window; next, we scooted toward the popcorn vendor kid and watched him funnel scoops of aromatic delicacy into paper sacks. Luckily, we carried enough jingling coins for Milk Duds, Mallo Cups, or M & M's as well, confections to be found exclusively at this dream-like location in Columbia City we believed. We sisters didn't get out much though. The muffled sounds of the "previews" (followed by a Looney Tunes cartoon) commenced—so down the aisle we rushed to participate in one of the most thrilling cinematic experiences I can recall. Mitch Miller's "The Yellow Rose of Texas" and the incomparable Dimitri Tiomkin's soundtrack would reverberate inside my heart for the rest of my life.
Still lamenting to this very moment that I knew not what magic I witnessed through my 9 year old "wide" eyes that lazy Sunday afternoon. Legendary, iconic 24-year-old James Dean, native of the Hoosier town of Fairmount, which is now only an hour's drive from Columbia City, portrayed Jett Rink, the young scalawag who spends half the film's duration digging the toe of his cowboy boot into the Texan clay soil until the film's remaining half where he reigns as the wealthiest oil baron in the Lone Star State. Quite a character study, as young Dean convincingly ages into his fifties. Not until 1957, when my graduating sister and her high school friends allowed me to tag along and endure their weeping and sobbing through-out the running-time of director Robert Altman's The James Dean Story, did I begin to register even a glimmer of the star-power of this mythical creature. I thought those much older "girls" were silly, and I ventured back and forth between the treasure-filled lobby which over-flowed with mouth-watering treats to the cushy, velvety theater seat where I was supposed to sit still under the watchful tutelage of my flock of "baby" sitters. I hadn't a clue how important a classic Altman's documentary might be one day, as we witnessed the re-enactment of the fatal, California crash involving the young star's Porsche 550 Spyder, dubbed "Little Bastard". Dean's visiting aunt and uncle, who had raised him from the age of nine, were in the midst of returning to Indiana, having that same fate-filled day exchanged good-byes with their movie-star nephew. State troopers tracked the couple motoring toward home in their family automobile which Dean had driven to his Fairmount High School prom a few years before, stopped them and delivered the tragic news. Jimmy's funeral service, conducted just down the road in a small chapel next door to the farmhouse where he grew up, brought monumental crowds of fans and VIPs to Hoosierland.
I write that the Duncan sisters' excursion to our community's movie house occurred in 1955 or 1956 as small towns often featured Hollywood films a bit after the fact. If, indeed, our summer adventure occurred in 1955, we unknowingly participated in an eerily noteworthy slice of cinematic history. Giant, Rebel Without a Cause, and Dean's best film according to most sources—East of Eden; incredibly all three of his movies were released or distributed within that same year, 1955, in which he died. This young sensation's magnetic pull on the public, international in scope, continues to the present. We re-watch Giant and particularly John Steinbeck's East of Eden directed by Elia Kazan, several times per year—slip those DVDS into place and ease into our recliners, eyes and ears intent upon the television set which is positioned in the same corner of the living room where our first 1953 Zenith model nestled. "Cal", Dean's East of Eden character, uncannily close to his actual persona, never fails to inspire tears. His performance jumps off the screen, and this "boy next door" I have, as an old lady, finally begun to appreciate and love. James Dean stirs my Hoosier pride and always will.
Post Script to The James Dean Story: Whenever we youngsters were allowed to take in an "after-dark" movie, at which time we traveled in giddy groups of 5 or more in this rugged city, most of us C.C. kids would stoop down to attempt to pluck up shiny particles which sparkled like diamond chips embedded within the new state-of-the-art cement concrete, freshly applied to the side-walk area surrounding the movie-house. Our town's fluorescent lighting issuing from evenly positioned lampposts created this visual mirage. Post-movie, we lingered a little while at Karl & Clara Miller's lengthy, narrow, tiny sandwich nook abutted to the theater building so that we might prolong the evening prior to trekking back home similarly to Jem and Scout after their Halloween pageant in To Kill a Mockingbird. "Those were the days, my friends; we thought they'd never end" and haven't for many of us!
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
However, George Stevens' adaptation of Edna Ferber's sprawling, atmospheric novel, chronicling that mighty "country" of Texas, decidedly approached a perfect blend of magnificent story delivered with superlative filmic skill. Giant—Technicolored, panoramic, epic and positively "cine-magical"—boomed onto the screen with a roar and a wallop. Elizabeth Taylor as Leslie Benedict rivaled Vivien Leigh's Scarlett O'Hara of Gone with the Wind fame. Rock Hudson swaggered and suffered as Bick Benedict. No Tara Plantation; instead, Reata Ranch! Both of these beautiful people stood possibly 10 feet tall, projected upon that screen one newly air-conditioned day. Yes, the Columbia Theater only recently had installed a curious system, which encouraged a noticeable bump in attendance—new-fangled enhancement for your viewing pleasure and comfort. Myriad fountains of cool, cool water shot skyward from the roof as we approached the building. Such an exciting afternoon for us all, almost as fine as attending the Clyde Theater or the Embassy or Rialto, all fronted by elaborate marquees, in near-by Ft. Wayne. Our daddies would have had to transport us for half an hour and a distance of some 20 miles away for those family-type experiences. We were big kids embarking upon a local adventure,
an event in our own neighborhood—three hours, split by an intermission, which we would remember for years thereafter.
Thus, all by our lonesome, little independent selves, Sarah and I hoofed it down Line Street, navigating a quick left onto West Jefferson, looking both ways as we crossed red-bricked Chauncey, finally arriving at busy, traffic-laden Main Street, the prettiest residential, tree-lined roadway in town, ranked immediately after our own North Line. We sensed the sprinkles of the shooting sprays of air-borne, then cascading, roof water lightly splashing onto our up-turned faces as we rounded the corner to enter the front lobby or "foyer". Coin purses in hand, we shelled out a whopping total of 50 cents' worth of change into the waiting, open palm of Mr. Hancock whose blondish, movie-starrish head poked through an arched, interior, ticket window; next, we scooted toward the popcorn vendor kid and watched him funnel scoops of aromatic delicacy into paper sacks. Luckily, we carried enough jingling coins for Milk Duds, Mallo Cups, or M & M's as well, confections to be found exclusively at this dream-like location in Columbia City we believed. We sisters didn't get out much though. The muffled sounds of the "previews" (followed by a Looney Tunes cartoon) commenced—so down the aisle we rushed to participate in one of the most thrilling cinematic experiences I can recall. Mitch Miller's "The Yellow Rose of Texas" and the incomparable Dimitri Tiomkin's soundtrack would reverberate inside my heart for the rest of my life.
Still lamenting to this very moment that I knew not what magic I witnessed through my 9 year old "wide" eyes that lazy Sunday afternoon. Legendary, iconic 24-year-old James Dean, native of the Hoosier town of Fairmount, which is now only an hour's drive from Columbia City, portrayed Jett Rink, the young scalawag who spends half the film's duration digging the toe of his cowboy boot into the Texan clay soil until the film's remaining half where he reigns as the wealthiest oil baron in the Lone Star State. Quite a character study, as young Dean convincingly ages into his fifties. Not until 1957, when my graduating sister and her high school friends allowed me to tag along and endure their weeping and sobbing through-out the running-time of director Robert Altman's The James Dean Story, did I begin to register even a glimmer of the star-power of this mythical creature. I thought those much older "girls" were silly, and I ventured back and forth between the treasure-filled lobby which over-flowed with mouth-watering treats to the cushy, velvety theater seat where I was supposed to sit still under the watchful tutelage of my flock of "baby" sitters. I hadn't a clue how important a classic Altman's documentary might be one day, as we witnessed the re-enactment of the fatal, California crash involving the young star's Porsche 550 Spyder, dubbed "Little Bastard". Dean's visiting aunt and uncle, who had raised him from the age of nine, were in the midst of returning to Indiana, having that same fate-filled day exchanged good-byes with their movie-star nephew. State troopers tracked the couple motoring toward home in their family automobile which Dean had driven to his Fairmount High School prom a few years before, stopped them and delivered the tragic news. Jimmy's funeral service, conducted just down the road in a small chapel next door to the farmhouse where he grew up, brought monumental crowds of fans and VIPs to Hoosierland.
I write that the Duncan sisters' excursion to our community's movie house occurred in 1955 or 1956 as small towns often featured Hollywood films a bit after the fact. If, indeed, our summer adventure occurred in 1955, we unknowingly participated in an eerily noteworthy slice of cinematic history. Giant, Rebel Without a Cause, and Dean's best film according to most sources—East of Eden; incredibly all three of his movies were released or distributed within that same year, 1955, in which he died. This young sensation's magnetic pull on the public, international in scope, continues to the present. We re-watch Giant and particularly John Steinbeck's East of Eden directed by Elia Kazan, several times per year—slip those DVDS into place and ease into our recliners, eyes and ears intent upon the television set which is positioned in the same corner of the living room where our first 1953 Zenith model nestled. "Cal", Dean's East of Eden character, uncannily close to his actual persona, never fails to inspire tears. His performance jumps off the screen, and this "boy next door" I have, as an old lady, finally begun to appreciate and love. James Dean stirs my Hoosier pride and always will.
Post Script to The James Dean Story: Whenever we youngsters were allowed to take in an "after-dark" movie, at which time we traveled in giddy groups of 5 or more in this rugged city, most of us C.C. kids would stoop down to attempt to pluck up shiny particles which sparkled like diamond chips embedded within the new state-of-the-art cement concrete, freshly applied to the side-walk area surrounding the movie-house. Our town's fluorescent lighting issuing from evenly positioned lampposts created this visual mirage. Post-movie, we lingered a little while at Karl & Clara Miller's lengthy, narrow, tiny sandwich nook abutted to the theater building so that we might prolong the evening prior to trekking back home similarly to Jem and Scout after their Halloween pageant in To Kill a Mockingbird. "Those were the days, my friends; we thought they'd never end" and haven't for many of us!
____________________
Read about movies and nostalgia, animal issues and sociopolitical concerns all discussed in my book Secrets of an Old Typewriter - print and ebook versions available. Also available in both formats at Amazon.com
Meet other like-minded souls at my facebook fan page
Visit my author website at www.susieduncansexton.com
Join a great group of animal advocates Squawk Back: Helping animals when others can't ... Or won't
