Jackson Coppley's Blog, page 15

Women in Cities - Chevy Chase

Have you ever experienced a moment of appreciation from afar?I waited to cross Wisconsin Avenue at what I consider the Rodeo Drive of Chevy Chase. Just had my Starbucks flat white, walked out to cross the street, and stopped to let the light change. The traffic was clear, and a woman passed by me crossing the street, not waiting. She cut a fine figure with a sweater top over a white blouse. The sweater and the athletic pants she wore accented her curves. It was just a moment of appreciation of a woman, a split second.Then I realized it was my wife.I hadn’t expected her. I’d forgotten she had an appointment in the building behind me. She didn’t notice me standing there. So, for that moment, we were strangers. It’s as though I’d seen her for the first time.The moment stayed with me.How accustomed we get to someone we see every day. We lose the freshness of observation, and that may make us miss things. So, this was a special moment for me, to see one I love for the first time.

The Largest Ship in the World

I enjoy outlandish.For years, I attended business events in Las Vegas. Sin city offers plenty of conference space for large gatherings and hotel rooms to house everyone. In afterhours, entertainment lights up. But most of all, I enjoyed the wink-and-a-nod towards this being reality. It is a Disney reality, built as a 360 degree, all-encompassing escape.So, when a writer’s conference would be held aboard the largest cruise ship in the world*, I was all in. I’ve cruised before, but not on anything like the Oasis of the Sea. Imagine a portion of the Las Vegas Strip with a sixteen-story hotel and six-thousand guests sliced off and floated into the Caribbean. Royal Caribbean took the traditional cruise ship design with balcony cabins on the outside and no-view cabins in the middle and made a large cleft down the middle. Now most of those no-view cabins had a balcony overlooking the interior. And what an interior!In the rear, you have the Boardwalk, open to the sky, with a Johnny Rockets serving hamburgers and Baskin Robins dishing out ice cream along with other places serving the hot dogs and fries you expect along the beach (although this is more an infinite beach). It even has a full size carousel for the kids.Walk further to the middle of the ship and you enter Central Park with lush plants and trees growing. The park is built on the roof of the promenade below where shops and restaurants line the way.For entertainment, you have shows in the Opal Theatre. At a capacity of 1,380 patrons, it is larger than the Eisenhower Theatre at the Kennedy Center. At the end of the Boardwalk, under the open sky, there is the Aqua Theatre with a pool where the depth is varied during the show. Think Sea World on the Sea without animal acts, but rather high divers and synchronized swimmers.What would an entertainment venue be without an ice rink? Located amidships, the rink hosts ice shows and when no show is on, passengers can skate.“Mom, where’s my ice skates?”“Right by the sun screen and bathing suits, dear.”Scattered around the ship are pubs, bars, and a jazz club, all of which offer entertainment. There’s a casino. Yeah, it’s Las Vegas, but with occasional movement beneath your feet. Oh, that’s right. I forgot. We’re in the ocean.___________________*The Oasis of the Sea was the largest cruise ship in the world when it was launched in 2009, but Royal Caribbean launched three additional ships since then of similar size and even larger ones are in the works.

The Electric Train

When I was a little kid, I wanted to be a railroad engineer. No thrill was greater than Dad having to stop the car to let a train pass. I got out and counted the cars while the behemoth machine passed by. I got hooked on seeing the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade just to watch the commercials. Most were for Lionel electric trains. So, it was natural that my biggest Christmas present ever was an electric train, a Lionel of course.It was a simple layout, a figure eight with a diesel engine and three passenger cars. I ran it forward and backwards for hours. I guess watching shiny objects go round and round for hours appeals to a boy. Explains NASCAR racing.But I could not leave it at that. I saved my allowance for over a year for the day I could walk into a toyshop and buy my dream layout. I had switches for a sideline running by a train station and even a rocket launcher (my boyhood paralleled the space race). My mother allowed me to take over a small bedroom upstairs and my older brother helped me with a piece of plywood to make a decent landscape. He even fashioned a paper mache mountain and tunnel.I learned something about electricity by wiring the whole thing. First, using too much wire before understanding serial wiring. This was all while I was in the fifth grade. By the time I had a science project to do in the eighth grade, I’d discovered that a tape recorder generated a strong enough signal to turn a small switch off and on. The result was my recording the pulses generated to move a train forward and backward and then replaying the sequence as teachers and principal marveled at the programed train. A scientist was born.Some men stay boys for their entire lives and create fantastic layouts meticulously detailing real-world scenes although the real world less and less features trains. The train now lives more as a throwback legend. Thomas the Train, The Polar Express, all for children who have few actual instances of a locomotive for reference. The train now makes guest appearances doing circles around Christmas trees.Sure, there are plenty of things that move with motors for the child to enjoy: Cars and dune buggies with remote controls and the latest fascination, the drone. Yet, few have the persistent effect that the electric train had for me as the best Christmas gift ever.

The Fruitcake

Before it became the cliché of presents, the butt of seasonal jokes, the regifting option of choice, it was a treat of my boyhood: The fruitcake.My father was a supervisor in a weaving mill who received gifts from salesmen as Christmas approached. Most were trinkets like key chains with company logos, maybe a paperweight (with a company logo). But the one we could always count on was a fruitcake. My mom was a great cook and baker, homemade biscuits every day and fried fruit pies as a special treat. But fruitcake was made in a factory, not at home, requiring the mysterious processing of dried, candied fruit which appeared to have no purpose other than to compose the principle ingredient in a sticky, dense, dark cake.The typical fruitcake was a foot-long cuboid bearing the brand name Claxton. The fruit and nuts squeezed against the clear cellophane wrapping as though they would pop through, a concoction of bits of fruit dyed unnatural colors with the cake a mere mortar to hold them together. Of course, we weren’t allowed to tear into the cake until later, after a proper meal. So, the clear vestige remained above the breadbox teasing my brothers and me.I was a hardy eater. So, cleaning my plate before the treat was no issue, and at last, the breaking of the seal was done. A one-inch slice was a dense delectable with the syrupiness of the candied fruit accented by the tart cake.Analysis of food is, sometimes a mistake. Sure, we’ve improved nutritional values, become more aware of what’s good and bad, although those judgments have ebbed and flowed throughout my life. Even so, I doubt fruitcake will find it’s way into the mainstream unless some trendy boutique reinvents it as such establishments have done to the cupcake. I’m waiting.As a guilty pleasure, the boy in me waits for Dad to bring home the fruitcake.

Dan Brown - Origin

Dan Brown has a formula, and we can’t get enough of it:Dramatic event occursSinister forces are at workHero Robert Langdon must flee a crime scene as a suspect, taking a woman with him (always a different woman, always a close relationship never consummated)Langdon and woman race to different locales following cluesAll transpires in no more than forty-eight hoursConflict is resolved, and bad guys banishedEpilogue when additional ah-ha moments are disclosedOver this framework, Brown places his latest tome, Origin. Fans of Lisa in my Leaving Lisa will find a kindred spirit in the central character of Origin, an artificial intelligence named Winston. Just as Lisa guided Jason through the story of Leaving Lisa, Winston guides Langdon through this mystery.The setting for Origin is Spain, beginning in Bilbao at the Guggenheim Museum and ending in Barcelona in two creations of the architect Antoni Gaudí, the apartment building Casa Mila and the magnificent cathedral Sacrada Familia. These latter settings in Barcelona are of particular interest to me since I’ve been through each of them and Brown does a fine job of describing each.The essence of the story: Brown’s one-time student, Edmond Kirsch, has a tech fortune and a superior intellect which allows him to make a research ‘discovery’ that answers ‘where did we come from’ and ‘where are we going?’ He previews his discovery to three prominent clerics from the Christian, Jewish, and Muslim faiths. Since his discovery disproves God as the creator, the reader is led to suspect foul play to silence Kirsch before he reveals his discovery to the world.Brown uses Catholic lore to make obscure sects more sinister than they are in the real world. Yet, Brown does a fair job in depicting the good and the evil of religion.  As I finished Origin, I realized that Brown’s exploration of religious philosophy while telling this adventure story, made the book more thought-provoking than I would expect from a Dan Brown book.   I began reading Origin and another recent release by a popular author at the same time, but Origin soon won me over. It was a page-turner; while the other book had to wait. It is what Brown does best and, if you are a fan, you’ll not be disappointed.

The Handkerchief

Given as a gift when nothing else comes to mind, bearing an initial to make it more thoughtful. Stuck in a breast pocket to provide a role to that otherwise useless space on a suit jacket or sport coat. A fashion item out of circulation is the handkerchief.Originally used to cover the head, the kerchief literally means ‘cover-head’ in old French. In the middle ages, the English began carrying one for the most common function we think of today, catching a sneeze. To distinguish for a regular kerchief, the word ‘hand’ was added. The kerchief remained in use by eastern Europe women and by cowboys in the movies that always had one around their neck should a dust storm hit or they took a notion to rob a bank.My dad carried a white handkerchief in his left rear pants pocket, I little sticking out. I would have to turn to a movie from the thirties or an image of Frank Sinatra in a tux to see a man wearing one in his coat pocket. Funny how the image of such an innocent piece of white fabric remains.I prefer the romantic notion that a gentleman carries one for the use of his lady, to offer when something touches her emotions and a tear might ensue.I still keep a fresh handkerchief in my pocket, although when I ran out of decent ones and tried to find a pack of them, the market spoke clearly that it’s a clothing accessory whose fashion evolution has gone the way of the dodo bird and the ascot, is the lowly handkerchief.So, when time comes to give a gift, remember the handkerchief. To elevate the value, insert a card bearing its proud history and leave the obvious use of nasal leakage alone. Worn in pride by dashing leading men, a retro style of the rat pack, a thoughtful offering to your lady.Just thinking about it makes a tear come to my eye. Where’s that handkerchief?

National Museum of African America History and Culture

Museums often are classically styled boxes with little variation whether they house art or animals. Then there are museums whose architecture reflects the mood of the content. A good example of architecture reflecting content is DC’s Holocaust Museum whose cold industrial steel beams provide a chilling setting for what is to come. Another is the new National Museum of African American History and Culture. Slavery starts belowground, deep in the earth, and the story advances incrementally as the visitor ascends from one floor to the next. As we approach ground level and the light of day, the atmosphere changes from one of despondency, prejudice and segregation to celebration of the many contributions made by African Americans.The large open space of the ticket area creates a neutral buffer between the underground and the floors above. The self-guided tour begins in a large elevator with glass walls where you see the date 2008 painted on the wall of the shaft. This elevator is your time machine as the doors close and you descend with the years painted on the shaft rolling back in time until you reach three levels down and the year 1400.There you learn about slavery across continents. Slavery existed everywhere. The distinction of the institution in the Americas was that it was for life, your descendants, and determined by race. You see the harsh realities of the slave trade, through colonial times, the revolutionary and civil wars and segregation. Our 21st Century discourse is more candid about the past than it has ever been. The beginning of the Declaration of Independence is boldly displayed on a two-story wall with “All men are created equal” and a statue of the author of those words, Thomas Jefferson, standing nobly before it. However, there are 609 bricks stacked behind Jefferson with the names of each of his slaves. His affair with Sally Hemings is no longer a suspicion here. A placard states simply that Hemings bore seven children to Jefferson. Here, you might contemplate the dichotomy of ideals and actions that have always been a part of this country.Rising level-by-level and century-by-century, you pass under a biplane flown by the Tuskegee Airmen on to pieces of the Greensboro lunch counter where many consider the civil rights movement started. At last you return to ground level and stand before the Oprah Winfrey Theater, the black woman billionaire’s success a hopeful symbol for the future.The floors above celebrate contributions by African Americans, among other things, in fighting our wars, creating our music, staring in our TV and movies, creating our art, and excelling in our sports. It would be hard to imagine our country without these citizens and the gaping cultural void they would leave.The museum has been wildly popular. I went on their web site July 5 to secure tickets for 2 PM on October 25. However, a guard told me when we arrived that it was a light day and we likely could get a ticket there for immediate entry. Being a guy who likes to play it safe, I’m glad I had the tickets, but you may try your luck anytime.The important thing is that you go. It is an excellent portrayal of an important segment of our citizenry, who can readily claim that they built this country.

Venice

“Does anyone live here?” It’s a common refrain from tourists. More like a Disney park with well-crafted antiquities than a real city, one sees the similarities. No vehicles save for boats passing through canals, miles of paved streets lined with gift shops and cafés. Add the thousands of tourists who flock here and you could be in Epcot.Except:The buildings are very much real and not facades. The history is rich, once the connecting point for trade with the East before the development of the New World focused on the West. A Republic reigned by an elected council and doge. The Jewish quarter for which the name ghetto was coined and the story for Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. It was the home of Titian, Casanova, and Palladio (whose architectural achievements rose in other parts of the Veneto, but not his home town).  In the early twentieth century, it was a mecca for artists and collectors like Peggy Guggenheim. It is the home of Murano, the epitome of hand-crafted glass.Venice hides the new from view. The Fondaco dei Tedeschi, displays along the Grand Canal a facade built in 1508. Inside is a modern shopping arcade with a breathtaking atrium reaching several stories and a rooftop observation area. Even our own apartment hid behind antiquity. You enter a building, hundreds of years old, through an iron gate, down a path to the door for the lobby. Inside, the lobby glows white with a modern lift illuminated in soft blue edges like a movie set for a space film.  We took that lift to our second-floor apartment, what we in the US consider the third floor, but in most of Europe, the ground floor is level zero.The apartments in this building are owned by MyPlace, an American name applied to an Italian company who owns short-term rental apartments in Italy. The company took over, either by ownership or lease, several buildings in Venice and other major cities, then renovated the interiors top to bottom as short-term facilities. MyPlace finished this apartment just a few months before we checked in.The apartment was roomy, with a kitchen area done in white Ikea style with a small dining area, couch and TV. The bedroom included a whirlpool bath set in a teak platform, and the bath offered plenty of space including a large shower. Traditional accommodations here contain curved tubs, with a shower wand and plastic curtain to contain the spray. It’s nice to have a flat, tiled shower with a glass door.The most pleasing feature remaining from the old days were the tall glass doors opening onto the Campo Santa Margherita. Were there any question as to whether people live here, it was answered by late afternoon when the campo flooded with children fresh from school their energetic voices filtering through open windows. We felt at home here. Although tourist filtered into this area, the restaurants surrounding the campo and tucked away on small side streets, belonged to the locals.With that said, even though you might find a restaurant frequented by the populace and raved about as authentic, you may be disappointed. To be sure, there is a long list of Michelin-rated establishments in Venice. But I’ve gotten great food without need for the guide in other parts of the Veneto. Our best meal, and at a low price, was from a middle eastern restaurant on our own Campo.Few sights are burned indelibly into my memory. Among them are the Grand Canyon, a solar eclipse, and passing by Piazza San Marco through early morning mist aboard a ship. Someone said that entering Venice any other way is like entering a cathedral through a side door. By ship was once the way for all to come into the city and the Piazza with the Doge Palace to one side is the iconic view offered. Today, we use the side door. Trains and cars cross a causeway from the northwest, the opposite side of Venice from San Marco, where they stop upon touching the city, entry forbidden.Ironically, it is the most modern of transportation, the jet plane, offering the most traditional approach. From Marco Polo Airport, we walked to a pier and took a water taxi across the Launa Veneta, past Murano Island, and into the canal system of Venice. Passing under the lavish Rialto Bridge on the Grand Canal, the taxi pulled up to a dock and let us off at a vaporetto dock near our apartment. Setting foot on pavement, our time machine had taken us from the jet age to the middle ages. Although denizens of that time did not wheel Samsonite luggage across canal bridges.Venice was once much larger in population. 150,000 people lived here in the middle 16th century. More as late as the 1930’s. But since World War II, the precipitous decline left little more than 50,000 there today with others commuting in by train to help with the flood of tourist overwhelming that number each day.Visitors a few years ago complained of the water’s smell. None was detected over the several times I’ve been here and when I looked closely, the water even seemed clear. The city may have a herculean task in standing against the rising sea levels, but they have made the canals cleaner.In Venice, you tour the Doge Palace (Palazzo Ducale) on Saint Marks Square (Piazza San Marco). We had done so before. So that was a ticket punched. But we returned to take the “secret tour.” This tour took us from the lowest cells in the prison, through the better appointed one of Casanova, and up into the attic where weapons were stored.We walked back to our apartment. Venice is not that large. Walking from one side to the other is like walking from one side of Manhattan to the other. With the exception that every avenue is a canal crossed by a bridge. We made a point to pass the Teatro La Fenice, the opera house where we had tickets to see Madama Butterfly that night. The theatre occupied an entire Venetian block, meaning there was water on all sides, making it difficult to find the front. I had to estimate which bridges to cross to get there.Since it was a special night of some elegance, we decided to take a water taxi to the theater. With canals leading right up to the venue, we would arrive in style. However, tides affect travel. After getting the taxi, we found the high tide prevented the operator from taking his sleek motorboat under some of the bridges. We ended up with a costly crossing of the Grand Canal. Were we in a gondola, we could have passed under those bridges. The old way has become the most dependable way. We took a private tour of Venice led by Elena, a tall young woman with green eyes, an exception to the stereotypical image Americans have of Italians. Yet the exception was everywhere. The Veneto boarders Austria and perhaps that alpine influence explained all the tall people we saw.Our walking tour ended with a water taxi ride to a glass factory on Murano. The factory floor was furnished with a row of comfortable chairs and couches like a combination of industry and living room. Although a dozen people could sit there, it was just us this time as we witnessed the making of a custom designed vase from beginning to end. In the showroom, I took a fancy to a $12,000 chandelier for our beach house, but sanity returned and we settled for photos.We walked to the historically Jewish part of town, the original Ghetto, so named by the Italians as ‘geto,’ which means foundry, the location of the quarter. The pronunciation and spelling we now know was the Yiddish treatment of the word.On a wall in a small piazza, hang iron relief works depicting scenes from the holocaust and opposite that on the other side of the compo was the Jewish museum where you were led to two different rooms serving as temples for many years.We left the ghetto and wandered the streets. Our mission was to find Venetian masks for a Halloween party. We wanted the theatre masks of comedy and tragedy. Although we saw such masks in several shops, we were after the best price. In a shop we almost passed by, the owner was at work plying his trade in creating new masks. Ellen chatted him up in her best Italian. Although the masks here were the best price we found, the owner took time to adjust the fit and ties for us.We couldn't leave Venice without taking in art museums. Two of the most important were near us, the Galleria dell’Accademia and the Peggy Guggenheim. The Galleria contained a vast collection of medieval and renaissance works and Peggy’s collection, modern abstract. They were polar ends of the art world. We learned that Peggy bought most of her collection when the Nazi’s threatened France and the artists were holding fire sales before they sought safer territory. What we saw was considered degenerate by the Third Reich, but masterpieces today by the art world.The terrace of the Peggy Guggenheim opens on the Grand Canal with the statue of a horse carrying a man with an erection saluting passing boats. Besides the erect equine statuary to which women point and share whispered comments with their friends, the terrace offered another interesting feature. It’s the same size and shape of the first floor of the palace on the opposite shore. The rumor goes that the owners intended to duplicate the other palace in mirror fashion, but the soil beneath was found to be too weak. Plans abandoned, Peggy found it to be a great buy and built a less weighty one-level house upon it which is now her museum.The paved streets of Venice branch into small capillaries from the main arteries favored by visitors. Interesting shops and cafés line those small areas. If you need to get from one main area to another, say from San Marco Piazza to l’Acadamia, wander until you find a main artery defined by the large flow of people. In other words, follow the crowd.Venice, despite the allusion to a theme park, remains a peaceful refuge. To live away from motor vehicles, the tower of cranes erecting new structures, and emerging into the quiet of life hundreds of years ago, is delightful. Water is a peaceful resource to which humans seek proximity and Venice is paved with water. Although the larger canals are thick with boat traffic, water remains the dominant force, the essence of the city, making it like no other.

Beach Life - Award Winning Story

I’m pleased to announce my short story The Bomber Jacket won a top award in the 2017 Beach Reads contest. Out of over one-hundred entries, my story tied for third place and will be published along with a selection of other entries in the book Beach Life, now available in Browseabout Books in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, and on Amazon.Beach Life is the 5th book in the award-winning Rehoboth Beach Reads series of short story collections set in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. This anthology contains 25 stories in a variety of genres (historical fiction, romance, magical realism, memoir, mystery, humor) that make perfect beach reads but can be enjoyed any time of the year. Here's just some of what's in store in Beach Life: You’ll find a girl with dreams of making the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, a consignment store jacket with a history, a well-traveled hermit crab, a mermaid wedding, and a boardwalk mime. You'll meet a young con artist, a dolphin rescuer, a herd of Hemingway impersonators, a girl who's gone viral, and a woman who realizes she's a dead ringer for her husband's former flame. ContentsHole in One, Amanda Linehan The Mime’s Niece, Emily Zasada The Fog, Linda Chambers Too Many Hemingways, Joseph L. Crossen Not in My World, Kathleen Martens The Bomber Jacket, Jackson Coppley Ralphie to the Rescue, Carl Schiessl The Swimsuit Issue, Chris Jacobsen A Beautifully Disturbing Day at the Beach, John Edmonds Rearrangements, Marie Lathers Some Girls, Michael Sprouse The Nereid’s Wedding, Elizabeth Michaelson Monaghan Life Starts on Tiptoes, Lonn Braender Secrets , Amber Tamosaitis The Boy on the Bike, Susan Miller The Stranger and the Horseshoe, Alex Hannah The Bench, Jenny Scott We Found Buried Pirate Treasure!, Douglas Harrell The Sweet Truth, Jeanie P. Blair A Day in the Life, David Strauss And the Sea Hath Spoken, Darryl Forrest Lefty and the Empty Bucket of Fries, Tony Houck Bottleneck at Hole 14, Renay Regardie The Shot Shared Round the World, Joy Givens The Understudy, Terri Kiral

O, Africa! - A Review

O, Africa! is a fine read for those who enjoy a light story propelled by an author’s adept word play. It compare’s well with one of my favorites, Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Cavalier and Clay. Both are historical fiction, perhaps playing it loose with the history, but tight on the clever wordsmithing.The story is about making movies in the late ‘20s at the twilight of the silent era. The Grand brothers, Izzy the introspective cameraman, and Micah, the director and rogue, are making a comedy at Coney Island that landed a cameo from non other than Babe Ruth. While there, their studio head Marblestone lets the brothers know the studio is near financial ruin. His solution? Get the boys to deepest darkest Africa to shoot a sampler of natives, animals, and general background to sell to other studios to add authenticity to their movies unattainable in back lots.As the boys buy into the idea, Micah is visited by Harlem mobsters to whom he owes sizable gambling debts. Just so happens one of these hoods wrote a screenplay called O Africa. The movie idea is a noble attempt to portray the struggle of the black man from Africa slavery to present America. Make this movie in Africa, give the hoods the proceeds from the final product, and the debt is forgiven. That some hoods wrote such a script and make this offer begins the suspension of disbelief you must have for this story. It borders on the surreal as you progress.Andrew Lewis Conn wrote O, Africa! at a writer’s retreat. Some might say it shows. The metaphors make a stew of many ingredients, not to everyone’s taste. ‘Just how descriptive can I be?’ the author might think while reading the latest rendition to his writing colleagues. No matter. They all made me smile.