George Hodgman's Blog, page 14
January 10, 2015
A day that begins with four coffees, two cinnamon rolls, and several trips to th...
A day that begins with four coffees, two cinnamon rolls, and several trips to the refrigerator for Carmel Praline ice cream is likely to lead a person into risky emotional territory. If that doorbell rings it had better not be a Jehovah’s Witness.
January 7, 2015
From Bettyville:
"When I was a kid, before I went to sleep, before she turned o...
From Bettyville:
"When I was a kid, before I went to sleep, before she turned off the light, Betty reached for my book and closed it, took my glasses off, folded them, laid them on the table, and took my hand.
Then, closing our eyes, we said the “Now I Lay Me” prayer out loud, adding a list of blessings for those who needed them. Together, we named the names of all the people we knew who needed help, always beginning with Mammy, Granny, Aunt Bess, and Aunt Winnie. We turned it into a sort of game: Making our way through Madison, from one street to the next, we asked for help for those suffering in this place or that, for people who were poor or who had lost someone, or who had found themselves in trouble in some bad way. We travelled through town, saying name after name.
“Just think of all of us together, all over town, asking help for each other,” Betty said. Try to think of the people who have no one else to remember them.”
"When I was a kid, before I went to sleep, before she turned off the light, Betty reached for my book and closed it, took my glasses off, folded them, laid them on the table, and took my hand.
Then, closing our eyes, we said the “Now I Lay Me” prayer out loud, adding a list of blessings for those who needed them. Together, we named the names of all the people we knew who needed help, always beginning with Mammy, Granny, Aunt Bess, and Aunt Winnie. We turned it into a sort of game: Making our way through Madison, from one street to the next, we asked for help for those suffering in this place or that, for people who were poor or who had lost someone, or who had found themselves in trouble in some bad way. We travelled through town, saying name after name.
“Just think of all of us together, all over town, asking help for each other,” Betty said. Try to think of the people who have no one else to remember them.”
January 5, 2015
This morning, my mother, who is in her nineties, looked at me, put down her book...
This morning, my mother, who is in her nineties, looked at me, put down her book, and spoke: “Ava and Frank are in the feathers.”
“What?”
“When Ava goes to bed with a man she says they are ‘in the feathers.’”
“I haven’t heard that before.”
“I haven’t either.”
“Well, you’ve been around,” I say.
She gives me a look.
Ava is Ava Gardener. Frank is Frank Sinatra. My mother has been reading Ava Gardener: The Secret Conversations. “It’s the filthiest book I’ve ever read,” she says. “You ought to read it.”
“Who else did she nest with?”
“Everyone. Howard Hughes. MEN IN TAXI CABS. Some of them drivers. But she and Frank were the worst. All she does is talk about the size of his…apparatus.”
Last week, Betty was reading By Myself by Lauren Bacall. Lauren also dated Sinatra. So constant a presence has Frank become in our home that I expect to find him the shower, singing “Luck Be a Lady.”
On the table by the chair where I sit there is this huge tome I recently purchased, a biography of an English queen. The royal kind. I do not know why on earth I bought it. I seem to have ordered it during a moment of identity dislocation.
“What is that thing?” my mother asks.
“A book about Queen Victoria.”
“She must have lived a long time.... Ava is foul-mouthed, but she keeps the pages turning.”
“Victoria beheaded people and stuff.”
“Did she ever get in the feathers with Frank Sinatra,” my mother asks.
“What?”
“When Ava goes to bed with a man she says they are ‘in the feathers.’”
“I haven’t heard that before.”
“I haven’t either.”
“Well, you’ve been around,” I say.
She gives me a look.
Ava is Ava Gardener. Frank is Frank Sinatra. My mother has been reading Ava Gardener: The Secret Conversations. “It’s the filthiest book I’ve ever read,” she says. “You ought to read it.”
“Who else did she nest with?”
“Everyone. Howard Hughes. MEN IN TAXI CABS. Some of them drivers. But she and Frank were the worst. All she does is talk about the size of his…apparatus.”
Last week, Betty was reading By Myself by Lauren Bacall. Lauren also dated Sinatra. So constant a presence has Frank become in our home that I expect to find him the shower, singing “Luck Be a Lady.”
On the table by the chair where I sit there is this huge tome I recently purchased, a biography of an English queen. The royal kind. I do not know why on earth I bought it. I seem to have ordered it during a moment of identity dislocation.
“What is that thing?” my mother asks.
“A book about Queen Victoria.”
“She must have lived a long time.... Ava is foul-mouthed, but she keeps the pages turning.”
“Victoria beheaded people and stuff.”
“Did she ever get in the feathers with Frank Sinatra,” my mother asks.
January 1, 2015
Last night, a couple of us took our moms to A.J.'s in Macon for New Year's Eve s...
Last night, a couple of us took our moms to A.J.'s in Macon for New Year's Eve steaks. Passing through Madison, I remembered the days when there were stores in all the buildings and there were lots of people on the street. One summer morning, when I was seven or eight, my father--known as Big George--and I were walking from the lumberyard to the bank. He had a clip board and one of those green pouches that the bank used to give merchants to carry their cash. As we passed Dixon's Market, one of the bank tellers came out and was walking right in front of us. She was an ample curvaceous woman with what some might consider a rather magnificent derriere. So bountiful, in fact, was her posterior that on that morning the two sides of it appeared to be racing each other toward an undisclosed location. Things were pretty jiggly. My father, not one to miss such a sight, put on speed and, as we passed, slapped her rear end with his clip board. "George," she screamed out when she turned around and saw him. "Relax," he yelled back, "I was just trying to calm the damn thing down."
Happy New Year, Madison.
Happy New Year, Madison.
December 30, 2014
“Did you make me a hair appointment?” Betty asks me.
“I told them it was an em...
“Did you make me a hair appointment?” Betty asks me.
“I told them it was an emergency.”
“Last time I looked like something the cat drug in.”
“You’re going to drive those poor hair ladies crazy. You're a mean old woman, you’re not a bit good,” I tell her.
“Neither are you,” she says.
“I can’t believe they haven’t thrown you out of that damn bridge club.”
“I can’t believe you’re not in the penitentiary.”
“You’re my buddy.”
“Am I?” she asks.
“I wouldn’t want just another damned old sweet woman.”
“I told them it was an emergency.”
“Last time I looked like something the cat drug in.”
“You’re going to drive those poor hair ladies crazy. You're a mean old woman, you’re not a bit good,” I tell her.
“Neither are you,” she says.
“I can’t believe they haven’t thrown you out of that damn bridge club.”
“I can’t believe you’re not in the penitentiary.”
“You’re my buddy.”
“Am I?” she asks.
“I wouldn’t want just another damned old sweet woman.”
December 29, 2014
From Bettyville: "Do you not understand that he doesn't know what you are saying...
From Bettyville: "Do you not understand that he doesn't know what you are saying?" my cousin asks when she hears my endless conversations with my dog, Raj. "He's not human!" I say: "I know he's not human, but I think I may be a Labrador."
December 28, 2014
Betty: I like these cookies
George: Yes, they're very good.
Betty: Where did t...
Betty: I like these cookies
George: Yes, they're very good.
Betty: Where did they come from?
George: My friend, Rux.
Betty: What kind of a name is that?
George: I don't know. She lives in Vermont.
Betty: Well I"m not going there.
George: Well, I'm not going to force you.
Betty: How many times has she been married?
George: I don't know. Twice I think.
Betty: Well that sounds like a mess.
George: Yes, they're very good.
Betty: Where did they come from?
George: My friend, Rux.
Betty: What kind of a name is that?
George: I don't know. She lives in Vermont.
Betty: Well I"m not going there.
George: Well, I'm not going to force you.
Betty: How many times has she been married?
George: I don't know. Twice I think.
Betty: Well that sounds like a mess.
December 24, 2014
Happy days. Thanks for your friendship.
Happy days. Thanks for your friendship.
December 23, 2014
The great people at Viking have come up with a website devoted to Bettyville. ht...
The great people at Viking have come up with a website devoted to Bettyville. http://georgehodgman.com/ The following is a little excerpt from the author interview that appears there. Maybe you'll want to take a look. Here's a little excerpt from the book and a question that sort of sums the whole thing up. Thanks. Your support of this project has meant the world to me. Truly.
"My mother always drove fast, never stayed home. In the old days, we would speed across the plains in our blue Impala, radio blaring DJ Johnny Rabbit's optimistic, all-American voice on KXOK St Louis. She took me to the county line where I waited for the bus to kindergarten. My mother --“too damn high strung,” my father said--stayed in the bathroom fussing with her hair and smoking Kent cigarettes until the very last minute. “I look like something the cat drug in,” she told herself, frowning into the mirror.
When she finally came out, I’d be sitting on the hood of the car, my Batman lunch box already empty except for wads of foil and a few hastily scraped carrots.
“I’m a nervous wreck,” I’d cry out. I was an only child, raised almost exclusively around adults. I repeated what I heard and it was years before I understood half of what I was saying.
“Why are you just sitting there,” she’d yell as if I were the culprit.
Those mornings, heading to school, I learned to love pop music, a lifelong fixation. My mother and I sang along to "This Diamond Ring" by Gary Lewis and the Playboys, "You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling" by the Righteous Brothers, and Petula Clark's "Downtown." Betty took her shoe off the foot she used for the gas pedal and almost floored it.
I like fast things and the highway between Madison and Moberly will always be one of the places where I will see my mother, hair wrapped in rollers under a scarf, wearing a pair of sunglasses, taking me off into the big wide world.
“What are you looking at, little demon?” she would ask.
“Don’t bug me,” I’d say. “Mind your own business.”
“You are my business. ”
“Betty,” my father often said, “no would mistake that kid for anyone’s but yours.”
I was Betty’s boy.
This year, Betty had to give up her driver's license after backing into a ditch. Now she must sit home, awaiting invitations. "They won't even let me go the grocery store," she says. Her eyes are wistful and her fingers, with their chipped pink polish, are itchy for the feel of the car keys."
What do you hope readers will most respond to in Bettyville?
You know, I am a journalist. I am obsessed with the news, read a lot, watch TV. I am conscious of people dying in Syria. I worry about the Africans who have Ebola. But my attention wanders most unceasingly to the everyday struggles of average, normal people around me—people fighting for their lives and those of others without attracting much attention, all the tough, real life, ordinary battles. My mother is struggling to hold on to her life, independence, self. It is a really hard fight, fought on many fronts, moment by moment. I want people to feel my mother’s courage; I want them to respond to this human story. Her struggle never stops moving me. I want people to remember the images of my mother trying so desperately to hang onto words, hymn numbers, her ability to play the piano. The subplot of this book may deal with the complications in our relationship, but the point is the fact that she leaves me with this example of strength, resilience. She never really asks for much. She goes on. She takes the step even if she is frightened of falling. She makes so many efforts every day to just get through in a normal way. She keeps on. I would like people to have these pictures of my mother and her courage in their hearts when they leave Bettyville. We are scared of being old; therefore, we are scared of the old. They make us fearful and uncomfortable sometimes. I want people to look at their Bettys and see the human struggle of their lives. I want them to realize that, though we may sometimes have conflicts with our parents about the kinds of lives we have chosen, they remain, because of what they have given us, the foundation that supports our lives even when they are unaware of it. I would like to help families speak of things that we avoided with more honesty and ease. At the end, the things unsaid matter, despite the love. You want to have been seen by your parents just as you are. Silences--imposed by people who, unwittingly perpetuate harmful and hurtful kinds of shame-- are not friends to families. Silences keep people apart. Finally, believe me, you will come to regret them.
George Hodgman
georgehodgman.com
George Hodgman is the author of Bettyville, a witty, tender memoir of a son’s journey home to care for his irascible mother. When he leaves Manhattan ...
"My mother always drove fast, never stayed home. In the old days, we would speed across the plains in our blue Impala, radio blaring DJ Johnny Rabbit's optimistic, all-American voice on KXOK St Louis. She took me to the county line where I waited for the bus to kindergarten. My mother --“too damn high strung,” my father said--stayed in the bathroom fussing with her hair and smoking Kent cigarettes until the very last minute. “I look like something the cat drug in,” she told herself, frowning into the mirror.
When she finally came out, I’d be sitting on the hood of the car, my Batman lunch box already empty except for wads of foil and a few hastily scraped carrots.
“I’m a nervous wreck,” I’d cry out. I was an only child, raised almost exclusively around adults. I repeated what I heard and it was years before I understood half of what I was saying.
“Why are you just sitting there,” she’d yell as if I were the culprit.
Those mornings, heading to school, I learned to love pop music, a lifelong fixation. My mother and I sang along to "This Diamond Ring" by Gary Lewis and the Playboys, "You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling" by the Righteous Brothers, and Petula Clark's "Downtown." Betty took her shoe off the foot she used for the gas pedal and almost floored it.
I like fast things and the highway between Madison and Moberly will always be one of the places where I will see my mother, hair wrapped in rollers under a scarf, wearing a pair of sunglasses, taking me off into the big wide world.
“What are you looking at, little demon?” she would ask.
“Don’t bug me,” I’d say. “Mind your own business.”
“You are my business. ”
“Betty,” my father often said, “no would mistake that kid for anyone’s but yours.”
I was Betty’s boy.
This year, Betty had to give up her driver's license after backing into a ditch. Now she must sit home, awaiting invitations. "They won't even let me go the grocery store," she says. Her eyes are wistful and her fingers, with their chipped pink polish, are itchy for the feel of the car keys."
What do you hope readers will most respond to in Bettyville?
You know, I am a journalist. I am obsessed with the news, read a lot, watch TV. I am conscious of people dying in Syria. I worry about the Africans who have Ebola. But my attention wanders most unceasingly to the everyday struggles of average, normal people around me—people fighting for their lives and those of others without attracting much attention, all the tough, real life, ordinary battles. My mother is struggling to hold on to her life, independence, self. It is a really hard fight, fought on many fronts, moment by moment. I want people to feel my mother’s courage; I want them to respond to this human story. Her struggle never stops moving me. I want people to remember the images of my mother trying so desperately to hang onto words, hymn numbers, her ability to play the piano. The subplot of this book may deal with the complications in our relationship, but the point is the fact that she leaves me with this example of strength, resilience. She never really asks for much. She goes on. She takes the step even if she is frightened of falling. She makes so many efforts every day to just get through in a normal way. She keeps on. I would like people to have these pictures of my mother and her courage in their hearts when they leave Bettyville. We are scared of being old; therefore, we are scared of the old. They make us fearful and uncomfortable sometimes. I want people to look at their Bettys and see the human struggle of their lives. I want them to realize that, though we may sometimes have conflicts with our parents about the kinds of lives we have chosen, they remain, because of what they have given us, the foundation that supports our lives even when they are unaware of it. I would like to help families speak of things that we avoided with more honesty and ease. At the end, the things unsaid matter, despite the love. You want to have been seen by your parents just as you are. Silences--imposed by people who, unwittingly perpetuate harmful and hurtful kinds of shame-- are not friends to families. Silences keep people apart. Finally, believe me, you will come to regret them.
George Hodgman
georgehodgman.com
George Hodgman is the author of Bettyville, a witty, tender memoir of a son’s journey home to care for his irascible mother. When he leaves Manhattan ...
December 22, 2014
Thanks to our dear friends Powell and Kelley Carman, the Snowman Petit Four Trag...
Thanks to our dear friends Powell and Kelley Carman, the Snowman Petit Four Tragedy has been averted. We are grateful to you both. Merry Christmas to all.
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