George Hodgman's Blog, page 16
November 22, 2014
I don't know all of you who are liking this page, but thankful. I'm grateful for...
I don't know all of you who are liking this page, but thankful. I'm grateful for your interest and really appreciate it.
November 21, 2014
From Bettyville:
In the summer, my grandmother, who we called Mammy, sat on the...
From Bettyville:
In the summer, my grandmother, who we called Mammy, sat on the front porch in front of the fan in her brassiere, balancing her checkbook and fanning herself with the Monitor-Index. Sometimes, I sat on a stool in the kitchen while Mammy kneaded dough with our ears on the radio.
When Party Line came on, we mimicked the voices of the ladies who called in with recipes, household tips, and requests for prayers for the sick and dying all across the counties served by the station: Randolph, Monroe, Chariton, Macon and Shelby. Sometimes I walked with Mammy to Mildred’s beauty shop. Sitting under a poster that said “A New Hairdo Can Make You Feel Alive,” I read Photoplay and Modern Screen as the blue- haired ladies lined up, waiting for the dryers in their bibs and wave clips, their new hair colors dripping in rivulets down the sides of their heads. Mammy didn’t go to Mildred’s that often. When it was possible, she washed her hair in rainwater, collected in a flat tin pan, kept on the top of the well, amidst the pink roses covered in coffee grounds and egg shells, their branches held together with nylon stockings. She told me that when my mother was a girl she always washed her hair right after it rained.
Winter, not long after Christmas, maybe 1965 or ’66, the middle of the night: From the window, I could see the white yard, shiny in the blue dark. It was snowing; the flakes not just falling, but swirling like pinwheels in the freezing wind. My parents were in Miami at the Orange Bowl with my Uncle Harry and cousins. For years they would speak of encountering Bobby Darin in a crab restaurant.
Staying at my grandmother’s during their trip, I slept with Mammy in a huge wooden bed that was part of the bedroom set she won after discovering a prize ticket in a box of Quaker Oats. One night we had toast and corn flakes for supper because the pilot light on the stove went out and Mammy could not see to light it. After one of her first eye surgeries in St Louis, a small white speck, like a tiny flower, appeared on one of my grandmother’s blue eyes. She could never get her lipstick on right, could not drive anymore, or go out after dark.
Mammy and I popped corn, stayed up to watch Jack Paar and then, in the dark, Mammy, as usual, told me stories of Peter Rabbit and his adventures until I fell asleep.
I can still hear Mammy emitting huge snores, but that is not what awakened me on the night of our adventure. My nose was stuffed up; allergic to everything, I could not breathe right and my nose drops were at our house. I watched the snowfall over the houses of the neighbors, wondering if one of them, Bassett Humphrey, an elderly friend, was awake across the street. Basset hated bad weather and, during storms with thunder and lightening, always came to Mammy’s to sleep, bringing her own pillow.
Mammy’s foot always stuck out from under the blanket, too stubborn to be covered up. Since birth, her little toe, surprisingly long, was bent over the others, as if to keep them in place. I always played with Mammy’s foot, trying to straighten out that toe.
In the middle of the night of the falling snow, I woke Mammy to say that I just could not sleep, that my nose drops were at our house, that I thought I was sure to suffocate. She squinted her eyes at me, dubious, but put on her winter coat on over her nightgown, along with her shoes and the plastic galoshes she pulled over them. From the closet she plucked the dented- in hat she wore to funerals. Her braids hung over her shoulders; she didn’t bother to put them up, but stopped to wrap a muffler around my head. “You’re going to have to help me,” she said, but looked determined to pull off this job come hell or high water. Outside, as the snow came down, Mammy—who had been expressly forbidden to drive by her children—carefully negotiated the porch step with me helping all I could. The trip to the garage, where Bill kept one of his old cars, a yellow-topped Chevy with sharp fins, seemed a major expedition. Driving through the snowy streets with Mammy, I expected to die; Miss Virginia, who lived across the street, would find our bodies and run through the snow in her bathrobe and house slippers, screaming to Jesus. They would chat about the tragedy of our demises on Party Line.
The two of us drove slowly down Olive Street in the quiet of a town at rest under snow. Mammy could make out very little, but she kept driving. Though it was less than half a mile, the trip seemed to take us far from our known world. It was freezing; the world was only white, and when the car swerved on the ice, Mammy, confused, slammed the brake and the car slid, almost off the road. But I had faith. Mammy would get us home. She was a pioneer and we were making our way across the plains. “Lordamighty,” I screamed out into the dark night as we turned into the driveway of our house.
In the summer, my grandmother, who we called Mammy, sat on the front porch in front of the fan in her brassiere, balancing her checkbook and fanning herself with the Monitor-Index. Sometimes, I sat on a stool in the kitchen while Mammy kneaded dough with our ears on the radio.
When Party Line came on, we mimicked the voices of the ladies who called in with recipes, household tips, and requests for prayers for the sick and dying all across the counties served by the station: Randolph, Monroe, Chariton, Macon and Shelby. Sometimes I walked with Mammy to Mildred’s beauty shop. Sitting under a poster that said “A New Hairdo Can Make You Feel Alive,” I read Photoplay and Modern Screen as the blue- haired ladies lined up, waiting for the dryers in their bibs and wave clips, their new hair colors dripping in rivulets down the sides of their heads. Mammy didn’t go to Mildred’s that often. When it was possible, she washed her hair in rainwater, collected in a flat tin pan, kept on the top of the well, amidst the pink roses covered in coffee grounds and egg shells, their branches held together with nylon stockings. She told me that when my mother was a girl she always washed her hair right after it rained.
Winter, not long after Christmas, maybe 1965 or ’66, the middle of the night: From the window, I could see the white yard, shiny in the blue dark. It was snowing; the flakes not just falling, but swirling like pinwheels in the freezing wind. My parents were in Miami at the Orange Bowl with my Uncle Harry and cousins. For years they would speak of encountering Bobby Darin in a crab restaurant.
Staying at my grandmother’s during their trip, I slept with Mammy in a huge wooden bed that was part of the bedroom set she won after discovering a prize ticket in a box of Quaker Oats. One night we had toast and corn flakes for supper because the pilot light on the stove went out and Mammy could not see to light it. After one of her first eye surgeries in St Louis, a small white speck, like a tiny flower, appeared on one of my grandmother’s blue eyes. She could never get her lipstick on right, could not drive anymore, or go out after dark.
Mammy and I popped corn, stayed up to watch Jack Paar and then, in the dark, Mammy, as usual, told me stories of Peter Rabbit and his adventures until I fell asleep.
I can still hear Mammy emitting huge snores, but that is not what awakened me on the night of our adventure. My nose was stuffed up; allergic to everything, I could not breathe right and my nose drops were at our house. I watched the snowfall over the houses of the neighbors, wondering if one of them, Bassett Humphrey, an elderly friend, was awake across the street. Basset hated bad weather and, during storms with thunder and lightening, always came to Mammy’s to sleep, bringing her own pillow.
Mammy’s foot always stuck out from under the blanket, too stubborn to be covered up. Since birth, her little toe, surprisingly long, was bent over the others, as if to keep them in place. I always played with Mammy’s foot, trying to straighten out that toe.
In the middle of the night of the falling snow, I woke Mammy to say that I just could not sleep, that my nose drops were at our house, that I thought I was sure to suffocate. She squinted her eyes at me, dubious, but put on her winter coat on over her nightgown, along with her shoes and the plastic galoshes she pulled over them. From the closet she plucked the dented- in hat she wore to funerals. Her braids hung over her shoulders; she didn’t bother to put them up, but stopped to wrap a muffler around my head. “You’re going to have to help me,” she said, but looked determined to pull off this job come hell or high water. Outside, as the snow came down, Mammy—who had been expressly forbidden to drive by her children—carefully negotiated the porch step with me helping all I could. The trip to the garage, where Bill kept one of his old cars, a yellow-topped Chevy with sharp fins, seemed a major expedition. Driving through the snowy streets with Mammy, I expected to die; Miss Virginia, who lived across the street, would find our bodies and run through the snow in her bathrobe and house slippers, screaming to Jesus. They would chat about the tragedy of our demises on Party Line.
The two of us drove slowly down Olive Street in the quiet of a town at rest under snow. Mammy could make out very little, but she kept driving. Though it was less than half a mile, the trip seemed to take us far from our known world. It was freezing; the world was only white, and when the car swerved on the ice, Mammy, confused, slammed the brake and the car slid, almost off the road. But I had faith. Mammy would get us home. She was a pioneer and we were making our way across the plains. “Lordamighty,” I screamed out into the dark night as we turned into the driveway of our house.
November 20, 2014
One of the great pleasures of returning to hang out with my mom in Paris, MO--wh...
One of the great pleasures of returning to hang out with my mom in Paris, MO--where Bettyville is set--has been meeting this woman, Jean Crow (Lani Cullers in the book). A throwback to the characters of my childhood whose colorful stories lodged in my memories, she always makes me laugh. Like my mom, she has serious vision problems. Consider this my tribute to her, going on, like so many others, pretty much on her own, and never complaining about her troubles.
From Bettyville:
Inside the house waiting is Evie Cullers, a colorful soul whose light blue sweatshirt says Country KWWR, Missouri’s Superstation; it looks clean and soft enough for a baby. A former floral designer, now in her sixties, Evie often bemoans the poor quality of current funerals. A woman who seems to spend a great deal of time considering her own funeral arrangements, she warns of the pitfalls of cremation. “They burn everybody on the same tray and there is a potential for getting one person’s ashes mixed up with another’s.
“If I’m gonna be livin’ in a urn,” she declared recently, “I ‘m not crazy about the idea of having me a roommate.”
My mother and I love Evie; Betty is particularly sympathetic to her as both have vision problems.
"I was over to Wal Mart,” Evie tells me. “I was searching for something in the drug section and couldn’t read the labels. I asked some kid for help, said I was visually impaired, but it wasn’t his section. He said he’d get someone else to help me. Five minutes later, I hear over the loudspeaker, ‘Blind woman needs help in drugs.’
"It embarrassed me. I mean, what else do they say on the loudspeaker at Wal Mart? I was just waiting' to hear someone on that thing yell out, ‘Watch out boys, we got a bitch in toys!’”
From Bettyville:
Inside the house waiting is Evie Cullers, a colorful soul whose light blue sweatshirt says Country KWWR, Missouri’s Superstation; it looks clean and soft enough for a baby. A former floral designer, now in her sixties, Evie often bemoans the poor quality of current funerals. A woman who seems to spend a great deal of time considering her own funeral arrangements, she warns of the pitfalls of cremation. “They burn everybody on the same tray and there is a potential for getting one person’s ashes mixed up with another’s.
“If I’m gonna be livin’ in a urn,” she declared recently, “I ‘m not crazy about the idea of having me a roommate.”
My mother and I love Evie; Betty is particularly sympathetic to her as both have vision problems.
"I was over to Wal Mart,” Evie tells me. “I was searching for something in the drug section and couldn’t read the labels. I asked some kid for help, said I was visually impaired, but it wasn’t his section. He said he’d get someone else to help me. Five minutes later, I hear over the loudspeaker, ‘Blind woman needs help in drugs.’
"It embarrassed me. I mean, what else do they say on the loudspeaker at Wal Mart? I was just waiting' to hear someone on that thing yell out, ‘Watch out boys, we got a bitch in toys!’”
November 19, 2014
Dogs play a significant role in Bettyville. Here is my dog, Raj, with my mother,...
Dogs play a significant role in Bettyville. Here is my dog, Raj, with my mother, Betty. They are arguing about who is the main character in the book.
November 17, 2014
Sky above Paris, Missouri, November.
Sky above Paris, Missouri, November.
November 12, 2014
Official author photo to be taken today. "What will you be wearing?" asked the p...
Official author photo to be taken today. "What will you be wearing?" asked the photographer. "Can you work with a caftan?" I replied.
November 11, 2014
ABOUT BETTYVILLE, A MEMOIR TO BE PUBLISHED MARCH 10, 2015:
In the Northeast par...
ABOUT BETTYVILLE, A MEMOIR TO BE PUBLISHED MARCH 10, 2015:
In the Northeast part of Missouri, where the big rivers run, angels are prayed for, and Wal-Martians battle for bargains, there is a little town called Paris where you can find George and Betty—lifelong allies, conspirators, sharers of jokes and grudges, occasional warriors, mother and son.
Beneath the comic banter they share lies undying love, loyalty, and occasionally, the desire to throttle each other. They have been through it all. Now they are facing…a little more--the juncture that every son or daughter understands, that reversal of roles that rarely goes smoothly as parent grows older and child struggles, heart in hand, to hold on to what once was.
George—“fiftysomething-ish,” bruised from big-time Manhattan where he has lost his job—has returned to Missouri for Betty’s ninety-first birthday at the height of the hottest summer in years. The roses in the yard are in danger. As is Betty. The mother George remembers as the beautiful blonde flooring the accelerator of the family’s battered Impala has lost her driver’s license. Suddenly this ever -independent woman—killer bee at the bridge table, perfectionist at the piano—actually needs the help she would rather die than ask for.
Despite his doubts (“I am a care inflictor…I am the Joan Crawford of eldercare”) and near-lethal cooking skills, George tries to take over, stirring up and burning tuna casseroles with potato chips, mounting epic expeditions for comfortable but stylish shoes, coming to understand the battle his determined mother is waging against a world determined to overlook the no longer young. The question underlying everything? Will George lure Betty into assisted living? When hell freezes over. “Okay,” he concedes, “I’ll go.” He can’t bear to force her from the home they both treasure where the trees his father planted shelter Betty on her shaky trips around the yard.
But, along with camaraderie and these hard new concerns, this time they share triggers memories and sometimes old regrets. Despite their closeness, there is so much that this mother and son have never spoken of and now this seems to matter, maybe more than ever. Betty, who speaks her mind but cannot always reveal her heart, has never really accepted the fact that her son is gay. George has never outgrown the feeling that he has disappointed her. For so long, these two people—united but still silent about too many things—have struggled with words. They will never not be people who lead different kinds of lives. But they try their best to make things right. Betty sees her son’s sadness and tries to reach out. George is inspired by his mother’s unfailing bravery. As they redefine the home they find themselves sharing once more, a new chapter of their story is written. As they pass through George and Betty’s bittersweet hours and days, readers will find themselves moved by two imperfect but extraordinary people and what is finally the most human of stories, a tale of caring and kindness sparked by humor and touched by grace.
In the Northeast part of Missouri, where the big rivers run, angels are prayed for, and Wal-Martians battle for bargains, there is a little town called Paris where you can find George and Betty—lifelong allies, conspirators, sharers of jokes and grudges, occasional warriors, mother and son.
Beneath the comic banter they share lies undying love, loyalty, and occasionally, the desire to throttle each other. They have been through it all. Now they are facing…a little more--the juncture that every son or daughter understands, that reversal of roles that rarely goes smoothly as parent grows older and child struggles, heart in hand, to hold on to what once was.
George—“fiftysomething-ish,” bruised from big-time Manhattan where he has lost his job—has returned to Missouri for Betty’s ninety-first birthday at the height of the hottest summer in years. The roses in the yard are in danger. As is Betty. The mother George remembers as the beautiful blonde flooring the accelerator of the family’s battered Impala has lost her driver’s license. Suddenly this ever -independent woman—killer bee at the bridge table, perfectionist at the piano—actually needs the help she would rather die than ask for.
Despite his doubts (“I am a care inflictor…I am the Joan Crawford of eldercare”) and near-lethal cooking skills, George tries to take over, stirring up and burning tuna casseroles with potato chips, mounting epic expeditions for comfortable but stylish shoes, coming to understand the battle his determined mother is waging against a world determined to overlook the no longer young. The question underlying everything? Will George lure Betty into assisted living? When hell freezes over. “Okay,” he concedes, “I’ll go.” He can’t bear to force her from the home they both treasure where the trees his father planted shelter Betty on her shaky trips around the yard.
But, along with camaraderie and these hard new concerns, this time they share triggers memories and sometimes old regrets. Despite their closeness, there is so much that this mother and son have never spoken of and now this seems to matter, maybe more than ever. Betty, who speaks her mind but cannot always reveal her heart, has never really accepted the fact that her son is gay. George has never outgrown the feeling that he has disappointed her. For so long, these two people—united but still silent about too many things—have struggled with words. They will never not be people who lead different kinds of lives. But they try their best to make things right. Betty sees her son’s sadness and tries to reach out. George is inspired by his mother’s unfailing bravery. As they redefine the home they find themselves sharing once more, a new chapter of their story is written. As they pass through George and Betty’s bittersweet hours and days, readers will find themselves moved by two imperfect but extraordinary people and what is finally the most human of stories, a tale of caring and kindness sparked by humor and touched by grace.
November 10, 2014
From Bettyville:
Sometimes when dealing with an older parent, it is possible to...
From Bettyville:
Sometimes when dealing with an older parent, it is possible to get a little….testy. It is very guilt-inducing. He or she can't help it that they are driving you a little crazy. You don't want to be mad at the person you love. So you come up with little games to take the pressure off. For example, you can pretend you are parenting someone else's parent. For example, you can pretend your mother is, say….Cher. When she is peeved at breakfast because her eggs are scrambled, not fried, you can say, "This is the way you always liked them in Vegas when you played the main room at Caesar's." This tends to throw a rogue element into the interaction. In the period of confusion, she will usually eat the eggs.
Later, if she will not get up and answer the phone, you can say, "Mother, it's Ann-Margaret. The Yucca is flowering in the canyons and she wants to borrow the Ducatti." This tends to bring even an older woman to her feet for whatever reason. Possibly the lure of the Italian. In the afternoon, when she is mad because the mail is not on time, you can say, "Cher, Gene Simmons is delivering the mail today and you know how he is." She will give you a freaky look, but there will be silence and you will be grateful and can consider the evening when you plan to offer her, if she is feeling low, the opportunity to sit on top of the piano and do the number about the gypsies.
Sometimes when dealing with an older parent, it is possible to get a little….testy. It is very guilt-inducing. He or she can't help it that they are driving you a little crazy. You don't want to be mad at the person you love. So you come up with little games to take the pressure off. For example, you can pretend you are parenting someone else's parent. For example, you can pretend your mother is, say….Cher. When she is peeved at breakfast because her eggs are scrambled, not fried, you can say, "This is the way you always liked them in Vegas when you played the main room at Caesar's." This tends to throw a rogue element into the interaction. In the period of confusion, she will usually eat the eggs.
Later, if she will not get up and answer the phone, you can say, "Mother, it's Ann-Margaret. The Yucca is flowering in the canyons and she wants to borrow the Ducatti." This tends to bring even an older woman to her feet for whatever reason. Possibly the lure of the Italian. In the afternoon, when she is mad because the mail is not on time, you can say, "Cher, Gene Simmons is delivering the mail today and you know how he is." She will give you a freaky look, but there will be silence and you will be grateful and can consider the evening when you plan to offer her, if she is feeling low, the opportunity to sit on top of the piano and do the number about the gypsies.
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