Sunday nights used to be family time. Everybody would gather around the TV.
There’s no problem with the picture … it’s a Google Image!
Ed Sullivan
The Wonderful World of Disney
The Smothers Brothers
Glen Campbell
Glen pretty much introduced me to country music. Not the hard core drinking-man/woman-losing-dog-died kind. He gave me some of the most beautiful melodies: “Gentle On My Mind” and “By the Time I Get To Phoenix.” Songs that I still love.
Back then, I didn’t think much about the future. Or about growing old. My parents were old back then in the 1960s and early 70s — I knew they’d been born that way. But the performers on TV would never get old. I knew that then. The Smothers Brothers old? Glen Campbell? Pishawwwww!
Time caught up with all of us. My parents, of course, weren’t really old back then. But they grew into that role, they passed on. One by one the staples of not just my family but our world have faded.
Glen Campbell is fading. As I write this, he is in the final stages of Alzheimer’s Disease; a heartless disease that takes one’s mind long before it takes the body.
The song makes my heart sing, even while it breaks it. Kind of like life.
You may not miss me, Glen, but I’ll miss you. We all will.
When we lived in Switzerland and just across the border in France in the late 1990s and early 2000s, one of the biggest problems was finding healthcare. Now I realize that I worked at the World Health Organization, but the docs there were researchers, primarily, meeting goers-to-ers. They weren’t your every day heal-the-sick kind of doctors.
In addition to not knowing the ropes of a foreign system, there was the language barrier. I mean, frankly, it is difficult to describe illnesses in English — I always feared that I would go in with a sore throat and end up without an important body part. I didn’t realize that that could happen right here in the good old U.S. of A. In fact, that just happened recently when a man went in for a routine procedure and, ummm, had a life changing event. Allegedly.
PARIS – A hospital in the French city of Clermont-Ferrand is to open a wine bar where terminally ill patients will be able to enjoy a “medically-supervised” glass or two with their families.
Vive la France, where the terminally ill can get “medically supervised” alcoholic beverages. I hear the wine is to die for.
UPDATE!!!
If I DO go back to die with wine in my hand/throat/tummy, somebody else needs to pick it out. I have an amazing skill crafted while living inside of or within spitting distance of France.
I can go into any store in France and leave with a bottle of awful wine. It’s a talent. A gift. Not many folks can claim it.
Can I make a confession? I think that Barbara Walters is largely responsible for the sad state of our news media. She started the trend that became the norm: news that focuses on the scandal, the people, the intrigue instead of the, ummmm, news.
Yup, I lay it all on Baba.
Before Baba, TV news was above the fray. Remember Cronkite? Huntley/Brinkley? Howard K. Smith and Harry Reasoner? News was news. It focused on what happened. On the event and its place in the current day and its context in history in a serious way. It was informative, not entertaining. And that, I believe, is how it should be. Because news is serious business and it should be treated as such. Is it today? I don’t think so. Had Barbara Walters never existed, I honestly don’t think we could have the clowns at Fox — or on the left either. News was news and sitcoms and variety shows took care of entertainment.
Since Baba, news has been completely people-focused. Everything is personality – nothing is action. I think that is very wrong.
Since Baba, news-folk have looked for the scandal, for the tears in the story — instead of the story itself. No story is complete without tears. Without scandal. Without some personality saying or doing something that can then be replayed, discussed, analyzed as if that matters more than the results of their actions.
Of course I’m biased.
I knew Harry Reasoner, slightly. One of his kids was (and is) a close friend of mine. So I was in and out of his house growing up. He was a great dad – involved but not intrusive. Interested. Humorous – very humorous.
I hung around his house when the folks in the Nixon White House took a particular dislike to him. That alone is a feather in his cap.
I hung around his house when he became anchor of the ABC Evening News.
[I once arrived at his front door in full makeup for a play – I had to borrow a prop from his daughter. My makeup consisted of dirt, smeared on my face, a torn dress – a rag, really. Bare, dirty feet. He and his wife met me at the front door in formal attire – they were having a seriously fancy party. His comment was classic: “Why Elyse,” he said with a delighted chuckle (having already seen the play), “you dressed so nicely for our party! Thanks for coming!” Mortified, I ran upstairs hopefully without being seen by the crowd of Who’s Who in the living room.
I hung around his house when Baba joined him. And when he went back to 60 minutes.
I had few substantive conversations with Mr. Reasoner. I never tried to learn the scoop. In fact, it was only years later that I understood what had happened to him.
Harry Reasoner was not, from everything I ever saw, a sexist. He was a newsman who cared about words and integrity and getting the facts, ma’am. He believed that the news should be the story. Not the person who deliverd the news He believed in getting the story right and in writing well. In letting the event tell the story.
Baba Wawa is retiring – at least in part.
But today will be her last time on “The View.” But in the way she has done for five decades, Baba Wawa makes herself the story. And that is a huge part of the problem she created in the news industry. The story should be the news. Not the journalist. Of course, Baba has been milking this retirement. She has been for a year now, and will for another year or so. Probably until she dies. Because, of course, Baba is the story don’t cha see.
She’s leaving. What a shame. Don’t let the screen door hit you on your way out.
It was apparent pretty much from the start that today was Monday.
I got up late and everything that followed was just slightly off.
Traffic was awful. I mean, this is DC – traffic is always awful. But today I found myself stopped in places where I usually go. I watched the clock tick past 9:00. Past 9:15.
Luckily for me, though, it wasn’t that big of a deal. When I arrive late, I stay late. It all works out. But still, I’d rather get there and not just hang out, stopped in traffic.
I thought I should call the office and let them know I was on my way. Naturally, I had an ulterior motive.
Because I planned to call Yenny.
Yenny is my friend and colleague at the office. But she has magical powers. Because when I’m stuck in traffic and I call Yenny, traffic begins to move. It was important that I talk to Yenny or I knew I’d never make it to work.
I was at a dead stop. My cell phone was in my pants pocket, but I put my earpiece in place and clicked that bluetooth on. Siri, the magical creature in my iPhone sang a note to let me know that she was listening. That she was ready to help.
In the months that I’ve had my iPhone 5C, I’ve come to rely on Siri for just these situations. She’s great. The Siri who lived in my iPhone 4? An absolute idiot. We were not friends. We had words. Those words rarely had more than four letters. Siri4S would respond “what did I do to deserve that?” Trust me. She deserved it.
But Siri 5C? She is a star. She doesn’t let me down. She helps me. I love Siri5C.
“Call Yenny,” I instructed her politely. I never swear at Siri5C. In fact, she often comments on how polite I am with a casual “don’t mention it,” when I thank her.
Now this morning when I asked her to call Yenny, I realize that I didn’t say “please.” That is because last week when I was in precisely this situation, and I said “Please call Yenny.”
“Should I call the Police?” Siri asked. I didn’t think much of it at the time. She may have been having a rough start to her day. Still, I decided not to say “please” to Siri. I always say “thank you,” though.
What did Siri say to today’s request to “Call Yenny?”
“I don’t see that,” she said. “Did you mean ‘conference call number’? Or would you like to call Gastroenterology Fellow on call.” She only heard the “call” and went from there. This wasn’t an auspicious beginning.
“No,” I said. Clearly, Siri was having a rough start to the day, too. I clicked my Bluetooth off, and clicked it on again immediately.
“Call Yenny … ” I gave Siri Yenny’s last name. On a bad day, Siri will cooperate the second time I ask her to do something. Much like my son.
“Do you want local businesses beginning with “call”
“No, Siri.” I said. I hung up.
Then I had an idea. I figured I’d have Siri call my number at the office – and presto — I’d be connected! So I clicked on again and said “Call Me-“
But I immediately remembered that “Me-Office” goes to my direct line, not the main company line. So I’d be able to leave myself a message that I’d be late — which I already knew. Because, well, you know.
So I interrupted myself. Figured I’d stop before I said something stupid to Siri. But it was too late.
Because what Siri heard was “Siri, call me … never mind.”
”OK,” Siri responded. “From now on, I’ll call you ‘Never Mind.”
Sadly, this may be an improvement. Before he went back to college, Jacob instructed Siri to call me “Queen,” I couldn’t figure out how to change it.
So old, that I forgot to mention that I once broke a Guinness World Record.
It’s true. Not only did I receive two, count ‘em, two Oscars, but I broke a Guinness World Record, on New Year’s Eve, 2001/2.
Now, I will admit that it wasn’t really a big deal for me. I had already achieved my 15 minutes of fame by that time, and it had happened just a few days before breaking the record.
Oh, have I gotten ahead of myself again? Sorry. Fame does that to a person. At least it does it to me.
It was our last year in Europe. One of the reasons I had wanted to move to Europe was because I wanted to see Europe. John had spent his junior year of college abroad, in Edinburgh, and fell in love with the place. So whenever we crossed the Atlantic, Scotland was somehow where we landed every damn time. During our 5 years living in Europe, we still found our way to Scotland. Strangely, it became very much like going home to me. I mean, they speak English there. Sort of.
Edinburgh has the biggest New Year’s Eve celebration in all of Europe – Hogmanay. It is a week-long party, complete with medieval revelry and modern touches — Jacob especially loved the carnival rides set up along some of the main streets. And the fire.
As all things in a good European city with a castle in the middle, the real kickoff starts at the Castle.
Google Image
The Scots build a replica Viking ship like the ones that raided their shores for centuries. They haul it from the Castle down through the medieval street called The Royal Mile which leads downhill to Holyrood Palace and then across town and up again, to Calton Hill, another high spot in the city with magical views of Edinburgh Castle, Holyrood Palace, and the land formations known as Arthur’s Seat and the Salisbury Craigs (where John asked me to marry him). The crowd gathers around the Viking Ship while looking over the majestic city. Seriously cool stuff — you can smell the history.
Oh, did I mention that they set the bloomin’ Viking Ship on fire first? And pull it through the streets?
Or that literally everybody is carrying a bloomin’ flaming torch – regardless of their age or state of inebriation?
Parade of Death Inebriated Revelers and children who should not be playing with fire (Google Image)
It is brilliantly fun in a “this will be a memorable way to die” sort of way.
Jacob was 10 and thoroughly into it. The flames, the burning ship, the old buildings, the bagpipes. He was in a 10-year-old’s version of heaven. Which meant that I was expecting one or all of us to die at any given moment.
When we reached the end of the parade and a film crew from the travel bureau was interviewing volunteers. Looking for revelers to tell the folks at home what they loved about Hogmanay in Edinburgh, Jacob jumped right up.
“I’m gonna be on TV, Mom!” he said excitedly.
Unfortunately, the laws required that a parent go on film with him, though, because Jacob was under age. The parent wouldn’t have to participate, but it was necessary that John or I stand next to our son. On camera. John, true to form, backed away and tried to hide. It was the last thing that I wanted to do. But it was for my son. And I knew I’d be able to use my participation against my husband for decades.
Did I mention that I don’t like being filmed? It’s true. You see, cameras always bring out my psychotic side. No matter what I am doing when they start filming me, I look like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Or Lizzie Borden on her way to buy the axe. Or Carrie, when she discovers how to get back at all the people who were ever mean to her. I look rather frightening.
“Please, Mom? We can be on TV!”
How could I say no? He was so excited! So I took a deep breath and asked my husband if I looked OK. It was a cold night; we were layered up, Michelin Man-like, only not so photogenic. Heavy down coats, and so many layers that my arms rested at 45 degree angles from my body. Not exactly the way a girl who once dreamed of Hollywood wants to look for her first time on TV.
“You look fine,” he assured me. “Warm,” he said, choking back his laugh. The light of the thousand deadly torches shown in his damn dancing eyes. It would have been so easy to just push him off the edge of the cliff he was backing towards.
Jacob and I turned back to the film crew. They positioned us, turned the klieg lights on, pointed them at us, held a microphone up to Jacob and said in a lovely Scottish lilt:
“So, where are you from?”
….
“Ummm, what is your name?”
….
“What brings you to Hogmanay in Edinburgh?”
…
Jacob stood frozen in fear. I tried to urge him on, silently, as the camera was rolling. He just looked at me with his big, terrified eyes that positively screamed ‘Help me Mom!’
The reporter and camera crew were busy, however. Three strikes, therefore, and he was out. They turned the microphone – and the camera – towards me. Shit! What could I do but answer their questions?
I had to explain that we were Americans, living in Geneva, and we’d come to enjoy the biggest party in Europe. That we had all fallen in love with Edinburgh, and had returned many times. This time, however was our first Hogmanay.
“What are you enjoying most?”
“My son, Jacob, loved the torch-light parade. We couldn’t believe that they lit a replica of a Viking ship and paraded it through the ancient streets. It was so cool, wasn’t it Jacob?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Really cool.”
They asked him another question, and he froze again. Poor kid. Fame is hard work.
So they turned back to me.
“What would you say to the folks back home in America if they were considering traveling to Scotland?”
“I’d tell them that it’s a lovely country. The cities are beautiful and filled with history. The countryside is stunning. And they speak English here. Sort of.”
The reporter interviewing turned wide-eyed to her cameraman:
“Did you get that last bit?”
“Aye,” he said. “That I did.”
I was a star. They were pleased. But then they hadn’t seen the film yet. As far as I know, it was never used. Except perhaps in training reporters for signs of potential freezing and psycosis.
Still, there was anther, more lasting way for us to achieve fame during that trip. We broke a Guinness World Record!
It was two days after my film debut – on New Year’s Eve proper.
Earlier in the day, we heard that the Hogmanay folks were planning on breaking one of the Guinness World Record. Jacob was excited, and wanted to figure out how so he could watch. But it turned out even better. We not only watched, we helped break that Record!
Several city blocks were cordoned off — a block away and parallel to Princes’ Street, if you know the city. A stage sat up at one end of the street with a Ceilidh band — a traditional Scottish folk band that played traditional Scottish folk reels. A swarm of volunteers with clipboards snaked through the crowd taking names of folks who wanted to participate in the effort to break the world record for the Longest ‘Strip the Willow’ – a Scottish Highland reel – in the World. The Guinness folks were on hand to verify if, in fact, the record was broken.
John, Jacob and I, not having the slighted idea of how to strip a willow, or even if it was a proper thing to do with a 10-year-old boy, joined in. Yes! Even John danced!
Edinburgh’s Hogmanay: “Longest Strip the Willow in the World”
We did it! We broke the record! And I must say it was total pandemonium. Because virtually everybody in the world, it seemed, joined in. Once it got going everybody was dancing. Many folks like us didn’t really know how to strip a willow. That made for a whole lot of people bashing into a whole lot of other people. Fortunately, alcohol eased the pain. Mostly we grabbed arms and swung our partners in time to the beat of the Ceilidh band.
We had a blast. The Scots are the most wonderful people. Friendly, crazy. Willing to show us how to do the dances. Willing to let us bash into them with abandon as we enjoyed reeling with the lot of them. And that was, possibly the most challenging bit of it. Because normally when I dance, I don’t wear a winter coat. Or long johns. Or a 25 lb backpack on my back. I’m less graceful when I do.
There was really nothing to be done with my backpack other then wear it on my back and hit unsuspecting dancers with it whenever I spun. Which is exactly what you do when you Strip the Willow. You see, the backpack contained my wallet, John’s wallet, passports, keys. Necessaries for the day out away from our hotel. Everything that we couldn’t do without which was why I had it all there to begin with.
So if you look at that film, which may or may not be from the year when we were actually there (they break the record every year, a technicality we did not know at the time), look for a Michelin Man with curly reddish-blond hair bashing into every single person within a 2-block radius. That’ll be me.
If only I’d thought to have the Guinness folks on the lookout for the most dance-induced bruises, my name would actually be in the book! As it was, the event made it into the 2003 Guinness Book of World Records, but not the names of the thousands of participants.
Sigh. Fame is so fleeting.
* * *
If you ever want to go somewhere special for New Years Eve, I highly recommend Edinburgh. It is a wonderful, joyous, fun party. The Scots are wonderful people and will welcome you to their city, which is magical. You can feel history in each step you take in Edinburgh, and it is magical.
Besides, in Scotland they speak English. Sort of.
* * *
This post was inspired by Art who, ably assisted by Trent and X is valiantly trying to break a blogging record for the most comments ever on a blog. Go on over and abuse him if you haven’t already. Because breaking records is fun. For no real reason, but it’s just fun. Just leave your backpack behind if you’re dancing anywhere near me.
FiftyFourandAHalf 