Melsville

Macintosh: You Made Me Love you

Steve Jobs brought the world Liberal Arts machine.  Macintosh users don’t need to know what’s happening while they work.  Just work, and the computer takes care of itself.   When something goes wrong, experts can be telephoned, or the Mac can be brought to the bright-white store to be fixed.   As techno-sexy as they are, Macintosh computers are equally simple.  They just work. 

The iphones, ipods and ipads just work too.  I love them, and feel very glad that I own a phone that plays music.  I’m here today to talk about my computer.

I have always owned Apple/ Macintosh computers.  Papers, essays, stories, thesises ( yes, I’ve written more than one), my mother’s elegy,  all of these have been written  and saved on Macs.  Write and save.  I write,  and I save.   I draw, paint and play with fonts until what I’ve written looks just right.  Before Steve Jobs’ creations started allowing me to slip into seamlessly into email or internet sites to read, play time-sapping games and search Ebay,  I asked only that my computer let me create and store my work.

I’m writing this on a sleek, silver machine that’s so light it feels like I could carry four at a time.   I bought this computer because I wanted it the way I’ve wanted high-quality boots.  Comfortable ( as in slips right on), well-made   and so damn pretty.   For years, I did not seek out the latest tech-toy.  I rode my computers into the ground.  They expired noisily  in shuddering heaps on my desk before I would consider buying a more up-to-date model. Almost every computer I’ve ever owned became obsolete while I was using it.

Anything that I could say about how thankful I am to Steve Jobs for what he created has probably been said by many others.  It’s been said, it’s been written, and stored on the Macs sitting on the desks of people who never realized how much they love their computers.

 

Who Wears Plain Ol' Red?

When Emma O’Keefe saw that purple leopard-print backpack, it was all over.  Up until she caught sight of it on the back of the catalogue, we thought we knew what we were doing, .  I was going to, that very day, order her a backpack, one that she had chosen,  from a different store.   This first choice had been red, and nothing else had mattered. Emma knew what she wanted; she wanted to carry a bright red backpack to school every day.  That was that, or it was until Emma got a look at that purple leopard-printed wonder.    The red backpack  was gone.  Red was history.  It could just have not existed as far as Emma was concerned. I know that I’d shown her this very thing on the company’s web-site earlier that week when it was still on sale.  On paper, it looked more spotted, shiny and purple.  How could anything compete with that?


On Friday, Emma swung the new backpack on to her back and walked off into the waining days of Blue Group ( Pre-K).  It looked good on her; she looked excited to show her old friends her pride and joy and she looked confident. 

 Emma starts at her new school in three weeks ( really?!?).  She’s ready, she’s excited, and she needs clothes.  I feel a  shopping spree coming on, but I do have an excuse.  One   pleasure of having a young daughter is that she outgrows her clothes.  Every year, opens afresh, and Emma has to look good.  The first step means throwing open the closet and seeing what still fits.   Pants, shirts, those are dull; they just fit or don’t fit.  Yes or no, put them in piles.  For dresses, I have developed a system and a standard.  Emma puts on the dress and puts her arms over her head,  and I ask myself what I’m seeing.  Is it a dress, or has it become a top?  On Saturday, I declared my favorite dress from last year to be, “a lovely tunic”.  Boys outgrown clothing offers no such option; flood pants are always flood pants.

Girls clothes are equal parts fun and danger.  Kids’ clothing stores lay them out for you,  all coordinated perfectly.   There they are, ready to be moved straight into a little girl’s closet.  Here comes the problem with that;  it fits together, so patrons don’t ask themselves what age of girl is supposed to be wearing it.  That white cable twin set and black watch kilt looks cute; but how clean will it stay and how itchy is it?  That cute little jacket that matches the pants so well, a five-year-old would be out of that in a minute.   Save the pulled together ensembles for girls who want to pick out a nice outfit for themselves.   And when you’re ten,  how much fun is it to wear the same dress as five-year-old?

I’m having more trouble finding one simple thing than I’d thought I would.   It’s a red shirt.  I want a plain red shirt, because Emma likes red, because she has red tights and a bunch of skirts and pants that could use a crimson top, and because it has become my mission to find one.   I forgot one cold, hard fact ; girls don’t wear red.   I’m not kidding, they don’t; just ask the people who make children’s clothes.  They wear all shades of pink and purple, and sometimes blue, yellow or green.  They like spots and stripes as well as flowers, animals and “Hello Kitty”.  Don’t forget the sparkles; gotta have the sparkles..  Emma can’t resist any of these things, trust me, but red is still her favorite color. 

I’ve tried shopping among the racks and stacks of boy clothes, but I found but few unadorned red shirts for young boys.  Sports,  monsters, Star Wars and superheroes they’ve got; the tried and true.   Anime and Japanese letters are popular too,  and they offer a little cache for the older ones .  There are still polo shirts and ones with rugby-stripes, popular with grandmothers because they do “ look a little nicer”. Finding a simple red shirt is not as simple as I’d hoped.

I think I’ll need to hit the stores before school starts.  Or I’ll wait, maybe red shirts are a mid-season thing.

Sunday Night Mysteries

When I was a child, I watched television.  Yeah, watched all the silly reruns with the six-kid blended family, and the one about seven eegits on a deserted island, but that was during the day.   I remember sneaking out of my room when I should have been in bed to watch M*A*S*H though the half open door of the room where my parents were watching it.  Once they figured out what I was doing, they just let me join them.  I was about seven, and I'm not sure I understood every funny bit, but I knew it was funny.  With my parents, I watched movies until I fell asleep,  nature documentaries, costume dramas, but I loved mysteries the most.    My mother did too, so we watched them all; the ones with the husband and wife detectives, the ones where the detective looked like he'd walked right off the Malbaro ads, but the ones with Peter Falk playing Lt. Columbo, with his cigars and raincoat, I remember  those.  I stayed up right through those no matter how tired I got.


The next day, I secretly felt like I big shot at school.  I figured that I was the only kid in the second grade who'd seen the show.  I didn't even have to beg my parents to let me watch it; they did and I could too.   My father explained some references to me.  I remember him telling me what “rosebud” meant in Citizen Kane because you wouldn't understand the mystery without knowing.  I was usually sitting with my mother, and she'd ask if I knew what was going on.   Living with people who still used Irish slang, Columbo's accent was very funny to me,  most of all when my father copied it. 

My favorite part was when Columbo would ask the killer about something his wife, Mrs. Columbo,  wanted to know. That made me laugh because he never used his wife's name, ( I liked it even better when he talked about his dog ).  That would happen every time. I watched those movies for years, and slowly, slowly,  I saw what he was doing.  I knew that when he wheeled around and asked just one more question, he would pull the entire mystery together.  It was practically choreographed, but it always worked seamlessly.

He was no Sherlock Holmes.  He wasn't remote and brilliant.  He wasn't working outside the system to bring about justice as he saw it.  He was a detective solving murders, this was his job.

Liam likes Sherlock Holmes, both the 19th century original and the 21st century  incarnation.  Last autumn, curling up on the couch and watching Sherlock was our Sunday-night date. I got a kick out of  watching him catch on.  I loved sharing guesses about what would happen  next. Mysteries take work, and they're always better with a buddy.  The story and the solving are the point.  

When I learned of Peter Falk's death last week, I thought about how much I'd loved the Columbo movies. Thirty-odd years later, I wonder if I loved the character and the crimes he solved,  because a mystery meant you needed to think.  Maybe that's it, but I think it had just as much to do with enjoying the story with my family. 

Interupting Cow

Okay Everyone,

 

This is a piece of fiction I wrote for a flash-fiction contest.  I missed the deadline by a day, and went WAY over the word-count.  I'm putting it here because I'm yearning for a little feedback.  Good, bad, or indifferent, please tell me what you think. Thank you.

Interupting Cow.

 

 

 

“Knock-knock.”
Knock-knocks jokes were new in Kindergarten. “Who’s there?”
“Interrupting sheep.”
I spoke slowly slower.  “Interrupting sheep who?
“BAAHHH!!”

Little round face, bangs  at his eyebrows; five-year-old boys have no comic  timing.  I didn’t have to work up the giggle for him, always loved Timmy.

My daughter, Sophie, planned to marry Timmy, and she never spared his feelings.  “You ‘BAAHH’ before she finishes ‘who.’ Else the sheep’s not interrupting!”

My son Caleb had taught her to tell that joke , and tell it right. 

Sophie bossed Caleb too, and her Daddy; only the men she loved.  Maybe she thought she was saving them from their own poor judgement, their blindness to the obvious , their flubbed punch lines. My son was eleven, so I knew what was coming. On the first day of 1st Grade, the world got all girls vs boys. I would miss young Timmy.

I still missed Marie, the girl down the street who once ran Calab’s life.  Marie used to love dirt and superheroes just as much as Calab had loved glittery facepaint and tea-parties.   I missed walking behind them  as they raced down to the park every Summer morning, them playing soccer together, them putting on shows.   After Kindergarten, Marie transfered into a private school in the next town and quit the soccer team, so we only rarely saw her.  On Halloween night this year,  she and her girlfriends came to our house; she was dressed like someone straight out of one of those animated movies from Japan.  Calab said that yeah, he’d seen her, he’d said hi. 

When I walked past her house,  I often thought of Marie, I hoped that she was doing alright.  Maybe Calab did too;  I never asked.

About  one Saturday night a  month,  Timmy  ate  pancakes , hamburgers or pasta in our kitchen.  When his parents needed “Date Night”,  Paul and I kept Timmy with us.   That way, everybody gets dinner and a movie.    His folks did the same for us, we had a system.  On Saturdays, Paul made dinner, and his repture consisted of burgers, pasta and pancakes.  Timmy must have thought we ate that way every night.  That Saturday, we were eating blueberry pancakes and sausage patties; Sophie’s favorites

“It’s my turn to choose the movie ‘cause Caleb  picked last time.”  Sophie spoke in her reasonable voice.  “And I want Mary Poppins.”

Sophie and Timmy  loved big musicals, but they usually fell  asleep in a puppy-heap halfway through them.
“Well, you picked two weeks in a row.” Caleb reminded her.   “Doesn’t that mean I get another pick?  It should.”

I knew this couldn’t end well.

“I want to see Star Wars,”    Caleb told me.  “I bet Timmy would too.    And he’s our guest, so he should pick; don’t you think?”
Timmy sat  between  my kids looking like he desperately wanted to see Star  Wars. 
“Do you want to see  Star Wars  Timmy?”  Paul asked.  I knew what answer he wanted.  Paul loved his science fiction epics which I always called his “Space Operas”.
 
The kid had a mouthful of pancake and a forkful of sausage.  He nodded, fast.

“Would that be okay with your parents?”  I had to be the Responsible Mama.
“I think so. Yeah, it would.”
“Is that okay with you, Soph?” I doubted anything could stem the tide of guy-solidarity.
She folded her arms, shaking her head and glaring right at Paul.
“It’s a fun movie Honey.  You always liked it.”  Paul got a little whiny.

The tears were starting.  Arguing with Caleb was part of every day.   Timmy didn’t have to do what she wanted, but they usually wanted the same things.  Her father’s wilful opposition  was unforeseen and unforgivable.

Reminding her that she always wanted her very own trash can-shaped droid, felt unfair. 

“You don’t have to watch the movie Sophie.    You and I could do something else.”  I couldn’t think of what we’d do.

“I wanna see a movie!”  She started out loud and fast, ended quiet,  slow, “just not that one.”  The tears had stopped, and she gave a mucusy sniff.
“ We got outvoted tonight Honey.  If you want to see a movie tonight, it’s Star Wars.   Next time, you pick.”
“Does it have to be Mary Poppins?”
Actually, I was looking forward to Mary Poppins;  I liked it much better than The Little Mermaid, another oft-chosen fave.  “Anything you want.”

While I cleared the table and restored some order to the kitchen, the younger kids raced upstairs to put on fleecy pyjamas and Caleb microwaved popcorn.  By the time the little ones returned, Sophie was all smiley.  They settled on the couch under an unzipped sleeping-bag.  Sophie was hugging Mac, her favorite soft baby doll.  As she always did, Sophie loaned Timmy Blue Bunny to keep him from getting lonely.

I sat next to Sophie, and heard her whispering to Timmy, “Isn’t the little robot so cute?  It would be great to have a robot; don’t you think?”  I heard the two of them giggling and whispering, saw them pointing at the screen.  

“I think it would be fun to have a space-ship like that.  That way you could go all kinds of places.   Don’t you think so? I’d love to drive a space-ship like that one.”
Sophie loved Han Solo and the Milenium Falcon. 
“Why aren’t they floating?”  Timmy asked.  “They should be floating because there isn’t any gravity in space.”
“Well, this is.”  Calib sounded like a guy who didn’t want to bother with the little details. “This isn’t like that.”
“Kinda pretend outer-space.” Sophie said.
“Not like the astronoughts.”  Timmy agreed. 

Whenever I watched Star Wars,  I always felt scared when Obi Wan Kanobi steps forward to fight Darth Vader.  Not scared actually, because I already knew what was about to happen, but it did give me the chills.  Fresh dread every time.  That part slid right by the young ones, and I was releaved.

I was expecting them to sink against me as they fell asleep, but they didn’t.  Both of them stayed awake through the movie; both of them told the whole story to Timmy’s parents when they arrived.   Timmy mixed up some major plot-points, but Sophie didn’t correct him.    The kid couldn’t tell a joke properly, but Sophie gave him a break on this one.

In The Toy Stores.

Before Saturday, I get to take a fun little trip.  I'm taking the subway ( and yes, I look forward to subway trips ) into Porter Square to wander around two toy stores to buy a birthday present for one of Emma's boy-buds ( and it's not Crazy Ollie).  I love independent toy store.  I like looking into the dressed-with-care windows and walking around the interesting displays. Going into these places is fun for me because I get a chance to examine what I'm buying;  maybe even pick up a floor sample.  I can compare “Star Wars” Lego kits and see what each Playmobil set contains.  A trip to a good toy store takes time.  

Stocked with craft kits and building toys, these stores  are all revved up to foster creativity.   They've got truck, cars, and wooden trains, but those are good good for everybody ( right?).  In the name of  “pretend play” they have puppets, stuffed toys, costumes, play food, you name it.   All these things are great; not too girly or anything.

“Star Wars” has burst onto the scene for the Blue Group and the Kindergarten.  Emma hasn't seen the movie yet; but she might this weekend.   Still, she makes light sabers and draws droids.   I know the girls I know, and something tells me that they won't be asking for “Star Wars” Lego or Bionicals, no many how many cool guns and swords they have.

When they were five years old, Liam and his friends loved Playmobil, and that's good stuff. Knights in armor, pirates, vikings, there are lots of sets replete with all kinds of theme-related weapons.  Do you know how many woman these sets included?; not many.  Sets including princess and fairies are few and small.  The company has stated making school, hospital, farm and animal clinic sets;  girls like those, don't they?  Well, they do, and Emma does love her neat-o vet set.  It has lots of gear and animals.   I probably would have loved it because ( like many of my friends ) I did want to be a vet.

 Here's what I've noticed about independent toy stores, the older the  children get, the more “boy” the toys are.   There are plenty of toys with weapons and “good-guy/ bad-guy” themes, but there are few non-baby dolls.  When I was Emma's age, it was the same in my own house.  My brother had a small battalion of G.I. Joes (the tall ones with beards and buzzed-down hair), and they had a jeep, a helicopter, and a space-capsule. 

I had one very pretty fashion-type doll with a few accessories,  and I really loved her.  Honestly, I never was all that bothered. It was a young friend searching through the old toys twenty years later who pointed out a certain inequality.  I had no Barbies, and my brother had his own squad tricked out in top-notch gear.  Why were war-toys okay and busty blonds in high-heels not?  Mama confessed that she'd never thought of that, and the two of us had a good laugh.  When I tell this to my Mom friends who grew up in the 1970s, I have a laugh with them too.

I've cased Porter Square toy stores looking for dolls, and I've seen what they have and where they put them.  Funky-girl rag dolls, those are well displayed.   One of the stores in Cambridge has little fashion dolls with tiny snap-on clothes and adorable little cars.  At Christmas time, these dolls were almost hidden behind the counter and got pointed out if you  asked to see them. Now they have a better spot, ( on the back-facing side of a display table),  and there are always girls looking at them.  Those same girls might start taking their business to Target, a place with a  better selection.

What problem do these toy stores have with the idea that some girls like Barbie-type dolls? They do, you know, and they excel at Math and Science, go to college, and become anything they put their minds to.  Here's a challenge for toy companies; make a fashion doll that independent toy stores will want to sell and little girls will want to buy.  Make them with different skin tones and hair textures.  Get crazy, give them arms and legs that bend.  You can make the wardrobe plenty fabulous, but we can all do without the tiny waists and torpedo breasts.  Is this asking too much? 

Chain toy superstores have figured out something that seems to have escaped the buyers for the two stores in Porter Square.  They realized that some parents are spending in excess of $100 at a time on dolls meant to look like ( funny-looking )  latency-age girls.  That's another way small toy stores could lose a lot of business.    Some doll companies are making attractive girl-doll, and I'm sure that some parents in this area  would line up to buy one that costs   MUCH less than the expensive, “status” ones.   

Okay, now I'm back from my visit to Henry Bear's Park with finger-puppets and toy pandas.  That's what Emma wanted for her friend, and she wanted one of each for herself too.  Puppets, toy animals, love them both, and the store did have a good selection.  Emma may not want to do all her shopping there, but we will be returning.


Jamie and I have told Emma that she needs to get rid of some of the long-neglected baby-toys.  She has been pretty good about saying she didn't want to keep something when I asked  her about it.  Yesterday evening, she told me she thought it was time to give away the two bins of wooden trains and tracks.  It's a very cool collection, all inherited from Liam.  Emma and I agreed that some other kid would love them.  We made a “new toys for old” agreement, and I wonder what she'll consider a fair trade.

Summer Plans

I  need to be totally clear about this;  I am not here to be “inspiring”.    I'm just here doing what I do.   I don't know  any people with disabilities who wake up in the morning planning to get out there to inspire the hell out of everyone they see. 

I'm married and in love.  I battled my way to a fine education, and literally hold more degrees than I've figured out how to use.  I've had two healthy pregnancies which resulted in two fabulous children.  Life is good.  And, oh yeah, I was born with Cerebral Palsy and I was part of a car accident that caused me to develop a seizure disorder.  That's my life.

I worked for a year counseling well-off collage-age kids with some pretty heavy-duty learning disabilities who wanted leave home for school and work toward a holding a good job and living in some cute little apartment in Cambridge;  and cooking for themselves, balancing their checkbooks and the many other things nobody thinks about when they're in their first two years of college.  Of course, the kids also wanted to meet other kids so they could hang around and blow things off,  party on Thursday and get laid; but all this goes without saying.  People ( like me ) could feel damn proud of all of them, but they just wanted lives.

For nine months, I took the morning train to Framingham with a cool young man called C.J. who had developmental delays.  We sat together, bitching and moaning about being on a train at 8:00 am. We talked about how we had learned to bake biscotti, and he insisted that my mother-in-law's recipe did not produce “real” biscotti because the cookies took less than eight hours to make.  We talked about what kind of jerks our bosses were and about what we would rather be doing at that moment.  C.J  knew more about my week than many of my grad-school classmates.  C.J. never tried to talk to me while I was writing in my journal.  Sometimes we just rode the train together and read.

The first time we met,  I was carrying a Tupperware container full of the much-disputed biscotti to a work-party.  “Are those biscotti,” he asked.  He didn't wonder aloud why I had them, ask me for one, or malign their authenticity.  The next time he saw me, we sat across from each other and had ourselves a chat.  Before we'd gotten off the train, C.J. told me to go to the people in charge of the public transportation system and get myself one of the special passes for people with disabilities, but I didn't.

I found out that I could not have gotten a pass if I'd wanted one; two brain-injuries and a seizure disorder isn't enough for the state of Massachusetts.   In the state where having a seizure disorder would keep me off the road, I'm “too able-bodied” for reduced transit  fare.  Does that make sense to you?

Hey wait, what was my point anyway?  Oh yeah, it was my Summer plans;  I'm going to learn to ride some sort of cycle.  Some sort of wheeled, vehicle with pedals powered by me.  Two wheels, three four, I'll try anything.  If you want to see what, in my dreams I can imagine toodling about on, look here:  http://www.incrediblethings.com/art-design/bicycle-design-for-people-with-disabilities/  .  I love this, and it's so pretty.  I don't know where to get it or how much it costs.  All I know is I want it as much as it wants me.  But I digress.

Like many of you, I tried learning to ride a bike when I was a kid.  I gave it up as one of those things I couldn't do.  Now, Emma wants a bright red bike, I mean she really wants one.  Now, Liam wants to give it another try.  I'm feeling spurred into action, so I'm giving learning to ride a go.  I've got the whole Summer ahead of me, and this is what I plan to do:

1.Write every day.
2.Start riding a bike.
3.Loose 5-10 pounds

Looking to be impressed?  Don't worry.  Those are just three things I'm gonna do.  If I'm going to be writing every day, you're sure to read about how I'm doing the other 2 as well.

New School for Emma

As we do on most weekday mornings, Emma and I walked off to her school today. Neither of us were simmering about the clothes Emma was wearing or about the amount of TV   she'd watched, or not, and we weren't late.  We shared a cozy journey under the water-color blue sky.  We passed the cafe which smelled like hot breakfast.  She'd greeted the dogs and their walkers along Holland Street.  We'd called out to friends in the parking-lot and in the hallway.

I know that, if I wanted to,  I could pull out a calender and count the days on which we'll make the same trip, but I don't want to do that.  Doing that would make me sad because  I would get ready to miss buddies and teachers, the well-stocked classrooms and the new playground.   Emma has been attending the Tufts Educational Day-Care Center since she was 2.9 years old.  When Emma was born, Liam had been in Kindergarten there, so we started counting the days before would start Green Group the week that she was born.   For me, her first day of Green Group felt like coming home.   I knew that I could trust the place the day that Emma first walked through the door,  and I knew I was telling the truth when I'd promised she would have fun.

Emma knows she will be going to Kindergarten in September, so we talked about taking a little walk to her “new school” this weekend.    She's looking forward to the new school already.  Her buddy Miranda from next door will be there too, and Emma loves this. I think that going to school with her must make Emma feel like she has one a prize.  I'm thinking happily about rides to school on cold, rainy mornings, but I don't think this occurs to Emma.

Miranda is the only friend of Emma's whom we know for sure will be going to her new school.  Some friends  will be staying at T.E.D.C.C.,  and others will be diving straight into private schools. Some kids will be attending the Somerville school known as the place to go for a little old-fashioned academic rigor. 

During the last week of school last year, the school Superintendent in this town announced that the Progressive program Liam has attended since Kindergarten would end next year.  He talks about how blending bits of what had once made the program almost work into the whole school would make it better for everyone.  This may be true, but I'm far from confident it will happen.  I don't trust the Superintendent ( Hell, he just canceled the choice I'd made!), and I don't know the Principal ( last guy cut out in May).  What they are planning sounds great, it could be the place to be, but I'm not sending my daughter into an experiment.  Liam wants to stay at the school another year because this is his world.  He'll stay with the same teacher because one aspect of the late-lamented program that they want to keep ( for now ) is two grades in each classroom.  We like his teacher a lot, so he'll stay.   In the 7th grade, he'll be at Emma's school. 

In September, Somerville will be full of five-year-olds coming into unfamiliar places, their new backpacks on their backs.  They might have one old friend in their class, they might have met other classmates at the events schools are planning for the young ones.  Some kids may find themselves sitting next to kids they see at the park but have never talked to, kids that live on the next street.  The classrooms will be filled with kids who wonder who will sit with them at lunch.  Everyone is going to be together in this; it's all new to all of them.

It will be new to me too.  In September, I'll still be walking her to school, but we will have to be there an hour earlier than we often come strolling into Blue Group.  I'll take her to the door, and hand her over to her teacher.  I won't get to walk in and check out what's going on in the classroom.  I won't learn to recognize the kids or their parents until some class event. I won't be able to watch Emma settling in to play with her new friends.

To Emma, new school may seem like nothing but a big adventure.  In August, she might not be so sure.   She knows it's happening, but it may still seem kind of vague.  Maybe it's not going to be fully real until the morning we go to the top of our street and start walking the further away from the day care center.  I know she will be fine, but she may have a shock coming.   I hope she realizes she's ready for it.  This weekend, she wants to take a walk to her new place.   She wants to really like it, and I hope she does.

Birthday Treats

Birthday Treats


Anyone who wants to know what flavor of funny little geek I am need only look at the birthday gifts assembled on my diningroom table.   At the front, we have Season One of Sherlock on blue-ray given by Liam who watched all these episodes with me on TV and can't wait for more.  From Emma, there is a graphic novel version of The Wizard of Oz.   Jamie gave me something neither of us knew existed; an annotated, unesprogated edition of The Picture of Dorian Grey.  If you have a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray on your shelf (as I do), here's something you might not know: the Picture we've all read has been though the editing mill, twice.  Annotations?; oh what joy!  Pictures? Victoriana?  biographical bits?;  I'll take them.

So, what does this tell you about me?  It says that I read 19th century literature, and I mean that I do it for fun.  I've got an e-reader chock-a-block with novels so old that their copyrights have expires and that the Guetenburg Project makes available for free downloads.  I'm delighted, the thought of all those old words makes me clap my hands and shout, “oh goody!”  Some people only read these books for fun, but not me. 

 It reminds my readers who my childhood heroes were; one of them a character who moved though a world full of people who saw but, much to his frustration never really looked and one real person who whose life happened behind the screen his public persona had created.   Wilde's poetry was beautiful,   his comic timing peerless.  His fairy-tales gave up their happy ending to get-you-by-the-throat sadness.  And then, we have Dorian Gray,   you know that old story; a beautiful young man kept young and beautiful while his portrait grew as ugly as his tainted, rotting soul.   The story is the jumping-off point of everything from movies to New Yorker cartoons.  You can't avoid it.  One person created that plot-device, that cliché, that basis of so many stories by himself.  Think about that for a second.   No, I don't think Oscar Wilde's one novel gets all the credit its due.

You can't avoid Sherlock Holmes and John Watson either.  Many people already know how passionately  their creator,  Dr. Conan-Doyle  hated him.  He pushed one to his death  and in doing  silenced that one's Bosewell too, or thought he had.   Conan-Doyle tried, but the reading public wasn't about to let Holmes and Watson go.  Not only was he forced to bring Holmes back from his rocky grave,  other writers still refuse to let the characters go.  They are as solid, as real as Michelangelo's  David; once they'd been created, they couldn't be taken back.

And I do love the modern Sherlock and John.  Sherlock is still brilliant, still brittle and as difficult as he should be.  He's still a one-man force of unique and selective justice.  He continues to care deeply about stopping evil and keeping people safe, and keeps right on hiding just how personally he takes it.  In this version,  the audience truly sees just how much John has to put up with, living with the world's worst roomie.  I am glad to see that John Watson is young, vigorous, and smart.  The man is an army doctor dammit!; he was never meant to be a fat, old, dimwit toddling along after Holmes never copping-on fully.    This John Watson looks more like the great-great-grandson of the Dr. Watson readers always knew.

The last bit of what makes Sherlock so fun for me is that it was created by Steven Moffit, the man who wrote Coupling which I think is one of the funniest television shows ever.  It's often lude, sometimes awkward, and the characters aren't always even likable.  And, it's funny, laugh-as-you-repeat-bits out-loud funny.  

All my birthday gifts have one thing in common; they take a story I know, hammer it into something else, and give it back to me all shiny and new.  That is something I really love.

My love of the reworked old was what I wanted to bring with me on my Mothers' Day outing that never happened.  I wanted to go to something (someplace?) called “Steampunk City”.  Now all I know about steampunk style, imagery, etc. is that it takes the mostly-prettier bits of the Victorian Age and covers them with modern techno-trappings.  Well, that sounds like a fun way to spend a few hours on a Sunday.  I always did love the idea of a nineteenth-century garb-up.  Heck, I've been talked out of dressing like Sherlock Holmes or Oscar Wilde every Halloween since I was thirteen.  As I said, I LOVE that stuff.

I'm forty-four today.  Thirty years ago, I turned fourteen, and my parents took me on the best birthday outing ever.   That night, I saw my first production of The Importance of Being Ernest.  The four of us laughed ourselves nearly sick.  I knew then that this was the funniest thing I'd ever seen.  Life-changing?; why yes, it was.

Emma in Charge

According to one of her teachers, Emma is a born director.   When she’s in the “Dramatic-Play Area” of her classroom ( now a spaceship, until this week  a skating-rink), Emma takes charge of making up the story and assigning roles for the other kids to play.  When her friend Oliver came over this week,  she was already planning their game of Pirate-Monkeys, and met Oliver at the door with the pirate-hat she’d picked for him.  Pirate-Monkeys is their favourite game, so Oliver put down his new toy plane and rushed up the stairs .  When I passed her room an hour later,  I was pulled in and told it was my job to find them.  Since Oliver and Emma still hide in plain sight, finding them meant looking everywhere but where they were, exclaiming, “ where could those prirate-monkeys be?”   I hadn’t played out my part until I’d crawled after them into a very narrow toy tunnel after them and tickled them until they fled. 

Parents, brothers, boy-buds, little girls boss the ones they love.  They’re looking out for us, making sure we do it right.   I think that’s what people want them to be; opinionated, powerful  queens of their own tiny worlds.   In the 1990s, people were being warned that girls in high-school seemed intimidated in class, some doubting their own abilities with regard to math and science.  So, what happens?   I wish I knew.

I’d planned to write about how girls and young women are portrayed in movies and television programs of which kids are the intended  audience.  I will right about these  because I do have a lot to say.  You will just have to wait.

I’d like you to know what Emma did today as soon as she entered her classroom.  She made straight for the dramatic-play spaceship, pulling me along behind her.  “Look, we have space-boots,” she exclaimed as she outfitted herself.  “We have helmets, we have lab-coats!”  She sat me down and offered me the food they had found on distant planets.  As I left, she said she was gathering up a crew andheading out to see what she could find on other planets.  That’s my girl, get out there!  And that lab-coat?; please keep wearing that

 

Taking the Kids to the Movies

If I were younger, and didn’t have two children, I might have attended  a midnight screening of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows  last night, but I do have two children.  I’ll be seeing the movie tonight with Liam and six of his buddies.  You’ll see us all in the lobby of the Harvard Square movie theater, ready to get through the door as soon as they open to grab nine good seats in a line.  We might even pack a picnic.  A pack of boys and me, Molly Weasly forsooth!

Almost every boy in Liam’s pack is just about the age young Mr. Potter was on that dark and stormy night when Hagrid busted down a door and pulled Harry into the world where he belonged.  None of these boys have the faintly phospherescent pallor of the very young Harry Potter.  They don’t look like the vunderable kid that some parents in the audience may have wanted to  bundle home and care for. I’m attending the movie

Emma stays home tonight;  that’s the way it is. If we hadn’t found a babysitter last night, Jamie would be staying home while I’m in Harvard Square  watching over the boys. Emma has been counting the days  with me;  she knows she’s not going to the movie, but she anticipates an interesting night.  She’s not getting some extra time with Oliver ( we’d considered that when we thought we’d go to an afternoon showing) or having Daddy to herself, but she is meeting somebody new who might be up for some Chutes and Ladders.   When Emma is in grade-school,  I would like Warner Brothers to do what Walt Diseny used to do; to re-release into theaters so young kids can see them.  I would love it if she could see the films on something bigger than a very big telivision; just not now, just not this movie.

Emma saw Beauty and thw Beast last weekend, and it was almost too much for her.  The Beast, tusks paws and all, was pretty scary at first, but she did conclude he was alright.  I think what got to her most was the angry, torch-waving mob and the sense that something awful was about to happen to someone good.  I don’t know if all little kids sponge up all the fear, drama, and high emotion that they see on the screen and feel other people feeling;  I just know that Emma does. 

There are people now lining up on the sidewalk to go into the theaters and watch a kid fight Evil; snake-faced absolute Evil with a big E.  People ( myself included ) have waited a year to savor the dread this churns out on the screen. You don’t have to have spent years with Harry and his friends to fear for their safety; but if his world is part of your world, you know that he’ll be safe.  Emma doesn’t know that.

And another reason nothing would make me take Emma tonight;  let’s face it folks, a kid’s pet dies,  probably within the first thirty minutes of the movie.  The one living thing that travels with Harry  between the world he wound up in and the world where he belongs, the one who has been with him since he was that scared little kid is gone.   Even if that is the only thing Emma could take in, that’s overpoweringly sad.  I may be passing around a box of tissues as soon as that happens.    I can’t go picking up the pieces for Emm until I know that I can stand it.

This Winter,  I’d love to start reasing Harry Potter and the Saucerors Stone to Emm.  Someday, I hope we can see these movies together in a movie theater, as big as they are supposed to be.  Tonight just isn’t the night.

Besides, all things Harry Potter have always been Mama / Liam things.  My boy turned eleven last a week ago Monday,  I’ll enjoy these things while I still can.