Another re-post, but edited. How we loved this show, these actors....
One of the best and probably defining movies of my generation was the brilliant version of “Young Frankenstein” with Gene Wilder, Peter Boyle, Terri Garr, Madeleine Kahn, and Marty Feldman. Even now, some almost 40 years later, my husband and I quote phrases that we remember and we chuckle.
“Roll in ze hay” or
“Franken-shteen! Not Franken-shtine!”
The one that I remember today is “Oh! Sweet Mystery of Life, at last I’ve Found you!” sung by Madeleine Kahn. I won't post it, but it is great.
Strangely, anyone of the generation before us know nothing about this gem. Nothing of Silverado, The Sting, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid...movies we of the 1960s remember and can quote line by line. But then, we know nothing of Stranger on a Train, Dial M for Murder, 42nd Street, Broadway Melodies.... Perspective is the issue.
This post is written to honor a small baby, Zeke, who died at age of 2 1/2 months. His precious mother, Elisa, has written a wonderful book, The Golden Sky, which will be released tomorrow. Please click on the image above, or on the link below to go to her site. There are many bloggers sharing their losses today. God bless them all.
There have been so many people whom I
have loved, treasured even, and who then died. It is a long list. All of these people touched my life and others’ lives, then left.
Bill. My brother Bill. That is the person whose life and then death hit me the hardest, leaving the biggest achy grief that never leaves me.
I was 3 ½ years old when Bill was born, still a very little girl. I recall clearly standing at the crib, with my eyes even with the crib mattress. Staring in at this red-faced baby, with his blond sticky-up hair, I didn’t know if I liked this change or not.
I reached my hand through the bars of the crib, and put my hand on the diapered butt. It was warm, in a wet way. Just then, he turned his face toward mine; he wrinkled up his nose and yawned. I decided I liked him. In fact I was going to be his protector, and take care of him his whole life.
Being his protector was not easy. Bill was an active boy, with long legs and a short fuse. The distance between seeing something to do and then doing it was split seconds. The most impulsive, charming, adventurous boy in existence: that is what I decided Bill was. Soon I gave up on the protection business. It would never work for Bill.
Oh, Bill. I find myself saying that several times a day, even now. Those two words say everything. He grew fast, ran fast; he ran away. One day Bill was still in high school, and then it seemed, the next day he was gone away somewhere.
To chronicle Bill’s life would frustrate the writer and the reader. Let’s just say that Bill had many adventures, all of which involved danger and helping people. All those adventures broke hearts, but his charm and impulsiveness were his way of leaving behind other people who sighed, “Oh, Bill.”
Bill died at age 44, the result of blood poisoning following a botched surgery. The surgery was necessary—all those adventures left behind damage in his long lanky cowboy body.
Add caption
My role of ‘protector’ still haunts me. I think back at the phone calls Bill made to me over our adult years, and wonder if I could have said something that would have brought him home. I think of that final week, when he was dying but I didn’t know it.
If only, if only…the regrets of a protector.
My brother Bill with 'Sonny'
I am thinking that someday in heaven, I will chase Bill across the clover fields he loved so much, and actually catch him. Boy, will I give him a hug or two, or a million.
All through my adult life I have known there were options, if I ever needed to make a change and make it quickly. I could close my eyes and see my parents’ home on the farm, and know that in a matter of hours, I could be there. I could go home.
No matter what happened, the image of home hung in my mind, and I could face anything. Just knowing that helped me find ways to work through a harsh situation or painful reality.
Built in 1860s, I think
Home meant that my mother would be making a pie in the kitchen and my father would be pulling into the driveway on his John Deere tractor. We would sit at the kitchen table and talk, drinking cup after cup of coffee. Dad would tell a greatly embellished story which I had heard a hundred times, but my children would listen to it and laugh. He would sit with his long legs in front of him, and his feed cap tilted to one side, rakishly. My mom would laugh, and hold one of my children on her lap, helping him/her to eat that last piece of pie.
Our old barn, wooden nails and all
Home meant that we would sleep upstairs with the windows wide open. The silence would be broken only by a dog’s bark, or the sound of the hog feeders opening and closing. I would listen to the sounds an old farm house makes. I used to think that the old house would groan at night because its joints hurt; maybe they did. My children would be safe in bed while I struggled with the dilemma that sent me running home in the first place.
North porch, Dad's boots
The old cistern and Mom's cactus
But now I find myself in a peculiar time of my life. The place I always called home is gone. Gone. When my father retired from farming, they left the farm and moved into a nice house in town, near wonderful neighbors. The farmhouse was bulldozed away by new owners who built a modern home, and it won’t groan at all. The house in town, which held together the concept of home, is now up for sale, along with all the precious things that defined home for me. My parents are together in heaven, their new home.
So now my generation has the role as the keepers, the guardians of our own children’s concept of home. My home is the place they will close their eyes and picture at the desperate times of their lives, and feel a rush of relief. They can come home.
Now, I close my eyes and hear the sounds of my own home, enjoy the memories of my children running through the hall and eating my pie at my kitchen table. My home.
My 83 year-old mother was a beautiful young woman and is still a beautiful woman. Oh, I know, you have to look beyond the aging, but the eyes still sparkle with the spirit and beauty that was and is my mom.
It is hard for a previously independent person to slowly discover all that was is slipping away. That came for my mother this past year, when she suffered three severe in-home accidents. The last one nearly killed her, and it was like God was shouting to all of us, “Time to give up self-pride, and go where the precious person will be taken care of and kept safe!”
Mom, in the red sweater
It has been difficult for all of us, especially her. Phone calls reveal her pain and frustration. But, on Monday Feb. 14, she called me. Her voice was my young mom’s voice, filled with laughter and clever thoughts. “Well, Susie! You’ll never guess what I am! I am the ‘Valentine Queen’ of Eastside Care!...” She went on and told me about the big party the staff put on, and how every resident and staff member voted, and she won the Valentine crown! Not only that, everyone has been “…bowing and scraping, calling me ‘Your Majesty’ as I pass…” And then she laughed, just like she used to when we were in her kitchen on the farm, listening to the radio.
I miss you, Mom.
I will take and treasure all the laughter she can give me, my Valentine Queen.
There is a simple truth in a girl’s life that we all have had to accept occasionally throughout the female life:Boys break things.
I learned this repeatedly throughout my growing up years, since I had three brothers.The first time was a minor breakage, but the breaking of my things grew in magnitude as my brothers grew.I remember Christmas 1959—it was a wonderful Christmas, for Santa had gotten some extra money from the sale of hogs.Pork prices must have been up for that time period.When I opened my presents, I had received a bride doll.She had luxurious black wavy hair like Elizabeth Taylor.And I was given a two-piece set of pink metal refrigerator and range; the doors opened and closed; and, there were miniature boxes of cake mix, cans of peas, Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.It was amazing.My oldest brother Don gave me a brush, comb, mirror, and talcum powder dresser set; I felt so grown up.My older brother Robert gave me a make-up set for girls about my age (8).Bill was four years old, and Mary was only 2, so I don’t remember what they gave.
I went back to school after break was over, taking my new doll.I came home excited, for I was going to play with my new toys.As I climbed the stairs to my room, I became apprehensive; there were white talc footprints heading down the stairs.I ran to my room, and beheld the carnage.
Everything was covered in talc powder.My comb was broken, the mirror was cracked.There was lipstick all over the face of my old doll.The toy food boxes had been smashed, and there was a dent in the sides of the refrigerator and stove.All my precious new toys had suffered a great assault.
I ran down the stairs, “Mmmmooooommmmm!” all the way.She was peeling potatoes for dinner, and didn’t even turn around.“What’s the matter?” I poured out my heart, with all the frustration and pain an eight-year old girl can feel.It was Bill mainly, but Mary did the lipstick, I knew this.Bill broke my gifts.“Well, go clean it up.”She continued peeling.I glanced into the living room, where the two miscreants sat innocently watching cartoons.I wanted beatings, I wanted revenge, I wanted…something.
I went upstairs and cleaned up the mess, trying to clean off the lipstick, reshape the little cornflake box.I never forgot:Boys break things.
Recently, when I was visiting my daughter Erin, she asked the girls what they know about boys.Without even looking up from their playing, they said in unison: “Boys break things.”Another generation learns the hard truth.
I write a letter every day to my mother, who is 83 years old and living in a care facility.It is difficult to speak to her on a phone, although not impossible.She has a cell phone (!) but her hands are so crippled with arthritis that it is hard for her to dial out, and hold the phone to her ear.So I write a letter everyday.
You’d think I would run out of things to write about, but it doesn’t really matter what the topic is:she loves getting the letter and reading anything that brings her into my life, and her life into mine.The most important things about the letter are that I am thinking about her, that I want to share something with her, and that the postman will deliver that envelope.All those things make the difference in her day.
I discovered last summer that Mom has kept every letter I have written since she became so crippled.She also has kept all the letters I wrote to her when I lived in Ireland; she has kept all the letters that her sister Vada wrote to her when she and Uncle Ed lived in England.Mom has a box of letters that Dad wrote to his mother during WWII.Boxes and boxes of letters, all from people she loves.
I asked her why she had kept them, and she told me, “Well, Susie.I like to open and read them every now and then.They take me back to the day I got them, and remind me of what I was doing then.I like to read them because I can hear (their) voices, just as if (they) were sitting right there with me.”
Now, that’s a good reason to write a letter, put it in an envelope with a stamp, and send it.
Emailing, tweeting, IM, or twittering just isn’t the same.They are fine, in a limited way.But those communications will never form the stuff of history.Think about the great letter writers of our past:Emperor Napoleon, John Adams, George Washington, Don Juan, and Thomas Jefferson— just to name a few.Those letters were kept, and some historian put them into a book, for generations to read.The letters humanize the legend, make us realize how important relationships are, and see the writer as a person clutching a pen and struggling over finding just the right word or phrase.
Nostalgia only goes so far.That is my definitive word on the subject.I have several subscriptions to magazines that tend to recall the past through a heavily fogged lens.Some recall fondly the joy of hanging out the laundry on clotheslines, and then sleeping on fresh-air dried sheets.I, too, did that as a child.I also helped wash those sheets in a wringer washer with two rinse tubs.Then I hung the sheets and brought them in.They were a stiff as a board at times, and felt like sandpaper.The towels were much worse—drying off with them was an exfoliating experience.
Some recall the pleasure of snapping beans on the porch with an elderly relative.I did that, too.And, I have to admit, listening to my grandmothers talk was something I will always treasure.But, I was the one who helped plant the beans and hoe out the weeds.Then I was the one who picked the beans, under the hot Midwest sun.Being the youngest member of the bean snapping brigade, those were my jobs.So my fondest memory genes hit a wall when thinking about beans.
Yes, recalling the past is a mixed bag. Right now, I am nostalgic for the time back in 2010 when I didn’t have this blasted cold/sinus infection.When was that?November?Maybe, October?I don’t know.All I do know is that I am so thankful that we have a Costco nearby and I can buy a flat of Kleenex with Aloe Lotion for less than $12.When we bought the first flat, we foolishly thought it would last us until the spring.We are into our second flat, and it is only February.
I recall being able to sleep through the whole night, without getting up to cough up ‘stuff’ and blow my nose.It was wonderful to have the Kleenex box on the nightstand, instead of clutching it with my left arm while reaching for a fresh tissue with my right.
Go to the doctor, you may suggest.I did that, and got a prescription for antibiotic, after I described accurately the color and texture of the nasal discharge.The doctor probed the sinus areas on my face, and I mentioned that there was one area over my right eye that was about three times its normal size, and that she should be able to see the bruising that was surely there.Try Sudafed, some mentioned.Use DayQuil, others said.Have you tried the Neti Pot?Oh, yes. I have done them all.
The Neti Pot, by the way, is an experience to be…experienced.Don’t rightly know how to describe it without grossing out every reader who checks this blog out.Only those who are with me in my misery know what I mean.My oh my, you know that to which I refer.
Yes, nostalgia is a strong attachment and longing for something that brought each person a delight at one time or another.To be able to breathe again, to smell fresh air, to appreciate humor—someday I will have those things again.
