Arm chair witness to history (Part I)

For all the excesses and waste of television (a subject on which I sometimes muse), there is an undeniable benefit: television gives us the opportunity to be arm chair witnesses to history.

One  of the almost trite statements is “Do you remember where you were when you heard the news that …” (you can fill in the blank).  The most recent that struck me as almost irrelevant was Brian Williams, anchor of NBC Nightly News, intoning “We will remember where we were when we learned that James Gandolfini died.”  Now, I grant you Gandolfini may have been a fine actor—I was not one of the legion of viewers of “The Sopranos” so I can’t say.  And by all accounts, he was a genuinely fine man.  But, really, was his death earth-shaking? I think not.

In the course of my lifetime, thus far, there have been earth-shaking events.  And many of them were televised as they happened, so that I was an arm chair witness to history.

Here’s a sampling.

The Assassination of JFK’s killer (1963)

One of the ironies of events being televised is that even if they are not televised “live” people who see a video believe they saw the actual event.  Such is the case with the assassination of JFK.  When Zapruder came forward with his famous 8-mm film, and when that film was shown, there were thousands of people who swore they saw JFK’s assassination live.  Of course, Zapruder—who was a witness in Dallas, who happened to have his camera handy—filmed the assassination and that film was then shown after the fact.  Its constant replaying and its verisimilitude is what gave people the sense that they saw JFK’s assassination live.

What we did see live was Lee Harvey Oswald being led from jail; we watched Jack Ruby step up close, then suddenly produce a small gun and shoot Oswald in the stomach.  We saw Oswald grimace, and grab his front, and then collapse.

As it happened, that event occurred on a Sunday.  I was a college sophomore, and was touring with our choral group. We had just sung in a church service, and then went to various homes of members of that congregation for a Sunday dinner.  It was in such a home, where the television was turned on, that I saw this snip of history unfold.

The Republican Convention (1964)

…or the short-lived effort to have someone other than Barry Goldwater become the party standard bearer.

During the summers, while I attended college, I was employed as a maid and/or cook in the homes of wealthy U.S. citizens who had summer homes along Lake Erie, on the Canadian side.   So, that meant I was live-in at these homes, with specific work tasks but a fair amount of free time.  

During the summer of 1964, the Republican Party held its convention to nominate its candidate to run against President Lyndon Johnson.  That was in the days when party conventions really meant something, and actual ballots were taken that would result in a candidate that was not a foregone conclusion.  While I was too young to vote, I was intensely interested in politics. Plus I hailed from Pennsylvania, whose then Governor William Scranton was an honorable and decent man.  

Since the groundswell clearly favored Senator Barry Goldwater, who I thought had disastrous policies on Vietnam, I was thrilled to watch as a sudden flurry of activity on the convention floor made it appear as though Scranton actually had a chance.  And all of this activity was occurring right before my eyes as I sat glued to the television.  As it turned out, he didn't—he wasn't nominated, Goldwater was, and in the fall election, Goldwater was soundly defeated.   

The Assassination of Bobby Kennedy (1968)

It was the first day of summer vacation for me, in my first year of teaching college English.  So, I slept in.  When I awakened, I turned on the television, expecting to watch a few minutes at the end of the Today Show.  Instead, I turned in to the late-breaking news that, immediately following his victory in winning the California primary, Senator Robert Kennedy had been shot and had died.  

Of course, like so many people during the turbulent 1960s, I had mourned the untimely deaths of political leaders—of course, JFK was the “first” followed by Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Jr., and now Robert Kennedy.  The song, recorded by Dion, “Abraham, Martin and John” captured the deep sadness these assassinations evoked in many people.  And, of course, the final stanza captured the horror of one more assassination including Bobby.

I don’t recall what I did the rest of that day—all I can recall is sitting for a long long time trying to absorb and make sense of yet another senseless death.

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To be continued

The Bookends of Life

Between the bookends of life--birth and death--life gets lived.

Now, this assertion is hardly startling, but since my blog is entitled KGMom's MUSINGS--I am given to musing. And recent events have set my mind spinning on this somewhat trivial musing...that life gets lived between the time of our birth and the time of our death.

The recent birth of our granddaughter has been such a joyous occasion. Just days after she was born, my husband and I traversed the ocean between our home and our daughter and son-in-law's home to meet our granddaughter. Within days after our leaving them, more anxious-to-meet-the-granddaughter parents arrived. Then within days of their departure, an uncle and aunt arrived. And then there were friends who visited. In short, this sweet little girl was welcomed into the world with great fanfare of family and friends cheering her on.

In the in-between times of getting to see our granddaughter, we make do with Skype calls or Google Chat. Of course, it's not the same as an in the flesh visit, but it helps. We can see her smiling, and watch as she tries to master crawling. We can watch her parents interacting with her and doing a SPLENDID job of giving her the best possible start in this world.

As any parent knows, the life course of a child is not written in advance. But a good beginning certainly helps.

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At the other end of the spectrum of life--the other bookend--is death.

We recently saw, with shock, the obituary announcement of a former neighbor. When an obituary notice begins with these word: "W.G., 46, of Middletown, entered into rest suddenly on June 12, 2013 at his home"-- you just know that all was not well. A sudden death at 46.

This neighbor was indeed strange. In fact, since his first name began with W, I confess that I took to calling him "weird W." He lived in the house on the corner for 20 years. During that time, he had two live-in girlfriends, each of whom left under less than happy circumstances. He did minimal--and I mean minimal--work around the yard. He reluctantly mowed, but only when the "grass" had reached a foot in height. He had wood delivered for his wood stove, with which the house was heated, but the load of wood was simply dumped in the back yard, never stacked. The end cap on his roof broke, and he never had it repaired. External paint began to peel, and stayed that way.

All the while, W. would sit in his back yard, under the shade of a large pin oak tree, smoking a cigar and sipping on bottles of beer. He never put forth an effort to do... anything.

So it came as no surprise when about two months ago, I noticed he was moving things out of the house. I stopped to ask, out of plain nosiness, where he was going, and he indicated he was leaving the house. His most recent former live-in girlfriend was helping him, and she told me that he had been foreclosed on, and was losing the house. Apparently he moved in with his mother.

And then, two days ago, I saw his death notice. 46 years old. Dying suddenly at home. Not sick--just died suddenly. And no memorial service was to be held--as per his instructions. He seems to have failed at everything--at relationships, at holding a steady job, at keeping a house he had bought, and--presumably--at life itself. He seems to have succeeded at only one thing--he had a good dog named DJ.

How sad--a life lived between the bookends. I can't help but wonder--did W. have a good beginning? Was he loved? Was he happy? Did W. get to live the entirety of his life?

Musings--that's all I have here. Just musings.

Life Lessons on a CPM* Machine

Time to pick up the proverbial pen and resume blogging.  Well, you and I know that it's not really a pen I'm picking up, but I am setting fingers to the keyboard.

When last I blogged, I announced this anticipated break necessitated by upcoming surgery.  Surgery has "come and gone" and I now have a new knee.  Tomorrow, I return to the orthopedic surgeon to have my staples removed.  Then the day after, I begin out-patient physical therapy.

But, I have NOT been idle.  Oh, no--I am spending a good part of my waking day doing the requisite exercises to get the new knee to flex and bend, and also being strapped into a CPM machine (*Continuous Passive Motion) which, slowly over time, increases the angle of the bend of my knee, all the while flexing my leg up and down, back and forth.

So, I have time to .... read (but I get bored); watch TV (oh, previous reaction ten times over); play some games on my Kindle Fire (only lasts so long); nap (yes, I have succumbed); and think--ah, think.

What I have been thinking is the life lessons learned on the CPM machine.

Lesson 1--It's you or no one.
You are the one who has to commit to doing whatever work there is to keep yourself healthy.  There's no one else who can be put on the machine, and have the results work out for you.  

Lesson 2--Give in to the pressure as it increases.
The first several times I notched up the machine a degree or so, I felt myself inadvertently resisting the machine.  I quickly learned that as the machine moved, and the pressure bending my knee increased, it worked better if I gave in to the pressure.  Instead of pushing back, I went with the bend.  Thus, the machine could work its magic and I didn't experience pain by pushing back.

Lesson 3--You have to commit to the time that is needed.
Since I use the machine three times a day, each time preceded by about a half an hour of assigned muscle strengthening exercises, it is OH SO TEMPTING to cut corners.  But, the whole point of the exercise regimen is to help me regain full control and use of my leg with its new knee.  So, cutting corners only spites myself.

Lesson 4--Stay the course.
Since the exercises start out slowly, the improvement is incremental, even seemingly non-existent...at first.  But then after two days, four days, seven days--with each passing day change occurs.  And "suddenly" I realize, hey, I can bend my knee much further than when I first came home. 

Lesson 5--Chill.
Sometimes, when my knee is feeling pressure, the best way to handle it is to use a little ice.  So, chill.

Lesson 6--Up with Good, Down with Bad.
My surgeon gave me this little mnemonic device as a way to remember which leg to use when going up or down stairs--"up with the good, down with the bad."  In general, not bad advice! 

Lesson 7--Accept the Love.
My recovery has been quick and steady.  And in great part I owe that to the wonderful help from my loving husband who is doing double duty--his usual work and mine as well.  In addition to his love, the dog has been very sweet in checking on me periodically.  And the three cats have taken turns snuggling up next to me as I spend hours on the CPM machine.  Top off this love with phone calls and emails from family, and cards from friends--well, all I can do is just accept the love.

No doubt, I will learn a few more lessons.  Maybe that's why you only have the machine on loan for 3 weeks--if you had it longer, you'd figure out how the universe works, or maybe come up with a unified theory of everything.

Gotta go....time to get back on the machine.

The Last Word...

...for a time, dear reader, just for a time.

When I first became aware of blogging, I began writing and reading.  My first blog entry was about a trip to Spain we had recently completed.  Once I wrote up the entire vacation experiences, I moved on to other topics--plumbing childhood memory depths, then observations about teaching, life, movies, along with the occasional rant.

I also began reading other writers' blogs.  Blogging is so much more satisfying for me than tweeting, or than reading Facebook entries.  First, almost every subject I can think of as a potential writing topic requires more than the truncated entry requirement of Twitter, and more than the clever or titillating bon mot that catches my eye on Facebook.  Second, I tend to limit whose blogs I read, which I also do with Twitter (for me, the least used of these self-expression media), but which I am less inclined to do with Facebook.  While I don't accept every request to "be friends" on Facebook, I have a wider circle there than I do in the blogging world.  

But what I observe is that blogging is slowly falling out of favor.  Some of the early blogs I read no longer exist--in a few instances, the writers have died: they wrote bravely about their struggles with diseases that eventually silenced them.  Some of the blogs I read have fallen by the wayside as the writers move on to other ventures.  Some bloggers are still perking along, bubbling with a fountain of creativity as prolific as Ponce de Leon's mythical fountain of youth.  Sometimes I find a new blog to read and enjoy (see Pieces of Peace). 

I know, in the core of my writing being, that Facebook will also fade.  And as I peruse the entries each day, I see it fading.  No need to catalog the Facebook complaints and woes here.

So, why my dire "The Last Word..." title?  Because I am about to take a mini-blogging break.

While you know we have traveled--both to the west (California, here we come!) and east (maybe something to do with this sweetie),  ----------->
I will soon be venturing down a path that age has set me upon.

SIGH.  The knee that has plagued me since college basketball is about to be replaced.  And I will provide humor fodder for my husband as I try to make my way around with a walker. 

When I muster enough energy to come back to writing, I will.  Maybe I will have some new hospital stories.  Maybe I will have a rant or two.  But, whatever I do, I will pick up the proverbial pen and resume writing.

Constitutional Mayhem

So, I am reading an article from the New York Times of April 17, 2013 entitled "Physical Legacy of Blasts Could be Cruel for Boston Marathon Victims"--and I read this closing sentence "It's almost a paradox to see these patients without an extremity to wake up and feel lucky."  The quote is from Dr. George Velmahos, chief of Trauma Services at Massachusetts General Hospital.  He is talking about victims of the Boston Marathon bombing who lost limbs, but because they had been bleeding so profusely, they assumed they were dying.  When they awakened following surgery--even with a missing limb--they feel lucky.

At the same time, the news on NPR is reporting that the hoped for compromise bill calling for background checks on gun sales sponsored by Senators Toomey and Machin appears doomed to fail.

And then it hits me--I mean REALLY hits me.  I begin to cry.

But at the same time I think--what has happened to us as a country?  How have we come to a point where a zealous interpretation of Article II of the Bill of Rights, appended to the Constitution, has become more important to citizens in the United States than the foundational words of the Declaration of Independence?  Those words are:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness...

So, here's my dilemma--how did so bedrock a principle of "unalienable Rights...Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness" get trumped by "A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."

Among some proponents of the right to keep and bear arms there is a presumption that keeping and bearing arms is more important than life itself.   How else does one explain the impending defeat of a background check provision.  And, anyway--BACKGROUND CHECKS?  Really?  So if some piece of information is discovered that says because you are a convicted felon, you shouldn't be able to purchase a firearm, how is THAT an infringement on your RIGHT to bear arms?  Didn't you forfeit that right by being convicted of a felony?

One of the arguments that ardent proponents of the absolute right for gun ownership uses is that the recent spate of mass shooting tragedies points to the need for more mental health care.  Well, no doubt that is needed.  But wouldn't a background check help turn up some information on a person's mental well-being?  And would that not be a good thing?

It is hard not to conclude that we have gone crazy.  The NRA is terrorizing members of Congress, Congressional leaders are incapacitated in the face of the NRA's terror.  Meanwhile parents grieve for the children killed in Newtown, or Columbine, or Virginia Tech.  On and on the list of unspeakable tragedies continues,

I cannot imagine how heart sickening a parent of one of the children killed in Newtown will feel, should the background checks amendment go down to defeat.  I know I am heart sick at the state to which our country has come.  We have people who seem to believe that a background check somehow infringes on their Constitutional right to bear arms, but doesn't think that preventing a needless death is a fair trade.
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ADDENDUM
Now I am depressed as well as sad.  Today, the Senate turned down the Toomey-Machin proposal. 

And, to add to the absurdity of not calling for background checks, the growth of gun sales on the Internet makes the already too easy access to guns even more frightening--the same New York Times edition that has the article I cited above has a story on the Internet facilitating the illegal sale of guns.

On The Rocks

I am inspired--or at the very least nudged--by the resolve of a childhood friend of mine who has vowed to resuscitate her blog by writing a blog a day for a month.  Now, it must be noted that she posted this intent on April 1--but I do think she is serious.  You can read her entries here.

At any rate, she has posted two blogs about her experiences growing up as a missionary child in southern Africa.  As I indicated, she is a childhood friend, so we share some common memories.  Reading her posts got me to thinking--it's been a long time since I posted anything about childhood.  As any long time reader of this blog knows, I have explored that topic.  All you need to do is conduct a search on my blog using CHILDHOOD and you will get quite a few entries.

But one topic I have not explored:  climbing rocks.  Now almost every child has had the opportunity to climb.  It is one of the true joys of childhood.  It can also be one of the precipitants of a serious childhood injury due to falls.  Most of us climb trees.  Some of us with access to farms climb in haylofts.  But, I would venture that not that many of us have climbed rocks. 

I most certainly did.  The mission station where my parents were when I was last living in southern Africa was situated among the Matopo Hills (the current spelling is now MatoBo, and you can Google it to learn a bit more about this fascinating geologic place).

The Matopo Hills featured large boulders that rose like hills.  These are not small rocks--these are truly magnificent and somewhat mysterious looking rocks.  Many of them have caves, and in these caves where early humans lived they painted.  The uniqueness of the paintings and their importance in the development of art earned them a designation as a World Heritage site.

 

Painting of some Matopo Rocks by South African artist Olive Hind

Now, I didn't go climbing into caves.  What I did was climb the rocks around the mission station.  The Matopo Mission was situated among some of these rocks--it made for a fascinating playground.

One time, I was playing tag with a missionary friend, a boy named Eugene.  He was a bit older than me, and far more daring.  As we chased over these rocks, with him in the lead, we came to a place where one rock was over-hanging another.  Eugene jumped, landing safely below.  I came up to the precipice and looked over.  A moment of terror seized me, but--ever competitive and spurred on by "anything he can do, I can do better" I jumped.  Miracle of miracles, I too landed safely below.

Hiking out away from the mission station a bit, Eugene and I found places where the rocks had been cleft by eons of rain water, wearing away and finally splitting a rock.  If you stood at the bottom, you could look up and see that the cleft went all the way to the top of the rock.  So, how to get up there?  Well, you chimney-stacked.  And Eugene taught me to chimney stack.

Since I have returned to the United States, I have not seen the Matopo Hills again.  But, years ago, when I first visited the Gettysburg Battlefield with my husband, I was thrilled to see Devil's Den there.  This place also had large rocks--a very small outcropping compared to the Matopo Hills, but nevertheless rocks worthy of climbing.

I do think my climbing days are long over--there's my age, there's my bad knee, and there's my slowly developing fear of heights.  Now, when I am some place aloft (such as a Ferris wheel), my toes curl under and my feet sweat!

Whatever happened to that daring girl who jumped off one rock onto another, or chimney stacked?  Ah, well, no matter.  I will let others be "on the rocks"--I will keep my feet firmly planted on the ground.

The View in the Rear Mirror

Just the other day, the high school classmate who has taken on the task of keeping all the members of our class in touch informed us that a classmate had died.  Now, this is not the first death, by any means.  As a class that graduated in the 1960s, we had a smattering of classmates lost to combat deaths.  And we have also had classmates who disease has over-taken.

This particular death notice did not really affect me much--frankly, I pulled up the wrong face from my mental file.  So, when I went to a yearbook to confirm my presumed image, I saw another face there.  So much for the accuracy of memory.

I find myself musing on the lives of both high school and college classmates.  Most of them I have lost touch with.  I have only attended one high school reunion--more on that in a bit--and two college reunions.  I confess, the first thing I did at all of these reunions is take furtive glances at the faces of these classmates, and wonder.  Those who I had envied most seemed not to have fared so well.  And, there were one or two whose now faces did NOT match up with my mental image, nor with their high school or college photos.  In fact, at one college reunion, I had someone come up to me and say--Remember me?  And I did not.  Then, when he told me his name, it was all I could do to refrain from saying--No, you're not.

I was only in the high school from which I graduated for two years--having moved around and attended various schools through my elementary schooling.  So, it was with some longing that I watched other students who had grown up together, and been pals since kindergarten.  I felt like an outsider.  But, I tried to compensate, and threw myself into various activities.  I tried out for sports--unsuccessfully.  I tried out for the school play--and did win a part...cast as the mother!  I was more successful in school chorus--a large enough group that my non-solo voice didn't matter.  I can definitely carry a tune, and I am a fairly decent alto.  The coup for me was getting admitted to National Honor Society, no mean feat considering my short tenure in high school.  So, it was the popular kids that I really wanted to see at the reunion.  And, therein, I found vindication.  Time had marched all over them, just as it does us all.

College was better, more rewarding, more welcoming.  And I find myself thinking about those classmates.  The reunions I attended there were not so much occasions for gloating, or grimacing--but more for commiserating.  We shared career and family news.  We traded maladies.  And we just enjoyed, for an afternoon, basking in the glow of remembering a time long ago. 

Not long after the last reunion, where I had learned of the serious and life-threatening illnesses two college friends had suffered, I got news that the classmate who had organized the reunion had triple by-pass surgery.  Time keeps marching.

There's no great revelation in all this musing.  It just occurs to me that though we have to live our lives going forward, we only really understand in reverse.  So, the view on the rear mirror lingers.  I find myself glancing backwards, almost as much as forwards.  But, I wonder--does the caution printed on the mirror apply?  Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear?  Or should that be further? 

ENOUGH!

When is enough enough?

This past week, most of the various national news media carried the story of an 87 year old woman in an independent living facility in California.  She collapsed during lunch, and--in keeping with the policy in place at the facility--staff called 911 for an emergency medical transport to come.  The 911 operator asked about the woman's immediate state--was she breathing?  And when the staff person said that the woman was breathing only faintly, the 911 operator sternly instructed the staff person--you have to start CPR right now.

When the staff person, identified as a nurse, demurred, the 911 operator became very insistent and said--she might die.  And, therewith, the focus of the story became clear.  The only fault seemed to be the refusal of the nurse to begin CPR.

But there are other questions that should have been asked.  Did the 87 year old woman have an advance directive?  Did she want CPR to be given in the event that she suffered cardiac arrest or some other catastrophic health event? What did her family want for her treatment? How effective is CPR?  What were her chances of survival even with CPR?  Perhaps predictably, none of those questions was asked--the initial news coverage seemingly tripped over itself trying to make the story as negative and sensational as possible.  I must, however, give credit to NBC which did begin to raise the questions.

We have been so accustomed to seeing CPR performed as part of a dramatic scene in a television drama that we most likely assume it always works.  But does it?  The short answer is no. 

One website indicates that CPR is rarely effective:

• 2% to 30% effectiveness when administered outside of the hospital
• 6% to 15% for hospitalized patients
• Less than 5% for elderly victims with multiple medical problems

WOW!

Recently, my husband and I updated our wills, which--this time--included advance directives.  We want our preferences to be known to family and health professionals.  There comes a time when enough is enough.

This is not an easy subject to broach.  And the question goes beyond end of life care--it should even be raised in smaller ways.  Part of the reason that Medicare consumes the amount of money it does is because so many procedures are paid for.  True, they are paid for at Medicare's rate--but, to my knowledge, there is no information for patients that says "you don't  have to have every procedure a doctor recommends." 

I am currently helping my elderly father (93) and my step-mother (80) make various decisions.  I am struck by the number of times that a medical provider simply schedules the next appointment for 6 months.  True, these appointments are well-care appointments, and--generally--that is the best approach to medicine.  But when I picked my step-mother up from her recent dermatology appointment, the nurse scheduled her for a 6-month checkup.  So I pushed back a bit--why 6 months?  The nurse said--well, there' s a history of skin cancer.  So I asked my step-mother--how long ago?  She couldn't quite recall, but said nothing recently.  I have had multiple basal cell skin cancers--and I go for checkups once a year.

I suggested to my father and step-mother that they can decline to schedule appointments if they feel they are unnecessary.  To my thinking, this is especially true for simple skin care--skin cancers (other than melanoma) takes YEARS, even decades, to develop.  And is that a serious concern for someone in his or her 80s or 90s?  Please understand, I also ask myself the question--at my age. 

So, it all comes back to the question of when is enough enough?  I think part of American obsession with youth, with seeming never-ending life, feeds the tendency to think we must always intervene--always give CPR.  But, part of the human bargain is this: we are born AND we die. 

Sometimes enough is enough.

BABY TALK

Our daughter recently sent us a short video of our sweet granddaughter. Given that an ocean separates us, and does not facilitate a quick stop-by to see how she is growing, videos are such a great way to get little glimpses into this new life.  This most recent shows this 2 month old baby trying with all her might to vocalize.  Her mouth works to get into a shape to form words, her eyebrows lift as she really really tries to talk.  And, of course, these dear little ooohs and ahhs come out of her mouth.

Baby talk!  Isn’t it great?

Among the milestones we parents mark are the ways in which our children learned words, and then strung them together into sentences.  Parents record the first word a child says.  Many parents even save some of the precious pronunciations a child makes.  We still joke about our daughter saying CHIK-UMP for chipmunk.  Somehow, it seemed like a suitable renaming. 

A few years ago, I entertained the thought of pursuing a doctoral degree.  We live near a campus of the Penn State University, which offers a doctoral program in adult education.  Now, while I didn’t actually enroll in classes, I started to generate ideas for a possible dissertation topic.  And I came up with one.

I have been fascinated with the way we teach children language by reading or saying nursery rhymes to them.  Many of these rhymes are silly and sometimes nonsensical.  But they do help teach language by repetition, alliteration, rhyming.  So the topic I had in mind was to evaluate the correlation between exposure to nursery rhymes and language acquisition.  Of course, I did not get to a stage of collecting data, so I don’t know if there is a statistically valid correlation.  It stands to reason that the more culturally rich a child’s environs are when she is learning to speak, the quicker her language skills will develop.

For now, my hypothesis about nursery rhymes playing a critical part in language development will have to go unresearched, but maybe I can do a mini-experiment.  You can bet that I plan to get our granddaughter some edition of Mother Goose Nursery rhymes.  And, that I will most certainly read them aloud to her every chance I get.

Can’t wait to hear more baby talk.

WWWP?

Just this afternoon my husband asked me if I had written a blog post recently, and I replied--no.  Well, I hadn't.  I explained that I don't have many new thoughts these days--which is not to say I don't have thoughts...I have many.  But, I am aware that sometimes I cover the same ground.

All was well, and I was content not to have posted anything...and, then--then.  I went to the grocery store.  After I had done my shopping, I loaded my bags into my car, and began to return my grocery cart.  Immediately next to my car was an open parking space, and on the other side of that space was another car, with two women loading up.  They finished as I did, proceeded to get into their car and prepared to drive away.  Just before the driver pulled her door shut, I called out to her--excuse me, this grocery cart (which she had left SMACK in the middle of the parking space between us)--are you done with it?  Why, yes ma'am, she said.  I then asked--did you plan to leave it right there?  Yes, ma'am.  Well I said--I will be happy to return it with my grocery cart, SO SOMEONE ELSE CAN PARK HERE.
 
WWWP?--I thought.

Remember this rant?  WWWP? See, I keep thinking the same thoughts--and more than five years ago, I ranted, err--posted about this very subject.  And I concluded:  what's wrong with people? 

This particular time, the grocery store was all of three parking spaces away from where the thoughtless shopper had parked.  It really was no big walk.  I shook my head as I walked both carts back to the grocery store.  Amazingly, the woman was completely unfazed--and did not even thank me.

I think I must ascribe to the broken windows theory of society.  The gist of this theory is that an unrepaired broken window in building invites more broken windows.  Vandalism flourishes, trash accumulates, and--next thing you know--things fall apart, the center cannot hold.  There is something to this theory.  When you see something treated carelessly, it takes extra effort to treat it carefully.  And it is so easy to imitate the careless behavior and acquiesce to the degradation.

To my daughter's consternation when she was a little girl, I would pick up trash strewn about the floors of public bathrooms.  Trash invites more trash.  Abandoned grocery carts invite more abandoned grocery carts.  Neglect begets neglect.

A saying attributed to Gandhi is: You must be the change you wish to see in the world.  I don't know if Gandhi really said that, but the idea resonates with me.  Do I wish there weren't grocery carts left here and there in a busy parking lot.  You bet--well, then, I have to be the one to take MINE back and sometimes even someone else's.

But, I will still mutter--WWWP?

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Photo:  not mine, but from a site indicating "in the public domain."

The Last Roundup

No, no, no—dear reader—not that last roundup, but the last of my reviews pre-Oscar.  Having previously indicated that, for varying reasons, we did not see all the nominated films, the only two remaining films we saw were ARGO and ZERO DARK THIRTY.

These two nicely pair in a rich compare/contrast approach.  Maybe you recall that when I was teaching, I wrote about giving a compare/contrast question on an exam.  The course was Introduction to Literature (one of my favorite courses to teach) and I presumed that students would have had a basic composition course and would KNOW how to write a compare/contrast essay.  Well, no—I presumed too much.  This incident clearly made a mark on me, as in a previous movie review wherein I wrote a comparison/contrast review of another two movies, I referred to that exam experience.

Anyway—this year’s compare/contrast offering herewith.  Until we saw the second of these two movies—we went to see Zero Dark Thirty first and then Argo—I was thinking all the movies in the “Best Films” category were unique, stand-alone pieces.  Not so. 

Comparing the two films is easy.  They both deal with terrorism or extremism.  Zero Dark Thirty, of course, is about the hunting down and killing of Bin Laden.  Argo is about the infamous takeover of the U.S. Embassy in Tehran at the time the Ayatollah Khomeini first came to power.  Both films are set in the Middle East.  Both feature themes of the United States against the world.  (Thankfully, no one burst into that raucous and mind-numbing chant of USA USA USA during the viewings.)  They are both based on an historical event.

A few more expansive comparisons are in order.  Both movies feature a single-minded character.  In Zero Dark Thirty it is the CIA analyst Maya brilliantly played by Jessica Chastain. In Argo, it is Ben Affleck also as a CIA operative Tony.  Both movies have a happy ending in that the goal that is set out—either to find and kill Bin Laden or to rescue some American diplomats who managed to escape the embassy but not Tehran—is achieved.  To achieve these ends, both of the main characters have to contend with skeptical authorities.  Maya at times seems to be the only one in the CIA who believes she has a connection that will lead to finding Bin Laden.  Her belief is so strong that you get the impression that her conviction alone is what made the operation “a go”.  Tony’s rescue scheme is so fantastical that he has to use his best persuasiveness to get permission to proceed.  And of course, both movies operate on high adrenalin and tense scenes.

One final way in which these two movies align is the reception they have received in the awards giving world.  Both of the directors—Kathryn Bigelow for Zero Dark Thirty and Ben Affleck for Argo were snubbed by the Oscars.  True, they have previously been recognized for their work: Bigelow won as Oscar as Best Director for The Hurt Locker, which also won Best Picture; and Ben Affleck won an Oscar, along with Matt Damon, for the screenplay for Dogma.  But the great shock when this year’s Oscar nominees were revealed was the absence from the Best Director list of Kathryn Bigelow and Ben Affleck.  Since then, Ben Affleck has won several other awards for his directing of Argo, and Argo itself has been selected as best picture.  But the Oscars are always “another story.”

There are also differences between the movies (keeping in mind that a valid compare/contrast must have differences).  While we generally have known the story on which Zero Dark Thirty is based, the story behind Argo was classified for years and years.  There is one fine and wonderfully ironic line in Argo—when the news that the American Embassy workers have been freed, with credit at the time being given to the Canadians, one commentator opines “Why can’t we [Americans] do something like that.”

Another difference is the means whereby the operation at the heart of each movie is carried out.  While both stories begin with the CIA as the intelligence hub, the execution of the plans in each of the movies differs.  Once Bin Laden’s location is determined, it is the military which executes the final plan.  Officially known as The United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group, the group is referred to colloquially as Seal Team 6.  Where previously this group was TOP SECRET, seemingly of late some members can’t shut up. 

Such cannot be said about Tony Mendez, the hero behind the Argo story.  Of course, the movie itself has the CIA doing the planning, and the CIA executing the plan.  It seems at times that Tony is the only one who believes he can succeed.  But he is given the go ahead, and carries out a daring rescue—with a little help from him friends.  These friends include a make-up artist from Hollywood, played by John Goodman, and a composite Hollywood “producer” played by Alan Arkin.  Canadians are also Tony’s friends—several real-life Canadian embassy staff are collapsed into one character played by Victor Garber.  This remarkable story only came to light years after the events, when some of the information was declassified.  Tony Mendez himself kept the secret for years, finally revealing his role in an autobiographical work published in 1999.  Even his receiving of an award was done in secret.

Maybe the difference in who carries out the daring plans explains another contrast between the two movies.  Zero Dark Thirty is a tight, fast-paced movie which moves from early scenes of the U.S. CIA personnel torturing presumed Al Qaeda lower functionaries, to the actual military operation that is carried out with clock-work precision.  Argo has a much looser feeling.  From beginning to end, the rescue scheme is so improbable that the viewer sits gripping the edge of his/her seat, not knowing where the next twist will come from. 

Both movies were very engaging, action-filled, heart-pumping entertainment, well worth the price of a movie ticket and the hours to watch them.

COUNTDOWN--Life of Pi

Up until this point, I have been reviewing the movies in the same chronology that my husband and I used in viewing them.  With this review, I am skipping ahead to the last (and maybe final*) one we saw—LIFE OF PI.  I want to capture my thoughts as close to the viewing of the movie as possible, since LIFE OF PI is a challenging movie.

First, I loved the book.  I had seen the book in bookstores for some time, and finally decided to read it.  And I absolutely loved it.  I might have known I would, as I find every book that I have read which has won the Man Booker Prize to be singular and exceptional.  So it was with Yann Martel’s LIFE OF PI which won the prize in 2002.  But the book was one of the most thought provoking and challenging ones I had read in a long while.  In many ways, the book is a kind of fable.

So, when I first heard that there were plans to adapt the novel for a movie, I was skeptical.  There was so much in the novel that seemed beyond bringing to life through the visual elements of a movie.  But, I was wrong—maybe Ang Lee is the only director who could have done it, but do it he does indeed.

So, what to make of the story?  The plot—which I will eschew from summarizing in too much detail as to do so would  “spoil” the ending—revolves around a young boy named Pi Patel.  He lives with his father, mother and brother in Pondicherry, India.  When we first meet the young Pi, he is tormented by his playmates because of his name—Piscine, which is eventually shortened to Pi.  We also learn that young Pi has a deep interest in religion.  While he is raised as a Hindu, he is also drawn to Christianity and to Islam.  The level of Pi’s interest is not superficial; he is precocious in his desire to encounter God.  This interest in religion is important, as it helps explain one of the meanings of the movie.

His family owns a zoo, which eventually his father decides to sell to help capitalize a move of the family to Canada.  Some of the animals will be transported with them on the same freighter they take to sail across the Pacific.  Among these animals is a magnificent tiger named Richard Parker—not a usual tiger name, but there’s a reason for that name: a simple mix-up on the shipping label for the tiger.  The fact that the tiger has a human name is also important—at least I think it is, once you get to the ending of the book (and the movie).

Part way across the Pacific, the freighter encounters a horrific storm.  Pi has awakened just before the ship founders and sinks, which is one of the reasons why he escapes.  As the storm rages, Pi is practically pushed overboard and manages to make it into one of the lifeboats that is launched.  Perhaps because of the storm, animals are loose on the decks, and Pi is soon joined by a zebra that crashes into the lifeboat.  As the boat begins to move away from the sinking ship, Pi spots something swimming through the stormy water and realizes, to his horror, that it is Richard Parker.  Pi screams NO, and we assume the tiger does not make it.

When the storm calms, we see Pi in the lifeboat, and the injured zebra—which broke its leg in the fall—cowering at the end of the lifeboat.  Soon an orangutan is spotted, floating on a bunch of bananas, and Pi pulls her aboard.  Then, a hyena pops out from under the tarpaulin.  Just as things begin to get hectic—the hyena keeps trying to maul the injured zebra—we hear a sudden ferocious growl –Richard Parker somehow made it on to the lifeboat after all.

So begins the adventure of the perilous struggle for survival on the lifeboat.  The zebra, orangutan and hyena are dispatched, one by one, until only Pi and Richard Parker remain.  But, how to survive on a lifeboat with only basic food supplies and a Bengal tiger? 

Somehow, Pi manages.  He “tames” the tiger, provides food and water for him, and even reaches a kind of détente where he can feel safe with the tiger.  As they drift across the Pacific, they encounter all the majesty and ferocity of nature.  Here, Ang Lee’s directorial strength is on full display.  The movie is one of the most visually stunning movies I have seen in a long time.  I should note we did see the movie in 3-D.  Very much the recommended way to view it.

After 227 days, Pi and Richard Parker finally wash up on the shores of Mexico.  Pi is rescued by people (as he says “members of his species”) who find him exhausted on the shore.  Richard Parker vanishes.  While Pi is in the hospital, recuperating from his ordeal, he is visited by representatives of the Japanese shipping company who owned the freighter.  They want to know why the ship sank.  So they ask Pi about his experiences.  After he relates his story, they look at each other incredulously, and then ask Pi to “tell them the truth, something they can believe.”  So he begins again, and this time recounts a different story.

Upon hearing it, they are again uncertain what to think.  So, Pi says—I have told you two stories about what happened.  Which one do you prefer?  Not which one do you believe.

Ah—there is a key, and the connection to the young Pi’s deep fascination with religion.  For me, part of the meaning of the story (and, trust me, you will come out of this movie wondering “WHAT DOES IT MEAN?”) is that humans are on a quest to experience and understand God.  There are several ways that people have done that.  Are they all true? Is only one true?  Is reality true and fantasy untrue? Or is fantasy true and reality an illusion?  Sometimes it is preferable to accept what is unbelievable than it is to accept what is believable.

As a movie, LIFE OF PI deserves its nomination for Best Picture.  Also, Ang Lee certainly deserves the best director nod.  The other Oscar nominations it garnered are for cinematography and film editing—all of which shows in the visual feast that is LIFE OF PI.

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Editorial Note: MINORITY opinion--my husband did NOT like LIFE OF PI, but he went with me because he knew I wanted to see it.

*Only two more movies to review--ZERO DARK THIRTY and ARGO.  I plan to review them together. But, what about the rest, you might ask.  Well, some we can't see--they are no longer playing in our area (Beasts of the Southern Wild)--AND some we don't want to see (Django Unchained).

ROUND UP--Les Miserables

Periodically, the Academy nominates a musical to stand among the best motion picture nominees.  And sometimes they even win.  The last musical to win Best Picture was Chicago, in 2002.

This year's musical nominee is Les Miserables.

We had seen Les Mis (as it is more easily referred to) twice before on stage, including seeing it on Broadway.  As a stage musical, it is an enjoyable performance with a dramatic historical backdrop, a tale of revenge and redemption, an interwoven love story, a touch of comic relief, and a fair bathing of pathos.  All that plus some quite stirring songs that you can actually hum days after seeing the performance.

But transfer these ingredients to the screen--and what do you get?  Sadly, I think you get a piecework of dramatic vignettes that only just barely hang together.

Several elements work against this movie being a satisfying experience.  First, there is what seems to have been a conscious decision to present the movie as though it were a stage performance.  Of course, a stage is a limited space which imposes restrictions on actor and scene.  Movies are free from these restrictions and can frequently bring a different and vibrant element to making a story visual.  But repeatedly, the way scenes are presented in Les Mis gives you the impression of its being a stage performance.  The most obvious example of this was the decision to have all the singing performed live for the camera--that is, not dubbed in afterwards.  So the camera is constantly right in the face of the actors as they sing.  Sometimes it works well--as when Anne Hathaway sings "I Dreamed a Dream."  Sometimes it just seems forced as when Russell Crowe sings...well, just about anything.

Another example of the staginess is the way the movie goes from scene to scene.  Scenes follow each other with almost no transition--except an occasional "20 years later" or some such other explanatory note.  The effect is more confusing than anything else.   Even the context of the movie is somewhat mysterious.  It is set during times of revolution in France--QUICK--what revolution is this in France?

Did you say the French Revolution?  Well, duh.  It's France, it's revolution--hence the French Revolution.  But, no.  The uprising that dominates the latter part of the movie actually takes place in 1832, the so-called June Rebellion.  Victor Hugo immortalizes this rebellion in his novel Les Miserables.  But for his work, this rebellion would have been a footnote in history.  What the movie presents is even more confusing.

In fact, the way each of the plot elements is presented is confusing.  We have multiple story lines--the intertwined fates of Jean Valjean who serves time for the most minor of crimes and Jafvert who pursues Valjean because...well, it's not really clear why.  There is Fantine who works in Valjean's factory--oh, that's after he is out of prison and becomes a town mayor and captain of industry.  Fantine is fired and turns to prostitution to earn money to support her daughter Cosette who is being kept by the Thénardiers who...oh, never mind. 

I haven't even gotten to Valjean's decision to take in Cosette and raise her as his own daughter, or to the students' rebellion which introduces us to Marius who is loved by Éponine (the Thénardiers' daughter), only Marius loves Cosette...

All of these elements are in the stage version too, but somehow they hang together more convincingly in the stage version.  Here in the movie version, we are presented with scene after scene quilt-like fashion, only the binding stitches are missing.

Another disappointment for me was how some of the characters were portrayed.  The exceptions are Hugh Jackman who is amazing in the role of Jean Valjean, and Anne Hathway who is a revelation as Fantine.  Two big disappointments were Russell Crowe as Jafvert--which he plays with a flat slightly baffled vengeance.  His demeanor seems to be rather like a dog that knows he hates cats, but doesn't quite know why--but, oh look--there's that cat, gotta chase it.  And there's Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter cast as the Thénardiers.  In the stage version, these characters are benignly comic.  In the movie they are manically rapacious and grasping.  The inn scene with them filching practically everything from customers at the inn is--frankly--off putting and disgusting.

I make it sound as though the whole movie experience was a waste.  Well, for the most part the singing is good, at times even stirring--and isn't that what you want in a musical?

ROUND UP--Silver Linings Playbook

Every year, when the Oscar nominations are first announced, there are a few surprises.  No doubt, the nomination of SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK* for best picture was one such surprise.

Several years ago, there was a sudden flurry of independent films--and while SILVER LININGS may not be an independent--it has that kind of feel.  I really enjoy indie films.  Rather than use (or overuse) special effects, violence, mayhem and absurd story lines, indies draw their strength from character development and credible plot lines.

I am thinking about movies such as LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE (nominated for Best Picture in 2006), or LOVELY AND AMAZING (2001) or THE SUNSHINE STATE (2002).  On a recent plane trip, I rewatched IN AMERICA (2002).  I loved it again--having forgotten how touching and sweet it is. 

I itemize these movies because that is the kind of movie that really appeals to me.  Despite that, I was at first reluctant to go and see SILVER LININGS .  I tend to do advance research before going to see a movie--if it is historically based, I might brush up on the historical context.  I certainly read reviews, and check out the tomato meter. 

So when I read the plot summary for SILVER LININGS , I hesitated.  It sounded confusing, even potentially screwed up.  But then I checked the tomato meter--hmmmm 92%.  Well, OK, let's give it a try.

I am so glad we did.  In the movie, we meet Pat Soltano (Bradley Cooper) whose life has come apart.  Actually, he is the one who pulled it apart--he lost his wife, his job, and is in a state institution (mental? penal? both?) as the movie opens.  Soon, his mother bails him out, giving him a chance to put his life back together.  He has no place to go, so he is back with his parents living in his boyhood bedroom.  Not an auspicious beginning.  His sole goal at this point is to get back in the good graces of his estranged wife.

Along the way, he meets Tiffany (Jennifer Lawrence), who has as many problems as Pat does.  Slowly a relationship of sorts develops.  Tiffany also has a goal--to participate in a dance contest but she lacks a partner.  Through some maneuverings, she cajoles Pat into being her partner.

OK--enough plot.  I should add that the movie is set in Philadelphia, and being an Eagles' fan is a prominent part of the plot--Pat's father (Robert De Niro) is a die-hard fan.  But, as I said, enough plot.

A quick word on the acting--I had not seen Bradley Cooper in a role before (or seen him in any other way) but I am now a fan, especially if he keeps playing roles such as Pat.  As for Jennifer Lawrence, we first saw her in WINTER'S BONE (oh, another indie--2010) and were absolutely blown away with her performance in that movie.

So see SILVER LININGS .  I hope you will be as charmed as I am.
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*From here on out, I will just say SILVER LININGS .

ROUND UP--Lincoln

Time to do the Oscar round-up.  Every year, part of our preparation for watching a favorite annual spectacle—the Academy Awards—involves trundling off to movies.  We usually compress this preparation into one or two weeks.  This year, we have been a little more leisurely, a little less frenetic.

Even before the Oscar nominations were announced, we went to see LINCOLN.  Whether or not the movie was nominated was of less import than seeing one of the consummate actors of our time—Daniel Day Lewis—at his craft.  Only, we didn’t see Daniel Day Lewis.  Instead we saw a reincarnation of Lincoln—the long wearied looks as the weight of the Civil War grinding on weighs on him; the flex of his jaw as he endures the in-fighting within his cabinet; the twinkle in his eye as he recalls an anecdote that may—or may not—have bearing on a situation before him.

There are wonderful little bon mots sprinkled throughout the highly literate screenplay.  In one scene, Lincoln wanders into the communications area where two young men sit, waiting to send and receive Morse code messages.  Seemingly disconnected from all the action surrounding the scene, and even to some extent the whole movie, Lincoln launches into a rumination of Euclid’s First Common Notion (Things which equal the same thing also equal one another.)  He muses about having been reading Euclid and cites the First Common Notion.  He draws no explicit conclusions.  But to the viewer, a clear foundation is laid down that in deed and fact “all men are created equal.”

The fulcrum of the movie is the fight to get the 16^th amendment passed.  And quite a messy fight it is.  It is both heartening and disheartening to see how contemporary that fight seems.  Update the players, the setting and you could easily see the event as something occurring in our time.

When the Academy Award nominees were announced, it was no surprise at all to see how many nominations LINCOLN garnered—deservedly so in my view.  In addition to Daniel Day Lewis’ powerful incarnation as Lincoln, Sally Fields is cast as Mary Todd Lincoln—a role she plays with a convincing blend of tartness, pathos and touch of insanity.  Tommy Lee Jones is Senator Thaddeus Stevens who eventually had to bend his unbending principles to accomplish something great. 

Finally, kudos go to Stephen Spielberg for directing this movie, and to Tony Kushner for pulling out of the myriad of historical accounts a coherent narrative that is the screenplay.

If you have time to see just ONE of the nominated movies, make it LINCOLN.

Month-iversary

I can't say ANNI-versary, as that refers to year.

But, the newest member has reached one month...