Today is the anniversary of the day I lost my North Star -
My Daddy, who was my bright light;
In whose footsteps I have endeavored to follow;
To whom I looked for guidance.
So many years ago today he went to the other side of life.
The Angels would not wait any longer for him to be there.
Now I can only trace the path of that North Star -
Looking upward and seeing the trail it left for me to follow.
I love you, Daddy!
May his memory be eternal!
Polla Filia,
J. F.
Showing posts with label My Heroes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Heroes. Show all posts
Sunday, January 17, 2016
Monday, August 11, 2014
HOMAGE TO ROBIN WILLIAMS
"What is life? It is the flash of the firefly in the night. It is the breath of the buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset."
-- Crowfoot
-- Crowfoot
I'm gutted.
The funniest man ever is gone.
Some years
ago when Mom was dying from something really awful, I came home after a particularly
crap day - the kind where you sit down & cry because you can’t do anything
but that.
You wonder
how you're going to sleep, or anything else.
A while later
I turned on TV and there was Bravo's "Inside the Actor's Studio", and you know who was on?
Robin
Williams - that's who.
He proceeded
to save my day and night with hilarity. It was one of his funniest and most
amazing comedy performances I had ever seen, which is saying a lot, because the
man was genius-level funny.
He did more
than turn that one day around for me. He lifted me up to a brighter place than
I had been in months. My mother didn’t have many weeks left at that point. He
rescued me in a really bad time.
Luckily, the
DVR was recording that episode and I saved it. From then on, I knew if I was in
a real pit of a dark day, I only needed to turn on that episode of “Inside the
Actor’s Studio” and it would be as fresh and funny as it was the first time I
saw it.
I am stunned with
disbelief that he is gone.
My prayers go
out for all his family and friends.
He was
brilliant and he did so much good for so many.
Thank you, Mr. Williams! We will miss you forever. We
loved you so much!
Robin
Williams has gone to the other side of life. May his memory be eternal.
J.F.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
HOMAGE TO STEINBECK ON THE OCCASION OF HIS BIRTHDAY
"In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable."
"The profession of book-writing makes horse-racing seem like a solid, stable business."
"Unless a reviewer has the courage to give you unqualified praise, I say ignore the bastard."
- John Steinbeck
In honor of Mr. Steinbeck, and for the edification of us all, here is his 1962 Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech. Enjoy!
Nobel Prize acceptance speech (1962)
Speech at the Nobel Banquet (10 December 1962)
"In my heart there may be doubt that I deserve the Nobel award over other men of letters whom I hold in respect and reverence — but there is no question of my pleasure and pride in having it for myself.
"It is customary for the recipient of this award to offer personal or scholarly comment on the nature and the direction of literature. At this particular time, however, I think it would be well to consider the high duties and the responsibilities of the makers of literature.
"Such is the prestige of the Nobel award and of this place where I stand that I am impelled, not to squeak like a grateful and apologetic mouse, but to roar like a lion out of pride in my profession and in the great and good men who have practiced it through the ages.
"Literature was not promulgated by a pale and emasculated critical priesthood singing their litanies in empty churches — nor is it a game for the cloistered elect, the tinhorn mendicants of low calorie despair.
"Literature is as old as speech. It grew out of human need for it, and it has not changed except to become more needed.
"The skalds, the bards, the writers are not separate and exclusive. From the beginning, their functions, their duties, their responsibilities have been decreed by our species.
"Humanity has been passing through a gray and desolate time of confusion. My great predecessor, William Faulkner, speaking here, referred to it as a tragedy of universal fear so long sustained that there were no longer problems of the spirit, so that only the human heart in conflict with itself seemed worth writing about.
"Faulkner, more than most men, was aware of human strength as well as of human weakness. He knew that the understanding and the resolution of fear are a large part of the writer's reason for being.
"This is not new. The ancient commission of the writer has not changed. He is charged with exposing our many grievous faults and failures, with dredging up to the light our dark and dangerous dreams for the purpose of improvement.
"The writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate man's proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit — for gallantry in defeat — for courage, compassion and love. In the endless war against weakness and despair, these are the bright rally-flags of hope and of emulation.
"I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man, has no dedication nor any membership in literature.
"With humanity's long proud history of standing firm against natural enemies, sometimes in the face of almost certain defeat and extinction, we would be cowardly and stupid to leave the field on the eve of our greatest potential victory.
"We have usurped many of the powers we once ascribed to God.
"Fearful and unprepared, we have assumed lordship over the life or death of the whole world — of all living things.
"The danger and the glory and the choice rest finally in man. The test of his perfectibility is at hand.
"Having taken Godlike power, we must seek in ourselves for the responsibility and the wisdom we once prayed some deity might have.
"Man himself has become our greatest hazard and our only hope.
"So that today, St. John the apostle may well be paraphrased: In the end is the Word, and the Word is Man — and the Word is with Men." - John Steinbeck
Happy birthday, sir!
Polla filia,
J.F.
"The profession of book-writing makes horse-racing seem like a solid, stable business."
"Unless a reviewer has the courage to give you unqualified praise, I say ignore the bastard."
- John Steinbeck
In honor of Mr. Steinbeck, and for the edification of us all, here is his 1962 Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech. Enjoy!
Nobel Prize acceptance speech (1962)
Speech at the Nobel Banquet (10 December 1962)
"In my heart there may be doubt that I deserve the Nobel award over other men of letters whom I hold in respect and reverence — but there is no question of my pleasure and pride in having it for myself.
"It is customary for the recipient of this award to offer personal or scholarly comment on the nature and the direction of literature. At this particular time, however, I think it would be well to consider the high duties and the responsibilities of the makers of literature.
"Such is the prestige of the Nobel award and of this place where I stand that I am impelled, not to squeak like a grateful and apologetic mouse, but to roar like a lion out of pride in my profession and in the great and good men who have practiced it through the ages.
"Literature was not promulgated by a pale and emasculated critical priesthood singing their litanies in empty churches — nor is it a game for the cloistered elect, the tinhorn mendicants of low calorie despair.
"Literature is as old as speech. It grew out of human need for it, and it has not changed except to become more needed.
"The skalds, the bards, the writers are not separate and exclusive. From the beginning, their functions, their duties, their responsibilities have been decreed by our species.
"Humanity has been passing through a gray and desolate time of confusion. My great predecessor, William Faulkner, speaking here, referred to it as a tragedy of universal fear so long sustained that there were no longer problems of the spirit, so that only the human heart in conflict with itself seemed worth writing about.
"Faulkner, more than most men, was aware of human strength as well as of human weakness. He knew that the understanding and the resolution of fear are a large part of the writer's reason for being.
"This is not new. The ancient commission of the writer has not changed. He is charged with exposing our many grievous faults and failures, with dredging up to the light our dark and dangerous dreams for the purpose of improvement.
"The writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate man's proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit — for gallantry in defeat — for courage, compassion and love. In the endless war against weakness and despair, these are the bright rally-flags of hope and of emulation.
"I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man, has no dedication nor any membership in literature.
"With humanity's long proud history of standing firm against natural enemies, sometimes in the face of almost certain defeat and extinction, we would be cowardly and stupid to leave the field on the eve of our greatest potential victory.
"We have usurped many of the powers we once ascribed to God.
"Fearful and unprepared, we have assumed lordship over the life or death of the whole world — of all living things.
"The danger and the glory and the choice rest finally in man. The test of his perfectibility is at hand.
"Having taken Godlike power, we must seek in ourselves for the responsibility and the wisdom we once prayed some deity might have.
"Man himself has become our greatest hazard and our only hope.
"So that today, St. John the apostle may well be paraphrased: In the end is the Word, and the Word is Man — and the Word is with Men." - John Steinbeck
Happy birthday, sir!
Polla filia,
J.F.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
TEACHER, FRIEND, HERO - FATHER
“I have come to believe that a great teacher is a great artist and that there are as few as there are any other great artists. It might even be the greatest of the arts since the medium is the human mind and spirit.”
-- John Steinbeck
In honor of Father’s Day the below is a re-write of two posts I previously put up here about my Dad. Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!
My father was a great father. Like all great fathers, one of the things which made him great was that he was a great teacher. He also managed to be those things and be a friend. Combine all of it, and he became one of my greatest heroes as well.
My Dad died some years back. He got out of the shower one night, had a massive heart attack and that was it. As bad as it was (and for me it was a great darkness), I still say that’s the way to go - so fast you don’t know what hit you.
Dad was a tough guy - a man’s man; but, he was loving and giving to his kids. He would praise us often for doing well in school, or in some other effort. He didn’t spank or yell, but if you dis-obeyed the rules you would be grounded - and you DID NOT ask for early reprieve on a grounding. There were no bicycling privileges when you were grounded. We were required to spend our time only in our yard, and in contemplation of how we would improve ourselves and amend our ways. Consequently, we followed Daddy’s rules.
I was the worst of the three of us, getting a two-week grounding (with the bicycle put up on high hooks in the garage). I had ridden said bike outside of the approved area for riding my bike without an adult. I rode it all the way down to the creek and was riding it through a culvert when Dad came looking for me. I had been gone a long time. This rule was (of course) one for my own safety. I never did it again.
My Dad was a mechanic and a machinist. He did the machinist thing as his main livelihood (the man could fix or fabricate *anything*), and he did the auto-mechanicin’ at night and on the weekends. When I was a kid, he raced go-karts. Before my time, he raced other stuff. All of it was just local - in Texas; but, I grew up with cars on my mind, and racing as my favorite sport to watch.
When I got old enough to hold a wrench (or any other tool), I was out in the garage learning from Dad, and when I got old enough to know what I was doing (about 15), I was actually working on cars with my Dad.
Dad didn’t work on new cars - he restored and worked on old American cars (you know, the kind before they put computers in them). I was right there with him, up to my elbows in grease.
Once the work was done, it was time for a cold brew (when I was legal). I would go inside and get two bottles and bring them out to the garage. The two of us would lean back against the workbench with our refreshment and feel the relief which can only come from cold beer after a hard day’s work. Then the family would all get dressed and we’d go out for Mexican food. Daddy and I would frequently go play pool afterward. We were notorious for playing until three in the morning.
While hanging out with my Dad, I was learning a lot more than just cool stuff about cars and racing. I was learning about work ethic, integrity, and the importance of approaching a project with organization, focus and the right state of mind.
My Dad was a high-school dropout who later got his GED, but the man was wicked smart. He was an autodidact. He read anything and everything, and absorbed it like a sponge. He had a red-neck Texas accent, but you’d be a fool to think he wasn’t smart. He made straight A’s in high school English before he dropped out. He could speak perfect English if he wanted to, and he could discuss physics with you if you were smart enough to keep up. It was from this Renaissance man I learned to value the acquisition of knowledge, and to strive for constant improvement of myself.
All men should strive to be the kind of father my father was.
Think about it - this man disciplined his children without threats, spanking or yelling. He was firm and consistent, and he showed love and praise often.
Don’t get me wrong, he got angry; but, his anger was a controlled and calm kind of anger. His was a stern look and “Don’t ever do that again.” And that was it. No histrionics or drama. Just a firm and serious reminder of what was right and what was wrong. I never argued with him, or questioned him - not out of fear, but out of admiration and respect - and *love*.
He was a man of remarkable character and ethics. Streams of people consistently remarked on this at his funeral - and it was standing room only that day. A man such as this compels people to come and pay respect.
He also had a great sense of humor, and a terrific laugh. He was, and still is, the best Dad a girl could ever have. He was Louie - teacher, friend, hero - Father.
I wish you could have known my Dad, because you would have been like every friend I ever had who knew him. You would have said “Your Dad is soooo COOL!”
Yes, he was.
Every race I watch on TV, or go to live, I know he’s right there sitting next to me enjoying every second. I know he’s in my corner no matter what I’m doing. He’s ready to whisper advice in my ear and remind me about the right way to do things - anything. His spirit will always be near me, because he’s there, and because he left so much a part of himself in *my* spirit.
He was Louie, and I am lucky enough to be Louie’s Kid.
I know he’s out there driving down Heaven’s roads, winding through Elysian fields, golden sun shining down, wind across his face, laughter in his wake.
Drive on, Daddy, drive on!
Polla Filia,
J.F.
-- John Steinbeck
In honor of Father’s Day the below is a re-write of two posts I previously put up here about my Dad. Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!
My father was a great father. Like all great fathers, one of the things which made him great was that he was a great teacher. He also managed to be those things and be a friend. Combine all of it, and he became one of my greatest heroes as well.
My Dad died some years back. He got out of the shower one night, had a massive heart attack and that was it. As bad as it was (and for me it was a great darkness), I still say that’s the way to go - so fast you don’t know what hit you.
Dad was a tough guy - a man’s man; but, he was loving and giving to his kids. He would praise us often for doing well in school, or in some other effort. He didn’t spank or yell, but if you dis-obeyed the rules you would be grounded - and you DID NOT ask for early reprieve on a grounding. There were no bicycling privileges when you were grounded. We were required to spend our time only in our yard, and in contemplation of how we would improve ourselves and amend our ways. Consequently, we followed Daddy’s rules.
I was the worst of the three of us, getting a two-week grounding (with the bicycle put up on high hooks in the garage). I had ridden said bike outside of the approved area for riding my bike without an adult. I rode it all the way down to the creek and was riding it through a culvert when Dad came looking for me. I had been gone a long time. This rule was (of course) one for my own safety. I never did it again.
My Dad was a mechanic and a machinist. He did the machinist thing as his main livelihood (the man could fix or fabricate *anything*), and he did the auto-mechanicin’ at night and on the weekends. When I was a kid, he raced go-karts. Before my time, he raced other stuff. All of it was just local - in Texas; but, I grew up with cars on my mind, and racing as my favorite sport to watch.
When I got old enough to hold a wrench (or any other tool), I was out in the garage learning from Dad, and when I got old enough to know what I was doing (about 15), I was actually working on cars with my Dad.
Dad didn’t work on new cars - he restored and worked on old American cars (you know, the kind before they put computers in them). I was right there with him, up to my elbows in grease.
Once the work was done, it was time for a cold brew (when I was legal). I would go inside and get two bottles and bring them out to the garage. The two of us would lean back against the workbench with our refreshment and feel the relief which can only come from cold beer after a hard day’s work. Then the family would all get dressed and we’d go out for Mexican food. Daddy and I would frequently go play pool afterward. We were notorious for playing until three in the morning.
While hanging out with my Dad, I was learning a lot more than just cool stuff about cars and racing. I was learning about work ethic, integrity, and the importance of approaching a project with organization, focus and the right state of mind.
My Dad was a high-school dropout who later got his GED, but the man was wicked smart. He was an autodidact. He read anything and everything, and absorbed it like a sponge. He had a red-neck Texas accent, but you’d be a fool to think he wasn’t smart. He made straight A’s in high school English before he dropped out. He could speak perfect English if he wanted to, and he could discuss physics with you if you were smart enough to keep up. It was from this Renaissance man I learned to value the acquisition of knowledge, and to strive for constant improvement of myself.
All men should strive to be the kind of father my father was.
Think about it - this man disciplined his children without threats, spanking or yelling. He was firm and consistent, and he showed love and praise often.
Don’t get me wrong, he got angry; but, his anger was a controlled and calm kind of anger. His was a stern look and “Don’t ever do that again.” And that was it. No histrionics or drama. Just a firm and serious reminder of what was right and what was wrong. I never argued with him, or questioned him - not out of fear, but out of admiration and respect - and *love*.
He was a man of remarkable character and ethics. Streams of people consistently remarked on this at his funeral - and it was standing room only that day. A man such as this compels people to come and pay respect.
He also had a great sense of humor, and a terrific laugh. He was, and still is, the best Dad a girl could ever have. He was Louie - teacher, friend, hero - Father.
I wish you could have known my Dad, because you would have been like every friend I ever had who knew him. You would have said “Your Dad is soooo COOL!”
Yes, he was.
Every race I watch on TV, or go to live, I know he’s right there sitting next to me enjoying every second. I know he’s in my corner no matter what I’m doing. He’s ready to whisper advice in my ear and remind me about the right way to do things - anything. His spirit will always be near me, because he’s there, and because he left so much a part of himself in *my* spirit.
He was Louie, and I am lucky enough to be Louie’s Kid.
I know he’s out there driving down Heaven’s roads, winding through Elysian fields, golden sun shining down, wind across his face, laughter in his wake.
Drive on, Daddy, drive on!
Polla Filia,
J.F.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
THE HONOR OF BEING LOUIE’S KID
“Every day I remind myself of all that I have been given.”
-- Luciano Pavarotti
Yesterday was the day after Christmas. Great day for sales, and to spend more time with family.
For me, it is and always will be the anniversary of the last time I ever saw my father. I was living in Dallas at the time, and my parents lived in Austin where I was born. I had driven home for Christmas. I was working at a big blue-chip law firm in Big D, and I had to leave the day after Christmas and drive back to the big city to get back to work. No rest for the wicked (or weary, depending on who you talk to).
I stood with my Dad next to the driveway of my childhood home (which is no more). We had discussed when I would come home again, and I told him I thought I would come back in mid-February for his birthday. I hugged my Mom and said bye, and then I hugged my Dad and said “I’ll see you next time.” Who knew next time would be on the other side of life?
I drove away and never saw him face to face again. Three weeks later he suffered a major heart attack and died instantly. I had spoken to him on the phone only two hours before. His back was hurting and he was going to take a hot shower. When he got out of the shower, he had the heart attack and it was over.
I don’t morbidly remember this day each year. I remember it with joy and gratitude. Joy at the great, close and wonderful relationship I had with my Dad, and I remember it with gratitude for having such a father.
All men should strive to be the kind of father my father was. Here was a mechanic and machinest working physically hard for a living every day. He came home from a hard day's work, read the newspaper, had dinner at the kitchen table with his wife and kids, and asked us about what we did that day. He had three daughters, and all of them loved and idolized him.
He wasn’t all syrupy and mushy, though. He was a tough guy - a man’s man; but, he was loving and giving to his kids. He would praise us often for doing well in school, or in some other effort. He didn’t spank or yell, but if you dis-obeyed the rules you would be grounded - and you DID NOT ask for early reprieve on a grounding. There were no bicycling privileges when you were grounded. You needed to spend your time only in your yard, and in contemplation of how you would improve yourself and amend your ways. Consequently, we followed Dad’s rules. I was the worst of the three of us, getting a two-week grounding (with the bicycle put up on high hooks in the garage). I had ridden said bike outside of the approved area for riding my bike without an adult (I rode it all the way down to the creek and was riding it through a culvert when Dad came looking for me - I had been gone a long time). This rule was (of course) one for my own safety. I never did it again.
Think about it - this man disciplined his children without threats, spanking or yelling. He was firm and consistent, and he showed love and praise often. I never argued with him, or questioned him - not out of fear, but out of admiration and respect.
After regular work hours, my Dad restored old American vehicles for himself and for others, and he did repair work on their older cars, too. From the time I was a teen, I worked in the garage with Daddy on these cars. I continued doing this after I was grown and moved away to Dallas. I would come home on a weekend, and Daddy and I would be in the garage on a Saturday up to our respective elbows in grease. I had my own creeper for rolling under the jacked up cars. I would roll in from one side and Daddy from the other and we would get to work. In work under the hood, both our heads would be hovering over the engine while we collaborated on the repairs.
Once the work was done, it was time for a cold brew. I would go inside and get two bottles and bring them out to the garage. The two of us would lean back against the workbench with our refreshment and feel the relief which can only come from cold beer after a hard day’s work. Then the family would all get dressed and we’d go out for Mexican food. Daddy and I would frequently go play pool afterward. We were notorious for playing until three in the morning. My pool playing is rusty now, but I’m resolved to practice and get my skills back. I used to run the table, so watch out! :)
You can see why I would have a feeling of gratitude for a fabulous Dad such as this! I’m also grateful I got to speak with him one last time before he died. I’m grateful my Dad never suffered or knew what hit him. He was gone before he even had time to think about it.
I am most overwhelmed and grateful for having a Dad who was also a man of remarkable character and ethics. Streams of people consistently remarked on this at his funeral - and it was standing room only that day. A man such as this compels people to come and pay respect.
There isn’t enough gratitude for being the daughter of such a man.
So I remember December the 26th with joy and gratitude. I am honored to be Louie’s Kid.
Polla Filia,
J.F.
-- Luciano Pavarotti
Yesterday was the day after Christmas. Great day for sales, and to spend more time with family.
For me, it is and always will be the anniversary of the last time I ever saw my father. I was living in Dallas at the time, and my parents lived in Austin where I was born. I had driven home for Christmas. I was working at a big blue-chip law firm in Big D, and I had to leave the day after Christmas and drive back to the big city to get back to work. No rest for the wicked (or weary, depending on who you talk to).
I stood with my Dad next to the driveway of my childhood home (which is no more). We had discussed when I would come home again, and I told him I thought I would come back in mid-February for his birthday. I hugged my Mom and said bye, and then I hugged my Dad and said “I’ll see you next time.” Who knew next time would be on the other side of life?
I drove away and never saw him face to face again. Three weeks later he suffered a major heart attack and died instantly. I had spoken to him on the phone only two hours before. His back was hurting and he was going to take a hot shower. When he got out of the shower, he had the heart attack and it was over.
I don’t morbidly remember this day each year. I remember it with joy and gratitude. Joy at the great, close and wonderful relationship I had with my Dad, and I remember it with gratitude for having such a father.
All men should strive to be the kind of father my father was. Here was a mechanic and machinest working physically hard for a living every day. He came home from a hard day's work, read the newspaper, had dinner at the kitchen table with his wife and kids, and asked us about what we did that day. He had three daughters, and all of them loved and idolized him.
He wasn’t all syrupy and mushy, though. He was a tough guy - a man’s man; but, he was loving and giving to his kids. He would praise us often for doing well in school, or in some other effort. He didn’t spank or yell, but if you dis-obeyed the rules you would be grounded - and you DID NOT ask for early reprieve on a grounding. There were no bicycling privileges when you were grounded. You needed to spend your time only in your yard, and in contemplation of how you would improve yourself and amend your ways. Consequently, we followed Dad’s rules. I was the worst of the three of us, getting a two-week grounding (with the bicycle put up on high hooks in the garage). I had ridden said bike outside of the approved area for riding my bike without an adult (I rode it all the way down to the creek and was riding it through a culvert when Dad came looking for me - I had been gone a long time). This rule was (of course) one for my own safety. I never did it again.
Think about it - this man disciplined his children without threats, spanking or yelling. He was firm and consistent, and he showed love and praise often. I never argued with him, or questioned him - not out of fear, but out of admiration and respect.
After regular work hours, my Dad restored old American vehicles for himself and for others, and he did repair work on their older cars, too. From the time I was a teen, I worked in the garage with Daddy on these cars. I continued doing this after I was grown and moved away to Dallas. I would come home on a weekend, and Daddy and I would be in the garage on a Saturday up to our respective elbows in grease. I had my own creeper for rolling under the jacked up cars. I would roll in from one side and Daddy from the other and we would get to work. In work under the hood, both our heads would be hovering over the engine while we collaborated on the repairs.
Once the work was done, it was time for a cold brew. I would go inside and get two bottles and bring them out to the garage. The two of us would lean back against the workbench with our refreshment and feel the relief which can only come from cold beer after a hard day’s work. Then the family would all get dressed and we’d go out for Mexican food. Daddy and I would frequently go play pool afterward. We were notorious for playing until three in the morning. My pool playing is rusty now, but I’m resolved to practice and get my skills back. I used to run the table, so watch out! :)
You can see why I would have a feeling of gratitude for a fabulous Dad such as this! I’m also grateful I got to speak with him one last time before he died. I’m grateful my Dad never suffered or knew what hit him. He was gone before he even had time to think about it.
I am most overwhelmed and grateful for having a Dad who was also a man of remarkable character and ethics. Streams of people consistently remarked on this at his funeral - and it was standing room only that day. A man such as this compels people to come and pay respect.
There isn’t enough gratitude for being the daughter of such a man.
So I remember December the 26th with joy and gratitude. I am honored to be Louie’s Kid.
Polla Filia,
J.F.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
ODE TO COCO CHANEL
“Scheherezade is easy; a little black dress is difficult.”
-- Coco Chanel
[Warning: the below requires an open mind that is ready to think beyond the metaphor of fashion that is being used here. We are not being strictly literal today, people. Breathe deeply, open that mental door and read on.]
It all started with thoughts about the Little Black Dress - that classic of fashion. That idea started from one of those e-news thingies that Neiman Marcus sends to my e-mail box. They were touting the “Major Black Dress”. I thought “huh?” Of course, they were talking about the Little Black Dress - the ones they have in their stores; but, then they hit me with this zinger: “The littlest things can have the biggest impact.” Bravo! Well said.
Now, that is the point of the Little Black Dress. I think the LBD is a metaphor for a philosophy I love. One revolving around paradox. Less is more. Simplicity can be complex.
Great beauty does not come from piling on more and more garish jewelry or shocking styles (along with behaviors that are supposed to “shock” and grab attention). All that just comes off as ludicrous to me. I’m not shocked. I’m confused - confused by what on earth they think they’re achieving. Unfortunately, some “celebrities” today seem to be clueless on this subject; but they also seem to be clueless on other subjects, which is my point.
Perhaps with all their showiness they believe they are demonstrating they have “arrived”. They are only demonstrating to me they missed the bus completely (and the train, plane, boat, and all other possible modes of transportation).
So, I went from contemplating Little Black Dresses and their paradox, to the metaphor I think they embody, to Coco Chanel herself and some of her thoughts on fashion and life.
Coco Chanel is for me a woman of pure inspiration. It isn’t just because I love her fashion creations, and the cosmetic company that bears her name. That’s the stuff on the surface. I know something about the woman - from curiosity about her to some study of her. Here was a woman who *made* herself. She was an artist and her work was great art. Her way of thinking was the way of a great creative mind - as great a creative mind as any classic artist from Michelangelo to Van Gogh.
Her works are worth all the money people spend for them, not because they are apparel like the jeans we buy at the discount store; but, because they are art. You don’t take your old Chanel clothing down to the Goodwill when you’re done with it (you might sell it on consignment at a good vintage store, but it doesn’t go to the Goodwill unless you’re nuts).
Like all clothing of its type, it is classic, and it is durable, and it is valuable because it is Chanel. It is art. This is not about putting cloth over your bottom so you can go out in public. Although, please *do* put cloth, or something over your bottom before you go out in public, because unless I know you *really* well, and tell you outright I’d like to see your bottom, I don’t want to see it.
Ever.
Anywhere.
So, guys pull up your damn pants, PLEASE! If I want to see anything that personal, I’ll let you know.
Back to Chanel, fashion, and metaphors for a better society in general.
So, yes, high fashion influences more “everyday” fashion, if you will - and we all subscribe to the everyday sort; but, I think it is more important than that. What Chanel, and others like her do is reflect artistic quality, which reflects quality in life. This is not just about looking good and being pretty. I think it is a reflection of how society thinks and operates; and people, society is having some pretty low thinking lately.
From Chanel herself there is this: “Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street, fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.”
Lately, we’ve all heard of certain athletes, other celebrities and politicians (in what should be a Hallowed Hall of National Dignity) shooting off their mouths in particularly rude and abusive ways. Also, you can go down to the newstand and look at certain magazines that will tout the fashion successes of various celebs versus their faux pas. Then you can also read about their personal successes and faux pas (or worse than faux pas). Is it just me, or do some of the worst dressed also seem to be the worst lived? Maybe all the gaudy garbage they drape on themselves is indicative of how their minds are arranged.
What’s worse is, society as a whole seems to think some of this so-called fashion is cool and hip. Hey, I like to be cool and hip; but, ugly, garish clothing is just ugly and garish. Period.
This isn’t about being prudish, or square, or boring. Coco wasn’t any of those things - nor was she “practical” (ugh), or lacking in innovation; but, there is innovation, and then there is just flash and trash (The F&T, I call it).
Here is what Coco said about going too far: “When accessorizing, always take off the last thing you put on.”
Wow! There is so much style wisdom there; but, there is major life wisdom there if you apply that same concept to other things. Layering a lovely Little Black Dress with a scarf, five necklaces, ten bangle bracelets, a belt and a clever little jacket isn’t good fashion. The more a person adds onto that mess isn’t improving things and making that person look like a fashion genius. There is a lot of wrong thinking there - wrong thinking that may be occurring elsewhere in that person’s behavior.
The Little Black Dress, done well, stands alone and shows off its wearer to her maximum potential. Resist “adding” to that.
Here’s more from Coco: “Look for the woman in the dress. If there is no woman, there is no dress.”
Here are two more from Chanel, to get you thinking (keep your mind open beyond clothing - we are talking about *so much more*): “A woman is closest to being naked when she is well dressed.”
And this: "A girl should be two things: classy and fabulous.”
Look, I’m not wealthy enough to wear Chanel (yet). ;) I live most of my life in black jeans and comfortable shirts. The point isn’t that you should be wealthy enough to wear Chanel everyday; but, you should think like someone who is able to do that. There is a way of thinking that is *quality*, and a way of reflecting that *quality* thinking in our outward appearance *and* behavior. It’s the Coco Chanel Little Black Dress approach.
To close, here are a few more gems from The Great Woman:
(On preparedness and courtesy)
“I don't understand how a woman can leave the house without fixing herself up a little - if only out of politeness. And then, you never know, maybe that's the day she has a date with destiny. And it's best to be as pretty as possible for destiny."
(On higher standards)
“Dress sharply and they'll remember the outfit; dress impeccably and they'll remember the woman."
(On being “real”)
“Luxury must be comfortable, otherwise it is not luxury.”
(On quality living)
“Some people think luxury is the opposite of poverty. It is not. It is the opposite of vulgarity.”
“I love luxury. And luxury lies not in richness and ornateness but in the absence of vulgarity. Vulgarity is the ugliest word in our language. I stay in the game to fight it.”
Ah, yes, Coco. Thank you.
Polla Filia,
J.F.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
MR. JOHN STEINBECK - GIANT, LEGEND, INSPIRATION, HERO
“I guess there are never enough books.”
-- John Steinbeck
“A Life In Letters”
I used to tell my mother that “there is no such thing as too many books”. Once, several years ago I had a website when I wrote a book under another name, and on that website I put that quote of mine - “there is no such thing as too many books”.
Then today I found the above quote of Mr. Steinbeck at the National Steinbeck Center. I had not ever seen it before. You see, I am only about one-third of the way through “A Life In Letters”, a collection of his letters to family, friends and colleagues assembled by his widow after his death. It is a great work, and a particular inspiration to me. I have two copies - one in paperback and one First Edition in hardcover which I acquired from a collectible bookseller. That particular hardcover is one of my greatest treasures.
Today was the The Great Steinbeck Pilgrimage, and I did expect it to be very good. I did not expect what I got. It was far beyond anything I had anticipated.
First let me say that this vacation had not been exactly what I had hoped in the first few days, although parts of it have been amazing. I was not “getting” certain writing vibes I thought I would, and so forth. Yesterday, I turned a bit of a corner with the lifting of the fog, and my wonderful walk down the Embarcadero. Today, everything changed for the better. I think I needed a whole week just to recover from no time off in so long.
So, I set out on my journey today. I must first tell you that I stupidly left my digital Nikon in the hotel room closet. Yes, I know, but it was early and I had no coffee in my system. I plead internal fog as the cause. I bought a disposable camera, but unfortunately for you that means I can’t upload the pics. I’ll have them developed onto a CD and upload and post them after I get back to Texas.
The drive to San Jose was quick, it seemed, and I then I began to drive through the most lovely country, mountains (or hills, depending on your perspective), valleys, beautiful farmlands, tall trees and rivers. The drive was scenic and therefore seemed shorter than its two hours. I arrived in Salinas and saw all sorts of signs with the name “Steinbeck” on them.
I continued to drive until I reached Monterey. I stopped there briefly to re-group and to see the pretty little town. Then I drove on to Pacific Grove (which is umbilically and seamlessly attached to Monterey).
First of all, the Pacific Ocean there is breathtaking. It seemed to me to have a different color there than anywhere else I’ve ever seen it. It was the brightest, loveliest blue with a bit of a soft fog just out where the horizon might be.
I drove up a hill and drove right past the little house where Mr. Steinbeck had done much of his early writing. It was tiny - all the houses there were tiny; but, Oh God! What a view of that Ocean they have. No wonder he loved this place.
Then I drove back through Monterey, and on to Salinas again. This was Mr. Steinbeck’s hometown. His parents lived there, and he grew up there. The National Steinbeck Center is in Salinas and the man is buried in a cemetery there.
As I drove back into Salinas I was aware that I was running shorter on time than I had planned. I had spent more time in the Monterey/Pacific Grove area than I thought I would. So, as I looked at a map I decided that I needed to buy flowers and go to the cemetery before going to the Steinbeck Center - due to the logistics of driving.
Just as I was re-planning that in my mind, I saw this place up on my right called “Flower Magik” - I kid you not. Magic indeed. Far be it from me to drive all over a completely unfamiliar town looking for a flower shop when a “magik” one has been plopped down in my path! I pulled in and the lady was very sweet. She helped select flowers to lay at the grave of a “gentleman” in the cemetery (I didn’t tell her I was a sappy, star-struck fan of the late, great Nobel Laureate, Mr. John Steinbeck).
Here is where I digress for just a moment. There are many stories of Mr. Steinbeck’s that I have read and loved. I have not read all of his works. I will read them all, but I’m not done yet. Here’s the deal, I seem to like different ones best, from the ones most of the known universe likes best. What can I say? I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drummer.
For those of you who don’t know, The Great Man was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1940 for “The Grapes of Wrath” (more on that later), and was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1962. In the citation for his Nobel, “Grapes of Wrath” was one of the works specifically mentioned. Also, he was the first Nobel Laureate in Literature asked to sit with the King and Queen of Sweden at the Nobel awards dinner. This great honor had previously been bestowed upon winners of the award for some scientific achievement.
Also, it’s important to note that this book, “Grapes of Wrath”, a novel, effected political change in the United States of America that changed (and probably saved) people’s lives. The book dealt with the sorry state of affairs for migrant farm workers in California at that time. Then First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt read the book, and was so moved (and so aware of the actual research Mr. Steinbeck did in writing the book), that she spearheaded legal change to make the lives of those people better. A man, a writer, who wrote a novel, effected societal improvement in the lives of poor, powerless people - WITH HIS PEN! See what I mean? Understand that title on this blog post?
My favorite work of his is his non-fiction work “Travels With Charley: In Search of America”. This was a travelogue he wrote after his Nobel prize. It’s a snapshot of America in the early sixties. It was a trip he took around the U.S. with his standard poodle, Charley, in a camper truck he named “Rocinante” (after Don Quixote’s horse).
The first work of his I ever read was “The Pearl”. Another of my favorite works is a short story called “The Chrysanthemums” (BTW, you should know that the name of these flowers comes from the Greek word for “gold”).
I also believe that the opening sentences of “Cannery Row” are the best of any book - ever. Buy it, or borrow it from the library, but READ IT. While you’re at it, pick up a copy of his short stories and read “The Chrysanthemums”. Trust me, you need to do this.
Back to the florist. The first stems this sweet lady showed me were yellow spider CHRYSANTHEMUMS!! I’m not making this up. I realize that the name of this blog is about me makin’ stuff up - and I COULD make this up - but, I’m not. :)
Of course, I went for the Mums. Then she recommended a yellow rose and two other roses that were yellow with dark orangey-coral edges on them. It was a lovely, small bouquet. She put little water tubes on them, wrapped them in lovely clear cellophane and tied it all together with a yellow ribbon.
I drove down the street two blocks and there was the street I needed to turn on for the cemetery. It was like I had been to this town before, I was finding my way around so easily (this was meant to be, people). I turned right and drove, and near the end of that street was the cemetery. I stopped at the office and asked directions to his grave.
There is a big, black wrought iron arrow on one of the drives in the cemetery that says “Steinbeck” and it points in the direction of his final resting place. Still, I couldn’t find it even with her directions and the arrow. I was wandering around and looking for what she told me. I went back to the car and got the picture I had printed out from the Steinbeck Tour website and then looked up in the direction of the arrow again. There! I had walked right past it and around it!
The woman in the office had said there was a large monument that stood up over the whole plot and it said “Holmes”, which made no sense to me. This would be because I am a STEINBECK AFFICIONADO! What the marker actually said was “Hamilton”. This would have made immediate sense to me (and made it simple for me to find the plot), since that is his mother’s maiden name. It was his mother’s family’s plot.
Once I had correctly identified the location of the plot I walked over to it. This is where the whole day hit me in a way that even I had not expected. I wanted to go on this Pilgrimage and see the National Steinbeck Center. I wanted to pay homage to my Literary Hero. It meant a lot to me; but then I got there and I saw where he wrote his early books (in that little seaside house), and finally I walked through that cemetery with my flowers in hand and I walked up to the plot...
I stood there and started to weep. Yes, like the sap that I am, and I admit it. The marker said “John Steinbeck” and next to him was his wife Elaine, and below them in the plot were his parents, and just below him one of his sisters. Here was The Great Man himself and his family. A breeze was blowing. It was a lovely, sunny day. I was standing at the final resting place of none other than Pulitzer Prize winner, Nobel Laureate, and My Own Personal Literary Hero, Mr. John Steinbeck.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
I took some photos and laid the flowers there and took another photo with my flowers in place - my yellow Chrysanthemums. Then I walked back to the car and wiped my eyes and drove on to the National Center.
Once there, I paid and walked into the exhibit which was WONDERFUL! Now, I have to go back because I could spend hours there that I didn’t have today, AND I told Mr. Steinbeck I would come back and pay respects again. It’s a writer thing, people, don’t try to understand my wacky, emotional, sappiness too much. I’M A SAP!!
Anyway, I’m walking through the whole exhibit thing, and I’m ooohhing and I’m aahhhing and I get to the end and there is this (see the photo)!
I go out to the lady in charge and I say “Is that the actual truck? Or is it just one to show what it was like?” She knew immediately what I meant, and she said “Yes, it’s the actual truck,” and she smiled. I said “No way, really?” She nodded.
I went back into the end of the gallery and looked at it again. I took my own photo (but it’s on the disposable camera thingy - so this one’s off the internet). People, this is the REAL, Honest to God, Rocinante (so named) truck that he drove around the United States with Charley! As in, my favorite book “Travels with Charley...”!! THE REAL TRUCK!!!
More Sap Time here, so get ready. I started to cry again. Here was that actual truck. My Hero drove this truck. My Inspiration wrote in this truck, and slept in this truck. That truck went all over the U.S. with Mr. Steinbeck and his dog. My absolute favorite thing that he ever wrote was this great non-fiction account of his trip.
You need to read this one, too, people. I’m just telling you. You can’t not read this stuff. It’s going to change things for you. You’re going to enjoy the prose and the rhythm of it, and the stories themselves, and then later when you’re done reading it and you put it down, you’re going to have a lot of moments where you go “Hmmm”. And you’ll remember these stories - like years and years later - and it will matter that you remember them.
Having wept over the truck, I was now ready to spend vast quantities of money in the gift shop. If I could have packed up the exhibit, in its entirety, (with the TRUCK) and brought it home with me, I would have, but they don’t allow that. :( So, I bought out the gift shop. :)
Then I drove back to San Fran - lovely, awesome, sun-soaked drive back. Ahhhhh.
I arrived at my lovely hotel, took a shower and got all spiffed up for dinner. I had a lovely Italian meal at a place near the hotel (just off of Union Square) and then I caught the Powell street cable car back down to Market and walked the two blocks back to the hotel.
A fine meal, a cable car ride on a beautiful, breezy San Franciscan evening, and all of it after a lovely, sunny, and unbelievably meaningful day of connection with my Literary Inspiration.
I’ve read his works, and I’ve read his journals and I’ve read his letters. I feel as if I know him. Of course, I don’t really - but I don’t believe any of us ever really know someone. I think when you read a writer, you know some of the most important stuff about them, because that’s the pieces of their heart.
Standing at his grave today, I was surprised at myself for being so moved. I wept today because I have read his letters and journals that discuss his internal struggles as a writer. I wept today because his work is so beautiful and meaningful to me. I wept today because he is no longer with us, and all we have left are his words - in his works, and journals and letters. For some writers that would not be much in the absence of the writer himself. In the case of Mr. Steinbeck it is more than so many could ever offer. I wept because I do have all those words of his - all that beauty - and because HIS words are more than most of us can ever hope to leave behind - including me.
Polla Filia,
J.F.
-- John Steinbeck
“A Life In Letters”
I used to tell my mother that “there is no such thing as too many books”. Once, several years ago I had a website when I wrote a book under another name, and on that website I put that quote of mine - “there is no such thing as too many books”.
Then today I found the above quote of Mr. Steinbeck at the National Steinbeck Center. I had not ever seen it before. You see, I am only about one-third of the way through “A Life In Letters”, a collection of his letters to family, friends and colleagues assembled by his widow after his death. It is a great work, and a particular inspiration to me. I have two copies - one in paperback and one First Edition in hardcover which I acquired from a collectible bookseller. That particular hardcover is one of my greatest treasures.
Today was the The Great Steinbeck Pilgrimage, and I did expect it to be very good. I did not expect what I got. It was far beyond anything I had anticipated.
First let me say that this vacation had not been exactly what I had hoped in the first few days, although parts of it have been amazing. I was not “getting” certain writing vibes I thought I would, and so forth. Yesterday, I turned a bit of a corner with the lifting of the fog, and my wonderful walk down the Embarcadero. Today, everything changed for the better. I think I needed a whole week just to recover from no time off in so long.
So, I set out on my journey today. I must first tell you that I stupidly left my digital Nikon in the hotel room closet. Yes, I know, but it was early and I had no coffee in my system. I plead internal fog as the cause. I bought a disposable camera, but unfortunately for you that means I can’t upload the pics. I’ll have them developed onto a CD and upload and post them after I get back to Texas.
The drive to San Jose was quick, it seemed, and I then I began to drive through the most lovely country, mountains (or hills, depending on your perspective), valleys, beautiful farmlands, tall trees and rivers. The drive was scenic and therefore seemed shorter than its two hours. I arrived in Salinas and saw all sorts of signs with the name “Steinbeck” on them.
I continued to drive until I reached Monterey. I stopped there briefly to re-group and to see the pretty little town. Then I drove on to Pacific Grove (which is umbilically and seamlessly attached to Monterey).
First of all, the Pacific Ocean there is breathtaking. It seemed to me to have a different color there than anywhere else I’ve ever seen it. It was the brightest, loveliest blue with a bit of a soft fog just out where the horizon might be.
I drove up a hill and drove right past the little house where Mr. Steinbeck had done much of his early writing. It was tiny - all the houses there were tiny; but, Oh God! What a view of that Ocean they have. No wonder he loved this place.
Then I drove back through Monterey, and on to Salinas again. This was Mr. Steinbeck’s hometown. His parents lived there, and he grew up there. The National Steinbeck Center is in Salinas and the man is buried in a cemetery there.
As I drove back into Salinas I was aware that I was running shorter on time than I had planned. I had spent more time in the Monterey/Pacific Grove area than I thought I would. So, as I looked at a map I decided that I needed to buy flowers and go to the cemetery before going to the Steinbeck Center - due to the logistics of driving.
Just as I was re-planning that in my mind, I saw this place up on my right called “Flower Magik” - I kid you not. Magic indeed. Far be it from me to drive all over a completely unfamiliar town looking for a flower shop when a “magik” one has been plopped down in my path! I pulled in and the lady was very sweet. She helped select flowers to lay at the grave of a “gentleman” in the cemetery (I didn’t tell her I was a sappy, star-struck fan of the late, great Nobel Laureate, Mr. John Steinbeck).
Here is where I digress for just a moment. There are many stories of Mr. Steinbeck’s that I have read and loved. I have not read all of his works. I will read them all, but I’m not done yet. Here’s the deal, I seem to like different ones best, from the ones most of the known universe likes best. What can I say? I’ve always marched to the beat of my own drummer.
For those of you who don’t know, The Great Man was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1940 for “The Grapes of Wrath” (more on that later), and was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1962. In the citation for his Nobel, “Grapes of Wrath” was one of the works specifically mentioned. Also, he was the first Nobel Laureate in Literature asked to sit with the King and Queen of Sweden at the Nobel awards dinner. This great honor had previously been bestowed upon winners of the award for some scientific achievement.
Also, it’s important to note that this book, “Grapes of Wrath”, a novel, effected political change in the United States of America that changed (and probably saved) people’s lives. The book dealt with the sorry state of affairs for migrant farm workers in California at that time. Then First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt read the book, and was so moved (and so aware of the actual research Mr. Steinbeck did in writing the book), that she spearheaded legal change to make the lives of those people better. A man, a writer, who wrote a novel, effected societal improvement in the lives of poor, powerless people - WITH HIS PEN! See what I mean? Understand that title on this blog post?
My favorite work of his is his non-fiction work “Travels With Charley: In Search of America”. This was a travelogue he wrote after his Nobel prize. It’s a snapshot of America in the early sixties. It was a trip he took around the U.S. with his standard poodle, Charley, in a camper truck he named “Rocinante” (after Don Quixote’s horse).
The first work of his I ever read was “The Pearl”. Another of my favorite works is a short story called “The Chrysanthemums” (BTW, you should know that the name of these flowers comes from the Greek word for “gold”).
I also believe that the opening sentences of “Cannery Row” are the best of any book - ever. Buy it, or borrow it from the library, but READ IT. While you’re at it, pick up a copy of his short stories and read “The Chrysanthemums”. Trust me, you need to do this.
Back to the florist. The first stems this sweet lady showed me were yellow spider CHRYSANTHEMUMS!! I’m not making this up. I realize that the name of this blog is about me makin’ stuff up - and I COULD make this up - but, I’m not. :)
Of course, I went for the Mums. Then she recommended a yellow rose and two other roses that were yellow with dark orangey-coral edges on them. It was a lovely, small bouquet. She put little water tubes on them, wrapped them in lovely clear cellophane and tied it all together with a yellow ribbon.
I drove down the street two blocks and there was the street I needed to turn on for the cemetery. It was like I had been to this town before, I was finding my way around so easily (this was meant to be, people). I turned right and drove, and near the end of that street was the cemetery. I stopped at the office and asked directions to his grave.
There is a big, black wrought iron arrow on one of the drives in the cemetery that says “Steinbeck” and it points in the direction of his final resting place. Still, I couldn’t find it even with her directions and the arrow. I was wandering around and looking for what she told me. I went back to the car and got the picture I had printed out from the Steinbeck Tour website and then looked up in the direction of the arrow again. There! I had walked right past it and around it!
The woman in the office had said there was a large monument that stood up over the whole plot and it said “Holmes”, which made no sense to me. This would be because I am a STEINBECK AFFICIONADO! What the marker actually said was “Hamilton”. This would have made immediate sense to me (and made it simple for me to find the plot), since that is his mother’s maiden name. It was his mother’s family’s plot.
Once I had correctly identified the location of the plot I walked over to it. This is where the whole day hit me in a way that even I had not expected. I wanted to go on this Pilgrimage and see the National Steinbeck Center. I wanted to pay homage to my Literary Hero. It meant a lot to me; but then I got there and I saw where he wrote his early books (in that little seaside house), and finally I walked through that cemetery with my flowers in hand and I walked up to the plot...
I stood there and started to weep. Yes, like the sap that I am, and I admit it. The marker said “John Steinbeck” and next to him was his wife Elaine, and below them in the plot were his parents, and just below him one of his sisters. Here was The Great Man himself and his family. A breeze was blowing. It was a lovely, sunny day. I was standing at the final resting place of none other than Pulitzer Prize winner, Nobel Laureate, and My Own Personal Literary Hero, Mr. John Steinbeck.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
I took some photos and laid the flowers there and took another photo with my flowers in place - my yellow Chrysanthemums. Then I walked back to the car and wiped my eyes and drove on to the National Center.
Once there, I paid and walked into the exhibit which was WONDERFUL! Now, I have to go back because I could spend hours there that I didn’t have today, AND I told Mr. Steinbeck I would come back and pay respects again. It’s a writer thing, people, don’t try to understand my wacky, emotional, sappiness too much. I’M A SAP!!
Anyway, I’m walking through the whole exhibit thing, and I’m ooohhing and I’m aahhhing and I get to the end and there is this (see the photo)!
I go out to the lady in charge and I say “Is that the actual truck? Or is it just one to show what it was like?” She knew immediately what I meant, and she said “Yes, it’s the actual truck,” and she smiled. I said “No way, really?” She nodded.
I went back into the end of the gallery and looked at it again. I took my own photo (but it’s on the disposable camera thingy - so this one’s off the internet). People, this is the REAL, Honest to God, Rocinante (so named) truck that he drove around the United States with Charley! As in, my favorite book “Travels with Charley...”!! THE REAL TRUCK!!!
More Sap Time here, so get ready. I started to cry again. Here was that actual truck. My Hero drove this truck. My Inspiration wrote in this truck, and slept in this truck. That truck went all over the U.S. with Mr. Steinbeck and his dog. My absolute favorite thing that he ever wrote was this great non-fiction account of his trip.
You need to read this one, too, people. I’m just telling you. You can’t not read this stuff. It’s going to change things for you. You’re going to enjoy the prose and the rhythm of it, and the stories themselves, and then later when you’re done reading it and you put it down, you’re going to have a lot of moments where you go “Hmmm”. And you’ll remember these stories - like years and years later - and it will matter that you remember them.
Having wept over the truck, I was now ready to spend vast quantities of money in the gift shop. If I could have packed up the exhibit, in its entirety, (with the TRUCK) and brought it home with me, I would have, but they don’t allow that. :( So, I bought out the gift shop. :)
Then I drove back to San Fran - lovely, awesome, sun-soaked drive back. Ahhhhh.
I arrived at my lovely hotel, took a shower and got all spiffed up for dinner. I had a lovely Italian meal at a place near the hotel (just off of Union Square) and then I caught the Powell street cable car back down to Market and walked the two blocks back to the hotel.
A fine meal, a cable car ride on a beautiful, breezy San Franciscan evening, and all of it after a lovely, sunny, and unbelievably meaningful day of connection with my Literary Inspiration.
I’ve read his works, and I’ve read his journals and I’ve read his letters. I feel as if I know him. Of course, I don’t really - but I don’t believe any of us ever really know someone. I think when you read a writer, you know some of the most important stuff about them, because that’s the pieces of their heart.
Standing at his grave today, I was surprised at myself for being so moved. I wept today because I have read his letters and journals that discuss his internal struggles as a writer. I wept today because his work is so beautiful and meaningful to me. I wept today because he is no longer with us, and all we have left are his words - in his works, and journals and letters. For some writers that would not be much in the absence of the writer himself. In the case of Mr. Steinbeck it is more than so many could ever offer. I wept because I do have all those words of his - all that beauty - and because HIS words are more than most of us can ever hope to leave behind - including me.
Polla Filia,
J.F.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
HOMAGE TO DADDY
Yeah, I know, *Sunday* was Father’s Day, but I don’t give particular attention to Father’s Day on the *day* anymore. Not because of any disrespect, but because everyday is Father’s Day for me now.
My Dad died some years back. He got out of the shower one night, had a massive heart attack and that was it. As bad as it was (and for me it was a great darkness), I still say that’s the way to go - so fast you don’t know what hit you.
Everyday is Father’s Day for me now, because there isn’t a single day that goes by that I don’t think about my Dad. Not in a morose, mopey way, but in all the best ways - the ways of remembering what he has given me. It may be some fleeting thought, but it is there every, single day. I can’t even get behind the wheel of a car without thinking of him. I don’t think like I do, or do what I do in life without remembering so much of it is owed to him.
My Dad was a mechanic and a machinest. He did the machinest thing as his main livelihood (the man could fix or fabricate *anything*), and he did the auto-mechanicin’ at night and on the weekends. When I was a kid, he raced go-karts. Before my time, he raced other stuff. All of it was just local - in Texas; but, I grew up with cars on my mind, and racing as my favorite sport to watch.
When I got old enough to hold a wrench (or any other tool), I was out in the garage learning from Dad, and when I got old enough to know what I was doing (about 15), I was actually working on cars with my Dad. He didn’t work on new cars - he restored and worked on old American cars (you know, the kind before they put computers in them). I was right there with him, up to my elbows in grease. It was great! Yes, I’m a chick, and I love to go shopping at Neiman Marcus, and take a nice, long day at the spa; but, I know what a gap-setter looks like, and I know how to use it! ;)
While hanging out with my Dad, I was learning a lot more than just cool stuff about cars and racing. I was learning about work ethic, integrity, the importance of approaching a project with organization, focus and the right state of mind. My Dad was a high-school dropout who later got his GED, but the man was wicked smart. He was an autodidact. He read anything and everything, and absorbed it like a sponge. He had a red-neck Texas accent, but you’d be a fool to think he wasn’t smart. He made straight A’s in high school English before he dropped out. He could speak perfect English if he wanted to, and he could discuss physics with you if you were smart enough to keep up. It was from this Renaissance man that I learned to value the acquisition of knowledge, and to strive for constant improvement of myself.
He also had a great sense of humor, and a terrific laugh. He was, and still is, the best Dad a girl could ever have. He was Louie - Father, Teacher, Friend and Hero.
He is with me still - every day. So, on a day that is *not* Father’s Day, I’m writing about him. I wish you could have known my Dad, because you would have been like every friend I ever had who knew him. You would have said “Your Dad is soooo COOL!” Yes, he was. Totally.
He was Louie, and I am lucky enough to be Louie’s Kid.
Every race I watch on TV, or go to live, I know he’s right there sitting next to me enjoying every second. I know he’s in my corner no matter what I’m doing. He’s ready to whisper advice in my ear and remind me about the right way to do things - anything. He stands by my side to be my champion when I’m brought low. His spirit will always be near me, because he’s there, and because he left so much a part of himself in *my* spirit.
He’s out there driving down Heaven’s roads, winding through Elysian fields, golden sun shining down, wind across his face, laughter in his wake.
Drive on, Daddy, drive on!
Polla Filia,
J.F.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
JEFFFFFF BECKKKKKKK!!
I love Jeff Beck - love as in fanship devotion. :) My dream is that someday I will hear him play live, and get to meet him for an autograph. **sigh**
I like all kinds of music, as long as it is *music* - that is, it’s high quality, it exhibits true musicianship and talent, and it gives me a complex palette in the listening experience. Rock-n-roll is, as a general rule, music I like (although there is some of it that just isn’t - and I mean - Is. Not.). Great rock-n-roll is as good as it gets. Notice I said “great”. I don’t throw that word around lightly when I’m talking about any kind of music, but when we talk about Jeff Beck, we ARE talking about Great Rock.
Jeff Beck is one of those musicians who never ceases to take me way beyond that whole entertainment thing. Jeff Beck is inspirational to listen to. I can listen to five minutes of Jeff Beck and start feeling like I’ve had a few glasses of wine already - a heady combination of lightly buzzed mellow mood, mixed with some euphoria, and that “I can conquer the world” vibe, all rolled into one. And that’s *just* listening to his music, *without* the wine. :)
I am not old enough to remember him in his early days. I won’t even try to tell you anything about the Yardbirds, ‘cause I don’t know much about that. I have never heard recordings of the Yardbirds (don’t shoot me, music afficianados, I’ve just not had that experience *yet*).
In fact, I had not heard of Mr. Beck until in my twenties, when as a huge music fan I began to learn of great rock-n-rollers like him, and Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, and the like. They were all slightly before my era of music. Anyway, I didn’t ever hear Jeff Beck play (at least not to my memory) until about three years ago. I was blown away. This was no “really good guitarist” - this was a truly great guitarist. This IS a Truly Great Guitarist. Jeff Beck has one of the most unique and amazing sounds I have ever heard on the guitar.
Performing with him lately have been the amazing Mr. Vinnie Colaiuta on drums, the wonderful Mr. Jason Rebello on keyboards, and the most astonishing Ms. Tal Wilkenfeld on bass (chick CAN play bass!). See the sidebar on the right and scroll down to my Fave Links, people - you'll find websites for all of them.
So, Jeff Beck has a new CD out now (and a DVD, too). All of the above-mentioned performers are with him there. It is a LIVE recording. He also has some tracks with vocalists Ms. Imogen Heap and Ms. Joss Stone, AND Mr.Eric Clapton (his own self) comes in for two pieces, and does vocals along with his most legendary guitar.
The CD is called Performing This Week: Live at Ronnie Scott’s, and you can get it here: Jeff Beck - Performing This Week: Live at Ronnie Scott's The CD
Or, if you really want the whole experience, almost like you were there AT Ronnie Scott’s, then get the DVD, which you can get here: Jeff Beck - Performing This Week: Live at Ronnie Scott's The DVD
Or, for the Whole Smash, do what I did, buy the CD *and* the DVD!!
Put that DVD on, crank it up with the surround sound system, pour that glass of wine (or your personal Listening-To-Music-Beverage-Of-Choice) and you are THERE!
BTW, if you don’t know what Ronnie Scott’s is, you can go here and see: Ronnie Scott's Jazz Club - London
People, this is not your average rock-n-roll. This is not even “good” rock-n-roll. This is Great Rock-n-Roll - as Good As It EVER Gets!! This is JEFFFFFFFFFF BECCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!
Polla Filia,
J.F.
I like all kinds of music, as long as it is *music* - that is, it’s high quality, it exhibits true musicianship and talent, and it gives me a complex palette in the listening experience. Rock-n-roll is, as a general rule, music I like (although there is some of it that just isn’t - and I mean - Is. Not.). Great rock-n-roll is as good as it gets. Notice I said “great”. I don’t throw that word around lightly when I’m talking about any kind of music, but when we talk about Jeff Beck, we ARE talking about Great Rock.
Jeff Beck is one of those musicians who never ceases to take me way beyond that whole entertainment thing. Jeff Beck is inspirational to listen to. I can listen to five minutes of Jeff Beck and start feeling like I’ve had a few glasses of wine already - a heady combination of lightly buzzed mellow mood, mixed with some euphoria, and that “I can conquer the world” vibe, all rolled into one. And that’s *just* listening to his music, *without* the wine. :)
I am not old enough to remember him in his early days. I won’t even try to tell you anything about the Yardbirds, ‘cause I don’t know much about that. I have never heard recordings of the Yardbirds (don’t shoot me, music afficianados, I’ve just not had that experience *yet*).
In fact, I had not heard of Mr. Beck until in my twenties, when as a huge music fan I began to learn of great rock-n-rollers like him, and Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, and the like. They were all slightly before my era of music. Anyway, I didn’t ever hear Jeff Beck play (at least not to my memory) until about three years ago. I was blown away. This was no “really good guitarist” - this was a truly great guitarist. This IS a Truly Great Guitarist. Jeff Beck has one of the most unique and amazing sounds I have ever heard on the guitar.
Performing with him lately have been the amazing Mr. Vinnie Colaiuta on drums, the wonderful Mr. Jason Rebello on keyboards, and the most astonishing Ms. Tal Wilkenfeld on bass (chick CAN play bass!). See the sidebar on the right and scroll down to my Fave Links, people - you'll find websites for all of them.
So, Jeff Beck has a new CD out now (and a DVD, too). All of the above-mentioned performers are with him there. It is a LIVE recording. He also has some tracks with vocalists Ms. Imogen Heap and Ms. Joss Stone, AND Mr.Eric Clapton (his own self) comes in for two pieces, and does vocals along with his most legendary guitar.
The CD is called Performing This Week: Live at Ronnie Scott’s, and you can get it here: Jeff Beck - Performing This Week: Live at Ronnie Scott's The CD
Or, if you really want the whole experience, almost like you were there AT Ronnie Scott’s, then get the DVD, which you can get here: Jeff Beck - Performing This Week: Live at Ronnie Scott's The DVD
Or, for the Whole Smash, do what I did, buy the CD *and* the DVD!!
Put that DVD on, crank it up with the surround sound system, pour that glass of wine (or your personal Listening-To-Music-Beverage-Of-Choice) and you are THERE!
BTW, if you don’t know what Ronnie Scott’s is, you can go here and see: Ronnie Scott's Jazz Club - London
People, this is not your average rock-n-roll. This is not even “good” rock-n-roll. This is Great Rock-n-Roll - as Good As It EVER Gets!! This is JEFFFFFFFFFF BECCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!
Polla Filia,
J.F.
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