Category Archives: Whimsies

Murder Most Foul-er

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This post originally appeared October 1, 2019.

A day or two after I blogged about my television binge watching habits, and in particular, how I was leisurely watching Midsommer Murders because there were 19 seasons on Netflix, Netflix announced that the program would be removed from their network October 1. At that point I was on about Season 9.

Yikes.

So I commenced to sitting down and watching episode after episode of the program. For the entire month of September, every afternoon and into the evening, I was parked in front of the television, watching Inspector Tom Barnaby, and then when he retired, his cousin Inspector John Barnaby. I watched the parade of sergeants that helped the Chief Inspector(s) solve the murders, all the while wondering how a small community like Midsommer could withstand the loss of four or five people each episode. I dreamed about Midsommer. I began talking with a British accent. I couldn’t stop craving bangers and mash. I would get into the passenger seat of my car, looking for the steering wheel.

Finally, Sunday I felt I simply couldn’t watch another episode. I was at the end of Season 17, and realized that I couldn’t eat another fish or chip. But I’m not a quitter, and I wanted to find out who would replace DSI Nelson. I wondered if the Barnabys would get another dog to replace Sykes. Would little Baby Betty Barnaby finally sleep through the night? So, I compromised. I began watching the first and last episodes of the remaining seasons. The first episodes would let me know if there was a new Detective Sergeant whose name and personality I would have to learn. The last episode would provide any surprises for the next season.

In my blog post about binging, I mentioned that the murders that took place in Midsommer were quite cozy. Maybe a thump on the head or a poison slipped into a cup of tea. But as the television years progressed, I realized that the murders were becoming more and more violent. Brutal, really. It went from a bump on a head with a cricket bat to being run over with an army tank or killed by bites from dozens of poisonous snakes. Really yucky stuff. Nevertheless, I powered on.

But watching the increase in sheer horror as the episodes progressed got me to thinking about our appetite for gore. In 1997, when the first Midsommer murder took place, we could handle a cup of tea laced with strychnine as a murder weapon. By 2019, we were lapping up murders committed by shoving a sharpened stick through into one ear and out the other.

Perhaps it’s because the outside world is getting more and more horrific, but it apparently takes darker plots and more violent murders to get us to pay attention. The same is true of sex scenes, even on television and sometimes even in programs that are in the 7 o’clock time slot. Often when Bill and I are watching one of the programs we like, a scene will make me uncomfortable. That’s when I will turn to Bill and say, “My, we’ve come a long way since Rob and Laura Petrie slept in separate beds.”

I know I sound like my grandmother, but it still seems to me that we are sacrificing clever plot lines and characters and dialogue and replacing it with sex and violence.

By the way, even though Chief Inspector Barnaby and Detective Sergeant Whoever-It-Might-Be face grislier murders, they still do it without a gun in sight. Just sayin’…..

Blessed are the Poor

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The other day I had lunch with my daughter-in-law Jll. As we were driving to the restaurant (well, actually she was driving, I was a passenger without even one of those car seats with the little steering wheels that passed as a child safety seat in the mid-20th century), we drove by a man standing at the intersection holding a sign asking for money and God Bless You. The light was green, so we didn’t have one of those internal guilt trips where you think you should give money or should you? Because they might use it to buy drugs or booze. And is that a cigarette they’re smoking because if they can afford cigarettes, they don’t need my Abraham Lincoln.

“I used to carry bags with little containers of shampoo and soap and bottles of water that I would hand to homeless people,” she told me. “I haven’t done that for a while.”

I thought that was very clever and told her so. She admitted that while most were grateful, a few were not because what they really wanted was cash to buy the aforementioned drugs or booze.

Given that conversation, it was an interesting coincidence that this weekend’s Gospel from Luke told the story that Jesus related to the Pharisees about the poor man who was starving and covered with sores and the rich man who dressed in rich garments and ate delicious food. Knowing Jesus’ teachings, it comes as no surprise that the poor man died and went to heaven while the rich man died and went to “the netherworld.” The rich man begged for Lazarus’ help and was told that he had the goods when he was living, but it was now Lazarus who lives in glory.

The moral of the story, of course, isn’t that rich people can’t get to heaven. Of course they can. Instead, Jesus was reminding the Pharisees, and now us, that it doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor. What matters is that you’re generous.

There was a priest, now deceased, who was well-known in the Archdiocese of Denver for being generous to the poor and homeless. He was asked on occasion why he so freely gave money to the homeless when they often spent it unwisely. He responded that it wasn’t up to him to say how they should spend the money he gave. Jesus simply asks us to be generous, not to be judge and jury. We aren’t generous for them; we are generous for ourselves.

I take for granted how lucky I am. I know this because I find myself griping that my steak has too much gristle or I can’t believe I had to eat chicken two nights in a row. As they say: First World problems. I mean to be generous, I really do. I have said for ages now that I want to carry dollar bills in my car and when I have the opportunity, I want to hand one or two to that woman standing with the sign at the intersection, even if she’s talking on an iPhone 11. As Fr. Woody said, it’s not up to us to judge. It’s up to us to be generous. I’m going to the bank tomorrow and get some dollar bills.

Hold me to it.

Saturday Smile: Twins, Separated at Birth

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I mentioned this past week that Jen, Bill and I went to see Downton Abbey  at the theater. At one point in the movie, Jen suddenly started to laugh. It was in a scene where the King and Queen of England had brought along their own staff, and their personal chef was trying to take over the kitchen. He was a snobbish French chef. I looked at her quizzically and she whispered to me that the chef — Monsieur Courbet — looked just like Winston.

It happens that Winston is Jen’s puppy — a Yorkie Poo who is more Poo than Yorkie. And he does, indeed, resemble the French chef. See for yourself…..

It has to do with the curly hair and the length of his pointed nose. Despite his decidedly British name, Winston definitely leans toward his French side.

Have a great weekend.

 

Friday Book Whimsy: The Chelsea Girls

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Author Fiona Davis writes novels about historic locations and addresses in New York City.  The Dollhouse is about the famous Barbizon Hotel, a safe place to live for young women in the 1920s and 1930s who were alone in NYC and trying to make it on their own.  The Address is a fictional account of a group of folks living at the Dakota Apartments, which was THE place to live in the late 1800s. The Masterpiece told the fictional story of an art institute that at one time was located in Grand Central Station.

In her most recent novel, The Chelsea Girls is located in — no surprise — Hotel Chelsea in NYC. The hotel at one time was the address for artists of all types, from actors to writers to visual artists. It is also the home of our two protagonists — Maxine Mead and Hazel Riley. Both aspiring actresses, they meet working as part of a USO group entertaining troops in Naples at the very end of World War II. Maxine is strong-headed and confident while Hazel lacks confidence. Nevertheless, they become fast friends.

At the end of the war, Hazel returns to New York City and finds a residence at The Chelsea. Maxine goes to L.A. to become an actress. In 1950, she returns to New York, and is integral in getting a play that Hazel has written into the hands of an interested producer. Not only that, but Maxine convinces him that Hazel should be the director. He agrees, provided that Maxine be the leading lady.

Trouble begins when Sen. Joseph McCarthy’s Red Scare turns to the entertainment industry to seek out communist sympathizers. Both Hazel and Maxine get caught up in the trials, leading to a fascinating and educating story that shows both sides of the issue.

I have read all of Davis’ books, and The Chelsea Girls is far and away my favorite of the four. I love books set in the 1950s. I love books set in NYC. And I love books from which I can learn some history. The Chelsea Girls meets all of those criteria.

The characters were complex and interesting. Surprises abounded. A touch of romance and a touch of mystery.

It will probably be one of my favorite books in 2019.

Here is a link to the book.

Thursday Thoughts

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John Cougar, John Deere, John 3:16
Sorry, but anytime I come in contact with a John Deere anything, I can’t help but think of the Keith Urban song. Anyhoo, the other day Dagny came over to earn some bucks by mowing our lawn. She was out of our sight, mowing the side yard, when suddenly we heard the mower stop. Bill went to check out the situation, and came back to tell me that a wheel had fallen off of the mower. A little bit later, I took this photo of Bill attempting to fix the lawn mower, teaching Dagny as he went. It made me smile. Perhaps if she doesn’t become a professional beekeeper, she can become a lawn mower mechanic…..

Feelings, Nothing More Than Feelings
The other day, to make up for being so inconsiderate as to take Kaiya for her birthday adventure without including Cole (such a cruel, cruel world), I took him to a wonderful park that’s not too far from our house. He was kind enough to allow me to include Kaiya (despite his having been left out of her and my adventure a few days earlier) and we all had a lot of fun…..

…..however, I had to laugh at something I overheard. There was someone whom I presume was a daddy with his little daughter who was maybe 5 years old. She was climbing on the rope ladder. As she climbed, Dad said, “Honey, now be careful and make good choices.” Those, I thought were words I would never have heard come from either my mom’s or my dad’s mouths, at least not when it came to playing on playground equipment. Parenting in the 21st Century.

History of Twang
I have been addicted to the Ken Burns’ PBS documentary about country music, cleverly called Country Music. In his characteristically detailed style, Burns tells the story of country music, starting back in the days of the depression when those people we now refer to as flyover Americans took music into their own hands and created what was originally referred to as hillbilly music. The history lesson goes on to apparently up to and including contemporary country music. I am up to the 1970s, which is when I really started getting interested in country music, though it was more country rock where I began taking baby steps. Actually, Bill has enjoyed the program as much as me, and I hear him humming along to a lot of the music.

Singing
And speaking of enjoying the music, I am happy that The Voice is back. I was a little nervous that the whole Blake Shelton/Gwen Stefani thing was going to get on my nerves, but so far it really hasn’t. Thus far none of the competitors have rocked my boat either. But it’s early in the season.

Ciao.

Falling for You

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In keeping with the relatively weird weather we’ve been having in 2019, the autumn colors are very late this year. People who drove up to see the colors in the mountains last weekend only saw a very few trees just beginning to turn yellow. It seems like most of the time, the aspens are full-out bursting with gold in the mountains.

Despite my recent pumpkin spice rant, I have to admit that the sights and smells of autumn make me very happy. This was the sight that caught my eye yesterday at my neighborhood Whole Foods. Who knew that there were so many kinds of pumpkins and squashes?…..

They were so beautiful that I was compelled to buy a perfectly shaped acorn squash, cut it in half, clean it out, fill it with butter and brown sugar, and bake it. Bill isn’t the biggest fan of vegetables in general, but he does really like acorn squash prepared this way. “My mom made it like that,” is his excuse. Oh, and BROWN SUGAR on a vegetable.

The smell of roasting chilies is also in the air, reminding me of the fall season. Every year, I want to buy roasted hot chilies. And every year I have to remind myself that I never, ever make green chili. Why? Because my sister Jen does the deed for me. She makes some of the best green chili, using ground beef instead of pork. She learned it from her Sanchez mother-in-law, though I think she has tweaked it over the years to make it her own.

A week or so ago, I got a text message from her in which she told me she just finished the worst job she has to do each year — cleaning her hot chilies. It’s back-breaking, eye watering, nose burning work, but well worth the effort. Especially since it’s her and not me.

Every year, Bill and Jen and I try to make it to Estes Park for one of my favorite activities: listening to the elk bugle. It occurred to me that we aren’t going to be able to do it this year, which makes me kind of sad. It’s a pretty time of year, and the performance given by the male elks so as to collect their herd is one of God’s loveliest gifts, at least to me. The bull elks will have to call for their mates this year without me looking on.

I have pulled out all of my flowers, though my tomato plant continues to produce fruit. I’m going to have to give up at some point and pull them out of the ground. I have no more ideas for using my many, many tomatoes…..

In a few weeks, we will make our way to AZ, where we will spend a few weeks getting our house ready for our winter visit. The weather — while not hot enough to fry tortillas on the sidewalk, will be a step back into memories of summer. So I’m enjoying our Indian summer while I have it.

Ghost Story

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For birthdays this year, instead of tangible items, I have tended to gift experiences instead. Experiences that include time with me. For example, Cole chose to go to the Children’s Museum preceded by a sushi lunch…..

For her birthday treat, Mylee chose Elitch Garden’s Amusement Park, and brought along her best friend Ella…..

When it came time for Kaiya to select an activity, she was frankly kind of stumped. She’s too grown up for the Children’s Museum, and Elitch’s is closed for the season. A museum visit didn’t catch her fancy. There hasn’t been a movie that she has wanted to see.

The days and weeks went by, and her birthday was getting further and further in the rear view mirror. One day, however, I had a EUREKA moment. Kaiya and her dad share a love for scary movies, something I despise. But what about a ghost tour?

I looked online and found a tour that got good reviews and appeared to be family-friendly. I made the suggestion, and she accepted. We were on for a visit with the ghosts.

When Court was 10 or 11 years old, Bill and I took him to a ghost tour during which we learned stories about all of the haunted houses and buildings in the Capitol Hill area of Denver. The tour started in the Molly Brown house, where we learned all about the spirits that visit that house regularly and continued on towards the state Capitol, hearing ghost stories along the way. I remember the stories terrified Court. Heck, they should have. He was just a kid. Frankly, the stories scared the hell out of all three of us.

This particular tour with Kaiya took us on the other end of the downtown area, to the area not far from Coors Field. It was in this area that Denver’s founder, General William Larimer decided to settle way back in 1858. He sought permission from Kansas Territorial Governor Denver via a letter, hoping to sway him by naming the new settlement Denver. By the time the letter reached Gov. Denver, he was no longer governor. Nevertheless, apparently Larimer already had stationary printed up, because he kept that name, a fact about which I’m glad because there could have been far worse names. Stinkeyville, for example.

Anyway, our tour began at the Tivoli Brewery on the Auraria campus, home to several higher education facilities including Metropolitan State University, our local urban college. It took us through lower downtown, which, during the time of General Larimer, would have consisted primarily of saloons and brothels. But those prostitutes have stuck around, because our ghost meters kept indicating the existence of spooky friends. I took several photos, but no ghosts turned up mysteriously in my pictures.

At the end of the day, this young lady who found The Sixth Sense to be only mildly scary enjoyed the time with her Nana Kris and Papa Bill, even if we didn’t encounter any ghosts directly…..

Will You Be Needing Anything Else, M’Lord?

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Sometime in January 2011, I got a phone call from my sister Jen.

“There’s a television show that I think you and Bill would like,” she said. “It’s on PBS, and it’s called  Downton Abbey.

I had not heard a single word about such a program, but as she described it, I thought it sounded interesting and worth checking out. She was only half right, however, when she said  Bill and I  would like the program. His eyes glazed over even as I was simply describing the program. The only impact he had on what quickly became my Downton Abbey obsession took place after Matthew and Lady Mary FINALLY got their act together and got married. (It is here that I place a spoiler alert; however, I think it’s safe to assume that anyone who is interested in Downton Abbey already knows everything there is to know about the Crawleys.) At the beginning of that season, Bill was reading his news feed, and casually said, “Oh, so Matthew gets killed in a car wreck at the end of this season, huh?”

“Whaaaaat?” I screamed, because the season had just started. The entire season was ruined. He never again volunteered a single word about Downton Abbey.

I, along with an enormous number of others, faithfully turned on our televisions on Sunday nights during the six Downton Abbey seasons and laughed and cried and worried and fretted right along with Lord and Lady Granthem, as well as their downstairs staff. Oh, such drama.

And then the program came to a conclusion. A delicious conclusion that tied up all the loose ends and allowed nearly everyone — upstairs and downstairs — to finally live happily ever after.

Flash forward to 2019. Six or more months ago, the Big Announcement was made: There was to be a Downton Abbey movie. Oh joy! Oh happiness! Another delightful helping of Lady Violet, the dowager countess of Granthem. I, along with other Downton Abbey lovers (which includes my two sisters), marked our calendars for September 20, and dreamed of spending a bit more time in the company of aristocrats.

It was with this in mind that my sister Jen telephoned me six or seven weeks ago again with Downton Abbey on her mind.

“I know what I want for my birthday,” she said. “I want you and Bill to come to Fort Collins and go to see Downton Abbey with me.”

And so we did. This past Saturday, we all went to see the Movie Event of the Year. Well, to be honest, Bill probably wouldn’t call it the Movie Event of the Year. However, he only slept through the first 15 minutes. And then Lady Violet had even him under her spell.

The movie, my friends, was pure, unadulterated enjoyment. It was candy for the soul (and the eyes). Not only did you have the entire Downton crew, but throw in King George and Queen Mary as well. There was comedy. There was drama. There was romance. There was conniving. It was better than afternoon tea at the Savoy in London.

I want to go again, and this time I will only look at the costumes.

By the way, I have already committed to making it up to Bill by accompanying him to see the upcoming movie Ford v. Ferrari, which will be released on November 15. Don’t worry. I will probably only sleep through the first 15 minutes.

 This post linked to Grand Social.

Saturday Smile: I Am From

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Our grandson Joseph is 10 years old. He wrote this poem as a school assignment.

I Am From
By Joseph McLain

I am from my favorite cat Ellie
From puddles and trees during springtime in Montpelier.

I am from an old green house and a beautiful neighborhood
I am from overgrown hostas that always seem to be looking at me.

I am from hot chocolate and chapter books
From Hibbert and McLain.

I am from big celebrations and different cultures like Polish and Scottish.
From Taco Tuesday and Pride.

I am from Great Grandma Wilma, a Cookie Monster cake
And from my great grandparent singing to me.

From my youngest, but first to die cat.
I am from those moments, the sad ones, the hard ones and the happy ones
that is why life is so amazing.

I couldn’t be prouder of this boy.

Have a great weekend.

Thursday Thoughts

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English Lives and Breathes
English, unlike Latin, is not a dead language. The Miriam-Webster dictionary continues to add words to its dictionary. Very recently, in fact, they added the word  tallboy to the dictionary. You know, tallboy as in a 24-oz can of beer. That probably makes a lot of beer drinkers feel very scholarly…..

Lady Kris?
In the midst of the excitement around the release of Downton Abbey, I stumbled across an exciting piece of news. It seems that the real Downton Abbey — Highclere Castle — is being listed on Airbnb. Unfortunately, it will be a one-night-only extravaganza.

According to a CNN story, two lucky guests will experience “an exclusive evening drinking cocktails in the Saloon followed by a traditional dinner with the Earl and Countess of Carnarvon in the State Dining Room, being waited on by Highclere Castle’s own butler,” the site’s listing says. (I doubt the butler will be Carson.) CNN goes on to say that following dinner, there will be coffee served in the Library, after which the lucky two will retire to one of the bedrooms with an ensuite bathroom and outstanding Hampshire countryside views. In order to be eligible to be considered, you must already be registered with Airbnb, have outstanding reviews, and be a Downton Abbey enthusiast. I wonder if one out of three would work?

Team Pear Pickers
Our apple trees didn’t bear fruit this year, but our pear tree delivered a bountiful harvest. Last weekend, I put out a call for help. With the permission of our painter, we used his 17-foot ladder to reach ALMOST to the top of the tree, and got plenty of pears. This year, my picking team included Maggie Faith, Dagny, and their Papa…..

And Speaking of….
Our painter finally completed the painting job yesterday afternoon, and left with his 17-foot ladder. He’s been here for three or so weeks. To the untrained eye, you might not notice the difference in color, but it’s actually quite a nice change. And I’m very pleased with the gray trim. It’s good to be finished, and we are delighted with the way it turned out…..

Ciao.