Old Dogs, New Chicks

While working on my latest article for the magazine Caribbean Belle, titled "Old Dogs, New Tricks? The Art of Aging Creatively.", I found myself in search of  inspirational accomplishments by people generally considered to be past their prime.  As I added athletes, musicians and artists to my list, a friend asked, "How about Hugh Hefner?" The pajama-clad mogul's business savvy and apparent staying power aside, I laughed off the suggestion and decided not to go down that particular bunny trail.

A few days after I had finished and submitted my article, I fired up my computer, navigated to my home page, and found among Optimum Online's newsworthy items a beaming Hugh Hefner alongside a (surprise!) beautiful young blond. "Playboy's Hefner gets engaged to a Playmate again" headlined the Associated Press blurb. In a Twitter message the day after Christmas, he said that he had given a ring to girlfriend and Playmate Crystal Harris and that she had burst into tears. "This is the happiest Christmas weekend in memory," he wrote. Now if  he could only remember what he did with the last Playmate.

Largely regarded as the father of the sexual revolution, Hefner founded Playboy magazine in 1953 and over the course of the following half century built an empire with one of the most recognizable brands in history. He championed the "Good Life" and outlined his philosophy in an editorial of the first issue of Playboy.

"We like our apartment. We enjoy mixing up cocktails and an hors d'oeurve or two, putting a little mood music on the phonograph and inviting in a female acquaintance for a quiet discussion on Picasso, Nietzsche, jazz, sex... If we are able to give the American male a few extra laughs and a little diversion from the anxieties of the Atomic Age, we'll feel we've justified our existence."

Bring on the nuclear warheads, Hugh.

As the Internet blogs and tweets its disapproval of the May-December liaison, the 24 year old Harris has no problem with the disparity in their ages. "A lot of people talk about the age difference between Hef and I, but I don't see the age difference at all. If anything, I feel like I'm the adult and Hef's the kid," she said.

She'll get no argument from me on that one, but I would advise her to supervise his play dates and keep a close eye on his BB gun.

Up until about a month ago, Hefner had been dating twins Karissa and Kristina Shannon at the same time as his involvement with Harris. In an interview with Fox News, he described monogamy as "something that has been invented along the way to take care of children." Whether he recognizes his own need for daycare or he is simply a hopeless romantic underneath the bathrobe, "Hef" is offering an ironic stamp of approval to the institution of marriage for the third time. May I offer my sincere wish that this will indeed be the charm and that the happy couple will enjoy many loving years together. However, should paradise find itself in trouble, I'd like to direct Mr. Hefner's eye to the available leggy blond in the photo above.

Photo- "Is that a biscuit or are you just glad to see me?" Gracie lives out her boudoir fantasy.

Dream On

In a recent installment of "Green Monkey Tales", my friend and fellow blogger Shannon Kennedy laments her loss of the "Past Love Story" writing contest. Disappointment and denial of recognition have delivered a powerful blow; go to self-doubt, go directly to self-doubt. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.00.

 Grantland Rice, the great sportswriter once said, 'It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game.' Well Grantland Rice can go to hell as far as I'm concerned.
-Gene Autry

I'm with the Singing Cowboy on this one. Losing didn't launch his career, keep him on Forbes magazine's list of the 400 richest Americans, or pen "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer". Yep, pardner, it's fun to win and it sure as shootin' pays more.

Contests are a double-edged sword; preparation and practice can lead to the exhilaration of victory or the embarrassment of holding an empty bag. Unfortunately there are a lot of empty bags out there. I'm pleased to report that by the end of her post, Shannon had come to terms with her defeat and decided that it wouldn't stop her from writing. Here's to looking at that bag as half full.

As competitive as I am, I'm not a great competitor. I can be totally undone by nerves and I'm not terribly receptive to criticism. My mother used to tell me, "You're thin-skinned, just like your grandmother." Apparently, "Ma'am" used to talk through television shows while remaining quiet during the commercials. No matter how gentle the reprimand, her beautiful blue eyes would fill with tears and she would clam up for hours. I guess you could say she was "Good to the Last Drop."

Genetic hyper-sensitivity coursing through my veins, I search for signs of validation as I now stand on the far side of the half century mark. Music and art have remained a constant thread throughout much of my life, though I haven't pushed either pursuit to its limit. Little victories aside, I, like Ralph Kramden,  have yet to "hit the high note". But I'm not dead yet and I'd like to think that the drill team competition I won in high school was not the apex of my creative accomplishments. Outside of reality TV, you can only go so far with white boots and a pair of pom-poms. Now there's a thought...

So while I prepare to take on the Kardashians as a banjo picking, dog loving, pom-pom waving mid life maniac, I'll keep reaching for the ring, brass or otherwise.

I know that Shannon will do the same.

Shannon Kennedy is the colorful force behind "Green Monkey Tales". Her writing is exuberant, poignant and hopeful. Please visit http://greenmonkeytales.blogspot.com/

Dear John

Your daughter Jenny called me yesterday. Memories and anticipation rode shotgun as she drove to the airport a day earlier than planned. After nearly two weeks in the hospital, the doctors are sending you home to end your eight year battle with Alzheimer's. In the arms of a remarkable and loving family, you are quietly slipping away as you say goodbye. I am brought to tears.

Imposing and brusque, you scared the hell out of me as a kid. Your wife Donna once described you as "a complicated man."; I accepted that explanation and played by its rules. Your opinions were iron-clad and your respect was hard won. You weren't easy.

I grew up alongside Jenny and, over time, became a member of your extended family. During your oldest daughter Holly's graduation party in the backyard, a contingency of underaged revelers sampled some Sloe Gin on the front porch. Bounding down the steps to dispose of the evidence, I found myself locked in combat with the fire of your steel blue eyes.  I don't remember the exchange of words as you took the bottle out of my hands; for that matter, I don't recall any major repercussions resulting from our antics. I do remember, however, looking for toilet paper in your bathroom many years later. As I searched through the cabinet under the sink, I found the empty bottle of Sloe Gin. Why you kept it, I'll never know, but I felt an odd sense of honor wash over me that day.

You walked your daughter Holly down a lovely makeshift aisle as she was married in your backyard. The spirit and warmth of that day so impressed me that I could think of no other place to have my own wedding. My own parents were surprised and somewhat concerned by my decision and didn't know you all that well at the time. Who in their right mind would want to host someone else's daughter's wedding? What will our friends think? Well, their friends wound up having such a wonderful time that they asked my folks if they had another daughter to marry off the next weekend. Your hard work and generosity resulted in one hell of a party and the beginning of a wonderful relationship with my parents. They loved you and made several trips to visit you when you moved south of Pittsburgh, to your beautiful "Booth Hill" in 1991. I have heard many fond recountings and will always be grateful that they were treated to the luxury of your friendship.

A farmer at heart, you approached life with a no-nonsense attitude. After giving many years of compassionate and intelligent service to the Pennsylvania State Game Commission, the farmboy from Mansfield, Pennsylvania has come full circle. "Booth Hill" fits you like a glove; you've taken good care of each other. I carry with me the memories of my own visits and a lifetime of love from you and Donna.

I texted Jenny today, asking for an update on your condition. She answered, "I am not gonna lie...this is rough, but there is a strange beauty to it..." Less than a year after my own father's death, it is not surprising that I should remember the nights I spent by his bed, with Gracie asleep at my feet. I watched as he stirred and sputtered in his sleep, his hands at times reaching in the air to capture morphine-induced hallucinations. There was a great deal of sadness among the suspense, yet I felt a singular sense of purpose and peace. All I had to do was be by my father's side; nothing else mattered. Nothing else was needed.

You are now surrounded by your family as they do their best to let you go. You won't be forgotten; your hand has touched them in ways that they have only begun to know. If there is an afterlife, I'd like to imagine it as a large sun-drenched porch complete with bottomless glasses of mint-laced iced tea. You are needling my mother as she bursts into one of her trademark giggles; my father and you enter into a lengthy mechanical conversation about tractors. Please tell them that I said hello and that I love them.

Thanks,
Joan

Photo:  John Booth  at "Booth Hill". Unidentified cat and  faithful pickup "Roger" are in the background.

John Ainsworth Booth, September 1, 1929 - September 1, 2010.
    

Better Late Than Never

I had every intention of publishing this post on July 25, the day my mother would have turned 86. Unable to pull it together in time, I came to the realization that a delayed posting was, in fact, the perfect tribute. My mother was always late.

She never caught the beginning of a movie. Accustomed to the out-of- breath whirlwind digging through her purse for money, the ticket vendor always allowed her to come back to watch the start of the next showing.

Dinner at 5:30 was out of the question, and the plates reached the table later with each passing year. While a moonlit meal in Paris brings to romance to mind, the same scenario in Trucksville, Pennsylvania brought only an empty stomach and gas pains. We knew she meant well and did our best to enjoy leathery steak sentenced to death by one of her many distractions. I often tried to rescue the meat while Mom bustled about the kitchen; my efforts were at best 50/50  as she chastised me for being impatient. So much for my career as an EMT.

The concept of an early start was elusive and seldom realized. A trip to the mall never began any earlier than 1:00 and ended with her Chevy Caprice flying up the hill  just in time to be late for dinner. "There's Dan Gurney," my father would say, making reference to the famous Formula One driver. "Do you know that she can back out of a driveway faster than most people pull in?"

Though governed by a skewed time zone, she managed our lives and schedules and was a loving hands-on mom. I may have gotten my behind into the dentist chair nanoseconds before the Novocaine hit, but I got there. She had all the time in the world while I agonized over the latest fashions in a fitting room. I didn't return the favor, fidgeting and whining before she could get one finger in a glove. She chauffeured my friends and I to the mall, where we would go our separate ways after determining when and where we would later meet. Manning our post well past the appointed time, we would eventually hear the screech of heel clatter as a five foot two inch bullet barrelled towards us like a bat out of hell.

While I can't lay claim to my mother's good nature and sweet disposition, genetics' sense of humor has kept this apple pretty close to the tree. I carry on my mother's tradition of dysfunctional time management while making a mad dash for the finish line. She recognized my gift and often told me, "You'll be late for your own funeral." God, I hope so.

Happy Birthday, Mom.


Photo- Rosemary Devine Harrison and unidentified beau.

Out Standing In My Field

Okay, so it's not my field. But it is a field, and a mighty big one at that. Packed to the tree lines with pickers, grinners and listeners, the Walsh farm in Oak Hill, New York becomes the home of the Greyfox Bluegrass Festival every third weekend in July. Named the International Bluegrass Music Association's Bluegrass Event of the year in 2009, Greyfox has assembled the finest talent and steadfast fans for over thirty years. Neither rain nor sleet ( hmmm...) nor gloom of night keeps the legions of devotees from lining up in anticipation of the opening of the Greyfox gates. While at its former location in Ancramdale, New York ( the festival moved in 2008 to Oak Hill ), a pre-festival tradition of camping  at the bottom of the hill began in order to secure prime camping real estate. Dubbed "The Foxhole", it is now held about 4 miles from the current festival site on the Allan farm. Bluegrass enthusiasts Elsie and Jim Allan welcome the not yet tired and weary as they pick and party their way through the week before the actual event. "Gumbo Night" serves up a grand finale to the Foxhole and the masses move on to the "Really Big Shoe".

Born in 1976 and christened the Berkshire Mountains Bluegrass Festival, the gathering was eventually named "Winterhawk" and spent its first 30 years in Ancramdale, NY on a beautiful sunset-blessed hillside belonging to the Rothvoss family. Ten years ago, Winterhawk became Grey Fox when one of the founding partners decided to part ways with the administration.  In January 2008, the Rothvoss farm was sold and an intense search ended at the Walsh farm in time for that year's festival. Renamed and relocated, the spirit of Grey Fox lives on and flourishes as more fans discover its magic.

I first experienced Winterhawk in the mid-eighties as a fledgling banjo player. Lacking the confidence to insert myself into a jam, I stood on the sidelines and watched as musicians traded solos and sang in harmony. While I may have been under equipped to join in the music making at the campsites, I was able to bask in the talent flowing from the main stage. The best of the best in bluegrass took to the floorboards year after year, from the Father of Bluegrass, Bill Monroe to the progressive heat of the powerhouse New Grass Revival. Doc Watson's brilliant guitar stylings were served with the warmth and humor of his front porch demeanor. A young Alison Krauss celebrated a birthday during a set, going on to win 27 Grammys during the course of a career that continues to spread the bluegrass word. In 1989, I watched as Pete Wernick of Hot Rize took the stage after surviving the crash of United Airlines flight 232 in an Iowa corn field. There are eight million stories in the Naked Bluegrass City; this has been one of them.

Twenty years later, I'm setting up a tent on a patch of grass thoughtfully reserved for me by my friends. It's hot. Sweat pours from my face as I put together the poles and bid farewell to my vanity. My hair will be flat, my feet will be dirty and my hygienic routine will be compromised. I could very easily forgo camping these days- my home is situated on a wooded lot and offers daily access to Mother Nature and her wonders. As I question the sanity of signing up for three days of blistering sun and steaming Porta-potties, I hear the answer.

A novice fiddler practices intently alongside her parents' camper, while a spirited jam session kicks up a few sites away. Young, dreadlocked, and decidedly bohemian, the folks on the other side of our temporary road pay homage to Jerry Garcia. A cluster of old timers play it like Jimmy Martin; a young man on jazz keyboards plays it nothing like Jimmy. Music. It's all here and it's all good.

We arrive with our instruments and our arsenals of material in hopes of sharing our musical thoughts and enthusiasm with fellow pickers. Although the main stage line-up is top notch, I am drawn to Grey Fox by the promise of finding that special jam session, that moment where it all comes together. Even if it never happens or if I come up against material I don't know or can't execute, I pack up my shortcomings and head home to prepare for the next festival. Move 'em out, Rawhide!

Music as an art form is organic and ever changing.  Bluegrass traditions are preserved while new ideas emerge and evolve. Having spent his lifetime pioneering and creating the "high lonesome sound", Bill Monroe considered himself the father and caretaker of bluegrass. When a new band didn't perform to his standards, he would say, "That ain't no part of nothing." With all due respect, I disagree. It's all part of something; something which draws thousands of people to festivals across the country. We step out of our lives, into our cars and campers, and settle down in the middle of  a musical encampment that will disappear in a few days. It is our Brigadoon, if you will, but we don't have to wait a hundred years for the gates to open again. See you next year.


Photo by Dan Tressler. Thanks, shmerrr.

Walk On

I let my feelings get the best of me today, which in turn brought out the worst in me. Mindless chore completion and a trip to the gym did nothing to soothe the savage beast. Nonsense spewed from her foaming mouth and when it became clear that she would remain until day's end, I decided it might be prudent to leave her to her own devices. Why not take a walk? Why, it's right up there with the daily apple or prune juice to combat attitude malaise. Add a dog to the prescription and you're on the road to recovery.

I packed up the canine and drove to Poughkeepsie. Hardly the Disneyland of the northeast, it does boast of a marvelous new attraction- the Walkway Over the Hudson. The longest pedestrian bridge in the world, its 1.28 mile span offers unobstructed views of the river set to the heartbeat of scores of walkers, joggers and cyclists. From the moment our feet and paws hit the pavement, I could feel my inner monster loosen her grasp. Just what the witch doctor ordered.

Walking with Gracie makes me laugh. She is a fur-covered dose of Prosac without the side effects. Her goofy grin set to full power, she scores head pats, butt rubs, and at the very least, charmed smiles from our fellow walkers. A party waiting to happen, she issues countless invitations to her festivities and receives few refusals. Her guest list grows exponentially as I follow in her four footsteps. "It's okay-I'm with the dog."

The realization of 20 years of reclamation efforts, the Walkway Over the Hudson is the rebirth of an abandoned railroad bridge damaged by fire on May 8, 1974. Failed attempts to save it led to popular opinion that it would eventually be torn down. Bill Sepe, a local handyman obsessed with the idea of a pedestrian walkway, formed Walkway Over the Hudson in 1992. While his original plan to restore the bridge with volunteer labor and funds didn't work, the organization took over ownership of the bridge in 1998. In 2004, a new board with a greater vision was in place, and in 2007 joined forces with the Dyson Foundation to raise the necessary funds. The project took 16 months and $38.8 million dollars to complete. Managed by the state as an historic park, the handyman's obsession stands as a glorious tribute to the tenacity of its supporters.

In our precarious economic times, even the most successful projects face the pressures of downsizing. New York State is considering the closing of 41 state parks and 14 historic sites, and the Walkway may feel the sting of that decision. A charge for parking may be in place by summer and the winter may find the Walkway closed on certain days. One trip across this masterpiece will prove that these problems are well worth tackling.

As we finished our stroll, I realized I no longer carried the weight of my miserable mood. Unable to stand the euphoria brought on by clear air and spectacular views, she must have hurled herself into the river. A glass of Cabernet and a salad at one of my local haunts would keep her there.

Like Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz", I had found what I needed in my own backyard, or more specifically, in Gracie. Sweet and short-sighted, she offers immediate relief to anxiety and access to the simplest of pleasures. When in doubt, listen to the dog.

For more information on the Walkway Over the Hudson, visit www.walkway.org.

Please Don't Eat the Daisies

I sat in my father's kitchen and stared at the wallpaper. Daisies. Crazy daisies. Avocado and harvest gold crazy daisies. Elvis may have left the building, but the building never left the seventies.

Classic fodder for an HGTV episode of "House Hunters", I hear the paper-hating moans of prospective buyers. Were it another house on another show, I'd be right there with them. I found my present home nestled in a time warp and diligently brought it up to date, unencumbered by the memories of former owners. The family manse, however, is another matter. While I question how much work I want to do to stage the home for sale, I wonder if I'd rather keep the museum intact as long as I can. I have the luxury of visiting with these artifacts and listening to their stories. Call me crazy, but those daisies sure can talk.

They remind me of the Tuesday night I stood in the kitchen with my Mom as we finished doing the dishes. "Marcus Welby, M.D." was on TV ( The television is also still in the house and would willingly corroborate the daisies' story.) and I noticed the ceiling light flicker. "Mom! It's a bat!" She channelled her inner shortstop and snagged the creature with her dishtowel. It lay in a ball on the floor and Mom grabbed its edges and ran through the living room. She threw open the front door, snapped the towel and released the invader onto the porch. As I caught my breath, I turned and looked up the stairs to our second floor. Bats swooped back and forth like barn swallows. I sounded the alarm for the second parent. "Dad!"

He ran into the living room to find two clearly distressed damsels and a growing formation of bats. They had begun to descend down the stairs and one had attached himself to the dining room wall. Armed with a tennis racket, Dad decided against its use. "Too messy.", he said. He ran to the hall closet and returned with the vacuum cleaner. Before we could read the animal its rights, Dad had sucked it into the canister, his eyes fixed on his next victim. The Nightmare on Vonderheid Street had just begun.

About a half an hour into the skirmish, I went down to the basement in search of a sweater to cover my halter top. The thought of a scantily clad pubescent Barbarella might be titillating, but I felt underexposed. I opened the door and was horrified to find another airborne visitor. If Chicken Little thought his sky was falling, then this was the end of my world. My brother and father responded to my screams, manned the vacuum cleaner and motioned me upstairs to guard the second floor.

Holding two tennis rackets, I nervously stood at the bottom of the stairs. Within seconds, I had trapped a bat on one of the treads and stared at his beady eyes through the grid of the strings. Another circled my head as I kept it at bay with the other racket. Just as I began to review my life, my Dad and brother relieved me of my duty. Batman and Robin were going to save Gotham City.

Well after midnight, the battle appeared to be over. Nineteen bats, an exhausted family of four, and one hardworking Electrolux. We concluded that the bats had come in through the ceiling of the unfinished second floor bathroom. Workers had finished putting up our aluminum siding that day and covered up the hole that had allowed them to come and go as they pleased. Two stragglers surfaced over the next few days and the official total stands at twenty-one. Months would pass before I could open my closet without fear, but I had survived "The Trucksville Horror".

My thanks go to the craziest of daisies for their retelling of this tale. I'm dying to hear what the shag rug has to say.