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First Chapter of Marianne Moves On

I haven’t posted anything in a while so here’s the first chapter of my award-winning novel, Marianne Moves On. Hope you enjoy it.

CHAPTER 1

1989: I Leave Home

During my senior year in college, my mom announced over dinner that she’d set up a date for me with a local farmer’s son. “He’s a good worker; he’ll inherit a big farm. His dad is a good customer and the family’s Catholic. He’d make a good husband.”

“Mom!” I exclaimed in exasperation. “Quit setting me up with your friends’ kids!”

“If I didn’t set you up, you wouldn’t have any dates at all,” Mom retorted.

“That’s because you won’t let me go out with anybody on campus,” I protested.

“We know what happened to Aggie M. That won’t happen to you,” Mom said darkly.

“Let Marianne alone,” my dad interrupted. “Marianne will be just fine. She can always stay home and take care of her parents. She’ll be a great help to us in our old age.” He smiled at me benignly. He obviously thought he was helping.

I smiled back weakly—and firmly resolved to leave home as soon as possible.

Some background:

I was the youngest kid in my immediate family—and the second girl. The oldest, my brother, Matt, was the heir apparent and the apple of my mother’s eye. He was tall like my dad but had dark hair like my mom’s before she’d gone gray. Next came my sister, Agnes Marie—Aggie M to us. Aggie M was petite and dark like my mom and had her porcelain skin. She also had blue eyes that glinted like my mom’s. Mom accepted Aggie M because daughters could marry useful connections that would be good for business. But one daughter was enough. I think I was the reason my mother gave up alcohol. As a conscientious Catholic she probably practiced the rhythm method of birth control—or ‘poke and hope’ as it was known around my hometown of Brookings, South Dakota. Not that she’d ever discussed it with me; I’m just guessing—plus I never found any birth control apparatus or prescriptions in my surreptitious searches. But something threw her system out of whack and I arrived. I was tall and blond, like my dad, and had blue eyes like the rest of the family. Mom said I looked just like my dad except his eyes were dreamy. She said my eyes were more watchful—if that wasn’t a redundant comment to make about eyes.

I’m not sure how my father felt about us. I’m not even sure he made the connection between intercourse and conception. He was pretty vague about things. He let Mom run the house, the kids, and the business. She was the queen and he was a drone.

It took me years of eavesdropping, snooping, and observing to figure out how they ever got together.

My mother, Mary Agnes, came from Northern Ireland when she was eighteen. Apparently, she came from a farming family where the farm was left to the oldest son. Since she didn’t stand to inherit any money from her family and her employment prospects were dim because of her religion, she scraped together enough money for a plane ticket to New York City, the Promised Land. My mother was the left fist of God—or maybe the left tonsil. She hadn’t hit me since I was ten and mouthed off to her but if I did anything she didn’t approve of, she’d glare at me with her mad Irish eyes. If I persisted in misbehaving, she’d start yelling. She had a gift with language; she could flay you alive with sulfurous words. She’d lost most of her Irish accent but when she was angry, she sounded like she was straight out of the Old Sod. Fervent in her faith, she made sure we’d all be eligible for heaven. Black was black, white was white, and gray was a sub-section of black.  

My dad, Alfred Matthew Fuchs Jr., was a South Dakota native whose family owned a hardware store in Brookings and had illusions of grandeur. Grandpa Fuchs predicted that his only child would accomplish great things in the world, so he insisted ‘my boy Al’ get an Ivy League degree in law. My dad attended Columbia, but his only interests were novels and my mom who worked at a small restaurant. Grandpa died early from a heart attack on the golf course and Grandma requested my father’s presence to take over the hardware store. My dad never expressed disappointment at his interrupted schooling. From comments he dropped I think he was relieved. But I gathered that Grandma was less than thrilled when my father appeared with a young Irish bride on his arm—and a pregnant one at that.

Mom redeemed herself in Grandma’s eyes when she produced a Fuchs heir, brother Matt—or Alfred Matthew Fuchs III, poor bastard. She turned into a heroine when she had my sister. I was only twelve when Grandma died—but I knew even then that she was completely dependent on my mother. She may never have liked Mom, but she needed her. So did my dad. From other eavesdropped conversations I concluded that, although my dad was the titular owner of the family business, he wasn’t very diligent about managing it. He wrote bad novels and poetry during business hours and often closed up completely to play golf with his buddies if Mom didn’t watch him.

The business was the sole support of the family and we all lived in Grandma’s big house—which must have gotten old fast. I think Mom started working in the store just to get away from Grandma but eventually she took over management from Dad. After crossing an ocean by herself and settling in a foreign country, running a business in a mid-size town didn’t scare her at all. And after Grandma died, Mom took over the big house among the gentry. Mom had arrived! But she wouldn’t tolerate a spoiled child—except Dad, of course. All of us kids grew up in nail bins and paint cans. The only person allowed to screw off was Dad. But that was only fair; he’d provided the inheritance.

Big brother Matt, five years my senior, lived up to Mom’s expectations. He was an altar boy, captain of his high school basketball team, and on the Dean’s List at South Dakota State University. He married a local beauty queen whose father was Mom’s lawyer. He completed an MBA before settling down to raise his children and run the business with Mom.

Older sister Aggie M started out living up to all Mom’s expectations. She was in band and chorus until high school when she switched to cheerleading and musicals. As homecoming queen, she brought honor to the Fuchs name and went on to South Dakota State University with both my parents’ blessings. That’s where everything went kerflooey. Aggie M discovered beer in her freshman year and spent most of her time on academic probation. Mom put her in a sorority, hoping that peer pressure would tame her, but her sorority sisters were just as ditzy as she was. Her party time was cut short when she got pregnant. Aggie M’s boyfriend was the heir of the local screen-door manufacturer–and Catholic!–so the marriage, outside of being unavoidable to all parties, was acceptable. Aggie M cheerfully dropped out of college and raised her family.

Nobody knew what to do with me when I came along. I was tall like the men in the family, not short, dark, and cute like the women. I played baseball and basketball with my brother until he left for college then I played softball and basketball on the high school girls’ teams. I loved it. Mom muttered that I’d grow up to be a lesbian, but Dad came to most of the games and even took the whole team out for ice cream a few times. He patted me on my sweaty shoulder when we won a basketball championship, one of the few times I remember any physical contact with him. He seemed more comfortable with my sports uniforms than the ruffled dresses Mom insisted I wear. She desperately tried to counter my tomboy image until even she could see I looked ridiculous in the sort of clothes she and Aggie M wore. It was like putting a bow on a St. Bernard.

More acceptable occupations were my creative writing class and working on the school paper. Like Aggie M, I was in the school music program. Unlike Aggie M, I stayed in the band. I was the tall, gawky ugly duckling, the accidental birth—or the afterbirth, as Aggie M liked to taunt.

And while my mother bemoaned my differences from Aggie M, she assumed I would still make Aggie M’s mistakes. She’d allowed Aggie M to live on campus and look what had happened! Liquor, parties, pregnancy! Not for Marianne! I had to be home from dates by 11:00—both in high school and college. I wasn’t allowed to live in the dorm; I had to live at home where Mom could keep an eye on me. She also decided I’d major in English so I could teach when I graduated. She allowed me to select my own minor—communications—as long as I took a summer business course of typing, shorthand, and bookkeeping; all valuable fallback skills, she said. I didn’t argue. She was right.

But I did argue about living at home for my college years.

“I don’t see why I’m getting punished. Aggie M got pregnant, not me!” I would argue more or less hotly depending on my mood–and my mother’s forbearance–over those long four years. “I’m missing out on everything!” I’d wail.

“You’re not missing anything important,” Mom would return shortly.

“How would you know? You never went to college,” I muttered.

“And that’s why I’m not going to let you ruin the opportunity I’ve provided for you,” Mom said. “Aggie M didn’t need an education; her looks would always see her right. But you need to be able to make a living.”

I think she meant well but she still gave me an inferiority complex. As I entered my final college years, I plotted how to get out from under Mom’s controlling thumb. I knew I had to go somewhere a long way off…but where? After watching the news one evening, the answer came: Los Angeles. I wanted excitement and apparently L.A. had the corner on the market. From what I saw on TV something was always going on—not necessarily good but nothing like safe, little old Brookings.

Of course, I still had to get through college while not losing my mind. I recruited my brother to help me lobby for a midnight curfew. After a spirited skirmish, Mom admitted that Matt was probably right (not me!); I could probably be trusted to stay out an hour later. An overnight with some girlfriends was possible. Mom also let me take her car so I could go to movies (bars) and student meetings (parties) with girlfriends. Life was still restrictive but at least I got out of the house. And slumber parties were short paroles. I got to hear about normal life. The girls’ talk was all about sex and other adult pastimes so I had little to contribute but I would listen avidly. I finally accepted a blind date out of desperation. He was the friend of the boyfriend of a girlfriend, but he passed muster with Mom. She thought he was safe after she interrogated him. He took me to a few movies and I finally lost my virginity to him just to see what everybody was talking about…which apparently wasn’t much. It was more embarrassing than anything else. I wasn’t sure what to do—obviously passion didn’t enter into the act—so I just lay there like a lox hoping he’d hit the elusive G spot I’d read about. I don’t think he knew where it was either. After it was over, I worried. What if I’d gotten pregnant? He fell in love with me and kept calling and Mom got nosy and hopeful. It was a dreadful experience all around. When my period finally came, I said a prayer of thanks and told the guy I didn’t think we had a future together. I certainly wasn’t going to sweat through a month like that again and birth control in my house was impossible.

After that I decided that sex was probably like Scotch; I hadn’t liked that the first time I tried it either. I’d developed a taste for it after I’d experimented with better brands. I’d tried plain wrap when I lost my virginity; I’d wait until I could get Johnny Walker Black. I joined some intramural sports teams to burn off calories and frustration.

Of course, Mom started worrying about me being a lesbian again and started setting me up with sons of her friends (earnest young Catholic men) and sons of customers (young farmers and manufacturers). Mom saw me as a workhorse, not a show pony.

I dutifully went on those wretched dates, studied hard, and played lots of softball and basketball until I graduated. Happy day! Now my life could start.

Which presented me with a whole new list of problems. What would I do for money? Mom told me I could work at the store until I “settled down” or went to grad school. While I appreciated the offer—which wasn’t disinterested on Mom’s part; she could pay me peanuts since I was living at home—and although I’d learn a lot about business, I had other plans. I needed a skill to make a living in Los Angeles and I wasn’t sure being a clerk in a hardware store would pay well enough. When Matt’s father-in-law offered me a job as a legal secretary, I jumped at it. I’d get some training, save some money, and be marketable in the Big City. I endured living at home and Mom’s ridiculous matchmaking attempts for a year until Dad—I think trying to help me out—repeated his mantra one last time: “Marianne doesn’t need to get married. She’ll stay home and take care of her old folks.” He smiled at me kindly as he said it.

Oh God. I announced that I was leaving home for Los Angeles.

My dad said, “Oh?”

My mom said, “Don’t be ridiculous. That city’s Sodom.”

She refused to even entertain the idea until brother Matt took my part. “Let her find out how tough it is out there. She’s lived such a sheltered life she’ll be back in a year and be happy to settle down,” he said in an after-Mass tete-a-tete with Mom (I was lurking in the hall). “Besides, I think the adventure would be good for her.”

We finally talked Mom into the idea, but she argued about everything. When I found a contact for an apartment in LA, Mom insisted on interviewing the landlord. Mr. Friesman was related to a local family and had a garage apartment for rent behind his Los Angeles home. He was looking for a reliable tenant and I needed a place to live. It seemed like a match made in heaven, but Mom didn’t like him.

“He seems flighty,” was Mom’s assessment after the phone conversation. “And he’s charging too much. Four hundred dollars for a garage apartment? Something funny’s going on.”

“Mom, rents are more in Los Angeles than they are here.”

“That’s more than I paid in New York,” Mom objected.

“You had one room not an apartment. And it was thirty years ago,” I pointed out. Mom humphed and muttered something about brothels.

I found the names of some law firms from phone books at the University library and scheduled appointments with five of them.

“Law firms,” Mom sniffed. “If you stayed home, I’d send you to grad school.”

“If I stayed home, I’d lose my mind,” I muttered.

“What?” asked Mom sharply.

“Nothing,” I mumbled. I was too much of a coward to be too snotty to Mom. She was small but she scared me to death. But I came close when Mom announced she was coming to Los Angeles with me.

“You’ve never been that far away alone,” she said. “I won’t sleep a wink knowing you’re on the road by yourself. Besides, I’ve got some cousins I haven’t seen in years living around there. I could visit them. Maybe they could put you up somewhere. They’d be better than that Mr. Friesman.”

“Mom,” I said as reasonably as I could, “I’m twenty-three. It’s time I was on my own. The car works fine. And if I did get into trouble there’s nothing you could do to help me anyway. And you certainly can’t dump me on people I’ve never met. Maybe you should talk to Matt again?”

Mom still muttered that family was supposed to help you, Matt couldn’t cut through her hard-headedness, and I was starting to panic when Dad spoke up on my behalf. “She’s a big, strong, healthy girl,” he said. “She could probably beat up any man that tried to jump her.”

Thanks Dad. I think.

Mom finally gave up on the idea of coming with me, mainly because Aggie M was pregnant again and she actually wanted Mom around. But Mom lectured while I packed her old Ford Tempo—a college graduation present from the folks. Mom got a Cadillac to replace it. I was happy to get the Tempo. I was afraid my dad would give me one of the Studebakers he collected and lovingly restored. I’d had to drive one of his old Studebaker station wagons in high school. He bought it from a bar called The Office and its slogan, “Come to where the action is”, was painted on both sides. Of course, me and my friends were all pretty virginal so the football players would point and laugh as we drove past. It got to the point where nobody would ride with me in what my peers facetiously called the Action Wagon. The experience scarred me for life. I was relieved when Mom got a new car and gave me her Tempo instead of being offered one of Dad’s treasures. Actually, I don’t think he could bear to part with one.

The day of departure finally came and on a fine June morning in 1989 the whole family congregated in the driveway to see me off.

“You stay in Holiday Inns on the way,” Mom instructed. “They’re still pretty safe, I think. And don’t take up with strangers. I don’t want you disappearing in the desert someplace. And don’t forget to call every night. If I don’t get a call, I’m going to report you to the Highway Patrol.”

“I will, Mom,” I said, impatient, ready to be off. I hugged my brother, sister, and in-laws before turning to my Dad. He looked panicked. I don’t think he knew whether to hug me or shake my hand, so I quickly gave him a short hug before he short-circuited from indecision. Then I turned to Mom, steeling myself for one last argument.

“I don’t know why you have to go,” Mom started querulously.

“I know,” I said shortly. Now that the time had come to go, I was getting scared. I needed to leave before Mom succeeded in shaking my resolve.

Mom sensed my weakness and her eyes narrowed. “You can still stay home,” she said, “or at least wait until I can come with you…”

“I better get going,” I interrupted, briefly hugged her, and got into my car.

Mom tapped on the window as I started the ignition. I rolled down the window and she said, “Now you be sure to call tonight.”

“I will,” I promised.

“And you make sure you join a church right away,” she added.

“The hell I will,” I muttered to myself as I rolled the window back up. I’d had enough suppression, oppression, and repression to last me a lifetime, but I waved, backed out of the driveway, put the car in drive, and took off. In the rear-view mirror I saw my family standing together, waving, although they were blurring through my sudden tears. Funny, I thought I’d be a lot happier starting my big adventure.

Want to read more? Go to: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TWH65RD

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Boulez, Bartok, and Debussy at Disney Hall

Gordon and I went to our last concert of the season at Disney Hall last night. Esa-Pekka Salonen guest conducted a Boulez, Bartok, and Debussy program. The first Boulez was a series of selections from Notations. The pianist was Pierre-Laurant Aimard. The piece opened with a spot light on Airmant and expanded to include a HUGE orchestra when they came in. I don’t really get Boulez. It was a lot of sound and it only took eleven minutes so I stayed with it but it’s new music. You know, clank tinkle crash. I’ve never learned what to listen for.

I enjoyed Bartok’s Piano Concerto No. 3 much more. Aimard made that knuckle-buster look easy and it finished with a bang. Lots of fun. I got a kick out of the fact that Mr. Airmard sat with some friends in the orchestra like a regular person. Guess he wanted to enjoy the rest of the show. People applauded lightly when he sat and he graciously nodded but that was it. Nice touch.

DeBusy’s La mer was the final piece before intermission. Loved it, of course. It made the Boulez worth it. But after intermission was another Boulez piece. I read the program notes to see if the experts could explain it to me ,but it was all polymetric this and sequential that. I concluded that this piece was more math than music. Various parts of the orchestra sat around the hall. We had the flutes behind us and reeds to the left of us. The sound bounced all over and kept me alert. The piece also included The L.A. Dance Project. The choreographer was named Millepied which I translated to Thousand Feet. That’s an appropriate name for a choreographer. The dancers were wonderful but I don’t know how they kept it together with all the other moving pieces. The program said that each performance was different and sometimes all the moving pieces didn’t end together. O-kay. As I said; math, not music. Esa-Pekka wore a Charlie Chaplin Little Tramp suit with one black and white glove and one red one. I have no idea what that signified. It was an interesting piece but I’ve never been good at math. I didn’t understand it but I didn’t fall asleep either. Gordon stayed awake too so that means it was compelling.

Anyway, it was a nice way to spend an evening. Particularly since the internet went out at 4 pm and we had no TV, no Alexa, no nothing. The silence was deafening. It was still off when we got home so we went to bed early. I didn’t realize what a TV habit we had. I think we should start weaning ourselves off.   I don’t like much that’s on anyway.

On to next season!

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Life of Pi

Gordon and I went to the Ahmanson last night to see Life of Pi. I didn’t want to go. I was tired, cranky, and getting over a cold. The last thing I wanted to do was fight my way through a crowd of art farts . But we’d paid for the tickets and we can’t waste a thing. When we got to our seats, we found a compass and a ‘thank you’ note for our contributions to the Center Theater Group. I was surprised to see the box still in our seats. We used to get chocolates– at least most of the time. Once our chocolates got taken, along with our seats, by an entitled mamma. She put her kids in our seats and suggested that the kids should stay there because they preferred them to the ones they’d paid for. I declined the offer to take lesser seats. We ended up calling an usher. Boy, the chutzpa of the Great Entitled in Los Angeles can be breathtaking. Anway, the compass was supposed to guide us back to the theater or something like that. It actually works although I don’t know what we’ll use it for. Cute freebie but I think I’d get more use out of a Tshirt. Maybe I’ll suggest it.

Back to the show. Life of Pi is about trauma and the resilience of the human spirit. I won’t reveal any more of the plot because I don’t want to spoil it for potential theater goers so I’ll just say I think there’s a little Richard Parker, a Bengal tiger, in all of us. That’s what allows us to survive. I found it very moving. I’d seen the movie and wasn’t sure how they’d pull things off. The sets and FX were amazing and the actors were all good, But the stars of the show were the puppets. It was enthralling. The only thing that spoiled it was the idiot woman next to me who turned on her phone to check her messages in the middle of the first act. When I put my hand up to block the glare (I made sure she saw my glare) she took the hint and turned the damn thing off. God, I hate the Great Entitled. I’m going to try to get seats away from her next season.

Anyway, go see it. It’s an experience. I believe in Richard Parker! ROAR!

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Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, Dudamel Conducts Mahler

We had a big week for entertainment. Wednesday, we saw Harry Potter and the Cursed Child at the Pantages. It was raining out so I wore sneakers instead of dress shoes. Getting too old to slip and fall on Hollywood Blvd. I also wore my Irish walking cape. It has a hood to protect my head. I thought about wearing my opera cape but I didn’t want to get it wet. My walking cape fit in with the crowd just fine. Lots of Potter fans came in costume. I saw lots of ‘robes’ and house scarves. Before the show, one of the ushers led a cheer for the various houses. It was like a sports game: “Who’s Hufflepuff?” Lots of cheers. “Who’s Gryffindor?” Same. I’ve never felt comfortable picking a side. I suspect I’d probably be most comfortable in Slytherin but that’s icky. I’ll stay unhoused.

If you’re a Potter fan, you’ll go nuts over this show. I had to explain much of the Potter canon to Gordon which I don’t think he really appreciated. He stayed awake anyway so all was well. This isn’t a musical but there’s background music that the actors dance to to change sets and scenes. The choreography was lovely but what I really appreciated was the special effects. Amazing. The actors were all very good. The show is 2 hours and 40 minutes long so we got our money’s worth. I won’t tell you who the Cursed Child is because there are arguments for three candidates. Anyway, it was a nice way to spend a cold rainy evening.

We went to Disney Hall last night for Dudamel’s final concert this season. The Phil performed Alma Mahler’s Five Songs sung by Sasha Cooke. Cooke is a wonderful mezzo and she ‘sold’ the songs. I also liked her dress. It was a simple tank dress made out of some metallic material. Tasteful and becoming. I commented to Gordon that I really liked the dress and the woman in the seat in front of us turned around and said, “Thank you.” The Boat is where they seat visiting composers and family so maybe she was related to Cooke. I was glad I said something nice. Would have been embarrassing otherwise.

We went to the Founder’s Circle during intermission for a Donor’s reception. I thought I’d have to scrape the old ladies off the munchie table. We got there early enough to grab a glass of sparkling wine and a cookie. It isn’t that hard to beat the ‘walker’ crowd. And I shouldn’t be so snarky about the old ladies because they’re probably younger than I am. At least I have sense enough to get my goodies and get out of the way. The same can’t be said for the other old girls.

Dudamel conducted Mahler’s Fifth after intermission. It’s 65 minutes long. I’ve never really appreciated Mahler. Dudamel seemed to understand Mahler and conducted without a score but I just heard lots of themes without cohesion. Mahler is big and blarey and will keep you awake but it’s still unfocused. That’s me. Other people appreciate the music.

After the show we went to the parking garage to go home and were verbally assaulted by a screaming Lefty. My husband drives a Tesla and apparently it’s the new thing for Lefties to scream abuse at Tesla owners. I guess we’re standing in for Elon. She looked so ridiculous in her rage that I started laughing. And Gordon’s been married to me for so long he’s inured to craziness. I didn’t think much about it until we got home. Then I decided I should have reacted to the assault. But how to do it? They’re really not worth much effort but they should be taught better. I’ve decided my reaction will be a ‘bird’ and a smile. It gets the point across and doesn’t take much energy. If they choose to escalate, well, I’ll handle that too. I haven’t been in a fist fight for years but hopefully it’s like riding a bike. I won’t start anything but I’ll do my best to finish it. And if I lose, I can have them arrested for assault. If I lose a tooth, no big deal. I need new crowns anyway. And they can pay for them. Win/win for me.

It’s a beautiful day so I think I’ll take a walk before the next storm comes. I need to take advantage of the weather while I’m still here.

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Stephan Sondheim’s Old Friends

I experienced an extraordinary evening of theater yesterday . It was opening night at the Ahmanson for Old Friends, a musical of Stephen Sondheim’s’ greatest hits (or some of them anyway) performed by actors of a ‘certain age’ with credentials up the ying-yang. The name draws were Bernadette Peters and Lea Salonga but they were first among equals on that stage. These people know what they’re doing. One problem; Ms. Peters was having a rough night. She must have had a cold or something because her voice wasn’t reliable. But even being not at the top of her game, she still sold a song. Her rendition of “Send in the Clowns” brought teats even though there was no lead-up. She sat and emoted. Very moving. Lea Salonga was in great form. She has an amazing voice and her version of Mama Rose in Gypsy was powerful. I think somebody should do a revival of Gypsy and just let her run with it. It’d be amazing.

Everybody was wonderful but a special shout-out should go to Beth Leaval for “Ladies who lunch’. I think that’s the most nuanced version of that number I’ve ever seen. Wisdom and experience show. And Bonnie Langford tore the place up with “Still Here’. Lots of fun. Oh, and Gavin Lee was great in every song he performed. They all did. The audience went nuts. At the end we kept standing and applauding and cheering and the actors just kept going. I felt good coming out of the theater. And it’s been a long time since that’s happened. Go see if. It’s a treat.

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Book Life Review of First Year

I thought I’d get a professional review from Book Life, a subsidiary of Publisher’s Weekly. I’m getting some interest, but we’ll see if it’s worth anything. Anyway, it’s a good review although I only got a B on editing. Don’t know if it’s because it’s too long for the average book or if there were typos. I went through it on the Microsoft editor program five times and Amazon said there were no mistakes so I’m baffled. What the hell…

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Merry Christmas !

Annual Barb & Gordon Data Dump – December 2024


GORDON: I’m writing this as the Thanksgiving holiday recedes and we start gearing up for Christmas. As the picture shows, we’re letting Amazon and Lands’ End do our wrapping for us. The season will be a little less hectic this year, since we won’t be singing in Christmas concerts. The church where we provided extra voices fired our friend Jim the choirmaster, and since it’s across town (and there are only a few voices that we enjoyed singing with), we’re not going back. But I’ll always be grateful that Jim realized what a musical genius Barb is, and was able to surround her on occasion with professional singers who echoed his respect for her talent. He also drove her crazy, attempting to lead the choir while playing the organ/piano (and occasionally dropping a note or two), and assuming that everybody got the music on first read. Now I’m the only one who gets to sing with her as we warble down the road harmonizing to the oldies on the radio. I’m just grateful she’s willing to sing with me.


One big change in our lives this year was Barb’s decision to buy new kitchen appliances. Our old ones were still working but getting a little creaky, and Barb wanted nice new stainless-steel appliances. She produces magic in the kitchen, and while I claim input on decisions regarding all the other rooms in the house, what Barb wants in the kitchen, Barb Gets. We’d had new sheet vinyl flooring installed prior to getting the appliances, so of course, the appliance installers managed to put a few dings in that, but we learned to live with them. What’s been harder to adapt to are the differences in how the appliances work. All of the recipes had to be revised to deal with a stove that automatically changes temperature when the convection option is turned on, and there were some delays in mealtimes as the stove took its time cooking. But the real killer was the refrigerator – I discovered it ran cold when my coffee creamer came out solid, so I dialed it back a bit. Apparently not enough, because the Thanksgiving turkey, which had been in the fridge for a week, came out on Thanksgiving day rock solid. Barb saved the day by baking a to-die-for apple pie, so our Turkey Day feast was two slices of apple pie and ice cream. We left the turkey in the sink overnight and ate it with all the fixings on Black Friday.


We went sailing again in May, but I’ll leave that for Barb to discuss. The only other semi-major excursion this year was a trip back to South Dakota. My high school class of 1970 missed its 50th reunion due to Covid, but luckily a group of alumni from several classes created a 60s-decade class reunion and invited us 70s kids to join in. Putting 11 classes’ worth of alumni together allowed for a pretty big wingding, and also allowed both Marty, my 7-years-older brother, and me to get to SoDak at the same time for the same party. When my oldest brother’s daughter found out about it, she decided it was time to bring his ashes to be buried in the ancestral graveyard, so we wound up having a mini family reunion. It turned out that oldest brother had not made arrangements for interment, so that had to be dealt with on site, and since Barb & I will probably wind up back there too, we splurged and bought our burial plot. We now own land in SoDak. As for the reunion, it was a major success, and there’s already talk of a future multi-class party. I’ll take a little bit of credit – I booked the band.


BARB: The calendar pages are flying past and our bodies are showing it. Gordon and I spend an unprecedented amount of time at doctors. I’ve been having MRIs, x-rays, and CT scans on my feet (all on different days but that’s another ugly story). After all that, they told me I have arthritis. I’m in my 70s, I could have told them that without all the testing. I got a shot and an offer of an ankle replacement. I passed. Not really enthused about being on crutches for months. Been there, done that. Gordon says he feels the same way about his knee. We’ll put replacements off until they’re the only option.
Our eyes are also going to hell. The doctor joked that if you put us side by side we’d have 20/20 vision. The same could be said for our lower extremities. I don’t know what our infirmities qualify us for. A three-legged race? Our height differences would make that interesting. And putting our eyes together? We’d look like a Picasso painting. Or a flounder. Boy, gittin’ old ain’t for sissies.


We decided we had better travel while we can still walk. And we’re doing it in style. We now fly Business class on the long hauls. My Midwestern soul is horrified at spending that much money to sit on my dead butt for 13 hours. But I’ve spent those same hours in Economy and I’m willing to pay the money. There’s no point in arriving at our vacation destination so exhausted that it takes a day to recover. Besides, we get to use the VIP lounges. They’re not any less crowded—it seems like everybody is a VIP and, boy, don’t they act like it—but the chairs are more comfortable and not only is the food better, it’s FREE!
Our last trip was an Adriatic cruise on Viking. We met our travel buddies, Billie and Dawn Williams, in Athens, Gordon and I played it safe and stayed at a Marriott but we Ubered to meet them at their boutique hotel in the Plaka (Athen’s Old Town), where we dined and shopped. We might have missed the Plaka if left on our own. I loved Athens. We saw the historic sites including and especially the Parthenon. I’d seen the replica in Nashville (the Greek tour guide didn’t look pleased when I brought this up) but this was the real deal—only three times bigger and falling apart. It’s now become a UNESCO site, and several countries are paying for the preservation. . We toured the site where the Olympic flame is kindled (it’s just a spot in the road). We toured Corfu, Montenegro, cities in Croatia (loved Diocletian’s palace in Split) and ended the cruise in Venice. We got lost in the dungeons of the Doge’s Palace, took a motorboat tour of the canals, and shopped the Rialto Bridge area. I always wanted to have an aperitif at St. Mark’s Square so that’s off my bucket list. Venice is amazing. You take boat taxis to go anywhere. I managed not fall in the lagoon between the taxi and pier but it was a close thing. It’s a beautiful place. Glad we saw it.


Re: traveling in style. I forgot to mention that we were upgraded to a suite when we got to the ship. This is how rich people travel. The suite included room service (which we never used) and free laundry (ditto). It’s going to be hard to travel like a normal, cheap person again.


Gordon talked about our South Dakota trip. Our fellow re-unies were impressed when we told them we bought South Dakota property. They were less impressed when we told them it was a burial plot. I’d rather buy a lake cabin. I’m tired of dealing with decrepitude and death. I think I’ll get back to work on another futile artistic endeavor. Have a Happy, and a Healthy, and a Ho ho ho.

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Back to the Future, the Musical

Gordon and I went to Back to the Future, the Musical at the Pantages last Wednesday. I didn’t know what to expect. The movie is tech heavy and I had no idea how they’d tell the story. They pulled it off. Some minor points had to be changed, of course, but they stayed true to the story on the main points. The staging was brilliant. Lots of good effects. I still haven’t figured out how they did the flying car at the end but it’s a great effect. Music and lyrics were written by Alan Silvestri, the Hollywood score composer. It worked but it wasn’t memorable. The Huey Lewis tunes from the movie were used so I was happy. The actors were all good and seemed to have fun camping things up. I particularly liked Burke Swanson as George McFly and Ethan Rogers as Biff. Swanson had incredible body movement. He’s either a great dancer or a yogi. Biff is a thankless part but Rogers made him amusing. He’s got a great voice. I’m sure we’ll see him in lots of future stuff.

We were talking to the people behind us at intermission and they pointed out the actress who played the pregnant mother sitting next to them. We all had a nice chat. It was opening night so at the end of the show Bob Gale, the producer of the movie and the musical invited the people who contributed to both productions up on the stage. That included: Frank Marshall (produced the Indiana Jones movies too), Robert Zemeckis (original movie director, also directed Forest Gump), the British director of the musical (don’t know what he was doing in Hollywood, maybe looking for a job), the actress sitting behind us (can’t remember her name), and some other actors from the movie. The crowd went wild. It was a fun night. You’re not going to come to earth-shaking revelations about the universe but it’s an entertaining show and we all need to be entertained these days. Go see it. Lotsa fun.

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American Idiot at the Taper

We had tickets for American Idiot at the Taper on the 29th but switched them to the 31st. I’d seen a version of American Idiot at the Ahmanson years ago and didn’t like it. So, I certainly wasn’t going to miss a Dodger World Series game for some stupid political play whose views I didn’t share. I suggested to Gordon that his life might be easier if I just skipped it altogether. I even told Gordon if they started all that anti-American, anti-Republican bullcrap I’d walk out and wait for him in a bar someplace. My whining didn’t make a dent. He just looked at me. So I went.

It was Halloween and I thought of wearing my vampire fangs, just to add a little entertainment value to an evening I was dreading. But vampire fangs would make me look weird—well, weirder than usual—and get in the way of drinking wine. I grumpily followed Gordon to our seats where I discovered a shortbread cookie with frosting showing the CTG (Center Theater Group) logo. Normally, we get a treat at the beginning of the Ahmanson season. And last year a woman grabbed our treat and gave it to her kids which I thought took a lot of crust. She also planted her kids in our seats. We had to get the usher to move them. I felt bad for the kids, it wasn’t their fault. Their entitled mother put them in that position. But they already got my treat; they weren’t going to get my seat too. But that’s another ugly story

 I was still determined to walk out if things got political. I’ve had it. I’m not familiar with most of Green Day’s music but I the images used in the early version were all “GOOD Far Left; BAD everybody else”. This version, put on by the Deaf West company, stayed balanced. The anger seemed to be directed at the media and the influence it has. And, of course, I agree with that. The lyrics were displayed in a multi-media format so I understood what the actors were singing about. Three deaf actors signed the lyrics and their shadow-partners sang them. It was interesting. I actually liked the show. The music was about how hard growing up is. The young make life-changing decisions and terrible mistakes. It’s not particularly profound but the staging was imaginative, the dancing was energetic, and the singers were effective. Kudos to the young lady whose costume came apart. She didn’t miss a beat and belted out her song. Good job.

It’s an interesting show. Glad to see the Taper management is trying to produce plays not political rallies. This needs to be encouraged. Ge see it.

I have to add: the shortbread cookie was beautiful but tasted like cardboard. Gordon is SO lucky I can bake.

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Kimberly Akimbo

We went to see Kimberly Akimbo at the Pantages last night. It’s always an adventure going to Hollywood. You have to dodge the homeless, crazy traffic…even the sidewalk was closed to through pedestarian traffic last night. We paid $28.50 to park across the street (when the most you pay to park all day is $25 but what the hell), navigated our way through sidewalk blocks, the security line, and the mobs in the lobby to get to our seats. A couple who has been behind us for years introduced themselves. I think they were feeling a bit lost. The couple who sat next to them for the last ten or so years quit their subscription because they lived out in Westlake and the drive was just too much for them. So I guess we’ll have to hang together as the last old-timers standing.

I didn’t know anything about Kimberly Akimbo. The title comes from an anagram made by a fellow student on the main character, Kimberly whatever her last name was. Kimberly has porphyria, a genetic condition that ages her. She’s 16 but looks much, much older. She’s new to town for reasons that come to light in the second act so she’s lonely. The show starts with her at the skating rink wistfully watching the other kids and waiting for her father to pick her up. Turns out the kids she’s watching are outsiders too. They all know there are parties all over town but they’re not invited to any.

The kids finally find each other and get strong-armed into a check stealing scam  by Kimberly’s crazy, criminal aunt. Kimberly’s dysfunctional family plays a major part in Kimberly’s decisions. Her father is a hen-pecked drunk, her mother is a narcissist, and they both blame Kimberly for their lousy lives.

People with Kimberly’s condition don’t survive long past their 16th birthdays and on Kimberly’s Sweet 16 party (she finally has a party!) she decides to quit letting her toxic family stop her from living. She and her lab partner, who’s another abandoned child),take off for an adventure with the aunt’s ill-gotten gains.. Good for them!

It’s an enjoyable, life-affirming show. None of us knows how much time we have so we should live our best lives and not be dragged down by negativity. I think the moral of the story is: If you have to run to save yourself, do it. We all deserve some happiness

I enjoyed the show although I think it would have been more effective in s smaller venue, like the Taper. There are only 9 people in the cast, and they’re all great, but they get swallowed up in a theater the size of the Pantages. But it wasn’t politics and that’s worth a lot.