GATEKEEPERS

THEME: DREAM ON

Dreams are illustrations. . .from the book your soul is writing about you. ~ Marsha Norman 

They guard the entrance to creativity, allowing the select few—those who pass muster—to enter.  Not the riff raff.  Not the wannabees who try to worm through the slats, those sad, misguided dilettantes who think their work shows merit.  They’re gatekeepers, and they prevent the unskilled culture-defacers from assailing the public with crap. 

If it weren’t for that cadre of connoisseurs assessing, ranking, and restocking the Aesthetic Empire, the eating, viewing, and reading public wouldn’t know what to eat, view, or read.

Take food.  Without the Big Food Houses, like Poach Board and Pot Watch, anyone and his second cousin could open a restaurant.  BFHs put aspiring restaurateurs through a series of trial kitchens where chefs prepare innovative fare for taste testing, after which the Palate Committee flavor-edits the dishes, taking, say, six to ten months, eventually returning the recipes with recommended modifications that the would-be culinarian must integrate into menu options before contracts are finalized.

The Big Food House then spends the next year and a half designing and building the restaurant, and, once ready for business, collects all restaurant proceeds, forwarding to the owner maybe eight percent of the profits in quarterly installments.

Gastronomic gatekeepers save the world from being saturated with substandard eateries, i.e., self-established restaurants whose owners believe their food actually tastes good.

Then there’s art. Painters, sculptors, photographers. Those quirky right-brainers who think that producing art is a way of life.  Without art gatekeepers there’d be oils and watercolors and photographs and sculptures on display all over the place—museums, galleries, stores, street corners, gardens, offices. 

The Big Art Houses, such as Design Depository and Statue Statutorium, keep the art world under control. They stash submissions for review in massive warehouses, where they remain until the Talent Assessment Guild determines their attributes.   The evaluation process is simple. The appraisal committee members, made up of the administrative assistant and night janitor, stand in front of each work of art, and throw Rock, Paper, Scissors. A coin toss determines who represents the artist.

Rock over Scissors means the piece is rejected, or if small enough, displayed over the urinal in the men’s room.

Paper-over-Rock means the art is returned to the artist for revision—with a note:

“Jackson – Uh, we think you sent us your floor tarp by mistake.” 

Or

“Ansel, a bit of color would be nice.”    

Or 

 “Say Vincent - Don’t give up.  With some practice, you’ll master perspective.”

Or 

“Yo! Leonardo! My Man! – Everyone on the same side of a table? Hello.”

Now these artists, if they want a second chance with TAG, must edit their pieces according to where the dart lands on the revision wheel—Color Within the Lines, Smooth Out the Dots, Quit with the Umbrellas, Straighten the Watch, Add Velvet—anything to show they’ve at least parked at an art school.

Scissors-over-Paper means the piece is a keeper, and contracts are signed.  Once a piece of art is chosen for public view, it’s put aside until there are upwards of twenty additional Scissors-over-Paper wins by the same artist – enough for a full gallery open.  Could take two to five years, during which time the artist waits tables for a Pot Watch Restaurant.

Creativity gatekeepers save the world from being saturated with substandard museums, galleries, and studios, i.e., self-installed exhibitions whose designers believe their art actually looks good.

Then there are writers.  Good writers.  Bad writers.  Mediocre writers.  Doesn’t matter.  They all want to be published.  Somewhere.  But especially by the Big Book Houses, like Reticent Review and Predictable Press.  Ask any writer, and he or she will say that publication is a primary goal.  It’s imperative to have reading gatekeepers.  Otherwise, just anybody could write and publish a book.  And if just anybody could write and publish a book, there’d be books everywhere.  We all know that the reading public lacks wordsmith sophistication.  They read books indiscriminately, ignoring taste, creativity, style, and quotation marks on the wrong side of the period.

It’s essential that gatekeepers guard the reading public from piles of word hash plopped beside gourmet prose at any reader’s table.  How dare a writer expect to publish a book without it first being prepared, plated, and presented to judges who can attest to the quality and doneness of a piece of writing?

The BBHs judge a book by its cover. Therefore, it helps if an aspiring writer has a close working relationship with a Scissors over Paper art winner. Once the cover passes muster, the interior text is evaluated—there must be a plethora of words with more than six syllables, properly embedded fonts, and an appropriate dedication to one’s mother. 

The publishing world has evolved to the extent that anyone—Grandma Jones, Aunt Agnes, Cousin Earl—can publish a book.  But self-publishers have no gatekeepers.  Self-published books aren’t legitimate. They’re written by amateurs.  Ask the experts.  Self-published authors use bad grammar, change tenses, and incorporate too many adjectives and adverbs.  Self-published books are puerile, shallow, and undeveloped. They’re not properly edited, they’re boring, they’re tedious— a scourge on the market.  

It doesn’t matter that someone’s father, a gentleman in his early 90s, wants to publish a series of stories and see them in print before he dies.  Or that a Mid-west bride wants to write her story of how she met a retired NYC police officer while playing on-line Scrabble, fell in love, and got married.  Or that a crime writer, who after two and a half years of Big House rejections, decided to publish his book himself.  It doesn’t matter that some, perhaps many, writers have a dream of seeing their words, their stories, their labor, their book, stand on a shelf between Shakespeare and Steinbeck. It doesn’t matter that, like restaurateurs and artists, they want to see their hard work come to fruition and become a product they can hold in their hands – or give to their children—or share with their friends.

What’s that you say?  Not all self-published books are full of crap?  There are well-written, self-published books by excellent authors? That it's not the self-publishing in and of itself that qualifies a book for the back porch, not good enough for the grown-up table, not worthy of the good china?  And that just as establishing one’s own restaurant doesn't mean bad food and installing one’s own gallery doesn't mean bad art, self-publishing one's own book doesn't mean a bad read?  How radical.

If that's the case, then here's to all writers who dream of seeing their books on the coffee table or shining through the small screen of an e-reader, go for it.  Game on!  Don’t be intimidated by the elitism of gatekeepers. 

Dream . . . on!

EVS - 09/11

FAIREST OF THEM ALL

THEME: HEAR NO, SEE NO, SPEAK NO, YOU KNOW
"Shall I tell you what the real evil is? To cringe to the things that are called evils, to surrender to them our freedom, in defiance of which we ought to face any suffering." ~ Lucius Annaeus Seneca

The pressure for women in our culture to be skinny, gorgeous, de-wrinkled, tight-bottomed, big-boobed, and balloon-lipped is an evil yet to be tackled.  According to magazines, billboards, TV ads, and fashion gurus, every woman who isn't a Heidi Klum clone, or close to it, should wrap her body in cheesecloth and squeeze out the hideousness until all that's left is a plasticine replicant of her former self.  Or if not that, then she should spend a month or two at a Female Restoration Institute until her shape, hair, skin, and lips are trim, voluminous, porcelain, and pouty respectively.

If a woman is anything less than magnificent, she’s an abomination, and she shouldn't leave the house.  Until she can muster up enough time, energy, and dough to morph into the pinnacle of pure perfection, she should opt out of the social milieu entirely and grow moldy in the basement.

I admit to have fallen into the trap of spending big bucks on creams and lotions to debilitate wrinkles digging trenches around my eyes, mouth, neck, and brow.  And I've even sat in the cosmetician's chair for the full make-over—colors and shades chosen specifically for my skin tones: light beige foundation, buff powder, three levels of smoky teal eye shadow, navy blue eye liner, thick, black, lash-lengthening mascara, light-brown eyebrow pencil, suntan bronzer, ruby blush, peach lipstick, and coral lip liner.  The transformation was astounding.  I looked exquisitely sullen and devious from the neck up—like Cat Woman in pedal pushers and sneakers.

"Now it's easy to apply these items, Ellie, real easy," the cosmetologist had said.  "I'll draw a picture of your make-up routine and write out the steps of your skin preparations."

Using my unique color pallet, she painted over a sketch of a woman's profile so I would know exactly which colors to slather, smooth, spread, glop, or powder on and over the appropriate parts of my skin, eyes, lashes, brows, cheeks, and lips.   

Then she wrote out the steps I should take prior the final make-up application.  Scrubbing, sloughing, cleansing, reactivating, tightening, rehydrating, and moisturizing—each step requiring a specific lotion, mitten, bar, cream, gel, stone, astringent, paddle, cloth, or spray—each step "absolutely essential" to my beauty regime.  

"And we have all of these items right here."  She waved her hand down the shelves of skin care products.

Walking away without purchasing the items necessary to a Researched-based Years-Off-Your-Age Skin and Beauty Treatment is akin to wearing dirty underwear.  Why a woman wouldn't take full advantage of a Personalized Beautification System was beyond understanding. 

"Do you already have these items at home?" she asked, apparently astonished that I used such products considering the condition of my face. 

"Similar," I said, thinking of my oatmeal soap and Cold Cream.  "I probably have enough."

“What do you use to cleanse?”

“Ah, mild soap,” I said.

“Ooh, nooo!  Never use soap on your face.  That’s why your skin is so dry—and why those crow’s feet have a foothold there.”  She tapped my temple, and then she pulled a bottle off the shelf.  “Here—you must use this—Eau d' Savonette.  It’s wonderful—especially for your skin type.  It’ll take years off your face.  You’ll notice a difference in less than a week.”

Three ounces.  $55.50 .  “How long does this last?”  I asked.

“If used correctly, it should last you . . . I'd say . . . at least two months.”

$55.50 times six.  $333 a year. $16,650 to wash my face for the rest of my life.

“And of course you’ll want this specially formulated, age-reducing moisturizer.”  She reached for a small jar.  “Even if you buy nothing else, you must use this—Le Crème de Hydratante Amande or the cleanser won’t work as well.”  She opened the jar and breathed in the aroma.  “Hmmmm, I love this stuff.  It’s my favorite of all the scents.  Isn’t it wonderful?”  She stuck it under my nose.  Almonds and vanilla. 

“How much is that one?”  I didn’t think I’d buy it, but I was curious.  “And how long will that last?”

“This goes for . . ..”  She turned it over.  “Oh, guess what.  It’s on sale!  It usually sells for $95.00, but it’s on sale for . . . wow!  $87.50.”  She looked up.  “I think the sale ends today—I can find out.”  She put the jar on the counter and started off.  “Oh.  I forgot."  She turned around.  "That jar should last you, ah, if you use it without fail, day and night, about three months.”  She walked off to check on the sale.

I recalculated.  $87.50 times four.  $350 for the first year, $17,500 for the rest of my life. 

Altogether, I’d have to spend $34,150—until I was dead—if I wanted to take years off my face.

Might be worth it.  They’ll look into my casket and say, “My, but doesn't she look young.  Wonder what she used."

EVS 08/11

A SOCIAL CALL

THEME: WELL, DUH
To spell out the obvious is often to call it in question.  ~Eric Hoffer

She shouted from across the street.  “Hey!  Do you people believe in Jesus Christ?”

I stopped raking and looked up.  She stood in her doorway, hands on hips, feet planted—square—like a drill sergeant, as if my answer could knock her over.  A full-length, flour-dusted apron covered her dress. 

 “Of course we do,” I said.  “He was a great leader . . . and teacher.  Everyone should follow his example.” 

Quick thinking.  Can’t argue with that.  I continue raking.

“But do you-all believe that the Bible is the word of God?”

I dragged a bunch of leaves into a pile.  “Great book, the Bible,” I said, and stretched the rake toward some thin branches at the base of the maple tree.  I reached down to disengage a twig from the prongs.  “Lots of good stories . . . good lessons.” I flashed Sunday School where I colored pictures of Jesus giving bread and wine to the hungry throng.  Jesus’s robe.  Periwinkle.  My favorite crayon.  “Especially for kids.”

So far, so good.  Maybe she'd go back to her biscuits.

"What about the miracles?  You guys believe in miracles?"

I hadn't memorized my thirty-second elevator speech about being a Unitarian Universalist.  Having been brought up Methodist, I knew what the traditional world thought of people who ventured into what was considered pagan territory.  Blasphemy.  I still struggled with putting my religious philosophy into concepts that described my spiritual leanings in such a way that those of the Christian faith wouldn’t view me as a wicked, irreverent heathen, who not only was hell-bent for, say, Hell, but also shouldn't be left alone with fire and children. 

I glanced at my front door and willed my phone to ring or Katie to call me inside or Ed to come out and take over the yard—and the conversation.

I nodded my head.  "Well now, weren't they just wonderful, those miracles,” I said.  "Changed a lot of people's lives, they did.  Hm-mm!”

It was October  of 1980, and Ed, Katie, and I had recently moved to Poland, a suburb of Youngstown, Ohio—the city where, two years before, Ed had begun his ministry at the Unitarian Church of Youngstown.

Until we bought a house in the suburbs, we rented a second story apartment on Elm Street near the church.  It was a perfect location.  Walking distance to church and Katie's elementary school, close to downtown Youngstown, and less than a mile from Youngstown State University, where I was enrolled as a graduate student.  Our city neighbors were cordial and welcoming, never seeming to wonder when we would start throwing devil darts in their direction.  But I wanted to build some home equity, and I wanted Katie to go to a "good" junior high school, so I insisted we buy a house in the suburbs, especially if we intended to stay in the area any length of time.

When Katie came home from her first day at Poland's middle school, she said, "I hate it there.  Everybody's white.  I can't tell them apart."  She slammed her books onto the kitchen table.  "They all wear horses on their shirts."  She looked at me.  "And why do they call black people, N-----rs?"

I didn't have a good answer for her, so I just said, "Some people are afraid of diversity, Katie.  They're afraid of things they don't understand or have no experience with."

Katie's previous elementary school was multi-cultural.  Whenever she talked about her school friends, she'd refer to them by their names and attributes – not nationality or race.  "Kevin is a good artist," she'd say.  Or "John is funny."  Or "Margie is smart."   It wasn't until she brought home her class picture that I learned that Kevin was Korean and John was African American and Margie was Mexican. 

"Well, I liked my old school better."

It became obvious after a few weeks in our new community that the neighbors were afraid of people like us–people who looked at the world through liberal, non-creedal eyes, people who didn't go to a recognizable Christian church.

The afternoon we moved to Poland we were visited by a lady from the Welcome Wagon.  She handed me a basket of goodies and a list of the churches in town. 

"We have lovely churches here," the lady said.  "If you're Methodist, there's a beautiful Methodist church across town.  You Episcopalian? Now, that's right around the corner.  First Presbyterian is between Piggly-Wiggly and the cemetery.  And if you're Catholic, you'll go to St. Mary's–that's right behind your property – you can see their parking lot through your living room window."

Finally, I said, "We go to the Unitarian Church in the city.  My husband is the minister there." 

The visitor gasped and stepped back, "Are there any more of you people around here?"

And now it was time for me to explain to my neighbor that I was a decent American who wasn't about to throw a match into my pile of leaves and dance around the flames.

How to put my beliefs into a few, succinct words to prove I'm as good a person as anyone—that she needn't be afraid?  Should I just spout off the seven principles of Unitarian Universalism?  The principles that UU congregations around the world affirm and promote?   Respected principles that most people live by anyway, regardless of their religious affiliations?

That "we people" believe in the inherent worth and dignity of every person? 

That we promote justice, equity, and compassion in all human relations?

That we accept one another and encourage spiritual growth in others?

That we believe in a free and responsible search for truth and meaning? 

That all people have the right of conscience and the use of the democratic process? 

That our goal is a world community of peace, liberty, and justice for all? 

That we respect the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part?

And should I throw in something like, "If all people lived their lives based on UU principles, which, by the way, are akin to Jesus' teachings, there'd be less animosity and fewer wars—perhaps leading to harmony among nations"?

 Or were my beliefs too radical—too wild—too outlandish for this traditional faith and creed-centered community?

Rather than fill the air with what could be perceived as holier-than-thou platitudes, I walked across the street, smiled, and stretched out my hand.  "I'm Ellie," I said.  "What's your name?"

            I figured that was a good place to start.

EVS – 07/11

THE GOOD EDITOR

THEME: SAYING TOO MUCH
If you wouldn't write it and sign it, don't say it.
~Earl Wilson

A good cook knows how to edit.        Take meatloaf.  Most recipes call for some kind of filler—like breadcrumbs. The right amount guarantees a moist, savory meatloaf feast.  Too much and it's dry, tasteless, stick-in-your-mouth lump.

A good writer knows how to edit. Take Mark Twain.  In his short story, "Advice to Little Girls," he wrote, "Good little girls always show marked deference for the aged.  You ought never to 'sass' old people unless they 'sass' you first." 

Now that's succinct.

He could have written:  If you're a good little girl, you should be respectful, obsequious, and well-behaved when in the presence of anyone older than you are, like your parents, grandparents, and school teachers, and not only that, if you're a good little girl, you should never say nasty things to older people, like saying 'you're a poopy-face,' to a teacher or saying 'you have ugly brown moles on your neck' to your grandmother, even if she has ugly brown moles on her neck;  however, if one of these older people calls you a poopy-face first, well, then, you are entitled to call him or her a poopy-face right back. 

But he didn't. 

A good landscape architect knows how to edit.  Take the Chicago Botanic Gardens.  Their designers have created acres of floral magnificence.  Walled English gardens, ivy-covered fountains, lily ponds, flowering perennials.  A blooming wonderland.  

Understated in its overabundance. 

And a good conversationalist knows how to edit.  Take me.  I pride myself on knowing how to listen and respond—how to engage in conversation with sensitivity, diplomacy, and confidence.  I say all the right things at the right time.  I listen for cues and follow the path of my speaking partner, keeping my ego at bay. 

 I'm honest, yet prudent.  Curious, yet discrete.  Interested, yet unassuming.  I laugh, scowl, sigh, grin, cringe, smirk, weep, and wince—with accompanying gestures—at the appropriate times, exhibiting empathy, commitment, and compassion.

High enthusiasm.  Low maintenance.

Now that's darned good conversational editing. 

Too bad it's not always the case.

A few years ago at the Theatre of Western Springs, in Anne Chislett's production of "Quiet in the Land," I played a Southern Ontario Amish wife and mother who wanted a telephone. My role called for a Farm and Ranch dialect—the kind of Midwestern accent with thin vowels, clipped word endings, and a touch of nasal twang.  Country speak.  Not sophisticated.  Some people call it hillbilly.  I had trouble capturing the accent.  My mouth wouldn't cooperate—the words refused to take on the back-woods tone the director wanted.  I didn't know anyone with the accent.  Even an instructional CD didn't help.  Try as I might, I couldn't replicate the Farm and Ranch dialect.

Until I went to a wedding.  There, across the round table laden with roses, candles, silver, champagne, water carafes, and party favors, sat a lovely lady who spoke softly to those near her throughout the soup and salad courses.  My husband, who officiated at the wedding, and I spoke softly to those near us.  Finally, feeling unfriendly and slightly uncomfortable that we hadn't introduced ourselves, I looked directly into the eyes of the lovely lady and said, "We haven't met.  I'm Ellie Searl.  This is my husband Ed."

The lovely lady smiled and said, "Oh!  So glayd t' meecha.  Wadda be-udaful weddin', ya did der, Revrin Ed." 

 "That's it!"  I shouted.  "That's it!"  I pointed at her.

"Wa's et?"  She pulled her head back.

"Your accent.  Midwest Farm and Ranch.  You've got it!"  Excitement overtook common sense.  "It's perfect.  I'm supposed to talk just like you in an Amish play.  It's about a bunch of farmers."

Silence.  Everyone—stunned. 

"What's the matter with you?"  Ed whispered.  "You fall into a stupid pit or something?"

 There was no going back.  I couldn't apologize; it wasn't an accident. 

The lovely lady got up and left.

The others at the table resumed their meals, and soon the clicking of knives and forks drowned the  hushed voices of recrimination.

I don't remember much about the main course.

It might have been an unedited meatloaf.

Because I do remember a dry, tasteless, stick-in-my-mouth lump.

EVS – 06/11

ROOM MOTHER DAZE

THEME: AUTHORITY
He who establishes his argument by noise and command shows that his reason is weak. 
~Michel de Montaigne

When Brett entered first grade this past year, his mom Katie not only agreed to be Art Master for the second time, she also volunteered to be the Room Mother.  She'd teach Brett's class about famous artists, and she'd plan parties, organize treats, and become friends with the other mothers. 

"And," she said, "This will give me a solid foothold in the workings of the school."

"Aren't you doing enough already?"  I asked.

"Mom – it's okay," Katie said.  "Being a Room Mother is the best way to stay on top of things.  It'll be fun."

Parent-Teacher Open House was the only September event that needed Room Mothering, so it wasn't until October at the Halloween party that Katie first encountered the Mighty Moms lurking behind the cubby buckets. 

After the costume parade, witches, princesses, and Supermen wriggled in their seats anxious to dive into the big cupcakes and apple cider.  Wally's mom had brought three dozen oversized dark chocolate chip cupcakes, slathered with thick swirls of creamy chocolate icing sprinkled with orange pumpkin-shaped candies- cupcakes to stir the saliva glands in young and old - cupcakes Wally and his mom had purchased together at Albertson’s store bakery.

Calvin's mom had brought little dented white ones with a clear glaze slopped across the tops and down the sides, puddling onto the tray – not exactly eye-catchers for the six-year-old sweet tooth.  But those cupcakes were homemade.

When Calvin's mom saw the store-bought cupcakes, she sneered, "Why did I bother to spend all my time making cupcakes from scratch when I could have just as easily gone to some old store and bought them." 

No one answered.  It wasn't a question. Wally's mom, embarrassed and humiliated, sidled out of the classroom.  Calvin's mom phoned the PTA president.  Then, much to Katie's chagrin and the children's disappointment, the chocolate cupcakes were set aside leaving a tray of sloppy white half-balls next to the cider. 

Wally's chocolate cupcakes were distributed at the end of the day, creating cupcake chaos as costumed children whooped and ran out the door, shoving the fat treats into their mouths, smearing chocolate over cheeks, knuckles, masks, wands, tiaras, capes, backpacks, lunch bags, and the upholstery of their parents' cars.   

"I felt so sorry for little Wally," Katie said, "Stripped of his place of honor.  He was so proud of his cupcakes.  At least the kids got to eat them later.  I can't believe Calvin's mother - or the PTA, for that matter."

"Wasn't there anything you could do to stop her – them?"  I asked, knowing if there had been, she would have.

Katie tried to put the kibosh on parental interference during the following parties, but it was a losing battle.  The Mighty Moms, backed by the PTA, insinuated themselves into Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Pajama Day, Grandparent Day, No Homework Day, Lost Tooth Day, and the Round-up Auction, for which Katie cellophane-wrapped two big baskets, decorated them with butterflies, and filled them with gift cards, candles, candle holders, and placemats - only to find her baskets dismantled, the gift items stuck into other baskets.  She finally found her baskets, stuffed with auction-processing papers, lying on the floor behind the auction cashiers in the check-out area.

Too defeated to complain, Katie decided to get through the rest of the year by using low-maintenance strategies.  Don't over-plan, don't over-do, don't over-expect, and don't over-react.

When Teacher Appreciation Week approached in late April, Katie phoned me and asked what my school did to appreciate my work as a teacher – she was looking for ideas.

I told her that there was no falderal.  No Hallmark Holiday.  In the middle of May, my colleagues and I would receive a thank you card from the school board, a token gift decorated with the district logo, like a key chain or a school calendar or a lapel pin, and a simple mid-week buffet luncheon served in the teachers' lounge, prepared by the PTA - a tossed salad, a platter of sliced meats and cheese fanned out on curly kale, a variety of rolls and breads, pickles, potato chips, condiments, and a tray of lemon squares.  The administration unlocked the Coke machine for the day, and we’d eat during our regular lunch periods.  Unless the PTA moms told them, the students didn't know their teachers were supposed to be appreciated that week.

After much thought, Katie decided to plan, with Brett’s class, an after-lunch surprise party for Ms. Howard.  They'd decorate the room, sing songs, and present the teacher with a lovely gift - something personal, like a spa basket or a couple of tickets to the theater or a dinner out with her husband.  Katie wanted to put her own signature on teacher appreciation.  Classy, tasteful.

"Does that sound like I'm overdoing it?"  Katie asked me.  "I'd like to make it a little more special than what you used to get."

"Sounds perfect," I said.  "Wish you had been my room mother."

A few days before spring break, Katie received a four-page notice from the PTA president, outlining what the PTA moms had decided the Room Mothers would do to celebrate their teachers.

Katie called me up.  "You won't believe this," she said. 

"First of all, there's a theme.  Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.  The catch phrase is ‘Our Staff Make Learning Sweet.’  And – get this - Teacher Appreciation Week is going to be celebrated All Week Long.  ALL WEEK.  Every.  Friggin.  Day.  All related to sugar and candy and teacher sweetness." 

"My teeth hurt," I said.  "Did any of these PTA mothers ask the teachers what they wanted?  Five days of teaching children overdosed on sugar isn't instructional paradise."

"No," Katie said.  "It’s all secret."  

In order to give parents enough lead-time to stuff their kid's backpack with the appropriate item on the appropriate day, the Room Mothers had to send home, with the students, at least a week ahead of time, a packet outlining the activities planned for each day of appreciation week.  The packet had to contain five pages – one for each day – each a different color, each describing that day's activities and the accompanying parent and student responsibilities.  Packet preparation meant composing, typing, printing, folding, stuffing envelopes, labeling them with students’ names, and distributing them before or after school - without the teacher noticing.

"That's just the preparation," Katie said.  "Here's what's going on Each.  Day."

Sunday, the day prior to Teacher Appreciation Week, was Door Decorating Day.  Room Mothers had to decorate the classroom door with a Willy Wonka design and a 'Sweet' message - using pieces of candy to represent the class, like a giant lollypop for the teacher and Jolly Ranchers for the students.

 "Be sure to decorate the door on Sunday so it will greet the teacher first thing Monday morning," Katie read. 

"How are you going to get into the building?"  I asked.  "Do you have a key?"

"It's California, Mom.  Classroom doors lead to the outside."

"Maybe California rodents will eat the candy.  Little rats running around with Gummy Bears stuck in their teeth."

Katie went on.

Monday was Welcome to Teacher Appreciation Day – the day Ms. Howard would ooh and aah over the door, place her hand on her heart, and say something like, "All This for Meeee?"

Monday was also the first of four days that Katie would hide somewhere and collect money for the gift certificate that would be presented to Ms. Howard at the Friday afternoon culminating party, and the candy bar poems the children were to write to Ms. Howard – 'Be my Almond Joy' or 'I'm all Butterfingers Around You' or 'Your Happiness is My Payday' - with the showcased candy bars attached to the poems, which, once collected, Katie had to bind into a book.  

"Mom," Katie said.  "What the hell is the Ms. Howard going to do with thirty-one candy bars?  This is ridiculous.  I'm not doing that part."

I could hear a pen scratching.

"Better watch out, Katie," I sang.  "You're gonna get in trouble with Cupcake Bully and her cohorts if you break the rules."

Tuesday was Fresh Flower Day.  Each student was to bring a fresh flower to the teacher.  Katie had to be on hand that morning to collect the flowers, put them in a vase, and present the arrangement to Ms. Howard. 

"Get . . . a . . . vase," Katie said.  I could hear her pen again.

Wednesday was Oompa Loompa Day.  Students were to come to school dressed as Oompa Loompas - green hair, orange faces, brown shirts, white overalls, and blue soccer socks.

"Okay – Wednesday's a bust," I said.  "Can't teach orange faces and green hair."    

Thursday was Book Binding Day.  Katie had to finish collecting the poems and take them home to collate, leaving blank pages in the back for the forgotten ones.  Then, after Bridget's nap, go to Staples for bookbinding and stop off at the mall for a decent gift certificate.  

"Just a few hours of my time . . .," Katie said.  ". . . every single day – including Sunday – INCLUDING SUNDAY!"

"Katie," I said.  "This isn't asking too much, is it?  It's a cinch for someone like you – you’re just a mom - with plenty of time on her hands.  What do you do all day anyway?  Other than raising two kids, housecleaning, laundry, cooking, shopping, working twenty hours a week from home as a customer service rep, taking your son to little league, attending church, chairing two committees, and serving as the first grade Art Master, you don't do so much.  What's the big deal?"

"Yeah, right," she said.  "Listen to Friday."

Friday was Dress as Your Favorite Candy Day.  Peppermint Patties, Smarties, and Baby Ruths - adding yet another distraction to the already disrupted educational environment. 

Then, as if gratitude hadn't been stretched far enough into Oompa Loompa Land, there would be a Teacher Appreciation luncheon in the teachers' lounge.

"What'll they serve - a variety pack of Hershey's Chocolate with pralines?"  I asked. 

"I feel like I agreed to bake a dozen cookies and ended up project manager of a Mrs. Fields factory."

"The teachers are going to hate it," I said.  "I guarantee they don't want their classes interrupted by a bunch of Lemonheads and Atomic Fireballs running amok all week."

Katie, being the Good Mother, clenched her teeth and followed the instructions as directed.  The week's worth of activities took more than two weeks and cost Katie about fifty dollars – far more than any one parent's contribution to the gift certificate.

At the culminating class party, Katie presented Ms. Howard with the book of poems and the gift certificate.  Ms. Howard appeared appreciative and thanked the children for the sweet things they had done for her that week.  The children clapped and laughed and disappointedly picked at tiny half-pint cupcakes with sloppy glaze puddling down the sides and asked Wally where his good cupcakes were.

Katie phoned on Friday afternoon.  "Hell Week is over."

"So - did Ms. Howard thank you?"

"Sort of," she said.  "It's hard to tell with her.  She doesn't have much of an affect."

"All that and you can't tell?"

"I didn't do it for me, Mom.  I did it for Brett," she said.  "But never again."

"Not even if there's a Room Mother Appreciation Week?"

 "Not even - but I am thinking of joining the PTA."

EVS 05/11

HOME ON THE RAILS

THEME: CHEAP THRILLS

The only thrill worthwhile is the one that comes from making something out of yourself.

~ William Feather

The Expectation

A romantic adventure with my husband Ed. Riding the rails in mid-July of 2009.

The Promise

"We'll take you through the Heart of the West! Eight states and across the mighty Mississippi—past deserts and mountains, missions and pueblos, ranches and wheat fields. Carving through curving canyon passages only a few feet wider than the train itself. You'll see spectacular landscapes and pristine vistas. You'll be mesmerized by this land's beauty and allure."

The Anticipation

Fullerton, CA, to Chicago on the Southwest Chief - the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway. Over two thousand miles of the Old West along the Santa Fe Trail: California, Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Iowa, and Illinois. Ed and I would leave Fullerton on Monday evening and arrive in Chicago Wednesday afternoon. Two pleasant, relaxing days riding the rails, soaking in the wonder, beauty, and mystery of the Old West.

Cities like Needles, Flagstaff, Gallup, Albuquerque, Dodge City, and Kansas City – haunted by Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday and Billy the Kid. Echoes of gunfights and gambling. Honky-tonk pianos and saloons. Matt Dillon, Chester, and Kitty on slatted sidewalks in a cloud of gun smoke. Donkey carts hauling flour, salt, and tobacco. Shawnee, Comanche, Navaho, and Zuni. Silver and turquoise. Hand-woven blankets and baskets. Good pawn and babies in papooses.

The exquisitness of an ever-changing landscape. A purple and orange sunset over the Mojave Desert, the terra cotta of Canyon Diablo, the clear rush of Little Colorado River, the Red Cliffs of New Mexico, the Rio Grande, Apache Canyon, Pecos River, Starvation Peak, Sugar Creek, and Nauvoo. Flowering deserts and eagles soaring over shadowed cliffs.

And the train. Wine in the lounge car. Swivel seats. Elongated windows for a panoramic view. Gracious, romantic meals in the dining car. White linen tablecloths, fresh flowers, porcelain. And finally in the luxury of our reclining, plush seats with headrests, footrests, and overhead reading lamps. Comfy pillows and snuggle blankets. We'd watch the red sun-ball disappear below the horizon as we slowly drifted off to sleep, soothed by the train’s muted whistle and left-right sways. The soft clickity-clack of the rails, gently beating time to its own lullaby.

The Trip

We arrived at the Fullerton train station an hour early to pick up our tickets and check bags. A café of sorts, with a sticky counter and the odor of diesel and mustard, offered a variety of snacks: nachos loaded with a thin cheese sauce, microwave pizza and burritos, wrinkled hot dogs revolving on heat rollers, hermetically sealed skinny sandwiches, candy, chips, soda, coffee, and milk. Good enough for regular travelers with families to feed and entertain. Too mediocre for us. We'd dine in style on the train.

We waited on an outside bench and watched commuter trains drop off day workers going home to same-old, same-old, not beginning an exciting journey through the Old West.

About a hundred Boy Scouts charged the platform waving backpacks and duffle bags.

"Please, please, don't let them be in my car," I said. Sharing my ride with card-playing, joke-telling, coke-swilling teenage boys who were probably on their first big trip away from parental supervision wasn't in my game plan.

Our train pulled into the station and hissed to a stop. There it was – the Southwest Chief - rising two stories high. A series of double-decker cars with passenger seating in the upper level and storage below. One car – a little car - a half car with lower level seating - trailed behind like a railroad afterthought. Several conductors emerged and placed three-tiered stepladders in front of open doors. Ed and I headed forward to be near the lounge and dining cars - away from the Boy Scouts.

"CHICAGO PEOPLE – CHICAGO PEOPLE - LAST CAR! LAST CAR!"

We turned around. A uniformed man waved his arms at the back of the train. "AAAALLLLLL CHICAGO PEOPLE – LAST CAR! LAST CAR!"

Dismayed, Ed and I hugged our carry ons and threaded through the mass of khaki to the end of the platform.

"You two going to Chicago?"

We nodded.

"Can't we sit up there?" I pointed to the upper level.

"You're Chicago. You're in there." He pointed to the railroad afterthought. "Turn right."

We stepped into a hallway that held shelves of luggage, stairs leading to the upper level, and four bathrooms, which emitted a stench that I prayed wouldn't waft through the door leading to our seats in the other half of the car. The glare of an overhead fluorescent light made Ed's face look green.

Our little car had four rows on either side of the aisle, and except for the first row on the right, each held passengers sprawled across empty seats - protecting their territory so no one would sit there. We claimed the first row and placed our carry ons in the wheelchair area in front of us.

No plush reclining seats with headrests and footrests. Instead, burgundy plastic with rusty metal reclining levers, bumps that rose two inches behind the neck, and seat extensions that clicked into place under the knees, leaving the calves and feet to hang in mid air. The seats faced the door to the other half of the car. And the overhead fluorescent light shone through the car window directly into our eyes.

"We have to sleep facing . . .."

The electric click of an intercom interrupted me. "EIGHT O'CLOCK DINNER SERVICE IS NOW BEGINNING AND THE DINING ROOM IS CLOSED TO NEW DINERS. EIGHT THIRTY DINNER SERVICE WILL BEGIN AT EIGHT THIRTY. SHARP. BE SURE TO MAKE A RESERVATION. NO RESERVATION - NO DINNER." He repeated it – three times. So began the regular pronouncements by the soon-to-be-familiar Train Voice.

The door slid open and a conductor entered. "Tickets, tickets."

"Can we sign up for dinner?" I asked him. "And can we move to another car?"

"A hostess does that." He punched our tickets and shoved them into the metal holder above our seats. "You're Chicago - you stay put."

Soon after we made our eight thirty dinner reservations, Train Voice declared that the eight thirty dinner service would begin precisely at eight thirty and anyone who signed up for eight thirty dinner service better high tail it or they'd be out of luck. That's not exactly what he said, but pretty close. Three times.

We opened the door to the hallway, held our breaths, walked up the circular stairs, and made our way through six passenger cars, the snack bar, the lounge, to the dining car. The passenger cars had blue cloth seats with white head protectors over nicely sized headrests. Except for those people who sat with a hundred Boy Scouts, I was envious of the passengers in the upper level.

"When did Chicago become chopped liver?" I said.

The snack bar offered much the same food choices as the Fullerton Station café, with the additional breakfast items of Cheerios, strawberry yogurt, and hermetically sealed cheese Danish.

I grimaced. "What's that smell?"

"Nachos? Armpits?" Ed said. "Hard to tell."

I was glad we were having a gracious dinner in the dining car. Wouldn't want to be stuck with such unappetizing fare on my romantic adventure.

The lounge car was a series of booths filled with people drinking beer and wine, playing games, reading, and chatting. A few swivel seats offered views through floor to ceiling windows, but the people there had swiveled themselves into conversation circles, ignoring the sun as it danced over the Mojave Desert.

We entered the dining car and headed for an empty table.

"You there. You don't seat yourselves." A fellow in a white chef's jacket holding a plastic tray with two sweaty glasses of water covered in Saran Wrap stepped in front of us. "This way."

"I think he's Train Voice," I whispered.

He led us to seats opposite two gentlemen. Single travelers – ushered to their seats – no choice. We sloughed off the disappointment and introduced ourselves, making the best of forced togetherness. We chatted about nothing in particular and watched the orange sun-ball slink behind cactus and sandy hillocks.

The faux-fabric tablecloth and napkins looked like the interfacing used to reinforce jacket lapels – much like the covering on airplane pillows. A white plastic vase held dusty fake roses. We ordered off the crumpled, stained, one-card menu. Chicken en croute for me; vegetable lasagna for Ed – both of which were heated in the microwave and served on melamine plates. Our dinners were overcooked and chewy on the outside, lukewarm on the inside.

It was past ten when we returned to our car. The fluorescent light was still on. It would stay on all night. Necessity overcame repulsion, so I went to the bathroom.  I calculated how many more times I'd have to use the wet-floor, toilet-paper-strewn facilities before we got home.  Too many.   Along with everything else inside the train, bathroom cleanliness wasn't addressed in The Promise.

Sleeping comfort became an all-time priority. We found a stash of miniature pillows in an overhead bin and placed them under and behind our necks, backs, and elbows. We lengthened our seat extensions with ersatz footrests of piled carry ons. I made an eye mask out of Ed's bandana to block the fluorescent glare.

Ed listened to old time radio on his mp3 player, and I tried to sleep. Finding a comfortable position was next to impossible. Every part of my body ached. My back, my head, my neck, my elbows, even my wrists. The undersized pillows didn't alleviate the discomfort. Several times I had to rearrange my carry-on-hassock after it fell apart by the jerking of the train. I think I finally drifted off to sleep around eleven thirty.

I was jolted awake at midnight. A bunch of preteens ran down the stairs, pushed open our door, and shouted into car. "Hi!" and "You're dumb!" and "Wake up!" Then they sang and danced and whooped beside the bathrooms.

After the third time yelling into our car, I pushed open the door to the hallway and said, shouted actually, "You kids quit it! Now! Or I'm going to get the train police."

They laughed at me and ran up the stairs before I could finish my tirade. They repeated their routine – twice - before an Amtrak hostess put a stop to it.

The night passed slowly with the glare of the light in my eyes, the jab of the armrest in my back, and the numblike tingles in my right leg. At least one part of me could sleep.

Morning came with the sun rising someplace in the West. I wasn't sure. The scenery was pleasant enough, but until my brain could function, the view became a low priority.

We had signed up for EIGHT O'CLOCK BREAFKAST SERVICE, so we honored our commitment even though we knew what to expect. Breakfast with strangers, plastic dinnerware, pillowcase tablecloths, dusty fake flowers, surly hosts, and crumpled menus. We had over-cooked-under-cooked egg frittatas and sweaty glasses of warm orange juice covered with Saran Wrap.

During breakfast, the train stopped at Flagstaff, and we watched a sea of Boy Scouts disembark and board Greyhound Buses that would take them into canyon territory.

"Look," I said. "The lucky guys get to ride in comfort. Plush seats, head and foot rests, a nice little bathroom in the back."

"Those bathrooms stink," Ed said.

"We already have stink – at least we'd have sleep."

For the rest of our trip to Chicago we endured the graceless amenities of the Southwest Chief - dubbed DamnTrak soon after breakfast. A thirty-minute stopover at the Albuquerque station offered a chance to walk without tilting and browse the tourist-trap market. Silver and turquoise jewelry, baskets, and woven rugs. It was hard to tell what was real and what wasn't. Like the jewelry, my adventure had lost its luster.

The remainder of our meals came from the snack shop. Hermitically sealed sandwiches for lunch, microwaved pizza for supper, Cheerios and yogurt for breakfast. We sat in our plastic seats, and between fits of sleep, watched with droopy eyes as the probably gorgeous landscape rolled by. The preteens continued to run up and down the stairs, push open our doors, and shout into the car. But I didn't care. They couldn't hurt me anymore.

The Home Arrival

As AmTrak approached Chicago Wednesday afternoon, it went right through our town of LaGrange. We knew Amtrak didn't stop there - that we'd be taking a commuter train from Union Station back home. When we sailed past LaGrange, I waved at main street and whispered, "See you soon."

We arrived in Chicago's Union Station on schedule. After collecting our bags, we lugged our stuff to the commuter platform and found a train that was just about to leave for the suburbs. We were glad that this was the last time we'd have to wrestle our luggage onto a train.

The conductor approached us. "Tickets?"

"We need to buy them," Ed said. "Two for LaGrange."

Ed smiled at me. He knew what I was thinking – a hot bath, a dry martini, and a good night's sleep. We had planned that I would stay at the station with the luggage while Ed walked the five blocks to our house to pick up the car. In fewer than thirty minutes we'd be home.

"Doesn't stop in LaGrange," the conductor said. "You're on an express. Won't stop 'til Downers Grove."

Too exhausted to place blame for this added layer of distress, we succumbed to defeat and watched our home sail by for the second time that day.

EVS – 04/11

TARNISHED TIARAS

THEME: RUMORS
Rumors generally grow deformed as they travel. ~ Edward Counsel

Ah, what fools we were, Ed and I, when raising our daughter Katie.  We can hear them whispering.  "Ellie and Ed didn't give Katie what every little girl should have - that all-important, rise-to-stardom opportunity."  And they’re right.  We didn't.  Shame on us. 

Because of our neglect, Katie missed out.  So determined to raise our child on good old-fashioned values, we neglected to provide that one life experience that would have sent Katie straight to fame. Little girl beauty pageants.  How could we have been so remiss?

And because of our selfishness, Katie now doesn't have a houseful of pageant nostalgia - the gowns, the ribbons, the awards, the trophies, the tiaras - to touch and pet and pine over - reminding her of those golden moments in the limelight.  And because her home is bereft of the icons of eminence, she has nothing to show her own little girl, who, at twenty-two months, is ripe for the pageant world. 

So - if we could do it over . . .

 . . .  we'd move to the South, where the good pageants are held - where pageant moms have an over abundance of beauty-contest enthusiasm and the morphologies of Pillsbury Doughboys.  We'd buy a house with shelving for pageant paraphernalia and plenty of room for prancing around in Las Vegas showgirl outfits.  We'd over-spend on contest necessities and cut back on non-essentials, like food, clothing, and the mortgage.  We'd keep cases of caffeinated beverages on hand for when Katie got the droops during late night rehearsals, and we'd bribe her with toys and MacDonald's when she refused to swish the boa across her butt.

I'd start right off calling Katie 'Princess' and 'Perfect Preciousness' and 'Sweet Cinderella' to raise her expectations of the general public.  She'd learn that she was the best, the prettiest, the cutest of all the contestants – far superior in all categories.  She'd learn to love being in beauty pageants as much as I loved sticking her in them.  And regardless of long car rides, musty motels, lethargy, and sitting for hours in itchy starched crinoline, she wouldn't cry.  I'd scold her  - in front of people - if she did, 'cause "Queens don't have meltdowns, Missy."

I’d enter Katie in contests as early as, say, two weeks old.  She’d wear something expensive, something beyond my budget, something over-the-top - perhaps a pink polyester flouncy tutu with sequins and baubles – something that stuck out - a layered shelf of petrified mesh.  She'd have pink striped leggings with sparkles and matching socks with treads.  I'd strap a papoose board to her back, making it look like she could hold her head up even though she was still wrinkle-red from a nine-month bath.  Talent?  No sweat.  Head Flopping.  Performing would be a cinch - just remove the board.

As she got older, I’d hire a pricy pageant coach so Katie would get the best of instruction in how to tilt her head and put on those Wow!  facial expressions – wide, batting eyes and plastic smile.

A professional make-up artist would transform Katie from natural child to tart – skin-toned cream to hide facial discolorations, pink cheek powder for the big-girl look, tomato red lipstick for the pouty look, black eyeliner painted to a cat-point just above the outside corner of each eye, neon confetti eye shadow that shimmered under the lights, and false eyelashes, thick and caked with mascara.

A hairstylist from some hoedown would tease Katie's hair and stick in curly, bleach-blond extensions, making Katie's head look like a yellow poodle sat there.  Katie would cry and whine, “That hurts.  You’re pulling my hair."

I’d tuck my spandex tank-top back under the belly pounds I’d put on special, and say, “Shucks, sweetie, y’all wanna to luk nahse for the jedges now, don-ja?  So shuddup and quit yer squeelin.” I'd talk like that because I'd want to fit in, being in the south and all.

She’d stand in the shower in her underpants and scream and cover her face with her hands while I spray-tanned her whole body orange-brown.  I'd say, "Hold steel, now.  Yer gonna git tha goo in yer ayes, iffin ya move 'roun."  And while the tan glop dried, Katie would walk like a pig farmer in manure so her thighs wouldn’t scrape together and mess up the layer of sticky fakeness between her legs. 

We’d practice her routine.

“Now swing your hips, baby girl – thas righ’ – now tear off yer skirt, yeah - toss it ta here!  Lookin’ guud!  Swish yer’ bitty butt!  One! Two! Tharee! Fouh!  Woo hoo! Y’all got it goin’ on!” 

And when she was called to the stage, Katie would be a darling in her strapless yellow puffy dress, lacy ankle socks, white Mary Janes, and coiffed up do with fake diamond fascinators clipped above each ear.  And she’d sway and slither and sashay across the stage with cutest damn frozen smile you ever saw, showing off those perfect white, flipper teeth,  throwing kisses and making eye contact with each judge simultaneously.

Then we'd sit in the hotel lobby and wait for the judges to announce the winners.  I'd munch on a couple of Paydays and Katie would finish off the last Mountain Dew. 

Katie would say, "Did I do good, Mama?" 

And I'd answer, "Coulda done betta, Suga' Pops.  Yer smyle was a tad stupid lookin'."  I'd shake my head in disappointment and sigh, "Cain't do nothin' bout it now.  S'all up ta them jedges."

Of course, Katie would win something.  Maybe not the High Supreme Queen or the Supreme Queen or even the Queen.  But she'd get a tiara and a trophy the size of church steeple and a stuffed animal.

Once in the car, I'd chew on another Payday and look in the rear view mirror.  Katie would be falling asleep, holding tight to her stuffed animal, streaks of mascara flowing down her cheeks. 

"Oops," I'd say, "Gotta git y'all may-kup remover."

I'd pick a peanut out of my teeth and turn onto the main highway.

"Ya know," I'd shout into the back, "y'all gotta work harder iffen ya wanna win." I'd pause and wait, but there'd be no answer.  

"Maybe next time, Honey Bee," I'd say to the road. "Maybe next time."

EVS 03/11