MIAGD: Make it a great day
When I woke at 7:30 AM it was still a steel-grey sky but eventually became startling bright as the sun landed on the fresh snow in the backyard.
The sky has been drained of its brightness and is dull. I was enjoying the glare pouring into the study.
It’s a tightly packed day. Let’s make it a great day!
MIAGD: Make it a great day
I just received these bracelets, today. Wonderful reminders.
“BELIEVE you can & you’re halfway there.” – Theodore Roosevelt
“Once a day allow yourself the freedom to DREAM.” – Albert Einstein
“Some are born great, others achieve GREATNESS.” – William Shakespeare
When I was in 5th grade, my maternal uncle, Ron Barmes, gave me an 8-track tape player and several 8-track tapes. My favorite was CHICAGO’s Chicago VIII, 1975.
“Harry Truman.” That was my favorite song and I listened to it over and over.
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I had to wade through songs on certain tracks in order to get to “Harry Truman.” Today’s kids have no idea how long we had to wait on 8-track songs or calling the radio station to learn when our favorite song would play.
President Harry Truman, for me, runs right behind my affection for Abraham Lincoln, and alongside Theodore Roosevelt and Franklin Roosevelt. My Grandma Donna always acknowledged she shared her May 8 birthday with President Truman. My mother was born April 6, 1945, under Franklin Roosevelt’s fourth and final term but within six days, Harry Truman succeeded to the office.
December 1972, I watched all the television coverage of President Truman’s funeral in Independence, Missouri.
For 43 years I’ve loved CHICAGO’s tribute to Truman.
Forty-nine years ago today, my great-grandmother, Mary Belle Jones Clary, passed away.
I remember clearly coming through the front door with Mother. The phone was ringing and Mother hurried to answer it. She was carrying her “fall” – hairpiece – in a large round case.
The case dropped to the floor. Mother’s head dropped to her chest.
I stood, cemented at the front door, hanging on to the black wrought iron rail. I wasn’t sure, but I knew something dreadful had happened to “Grandma CooCoo.”
The details of the funeral and cemetery are still clearly etched in my memory, even though I was not quite three and one half years old.
This was a dear woman we laid to rest 49 years ago, and I still wish I could have been afforded more time with her.
I had my general music students in the high school’s library to complete a project. I caught several teachers gathered around the television in the audio-visual room. After investigating, I called the students over to watch the event.
“I can still remember watching man’s first walk on the moon. You need to see the space shuttle’s launch.”
For some reason, I was focused on Christa McCauliffe’s mother, Grace Corrigan. There was something striking about the mother of the first teacher in space.
As the tragedy unfolded Mrs. Corrigan’s face remained focused on the sky. It was still unclear as to what had happened, or actually, if anything had happened. While those of us gathered around the television were silently questioning what was taking place, a NASA official stepped up to Ed and Grace Corrigan to explain The Challenger had exploded.
Mrs. Corrigan’s reaction finally acknowledged what millions watching feared.
The Navy Hymn: “Eternal Father, Strong to Save”
Lord, guard and guide the men who fly
Through the great spaces in the sky.
Be with them always in the air,
In darkening storms or sunlight fair;
Oh, hear us when we lift our prayer,
For those in peril in the air!This additional verse by Mary C. D. Hamilton (1915) was officially added to the hymn.
Later that evening, President Ronald Reagan, postponing his annual State of the Union, addressed the nation with one of the most beautifully crafted and delivered speeches I’ve ever heard from a president. With one hand he dried our tears, and with the other allayed our fears by reminding us we are still pioneers.
And then he spoke to all the school children who had been watching that morning’s celebration of the first teacher in space. It was tender, grandfatherly. Again, the president stressed that we will continue to explore space as true pioneers.
Then came the paragraph that bound us all in unified tears…
“The crew of the space shuttle Challenger honored us by the manner in which they lived their lives. We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them, this morning, as they prepared for their journey and waved goodbye and ‘slipped the surly bonds of earth’ to ‘touch the face of God.'”
Mary Grace Corrigan, mother of Christa McCauliffe
All I knew about Bruce Graham’s drama, STELLA AND LOU, was that television great, Rhea Perlman starred in the original 2013 Northlight Theatre production in Skokie, Illinois. My reason for going to see Dayton Theatre Guild‘s production was to watch one of my favorite actors, Geoff Burkman, in action.
Graham’s finely fashioned play could not have been better acted, nor directed. J. Gary Thompson gathered three committed actors, Geoff Burkman, Amy Taint, and Adam Clevenger to produce an intimate, dynamic atmosphere which was greatly enhanced by the natural thrust stage in the barely over 100 seat auditorium. At times it felt as though those of us in the audience were eavesdropping on this terrifically tight trio.
I’ve watched Geoff Burkman perform for over 25 years and he makes acting look so damned easy. I’ve worked with Geoff on two productions and I never felt as though I could keep up with him because even at the very start, Geoff’s character is already moving toward the production’s end. His smoothe deliveries always have the feeling of him walking across an iced-over pond with his audience always on edge never knowing just how thick the ice is; Geoff is just so confident as an actor and his choices seem to be more mystical than instinctual. His “Lou” is a combination of John Spencer (WEST WING) and Martin Crane (FRAZIER), and always, the definition Geoff stamps on each character he tackles.
Amy Taint… where has she been hiding? Her bio paragraph indicates she was quite busy in the 1970s but took some kind of break. I scratched my head all evening, wondering just how this evenly matched actress for Geoff Burkman could possibly take a break from performing. I was mesmerized by Ms. Taint’s pure naturalness and hope to see her in future productions. Stella was exceptionally 3-dimensional. Come on, Amy Taint, do more shows!
Adam Clevenger’s character offers a good deal of comedic relief, often balancing the still unsure drama manifesting in Act One between Lou and Stella. In fact, it was interesting to see how Graham’s structure was actually working. Fascinating. Adam could have been one of the regulars on CHEERS or ARCHIE’S PLACE and held his own against two venerable heavyweights.
It’s not surprising that Dayton Theatre Guild, now 72 years of bringing strong productions with celebrated works, many of which are not tackled by most community theatres, slammed another successful shot glass down on the counter with STELLA AND LOU.
Kudos!
When I was in third grade I went to Mother’s bookcase to select more mature reading because I had exhausted all of my interests at the school and public library. Erma Bombeck? The titles sounded fun and the cover’s artwork looked interesting.
I began reading Ms. Bombeck’s JUST WAIT UNTIL YOU HAVE CHILDREN OF YOUR OWN, followed by I LOST EVERYTHING IN THE POSTNATAL DEPRESSION.
My third-grade teacher, Mary Hennegan, was not impressed that I was reading such racy material. However, the following year I returned to Washington Elementary School and my fourth-grade teacher, Diana Lane, loved that I was not only reading more advanced literature but encouraged me to continue doing so.
And, I did.
Erma Bombeck on Boston talk show.
At a young age, I fell in love with Bombeck and even rose early through the week to watch her on a morning talk show before heading to school. I don’t know what it was but I clicked with the lady’s sense of humor and personality.
Through junior high, high school and college I continued reading Ms. Bombeck’s work.
In 1990 I moved to the suburbs of Dayton, Ohio and while driving near downtown I spied a street sign designating it would soon be named Erma Bombeck Way.
What? Why?
Ahhh! A friend told me Ms. Bombeck was born in nearby Bellbrook, went to The University of Dayton, lived on Kushwa Drive in Centerville, and had moved to Arizona with her husband, Bill. Many friends had known her or met her and I even had a student whose grandparents had been neighbors with the Bombecks and another celebrity, Phil Donahue.
I was in heaven.
At age 20 Ms. Bombeck was diagnosed an untreatable and incurable genetic kidney disease. Through the years she beat breast cancer, went through a mastectomy and continued dialysis for her kidney disease. After finally going through her kidney transplant Erma Bombeck died April 22, 1996, age 69.
Near the entrance of Woodland Cemetery, just north of The University of Dayton, a large boulder sits near the road beneath a beautiful share tree. The boulder is only partly seen as most of it is beneath the ground to maintain its balance.
Ms. Bombeck’s cremains is interred behind the rock.
I remember seeing news coverage of the semi transporting the rock. It was a significant part of her Arizona years, her final years, where she loved to sit and write.
Just a few yards away, as seen in the second photograph, there’s a memorial tribute celebrating the Wright Brothers.
When I visit Woodland to pay respects to the Wright family, I like to sit on the rock to write something, anything. The Bombeck family hoped UD students and others would also take inspiration from Erma’s writing rock.
They do.
And, I do.
Thank you, Erma Bombeck.
MIAGD: Make it a great day
We just finished the Season of Thanksgiving and the Season of Giving. Some will begin preparations for the Season of Lent. As the studio revs up its busiest season each January it turns into the Season of Complaining.
January, February, March, April, and May are my hell months because we are busy with:
This is an exciting period in the studio’s life because the students tend to kick it into gear with more attentiveness to technique and musicianship. Some students need those deadlines where many students are consistent.
However, there always hangs an air of negativity: “I’m so busy,” and, especially, “I’m so tired.”
I never realized how exhausting this becomes for me and that it begins to wear on me. So, I’ve decided to put an end the Season of Complaining.
I am blessed with a full studio of young folks who are on the road to excellent musicianship, most of whom are in the top ensembles throughout The Miami Valley, the leads in their school musicals, the leads in community or Muse Machine, section leaders for their school’s band or choir programs, field commanders, OMEA band/choir state or district section leaders, and numerous other achievements.
There is absolutely NO need to complain or whine about anything. Yes, there are exceptions…. Every student in the studio is accomplishing something and moving ahead not only in technique and musicianship but in advancements and successes in their ensembles or other endeavors.
I will no longer allow the oft-used negative expressions to be used in the studio:
Seniors get a slight pass on this. I’ve discovered my seniors are the ones who tend to complain the least about being tired or busy. They either get it, or they’re simply too tired or too busy to complain.
Starting now, I am challenging students to cease their complaining and whining. All negativity (and yes, whining about being tired or busy is negativity) is to be left on the front porch.
I am challenging and expecting students to apply a different strategy to their Attitude.
at·ti·tude ˈadəˌt(y)o͞od noun
- a chosen settled way of thinking or feeling about someone or something, typically one that is reflected in a person’s behavior.
- a position or a choice assumed for a specific purpose
- Attitude is a choice
Attitude has received a negative reception over the years and is seldom used for its original intent. “They have a bad attitude” has become the norm. Somewhere in the 1980s or 1990s the phrase, “Lose the tude, Dude” was popular. Yes, it was cute and catchy, but the studio does not recognize Attitude under that definition.
My students already know how I define Attitude as the steering wheel for each of our journeys. You don’t need your learner’s permit or driver’s license to steer this ship!
This newly adopted mindset of not complaining will be difficult for some. I already know which students will probably struggle with this application.
For some, it will be continued reinforcement.
And, for others, it will be an exciting new chapter leading to new chapters or journies.
And never forget that “making it a great day” is a choice, too.
It was a perfect Friday and I don’t think I could have made it any better.
Thursday night I had dinner with my dear friend, Mark Monroe, and took the wrong bus home resulting in 3,000 steps. Perfect.
Friday morning I saw the beautiful blue sky and with the promise of unseasonal temperatures, grabbed my camera and headed to Woodland Cemetery via a quick pass through The University of Dayton campus.
I met a young college student and her equally lovely mother only to discover they lived around the corner. Oh, the small world.
A late lunch at Burger King, Bus 17 back home, and time with three very happy dogs. Even Neko and Clyde get caught up in the coma I e celebration that they forget they are cats.
I wrote, napped, cleaned a bit, replaced the toilet seat, mopped the bathroom and living room, started load of dishes, and made a dish posted on Red Gold’s recipe page. Red Gold is headquartered in my hometown, Elwood, Indiana.
I’m loving the step count from the past two days.
Yes. The perfect day.
It’s not so bad when anniversaries are remembered at ten years, even twenty years.
Thirty years? Oooh!
Forty years? Ouch!
We were definitely snowed in at 825 Main Street in Elwood, Indiana.
My grandmother, Donna Barmes, was escorted on a police officer’s snowmobile from her job at Essex Wire on the far east side of town to our house on the far west side of town. She was to spend four days with us.
Grandpa Leroy was snowed in out at the farm, thirteen miles from our house.
It didn’t seem so bad as the first wave hit so we ventured out to Pizza Hut on North Anderson Street and discovered we weren’t the only ones getting a jump on our cabin fever. It wasn’t long before a police officer showed up to let us know they’d completed a wellness check at our house because Grandpa Leroy had been calling the house to check on us. If you knew my grandfather, this so hilarious and so ‘Grandpa.’
Back home, we continued watching the conditions worsen.
Elwood’s school superintendent, Keith Scott, was legendary for not canceling school even when every other community was off for bad weather. Elwood students trudged on through deep snows and frigid temperatures.
Finally, Elwood schools were cancelled. I believe we were out three days.
We lived at the corner of Ninth and Main streets on a huge hill, one of the highest in town except for those in the southern areas near the golf course and country club. It was perfect for sledding.
The snow began drifting straight out from the crest and was too dangerous for playing for fear we’d drop down through the snow and suffocate.
After several days, Grandpa Leroy had his mile long road plowed with the drifts ten to fifteen feet high in places. He then began making the rounds to check on all family, friends and church shut-ins.
For us kids, this was a wintry amusement park. These were the days when we were still sledding behind automobiles and the minute we could head out to the farm, my cousins, friends and I were sledding behind Grandpa’s brown truck and other automobiles for hours. Grandma kept hot chocolate pouring and the clothes dryer running as we exchanged our frozen clothing and gloves for dryer ones.
The situation was grave but for many of us kids, it definitely was a winter wonderland.
MIAGD: Make it a great day
I’ve never been able to explain the relationship my dog, Flyer, had with Wilbur Wright at his gravesite.
On a warm November Sunday afternoon in 2000, I traveled out to a farm near Xenia Ohio intending to only check out puppies listed in an advertisement.
That was my original intent.
Instead, I left with this blue-eyed girl dressed in black with white accents.
I immediately named her Flyer in honor of the Wright Brothers from Dayton, Ohio.
Her dad, Caesar, was a full springer spaniel. Flyer’s mother, Portia, was a sleek, beautiful black lab with large blue eyes from her husky mother. Little Flyer had the playfulness of her dad, the intelligence, and poise of her mother.
As I retraced my course back home I watched the secure little rascal. She didn’t seem to miss her four siblings and appeared quite content. Flyer was so tiny she could not see out the windows. Eventually, she looked over at me, studying me. It seemed that at the moment she was convinced of our partnership. She walked across the front seat and placed her head on my thigh and slept.
Before returning to Centerville we stopped at Woodland Cemetery to visit the Wright family’s plot.
I opened the door and Flyer scampered out of the car, aimed at a mission.
Her destination, after weaving around a mass of gravestones, was Wilbur Wright’s grave. She sat as though on command.
It seemed a bit peculiar, but I didn’t place much weight on the activity. However, every bi-weekly visit for our hike, Flyer never failed to visit Wilbur.
I learned several years later that Wilbur Wright, while working in France, had a dog named Flyer.
For thirteen years we regularly visited Woodland Cemetery and Flyer never missed a visit with Wilbur.
Flyer lost her sight the last three years of her life after a nasty battle with pancreatitis that nearly took her life. Still, with leash-guided assistance to keep from smacking her head into tombstones, she always sniffed her way to Wilbur.
A few weeks before she died in late July 2013, I took Flyer for one last road trip to Orville Wright’s home, Hawthorn Hill, Carillon Park and Woodland Cemetery.
At Wilbur’s grave the old girl, rather than sitting, laid down.
She was tired.
At times she was coherent and happy, still fighting to be in the moment – my moment.
Still, there were those times I knew she was waiting for my final command, “It’s okay, Flyer, you can soar on to Rainbow Bridge. Daddy will be just fine. You’ve taken such good care of me and the four boys. Go play near the bridge until Daddy gets there.”
I laid down in the thick, cool grass a few feet away from Flyer, watching her and committing this moment, this last visit, to memory.
Our normal 5-10 minute visit lasted over 90 minutes. I knew it was her last visit with Wilbur and I honestly believe she did, too.
I’ll never understand the how’s or why’s with this relationship but maybe there’s no need to understand.
It was simply beautiful.
Make it a great day, Folks!
When I was three years old my parents invested in a set of World Book Encyclopedias that eventually transported me all over the world and into the deep riches of our country’s history.
The family no longer owns the outdated collection but the bookcase is still greatly used in my living room.
One particular addition featured Queen Elizabeth and her family. This photograph was always mesmerizing and 50 years later still remains so.
The photograph was created by name to British photographer Cecil Beaton. Until recently I thought it had actually been photographed in Westminster Abby. The background is a painting.
The photograph of the royal family was another fascinating one as it showed young Prince Edward, now The Earl of Essex, who was five months older than me. It was kind of cool being in the same age group as John Kennedy Jr and Prince Edward.
I’ve so enjoyed following England’s royal family and aging right along with them.
As the song goes, “there’s no blue Monday in your Sunday clothes” and let me tell you this was no blue Monday after seeing Muse Machine’s production, HELLO, DOLLY, this weekend.
Marisha
I was proud of my students Tommy Cole as Barnaby, Ana Smith as Minnie Fay and Dolly Levi’s understudy, featured dancer, Marisha Osowski, and 7th grader Sam McLain who was bumped up to work with the high school men to wear a number of hats throughout the production. Marisha and Sam got to experience being one of The Waiters during “The Waiters’ Gallop” and the classic production number, “Hello, Dolly.”
Needless to say, I am very proud of these students, and offer another congratulation on their hard work.
Tommy & Ana
When I first arrived in Dayton, 1990, there were other directors who became legends with the Muse Machine program. Now, helming the productions are producer Doug Merk, director Joe Deer, choreographer Lula Elzy, and music director/conductor Sean Flowers.
I could go on and on about Joe’s staging, Sean’s music, and Doug’s magic making behind the scenes. The true stand out for me in this production was Lula’s spectacular and dazzling designs on the dance. Joe is exceptionally gifted in staging dances, but I am going with the program’s identification of artistic roles.
I’ve loved Lula’s work for years. She’s outstanding. I don’t know what was so different with her work on this production, but it was a phenomenal piece of the show’s artistic puzzle.
I’ve grown rather fond of this directing/producing quartet, Joe, Lula, Sean, and Doug. They’ve got it down to an artistic science and the experience they give the students cannot be beaten. Thank you!
The cast, orchestra, and crew were spot on. The cast delivered a colorful blend of personable characters that were fresh, entertaining, and overabundant with talent.
Something that Muse Machine does strikingly well is the costuming for each production. HELLO, DOLLY was a major WOW! Most often in school or community theatre productions, ensemble performers have one, maaaaaaaybe two costumes during an entire show. Not so with the dazzling troop of costumers at Muse Machine. Many in the ensemble, each year, have three to four, sometimes more, costume changes. I love hearing those in the ensemble rejoicing over the number of costume changes they have and I am grateful Muse Machine clothes the young folks not just for their character needs, but for their confidence and feeling of inclusion, as well.
One young lady deserves a shout out….
Sarah
Alter High School 10th grader, Sarah LiBrandi gave Dolly Levi a push the moment she stepped off the trolley in the opening number, commanding the enchanting, entrepreneur widow of Ephraim Levi to the final bow with unbelievable maturity, never lessening the healthy performance stamina required of this role. And a shout out to Sarah’s voice teacher, Kandis Wean Gibson, for guiding Sarah masterfully through a score that usually prompts an oft-strained belt-fest; Sarah’s voice remained strong, delightful, and even throughout the production Kudos, Ladies!
Thank you, Muse Machine, for providing another great experience for the students throughout The Miami Valley.
Sarah LiBrandi’s photo courtesy of Muse Machine.
MIAGD: Make it a great day
We got a nice healthy blast of winter weather with a coating of ice and plenty of snow but the performing arts of Dayton and its many enthusiasts are ploughing right through the winter’s mix and 15° weather.
Yesterday’s gloomy departure gave way to today’s beautiful bright blue sky that fools one into believing the temperature is just as inviting.
This weekend’s Muse Machine production of HELLO, DOLLY is at The Victoria Theatre and Dare 2 Defy’s production, THE WHO’S TOMMY is running at The Mathile Theatre inside the Schuster Center this weekend and next.
You can purchase your tickets online at: http://ticketcenterstage.instantencore.com
The sidewalks in downtown Dayton are barely shoveled in most places. Some of the plowed snow blocks street / sidewalk connections and is already slushing and puddling.
But that doesn’t stop musical theatre devotees.
I will be seeing students in HELLO, DOLLY, this afternoon and spending at least two performances with TOMMY next weekend.
There are some opportunities to experience some wonderful Dayton, Ohio musical theatre today, and next weekend.
So, put on your Sunday clothes so you can be a pinball wizard while making it a great day.
Thursday night, Mark Monroe and I went to The Greene to watch the newly released, THE POST, a political drama set in the early 1970s starring Meryl Streep, Tom Hanks, Sarah Paulson, Bob Odenkirk, Tracy Letts, Bradley Whitford, Bruce Greenwood, Carrie Coon, and Matthew Rhys; written by Liz Hannah and Josh Singer; directed and produced by Steven Spielberg; music composed by John Williams.
For me, personally, this was an outstanding movie. I hope to see it, again, next week.
I was about 8 years old when The Pentagon Papers were released and it was when I first became acquainted with The Washington Post, WP’s editor Ben Bradlee and President Nixon. Later, as Watergate slowly erupted, I became fascinated with Katharine Graham, Bob Woodward, and Carl Bernstein. I was glued to each interview that featured Mr. Bradlee, Mrs. Graham, Mr. Bernstein, and Mr. Woodward. I am still glued to any current interview with Woodward and Bernstein.
Streep and Hanks were reincarnations of Graham and Bradlee.
Streep captured the early awkwardness of Mrs. Graham as she navigated her family’s newspaper through the first segment of the national controversy that eventually aided in bringing down the presidency of Richard Nixon. I read Ms. Graham’s autobiography and never fully grasped the criticalness of her position and the continued heartbreak of her husband’s suicide until Ms. Streep breathed new life into this wonderful character.
Katharine Graham on Publishing the Pentagon Papers.
I was reluctant in accepting Tom Hanks as Ben Bradlee. I could not imagine anyone trying to tackle Jason Robard’s portrayal of Bradlee from ALL THE PRESIDENT’S MEN, based on the early 1970s book by Woodward and Bernstein. I’ve watched the movie countless times; Robards was Bradlee. Tom Hanks did not disappoint with his own perception of Ben Bradlee. I decided that there was no contest between the two actors; they each brought their very best to bringing Bradlee to life on the big screen.
The opening scenes in the Vietnamese jungles immediately brought to mind the descriptive letters my Uncle Garry sent during his days in Vietnam, some of which had Vietnamese dirt on the pages.
Throughout the movie, I felt as though I was taking a stroll through a 1970s Sears or JC Penney catalog with so many little familiar touches to detail. I found myself scouring every frame for memorable childhood items.
There were a number of cinematic touches with filming angles I found incredible. They were nothing most would probably find terribly noticeable or exciting, but for me, these touches aided in telling the story with intensity, and even character perspective. Many of these captures seemed to be during moments between Streep and Hanks, enriching the depth of their tremendous working relationship. One particular scene in Katharine Graham’s home held an angle that made me audibly point it out to my viewing companion, Mark. I know I was guilty of pointing much out to Mark throughout the movie.
Actor Bob Odenkirk offered a commendable performance as journalist Ben Bagdikian who delivered The Pentagon Papers from Daniel Ellsberg.
Ben Bagdikian on Daniel Ellsberg and the Pentagon Papers
One of my other favorite movies, ARGO, which was also from another memorable historic moment during my youth, seemed to seep through the dramatic intensity as Bradlee and his editing team prepared to go to press while attorneys grappled over the legalities. My breathing intensified. My fists were clenched. My quiet self-mumbling increased.
In our still-rooted-to-our-seats post-mortem discussion, Mark and I compared some of the current political climate to what we observed in THE POST. I explained that THE POST has been described as an American political thriller.
The movie spoke to me from the history I witnessed as a child, but even more, it startled me into the newfound awareness that we are currently living through another American political thriller.
Clyde at the start of this blog.
The threat of this winter storm did not keep me in and I am rather surprised I have not been out enjoying it.
The day was spent reading, napping, writing, napping, enjoying some homemade soup, napping, and watching documentaries on aviation celebrity Amelia Earhart, Washington Post owner Katherine Graham, Watergate and Nixon, and different items on the new movie, THE POST.
The dogs and cats have been marvelous companions throughout the day. Griffith was at work for about five hours, leaving during the freezing, pouring rain and returning in the heavy snowfall.
Outside is a winter wonderland. Shroyer Road is completely snow-covered, and the streetlights have an ethereal glow in the snow shower.
It’s almost 10:00 PM and a part of me feels relaxed while another part of me feels unaccomplished. It is what it is. I will watch another documentary or two before heading upstairs with the three dogs. The Boys, Clyde and Neko, will probably join us around 3:00 AM after they’ve played heavily downstairs for a solid hour.
Clyde at the end of the blog.
MIAGD: Make it a great day
I absolutely love God winks or Angel Wings Flutters.
They seem to happen often in my life, and I have countless stories to what some folks refer to as “coincidence.” At 53, I just do not believe things just happen.
God Wink = GW Angel Wings Flutter = AWF
Sometimes, a God Wink is monumental in a large decision. However, there are little moments, perhaps an AWF, that just makes me smile.
Peggy & Bill Straughen
In 1996, I began a music ministry at a local church where I met this wonderful, formidable, best hugging lady, Peggy Barbour Straughen. Peggy was the music librarian and I got to spend a lot of time with her. Peggy was a straight-shooter with gaze that could intimidate, but her wide embracing smile could yield more warmth and beauty than the paradise of a Hawaiian island beach. It did not take me long to learn Peggy was, simply put, confident.
As I prepared for one of my annual trips to Washington DC, I explained at a church choir rehearsal the school buses, filled with 8th graders, would stop first at Gettysburg before moving on to Fort McHenry, Baltimore and then Washington, DC.
After rehearsal, Peggy pulled me aside to explain she had been born in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania and that our buses would probably travel right through the town en route to Gettysburg.
“If you pass through Chambersburg open the bus window and say, “Hello, Chambersburg! Peggy Barbour says, “Hello.'”
For most, that would have merely been a playful exchange; however, this was Peggy and I loved her enough to explain to the bus driver what I’d be doing, and followed through by cracking the window a bit and whispering my command into the passing air as not to wake the sleeping students and chaperones just as the sun was making its first hint of an appearance.
For many, many years, just as the sun was rising over the purple shaded hills of the Southern Pennsylvania springtime haze, I passed through Chambersburg on a bus with students and greeted Chambersburg on Peggy’s behalf. With my sons, we even drove out of the way to greet Chambersburg.
In July 2008, Peggy suddenly left this world. A number of times, I’ve felt her angelic presence, and often think of her.
See note below
A few days ago, Peggy’s daughter, Heidi, one of my favorite musical theatre costumers, posted a recipe which I’ve included in this post. Last night I gathered all the ingredients to prepare Heidi’s Black Bean & Sweet Potato Soup today knowing the weekend’s wintery forecast is nearing.
As I was stirring the ingredients, I received a text message from some retired friends traveling to Gettysburg and Washington DC for a winter-break vacation. I had given Nancy a “please do this for me” if you pass through Chambersburg.
“Hello DJ. We got on PA30 after hopping off I70 after Breezewood. We got into Chambersburg & I rolled down my window, waved & shouted, “I love you, Peggy.” No one heard me except Joe & he just laughed with “What did Darin put you up to this time?” I need to know the story & who Peggy is when we get back. We will keep you posted. Weather is iffy but we’re troopers. Love you. Nancy & Joe.”
Hmmm…. standing at the stove, which is always a strange thing for me, preparing Heidi’s recipe, and friends pass through Chambersburg, the birthplace, and hometown of Heidi’s mother, Peggy.
Yip! That’s both a GW and an AWF!
Whether you believe things to be coincidence, or God/Angels acting anonymously, make it a great day.
HEIDI’S BLACK BEAN & SWEET POTATO SOUP
INGREDIENTS:
1 onion
1 bell pepper (I use yellow or orange)
1 large sweet potato
4 cloves garlic
15 oz. can black beans
15 oz. can pinto beans (or kidney, black, etc.)
15 oz. can diced tomatoes
2 1/2 cups vegetable broth
1 Tbsp. chili powder
2 tsp. cumin
DIRECTIONS:
*** I also added a can of sweet corn and chopped celery.
NOTE: Heidi created a beautiful, loving Christmas ornament of Joseph’s coat after we produced JOSEPH & THE AMAZING TECHNICOLORED DREAMCOAT. It is always one of my favorite ornaments and connections to Heidi.
My great-grandparents, Garrett and Belle Clary, who lived seven miles northeast of Elwood on their family farm, formerly the Vinson and Jones, drove into town for a funeral. Grandma Belle was wearing a new mourning or funeral dress she’d recently made.
On this beautiful spring day, Grandpa Garrett pulled up in front of the church to let out Grandma Belle and he and young Ronald would join them on the steps with the other mourners who were gathered to wait on the hearse to arrive from the deceased’s home where the wake had been held per custom.
Grandma Belle began greeting family and friends on the steps as she stepped from the automobile, carrying my one-year-old grandmother. A breeze blew her just above the ankle hem dress into the car door just as she shut it.
Grandpa Garrett, upon hearing the passenger side door close, began driving off, not hearing Grandma Belle’s pleas to stop.
The automobile drove off to the parking area with the new black dress dragging alongside. My great-grandmother stood on the sidewalk by the church steps, holding my infant grandmother, wearing only her full slip.
I never heard what happened beyond this particular moment but it is enough to picture Grandma Belle, probably laughing, standing there in her undergarments. I am sure she was mortified but I am confident there was a great deal of laughter.
This is not my great-grandmother.
I typically do not wear T-shirts.
Once upon a time, I did but if I should perspire, I hate the way some collars begin to curl. If I do wear a T-shirt it is under a casual dress shirt, for sleep, or for work around the yard.
Many of my T-shirts have a connection to someplace I’ve visited or some pretty funny stories.
I always told the boys that T-shirts with alcohol, tobacco, or inappropriateness was not allowed in the house. They were pretty good sports and there was never a need to have any discussions on apparel. One day, we were at the really nice Goodwill Store in Centerville near the Dayton Mall. I found this very cool shirt with a Latin word, “corona” which means “crown.” It even had a neat image of a crown. Naturally, none of the sons had anything to say about this particular T-shirt. Several years later we were eating out and the establishment had a bar. As we dined I spied a wall hanging just like my T-shirt. I asked the server if there was a way of purchasing one of the signs. She said that the wall hangings might come with the cases of beer.
“With cases of….”
Three heads bobbed down into their plates attempting to stifle laughter.
“You knew all along?”
It wasn’t long after the corona slipped that we were traveling through Indiana and stopped at a truck stop where they sold everything an on-road warrior could need, including T-shirts.
The boys pooled some of their money and bought me a Tshirt:
Their reasoning? I was born in Indiana and I was a dad.
It sounded pretty funny, actually. I accepted their gift and the boys seemed thrilled.
Long after #4 (one more was still to come) left home I was folding my laundry and discovered my Hoosier Daddy T-shirt had something on the back. It was writing. I looked closer.
Damn those boys!
“One of Indy’s finest gentleman lounges and strip clubs.”
Address / Phone / Website
Nooooooooooooooooo!
Not only were my sons aware of what was on the back of the Hoosier Daddy reference of Who’s Your Daddy? they, and the rest of those in my world, also understood the connotation, and about the information on the reverse side.
With a casual dress shirt life is a bit easier knowing I am not a walking advertisement for alcohol and strip clubs.
I was fortunate to have grown up or to have at least known, all my grandparents, all but one great-grandparent, and only two great-great grandparents.
I was even more blessed to know many of my great uncles and aunts, 2nd-great uncles and aunts, and even several 3rd and 4th-great uncles and aunts. This took me back to folks who had experienced Reconstruction, The Spanish-American War, Teddy Roosevelt and the Roughriders, the sinking of the Titanic, World War I, the Great Depression, and World War II which captured the youth of my grandparents.
My mother’s parents always had some of the most interesting and magnificent stories about growing up in central Indiana during the great depression. What remains so rich with me, today is that I never heard them discuss any misery or their struggles. What they did share was the fun times they experienced, but most importantly, the creativity and ingenuity that was required to survive those struggles that we’re never mentioned.
If they never had enough food or missed meals, I never heard about it.
If there wasn’t enough heat to keep warm, I never heard about it.
If they were dressed in less-than-fine or popular clothing, I never heard about it. But I do know they always wore clean and mended clothing.
If they had to work extra hard and miss out on a few things in their childhood, I never heard about it.
I did hear about all the wonderful memories and all the love.
Some Friday nights my great-grandfather, Virgil Barmes, would splurge by bringing home a $.05 gallon of chocolate milk. This was big news in the neighborhood of 27th and North D streets in Elwood, Indiana.
One story that always fascinated me was The Truck Gang.
Several families with pick-up trucks would get together and pile boys in the back of the trucks. The caravan of 10-15 trucks would head eastward to Alexandria, a town seven miles away. At a certain location, the boys would hop out of the trucks and take their places behind trees alongside the railroad tracks while the trucks moved out of the way.
Once the engineer had passed, the boys came from behind the trees and began jumping onto the moving train. They’d climb from car to car until they found the cars with canned goods, produce, and meat. Food items would fly from the moving train alongside the tracks.
After the caboose passed, the trucks would divide up on each side of the tracks and the remaining boys and men would load up the food items into the backs of the trucks. Eventually, the teenage train bandits would hop off and begin collecting items.
Boys hopping onto a freight train during the Great Depression, circa 1930s.
As a boy, that story was adventurous, even heroic. As an adult, and a parent, myself, I am somewhat unnerved by the safety hazards, as well as the legality.
Actually, I applaud them for their courage and the risks they took to survive.
This was only one of many wonderful stories I learned about survival. That generation is mostly gone. Only a few of the great uncles and aunts remain, and two, a great-great uncle and a great-great aunt, survive. However, their courageous stories of survival during The Great Depression live on.
One of my current go-to books is BLUEPRINT FOR REHABILITATION: A Positive Approach To Guidelines.
It’s fascinating.
As a child I loved our World Book Encyclopedias. They were my fleet of frigates that took me everywhere. I think they were printed somewhere between 1965-1967.
I also loved atlases. And still do. Maps are intriguing.
In July 1974, I went on vacation with my maternal grandparents to visit my Uncle Ron who was stationed in Norfolk Virginia with the US Navy. On the way, we stopped at Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello. Till the day he died my grandfather said it was one of my best suggestions. I fell in love with the architecture.
We ended the trip with some time in Washington DC and architecture suddenly thrust itself on my full radar.
When I began working at the public library the summer before high school, I discovered books with house blueprints and discovered they also came in magazine form.
Heaven.
I love second hand book stores.
2nd & Charles is a fine store in Kettering’s Town & Country mall just down the street. I find a plethora of supplemental teaching material, as well as many music books. Once home to Books & Co., 2nd & Charles has become my favorite bookstore.
I have enjoyed these finds:
WHERE THE RIVERS MEET was written for children as Dayton prepared for its 200th anniversary. I found it well researched and exceptionally interesting.
I’ve not read this book, written by a native Daytonian, but it’s coming up on the list. It looks great.
This book is written for young girls but does look interesting.
After lunch I retraced my steps through the Schuster Center lobby and the “stages” or boxes were being dismantled.
Here are two of those beloved elves:
What we see at The Schuster Center each year is not the complete Rike’s set.
The Schuster Center is in the process of raising funding to create new display structures and will be holding a fundraising campaign this summer.
I am interested in learning more and can hopefully keep post more as I go.
MIAGD: Make it a great day
This was my lucky day!
I just happened to sneak downtown for lunch and some errands, and caught The Schuster Center’s production team elves dismantling the Rike’s Department Store window displays.
They were gracious enough to allow me to take photos and to explain the process of packing each of the figures and other items in marked containers.
The elves who assemble and dismantle this huge undertaking every year are the members of the Schuster’s backstage production team.
Bravo, Production Team, and, thank you, so much!
Make it a great day as watch for those folks who add some magic to your day.
It was the first time both the seventh and eighth grade bands would play together and I was quite nervous. I was comfortable with my fellow seventh grade band students, but today, I would be meeting the eighth graders for the first time.
Naturally, I was in my seat earlier than most and I sat quietly waiting for more familiar faces to join me. Eventually, Susan Odgen, Greg Jackman, Butch ____, and Brad Hook came into the section.
Miss Simmons, the fairly new and still, very young band director, stepped onto the podium and the room lost much of its pre-rehearsal chaos. Behind me sat the eighth-grade trumpets. They were intimidating.
I turned and looked over my shoulder to seventh-grade trumpets Jeff Becker, Susan Robertson, and Valerie Hiatt. Glances and nervous smiles were exchanged.
I laid my alto saxophone across my lap. I heard something hit the floor near me, but chose to ignore it.
I heard the eighth-grade trumpets, Mick Helpling, Dana Miller and Darrell Whitkamper, chattering about something. In the midst of the unintelligible conversation, I heard the distinct words, “Look! A Twinkie fell out of that kid’s saxophone.”
Who was the kid who dropped a Twinkie and what was it doing inside their saxophone?
I continued waiting for instructions from the band director. An unmistakable discomfort set in. I positioned myself so I could look around without appearing to do so. I didn’t need to look far as the individually wrapped Twinkie was next to my foot.
Vertigo mixed with sudden perspiration. I waited, not knowing what to do.
I heard Darrell Whitkamper trying to get my attention. I turned over my right shoulder and acknowledged him. He was leaning forward with his elbows pressed onto his knees, his trumpet gently swinging.
“Are you going to throw the Twinkie away?”
I reached over and picked it up. Mortification fixed me into a state of rigor mortis as I returned to see him reach out his hand.
“I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”
Somehow the plastic wrapped dessert ended up in Darrell’s hands.
Later that evening I was to learn my mother had placed the Twinkie in my saxophone. I should have known. I had been born to a family that reveled in plotting and executing practical jokes. As a parent, I never placed a Twinkie in any of my sons’ instruments, but I did my share of practical jokes.
Forty-one years later, I cannot pass Twinkies without chuckling.
The Haasienda on Shroyer... 