Thoughts From The Corner...

I'm a work in progress...

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The difference between the almost right word and the right word.

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Some assembly required...

One of the lesser-discussed joys of the holiday season is Santa's dirty little trick of delivering holiday goodies in a less-than-complete state. Parents of small children know this all too well as they spend the wee hours of Christmas morning frantically deciphering cryptic diagrams that resemble illustrations from Dante's Inferno in order to get that damn tricycle put together before little Johnnie wakes up at the ass-crack of dawn. Been there, done that. I feel your pain. But, as a public service announcement, I'm compelled to state that the "some assembly required" nightmare doesn't disappear when your children reach adulthood. I am the mother of two grown daughters, each living on their own. Toys have been replaced by furniture and this year's gift from Santa was a coffee table for my daughter, Sarah. After a trip to the furniture store, a coffee table was chosen and I had the option to pay an additional $69.95 to have it delivered and assembled, or pick it up and have Clare and Sarah put it together on our own. $69.95?! Forget that. We'll do it ourselves. Allow me to begin by saying Santa has one hell of a shipping department. Those elves were surely previous hazmat workers and KNOW the importance of containing delicate materials in nearly impenetrable, heavily-fortified (emphasis on heavy) packing material. Just carrying the box from my VW Rabbit to my daughter's apartment through the snow and ice qualified as a Winter Olympic endurance event. Then there was the removal of the packaging, the sorting of parts, the illustrated instructions (complete with included tool for assembly), and... There's a special place in hell for the inventor of the Allen wrench. I don't care what anyone says - the inventor of that twisted pick from hell was NOT named "Allen" - it's a pseudonym used by Satan. Think about it: Satan wrench doesn't sound user-friendly, does it? No. But, "Allen" sounds friendly, helpful, like a next-door neighbor who's always willing to lend you a hand when you need it, say, with a coffee table that needs assembled. Don't fall for it. It's a trick and your eternal destiny will consist of trying to fit that nefarious wrench into the head of a misfit screw and a disobedient screw that never fits into its hole. Take my word for it. After unpacking everything, there were four legs, the top of the table, the under-shelf, and 8,000 screws/washers/ring-thingys. Judging from the diagram (and common sense), only eight screws/washers/ring-thingys were required, yet five pounds of screws were included. A bonus gift? A practical joke? Or, is there more to this story than the illustrations provide? As we began assembling the table (according to the illustrated instructions), I noticed a label on the underside of the bottom shelf stating that all materials were made in Taiwan and passed Federal regulations. Okay, great. Following that was a statement from the State of California that determined the product may cause cancer and birth defects due to its formaldehyde content. Formaldehyde? What's going on at the North Pole? Are Santa's elves lacquering their gifts in noxious chemicals? What are they doing during their cocoa breaks...hitting the bong and playing Cards Against Humanity? So, this coffee table is deemed safe in every state other than California. My daughter and I wondered why the coffee tables made from Ohio wood were more expensive. Now we know. Are the other forty-nine states less vulnerable to cancer-causing agents than California? Maybe California's more progressive and forward-thinking than the rest of us. Or, maybe they're just a bunch of tofu-eating, bean sprout-touting pack of hippie flakes. Who knows? At this point, I was ready to abandon the whole Allen wrench thing and go straight for a sledgehammer... There IS a happy end to this story. After I gave up and headed back to my house to procure more appropriate tools (a sledgehammer), Sarah managed to assemble the final component of the coffee table herself. If Santa insists on delivering his gifts with "some assembly required, perhaps THIS elf will fill her Christmas stockings with tools necessary to complete the job Union elves aren't required to do...

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Ask any diehard football fan what Canton, Ohio is famous for and the reply is immediate: Pro Football Hall of Fame. As the founding city of the NFL (formerly the American Professional Football Association) in 1920, and home of one of the league’s most successful early teams (the Canton Bulldogs), it’s not surprising Canton’s historical connection to the sport has eclipsed the city’s rich musical legacy. But, just as Canton was pivotal to the formation of football as we know it today, it also produced one of America’s most prolific march composers, Karl King. Karl Lawrence King was born on February 21, 1891 in Paintersville, Ohio, a small town midway between Columbus and Cincinnati. As the son of a traveling salesman, Karl’s early years were spent moving from town to town until the family settled in Canton in 1902. Shortly after his arrival, Karl obtained a job as a newspaper carrier and used his earnings to purchase his first musical instrument – a cornet. While most of Karl’s education was heuristic, he did receive a few music lessons from Canton’s leading rival bandmasters, Emil Reinkendorff and William Strassner. Emil Reinkendorff served as the leader of the Grand Army Band of the Republic (GAR), while William Strassner led the Thayer Military Band. These two rival bands directly competed with each other for engagements and often played for the same major events, despite having shared personnel. Karl’s natural ability quickly earned him a place in both bands, where he was exposed to musical styles that would later influence his own compositions. In 1910, at the age of 19, Karl left Canton to join the Barnum and Bailey circus band as a musician and conductor. Armed with only scant musical instruction (including four piano lessons and one harmony lesson), Karl began composing circus marches, also known as “screamers,” for Barnum and Bailey as well as other circus troupes and Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. King’s tenure with the circus bands honed his skill as a march composer and he returned to Canton in 1919 to direct the Grand Army Band of the Republic. King was well-known for dedicating his compositions to musicians and organizations he performed with, and aside from his most famous composition, Barnum and Bailey’s Favorite, Karl dedicated the following pieces to his fellow Canton musicians: McKinley’s Own March (1923): Dedicated to Emil Reinkendorff and the Grand Army Band of Canton Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (1910): Dedicated to the bass section of the Thayer 5th Regiment Band Greater Canton (1909): Dedicated to William Strassner, Thayer Military Bandmaster Nazir Grotto (1928): Dedicated to the Nazir Grotto Band of Canton, Ohio Throughout Karl King’s prolific career, he composed over 300 works including galops, waltzes, overtures, serenades, rags, and a whopping 188 marches and screamers. King’s travels eventually led him to Fort Dodge, Iowa where he served as the conductor of the Fort Dodge Municipal Band, a position he held for 51 years. Karl King passed away on March 31, 1971 and his contribution to American band literature is rivaled only by that “other” march king, John Philip Sousa. And, it all began right here…in Canton, Ohio. So, the next time someone asks what Canton’s famous for, you can tell them our city is known for more than just football…

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In today’s digital world, music, videos, and entertainment are a mere mouse-click or finger-tap away. With so much technology at our fingertips and so many options for live entertainment, it’s hard to imagine a time when music, art, and theatre weren’t readily available. But, if we turn the calendar back to Canton’s earliest days, music and arts had yet to reach this newly-settled wilderness outpost. Just as a burgeoning America was influenced by an august European culture, early towns and communities across the nation developed their own music, theatre, and arts culture through the influence of their immigrant settlers. Our local community could not lay claim to the rich arts and musical heritage we enjoy today if not for the vision, shrewdness, tenacity, occasional outrageousness, and love for the arts possessed by a single man: Louis Schaefer. Louis Schaefer was born on Christmas Day, 1815, in the French province of Alsace-Lorraine. Louis was not a musician himself (he was trained as a lawyer), but his early years in Europe fostered his love of music and theatre. Upon his arrival in America in 1830, Louis settled in Canton, began a law practice, and quickly rose as an influential member of the community. At the time of Louis’s arrival, Canton was little more than a frontier town. The demands of daily life left little time for leisure activities, and access to musical training or any type of theatre was practically non-existent. In 1866, Canton’s Civil War veterans formed the Canton Grand Army of the Republic Band (GAR), the first formal musical organization in the city. The band played for events and parades, but had no concert hall to call home. Louis saw this as an excellent opportunity to introduce arts and culture to the community and in 1867, he announced plans to build an opera house. At that time, only one other opera house existed in the state (Comstock’s in Columbus), but Louis’s proposed plan was met with instant opposition… In the mid-nineteenth century, Canton was divided between two groups: English-speaking churches that were opposed to the potential sinful influence an opera house would bring, and the German-speaking churches, Catholics, and non-churchgoers who were heartily in favor of the project. A bitter debate arose, but ultimately, Schaefer’s plan became a reality and the Schaefer Opera House held its grand inaugural in February of 1868. Louis Schaefer was a colorful and outrageous character; he liked and was well-liked by people in the entertainment industry and through his persuasion, many famous actors of the day brought their productions to Canton rather than other cities. In one response to city religious leaders’ vehement opposition, Schaefer scheduled speaker Robert G. Ingersoll to give an atheistic lecture…on a Sunday evening during church services! On a separate occasion, Schaefer jibed his critics with his own satirical lecture on Noah’s Ark – a huge comic success with audiences, albeit not popular with many Canton church leaders. Through Schaefer’s efforts, Canton residents enjoyed national touring productions of Hamlet, Merchant of Venice, and Uncle Tom’s Cabin, as well as local productions of lesser-known plays, concerts, and touring operas. The arts had arrived in Canton. Louis Schaefer remained a staunch advocate for the arts until his death in November, 1889. Shortly after his passing, the Schaefer Opera House was demolished and replaced by the Canton Grand Opera House. This structure, much larger and far more ornate, held its grand opening on October 30, 1890 with the unanimous approval of Schaefer’s former supporters and critics alike. Until its closure in 1945, the Grand Opera House served as the venue for celebrities, artists, and politicians, including the famous tenor Enrico Caruso, and President William McKinley. So, the next time you attend a local band or orchestra concert, or a theatrical production, you’re not just supporting our local arts community – you’re experiencing a little bit of Canton history… (Source material: “Canton, A Journey Through Time,” by Kimberly A. Kenney)

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One Writer's Soapbox

I am a writer. That’s not a lofty, pretentious declaration, but rather the humble description of a logophile and life-long student of the English language. While I’ve always enjoyed writing, it’s not my actual profession – I’m a classically-trained musician. But, as those who have chosen a career in the arts know, it’s almost impossible to earn a living solely from performance. Nearly every musician I know has at least one job outside their field in order to make ends meet. That’s just the nature of the beast. For me, my “day job” has afforded me the opportunity to make use of my meager writing skills with a moderate amount of success. Most of my writing is non-fiction and commercial but, depending on what I’m asked to write, the line between fiction and non-fiction is often perforated and truth becomes a matter of perspective. Over the years, I’ve earned the reputation as a wordsmith and I’m frequently called upon to write everything from legal documents to blog posts – and invariably – each request is prefaced with, “You’re such a gifted writer!” Bullshit. I’m on my soapbox today to state that the ability to write well is not a gift – it’s the result of careful attention to vocabulary and adherence to the rules of grammar. On some level everyone is a writer and while not everyone can be Nabokov (Now, there was a boy who could write!), nearly everyone is capable of becoming a competent wordsmith. While I certainly don’t consider myself an expert on the topic (remember, I’m just a musician), I offer the following advice gained through my heuristic writing education… 1. Learn the rules of proper grammar. I cannot state this emphatically enough. Grammar includes capitalization, punctuation, spelling, sentence structure, and correct word usage. The biggest difference between a good writer and a poor one is not choice of content, but the content’s presentation. You may have discovered the universal meaning of life, but if your written announcement of that includes misspelled words, incorrect homophones, and creative punctuation, the profundity of your statement diminishes in direct proportion to the number of errors in its presentation. Every time I read a blog or Facebook post by someone who can’t differentiate between to/too, there/their/they’re, or your/you’re, I knock a few IQ points off my opinion of them; I often don’t remember what they wrote, but I do remember how badly it was written. 2. Vocabulary: it’s not just for nerds. If you’ve ever thought there are no words to describe something, guess what? There are. Don’t believe me? Google “How many words are in the English language?” The English language is HUGE and there’s a word (or words) for every object, every action, every thought, and every emotion you can imagine. I’m occasionally teased as being a “walking dictionary” due to my broad vocabulary, which isn’t nearly as large as people imagine. How did I learn so many words? Well, I read. A lot. There’s no better way to learn new vocabulary than through reading. Every time I run across a word I’m unfamiliar with, I look it up. Yes, that slows the flow, but it does wonders for increasing vocabulary. And, I write down new words I find particularly appealing to use in my own prose. Hemingway cautioned against using long, complex words where short, concise ones suffice. That’s true, but I’m a firm believer in finding the exact word that defines what I’m trying to say as opposed to using a string of short, simple words that merely come close. Also, because I’m that kind of asshole, I usually insert one or two “vocabulary words” in every piece I write (just to pass the torch of inquisitive knowledge…if there is such a thing). 3. Present your thoughts in a clear, well-organized manner. This is a matter of personal taste and someone is sure to call me out on this one. I’m not a fan of non-linear, stream-of-consciousness prose (I find William S. Burroughs’s Naked Lunch and Gertrude Stein’s The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas grueling endurance contests). It’s unfair to demand a reader untangle your disorganized, rambling narrative. As a writer, it’s your job to present your thoughts in the most concise manner possible. With the written word, unlike conversation, you can’t ask your reader, “You know what I mean?” It may feel a bit wooden, but the old-school outline method works well; state your topic in your opening paragraph, present your supporting material in subsequent paragraphs, and summarize in your closing paragraph. Don’t neglect to proofread your finished prose – editing is as important as the act of writing. An unedited piece of writing is called a first draft, and the universal consensus of major writers is that all first drafts are shit. Believe them. It’s true. So, now you have the advice, but what tools do you need? If you don’t already own a dictionary, drop whatever you’re doing and buy one. Now. If you’re short on funds, download a dictionary app; you can find several excellent dictionary apps online for free. A thesaurus is a handy tool when you’re looking for a fresh word to free your prose from becoming too stale and repetitive. You’ll be amazed how quickly your vocabulary will expand with a good thesaurus. If I were king, every household in America would own a copy of The Elements of Style by William Strunk, Jr., and The Chicago Manual of Style, 16th Edition. Between these two books lay the answers to nearly every imaginable grammar question. Anyone who wishes to become a better writer needs these two volumes in their library – they’re indispensable. Finally, to become a better writer you need to read, read, read. Read everything you can get your hands on. And, in addition to reading for content, pay attention to how words are presented on the page. How does the writer tackle dialogue? Is his or her prose windy and expansive, or clipped and terse? Is the vocabulary lofty or simple? Observe how the writer punctuates each statement and how each paragraph (and chapter) flows into the next. Is it seamless? Or, does every transition feel like hitting a pothole in the road? This is called style and every writer’s style is as unique as his or her fingerprints. Only through attentive, studious reading can you attain the skills necessary to fully develop your own style. Read what you have written before you hit the post/send/print button. Place yourself in the reader’s chair – if you don’t like what you see from that perspective, don’t be afraid to edit, delete, and rewrite. Your writing is a direct reflection of who you are and how your readers see you. That being said, what does your writing style say about you? {Dismount soapbox and exit stage right…}

[clarigon]

Advice from the Lesson Studio Lady

Dear parents of school-aged children: I know the last thing you wish to read are the ramblings of a snarky old broad who is well past the twilight of her child-bearing years and is woefully ignorant of "new age" parenting, but I'm compelled to grab my walker to assist my ascent onto the soapbox to share a few thoughts with you... As good parents, your goal is to provide your children with the best you can offer. Back in the day, a good parent provided food, clothing, shelter, education, and love to their children...and that was sufficient. Not anymore. Today's parents feel the need to expose their children to EVERYTHING life has to offer, as early in their development as possible. Today's children receive food, clothing, shelter, education, love, and extracurricular activities...many, many extracurricular activities. As the "lesson studio lady," I'm the one who tries to help you find a vacant half-hour in your ridiculously overburdened schedule to accommodate a weekly music lesson. I'm also the one who fields your angry call when little Suzy didn't make it into the first clarinet section of her middle school band. Before you first blame the nepotistic band director, followed closely by the incompetent private instructor, let's analyze this situation. Sandwiched between Girl Scouts, cheerleading, computer club, golf, swimming, ballet, Little League basket weaving, church youth group, drama class, soccer, and homework, WHEN is Suzy supposed to practice? The only chance Suzy has to touch her clarinet is at band practice and her weekly half-hour lesson. Suzy's "well-rounded" schedule of life-enhancing activities prohibits her from devoting concentrated effort on ANYTHING. Suzy's apparent mediocrity stems not necessarily from intellectual inferiority, but from being pulled in too many directions at once. Maybe Suzy just sucks as a musician, but thanks to the overburdened load she carries, we will never be able to discern the true cause of her deficiency. Is that the band director's fault? No. Is that the private instructor's fault. No. Is that Suzy's fault? No. Hmm... Who's left to blame? Would you take your child to a restaurant, order every entrée on the menu, then insist your child eat all of each in order to broaden their culinary experience? Of course not. Yet, many parents do just that in terms of overloading their children's plates with athletics, arts, technology, and social extracurricular activities. "But, my kid WANTS to do all of those things," you say? Of course they do. Aside from physical stature, the biggest difference between children and adults is this thing called maturity. As parents, you know how many hours are in a day and should be able to assess, hopefully, how much cultural, social, and athletic enrichment your child can absorb and benefit from. Ask yourself this: when was the last time your child had enough unstructured time to be a child? If you gave your child a big cardboard box and a box of markers, what would your kid do? Would they build a fort? A castle? A spaceship? Or, would they take a Snapchat and sent it to their friends with the caption, "WTF am I supposed to do with THIS?! LOL!" "But, what if my child comes to me as an adult and says, 'I always wanted to play baseball, but YOU made me take cello lessons instead?'" Good point. It's a crapshoot. No matter what decision you make, there's always the chance you'll be called out on it. That's children. That's life. I don't have the answers for those questions, but I DO know this: exceeding your child's intellectual capacity, overextending your child's interest and ability level, and overburdening your child's workload (and, yes, all those enrichment activities constitute a workload for a child) will result in mediocrity, disillusionment, and disappointment...for both your child and you. Instead of automatically enrolling your child for EVERY activity available, why not make a list and ask your child to choose the top one or two that interest them and allow them to engage in those limited choices to best of their interest and ability? Just a thought... But, as a geriatric codger on the brink of senility, what do I know? It's time for me to partake of my medicinal glass of wine (new-age Geritol), retire for the night, and dream of the days when I built castles out of cardboard boxes and participated in no extracurricular activities beyond clarinet lessons... Peace.

[clarigon]

Music Lessons: How young is too young?

The old adage of “you’re never too old to learn something new” is true, especially when it comes to learning how to play an instrument. There are many adults who have taken up music later in life and have enjoyed the therapeutic, cognitive, and emotional benefits music provides. But, what about the other end of the spectrum? At what age should you enroll your child in music lessons? In other words, how young is too young? It’s a tall question. There are several factors a parent needs to take into account before enrolling a young child for music lessons; age, maturity, cognitive ability, physical dexterity, and choice of instrument all must be carefully thought out to ensure a child receives the best musical experience possible. Pairing a child with an instrument they are too young or too small to play is a recipe for disaster and will ultimately lead to frustration for everyone involved. If you would like to introduce your young child to music but aren’t sure if the time is right, the following tips are designed to help you make an informed decision that will hopefully foster your child’s life-long love of music. A typical day in the life of a lesson studio director... Caller: Hi! I’d like to sign my daughter up for guitar lessons. Lesson Studio Director: Certainly. We offer guitar lessons. How old is your daughter? Caller: She’s two. Lesson Studio Director: Two?! As in two-years-old? Caller: Yes. We bought her a toy guitar that lights up and she loves pushing the buttons and playing along with songs on the radio. I’d like to sign her up for a few lessons so she can enter a local talent contest! Sigh… As outrageous as the above conversation appears, it’s a frequent occurrence. Every day, well-intentioned, uninformed parents inquire about music lessons for children too young to benefit from them. Part of a lesson studio director’s job is to educate parents and place students in an educational environment optimally suited to their age, ability level, and needs. In the above example, a young child who does not possess the manual dexterity to properly hold a pencil (or the fine motor skills necessary to write) is certainly incapable of mastering an instrument with a long neck, frets, and steel strings. As for the toddler’s toy guitar? It’s just that: a toy. Clearly, weekly structured half-hour music lessons aren’t the wisest choice for a child this young. But, does that mean a parent should refrain from introducing a young child to music until he or she is older? Certainly not. There are options for parents with young children…namely Kindermusik. Kindermusik is an early childhood music education program designed for children from infancy through seven years of age. The program offers developmentally appropriate classes with integrated sequences of activities that promote multi-sensory learning. Through music and movement, young children engage in activities designed to boost learning in seven key areas: cognition, literacy and language, math and logic, social-emotional, physical, creative, and musical development. Since its inception in 1978, Kindermusik has gained wide-spread popularity and most communities now offer Kindermusik or similarly structured programs and classes. For children not yet ready for traditional music lessons, Kindermusik is an excellent option. But, what about children who are slightly older? Many elementary school-aged children are ready for traditional music lessons…depending on the instrument. While there are slight variations, most music lessons are 30 minutes long and provide one-on-one, individualized instruction. By the time a child reaches the age of five or six, many are capable of retaining focus for a 30-minute structured period of time. An experienced teacher is able to gauge a young student’s attention span and is capable of shifting activities within the lesson to maintain that student’s focus. Once your child is developmentally ready for music lessons, the next question is: What instrument should my child play? Here’s where things become murky. The standard options for most elementary school-aged children are piano or violin/viola/cello. Why? These instruments are the most “user-friendly” for young children. Piano is considered the “universal” instrument; by design, it is easy for a child to produce a pleasant sound, it incorporates melody and harmony, introduces both bass and treble clefs, and allows a child to see each note and its spacial relationship to surrounding notes. Student violins, violas, and cellos are sized incrementally and are designed for tiny arms, hands, and fingers. As a young string student grows, he or she graduates to larger-sized instruments with the eventual goal of performing on a full-size instrument. Additionally, there are many piano and string method books designed specifically for young children. If you wish to provide your elementary school student with music lessons, you can’t go wrong with piano or strings! That leaves everything else… Woodwinds, brass, percussion, guitar, and voice lessons are generally more beneficial to students from ages nine or ten and up. Beginning band programs usually start in 5th or 6th grade when a student has grown enough permanent teeth to sufficiently play a wind instrument. Around the same age, most children’s vocal cords are flexible enough to enable them to withstand the rigors of range-extending exercises and diction training. Guitar students at this age usually have large enough hands and possess the necessary finger strength to enable them to manipulate the fretted neck of a guitar. Percussion students have acquired the cognitive ability to coordinate independent movement between hands and feet to perform complex rhythms simultaneously. Music training for these instruments requires physical capabilities and cognitive development most very young children lack. So, we return to the original question: How young is too young to begin music lessons? Children of ALL ages can benefit from music training – as long as it is appropriate to their developmental level. Is a two-year-old too young for guitar lessons? Yes. But, an age-appropriate music program (such as Kindermusik) can foster a very young child’s love of music and whet their desire to play an instrument later in life. An elementary school-aged child who takes piano lessons will acquire a musical foundation that will transfer to any other instrument that child chooses to play in the future. A middle school-aged child who takes music lessons in conjunction with a band program will develop more than performance skills – he or she will learn how to work productively as part of an ensemble and experience the joy of making music with others. Regardless of your child’s age, it’s never too soon to embark on a musical journey. You just have to know which path to choose…

[clarigon]

Go Set a Watchman

When I learned of the upcoming release of Harper Lee’s long-lost novel, Go Set a Watchman, I was eager to revisit Scout, Atticus, and the citizens of Maycomb County in the same way one anticipates being reunited with friends not seen for decades. On the morning of July 14th, as soon as the novel was released on Kobo, I downloaded my copy and dove in. Within a day of the book’s release, the reviews started appearing online…and I was shocked. I read everything from “A sequel doesn’t equal,” to downright defamation of the book as an instruction manual for prejudice, racism, and hatred. Clearly, those readers found meaning within the text I missed…

Written as a prequel and published as a sequel, Go Set a Watchman is neither: it is an extraordinary work of fiction that stands on its own. Readers need not have read To Kill a Mockingbird to understand the plot, know the back-story, or become acquainted with the book’s characters; while the faces and places remain the same, a fast-forward of twenty years changes the landscape entirely. Go Set a Watchman is a snapshot of the post-World War II segregated south as experienced from the perspective of an idealistic young Southern woman who returns home after several years in New York. Armed with a sense of justice and the conviction that ALL men are created equal, she’s horrified to witness the contradictory behavior of her hometown, family, and especially her father, to whom she credited her moral integrity.

As the story unfolds, the reader witnesses through the eyes of the protagonist, Jean Louise, a series of events that leave her shocked, dismayed, and outraged. She struggles to comprehend the father she thought she knew, but who now seemingly stands for everything she always believed him to despise. The divisive issue is prejudice. Here’s where the haters come in…

Those who read Go Set a Watchman with a judgmental eye for inciting a morally-charged argument – in either direction – are missing the point of the novel. As a northerner, born after and far-removed from the civil rights struggle of the early-to-mid-twentieth-century south, I find the ideology held by several of the novel’s characters appalling. But, in order to appreciate how far we – as a nation – have come, we need to understand how we got here. Go Set a Watchman was written at the approximate time and place of the novel’s setting and is populated with characters undoubtedly drawn from real life. Far from being a bigoted proponent of racism, Ms. Lee guides the reader through the minds (and motives) of the citizens of Maycomb County with wit, humor, compassion, sagacity, and forthright clarity. It’s not an endorsement of backward views; it’s a snapshot of the past.

Then, there’s the writing. Harper Lee’s characters in Go Set a Watchman are fully three-dimensional: they live, they breathe, and they think – even when they don’t think what we want them to. As stated above, one need not have read To Kill a Mockingbird to form a bond with Watchman’s characters; through Ms. Lee’s beautifully descriptive, effervescent prose and occasional literary flash-backs (which, incidentally, serve as humorous, light-hearted respites from the graver subject of the book), the characters are fleshed-out and complete.

Go Set a Watchman is less of a sequel than a companion novel to To Kill a Mockingbird. The characters tell the story of our collective American past…warts and all. Far from being a book that serves as a follow-up, Go Set a Watchman deserves a place on the bookshelf as a new American classic.

[clarigon]

America: Land of the free...

Today, I am proud to be an American. Today, I am grateful for five Supreme Court justices who possess the intelligence, character, and conviction that ALL Americans deserve the right to marry whomever they choose. I have not always been proud of our judicial system - for me, today's decision arrived eight years too late - I am a survivor of the dark days of our country's homophobic legal discrimination. And, they were dark days, indeed.

Today's landmark Supreme Court ruling is not a "gay" victory - it's a victory for us all. In the dark days, even a document as legally binding as a will did not guarantee a deceased person's final wishes would be granted if the deceased bequeathed their estate to a same-sex partner. In the dark days, Power of Attorney and legal guardianship could be revoked or refused to a same-sex partner at the request of family members, regardless of how distantly they were related. In the dark days, cemeteries could refuse burial to a same-sex partner in a family plot, even if that partner legally owned the grave. I know, because the above stems from personal experience. I have seen the darkness...

Today, our nation steps into the light. Today, ALL Americans have the legal right to share life's journey bonded with another, regardless of gender. Today, ALL Americans have the legal right to ensure their loved ones are taken care of according to their wishes, not those of a discriminatory set of laws. Today, ALL Americans are equal. Today, we are ALL finally free...

[clarigon]

Thought for the day...

In the pursuit of excellence in any artistic endeavor, whether it be art, music, or writing, your goal is equally important to the creative act itself. If your goal is acknowledgement, approval, or reward, you are bound to be disappointed. There will always be those who criticize; there will always be those who tell you what you can't or shouldn't do; and, there will always be those waiting in the wings to take credit for your accomplishments. Whatever your artistic gift - whatever you choose to create - do so to the best of your ability for the sake of YOUR vision and creation, for there lies true happiness. The critics, the pontificators, and the sycophants possess no talents beyond what their titles imply. To thine own self be true. To hell with everyone else...

[clarigon]

Maturity

Thoughts for the day... Maturity is doing your own thing to the best of your ability without caring if anyone notices or rewards you for your efforts. Maturity is not feeling threatened by the success of others. Maturity is forgiving yourself for not being perfect. Maturity is being thankful for what you have and not feeling envy for that which you have not. Maturity is making a conscious decision to choose happiness over anger, despair, or discontent. Maturity is not a gift bestowed upon you when you reach a certain age - it's a life-long journey paved with bricks of trial and error, mortared by character and integrity. Maturity is not about old age...it's about aging well. Peace.

[clarigon]

Twas the night before Christmas...in the Hood

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the hood

Gangstas hung up sagging sweat socks, hoping for goods;

Britches were hung next to crack pipes with care,

In high hopes that Santa would leave the stash there;

Parolees were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of exoneration danced through their heads;

And Pepper in his sweater, and I with my merlot,

Watched Travel Channel on TV while despising the snow;

When out on the street there arose such a clatter,

I rose from my papasan to see what was the matter;

Tripping over cats, to the window with a crash,

I stood with my camera, ‘cause it has a flash;

The glare of the streetlight on the dopemobile below,

Allowed just enough light to see quite a show;

When what do I see roll up with a limp,

But a Cadillac with two crack heads, six hos and a pimp;

With threads of red velvet, swagga and bling,

The driver was none other than S.C. Dawg,-a.k.a. C-King;

With the booming bass of his stereo blaring,

He rapped to his ladies as they stood staring;

Yo, JoEdda, Yo, Deneese, Da’Quonde, you too,

Brandy, La’Quishraniqua, y’all best bust a move;

Get back in the car, we got places to be,

Befo’ the cops show up to bust you and me;

As thieves that before the police search light do fly,

They journeyed up the street as I descried;

Away from my house and neighborhood they flew,

Two crack heads, six hos and S.C. Dawg, too;

And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the hood,

The faint sound of Christmas, it sounded so good;

I stepped onto my porch, and what did I see,

But the REAL Santa Claus looking at me;

Dressed not in fur, nor velvet, nor leather,

He was more of an essence, as light as a feather;

No bundle of toys were flung on his back,

Nor did he resemble a peddler opening his pack;

His essence was kindness, generosity and joy,

With caring and love that can’t be bought with a toy;

His soul was compassion, his heart empathy,

For the poor misguided souls that live near me;

No stump of a pipe was held tight in his teeth,

But rather, good will circled his head like a wreath;

He carried happiness, good health and good cheer,

And then he asked me if I’d been a good girl this year;

Taken aback, I knew not what to say,

Other than I tried to be good every day;

A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He then filled my stocking with appreciation and care,

For my wonderful children and many friends that I share;

Before Santa left this Christmas Eve night,

He asked me share my wonderful plight;

Santa told me to tell each one of you,

That you’ve been a good boy or girl this year, too!

Then, he said as he faded from sight,

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

[clarigon]

Will the REAL Regina Moore please stand up?

Over the years, I've received numerous letters addressed to other people that have been accidentally delivered to my address. Usually, it's a transposed house number or zip code error, but two weeks ago I received a letter addressed to a "Regina Moore," with MY house address. I wrote "RETURN TO SENDER" on the envelope and placed it back in my mailbox to be retrieved. A few days later, the letter reappeared in my mailbox, complete with my handwriting on the outside. In addition, there was a second letter from the same company addressed to the same person. Once again, I wrote "RETURN TO SENDER" on the envelope and placed both back in the mailbox. Today, I received a THIRD letter addressed to the same person, this one marked "URGENT."

Tiring of this game, I opened the letter and found a 1-800 customer service number inside. Bingo! Or, so I thought...

36512: This is operator #36512. May I have your account number or social security number? Me: Sorry, I don't think so. I am calling because this is the third notice sent to my address for a Regina Moore. This is not her address. 36512: What is the address on the letter? Me: 1234 1st St. Hometown, OH 54321 36512: I found it. Am I speaking to Regina Moore? Me: No, you're not. I'm calling to report you have the wrong address for this person. 36512: So, are you providing an updated address for Regina Moore? Me: No, I'm not. I have no idea what this person's mailing address is. 36512: Are you an authorized user on the account? Do you have updated contact information for Regina Moore? Me: No. No, I don't. I called to tell you the address you have for this person is incorrect. Regina Moore doesn't live here. 36512: Is Regina Moore available to speak to us? Me: Okay, let's try this a different way. My name is NOT Regina Moore. I've never met Regina Moore. I don't know Regina Moore. I have no idea where Regina Moore lives, but I DO know where she doesn't live: here. I am the owner of the mailing address you have on file for her, and I have lived at this address for 15 years. I live alone - with the exception of my dog - and HIS name is NOT Regina Moore. Trust me on this one. Please do not send any further notices to Regina Moore at this address. I guarantee she won't receive them because she does not live HERE. 36512: I will mark down that the address we have on file is incorrect. Do you have a contact number we can reach Regina Moore at?

I wave the white flag of defeat...

Regina Moore + 36512 = 1. Me = 0.

[clarigon]

The Twelve Days of Christmas…in the Hood

    On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

A house on Eleventh Street.

  On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

Two neighborhood slumlords,

And a house on Eleventh Street.

  On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

Three sidewalk drug deals,

Two neighborhood slumlords,

And a house on Eleventh Street.

  On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

Four cops a cruisin’,

Three sidewalk drug deals,

Two neighborhood slumlords,

And a house on Eleventh Street.

  On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

Five Sex Offenders!

  Four cops a cruisin’,

Three sidewalk drug deals,

Two neighborhood slumlords,

And a house on Eleventh Street.

  On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

Six cats a clawing,

  Five Sex Offenders!

  Four cops a cruisin’,

Three sidewalk drug deals,

Two neighborhood slumlords,

And a house on Eleventh Street.

  On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

Seven new parolees,

Six cats a clawing,

  Five Sex Offenders!

  Four cops a cruisin’,

Three sidewalk drug deals,

Two neighborhood slumlords,

And a house on Eleventh Street.

  On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

Eight juvenile delinquents,

Seven new parolees,

Six cats a clawing,

  Five Sex Offenders!

  Four cops a cruisin’,

Three sidewalk drug deals,

Two neighborhood slumlords,

And a house on Eleventh Street.

  On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

Nine drunks a staggering,

Eight juvenile delinquents,

Seven new parolees,

Six cats a clawing,

  Five Sex Offenders!

  Four cops a cruisin’,

Three sidewalk drug deals,

Two neighborhood slumlords,

And a house on Eleventh Street.

  On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

Ten crackheads caroling,

Nine drunks a staggering,

Eight juvenile delinquents,

Seven new parolees,

Six cats a clawing,

  Five Sex Offenders!

  Four cops a cruisin’,

Three sidewalk drug deals,

Two neighborhood slumlords,

And a house on Eleventh Street.

  On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

Eleven sagging britches,

Ten crackheads caroling,

Nine drunks a staggering,

Eight juvenile delinquents,

Seven new parolees,

Six cats a clawing,

  Five Sex Offenders!

  Four cops a cruisin’,

Three sidewalk drug deals,

Two neighborhood slumlords,

And a house on Eleventh Street.

  On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…

Twelve headless Santas,

Eleven sagging britches,

Ten crackheads caroling,

Nine drunks a staggering,

Eight juvenile delinquents,

Seven new parolees,

Six cats a clawing,

  Five Sex Offenders!

  Four cops a cruisin’,

Three sidewalk drug deals,

Two neighborhood slumlords,

And a house on Eleventh Street!

[clarigon]

Cranberry Thanksgiving

While she was many things, a wonderful cook my mother was not.  Every Thanksgiving when I was a child, my mother would cremate a turkey in celebration of the season.  The night before the big event she would make the pilgrimage to the basement, dig out the big electric roaster from its hiding place on the shelf, and in the wee hours of Thanksgiving morn my mother would shuffle about the kitchen, cigarette in hand, preparing the poor bird for its sacrifice to the cause.  As a child of the generation that adhered to the philosophy that eating an undercooked bird meant certain death, my mother went great lengths to ensure that no turkey of hers would ever fall under that category.  After an extended stay in the roaster, usually eight to ten hours, our Thanksgiving bird would emerge dry and shriveled, its legs scorched to petrifaction and its crown of exposed stuffing hard and blackened.

Thanksgiving “trimmings” fared better on occasion than the poor turkey.  After receiving a C- on a Thanksgiving report my third grade year for stating that the Pilgrims served “Potato Buds” at the first meal, my mother decided that making real mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving was in order.  This idea was abandoned after confusion arose as to which went on top of the other-potatoes or gravy. (My father was punished for YEARS over that query.)  Canned peas were usually the vegetable of choice, and depending on the year, the consistency of my mother’s homemade gravy ranged from flour-chunked broth to Elmer’s Glue.  As a child with no other frame of reference, I assumed that all families enjoyed a Thanksgiving feast similar to mine.  My mother’s Thanksgiving dinner was a tradition, one that I looked forward to with eager anticipation, with the exception of one thing-cranberry sauce.

Cranberry sauce was the one item that never varied at our holiday table.  The same ritual was followed every year; a small plate of sliced blood-red gelatinous goop molded in the shape of a can was placed on a corner of the table, usually beside me. I would watch in disgust as it jiggled in response to the clatter of silverware and bustling of plates on the table.  Finally, after reaching adolescence and acquiring the courage to voice an unpopular opinion, I demanded to know why my mother insisted on serving something that wasn’t even “real food” each year at Thanksgiving.  Having never seen a cranberry in its natural state, with child-like naiveté, I defined cranberry as a form of Jello that came from the sea, commonly referred to as “Ocean Spray.”  Insulted, my mother declared that no Thanksgiving was complete without cranberries, and since I insisted on being difficult, she would “go all out” and make homemade cranberry sauce that year.  Never one to use a recipe, and led by the belief that the best chefs cook by feel, my mother brought home a bag of fresh cranberries, poured them in a saucepan, added water and boiled them until they popped.  Happy anticipation quickly turned to mouth-puckering sourness the following day, when after the first bite, everyone at the table realized that my mother had forgotten to add sugar to the berries as they cooked.  It was that tangy Thanksgiving that I learned the prudence of keeping one’s opinions to oneself.

Time marched on, and eventually the tradition of preparing the Thanksgiving meal passed to me.  By carefully avoiding my mother’s cooking techniques and advice, over time, I learned to produce a Thanksgiving meal worthy of a Norman Rockwell painting.  Unlike the Thanksgiving meals of my youth, everything on my table was homemade: turkey, stuffing, potatoes, gravy, vegetables, rolls and desserts; only one thing was missing-cranberries.  After years of shunning the maligned fruit of my childhood, I realized that, as my mother had declared so many years before, my holiday table would never be complete until I embraced this native American berry.  Surely, somewhere there was a cranberry recipe that would not bring back frightening memories of Thanksgivings past.  I sifted through gourmet cookbooks and channel surfed my way through dozens of cooking programs in search of the perfect cranberry recipe to no avail.  Just as I was on the verge of abandoning my search entirely, I ran across a small, battered paperback volume of Amish recipes in the bottom of a cardboard box of books at a local garage sale.  Well worn with use and containing notes penciled in the margins, the book was bargain priced at 25¢.  As I leafed through the pages, a recipe entitled “Cranberry Salad” caught my eye.  Underneath the recipe, written with smeary pencil in rough block letters was, “MUCH BETTER THAN CANNED!”  My heart leapt within me!  I rushed to the store, bought the necessary ingredients and hurried home to test the accuracy of this auspicious declaration.  And, low and behold, I finally found the final crowning dish for my Thanksgiving table.

In the spirit of this season of thankfulness and sharing, I commend my recipe for this delightful dish to your care.  I have served this many times, and have found it to be popular even among cranberry agnostics.  Oh, and for those of you patient enough to have read through my epistle and state, “But I LIKE jellied cranberry sauce!” there is just enough Jello in this recipe to keep you happy…without the jiggle. 

Happy Thanksgiving.  I bid you peace.

 Cranberry Salad

1 3oz. pkg. strawberry jello

1 cup boiling water

½ cup cold water

½ pd. cranberries, chopped coarsely in food processor

2 apples, diced

½ cup crushed pineapple, drained

¾ cup sugar

Dissolve gelatin in hot water, then add cold water.  Cool mixture until slightly thickened.  Stir together cranberries, apples, pineapple and sugar and add to jello mixture.  Pour into mold or bowl and chill until firm.  Makes 8 servings. 

[clarigon]

The Immigrant

The walls of the room were purple. But, it was a funny shade with a life of its own. During the day, the walls were a deep red blushing crimson. But at night, with the single lamp shining they were lavender cool and warm at the same time. The man sat at the table, a bottle of Tecate before him. Over his shoulder hung a photo collage in a frame embossed "Memories." The man laughed in the pictures on a sunny beach with a pretty girl. The girl smiled from another picture; waved while wading in the surf in a third. The man sat watching the clock tick slowly on the wall. A few brief hours of solitude before donning his apron to toil in the back of a greasy kitchen. He is here now, in the land of the free, the brave, the empty. Did I mention the walls were purple?

[clarigon]

The view from the crossroads...

Today, I turn forty-eight years-old. Sweet Jesus… I remember a time when I thought anyone over the age of thirty was ancient. Yet, here I am. This is one of those musings probably best left to a “milestone” birthday, but the odds of my living another half-century to the age of ninety-eight are only marginally better than making it to the one-hundred mark. Plus, who knows what experiences will color my perception two years from now – you’ve got to write when the muse is upon you – strike when the iron’s hot, as it were. It’s funny how time changes you, yet you remain the same. I remember turning thirty-eight, twenty-eight, and eighteen. At eighteen, I was going to become the world’s greatest clarinetist. I was going to practice my ass off and someday hold a Principal Clarinet position in a world-renowned orchestra. At twenty-eight, things had changed. A few well-aimed spanks on my immature ass led me to abandon that dream of fame entirely. I found myself a housewife and mother of two small daughters who timidly picked up the instrument abandoned nearly a decade earlier – this time with the intent of pursuing music solely for enjoyment. I had acquired a few maturity points by that time and aimed for more attainable goals. And, opportunities opened up for me. At age thirty-eight, I had obtained both my Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees and was becoming established as a performer and teacher. While the goals I aspired to twenty years earlier were beyond the scope of my ability, I had found a path and pursued it. I marched obliviously along that path until tragedy changed my perspective on everything. Fate and circumstances have a way of educating you better than any teacher can. Sometimes, it takes great trials to uncover great courage. And, sometimes, the most heinous disasters open the door to a path you never realized existed. I was lucky. I received a second chance. Now, here I am at forty-eight – not with my life half over, but with a life half begun. I don’t feel old; I feel as young as I did thirty years ago. That part hasn’t changed. Today marks the beginning of the second half of my life. There are so many things to do, so many things to experience, so many things I want to be. I want to be the goofy chick wearing blue suspenders and a ball cap while playing my clarinet at the county fair. I want to work until I’m physically unable and bring a little bit of joy to my fellow coworkers…and maybe even a customer or two. I want to enjoy my daughters for the fine young adults they have become. Someday, I want to be the little old broad at the nursing home who creates an underground Facebook page filled with snarky commentary about the food and the staff. I want to be the one who, when I’m gone, is remembered as, “Jayne? Oh, she was quite a character! I remember the time when she…” Birthdays are great. Each one marks not a year that has passed, but a new year yet to come. I can’t wait to find out what the next forty-eight years have in store...