Reading Matter

January 11, 2009
Do you like stories set in the late 1800’s, stories of brave souls who uprooted their families to move across the country to tame the wilds and create a community? Do you admire nonconformists, oddballs, intellectuals and eccentrics? Do you have trouble believing that the world was once full of people who thought a new idea was so good that it would change mankind for the better?

My book The Fair Hope of Heaven/A Hundred Years After Utopia might appeal to you if you answered even a mild yes to any of the above.

The small city of Fairhope, Alabama, now a thriving tourist destination and home to boutiques, antique shops and expensive haberdasheries, was founded in 1894 as a utopian colony to prove Henry George’s theory of single tax.

In its 115 years of existence, Fairhope was a magnet for people with ideas. It had begun as a way to demonstrate the efficacy of the single tax theory with an overlay of what Fairhope’s founders called “cooperative individualism.” Its political philosophy attracted people like the visionary educator Marietta Johnson, who started a school based on the radical theory that learning itself is natural to children, and by nature they should love to do it. Socialist writer Upton Sinclair spent a year there after his own dream colony in New Jersey burned to the ground. There was a nudist camp nearby in Fairhope’s early days; many residents practice subsistence farming, and a few engaged in free love.

In my own youth in Fairhope, in mid-20th-century, there was an odd looking old lady who wrote books about spiders and was arrested more than once for canoeing in the nude in the middle of the night. There was a woodcarver who had gone off to Alaska for a time in the 1930’s and returned claiming to have ice-skated with Mae West and sold hooch to Bing Crosby. There were cranks and quacks and amusing people, and Fairhope took them all to its heart without batting an eye.

The unusual school Mrs. Johnson started became home to artists, musicians, and poets. Its students, who were indoctrinated into its unconventional system, grew up to be teachers, doctors, lawyers, dancers, actors, and writers.

Today much of its bohemian dust has been shaken off, and Fairhope exists as a floral dream of a retirement village with sunset views and pleasant, relatively stress-free citizens. It retains shadows of its single tax past, but everything has been modified to fit the times. From time to time it is named by national publications on their lists of best places in America to retire.

The Fair Hope of Heaven explores this dichotomy and places the little community in the context of the two visions of utopia—yesterday’s and today’s—with a smattering of history, a handful of sketches of more than one generation of characters who made Fairhope unique in ways unanticipated by its idealistic founders at its inception.

The book will be on sale in Fairhope when I get there next week. I’ll be signing at the local bookstore, The Page & Palette, on Saturday, January 24, from 2-4 P.M. I’ll read from the book at the local museums during the week, and donate a copy to the library.

Those of you who live too far away to get to the signing or the bookstore can find The Fair Hope of Heaven online at amazon.com. and on my website.  I wrote it under my nom de plume, Mary Lois Timbes, which is also my maiden name. I’ll publish excerpts here in the coming weeks, and hope the little snippets will interest some of my regular blog readers enough that they’ll buy and enjoy the book.

Rainy Day Excursion

January 8, 2009

Yesterday was one of those cold, rainy days when the big decision is whether to do anything or just stay home and think about how uncomfortable it would be to go outside at all. As usual, I went against the normal inclinations and took a bus to a place I'd never been.

Knowing my Alabama driver's license would expire on the 12th, I took it on myself to trek to the department of motor vehicles, which in New Jersey is known as the NJMVC. The nearest office to Hoboken is in North Bergen which is not very near. It would be an educational excursion, and if I couldn't find the place, at least I would have been to a new place.

Six months ago my friend Alex got his license transferred and he assured me that if I still had a valid license from another state, the process was simple and he would even drive me to the office. In the meantime, he has left Hoboken and now lives in Princeton. Cristina has dropped out of sight since before Christmas. She hasn't answered my emails. I assume she's sunning herself on a tropical beach somewhere and would not have been in New Jersey in time to get me to the NJMVC before my Alabama license expired.

It is urgent that I have a driver's license as I intend to fly to Alabama on the 19th for a week and will need to rent a car.

All these things converged, making yesterday the day--rain or not--to find the way to North Bergen and take care of the matter.

I went to this handy place on the Internet that offers maps and directions to places you need to find. It indicated that there is a bus from Hoboken to North Bergen that drives right to the NJMVC office--well, not to the door, but damn close. So the challenge was simple, meet the bus, which should have stopped at Washington and 9th at about 2:10 P.M.

It was drizzling lightly at 2:10, but I had a hood on my coat plus an umbrella, so that shouldn't be a problem. For some reason, the only thing that held me back was not the rain, but the fact that I hadn't gotten much sleep the night before and didn't want to look terrible for my picture. Finally I realized that I almost always look terrible in ID pictures and no amount of makeup, restful sleep, or lighting tricks will help. Just get on the bus and get the license. The picture couldn't look any worse than the one on my current license.

The bus ride was depressing. Mile after mile of junky streets, low-rent businesses, and intriguing restaurants advertising a variety of ethnic food I've never tasted but somehow wanted to try. It was a side of New Jersey you don't see much if you live in Hoboken. I passed the little clinic in West New York where my favorite doctor worked when her offices in Hoboken were closed due to somebody else's nervous breakdown. I was headed for 90th Street; this was about at 25th.

As we neared the end of the line, I was the last person on the bus. I approached the driver and told him I would be getting off at 90th Street. When he stopped there, I asked about the location of the NJMVC, and he said, "One block back."

Sure enough, there it was, tucked in aside a strip mall. Friendly receptionist gave me the forms and told me where to sit. I didn't have much of a wait, had all my necessary ID, actually had a pretty good picture taken, and was out of there in 20 minutes. Stopped in the Dunkin' Donuts at the strip mall to get exact change for the bus, and was home in another 45 minutes.

It won't rain today, but it will be colder. My big outing for the week has been accomplished. I wonder what will happen next.

So It's a New Year

January 1, 2009

I just love those montages of world events they put on tv at the end of every year, even the inevitable memorials to those well-known people we lost during the year. Don't you?

A review of the past year is somehow cathartic, and perhaps even necessary to the prep of facing the incoming one. We never know what lies ahead, and at least once a year we think about that fact.

The year 2008 was one of the most momentous of my lifetime. In my day I've seen more than the advent and exit of Detroit bombs like the Edsel, above; I've seen the end of a "great" war; the beginning of many infamous ones; a trickle of lackluster election campaigns; a parade of decent presidents and a few scoundrels in the job--but none of these compares to the impact in my life of the presidential election year of 2008, in which a true talent emerged and convinced enough people he could do the job that he vanquished some formidable opponents and actually won. It was good to know that the man in the White House might undo some of the pain wrought over the past polarizing eight years.

Whenever I see the memorials, however, I am saddened: Paul Newman, Charlton Heston, Suzanne Pleshette, George Carlin, Heath Ledger, Bernie Mac, and all the others whom I shall miss. I remind myself that they remain with us in their films, but we all know that isn't the same. We know that others will succeed them, but they will not truly be replaced. We know that 2009 will bring some rewarding and excellent movies and books, some unanticipated artists in any number of fields, but knowing that these people are not on the earth any more triggers the inevitable sense of loss and wonder.

As we retrain ourselves to put a "9" where we had become accustomed to putting an "8" at the end of the date, we will add a hopeful sigh, knowing that another year is beginning. As with the birth of a baby, we anticipate the best and have some apprehension that our hopes may not be met.

Happy New Year.

I Am Curious Too

December 29, 2008
You won't find a stranger movie this year than The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. After all, you only have a couple of days left.

Some years ago I read a little book of F. Scott Fitzgerald's called Stories from the Jazz Age, and all I remember about it is the title of the book--which coined a term often used to describe the 1920s--and a strange story about a man who was born old, literally, and aged backward for the rest of his life. A decidedly curious tale, I didn't particularly like it, but I never got the concept out of my mind. Here it has turned up, revamped into a luscious film and enhanced by plot additions, elegant art direction, costumes, authentically mystical New Orleans settings, and irresistibly attractive actors.

I met my 14-year-old grandson Elias at Port Authority yesterday with the idea in mind that we might catch a flick (actually anticipating seeing Valkyrie. He told me he wasn't interested in that one--his current prejudice is against the Scientologist bent of the leading man--and I couldn't persuade him to try Frost/Nixon or Doubt, so we settled on The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and settled in for a long afternoon of escape.)

The New Orleans backdrop is appropriate for the mythical quality of the movie. Without giving you any more of the plot, I will say that the beauty of the the film is in its quiet seduction into a world where odd things happen and time moves backward as it advances. The picture above shows the protagonist at the moment he is in his prime and catches the lady when she is at the same place in time. We've seen him looking wizened and ancient when we know he is really an adolescent, and we've experienced the sensations of life running in reverse to the point where we accept the alternate reality and anticipate it. So romantic, the film caused me to wonder whether it could be classified as a chick flick, but with its complex story and inevitably unsettling ending, I decided not. It has much more range than that. It will appeal to a segment of the vast viewing audience, male and female, who are capable of suspending disbelief and entering a world of true mystery and beauty--in spite of the strangeness of that world.

One last note. Brad Pitt narrates with the perfect cadence of New Orleans. His accent has that trace of southern-U.S combined with the quirk of some port cities, especially New Orleans. You may wonder why he says "uh-athe" for earth, something like "wake" for work, and "chache" for church. It only tells us that he's spent enough time listening to people in New Orleans to know how they sound.

The Best Christmas Greeting

December 27, 2008

Make no mistake about it--having grandchildren is like nothing else in the world. My 11-year-old grandson, Andy, wrote special messages to everybody in his family this year, thanking his mother for keeping a roof over his head, his feisty older brother for being there for him, and this to me, the grandmother who has great expectations and tons of love for him. I don't think I have to add anything to his message, except I hope you are all so lucky!

Armchair Adventures: Christmas Movies

December 23, 2008

I love some of the classic Christmas movies--the black and white antiques that remind us of simpler, more romantic times. I discovered a lost gem called Remember the Night, with Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray a few weeks ago on Turner Classic Movies. The more I watched, the more I was drawn into this situation of a hardboiled shoplifter-babe getting a ride home to Indiana for Christmas with the D.A. who will be prosecuting her when they return to New York. I'm delighted it will be shown again tomorrow night at 11:15 and at 6:15 on Christmas morning.

This is decidedly not usual fare. As I watched the sophisticated romantic comedy unfold, I was impressed by its gritty characters bandying back-and-forth their witty repartee. I said to myself, this dialogue is so good and the situations and characters so odd it could have been written by Preston Sturges. But then, never having heard of the little film, I realized there were lots of good writers working in Tinseltown in those years. Imagine my joy at looking it up on Google later and learning that it was indeed Sturges' work, the very piece that launched him as a pioneer filmmaker who insisted on directing his own scripts.

I won't give away any more of the movie's plot in hopes you can make time to catch it on the tube yourself, except to say it features Beulah Bondi in one the most sympathetic roles she ever played, and a touchingly young oddball Sterling Holloway as a delightful, dear dimwit. The plot has little twists and an unexpected ending, but it is vintage stuff that will warm your heart and make you glad it's Christmas.

Bondi is also present in the ubiquitous Christmas offering It's A Wonderful Life, playing Jimmy Stewart's mother in the saga that the critics seem to have just discovered is a dark look at American life as it dealt with money matters in the days surrounding the Great Depression. I love everything about this picture except the delivery of that beautiful last line by one of the least talented child actors Hollywood has ever produced. Her linereading always makes me want to erase the whole thing and start over, but all I can do is just pretend it's being said sincerely, with a real child's wonder, rather than the singsong phoniness coming from that irritating little girl.

I love the really old versions of A Christmas Carol, in black and white. For the first time this year I caught the 1938 version with Reginald Owen, and it's a beaut. I have seen Alistair Sym do the role, and he's a scarier, less dimensional Scrooge. Interesting that Hollywood seemed have found the perfect Bob Cratchit in the genial Gene Lockhart who played the role to perfection in both films. In the Owen version his daughter June, later to be best known as Lassie's "mother" in the television series, plays one of his children. There is a collection of Scrooges to choose from. Of course there is Scrooged, with Bill Murray, and a dancing and singing Albert Finney in an English spinoff that seemed more a knockoff of Oliver! with one fun song, "Thank You Very Much!" But for the song, that whole movie just seemed hokey to me. You might get the impression that I'm a purist, and maybe I am, but I did especially love Reginald Owen film. My eyes were never dry when there was any member of the Cratchit family in the scene, and when Scrooge insists to the ghost of Christmas present that his nephew is truly in love.

Everybody has a favorite heartwarmer or two for this time of year. The Miracle on 34th Street works every time, with the moppet-sized Natalie Wood who doesn't believe in him until she meets the real Santa Claus; and Meet Me in St. Louis has Judy Garland singing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" to Margaret O'Brien, for God's sake. The original The Bishop's Wife features some very beautiful people--Loretta Young as the wife in question, and Cary Grant as an extremely erudite and elegant angel--while the bishop is a kindly if benighted David Niven--all of whom are made better by their experience together at Christmas. There are lovely Christmas moments in both versions of Little Women, and we purists prefer the Katharine Hepburn one, even though we grew up watching the Technicolor version with June Allyson. The Man Who Came To Dinner will always have a place in my heart since I directed the play as my first outing with my own theatre company.

The Wizard of Oz is a lifetime favorite movie of mine, especially appropriate at Christmas although there is not a single reference to any holiday in it. It is a wacky tale about a little girl from Kansas who goes over the rainbow and meets a bunch of insane grownups who protect her from a wicked witch and her brigade of evil flying monkeys--surely I don't have to tell you this. Just rent it and get out the Kleenexes. There is no better time than Christmas to enjoy a good, happy cry and be glad you're alive.

Christmas in Hoboken

December 19, 2008
That's the view out my window. We can see the back of the buildings across the courtyard as the whole of Hoboken fills with snow so thick it turns everything grey, white and black.

At Christmas time in Hoboken the greys are broken by trees filled with colored lights. There are lights on the handrails going up the stoops; there are wreaths on doors. Every business has a sign that says "Merry Christmas" and the churches hold out welcoming candles. I'm in the mood for Christmas this year. Looking out my window, I'm happy to stay inside and watch the whirling snow.

It seems to me that as deep winter sets in, the few days of lights, parties and well-wishing are especially comforting. I pull out my Christmas music and dream of sugarplums and eggnog (the real stuff, not out of a package) as Joan Baez sings to me of the infant in the manger, and I think about what Christmas is all about.

I think I escaped the orgy of materialism that characterizes Christmas for so many. I've got nobody to ask for a gift, so I buy little things for myself that I really want, telling myself that it's for Christmas. My grandsons always ask for cash, and they clean up at this time of year. They get little gifts as well, of course, and every aunt and uncle sends money, so they can buy what they want. I'll spend the few days with them--Elias turns 14 on the 23rd, and we usually go out to his favorite restaurant and have Chinese food that night. Christmas Eve we have seafood, as a nod to the boys' Italian connections, (besides, we all love seafood), and we have a tree. No doubt where they live there will be a great deal of snow, so they may make a trip to Hunter Mountain to ski. Christmas Day will be quiet, and we've been invited to a friend's house for the feast. The new tradition of potluck for holiday meals strikes me as not only appropriate, but a beautiful way to bring guests into the festivities.

The season is profound, spiritual, and even romantic--as long as you're not making it about how much you have to do, how much you have to spend, how much you have to cook, even how much you have to decorate. I won't even open the little box of ornaments I've saved for some 40 years, but I'll think about how pretty everything looks anyway. I'll feel the peace of the season, and the hope for better things ahead.

After the new year, the country will really begin to feel the pain the mismanagement of our precious optimism and talents has wrought. From all accounts, 2009 is going to be a difficult year for all of us. But not today, not this Christmas, not if we can only recapture the spirit the season exists to engender.