Memorial Day

Having been raised in the South, I was taught that by school and family that Memorial Day began in the South after the Civil War. Widows, mothers, and others who loved men who had lost their lives in the defense of the South in that tragic war went to cemeteries often and put flowers on the graves of their beloved men. It became institutionalized as Confederate Memorial Day, in a few years co-opted by the bereaved on both sides. At first the women of the North had their day for decorating graves, and they called it Decoration Day; but over time the two sides came together to honor all who died in the Civil War under the appellation of Memorial Day, and one day was set aside at the end of May to do so.

In the South, where many diehards still reside, there are pockets where Confederate Memorial Day is observed on various days in the year, but let us face it, there have been many more men lost in many other wars, and the memories of the Southern cause have been blurred by so many re-inventions that there is absolutely no point in defending anything about that particular war.

Imagine my surprise in later reading that Memorial Day got its start after the Civil War, when freed slaves and abolitionists gathered in Charleston, S.C., to honor Union soldiers who gave their lives to battle slavery. The holiday, the article stated, was so closely associated with the Union side, and with the fight for emancipation, that Southern states quickly established their own rival Confederate Memorial Day.

Since I’m not in the South any more, Memorial Day has a different meaning anyway. It honors Americans who have fought in all wars, and is a day to think of those who lost their lives in any of those battles. I was full grown when the government decision to move Memorial Day to whatever day of the month was the last Monday, and from time to time in certain years it falls on my birthday.

I was a baby during World War II and Memorial Day always symbolizes our victory in that conflict to me. I remember blackouts, the threat of German U-boats in Mobile Bay, and some vague fear of Nazis. One of my first memories was thinking I heard my grandfather say, “This war is terrible, but there has been no war as terrible as the Silver War.” This was so daunting that I and my little friends played Silver War to exorcise the threat—we thought the Civil War was a a rain of silver boulders more deadly than any cannonball or bullet.

Only when our daddies came home did we learn more about the war in which they’d fought and so many had lost their lives. They do not speak of it, but they returned changed and over time we are finding out why. Tom Brokaw, who is my age exactly, calls those men “The Greatest Generation.” I admire them too, but often have thought that his elevation of them to a state near sainthood comes from his being of an age in which there was no such war to test our young men and women.

Over the years, our country has been involved in other such conflicts and always our boys go bravely forward to fight. Recent wars may have been less easy to comprehend or to sacrifice our boys' lives for, but it is to our country’s credit that we have the spirit to support our troops and that this day has been set aside to thank the fortunate ones who are still with us and honor those who didn’t make it home.

Let us observe the day in the spirit in which it was intended, by thinking of the real meaning of each and every war, from the American Revolution through the Civil War and all the wars we have lived through. While we contemplate these greater meanings, let us hope there will soon be an end to the far away war our country is involved in now.

Pondering Jane Fonda

I’ve been on a Jane Fonda jag ever since I took in the matinee of 33 Variations (which closed last night) on Broadway a couple of weeks ago. I picked up a copy of My Life So Far, her 579-page autobiography, from the table in front of Symposia Books a few days later and read it with relish.

I know many of my regular readers (the macho men, primarily) will be turned off by any mention of Hanoi Jane, the strident antiwar activist of the 1960’s, but I must write about her. I admire her enormously, even moreso after having seen her extraordinary performance in 33 Variations and now having finished the volume about her life in her own words.

Fonda had a childhood that would have made a weaker reed buckle and break. Daughter of a beloved movie star who was also a great actor (think Grapes of Wrath) who also was, without a film role to hide behind, cold and distant to the point of being unkind, she had that toxic combination growing up of living the appearance of privilege while tolerating the actual abandonment of a neurotic mother (in and out of hospitals and ultimately taking her own life by cutting her throat) and the emotional abandonment of a rigid and unavailable father. From her earliest days she was thrown in the pool of life and commanded to swim.

To be sure, she had the natural gifts of great good looks and the soul of an actress. This acting talent came in handy as she spent her childhood trying to please everyone while yearning to be free of the confusing hand she’d been dealt. With her own talents and a famous and adored father it was pretty easy to become a movie star. It was what went on behind the scenes that created the chaos of her days. In the book she expertly takes us through her childhood forward to her multiple careers as an actress, activist, fitness guru, mother, trophy wife, and back to her current reality at age 71 as her own person, at every step examining the value of her span on this earth and introducing us to a realm we could hardly imagine.

First of all, what about those husbands? One, an egomaniacal French movie director who wanted her to be as much a sex kitten as his ex-wife, Brigitte Bardot. He was intellectual and kinky and made an odd partner, although she insists he was a wonderful father to their daughter. Then came her political phase, in which she broke from the husband who was bored with what he called her “Jane of Arc” (his phrase) activism.

Soon she found and connected with Tom Hayden, the ex-hippie ("yippie," actually) who had political ambitions. Lastly, the oddball billionaire Ted Turner, who comes to life on the page as just the nimble-minded bumbler he seems when he appears in public.

All three larger than life—all three at least temporarily fit companions for the living legend she has become.

The book is full of movie anecdotes but it is hardly just another movie star memoir. Fonda looks at every page of her life anew, explaining to us and herself the depths of what her earnest curiosity exposed her to—including the moments she’d rather forget. She gives us the reasons for her involvement with the antiwar movement during Vietnam. She is brutally honest with herself in describing her mistake of being photographed sitting apparently happily on the enemy’s antiaircraft weapon in a time of war. She reveals herself as a young woman motivated by self-loathing that she regards bulimia as a weight control tool. She so driven in her pursuit of the craft of acting that it is difficult to fathom she is actually a beautiful girl with a natural talent for self-expression. Perfectionism, it would seem, is a curse with which she must constantly grapple.

Her central theme of being a woman of a certain age at this point in history resonates like a tuning fork with me. Her ability to deal with her mistakes and start again is inspiring and what she writes about feminism and the many phases of womanhood is insightful and causes the reader to confront them. I am pleased to have the book to refer to as it poses many questions and answers others.

About 33 Variations, I have to say she gave a very moving performance. I was sitting closer to the stage than I usually do, and I could see tears in those beautiful blue eyes and the trembling hands as the character she was playing grew weaker in the final scenes of the play. She was awesome to watch—every bit as beautiful at this age as she was in her unformed, glamorous youth. It made me proud to be a member of her team. The play is the recipient of several Tony nominations. I would be pleased if it wins them all, particularly if Fonda wins Best Actress in a Leading Role (Drama).

Frank Sinatra Blues

The word is out in Hoboken that Martin Scorsese is planning a new movie about Frank Sinatra. People are wondering what this one will be like.

Will he find an unknown to play the role, or will he give it to one of his faves, for example Leonardo Di Caprio? Slezak suggests that the casting people go for Harry Connick, Jr., if the movie is about the Sinatra of the late 1950's. If the movie is about Sinatra as a kid in Hoboken, he needs to find a reedy little slick blue-eyed lad with sass and a great set of pipes.

Whatever period the movie covers, Slezak thinks I'm right for the role of Dolly, Frank's pushy, ballsy, ever-lovin' Italian mother. The part of a lifetime, that one. Are you listening, Marty?

Can you not think of Sinatra at this time of year in Hoboken? The town abounds with Sinatra images and echoes with tales of his lifetime conflicts, so many born out of his ambivalence about his hometown. There are people here who deeply resent his attitude about Hoboken after he made it and left. The view of New York City still dominates Hoboken, and when it was a settlement of poor immigrants, it must have even more. So near and yet so far. Hoboken kids had only to hop on a ferry to get to the city, but when they were there, what? They'd hop on another ferry home to their walkups in the western ("downtown") area of town after a brief outing and wonder what real New Yorkers were like. Frank found out, becoming a quintessential New York type, setting the stage of the 1950's with his songs and his freewheeling style. He had gotten a toughness from Hoboken, a soul from his Italian heritage, and a life from his own gusto and guts.

And the guy could sing a song. Whenever I read about his behavior and his exploits, some of which make my blood boil, I always come back to the way he romanced a song until he, as Steve Lawrence once said, made a three-act play out of it. He seemed to have music in his bloodstream and the talent for acting that could infuse a simple tin pan alley number with operatic force. Upbeat or bluesy, in Sinatra's hands every song became more.

There will be another movie about Sinatra. Which facet of the man will it touch? The latest news releases say there will be no "gangsters" in it. Does that mean it won't be set in Hoboken, then? I can't imagine Scorsese doing a nice movie about a band singer from the 1940's and 50's who had no mob connections...I'll wait til he sends me my script, and then I'll tell you some more about it.

In the meantime, I think I'll go get my vinyl of "In the Wee Small Hours" and put in on the Victrola. This is a good excuse to give that one a listen.

How's That Diet Coming?

A week or so ago I had an email from Nan with the casual query, "How's your diet coming?" Much as I understand how boring the details of others' diets may be, I am going to attempt to answer her here for her and the rest of you who may be curious.

In fact, I had hoped to make another video so you could see for yourselves, but my little flipcam is on loan to the University of Alabama for an education project. I know that sounds like a joke, but it isn't. Maybe I'll give you the details someday--in the meantime, I am without a video camera for the time being.

As to the diet, I'm still on it after six weeks. Remember, it was not an effort to lose weight, but to redefine food once and for all and improve my health for the rest of my life. In my case, this means: no snacks, no bread, no dessert (unless you count fresh fruit with yogurt), and very close attention to portion size. I took my recipes for the first two weeks from a book called The Snowbird Diet, and after that I've been winging it using occasional meals from it and limiting my food intake keeping the above "no's" very much at the forefront.

I haven't felt deprived, I haven't felt enormously hungry, I just felt pleased that it wasn't any more difficult than it has been. Oh, there have been moments when I would have killed for a chunk of fresh mozzarella or a couple of handfuls of Craisins, but I haven't had either since April.

I said before that I wasn't in this for weight loss. That's good because I haven't lost any weight to speak of. I had gained eight pounds since moving to Hoboken in December 2007, and since the first of April I've lost three.

As for exercise, I go to the gym four days a week and walk probably a mile a day (since this is Hoboken and I sold my car before relocating). I live in a fourth-floor walkup and climb those stairs an average of three times a day. I get much more exercise than I did two years ago, and am eating considerably less.

Why I'm not losing weight, I don't know. Believe me I've rationalized every way from "At my age it's harder to lose weight" to "I'm eating more carbohydrates since I eat more fiber," but I'm still not sure why it is. But since I didn't start this program as a way to lose weight, I'm trying not to let the situation discourage me. There's a possibility weight will begin to come off in time--I know I'm expending more calories than I'm taking in, it's just that I'm not sure my body has figured this out yet.

So, the answer to the title question is that this isn't really a diet, and I don't seem to be losing weight, but I'm committed to the changes and I feel fine. When my videocam comes back I'll show you.

Old Hoboken Rises Again

Seems my readers are inspired of late to remind me of what they once loved: Hoboken of the 1940s and 50s. Some find the post about the Fabian Theatre, others go to old posts like Back to the Past.

Dennis of pigeons-in-the-piano fame just made this comment on one of those nostalgic posts.

"I think about the sounds and smells of Hoboken quite a bit, being that I live close to the Bay here and you do not hear those sounds anymore.

"When there was fog you used to hear the fog horns all the time from the Hudson River. Sit in the Ferry Building and you can hear the clanking of the chains as they used to tie the ferries in. I actually miss the sound of the buses as they passed my house. In the winter you could hear the chains on the tires of the buses. The buses has a kind of swish to their tires when it rained. You could hear the railroad train horns and if you lived downtown you heard the click, click, click of the railcars at night. The bus doors also had a particular sound to them when they opened or closed. The sound of a ship being docked at the Holland American line by the tugboats. In the summer the sound of the Peddler selling fruit from his truck. Once a week the fish monger.
On Saturdays the smell of the hallways and stoops being washed. You never walked in a wet hallway or walked on a wet stoop!!!!!

"Hoboken also had its smells, but that might come later due to me running out of room here."

And Slezak emailed me this flyer from one of the shows at the Fabian.Gregg K. found the Fabian post and added this comment: Wow, does the Fabian bring back tremendous memories. I used to live on Bloomfield Street, literally a block away and I used to go nearly every weekend to see the latest movies. Sure is sad to know it's gone, but just like my long gone parents, it will always be in my heart.

Those days are gone, and Hoboken is changing every day--tomorrow will be election day, after all. But there are still plenty of people all over the country who remember Hoboken's past. Click on the blue letters, browse the blog for old Hoboken posts, and enjoy yourself. Even if you just moved to Hoboken, you'll enjoy the trip!

The Boy Who Cried Swine

Now that the swine flu pandemic is becoming a memory, we wonder if it really was all that it was cracked up to be. The term influenza strikes fear in humans and swine alike and it's hard to say where they will hit and where the next will come from.

Somebody, I hope it was not a little boy (as in the old tale "The Boy Who Cried Wolf") said the strain originated in an industrial pig farm in Mexico. Duncan Turnbull, writing on the Guardian.UK blog, says:

"It is thought that swine flu may have come from one of the industrialised and intensive pig farms in Mexico. However, the point is that this strain of flu is passed from human to human. Pigs no longer play any role in viral transmission and the newly mutated H1N1 virus is not found in them. Pigs do not spread the flu, nor can you catch swine flu from pork products. Given this knowledge, calling the disease 'swine flu', 'pigfluenza' or 'pig flu' seem tenuous at best.

"Yaakov Litzman, a deputy health minister of Israel, went even further, saying 'swine flu' is an offensive term as it refers to animals which are unclean in the Jewish and Islamic faiths. 'We will call it Mexico flu. We won't call it swine flu,' Litzman stated, somewhat to the dismay of Mexicans. Taiwan calls it 'new flu', the European commission uses 'novel flu virus' and the World Health Organisation 'Influenza A (H1N1)'.

"At the end of the day, referring to it as 'swine flu' is more than just tenuous; it is misleading and potentially dangerous. In Egypt the health minister, Hatem al-Gabali, bizarrely ordered the cull of 350,000 pigs. Four days later, hundred of Christian pig farmers rioted in Cairo, exchanging stones for tear gas with police. If the aim of the Egyptian government was to prevent panic then it seems it has not worked; if their aim was to prevent large groups of people coming into close contact with each other to prevent the spread of disease, then it has been a disaster. As one commentator said, only their capriciousness tops their ignorance.

"The last four days of April saw strong losses in the pork markets with lean hogs and pork bellies falling by as much as 10%. Evidence like this supports the view that such a careless naming may have dire consequences for a pig industry which has taken its fair share of pain over the past five years.

"As the chief veterinary officer at the UN says, 'It is not a swine influenza, it's a human influenza.' Swine flu is spread by people, not pigs. It would be a great shame if the rebranding of swine flu to something more neutral comes too late."

President Obama has begun referring to it as "H1N1 flu" which I think is fairer all around, to swine and humans. It is thought that it will return next flu season, worse than ever, while an effective vaccine is being sought right now. I've always been a little leary of the yearly flu vaccine, based as they are on somebody's guess what the next flu epidemic will consist of. Will I take an H1N1 shot? We shall see.

Movies You May Have Missed

I'm having so much fun with the movie thing and all the comments that I thought I'd add my thoughts about a few favorites you may have missed.

Babette's Feast: I love movies that have cooking in them. This gem tells an Isak Dinesen tale of lonely sisters in the cold Danish climate, raised as the daughters of a stern Protestant minister. Sound thrilling so far? Well, stay with me, it gets better. They and their whole village are brought to life by an impoverished Frenchwoman who comes to stay and opens their lives in an extraordinary way through the magic of, of all things, food. One of my all-time favorites.

Stage Beauty Love and gender bending during the Restoration, when the women's roles were played on the English stage by beautiful boys. A really delightful film starring Billy Crudup and Claire Danes, with Rupert Everette as a wicked King Charles.

Vicki Cristina Barcelona I don't know why this one didn't fare better at the box office and at Oscar time, but at least Penelope Cruz one the award she deserved as a Spanish artist with the temperament to match. Beautiful scenery, an interesting plot, and some of the most talented actors around, directed by the amazing Woody Allen.

The Cider House Rules I treasure Michael Caine with his portrayal of the sympathetic doctor who manages an orphanage and tucks the boys in every night saying, "Good night, you princes of Maine...you kings of New England..." Toby MacGuire and Charlize Theron and the magnificent background music (recently co-opted by the Department of Tourism for the State of Michigan for television commercials) by Rachel Portman round this out for a nearly-perfect little film.

The Shipping News Extraordinary acting by Kevin Spacey, Cate Blanchett (in a real shocking stretch), and Judi Dench in a dark, cold, wonderful movie.

Henry and June This one is about racy novelist Henry Miller and his wife and their little dalliances in Paris, notably with the intriguing diarist Anais Nin. The settings were absolutely convincingly Paris in the 1920's, and the atmosphere of freedom and particularly sexual liberation came through very loud and clear. It's explicit and erotic, so if that's not for you, you won't like this one. Ahem--I loved it.

Spanglish I love Adam Sandler when he plays a grownup, and I don't even mind when he plays an eternal child. In this, he's somewhere in between, married to a demanding and obnoxious wife, played to perfection by Tea Leoni, and he's a chef (cooking again!). It's a serious little movie with a few laughs, and a touching little scenario about impossible love.