Every now and then…

“I don’t get it. I’ve been on this adventure for over a year in Earth Time. I’ve been to galaxies far, far away, Wonderland, Middle Earth, the Firefly ‘verse, and who knows where else as I’ve defied all I know of the space/time continuum. I’ve picked up a sidekick and a sidekick’s best friend. I’ve fallen into the pages of literary masterpieces, popular fiction, Mad Magazine, and even the funny papers. I’ve had conversations with oversized crabs, sharks, dragons, and an octopus along the way. I still don’t know what the Giant Rabbit’s note meant: ‘The first part of your journey will be complete when you find Lil Eddy.’ I’ve been to water eddies and snow eddies and found nothing to explain what journey I’m on or what happens next.”

Cuddle: “Maybe you should turn around?”

John Riley: “Yup, Bright Eyes, I’m thinking you’re about to experience a total eclipse of the heart.”

The Adventures of Katnip: 58

Laissez les bons temps rouler!


The usual characters have company in wishing you all a happy Fat Tuesday! A special shout-out to Timmy, too: HAPPY BIRTHDAY! As you know, Timmy, you share this birth date with yet another character, my late mother.

In honor of my Pisces loves, everybody party like a fish! (I don’t know what that even means.)

The Adventures of Katnip: 57. Thanks, Greg, for the Mardi Gras props, and Mary for the backdrop.

Goodbye, Bright Eyes

When Mother was a little girl in Tupelo, Mississippi, the local theater, converted from its original use as an opera house, was named The Strand. I don’t know how old she was when she started going to movies there with her brother Gerald, but she remembered that the two of them could see a Saturday matinee for a nickel. They’d get their money from their father or an older sibling (they were the two youngest of twelve), and spend the afternoon transported to other lives, other places.

By the Depression years, the theater had been bought by a regional company and renamed The Lyric. As my mother recalled, her father and older brothers worked during those years, plus they grew so much of their own food, that they weren’t as impacted by poverty as many others were. They were certainly poor, but they weren’t hungry, and there were still nickels available so they could escape the grimmer realities of the time by walking through the doors of The Lyric. For her nickel, she’d get a newsreel, a cartoon, and at least one, sometimes two, features.

The Lyric, Tupelo, Mississippi, photo from Ronnie Harris

It’s easy to see that the era’s musical films and comedies provided escapism. Certainly the lives of the affluent were portrayed. But there was also a theme running through them: the belief that a person, no matter the circumstances, could get through hard times. A blend of luck, hard work, and right behavior: These might not make you wealthy, but they could help you make a good life. Hope was important to adults and children of the 1930s, and Mother’s favorite movies exemplifying that theme were those starring Shirley Temple. To her, Shirley Temple was a shining example of all that could be good and funny and creative in a girl.

One thing she wanted and couldn’t have was a Shirley Temple doll. She always said it was probably for the best, since it undoubtedly would have come to great harm at the hands of her rambunctious brothers. As the economy began improving for most Americans, Mother’s family experienced misfortune. Her mother became bedridden. Her father’s work situation changed. By the time she was barely into her teens, she had to leave school and become a caregiver to anyone who was sick or to newborn and toddler nieces and nephews.

Mother did eventually, with my father, use those values she learned as a child to build a good life. From the time I reached about the age she was when she had to leave school, I became her movie watching partner. We’d stay up late on weekends to see old movies, or spend Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoons watching, on TV, all the films that she’d loved in childhood. We both preferred screwball comedies, and I also loved Shirley Temple along with her.

The Lyric still exists today, restored, preserved, and used for live community theater. And though Mother and I often found Shirley Temple dolls when we’d go antiquing, the thrift she’d learned by living through the Depression was too entrenched in her. She would never have paid the collector prices for a doll in good condition. And she’d have been furious with me if I had bought one to give her.

After all her kids were gone, and after my father died, she bought her first VCR. The first VHS tapes she purchased were Shirley Temple movies. Up until she died, we’d still turn on the TV and find old movies to enjoy together. In fact, the day she died, we had an old Western playing with the sound off in her hospice room. David, Debby, Lynne, Tom and I cracked ourselves up as we invented crazy dialogue for it. I’ll always be glad that whatever awareness she had in those hours included the sounds of her children laughing.

Two years younger than my mother, Shirley Temple outlived her by almost six years. As Shirley Temple Black, she had an amazing life. Rather than trying to hold on to a career that began to fade after her childhood years, she retired from films. She sometimes worked in television. She married and had children. She was politically active. A lifelong Republican, she once ran for office and lost. She was appointed Representative to the Twenty-fourth U.N. General Assembly by President Nixon and U.S. Ambassador to Ghana by President Ford. As the first female Chief of Protocol of the U.S. from 1976 to 1977, she was in charge of arranging President Carter’s inauguration and inaugural ball. Her last official position was as U.S. Ambassador to Czechoslovakia from 1989 to 1992, appointed by President George H. W. Bush.

And thanks to the movies, she will always be that bubbly child of the 1930s. Growing up, my favorite Shirley Temple movie was The Littlest Rebel, but really, I liked them all. More than anything in the world, I wish I could curl up once more in the den with my mother–both of us drinking iced tea, maybe sharing a bowl of popcorn, laughing and shedding a few sentimental tears over whatever hardships Shirley’s character has to face and whatever happy ending is in store for her. Since I can’t do that, I am going to watch the movie I seem to recall was my mother’s favorite, Curly Top. And I’ll probably eat a few of these as I sing along.

Once Mother said My little pet
You ought to learn your alphabet
So in my soup I used to get
All the letters of the alphabet
I learned them all from A to Z
And now my mother’s giving me
Animal crackers in my soup
Monkeys and rabbits loop the loop
Gosh oh gee but I have fun
Swallowing animals one by one
When they’re inside me where it’s dark
I walk around like Noah’s Ark
I stuff my tummy like a goop
With animal crackers in my soup

Lyrics to “Animal Crackers in My Soup” from the movie Curly Top by T.Koehler & I.Caesar/R.Henderson.

Sewing

Is anyone else watching Project Runway: Under the Gunn? We’ve seen the first episode but not the second, so we need to catch up. It’s nice to watch a show about fashion without the knowledge that I need to create and sew a design hanging over my head. I was ready for a break.

I have done some sewing, though. All of the dog beds scattered throughout the house were in need of cleaning and plumping, so I went to The Store of My People intending to buy some Fiberfill or Poly-Fil or whatever. However, while there, I found standard bed pillows for the stunningly low price of $2.50 each, and after checking that they were made in the USA and therefore not in developing countries using the forced labor of pre-schoolers, I bought several of them and used them to refurbish the dog beds.

Most of that project I had to do by hand, but I decided to cover a couple of the new pillows with some festive fleece to put in Margot’s and Guinness’s crates for extra cushioning. Like this one.

Except what should have taken ten minutes to whip up took forever because my sewing machine is kicking my ass for some reason. I’m taking that thing out to the suburbs and having sewing machine class with Lynne some weekend so she can tell me what I’m doing wrong. The second pillow is on hold until either that happens or I persuade myself that I have the patience to try again.

I do need to figure it out, however, since I’m sure I’ll be willing to take on a future season of “Project Runway” challenges thanks to these two Model Muses who were part of my Christmas from Tim.

Bewitching


I received that beat-up clock when it was new back in the mid 1990s on a whirlwind trip that Lynne and I took to New Orleans. It was my first real visit to the city other than driving around and exploring it once late at night. The clock was part of a swag bag we received from VH-1, and it reminds me of my love/hate relationship with Nickelodeon since that’s the channel that addicted me to “Full House” reruns.

I wonder if other people are like me and have false memories of what they saw on TV as children. Many times I’ve said to people, “Oh, yeah, I watched that as a kid!” only to find out I was discussing a show that had aired and then ended years before I was even born. Plus my parents didn’t actually let us watch a lot of TV when we were kids except what we watched with them. So in truth, a lot of the shows I thought I watched when I was a wee lass were actually shows I saw as a teen when they went into syndication and I spent afternoons with friends whose parents either let them watch more TV than mine did or who had two parents who worked outside the home and didn’t know we were saturating our brains with three decades of sitcoms and cop shows. Or I watched them in the TV room at the student center when I was in college and graduate school in lieu of studying. My financial aid hard at work.

Usually when Tim’s dogs are in the apartment without him, he’ll leave the TV on for them. Today when I went over to let them out for recess, there was a show on his TV with lots of gunplay, so I changed the channel. It so happened that I landed on “The Waltons,” good wholesome viewing for three impressionable young dogs, I thought. When Tim arrived home, they were watching “The Brady Bunch.” I expect Penny will soon be looking at her big sister and whining, “Pixie, Pixie, Pixie!”

One of my standard questions of TV watchers of a certain age is, “Were you a fan of Samantha or Jeannie?” I always wanted to be a witch more than a genie, even if it meant being stuck with Darren. Because there was also Endora, Dr. Bombay, Serena, Gladys Kravitz (you can never say just her first name), and the fantastic Aunt Clara and Uncle Arthur.

The show “Bewitched” is used to good effect by the young narrator of Rob Williams’s story “Bothered, Bewildered.”

I was eleven when I told my ten-year-old neighbor that I was a witch. Or a warlock, I should say, since guys can’t be witches. Chalk it up to too many reruns of “Bewitched” on television. I told Jimmy I was friends with Samantha, Endora and Doctor Bombay.

“They’re just a TV show,” he said, squinting with skepticism, so that the tiny wrinkles around his eyes, not unusual for a California kid, deepened.

“Not those people,” I replied. “Those are actors, acting out the real witches’ lives. I’m talking about the real Samantha, the real Endora, the real Doctor Bombay.”

Jimmy had the whitest-blond hair of any kid I’d ever seen. In summer it turned green from all the chlorine in his family’s pool, where we would swim unsupervised for hours, sometimes even days. I told him that the green hair meant he had the potential to be a warlock, too. I would be like his Jedi Master, teaching him his craft.

How I proved to Jimmy that I was a warlock (the first time):

We were one of the first families on our block to get a Clapper—a device that turns a lamp on and off when you clap. It was plugged in behind the end table in our living room next to the couch my grandmother called the davenport. I showed the lamp trick to Jimmy. Clapped it on and off. His eyes grew wide, his mouth open, lips shiny with spit. I clapped it on and off again. Told him I would transfer my power to him so he could do it. He ate it up—clapping hesitantly at first. I was surprised it went on. Then he clapped harder. Clapped that lamp on and off, off and on, for twenty minutes. I thought his hands would fall off. We played Atari, and every couple of minutes he would clap the lamp on or off and smile that stupid smile. When he went to take a pee, I turned off the Clapper so it became just a regular lamp. Jimmy came back and tried to clap it on again. It didn’t turn on. He clapped again harder. He clapped close to the lamp, right above the lamp, below it; still nothing.

“Don’t abuse the power,” I said.

You can read the other ways Jimmy was bewitched in Foolish Hearts: New Gay Fiction, available now from booksellers everywhere in trade paper and ebook format.

Excerpt reprinted with permission from Cleis Press. All rights reserved.