Bones in the River

This little story was inspired by Linda O'Connell in a recent post on her blog, Write from the Heart. It's a beautiful reminder of the Arch and Riverfront. Her story took me back. Here's a link to the post:

http://lindaoconnell.blogspot.com/2012/04/on-warm-afternoon-this-past-weekend-we.html

Bones in the River

1964 was a  year filled with excitement and change. LBJ was elected to continue the vision set by JFK. Khrushev has been tossed out by the Russkies. China showed the world it now had the atomic bomb. The Cardinals, led by a voracious Bob Gibson, won the World Series over the Yankees, led by a struggling Mickey Mantle. And I landed a job at KMOX-TV, the CBS station in St. Louis, at 12th and Cole Streets. 

I was one of the few single men there, which gave me a sense of freedom not enjoyed by most of the other guys. Then, to my good luck, three months after I started, the National Sales Manager hired a very attractive secretary. Her name was Mary Lee. She, too, was single.  So we began to hang out together. She was vivacious, in the mode of one of my favorite actresses, Betty Hutton. She was beautiful with a dynamite figure. And she had a great sense of humor, evidenced by how easily she laughed at all my jokes. 

Mary Lee and I would get together occasionally for lunch, or drinks after work. She went for Chablis, I preferred scotch and water, tastes now both thankfully put to rest. But our favorite lunch date was known by the code words, “Bones in the River.” As in, “Would you like to throw some bones in the river today?”

Here’s how it worked. We’d get into my 1960 Corvette convertible, top down, and head across Eads Bridge to East St. Louis. We’d wind our way through some side streets until we came to a small wooden shack with a take-out window and a hand-painted sign that said “Nichols BBQ.” We’d get two slabs of ribs, laid over slices of Wonder white bread, soaked in sauce, wrapped in wax paper, and head back across Eads to the St. Louis waterfront. We’d park on the levee, sit on the wall, and dig into the ribs. Oh, I forgot to mention. She had a root beer, I had an RC. In glass bottles. 

Behind us, on the hill overlooking the river, the St. Louis Arch was inching its way into the sky. Cranes crawled up the stainless steel legs, adding sections  slowly and carefully, approaching the day when the two legs would be joined by a final span. 

The grounds around the base were pretty much of a mess, looking like most other construction sites. But I’ve got to admit, it was exciting to think our city would soon have this distinctive structure. And there we were, Mary Lee and I, in its shadow, talking and laughing and getting sauce all over our mouths and hands. 

As we finished our ribs, we’d walk down to the edge of the Mississippi and ceremoniously toss the ribs into the brown, swiftly moving water. Sometimes we’d make a wish, but usually it was just a simple flip of the bare bones into the river. I don’t know if any of our bones ever made it to New Orleans, but I hope so.

Then we’d head back to the station and go our separate ways. 

That was in 1964. In 1965 we were married.

This May we will celebrate our 47th anniversary.

You may wonder if we ever went back for Bones in the River. We did. For our 25th anniversary. That was in 1990. A lot had happened in 25 years, including a completed Arch surrounded by beautiful grounds and an imposing staircase from the levee to the Arch. Nichols BBQ was now an empty lot, but we picked up some ribs that day at a BBQ joint in Soulard and sat on the levee once again. Mary Lee was still beautiful, still had a great body, and still laughed at my jokes.

Fortunately, some things never change.

A Beautiful Dog Needs a Home

This is for you if you love dogs. This is especially for you if you want a beautiful dog.
A friend of mine must find a home for SilverBelle, her Weimaraner. Here is the link to info about the dog, some photos, and contact information for Mary Ann. She lives in St. Louis. If you know someone who might be interested, please forward this to them. Thanks. I can vouch for SilverBelle; I've been around her and would take her, if it weren't for Sadie, our Golden Retriever. Thanks.

 http://dogs.facebook.oodle.com/view/silverbelle-is-looking-for-her-new-forever-home/2927665845-saint-louis-mo/?cm_mmc=FB_Friend_Email-_-120217a73f67045cd8cf6e00087637c3f20d2e-_-Listing_Friend_Title_IDP-_-1610168011&fb_framebust=1

Whatever the Question, Chicken Soup is the Answer

In 1993 an enterprising duo of inspirational speakers published a book called “Chicken Soup for the Soul.” It was a huge hit and spawned an endless parade of subsequent titles. In the 19 intervening years, Chicken Soup has become the kudzu of the literary world, engulfing just about every aspect of human need, condition, classification and emotion possible. Almost 200 titles have been published. 

Consider the following Chicken Soup subjects:

From General Souls we now have Specific Souls: Chicken Soup for the Girl’s Soul, the Recovering Soul, the Prisoner’s Soul, the Bride’s Soul, the New Mom’s Soul, PreTeens soul, Teenage Soul, Romantic Soul, Couple’s Souls, even one dedicated to Messages from Heaven. As well as College Souls, Entrepreneur Souls and Military Wife’s Souls. If you want to see the complete list, check out the link at the end of this post.

And here’s the shrewdest part of all. Most of those stories are written by the people who read the books, albeit with some editors’ input. It seems almost everyone on this planet has a story to share.

I almost submitted a story during a recent call for submissions. The subject of an upcoming  book was “Chicken Soup for the Soul: I Can’t Believe My Dog Did That.” I thought about my dog Sadie, a golden retriever. She’s very smart. Among other accomplishments, she retrieves two newspapers every morning, the NY Times and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. She brings them in, holds them in her mouth until I take them from her, then walks over and slams the door shut. That, I thought, might be worth a Chicken Soup contribution. But as with so many of my ideas, I waited too long and the Nov. 30 deadline passed. Sadie knew I missed it and was miffed, because one week later she brought in the papers as usual, and gave me the Post. This time, however, she took the Times over to the dining room table, slipped the blue plastic cover off the paper, took out the sports section, spread it on the table with her paws, then looked at me and said, in a clear, gentle voice reminiscent of Dame Judi Densch, “Looks to me as though Eli and the Giants will end up in the Super Bowl.”  Then she gave me a look that said, clearly, “Don’t miss the next deadline, pal.”

At the time I didn’t think the Giants had a chance. In retrospect, I’m sorry she didn’t make her prediction before Nov. 30. I would’ve submitted something for sure.

A couple of days ago my daughter, Holly, informed me she had a sore throat. I suggested tea and honey, gargle with salt water, and lots of chicken soup. The kind in a bowl, not soft-bound. She said she had done the tea and honey, but not the chicken soup. Then my wife reminded me:  Holly’s a vegetarian. That took me right into a very exciting concept: A line of books for vegetarians. Call it the Lentil Soup series: Lentil Soup for the Vegetarian’s Soul,” “..for the Salad Lover’s Soul,” “..for the Beans and Rice Soul,” “...for the Tofu Soul.” And even, “Lentil Soup for People Who Don’t Like Chicken Soup.” That would be a limited edition, maybe for some Third World nation that holds the chicken to be sacred.

I’ll keep working on that concept. Maybe a “Tomato Soup” series for Nursing Home Residents. Ideas are welcome.

Here’s one more idea before I end this. A line of books for atheists, or any other group that doesn’t believe in a soul. “Chicken Soup for the Atheist’s Soul” will be 8 blank pages and a coupon good for 3 cans of Progresso Chicken Noodle Soup.

 http://www.chickensoup.com/cs.asp?cid=titles

Last Night's Golden Globes

A few quick responses and comments, in no particular order or importance, after watching the Golden Globes on Sunday night.
- I want to be George Clooney.
- Jane Fonda has no idea what "aging" means.
- Meryl Streep either had too much wine, too little sleep, or lost her reading glasses. 
- A little Ricky Gervais goes a long way.
- Tilda Swinton's hairdresser must be in a work/release program.
- I want to be a good looking Harvey Weinstein. He has impeccable judgment when it comes to picking movies to produce.
- I wish I could find time to watch a lot of those nominated TV shows. 
- Some terrific writing is going on in Hollywood these days, both in comedy and drama. Too bad more of it doesn't seep over to the feature film side.
- Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert should have won something, anything.
- I wonder what they had for dinner. They never mention the menu.
- Tilda Swinton's hairdresser should be arrested for cruel and unusual hair treatment.
- Tilda Swinton should be arrested for wearing it.
- They should limit each winner to one "thank you." More than that, they get the hook.
- While they're at it, prohibit any mention of agents, managers, producers, and entire casts and crews.
- Peter Dinklage has some kind of guts and inner strength. How else could a 3-foot tall man, who isn't by any stretch of the imagination "cute," decide to become an actor? And succeed.
- Speaking of Dinklage, I can't wait for "Game of Thrones" to return.
- I felt the warm rush of humility when Michelle Williams accepted her reward.
- I feel as though I must be the only person in America who doesn't watch "Modern Family."
- I wonder how they got Robert Downey Jr. to come out, in a tux, at the end of a long show, and say only 14 words: "The nominees for best motion picture, drama, are:...." and "And the winner is The Descendants." Maybe they gave him a lot of money.
- Sidney Poitier still has dignity, but I wish he would've smiled at least once. Even smirked, the way he did at Rod Steiger in "In the Heat of the Night."
- I wish I was George Clooney's friend. 

Charlie Chaplin Night

 

Tonight is Charlie Chaplin Night on TCM. If you don't have the DVD's of his films, it's a great way to see 5 of his greatest features and 4 of his shorts. It starts at 7:00 pm (CST) with "City Lights," followed by "Modern Times," "A Dog's Life," "Shoulder Arms," "The Kid," "The Idle Class," "Pay Day," "The Circus," and "The Gold Rush" at 3:45 am.

So take a nap this afternoon so you can stay up all night. I believe the program repeats in 3 months, on April 16, his birthday. Here's a link:

http://www.tcm.com/this-month/article/461149|0/Chaplin-As-The-Little-Tramp.html

The Christmas Snail

There’s an old joke that seems appropriate about now. It goes like this.

A man is in his living room one night when there’s a knock at the door. He opens it and there, at his feet, stands a small snail.  The man grabs the snail and flings it as far as he can, across the street into a neighbor’s yard. He closes the door. One year later, the man is again in his living room when he hears a knock at the door. He opens it and the same snail is standing there. The snail looks up at the man and says, “So... what was that all about?”

I thought of that snail the other day when I went to The Mall. Doesn’t matter which mall, does it? It’s like asking, “Which Denny’s did you eat at?”

Long lines of traffic lined the highway and roads leading into the parking lots and garages,an annual pilgrimage. Like a Ridley Scott movie where an endless column of Roman soldiers, stretching to the horizon, march resolutely to lay siege to the castle. 

As I walked from the garage through some sliding doors into The Mall, I saw signs on the doors with two words. “Shop More.” It meant stores are open later, I think until midnight or 2 a.m. or dawn. The deeper meaning was obvious.

The mood inside The Mall was energetic, to say the least. People moved in all directions, Christmas music seeped through the very walls and ceiling. People on cell phones or hands-free mobile devices seemed to talk to themselves or passing strangers or to the air. People carried logo-decorated bags large and small. Their attitudes covered the range from fun and relaxed to frantic and stressed. 

I saw Macy’s at the end of The Mall. Its logo took on a new meaning. The Red Star. I used to equate the Red Star with the Red Army back in the good old days of World War 2. But now it became a religious beacon, calling out to shoppers, guiding the Three Wise Shoppers looking for 20% off, plus another 10% for using their Macy’s charge.

The swirling shoppers, the patient traffic, the determination and enthusiasm, the sales. Always the sales. It’s the same scene as last year, the year before, and every year before that, stretching back to the horizon.

On Christmas night, after the nation has unwrapped presents, admired choices and colors and considerations, hugged and kissed each other, thrown another log on the fire or poured another cup of coffee or glass of wine ... on that night I will drive by The Mall. I will scan the vacant lot and empty garage, the empty roads, the dark and silent buildings. And I will think about that snail.

And I will wonder, “What was that all about?”

I wish you a happy and peaceful holiday season, that you enjoy and appreciate your family and friends, that the season brings you all closer together and pushes problems further away. That your hugs last more than three seconds. The realization that some presents are transitory and can be returned on Monday. Just keep in mind, the time we have together is precious. Use it wisely.

The Captain, The Witch and The Writer

The first time I saw her, she had a green face, a long, sharp nose that looked more like a weapon, and she told Dorothy, “I’ll get you, my pretty. And your little dog, too.” She was a witch and she scared me. I almost dropped my box of Jujubees. Fortunately she eventually melted into a puddle with only her pointed hat resting on top.

The next time I saw her she was sitting in a chair, sans green face and  hat, talking to Captain 11. That was in the studio of Channel 11, next door to the Chase Hotel. I worked there at some lowly  writing and producing job for $40 a week. Minimum wage. Twenty years had passed and I was meeting Margaret Hamilton, the Wicked Witch of the West. This was probably 1961.

I had forgotten all about this event until I came across a couple of old photos in an envelope recently, while attempting to “organize” my stuff. Hercules had an easier time with the stables. (My lone, pathetic reference to Greek mythology). Margaret was a charming, graciouis guest and still making movies, though I don't know what she was doing in St. Louis.

The Captain was Harry Fender, a former St. Louis detective and host of a late night radio show from the Steeplechase Lounge of the Chase Hotel. His claim to fame was that he had turned down an offer from Florenz Ziegfield to appear in the opening of a new musical on Broadway when he was just a boy. The show was “Showboat.” 

Now Harry wore a white wig, an ill-fitting sea-captain’s uniform, and did his best to entertain little kids on the daily TV show, which was “live” and showed old Dick and Larry cartoons, and Three Stooges shorts.

The program was “Captain 11 and JoJo,” and his partner was Joe Cuscanelli, a young man with a beautiful operatic voice who had taken the part of Captain 11’s foil just to pay his bills. He disliked children almost as much as Harry did.

Margaret, of course, held the children spellbound. As she did me and everyone else in the studio, including Harry and Joe. After all, this was one of the great villains of the day, maybe even of the century. I didn’t get her autograph; I didn’t have my picture taken with her. I just shook hands, said "hi," and stared at her, surprised at how young she was. 

Maybe I was still afraid of her awesome power, that she would turn the flying monkeys loose or strike me with a bolt of lightning. I think I would have preferred meeting the Cowardly Lion. Now he was a funny guy.