The End of an Era

People develop all sorts of loyalties – to athletes and sports teams,  musical groups, actors, restaurants, and even our favorite blogs.   Over the years our family developed quite a loyalty to a certain type of car  -the Pontiac – and so with General Motors announcement yesterday about  the end of this division, we’re all feeling rather mournful.

My first car wasn’t a Pontiac, but my second car definitely was – a 1975 silver Trans Am, making me the envy of not only all my girlfriends, but my boyfriend as well.   Over the next few years, we built a stable of Trans Am’s – my boyfriend (now my husband) purchased a 1976 Trans Am in Firethorn Red, and so we had two “screaming eagles” in our garage.

But our ultimate Pontiac purchase was in February of 1980.  Barely hours after our son was born, Jim was investigating the purchase of a 1979 black Trans Am – the infamous Smoky and the Bandit edition.  While I lay in my hospital bed, he and my father were out test driving this car.  Now some women might have been offended and angry – but I was actually pretty excited about the whole thing.   A new baby and a new Trans Am – what could have been better?

So when I brought Brian home from the hospital, the Bandit was in the garage.  We’ve always teased Brian that he and the Bandit were siblings, coming to live with us at the same time.  And indeed, he fell in love with that car practically from birth.  In my mind’s eye there’s a vivid picture of him perched proudly in his car seat  driving off with his dad for one of their “guys nights out.”    Later, he would pose for his high school senior portrait with the Bandit in the background, and later still, drive it from the church on his wedding day.  

Yes, we still have the Bandit – it’s 30 years old this year.  Although it’s been languishing in my mom’s garage  for the past 15 years,  it’s still in pretty decent shape for a girl that age.   And even though Brian and Jim each bought brand new  Trans Am’s in 1998, I daresay they both have a lingering soft spot for the “old ’79.”

As you can see, we’re definitely a car family.  Certainly living our entire lives in Detroit makes us more interested in “rolling sculpture” than someone who lives in the farmland of Iowa.  The fact that our livelihoods have depended on automobile companies for three generations has a lot to do with it.   In fact, Brian is the first male in our family since the Great Depression whose work is not related to auto manufacturing.   (Right now that seems like a very astute choice on his part.)   It’s ironic isn’t it, that during that other period of economic upheaval it was the automobile manufacturer’s who provided hope and a fresh start for so many Americans.  My own maternal grandfather left behind the only life he’d ever known as a farmer and horse breeder in the hills of Kentucky to bring his family to Detroit and make a new life in the factories.  I recall my paternal grandfather, who came here from Armenia as a refugee from the Turkish genocide, saying “Thank God for Ford Motor Company.”  My in-law’s pensions and health care benfits from Ford Motor Company and Chrysler provided them with a good lifestyle throughout their retirement and until their deaths.

So I’m saddened by the troubles that plague the American automobile companies.  And I’m angry at all the circumstances which conspired to bring this once proud and flourishing industry to its knees. I wish people on both sides of the corporate fence hadn’t been so greedy, outsourcing so much of our labor to increase profits.  I wish the American people had been more loyal to the industry and purchased cars built by American companies.  And I hope someday I’ll be able to take my grandchildren for a ride in a new sports car made in America, even if it won’t be a Pontiac.

 The other day I bought a few shares of stock in General Motors.  Though it was little more than a symbolic show of support, it was my small way of saying thanks – for the rumble of a 400 cubic inch engine, for the memories of wind in my hair, and for the look of pure delight on a small boy’s face.   

Only My Hairdresser Knows For Sure

Did I ever tell you my hair color horror story?  I was in such a state of shock for several weeks, that I don’t believe I could bring myself to write about it.   While the most devastating effects have now faded from my memory (and thankfully from my hair!) the ramifications continue in other ways.

Here’s what happened…

On December 4, 2008, I made an appointment for my regular hair cut/color session.  I’ve been coloring my hair for a while, first getting highlights, but recently having an all-over color just to brighten my dark brown hair and cover the isolated gray hair that cropped up now and again.  I’ve had the same stylist for a couple of years, and I love her dearly.   My heart goes out to her in many ways – she has an interesting life, but that’s for another post.

Anyway, she puts the color on as usual, checking her little notebook for the formula.  She comes back with her dish of color, and starts brushing it on. 

“Wait a minute,” she says.  “Let me just check that formula again.”  She grabs the notebook and runs her index finger down the page.   “Yes, okay,”  she says.  “That’s what I did.  Okay, then.”

She continues painting away, and we talk – about my plans for the night which include attending my husband’s big Christmas concert at U of M’s Hill Auditorium, about all my friends who are going, about my boss and her husband and their friends who are going for the first time, about how I will see some of my former high school students in the Michigan Men’s Glee Club, who are guest performers at the concert.  How excited I.  How much fun it will be.

And then I sit for 30 minutes while the color “takes.”

And then she unwraps the towel from my head and says the words no woman wants to hear from her hairdresser.

“Oh, no.”

“What?” I said warily, rearing up from the shampoo bowl.

“Oh, Becky,” she said in a whisper.  “You hair is not the right color.”

“What do you mean?” I yelped. ” What color is it?”

“It’s too…red,” she replied, pushing my shoulder down into the crux of the shampoo bowl.  “Here, let me see if I can rinse some of this out.”

“How red is it?” I asked as she scrubbed my head.  “I mean, is it bright red? Or auburn? Or orange? What color red?”

“It’s not orange-red, it’s –  well, it’s more purple,” she answered.

“Purple!”

It’s 3:00 p.m., I’m leaving for Ann Arbor in 2 hours, and I have purple hair.

I caught a glimpse of it once, in between rinses and clarifiers and all kinds of other treatments.  At one point, four stylists were clustered around me, conferring like a bunch of surgeons over an ungainly and inoperable tumor.  My hair was that cranberry color some of the younger girls are wearing now.  It was unbelievably horrible. 

I swallowed hard.  “My God,” was all I could say.  Finally, I had to call a halt. 

“I have to leave,” I told them.  “You’ve got to make it as presentable as possible.” 

“Presentable” turned out to be almost equally terrifying shade of black – the dark black some of the other younger girls are wearing, the girls they call “Goths.”

Believe me when I tell you there were days I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror.  I have always had dark brown hair, but this was jet black – like my daughter in laws beautiful Asian locks, but looking absolutely ridiculous on this fair skinned, middle aged Caucasian woman.

And so I swore up and down I would never color my hair again.  I was desperate to see my “real” hair, longed to see my own brown, wavy hair, the color I was born with.  I ached with regret for covering it up, for being so vain as to want a new color.  “If my real hair is under here,” I begged, “I’ll never cover it up again.”

It’s been four months now, four months of daily washes with clarifying shampoo (for a while I was washing my hair in Tide with bleach, trying to strip out the color faster).  The horrible black has faded to a quite presentable chestnut brown.  And there is new hair growing in daily, new hair that is apparently the natural color I was so longing to see once again.

Except it isn’t.  Because all my new hair growth is gray.

 I’ve never been terribly vain about my appearance. I don’t wear tons of makeup, and I’ve  never even considered having cosmetic surgery.  But I am finding it difficult to accept the idea of seeing my hair entirely gray.  I’ve always been fond of my hair – even though it’s occasionally unruly in humid weather, it’s thick and wavy, it lies beautifully when cut well, and is extremely easy to style with 10 minutes and blow dryer.  And it was a rich, chocolate brown, with natural auburn highlights. 

My mother had beautiful dark brown hair too, just like mine.  Her hair turned gray when she was in her late 30’s.  Back in those days, she colored her hair with a technique called “frosting,” which was similar to highlighting now.  Once, having just returned from the salon with a fresh “salt and pepper” look, my great grandmother took one look at her and said with her usual candor, “Honey, I don’t know why you don’t let your hair go back to its natural color.”

My mother laughed.  “Grandma, I sure wish I could!” she replied.

Ah yes, so do I.

How about you? Do you have a hair color horror story?  Do you color you hair, or go au naturel?  Or does only your hairdresser know for sure?

Breaking the Bank

My mother’s next door neighbors have two children, kids who were tiny when they moved in, and have now, as is the way of children, grown into large, rambunctious teenagers.  They’re a nice family, though, and my mom has fond memories of summer evenings when they would tumble around in her backyard, or sit on her patio coloring and devour the homemade cookies or cupcakes she kept on hand for them.

When Ashleigh, the eldest, turned 16 a few years ago, my mother bought her a cute ceramic piggy bank and put 16 crisp, new one-dollar bills in it.  Travis, the younger boy, is set to celebrate his 16th birthday this weekend, and she wanted to give him the same gift.

Trouble is, we can’t find a piggy bank.

“Piggy bank?” asked the clerk at K-Mart, barely more than a teenager himself, with an interesting tatoo on his inner arm and a very dangerous looking spike in his left ear.   “Uh, no, we ain’t got those.”

“Piggy bank…” said the older lady stocking the shelves at  Dollar General.  “You know, I haven’t seen one of those in ages.”

I had a couple of piggy banks, a dark blue one I particularly remember because it was painted with bright pink flowers.  I think my uncle brought it to me from Mexico…it was distinctly un-porcine in appearance.  The nicest feature about it was the rubber stopper on the underside, so that making periodic withdrawals was quite easy.  The other one was made of glass, and the only way to get the money out was to smash it.  (I never used that one.)

But I did stuff money into the piggy bank every week – I got an allowance in those days, I think 50 cents or a dollar per week, and I always put some of that money into the piggy bank.   Saving money was kind of fun, actually, and I was encouraged to save up for things that I wanted.  I admit that my parents usually gave in and “helped” me finance the purchase price (I was an impatient little consumer), but at least they urged me to make an effort toward saving.

Apparently (and now I’m going to sound like a old fart) children are not taught to save money these days.  At least, they’re not putting it into piggy banks.  Maybe all kids have brokerage accounts – to go along with their cell phones and computers.  Maybe they have ATM cards, and can withdraw money from one of the kazillions of machines located in every place from the library to the laundromat.  Maybe they just charge their comic books and bubble gum graphic novels and granola bars. 

My father in law lived through the Great Depression, and never tired of telling us how he went to his bank one morning and saw a closed sign on the door.  His entire savings – money he intended to purchase his own farm – gone in the blink of an eye.  Naturally, he was paranoid about money forever after.  He kept emergency stashes of cash in his own version of piggy banks – steel boxes hidden in the rafters and buried in the cellar.  He even had a suitcase filled with cash  shoved under the bed and chained to the bedframe. 

The idea of money has become so nebulous to children..it appears on gift cards and debit cards and electronic transfer, but rarely as greenbacks or silver in the palm of your hand.  The concrete exchange of money for services rendered is all but obsolete. We pay for everything from gasoline to major surgery with a quick swipe of a card through an electronic reader.   So the direct line from work to compensation to purchase gets very blurry, creating a disconnect in the process which leads to very poor money management skills.  Hence, a generation of people who are drowning in debt.

And all because you can’t buy a piggy bank.

So Travis won’t be getting his 16 shiny new dollars in a piggy bank.  My mom ended up getting a tiny red sand pail instead, which she stuffed with confetti, candy, and the 16 dollar bills.  I’m sure he won’t mind not getting the piggy bank, for he’s liable to head straight to i-Tunes or Best Buy with his birthday loot. 

Unless he stashes it in a suitcase under the bed.

Sunday Scribblings (on Monday): Scary

“When I look out there it kind of seems like I’m in the suburbs,” my uncle said, peering out the front door of the home he’s lived in since 1953.   “Really, though, I don’t know where this is…”

He turned and shuffled back to his bedroom, crawling into the bed where he spends most of the days.  He rarely gets dressed now, a man who once shopped only at Brooks Brothers, buying three or four suits at a time to wear to work, and countless pinstriped shirts and khaki’s for “everyday” around the house.  My aunt, who once complained that he felt the need to use a clean towel for each of the two or three showers he often took per day, now nags him somewhat relentlessly until she manages to get him into the shower once or twice a week.

When my mother in law died last September, another victim of Alzheimer’s Disease, I had watched her decline for about eight years.  And now, I’m watching my uncle follow the exact same pattern.  

Can I say how much I despise this disease?  How angry it makes me that a person’s entire life is erased from their memory, that they can no longer recall their children, their home, their favorite color or song, can’t crave the taste of chocolate or coffee, can’t sing a tune or swing a golf club, write a check or a grocery list.  I want to stomp on Alzheimer’s Disease, I want to tear it into shreds and toss it into the ocean.  I want it eradicated from the face of the earth.

Most of all, I want it to leave my family the hell alone.

Am I scared of this disease? You bet, I’m scared.  Terrified would be more like it.  I have to remind myself not to get too smug, that just because no one in my direct blood line has it – not my parents or grandparents, nor any of their brothers or sisters – that doesn’t mean I’m immune.  It could strike me randomly, like a wayward bomb from some crazy fighter pilot in the sky.

And I’m petrified for my husband, who has developed every other health condition his mother had, right down to benign cysts on their right kidneys and identical parathyroid tumors on the same gland (which they both had surgically removed on the same day back in 2004).   Add to that the plethora of other risk factors he has – a long history of high blood pressure and high cholesterol,  recently diagnosed pre-diabetes, poor diet, a sedentary lifestyle – and I feel as if I might as well put him on the waiting list at Chestnut Village.  Does he listen to my warnings, or those of the myriad health professionals out there?

What do you think?  If he inherited anything at all  from his father, it was stubbornness.

But lately I’m feeling just as angry as I am fearful.  Where did this scourge of a disease come from, anyway?  Why all of a sudden are so many millions of people living their last years of life being stripped of their memory and intellect?  Is is something in the water? In food? In microwaves or cell phones? 

Somebody just tell me, so I can do something about it.

For of course, there’s the biggest fear of all.  This horrible disease causes it’s victims to lose complete control over their lives.  And for a control freak like me, what could be more fearsome?  A fate worse than death, indeed.

So yes, I’m scared.  But I’m also “stomp my foot” mad, and I don’t want to take this anymore. 

Let’s get to work on stem cell research.  Let’s support the efforts of the Alzheimer’s Association, and other organizations who are looking for cures.

Let’s insure that our children and grandchildren can forget all about Alzheimer’s Disease, and needn’t be afraid of it at all.

for Sunday Scribblings

All About Me

Joanne, aka Aspiring Writer, tagged me for a meme…and a new one (at least for me) at that.  So here goes…

Rules~

1. Respond and rework. Answer the questions on your blog, replace one question you dislike with a question of your own invention; add a question of your own.

2. Tag eight other un-tagged people.

WHAT IS YOUR CURRENT OBSESSION?  The score of Sweet Charity.  I’ve been working at the darn thing since October and there are still songs which defeat me every time.  Really, is it necessary to compose in the the key of  five sharps and six flats (in the same song?)
GOOD FIKA (coffee) PLACE? First Cup, an independent coffee shop in our neighborhood.  Organic coffee, fresh sandwiches and soup, and neat atmosphere.
DO YOU NAP A LOT?  Never nap.  Never have. Wastes time when I could be reading, writing, or practicing.

WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU HUGGED? My husband, 10 minutes ago.  Unless dogs count, and then it was Magic.

WHAT’S FOR DINNER?  I have no idea.  My lovely mother cooks dinner for me on Wednesdays when I work all day and go to rehearsal in the evening.  Isn’t that wonderful?

WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU BOUGHT?  Wow, I just realized how little I buy things anymore.  I really should do more to support the economy, shouldn’t I?  I think the last thing I purchased was some teethbrushing treats for my dogs.  (By the way, these are the only ones of these my dogs will eat…they do freshen breath, and are all natural too).

WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?  The sound of race cars emanating from the tv in the family room.  Zoom zoom.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE WEATHER?  Sunny and 70 degrees.

WHAT’S ON YOUR BEDSIDE TABLE?  My current reading, The Private Patient, by P.D. James, a small reading lamp, and three photos of my son at various ages of his life (so his face is the last thing I see before I turn out the light at night 🙂 

SAY SOMETHING TO THE PERSON/S WHO TAGGED YOU?  I can’t wait until you finish your novel and get it published!!

IF YOU COULD HAVE A HOUSE TOTALLY PAID FOR, FULLY FURNISHED ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD, WHERE WOULD YOU WANT IT TO BE?    The south of England, by the sea.

FAVOURITE VACATION SPOT?  We mostly “vacation” in Florida because we have family and a second home there.  But for pure vacation-ing, I love northern California.  I also loved England, and would like to go back there.

NAME THE THINGS YOU CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT.  My family of course, including Magic and Molly.  Materially, a piano, books, and my computer.

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE IN YOUR HANDS RIGHT NOW?  My grandchild.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE GUILTY PLEASURE? (new question)  Watching American Idol and Dancing With the Stars.

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO  GET RID OF  CHANGE ABOUT YOURSELF ?  I wish I were more assertive.

IF YOU COULD GO ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD FOR THE NEXT HOUR, WHERE WOULD YOU GO?  Thailand, where my son is right now.

WHAT DID YOU WANT TO BECOME AS A CHILD?  A teacher, first.  Then a journalist. 

WHAT DO YOU MISS?  Living in the same city as my only child.  It’s a huge bummer.

WHAT ARE YOU READING RIGHT NOW?  The aforementioned, The Private Patient.  Also John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction.

WHAT DO YOU FEAR THE MOST?  Enclosed spaces.  It’s a fear that’s getting more intense.

FAVOURITE MOVIE THIS PAST YEAR? Vicky Christina Barcelona.

FAVOURITE BOOK YOU’VE READ THIS YEAR?  The year is young, but so far The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.

No specific tags…just join in if the spirit moves you 🙂

April (Snow) Showers

It ain’t over ’til it’s over, as the saying goes…and winter is not over just yet.  We have a decent blanket of snow on this ground this morning, albeit a wet, slushy one that will disappear in a minute if the sun comes out.  My daylilies and tulips are still peeking through, but just barely. 

This week leads us toward Easter, the season which celebrates ressurection, rebirth, renewal…the essence of spring, really.  And I had been in an Easter-ish mood – until this morning that is. 

Life remains busy, but not too,  and I have maintained my record of no colds, sinus infections, or flu bugs of any sort, despite my crazy schedule and exposure to all sorts of sick people.  (knock wood)

Rehearsals for Sweet Charity are winding down, with the show opening in three weeks.  I’m not playing in the pit orchestra, because I was reluctant to commit to 16 performances over a period of four weeks.  And after spending my first rehearsal in the actual orchestra pit last night, I even happier with that decision!  This is the deepest pit I’ve ever seen – it must be 15 feet under the stage.  The only access is through a trap door with a ladder!  Egad!   I admit to some sweaty palms about getting down there (getting back up was easier), and then I was fearful that my claustrophobia would kick in.  It’s actually pretty roomy once you’re in there, but it’s cold and damp.  My hands were like blocks of ice, which isn’t great for all the fast passages in these songs. 

Being a rehearsal accompanist for a musical is kind of a thankless task most of the time.  The director and actors tend to ignore you during rehearsal – they’re completely caught up in getting their blocking, dialogue, and lyrics just right, which I completely understand. The music director for this show happens to be a former student at the high school where I work.  We’ve kept in touch over the years (he’s 31 now!), and I feel a bit protective of him in this venture, his first as “musical director.”   I think he appreciates having a friendly face around during rehearsal, too.

But last night, after four hours at the keyboard, I received a round of applause when I (finally!) crawled out of the pit.   “We really couldn’t do this without you,” the director said (one of the two sentences she’s said to me since we started rehearsals in January!)

That was nice.

I’m actually quite content to be in the background, which is why accompanying is perfect for me.   I like playing, but I don’t like being the “featured performer,” at least not in a solo setting.  I really enjoyed performing with Classical Bells – the performing was much the best part.  But there again, I was part of a group effort.  I got some attention, but the audience wasn’t focused solely on me.

So it’s taken a while for me to figure out where I fit in the musical spectrum – I’m not a soloist, I’m not a teacher – but I do like to perform, and being part of a small group or accompanying other people is a good way to me to do that.  It’s a relief to have that settled.

I wish I could figure out where I fit into the writing spectrum as neatly.

Now, here’s my secret musical wish…I would love to be in a chamber group ~ a piano trio or quintet.   A group that played classic literature, but also new pieces and arrangements of semi-classical and folk tunes. A group that performed within the community, played weddings and social engagements on occasion, maybe a bit of recording.  Just tossing that out into the atmosphere in the spirit of spring.

How about you?  Do you have a good sense of where you fit in your chosen field(s) of endeavor?  Do you have a secret wish in those fields?  You can tell me – your secret is safe with me 🙂