You can find examples of the extraordinary human-canine bond, like the search for the blind, aged Madera in dangerously cold temperatures, virtually every day. We saw it in our neighborhood recently when we walked outside after a recent snowfall and saw a couple pulling an obviously hobbled and sickly white-muzzled dog down the street on a makeshift sled. They explained that their dog loved the snow and they wanted to let him experience it, even if he couldn’t romp around like he used to. So they created the carrier and were struggling to steer the dog down the snow-covered street, one pushing and one pulling. It’s not exactly how most people would want to spend their Saturday, but it’s the kind of thing dog owners do.
Of all seasons of the year, I think I hate the end of winter the most. It always brings the worst weather conditions of the year.
It would be nice to have cold weather and snow on the ground until the end of winter came abruptly and conclusively. In one day, the temperature would bounce from 20 to 55, all the snow would melt, and thereafter the thermometer would never go below 50.
Of course, that never happens. Instead, we get this interim period of slop and slush and ice filled water and treacherous footing and wet shoes. The snow melts, then we get freezing rain, then the mercury plunges again and everything freezes over. Winter drags on, and on, and you never know when it’s truly over.
They say March comes in like a lamb or a lion. In Columbus today, where more snow is falling, we’ve drawn the fierce and roaring lion. The snowfall is making the riotous jumble of lawn furniture in our back yard look like a bad effort at modern art sculpture.
They say that March goes out the opposite way it came in. If so, that would be fine with us. It seems like this winter has lasted forever, and as far as we are concerned the lamb-like weather can’t get here soon enough.
Sometimes the fates are unkind. The delivery of our new, smaller washer and dryer has been inexplicably delayed, so of course Penny would pick this morning as a perfect time to barf on our bed. Therefore, this afternoon we’ll be hanging at the Hausfra Haven laundromat, where there’s a vintage Galaxian for entertainment and a weight and fortune scale.
My fortune was: “you love to flatter people but seldom mean it.”
Last night Richard, Julianne, Kish and I went to the Columbus Symphony for the latest installment of the American Roots Festival series. This performance was at the Southern Theater, a beautiful, more intimate venue than the mighty Ohio Theater, and featured engaging guest conductor Donato Cabrera and wonderful pianist Thomas Lauderdale.
It was a great program and will be performed again at 8 p.m. tonight. It began with Dvorak’s delightful Humoresque, Op. 101, No. 7, written when he was visiting the United States, which set the evening’s theme — American-inspired music, with jazz and ragtime influences. Highlights for me were Scott Joplin’s Overture to Treemonisha and Kurt Weill’s Little Threepenny Music, both of which I had not heard before. I also liked the recomposition of the orchestra from piece to piece as the composers added a banjos and large saxophone section, and gave the bassoonists a moment in the sun as they sought to capture an American sound.
According to the program the night was to end with Stravinsky’s Scherzo a la russe, but Maestro Cabrera announced during the performance that the order had been changed to close with George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. This was a very wise decision, because it’s hard to imagine any piece following last night’s performance of Gershwin’s opus.
Last night was the first time I’ve seen the Rhapsody performed live, and I’ll never think of that music in the same way again. From the meandering wail of the clarinet that opens the piece, to the beautiful melodies that pop up unexpectedly and are tied together at the end, to the piano trills and fills that give Rhapsody in Blue its spine, the visual aspect of the performance will be forever fixed in my mind. Thomas Lauderdale is a consummate showman, and he gave his grand piano a workout that brought every bit of sound and texture from the instrument. It was, in a word, epic. See it if you have the chance!
I was very saddened to learn today of the death of Leonard Nimoy at age 83. He was an accomplished stage and screen actor, poet, and photographer — but to those of us who loved Star Trek, he will always and forever be the man who created Mr. Spock.
Books have been written about Spock and Kirk and McCoy, the complex relationship between that trio that made Star Trek such a terrific show, and the half-Vulcan character who struggled mightily to keep his human side in check in compliance with the dictates of Vulcan culture and its relentless emphasis on logic. Nimoy made Spock a believable character — and thus a great character — when he very easily could have been as silly as Jar Jar Binks. After all, an alien with pointed ears, green skin and super-human strength who eschews all emotion? But thanks to Nimoy’s deft touch, Spock was as real and complex and layered as any character in the TV or film universe. And, for those of us who were awkward adolescents at the time, dealing with a rush of weird new emotions and our own feelings of not quite fitting in with the rest of the world, Spock was enormously appealing.
I also liked that Nimoy seemed to struggle with the Spock character almost as much as Spock struggled with his human side. Nimoy knew immediately that Spock was an iconic character, and he wanted to avoid being typecast. When the Star Trek series ended, he promptly took on a completely different role as Paris on Mission: Impossible, wrote an autobiography called I Am Not Spock, and seemed to constantly reject the great character he created. But ultimately he relented, reconnected with the role, and played Spock in a long series of movies and TV appearances — and Star Trek fans are grateful that he did. Indeed, his connection with the character became such that he wrote a later autobiography called I Am Spock, and by the end of his life, as Richard points out, Nimoy ended his tweets with LLAP — a reference to Spock’s great Vulcan salutation.
Live Long and Prosper. What a wonderful, simple sentiment from what was supposed to be an unemotional culture! Nimoy lived that sentiment and gave us an unforgettable creation. He will be sorely missed.
A shower is an essential part of the morning routine. You get squeaky clean and move back into conformance with prevailing social hygienic norms. You ruthlessly eliminate that lingering case of bed head. And you finally complete the drowsy transition from blissful sleep to outright, whistling-as-you-get-dressed-for-work wakefulness.
I like my showers hot. In fact, scalding is closer to accurate. I like clouds of steam to rise from the shower floor and fog up the shower door, so that I could write “Kilroy was here” with my index finger if I desired. I want to emerge from the blistering deluge wide-eyed, scourged clean, and as red as a Maine lobster fished out of the bubbling cookpot.
Unfortunately, for the last few months this hasn’t been possible. At our rental unit, the hot water temperature never got above tepid, probably for cost saving and liability avoidance purposes. Even at the maximum heat setting, a shower had no sizzle. As a result, the morning shower there was not a particularly satisfying experience — functional but ho-hum, and sort of like getting woolen socks from your grandmother as a birthday present.
But now we are in our own place and in complete control of the hot water heater, which has been cranked up to high-end, fast-food-carry-out-coffee-before-they-got-sued-into-moderation temperatures. Yes, I think: this is one of the essences of home ownership and the American Dream. Now I get to decide water heat, and “room temperature,” and what to put on the walls, and how much light there will be in each room.
So turn that shower handle to maximum at your own risk, baby! Let the scorching begin!