Birds are flitting about, warbling their songs, building their nests. Robins and wrens, sparrows and finch, even the mallards are making way for their ducklings.
I’ve been busy doing spring cleaning in the garden, raking up leaves left on the flower beds from last Autumn, uncovering shoots that seem to burst forth with all the eagerness of a fourth grader once the weather warms and the sun shines. I also uncovered a frog – and a snake, who very rudely stuck his tongue out at me. Imagine that!
We hear there is a fox den under our neighbor’s shed. She counted five kits the other day. I take extra trips out to the compost pile in hopes of seeing them.
There is new growth everywhere, from the emerging ferns to the dripping pine cones. Tiny scilla cast long shadows and crocus pop up from under decaying leaves.
Just as I was getting ready to sit down and write, news came that Roger Ebert had passed away. I felt a sadness at his passing, and the ending of an era of good writing and civil discourse.
Roger Ebert was a writer, a reporter, and a film critic; the title you may know him most prominently for. Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel paired up in the 1970′s reviewing movies on television. Siskel and Ebert were quite a pair; movie critics from rival newspaper. Siskel wrote for the Chicago Tribune, while Ebert wrote for the Chicago Sun Times. The two would sit in a studio balcony and critique movies, often getting into heated discussions about a movie and whether it deserved a thumbs up or thumbs down.
It was great entertainment, in part because of their lively exchanges, mostly because they discussed movies intelligently. Sets and scripts and writers and a movie’s value were all brought into play and, for a generation or two, they taught us to look for quality in films, not just fluff and box office smashes.
Roger Ebert won the Pulitzer Prize for movie critics in 1975. It was an unheard of honor then for a movie critic. He was among the first, if not the first, movie critic to draw attention to independent films. This was long before Sundance and others and his thumbs up helped propel the careers of many in the business. He was intelligent, fair, principled, witty, and loved the cinema. He also loved to read – and to write.
Roger Ebert continued the show after Gene Siskel passed away. Their rivalry was also a friendship, much, it would seem, like brothers in fierce competition to be first.
Over the past dozen or so years, Roger Ebert battled cancer of the thyroid and salivary glands. While he endured treatment, enjoyed remissions, and continued to work, cancer eventually led to the removal of his jaw and the collapse of his vocal chords. Instead of hiding, Ebert soldiered on, continuing to write, using technology, and eventually speaking mechanically. His face disfigured, his voice silenced, unable to eat, he penned some of his best work, tweeted and blogged, tackling many subjects, including movies.
I wrote about Roger Ebert, linking to a post I found particularly touching, early on in my blogging life, which can be found here. I read Ebert’s post again this evening, then read a few more, glad for he and his words, which could really never be stilled, and all that they taught us.
As she concluded her conversation with us last Saturday, Jackie Kennedy (Leslie Goddard) held up the 1960′s music album, Camelot. She spoke softly of how she and Jack played its soundtrack at night, and she recalled those lifting lyrics of “there’s simply not, a more congenial spot, for happily- ever- aftering than here in Camelot“. The song has hummed about my head all week as I traveled in the snow, pretending to be in “a more congenial spot”, my memories wending back to my first trip to Camelot.
As the make-up editor of the school newspaper my senior year of high school, I had the privilege of several interesting outings, press conferences, and close encounters with a few famous people. My responsibility was to arrange the stories on the pages of the newspaper, write the headlines, crop and paste pictures, etc. This, dear reader, was in the days where printing was done off campus. We published an eight page newspaper, twice a week, and we did it during a school year that saw historic snowstorms, the assassination of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King, not to mention that our own school’s civil unrest. Our reporters were often rewriting stories and writing breaking news stories at the drop of a hat, all while serving in other clubs and being students. Several were National Merit Scholars, most of us were in the National Honor Society, all of us loved the lure of newspapers. We never missed a deadline. It was exciting and an educational experience that I have never forgotten.
We also got to meet notables of the time; astronaut Eugene Cernan, actress Carol Lawrence (who was married to Robert Goulet, Broadway’s handsome Sir Lancelot), Hugh O’Brien (aka Wyatt Earp), and advice columnist Ann Landers, who gave advice I failed to heed and for which I am paying for today. Another story for another day.
Then, there was Camelot. Janice, and I were assigned the task of Camelot. A showing of the Lerner and Lowe movie musical was playing at one of the ornate, downtown Chicago theaters and we were to do a movie review. Suburban busses and city trains took us to the theater, our seats were procured, and there we were, in Camelot instead of English and Chemistry. The costumes, the music, Sir Lancelot’s blue eyes, King Arthur’s vision of Camelot, Merlin’s aging, Lady Guinevere. Ah, Guinevere.
Janice was the editor-in-chief, and she gave me the responsibility of writing the review. I had never done a theater review before. It needed to be three hundred words, and it needed to be done in two days. I spent hours in the library reading movie reviews, writing down my own thoughts, then typing, and re-typing, the magical moments and musical refrains buoying me up, until my words were done. It was, I was told, a job well done, and off it and the news and the sports and editorials went, to press; and off I went to my daydreams of Camelot.
I seem to be happening upon favorite movies lately, and it happened again on Wednesday night. Clicking aimlessly through channels on a night when even PBS had nothing of interest for me, on a night I just needed to escape with some television, there it was. Ulee’s Gold.
Earlier in the day, I made a special trip to the Elmhurst Farmers Market to replenish my honey pot. Whenever I can, I try to buy local honey, for all the reasons one should; supporting small, independent businesses, keeping the carbon footprint to a minimum, taste, and the fact that local honey really does help me come allergy season. Knowing a vendor who is usually at the market, I headed out for 16 ounces of local gold.
The beekeeper and I chatted, he reminding me to return the jar for reuse, me assuring him I would as a young lad stood nearby, sipping a honey straw as if it were the last drop of sweetness he would ever have.
The honey will last me for quite some time. I will return the jar in the fall and buy another for sweetening my tea over the long winter months, but, I digress.
Ulee’s Gold is about a reclusive beekeeper; a Vietnam veteran who still mourns his wife’s passing. As Ulee tends his hives, he finds himself suddenly tending his granddaughters and then their mother, his daughter-in-law, who is strung out on drugs. His son is in jail, and so the story unfolds, slowly, as we follow Ulee, played by Peter Fonda, and watch as he harvests his honey, Tupelo gold. The story is also about family responsibility and how Ulee slowly emerges from his solitary life as he helps and later protects his family as they heal. It is a movie that runs slow, like the golden honey that flows from the tupelo trees, and its cast, led by Peter Fonda, excels.
It was the hunt for honey in the morning and the discovery of Ulee’s Gold in the evening that had me a-buzz, for the movie ended my long day on such a thoughtful note, as the credits rolled and Van Morrison sang Tupelo Honey.
In the bittersweet hour at day’s end, just before dusk descends, the stage here on the Cutoff shifts to Act III; the mood changes, the tension builds, the lighting begins to fade – and the knights of the forest come into view.
So it has been this week. If I watch deliberately, I can see them, emerging, one by one, from tall oak forest. First, a doe will appear, her young fawn trailing behind. She will suddenly bolt across the road and I know that not far behind are her suitors.
I watched the other night as one of the “boys” took his time crossing from our neighbors’ yard, through the brush, into ours. With his crown firmly in place, he displayed a steady gait and a regal posture. A fawn was frolicking behind him; possibly the same youngster I spied just outside our living room window at the crack of dawn, so close was he that the window pane was all that separated us. The fawn was cheeky in the misty morn, and so was the one come dusk, nuzzling up to his elder as if nuzzling up to his mom.
Both buck and boy were aware of my presence and both simply ignored me; like other boys I have known. Soon, very soon, two other bucks appeared, then a doe. While to some the lyrics “doe, a deer, a female deer” might have come to mind, my own inner voice seemed to want to sing “the boys are back in town!”.
These photos are blurry. Just remember, I’m a novice whose view of nature is often one of awesome impressionism.
I had a post brewing about crickets and Candleford and women in sports when synchronicity stepped in and steered my thoughts elsewhere. It happens, now and then, and, well, really rather often as I putter about here on the Cutoff. Does it happen to you as well? When Miss Synchronicity stops by in such a way, I cannot ignore her. This is a replay of a very early post that I have rewritten to fit in today.
A gathering of old friends occurred last week, brought on by the out-of-town visitors, Jeri and Kyle. We were eating desert in Vickie and Mike’s charming and rustic gazebo, catching up on our children and grandchildren, adventures and endeavors and those sort of things when we got to talking about movies. Not the blockbuster types, but the little gems we’ve discovered. Everyone had something to recommend, some seemingly tailor-made for each one of us.
I suggested a movie I thought Cathy and Bill would enjoy. Both are Chicago born and bred; South Side Irish with roots deep into the soil of Ireland and a love for our own Windy City. They are the “salt of the earth” sort of people, longtime friends, and godparents to our Katy. Both seem to enjoy history and Bill law and the judicial system. I thought they would enjoy a little film of about ten years ago called Evelyn.
As I was channel surfing Monday night it was none other than Evelyn that popped up on my television screen. Miss Synchronicity had come to call, so I happily let her in. I was once again enchanted by angel rays, love of family, and how a few good folks really can change the status quo, right some wrongs whilst tilting at the windmills of life.
The story is fictionally based on a real incident in Ireland in the 1950′s involving a father trying to regain custody of his children. They are placed in orphanages by the state because their father, Desmond Doyle, is a single father with unsteady wages and the “love of the drink”. His wife has abandoned the family, but, because she is still alive, the children are taken from Doyle, who cannot get them back without her signature. The Irish Children’s Act of 1941 is what allows this to happen. His only recourse is to challenge the Irish constitution, which, at that time, was unheard of.
The children are two boys and a girl, Evelyn, who is the oldest. The young actress who plays her is engaging and believable as the movie portrays both the good and the bad sides of the Catholic church in Ireland at a time when much of its children were in church run orphanages.
There is a scene of the first night Evenly is in the orphanage, where Evelyn is reprimanded for sleeping on her side, an act that would allow the devil to do his work. A nun tells her she will watch her all night to make sure she didn’t sleep this way. There is also a scene where Evelyn is beaten, which later figures in to the court case. There are, however, equally tender moments, with a loving Sister who is kind to Evelyn and the other girls. It is really a movie of hope and optimism that things can be changed for the better.
As Evelyn is dropped off by her grandfather at the orphanage, there is a pivotal scene in the movie. Her own father, Doyle, played by Pierce Brosnan, to perfection I might add, is simultaneously bringing the boys to their own institution. Evelyn is sitting with Grandad by a window when a ray of sunshine suddenly shines through onto her hand. He tells her that it is an angel ray, her guardian, always waiting to help her.
Desmond Doyle is eventually aided by local and not-so-local solicitors, played by the likes of Aidan Quinn, Alan Bates, and Stephen Rea. It is ten-year old Evelyn whose light really shines on the screen as she gently shows how truth and tolerance, faithfulness and forgiveness can make us all better persons.
This morning, I once again let the sunshine dance upon my hand. I felt its warmth, even though I knew the day would become simmering and hot, and I pretended it was my very own angel ray sent to help me along the Cutoff again today.
Here is an article that I found, which seems to have just been published today, about the real Evelyn Doyle. Synchronitic?
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Out and about, running errands, I noticed the movie on the marquee. Why not?
The end of July/beginning of August is always a season of unrest for me, never more so than this year. I needed a change of pace and decided to seize the moment at hand. The car seemed to steer itself into the parking garage, the light turned green then waved its little red hand for me to proceed through the cross walk. Before I knew it, I had a ticket in hand and strolled to the designated theater, where there was a log-jam of decision makers.
Four women and two men. One of the group was quite agitated, saying, loudly enough for me to hear.
“I didn’t think we were going to that kind of movie.”
A calmer head prevailed, saying “. . . they just left the word Marigold out.”
“Oh”
They proceeded in. I followed, trying hard not to giggle. Nestled into my seat, the best one in the house I might add, right where I wanted to be. I watched all the advertisements there on the screen. The theater darkened. The movie started. The door opened in back and a couple came in. She was rather loud as I heard her bark orders to her companion.
“No. Here. No. Don’t bend your legs. No. Straighten your legs, there is no seat there.”
All this just as the character Norman falls out of his chair, onto the floor, the guests of the Marigold Hotel declaring him dead!
Really. Do you think for a moment that I would make these things up?
The movie was delightful. Not a great movie, but a great cast; both on screen and off. It was fun to watch it amid a group of seasoned adults who “got it”. They laughed at all the innuendoes and asides and I thought I heard a feeble cheer go up when Evelyn gets a job teaching the outsourced telemarketers how to interact with customers. It was just what I needed as I wrestle with changes in my own life, and wonder why my own marigolds are having such a tough time this year.
Nothing says summer here in the Midwest quite like corn on the cob. While crops are suffering tragically this year, with a bleak future for farmers and consumers alike, there is still local sweet corn to be found. Not knowing quite what tomorrow will bring, I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to head to a farmers market where I knew the first ears of sweetness might be.
A dozen silken ears clothed in green husks immediately found their way into my car. Half of them were on the table for Wednesday night supper.
I nibbled away, attacking each golden kernel with determination, butter dripping recklessly down my fingers, barely catching my breath, and feeling a bit like Tom Hanks in the movie Big.
I actually saw a goose “goose” a goose. In broad daylight!
