Memories of Memories

by Eric

Have I written about my earliest memories already? I can't remember so why not give it a try?

Not that my first memories are very exciting. I'm not one of those people who claim to recollect the obstetrician slapping his bottom. And just as well since an initial memory so traumatic might warp a person's whole view of life. In fact I don't retain much prior to my school days. A few jumbled up snapshots taken with a mental Brownie camera, colors leached away by time, out-of-focus, heads cut off, undated.

There's a picture of a dark room illuminated only by a tiny black and white television screen showing Willie the Worm, a local kid's program. Am I sitting in a high chair looking out over a plate? Surely I must have been older than that. I'd hate to think my first memory in life is Willie the Worm. Talk about warping one's viewpoint!

Instead, maybe it was of my dad coming in through the apartment doorway on a rainy day, wearing his overcoat, presumably just home from teaching. No story, no particular significance. Why did that scene stick in my mind?

Or was it the view from our apartment window, looking down into an alley where a fellow sporting a Mohawk is walking by. I guess the exotic haircut amazed me. The big world outside contained things I had never dreamt of.

Although my preschool memories aren't time stamped these have always struck me as the most ancient.

Trivial events but ones I judge authentic because of their triviality. I am not likely recalling a story someone told me, or remembering looking at a photograph in a family album as might be the case with a birthday party or a special toy. I'm certain I never ran across a picture of Willie the Worm until I looked him up on the Internet a few years ago. For decades, I wasn't even sure that Willie had existed or was just a figment of my imagination.

Should I include the terrifying memory of the open stairs leading down from the second floor porch at the back of my parents' apartment? Between the gaps, which appeared large enough to allow for the passage of a small child, you could see all the way to the concrete below. However, I recall having nightmares about falling from those stairs and it might be the more vivid dreams I remember rather than the stairs themselves.

How do you separate memories of dreams from real memories, unless the dreams are about the endless skull-littered plain behind the closet door or the alien tripods looming up over the familiar houses on the street? I'm pretty sure those aren't memories of reality even though they are real memories.

Then again, from this distance, does it make much difference? Is the residue of reality any different from the residue of dreams?

Musical Malefactors

by Mary

We both love musicals, those lively productions when anything, even the most unlikely occurrence, may happen and frequently does. However, it recently occurred to me these bright entertainments often feature characters who walk on the darker side of the footlights.

Take for example Les Miz's prize pair of villains, the innkeeping Thenardiers. Master of the House Monsieur T gloats how he cheats, overcharges, and robs his guests, not to mention watering their wine, admitting the beef on the menu is minced organs not sourced from cows and hinting the sausages will not bear close scrutiny. Well, wayside hostelries may not always be of the best but the couple's villainy is further revealed in their brutal treatment of the little girl Cosette, whose now dying mother had been paying them for her keep. Jean Valjean, former prisoner still on the run and now a town mayor -- as I said, anything may happen in a musical -- promises her he will raise Cosette as his own. When he visits the inn to rescue her the Thenardiers pretend they treated her kindly and express doubts about his intentions towards her. But even so, the couple sell Cosette to him.

Then there's Fleet Street barber Sweeney Todd and his companion in crime Mrs Lovett, who openly admits the meat pies she sells are the worst in London. Nobody seems to notice Sweeney's customers are never seen again after visiting his shop for a shave. This is not surprising, since they've been transformed into the main ingredient for Mrs Lovett's new and improved pies. Her creations become extremely popular and as a result her beastly business booms. She tells Sweeney when enough ill-gotten gains have been saved she'd like them to retire somewhere By The Sea and live in a house where they'd provide suitable accommodations for occasional paying guests, who'd be murdered by Sweeney. I wonder if it occurred to Mrs Lovett that running a B&B would be even more lucrative when breakfast is never needed, although no doubt part of the profits would be lost due to necessary laundry bills.

Oklahoma is on the eve of statehood and farm girl Laurey Williams is loved by two men: hired hand Jud Fry and cowboy Curly McLain. Jud attempts to murder his rival by persuading him to look through a Little Wonder. This intriguing gadget is, so far as I can deduce, some sort of picture viewer. It's not so innocent as it seems and Jud knows this particular artifact conceals a blade that can be triggered as someone looks into it. But is Curly any better for trying to persuade Jud to commit suicide, telling him when Pore Jud Is Daid others will think better of him. Fired, Jud returns to gatecrash Laurey and Curly's wedding, fights with Curly, and dies by falling on his own knife. Fortunately Curly is found not guilty after an informal trial held on the spot. Certainly nuptials to remember!

In this weary and battered world many musicals see justice meted out to those guilty of malice manifested by malevolent machinations. Most of the time at least.

Berry Good Eating

by Eric

Even before the spring melt was finished we could see the traditional green spikes of day lilies sticking up through the remains of the snow by our door. We don't try to garden here in the shade, rocks, and tree roots. We only observe. And maybe put names to the vegetation growing naturally in the backyard.

Finding out the name of a hitherto anonymous plant feels akin to putting a stick through the seed packet and placing it at the end of the row in the flower bed, but without the digging, fertilizing, watering, or sowing. For example, I finally identified the Mock (or Indian) Strawberries that will be decorating the grass soon and last right into the fall. At first I mistook the plants for wild strawberries. From a distance they look the same. Closer examination, though, revealed that while the leaves and vines are very similar, the red berries are bristly, seedier, and lacking in the familiar strawberry smell.

Although too dry and tasteless to appeal to humans, they're apparently tasty to animals. I've seen crows and woodchucks harvesting them. I watched a squirrel making a leisurely feast, repeatedly nosing around in the grass to find a berry, then sitting on its haunches to nibble at the treat held in its paws.

For my own part, I was disappointed they weren't wild strawberries. Coming upon anything uncultivated and edible outside is a bit of a thrill. Does it remind us of our foraging past?

When I was a kid I knew where to find the untended berry bushes in nearby fields and patches of woods. I preferred the small blackcaps and raspberries to the larger blackberries with the seeds that stuck between your teeth.

One year, when Mary and I lived in Rochester, the raspberries along the abandoned railroad tracks a couple blocks from our house went wild. We carried away several grocery bags full. We never again saw the berries in such profusion.

Years before that, in a corner of the tiny yard of a house I rented, a gnarled gooseberry bush clung to life. It looked like it had been there since colonial times, or longer, the gooseberry equivalent of the Glastonbury Thorn. Each year the sparsely leafed skeletal branches managed to bring forth a handful of round, translucent berries.

Even more exotic were the berries I discovered while accompanying my dad on trips to haul garbage to the local dump when I was a kid. Beyond the smoking landfill, just inside the woods, in the light shade of saplings and birch trees, wintergreen covered the ground, red berries bright against dark evergreen leaves. I was amazed. To me wintergreen meant chewing gum or Life Savers. It was strange to encounter it in a natural state. There's a berry I've never identified. I only remember seeing it in one place, in the straggling weeds near the edge of a scrubby patch of woods a few yards away

The mysterious berries were the size, shape, and texture of blackcaps but light orange in color and with a mild taste defined mostly by their unfamiliar, perfumy fragrance. I haven't turned up a photo or description on the Internet that quite matches my memory. Perhaps they were golden raspberries and I'm not recalling them exactly. It's been a long time since I've seen them.

The Burying Berry

by Mary

Word on the country street warns us not to eat, pick, or have anything to do with blackberries after Michaelmas, the feast day of St Michael (29th September, 10th October old style). Ignore this advice at your peril, lest misery, disaster, and an IRS audit follow. There are even those who go so far as to predict whoever disregards the warning will be dead by the end of the year, the risk also extending to members of their family.

I first heard we should not eat blackberries after Michaelmas when I lived in Oxfordshire in the long ago, but it was not until we began writing The Guardian Stones that the belief's dark presence showed up in our fiction. When talking about Isobel, who has gone missing from the village of Noddweir, local wise woman Martha Roper declares "She's been carried off by the devil because she ate blackberries last October. The devil, no doubt about it.." To her way of thinking, wilful Isobel did not listen to those who warned her of the danger and thus went over the fatal date, well into the dangerous period to be dining on the berries.

Recently it occurred to me to ponder why the blackberry came to be regarded in this way. A bit of poking about revealed it was considered to have been cursed by Lucifer because he landed on a blackberry bush after his fall from heaven following defeat by the Archangel Michael. The fallen angel vented his fury by lashing out with a fearful malediction that would cause terrible suffering to those who had post-Michaelmas truck with the fruit.

Depending on location, other traditions have it Lucifer was so enraged at the hitherto innocent blackberry he also burnt, trampled, spat, and/or relieved himself on the bush. Margaret Ann Courtney succinctly warned in Cornish Feasts and Folk-lore (1890) "This fruit, by old people, was said not to be good after Michaelmas, kept by them 10th October (old style); after that date they told you the devil spat on them, and birds fouled them."

Similarly, Charlotte Latham's Some West Sussex Superstitions Lingering in 1868 records the tale of a farmer's wife said to be living near Arundel. Finding herself without the necessary amount of berries needed to make a large batch of blackberry jam, she instructed her charwoman to send a couple of children to pick more for the purpose. The other woman pointed out it was 11th October, adding "I thought every one knew that the devil went round on the 10th October, and spat on all the blackberries, and that if any person were to eat on the 11th, he or some one belonging to him would either die or fall into great trouble before the year was out."

Had Isobel come to grief because she disregarded the awful warning? Well....

Monkey Business at the Flicks

by Mary

Valentine's Day hoves into view as I write and the thought brings back memory of a matter I shall boldly declare we all have in common: our first romantic kiss and/or date.

Let me set the scene in proper fashion. My family lived for several years in Gateshead, the town memorably described by Dr Johnson as a dirty lane leading to Newcastle. Then, as now, a visit to the cinema was a popular outing for a date. There was plenty of choice from numerous cinemas on both sides of the Tyne. Many were second run venues and changed their programmes mid-week.

During our Gateshead residency, we lived equidistant between two picture palaces, the Coatsworth and the Bensham. It was the Coatsworth a boy in my class -- I'll disguise him as Bert -- invited me to a cinematograph entertainment for what would be my first date. He was round-faced and dark haired, and yes, I had a bit of a crush on him.

It was Bert who had given me my first kiss a short while before. He was showing me around the pub his parents ran, including the cellar which featured what I believe is technically termed a beer drop door, i.e. double metal doors set flush in the pavement through which barrels of beer are delivered. In any event, having taken the grand tour we were standing at the door talking when he suddenly leaned forward, planted a kiss on my cheek, shoved me off the step, and slammed the door in my face.

Not exactly romantic, was it?

So here we are, not long afterwards, at the Coatsworth Cinema watching Little Red Monkey, which the Internet informs me is based on a BBC TV series of the same name starring Donald Huston and Honor Blackman. It's a Cold War thriller, wherein someone is assassinating nuclear scientists. Richard Conte arrives and attempts to thwart the villains responsible for these deaths in order to get a Russian defector safely to America.

Back to the Coatsworth Cinema. The only things I remember about Little Red Monkey are, first, its perky organ music and occasional appearances by the titular monkey entering or exiting via a window. Also a comment having nothing to do with the film. It transpired Bert kept his cash in a black purse whose shape was near enough to a heart for me to observe wittily -- or at least I thought so at the time -- if it had been red it should have had an arrow through it.

Since enquiring minds may want to know but are too shy to ask, no, there was no kiss at the end of our date.

Alas, it was not to be. Fortuna intervened in that a few weeks later my family moved back to Newcastle and after that Bert and I never met again.

So there you have it. Meantime, having dragged subscribers this far down Nostalgia Lane, they might care to glance at a couple of sites relevant to my ancient bit of personal history:

Trailer for Little Red Monkey
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tb9BBVS4hOw&ab_channel=NetworkDistributing

27 screen shots from Reel Streets, long a favourite port o' call of mine
https://www.reelstreets.com/films/little-red-monkey-aka-the-case-of-the-red-monkey/

The Coatsworth Cinema in all its grimy glory
http://cinematreasures.org/theaters/51237/photos/171176

Three Bean or Not Three Bean

by Eric

This time it was the three bean salad.

It's always something.

The awful realization hits me when I'm halfway home, or hauling the bags out of the car, or in the evening, hours after the groceries have been put away.

"Oh no!" I'd forgotten to pick something up.

"Forgetting three bean salad isn't a crime," Mary said.

"Or a snack. Because I didn't bring any home. I could really do with a three bean salad right now."

"Do you think you should be eating three bean salad at ten o'clock at night? You never have it except with meals. Since when do you have three bean salad for a snack?"

"Last winter," I told her. "Or the winter before. I forget. Those were good times. Whenever they were."

"I remember. That was at the end of February. We'd been snowed in for weeks. The shelves were bare. It was either the three bean salad or the tinned okra."

"And the three bean salad was delicious too. Tangy. What else do we have for a snack that's tangy?"

"Never mind," she said. "You can buy two tins of three bean salad next week. Or three tins. This is Liberty Hall."

"There's no point trying to be a Pollyanna about it," I said. "The plain sad fact of the matter is...I forgot."

I might almost have said I was vexed, but I'm not sure if anyone has been truly vexed since the nineteenth century.

"It's easy enough to forget," Mary offered sympathetically.

"Well, yes, there's only one way to remember but endless ways to forget. I mean, I can forget to take the grocery list, or forget to write it in the first place. I might forget to take the list out of my pocket at the store. Or else I put it back in my pocket in order to hold the freezer door open to get at the frozen lasagna, and then forget to take it out again before I get to the tinned vegetable aisle. Oh, I'm a wonder at forgetting!"

"But you did remember the lasagna."

"But I don't want lasagna for a snack. It isn't tangy. I guess I will just have to suffer for my own mistake," I concluded.

"Look on the bright side," Mary told me. "What if you'd forgotten the loo rolls?"

"Oh no!", I said.

Don't Play That Song!

by Eric

According to a recent survey the most annoying Christmas song in America is Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas is You. I'm not sure I've heard the song, but if I did I would probably be annoyed. It's not that I find Christmas music irritating in itself. What annoys me is its ubiquity.

Beginning some time around Thanksgiving, no one can escape being aurally drenched in Christmas spirit no matter where they go or what they do. Television and radio are as full of musical cheer as overstuffed stockings. The radio station I listen to in the car adopts an all Christmas playlist. Last week the supermarket played tunes about Santa and sleigh rides instead of the usual sixties hits. (Man, I never imagined I'd ever be old enough to actually enjoy store muzak. Bummer.)

Mind you, Christmas music is fine in moderation, at the right time, under the right circumstances. When I lived in Brooklyn WPIX Channel 11 broadcast a burning Yule log accompanied by Christmas music for several hours Christmas Eve. You can find that Yule log and imitators all over YouTube. The crackling fire on my computer monitor produces as much warmth as my black and white television set did. Quite pleasant, actually.

My first, and all time favorite, holiday song is, of course, The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't Be Late) released in the fall of 1958. Alvin wanted a hula hoop, the big fad at the time. I already had a hula hoop and could use it without risking throwing my back out, which shows how long ago that was.

The second best Christmas song, I am sure you'll agree, is the Three Stooge's version of I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas with its brilliant witty word play. Would you say it is more reminiscent of Oscar Wilde or Noel Coward?

Granted I may be prejudiced by having encountered those songs at a young age. Maybe youthful exposure also explains why I hate, hate, hate Little Drummer Boy. Talk about tedious and repetitive. "Pa rum pum pum pum"? Honestly? And someone says rock 'n' roll lyrics are ridiculous. Anyway -- Pa rum pum pum pum -- Oh no! -- Pa rum pum pum pum -- Now I have it in my head! -- Pa rum pum pum pum -- (Oh, the sacrifices one makes to write newsletter essays....)

Probably for the same reasons I'm not fond of the pop choral versions of carols because my parents owned too many Ray Coniff records. Later I preferred the more modern approach exemplified by Phil Spector's famous Christmas album, although it's hard to listen to it today without thinking about Spector's subsequent history. The same is true of John Lennon's Happy Xmas (War is Over) one of my favorites but with sad associations.

It's become increasingly common for modern artists to supplement the traditional Christmas songs with new compositions. (Also the case with mystery books!) Only a few will enter the canon to be played year after year as Lennon's has, something I wouldn't have imagined when it first came out. At Christmas there's always talk about peace and goodwill but it is all rather abstract, part of the holiday spirit. To actually call for peace, right now, in the world we live in, is seen by too many as some sort of political statement.

My favorite Christmas collection, which has become a tradition for me since it was released in 1979, is Light of the Stable by Emmylou Harris, traditional carols with some modern songs mixed in. Alas, it does include Little Drummer Boy but since it's Emmylou Harris I suppose that will have to be forgiven. Pa rum pum pum pum. Pa rum pum pum pum.

Or maybe not!

Listen to Light of the Stable