- Apr 29, 2018
Photogenic Much?
(Dedicated to those who, uh, like me, are freakishly unphotogenic.) “Every picture tells a story.” Years ago Rod Stewart told us that, right? Now personally, I “buy” it, and that’s a lot coming from someone who loves to tell stories with words. The thing about pictures though? I prefer them when I’m taking them. Or looking at them. When I’m asked to pose for them, I’ve been known to run. You’d almost think I’m in the witness protection program. I am what you might call unfortunately unphotogenic. People yielding cameras try to assure me. They say I need to identify my good side and turn it toward the camera. (I’m still working on it.) Occasionally I’ll think I’ve nailed a winning smile. And then I see the resulting photo. (Yikes!) And then there’s my biggest fear in this age of social media—waking up to a Facebook notification that I’ve “been tagged”. But here’s the question. If every picture tells a story, then does every photo opp we dodge actually erase a bit of our story? Our personal story. The one we share with our friends and our family. This thought plagued me while putting together a picture book to give my family during the 2017 holidays. “This is Us – The Rices – 2016” starts out with a few scant photos from the cruise we took together in September 2016. On Day 3 of the cruise, we anticipated docking at St. Martin, where our daughter Quinn was to be married on Magen’s Bay. Something else happened though. Hurricane Matthew. Rerouting plans. Goodbye, St. Martin. Hello, Haiti. The younger Rices and guests managed to go with the flow. Bummer about the wedding, but the sun shone in Haiti, so no problem, mon. Rice and I? We were crushed. We’d driven eight hours to port, rather than flying one, to keep an eye on the dress. We’d spent a pretty penny so that all our kiddos and their partners could sail with us. We’d even insured every passage—before learning cruise insurance doesn’t cover cruise rerouting, which can occur at the captain’s discretion. The folks who say destination weddings are more economical may be right. Still, costs can add up quickly. For instance, there’s reserved round-trip guest transportation to and from the ceremony site. Let’s not forget tiki torches, a wedding arch with flowing fabric, and flowers. Add in a steel-drum musician, an officiant, catering, and professional photography. Then there’s the cost of a wedding license in the islands. That license, my friends, is not more economical than a stateside one. If I can be crude but accurate as I look back, Rice and I each tucked our respective head into a place where the sun never, ever shines. We went through the motions of that cruise, continuing to meet friends and family for dinner, take the grandson to the Boardwalk and the carousel, and watch our adult kiddos wipe out on the FlowRider. You know what, though? There are no pictures with the whole gang all together from that cruise. Sure, we have pics the kids took during their portside adventures. But Rice and I? We avoided the camera completely. There’s not one single photo to capture our disappointment. We knew our sadness and anger would’ve been front and center—in our eyes, our expressions, our posture. Believe it or not, I wish today that I did have such a picture.
In October 2016, Quinn and Patrick got married in Patrick’s parents’ back yard. We got hundreds of pictures. One captures their four-year-old son, slouched in a doorway, too overwhelmed for ring bearer duty. Another features Quinn, twerking for a crowd of friends gathered by the make-shift bar. A favorite features me, wet as a sewer rat in my mother -of-the-bride gown. Oh, yes. I fell in the pool. And I posed for a picture to prove it.
These days, I’m readying myself for the next flurry of photomania. Our second grandchild—a little girl—is due any day. Do I regret that I haven’t lost those mounds of pounds that always shine front and center in photos featuring me? Oh, hellz, yes. But will I avoid the camera? No, I won’t.
Whether photos flatter or frighten is really beside the point. Their purpose lies in capturing the story, visually and viscerally. Will “This is Us – The Rices – 2018” feature shots that are picture perfect? Not likely. Will I post them on-line? We’ll see. There will be pictures, though. Pictures that are us – the Rices. Our personal 2018 story. The one we share with those we love.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go work on identifying my good side.
- Mar 24, 2018
(Today's post is in celebration of National B & B Day--at least in Great Britain. Cheers! J)
Travel. Through the years Rice and I have enjoyed plenty of getaways, near and far. My earliest memories of travel as a newlywed involved stays at motels and motor lodges. Our honeymoon included several nights in Paradise, Michigan. The “paradise” part sounded so romantic to this young bride. We stayed at Curley’s Motel. Google it. It’s still there. It also appears to have the same furnishings as it did in July 1979. It kept us sheltered, though, as did another motor lodge we stayed at, this time in Normal, Illinois. We had visited old friends there from Rice’s alma mater. Upon packing prior to checkout, I peeked under the bed to make sure I hadn’t accidentally left any shoes or unmentionables. Surprise, surprise. I found an unmentionable a previous guest or staffer had left. It was a bong—a BIG bong—which research tells me is a filtration device frequently used for smoking cannabis. Another amazing memory. As our income improved and our family grew, we started opting for stays at The Holiday Inn or The Embassy Suites. On special occasions, though, when it was just Rice and me, we often liked to stay at what I call a traditional bed and breakfast or inn. This is different from the now popular AirBnB, which we’ve also used. A traditional bed and breakfast inn offers just that—bed AND breakfast, usually prepared by and shared with the host, who is onsite. Recently, I asked Rice to reminisce with me about some of our bed and breakfast adventures. I suggested that I’d name an inn and its location, and he’d give me a one- or two-word description of the memory it brought to mind. To start, I said, “Gables Inn, Santa Rosa, California.” Rice’s reply: “Happy hour!” Immediately, I was taken back to our visit to wine country, staying in a sprawling country inn, and joining the host, Mike, for breakfast in the morning, and for wine and cheese and conversation when he rang the cow bell for the daily 4 o’clock happy hour. Let me give you another one: “Briar Rose Inn, Boulder, Colorado.” Rice’s reply: “Buddhists!” With that one word, I was whisked back to a peaceful stay at an inn run by Zen Buddhists who cut the lawn with human-powered mowers and dished up delicious organic breakfasts. Plenty of flax seeds; no bacon. For our third round, I said to Rice, “Rippon Kinsella Inn, Springfield, Illinois.” “Decrepit,” he replied. “The facility or the innkeepers?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. Our stay at the Rippon Kinsella was indeed disappointing—and a bit sad. When we booked it, it was because it reminded us of one of our best bed and breakfast stays ever—at the Annapolis Inn, in Annapolis, Maryland. On the surface, these two inns had so much in common. Both are historic Victorian homes located on tree-lined streets. Both are appointed with period antiques and serve three-course breakfasts. Both are located in U.S. capital cities. The similarities end there, though. The Annapolis Inn was luxurious. It had Italian linens, heated towel racks, and a therapy spa tub. Its owners served a different breakfast daily on fine china and dished up vibrant, sassy, entertaining stories. Rippon Kinsella was, well, decrepit. It had mismatched sheets, thread-bare towels, and a shower that barely trickled. Its owners served the same breakfast and dished up a rehashed conversation two days in a row. I got the sense that they were just plum tired. These days I confess that I like lush lodgings. I adore a bed and breakfast, but only if it offers accommodating accommodations. Sometimes the tried and true is the safest bet. There’s always The Hampton Inn, which Rice describes as ubiquitous—or ever-present. Just please don’t suggest a return trip to Curley’s Motel. One visit was enough—even if Rice’s description remains sweet: “Utter bliss.”
- Feb 26, 2018
(Today's post and illustration is in honor of "National Fairy Tale Day." Enjoy!)
In the beginning, there was the Mother Muse, the goddess of creation, memory, nature, healing, love, poetry, and all things divine. According to legend, she bore nine daughters, each with her own special attribute, at the foot of Mt. Olympus, sired by the king of gods, Zeus. These daughters make up the Muses of Mythology, the inspiration for those who excel in the arts and sciences, some believe even to this day.
Protégées of the Muses are said to include the Sphinx, who learned her riddle from them, and Aristaeus, who owed them for her artful skills of healing and prophecy. Upon the birth of the Muses, some men, so elated by their presence, sang constantly, forgetting to eat or drink until they perished, turning to locusts who sing continuously with no need for sustenance.
The Muses were much revered, and Mt. Helicon became a sacred place of homage to them, where sacrifices of water, milk and honey were made. Apollo taught them to sing, and Athena caught and tamed the wild horse Pegasus as a gift to them. Yet like many sisters throughout time, the Muses could be competitive, even vindictive. Folklore has it that after winning a musical contest with Thamyris, the Muses robbed him of his eyes as well as his ability to make song. Other musical contests found them turning those they defeated into birds. After they out sang the Sirens, they plucked out their feathers to make crowns of them.
Their most volatile competition, however, is little heard of, as they swore one another to secrecy at the shame they felt at its outcome. In their later years, when they feared their power to inspire and protect was weakening, the Mother Muse bestowed upon them a gift—a beautiful silk purse of many colors. Mother Muse warned that her daughters must wait a fortnight, and then open the purse at twilight.
Curious and ever competitive, the Muses speculated about what kind of gift the purse contained. Each was sure the gift would enhance her own inspirational attribute, and they argued over which quality would dominate. Would it be history or melodic music? Comedy or tragedy? Perhaps it would be dance or love poetry. Divine hymns or astronomy. Or maybe the purse’s contents would enhance the gift of epic storytelling.
The nature of the Muses’ argument turned from contemplative to physical, and they tugged at the purse, arguing not only about what it contained, but about which of them should guard it. As they tugged and pulled and argued, alas, the purse ripped to shreds, and the contents spilled out. There at the foot of the mount, nine sparkling jewels rolled past their feet, disappearing into the flora and fauna that surrounded them.
Heartbroken, the sisters confessed to the Mother Muse what had happened. Angry at their selfishness, the Mother Muse never told them that the jewels were really eggs that in a fortnight would hatch into tiny glistening dragonfly-like creatures. Called Musements, they would fly about, dusting the gifts of the original Muses onto those who braved the lonely places one must go to create. The sisters never knew the Musements existed, but in a tribute to her daughters’ honesty, the Mother Muse bestowed upon the Musements the gift of proliferation.
It is said that the Musements live on today, inviting creative souls to push their limits, to craft and hone their best works. Ever playful, they dare us to find them—in the sparkle of asphalt, the twinkle of water, among the frolicking fireflies flitting about on a summer evening. The spark we see may be a dew drop atop a blade of grass, a tear streaming down a child’s face—or it may be a Musement inviting us to be still, to focus, to seek inspiration from within and beyond ourselves through the endless bounties of our world.
