Weekend Assignment: The Gift That Keeps On Living

Ack! I got sidetracked and missed my own Weekend Assignment deadline!

This week's Assignment is short and seasonal--again!

Weekend Assignment # 350: Best. Gift. Ever.
What is the best gift you've ever gotten from anyone?

Extra Credit: To the best of your recollection, what is the best gift you ever gave someone else?

I'm tempted to say the Chinon SLR I got for my birthday in 1986, but the real answer is this:

As I said at the time: Could be my Best Birthday Present Ever!

which led to this:

Pepper, the day we got her. We were calling her Newdog.

We had to bathe her twice in two days - the second time after

she dug her way out of the back yard!

Pepper is much harder to photograph these days. Whenever I turn on the camera she turns away! But that doesn't stop her from being a great dog and a great gift.

My best gift ever given, I was hoping, would be the one I was putting together for my brother Steve for Christmas this year. John and I have put many hours into putting it together, but we can't quite seem to get it right. It's meant to be a book, or at least a pdf file, if we can ever get the pages to appear in order with no duplications or superseded versions. The title page reads,

The Ruth Anne Johnson Songbook

Version 2.2

Songs and parodies by Dr. Ruth Anne Johnson Funk

Sheet music scanned by John Blocher

Lyrics transcribed from sheet music or memory by Karen Funk Blocher

Yes, it's a serious attempt to scan every page of surviving sheet music my Mom ever wrote, along with my transcriptions of many of her song lyrics. I've been carrying at least half a dozen of her songs in my head for forty years, more or less intact, with more fragmentary memories of her other efforts. Most of them were first performed in musical revues she wrote in the 1960s, and a one woman show she co-wrote for local stage star Bea Solomon in the early 1970s. An astonishing 20 songs of Mom's, some with original music, others with mom's lyrics set to Chopin and other composers, appeared in her show DeManleyville USA (1964) and its update, DeManleyville '65.

Obviously it was all a long time ago, and the people who performed those songs would be in their seventies or eighties by now, those who are still alive at all. I don't know if any of them would remember or care about The Ending of Desire or Come Back, G.E., or any of my mom's music from her Limestone Theater and Syracuse Little Theater days. But I care, and I know Steve cares. Now he will have everything I have in my mom's old notebooks, digitized and darkened and with some of the yellowing removed from the pages. She wrote mostly in pencil on staff paper, so it's important to get legible files out of them before the originals deteriorate any further.

Now if we can just get those pages in order on the PDF, I can get it sent off to Steve. By mail, that is. The last version of the pdf was 130 MB, and Steve's still on dial-up!

Karen

A Damp,Thoroughly Modern Cemetery

Your Monday Photo Shoot: Take a picture of, or in, a cemetery. Your local cemetery is good, but if you've been to, say, Paris, to see Jim Morrison's grave, or took some arty shots of an ornate headstone elsewhere, something like that works, too.

I've actually taken and posted lots of cemetery photos in past entries years ago, mostly in October 2004 when I was on a pre-Halloween death kick, but also in a few 2005 entries, all in my old AOL journal. You can find the links to some of them below. I recommend the two Tombstone/Boot Hill entries; I posted a number of fun shots of that historic and picturesque (not to mention picaresque) cemetery.

Grave Matters (with lots of Boot Hill photos)

More on Tombstone and Tombstones

Memorial Day, Then and Now

East Lawn Palms. My mom's grave is in the foreground somewhere.

Even so, I do have new photos for you tonight. I hadn't visited my mom's grave since Mother's Day (for about two minutes), so I headed over there at lunchtime. I don't go there much anymore, because I don't believe for a moment that a cemetery is a better place to think of my mom, honor her or talk to her than here at my computer, or at the grocery store, or any of the other places that remind me of her. But I've already ranted that rant at least once, so let's move on.

Like other modern cemeteries in Tucson, East Lawn Palms is designed largely for ease of maintenance. Only a few small, expensive sections allow statues, or upright markers instead of flat ones flush with the ground. Other than temporary displays for major holidays and such, the only flowers allowed are plastic ones, mounted in metal vases that fold down to accommodate a lawn mower rolling over them. The grass is thick, hardy and not especially pretty. There aren't a lot of options if you want a carpet of grass to grow in the desert; even the local ballparks have difficulty with this. But my mom's grave in particular was a bare, muddy mess for the first year and a half, and I had to keep complaining until they realigned the dirt around the marker to prevent pooling, and replanted grass until it finally took hold. Actually, I've ranted that rant, too.

Standing water, about four inches deep, but only in one spot

It rained overnight and this morning (Tuffy nervously alerted me to this fact at 6:30 AM by jumping on the bed and standing on my hair), so I was curious to see whether there would be any flooding at East Lawn. There was, but not on the lawn, only in one or two places on the network of looping drives.


As I drove to the back of the property, seeking a good shot with the mountains and maybe some statuary, I found this new stretch of lawn (left). I'm pretty sure that wasn't there the last time I explored the place. Beyond that wall on the left is an older cemetery, which doesn't seem to be part of East Lawn at all.

The presence of a canopy and a couple of blue-shirted guys means there was a funeral in this section today. There's also some kind of little green tractor-thing, probably preparing the ground.

There was also a big yellow bulldozer. I suppose that means they don't employ gravediggers anymore, at least not guys with shovels.

I feel the need to reprint a poem I wrote a few years back. Here it is.

Visiting the Stone

It rained last week, but the grass is dry,
Faded, almost white, waiting
For another season, or
Better, artificial rain.
It's thick and sharp, hardy,
Ugly grass, meant largely
To keep the dirt in place.

The stone is dry and clean.
No mud, no blown dirt,
Hardly any leaves of grass cover
Name or dates, notes or masks,
Scroll or colorless rose, or
The nine engraved words, sung
So many years ago.
I sing them again, softly,
As she did before she died.

I don't talk to her, except
For an embarrassed "Hi, Mom."
I pause, and get
The long-handled-brush
From the back of the car.
I brush away the few stray leaves,
And then I drive away.

KFB, 1/26/05

"So don't be sad; there's nothing more to say."--RAJ, circa 1970

"Why does everything you write have to be so gloomy?" - Mom, circa 1974.

Karen


My mom's Find A Grave page

My Mom Dressed Me Funny

Weekend Assignment #149: Reveal Your Teenage Fashion Disasters! Yes, whether it's big hair, Nehru jackets, acid-washed jeans or an ill-advised tattoo, let us know what about your style as a teenager you would change today.

Extra Credit: Are you kidding? Pictures, baby!

As some of you may have gathered over the years, I loved my mom very much, but in many ways she drove me crazy. One of our major sources of disagreement, and the one that caused me the most trouble in school, was the question of what constituted appropriate attire for a teenage girl in the suburbs. Her position on this subject was far from my own, and even farther from the norms at Eagle Hill Junior High and Fayetteville-Manlius High School. My mom was always in favor of me dressing in a ladylike manner, although she didn't put it quite that way. Unfortunately, her idea of feminine clothing consisted almost exclusively of what was available in Lane Bryant mail order catalogs. In short: polyester was the order of the day - nay, the decade. I didn't even own a pair of jeans until Joel's mother bought me some during my trip to Bethesda in 1972.

The staples of my pathetic wardrobe in elementary school were jumpers (mostly plaid) for school, and stretch pants to wear at home as "play clothes." In junior high the polyester pants moved into the school, to the derision of my peers. A blue or red sweater vest completed the ensemble. As the result of my frequent protests, the blue stretch pants with the line down the front were eventually replaced by other polyester pants (one of them was houndstooth), and polyester pantsuits. The one in my senior portrait above (which was taken in the spring of my junior year) was a relatively benign version. The worst pantsuit was textured turquoise doubleknit polyester. I think it had epaulets. I liked the color, but when my 65-year-old English teacher praised it I knew for certain it was horribly wrong.

Another staple of my wardrobe, especially in junior high, was the culotte. I liked the fact that it wasn't a dress, and yet I was allowed to wear it to school. This one was dark navy with white polka dots. Around my neck I wore a peace symbol on a leather strap. I liked this outfit just fine until I posed in it one day for a newspaper article about a dangerous puddle near my house. I had erected a warning sign asking drivers to slow down, since people were constantly stalling out after driving through the huge puddle. Kids at school accused me of wearing a dress to play in puddles.


Here's another item I actually liked: my blue velvet cape. But I wouldn't wear such a thing now. My mom was a great believer in capes and caftans, shawls and ponchos.

Dang, I miss her.

Karen

Legacy

Wednesday, August 11, 2004

Legacy
For nearly forty years now, I've been carrying things around in my head that nobody else alive today is likely to remember, with the possible exceptions of my brother and one or two former members of Syracuse Little Theater. My mom, Dr. Ruth Anne Johnson Funk, was a composer and a lyricist, a director and a satirist. (She was also a clinical psychologist and an educator.) I still remember most of the songs and some of the dialogue from her 1960s musical revues, DeManleyville (1964), DeManleyville '65 and They'd Rather Be Right (1968). Here's a sample from one of the songs in DeManleyville / DeManleyville '65:

excerpt from John Burp Marching Song

Let's take the Red out of Red, White and Blue;
America, we'll be true!
The only patriots left are me and you -
and I'm not too sure of you.
--from DeManleyville (1964)

This was the Cold War era, remember. Joe McCarthy was no longer a major force, but there were still accusations that a peacenik (for example) was a Commie Pinko, or whatever term was in vogue that year. That first show satirized a few carryovers from the 1950s, including the Happy Homemakers ("We adore keeping house; it's the thrill of our lives/And we freely admit that we're all perfect wives") and the Beatnik Mama ("In matters intellectual, she's strictly nowhere.") Other targets for the satire were automation, bridge players and General Electric ("But now you've gone and transferred him/And your light in our heart's growing dim").

By 1968, the political and social climate had changed a bit. The former Beatnik Mama was now Rockin' with the Viet Cong. Mom included a slide show memorializing Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr., accompanied by Requiem for the Masses by the Association. (One night a member of The Association showed up for the performance, and Mom was thrilled.)

They'd Rather Be Right included a new satirical song for each of the surviving major candidates: Richard Nixon, Hubert Humphrey, Eugene McCarthy and George Wallace. The songs were The Newest Richard Nixon ("Has he changed since Checkers was a pup?"), Saint Eugene ("A man of monumental calm/Except on Viet Nam"), Lonesome George ("But would you let your daughter marry him?") and the Hubert Humphrey Blues:

When he's not on tv, I hit bottom.
Tell me, is it fair that Johnson's got him,
And Muriel is stuck with her cigar?
I would gladly share him with another,
singing praise to apple pie and mother.
Tell me how to shake this hang-up, brother,
For I've got the Hubert Humphrey blues!
--from They'd Rather Be Right (1968)

Here's a sample of the dialogue, from a sketch in which a female suburbanite is accused of being middle class ("Oh no! Not that!). I've been thinking about it since I wrote last night's entry about guilt that I'm not out saving the world:

Prosecutor: Do you lie awake at night on your silk sheets--
Defendant: Percale. I got them on sale at--
Prosecutor: In your silk sheets, knowing that thirty million people in America live below the poverty line?
Defendant: I gave to the Salvation Army.
Prosecutor: Thirty million people!
Defendant: And the Community Chest.
Prosecutor: Do you or do you not read William F. Buckley?
Defendant: Whenever I can find a dictionary. You're right. I'm guilty!
--from They'd Rather Be Right (1968)

Over the years there were also love songs, a song about the empty nest syndrome (I think that was in DeManleyville), and even a ballet about a lame little girl who was able to dance with her doll-come-to-life when the clock struck midnight. My doll, Tootles, played the inanimate version of the doll, and I, in a matching outfit, played the doll come to life. I was eight years old, and at least as clumsy as I am now. Trying to learn and perform the simple choreography just about killed me.

Now, here's the point of all this nostalgia. For all these years, I've treasured my mom's music and her comedy, with the possible exception of some material she wrote for my school drama club when I was in seventh grade. But looking back now, I'm suddenly finding I have a slightly different perspective. I've always thought of my mom as a Johnson Democrat - pro-Viet Nam War, pro-equal rights, but perhaps a little to the right of my own political views (and believe me, I'm not exactly a Deaniac myself). But thinking now about the out-of-date satire, I'm seeing underlying attitudes that I didn't notice at the time, and don't necessarily share now. I would have voted for Humphrey over Nixon too, as my mom did, but I don't quite approve of a sketch in which a teacher is arrested for saying a childish prayer.

Hmm. Weird. All these years later, I'm reassessing the legacy. I'd like to discuss the old satire and the old politics with my mom, but it's too late for that. She died in 2002.

Karen

Ruth Anne Johnson

The Aging Lottery


Written by mavarin.
This entry has 5 comments:

Hello....it's my first time here and I read all the entires on this page. I'm going to come back when the Man has finished the bill paying and read some more. I love what I have seen; depth, style, charm and honesty.

Good job.

Christina

http://journals.aol.com/ckays1967/myjourneywithMS/
Comment from ckays1967 - 8/11/04 8:24 PM

I love your memories, I find myself doing the same. What we lived through in childhood...when you dissect the memory as an adult it almost becomes Corinithean... seeing in a mirror darkly....I enjoy your writings..thanks
Comment from sdoscher458 - 8/11/04 5:55 PM


Your Mom sounded like a smart Lady. I too, wish that I could sit and talk with my Mother.

I noticed a John Kerry site on your page. If you are a Kerry supporter...You're a Smart Lady Too! Kerry for President!

I enjoyed reading your journal!

Mary Louise of Watching

http://journals.aol.com/mlrhjeh/WatchingMySisterDisappear
Comment from mlrhjeh - 8/11/04 10:23 AM


I lied. Drama Queen Blog. (I get so confused!-- see previous comment)
http://journals.aol.com/mae120866/1stPersonPOV/entries/579

~~mumsy
Comment from cyberdancer1008 - 8/11/04 10:06 AM

You're a Johnson? me too! By the by-- I linked you in my latest entry under this screen name.

happy for ya again--your entries have been neat-o keen-o this week of glory!
Comment from cyberdancer1008 - 8/11/04 10:03 AM