Sticks and Stones

Here's the best worst way to learn how to drive a stick.

It’s about 450 miles from Wagon Mound, New Mexico to Wichita Falls in north east Texas. We, the plucky band of carnies that I was with, were set to make the jump to the next spot, when my boss discovered that we didn’t have enough drivers with valid licenses for the trek. Because we were crossing state lines it was molto importante to have legal drivers for all our armadillo excrement, held-together-with-gin-soaked-spit, “these things don’t actually run, do they?” vehicles. We didn't.

All carnies are on the run from something — ducking the law is the largest of flight incentives. In daylight, a parade of carnies heading down the highway would be 19 kinds of irresistible to law. In daylight, we'd be like strippers to Louisiana governors, like divorcees to English kings, like a cup of Italian roast with a small splash of vanilla laced soy milk to me — irresistible.

So, we were making the jump at night with that cloak of darkness thing going on.

Or maybe our timing could have been due to the summer Texas heat too but, ya know, coulda been a little of each.

It was just an hour before lift off when our dearth of legal drivers was discovered. Being The College Bitch it was assumed that my license was for real. It was. I was drafted. This was cool. I looked forward to the adventure, the voyage, until I climbed into the driver’s seat of the ’69 VW Bus.  The speedometer was busted, the windows didn’t go up and, oh yeah, I’d never learned how to drive a stick.

I got a whiz bang fast instructional buzz around the now empty midway where I learned how to start it up and shift gears. I was 19, thinking “I'm up for the challenge — what could go wrong?”

Now, just like long distance truckers, carnies do major amounts of speed for the longer jumps. The drug of choice, at that time and place, was Black Beauties. I had vicious heebie jeebies about doing chemicals to begin with and was definitely not keen on doing them while driving. Still, I knew I needed something to keep me going over the 9+ hour drive.

Mountain Dew and M&Ms in bulk were my pick.

I was supposed to be following another of the crew but, in my Dew and M&M mania, I must have blown right by them. I arrived in Wichita Falls first, by many hours first at that. I expect the broken speedometer had something to do with this too — without a meter to keep me in line, I paced myself by the truckers.

It wasn’t until years (10 of 'em thenkyew) later that I learned that the way to bring a manual transmission car to a full stop is NOT by stalling it out.
Stones — Before They make Me Run

Crap That’s On My Mind Today

1) Did that waitress at breakfast honestly, truly believe that keeping her backside to her customers would result in big tips? Nice ass BUT what I really wanted was more coffee.

2) I want to be from someplace with an exotic name. A place that brings poetry, music and an air of mystery to mind.  You know, like Vienna, Prague or Buffalo.

3) The last place I worked for had bowls of cheap ass candy everywhere from which everyone would graze. New company? Bowls of baby carrots. LOVING this! Having said that, où est le bon bon, wo der bon bon ist and can I please get a dark chocolate covered cherry cream here -- you know,
today, bitte?!

4)  I’d consider eating red meat again if it meant I could hear The Queen of the Night Aria or the second side of Abbey Road or NIN’s The Downward Spiral again.

5) I’m going to start thinking of these hot flashes as personal sauna moments. I think that’ll really help. Yup.

6) How’s about we shoehorn just two more measly hours of daylight into the day this winter? Please? K?

7) Not all of us are capable of learning from our mistakes Additionally a good many of us have a talent for forgetting what we’ve learned or thought we’d learned. Amazing that the human race has survived so long.

8) Last revelation of the day -- if there was justice in the universe I would be a house cat -- one of Bob The Cat Whisperer’s cats that is.
Of course.

I’m Gonna Run Away and Join the Carnival!

Sure, sure, there’s the phrase, the threat, the promise, “I’m gonna run away and join the carnival” but no one really follows through with that, right? I didn’t run away but I did join a few.

It was spring, my sophomore year in college just ended. I couldn’t find a job to save my life, a robust cocker spaniel’s life or even my spider plant’s life. I was going to school in a small, conservative, western Pennsylvania, coal mining town – employment opportunities for an artsy looking 19 year old, during a recession, were non-existent. I swear, I must have had a neon sign flashing on my forehead “don’t hire this chick -- she’ll scare your customers, steal your condiments and she doesn’t even shave her legs!!!”

This being 1978, I did the fashionable, trendy thing -- hopped a Greyhound bus to San Francisco, hoping it was still a cool, hippy, fun place and MAYBE I’d even find a job.

I fell in love with the city and was happily ready to stay. At that time tuition at state colleges, for California residents, was free. I had it all planned out – stay with friends until I could get my own place, establish residency and start applying to state colleges within the year.

Then came the fateful call from my older sister -- she and her new husband had joined a carnival and did I want to join them. It seemed like it could be interesting, more it could be a way to earn money for college and see more of the country. Carnivals had never sparked my imagination though, apart from “Something Wicked This Way Comes” that is. My friends talked me into it saying California would still be there when I was done with the carnival and, damn, “isn’t running away with the carnival everyone’s childhood dream?”

 I road the bus, 72 straight hours, back across the country to Pennsylvania, jumped into my brother in law’s beat to shit pick up along with him, my sister, their astoundingly, awesome baby Helen and their huge doberman (who wasn’t so much astounding as he was large and scary) and south to San Angelo, Texas we went.

We arrived at the lot/the midway, after midnight while the show was being taken down (sloughed), loaded onto the trucks for the jump to the next spot.

 My new employer strode towards us looking like a cross between Jackson Browne and a
very young, pre corpse, Keith Richards, offering me a hit from a joint the size of Long Island.

First reaction: Damn, I’m gonna like it here.
Second reaction: Goodness he’s easy on the eyes.
Third reaction: Is it always 90 degrees at midnight in Texas and what do you mean there are no bathrooms out here!?

It didn’t take long before I found that I was just as much the outsider here as I was in that little town in western Pennsylvania. Carnival women could be wives and mothers or whores -- there were no other choices and no in betweens. I made a third choice -- single, independent, smart and “Hell NO I’m not sleeping with you. Seriously man, have you bathed at all this century?” babe.

For this I was named The College Bitch. I bore that name with pride.

Walking Down the Street One Day

This post is by my very wise and beautiful friend Jenny Jones Moats

As I was traversing my neighborhood this morning with my dog, Bonnie at my side, I spied a cat crossing the street up ahead. This cat  looked  suspiciously like my cat, Sapphire.  I was surprised to see him a couple blocks from home, but he probably considers it home territory.  He disappeared before I could confirm if it was my kitty or not.  Bonnie and I continued. It was a lovely fall day in Arizona.

Around the corner, I passed a modest little well kept house.  A father and two teenage children, obviously of Hispanic descent were conversing in their driveway.  An American flag was proudly being flown from a pole on their front porch railing. And of course, being from Arizona, where the question of legality permeates the mindset of the state’s inhabitants, I wondered silently if they were “legal.” If so, were their parents “legal,” or were they descended from one of the dreaded “anchor babies?”

I silently thanked my European ancestors who came over to this country two centuries  ago, for having the foresight to come at a time when it was possible to become “legal” by simply saving up enough money for passage to the US and proving that you are healthy and not a criminal. They came here with a dream of a better life for themselves and their children.  They came to escape the tyranny of the kings, and a chance to benefit from the fruits of their labors. 

Pretty much the same reasons the “illegals” risked their lives to cross our sacred borders.  They came for freedom from poverty and the tyranny of a corrupt government,  and from the drug dealers and  criminals that rule their home country.  I wonder if the Native Americans thought it was “legal” when we destroyed their way of life in this land they had inhabited for so many centuries, and declared it our own.  Did they think it was “legal” when we traded  worthless trinkets for the right to possess the land they had called home for centuries?  Was it “legal” for us to kill all the buffalo, and destroy their entire way of life, so we could “civilize” this land?

The Hispanic ancestors of the illegal border crossers intermittently inhabited this region long before my ancestors ever knew of its existence.  Yet I am legal, and they are not.  Lucky me.  That family over there looks a lot like my family.  Except that their skin is brown.  And they may be “criminals.” Or their parents may be “criminals.” Funny, but they don’t look or act like criminals to me. They look and act like an American family that wants a chance at the American lifestyle. To live and work and play in this bountiful country  that my ancestors helped to settle.  And yes, took by force and one sided “deals.”

I round the corner at the end of my street.  Sapphire is coming toward me and mewing “hello.”  My  friendly cat, who knows no borders.  My American cat, who does not have enough sense to stay on his own street, in his own back yard.  My adventurous cat, who  recklessly breaches fences to trespass onto other people’s territory.  I hope Sheriff Joe doesn’t come along and ask him for his papers.  Lucky for him, he’s white and not brown!

Jenny Jones Moats

Tradition (as sung by Herschel Bernardi or maybe Topol)

I discovered, shortly after leaving my parents' home for life in the big wide world, that I just could NOT travel on the holidays. The crowds at the airports were overwhelming and the long drive from the Pittsburgh airport to the small town in which they lived too daunting. Yeah, for all the places I’ve been, I’m a real travel weenie.

Not so long after moving to Boston I was invited to spend Thanksgiving with friends of my family in nearby Duxbury. My father and Jim, my mother and Hope became close friends back when we all lived in Gladstone, NJ where Daddy and Jim taught at St. Bernard’s.

Thanksgiving with the Buechlers was always a huge, happy feast. Hope worked on the Mayflower II at Plimouth Plantation and would return, still in costume, to a house full of people hyped up on great conversation, dark rich coffee and the anticipation of so much fabulous food. All of us would be crowded into the kitchen and dining room, cutting apples, mincing onions, rolling dough and polishing silver.

One of their friends was a Chaucer scholar and visiting professor to Harvard from Oxford. I was spectacularly intimidated -- me being a sci fi reading, pressroom working, punk dive frequenting, angry young bee. I mean, this man had smooth, beautiful polish to spare and I, well, even now I’m challenged to string 3 words together without at least one being a colorful curse. So, of COURSE, at this huge table, I was seated right next to him and was terrified that I’d make a tremendous, world ending ass of myself (a talent of mine, it is).

Derek attempted to start a conversation with me -- asking me all about me. The man had glorious, gracious social skills in bulk. I was tongue tied, sweating, panicky and finally blurted out “no one expects the Spanish Inquisition!” Ah, common ground! We spent the next ten minutes trading Monty Python lines and I felt somewhat less the dimwitted bumpkin.

Dinner in Duxbury was always followed by a long beach walk and games of Dictionary. God, it was grand fun.

Jim and Hope moved out to Taos, NM after he retired from the Duxbury school system and the kids (who are all around my age so I guess we’re all old kids now) have all moved away. I still see them all but it’s not as often and not for Thanksgiving.

Life has a funny habit of shifting and evolving and I can dig that. After Bob and I moved in together we started our own Thanksgiving tradition. The day starts and ends with a beach walk -- Bob and I cook a meal together, visit with Jen and her large extended family and then play our own Dadaist version of Scrabble. We don’t keep score and it’s all about making interesting words. We have extra letters from old sets and don’t let the boundaries, the limits of the board, stop us.

Seems like an apt metaphor for life.

About That Cat Magnet Thing

This phenomenon started with Bob -- this would be Bob the-most-amazing-husband-in-the-universe Bob. You know, versus any other old Bob.

When I was small we didn’t really have pets -- a brief episode with a tiny turtle (which we set free in the nearby creek -- I suspect it had died and my father didn’t want to reveal this) and, for a short time, a family of stray cats who received our leftovers but that was it. My mother would not tolerate pets of any kind and my father is deathly allergic to cats. So, no pets.

Bob taught me how to care for cats.  He showed me how to hold them (always cradle their feet -- they need their feet securely planted), how to approach them (rather, how to be patient and allow them to approach you -- most definitely not my strong suit), how to pat them (do unto cats as you would have them do unto you, essentially) and, perhaps of most importance, like humans, cats like to get high on occasion. Organic catnip seems to be the most popular -- cats being all hippy/groovy, back-to-the-earth types, of course.

Bob’s son Miles taught me how to get a finicky cat to eat. We had a giant orange tabby who, for a cat rescued from a dumpster, was tremendously fussy. Miles would sprinkle Ralf’s (named for the children’s book character Rotten Ralf and YES this Ralf could be rotten -- just not to me or Miles) tinned meat with grated cheese. If that didn’t work he would spritz on a little whipped cream. C’mon! Ralfie came out of a garbage can -- someone threw this poor being out. Of course he deserved whipped cream and Parmesan!

Ralf considered the best food of all to be any that could be stolen off your plate though. He’d bound, somewhat less than delicately, onto the dinner table, play it like he was just there to say hello and then make his bold, yet sly, grab for the salmon or pizza (no, seriously). This annoyed Bob, scared Jen (best pal and, despite this,  frequent dinner guest) and delighted me. What a resourceful beast!

Ralf died 20 years after his garbage can rescue as a kitten. I was heartbroken and wanted another cat right away. Bob pronounced “wait, one will come to us.” Now, this sounded awfully Zen and the Art of Cat Attraction/Obi Wan of Cat World to me but I said, with reluctance, “OK.” Sure enough, shortly after we moved down to the Neck (Hough’s Neck AKA Heaven) 3 cats showed up on our porch each one quite sure that we were precisely the pigeons they were looking for.

Eventually the big orange tabby won out. We fell in love, named him B.O.P. (Big Orange Pumpkin) and gave him the run of our kingdom. B.O.P was a bruiser, wonderful to us but always up for a good fight the minute he stepped out the door and woe-betide the dog who crossed him. He loved nasty weather best. The more Nor’Eastery the better. Maybe he was the reincarnation of Jack London or Hemingway except, you know, cute and cuddly.

So, you see, this cat magnet thing is really all about Bob. For that matter, I feel certain the area cats sing folk songs about the, hopefully NOT, mythical porch where a tall, white haired gentleman appears with bowls of Fancy Feast, treats and endless pats.

Who I Am In 500 Words or Less

My name is Donna (not to be confused with My Name is Asher Lev or My Name is Khan or My name is Inigo Montoya) though I always wanted the name Ruby. This was my father’s mother’s name and I’ve, happily, been compared to her.

When Grandpa was fading out of this life, years after Grandma had moved on, we’d sit together telling stories -- he’d forget it was me and call me Ruby. My Aunt Mary Ann, Ruby’s daughter, would grin wildly when I would get on a rant about this or that (religion and politics usually, though fashion choices of passersby could spark me up too) and say “oh, you sound just like Mother.” And that was a very good thing. My father has had his Ruby Moments with me too.

Grandma didn’t like her name -- it wasn’t fashionable or spiffy way back in the late 1800s and early 1900s. I guess that might be like having the name Edna or Agnes now.

My favorite story about Grandma -- she was head nurse at Toledo General Hospital and owned her own car. This was in the late 1920s. She got it in her head that she wanted to see Alaska before it was overrun by tourists (sort of like going to Prague in the early ‘90s?) so she jumped in her car and drove there -- alone. This was before the ALCAN Highway, before World War II and well before it was common for a woman to make this kind of solo trip.

“Ruby,” for me, means strong, adventurous, unafraid and bold -- all the things I want to be.

I never knew my other grandmother, Angelina, and know very little about her beyond this --  she was a seamstress, a recent immigrant from a small town near Bari in Italy and died when my mother was 16. She had Neurofibromatosis Type 2 which she passed on to my mother and, in turn, to me. But that’s a whole other story.

So, if I was to choose my own name, it would be Ruby Angelina Maderer. Or Circe Oceanus Nyx. Why? Hey, it sounds awesomely cool and you can dance to it.

After college, a friend of mine, Kevin Alexander Scott (R.I.P.) became a translator (Arabic and Hebrew) for the Navy. They wanted him to start doing undercover type stuff so they gave him an alias. He bombed out of this quickly and spectacularly when it became clear he’d never be able to remember to answer to his fake name and identity. I suspect I’d be the same way.

Besides, though the name Maderer is decidedly unmelodic and lacks even the faintest whiff of poetry, it is my father’s name and I am, without question, a chip or 3 off the old block.