It’s not something we ever saw ourselves doing, but Jesse and I found ourselves on a double date with our daughter and her boyfriend yesterday. It’s not as creepy as it sounds. The four of us drove into Chicago, saw a play and hit the Taco Bell drive-thru on the way back to Rockford. It was a serious but wonderful time.
“Wonderful” because we love theatre (and tacos). “Serious” because of the subject matter of the play.
We saw The Murder of Emmett Till at the DuSable Museum. The play is a courtroom drama about the two despicable white men found not guilty of the murder of 14-year-old Till. The script is an adaptation of the court transcripts from the 1955 trial and reveals word-for-word the lies, bias, manipulation and cruelty of the lynching, the trial and the town’s politics.
The play also illuminates and emphasizes the strength, focus, independence, intelligence and courage of Mamie Till-Mobley, Emmett’s mother.
The full production is scheduled for 2023, but yesterday’s elaborately staged reading and talkback were insightful and impactful. We were in awe of the excellent, courageous performances, especially Adia Alli who played Mamie.
I assure you Jesse and I don’t plan to go on any more double dates with any of our kids, but if it happens, I hope it’s to see meaningful theatre.
Thanks for reading. Let me know if you’ve seen any theatre lately! -Connie
Jesse and I fell asleep with the curtains open last night. We were talking and our bedroom light felt harsh and unnecessary so I turned it off and opened the curtains.
Our eyes quickly adjusted to the dark. It was a relief to settle by the light of the snow and the moon. When I woke up and saw the sun glowing off the tops of the neighboring homes I wondered why we don’t sleep this way more often.
I will be taking Jesse to O’Hare tomorrow morning. He’s headed to Columbus, Ohio for a few days. I’m thinking of trying to sleep with the curtains open while he’s gone. I just have to muster the courage to do it. Sleeping with the curtains open is easy when there is someone next to you; less so if you’re alone.
Prior to being married, I had roommates in college and for a few years after that. Those were some fun years but when I turned 25, I wanted to be cool like Mary Tyler Moore and decided to try living alone. Huge mistake because I was literally scared every single night for nine years, right up until the day I got married. I’m not exaggerating: I was perpetually frightened at night.
I had my reasons.
My first “solo” apartment had roaches. I learned this when I returned home from a rehearsal late one night. I opened the door, turned on the light and saw several roaches scatter across the walls of my kitchen. I nearly fainted. I was terrified that they’d crawl on my face so I slept with the lights on for several months until I found a new place to live.
Next, I moved to a tiny house. It was roach-free, but the neighborhood was riddled with criminal activity. One night, somebody shot out the windows of my car. Somehow, that was less terrifying than living with roaches. But I did wonder if someone was trying to send me a message. Insurance replaced my windows but nothing could restore my faith in humanity. After that incident, I was robbed three separate times before I finally got the message.
I moved to a “California studio” apartment on the second floor. I felt a little safer up there, but a prostitute lived below me. It wasn’t uncommon to hear her pimp threatening her life. I called 911 frequently to report the sickening sounds of their altercations, but the police never came. One day the yelling was louder than usual and I heard glass shattering. Once again, I called the police and this time they came. The next morning, the window was boarded up, there was yellow crime tape over the door and I never saw the woman again.
All those years, I was afraid roaches would crawl on me or a robber would break in and instead of just steal my Ramones CDs, actually kill me. I was afraid the pimp would storm up the stairs and slash me. I never slept with the curtains or blinds open back then. I barely slept.
Married for 17 years, I confess I have taken a few things for granted including feeling wholly safe and protected while I am asleep. Some strands of fear and insecurity still tickle my mind and heart, especially at night, but for the most part, I can sleep. Let’s see if I can keep those curtains open while Jesse’s in Ohio. -Connie
We got our two to four inches. I got up a little earlier than usual, retrieved our newspaper, shoveled our sidewalks and moved our car off the street. I took a moment to appreciate the sun rising in the east. Further in that direction, it was still the middle of the night in Ukraine.
Any minute, the City of Rockford’s snow plows will be clearing the boulevard.
Last fall, the City acquired five new trucks and for reasons I don’t understand, named them Snowtorious B.I.G., Sled Zeppelin, Plowzilla, Darth Blader and Plowabunga. Cute names for heavy, massive machines designed to wreak havoc on snowflakes that have every right to be here.
Halfway across the world, there is snow in Russia and Ukraine. But Russia isn’t plowing their streets. The Russian military tanks, each curiously emblazoned with an enormous white Z (or more), are plowing through Ukraine; a country that has every right to be there.
The Zs, I’ve read, are a signal among Russian tank operators. When a tank operator sees another tank with a Z, it’s a quick way of saying, “Don’t shoot.”
It’s OK to shoot their neighbors though.
Why did the Russian military name their tanks “Z?” There is no Z in the Russian alphabet. They have a ж, which has a “zhe” sound and a З, which is like the z in zebra.
Time to crack open the old books.
In case you’re wondering why I know this, I studied Russian in college at the time Ukraine and several other countries were breaking away from Russia. Seeing the Zs on the Russian tanks caught my attention.
Why wouldn’t Russia mark their tanks in their own language or with their own symbol? Why did they use modern English? I can’t imagine the U.S. government ever allowing a Russian symbol or alphabet character on one of our tanks.
I understand the letter Z isn’t owned by the United States of America, or anyone, but I can’t stand seeing it on the Russian tanks. I’ll admit that military language is fascinating, but it does little to soothe my soul. Wherever you are, whatever language you speak, I hope you are fluent in peace. Thank you for reading. -Connie
Willow leads me to stray newspaper on the curb of a green space.
We can expect two to four inches of snow in Rockford today. In honor of those two to four inches, I decided to add two to four blocks to my morning walk with Willow.
While walking the doggie, I spied two to four newspapers that never quite made it to their forever homes. As a longtime newspaper subscriber, this didn’t surprise me as much as it amused me.
Every morning before I open the door to retrieve our paper, I wonder where I’ll find the it, if it will be dry or if it got delivered at all. I literally expect there to be a problem every single morning.
It’s in the street, but at least it’s close to a house.
That says a lot about my personality right there. In spite of the fact that most days of the year the paper arrives just fine, I still expect it to be missing or, somehow worse, wet. I expect there to be a problem.
A few years ago, when our newspaper delivery person retired, it took the new guy about a month to figure out his route. During this period of adjustment, we rarely received our paper. It takes time to learn a new neighborhood, especially in the dark, so we didn’t mind, but I would call him to let him know he missed our house.
“I swear I delivered it.”
“And I swear I looked for it,” I told him.
“It must have been the fox.”
“Pardon?”
The fox!” he said. “I’ve seen him eyeballing the paper. He probably took it.”
I don’t think this one’s going to make it. Thoughts and prayers for local journalism, please.
During that first month, he also suggested the neighbors stole it, or it blew away in the wind, or I wasn’t looking hard enough or:
“Can’t you just read it online?”
Nobody likes being given the runaround, but I was starting to look forward to our chats. Just as I was falling into a comfortable routine of calling him, he fell into a reliable delivery routine.
There are still some days I can’t find the paper. The last time it happened was in January. It was very windy that morning so I didn’t bother calling him because I knew he would say it blew away.
And it did. I found the paper a week later, two houses down and frozen to the side of the curb. As I peeled it away from the ice, I wondered if any neighbors thought I was stealing someone else’s paper. I looked around, waved and smiled to invisible people and proclaimed, “It’s mine!”
Stop acting crazy, Connie.
Then I wondered if a fox was secretly “eyeballing” me, disappointed that he couldn’t take the newspaper home to his den.
Public Eyeballer No. 1.
Take the paper and go home, Connie.
Once home, I learned the Saturday paper will only be available online starting in March. I went from feeling paranoid and crazy to sad. I love having seven-day delivery and will miss the Saturday print edition. But at least our guy will get his wish: I’ll just read it online.
Thanks for stopping by and spending two to four minutes with me. -Connie
The sun is shining today but it’s “frost on the window” cold and there is a treacherous layer of ice coating Rockford’s sidewalks and alleys. I know this for a fact because my son Angelo slipped on it this morning on his way to the bus stop. He scraped his knee so when he arrived at school, he went to the nurse’s office. After she patched him up, she sent him on his way and gave me a call.
“It’s a mild abrasion,” she said, “but it tore through his pants.”
West Middle School has a strict dress code. The kids must wear clean khaki pants that are free of any tears or holes, so…
“Do you have any pants?”
“I got pants!”
Who talks that way? Who says, “I got pants!”
I do, apparently.
“I’ll be right there, Nurse!”
Who actually calls a nurse “Nurse?”
Was it necessary for me to take a photo of myself carrying pants to West Middle School?
I sprang to action and sped to the school. After Security checked me in, I went to the nurse’s office brandishing not one but two pairs of fresh khaki pants. I knocked gently on the door and let myself in. The nurse asked me if I was Angelo’s mom.
“Yes I am and I got pants!”
Why couldn’t I stop talking like an idiot?
The nurse took the pants from me and said, “I’ll call him down.”
I was confused. Why did she take the pants from me? I had planned to give Angelo the pants. The nurse looked at me and said, “You can leave…or would you like to see him?”
“Yes, please. May I?”
I just needed to see my son. I knew it was just a skinned knee, but I needed to spend a little time with him and the nurse seemed to immediately understand this and handed the pants back to me.
“It’ll be a couple minutes,” the nurse said. “He’s coming from the second floor.”
“Thank you.”
It was my first time in a nurse’s office and I must say I really liked it. It was a well lit, clean and comforting space. There was a blue cot in the open for anyone who needed to lie down. There was a large bathroom and a separate area that looked like a lab / kitchen combination. While I poked around, a girl came in holding her hand over her eye.
“I got some hand sanitizer in my eye and they told me to come down here.”
The nurse gave her some saline solution and told her to stand over the sink and flush out her eye.
“It won’t even sting.”
The girl said thanks and took care of herself. While she was doing that, Angelo came in.
“Hi Mom.”
“Hi! I got your pants!”
Yep. Still hyper about pants.
The nurse motioned to the bathroom.
“If you want to take a look at his knee, you can go in there for some privacy.”
Once inside, he showed me his expertly-bandaged knee and said, “It doesn’t hurt anymore.” I said it might later and that I was sorry it happened.
“It’s fine, Mom.”
He changed into his new pants. As we were leaving, we thanked Nurse Leah who was helping a third kid navigate a COVID test. He was circling his nostril with a long Q-Tip when we said, “Good luck” and left.
“Bye!” they both called out in unison.
Angie and I walked down the long hall together. West is a busy school. There are nearly 1,000 middle-schoolers enrolled and though it gets loud sometimes, it always feels peaceful and inviting. It has a great vibe.
“I like your school,” I told him.
“So do I.”
By then, he was at the stairwell and we said our goodbyes. I left feeling thankful for our unique and quiet moment together.
I also left feeling thankful for the school nurse. I was in there for less than ten minutes and she had already taken care of three kids plus she let me stay longer than necessary. How many children (and nervous parents) pass through her door in a day? So many lives touched and improved.
Wherever you are traveling today, please be mindful of that sneaky ice. If you live in a warmer environment, please be mindful of sneaky debris. But if you do fall and rip your pants, I might know a gal who will be absurdly happy to bring you a new pair.
Thanks for stopping by. I appreciate it so much. Be safe! -Connie
It’s a grey day in Rockford, raining off and on. In a matter of hours, the rain will turn to ice. Yesterday it was in the 50s; today it’s in the 20s. Yesterday I was in my 50s and today I am…still in my 50s.
It’s good that I’m consistent but even in my old age, I appreciate the Midwest’s mercurial weather. Today’s fluctuating temperatures and conditions remind me of something that happened three years ago when the weather was much like today’s.
It was 2019. I was sitting next to a young man who was wearing a fitted t-shirt even though it was cold. He was looking at my laptop and asked me a Mac-related question. It was a simple question about its version but I didn’t know the answer. I told him to give me a minute to figure it out.
“That’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to be so thirsty.” It shocked me when he said it. Like a slap in the face.
He was rude, but he wasn’t wrong.
However, I think that if I had been twenty years younger, this same person would have referred to me as “hungry” instead of thirsty. Might have even called me “a real go-getter.”
I wonder: When does someone go from being hungry to thirsty? From hardworking to extra? From respectful to obsequious? I’ve been called all of those things.
When you reach a certain age and you want to learn or create something new, if you’re not careful, you’re going to look “thirsty.” Most people understand this and adjust their behavior accordingly but I’m not ready to conform. Justin Timberlake brought sexy back. I’m bringing thirsty back.
And speaking of JT, he’s 41 years old. I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that going forward, he will go through a similar struggle to prove his relevance and artistry simply because he’s older. That’s just how it goes.
Artists often have a multi-dimensional process. New information and ideas bombard us from all angles and we like it that way. But I guarantee you that when we are receiving and creating, we’re going to look thirsty. Shield your eyes if you must. Or…give thirsty a try.
Thanks for reading my blog. At the risk of sounding thirsty, extra and obsequious, I hope to see you tomorrow! -Connie
My daughters performing their own commedia dell’arte at O’Hare.
I’m not a good actor. I’m one of the worst you’ll ever meet. I easily break character and, because I get nervous, my go-to “emotion” is always anger, no matter how cheerfully written the role is. I’m just really bad at acting.
Except when it comes to the airport. That’s my time to shine. I will do anything, including acting, not to pay to park at O’Hare.
Drop-offs are a breeze and require minimal acting. Just drive to Departures, smooch and get going. The most acting I’ve ever had to do at a drop-off is act like I don’t mind waiting for pokey pedestrians to get out of my way.
Move, people!
Pick-ups, on the other hand, require a little more thought.
I pick Jesse up at a Departure door that is right up the stairs from his baggage claim. I am supposed to park and pick him up at Arrivals, but our little system saves us time and money.
Unfortunately, even if the flight is “on time” sometimes there are delays. He’ll have to stay in the plane for an extra half hour or the baggage is delayed or whatever. That’s when I become The First Lady of Airport Acting.
I hit my hazards and pop the trunk. I get out of the car v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. I circle my vehicle, stopping frequently to look up at the heavens. I “become” The Dust Bowl Farmer Who Longs for Rain. He takes big sniffs in all directions and when he smells something he can’t quite identify, he gets back in the car.
That mysterious “scent” is airport security. He doesn’t know what or who they are. All he knows is something is out there and it’s heading his way. This is traditionally when the old farmer disappears and Lorna Luggage emerges.
Lorna’s got a good heart, but is very disorganized and can’t remember if she packed the proper luggage. The role of Lorna Luggage requires gesticulating the following nonverbal subtext.
Oh my gosh! Don’t tell me I forgot my luggage?! Let me check over here again. Maybe it’s under the spare tire. Nope. Time to look in the middle row. Oh my goodness, did I put my luggage in the front passenger seat? Maybe it’s on top of the car? Did I drop it? Hold on. Did it somehow get wedged underneath the van?
About the time Lorna Luggage realizes she did in fact forget her luggage, airport security starts approaching.
“Get going! Keep moving!” they’ll shout at me, whistling and gesticulating aggressively.
First of all, nobody out-gesticulates the First Lady of Airport Acting! Normally, I find these folks intimidating, but not when I’m in character or about to morph into The Lady Who Is Driving Her Husband’s Car for the First Time.
This delicate character is respectful of airport authority, but doesn’t necessarily know how to operate the windshield wipers, or the gears, or the steering wheel. She embarrasses easily which only stalls her ability to figure out how to get her car out of park. She’s polite, though. She’ll give a wave to the authorities and shout, “So sorry! Just trying to figure this out.”
Unfortunately, the airport authorities are completely uncharmed by my characters. That’s usually about the time I see one of them pull out their citation book which is precisely when I move the car ahead at least two feet and break out The Lady Who Is Afraid to Merge into Traffic.
This lady is insecure about driving. Her windshield wipers are still going a million miles an hour regardless of how dry it is. She rolls down her window and sticks her head out and tries with all her might to figure out when to safely pull into that dreadful traffic. Eventually she figures it out, merges and drives out of the airport authority’s sightline. And that’s when we meet The Lady Who Didn’t Shut One of the Doors all the Way.
Pilgrim Fern inspecting every nook and cranny of the car.
This character has a little more pep in her step. She gets out of the car and checks every single door, plus the hood and the trunk and makes sure they are shut tight. And that’s when Jesse finally arrives with his luggage and gets in the car and we drive home.
Phew! Jesse’s in the car and we didn’t have to pay to park.
Sometimes my daughters come with me and break out their own skills. Fern will put on a pilgrim hat and give the car a very thorough inspection; it doesn’t matter that it’s February. Jocelyn has been known to pull out our stash of emergency bungee cords and start counting them before gingerly placing them back inside the car. She’ll also brace and shake all of the seats to make sure they’re safely bolted to the car. Whatever it takes!
I realize there are some of you who will not appreciate my acting antics or that I’m teaching my children to buck the system. I don’t blame you. However, if you’re going to continue reading this blog, you need to know what kind of person I am. You deserve the truth.
Speaking of this blog, thank you for reading! The prompts are gone, but I’m still here and I am so glad you are, too. See you tomorrow. -Connie
I started this 31-day blog challenge with a personal essay about my husband and it only seems right that I conclude it with a photo of him. In the interest of keepin’ it fresh, I snapped a pic of Jesse today after I picked him up at O’Hare International Airport (ORD). With no further ado, here is my new favorite photo.
Jesse fresh from San Francisco to Chicago flight.
Now that you know what “Goldie” looks like, I want to thank you for reading my blog. I know who some of you are because you clicked “like” or commented. But most of you are a complete mystery. Who the heck are you?
WordPress metrics tell me how many people visit every day and that’s about it. I mean, I know most of you are from the United States, but I don’t know which states or what you think of my blog.
I suppose I don’t need to know who you are or what you think, but I definitely want you to know I am grateful for your readership.
Here is a roundup of the 31-day blog challenge:
My most popular blog was Here’s the thing. It’s about gratitude.
My most commented on blog was A merry old soul. This was about an eccentric theatre director I worked for many moons ago. Several people messaged me about similar experiences with their early-career directors. It was amazing feedback.
My least popular blog was Before the Ding Could Dong. No surprise there as it is terribly long short story with penis humor. Hey, I write what I write.
My least favorite prompt was for There’s no place like home row. The prompt asked what I liked most about my writing. Instant cringe! But as I answered the question, I learned that my body and my mind are two separate things and so is the part of me that likes to write. Until I started this blog challenge, I always thought of myself as “whole.”
My most emotional blog was about Alfred. Writing about my old director reduced me to an absurd amount of tears but also opened my eyes to real forgiveness of self and others. I am still somewhat awestruck by the experience of writing about him.
When I picked Jesse up from O’Hare this afternoon, the first thing he asked me was, “Did you blog today?” I told him I was going to do it this evening, which is several hours later than usual. He said he missed it and that he had been waiting for it.
Furthermore, a few nights ago, we were talking on the phone before bedtime and he said he looked forward to reading my blog every day. He said he valued it more than talking on the phone at night because “that’s when we’re both exhausted from the day.” He said my blog helps him see what’s going on in my brain when he’s far away, which is most days of the month.
I realize nobody is going to care about “my brain” the way my husband does, but his words meant something to me and just one short month of blogging has improved my life. So I’ll continue to blog, even without the WordPress prompts. Thanks again for stopping by! -Connie
A Promised Land by Barack Obama is the next book I will read. But first I need to I finish James Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain.
I started Baldwin’s slim but deep novel a month ago. It’s short; only 225 pages long. Usually, I have my books read and reviewed within a week or two, but Baldwin’s story about a closeted homosexual coming of age in 1930s Harlem is so unsettling and ironically unspiritual that I have to carve out a specific reading time for it. It’s just not the kind of book you pick up and casually read.
Smokey snoring in the sunlight.
To read Baldwin, the house must be still. Gospel music needs to be playing softly in the background and natural light should be streaming in through the windows and glass door. At least one cat will be asleep and gently snoring. I will occasionally look up and notice dust dancing in the sunbeams. I will feel organic and peaceful and that is when I shall give this book the attention it deserves.
I’m not normally this high maintenance* but some books demand a certain reading ambience.
Why do they do this?
Obama’s book, on the other hand, will be a zippy read even though it weighs three pounds and is more than 700 pages long. In spite of its enormity, it will be fun to read, as long as I can convince my cat to stop sitting on it. Confession: I already snuck in reading Obama’s foreword and first ten pages and it really moves.
So why is Baldwin’s shorter book a more challenging read for me?
Because Obama writes for Americans whereas Baldwin wrote for a literary crowd. That’s my quick opinion.
I fell in love with Obama’s writing in the early aughts. Then I fell in love with his politics.
Both books are excellent for different reasons and I look forward to them. But before I finish Go Tell It on the Mountain and delve into A Promised Land, I need to finish this blog challenge. Only two more to #bloganuary prompts to go!
Just as I peeked ahead into Obama’s book, I peeked at tomorrow’s prompt and it looks like I’ll have to write something “mysterious.” Until then, thank you for stopping by! -Connie
I’m a very public person. I like public libraries, public transportation, public radio, public parks, public events, public art and the public domain.
I comfortable with public displays of affection and I’m fascinated by public opinion, public enemies and people who run for public office.
I am grateful for public restrooms.
My passion for John Q. Public is personal. We unschooled our kids from 2005-2020 and I credit the public for providing them with a great education.
Unschooling is a touch more radical than homeschooling. It means you don’t follow a set curriculum. With a fervor, you follow the interests of your family.
For us, unschooling meant getting on our feet and discovering the public to the best of our abilities. It was a borderless education and we are proud of what we learned, who we met and what we did. We were invited into many homes, cultures and communities and provided with numerous volunteer activities. Jesse and I are forever grateful and the kids know it was special.
But nowadays they attend Rockford Public Schools and even when it’s stressful, they prefer RPS 205 to unschooling. Yes, they appreciate their unschooling experiences, but they’ve moved on. They value the structure and their independence, and enjoy looking ahead.
I have moved on, too, but am still passionate about my “cause” which is the public.
This morning’s haul.
On a smaller level, once a week (at least) I make it a point to take advantage of something “public.” I take a walk, I make a trip to the library, I listen to public radio, I check out public art or whatever. I just intentionally do something public. I believe every time I am out there in the world, even if I’m just picking up litter, I am adding a touch of goodness to the public.
On a slightly bigger level, a few times a year, I organize art or writing-based public events. Writing pop-ups, art parades, 5Ks, silent hikes and poetry caroling are examples of my free public events. I love them and am looking forward to figuring out what my “spring” event will be. I hope you come!
But if you can’t come, I hope you continue to read my (public) blog. I am so thankful that you still pop by for a quick visit. -Connie
The “On Your Mark” 5K was a family friendly fun run. There were dozens of art activists staged along the course to help keep the runners motivated to run…and create art!
Constance Kuntz 