Buy Local! (Historical edition)

The Brookfield Historical Society and Museum, Brookfield, CT

Anyone who has spent any amount of time at all doing research--whether it is into family history or a particular historic event--realizes the treasure trove that may be found at local and county historical societies and their research libraries. 

I spent a few years working in a small county historical society myself so I am generally aware of how vastly the fortunes of places like this can vary depending on funding, donations, and sadly, politics. Some town and county museums are blessed not only with thoughtfully and carefully curated papers, books, documents and photographs, but also with a staff--often many of them are volunteers--who are helpful, friendly, and knowledgeable. So in the same way that buying local produce and meat is better for both you and the economy, spending some time at your local historical society or museum is also mutually beneficial. You'll learn about your family and/or your community and you'll support an organization that has kept the lamps of history lit in quiet corners for decades upon decades. 

Yes, there is a lot of one-stop-shopping to be done when it comes to research and genealogy, and I'm not suggesting there's anything wrong with that. I'm only proposing that if there's a small entity that might hold a document or record that you've been looking for, give them a shot. These (often) small gems can be the repositories of a town's memories or they can track a county's transition from agriculture to medical mecca. And while the state historical society or state library can also be of great help, the smaller sites are so important to the fabric of a community. And hey, in some cases your tax dollars have helped fund these sites so pay a visit and see the good work they are doing. 

I've been researching a small book project off and on for a while now and even though I've had some fun and useful finds online and through the NYT and New Yorker archives, the real gist of what I've been looking for has been uncovered with the help of the hardworking archivists and staff at two local museums--in Danbury and Brookfield, Connecticut. 

I can't say enough about the folks I've been lucky enough to work with at both spots and honestly, I could spend days at the Brookfield Historical Society. It's a charming building and they are rightfully proud of the heritage of their community. A few other people walked in with some queries while I was there and it was fun to eavesdrop on their reminiscences...it sounded just like my dad when he and his old high school buddies get together. Needless to say, I felt right at home there, sitting at a large pine table covered with old newspapers and photographs as the shutters rattled in today's harsh wind. I knew basically what I'd hoped to find today, it's always a challenge with a structure that has been gone for a few decades now, and my expectations were exceeded. But not only did I spend time with the "White Turkey Inn" file, I also learned about the Copperheads in Connecticut during the Civil War and chatted about a Revolutionary era cannonball that a local couple had been found on their property. The hour or so I'd planned to spend turned into nearly four hours and I left with a stack of photocopies and a total buzz from all the documentation I'd found. The staff shared their memories with me of a place I'll never  see in person but have, nonetheless, completely fallen in love with. Yes, even reading about zoning battles can be exciting when you look back in hindsight and can piece together how the proverbial dominoes began to tumble.

A gift certificate from the White Turkey Inn

I'll be back for more at both the Danbury and Brookfield Historical Societies because they are important and the work they do is meaningful--just like the indie bookseller or the local coffee joint. We all know to buy local whenever possible, so give your local museum or historical society the same treatment. It's even possible you'll learn something about yourself in the process. It is far too easy to take these places-- and the work they do for granted--only to bemoan their passing after they've disappeared.

http://www.brookfieldcthistory.org/

http://danburymuseum.org/danburymuseum/Home.html

Pansies and tulips and hyacinths, oh my!

Hyacinths and tulips outside Rockefeller Plaza, 2006

I'm generally fan of all the seasons, at least for a certain amount of time--I know I could never live in a place where it was one climate all year round. However, when the august swelter of August drags into September, I'm ready for an immediate (and wishful) transition to autumn. And when it comes to the first snow I can barely contain my envy when my more northerly New England neighbors are blanketed with a layer of fluffy, white, snowy goodness before I am. Patience is not among my virtues, generally speaking. 

The time has come, though, where I'm starting to daydream about spring. These past two days of balmy goodness--60 degrees in February?!?!--do have a way of setting a girl's mind to wandering. I found myself drawn to the lilac and jasmine scented candles as I passed shops on my errands today...sure signs of an emergence from hibernation. I know full well there's more snow and dreaded "wintry mix" still to come and I'm not nearly ready to put away my tall boots (for which, my pathetically white legs are more than grateful, I'm certain), but I thought I'd add a little floral inspiration to extend today's sunny temps a little longer. The weather folk are forecasting a chilly stretch to come, so I'm going to enjoy some virtual flowers and a little HWL while I patiently await the arrival of the hyacinths, crocuses, daffodils, tulips and all their hearty floral compatriots. 

Fiery tulips from the Boston Public Garden, 2008

My favorite--purple pansies, 2008

Flowers

by our beloved Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,

  One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,

  Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our history,

  As astrologers and seers of eld;

Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,

  Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,

  God hath written in those stars above;

But not less in the bright flowerets under us

  Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation,

  Written all over this great world of ours;

Making evident our own creation,

  In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,

  Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part

Of the self-same, universal being,

  Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,

  Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,

  Buds that open only to decay; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,

  Flaunting gayly in the golden light;

Large desires, with most uncertain issues,

  Tender wishes, blossoming at night! 

These in flowers and men are more than seeming,

  Workings are they of the self-same powers,

Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,

  Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing,

  Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,

  Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,

  And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,

  In the centre of his brazen shield; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys,

  On the mountain-top, and by the brink

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,

  Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

  Not on graves of bird and beast alone,

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,

  On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

  In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,

Speaking of the Past unto the Present,

  Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; 

In all places, then, and in all seasons,

  Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,

  How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection,

  We behold their tender buds expand;

Emblems of our own great resurrection,

  Emblems of the bright and better land.

You Want a What?

Toss the confetti, release the balloons, and pop the Champagne corks--only The Widow or better, please--The (prodigal) Paper Tyger has returned. For those of you unaware that I'd been absent, well, no worries...you didn't miss too terribly much.

I've kept busy working on writing projects small and large, and other little endeavors as well. So what broke the proverbial ice dragging me back here? A photograph, actually, or the lack thereof, more specifically.

About a year ago I wrote about my trip to Yorktown Heights, NY, to engage in a match with a few other ex-Jeopardy! contestants versus the now famous Watson. It was great fun as I related in the post at the time--more fun than the actual Jeopardy! experience by a long stretch. Not only was there no pressure--though it was still a highly competitive atmosphere--but the IBM campus there is almost perfectly bucolic. Nestled amidst rolling hills the Eero Saarinen designed main building was an unexpected pleasure and absolutely added to the overall experience.

Fast forward to today and I was giving a quick interview about my experience versus the lightning-fast Watson to a reporter when I was asked for the thing I dread most, a photograph. Of me, I asked? Really? Wouldn't you like a gorgeous picture postcard view of the Saarinen building with the sun setting behind it? Or better yet, surely you can come up with some clever graphic or other to fill the space, right? Nope. A photograph of me. Is it too late to back out of the interview? (Cut to ridiculously rare photograph of an actual tiger backing down from a challenge. Can't find one, right? Exactly.)

After much ado--come on, I do fancy a spot of dramatics now and then--I came up with a suitable image (one with my glasses on, even, huzzah!!) and the problem was solved. Right...so moving on then. Or, not...

The photograph in question is a perfectly nice image and yet, I'm still uncomfortable with giving it over to someone else. I am, reader, a person with control concerns. (And yes, that's a euphemism.) I, apparently, am much happier being the observer and recorder, not the observed and recorded.  Admittedly I'd have much rather written something myself and had them edit it down or use a few quotes, but that wasn't an option. So there I was this morning, giving an interview to an absolutely nice and very capable reporter but the entire time I was mentally editing myself and framing things the way I'd have written them. Not perhaps the best way to conduct an interview and I'd have been annoyed if I sensed someone doing that with me. But when you're firmly rooted in your comfort zone of being the quiet observer in the background (also known as the anti-George Plimpton) it takes a good old-fashioned hockey check to unseat you.

Clearly it is a good thing to be shoved out of the comfort zone now and again. For me, getting back to writing here is as much a part of that as sending on my photograph to the nice interviewer who was only doing her job. Hitting that send button was harder than it ought to have been and it served as a healthy reminder for me to step back out into the light again. The entirety of the Jeopardy! experience was a good distance outside any comfort zone I've ever owned, so now is as good a time as any to toss my hat back into the ring. Welcome new friends and a hearty thanks for the patience of my old, faithful readers.

In the event you haven't read my scintillating (that's hyperbole in action there, folks...) account of Watson and Jeopardy!...they are here:

Elememtary, my dear Watson...

I lost on Jeopardy!

A Window! My Kingdom For a Window!!

I live in a safe, pretty quiet place. Or at least I thought I did. And then on Friday I was awakened by a phone call telling me my car had been broken into. The driver’s side window was obliterated and a honeycomb of shiny aquamarine colored glass was strewn across both seats and the dashboard.

Bits and pieces of window saved for future artistic projects.

 The maintenance staff was already cleaning up the shards on the pavement around my car and helpfully putting a temporary plastic covering on the space where I’d formerly had a window. They pushed the black plastic back so I could look around and see what, if anything, was missing.

**Before I continue, let me make this disclaimer: I am the girl who locks her car no matter where it is, including her parents' driveway in Minnesota. I am also the girl who keeps her car in meticulous condition, inside and out. I love my car and treat it with great care. It is neither an old car, nor a customized car of any sort.**

Right, so where were we…? Oh yes, I was going to tell you what was missing. On first glance the only thing missing was an ancient 2nd generation iPod which I use only in the car and worked about, oh, say 50% of the time. It’s been obsolete for a few years now and it honestly never occurred to me in a million years that anyone would actually break into a car to get it. Everything else seemed to be intact, from my full little Liberty of London coin purse to a Dunkin Donuts gift card that was also pretty full.

Annoyed as I was, I came inside and called the police and was informed that this was a pretty typical crime, some kid looking to pawn something to buy a “dime bag” of some drug. I’m not actually sure what most of that means, but it suffices to say that it was unlikely I was going to get my iPod back. The policeman never even got out of his cruiser, looking over at the mess with a disappointing nonchalance. He then handed me a card with a number on to get the police report.

Excellent, I figured, police report taken care of, I’ll call my insurance company and file a claim and get working on a replacement window.

Um, not so fast. I have a $500 deductible and while the replacing of said window is not cheap, it is under $500. Okay…not amused but, that’s the deal. After a few calls to dealers and glass places, I settled on a national company--recommended by my insurance company--that said they could be out that afternoon. Huzzah and Halleluiah!!

Well, readers, let’s just say that things went down hill from there. I barely got the final chorus of Halleluiahs out when, while doing a more thorough check for missing items I found that the bastard thieves had also taken a small good luck piece--a tiny gold wishbone pin--that had been given to me by someone whom I love very much and which had, in turn, belonged to someone whom he loved very much, his mum. The small pin had been given to her by her father and had watched over me from my car's visor for a couple of years now. I’d not been angry about the iPod, but with this discovery I could immediately feel hot, angry tears streaming down my face and a sourness churning in my stomach. Insult had been added to injury and on top of everything else I needed to break the news that the pin had been stolen. I figured that once I had the window back in and the glass cleaned up I’d take care of that difficult task.

The glass company (to remain nameless for the time being) sent out a very nice gentleman who got straight to work and told me what to expect, etc. About 45 minutes later he calls me back down to the car and tells me there is a small problem--the window wasn’t the right one. It was the right shape, but two small holes, needed for bolts at the base, were not there. He did a quick little plastic treatment and told me they’d reorder the part and someone would be back out the next afternoon. I wasn’t happy, but it wasn’t his fault and I went about my business after a bit of a rant on Twitter.

Saturday morning rolls around and lo and behold, a call from the glass guys. The part had come in wrong again. It was going to be Monday (today) before they could get the part from a dealer or dealer’s vendor. Less amused than ever, but I was polite and thanked them for letting me know.

Morning came today with a renewed sense of hope and feeling that I was going to have a car with all four lovely windows in place once again. Alas, it was not meant to be. This morning’s phone call alerted me to the fact that the dealers hadn’t told them this was a special order and was going to take an additional 3-5 days…and when you add in the holiday, well, it was going to be ANOTHER WEEK. Next Monday. Meaning my car was STILL vulnerable and by the end of this all it would have been so for 10 days.

I really didn’t know what to do upon hearing the news this afternoon. I was furious beyond reason, but no one else was going to get me the glass any sooner at this point since it clearly had to be ordered and shipped in. After a few phone calls to area dealers I realized I was just going to have to suck it up. I asked the young woman on the phone if someone could come out and do a “new and improved” window treatment to get me through the next week…one that is forecast to include inclement weather. She said absolutely and they sent out a very thorough repairman who gave me about as sturdy a temporary window as a girl could hope for. Not perfect, but with any luck, it’ll do.

The "new and improved" temporary window, thanks to Paul!

As for blame…well, I’m as upset with myself as anyone for leaving even a crappy old obsolete piece of electronics in a visible spot in my car. As far as I can tell both the glass guys and the car dealers are equally responsible for how long it will take to get me an actual window, so that’s a wash, I guess. What is always interesting to me, though, especially in a time of crisis, is who steps up. Who comes thru and who doesn’t. It’s a good reminder of who has one’s back, isn’t it?

Oh, and the pin…I did finally tell him about the pin being gone. I sobbed through the telling of the whole sordid story and he interrupted by telling me it was going to be all right. I sniffled through more details and he said of course he was disappointed that the pin had been stolen, but what was most important was that I was okay. This induced more tears at which point he said, ”the pin may be gone, but the sentiments behind it still remain, okay, no one can take those.” 

That'll do...that'll do. 

The Queen Mum

Ah, there's nothing like a match between an attractive, talented, elegant and well-bred young couple to send the media into a minor feeding frenzy. The speculation about offspring and heirs is quickly zipping across cyberspace and every punter has an opinion.

Zenyatta paddock schooling on November 4, 2010
with her groom, Mario Espinoza. Photo courtesy of Frances J. Karon. 

No, no, I'm not talking about Wills and Kate, though I'm sure the punters and speculators are having their fun with them as well--not to mention the boon to the commemorative china trade. I'm referring to the lucky stallion who will get to be the sire of Zenyatta's first foal and take the meaning of royally-bred to an entirely new level. Who will it be? Who could possibly be good enough for Zenyatta? One of the most poignant moments of Mike Smith's pre-Breeder's Cup 60 Minutes interview came when he was asked about Zenyatta's future in the breeding shed. His response was heartfelt and honest, something you'd expect to hear from any proud human father...no one was good enough for her, not for his special girl.

Z and Mario arriving at Churchill Downs. Photo courtesy of Frances J. Karon.

And she is special. She's brought nothing but joy, grace, and inspiring athletic achievement into the skeptical and often jaded world of racing. But the Queen is now off to bigger and better things, which got me to thinking, anthropomorphically, of course, about what kind of offerings her prospective suitors might bring...

Typically it is the bride's family who worries over a dowry or fortune (see Maureen O'Hara's character in the The Quiet Man for the ideal portrayal of this) but in Zenyatta's case, I think the stallion's connections ought to be, for lack of a better expression, ponying up big time for a chance to be romantically linked (to put it delicately) to a mare of this stature. They ought to come bearing precious gems, special hybrids of apples and carrots, the softest straw and the tastiest oats. Perhaps they can offer up deals with Guinness or luxury bridles and blankets from Hermes. Or maybe one of the stallions is connected to a peppermint manufacturer and brings that to the table, along with just the right balance--an alchemist's secret formula for that magical combination of speed and stamina. And let's not forget the dancing, this girl has serious moves and any worthy male must possess not only the elegant agility of Fred Astaire, but also the sweeping athleticism of Gene Kelly.

Trainer John Shirrefs chats with Z. Photo courtesy of Frances J. Karon

While I realize that equating human comforts and traits to a horse might seem a bit silly, I can't help but want a happy and comfortable future for Zenyatta. I'm personally saddened that I won't get to see her race again, but I take heart in knowing that she'll be as well cared for in motherhood as she was during her racing career and that's how it should be. This wonderful horse who has buoyed spirits and made even non-racing fans sit up and take notice deserves nothing but the best, she's more than earned it.

For those of you who haven't checked out the piece in The Thoroughbred Times about her likely mates, here it is...Zenyatta Retires. And a special thanks to Frances for her up close and personal photos of Z that she kindly let me use for this piece.

Hold on a minute...

Still autumn here in southern New England, let's enjoy it while we can!

I got into my car yesterday to run a few errands and switched on the radio. It was still tuned to one of my favorite XM presets, 40s on 4, from the weekend. Instead of hearing a swingy melody from Benny Goodman or a forgotten treasure from Bing Crosby, I heard Dean Martin singing Silver Bells. Huh? Wah? All due respect to Dino, whom I truly do love, but WHAT THE HELL?? It was the only 15th of November, still 10 days out from Thanksgiving (!), and my radio was already pushing Christmas at me. 

Well I'm stopping the presses and slamming on the brakes this year. Autumn transitioning into to winter is my favorite time of year. From the hazy, warm, Indian summer days that are sprinkled throughout October to the first snow flakes, I relish every bit of it and I enjoy taking it in. 

And yet, even as I mulishly dig my heels in to slow the progression of the coming weeks, I know that outside forces will be conspiring against me. Okay, that sounded a wee bit paranoid, but you know what I mean. The always lovely Christmas windows at Lord & Taylor in NYC were unveiled last night--complete with an appearance by Santa. Target barely got the Halloween candy into clearance aisles before restocking the shelves with Christmas candy. And let's not allow the television adverts off the hook, they've jumped the gun entirely by bombarding us with Christmas products. I mean really, don't we deserve a little breather between the bellicose and cringe-worthy political campaign advertisements and the silly, over-the-top commercialism of the holiday season? 

I always assume that Americans are worse about this than other cultures because of our general state of rushing about and hurrying in, but in truth, I suppose all of Western culture is guilty of this non-stop quest for what is next or new. In the process, though, we rarely seem to stop and enjoy the present, the now. And I'm as guilty of this as anyone, always longing for, say, the start of the summer season in Saratoga or looking forward with great anticipation to the first snowfall each year. It's great to have things to look forward to, but I know that I sometimes I do so to the detriment of the present. This year, though, even the moody fall days that blow in on a chilly breeze will get their due. It is, after all, autumn in New England. So enough of the pre-Thanksgiving Christmas rush, there'll be plenty of time for Christmas after Thanksgiving, I promise. So save your Christmas tunes and colorful lights, your holiday cards and candy canes, please, until November 26th, at which point I will joyfully and happily share in the countdown to Christmas. 

In the meantime, how about a little lost Bing Crosby-Judy Garland treasure that celebrates my beloved nutmeg state, hmm? 

On Legacy

I've been besieged of late, for lack of a better word, by multiple thoughts on the nature of legacy. Musing on the nature of how a story is told or interpreted is nothing new for me, it's been part of my work in both the museum and publishing worlds, but for the past week and a half everything I've encountered--from election results to horse races--seems to boil down to that double-edged sword of a word, legacy.

This entire thought process began about 10 days or so ago when the Snow Monkey and I visited Springwood, Franklin Delano Roosevelt's estate in Hyde Park. I've been there many times, most often to wander around the grounds and soak up some inspiration, but himself, well, he'd never been there so we opted to take the house tour in addition to having a good walk around the grounds. As we meandered through the home it was interesting to eavesdrop on the quiet comments murmured between our fellow tourists and the inquiries made to our guide...there was an air of unspoken respect for the man and for, I hope, his place in history. I'm always amused by his well curated and somewhat cheeky collection of 18th and 19th century British political cartoons; just as I'm always moved by the dumbwaiter (originally used for cumbersome steamer trunks) that was re-purposed as an elevator to allow a wheelchair-bound FDR to get himself to the other levels of the the home. He pulled himself upstairs, essentially, in a small dumbwaiter car, using a rope that must have tested and tired the strength of his entire upper-body. Once outside, amidst the rolling hills and ridiculously beautiful views of the Hudson River, it's nearly impossible to leave Springwood without a sense of the Roosevelt legacy of Franklin and Eleanor. Stop to consider that in addition to repealing Prohibition (my personal favorite of FDR's myriad accomplishments) he also is responsible for creating Social Security, Unemployment Insurance,  the CCC, the WPA, the SEC, and the March of Dimes for starters. And for as much as I fully understand the flaws and foibles of FDR's alphabet soup of recovery programs, this time I left with a sinking feeling that some of the things he'd fought for and left in trust for future generations were actually in a kind of danger.

Yes, I said in danger. Prior to that Sunday afternoon, pre-2010 election, I had read of and watched politicians from a handful of states stumping and advocating for the dissolution (or serious dismembering) of programs like Social Security and Unemployment Insurance. These upstart sorts, to my mind, were tampering not only with FDR's legacy of compassion and social responsibility, but they were also, in their own way, demolishing important and necessary safety net programs that people count on. Beyond that, we (yes, WE) have also contributed to these programs all of our working lives. This isn't charity, it's something that working people have earned. The Roosevelt administrations of the 1930s and 40s fought hard for us to have these rights...it's one of the most important parts of his legacy as far as I'm concerned. Seeing these necessary and enduring pieces of legislation challenged and almost made light of by cavalier and common politicians was worrisome, to say the least. It seems we all need reminders that vigilance is the price we must pay to ensure the future of important legacies handed down to us for protection.

And then, nearly a week after our little Roosevelt excursion, there was the big upset of this past Saturday, Zenyatta being nosed out of her 20th victory and a Breeder's Cup Classic win, by a horse called Blame. For those of you who don't follow horse racing and are now wondering who these horses are, I'm a little sad on your behalf. Go ahead...Google Zenyatta, watch ANY of her races, and then come back, we'll wait for you to get up to speed.

Impressive, right? Kind of makes you want to go back and watch all of her 19 brilliant victories, doesn't it? It's okay...you'll find yourself a little teary and most likely cheering wildly for this amazing mare in spite of the fact that you know she's going to win all 19 in style--patented Zenyatta style--coming from behind, her long, rolling strides seeming to eat up the ground.

So this brings us to her 20th start in the Breeder's Cup Classic against the boys. There was talk that she might retire to the breeding shed after this race, and surely with a win, her legacy of greatness would be cemented. However, as most racing fans learn early on, the racing gods and goddesses can be terribly cruel. Heartbreak is built into both baseball and horse racing, it's part of the bargain we accept for the pleasure of sweet swings or an amazing turn of foot. Just as there was no joy in Mudville when the Mighty Casey struck out, there was no joy at Churchill Downs (or anywhere that racing fans congregate) when Zenyatta lost. The elegant, smart, stylish, and cunning mare who had so nobly borne all of our wishes, dreams, and hopes for perfection on her well-bred shoulders came up a nostril short.

Her legacy? Absolutely untarnished for this fan. She's a wonder and a marvel and she has more than earned her place in history with her incredible record of 19 consecutive wins. Race fans will debate and debunk the sometime rivalry of the mighty Zenyatta and Rachel Alexandra, but at the end of the day, Zenyatta's record speaks for itself. I have such love and respect for both these mares and their connections that I mostly just consider myself lucky to have been able to watch them race so many times. I often bemoan not being around to watch in person Secretariat's Belmont blow-out or Seabiscuit's match race against War Admiral, but instead I've been able to watch Zenyatta and Rachel. Not such a bad trade off, all things considered.

My hope is that when Zenyatta does eventually make her way to the breeding shed that she'll throw beautiful and talented foals for us to marvel at and cheer on for generations to come. Now that's a legacy...smart and stunning little mini-Zenyattas making their way to a racetrack near you in 2014 or 2015!

On a closing note, a much smaller, but more personal legacy that I consider myself the keeper of--along with my family, of course. The photo of the clothespins above was taken on the porch of my maternal grandparent's home in Fountain City, Wisconsin. The porch looks out over the Mississippi River, rather lazy at that spot, and bears witness to seasonal voyages of numerous barges and the occasional long ago visits from the Delta Queen, a historic sternwheel steamboat, complete with calliope. The twine clothesline and clothespins pictured are a tactile representation of my grandmother's philosophy and work ethic. Hand embroidered dish towels, plastic baggies turned inside out for reuse, and colorful--if threadbare--aprons were fixtures on that length of twine. After big dinners with lots of cousins and family present the day would end with the lines covered with wet dish towels, or pieces of butcher's paper--all hung to dry with a view of the river rolling calmly by.

The sight of an old wooden clothespin never fails to remind me of my "Grandma K" and her own little legacy of daughters who sew, embroider, and quilt (to this day) and grandchildren who cherish and recall fondly her handiworks, fresh bread, popcorn parties, and chaotic fishing expeditions.

Legacies can be national, political, ordinary, and even equine in nature. More important is that we recognize the pieces of history, large and small, that are entrusted to us to care for and nurture for coming generations.

The Tailcoat

Clothing makes a statement, it gives clues to the world as to who we are and even, to an extent, where we've been. Imagine Humphrey Bogart's Rick Blaine character in Casablanca wearing something other than his classic ivory colored dinner jacket. Sure he'd still be Bogey and he'd still deliver his lines in that inimitable fashion, but it wouldn't be the same. Nor would Mad Men be the fabulously addictive program that it is if it didn't have such an impeccable wardrobe for its talented cast--consider Pete Campbell's blue suits or Don's variations in grey. And the women's clothing, I'm terribly envious of the wonderful day dresses, gowns, gloves, and hats that are often sported by the female cast members.

And this brings me to The Tailcoat. For the past couple of days I've been able to visit dear old friends and help out with the work being done to ready Historic Mayowood Mansion for its Christmas season which begins in early November. I've loved Mayowood since I was a wee girl taking riding lessons in the Mayo's former stables and I learned a lifetime of lessons working at the house as an adult, it's as much a part of me as New England or horses or France.

On Wednesday we were putting away a few small artifacts in an upstairs closet and I noticed a beautiful gentleman's wool tailcoat with some other clothing. Because so many generations of the Mayo family called Mayowood home, there are clothes spanning eras from 1911 when the house was built all the way up until the early 1960s...there is everything from old style riding togs to beautiful handmade silk chiffon gowns. This coat stood out though. It was made from a beautiful medium weight charcoal grey wool and as we removed it from its special container for a closer look we could see it was custom made tailcoat in mint condition. The seams and hand sewing were works of art created by a skilled hand and the buttons on the front, tails, and sleeves were covered in a woven silk damask. Folded carefully beneath the coat was the matching pair of deep grey wool trousers and a silk vest with delicate pearl buttons. The entire suit was in perfect condition, not a moth nosh to be found. But who might have worn it? 

We examined the interior pockets on the coat a little closer--those slick, slim, secret pockets that held letters of transit or fashionable cigarette cases once upon a time--and found it had been made by Fieldcrest in Chicago for Dr. J. Mayo.

I felt an immediate and powerful pang of sadness at seeing his name in this beautiful garment, my heart sank a little in my chest. As my friend left the room to answer a question elsewhere in the house, I whispered quietly, "Oh, Joe, this is heartbreaking." I couldn't help myself, I always felt a real connection to Joe--Dr. Joseph Graham Mayo--from the first time I saw his portrait on a wall at Mayowood. 

Joe had been the second son in a family where the first son, Dr. Charles W. Mayo, bore a immense responsibility on very capable shoulders. Joe was an avid horseman and hunter and a lively soul. From all accounts, he had a big personality and razor-wit--possibly because he enjoyed freedoms that eldest sons from prominent families often don't have the option to pursue. He also was, to my mind, the great tragic figure of the Mayo family. He was killed in a car-train collision in November of 1936 (at the tender young age of 34) while on a hunting trip near the Alma/Cochrane/Buffalo City area of Wisconsin, leaving a young widow, Ruth, and two small children behind...as well as a heartbroken family and devastated older brother. His beloved hunting dog perished in the accident as well and it is said that the dog is interred with him. The premiere issue of Life magazine from November 16, 1936 featured a photo and short obituary of Joe Mayo in it--right below a blurb announcing the marriage of John Barrymore. President Roosevelt sent a letter to the Mayos the next day assuring them of his deep sorrow for their great loss. The stack of telegrams the family received after Joe's death was immense and a measure of the void he would leave in the lives of many people.

The tailcoat, vest, and trousers were a sharp reminder of the unfulfilled promise that young people like Joe Mayo leave in their wake. Had he worn them while dancing with Ruth at a lovely party, had the suit been made for a special occasion? They'd been cared for meticulously, the owner clearly intending to wear them again when the opportunity arose. Beautiful garments--be they gowns, tuxedos, or tailcoats--are meant to be worn. They are part and parcel of occasions large and small and this suit was a physical reminder of all the moments that Joe didn't have enough time to experience. 

Even after I'd neatly packed the suit up again, I couldn't get it out of my mind and I was (and am) still a little surprised at how deeply a mere garment could resonate with me. The passage of time can sneak up on us in unexpected places and in the oddest of ways, but I'm glad I spent a kind of stolen moment and spared a thought for a gentleman whom I never knew, but one I feel sure would've been a kindred spirit. 

Cheers, Joe, and here's to all the happy times you must have enjoyed in that magnificent suit. 

If These Walls Could Talk--A Glimpse Into a World Long Gone

This morning as I was scrolling through my always-interesting Twitter feed I noticed a piece posted by Valerie (aka @swannoir27) about a Paris apartment that had been shuttered for some 70 years.  The link pointed to a piece in the UK Telegraph newspaper about a valuable piece of art that was found within the flat and had recently sold for 3 million or so dollars at auction. The painting itself is interesting, if not more than a little over the top, but I found myself far more interested in everything the article did NOT mention and despite my best intentions to accomplish other things, I’ve spent much of today daydreaming over this long-abandoned Paris flat. There's a link to the Telegraph piece HERE and a link HERE with more photos to the lovely The Paris Apartment blog; plus THIS link with a few more images of the flat.)

The newspaper article mentions that the apartment had been closed up since before World War II--when the owner fled to the south of France--and it remained unoccupied until the owner died sometime in 2010. That means that this space was, for all intents and purposes, a kind of time capsule--a “through the looking glass” place that existed in its own time--free from the march to modernity that we've all been part of. Untouched, from what I can figure out, through the D-Day invasions at Normandy, the liberation of Paris, and V-E Day. It’s a kind of silent witness…if those walls could talk.

Then imagine being the first person to open that door after 70 years--in my romantic mind it would have been a little like when Howard Carter first peered into the wonder that was Tutankhamun’s tomb. The photographs give us a tiny glimpse at what appears to be a place that was left abruptly. Had the occupant fled Paris, or merely left it for a safer existence in the south? Why did she never return? The rent, taxes, and other fees were continually paid, but apparently the owner, the granddaughter of Marthe de Florian, never went back after vacating the flat. Can you imagine having a comfy flat in the middle of Paris and not using it...for 70 years? This is a mystery as delicious as your favorite French pastry! 

Some of the furnishings and items that we can see in the photos are rather remarkable, others typical of early 20^th century life. Attractive chairs and artwork in various states of framing are prominent in the pictures, as is the fantastic mirror that dominates the left side of the image. Even though there’s visible water damage, some of the wall coverings look to be a once-lovely damask and there appears to be some impressive plasterwork or carved wood moulding as well. The tall windows and heavy draperies belie a once elegant space with marble fireplace mantles and beautiful old carpets. Even the harsh angle of the walls as they meet in the corner evokes the quirky appeal of the quintessential Paris flat. There's an adorable stuffed Mickey Mouse toy (and is that a Porky Pig doll I spy behind him!?) sitting at the feet of an extraordinary stuffed ostrich--more than likely purchased from the famed Parisian taxidermy shop Deyrolle.

What I’d really love to see photographs of, though, are the contents of the kitchen, bedroom, or bathroom. What kinds of potions and tonics (in my imagination they are in charming, flowery bottles with glass stoppers) lined the glass shelves of the bathroom? Were there beautiful tiles on the walls so typical of many early 20^th century baths? In the kitchen were there ancient tins of spices and bottles of liquor and spirits? Did a bottle of Veuve Clicquot happen to be stashed away in a cupboard for a special occasion? Perhaps there were piles of fashion magazines from the period, filled with the latest couture and haberdashery. One article does mention a number of calling cards from prominent individuals of the time--another treasure of a bygone era--as well as piles of love letters held together by ribbons of various colors.

There are so many things I want to know about this apartment, about the woman who occupied it--or didn’t, actually--for all those decades. I’m sure the contents were carefully inventoried and cataloged by a wonderfully bureaucratic French official, but I hope that someone else was there to document it all as well. I’d love to have a French writer’s take on the place and how it was allowed to exist out of time for so long. This apartment is a time capsule of the most wonderful sort and a veritable feast for any historian, archivist, curator or writer. The real story of this space is likely better than any fiction writer could conjure, but I wonder if we’ll ever know?

Not so long after stumbling upon this piece I read Roger Ebert’s poignant (and wonderful) review of the forthcoming Secretariat film. At one point during the review he mentions that his beloved friend and long-time co-host Gene Siskel used to say that, “his favorite movies were about what people actually do all day.” I immediately thought it was precisely that feeling which resonated so strongly and moved me so about this abandoned apartment. It was a scene from a day in the life of a pre-war Parisienne, a glimpse into a world long gone. 

The Willing Heart of a Champion

Sporting events large and small over the course of the past few days got me wondering about the nature of greatness. What separates the good from the great, the historic from the fleeting, the moments of collective memory from smaller instances of personal victory? It’s too simplistic to say it’s just about numbers. The most victories, the largest scores, and most copies sold are all measures of a certain kind, but are they the most important ones? I think there’s another yardstick, one with no numbers, which is a vital component of greatness--heart.

A huge heart--literally in horse racing legend Secretariat’s case--is for me the unifying thread among so many of my heroes and heroines, literary and athletic, human and equine. It is the act of recognizing in another being an iron will, a divine spirit, or a heart for battle. Heart is the intangible, unquantifiable nugget that elevates the good to great and the ordinary to extraordinary.

I realize none of this is particularly revelatory, but I think every now and then (not unlike Ferris Bueller) it is worth stopping, looking around, and assessing just to be sure we don’t miss something important. It’s easy to throw stones or snicker derisively at another’s accomplishments, but it’s far more interesting to step back and take a moment to appreciate moments of greatness. It’s the road less traveled and that path is almost always the more scenic and more enlightening. Records come and go, statistics will be asterisked and analyzed, wins and losses quantified, but when all is said and done, I don’t think that’s what remains with us. And that brings me to Zenyatta.

Anyone who was fortunate enough to be in attendance at Hollywood Park for her penultimate race yesterday got to see a genuine beauty in whom beats the willing heart of a champion. I have to say that for me, while her 19-0 unblemished record is damned impressive, what I love about this majestic soul has less to do with her statistical place in history and more to do with the manner in which she’s raced to such heights. It’s the same thing I love about so many horses, their grit and determination, their will to win…but add to that her natural ability and you know you have a once-in-a-lifetime athlete. Special and amazing are overused these days (and I’m as guilty as anyone) but Zenyatta is, simply put, a great horse. She is the kind of horse that people in the future will look back upon and say they wish they’d had a chance to see race in person. As the neighborhood nostalgic--to my mind, anyway--witnessing one of her victories will be the equivalent of having seen a race run by Seabiscuit, Secretariat, or Man o’ War during their glorious salad days. The best of the best, those who embody the word great, find ways to win and Zenyatta has always found her way to the wire like a perfectly calibrated heat-seeking missile. It is a privilege to watch truly great athletes compete and to see her run a race without turning a hair or sweating a drop--all the while toying with her competitors--is to witness greatness amplified by heart and elegance. I won’t ever see Zenyatta race in person, but I'll look forward to visiting her in the coming years and seeing her beautifully dappled bay coat glistening in the sun as she dances across a field. As time passes I’ll likely forget whom she beat in which race or by how many lengths she won, but I will never forget--nor cease to be in awe of--her love of running, her exceptional heart, and her classic beauty. And I’ll leave the comparisons and rankings to those with minds more mathematically inclined than mine.