WHO? MONDAY

Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

Today and only today, and perhaps some other time in the future, What? Monday becomes Who? Monday because the question is

Who is your hero and/or heroine? 

This is a toughie for me because I can name so many people.

I'll start with my mom and dad because I miss them so much. The older I get, the more I miss them.

Next, Favorite Young Man and Someone I Love.

Little Chick

Doris Kearns Goodwin (Oh how I wish I could be Doris but I don't think I could stand to look at her husband -- I was going to post a current photo of him but I couldn't find one and it's just as well because it might frighten those of you who are a bit sensitive. Dick Goodwin looks kind of like somebody dressed in a bad gorilla suit for Halloween, but a gorilla would be more attractive than Dick Goodwin.)

Bob Dole

Ronald and Nancy Reagan

Gerry and Betty Ford

Barack and Michelle Obama

Anne Tyler 

Pat Conroy


Maya Angelou

Sylvia Plath, but she should not have killed herself 

Grammarians

I'll stop there, but I'm sure I could come up with a lot more names because although lots of people in this world are jerks, I think even more people are great.

Now, tell us please,

Who is your hero and/or heroine?

Infinities of love,

Lola   

P.S. Heroine is not the same as heroin. We're not talkin' smack here. 

CELEBRITY ENCOUNTERS

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

I heard an interesting story last year from a lovely young lady named Sarah. Sarah's story took place about 16 years ago when she was at home, pregnant, and her husband called her from the Sears where he worked, whispering, Come down here right away. Bill Murray is in the paint department.

By the time Sarah arrived, a few people had gathered to take a look at Bill Murray, but it wasn't a crowd. Sarah approached and politely asked, Mr. Murray, will you please let me have my picture taken with you and will you autograph it for my baby?


Sarah said Bill Murray launched into a tirade about how he wasn't there to be funny and entertain people. He just wanted to look at paint with his friends so go away and leave him alone. But it went on a lot longer than that. In fact, it went on so long that if he had simply agreed to the photo and the autograph, it all would have been over and done with in less time than his tantrum required.

Sarah said, To this day I can't stand Bill Murray and I have never and will never spend a singly penny to see one of his movies.

On the other hand, Sarah had quite a love for Sonny Bono, who, of course, was not talented in the way Bill Murray is, but he had something better going for him: He was kind to Sarah.

When Sarah was a senior in high school, her class had their senior prom at Sonny Bono's restaurant. Sarah and a friend arrived to decorate before the prom and Sonny Bono came out to greet the girls personally. I believe he was the mayor of Palm Springs at the time. Mr. Bono also showed the girls to his private office and bathroom, where he said they could change into their prom dresses after they finished decorating. Then he apologized for leaving, but said he had to take care of some city business.

Sarah couldn't say enough good things about Sonny Bono and how kind and polite he was. Sonny Bono might have seemed like kind of a doofus, but as Cher said in her eulogy when Sonny died, How can you be the butt of the joke when you created the joke?

I certainly do not approve of the way the paparazzi stalk some celebrities, chasing them, and even running them off the road. But these people who are famous are usually famous because they want it. They want the exposure and the money and the fame. So they have to take what comes with it. Bill Murray should have had his picture taken with Sarah and then signed the photo. It would have meant so much to her, and I suspect he could have spared two - three minutes out of his paint perusing time. Case closed.

But I'm wondering, even though this is not What? Monday, have you encountered any celebrities? If so, how did they treat you?

My ex-husband travels a great deal because of his work, and he seems to run into (not literally) celebrities all the time. He was in New York and happened to be in the right place at the right time because he saw Dan Akroyd, Mary Tyler Moore, and many other big deals arrive at NBC for the filming of Saturday Night Live's 25th Anniversary Special. He sat down for breakfast once in a restaurant and noticed that Magic Johnson and Alex English were at the next table. Walking through the lobby at the Disneyland hotel, he spotted Sigourney Weaver. His celeb encounter list is too long for me to remember everyone.

My only real celebrity encounter was with writer Pat Conroy (shhhh! The affair continues. We read poetry to each other. What a man.)

Infinities of love,

Lola

AWARDS FRIDAY

Gentle Readers,

Will you just look at what Plain Jane (except I know there's nothing plain about her) at The Evil Wife < http://theevilwife.blogspot.com/2011/09/horrible-bosses.html> (except I know there's nothing evil about her) gave to me? I love surprises and I love awards and I love Plain Jane. If you don't follow her yet, then click on the link and get crackin'.

I'm going to dispense with a description of what I'm wearing to this awards show because I don't want poor Coffeypot to spend the rest of the day engaged in hand to gland combat. Suffice it to say: designer dress, diamonds, high heels, the works.

This award is the 7x7 Link Award. The recipient chooses seven other bloggers on whom to bestow the award and selects, from her own blog posts, the best posts that fit certain categories.

I love giving presents, so first, I'm passing on the award.

1. http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/10/every-book-has-two-authors.html a.k.a. Scraps of Literacy by the Writer Currently Known as Rory. How can I not adore Rory? He loves books so much. And dogs. He has a dog named Kitty. The minutiae of his life presented in his posts soothes me.
2. http://edpilolla.blogspot.com/  a.k.a. Ed Pilolla at Ed Pilolla. This man's writing lights my fire. He's so freaking good. And he understand that my miniature copy of The Great Gatsby that can't be read is funny.
3. http://thestephanieconnection.blogspot.com/2011/10/wimpy.html  a.k.a. Connecting with Stephanie D by Stephanie. Stephanie is such a sweetie. If you don't love her, then I think something is wrong with you.
4. http://macpossum.blogspot.com/2011/10/jay-walking-into-light.html  a.k.a. Possum by Possum. The post to which I've provided a link begins with her writing that she was strolling through words. Possum, that is so cool. I love words but it never occurred to me to say I strolled through them. You have an original and creative mind.
5. http://rhymetime24.blogspot.com/2011/10/warning-second-part-might-not-be-for.html  a.k.a. It's Rhyme Time by Pat Hatt. This guy is a trip. He is so clever and funny.
6. http://marionsmeepings.blogspot.com/2011/10/quick-update.html  a.k.a. Marion's Meepings by Paxford. What a lovely person. Supporter of troops. Always sending off care packages. And she's going to have a drawing (yes, I'm entered in it) for an Australian Army Medallion that I covet. 
7. http://shiningpearlsofsomething.blogspot.com/2011/10/tea-bittersweet-as-expected.html  a.k.a. Shining Pearls of Something by Suz. This lady is intelligent and she thinks before she writes. I learn from her.

Now, on to the posts. I hope I can get my links to work. 

1. Most Beautiful  Yoko Ogawa (Housekeeper + Professor) = Elegance  This post is my all-time favorite. It's really a message to Someone I Love.
2. Most Helpful   This is the post called My Husband Collection to which I attempted to provide a link a few days ago. I think it's helpful because it lets women know they don't have to tolerate men if they don't want them. Just buy the husbands and then tell them to get lost when you tire of them.
3. Most Controversial   The United States v. Anthony didn't cause any controversy when I wrote it, but I'm calling it most controversial because the whole "Casey The Dumb Shit Idiot Anthony" outcome is controversial. The post represents my immediate response to the verdict. 
4. Most Surprisingly Successful  MR. ROGERS DID NOT WEAR A SWEATER TO COVER UP His Tats has become one of my most popular posts and it continues to get hits regularly. I see the search term "Why Did Mr. Rogers Wear A Sweater" on my stats page all the time.
5. Most Underrated   Farewell J.D. didn't get much attention and I think it's the funniest post I've ever written. Maybe other people don't see it the same way I do.
6. Most Pride Worthy  http://dumpedfirstwife.blogspot.com/2010/10/my-kathy.html My Kathy is pretty much a love letter to my bestest bud. She cried when she saw this and I don't think it was because she thought it was badly written. My Kathy really is Superwoman.

 And this is the link to my post about meeting Pat Conroy that didn't work when I tried to post it the same day as the link to My Husband Collection. Today Blogger and I seem to be on a link streak, so I hope these all work.

Thank you so much Plain Jane for making me take this trip down Memory Lane.

Plain Jane and I want to go into business together so we can earn money for a trip to England. She suggested that our business could be closet organizing and that's fine with me because I am one damn fine closet organizer, but we have a little problem. We don't even live in the same state.

So if you'd like to make a donation to The Plain Jane and Lola Do England fund, please let me know. We want to go to Yorkshire to see where the Brontes lived. We shall wander the moors, hand in hand. I'm not sure yet which of us will be Cathy and which will be Heathcliff, but we'll work it out.

I suspect we'll want to visit a few other places too.

Oh Cathy! Oh Heathcliff?

Infinities of love and awards,

Lola

THE WATER IS WIDE

Gentle Readers,

The Highest Lola Seal of Approval goes to The Water Is Wide by Pat Conroy. I just finished rereading this beautiful book, written by my close personal friend Pat when he was a mere 24 years old (I know because he told me so himself).

So does Highest Lola Seal of Approval mean that Lola is higher than usual or does Highest pertain to the Seal of Approval? A point to ponder.

Anyhoo, Young Pat was teaching in Beaufort, South Carolina, where he went to high school, and awaiting word on his application to join the Peace Corps. When none came, he volunteered to teach where no one else wanted to go -- Yamacraw Island, just a short distance off the Carolina coast, yet very far in terms of differences (it was actually Daufuskie Island but Pat changed the name for the book).

He arrived to find children -- his was the only white face -- who had seldom left the island and had so little exposure to the outside world that they didn't know the water washing up on their very own shore was that of the Atlantic Ocean. Pat was teaching fifth through eighth graders, yet seven students didn't know the alphabet, four of them couldn't count to ten, and three couldn't spell their own names. School administrators had been happy to ignore this school for blacks on the other world of the island, but Pat will not allow his students to be neglected -- or beaten, as is the habit of the teacher for the younger students.

He fights to introduce the world to them, and then to introduce them to the world. Such a memoir could easily be condescending and patronizing -- oh, the poor little black chilluns saved by the kind White Man.

But Pat's goal as a teacher was to uplift his students and he uplifts them in his writing as well. These students have dignity.

As he takes us on this journey to the island with him, Pat's writing is simple and lovely:

Even though I was on Yamacraw, I was not of Yamacraw. My first overtures of friendship with the people on the island, although not rebuffed, failed to win me any friends with whom I felt completely comfortable. I thought constantly of my friends in Beaufort. Consciously I began to wish for a way to extricate myself from a job and a situation I felt incapable of handling. The loneliness was beginning to shred my nerves. I became distracted with myself and my vainglorious attempt to act as a symbolic bridge between the children of Yamacraw and the outside world. I was impatient because I had failed to turn illiterates into lovers of the great classics in the span of a single month. I had tired of measuring victories in terms of whether Prophet had learned the alphabet or Sidney could spell his name. Nor could I shake the feeling that everything I taught or achieved was a worthless, needless effort that ultimately would not affect the quality of my students' lives. What could I teach them or give them that would substantially alter the course of their lives? Nothing. Not a god-damn thing. Each had come into the world imprisoned by a river and by a system which ensured his destruction the moment he uttered his first cry by his mother's side.


But Pat finds throughout the course of the year that he can find success in one small victory after another, and ultimately, he pulls a successful writing career out of a failed -- but in many ways triumphant -- teaching career.

Pat's year on Yamacraw kinda makes me think of Thoreau at Walden Pond and measuring the depth of the pond and the measurements the powers that be try to make with the internal and infernal testing in the schools. I've heard too many complaints for years that teachers "teach to the test" and I know it's often true. We need to free up our best teachers to simply do their jobs, and attract the best by paying them well, and the students who are at all capable of learning will make progress. Sometimes teachers need to be able to think and act outside of the box to reach the hardest to reach students.

This memoir is an inspiration and I encourage you to read The Water Is Wide. I first read it many years ago and it was well worth rereading. It was also made into a charming movie called Conrack, which I have not seen in a very long time. I wonder if it still holds up. I recall Jon Voight being extremely good in it, as were the children who played the students.

And I also learned that Pat and I have something else in common: We both hate mice, which he calls rats. If he had a serious acquaintance with rats, mice might not bother him quite as much. I'd rather be harassed by a mouse than a rat, but I hate either one. At least I've never had a rat in the house. The dogs dispatch the bastards before they get that far. Then they leave the rat at the back door for me to cook for my dinner.

What a gift!

Infinities of love,

Lola

MY READING LIFE

Gentle Readers,

I have finished My Reading Life, so loving inscribed to me by my close personal friend Pat Conroy, and I pronounce it worth purchasing, because it is a book you will want to read more than once, just as all Pat's books are worth reading more than once.


Everything Pat writes is so darn beautiful that I don't know how he does it. I think he's a poet at heart and the poetry comes out in his prose. This is a man who exults in the loveliness of language. He is also extraordinarily well read and his knowledge of literature shows. I don't know how he manages to write or do anything else when he claims he reads 200 pages per day. I can barely keep up with the dogs and maybe read 50 pages per day, and I read quite a bit faster than most people I know. Ah well. At least I read. I am sad for people who don't read because they aren't interested,  don't feel the joy of reading, didn't learn to read well, or are too overwhelmed by day to day life to make reading part of their routine. I guess I could get in more than my 50 pages if I gave up sleep and movies, but I get damn tired from all the documents I have to fill out in order to conduct my life as a dumped first wife, and I learn so much from movies, especially documentaries, and enjoy their technical aspects. And then there are le French films: Oo la la!

Anyhoo, the first surprise I found in this book is that Pat grew up with his southern mother reading Gone With The Wind to him, and he still loves it. His mother would talk about family members who were just like Melanie Wilkes and other characters. What a fun way to look at a book. And I don't buy that loving this book makes someone a racist anymore than I think the N word should be removed from Huckleberry Finn, and I'll be happy to expound on my opinion regarding Huck on another day.

I would call My Reading Life a literacy autobiography. We learn about many of the books and authors Pat loves (big time fan of Thomas Wolfe, huge --  he imitated Wolfe in his own early writing, harangued people about his love of Wolfe to the point that some people wanted to strangle the person who had introduced him to Wolfe), and he presents wonderful reminiscences of his high school English teacher and other people who have played an important role in his reading and writing life. He also engages in a little interesting story telling about encounters with women who didn't want anything to do with a Southern man, or any man -- we're talkin' Alice Walker and Adrienne Rich here. Interesting anecdotes, but Pat is never not interesting. The man has a great ability to fascinate the reader, to pull  us in whether he's employing the incredible violence in The Prince of Tides or recounting a tale from his own life.

Pat also reveals that he thinks plot is ALL and if you don't have a story, then you don't got nothin'. I learned that characters drive the plot. If I turn into a Patite, perhaps I will figure out how to write a best-selling novel. I have six chapters, six damn chapters, and I don't know what to do next. But Lord I love those first six. I'm stuck and I don't believe in writer's block. I just don't know what to do. But Pat knows and he's done it over and over with every book.

I am fascinated by the abusive childhoods Pat and I shared, the difficulties we have experienced with our lives as adults, and our sometimes nearly debilitating depression, for we also seem to share the same sense of humor. I think some of the most amusing people have had absolutely miserable lives. More than one person has said to me, You are the funniest person I have ever met. And Pat is one of the funniest people I have ever met. Some psychologist needs to explain to me how humor can come out of great pain. Is it a coping mechanism or are we funny because we're so damn brilliant? Tee hee. At least Pat is, and I hope I have my moments.

I would venture so far as to say that reading and writing have saved my life.

Pat says his mother raised him to be a southern writer, with the emphasis on southern, but Pat is by no means confined to the south. He is a writer for all the world.

Here's hoping you will read and love My Reading Life. So sorry you won't get the loving, adoring, beautiful inscription in your book that Pat wrote in mine, but don't lose heart. You can read the book and love it and just go ahead and feel a little bit jealous that Pat and I are carrying on quite an affair -- he doesn't know about it, but I do and that's all that matters.

Infinities of love to you and Pat,

Lola

MY CLOSE PERSONAL FRIEND, PAT

Gentle Readers,

I have experienced a whirlwind of emotions since the shootings in Tuscon, so Favorite Young Man very kindly packed me up and whisked me away for a vacation in St. Augustine, Florida, America's oldest city. It is lovely here, albeit rainy and chilly. It's certainly not as cold as the hinterlands.

Everything in St. Augustine is historic -- churches, all sorts of buildings, even the Ramada Inn claims to be historic, though I have no idea why. Did the Ramada provide housing for the Spaniards who arrived in Florida so long ago? If so, I hope they've updated the hotel since then. St. Augustine is also filled with charming little shops and restaurants, such a nice place to wander when one feels brokenhearted.

But last night, F.Y.M. gave me a surprise that still has me walking on air. We got in the car and he finally said, I have to tell you where we're going. There's a little school here called Flagler College and Pat Conroy is there and we're going to hear him read from his newest book, My Reading Life.


I burst into tears, and I assure you they were tears of joy. I loved Pat Conroy when few people knew who he was.

As we drove past the auditorium at the school we saw hordes of people walking toward the doors. F.Y.M. said, I'll drop you off here and I'll find a place to park.

I was quite happy to take advantage of the offer, but when I got inside a young woman asked if I had a ticket. No, I answered, I didn't know anything about tickets. She told me they were free and handed one to me. They were giving out the tickets so they wouldn't go over over capacity and obviously, there was quite a crowd to see Mr. Conroy.

But she did not want to give me a ticket for F.Y.M. because he wasn't there and a crowd was forming at the door and she had given me Ticket No. 9 of the final nine tickets. I whimpered and whined a bit. She made a face and handed me Ticket 8, to my joy. The final seven tickets were gone within sixty seconds.

I stood near the door, watching for F.Y.M., fearing he would see and hear the crowd of people complaining that they couldn't get in and would think he was in the same boat. Thank goodness he's so tall because after about ten minutes I saw his head at the back of the crowd and called to him, F.Y.M. I have your ticket. The crowd parted like the Red Sea and in he came and we entered the auditorium where we got the last seats. We had to split up, but it was o.k. We were there.

After a few minutes Pat Conroy was introduced and he said he does not read from his works -- he likes to tell stories. And tell stories he did. Each one was funnier than the last. Out of great pain comes hilarity, I thought. He said nothing to denigrate his Marine fighter pilot father who beat the holy crap out of him when he was a kid. Rather, he spoke of how everyone has someone crazy in the family and because of the craziness in his family he has become a success.

His father once told Pat that if he had beat him more he would have been a better write. Pat replied, Dad, if you had beat me more I would be Shakespeare.

Although I would love to try to recreate the stories Conroy told, I will spare you the agony of my feeble attempts to tell you every little thing the great man said.

When he was finished speaking, the announcement for which I longed came: Pat Conroy would be signing books in the lobby of the auditorium. I slithered out and slunk into the front of the line at the table of books to be purchased, thinking No one will notice the pushy woman in the black cape. And no one did. Then I thanked the Good Lord that they were taking Master Card.

I bought the new book, My Reading Life, and two of my favorites, The Great Santini and The Prince of Tides, along with Conroy's excellent memoir of his senior year playing basketball at The Citadel, My Losing Season. It was a gift for F.Y.M., who also thinks it a wonderful book. I was only disappointed that they were out of copies of my introduction to Conroy, The Water Is Wide.

Then we took our places in the long line and waited our turn. This time I did not try to use my cape as a cloak of invisibility. I could see Mr. Conroy's pen moving in the distance and as we got a bit closer, I saw him posing for photo after photo taken with the folks whose books he had just signed. He seemed unusually pleasant and patient.

After a while, though, my back got the better of me and I told F.Y.M. I felt faint. He suggested I sit down while he stayed in line. I said I would rejoin him when he got closer to the table where a young woman wrote down the name of the person to whom the book was to be inscribed before passing it to Conroy.

When F.Y.M. was almost to the table, I went back to him and when we were next in line, I heard Conroy say quietly to the young lady, I have to get up and stretch my legs. After he stood, he said he had an announcement to make. Gasps went through the crowd and fans feared he would say he was finished for the night. Instead he said that contrary to popular belief, we were his favorite part of the line. I actually had not been concerned because I knew he would never make such an announcement himself. Some lackey would have said it after the celebrity trundled away.

So then it was my turn to chat with Mr. Conroy, who told me to call him Pat, shook my hand, and thanked me for coming. Referring to a story he had told about two best-selling authors who had told him why he wasn't successful (Irving Stone said the secret to his success was "heart" and some romance novelist told him he needed sex in his books), I said, I don't know who Irving Stone or the sex book lady are, but I've loved Pat Conroy ever since The Water Is Wide came out. He said he had been 24 when he wrote it.

I think it quite the accomplishment for a 24 year old. I also told him that my son had brought me to see him as a surprise, and he immediately shook F.Y.M.'s hand. He then inscribed my books, writing, Lola, I have seldom encountered a more brilliant and beautiful woman at a book signing. Please meet me later at my hotel and we'll read together. I love WOMEN: WE SHALL OVERCOME, Pat Conroy.

And if you believe that, I have a bridge I want to sell you. However, he did write lovely inscriptions in my books, and then I tottered off so F.Y. M. could enjoy his moment in the sun with our hero.

I believe I have now doubled my small collection of autographed books. The thing was -- he was so darn nice. I've gotten autographs before from a few big deals who couldn't be bothered to look at me or speak to me while signing. Everyone else has signed and shoved the item back at me and ignored me.

I left no longer simply loving Pat Conroy, the writer. I now love Pat Conroy, the person.

Then we walked to the rental car and as we returned to our historic hotel, we passed the Ripley's Believe It Or Not museum. I said, Son    of    a     gun.  We could have have gone to the Ripley's museum and instead you take me to see Pat Conroy.

Thank you, F.Y.M.

Infinities of love,

Lola