"Positives of the Pandemic: Small Connections"

Here is an essay I submitted to the Santa Fe New Mexican on 6/19/20. published on 7/25/20 under “My View” with a different title and no photo:

https://www.santafenewmexican.com/opinion/my_view/connections-sustain-us-in-isolation/article_bea5ae06-cbc5-11ea-b97d-335b986937a7.html

“Positives of the Pandemic: Small Connections”

All of us can recite the deprivations we feel from Covid-19, from missing our favorite restaurants to cancelled trips for long-planned events. Perhaps the deepest losses are not seeing or touching close friends and relatives. Still, the pandemic has brought us new sensitivities about priorities in our lives. Here I want to tell a few tales of “small connections,” bonds with little beings, the diminutive humans and the animals smaller than ourselves.

A local grandmother, S, separated from her Texas relatives, spends a few hours per week on FaceTime reading stories chosen by her five- year- old moppet. They have shared the books Amelia Bedelia, Pete the Cat and The Mystery of Meerkat Hill. When they hit a big word, S asks the little girl what it might mean, and then corrects her guess as needed, so she knows it for the next time. Most recently, they read the classic Disney version of Cinderella. This granddaughter and her two-year-old sister have visited Disneyland in Anaheim, dressed as Disney princesses.

Another grandparent, L also lives far away from her offspring and their children. Knowing she hates driving, I was stunned when she announced her idea of renting a van to drive cross-country from her home in New Jersey with her male partner who doesn’t drive at all. They plan to visit her daughter, son-in-law and their precocious daughters, ages six and eight. In shock and admiration, I asked “Why drive?” She said, “Well, I’m getting up there,”—she is in her early seventies—“and I want to see my grandchildren before I die.” She won't consider flying, with the risk of catching the virus. Her daughter will pick them up in Denver and drive them back to Santa Fe to stay with them through the winter, much longer than usual, making up for missed visits, and avoiding unnecessary travel.

A divorced father, E told me that through this new process of online education, he and his sixth grader son share more than before, feeling a closer connection at home, with the father’s increased familiarity with what his son is doing at school. Instead of just semi-annual parent/teacher conferences, the teacher communicates his son’s ongoing progress through weekly emails.

Ties between people and animals have increased in frequency and strength. Nationally, pet adoptions have left some shelters completely empty, as more people sought the comfort of animals we always knew they provided. Newspapers showed images with staff standing alongside open cages, no dogs in sight. The dog shortage unexpectedly joined the toilet paper shortage. A friend J in northern Florida waited for three different dogs at a local shelter, turned down each time for someone who grabbed the mutt before she did. She finally went to a breeder and now awaits a baby pup she picked out.

S’s black and tan dachshund BG has provided her with the companionship and unconditional love to allow her to weather the pandemic. His kisses and cuddles sustain me too, as I visit them both on their covered patio each week.

# June 19, 2020

Pop Goes The Memoir: An Update

Our presentation at Op Cit books in Santa Fe went quite well back in September, seems when the local weather was much warmer.  If you still want to catch up with it, here is a reposting of the YouTube video, 39 minutes long, with a great Q and A session following alternate readings by me and Rachel Spring.

Hers a work of speculative fiction, "The Unkindness," and mine a more traditional memoir from a not-so-traditional Boomer, "Mick, My Men, and Me." It's 39 minutes--feel free to skim through, as desired:

The books should come out sometime in 2019, thinking positively.  We're collecting a list of names and email addresses to notify, so please post here or PM me, if interested.  We may do another reading upon publication.  

A Tale of Two Kitties: Misfortune to Joy

THE CAST OF CATS:

   Black Kitty:  very small, black with grey undertones, medium coat, male, green eyes; 14 weeks old; traumatic childhood; from the city animal shelter.

   White Kitty:  small to medium, white, part Siamese, short coat, female, blue eyes; 9 weeks old; childhood unknown, has brother; from another shelter by way of a local pet store.

Inverting Charles Dickens:

“It was the worst of times, it was the best of times...”

The Worst of Times: 

I passed on this kitty once in the company of a generous, animal-loving uber driver who took me to various places in my search, after not having a pet for five years.  I looked at other kitties, giving up one sweet young cat to a very nice couple wanting a female, rarer among available shelter animals.  I went back for him the next day with my friend Ben and his younger daughter.  The staff told me more than they had before I returned, about how and where he was found, how he lived with not one, but two different foster moms, and how they had just today given him a tranquilizers, a practice I didn't want to continue.  A compassionate staff member who had taken care of him before soon had him purring on her chest, after he growled when she retrieved him from under a bench, telling me we might be a good match.  My ears skimmed over the part when she said he would not be the kind of cat who would greet me at the door.  I was thinking eventually, maybe.  After two weeks of spending time with him, bringing his bowl closer to me before he ate there, I decided I was not patient enough for this little guy.  At the end, I put my hand out, gently, slowly, trying to touch him.  He took off running immediately.  Someone who kept for him for several more weeks may have convinced him not to bolt.  I thought, just bring him back--it's not working out, why wait any longer?  My friend Ben came over to "help" me put him in the carrier, and (2) to ease my emotional guilt and sadness with the return of the little critter.  The cat turned into a spitfire.  We stayed relatively calm while the kitten broke out of first one, then another carrier like a tiny, ill-tempered super-beast, with much hissing, growling and even a bit of proverbial black fur-flying.  Standing close to them, but not looking directly at the interaction, I heard Ben, more of dog person than a cat fancier, say, "BITE?  You're biting me?" Oh, shit, I see blood dripping, and Ben asks, "Do you have a Band-Aid?  No. We used paper towels to wrap up his thumb, and tape to seal both the bound injury and the cardboard cat carrier against further feline assault.

At the shelter, Ben announces his injury, but that he doesn't want to report it.  Oh, yes, you have to, they insist, because this kitty cat is going into quarantine for 90 days, after which he is likely to become a barn cat, with their no kill policy.  Too distracted to read the documents, and too pissed off to say goodbye to the still-enclosed cat, Ben told me that in signing the papers I was giving away all rights to keep up with the cat's future.  I hoped I hadn't blown my friendship, losing all rights to keep up with Ben's future.  The shelter person told Ben, no, he couldn't get a tetanus shot from one of their vets, so it was the emergency room for him.  Waiting for hours at the St. Vincent Urgent Care, he ended up going downtown for prompter service.  He was banged up, with scratches and a deep wound from the cat's tooth that had been jammed far into his thumb, down to the bone, he told me.  Ben henceforth called the cat "Lucifer," fully supporting my choice to return him.    

The Best of Times:

I went on a hunt online right away for a replacement kitty.  I asked the shelter if they forgave me since I might reappear, seeking another cat.  They said, no probem don't worry, and one even noted that the black kitten likely had a nice vacation at my place.  Hey, he had his own room, no noise, with no children or other animals.  He seemed to enjoy my place as long as I left him completely alone, untouched.  He had jumped at any hint of a caress.  I wanted an affectionate cat.  I saw a picture of a white kitten from another shelter that was brought into the pet store in town.  I called and asked a couple of questions and was told "Arthur" was very affectionate.  I took an Uber to the pet store and saw two almost identical kittens in a large room with toys and a litter box.  Someone working there said I would have to adopt the two together, since they were buddies.  I only wanted one kitten,  Disappointed, I continued sitting in the room, preparing to leave, but somehow my phone was not working right so I couldn't seem to contact Uber for my ride back.  A women in charge came in, saying, I could choose one kitten if I wanted, that the other person had made a mistake telling me otherwise.  She told me they could adapt easily, and also that they were part Siamese.  I asked someone else who wondered in which one she would say was more people-oriented.  She said she wasn't sure, but would pick the girl kitty.  

Then the serendipitous part happened.   The girl kitty named "Snowy," shortly renamed "Sunny" by me, came over, and soon jumped up to sit on my lap, purring, while her brother, oblivious, slept soundly in his cat bin.  That was it!  She was mine--except for one little detail.  I needed to put down a cat deposit after I talked to the landlords for their official permission, something I hadn't done before, assuming since one tenant already had a cat before that I didn't need to ask.  Plus I wasn't sure the other one, you-know-who and I would work out.  The woman from the shelter said they could hold her for me overnight.  She thought the white female cat and I had bonded well.  One day later and BOOM, I took her home and she was my angel cat, not in the sense of being all behaving, but in being among the cuddliest, and possibly the smartest cat I've had yet.  Welcome home, Sunny.  She sleeps with me.  I enjoy that.  A kitty companion.

Mayhem on the Shuttle: Going To the Santa Fe Folk Art Preview

July 14, 2017

I had received a gift of two tickets to the folk art show preview.  The tix had a very expensive sticker price with no parking near the venue.  We stood in line for a shuttle bus for the short ride up to the venue. The driver seemed a little strange but friendly enough.  We were on the first bus there, ready to hop off and get in line when the driver decided to take us on a sight seeing trip around the neighborhood after talking to the security people.  After a few minutes of this and zooming past the entrances another time, the man in front of me, standing with his wife in the stairwell starting protesting loudly.  "Hey, I didn't pay x amount for tickets to take a tour of this area.  I already know it."  He started chanting, "Stop this bus...stop this bus."  At first I laughed, turning to my neighbor for his reaction.  He stayed stoic.  We both realized later, we should have pulled out our cell phones and video'd what happened.

The driver wouldn't stop, now passing the forming line of patrons, driving further and further from the venue.  A woman started walking up the aisle speaking in a rough, threatening voice to and about the driver.  By now, nearly everyone was chanting, "Stop this bus." Most riding the bus were senior citizens, btw.  The driver finally stopped but wouldn't open the doors.  The same man initiated a new chant, pounding on the door, "Let us out...let us out."  This chant rose to a volume surpassing the first.  She finally opened the doors.

The man told us later, after a little alcohol, we think, that the head of the whole shebang apologized to him when he entered the show.  I kept thinking I would see how the other half lived, and ended up seeing how a segment of the more affluent locals behaved when frustrated.  This was one of the more interesting protest events I've attended.

Santa Fe Folk Art Preview | ©Sam Escobedo 2017

The Grateful Dead: impressions of Long Strange Trip, the Documentary

The Grateful Dead:  Impressions of Long Strange Trip, the Documentary

On May 31st, 2017 the Lensic Theater in Santa Fe showed the film Long Strange Trip, a new four-hour look at the seminal rock band, divided into five roughly chronological "acts."  Including a number of true Deadheads, a predominantly older crowd turned out, although not everyone stayed past the fifteen-minute intermission.  

Skipping right to the weaknesses, the ending of the four-hour film could use editing, cutting by 10-15 minutes.  It wouldn't hurt to lose the d-r-a-a-w-n out closing montages, that attempt to review everything in the film, or some of the comments before and after Jerry's death that, of course, the viewer knows is coming.  Other parts too, seem overlong.  Musical highlights for me were hearing all the different types of music the band played throughout their history, starting with bluegrass, through the psychedelic instrument jams, Pigpen's blues songs, and then their later, more conventional, but catchy, vocally harmonized tunes such as "Casey Jones" and "Uncle John's Band."  I particularly enjoyed the band's cover of Buddy Holly's "Not Fade Away," with the Dead's huge standing audience alternately clapping in time to each syllable, and then singing the phrase in unison on the chorus:  "A love that's love'll not fade away."  While The Rolling Stones had recorded the tune early on, I had no idea that this was one of The Grateful Dead's most performed songs.

I was dimly acquainted with the communal spirit that Jerry Garcia fostered.  The movie brought out the pure joy, the ecstasy of spirit in the air, the bonding, the acceptance of each human and encouragement of their full individual potential.  For about twenty minutes I felt happiness at a high level, self-confidence, and hope in the future for myself and for all humankind.  I was not aware of how wide and deep those connections went, and how they may have gone too far for Jerry, his fan-base growing ever larger, at one point, to become the biggest concert audiences of all time. 

What I learned after having spent so much time watching and listening to The Rolling Stones and hearing the fans stories and writing about them is that The Grateful Dead are the quintessential American band, whereas the Stones are British.  Not that I didn't know that, but until someone in the film, I think it was Sam Cutler who managed both bands described how youth in America set off to discover it, to "find America," whereas youth in England don't set out to discover England, I hadn't put together that crucial distinction.  The USA is still relatively new, with the vast landscape that may have filled in, but it's still the frontier in many minds.  I didn't know either about the Dead  "family," where people would join the band, and then their relatives would either work for the band or just hang around to become part of the touring entourage.

I discovered too, as Keith Richards says, everyone adapts to fame in a different manner.   Jerry Garcia didn't want to quite touring, even years after he was burnt out.  One of his band mates maintains that if he would have taken another break, as they all did earlier, he might have saved himself.  With bigger and bigger crowds, while he wanted to leave, Jerry just kept performing, even as the quality of the band and music deteriorated.  He felt he owed that to his fans, the Deadheads, to keep going, not to let them down.

His longtime girlfriend expressed heartbreak before the rocker addict's demise, telling how he sent her home, after finding her decades after they first split up and asking her to get back together to live with him.  She found out he had relapsed and asked him to promise to always tell the truth to her.  At that point he dismissed her, saying she had to leave right then.  The big H won out.  This film is an important testament to the times and to the life of a cultural icon and his band.

My Stint with Improv

Here I was on a Saturday afternoon, scared and confident at the same time.

I could do improv, right?  I had seen enough of it, in Chelsea at the United Citizens Brigade, and in Chicago at Second City, and even in Amsterdam, with a Second City import.  Turns out, I had no idea how to go about it.  For one thing, you need quick action, razor sharp reactions.  There's no time to let your mind wander.  Boom, boom, boom, point to someone in a 20-person circle.  That person says your name while you move across to their spot, by which time they have pointed to another person who must say their name.  Took me a while to get the hang of that.  You adapt or die, so to speak.  Panic taught me to catch on. 

A little easier exercise was word association, just going around the circle.  Then, a twist, how about doing the word "behind" the first word that comes to your mind?  It's much more interesting than the first word.  So instead of responding "orange" to someone's "apple," say, you would come up with "slice" or "grapefruit."  Your mind begins to see the possibilities.  Then we arose in 5-person groups to tell the story of "Noah's Arc."  Two tricks there, first be ready to pick up when our teacher calls on you, even finishing the *word* of the person before you.  Be ready to stop anywhere too.  What I learned in this exercise was that too much creativity can get you in trouble.  You are part of a TEAM.  If you go too far from the main story, you put your teammates in jeopardy.  A person on another team brought up how Noah found a surfboard.  Our teacher stopped them and pointed out how veering that far off track was not a good thing, since it would result in losing the whole Noah story, as four other people struggled to build on the surfboard theme. 

Then came an improvised monologue, based on a phrase from our instructor.  Easy-peasy for me, right?  I took the workshop on acting and writing and did a full-blown three minute talk from a two-word phrase.  Go to the back of the room and face the wall and when you hear the phrase, come out swinging...er, talking.  Boom!  I put a little flourish on it and started out, “Well, see, “ in an attempt at an informal introduction.  “No!” Go back to the wall and begin again.  Follow the rules.  Oooops.  My second phrase was something like “Put all of these things away!”  I forgot my beginning phrase but I remember thinking I liked it better than the first.  I did okay after my misstep, not phenomenal by anyone’s standard.

What is so cool to me is that I didn't take a single note, and yet remembered this stuff, albeit through a retelling to friends.  What's not so great is that our leader Ben Taxy decided to run an advanced class of experienced improvisers, professional actors and theater teachers.  What I decided is that a need among these people had built up while Ben was out of town teaching in California.  The good news for me is that he said I could join the beginning class when he started it in a couple of months.  He liked my attitude and sense of humor.  Yay.  I want to start now.

La La Land, Dancing in the Shadows of Moonlight

The whole fiasco with the mix-up for best picture at the Oscar ceremonies prompts me to draw attention to the winner-turned-loser La La Land.  I’m not arguing that La La Land should have won over Moonlight.  What I want to explore are the reactions to the film, variously perceived as if people were viewing a Rorschach inkblot test, primarily by those who’ve seen it, and also by those who just have opinions on it from what they’ve heard or read. 

First, yes it is a musical.  My nephew didn’t even know that.  His sister did.  When I suggested, indeed, implored her to see it, this mid-twenties Chicago native, recently relocated to Los Angeles, a single female with a nascent career texted back, “Hahaha, you know I hate musicals.”  I asked her to try it anyway, with her boyfriend.  She said she didn’t know if she could take Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone singing at each other for two or three hours.  I said there was plenty of dancing too, and more than a reasonable amount of dialogue, taking up much of the film’s length of 128 minutes.

Second, no, the dancing and singing is not up to the super-stars of the original Hollywood musicals, when the actors were under contract.  Producers more commonly expected them to master the triple skills of acting, singing and dancing, much like performers in Broadway musicals of the time.  The actors cast in the film have the charm of the young people of yore “putting on a show” and the looks of traditional movie stars, with the necessary acting chops, if not quite their dancing feet or tuneful voices.  The choreographer Mandy Moore has said she designed steps within the range of the actors’ capacities.  The two stars still exceed an average actor’s level of performance in both song and dance.  After all, at twelve, the leading man became a Mouseketeer.

On the music itself, a supposed turn-off for a large segment of the movie-going population, it is integrated more into the plot than in a typical musical comedy.   In auditioning for a crucial part, the lead actress is able to naturally sing a number about the process, and in the club scenes, our leading man plays tunes on his keyboard that relate to the plot, along with his other solo piano turns, with or without an accompanying band.  On the tunes, the composer tried out a multitude of melodies with the director before they settled on those for the film.  Not to equate “City of Stars” with one of the best pop songs ever written although it won the Oscar for best song, it has the flavor of “Imagine” by John Lennon, or maybe the dreamers of "Audition" exit side-by-side with those "lovers and dreamers" in another catchy tune, “The Muppet Song.”   My favorite, the joyful “Another Day of Sun” that accompanies the opening crowd dance on the LA freeway, plays through my earphones when I'm outside.  It literally has me skipping along in rhythm, while I whistle or sing, roughly in tune, to nearly the whole soundtrack, risking stares from passers-by.  

Having grown up with the first rounds of movie musicals, watching them on television with my parents, my own reaction to this modern concoction is pure pleasure.  I find the themes of relationship and career far from lightweight, but close to what couples have confronted since the idea of the traditional wife melted away for many with the women’s movement.  Achieving success in the arts is another central idea, with attendant compromises along the path.  People who haven’t seen the film have objected to the flimsiness of the film’s motifs, the rom com aspects they’ve assumed. One woman at an intermission of a play-reading asked me how I could even go to such a film “in these times.”  I asked her if she meant post-election, and she nodded, calling such attendance “inappropriate,” and even “immoral.”  Because of her I googled a few pieces on art and politics, a large subject encompassing many points of view.  One that I like is people need relief from serious business, at least occasionally, which is why so many comedies came out of the Great Depression, along with the original musicals.  This woman had deep lines in her face all pointing downward, until I saw her after the play reading, which happened to have a happy ending.  She introduced herself by name, almost seeming to apologize for the hard line she took earlier.

A woman who I would have predicted to enjoy the movie had a serious criticism related to the themes of the flim.  She feels the Hollywoodized aspirations of the two leads are unrealistic and that the film ignores the underside of the movie industry.  Having lived in LA, she saw children of her friends who bought into the dream hired to work in the industry for low pay and little if any chance of advancement.  In contrast, a young married entrepreneur from Philadelphia living out his dreams of independence running an online business happily endorses the goals of finding long-lasting love and fulfilling work portrayed in the film. 

The two stars garner individual reactions, with Ryan Gosling the better known, perhaps in his longer career.  Two men roughly forty years apart in age liked him in the role of Sebastian, for very different reasons.  The younger guy thinks he represents the old Hollywood ideal of the leading man.  The older man, a veteran Marine told me Ryan goes beyond the stoic one-dimensional heroes of many films, even those of today.  I asked if he thought Ryan was more “realistic,” and he agreed.  Winner of the best actress Oscar, Emma Stone didn’t elicit admiration from the younger man.  He finds her too far away from the glamorous divas of the old musicals.  The same twenty-something year old is disappointed by the attempt to remake the musical in a modern vernacular, whereas the sixty-something vet appreciates the reworking, having expected a Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers-like vehicle.

That brings me to the ending of the movie,  (*spoiler alert*) which a younger friend admired, and an older male really hated.  The older man felt “betrayed.”  He said he just likes happy endings.  I think he felt that because the film went against his life pattern, finding his true love very early, having two sons, and living happily ever after, still married to his first and only wife.  Another acquaintance’s mother felt the last fifteen minutes ruined the sprightly spirit of the rest of the film.  For some of us, that just isn’t how life goes.  We call the ending brilliant, an unexpected surprise, really encapsulating how in life, as the ex-Marine told me, “You have to leave people and things behind,” and move forward.    To me, the ending turns La La Land into a truly serious, meaningful film, and also clinches the best actress award for Emma Stone as Mia, as she looks back in time.  A film about Hollywood, made in Hollywood pulls a twist on the typical Hollywood ending, ultimately remaking the youthful, casual world of La La Land fully and finally into the grown-up domain of Los Angeles, California, 2016.

At 'Exhibitionism' and A Glimpse of the Band: November 7, 2016

Saw the Rolling Stones “Exhibitionism” today, very nice. And for a bonus, I got a glimpse of all four Stones in person too.

Women's Baseball Jacket |  Exhibitionism Store | NYC | 2016

I bet Mick Jagger named this large collection of memorabilia, I mean really, “exhibitionism,” the fetish of exhibiting yourself a showing off, for all of us voyeurs.  The show includes costumes throughout the decades, mainly Micks, guitars played by Keith Richards and Ronnie Wood, and details of the designing process of the posters and album covers, such as Get Yer Ya Ya’s Out with drummer Charlie Watts and the donkey. As fans know, Watts wore Jagger’s striped hat and carried a guitar in each hand while leaping in the air, and the donkey sported drums and a guitar around his neck.  I wanted more time to concentrate on read some of the writings such as responses to fans and letters to producers and artists. I might go back again one day before it closes, since I have two admissions on my pass.  I want some time to play with the mixing boards of five recorded songs, with sliders to set the balance of the different instruments.

I loved the 3D set-up at the end, with special viewing eyeglasses, essentially a piece of a show from close up, filling one wall of a gallery, with some footage taken directly from on the stage with the performers.  Of the people watching, onlyI rocked out to the music.  How could I not? I had gone to the Las Vegas show cancelled because of Mick’s laryngitis from Desert Trip, so this was a short substitute for my live music cravings.

Industria, the gallery in the West Village housing the exhibit was supposed to be shut down to visitors today but they opened it for a couple of hours, for people who had already planned to    go before they announced the closure. Later I walked over, and a small crowd had gathered. I asked what was up, if they were expecting anyone.  Sure enough, the rumor was right, the band was coming in, to shoot a feature for Matt Lauer's “Today” Show about the exhibit.

Security had us penned in behind an iron gate every time they heard of a likely arrival.  Charlie was first and actually signed a couple of things, unlike any of the others, who seemed in a hurry. Keith came in with Patty, who came out without him after a while. Keith gave a shrug, smiling, like sorry, gotta go. Ronnie breezed by and was friendly to me, when I asked him how the babies were. This guy in the crowd claims Ronnie recognized me. I don't know about that. Mick was last, no signing, just smiling and a bit of waving to both sides of the crowd. He arrived much later than the others, seemed in a big rush.

Why did I not take pictures, like a woman who had been at shows in the 1960s.  She got a great shot of Mick on her camera, calling it “blurry.”  It looked good to me.

It was not a bad day as days go. Met some Latino fans who saw them in Argentina--they played me videos from three vantage points, their seats at three different shows. A few of us talked about how Mick is never late, he’s British, you know.  We thought maybe he snuck in the back door, but no, the band saved that caper for another time, before or after the official premiere.

I guess the big party is tomorrow.   Oh, I forgot to mention that Matt Lauer was there too.  A few of us said, “Hi, Matt,” half-heartedly when he got out of the car.  He said hi back.

--Andee Baker

Andee Rants | DAVID SEDARIS and Carol, the Fox

Toward the end of his reading at the Lensic Theater in Santa Fe, NM, David Sedaris began riffing about wild animals.  He told of how often they appeared on his rural West Sussex, England property, with its field, large front yard and barn converted into an office.  He mentioned how he had befriended a fox.  He remarked how he was so happy he didn't have domestic pets since they formed a major source of conflicts among couples.  How much should you feed a cat, for example?  As much as he wants, because all an animal really desires is food, so why not satisfy that urge?  Alternatively, who wants a fat cat who can hardly move, and is unhealthy to boot?  Well, but larger animals cannot jump as high and knock over antique lamps and such is the answer to that one, and so on, back and forth.  

David and his partner Hugh had argued thusly, and continued to differ over the wild beast David has adopted.  Even the neighbors entered the scene, claiming that foxes were dangerous and that they kill other animals.  David answered, but we don't have any chickens, so that problem's off the table.  Meanwhile, Hugh dug up a desiccated thumb-like protuberance when gardening, holding it in the air, asking David, "What's this?"  "Oh, that's half a hot dog," said David, "for Carol," the name he had given the fox.  "Can't you throw the food out in the back meadow instead of in the front yard," asked Hugh, to which David just shrugged his shoulders.  Against all odds, David developed his relationship with Carol.  

As you see in the picture above, Carol doesn't like to make direct eye contact, a habit carefully noted by her human collaborator.  In a peak moment, David strolled through the nearby woods one night, carrying his pocket flashlight.  He heard a pit-pit patter of feet, and by god, there was Carol trailing behind him, following him to his door.  A few minutes later, David said that Carol was eating out of his hand, but his tone showed he didn't want to brag or make too much of that to us, his audience.

So concluded a night of reading and talking that had highlighted a story about a kid who hitched a ride with a guy he thought was Santa Claus.  The mysterious driver ended up beating the kid's cruel and neglectful second step-dad to death, which was as hilarious as it was horrifying, if you can believe that.  After that, David had treated us to the human/animal connection, as tender as it can get.  As a footnote, today, while opening my car door to put my purse in the back, I thought I heard a pitter-pattering next to me.  Sure enough, it was a very quiet medium-sized black dog, nuzzling my hand.  I think it was one of the neighbors' dogs.  I had never seen it in my driveway before.

- Andee Baker

If Mick Ever Kissed Me

On the way home from Berkeley, California, visiting the cousins, three siblings of my mom’s long-gone brother,  I ran into someone who was kissed on the mouth by Mick Jagger.  She was just a kid in New York City, only 19, doing some singing herself in her own band and meeting tons of up and coming performers, some of whom became famous later on.  This was the '60s after all.  Kristen was part of the scene, an east coast hippie, around when people began living communally and smoking weed openly.  She participated, though without the drugs, she says, never enjoying the feeling of loss of control.  Her second husband died last year, suddenly, of a heart attack, and strangely enough, her first had died also years before.

When I did see him performing up close from the first row at the B-stage, I fell into a fake faint, falling back into a cushion of audience arms and a chorus of ooohs matching mine.  Mick looked a little worried for a second.              -Andee Baker