Tuesday, March 19, 2024
My Little Irish Lass
Sunday, March 17, 2024
Watching | Masters Of The Air
Masters Of The Air | Created by John Shiban and John Orioff
Streaming on AppleTV
Here's a fresh World War II miniseries along the lines of Band of Brothers and The Pacific, and similarly, based on a book. This time, the action is centered around the Americans in the 100th Bomb Group in the Eighth Air Force, stationed in east England, who fly a variety of heavy duty bombing runs over Europe. Of course, there are roguish pilots, devoted underlings, affectionate English ladies, and even a bevy of rosy cheeked local children who cheer the Yanks on.
But the true stars of the show are the Flying Fortresses, the fast and high-flying Boeing B-17s perfectly designed for devastatingly lethal long-distance daytime raids over vast swathes of Nazi Germany. Most episodes feature long, loving takes of the planes droning across the Channel in precise formation, or falling from the sky in flames, or landing safely back at the airbase to the whoops and cheers of all. The entire series is a loving ode to this magnificent aircraft and to the men who so bravely and capably flew them.
Like other miniseries in this genre, extended credits roll after the ninth and final episode to show us actual photos of the men on whom many of the characters were based, along with tidbits about their actual lives after the war. Today, more than ever before, we do well to remind ourselves of these men's dedication and sacrifice, as well as the many others who fell in battle, whose stories we don't recall. Let us remember them all and remind ourselves: never again.
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Though I was born 14 years after VE and VJ Days, World War II was very much a part of my childhood. My parents were teenagers during the years of the war, so neither they nor their parents served directly. But like most Americans of their day, my parents felt immensely proud of their country: still stunned by the brazen attack on Pearl Harbor, still dazzled by America's ability to rise to the challenge of this war, still horrified by the discovery of the concentration camps and the pure evil of the Third Reich's Final Solution. But proud of our nation's get-up-and-go, proud of our technological and military intelligence, proud of our boys in uniform.
My mom told us stories about the war quite often. Because even though my grandparents were too old to serve and my parents too young, my mother's mother, Clara, had a brood of younger brothers who were swept off into active duty.
Most of them came home. Uncle Dick was lost in some sort of piloting accident, but Ed, Bill, and Mickey all made it over and back in one piece each. I could never keep straight who did what, but apparently one served as a bodyguard for General Patton; another parachuted into France on D Day; a third spent time as a POW. Mom was always a bit short on facts because once they came home, my great uncles refused to talk at all about their wars.
I thought a lot about that.
I knew these uncles as towering giants - all the Belz men were well over six feet tall, huge tree trunks yet the most gentle of men. As a five-, six-, seven-year-old, I remember looking way, way up to see their faces, their sweet restrained smiles shining down on me. "She's one of Clara's," they would quietly remark to one another, and I felt a lovely sense of peace and protection.
It took some thinking for me to fully grasp that these very same men had been to war.
They had done unthinkably dangerous things.
They had held guns.
They had fired guns.
They had most certainly killed people.
And then they came home and softly laid their huge hands on top of my little head.
How could such gentle men fight in a war?
In time, I came to understand the menacing evil of Nazi Germany.
I understood that as much as we all hate the unthinkable act of killing other human beings, sometimes that is the only way to stop evil in its tracks.
During the dark days after Pearl Harbor, the United States - including my sweet great uncles - had no choice but to stand up and do what is unthinkable.
In order to protect what is good and true.
In order to protect me.
And if I should ever be so tested, I hope I will muster a tiny portion of the unthinkable courage and infinite gentleness that I saw in my great uncles.
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What I'm watching lately.
Thursday, March 14, 2024
Reading | What My Bones Know
Tuesday, March 12, 2024
Thnks fr th Mmrs
Once upon a time, during the naughties, my eldest daughter went to university about an hour's drive north of our home.
At the same time, she needed monthly check-ins at her orthodontist, about a half-hour's drive south of our home.
And so it was that I found myself, once a month, making the drive up to campus to fetch her and come back home for the night. The next morning, I'd drive her to the orthodontist, then straight back up to school, and finally, home again.
Which turned out to be about five hours of driving in less than a day.
Quite a slog, if you don't mind me saying so.
But I had a secret weapon.
I found it the first time I made this marathon trip. I was halfway to campus and bored out of my wits. Music, I thought to myself, if only I had thought to bring music.
This was back in the days of physical CDs, so while careening down the interstate, I blindly rooted around in the glove box. My hand landed upon one slim plastic case.
Hallelujah.
I had no idea what it might be, but whatever was on that CD, I was listening to it.
Under the Cork Tree by Fall Out Boy.
I slipped it into the player and never looked back.
For the next year and a half, I completed these five-hour long monthly missions and blasted that CD every time. I learned every word to every song and sang at the top of my lungs. When I got to the end of the album, I'd start over. My daughter knew when I'd arrived at her dorm not because I'd texted her but because she could hear my jams from her room on the third floor.
Once she got in the car, I'd pause my music for a few minutes to chat, catch up on her news, catch her up on mine. But once we got the small talk out of the way, bam, we were back into the music till we pulled up in the driveway at home. And the next day, we'd do it all over again.
During these trips, Fall Out Boy seeped into my soul. I've enjoyed the music they've put out since then, but the memories of my Under The Cork Tree drives have lodged deep in my soul. And so it was pure joy last week to hear the boys - now middle aged men - croon those tunes directly into my ears.
Though this song was from their album after Cork Tree, it fit so neatly in my headspace as I scream sang it along with the crowd as Fall Out Boy played it at the show.
One night and one more time,
Thanks for the memories, thanks for the memories.
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Photo credits once again to my firstborn. As usual, she had the wherewithall to take pics while I simply stood with my mouth hanging open.
Monday, March 11, 2024
Dinner at San Fermo
The Pump Room
Italian Village
Cafe Provencal
Elliot's Pine Log
The Bergoff
Philanderer's
And every last one of the crazy, inventive Lettuce Entertain You restaurants around at the time.
Back in 1980, when I first landed in the Chicago restaurant scene, fine dining was all the rage.
Yes, there were countless diners and crab shacks and burger joints, most famously The Billy Goat Tavern where you could get cheezborger cheezborger cheezborger and maybe a Pepsi but certainly no Coke.
But in my boughie world of professional accounting, we ran in the circles of fine dining.
Rooms with a view, decorated to a T.
Hushed waitstaff trained in crisp efficiency and discretion.
Lush linen tablecloths and heavy silver place settings.
And the food. Elegant, inventive, flavorful, fresh.
I was fortunate to enjoy many an extravagant lunch or dinner on the company's pocketbook and I came to enjoy these pleasing meals as if they were second nature.
Then, in a flash, my life changed.
I traded in my power lunches for a couple blueberry muffins to share with my toddlers or maybe a pizza lunch buffet. And then there were the Happy Meal years when my growing gang of girls figured McDonald's to be the end all and be all of fine cuisine.
But, you know, times change. Eventually I became a regular at hippie pita shops, semi-authentic Mexican restaurants, and that one Thai place down on the Ave that still blows my mind. As I eventually got opportunities to travel the world, I gained new respect for the food stalls, the street shops, the everyday dives that bring out the locals. Those, for my money, are usually where the best food is to be found and nowadays, those are the places I seek out for my meals away from home.
Genuine, authentic food for sure.
But not what you'd necessarily call fine dining.
The other weekend, I got an opportunity to eat at San Fermo, the Ballard restaurant where my brand-spanking-new nephew-in-law is working as a chef. And to my delight, I realized - as we slid past a row of two tops and squeezed past the standing crowd at the bar to work our way to a large table on the back patio - I was about to enjoy some post-modern fine dining.
The restaurant lives in a former residence, and the rooms are mostly intact, yielding a cozy, domestic vibe. The kitchen is in full view, and diners watch their meals come together just as they do at home dinner parties. Spotlights highlight formal portraits hanging on shiplap walls, looking like anybody's upscale farmhouse kitchen. Calm and cool, down to earth, the waitstaff is professional yet friendly in the egalitarian way that the postmodern world prefers. Our food is served up on a variety of mismatched vintage-esque plates; the place settings are pleasingly posh.
The food is good. Elegant, inventive, flavorful, fresh.
And while I delight in the heady experience of tasting, sharing, and chattering with my family as we enjoy our food, another part of me simply sits back and smiles to see how my dining experiences have come full circle.
I'm enjoying a rare moment of fine dining. And I am pleased.
Photo credits to my first-born.
I was too busy eating.
Made New In The Snow
Maybe it's because I was born in the middle of a winter sleet storm where cars careened across the lanes of the highway and pedestrians crawled up and down the sidewalks outside the hospital on hands and knees, unable to stay standing on their own two feet.
Maybe it's from the countless hours little girl me spent sledding, ice skating, and traipsing around in the endless acres of my outdoor playland, not coming inside until I was so thoroughly cold I could only lie on the floor inside the front door and cry as my mother peeled off my icy layers.
Maybe it's from the four winters I trudged back and forth to my classes across the massive tundra that was my university campus, dodging in and out of cozy buildings along the way for a blast of warm air and temporary relief, then playing a few games of Asteroids before class to make my frozen fingers nimble enough to hold a pencil.
Maybe it's about the years I've spent skiing down sparkling white mountains and riding back up in frosty chair lifts, floating through the hushed crystal beauty.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's about God pouring his love out onto our world, transforming all that is broken and dirty into pure sparkling, brilliant white.
What I know for sure is that when I wake up to fresh snow, as I have several times this past week, something in my soul comes alive.
And as much as I know I was born for snow, I'm pretty sure it's a God thing.
For me, God's love is made new in the snow.
Tuesday, February 20, 2024
Sleepless In Seattle
I love my family and friends.
I love the world.
I love Valentine's Day.
And I love to sleep.
On December 20, 2023, my husband missed a step near the bottom of a shadowy staircase, and fell with a crash on a wooden floor.
Sadly, he messed up his knee and quadricep but the good news is that they have quickly healed. What got messed up even worse was my sleep schedule.
My husband is a classic early bird. Even with his busted up knee, his day begins around six, and as with many early birds, requires coffee to really get the engines humming.
And while he can handily make his own lattes at home, he really does prefer a cup of joe from the local Starbucks.
That's how I found myself volunteering to rise with the larks in order to fetch his morning brew.
To be honest, I also didn't want him roaming around the house with a bum knee for half the day while I snoozed upstairs. So I quickly became a morning person too, rising before the sun and scurrying about during early daylight hours, doing all the things that you morning people do while my delayed sleep phase comrades and myself catch up on our zzzs after our busy nights of productivity.
I found myself going to bed at 10 or 11 p.m. which again, sounds perfectly normal to most non-chronologically challenged people but is downright bizarre for a 4:00 a.m. bedtime person such as myself.
My new early morning schedule carried on into the holidays. Since he wasn't working between Christmas Day and New Year's Day, my husband cut me some slack. He slept a bit later and also volunteered to go an hour or two into his morning without immediate caffeine consumption, since he was not facing his usual battery of Excel spreadsheets. And as the new year began, my husband's knee had recovered enough that he went back to driving himself to Starbucks. So by all rights, I was free to go back to my usual sleep schedule.
But guess what. I couldn't. My body had temporarily adapted to my new schedule and I realized that I would need some time to gradually adapt back. I figured maybe a couple of weeks.
And that wasn't a bad guess. Sure enough, by late January, my body had slowly slipped back to wanting sleep at around 4 a.m.
Then the strangest thing happened.
My body didn't stop adjusting. Instead of continuing to feel sleepy around 4, I found myself wide at 5, 6, 7, and eventually even 8 a.m. Rather than spending hours tossing and turning in bed, waiting for sleep to find me, I began to get up and put those sleepless hours to use.
Which has worked. To a point.
But, culturally conditioned humanoid that I am, I still found myself trying to design and stick to some sort of predetermined schedule.
Yet nothing - and I repeat, nothing - was working.
Eventually I had to admit that my body was starved for proper sleep and I was exhausted. This weekend, feeling shivery and sick, I made a bold decision. I have no choice but to throw all conventions and schedules to the wind and simply sleep when I'm sleepy.
So for the past couple days, I've gone completely rogue. Feeling wide awake all the through the night, early morning, and on up to 11 a.m., noon? No problem!
Yesterday, I put myself to bed for the night around 2 p.m., woke up after a few hours to have dinner, then slept again until around 3:00 a.m. when I bounced out of bed feeling fresh and fit as a fiddle. I kicked off my day in the dead of the night with a few hours of intense house cleaning, and then with poor Gracie begging me to sit down somewhere so she could relax and get her own sleep, I parked myself here at the computer for several hours of nonstop digital productivity.
Where is this going to end? Will my body eventually settle back down to my usual sleep rhythm or will my circadian rhythm continue to float through day and night on an endlessly revolving schedule?
I have no idea. But won't it be fun to find out?
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Read more about that Delayed Sleep Phase lyfe here
And for a story about another time my sleep schedule slipped, go here.