My whole life has been nothing but one big joke. I donāt know why I expected otherwise, considering I was raised by a couple of clowns, but I did. Oh, donāt get me wrong; Iām not being derogatory. Not in the least. My parents are clowns .ā¦ literally. They are circus clowns and so am I.
Raffles and Mittens are my parents. Some of my aunts, uncles and cousins are Poodles, Flopsy, Jingles, Pogo and Skippy. Rumor has it that my great-grandparents were Bozo and Clarabell but we never know what to take seriously in this family.
We all live in a rinky-dink circus trailer and if you think walking into pantyhose drying in the bathroom is annoying, try existing with a squirting flower, a megaphone, a pop gun and a seltzer bottle every day of your life. This clowning around life ain’t that easy!
Anyway, we needed some mode of transportation to get around town for shopping and appointments so we went to the used car lot. Of course, the used car salesman tried to talk us into a clown car, which was terribly condescending. Clowns are people, too, dammit!
Thatās when my boyfriend, Stumpy, had an idea. Stumpy is a coulro* and the best clown on stilts there ever was. Everybody looks up to him! With bicycle parts salvaged from the junkyard, he assembled the Clown Limo. With his long legs, Stumpy can drive us anywhere at all.
*Coulro is a Greek word that means “stilt walker” or “clown“.Ā It may come from the ancient Greek word kÅlobathristÄs, which means “one who goes on stilts“.
For as long as I can remember, music has been in my life in one form or another. There was never a time when I was not singing in a choir or choral group, either in church or school. My family was musical and the house was always alive with radio music, records playing, someone practicing the piano, someone else playing the mandolin, someone tinkering with the guitar, recorder, squeezebox, drums, and everyone singing, singing, singing.
I will always remember my Christmas present when I was 12 years old ā¦ a portable record player which my parents repeatedly made very clear was notĀ āa toyā. I knew that! The toy phonographs came with Howdy Doody decals or Mickey Mouse ears and were made out of cardboard painted to look like leather or plastic. I had those toy record players which didn’t last very long; this was the real deal. To me, my teal blue General Electric Solid State record player was āthe Holy Grailā! My parents spent āgood money on that thingā and expected me to treat it with respect. What they didnāt predict was how I would worship that suitcase phonograph every day of my life.
This baby had built-in speakers that really blew! And a real diamond tip needle. My older cousin Joseph taught me the proper way to raise and lower the arm and how to safely get the dust off my records. My parents gave me and my sister a weekly allowance and I used most of my money to buy records.
The first 45 to grace my record player was āDa Doo Ron Ronā by the Crystals (which was prophetic because āhis name was Billā!). The early girl groups were my idols; I loved their sound and their lyrics were perfect for young girls with hormones working overtime. Then the Beatles invaded the US and my life was changed forever.
That GE teal blue record player became my best friend and I took very good care of it. After I was married, we had a hi-tech stereo system in the living room but I still kept my phonograph upstairs in the bedroom where weād listen to romantic tunes like āA Million To Oneā, āDaddyās Homeā, āI Only Have Eyes For Youā and āOoh Baby Babyā. When our sons were old enough, I handed down my record player to them and now our 15 year old granddaughter has it in her bedroom. Her latest purchase was the soundtrack to Guardians of the Galaxy which is pretty damn cool.
Thanks to Keith Allen for the invitation to write a little something on his new blog. I hope you enjoyed what I had to share today.
* In times of war or siege, Italian families would vacate their homes and rent apartments in safer areas. In order to protect themselves they would hire soldiers to sleep on the floor in shifts. The meaning of the phrase “going to the mattresses” symbolizes the association inĀ Italian folk-memory of mattresses with safety in wartime. The phrase wasn’t well known outside the US and Italy prior to the Godfather movies. It was used there, and later in The Sopranos, to mean “preparing for battle”.
When Kay met Michael, scenes from an Italian wedding (Godfather, 1972) featuring Al Martino as Johnny Fontane. This is “I Have But One Heart (O Marenariello)”
Written for Song Lyric Sunday. This week Jim Adams has asked his readers to choose a song they remember from their childhood.
Music has always been a huge part of my life since my days growing up in The Bronx. Every self-respecting Italian family has a finished basement ā¦ one wide open room with a kitchen, eating area, a space for family activities, a TV area, a bathroom and closed-off workshop. Our television was one of those big console units which also included a radio and stereo with a storage cabinet and looked something like this:
When my sister and I listened to our music, my mother would either be cooking or in her sewing area and Dad would be at the kitchen table working on a crossword puzzle. He claimed he didnāt like our music but he never actually left the room when it was on. However, on Saturday afternoons my father commandeered the radio so he could listen to his favorite Italian show called āPasquale C.O.D.ā I remember it being just like WMCA ā¦ the station I listed … only in Italian. Pasquale was the DJ whoād talk about everything from food to politics and play the top hits from Italy and the US.
In 1958 there was a song we heard often and it became a family favorite; it got to be so popular, it wasnāt just limited to Dadās Italian station. People all around the world could hear Domenico Modugno singing his hit “Nel blu, dipinto di blu“, more commonly known as āVolareā. Modugno composed the music and, along with Franco Migliacci, wrote the lyrics. The single was released on February 1, 1958.
The song spent five non-consecutive weeks atop the Billboard Hot 100 in August and September 1958, and subsequently became Billboardās #1 single for the year. In 1959, at the 1st Annual Grammy Awards, Modugno’s recording became the first ever Grammy winner for both Record of the Year and Song of the Year. For more info about āVolareā, you can click HERE.
Here is āNel blu, dipinto di blu (Volare)ā by Domenico Modugno. This oneās for you, Dad.
LYRICS
I think a dream like this will never come back Penso che un sogno cosƬ non ritorni mai piĆ¹
I painted my hands and face blue Mi dipingevo le mani e la faccia di blu
Then suddenly I was kidnapped by the wind Poi d’improvviso venivo dal vento rapito
And I began to fly in the infinite sky E incominciavo a volare nel cielo infinito
Flying oh, oh Volare oh, oh
Singing oh, oh Cantare oh, oh
In the blue painted blue Nel blu dipinto di blu
Happy to be up there Felice di stare lassĆ¹
And I flew, I flew happily higher than the sun E volavo, volavo felice piĆ¹ in alto del sole
And even higher Ed ancora piĆ¹ su
While the world slowly disappeared far away down there Mentre il mondo pian piano spariva lontano laggiĆ¹
Sweet music played just for me Una musica dolce suonava soltanto per me
There were more than 100 different recordings of āVolareā worldwide but my favorite from 1960 was the version by Italian-American pop singer Bobby Rydell (Ridarelli). Even my dad thought he sounded pretty good! His recording reached #4 on the Hot 100 during the summer of 1960, #22 in the UK and #3 in Canada. Here is Bobby Rydellās version.
Of course, we couldnāt go flying without the wonderful Il Volo (flight) and their rendition of āVolareā. These young vocal sensations came on the scene long after my father passed away; I wonder what he’d think of them. Here is Il Volo.
The ambience in our house was different today, quietly busy as delivery men and acquaintances paying their respects came and went. My father and motherās uncles directed the traffic of floral deliveries and positioned the many arrangements throughout the parlor. My mother and her aunts labored in the kitchen like silent worker bees preparing trays of food for the funeral dinner tomorrow.
We children sat meekly on the two enormous matching sofas along the side walls, eyes downcast, confused and uncharacteristically restrained. Occasionally we would glance toward the elevated casket in the center of the room and quickly look away. At 6:00 we were whisked off to the dining room where we wordlessly ate our evening meal, then returned to the parlor to continue our vigil.
There seemed to be a never-ending flow of people, a soft parade of mourners entering our house. Veiled women dabbed their eyes and men removed their hats, heads bowed. This stream flowed seamlessly from 2:00 in the afternoon until 9:30 that evening, many people lingering to reflect while caressing their rosary beads. A priest arrived shortly after 9:30; he spoke softly in our native Sicilian dialect, offering prayers and words of consolation. When he was finished, everyone except my motherās aunts and uncles departed. My little cousins, some no longer able to stay awake, were carried home and my sister and I were shooed off to our bedroom upstairs.
It had been a long and sorrowful day. My great-grandmother, the family matriarch, had died.
*Bisnonna is the Sicilian word for “great-grandmother”.
Authorās Note: I was nine years old when my great-grandmother died. Much of that day is etched in my mind; in particular, I remember being unable to sleep that night knowing there was a dead body in a coffin downstairs in my parlor. Never ever will I forget the cold and waxy feel of my bisnonnaās skin on my lips as I, along with all the other children, lined up to place a kiss on her forehead … not something we did willingly.
Written for Friday Fictioneers where our host Rochelle has asked us to use the photo below as inspiration to get creative in 100 words or less, making every word count. Hereās my flash.
Jenny looked around the no-frills room which was now her home. A shy girl, sheād never spent a single night away from home; now she was half-way across the country at an unfamiliar university with thousands of nameless faces.
At first she didnāt want her parents’ help moving but at the last minute she relented. They were on their way home now and all Jenny wanted was to grab her phone and beg them to come back and take her home.
The sound of girl’s excited laughter echoed in the hall; Jenny peeked out and someone happily waved her over.
When my kids played the whole house would shake like an eight point earthquake and the coins in their piggy bank would reverberate as the crystal glasses in the dining room breakfront did the hippy hippy shake and I baked an earthquake cake
Eastern-most Long Island, New York. A little village called Montauk. āThe Endā, according to locals. Drive to the tip of the peninsula, walk a few steps and youāre in the Atlantic Ocean ā¦ literally.
1984 was our first visit. āLetās go out for a weekend. If we donāt like it, we wonāt go back.ā Famous last words. We stayed at a no frills family motel on the beach; it was paradise.
Step outside the motel and watch your toes disappear into the sand. Big pool filled with sunburned families having the time of their lives. Huge towels and colorful umbrellas cover the beach.
An old salt regales us with tales about the first German U-boats arriving off Montauk in June, 1942. Psyched, we ride our bikes to the lighthouse where we discover WWII bunkers buried deep in the woods.
Montaukās pizza place and ice cream joint are constantly busy. Drive five minutes west on āthe stretchā to a place known simply as āLUNCHā for a mouth-watering lobster roll or puffers and chips.
At night little fires dot the beach, glowing and crackling. Kids stab marshmallows with long sticks and plunge them into the flames for a gooey sweet treat that wonāt be eaten again till next summer. Our boys’ hair is sun-streaked, skin bronzed, feet perpetually coated in sand. Theyāre happy as clams.
In time we started renting a house with a pool; vacations lasted six weeks; 35+ years of unforgettable family memories made, Montauk style.
The Memory Motel has been a fixture in Montauk since the mid-1920s. When the Rolling Stones were out at the east end, they would visit the bar at the motel for some heavy drinking, dancing, shooting pool, tussling, scuffling, and playing the only piano in town until sunrise.
It was 1965, a big year ā my sisterās graduation, the Beatles concert and our trip to Sicily.
We spent a day at Momās cousin Concettaās farmhouse outside Agrigento. Goats, sheep and a donkey grazed in the field among the olive trees. Chickens scurried around the barnyard like drunken spinning tops. They were extremely entertaining ā our favorite.
We hung out with the animals all morning. In the afternoon we drove to Agrigento to explore the shops.
Upon returning to Concettaās, we sat down for dinner. Pasta to start, of course. When she brought out the roast chickens, we burst into tears.
Here are three ridiculously talented Sicilian guys from Palermo playing a tune called “The Chicken”. They are Matteo Mancuso (guitar), Riccardo Oliva (bass) and Salvatore Lima (drums). Enjoy this one.
Mary went rigid and her soft brown eyes filled with tears when she saw the orthodontistās bill. With no dental insurance, sheād have to find some way to defray the expense.
Today at Song Lyric Sunday, Jim has asked us to choose a song that begins with the same letter as our first name. For me that would be the letter N. Here is my song.
L-R Nancy Sinatra Jr, Frank Sinatra Sr, Nancy Sinatra Sr, Frank Sinatra Jr; in front Tina Sinatra, 1948
When I say āhere is my songā Ā I really mean MY song. From the time I was a baby and able to understand a few words, this song was special to me. As I got older it became even more special ā¦ particularly when my dad would sing it. There are a lot of memories attached to this song; I honestly thought it was written for me and that Frank Sinatra was singing it directly to me. You may recall from another of my posts that my dad hated Sinatra; this may be the only song by Frank that Dad liked. My sister Rosemarie really hated my song because she didnāt like any of HER songs; sheād whine that her songs werenāt as pretty and personal as mine and sheād get annoyed every time it was played. But the thing she hated the most was the line āsorry for you, she has no sisterā! I guess I can’t blame her for that!
Have you figured out what my song is? Since it was made popular by Frank Sinatra most people wrongly assumed the song was composed specifically for his daughter. Well, that was a pretty big clue so you must know the answer by now! My song choice for todayās Song Lyric Sunday is āNancy (With the Laughing Face)ā.
The music for the song was composed in 1942 by Jimmy Van Heusen with lyrics written by comedian/lyricist Phil Silvers; it was originally called āBessie (With the Laughing Face)ā. Bessie? Who the hell was Bessie? Well, back in 1942 there was a famous lyricist named Johnny Burke who was married to our mysterious Bessie. Jimmy Van Heusen and Phil Silvers wrote the song for their friend Johnny Burke as a surprise for his wife Bessieās birthday.
All the women at Bessie Burkeās birthday party loved the song so much, they started requesting that it be sung at their parties as well. Apparently Frank Sinatra wasnāt at any of those parties because when his friends Jimmy Van Heusen and Phil Silvers sang the song as “Nancy (With the Laughing Face)” at little Nancy Sinatra’s birthday party, Frank broke down and cried, thinking it had been written especially for his daughter! Johnny Burke, Jimmy Van Heusen and Phil Silvers wisely didn’t correct him.
In 1944, Frank Sinatra recorded the song as āNancy (With the Laughing Face)” and it became a fan favorite. When I was born several years later, the song became a favorite in our house as well.
This is āNancyā by Frank Sinatra
Lyrics
If I don’t see her each day, I miss her Gee, what a thrill each time I kiss her Believe me, I’ve got a case On Nancy with the laughin’ face She takes the winter and makes it summer But summer could take some lessons from her Picture a tomboy in lace That’s Nancy with the laughin’ face Did you ever hear mission bells ringin’? Well, she’ll give you the very same glow When she speaks you would think it was singin’ Just hear her say hello I swear to goodness you can’t resist her Sorry for you, she has no sister No angel could replace Nancy with the laughin’ face
Keep Betty Grable, Lamour and Turner She makes my heart a charcoal burner Itās heaven when I embrace My Nancy with the laughinā face
Bill & Jim working on yet another crossword puzzle together
Tomorrow will be 4 months since my husbandās identical twin brother died suddenly. His wife returned home from a walk and found him on the bedroom floor; she said he was still warm. The news felt like an arrow ripped through our hearts. Jim was dead. How was my sister-in-law ever again going to walk into her bedroom without picturing her husbandās body? How was my husband Bill going to face the rest of his life as the lone twin? At one time there were three brothers; now there is only Bill. This is the most difficult trial for him. My husband lost a piece of himself that day. We are numb, disbelieving, questioning, dazed, numb, numb, so unbelievably numb.
You know how people say that time flies? Not when it comes to Jim; time has stopped for us. Logically we know heās dead but our hearts cannot accept it. Itās unbelievable, inconceivable for us. It doesnāt feel possible. We function normally every day, do the same old crap, talk and eat and laugh. We watch movies, go shopping, pay bills, gab on the phone, babysit. We live the same lives we lived before Jim died except heās not here to share them and we cannot wrap our heads around that. It just doesn’t feel like he’s dead. He should be here. It’s not right that heās not here. It’s like someone has played the cruelest joke on us.
Now, when my sister-in-law looks at Bill, itās Jimās face she sees. And sometimes when I look at my husband, I see Jim and I find myself pondering why Jim was the twin who was taken.
I am Bill’s wife but Jim was his other half.
save them in your heart golden summer memories for when winter comes
City Island, Bronx NY circa 1950 No idea who’s who!
Itās really amazing how time flies by. People say ādonāt blinkā; where did fifteen years go? She is my babyās baby, his first child and my first grandchild; our world changed the instant she was born. It’s really amazing how time flies by.
This is my beautiful granddaughter Mckenna; sheās funny and fun to be with. At one time she wanted to be a writer; now sheās hoping to become a professional musician in an orchestra. Her instrument of choice is the baritone sax ā¦ a powerhouse! She just finished her freshman year of high school and was accepted into the National Honor Society. Sheās been a member of her schoolās swim team for the last couple of years and today she will start her first job as a lifeguard for her townās public pool. She really wanted that job and is psyched she passed the test. So are we! Congratulations, Mckenna! Weāre so proud of you!
āāIt wasnāt that long ago when Ethan was rarely bothered by mosquitos, but this year heās being eaten alive by themā.ā
I wrote that in my diary just a few weeks ago.
Thank you all for joining us today as we say āfarewellā to my beloved husband, Ethan ā¦. another innocent victim struck down in the prime of life by the dastardly mosquito. Ethan was attacked last week while bringing out the trash for pick-up in the morning; it was just a quick run to the curb but he didnāt have his EpiPen on him. Who knew just a few moments later heād be in cardiac arrest from anaphylactic shock?
Ethan was never bothered by mosquitos before and at first it was just an annoying surprise when he started developing a reaction a few months ago. The change in him was sudden and drastic and, as much as I will miss him, Iām so thankful his time of suffering was short.
Doctors canāt say whether this is a genetic trait, if our children Evan, Ella and Emily will develop this horrible allergy. To help our children realize the seriousness of this situation and to protect them, Ethan has left them his award-winning collection of swatters, his supply of EpiPens, his boxes of citronella candles, his stash of DEET and, of course, his journal.
When the allergic reactions started, Ethan began writing down his thoughts; as a poet, he wrote some of his best work over the recent months.He was most evocativein his agony.
In closing I would like to read one of his most poignant poems. Itās called āOde To The Mosquitoā. And please .ā¦ next time you see a mosquito, ask yourselves āWhat would Ethan do?ā“
Ode To The Mosquito
How can such a little thing Be so damn annoying? Flying round my arms and legs Itās bothersome and cloying.
Go away, you vile thing Iāll swat you with a stick. Youāre not welcome in my home You nasty little prick!
Who would think that tiny guy Could be such a bloody sucker? When he sticks his fangs in me I scream āYou Motherf*#+er!ā
You get me every time Iām out; My blood is extra sweet. Come and get me, little twit! Tonight Iām packing DEET!
Written for Friday Fictioneers where we are encouraged to get creative by writing a story of no more than 100 words using this photo as our inspiration. Here is my 100 word story.
It was the summer of ā59 and I was going to spend July and August with my cousins at the shore. Iād been packing since my last day of school, finishing two days before taking off.
The following morning I awoke with fever, sore throat, bumpy tongue and a facial rash. Scarlet fever, the doctor said. The disease was highly contagious. I was prescribed antibiotics and my parents were warned to keep me home.
My summer plans were abruptly cancelled; I was dejected. All I could do was watch my friends playing, my nose pressed up against the window screen.
We visited the Poe Cottage this week, former home of the poet Edgar Allan Poe. Itās about a 30 minute drive from my house and I thought my two teenage grandchildren would enjoy the walk-around since theyāre both reading the works of Poe in school.
Itās a quaint old place with small bedrooms, a common kitchen-parlor-dining room downstairs and an upstairs loft. My 6ā tall grandson questioned how a grown man could sleep in the tiny bed.
At one point I realized my grandson had gone missing. Imagine my embarrassment when he was found napping in Poeās bed!
When I was a very small child, one of my older cousins was suffering from a case of consumption, also know as tuberculosis. She was 16 years old and literally wasting away from this disease once called the āGreat White Plagueā due to the extremely pale complexion of those afflicted.
My cousin was always cold, requiring multiple blankets to keep warm, and time outside in the sun and fresh air, especially during the spring and summer. She was either in bed or reclining on a chaise lounge near the window in the parlor.
She looked like death. To the school age children in the house, this was a frightening time and they glanced at her with pity and wariness. They also avoided her, which was not very kind; some of them stayed away by spending extra time practicing their penmanship lessons and math sums.
At least twice each week my great-aunt Chesaria would stop by to administer her special ātonicā, light a candle and leave her mark on my cousin. The ritual never changed: first a dose of the safe-for-human-consumption red berry juice from the sumac plant. Next, Aunt Chesaria would draw a birdcage in blue ink on both of my cousinās earlobes. The door to the birdcage was always drawn in the open position which allowed the evil spirits in my cousinās body to find their way out. Finally, my great-aunt would light a tea candle and place it on my cousinās chest to draw out the congestion. She would close the curtains and leave my cousin in the darkened room to allow her potions to do their magic.
Who knows if any of this strange “medicine” worked; our parents clung to the phrase āthe whole is greater than the sum of its partsā. My cousin eventually recovered, because of or in spite of Aunt Chesariaās administrations. She was never a robust woman after her ailment but she married and was healthy enough to give birth to nine children in just 12 years. She welcomed more than 40 grandchildren and a batch of great-grandchildren before passing away at the age of 86 just two years ago.
As a rule, Aunt Chesaria was summoned whenever anyone in the family or immediate vicinity became ill. She drew birdcages on my own earlobes during every childhood malady. But the question that remains unanswered is āWho took care of Aunt Chesaria when she became ill?ā No one is around to fill in the blanks so I can only assume there was a witch doctor of sorts living in my neighborhood ā¦. perhaps a black magic woman from Sumatra residing in the unassuming borough of The Bronx!
Presumptuous? Possibly. But fascinating, nonetheless.
The idea of Father’s Day was first conceived by Sonora Smart Dodd, a loving daughter from Spokane, Washington. It was also inspired by Mother’s Day as Dodd wanted a day to honor her father as well. William Jackson Smart was a Civil War veteran and single-handedly raised Sonora and her siblings after the death of their mother.
My dad was a Sicilian immigrant who came to the US by boat in 1930 at the age of 15. He arrived with his father and two brothers ā¦ one older and the other younger. His mother and sister remained in Sicily for another few years; according to my grandfather, āAmerica is no place for a womanā.
None of them spoke a word of English.
My father was an apprentice shoemaker in Sicily who took up barbering after getting settled in Brooklyn, NY. His good looks and charm endeared him to many people and he was liked by everyone.
It was my dadās boss at the barbershop who gave him a brilliant piece of advice. As was his habit, my father bought the Italian newspaper every day to read during his down time at work. One day the boss said to him in Italian āHey, Vito! If you ever hope to speak English, do yourself a favor and start buying the New York Times every day and read it from front to back.ā My father realized the importance of that advice and started buying the NY Times the very next day. With the added help of his English-speaking customers, he became fluent in English and lost his accent with no formal schooling. One of the proudest moments in his life was completing the NY Times crossword puzzle ā¦ in ink!
Dad became a US citizen and eventually landed a job with the post office. He was a US Army veteran who drove a jeep throughout Europe during WWII without ever having earned a driverās license. He never did get his license and never drove again after his stint in the army.
My father loved music, especially opera, and I was exposed to classical music and opera at a very early age. The basics in life were Dadās tenets ā¦ family, God, country, his job, providing a roof over our heads, food on the table and a good education. He was also the fun-loving one, with Mom always busy ācleaning up his messesā.
Dad loved people and entertaining in our home. He would often invite people for dinner without clearing it with Mom first. No wonder she was always pissed off! Dad was often in trouble for that and I found that devilish quality one of his most endearing traits. He truly meant no harm. He was a good and decent man who loved and was loved in return. And in the end can any of us want more than that?
Happy Fatherās Day to all my guys on WordPress. I hope your day is as special as you are.
Written for Jim Adamsā Thursday Inspiration #232 where the theme is āToo Lateā. Jim has given us free rein so I have written about a song featuring the ātoo lateā theme.
The first single from the album Valotte, and Julian Lennon’s most successful, was āToo Late For Goodbyesā, released in 1984. While Julian has gone on record to affirm that this song was not about his estranged relationship with his father but rather a failing romance with a woman, one cannot help but wonder. Considering a figure resembling John looms largely in the video, the song could carry more meaning despite Julianās objections.
John and Cynthia Lennon divorced when Julian was just five years old, and for the next nine years Julian rarely saw his dad. When he was 14, Julian reconnected with John and made occasional visits to his home in New York City.
Julian inherited many of his father’s musical gifts, including a knack for songwriting. He wrote “Too Late For Goodbyes” on his own and released the song when he was just 21. It was a Top 10 hit in both the UK and US and helped him earn a Grammy nomination for Best New Artist, which he lost to Sade.
The album was produced by Phil Ramone who had managed albums by Paul Simon and Billy Joel. Ramone kept the production tasteful and mature considering he was working with a 21-year-old British kid in 1984. This is one of the more synth-heavy tracks on the album, with prominent guitar and bass.
If thereās one thing that bothers me about this video itās the fact that we see Julian āplayingā harmonica (itās really just his cupped hands) but the legendary harmonica virtuoso Toots Thielemans was the one who actually played the harmonica part. Picky, maybe, but it just doesnāt sit right with me. It would have been nice to see Toots in the corner playing his harmonica; gotta be a reason that didnāt happen. The video, which was directed by movie director Sam Peckinpah, did very well on MTV; Peckinpah also directed Julianās next video which was for his song āValotteā.
āToo Late For Goodbyesā was a top-10 hit, reaching #6 in the UK Singles Chart in November 1984, and #5 on the Billboard Hot 100 singles chart in late March 1985. The song peaked at #1 on March 16, 1985 on the US Adult Contemporary chart, spending two weeks in the top slot.
One final note that is so obvious it cannot be ignored: the Beatlesā DNA is incredibly dominant as we can see here in Julianās video, in performances by Dhani Harrison, Sean Lennon, James McCartney and drummers Zak and Jason Starkey, two of Ringo’s sons. All the Beatle Boys bear a striking resemblance to their famous fathers and have been blessed with their very identifiable voices, artistic songwriting abilities and performing talents ā¦. quite a legacy for a little group from Liverpool.
This is āToo Late For Goodbyesā by Julian Lennon
But ā¦. letās get real! Where did the time go and how did she get so big?
Our youngest grandchild, 4-year-old Colette, is not a wee one any longer. Of course, we’ve noticed some of the clothes we keep for her at our house have gotten snug but now she can help herself to anything in the refrigerator, open the latch on the gate leading to the front yard without any assistance and weāve had to make some adjustments to her car seat. However, nothing brings home how much sheās grown in nine months like these two side-by-side photos.
Back in September on the first day of nursery school, she was a giddy little tyke bubbling with enthusiasm and now sheās a beautiful little girl looking so very mature and confident, pictured on the last day of school on June 5.
Coletteās on a steady course to independence ā¦. dressing and showering by herself (with some careful supervision), using a “grown up” drinking glass instead of one with a lid and straw, calling her parents āMom & Dadā instead of āMommy & Daddyā, and a bunch of little changes we see on a regular basis.
Our son drops her off for us to babysit each week on Tuesdays, Thursdays and the occasional Saturday; now that sheās able to do so much on her own, itās a lot easier for us but sometimes we sure do miss that giggly, squirmy toddler! Time is going far too fast.
Sheāll always be our little Kukla, no matter how old she gets; thatās something no amount of time will ever change!
Itās 8AM at the humane society and all the residents are enjoying their freshly cleaned digs, and that means nice crisp newspapers lining the floor, just in case. Accidents happen, you know!
Today theyāre in for a special treat; the papers are opened to the birth announcements page!
All the pups are besotted by the photo of a beautiful baby with big blue eyes. Sure looks like a playful and happy little tyke! They stare longingly at the baby’s photo, wistfully talking among themselves about the greatest thing that could happen to them, the one thing that would change their lonely doggie lives ā¦. to be adopted and to find themselves in a new forever home with a special friend to play with and grow up with …. just like this little guy.
āIt sure would be swell, wouldnāt it?ā they ask each other, visions of blankets, chew toys and bouncy rubber balls swirling in their heads. āMaybe today will be our lucky day!ā
At 9AM the humane society opens its doors to the public and a few families start streaming in. Most of the parents are being tugged by eager kids hoping to find a best friend to share their home and their lives. Everyone is optimistic and excited.
Today is a big day …. maybe it will be their lucky day!
My husband is as easy going as can be, so when he makes a request, I try my best to oblige. Last night he asked for Sunday pasta with meatballs. How could I refuse?
Homemade pasta with all the trimmings is something I can do with my eyes closed but when I first started out in the kitchen as a new bride, I had no idea what I was doing. Sure, I had watched my mother cook for years but itās a whole different ballgame when youāre on your own.
Iāll never forget the first time I tried to make Sunday pasta. Reading my motherās recipe was no help. This is exactly what she wrote:
For your pasta dough mix flour and eggs, water when you need, pinch salt, oil maybe.
Thatās it. No measurements, no amounts, nothing definitive. Her meatball recipe was no better:
Chopped meat, eggs, some salt & pepper, handful parmigiano, another handful breadcrumbs, dice onion, parsley, oregano, glass of water.
A GLASS OF WATER! Which glass? What size? At this point my eyes were frantically scanning the kitchen for a glass! I didnāt know if I should laugh or cry. Iām sure my mother never referred to a recipe in her life so she had no idea how to write one!
Just then it hit me and I had a vision of my mother in her kitchen. She always used a Flintstoneās Jelly Jar as her water glass when cooking; she said it was the perfect size. All I had to do was find an equivalent measure and Iād be good.
I eventually mastered the art of Sunday pasta with meatballs but I sure do wish I had my momās jelly jar .ā¦ for old timesā sake, you know?
Written for Friday Fictioneers where we are encouraged to write something creative in 100 words or less using the photo below as inspiration. This is my 100-word story.
Uncle Bobby had this irrational fear of spiders. Well, it was irrational to his family; for him it was very real.
So when the new amusement park ride Spiders From Mars opened, Uncle Bobby wouldnāt go near it.
Everyone tried convincing him the ride wasnāt jinxed or dangerous but he wasnāt buying it. All their urging and encouragement fell on deaf ears. Uncle Bobby watched from the shadows as his nieces and nephews went for a spin.
That night the ride malfunctioned; several family members were killed, unceremoniously hurled out of the park.
Guess Uncle Bobby’s fear wasn’t so irrational. š·ļø
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are given a word, in this case ‘lift’, and asked to incorporate it into a story of no more than six sentences. This is my true story of family.
āMangia il cibo sul tuo piatto, Concetta, o lo mangerai dal pavimentoā ā (āEat the food on your plate, Concetta, or you will eat it off the floor.ā)
Without changing her expression or taking her huge brown eyes off her father Domenicoās face, three year old Concetta picked up a meatball, extended her arm over the side of her highchair and very calmly let it drop to the floor.
Silence.
Everyone sat in suspended animation as Domenico deliberately put down his knife and fork and removed the napkin which was tucked into the neck of his shirt; slowly he stood up, walked behind Concettaās chair, grabbed the back of her dress and lifted her up.
Holding her feet with his other hand, Domenico lowered Concettaās face to the floor until her mouth touched the meatball; she tried to turn away, but Domenico pushed her face into the food, forcing her to take the meatball into her mouth, then, satisfied, he sat her back in her highchair, returned to his seat and resumed eating while Concetta languidly chewed what was in her mouth.
Hesitantly, self-consciously, everyone resumed eating and talking except Concettaās mother Rosa who sat watching her daughter closely; at the end of the meal as the women cleared the table, Rosa placed a napkin over her defiant daughterās mouth so she could spit out the uneaten meatball and whispered in her ear āMai piĆ¹, Concetta; obbedisci a tuo padre!ā ā (āNever again, Concetta; obey your father!ā)
Written for Glynās Mixed Music Bag week #22 where we are asked to write about a song by a group or solo singer beginning with the letter I or J.
There is only one band in the history of American music that had a proven influence on both The Beatles and the rapper Ice Cube and had a hit in six straight decades, from the ā50s to the ā00s. That band is the mighty Isley Brothers, one the most influential bands in American musical history.
Formed in the mid-ā50s as a teenage gospel quartet by the four eldest Isley Brothers (OāKelly, Rudolph, Ronald and Vernon), the original group quit performing when Vernon was tragically killed at age 13 while riding his bike. In 1957, at the urging of their parents, the remaining three brothers moved to New York City to make it as a R&R band. The first song they wrote together was something calledĀ āShout!āā a massive smash that had multiple lives thanks to its inclusion on theĀ Animal HouseĀ soundtrack ā and is probably playing at an event near you, right now.
From that first single and album in 1959, the Isley Brothers repeatedly redefined what their music was and what it was called; they dominated the black music charts like no band before or since. The Isley Brothers can count bothĀ Jimi HendrixĀ (who toured with them in the early ā60s) andĀ Elton JohnĀ (whose band backed the Isleys up in the UK) as backing musicians. They have arguably the most legendary run of albums in R&B history. After early R&R success (and an incredible detour withĀ Motown), the band released all of their albums independently on their ownĀ T-Neck Records, reinventing R&B over and over again in the process.
In 1973, the younger brothers Ernie and Marvin joined the band alongside their brother in law, Chris Jasper. Ernie Isley is one of the most well-known and respected guitarists and song writers in the history of the business and together the brothers wrote and produced many of the hits that we know and love today.
The Isley Brothers were inducted into theRock & Roll Hall of Fame in 1992, in a class with their old backing guitarist, Jimi Hendrix. The band received a lifetime achievement Grammy in 2014 and have sold millions of records the world over; 16 of their albums hit the Top 40 and all of them are powerhouses on the R&B charts. They have bridged cultural differences by blending Soul and R&B with Funk, bringing a new style of music to the mainstream and having a lasting impact on countless artists to follow. Their music has transcended through generations and their reach has extended to the modern day where their music is frequently sampled all throughout hip hop and modern pop. They are, in many respects, the most important and influential band in the history of American music, the only band who could be sampled by Notorious B.I.G. and covered by The Yardbirds! What a career!
Released in 1959, “Shout!” is an electrifying anthem that broke the mold of R&R and R&B, becoming an enduring symbol of musical joy and freedom. The song’s inception, inspired by a liveĀ improvisation on Jackie Wilson’s “Lonely Teardrops,” captured a spontaneous burst of energy and emotion. The studio recording, characterized by its gospel-infused harmonies and a simple yet profound chorus urged listeners to release their inhibitions and “shout a little bit louder nowā.
Though “Shout” didn’t immediately climb the charts, its influence and popularity grew over time, becoming a live performance staple for the Isley Brothers. Covered by numerous artists across a variety of genres, “Shout” has demonstrated its versatile appeal and enduring legacy. It’s more than just a song ā¦. it’s an anthem of liberation and celebration.
Here now are the Isley Brothers with their iconic recording of āShout!ā
Itās true that Miley Cyrus has become a huge musical star, but did you know she has quite the talented family? Weāre all familiar with her famous father, Billy Ray Cyrus, her legendary godmother, Dolly Parton ā but what of her four talented siblings?
The youngest child in the Cyrus clan is 24-year-old Noah who has carved out quite an impressive career of her own. In terms of fame, Noah is probably second only to Miley. Her breakout hit, āMake Me (Cry)ā earned her a spot on the Billboard Hot 100 right out of the gate at the age of 16. Since that time, her career has only grown. Her unique brand of thoughtful pop has made her one of the most enticing young acts in the game today.
In an interview with American fashion magazine V, Noah Cyrus said this about āMake Me (Cry)ā and her video co-performer, Labrinth: “It was really conversational. Labrinthhad a chorus, and we started just going back and forth writing lyrics together. It turned into being about a toxic love.ā Teen Vogue described the song as “a gut-wrenching power-ballad that will resonate with anyone who has suffered a broken heart, reinforcing the idea that it’s possible to be lonely even when in a relationship and that being with someone can create more pain than being alone.ā
The video depicts the two singers waking up in their respective beds with their partners who are seemingly disinterested in their affection. In alternating shots, we see Noah’s sadness, and then Labrinth’s, and back again as they sing about their significant others. As the song reaches its climax, we can see the duo at the same time in split screen; their raging words give off major āwrecking ballā vibes …. deep thoughts from the mind (and pen) of such a young artist.
This is āMake Me (Cry)ā by Noah Cyrus featuring Labrinth
Thanks for stopping by and playing a tune with me.
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are asked to be creative in no more than six sentences using the word “light”. This is my story.
Colette, typically looking away the second I snap a photo! Eyeroll!
We got a late start with spring cleaning in our yard, especially along the side of the house where our attached garage is located; even though the gardeners had cleared a lot of old shrubbery away for some new plants and bushes, it was just not meant to be after we were derailed by the sudden death of my husbandās twin brother on April 2 and me being sidelined since the first week of May by a major sinus infection (the heavy-duty antibiotics have left me “out of commission” and able to eat only extremely light meals or, at times, nothing at all).
In mid-May, we put in a couple of small white azaleas, relocated a baby rhododendron which wasnāt doing well in the far back corner of the yard and planted a bit of Blue Bugle and Lilies of the Valley for lightground cover (along the side of the house, not visible in this pic), but thatās as far as our broken spirits and depleted bodies would allow us go.
When Colette is here with us (Tuesdays, Thursdays and the occasional Saturday or Sunday) and the weather is good, she wants to be outside; hell, even if the weather isnāt good, she wants to be outside ā a phenomenon about most children that escapes me as they (well, she definitely) seem to be impervious to heat or cold or rain or snow or wind ā all the elements, times when Bill and I would prefer being inside nestled in our recliners with a lightweight blanket.
Speaking of nestled, we discovered that sparrows had made their nest in an old watering can in the corner of Coletteās playhouse; the mama and papa birds are very resourceful, building the new home in a location almost invisible to us, one which I discovered quite by accident when I heard a faint chirping noise coming from the playhouse and ā¦. with my trusty flashlight in hand ā¦. I went to take a peek but was immediately dive-bombed by a wildly protective kamikaze sparrow which, when it sped just inches by my head, had me believing it was a small bat …. terrifying!
Tuesday the temps soared to a scorching 86ĀŗF ā a leap from the mild low-70s of just the day before ā so it was, according to Colette, the āperfect day for planting!ā ā¦. a concept I did not agree with thinking it was too hot and we would be in direct blazing sunlightfor the entire time ā¦. but I did not object (mainly because the child could not be dissuaded and it was far less taxing than yet another round of the Disney edition of Monopoly); armed with our faithful spades, Bill with his macho shovel and pitchfork, we planted another azalea along the side of the house, then Colette and I pulled all the weeds and detritus from the two ancient cement planters on either side of the bench you see in the above photo, replacing all of what was growing in them as haphazardly as Albert Einstein’s hair with two bright pink kalanchoe plants, then stood back to proudly bask in the glory of our gardening prowess.
Of course, manual labor such as that demands a reward and certainly not a monetary one which would be looked upon with disdain and confusion by a 4-year-old whose idea of recompense consists solely of instant gratification in the form of ice cream ā the I-don’t-give-a-hoot-how-messy-I-get kind ā and after getting Colette situated in her pink fairy chair, pinning up her waist-length hair and snapping on the 15-year-old bib we originally used for our first grandchild, Mckenna, I disappeared into the kitchen and returned with fudge-covered vanilla ice cream pops for Colette and Bill and a lemon ice for me; judging by the look on her face and the twinkling, totally satisfied lightin her eyes (photo below), Colette was over the moon with her sweet, sloppy treat and …. you know ā¦. she was right after all about it being the āperfect day for planting!”
The Elephant's Trunk 