CRIME CAPERS

Why is our society infatuated with crime? Why are the majority of best selling books, popular movies and television shows about crime? Why are criminals often the people we root for? Why are the police often portrayed as unintelligent, while the criminals are clever and smart?

Whether it is murder, theft or kidnapping, American people seem to crave stories about it. The more details the better. The gorier the better. The harder to solve the better.

If I write a new book telling the story of our adventurous move out of our old house, would you want to read about it? I can tell a true tale that is crime related, that I experienced, and that was never solved.

This is how it started. My husband and I, “Empty Nesters,” decided to sell the house we lived in for 31 years and downsize.

That’s a nightmare in itself: emptying the contents of an old family home, with all the stories and memories of our family growing up.

After dividing the possessions we would bring and those we would sacrifice to a house sale, we interviewed moving companies.

The one we eventually chose was represented by a well dressed young man who owned “Man With A Van”. “Our moving crew is a group of men who are all legal, well trained, and have been employees of ours for at least ten years.”

That is impressive. These guys are professionals; they are reliable; they’ll treat our valuables with care, we thought.

A friend asked us, “Did you ever investigate his claims about the length of time the crew worked for him?” .

“No, we did not,” we answered with a tinge of guilt.

“Is your thinking that if you are an honest person you assume others are honest too?”.

Bad assumption. Trusting without verifying is dangerous to the bank account, now I realize.

“Did you mark and label every item going into each carton, and number those cartons,” my friend asked? “Did you have an inventory list of the house’s contents?”

“No. The last time we relocated, it was from our army post, and the United States Army moved us. We never made inventory lists, and everything worked out perfectly.”

Leaving our long time family home was traumatic enough, without labeling and accounting for every item we packed.

Once we were in the new house we didn’t realize it right away.

“It has to be here somewhere,” was our reaction when something we couldn’t find was missing.

But when it came time to hang the paintings we brought from the old house, suddenly the panic hit.

“The precious painting we bought in Paris is not here!” The beautiful still life with the glorious, vital colors. We couldn’t believe it was possible.

“How could moving men walk off with an original oil painting and hope to get away with it?”

It turned out that the Paris purchase was not the only painting missing.

“Have you seen the two charming decoupaged baby dresses from the Lambertville gallery? Where are the lithographs and woodcuts that were the first art we ever collected?”

This was no coincidence. This was no  mistake. This was outright, purposeful theft.

“Oh, no,” my husband shouted. “My collection of coins is missing too. Some of those coins were gold coins, worth a fortune now. I told the men not to touch that box. I told them I would carry it myself.”

We found out later, from the detective assigned to our case, that the moving company had lied to us from the first interview. “The group of men who were assigned to move your things had not worked for the company ten years. Ten days would probably be more accurate. Perhaps they were workers picked up in town, where men stand each morning looking for a day’s work. There’s no way to find these men now,” the detective said. “They move from one place to another without leaving forwarding addresses. And there’s no way to prove anything, ever if we caught them.”

Enjoy your crime novels, friends. I know that real crime is not entertaining. I can’t understand why anybody thinks it is.

Life is Like a Book

Reblogged from Subhan Zein:

Image Source: Pinterest.com

What kind of story would you like to write in your book of life?

Here is a thoughtful question for you...

PROTESTS

Protest here, protest there.

Protest, protest everywhere.

I have the greatest protest of all. And I will take it straight to the top. My Dad always taught me to go to the Top. “Contact the decision maker. The person in charge. The CEO.”

But is there one? Who is it? Google is no help finding the answer.

This is not a philosophical or a religious discussion, but I have an issue with the Death Decider.

“Death Decider, why are all the funniest people disappearing into the great beyond?”

Your latest cruel act, DD, was just last week. How could anyone kill off Maurice Sendak? This is not a Season Finale of a soap opera. This is real life. You can’t kill off a clever, wonderful writer and artist and expect his fans to accept that. I loved his book, “Where the Wild Things Are,” and still recite ,”going once, going twice, going chicken soup and rice” from another of his books, “Chicken Soup and Rice.”

 Where can I protest this action? I was not consulted. It’s just like TV Ratings; who says one show is a hit and another a flop? Were you ever asked your opinion of what shows you watch? I was not. Nobody ever asked me. Don’t I count for anything besides deciding where my money can earn more than .13%?

Remember Al Hirshfield? He was my special delight; a man five months short of 100 years old, who drew theater cartoons for The New York Times. He always secretly included his daughter, Nina’s name somewhere within the cartoon. That was a ritual every Sunday. I grew up searching for “Nina” while loving his drawings.

And how could they let Charles Schultz off the hook? Or did they lower the hook? Maybe they just lowered the boom.

Charlie Brown, Peanuts, Snoopy and Lucy; we love these characters. There should be a law against eliminating people who make us laugh. The world needs more laughter. We need these laugh sponsors.

So join me. Write in. March.

Before it’s too late.

 

Thanks, Maurice

Maurice Sendak’s 1963 “Where the Wild Things Are” unlocked a scary, psychologically nuanced, inner world long taboo in mainstream children’s books. Mr. Sendak once told me that King Kong was a great character and had influenced him when he created “Wild Things.”

“You’re supposed to be frightened of these things. Kids need Kongs to help them conquer their anxiety,” he said.

Maybe “Wild Things” is not your particular inspirational tipping point. Mr. Sendak’s 1970 “In the Night Kitchen” also spooked a generation of readers. Mickey, the naked 3-year-old protagonist, and the whorl of sexual innuendos that floated around him, were shocking in their day. And, if Mr. Sendak’s work, in general, conjured demons, “In the Night Kitchen” kindly presented a way of using imagination to conquer them.

The artists and designers here are direct beneficiaries of Mr. Sendak’s genius. He revolutionized narrative and conceptual illustration through the way he interpreted his own influences; he drew from the past to illuminate the present.

“Night Kitchen,” his stylistic homage to the comics artist Winsor McCay (who created “Little Nemo in Slumberland”), is a mash-up of comic strip hilarity, expressionist and surrealist absurdity, and has inspired illustrators to revive passé styles and to use them as foundations for new ones. Mr. Sendak’s agility with sly pictorial autobiography encouraged illustrators to inject personal symbolism into otherwise depersonalized commercial art.

Mr. Sendak was not the only illustrator to explore these recesses. But he opened a rich vein of possibilities for other artists whom he inspired, and who created their own symbolic visual languages, with which they could tell two or more stories at once — one for the public, the other for the self.

“Wild Things” and “Night Kitchen” exemplify Mr. Sendak’s skill at bifurcation. He often objected to being called a children’s book illustrator, despite his success at it. His heroes were not children’s favorites, but rather Mozart and Melville. One of his proudest illustration jobs was Melville’s “Pierre: or, the Ambiguities,” a truly inspiring suite of 30 drawings that, on the scale of memorable images, is as weighty as his most important books. Probably there’s not a child who has ever seen it.

STEVE HELLER writes the “Visuals” column for The New York Times Book Review.

THE GALLANT, SWASHBUCKLING EDUARDO

Eduardo who?

It was pretty strange to hear Don Rakow, the Cornell professor leading our garden tour of Spain to say, “95% of the women here have a crush on Eduardo!”

There might be a tiny shred of truth to his comment, observation or instinct.

Eduardo Mencas is a handsome, charming Spaniard who studied film making in the United States at California’s UCLA. He can cause a mass hypnotic state when he tells a story. And telling stories kept all ten of us on the trip enraptured and hanging on to every colorful word spoken in his richly Spanish accented speech. Eduardo produced a movie in California, but all he would tell us about it was, “It was a troublesome project.” He left the United States and headed home to Granada after his unhappy film experience.

Today he is in his home in Spain, where he is working on Le Merada, his ancestral estate consisting of approximately 1,000 acres in Guadalajara. “Working on the estate” does not really mean “working” in the normal sense of the word. But he infuses it with his creativity. Guadalahara is the home of “the deserted city.” This large complex of homes was built during the housing boom years, but now lies deserted and uninhabited.

Eduardo occasionally drives up from his home in the city of Granada, to look around and check on whether any more mischief has been done to the property. Although the estate overlooks a beautiful vista of the mountains and valley surrounding it, there is one small flaw in its location.

A mental hospital stands on the corner of the road marking the entrance to Eduardo’s property.

Among other incidents, once a group of patients from the hospital escaped and burned a portion of the surrounding forest that blankets the property from view of the hospital. Eduardo acted in a cool and creative way.

He hired a crew of workers to dig up the burned trees and plant them near his house. “Friends, let’s work together to make this a happier site. Let’s brighten up this forest!” He and is crew then proceeded to paint the trees in neon bright primary colors, mocking the impact of the mischief makers’ deeds. So part of his garden boasts the unusual sight of a small field of primary colored tree trunks. “When life gives you buckets of sour grapes, turn them into red wine.” And he  led us to a table prepared with assorted cheeses, fruits and pastries. And wine. A delicious feast, enjoyed as we sat on the porch overlooking the dramatic valley, listening to Eduardo’s stories.

All over the property are sculptures that Eduardo created and mixed among the plantings.This afternoon soon disappeared. “Oh, can’t we stay longer and watch the sun set?”

“No,no,no. Back in the bus; we’re off to our next adventure.”

Sorry, Professor Rakow, but that was far too much fun to have to leave so soon.

PILLAGE, PLUNDER OR PLANT

As I look back on my recent trip to Spain I am struck by the history of the country as it was affected by wars. If I am struck by Spain’s unending battles for power, what must Spaniards living through those generations of violence say?

There doesn’t seem to be a site to visit that doesn’t start with the explanation, ” Before the time of the Moors the Visigoths controlled a large part of Europe until the Christians defeated them…” (Visigoth? That must be the character from the “Capitol One Bank” commercial. If not it must be a prehistoric mammal loping around, looking for a snack, a mate or a condo with a good view.)

Whether tourists visit art museums, churches or gardens the sites reflect conflicts between people. Shakespeare probably got inspiration from such history of power seekers, lustful warriors and conquests of humankind. The Visigoths didn’t leave much of an imprint of their culture. The price of real estate probably sent them seeking lower rates somewhere else.

Enter the Moors. Perhaps their role was to inspire Shakespeare to write “Othello,” because just as Othello had clear ideas about how his wife, Desdemona, and other women of the kingdom should look and behave, the Moors had specific ideas about how people and gardens should look. They behave just fine as long as they get watered.

Moors preferred geometric forms. Did artists such as Mondrian and Pablo Picasso’s cubism borrow from these ideas?

Moorish gardens featured straight walkways containing square shapes of boxwood or myrtle lining the walks. They did not use flowers, but planted species of shrubs and trees  of monochromatic shades of green. They must have heard of the children’s game of “She loves me, she loves me not” plucked out of daisy petals, where their answer was always “She loves me not.” Therefore, no flowers were planted in their gardens.

The square boxwood or myrtle shrubs included water as an element of the structure. There was a narrow pool in the center and small shapes of fountains of bubbling, gurgling water. “Oh, how soothing that sound is.” Some modern homes enjoy the gentle, relaxing sound of water provided by small electric fountains.

Water, to Moors, or Muslims, represented an element of paradise. Today’s vacation resorts incorporate water  activities. “Ah, this is paradise,” visitors say, as they lie on the beach or splash in a pool.

Muslim tradition places the unattractive elements of design on the outside while keeping the luxurious close to home, away from prying eyes. Therefore their gardens have high walls around them so passersby cannot see the beauty within. Only invited guests who are asked inside are privy to the magnificence of the gardens inside.

This belief of keeping the beauty hidden explains the garb of muslim people: rough, unattractive clothes are what the public sees, while soft, fine fabrics are kept close to the body, away from the sight of strangers.

Muslims are forbidden from depicting human or animal images in their work. They would not approve of the T shirts of today’s youth, showing images of rock stars.

They found ways to show decorative elements in their art work of plants and nature. Often the floors of the gardens were decorated with river stones placed in elaborate designs of flowers.

When the Christians came into power they introduced their concepts of beauty. They added statuary to their gardens, depicted human heroes, powerful political figures and religious deities. Their gardens introduced fountains of shooting water and colorful flowers. When they played “She loves me, she loves me not,” “She loves me” won, and flowers became integral parts of the garden. Aunt Bessie out in Boise, Idaho owes her State Fair prize rose awards to this change of values in the garden.

When came home from our trip we were delighted to find our garden getting ready to break out in colorful flowers and hopeful buds. My husband said, “I love being able to design, plan and select plants of our own tastes and wishes, and not have to respond to anyone else’s dictated style of gardening.

Vive la diferencia!

WHERE OH WHERE CAN THEY BE?

Don’t tell me it’s age, because I’ve always had this problem. Don’t tell me it’s heritary, because nobody in my illustrious background had this problem. And I’ve researched back six generations. Don’t suggest information overload,  because I always had lots of trivial facts to juggle.

I’ve always misplaced my keys. This problem is so overwhelming that I’ve taken to hiding spare keys in the garage, have hidden duplicate keys in the backyard, and have given emergency keys to neighbors. Several neighbors. Many neighbors. The handyman has a set, and does the man who helps with the cleaning of the aquariums (yes; I know it should be “aquaria,” but that sounds strange.) Why bother having keys at all, I sometimes wonder. Everyone but me can get into my house!

Would hypnosis help? “You are under my power. From now on you will always know the whereabouts of your keys. You may wake up now.”

Is there a twelve step program for people like me? “My name is Ronnie and I am a hopeless key loser. I realize that I am powerless over the power to find my keys.”

Psychotherapy? “When I was a child my mother threatened to lock me in a closet and throw away the key.”

I accept that I have a problem that will never be fixed. It’s part of who I am. It is what it is.

But yesterday my hairdresser said, “What happened to the cowlick that you used to have over here? It always made your hair form a wave on the left side. remember?”

Oh no: now I have lost my cowlick!

How can anybody lose a cowlick? Please help me with your suggestions. Where can my cowlick be?

SPRING IS HERE AND WHO ARE YOU?

For weeks I have been reading articles and posts about the joys of spring: return of migrating birds, swelling of tree buds, lengthening of days.

But spring means something else to our neighborhood: the return of the noisy, intrusive, outdoor maintenance workers and their noisy tools. The entire neighborhood is alive and buzzing with the irritating sounds of power mowers, leaf blowers and wood chippers.

Early this morning, as we were eating breakfast, my husband noticed a man strolling in our back yard. We had never seen him before and didn’t know which work crew he represented. Could he be a tree specialist, here to trim trees that were damaged in October’s freak snowstorm? Or a gardener here to analyze the work he and his crew will need to accomplish this spring for the cleanup? Maybe he’s here to read the water meter. Maybe we should find out. Just a few nights ago our friends were burglarized while they were out celebrating the holiday. We should know who this stranger is who is walking around our back yard. 

So Harvey opened the sliding glass doors leading to the back yard, approached the stranger, said, “Hi: where are you from?” (Meaning what company are you with?)

The man glanced at him and answered, “Honduras!”

KITCHEN WHAT ???

The first time I heard of one I had an immediate visual image of a creature causing catastrophes in the kitchen, trouble around the oven, and ruin in the refrigerator.

It conjured up visions of a catastrophe causing creature, a troublemaking tyrant or a botched up being with supernatural powers. These creatures are known to stir cauldrons of trouble

and mend mistakes together into a quilt of coercion. I did not want any part of one of them, and couldn’t understand why anyone would invite one into his or her home, kitchen, or  universe.

But I was wrong. My entire association was wrong.

I speak of the “Kitchen Witch,” a fable in several cultures. The Kitchen Witch is supposed to protect the kitchen and whoever works therein. Helpers are included, so those inclined to lend a hand scraping,

washing or drying fall under her protection too. (It’s a good selling point for encouraging help in the kitchen.)

This version of the “Kitchen Witch” is Norwegian. The housewives of Norway believe that having this spirit in their homes will keep away the burning, scorching and spilling that homes without her protection will suffer.

In the Amish country of Pennsylvania I came across this version of the “Kitchen Witch.” It is prevalent in many gift shops and is a top seller. She has captured many hearts and great desires to be free of kitchen chores. Here is a typical version of how she is portrayed.

She doesn’t look very comforting to me, and I hope I never have to call upon her help to neutralize, sanitize or otherwise clear my kitchen of tomfoolery, even though she may mean well.

I don’t have a kitchen witch, but I do have something special in my kitchen. It is a Shona statue sculpted by Kenya’s foremost woman sculptor, Colleen Madamombe. Here is a picture of the statue I call “Colleen,”  after

the artist who created her. The Shona Tribe lives in Zimbabwe, where they originated the sculptured work from natural indigenous stone. Each piece is carved and polished by hand.The Shona people have three themes they portray in stone: Family, Animals and Spirits.

Colleen is aways smiling, is smooth to the touch, and invites being touched. Her expression is so joyful that she inspires me to smile whenever I glance her way.

With Colleen in my kitchen I work through chores, hoping to maintain a warm, positive smile like she has on her face.

But it’s easy for HER to smile and look content; she doesn’t have to peel, scrub, sauté, or clean up. I’m happy that Somebody is always so cheerful and happy in the kitchen.

Do you think you have to be made of stone to go through all the motions every day and feel happy about it?

SPRING AND KOI

It’s time to recognize the glorious signs of spring. Everyone is talking about the record breaking warm temperatures and early spring of 1212. The crocuses were blooming in March, and so are the daffodils and forsythia. Cherry trees are swollen with new buds and the maples are leafing out. But nobody has mentioned the Koi. Koi are a species of fish originating in Japan and known for their beautiful colors, graceful movement, and impressive size. Koi ponds are becoming popular as highlights of home gardens; they add a fascination for living creatures to the plant world. Our Koi Pond “came with the house.” We didn’t install it: the former owners of our house did. Therefore we inherited a Koi Pond.

 

Our friends, and anyone who stops by to read meters, deliver packages or cut grass are fascinated by them. The most common question they ask is, “What happens to them them in the winter?”

In winter the Koi’s metabolism slows down and they go into hibernation, much as bears do. They need no food during those cold months. Only when the temperatures creep back up to 50 degrees can they resume their normal feeding schedule.

Early in the spring, when the temperatures fluctuate so wildly, they start the season with light snacks.  Surprisingly, a favorite choice for beginning the feeding is Honey Nut Cheerios. Imagine children of Koi hobbyists wrestling with the Koi for their Honey Nut Cereal. If General Mills knew about this extra use for their product they could launch a new advertising campaign aimed at fish hobbyists.

The Koi zoom to the edge of the pond to get their first season’s taste of their favorite cereal to get them eating again after their long winter of hibernation. From Honey Nut Cheerios they graduate to regular Cheerios, then on to wheat germ pellets, which accelerate the digestive process.

Then comes the big day: the Koi finally get to eat their normal diet of Growth Pellets: a blend of protein, fats and fibers laced with dried seaweed, soybean and vitamins. Their feeding schedule increases up to four times a day. Their growth rivals that of  thriving summer flowers.

But all is not perfect in the peaceful Koi pond. A dangerous creature lurks overhead, longing for a tasty meal. The Heron. Herons fly overhead searching for a substantial feast. They do not swoop down from the air and catch a fish, as a pelican would. They land nearby and walk to the pond, seeking entry to their quest.

That is why ponds are built with steep rock walls; if the access to the pond were easy to walk to and wade into, the Koi would suffer large losses. To protect them from heron attacks we installed a motion detector called “The Scarecrow.” Every time anything approaches the pond a noisy, powerful spray of water turns on, frightening living creatures from getting too close. The Koi become quite tame, and swim to the edge of the pond when they sense a human bearing food pellets. Welcome, summer, and welcome to our Koi Pond.

NEW HEART, NO HEART, MY HEART

A great coincidence occurred to me regarding the heart. My heart, to be exact.

As I went through the exercise of renewing my drivers’ license at the DMV I was asked whether I plan to donate my vital organs in case I am involved in a fatal accident. At he same time a newspaper article reported Dick Cheney just successfully underwent a heart transplant operation.

Hold on. Wait a minute. Slow down.

What if I agree to donate my vital organs when I’m no longer around? Then how can I review the people on the transplant list? I might conceivably give new life to someone of whom I disapprove?

I am allowed no censorship authority? No options to blackball, reject or deny access?

Banks can reject applicants for credit, but I cannot reject applicants for my heart?

Sports teams can reject athletes for their teams, but I cannot reject a candidate for my kidney? No lineup for my liver? Have I no rights to oppose the lunge for my lungs?

Suddenly I question the entire idea. Give a blank check to my life giving functions? Put the “pitter-pats” in the chest of some pilferer? Donate my lung’s deep sighs to a no-good sinner? The whole idea is suddenly up for question. Now I’m not so sure I want to be valiant in my love for humankind or my longing to help it survive.

Maybe I can petition whoever gets petitioned in these cases to allow the creation of a list. That list would contain names of pre-approved people chosen to become recipients of all my extra parts.

Or at least a list of those who I disallow from becoming recipients, no matter how hard they beg and plead. Where were they when I needed help with that down payment?

With such a guarantee in place perhaps I will sign the form at the DMV to donate my vital organs.

Either that or learn to drive within the legal speed limit.