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Endangered Radio

Endangered Radio

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“How long till Tucumcari?” 

“Why is it so hot back here?”

And … “Can you turn up the radio?”

These aren’t my children’s comments about long-distance travel; they’re my own. Or at least what can I remember of the cross-country travel my brothers and sister and I took as kids. 

We were stuffed into the backseat and nether regions of the old “woody” station wagon and driven more than two thousand miles, from Lexington, Kentucky to Hollywood, California, and other western destinations. The view out our windows was priceless: forests and grasslands, mountain and prairie, red rocks and cactus; the whole continent unfolding before us. And the soundtrack of our travels? AM Radio.

That’s going to change soon, according to a report in the Washington Post. Some automakers are already omitting AM Radio from their electric vehicles’ dashboards. And Ford is eliminating AM radio entirely.

There have been protests from station owners, first responders, listeners and politicians of all stripes (it’s a rare bipartisan issue), saying that the move may spell the end of AM radio entirely. 

I don’t listen to much AM radio — until I’m on a long-distance car trip. And then I tune into these staticky stations to catch the weather, oldies and talk. AM stations give you a taste of the places you’re driving through.  I’m sorry to hear that, like so much that is local and authentic, they’re endangered, too.

Potential

Potential

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It’s a day for flowers, for corsages and nosegays. And at my house, it’s a day to admire the climbing rose, poised to begin its spring show. 

The buds are primed, some have popped, others are ready to.

It’s also, then, a day to celebrate potential. For Mom, who always believed in our potential. And for my daughters, whose potential I was privileged to see, treasure and help shape, for all that lies ahead for them. 

Happy 100th!

Happy 100th!

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Today would have been Dad’s 100th birthday. He missed it by a little over nine years. I like to think he would have reveled in the day.

A milestone that once seemed impossible to reach is no longer such a feat. I’ve known a couple of centenarians and a slew of nonagenarians. Dad was briefly one of them, almost 91 when he passed away. 

The last time Dad was at our house, he loosened his tie, grabbed his cane and took to the dance floor. It’s a good way to remember him on his birthday … or any day.

Of Roses and Crowns

Of Roses and Crowns

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Over the weekend, a day bracketed by rituals. One ancient, the other “only” 149 years old. 

I woke up at 6 a.m., early enough to catch much of the coronation of King Charles III.  The choirs, the sixth-century prayer book, the procession, the golden carriage. A glimpse into the Middle Ages.

And then, at 6 p.m., the Kentucky Derby, with its come-from-behind, 15-1 shot Mage. More rituals: the call to post, the starting bell, the breathless commentary of the Run for the Roses. 

We measure our lives by rituals and routines, but I’ve seldom experienced such an oddly juxtaposed and striking pair of them.

(Photo of King Edward’s crown courtesy Wikipedia)

My Man

My Man

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A late post, but I can hardly let the day pass without acknowledging that it’s the 190th birthday of the composer Johannes Brahms, who I once described (cringe) as “my man” (see profile).

That may be flippant, but I have always loved Brahms’ symphonies, concertos, chamber music and other works. I even try to play some of his piano pieces when I’m feeling confident. 

What caught my eye this evening was this rather studly likeness of Brahms, based on a 3-D render, created by artist Hadi Karimi, who uses 3D modeling programs to recreate artists of the past using photos (if there are any), portraits and death and life masks. 

In the text that accompanied his Brahms creation, Karimi said this project was relatively easy because by the mid-nineteenth century photography was popular enough that there were several taken of Brahms. For this rendition, Karimi pictures the composer in his 30s. Quite a departure from the bearded fellow we usually see. 

(Top photo: Hadi Karimi. Bottom photo: Wikipedia)

4,000!

4,000!

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Today the blog hits a milestone: its four-thousandth post. It seems like I was just celebrating its three-thousandth, but that was in February, 2020. A lot has happened since then: a pandemic, an election, a wedding … and grandchildren! 

What doesn’t change is that most days I start my day here, typing words on this laptop that I send out into the world, like so many small birds flying in that heedless way they do in spring. Such brave, tender creatures. 

Because once I release them, these posts have a life of their own. They land with a galumph or a splash. But always they land, even when posted from improbable places. 

Today I send out my four-thousandth with as much curiosity and hope as I did my first. 

(Thanks again to my youngest daughter, Celia, for the sign she made three years ago.)

For Love of Place

For Love of Place

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On this earth day I’m thinking about the places I love best on this planet: my home in Virginia, starting with the house and yard and moving beyond to woodland paths and trails, the spokes of a wheel of caring.

My hometown of Lexington, Kentucky, with its old brick homes and its new distillery district; with its rolling grasslands, shaggy limestone cliffs, white fences and horse farms.

Other places I have lived and loved: New York City, which inspired and thrilled me in my youth and revives me still. Chicago, which I heard about all my young life and where I went to college.  Petit Jean Mountain in Arkansas, with its friendly people and its views that go on forever. And Groton, Massachusetts, small town extraordinaire, where I gave birth to our first child. 

On Earth Day we honor this, our only planet, and think about ways to protect and promote its health and longterm viability. But all this protection and promotion starts with love. It’s love that emboldens us, that helps us make the tough choices, do the hard things. Unless we truly care about the earth, what incentive do we have to safeguard it?   

(Above: Joe Pye weed blooms in a Kentucky meadow on a perfect August morning, 2021.)

Last Meal

Last Meal

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On Sunday the Octave of Easter ended, though the season of Easter will last until Pentecost. But for me the celebration truly came to an end when I ate the last turkey sandwich made from Easter dinner leftovers. 

Sometimes I forgo the turkey on Easter, serving only ham along with the deviled eggs, asparagus, ambrosia salad and potatoes au gratin. But this year’s crowd required reinforcements. I was happy to oblige with a 23-pound bird. That’s a lot of turkey sandwiches — and I have relished every one.

You have to understand that if I were offered a last meal, I wouldn’t hesitate. It would be a turkey sandwich made from all white meat, thinly sliced, on white bread (which I usually avoid) and mayonnaise (ditto). If I’m feeling virtuous I garnish with lettuce … but I usually don’t feel virtuous. 

I would illustrate this post with a picture of a turkey sandwich, but alas, the turkey sandwiches are gone. A glass of iced tea will have to do. It, of course, would be the last beverage. 

Semana Santa

Semana Santa

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It’s Holy Week and I’m imagining I’m back in Sevilla, where Semana Santa is a very big deal. This is what I love best about traveling. That even though I must leave the place, the place never leaves me. It stays in the angle of the light, the heat of the day rising up off the paving stones, the expressions of the faithful waiting patiently for the procession.

The taste of Semana Santa that we experienced in last June’s Corpus Christi celebration is what I’m remembering, and I’m multiplying it by, oh, a hundred at least. The religious floats are much larger, the crowds much denser, the people more serious and pious than they were last summer (and they were seriously pious then). 

It’s the holiest week of the year for Catholics, and in Sevilla, that’s abundantly clear.

Foolish or Fake?

Foolish or Fake?

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It’s April 2, and having shared no foolery yesterday I went in search of some today. I looked online and found a few famous pranks from history. 

On April 1, 1957, the BBC aired a segment on the great spaghetti harvest happening in the Ticino region of Switzerland, near the Italian border. There was footage of farmers “harvesting” the spaghetti and then sitting down to eat it al fresco (and maybe al dente, too). Some viewers were convinced enough that they called the network to ask how they could grow their own spaghetti at home. 

More recent April 1st “new product” announcements include Velveeta skincare, Cauliflower Peeps and Teletubbies cryptocurrency. And then there’s this year’s “launch” of Harry and Meghan’s new video game “Mexit: The Call of Duke-y,” in which the couple must surmount obstacles on their way to California. 

My impression in general, however, is that pranks aren’t what they used to be. In a world of fake news, April Fools’ Day is redundant. 

(Spaghetti “harvest” photo courtesy Wikipedia.)