Motown has survived 50 years! 50 years! And I have been a fan for 48 of those 50 years. When I hear a Motown song I can sing along; "Stop in the Name of Love", "Dancing in the Streets", "Tracks of your Tears".  And Motown makes me want to dance.  I remember dancing to all the Motown songs in high school and after.  I learned to dance to Motown; the strong beat made it easy to move my feet. To this day, I like nothing better than to dance to an old Motown song.

Detroit is not a sophisticated city like New York or Los Angeles.  It is smack dab in the middle of the midwest.  And I am midwestern too having been brought up in Ohio.  So we claimed Motown as our own. We didn't have to wait for the cross country transport of the Beach Boys with their alien songs of surfing.  No, Motown was right in our backyard and we could relate to its neverending declarations of love and romance without feeling left out of a world of California girls and New York boys .

I know the history of Motown.  I know the genius of Berry Gordy.  I marvel at his control of the startup company.  I have read of the lessons on posture mandated for the stars. I know of the composing teams of Holland- Dozier- Holland and Ashford and Simpson.  I watched Stevie Wonder develop his harmonica playing to become one of the biggest stars in the world.  I was there when Diana Ross left the Supremes to venture out on her own.  I mourned the passing of Marvin Gaye. 

Today I hear Motown on the radio, my Ipod, cds and I'm transported back to the good ol' days instantly.  The days when I adored Smokey Robinson, Diana Ross, The Temps, little Stevie Wonder, Martha and the Vandellas, Marvin Gaye.  The list goes on and on.  There were so many great Motown artists and I loved them all!

I am amazed that Motown is still so widely played today.  We had no idea that "Tracks of My Tears" would be on the radio 50 years later.  We would never have guessed that Motown is so mainstream that it is continually  used in advertisements, muzak, golden oldies. Many of the stars are gone, but others are still making music and I applaud them for their longevity.  But it's the old songs that make me smile, shake my booty and and sing at the top of my lungs.


Real Estate Hint - It is important to allow your Realtor at least one day's leadtime before you see houses.  It is not only necessary for the Realtor to arrange her schedule, but appointments with the owners should be made at least one day ahead of time. 

The older I get, the more I am convinced that the universe is speaking to me, although I’m not yet old or wise enough to understand the messages.  I’m referring to six-degrees of separation, and genealogy, and coincidences of all kinds, those kinds of connections that are apt to increase the more years we spend on earth. I understand logic; I believe in the scientific method; I am open to theories involving manifestations of energy in all its forms.  Yet, I can’t help thinking that some of these messages are personal, and that I am meant to pursue the meaning behind them — and perhaps, to act.

Through my genealogical discoveries, I find I have relatives near and far without looking very hard.  With French-Canadian ancestry, it’s kind of a game to find descendents from a relatively small immigrant group of 10,000.  But what to make of the fact that, dominated as my parenting life has been by hockey, I’m related to at least a few of the most famous hockey players: Mario Lemieux, Ray Bourque, Maurice “The Rocket” Richard.  Perhaps I should not have been surprised to find relatives in the South – Louisiana and Texas. But bloodlines linking me to Beyonce, the music star with Acadian roots, and Marie Laveau, the “Voodoo Queen” of New Orleans?  Marie and I descend from the same Rivard ancestors, one of whom followed the Mississippi south.  Through the internet, I met a man living not 45 minutes from here whose g-g grandfather was the brother of my g-g grandfather – and traveled from Canada to Rutland, VT together – this is the g-g grand-uncle who fought in the Civil War.  One of my writing group partners is half-Canadian French, and I was able to trace our family connection – through the Breton and Gagnon lines.  Of course, we are ALL related, but I’m a bit spooked by all these hidden connections that come so easily to light. Who am I, really, and what does it mean I share blood with all these people?

Then there’s the voice of Gil Scott-Heron, a spoken word/musician artist/activist, who died earlier this year.  I’d met him once, years ago in UC/Santa Cruz, when he was performing and I was house manager at the theater.  I never really knew much about him, or his music, but I remember very well the sound of his voice. He later had drug problems, and health problems, and kind of faded away. Then, recently, I heard a new rap/hip hop song on the radio, “Take Care” with Drake and Rihanna, and in the middle is a sample – a piece of music taken from another recording.  And after 30 years, I know the voice, Gil Scott-Heron, and it’s like he’s standing next to me again, waiting to go on stage.  And, like he’s dead, but not really dead, and wants to tell me something.

Finally, Jack, a friend, not close, who died an untimely death. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to go to his service, but another friend did. A woman, who I’d been friendly with for a long time, but hadn’t seen much of lately. And, out of the blue, she called up to invite us to join her family for Thanksgiving – if we were available. We weren’t since we were hosting the meal here, but I was so touched at her gesture. She told me she was inspired by something she’d heard at Jack’s service, about his reaching out, and including others, and making connections.  What a beautiful legacy.  Just following this conversation, I received an on-line invitation to make a connection on “LinkedIn”, the business networking site – from Jack, although he’d been dead already for days.

It's Thanksgiving morning and I just read a commentary in the Boston Globe by Marianne Leone about her Italian family's take on Thanksgiving.  In years past her parents and grandparents, new arrivals in America, had celebrated Thanksgiving with familiar foods from their native country.  Her childhood memories of the feast included antipasto, capon, and of course pasta dishes.  Only later did they switch to Butterball turkeys and mashed potatoes although continuing to include pasta as a necessary addition to their American cuisine.

This got me thinking about my own traditional meals at holidays and how much I enjoy them.   When it comes to Thanksgiving I insist on turkey, stuffing, potatoes (preferably sweet), cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie.  You get the idea - all the fixings that make Thanksgiving such a tried and true delicious meal.

I do know that different regions of this country have their own Thanksgiving specialties.  My friends who are born and bred New Englanders insist on mashed turnips (ugh!) and my first husband liked cornbread stuffing instead of Pepperidge Farm which showed his southern roots. But, by and large, we Americans all eat the same thing on this holiday.

Once my mother cooked a duck instead of a turkey for Thanksgiving.  Now I love duck but not on Thanksgiving.  My sister and I insisted that she never vary from the traditional turkey again.

The funniest Thanksgiving meal I ever heard of was told by my ex-husband's neice.  She was a new bride of a young man who had grown up in Russia.  His parents, who now lived on Long Island, invited the newlyweds to their house for Thanksgiving.  Knowing the menu, but not the recipes, his mother laid out a Swanson turkey TV dinner still in their aluminum dishes in front of each person at the table.  What a hoot!

So today I am off to my friends' house for the Thanksgiving meal.  I have been invited to their house for prior Thanksgivings and I am happy to be among their guests because I know they are as traditional as I am.  I can be assured that there will be turkey and potatoes, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie.  No nouveau cuisine, no vegan, no ducks or capons.  Just good ol' American Thanksgiving dinner.  I'll eat pasta tomorrow...




Real estate tip:  I don't care if you are a buyer or seller nor if you are worried about your offer, your mortgage or your closing date.  Please please please don't contact your realtor on a major holiday!  Everything can wait until after the holiday!!!

“She died a thousand deaths,” is one of my mother’s quotes on parenting. That, along with “This too shall pass.” And “It’s not the stuff you worry about, but the stuff you never even saw coming.” And lastly, “I’m glad I’m not raising kids nowadays.” Thanks, Mom.

But Mom’s right about the thousand deaths – every time something bad or unexpected  happens to your child – injury, fever, teased or bullied, acne, weight. What’s hard is to witness the sadness or the pain or the fear, and not to be able to fix it right away or fix it at all. My first-born in the NICU with jaundice and a low grade infection: picture this robust, orange-colored baby boy with “shades” on to protect his eyes from the artificial sunlight that would cure him of the jaundice. To leave a new baby in the hospital for a week, while you fret, worry and recover yourself – it’s not easy. Or, my second son with his febrile convulsions – his eyes rolling back, his back arching – possessed, it seemed, not himself. Thankfully, only once, and not for long.  The report from the doctor that one of my boys looked like a candidate for early adolescence – and would stop growing early, before he reached full height.  That was the worry that never came to pass, i.e., they don’t know everything. The things you read about in the paper: SARS, Lyme disease, swine flu, diabetes or childhood cancer. The foods that are bad; the toxins in the air; the plastics that erode.  Scary, unrelenting and not for the faint of heart. And the temptations of drugs and drinking — the price of being social, ways to handle stress – how will they handle these?

All these things: to watch your child go under anesthesia; to see him knocked down or knocked out in sports; to lose him at the mall; to leave him off at camp; to imagine him roaming the halls of the high school; leaving for a cross-country trip with his college roommate.  It’s enough to make your heart pound. 

All those things, and learning to drive, too.

Riding in the car with a teen and a newly minted permit is exciting, to say the least, nerve-wracking at times, potentially quite dangerous.  I can truly say that I have envisioned the crash, the wreck, the veering off the side of the road quite clearly in my mind as I have died those thousand deaths.  But I keep the veneer of calm. I remember that he needs the skills to grow and learn.  I try to keep to myself my own irrational driving fears, born of other insecurities, and a life-time of observation of less admirable qualities of human nature.  My voice drones on – notice this, notice that – as my feet work invisible pedals, and my hand brushes the passenger side door, keeping the shrubs and mailboxes away. 

He’s fine. Really, he’s doing great.  But I know the thousand unique driving situations that he may encounter and not be prepared for.  And I experience the thousand deaths – the end of both of us – so that he may pull into the Dunkin Donut’s drive-thru and and order iced-coffee with the greatest of joy.

We are neighbors, practically, our little town and the good citizens of Salem, MA, including its considerable Witch or Wiccan community.  It’s about a 45-minute ride into the center of Salem to visit the Peabody Essex Museum or grab lunch at Pickering Wharf.  Or, best of all, a couple hours to explore the old city center, the narrow streets, quaint old inns and houses, and the dozens of boutiques and restaurants with their intriguing names and clever, arty window displays – at least half of them on the theme of witches.  Witches, witches, everywhere. Yes, the hokey, wart-nosed, story-book type. And the for-real, spell-casting, Samhain-celebrating witches. And, too, the so-called witches, several dozen or so people, who were tried and hung in Salem in 1692.

There is no end to the fright fest which is Salem, MA in October.  Haunted Happenings Magazine publishes a guide of all things witch-related: The Witch Dungeon Museum, The Witch History Museum, The World of Witches, and the Witches Cottage. Let us not forget the Witches Hide, The Witch Mansion, and “Cry Innocent”, a reenactment of the 1692 trial.  Along the marked trail, tourists can also find Frankenstein’s Lab, Count Orlok’s Nightmare Gallery, Terror Fantasies, and Salem’s 13 Ghosts. I’m not making this stuff up.  If there’s a way to make a buck off the spooky and supernatural, someone has figured it out.  Somewhere along the line, the fright aspect of Halloween in Salem became commercial and festive. With costumes, decorations, and candy, the darker aspects of the history of witches in America were white-washed and defanged.

And yet, real witches do live and practice in Salem. I picked up a pamphlet published by the Witches’ Education League, a non-profit organization whose purpose is “to educate society about the truth of Witches and their beliefs” by answering FAQ’s such as “What is a Spell?” and “Is every Witch in a Coven”?  In addition, they have a website and a list of charities they donate to.  In Haunted Happenings Magazine, one of the events for October 31 is the 15^th Annual Samhain Feast, a Dumb (Silent) Supper, and Witches Magic Circle on the Salem Common, featuring ritual drummers and a candlelight procession. These witches are serious, they’re public and they’re a definite presence among the festivities in the city. While not seen as dangerous or subversive to mainstream society, they still are seen and see themselves as those apart.

Both of these developments stem from and refer back to the witch trials of 1692 – still a mystery to historians and students of human nature. From the 21^st century point of view, it doesn’t seem likely that an active coven of witches in the Salem (Danvers) area truly conspired to cause harm and mayhem. Today, we think it likely the “hysteria” arose from fear, repression, anger and jealousy – the constraints, particularly on women, of living in Puritan New England. As I wandered through the memorial stones of those women (and a man) that were put to death by their neighbors, I wonder what the truth is. I don’t believe any of them were in pact with the devil to cast evil spells. On the other hand, it’s possible that the practice of Wiccan or witchcraft was carried across the sea by some women. Or that Tituba, or other slaves, developed an underground market in herbs and rituals. That part of our society, the secret knowledge of women, has existed for thousand of years, and will continue, as long as needed. And the fear and persecution of those perceived as different or a threat to the power structure will last as long. But I don’t believe there was evil in 1692, until the judges agreed to murder; when mercy is lost, the devil has won.

What I take away from this latest visit to Salem is a particular memory – a note inside a plastic holder placed on the memorial stone of one of those hanged women. A woman had come there to appeal to other visitors, if they might be related, cousins, descendents of that woman who died as a witch. The note writer had done some genealogy research and traced her line back to that other woman, long dead. She had children, and they had children, and their gggg grandchildren walk the earth today. A most human story, nothing supernatural about it.

I thought my attraction to the Inspector Morse/ Lewis TV series was due to my innate love of good mystery stories and awe of well-done British programs.  Turns out it was the sex — the sexual appeal of the three detectives who star in the series: Morse, in his 50’s to 60; Lewis, from 40’s to 50’s and Hathaway in his 30’s. No, it’s not X rated, or even R. And none of them ever takes off their clothes, which is probably a good thing. As smitten as I am, I’m quite sure these guys would not make it onto a hunks calendar or a People Magazine listing of most sexy men. In the course of fifty or so episodes ranging over maybe 15 years, only three or four times is there a suggestion that desire is consummated.  It’s just not like that.

There’s plenty of adultery in the show.  It’s a common theme in mysteries, but for modern British drama, almost a requirement.  It’s what they do for fun. All of the upper class, God knows. And much of the intelligentsia, since the show takes place in Oxford. A viewer might conclude that not cheating shows a lack of initiative, or that what the English look for in marriage is not life-long devotion and loyalty. A bit European that way, while we Americans are stuck on “happily ever after”. In any case, it’s not these guys who are cheating.  Morse is a life-long bachelor, Lewis is happily married until his wife dies in a car accident, and Hathaway contemplated the priesthood before becoming a cop, and wavers a bit over his sexual orientation early on. 

But, were I not married, and they were real, not characters, I could fall for any one of the three.  They couldn’t be more different: Morse, a bit arrogant and snobbish in a city of snobs; he loves operas and crosswords, and to drink.  Lewis, up from the working class of Northern England with his Geordie accent —  not so refined, but cheerful and easygoing, until his wife’s death makes him sharper and darker.  Hathaway, tall, thin, and blonde with his drawn, horselike face, “an awkward sod” as Lewis describes him, gifted but shy.  To me, all three are romantic in the sense that they yearn for closeness with a mate, and yet remain skeptical that they are able or worthy.  It’s the way they relate to women, always respectful and trying to understand their point of view – part of the job. Working around death on an everyday basis gives them a depth others don’t have.   And because they rely on each other at work in solving problems and in seeking justice, they know the importance of human relationships, which not all men learn easily.

Largely, it’s their voices, I think, but not simply the accents.  And their foibles and eccentricities, that the English do so well, without having to make it comic, a la “Monk.” It’s their imperfections and their suffering, not their super-powers and straight, white teeth. And the histories they carry with them. In one of the most affecting scenes, Hathaway goes to dinner with a childhood friend, Scarlett, on the eve of her marriage to a rich fellow to save the family fortune. They share a line from A.E. Houseman about the “land of lost content” — their shared childhood, when he once walked her down the aisle while playmates cast petals.  It’s all the old affections, regrets, and innocence lost, along with wine and loneliness that pull them together.  All those levels of caring and meaning, not simply “what a catch.”

Real attraction, I think, works that way. It’s hardly ever about beauty and merit – but more about the cracked pot and the broken lid that come together to make a whole, even if temporarily.  No question that people are attracted to men and women of status — or think they are. Also, that desire is motivated by how they think others will view their esteemed object – what we used to call in literature, “mediated desire”. That is, Sam wants Pam because she is valued by Tom, for whatever reason. But this I believe, in private, desire is much simpler and more to do with being seen, heard, and felt, than with seeing or possessing.  That’s why passion flares in unlikely places and between unlikely people, depending on the circumstances. And that fat doesn’t matter, or blind, or poor, especially to the young and open-hearted. Sure, we are animals and respond to someone who looks fit and strong, but that’s hardly ever enough to touch our hearts. 

Maybe I’m fooling myself, and these are just myths I like to believe. But I’ve been around the block a few times, and I’ve seen a few things. I still think that, in a given situation, that a certain look, a certain signal, and most guys are good to go – with someone who likes them, who smiles nicely at them. Alright, maybe that’s the old days, and not so true anymore.  Haven’t tested that theory in a while. What I do know is that if there’s drinking and flirting, there’s danger, and so I keep a distance since I want to preserve my marriage. There’s desire that burns, when it’s one-sided, or the timing is not right. But there’s desire that’s sweet, with the most human of men – like those on Morse.

MAG

I wish to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish you never quit your job and came along with me.
I wish we never bought a license and a white dress
For you to get married in the day we ran off to a minister
And told him we would love each other and take care of
each other
Always and always long as the sun and the rain lasts anywhere.
Yes, I'm wishing now you lived somewhere away from here
And I was a bum on the bumpers a thousand miles away
dead broke.
I wish the kids had never come
And rent and coal and clothes to pay for
And a grocery man calling for cash,
Every day cash for beans and prunes.
I wish to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish to God the kids had never come.

A good poem to teach: simple language, repetition, no obscure references except bumpers (trains/boxcars); specific, concrete details: license and white dress, rent and coal and clothes. There’s that alliteration we like: bum, bumpers, broke; and long…last.  And a beautiful image of love, “always and always as long as the sun and the rain lasts anywhere” – isn’t that just the “better or poorer” part of the wedding vows?  And, not least, the strong, clear emotion. I liked to offer this in comparison to the lyrical lines of Yeats, “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven,” – also from a man to his beloved.

And, I always used to joke, what about that name, Mag?  Kind of like nag?  Kind of like “Maggie” in Rod Stewart’s Song: “Oh, Maggie, I wish I’d never seen your face?”

I tell them it is a love poem. But what has happened to the love? Listen, I say, to “bum on the bumpers a thousand miles away dead broke.” How does that sound?  Bam-bam-bam – that’s the sound of a man punching his wife – since he can’t express his anger, his frustration, his failure and humiliation in other ways.  Or, he becomes verbally abusive. Or he leaves his family high and dry. Because he can’t do his part to “take care of each other always and always….”.

I thought the lines were safely dated, but they ring true today about people I know.  If Wall Street greed brought everyone more jobs and more prosperity, I could understand how the wheels of capitalism must be allowed to turn freely. But it doesn’t. It brings larger gaps, more social problems, suffering and violence.  And doesn’t it damage the souls of those who accumulate wealth they can never spend in some kind of crazy gamesmanship with other rich people, while others struggle to provide beans and prunes to their children? And watch love turn to bitterness?