I have a confession to make.
I'm a peeker.
I always have been.
When I was growing up, I knew exactly where my mother stashed the Christmas gifts. She kept them in the walk-in closet in her bedroom, and in her mind, the holiday shopping season began with Labor Day sales.
Throughout the glorious fall months, my brother and I would eagerly wait for our mother to leave the house, then we would sneak into the closet and examine the wares. This jigsaw puzzle is clearly for Monica... but which one of us gets the Legos?
August 14, 2006
Joyeux Anniversaire, Papa
There is one story that has echoed around me throughout my life. It starts in Communist Poland, and it ends in Fargo, North Dakota.
The version I have heard the most is a story of courage, patriotism, and a fervent pursuit of the American dream. This is the story that I retold in every grade school essay competition and scholarship application. It's the story I told in my college graduation speech. It's the story I told in his obituary.
There's another version that I prefer to tell my friends over cocktails. I didn't learn it until I was in my 20s, but it has the twists and turns of a suspense novel. The "spy mission" he accepted in order to leave the country. The secretive, hurried departure, presumably never to return. My mother's repeated breakdowns in embassies, as she struggled with the idea of leaving her homeland and family behind forever. Their constant flight from the Polish secret police, who tapped their phone lines and intercepted their mail.
The version I have heard the most is a story of courage, patriotism, and a fervent pursuit of the American dream. This is the story that I retold in every grade school essay competition and scholarship application. It's the story I told in my college graduation speech. It's the story I told in his obituary.
There's another version that I prefer to tell my friends over cocktails. I didn't learn it until I was in my 20s, but it has the twists and turns of a suspense novel. The "spy mission" he accepted in order to leave the country. The secretive, hurried departure, presumably never to return. My mother's repeated breakdowns in embassies, as she struggled with the idea of leaving her homeland and family behind forever. Their constant flight from the Polish secret police, who tapped their phone lines and intercepted their mail.
August 13, 2006
Hormones and stress and dreams about fish
This has been a crazy week.
Many unwritten blogs have come and gone, fluttering into my consciousness, and then away just as quickly. Hummingbirdlike.
Some were funny. Some were poignant. There was an angry story in there, but I couldn't bring myself to write it.
What a week.
Sam gave the baby a nickname. Thanks to one of my myriad pregnancy books, I discovered that in the eighth week, the embryo is about the size of a small raspberry. Hence, Rasbaby.
Many unwritten blogs have come and gone, fluttering into my consciousness, and then away just as quickly. Hummingbirdlike.
Some were funny. Some were poignant. There was an angry story in there, but I couldn't bring myself to write it.
What a week.
Sam gave the baby a nickname. Thanks to one of my myriad pregnancy books, I discovered that in the eighth week, the embryo is about the size of a small raspberry. Hence, Rasbaby.
August 5, 2006
Next year, I'm dressing as a Communist and hiding at home.
'Tis the weekend of Hot August Nights.
Hot August Nights is Reno's big tourist frenzy. The population of the town triples, taking us from the "Biggest Little City in the World" to "A Moderately Big City With Crappy Infrastructure."
What is it that brings so many people here?
Cars.
Not cars like this one:
Nope. People flock to Reno, so they can look at cars like this one:
If you've been reading my blogs for awhile, you probably know my opinion on the subject of cars.
In summary, big cars fail to impress me. Old cars don't do much for me either.
Occasionally, I will spot a car that makes me pause and say "Ooh, that's kind of neat."
A restored Model T, for example:
Or an Art Car driving through town on its way to Burning Man:
... But cars from the '50s, not so much.
1950s nostalgia is a huge part of Hot August Nights.
Not only do people stand and gawk at the cars, they also dress up like characters form the Archie comics. There are street dances called sock-hops. There are Elvis impersonators. There are "Grease" revivals.
I'll be honest.
I wasn't alive in the 1950s.
Neither were most people who really enjoy Hot August Nights.
But I still think it's a weird decade to glorify.
When I think of the '50s, I think of racial inequality, Communist witch-hunts, and women who "know their place."
I'm sure there were some people who truly enjoyed the '50s. They sat in diners drinking malts, listening to Elvis and Chubby Checker on the jukebox, and then went for long drives under the stars in their oversized convertibles.
However, I just don't believe that most people lived this way.
I think that glorifying a time period glosses over the very real progress that we have made since then.
The Feminist Movement. The Civil Rights Movement. Do we really think life used to be better before they happened?
Maybe I should lighten up.
It's just a car show, really.
If people want to dress their children in poodle skirts and drive their old cars under the Reno arch, why should it bother me?
And, aside from the traffic, it really doesn't bother me that much.
It's good for the local economy.
People have fun.
Still, if I ran Reno, I'd want a tourist event that celebrated a more appealing decade.
Imagine if we could bring 700,000 people to Reno for a Roaring '20s weekend, with flappers, gangsters, and bathtub moonshine for everyone. The casinos would make a fortune!
Or the 1970s. We could celebrate the good (contraception, environmentalism) while playfully satirizing the rest (Watergate, hot pants).
I would even attend the car show.
I'd head downtown to watch them drive under the arch. How about you?
Hot August Nights is Reno's big tourist frenzy. The population of the town triples, taking us from the "Biggest Little City in the World" to "A Moderately Big City With Crappy Infrastructure."
What is it that brings so many people here?
Cars.
Not cars like this one:
Nope. People flock to Reno, so they can look at cars like this one:
If you've been reading my blogs for awhile, you probably know my opinion on the subject of cars.
In summary, big cars fail to impress me. Old cars don't do much for me either.
Occasionally, I will spot a car that makes me pause and say "Ooh, that's kind of neat."
A restored Model T, for example:
Or an Art Car driving through town on its way to Burning Man:
... But cars from the '50s, not so much.
1950s nostalgia is a huge part of Hot August Nights.
Not only do people stand and gawk at the cars, they also dress up like characters form the Archie comics. There are street dances called sock-hops. There are Elvis impersonators. There are "Grease" revivals.
I'll be honest.
I wasn't alive in the 1950s.
Neither were most people who really enjoy Hot August Nights.
But I still think it's a weird decade to glorify.
When I think of the '50s, I think of racial inequality, Communist witch-hunts, and women who "know their place."
I'm sure there were some people who truly enjoyed the '50s. They sat in diners drinking malts, listening to Elvis and Chubby Checker on the jukebox, and then went for long drives under the stars in their oversized convertibles.
However, I just don't believe that most people lived this way.
I think that glorifying a time period glosses over the very real progress that we have made since then.
The Feminist Movement. The Civil Rights Movement. Do we really think life used to be better before they happened?
Maybe I should lighten up.
It's just a car show, really.
If people want to dress their children in poodle skirts and drive their old cars under the Reno arch, why should it bother me?
And, aside from the traffic, it really doesn't bother me that much.
It's good for the local economy.
People have fun.
Still, if I ran Reno, I'd want a tourist event that celebrated a more appealing decade.
Imagine if we could bring 700,000 people to Reno for a Roaring '20s weekend, with flappers, gangsters, and bathtub moonshine for everyone. The casinos would make a fortune!
Or the 1970s. We could celebrate the good (contraception, environmentalism) while playfully satirizing the rest (Watergate, hot pants).
I would even attend the car show.
I'd head downtown to watch them drive under the arch. How about you?
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