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Julie's Late-Note Thoughts
Backstage at Carnegie Hall
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My last duty at the newspaper - around 1 o'clock in the morning - is to prepare an overnight report, or a "Late Note," for my New York Times dayside colleagues.

One day in 1993, I realized they weren't reading it. In order to draw them in, I started writing a quote of the day, or some other thought, and added it to the bottom of my late note. The collection follows.

For my all-time favorites,

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CITY OF NOUNS

Quotes and Thoughts From the Nightside


2006: (Untitled)

By Julie Walton Shaver

Quote of the day: Woman 1 chats with a gaggle of women waiting to retrieve children from an after school activity. Woman 2 exits her car and approaches Woman 1. "Have you lost weight?"

Woman 3: "Yeah, you do look thin today."

Woman 1: "No, I haven't lost weight. It's the pants."

Woman 4: "Give them to me. Give them to me now."

April 20, 2006



Quote of the day: Gregory handed me one of his preschool pictures. "So you'll never forget me," he said. He stared into my eyes, as if studying my reaction or waiting for a response. I just stared back, never diverting my eyes from his.

"Aren't you going to look at the picture?" he said.

"I'm looking at the real thing."

"You don't love me." With that he walked away.

April 19, 2006





Thought for the day: Kaptain Karl, a k a, cat who attacked me at the piano bench, is no longer allowed to sleep in my room. It was a one strike, you're out deal. He woke me up early one day, now he sleeps curled up in the basket in the living room.

This past Saturday morning my cell phone rang. Nobody would call me Saturday morning unless it was an emergency. I instantly sat up, picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Julie? This is Karl."

I yelled into the phone. "I am going to kill you cat!"

"Karl," he repeated, "from Alpha Graphics? Your books are ready."

I think that's about when I woke up.

April 17, 2006





Thought for the day: See my new Tree Grower's Diary blog for an angle probably not covered by mainstream news on the Gospel of Judas story.

April 12, 2006




Quote of the day: "Do not leave this room until you're dressed and your bed is made!"

It was the first day of spring break, and while we had nothing particularly special or important to do, I didn't want the boys to be hanging around in their jammies at noon. It was 11:45. My 5-year-old dive-bombed his bed head first, feet flailing like a toddler in a tantrum. I stood in the doorway watching and shaking my head.

Suddenly, he stopped, sat up, assumed his alter-ego teenager-in-training persona. "Can I borrow a pencil and a piece of paper?"

"Why?"

"How do you spell 'Help me. I've been kidnapped by my mom'?"

April 7, 2006



Quote of the day: Gregory, the 5-year-old, ran from his room into mine, jumped up on my bed like a gymnast: run, hop, jump, roll, his stubby little legs flying in the air as he giggled uncontrollably. "You look like a lady bug," I said.
"I'm not a lady bug," he replied. "I'm a ma-aaan bug."

April 7, 2006


Thought for the day: Like most 5th graders I know, Kathryn is every bit as much a pro at stalling when it comes to doing homework as Bradley is. If I don't hover in the kitchen while the two of them are supposed to be working on essays and math and social studies packets, the work doesn't get done.

So I'm standing there, staring out the window, thinking about all the things I could be doing instead of standing there, when suddenly Kathryn says, "Why are the light bulbs blue?"

"Do your homework," I say. (I'm a pro at keeping 5th graders on task.)

"No, I, like, need to know," she insisted, staring at the light fixture above the table. "Why are the light bulbs blue?"

"Blue bulbs cast a whiter light than white bulbs do," I said. "The white ones cast a yellower light. It all depends on what you prefer. Do your homework."

"Can I turn them on?"

"No. Do your homework."

"Can you turn them on?"

"No. Do your homework."

She grimaced at me. "Man, you're like Army mommy."

Oh, you don't know anything, I thought. ON THE FLOOR, SOLDIER. FIFTY MATH PROBLEMS AND AN ESSAY ABOUT HOW MUCH OF MY TIME YOU WASTE! These thoughts were ricocheting about inside my head while I stared out the window and frantically sliced a bagel in half thinking about how I could be upstairs cleaning the cat box at that very moment, or downstairs folding laundry, or any number of other minor annoying tasks.

"Do your homework," I said, the refrain of that song, "nobody told me there'd be days like these," providing the beat for my bagel slicing.

And then I wonder to myself: Who is the true pro staller? Them or me? Slice a bagel or clean the cat box? No contest.

I catch Kathryn intently studying my every move, pencil propping up her chin.

"Homework!"

April 5, 2006





Quote of the day: On a beautiful spring day, Bradley, Gregory and I were out walking Avery when we heard fire alarms bleating through open windows of the upper floors of a house in our neighborhood. There were no cars in the driveway, so I called 911. Holding the cell phone to my ear, waiting for an operator to answer, I ran to each door, trying to find one that might be unlocked. I didn't smell smoke, but if there were people in the house, it seemed like a good idea to find that out.

"911. Where's your emergency?" said the man who answered the phone.

"Metuchen," I said.

"And what's the nature of the problem?"

"I was walking down the sidewalk," I recounted, "and I heard fire alarms in a house. I don't think anyone's home. Can you send the police or the fire department?"

"How do you know it's a fire alarm?" he said. "Could be a burglar alarm."

"I don't live there. Can you just send the police, like NOW?"

"Are you sure there's an alarm?" he said. "I'm not hearing anything." He was talking very slowly.
Frustrated, I held out the phone so he might hear, then realized: the connection was gone.

"He hung up on me!" I shouted to the gathering crowd. I called 911 again.

"911. Where's your emergency?"

"Metuchen. Please send the police and fire department to..." and I gave the address.

"What's the nature of the problem, miss?"

"A FIRE, sir."

"How do you know it's a fire?"

I breathed a long, deep breath, thankful that the air, and my mind, were clear. "I don't actually know there's a fire, but it's a pretty safe bet there's something wrong. At least two alarms, they sound like fire alarms to me, can be heard through open windows upstairs. There's a crowd forming out here. Perhaps you might send the police?"

"Maybe I should send the fire department."

"Aha! Good idea."

A minute or so later, the home owners arrived to a crowd of people outside their house, alarms punctuating the suburban spring silence. Mere seconds after that, a police car arrived, then another, then another, then the fire chief, then a fire truck. They were there for a long time, shouting back and forth to one another about a wiring problem. Meanwhile, my entourage had become bored of standing around listening to fire alarms that wouldn't quit, so we continued our walk, confident that the situation was in good hands.

Later that night, while putting Gregory to bed, he was overly concerned about fire. The 5-year-old grabbed his stuffed doggie, pulling it under the covers and clutching it tightly to his chest. I gave him the worried mom look.

"If I stuff this dog into my heart," Gregory explained, "it will take up all the empty spaces and there won't be any room left for nightmares."

"If you have nightmares, just come and get me," I said.

"What if you hang up on me?"

"Hey! That's MY nightmare! You can't have my nightmare. You give that back."

He laughed and rolled over, eyes closed.

April 4, 2006




Thought for the day: I'm a textbook procrastinator. In years past, I have been known to wait MONTHS before changing my watch when the time changed. One fall, I never changed any of my clocks. I was so anxious I'd turn them the wrong way, I simply never bothered. At first I thought this was funny. Then I rationalized by telling people it was my personal rebellion against all things confusing. "I refuse to bow to antiquated traditions," I spouted to anyone who dared ask why my watch was an hour off. It was a good conversation starter. Problem was, I never knew whether I was ready early or running late. For six months, I had to turn on The Weather Channel to check the time, usually followed by a mad dash out the door.

But I am proud to report: I am a changed woman! Nobody was going to April Fool me! In the midafternoon on the first Saturday of April, half a day before it was required, I changed the clock in my car for Daylight Saving Time. Then I changed my watch, and then, the clock by my bed. At 5 o'clock, or was it 6?, I had no idea what time it really was. To be absolutely certain I would not be late for church the next morning, I set the alarm on my cell phone, figuring Verizon would not move their master clock in the wrong direction. The alarm would go off at the time I needed to get up, regardless of my personal idiocy. And even if I managed to wake up confused or bewildered about the ACTUAL time, I could look at my cell phone and feel trust in something real and solid and true. (Verizon should hire me for their marketing team.)

The time change, let's just say, makes my head hurt. I'm not talking about a headache, it's more like a muscle spasm that comes in fits and spurts once in spring and again in fall.

So when the pastor looked out over the sparsely filled pews on Sunday morning and said, "Well, at least some of the town set their clocks right," I smiled at my watch, trying to suppress a yawn: reformed procrastinator in need of that lost hour of sleep.

April 3, 2006


Quote of the day: This is Gregoryspeak: "Mom, I love you, I really love you a lot. I love you so much, you are the greatest mom in the entire universe."

English translation: "Give me your chicken nuggets."

March 31, 2006


Quote of the day: I was at the Brainy Borough post office the other day (postmark actually says "Brainy Borough" at the Metuchen branch) when the woman behind the counter became fed up with the line of people waiting for services at 2 o'clock on a Tuesday. I had my notepad in my hand because I was figuring out how many stamps I needed to buy. (Just because I live in the Brainy Borough doesn't mean I can figure in my head.) But instead of figuring, I jotted down the frustrated clerk's remarks: "Next week," she said loudly to no one in particular, "I'm going to a training class on how to tell you people not to come here -- that you should use the Web site -- that's what we're supposed to say." She laughed raucously, with an eery squeal. "Oh yeah!" she continued, "like THAT'S going to work. Who wants to pay POSTAGE to buy stamps?" She flung her arms in the air and turned around, as if to make sure some supervisor in the back might hear. Louder, she added, "After I get that training, it'll be my job to YELL at all these people to go on home. I am going to NEED - MORE - PROZAC!"

I shuffled my feet nervously, studied the arc of the ceiling, then overheard a man whisper to his line neighbor, "I think she already had the training."

March 30, 2006


Thought for the day: My colleague's screen saver looks like a real fish tank, so real that it gets dirty after a few days until you clean it, I think. The illusion is reinforced by the bottle of fish food turned backwards back behind the phone, and the net, which he says he uses to remove the dead fish.

March 29, 2006

uote of the day: The piano tuner came around lunch time, a soft-spoken man with a calm demeanor. As he tweaked and tuned my new old piano, I watched my attack cat move from the farthest corner of the kitchen to the pantry door, then over the threshold of the dining room and onto a cushioned high-back chair. Silently, he had made it to within inches of the piano tuner. My scalp began to tingle at the thought of the night the cat jumped on my head from atop the dining room table while I was practicing. I was getting nervous. I twirled my hair.

Following the cat's tail swishing back and forth like a legato breeze, I leaned on the door jamb, arms crossed, watching. "You are being stalked," I finally said softly, glancing in the direction of my Cheshire cat, who on the sound of my voice had disappeared.

Tuning man looked at me suspiciously. "I'm not that kind of fellow."

"NO NO!" I laughed. "Not ME! The cat! The CAT!"

March 28, 2006



Thought for the day: When the charter bus passed in front of Carnegie Hall after the concert, the choir burst into cheers, the left side singing, "What next?" The right answering, "Disney World!" As for me, my week was only beginning. At the time, I had two other big projects in the works: a little book I'd edited of local writers was coming out; the publicity blitz had begun. Meanwhile, on Sunday, I would be premiering the first movie I'd ever produced to a roomful of people.

The days post Carnegie were filled with all the little details that precede any major event, times two. There was no rest in sight. By Sunday night at 9, I was home, exhausted, amazed that I actually pulled it all off.

"Could life be any better than this?" I thought on the way home from the Carnegie performance. A few days later, I was reading congratulatory e-mails from friends who'd seen the local newspaper article about the book. And a few days after that, the movie received a spontaneous standing ovation from a packed house. It never occurred to me that people would applaud, even if they liked it. To be so warmly appreciated by my peers was even better than singing at Carnegie Hall. It was a very big week; I was floating on air.

Through it all, I wondered how I'd occupy my time once the crazy week of emotional highs and endless tasks was over.

"Rest," my friends said.

"REST!" my mom said.

"REST!!!!!" my choir director said.

"Fix me macaroni," my 5-year-old said.

Ahhh, earth.


March 27, 2006
On stage at Carnegie Hall, Dress Rehearsal, March 21, 2006


Thought for the day: Ask me about singing in Carnegie Hall and I will not shy away from telling about the magic. It first hit me when I realized I was standing about a foot away from Benny Goodman's clarinet. I was virtually alone in a closed museum, only the eyes of ghosts and security guards on distant monitors watching, when I squinted to try to make out the type on the card. "Bill!" I said to my brother who was bent over the Beatles memorabilia, "Benny Goodman! Look!"

Our choral ensemble's dress rehearsal was in the afternoon so we had a few hours to kill before our 8 p.m. call. Bill and I wandered around the deserted Hall, finally landing in the tucked away museum after we tried the doors. They were not locked, and oh the joy of a backstage pass! Only problem was, it was rather dark, with only a few security lights turned on, but we could see enough to read the little tags if we squinted. I studied the centuries-old Mozart manuscripts using the light from my cell phone (how ironic). But when I came upon Mr. Goodman's clarinet, I stood by the glass case for a moment and closed my eyes, remembering the music my father used to play on the radio.

On Sundays, dad was the song director at my church, but the rest of the time, he was a record spinner, playing the music of the Big Bands long after that music had gone out of fashion. Thing was, it never really went out of fashion in my South Carolina town until after my dad passed away. He played Big Band live broadcast gigs all over the capital city in the 1970's and 80's, and with his Bing Crosby tenor, sang along with the instrumental tracks, and encouraged me to learn how to play my clarinet in the jazz tradition of Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw. In college, I wasn't much of a classical clarinetist, but I could jam to "Sing Sing Sing" with the best of that college crowd. I learned it, incidentally, from listening to and absorbing into my blood Benny Goodman's album, "Live at Carnegie Hall 1938." Seeing that clarinet there mesmerized me.

Still daydreaming, I was leaning against the glass of the Carnegie display when Bill touched my arm, edging me on to share his fascination of the 1964 autographed Beatles program when I looked at the clarinet one last time. Perhaps it was a reflection, but I'd swear I saw the silver keys twinkling at me, like fairy dust, then a familiar tenor in my head singing simply, "Break a leg -- oh look for me, empty seat in the top tier."

But later that night, when I sang the Mozart to that empty seat, I wasn't thinking of my dad or Benny Goodman or the Beatles or the fact that my knees were locked. Nothing outside the music seemed to matter after the first "Kyrie." My heart and soul became one with the Latin of the Coronation Mass and through the rhythm I heard it -- in the Credo's crucifixion, the pounding of the nails being played in a subtle undertone by the cellos while the chorus sang with deeply saddened faces about suffering, telling a story through music in a way that only music can do. The souls of the performers were coaxed out by the conductor, swung about the room like a magic wand, sprinkling fairy dust on the listeners, touching soul to soul with Mozart's genius and God's word.

Like the first day I stepped foot in the front door of the New York Times as a journalist, like the roar of the Manhattan crowd when I rounded the corner off the Queensboro Bridge as a mid-pack runner in the 1993 New York City Marathon, like my husband's tears as he watched our two children being born, the day I sang at Carnegie Hall will always be considered in the "beyond special" category.

Though the soloists and orchestra were as good or better than any album I've heard, it wasn't until they left the stage at the end of the performance, and the entire crowd stood once again to applaud just the chorus, that my eyes began to sparkle from the magic of that room.

March 21, 2006



Thought for the day: A long time ago, I thought that if I worked hard enough, and managed to be in the right place at the right time, any dream could happen. As a high school senior, I was first chair clarinet, leader of 30 other clarinetists in my band. Then I went to college and realized I was already far behind the "real" musicians. It would be virtually impossible to catch up. Deep down, I knew I didn't have the raw talent or personal drive I'd need to get through several hours of practice every day in order to make a stab at a career as a professional musician.

Even so, my love for learning and performing difficult musical pieces didn't just disappear when I finally decided on journalism school. It was there that I met Jerry Jewler, a professor who encouraged me, even during a time a great personal crisis that led to near academic failure, to keep playing the clarinet. He told me that learning to balance many activities was just as important as being good at any one thing and that if I paced myself, I could achieve a great many things. In one of his textbooks was this quote by Leo Burnett: "When you reach for the stars, you might not quite get one, but you won't come up with a handful of mud either." (It is still prominently displayed on my refrigerator. But I don't think of Leo Burnett when I see that quote; I think of Professor Jewler.)

Almost two decades after college graduation, I finally found my way back to music through my church choir. Next week, that choir will be performing in Carnegie Hall with several other choirs and a full orchestra. I'll be singing with the altos in awe of the stage on which I'll be standing, performing Mozart's Coronation Mass, grateful for the many teachers who led me there, and knowing that I will be prepared. I have learned my notes, the Latin words, the difficult rhythms over several months of hard work, all the while balancing a journalism career, a family and a volunteer gig as an assistant children's choir director.

Still, at the moment I first walk on to that stage, I'll not be harboring fantasies of musical greatness. In my hands will be no stars, just a black music folder cradled in my palms, appreciation for Mozart's immense talent in my allegro-beating heart, cough drop at the ready in my pocket.

And no mud.

March 17, 2006


Thought for the day: When I go to bed on April Fool's Day, I'm not touching the clock. Several astute readers of yesterday's thought pointed out that if I did not change my clocks, I would be SERIOUSLY late to any place I needed to be. Or, perhaps, could it be that these people are taking advantage of my confusion and are trying to trick me? Or, could it be the other way around? All along, I was tricking THEM, looking to see if anybody out there reads this junk? Bottom line: whomever it was that decided we should all change our clocks on April Fool's Day wasn't taking into consideration paranoid confused people like me.

If I set an alarm on my cell phone, leave it on all night, do you suppose Verizon can be trusted to move their clocks the right way?

March 15, 2006


Thought for the day: When you go to bed on April Fool's Day, be sure to set your clocks ahead one hour, as April 2 is the beginning of Daylight Saving Time. Or, you could be continually confused about time changes, as I always am, not change the clocks, then go around all day on April 2 laughing at all the clock changers who've shown up "late," telling them they were fooled GOOD.

March 14, 2006


Quote of the day: Kathryn had not quite finished her homework, this after spending an hour on it, then taking a break for choir practice. At the end of rehearsal, she was looking for something, frantically searching, becoming tense. "What are you looking for?" I said.

"My backpack," she said, "a k a the ocean of death and dismay."

She's 10. Can 13 be far?

March 9, 2006



Quote of the day: We have a new family friend, a yellow Labrador named Avery. He is a sweet, friendly dog. Everybody loves Avery, even Gregory, who only a few weeks ago was terrified of dogs. Avery lives around the corner and we get to walk him every day or so. I usually wait until Bradley gets out of school so we can all walk Avery together. Every day through the woods, it's the band of wild dog walkers -- Bradley, Gregory, Kathryn, Avery and me. But to get to the woods we have to walk up a long steep hill, and this Gregory finds especially distressing. (The child, I now realize, is in serious need of exercise after the long winter.) As we walked up the hill today, Gregory leaned on my arm and begged me to stop. "Wait. Oh wait, mommy," he said. "I can't walk any farther." He stopped in front of me, forcing me to stop too. He laid his head on my crossed arms.

I stroked his hair. "Are you sleepy? Why are you so sleepy?"

Meanwhile, I could barely make out Avery's bobbing tail, and Bradley and Kathryn's talking heads just beginning their descent over the distant crest.

"I'm not sleepy," Gregory said. "I just need to get my beauty rest." And he snored, standing with his head on my arms in the middle of a leaf covered trail.

March 8, 2006


Quote of the day: We were standing in the closet early Sunday morning flipping through the shirts on the rack looking for a nice button-up for church. Every one I held up, the sleeves were too short by a pencil length. "Just roll up the sleeves," I said. "No one will know."

Echoing a phrase my 11-year-old has heard me say over and over since he was 4, he looked at me with pathetic, buy-me-a-new-shirt-already, eyes and said, "How 'bout we just tie a brick to my head?"

March 7, 2006


Thought for the day: An extreme close-up photograph I took of a dogwood bud coated in snow from the blizzard serves as the background on my computer screen. It's so big you can make out individual snow flakes. Every now and then I catch myself squinting at my screen because I'd swear it looks like the snow is beginning to melt.

March 6, 2006



Quote of the day: "Mom," he whined from the homework table. "Please write a note to my teacher."

"Why?"

"This is too much homework! I can't do it all! Why do teachers assign SO MUCH? I simply can't stand it!"

It was 5 o'clock. In the preceding two hours, during which my fifth grader was supposed to be focusing on homework, he had been caught in the living room five times watching SpongeBob. In addition to that, he had several snacks, as evidenced by the PopTart wrappers on the counter, and took a few long cat-adoring breaks. I think he made a Lego set-up in the dining room by the heat vent because one minute the cat was asleep there, absorbing the warmth, and the next time I walked by, there was a Lego spaceship docked by the metal slats. Even so, I have a motherly heart. I know what it's like to work all day only to come home to stacks of more work. "Aww, honey," I sympathized, looking over his assignment pad. "That is an awful lot of homework. You got some paper I can write a note to your teacher on? You poor little sweetie."

His eyebrows lifted.

"Dear Mrs. G," I wrote. "Bradley was not able to complete his homework today. Why do you assign so much? I don't understand how you expect my child to get so much work done in between watching TV, eating gobs of junk food, petting the cat and building Lego sets! What's WRONG with you?

"Signed, Bradley's mom."

I handed the paper back to my son, folded and addressed. He put it in his homework folder, in the side marked "take back to school," closed his books and began to smile like Christmas morning.

I was smiling like the Grinch when he saw the snow-beard on Max's face.

March 3, 2006



Quote of the day: Gregory clung to my arm as we made our way through the parking lot covered with little white rocks. He was kicking the rocks onto the sidewalk, then dragging me over to kick them back into the pool of white, anything to delay the doctor's office visit. "I don't think I want to go here," he said.

But the rules for kindergarten registration are pretty clear about immunizations. We didn't have a choice.

After an excruciating half hour in the waiting room, waiting for the inevitable, his heart beating faster with each cry of a child who'd gone in before him, we were finally called into the examination room. Gregory's face was pale. He sat beside me, hugging my side like a plaster cast, staring silently at the pink starfish, the blue whales, the yellow sailboats in the cheery wallpaper. Warm sunshine streamed through the wooden slats at the window. Balancing a clipboard on my crossed legs, I was trying to fill out insurance forms despite the fact that I only had the use of the right side of my body. The fingers on my left hand were turning numb. I gave up and turned to look at my son fixated on the wall.

"Mom?" he said calmly. "Do you think the doctor would mind if I punched a hole in that wallpaper?"

Feb. 28, 2006



Thought for the day: I began taking piano lessons when I was 7 years old. Stopped at 7-and-a-half. (Mean teacher.) But there was always a piano in the house where I grew up. It was dreadful to have around in those times when I sat alone staring at the keys, wishing my fingers could play something nice like Beethoven or Chopin. Even so, I did manage to teach myself, over several of my angst-filled teenage years, how to play one song: Chopin's Prelude in E Minor, a simple, yet haunting funeral melody that made my dog howl every time I played it. I loved that crazy dog. I could make him cry!

Eventually, I moved out of my parents' home and into various pianoless houses, where I have lived for 20 years. It never felt right to live in a house with no piano. And then, just the other day, a most wonderful thing happened: an extremely generous friend, Marie, gave me her piano. (Nice lady!) Ahh, I feel whole! I live in a piano home again!

Not only that, but the piano's natural wood color blends perfectly with the decor of my dining room. Like the dining table just behind the piano bench, the old piano is kind of beat up and in need of refinishing. It sat untuned in Marie's house for 30 years and when the piano tuner came, he said he could tune it, but not perfectly. I didn't care. I had a piano. When he was finished, I couldn't even tell that it wasn't tuned to a perfect A.

This time, I vowed I would not sit on the bench and stare at the keys, wishing. So I took my first lesson (love my teacher, even though she swears she's only nice at the first lesson) and I've been making progress practicing. I even graduated from "Jingle Bells" to "When the Saints Go Marching In!"

But here's where things get complicated: Back when my house was pianoless, I acquired a cat, Kaptain Karl, adopted from a shelter a few months ago. Always a dog lover, I never owned a cat before. But after a short time, I grew quite fond of Karl. He was friendly, warm, fuzzy, clean, not clingy, he kept my feet warm at night and he never once woke me up in the morning. This cat was actually causing me to wonder if I was deep down a cat person masquerading since childhood as a dog lover. "Kaptain Karl," I told my children recently, "is the best pet you will ever have your whole lives long. Treat him well." I often wondered what sort of person would abandon such a great cat.

As of Saturday night, I have a theory. I was sitting at the piano bench where I had been practicing for quite some time. The rest of the family was in the next room playing computer games and tickle games and talking and chatting. Though I wondered about it, my beginner piano-playing didn't seem to be bothering anybody. And then, all of a sudden, I heard a screech, or rather, a "MEEHEEEW!" and instantaneously, Kaptain Karl jumped on the back of my head! I screamed, jumping up from the piano bench. "CAT! GET OFF OF ME! AAAUGH!" Tears were streaming down my face. I didn't stop shaking for several hours. That cat had been lurking around on my dining table (eew!) stalking me as I sat clueless at the piano bench. Fortunately for my head, his previous owner had his front claws removed. Hmm, maybe now we know why.

The abandonment theory? Goes like this: Karl spent his kittenhood living with a piano teacher. An endless stream of beginning students played "When the Saints Go Marching In" day and night, never quite getting it right, on a piano that was never quite in tune. The cat's life took a major turn the day he began attacking the students. But he would have done anything to get away from that darn piano!

And I am officially and forever a dog lover desperately in search of the sheet music for Chopin's Prelude in E Minor. I have a deeply loved cat that needs some serious haunting.

Feb. 27, 2006


Thought for the day: My piano teacher has been teaching lessons for a long time, probably heard every excuse in the book about not practicing. I wonder if she's heard the "trauma" one.

I was trying to practice today -- I swear it -- and so I locked the cat in the basement. After the third time through "When the Saints Go Marching In," I turned my head around to make sure a Kaptain Karl cat ghost wasn't there (because now I'm seriously traumatized about practicing the piano) and -- I SWEAR it -- that darn cat was sitting on the table directly behind -- I swear! -- TWO INCHES from my head! I screamed! No, I SCREECHED!! (As one of my readers put it after the first time Karl attacked me during "When the Saints Go Marching In": "Admit it: you screamed like Nathan Lane in 'The Birdcage.'" Yep, that describes it just about right.) As a lifelong dog lover, I never realized the old wives tale about not turning your back on a cat was really TRUE!

And then I hollered at the laughing little boy in the next room: "Gregory! AAUGH! Why did you let the cat out of the basement!?"

Oh, big joke now, everybody thinks it's funny. Ha ha. Yeah, sure. When my teacher comes tomorrow for my lesson, Karl will hide way up under the bed the whole time she's there. Sneaky cat.

March 2, 2006


Thought for the day: I can't help it. It happens once every four years, during the Winter Olympics, usually about an hour or so after the women's figure skating gold has been won: All of a sudden, I am aware of the gracefulness of my walk. And for a little while, I consciously glide in that way my mother taught me, imagining books stacked upon my head. It will last another week or so at the most, then I will return to my normal thoughtless gait of a clumsy girl who finds skates incredibly uncomfortable.

Feb. 24, 2006



Quote of the day: Bradley was watching highlights of the auto show on television, commenting about the cars: "That is so 23rd century, very futuristical," he said about one vehicle. As another image, vastly different from the first, came on screen, he said, "That one, oh! SO eighteenth century."

Must have been a horse.

Feb. 23, 2006



Quote of the day: Like a certain other fifth grader who lives in my house, our friend, Kathryn, easily talks about anything. "I could stop a war, " she said once. "Here's all it would take: You know how, in movies and books, the two opposing sides stand opposite each other? Well, I would just go stand in the middle and start talking, and I would keep talking and talking and talking -- you know how good I am at that -- and before long people on both sides would all go home."

"O.k., that's probably true," I said, "but wars aren't fought on front lines like that anymore. You're not going to be able to...

"Oh, but I could," she interrupted, and she went on and on, outlining her plan in full detail. The monologue took the entire afternoon and by the time her mother came to pick her up, I was making "just shoot me" hand motions and poking around the junk drawer for some Q-tips to plug my ears.

Somehow I doubt Kathryn's constant babble could end a war, but I won't be surprised to see her staging a filibuster on the Senate floor in oh, say, 20 or 30 years. On second thought, maybe she could end a war, or stop one from starting.

Feb. 22, 2006



Quote of the day: One day last week, Mike e-mailed a conversation he'd had with Gregory just before bed time. "Dad," Gregory had said, "are bears real?" When Mike told him they were, in fact, real, Gregory responded with a panicked look, distress in his voice, "Oh no!"

So last weekend, when I was home at night and tucking Gregory in, he asked me, as if I might have a more appealing answer, "Mom, are bears real? Dad says they are."

"Your dad's correct. Bears are real."

Gregory hid, shaking under the covers.

Explanations about bears not hanging around in crowded towns like ours were no help. Yet he did finally go to sleep. Several hours later, I crept back into his room. His head was at the foot of the bed, all covers thrown off, pillow on the floor. He was sound asleep, and he was growling.

Feb. 21, 2006



Quote of the day: Brothers came to our house to hang out with Bradley and Gregory early Sunday afternoon. The four boys played Lego Star Wars, ate two bags of popcorn, watched the Clone Wars movie, sang silly songs for over an hour, and, thank God, no one was hurt when they "dive bombed" one another off the arms of the couch.

At 4:15, a van pulled into the driveway. The older brother saw the van from the bay window and announced, "Our mom's here!"

Fast as a laser pistol, the younger boy shot past me and up the stairs, shouting, "HIDE!"

Feb. 20, 2006


Quote of the day: Bradley's middle school was closed today, giving him the opportunity to visit Gregory's preschool class, the same classroom and teachers he had some six years ago. Not much about the classroom has changed. The building blocks are still there, same half-size chairs, short tables, big picture books, letter people. Other than Bradley being as tall as the teacher now, and Grover the guinea pig being a few generations removed from the guinea pig of Bradley's time, there is one obvious addition in the front of the room: a large box painted midnight blue on the inside, glow-in-the-dark stars simulating the night sky adorned the walls. The teacher explained to us that the students can walk inside the "star box," shine a flashlight on the stars, then spend some time gazing and learning about the Pleiades.

While we were gathering Gregory's things to go home, another mom came in to pick up her daughter. "Mom!" the little girl tugged on her mother's coat, pointing to the big star box. "Guess what! Guess what! I'm just like you! I went to Starbucks today!"

Feb. 17, 2006


Thought for the day: When Gregory was two, he loved to imagine he was a dog, Barkey. Now that he's five, he's in his cat phase full fledged, pretending on a regular basis to be my pet, Meow Cat. We both enjoy his forays into the cat world. There is hugging and purring and not much talking, a nice break from the general routine of television and computer games. But the other day he seemed worried. "Do you love me more when I'm a cat?" he said.

"I love you all the time," I said, "when you're a dog, when you're a cat, when you're sleeping and when you're awake."

"Do you love me when I've used a teleportation device to get inside the computer?"

"Huh?"

"I need to get inside the computer," he said, "so that Bradley could drive me around in the second level of Hostile Skies."

When I was five, I walked through the woods to Susan's backyard to pick blackberries.

Feb. 16, 2006



Quote of the day: Gregory will start kindergarten in the fall. The registration papers were numerous. We had fun playing with the questions in the personality and skills section.

Question: "The things my child does that please me the most are:"

Answer: "He breathes."

Q: "The things my child does or does not do that worry me the most are:"

A: "The kid read 'War and Peace' when he was a month old! That was SO annoying!"

Q: "When I leave my child with a babysitter for a short period of time he/she will:

A: "We often return home to find that our living room furniture has been replaced with mock-up couches and tables which Gregory has fashioned out of Legos. One time he used "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" technology to transport the babysitter into the TV. We never got her out."

(O.k., what does he REALLY do when left with a babysitter? He never leaves her side, spending the entire time stroking her hair. We have always been blessed with long-haired babysitters.)

Feb. 15, 2006


Poem for Valentine's: Late last fall, Gregory was twirling around the kitchen singing: "The tree and the spoon went up to the moon to find some silvery space rocks." He sang and twirled until I stopped him and said, "What are you singing?"

"I made it up a story," he said. "Want to hear it?"

"Let me get my pencil ready." When I was finished frantically scribbling, so as not to miss a detail, Gregory said he wanted to make it into a poem especially for his Valentine. After I was finished writing down his first draft, we worked together on the rhymes.

Adventure to the Valentine Moon
Concept and story by Gregory

The tree and the spoon went up to the moon
to find some silvery space rocks.
They flew through the air.
What a magical pair!
Then they put all their rocks in a box.

Why would a tree go to the moon?
He was bored of standing still all alone
In the winter, he had nothing to sprout.
So he reached from the ground,
His roots spread a shiver,
"To the MOON!" the tree burst a shout.

Why would a spoon go to the moon?
She was round and full, like the summer tree
she could see from inside her trap drawer.
All winter she was stuck under large serving forks
Wanting only to escape and explore!
And when she saw her neighbor, the tree,
reaching high his red spindly arms,
then heard him shout, "To the MOON!" she exclaimed:
"Oh tree! Please take me along!"
So when you see silver rocks and a spoon
in my yard being hugged by that tree,
know that the rocks longed from bare moon
to feel love so simple and free,
to love like the spoon and the tree,
to love like my mom and me.

Feb. 14, 2006


Quote of the day: With blizzards come reflections of winters gone by. Growing up in the South, there weren't many snow storms, but I think I can remember just about every detail of the big ones, like the time the school principal pushed my dad's stuck car from in front of Aiken Day School -- that the head of my school would take ten minutes out of an extremely busy day to help my dad made a lifelong impression on me. If I think about it a while, I probably have a story for every storm.

That won't be the case for my children. Some years the storms come one after another, stretching into one long winter of snow and slush and brackish street corners. Will they remember the year the backyard remained unusable, solid pocked ice like an iceberg, for an entire month? Will they remember how snow piled on the roof always caused serious leaks in the ceiling? (Mom and dad would like to forget that.)

Will they remember the blizzard of 2006?

Bradley had been playing in the side yard snow for nearly an hour on Sunday before Gregory finally decided to join him. Even though Gregory has lived through five Jersey winters already, he is still inexperienced in snow play. He doesn't much like to be cold and wet; preferring to remain indoors. Yet, late in the morning, he bundled into his coat, hat, 2-inch thick mittens and waterproof boots, then stood at the backdoor a minute before stepping up to the platform of drifted snow.

He did not anticipate that he would sink.

There was a brief yelp before Gregory tumbled face first into the soft blanket by the door.

Bradley, being the snow-seasoned Northeasterner, turned instantly upon hearing the muffled cries of his buried little brother. In the direction of the whimpering, all Bradley could see was one black mitten, waving. After the rescue, Gregory was back in the house, his boots full of snow, socks soaking wet, face as red as cherry ice.

A day later, Gregory thought he would try the backyard again, but only if Bradley would agree to go too. (Gregory may remember the rescue for a long time.)

"No way," Bradley replied. "My feet are hypophobic."

(That would be feet that fear coldness and wetness entering the shoes, I suppose; somehow a derivative of hypothermia.)

Feb. 13, 2006



Quote of the day: Upon entering the parking bay yesterday, the guard asked me why I had put an emblem of a fish on the back of my car. When I told him it was there to help me be a nicer driver, he suggested that it might not be such a good idea to advertise one's religion, especially if one's religion is "as controversial as Christianity."
Hmm. I stood for a moment, pondering his statement, pretending to be gathering things from my car, taking longer than usual, while I decided that he meant no harm, that I just needed to explain more fully why I have a Christian symbol on my car. "See," I said, "I had to practice driving like a decent person for a whole year before I got up the courage to put that there, because if you drive like an idiot with one of those on your car, people will think you're a hypocrite. Now that it's there, I know that I have to try really hard to drive like a nice person, no matter how frustrated I might get. Basically, that fish is there to protect the people around me from my general tendency toward road rage."

He nodded slowly, stroking his beard. With his gloved hand, he traced the contours of the little fish, giving it a much needed winter shine. "Well O.K. then."

Feb. 9, 2006



Thought for the day: I visited a friend in the hospital today who has multiple sclerosis and recently suffered a stroke. The first time I visited him, which was a few weeks after he'd had the stroke, he told me that he was experiencing a great deal of pain. Still, unable to lift his head or squeeze back my hand, he smiled at me through crying eyes.

I've been to see this man a few times since then, and each time he has seemed a little better, a little more able to move his arms and head, and he tells me each time, all the while smiling, that the pain has lessened.

When I visited him today, I couldn't believe how happy he was to see me! He gently took my hand and kissed it ever so lightly, smiling the biggest, broadest smile I've yet seen him smile. Then he cried -- tears of pure joy -- announcing that he had great news to tell me. "For the first time," he said, "I was able to hold my head up all through lunch!" And then he showed me how he could now move his right arm so that he could pray in the way to which he was accustomed. He said he had been praying for a visitor because he so desperately wanted to share this great news. "And there you were!" he said, softly squeezing my hand. "How are your boys?"

After the first time I left him at that hospital, I was deeply saddened for my newfound personal knowledge of a man living in a constant state of suffering. And I felt selfish at being thankful for my general good health, and the good health of my family.

But after today's visit, I know the truth: what a remarkable life this man leads! Despite all he's been through, he smiles willingly at the people who cross his path, reaching out to those who would listen, sharing the smallest of life's joys, making us truly thankful, not so much for what we have, but for the privilege of knowing him.

Feb. 8, 2006



Quote of the day: Now that we have a cat, Gregory likes to pretend he can be one too. He meows and paws and scratches at the wicker baskets. Sometimes, though, he reverts to his toddler days of pretending to be a puppy, barking by the window at passing cars and chewing on my slippers. Yesterday, he stood on two legs and announced: "I'm half cat, half dog, half human." (I'm betting there's some special college scholarship money just waiting for THAT essay.)

Feb. 6, 2006



Quote of the day: Since Gregory started getting an allowance, the tiny combination bank in his room is overflowing. Try as he might, no more money will fit inside. (This wouldn't be a problem if the bank were about the size of grand piano.)

"Don't give me any more money," my 5-year-old told me the other day, "until you get me a bigger bank."

I am writing this down, publishing it in a public forum for obvious documentation reasons, a bigger bank forthcoming long about 22 years from now -- maybe.

Feb. 1, 2006


Quote of the day: My InBox contained a newsletter from a parenting Web site that promised to share "Seven Ways To Be a Better Parent." I don't usually click on these things -- I'm done with Huggies ads -- but today, I clicked over to the site. Who couldn't use a good parenting tip now and then?

"Don't yell so much," the link said. (O.K, I'm working on that one, but it's hard when your son can't find his glasses for two days, and they finally turn up on the patio table in the pouring rain.) "Stop using threats." (Are you KIDDING? The old Set-the-table-or-you-don't-eat" threat works pretty good in my house!) The list went on, all the way up to number 12 (why it didn't stop at seven is a big mystery) but I did take note of number three: "Be more loving." Since my 5-year-old was right behind me playing a game on the other computer, I stood up so I could tell him just how I feel. To distract him from the screen, I ran my fingers through his hair and hugged his shoulders.

"I just want you to know," Gregory said, without looking away, "I love you, mommy."

(Oh! Hey! This might be working!) "I love you too," I said.

Gregory added, "But I love my Hot Wheels Metro Racer game more."

(Hold it a minute.) "You love your game more than you love me?"

"Yeah, sorry mommy. It's just that the game is more fun than you are."

By the way, number four on the list: "Slow down and listen to your child."

That's it. I'm starting a new parenting advice column. Here's my first installment: Steer clear of parenting advice columnists that can't count.

Jan. 31, 2006


Quote of the day: Gregory's preschool friend, John, was over on Saturday. The boys decided they wanted to watch "Ghostbusters" on the dvd player. "That's a scary movie," I said. "We will have to ask John's parents first."
"They'll say no," John said. "Please can't we watch it? I've never seen a scary movie before."

"Uh, sorry, no, I can't do that. Your parents might get mad at me if you keep them up all night with nightmares."

"Please? Please please please?"

"Sorry."

John's shoulders dropped. He froze a stare at me, then stomped off into another room muttering to Gregory, "I can't believe it. Your mom is just like my mom."

Jan. 30, 2006




Quote of the day: I thought I heard a scratching sound coming from above my head. It started small, very small, barely audible, and occasionally, I could not hear it at all. If I actually did hear a scratching sound, it was most likely a mouse chewing on the ceiling tile above my computer. What else could that faint scratching sound be? When the sound went away, I forgot all about it. Then it would come again, or did it? Was I losing my mind? I got up and found a long mailing tube. I poked the ceiling. "Go away! I know you're in there!" But I didn't know for sure. What I knew for sure was that I thought I heard something. There were no other humans around to check my sanity.

Silence.

Then chewing, or scratching, or some faint and unusual noise. "What IS that?" I wasn't sure what it was, but my mouse experiences in this lonesome late night newsroom had me convinced that Tucker the Times Square mouse was back to taunt me.

Every now and then I would check to see if any ceiling tile dust was falling on me. I swore that if that mouse fell out of the ceiling on top of my head, SOMEbody was going to PAY!

A little while later I noticed a pattern in the faint sound, a rhythm to the scratching, or perhaps it wasn't scratching at all, but - DRIPPING.

I strained to hear it better. I shut out all other noises - the cars on 43rd Street, the heating vents, the humming of computers and fluorescent lights. I was in the zone.

Drip. Drip. DRIP. Drip.

Something was definitely dripping. I stood up to get a closer look at the ceiling. Oh NO! There's a small, dark brown spot on the ceiling tile above my head! Tucker! Did something catch you? Is that your blood? Seeping? I'll DIE if whatever that is drips on me!

I wondered if I should call security.

They'll think I'm nuts.

I made a mental note of the size of the brown pea in the ceiling tile, roughly, the eraser end of a standard number two pencil. Time: 12:44 a.m.

The subtle dripping sound continued. It got louder, more frequent.

12:53 a.m. - DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.

I looked up.

Oh NO! Watermelon size! Five thousand Tuckers trapped in the ceiling, caught in some elaborate mouse trap thing as a result of all the notes I've written about mice over the years! They're all bleeding profusely!

SECURITY!!!!!

Within minutes, guards and engineers arrived and confirmed the clear sound of serious dripping. They left to get a ladder and tools. They left me alone. Hurry! Oh hurry!

They returned with a tall ladder and I stood aside, a fingernail between my teeth. The ceiling tile was moved revealing the space between the 4th and 5th floors. "Whoa!" the engineer on the ladder shouted, "Grab that trash can! This is a major leak we have here!" Reinforcements were called. A team was dispatched to the 5th floor to see what was causing the flood.

I don't know what it was, because I packed my bag and headed for home. Actually, I didn't WANT to know what it was, brown things dripping from the ceiling above my head being something I'd rather not put too much thought into.

On my way out, one of the engineers called to me. "Thanks!" he said. "You saved the day! If you hadn't been there, we'd have never known about that leak. All those computers would have been seriously damaged!"

"When you find Tucker up there, " I said, "tell him I'm glad he's not dead."

"Huh?" the engineer replied.

"Oh nevermind."

Jan. 27, 2006



Quote of the day: Kathryn, our 5th grade carpool companion, was standing in my kitchen as I surveyed the fridge for a snack and quizzed Bradley on homework assignments.

She walked up to me and stared, quizzically, seemingly perplexed about something, tilting her head only inches from mine, her chin resting on her palm while an index finger tapped on her cheek. She squinted.

"Can I help you?" I said. I thought I must be such an experiment to her, another mom to contend with in addition to her own, another family's highs and lows to observe from the inside.

Finally, she blurted what was bugging her: "You don't sound like you're from South Carolina."

I gave my standard speech-development answer: "My dad was a deejay."

Kathryn's eyes popped. "They had electricity when you were born?"

Just wondering -- would a headlock have been overdoing it?

Jan. 25, 2006



Quote of the day: "This game doesn't work!" 5-year-old Gregory shouted at the computer, or maybe at me. "I'm getting mad! Mom! This game doesn't WORK!"

"Ugh! Gregory, that's all you care about -- computer games."

"No, that's not all I care about," he said defiantly, pausing between each subsequent thought. "I care about TV too. And I care about eating dinner. And I care about eating lunch. And I care about eating breakfast."

Aha! Proof that men have their priorities set by the time they've outgrown the sandbox.

Jan.19, 2006


Quote of the day: I am not just any old homework nag. I live by deadlines by profession; everything has a time by which it must be done, and I will sacrifice sleep and food to make that happen.

Bradley doesn't seem to appreciate my need to keep such schedules at home though. The other day, he was not making proper progress on his homework. As homework traffic cop, I let him know precisely at what point he should be. I told him once. I told him twice. I told him a third time. After the fourth time, when I was pointing to my watch, tapping, tapping, "Time's a wasting," Bradley reached into his pocket. "How much money do I have to pay you to get you to stop talking now?"

Jan. 12, 2006


Quote of the day: Gregory and I had a long conversation about what he might want to do when he grows up.

"You decide," he said.

"I get to decide what you'll be? O.k., then. Surgeon."

"No blood. No way."

(I knew he'd say that; I was just testing.) "You could be a meteorologist. Tell people when a storm is coming."

"No lighting. No way."

(Knew that one too.) "You could be a marine biologist. Your brother's interested in that."

"No. Fish have teeth, and I'm not diving under the water. No way."

(Didn't know that one.) "You could be a zoologist." (I got stuck on science-related careers.)

"Animal droppings. No WAY!"

(Oh yeah, there is that.) "So what you're saying is, I actually don't get to decide what you'll be when you grow up."

"No. You can decide," Gregory said. "

Thinking I might want to start at a more entry-level position, I said, "You could be a secretary."

"You mean like the secretary of defense? I said no blood."

Did I mention he's five?

Jan. 11, 2006


Quote of the day: 5-year-old Gregory: "I spilled salt on the counter and Bradley says that's bad luck because I didn't throw any of the salt over my shoulder. And so now -- all of a sudden, it's true, watch this -- I can do karate."

Jan. 9, 2006


Quote of the day: Gregory is still in his macaroni-for-lunch phase. Every day. Same time. He scolded me as I pulled on my socks: "Aren't you going to fix me some macaroni now?" He glanced at the clock. "It's half past macaroni time."

Jan. 6, 2006



Thought for the day: Traveling north on the New Jersey Turnpike, a sign flashed red in the distance. As the words came into focus, I wondered if some of the lights were not working, or if the Turnpike Authority was finally admitting the truth. The sign read, "Con......... ahead."

For the record, there were no road cones, no construction crews, nothing out of the ordinary between the flashing sign -- and the toll booth.

Jan. 5, 2006


Quote of the day: It was nearing lunchtime one day recently, and I was downtown at the jewelry store picking up my wedding ring. Gregory frowned when the jeweler asked him what sort of wedding ring he'd like to have some day. "I'm never getting married. I won't need a wedding ring," my young son said.

The jeweler looked at me suspiciously. "Most little boys that age, they come in here saying they'll marry their moms."

"Not me," Gregory said angrily, smudging fingerprints over the display glass.

The jeweler's unspoken question, of course: "What's wrong with you, lady?"

"He used to say he was going to marry me all the time," I said. "Oh well, there goes the love affair."

The bells on the jeweler's door tinkled as Gregory and I walked towards the busy sidewalk. He wouldn't hold my hand, pulled away, stopped walking to stare across the street. "Ok," I said. "I give. What's the matter?"

He pointed his entire arm toward Roberto's Pizza.

Within 20 minutes we were sitting in the window savoring fresh mozzarella and tomato on a pastry crust. At the last bite, Gregory reached out for my ring hand. "I changed my mind. I'll marry you again."

Girls take note: all it took was one slice of pizza, plain cheese.

Jan. 4, 2006



Quote of the day: When Bradley is away at school, Gregory usually hangs out in my room during the morning primping. Often, he requests that I draw pictures (he calls them tattoos) on the backs of his hands using an eye pencil and some funky colored eye shadows I keep around just for the hand pictures. Today Gregory wanted me to draw a snowflake. As I was drawing, my mind focused on the notion that no two snowflakes look alike, and by the time I was finished, my snowflake held a strong resemblance to a black widow spider.

"Mom! Get that off me!"

On the literal other hand, Gregory requested a snowman. Three overlapping circles, two freckles for eyes, a caret for a nose, and then I got the idea to draw a hat, which turned out looking like a witch's hat. "Mom! You drew a Halloween snowman. Who ever heard of a Halloween snowman?" So I blotted out the brim and drew streamers coming from the top, a birthday hat. "It's Frosty, see?" And in my best Frosty voice, I added, "Happy birthday!"

"That doesn't look a thing like Frosty," he said. "That's Snowitch."


Jan. 3, 2006


Quote of the day: I took Bradley to Lincoln Square today to see "The New World," Terrence Malick's retelling of the Pocahontas story. On the train home, we compared this film to the sing-song Disney version; Bradley's class will be watching the animated one in school and writing about its extensive historical inaccuracies.

That's why I trekked him into the city today. The new movie is only playing in two theaters right now -- the one we went to in Manhattan and one in L.A. It doesn't open nation-wide until the end of January, by which time, Bradley's 5th grade class will have been finished with their Disney movie critique. I thought that by taking him to a version purported to be at least somewhat historically accurate, it would open his mind to the fact that there are always at least two sides to every story, and countless perspectives from which to tell it.

In the case of the Malick film, besides a few other flaws, I told Bradley I thought the movie was misnamed because it really wasn't so much about "the new world" as it was a made-up account of Pocahontas's most intimate coming of age. Since this story was not recorded by Pocahontas herself, I am not convinced that the movie portrays her relationship to John Smith accurately at all. In fact, their Romeo/Juliet affair is rather sickening considering she couldn't have been older than 12 at the time, and he, 27. (Knowing that the actress was 14 during filming doesn't help much.) Sure, the scenery seems authentic, with the reconstructed James Fort, the longhouses of the Algonquian tribe, the costumes that were hand-made from materials that would have been available in the 17th century, and the film shot without the help of a single electric light, but if the movie was destined to focus so intensely on the life of one person, why not just name it after her? Oh, right -- that movie title is taken.

Bradley said the movie wasn't even about the so-called "new world," which we are supposed to assume is America, April 1607, when English explorers established a permanent settlement in Virginia.

He said it's about the raid on ancient land that had been home to hundreds of native tribes for centuries, that it was about Pocahontas betraying her people by being eager to help the settlers gain a foothold.

And so, as Bradley put it: "the new world" of this movie comes at the end, with Pocahontas caged in a corset and high-neck European frock walking in a ridiculously over-manicured London garden. This image is in sharp contrast to the slight deerskins and unspoiled old world land she called "home." Therefore, Bradley argued, the movie is in fact properly named, as long as one realizes that Pocahontas's "new world" looks something like the England that Charles Dickens painted.

There it is: the other side of the story.

Jan. 2, 2006