Author: Monda

This isn’t really a political blog…

No Telling

…even though it looks like one right now. It just wouldn’t make any sense, though, to overlook the historical significance of what I just watched on CNN.

My grandmother was a toddler when women got the vote. My mother was a senior at Little Rock Central High the year Faubus closed the schools. I was in second grade before schools here became fully integrated. My daughter’s generation saw Colin Powell and Condoleezza Rice on the news every evening.

The Perfect Grandson, sleeping in his crib two rooms away right now, doesn’t know that this picture of Barack Obama and his family will someday be in his high school history book. But it will.

Leaving a Note on Hillary’s Fridge

No Telling

Oh, Hillary. I’m afraid it’s over, gal. I know you’ve got fight left in you and I’m thrilled you’re willing to continue, fist in the air, but as a woman who’s been “in the kitchen” you have to realize now that the party is over and it’s time to clean up. There are dishes in the sink, hon, and they can’t wait until morning.

I’m sorry.

It’s not that there isn’t victory in this, though. My 21 year-old daughter voted in her first primary because of you, and as a semi-antique feminist that gives me comfort.

I Don’t Know What to Think

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You know, there are key-choppers and there are key-choppers.

The first kind is the Opportunist who chops the keys from antique typewriters and sells them willy-nilly on Ebay for jewelry making. The jewelry is a fad, and when the fad is tossed for some new project there may be, oh, five or six usable antique or vintage machines left in the world. These kind of key-choppers make me alternately sad and angry because there are some stunning, usable typewriters out there that don’t deserve a rude beheading. Besides, there are typewriter collectors and obsessors out here who feel gut-punched every time we see “Will cut off and send only the keys. Only $5 to ship.”

The second flavor of key-chopper is the one I can’t quite hate. These are the Artist Choppers. While they hack and hew and chop along with the best of the Opportunist Fad Choppers, the end product has depth and respect for the old machines. I still ache when considering the surgical procedures necessary to produce the art, but I do find it somehow a little less sadistic. A proper burial for a wrongful death.

There are those who ride the line by creating gorgeous, wearable art. But all typewriter key jewelry is not art. Sometimes an earring is just an earring.

Is it the difference between murder and euthanasia? Have I become an arts vs. crafts snob? Am I blinded by Beautiful Things? Would my typewriter morality be intact if machines were already functionally useless? I don’t know. I’m just not as angry with the Artist Choppers, even though the end result is the same – one less typewriter.

Jeremy E Mayer

Michael Demeng

Disclaimer: No typewriters were harmed or mutilated for this post.

The Stranges Do Disney *

No Telling

My parents are at Disney World. Right now. Just the idea makes me smile because my father is absolutely the biggest kid on the planet. Pop may be 68, but in his heart he’s still a teenager.

My folks never go on vacation, and never is a very long time. As a young thing, I remember traveling to San Francisco to see my grandparents, but those were never really vacations. We never camped, never visited exotic locations, never took a weekend to do something just for fun, ever. Once Pop finished coaching football there were things called vacations, but were usually “bring your wife” out-of-town meetings.

But right now my parents are on vacation, and they’re at The Happiest Place On Earth.

This trip, completely arranged and such by my Sis and her family, is quite a step for my folks. They’ve been officially retired for about a year or so, but nothing is as official as this trip – A Vacation Without A Business Purpose. Ta-da. Retirement. Lollygagging. I can’t wait to see the pictures.

Now, our crew did Disney years ago. It was the ultimate redneck road trip because I was married to one of those at the time. Aside from the hurricane and the incident when Jiminey Cricket became handsy with my daughter, it was a blast. Don’t worry, the undercover Disney Police were able to subdue my 6’5″ policeman husband before any real blood was spilled. That’s a story all by itself and for another time, but the point is when considering four days at Disney with the kids, only youth is on your side. It’s whirling and frantic and awe-inspiring and outrageously expensive, but none of that compares to the true decathalon of a Disney vacation. Ultimately the best time to go isn’t when the kids are old enough to appreciate it, it’s when you’re young enough to endure the pace.

I hope they find Mom one of those zoomy mobile-chairs so she can appreciate all the Disney delights while toodling around, queen-like. Really, all they need to do is drop her off in Epcot Center with a fannypack full of credit cards. I know what my mama’s heaven looks like.

I’m convinced they’re having an unforgettable Magical Kingdom time, those two. After 47 years, it was time for a throw-down vacation. And you can bet mama’s keeping a close watch on that Jiminey Cricket the whole time.

* Strange is actually my maiden name. Make fun all you want, I’ve already heard it all.

NaFloScribMo and Technological Time Travel

No Telling

I’ve been NaFloScribMo-ing this evening on my refurbed 1934/35 Underwood Noiseless. I’ve named her Zelda, because as stalwart and chunky as she is, Zelda still types a little crazy. Like Zelda Fitzgerald I believe she’s a frustrated ballerina. Aren’t we all?

At any rate, I’m giving my fingers a break at the moment to show her off a bit and to figure out my next sentence. For before and after pictures (just like Jenny Craig!) of Zelda’s transformation, visit here.

Just so you know, the writing is more purposeful on these old machines. On a laptop I can type at the speed of light and write just about anything while simultaneously editing it. The whole laptop experience borders on psychosis, over- and under-lapping the words like that. With Zelda – or any of the other typewriters littering my house – the sentences are slower, but they follow a forward-moving path. That recursive business is exhausting.

And when I’m finished, there’s all this ink on paper and a handful of completed pages to walk around with. Heaven.

From the Porch

No Telling

Little rogue storms keep popping up in that rumbly way tonight. If you look closely, you can see the sun behind it all. The temperature has dropped fifteen degrees from the stuffy 87-feels-like-94 that it was an hour ago. I know these things are dangerous and I know I should be planning and such, but these minutes before the storm are my favorite. Before the rain. Before the ugly.
As I write this, the rain is beginning the tapdance on my windows. It’s time for coffee and scribbling.

John Carroll’s A Place to Stand project, tweaked for National Typewriter Day

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I heard back from John Carroll, our Kelly Writers Junior Fellow of A Place to Stand. His literary project is over, but John says he still mails out an occasional typewritten literary piece, postage willing. As a matter of fact, he’s mailing one off to me and I can’t wait.

Sadly, John had to use a Smith Corona Wordsmith (an electric!) to type his daily mailings during the project. I think he was worried about using an old machine and the inherent problems that sometimes surround the old beasts when typewriter repairmen are few and far between. Never mind. The project is done and a success – I think, John, it’s time you jumped into the fray with the rest of us and find an old typer to rediscover yourself with. You’ll be hooked.

After rolling John’s project around for a bit, the antique typewriter/writing angle was tweaked a bit and now it looks like there’s something definite in the works to celebrate National Typewriter Day. Visit the clickthing blog for exacting rules and regulations and for God’s sake sign up. This is no time to be a fraidy cat. The brave will inherit the earth and they’ll each have a portable typewriter under one arm. Mark my words.

For those of you out there following along, I received a call on Saturday from Acme – my Underwood Noiseless behemoth is ready! Ed tells me this, of course, on a Saturday when he’s closed and on a holiday weekend with an extra closed Monday, to boot. I swear to you I’m five years old and waiting for Christmas morning – agony. I’ll pick up Zelda on Tuesday and slam out a typecast first thing. There will be “after” pictures as well, just like a Jenny Craig commercial.

Worshipping at the Outlet Malls. Can I have an Amen?

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We’re back and we’re broke and it was a marvelous Outlet Mall Getaway. I could have put up photographs of the gorgeous Marriott where we lounged like excommunicated queens, or shown you proof of the tornado devastation we saw along Hwy 65. I might have even posted a picture or two of the several large-as-small-cities outlet malls where we pounded pavement and spend our unearned Dubya money, but I didn’t. The fact is I only took three pictures on the entire trip and one of those was so awful I just deleted it forever. This one, taken on our way back at a roadside flea market stop, is my favorite anyway.

I hate people who are so busy immortalizing their good times on film that they forget to actually have a good time. At least that’s my excuse.

Ah, Branson. What an interesting place. The whole town exists for tourism and it does a pretty good job. Take Nashville, clean its face of the arty coolness factor, add some old Vegas neon, and set the whole thing to music with a steel guitar. Sprinkle in some high-end swanky hotels and townhouses, then pepper the whole city with red-roofed outlet shop promise. That’s Branson, Missouri. Like Disney World, it has several different themes. I imagine an extended Branson experience would be much like visiting The Magical Kingdom, actually – except you’d have to section out the experiences yourself because Branson isn’t about to put it in neat little excursion piles for you. It’s charming.

I bought a lot less than I thought I would and my feet hurt a great deal more than I expected. It was a serious shopping trip. The Perfect Grandson is well-dressed for a least a month now and I found shoes that are actually made for walking. Although I don’t think we ever saw a bookstore, I still found goodies elsewhere. The only real defeat was my unsuccessful quest for the Perfect Bag. If you can’t buy it in Branson, it’s possible it simply doesn’t exist. It may take me a week or so to make peace with that.

The best part of the trip was the easy, no timetable, sauntering nature of this Gal Trip. We told stories and laughed and finally just exhaled after nine months of students (except for someone who’s been on sabbatical for a whole semester, bless her heart).

I’d like to go back, next time with a different entertainment focus. Kind of the Campy Branson Tour so I could include a stop at the wax museum, take the ghost tour, spend an afternoon at the Monster Asylum, and hit all those marvelous miniature golf courses. I live to people-watch. In the South, we can be eccentric like that and no one cares.

I’ll leave you with the only other picture I took. It’s from some gas station in Clinton, so it’s more of an “en route” kind of thing. You know, I do weddings as well.