Goats in the Yard - 2024

Some years ago my friend Dala in Scandinavia, WI had a big Billy goat roaming freely around the yard. When I visited he stood up on his hind legs and looked me stright into the eye. They have vertical pupils in golden eyes. Pretty scary. In Jamaica "Miss" Balbina Elliott, my firend and hostess in Billy's Bay District of Treasure Beach, has a herd of 30+ (?) goats. Most of them are a smaller African strain. They move freely over the rural landscape in the day and come "home" to their corral at night. They get their water in a big bin in the near yard. The kids are usually born around Valentine's Day when I usually went to visit. B would bottle feed one if needed. She also did all her own veterinary care. If the nanny had a kid in the bush and she didn't return that night B would go out searching and carry the kid back to the yard - mother in tow, then tie the mother in the yard for a day or two. B's goats are not very domestic and the kids can rarely be caught to be petted. Once I helped chase a kid down that needed some vet care. Good luck with that,a merry chase. The neighbor boy finally caught the kid. A few years ago B had a large female goat that would have triplets. Twins are occasionally born to the smaller does. The kids are so cute jumping around and playing from day two. Each year I name one favorite kid, recently I named aa little black kid with a patch of white on a front leg White Foot. Anther year there was a white nanny (unusualy the goats are mostly tan, sable or white spottedin brown or black). I named the white mother Milk and the kid Milky. Jamaicans often don't name their animals. For a few year B had a chicken as a pet tied up by the leg in the yard. I asked - what is it's name? "Mr Chicken..."

Sandhill Cranes at Cherokee Marsh

2012 It felt like summer in November on Sunday 8. Antonio and I drive over to Cherokee Marsh, formed by the Yahara River that is the mother of the five 5 lakes that make a chain here. At the marsh the river is short of a quarter mile across with forest on the other side. Since it is November bare tree branches etch the sky. The meadows show russet, faded gold, brown, tan, beige, gray and combinations of all these colors. Walking into the nature preserve we hear the distinctive call of the Sandhill Cranes echoing to south. We walk down the gravel path to the overlook and climb the stairs to watch the tequila sunset. Heading back to the car a lone crane stretches its long neck overhead. We hear another crane conversation, this time to the north of the path. They were close by. We stopped talking and walking to listen. They take off, flying low in our direction. They veer to the east when they see us, flying away into the dusk.

"Coco Before Chanel", short movie review

Dec 2012 "Coco Before Chanel" was a charming movie. The plot was changed from the biography I read (for example, the other mistress was not in the manor house) to suit the movie storyline. Childhood was just two brief scenes, one in a carriage and the other in the orphanage. The movie was in French and they talked very fast, so sometimes I missed a word at the end of a sentence in the subtitles. It showed her artistic development and the romance with Boy C (whatever his name was) the rich English playboy who fell in love with her and then bankrolled her hat shop in Paris. It featured her actress friend (who reminded me of Karen/Kadima) who was her patroness and brought many rich women to her to buy the hats she made (it didn't show the clothing part of her venture, which was much later). There were some scenes of popular French theater, and of course the amazing fashions of the time, which she never liked. There were lots of beautiful horses in the movie, as Baron B, her main guy, was a horse breeder who played polo and raced his horses. There was a race track scene with the wealthy women dressed to kill. Baron B gave her his favorite horse in the movie. The costumes were great - hers were plain of course - as she was rebel and this was her aesthetic that the House of Chanel was based on. There was one segment of a costume ball, a debauch, at the manor that was fun. I didn't like the end, as it shows her sitting on her famous mirrored staircase at her fashion "house" in Paris (she lived there upstairs) featuring 30 or more models walking down it wearing her creations. This was a break in the chronology of the movie, as it happened years later, probably after WW II, which she "sat out" commercially. Other than this scene, all of the movie takes place way before WW II and maybe even before WW I. This fashion show probably happened in the late 40's (??), which was after the period of 95% of the movie and was "after Chanel," as opposed to "Coco Before Chanel" - the title of the movie. I guess they wanted to show some of the creations that she became famous for, many of which were lovely, but I never liked her suits which were her trademark.

December - First Snowflakes

Dec 2012 Tiny, dry snow flakes are falling today on this gray day. It is finally cold as one would expect after a very warm November for southern Wisconsin. Some migrating birds gather in the bare trees by the yellow back gate to our neighbor Karen and Jeff's house. Aslan, my gray tiger, chirps at them from his post at the back window next to the red blossoming Christmas cactus that was once my Mother's. Surprisingly, a light pink holly hock still blooms out the back window and a few Buddhist reds maintain, as well as the parsley and Italian oregano in the garden beds. Some burgundy colored raspberries were still on the canes right up to the end of November! A lot of milkweed - which I LOVE! - came up by the driveway. They are so common, yet so lovely and other worldly. What would you expect for the food of Monarch butterflies? A couple of stalks with the pods split, spilling out their downy gift, were on the ground. I picked them up and waved them like a fairy wand, as the fluffy skirts lifted in a light breeze and wafted on their way. Lots of the pods are left and love to attach to people as they get out of the car! Behind my yard is a moped shop that has Christmas lights on an evergreen tree placed on their roof with a lighted moped mounted on it! In the night it looks like a large angel has alighted. I have recently rediscovered Eckhart Tolle (pardon a description of "New Age Guru"). I hope to get his book "New Earth" from Towneley for Christmas. He is very Buddhist in his approach and I'm working at staying in the NOW, which is working pretty well. Last night was a re-run of Wayne Dyer on PBS. One thing he said is something like - look around you and you will see the world that you have created is not what you wanted, but what you are. Another good thought from that program - Virginia Wolf said "Just keep putting the pieces together." This is good advice, as I have brought some of my stuff that has been so kindly stored in my sister Chris' basement up north since 2001 (!) when I left to teach in Istanbul. It must be sorted and stored. Since the house is pretty much full, I will have to make sense of the "pieces" and work at getting rid of some things which can only improve the Feng Shui around here. I just moved a bag of my skirts from yesteryear, that had landed for a day or two in the prosperity corner of the down stairs here, next to my built in buffet. The phone rang immediately with two massage appointments - Mel, my longest standing client and Al, another guy who has been coming back from the same era - 1994, when I first set up in business in my home on E Washington Ave. Going into the winter holiday season I am on low and slow, but have picked up a few small gifts and will make and decorate cookies to give again this year. I got a new box of cards at Target yesterday - a white dove on a blue background - with the message of Peace. I'm skipping a tree again this year, but have a lot of nice decorations that I will bring up to display later. The Christmas lights have remained in the living room - a festival of lights all year long!

Birthday 2009

I now have had two months worth of birthdays! My mother Shirley said inside every "old" person is the young person you have always been. Looking in the mirror I realize this must be true! It was a relaxing birthday which fell on Sunday. I made a carrot cake with help from Amir who grated 3 cups of carrots! He came up from Chicago to help us celebrate. Towneley hosted dinner at the Lao/Thai restaurant in the photo and we came back to have the B day cake. I lit a lot of candles at the dining room table and put 6 candles on the cake. With Towneley, Amir, Antonio and Signe It was a party of 5. Signe gave me a hat box full of gifts including a book on Feng Shui, lots of wooden massage gadgets, a piece of silky cloth and two clear glass angel candle holders. T got me a vacuum cleaner(my choice, which I picked out), and later brought me a dozen pale yellow roses. Amir got me a fall bouquet and gave me a great massage. He offered to go shopping with me, but I had already gotten myself some fancy imported Provance Sante French Eau de Toilette from the Coop, so I declined. He paid for my new business cards instead. Antonio gave me a sparkly red agate stone the he found when we went to Cherokee Marsh. He is going to tumble it and I will wear it as a pendant. I got cards from Dorset, T's mom, sis Chris, Amir and Tana and Brad. Aunalee called from Florida, Dorset from Houston and nephew Ben from Minneapolis and Chris from Iola. I Got email greetings from Isaac and others. To me the number of B days don't mean too much. I am "fit," feel good and still look OK. I don't think much about "mortality," but this morning I figured that if I live as long as my mom I might have another 26 years, so that is a lot of time to dance, read, write, dream, travel and do anything else I love.

2009 - A Muse, amuse, muse, musings...blog

The Frozen Pumpkin

Dec 9 2012 Wisconsin in Winter. How do the small animals survive? It has been zero, somewhat above and below for the past few weeks. Today it may get up to 30 F. A heat wave! I have an informal compost in the back yard. It provides some excellent soil in the spring. This area also attracts the interest of a number of animals. My decorative pumpkin of October and November was still on the front porch this week - frozen solid of course. I know the squirrels and other animals like squash and pumpkin seeds. I brought it indoors to defrost and then cut it in half to make the seeds available to what ever creature might find them. I hoped they might arrive shortly after I put it out in the compost area, but they are used to eating frozen food. The back yard is full of rabbit tracks. I noticed the rabbits had visited the compost area shortly after the 18" snowfall last week. They nibbled on the salad and other greens I had put out there on the top of the snow. I just checked the pumpkin and so far no takers. The coffee cake I put out to the side of the compost, has not been touched by the fat, blonde eared squirrels who are out there nearly everyday when it is not winter, so it seems they are in semi- hibernation mode. Other animals that the next door neighbor mentioned he had seen out there at night from his second floor balcony include raccoons and even an opossum! Who knew? I have also seen the dark mice, maybe they are voles (?), racing around the area in the warmer weather. They live very close to the compost, I think, to avoid the local cats who also regularly hunt there! Last year I got some black sunflower seeds that I hoped the birds might enjoy. Alas, lacking a bird feeder, it was the squirrels that feasted on them, boosting their body heat with the protein they contain. Right now - thoughts of the cave people who survived the ice ages. Here I am, warm in my home, so near yet so far from the cruel mistress of the frozen northern winter.

Long Hair and Wtichy Women

FASHION & STYLE | October 24, 2010
The Mirror: Why Can't Middle-Aged Women Have Long Hair?
By DOMINIQUE BROWNING
At a certain age, cutting your hair is considered the appropriate thing to do, as if being shorn is a way of releasing oneself from the locks of the past.

One commenter said they think that long gray or white hair looks "witchy" on women - maybe this was a guy? What does this mean? That they are powerful, mysterious, dangerous or??? More power to the witchy women!

This NY Times article now has 1266 comments (the most I have ever seen on there, they usually cut comments off way before this point), so it seems like everyone has something to say about this. It was interesting to read the comments made about women it the family and hair as something beautiful and something that many people had fond memories of. How their hair was a big part of collective memory and individual identity.

Well, I have long hair because that is what feels the best to me. My mom was always hounding me to "get a hair style" after I turned about 35. I did have it cut a jaw length and wore it that way for a few years, but after I went to Jamaica when I was 43. After that I just let it grow and it is halfway down my back. Too bad that my hair is thin as it is, but tho I am an "older woman" I am lucky that it hasn't gotten thinner as many people commented on in the article, and now needs a bit of a trim now. My friends cut my hair which only takes a couple of minutes and after it is trimmed a few inches there is just a few tablespoons of hair.

I started coloring my hair in the 60's. I was a teenager then when we lived in California and I wanted to be a "real" California girl. I used "sun in" which you just spritz on. It has always worked well for me and is fast, cheap and easy. Since I was a blonde as a kid that type of coloring worked fine and looks pretty natural (or at least I think it does).

In the 50's the "pixie" hair cut was just the "thing" and my mom made my sister and I get one. I cried and didn't want my hair to be cut. I could take care of it myself and I tried to talk her out of it. No dice. But I did win honorable mention in a "Cute Kid" photo contest due to that hair cut - that and my chubby round face and pixie smile to match.

The last 3 years I stopped coloring my hair, but I am going to color it again in December. I did it last June for Isaac and Angie's wedding. Sister Chris was commenting on it - repeatedly. She goes to some stylist due to her thin hair and has spent a lot on color and cuts, but that era is coming to an end since she is retired and doesn't have that much to spend on what I would call a luxury. I used Garnier "natural (honey) blonde" shampoo-in color and it said that the color would wash out in 4 weeks. It never did...hmmmm.

In Jamaica fair hair is prized, as it is in Turkey, thus so MANY bottled blondes there. But when they see someone that they suspect has natural blonde hair that is really something to stare at. (Staring is considered "normal" there.) What they expect is "true" blond is apparently truly "exotic"...

At the Willy St Fair in September I saw so much beautiful blonde hair on women (probably 90% of it colored) that was shining in the sun. I decided I would do it again this winter before my trip to Jamaica. I am going to try to avoid my white forelock, which I love. It was one reason not to color my hair recently since my hair is now such a dark "ash blonde" and there is a good contrast that makes it more noticeable. In my 20's a friend's mom had a white forelock that I thought was so cool. I didn't think I would "get one" as neither of my parents had one, so was very happy when that came in a few years ago.

Of course women's hair is considered their "crowning glory." And in the late 60's and early 70's my mom grew her hair long - almost down to her waist. She was about 50 at that time. You could see the progression of the gray from top to bottom that was very noticeable as she was a brunette. I have a picture of us out in the garden with me holding out her hair out in a cascade for the photo. I think she got tired of taking care of it after a few years and went back to her shorter hair style. I cut her hair on many occasions. She cut the family's hair on the "old days" and I learned how to do it by watching her and also from watchin stylists cut my hair when I did have a "style." Now I cut my friend Antonio's hair. One year many years, ago, I cut almost five or more family member's in successionhair one Thanksgiving while the turkey was roasting including. The last to be cut was my nephew Isaac's golden locks - he was about 2 and it was his first haircut. He cried the whole time.

Well, let's hear it for the witchy women, and hair as an object of memory, beauty and identity!

"Check out this great MSN Video": Rockettes perform on TODAY

"Check out this great MSN Video": Rockettes perform on TODAY

In Istanbul, Turkey - Spirit of the Wind

On my first night in Istanbul in August a huge wind was coming in from the north west. My bed was right by the big double windows. Of course I was exhausted from the excitement, long flight and time change. I lay there all night facing the widow with the big wind hitting me in the face and pouring over me. Later I found out that in Turkey the wind is a magical force - maybe a god - in the ancient regional cosmology. Rusgar is the name of the wind, ruya means dream and ruhum means spirit in Turkish. I was blessed by the mighty wind on my first night there in Turkey. If you're on a mini bus the covered women don't want a window open with the breeze blowing on them for this reason. In the old days, if a girl got pregnant they said - the wind did it! The Magical Turkish Wind -

Labor Day - L_A_B_O_R - Jobs of Yesteryear...

RE Labor - I worked at Waunakee Canning Co canning corn in late summer of 1970 when I first moved to Madison. I had transferred down to UW-Madison, had been a student at Eau Claire for two years. A school bus picked us up around town and we went 30 min out of town to the Waunakee Canning Factory. My shift was 6 or 7 pm until 1 or 2am. Lunch 30 minutes at 10:30 or 11. My job was standing pulling de-husked corn off the conveyor belt and feeding it into a decerneling machine - zip, zip, zip. I was the relief person, going repeatedly down the row so each woman sequentially could get an 10 minute break. I got a break when I got to the end of our row of about 10 people. The workers in this part of production were all women. Mostly young "kids" and quite a few farm wives. Federal minimum wage, of course - maybe $1.60 hr.(Amazing!) When there was a mechanical problem somewhere production was shut down everyone went up on the roof to relax and enjoy the stars in the cool summer night. Our happy paid breaks lasted from about 20 min to an hour or more. While working on the line I mentally reviewed every life experience I'd had in my 20 years and remembered every dream I could. After 3 weeks, at the point of * mental numbness,* went to lunch then just walked off the job without notice. I couldn't handle * one more minute *. I started hitchhiking back to town and a county policeman picked me up on Highway 113. He said - What are you doing out here? He took me to the Madison city line where a city squad car met us and that cop drove me home to the coop where I lived. I went back a week later to pick up my check that was ordinarily passed out at the end of the shift on payday. So my little brush with labor/factory work was - an education. After that I got a job at Yee's Cafe, one of just two Asian restaurants in town, in the old Capitol Hotel on King St (now a site of a big state office building). It was a big improvement. Business was great and I made good money in tips. Federal/state pay rate for this kind of work was around $.75 an hour for tipped employee, we did get an included meal. ************* After 4 years of working various jobs and not being able to save money for school, the Pell Grants / loans started (in '74) and I was able to go back to school in Jan of '75 with matching grants. I went to school full time and worked 3 part time jobs. One job was school bus driver on the morning shift, did sign painting in the graphics dept of the Memorial Union in the late afternoons (maybe $3.50 an hour) and did life modeling in the Art Dept($7.00 an hour?) where I was also a student. Both were work study jobs. In the summers I got some pick up work waitressing. I went all 3 semesters each year for 5 years total. I took one summer off - in '78 I finished my BS in Art Ed and I went to Europe with my "rich" Jewish boyfriend. We were there for 9 weeks. We travelled around most of western Europe on Eurail passes, did some camping and stayed at penosionies. My backpack was 35 pounds with the sleeping bag. It was a glorious summer and long way from the canning job! I started grad school that fall I finished in two years with one MA and one MFA degree working the same 3+ jobs. Finally a "professional!" I got job teaching art in the fall at McFarland Middle and High School. Was paid the entry level rate (:-( ) because it was a semester long sub job, but I designed and taught the whole art curriculum 7th - 12 grades with 5 classes (100 students) a day... ********** The long and winding road of - W-O-R-K!

A Date With Fate - flash (not quite) fiction

A Date With Fate? As two mid 20-something art students in 1975, we took off to Northern California for winter break. Yes, hitchhiking - the only way to travel. Speeding across Nevada (or was it Wyoming?) on the Interstate Highway we surveyed the stars. A tiny light moved faster than possible in the middle heavens witnessed by two. My first UFO. The driver missed it with his eyes on the road. With pretty good luck, after three days and singing "every song that driver knew" to several kind strangers we finally arrived in Mendocino. Molly, Tom's old girlfriend, and her honey bun were house sitting just outside of town in large furnished redwood home. It had a full-wall stone fireplace and a bank of windows along the length of the house with a view of the Pacific. A spindly catwalk stretched 20 feet from the yard to a rocky out cropping 40 feet above the crashing waves. It was a cool windy day, the sun glinting on the water. A narrow cliffside footpath led in either direction on grassy low hills studded with scrub oak and dwarf cypress trees. We thought we could see the curve of the earth. Pausing to to drink in the view, I stood right on the cliff edge then looked down at mighty waves smashing into the rocks below. A little of the weather-worn sandstone started to give way, and as quick as a cat could wink its eye, it collapsed beneath my feet. Instinctively I grasped a scraggly little cypress tree. Tom grabbed my other arm and pulled me back.

Time To Jump In (Jamaica/Madison, WI)

Time To Jump In by Brandy Larson A white brahma bull stands alone on a high hillside - red earth and tufted green grass. We drive past with meadow and acacia trees on either side. The small fruit stand is next to a rocky outcropping on the edge of the road. Stopping for a cold coconut our vendor deftly hacks off the top of the green husk with a few strikes of his machete and offers a straw - cool and not too sweet - coconut wata. Down to the last drop he wacks the shell in half and we scoop out the jelly lining with a wedge of green husk for a spoon. Food of the Goddess. (Time to turn on the space heater in the basement to prevent the pipes from freezing...). A roadside restaurant trails fragrant smoke. My driver Jefta pulls in and we place our order as we watch the smoke rising from the wood fire coals roasting half jerk chickens. Sitting at a picnic table beneath a thachroof we sip from sweating bottles of ginger beer and Red Stripe. The pretty young woman who took our order calls us up to the tall counter as she chops the roasted meat into irregular pieces with a cleaver, crunch crunch, on a thick round of wood. She has prepared plates with chopped cabbage and carrot salad and a stack of white bread and butter in a basket. We nibble the meat off the bones, eating with our hands. (Put on some layers and insulated boots to brave the morning air. I brush off snow here and there to set out some seeds out mostly for sparrows, my flock of over 30 birds. I put out peanuts in the shell for a couple of crows that have also been hanging around. The suit is frozen, so they can't get at any of the much needed tallow). On the back veranda the sea is visible about 75 yards down our yard and a slope above purple flowering lignum vitae. The narrow path is footworn. A goat enclosure is on the left on the gentler side of the hill. The humble gate is tied closed with a bit of fraying rope. In the morning Miss B (79 and not counting), staff in hand, heads down to let them out to free range for the day. They come up behind her single file with a big nanny in the lead. The kids, many recently born, frisk about exploring, hopping everywhere and butting each other. They are tan and white, spotted tri-colors, some black, some grey and two white ones. Last trip I named her Milk and her kid Milky. Some are smaller African goats suited to this semi arid land, but recently some larger goats have come into the herd, the big nanny produces triplets instead of twins. Up in the yard they drink from buckets and nose around for tossed out kitchen scraps. (Clearing off the snow off the car again. There is a light crust on the top. I check the food I put out for the rabbit and the opossum last night. It has been covered in snow). I walk down the footpath to the bay thinking how long feet have smoothed the way, many bare feet even today. First the Taino people nearly wiped out by disease sometime after Columbus arrived in Jamaica in 1503; the pirates starting around 1655; the Africans, freed in the British Empire by law in 1834, they (the men?) were eligible to vote as of 1838; and more recently the local folks, some descended more than several generations ago from shipwrecked Scottish sailors who stayed, became fishermen with last names of Elliott, Gordon and Strachan, who bought large tracts of land. Billy's Bay, named after a pirate, stretches for a mile to the north ending in tall sedimentary cliffs and below sharp reef rocks above the water level. I wander down the beachfront, one of only a hand full of people, wading knee deep in the surf and plan to go to Frenchman Bay Beach with bigger waves for body surfing and people to hang out with. Pelicans reel and dive for their dinner. I see someone out on the reef with a spear gun, maybe he'll stop by B's later and sell me some fish. (School cancelled again today, on Monday for snow and now for the bitter cold and brutal winds. The weather guy said it's colder here now than in Alaska or even in the Antarctic! Lowest temperature here in 20 years. Even my cat Alsan is getting cabin fever). I'm packing my shoulder bag with journal, book and swim suit. Coated in sunscreen I put on my sunhat. First I'll walk to the bakery (called the coffee shop by the locals) to hang out with some resident tourists and tourists. The bouganvilla riots over barbed wire fences and privacy walls of homes and villas. Tiny lizards dart here and there. There are cacti of many sizes and shapes, huge blue agave plants and flowering poincianas. Later at Frenchman I hope the surf is up. Time to jump in.

A Howling Bad, Howling Good time

A Howling Bad, Howling Good Time by Brandy Larson Nov, 2018 We could see only their little tails scooting back and forth. Half a dozen silky black puppies raced back and forth in the dog run behind the neighbors house. I was eight and allowed to hold them. "Mom, oh Mom, can I have a puppy?" Thrilled, I agreed to all the responsibilities. Owwoooh, Oww-hoooo. The full moon was high up in the summer sky. I cradled Tiny, my little black dog with a white patch on his chest, in my lap on the patio. It was midnight when I heard him. Mom already said, "If The Dog keeps this up we'll have to get rid of him." Howling was bad, comforting him in the silence, stroking his long silky ears, was good. Lying on the lounge chair in my jammies with bare feet was cold. A dog's life in the 50's meant living in the yard. Dad built a big house for my smaller dog. My little brother David liked to wiggle his way into the dog house, something only a boy would do. When we moved across town we tied Tiny up at the new house. When we came back to the new home front with another load of stuff, Tiny had slipped his collar and was gone. It was crying time. Back at he old house for another load - there was Tiny. Oh, happy day. He'd run all the way back to his place of origin. "How did he know how to get back here?" I asked Dad. "The wonder of dogs," he said. When the snow came to Salt Lake City we made a comfy little bed and Tiny was allowed in the utility room at night. A few years later we moved to Northern California with Tiny. A few more years later the economy took a nosedive and we upped stakes to move to the Midwest. It was The Grapes of Wrath in reverse. We sold the piano and the beautiful dining room set and were finally left with a tarp covered trailer of essentials and three kids in an overloaded Nash Rambler station wagon. "There is no room for Tiny," Dad said. "This is a fact of life." We had a big tent. Mom said, "It will be an adventure, camping across the West." It had been a long day on the road. A State Park was our destination. We drove and drove, searching and searching. Well after dark Dad finally pulled off the highway into what looked like an encampment. He conferred with another of the many would be campers hunkered down for the night. Wyoming had optimistically featured the State Park on the map - that had not been developed... "Son of a gun." Exhausted, Dad repeated the famous words of Brigham Young, "This is the Place." He pulled our sleeping bags out of the back of the station wagon. "OK kids, we are roughing it tonight." The ground wasn't too hard as I snuggled into my sleeping bag, staring into the starry Big Sky. "Oww-wooooh, oowoooh," sound travels far in the desert at night. "Yip-yap-yip-yip." Another full moonlit up the sky. The coyotes sang to each other in the wide open spaces, having a good time as only canines can. Tiny's cousins I thought, just before I finally fell asleep. B

"Fat - The Anthropology of an Obsession" - book review short

Fat - The Anthropology of Obsession Don Kulick & Ann Meneley, Editors Jeremy P Tarcher / Penguin 2005 $16.95 Fat is a word that's often on the lips as well as on the hips. Thirteen professional anthropologists, and one activist weigh in with a variety of international takes on the topic. Fat means very different things to many it seems, a subject no one is indifferent to. Reviewed is how every year in America billions of dollars are spent on books, programs, pre-packaged diets and fitness clubs. "Lite" foods are marketed to every demographic and contrasted with "food porn" as seen in TV commercials, magazines, on billboards and facebook pages. These authors, often imbedded with their subjects for up to a year, go global with stories of: fattening the young, beautiful brides of Yemen; studying teen girls in Sweden who talk about fat all day, every day and their obsession with how to avoid it; as well as the idealization of larger size in the fairer sex in Niger, Africa. Fat is viewed positively by an Italian heirloom grower and producer of olives and olive oil - some more expensive than champaign. In Hawaii, Spam's history in their diet is featured, describing how it is relished and incorporated into many ethnic dishes. One chapter tells how oversized women (BBWs - big beautiful women) and another chapter on very large, furry men called "bears," are both fetishized on line, in magazines and how they are sought after as partners. Fat activists in Toronto, under their homemade banner - "Pretty, Porky and Pissed Off" - emphasize that "fat comes in more than one size." They stage demonstrations accosting people on the street asking them, "Do you think I'm fat?" and have a street performance dancing in leotards to "Baby Elephant Walk," crushing lots of cakes with their ample backsides as the finale. [Who says the personal isn't political?] Also featured are super-sized rappers. Find out why they are lionized in some sectors the US music world. When it comes to fat the authors demonstrate "one size does not fit all." The academic and writing credentials of each contributor is featured at the end of the book, as well as a joint introduction by the editors who contribute a chapter each to the book.

My Own - Extra Room

My Own Extra Room By Brandy Larson I’d made the decision. My second career – body worker – or as some people say masseuse . . . “cowboy masseuse” as an early client said.For most of my adult life I'd done the housemate thing. There'd been several happy years of domestic bliss, living with honey buns and privacy. But due to economic necessity, "roomies" had generally been my fate. Let me count the ways – Stone Manor Co-op, a tiny green room on the fourth floor, view of Lake Mendota shared with college friend Winnie, 30 tenants and a big community dining room in the basement opening out onto the flagstone terrace, midnight nude swims off the pier. My first rental house was on East Gotham Street, another group-living arrangement. My room was illegal, in the unfinished basement. We post-teenagers with our dogs banded together to make the rent. After my six-week hitchhiking tour of more than 1,500 miles, with $100, backpack and dog, I snagged an east-side flat, cycling through 3 different landlords, two honey buns and a handful of roomies. One of the last housemates there was a working girl – not that kind – who, after the interview confessed, she was pregnant. After the baby was born, mother and child shortly got their own place. I helped mom move in January when it was -14 degrees.Next was a second-floor flat with my room in the top floor attic. Over the years, there was an assortment of housemates – guys, gals, students, one honey bun and a former philosophy major 3 credits short of graduation working on the loading docks at Webcrafters. I kicked out another guy due to his head-banger, over-the-top boom box.It was around this time I started having recurring dreams of an extra room. In the dreams,I’d discover a hidden door, sometimes discovering a whole wing next to my room. I’d just wander around, admiring all that space. In other dreams, I’d be negotiating to move into a place with an extra room or even two. Meanwhile, I did have a whole house near Vilas Park with a sweetheart. I helped him transform it. It had been a party house for him and his West High buddies. I spent my spare time – between two jobs – scrubbing down walls and painting. The things we do for love. Once the paint dried, things went south.Then I found a double-chambered room in the original farm house of a former vast acreage on Commercial Avenue. Dave, the leaseholder, was a communist, he said, and the son of a captain of industry. He had a color TV and cable in his bedroom. There was a small black and white TV in the living room. I said why not share the TV wealth? Nothing doing, he said.Some communist.One day, I told him I'd had a dream that I was moving. Dave said that’s right, take your dog – he never liked Raven – you’re out of here.A first-floor flat on Jenifer Street provided the next batch of housemates, mostly students.My favorite all-time housemate was Keiko, a Japanese woman working on a bachelor’s degree innursing. Always sweet, sunny, amazingly considerate, Asian serenity every day. If I’d been a guyI’d have asked her to marry me!I had a very stressful sub-teaching job when I decided to get a massage from the famous Cherie. A light bulb went off. Ten years previously, my mom taught me to give full-body Swedish massages after she took a six-week course at the tech school when she retired. On Cherie’s massage table, I just felt it in my bones – and muscles – this is for me!Soon after this, I had another extra-room dream. I opened what looked like a closet door. I stepped over the threshold. Velvet clothing in glowing gem tones was hanging from a tall door jamb. I moved through the entryway into a series of airy rooms. Shortly after this dream, I met Michelle, a certified masseuse, at a party. I asked if she would be my teacher. She said she’d be happy to instruct me which she did in six lessons for free. After the first lesson, she said I was a natural.A housemate had moved out on Jennifer Street that summer, and I borrowed Mom’s massage table. I self-apprenticed at half-price for a few months in my first extra room, then I found another flat on East Washington. The day I set up my massage studio there with help from Signe, the new housemate had a friend helping him move in. Thirty minutes after setting up my spiffy new studio, I offered a free massage to the moving helper. Here I was, doing massage on a handsome guy in my own dedicated extra room.

The White Room

Brandy Danu Madison, WI One comment - "accepting one's station in life." I recall my mother's friend & her "white room." It was a museum type "living room." On the occasions we went there I stood at the doorway wondering about it. We were never "entertained" in there. I asked my mother about it and she said it was for special guests. My family, tho comfortable didn't have a room just for show or an occasional cocktail party. My mother would comment on her more affluent friends having a - beautiful home - with a kind of longing for an upgraded existence. We had a spill-proof Naugahyde couch. I recall going to a friend's new condo. Her young nephew was there and he said - this place feels like a hotel. Yesterday I was at an acquaintance's home. It was suburban and all the homes had the exact same type of grass, which was long and luscious. There were no fences so the backyards seemed more spacious than just me and mine. Of course the lawns were maintained with pesticides and commercial fertilizers. This kills all the natural microorganisms in the soil. I live in what was described as a "dusty old house" on the phone by the landlord, sight unseen I said "I'll take it" and I did. Built in 1908 with few recent upgrades in the kitchen or bath and not one closet on the first floor, I enjoy the house a lot with its big (dusty) Midwestern porch & swing and "wild" back yard. My furniture is "piecemeal," the overall effect is shabby, tho I like to think of it as some kind of chic. A humble Bohemian world, but mine.

Why I Couldn't Vote for Angela Davis

In 1983 I moved to the very conservative Iowa County for a teaching job in Mazomanie, a bedroom community of the very liberal Madison, WI, Dane Co. and rented a farm house out in the country. 1983 was a presidential election year and I had to go to the home of the local county clerk's home to register. It was an old farmhouse that hadn't seen a lick of paint in years. The dining room was cluttered with craft supplies. The clerk was a friendly grey haired woman. We chatted and I filled out my voter registration form. I think she offered me some tea. On voting day I arrived at the polling place, registration postcard in hand. It was in a little wooden building about 12 feet square, staffed by 3 people who undoubtedly personally knew all of the other voters from this rural area. The voting booth had a gingham curtain for privacy, the ballot was on paper and was to be marked by an X and slipped into the little slotted ballot box. Angela Davis was on the ballot running for president (as a Communist?) that year and I was going to vote for her as a protest vote. (Just for the record, I am not now and never have been a member of the Communist Party). I'm a Social Democrat. Of course in all of Iowa County I doubt that there was one other person who was voting for Angela Davis. They had my registration card with all my information on it. The word redneck pretty much sums up the orientation of that area. My guess is the minority party (Democrat) population of the whole county was undoubtedly very much in the minority to say nothing of a down ballot black woman. It occurred to me that there could be some kind of repercussions from the vote on my - private ballot. I had visions of a drive-by in the night, shot guns firing away, hunting is very big in Iowa, Co. I doubted they would go to the extent of burning a cross in my front yard, but I didn't want to find out. I bit the bullet and voted for Mondale. Iowa Co. most likely went for Reagan as did the rest of the country...it was "Morning in America."

The Uninvited Guest

The Uninvited Guest I felt just like the uninvited fairy, but my rejection soon turned to curiosity. There must be a way to find out what was going on at the all female new moon party that had not included me. Maybe lurking outside an open window, the usual way, could succeed. I headed in the direction of the gathering as the last hint of day disappeared into the sea. Stars peeked out in the velveteen sky as I blended in with the shadows. No sign of the ghost of the new moon yet. Pierced tin lanterns decked the veranda. The door was open and a filmy curtain veiled a view of the activity inside. There was music, laughter and the rise and fall of feminine voices. A tail of mist was creeping from the slight depression near. I crouched outside the walled yard noticing scent denser than the usual evening floral bouquet. Feeling a little light headed, I suddenly sat down hard onto the ground... I was startled when I looked up to see a hint of the dark side of the moon already well up into the sky. I stretched my neck from side to side to see a slim, faintly glimmering tail attached to my hind legs! I was low to the ground but unconcerned as I put two feet in front of two more and slipped through the gate, leaping up the stairs to the threshold. I was slipping unnoticed along the wall toward the dark of a couch when I heard a shriek and everything went black. Then a crescent of light appeared at the rim of my trap. Two slim hands swooped down, scooped me up and I was swiftly plopped into a bird cage. "I just love these little sugar lizards," someone said. A dozen pair of eyes were on me. "It's pretty hard to catch one," said another. "They are actually geckos," said a third. Someone slipped a nugget of cake into my enclosure and a jar lid of - what else - Champagne. The party continued and I was slide-lined on a counter in the kitchen, so couldn't succeed in my snooping. No conversations could be made out from here. I sized up the door to my small prison. I figured I could easily escape much later in the night and and slip out a window to a spot where I was praying I could resume my original form.

Extremes of Style - A Too Brief History

Extremes of Style - A Too Brief History, by Brandy Larson There is a love/hate relationship with Extremes of Style. It's a condition of the - times. Old School - "don't go to extremes." The Roaring Twenties, my first example of the past 100 years, was an era of extremes. WWI rearranged a society reeling from the carnage and terrible new technologies of the day. The traditional values of moderation in all things morphed into the "new extreme styles" - the era of jazz, booze and maybe even cocaine. Hemlines shrank, women apologetically wore make-up in public, even Great Aunt Iris, the product of a Seventh Day Adventist home, became a jazz trumpeter. Her sister, my Grandma Gladys probably became a flapper! But what goes up, must come down. With the Stock Market Crash of 1929 and the ensuing grind of The Depression, for most people in America, extremes of desperation, not style, marked the daily struggle for survival. Then WWII bent people's minds in new and extreme ways, but also lifted the US out of the economic pit. Americans were hunkering down, coping with the horrors of an ever more powerful war machine and national rationing of gas, sugar and meat. One extreme was women wearing pants and entering industrial production in the factories of the war economy. Once the smoke cleared, The Fifties were born. A new optimism prevailed, along with the Baby Boom. Women were whisked back to the home. A more mobile society, suburban "don't rock the boat," the nuclear family, aprons, Doris Day and Pat Boone were the spirits (?) of the day. Extremes, it seems had gone out of style. Once Elvis hit the airwaves and the Ed Sullivan Show (I remember seeing him on our tiny black and white TV as a young kid), and teenagers got behind the wheel of the family car, things would never be the same. In The Sixties Rock n' Roll morphed into the British Invasion, then Hard Rock and the Rolling Stones, and "the mini-skirt's the current thing - unn-ha" (Nancy Sinatra. Panty hose were born. And "the pill." The Civil Rights Movement can't be called a style, but long overdue - shook things up. There was widespread teenage rebellion born of affluence of the new middle class and the daily tragedies of the Viet Nam War morphed into mass political protests of the "Anti War Movement," the Hippie Era and mind expanding drugs. Seen as EXTREME, and certainly a Style. Huge sectors of society were turned upside-down with the" turn on, tune in and drop out" frame of mind. And the reinventions of Feminism (former wave of the Suffragettes of the early 20th Century and finally voting rights in1920). Bras were burned, there were women's consciousness groups (what are they talking about in there?. Women got college degrees and "good jobs," they were elected to office and started their own businesses, they waited to get married. And the Black Power Movement, a part of Power to the People. Modern Extreme Style became ever more the norm, rather than the "other form." We are the product of our times. Somewhere along the line my youthful freedom and optimism got lost, as well as my ability to keep up with the happening trends; the Yuppies, the New Wave, the Punks, Gen X/Y, Millennials and Helicopter Parents, etc, which sometimes seem like Extreme Styles in every way. Extreme Style is an attractor of the affluent, the arty, and as ever - the young. It is a challenge to the creative and the entrepreneurial classes that feed the desire for something NEW, fresh and exciting (did I say profitable?) Old School will NOT do. But, once again - what goes up, must come down. The Extremes of digital technology have totally altered our world and our attention spans. What Andy Warhol once described as our little corner of "fifteen minutes of [individual] fame," has become 15 seconds - about twice the current average attention span - and a new selfie every twenty minutes - Style. A recent trend was to get "unplugged," which is how I spend my vacations. Parents of young children are advised to avoid "screens" for the kids until age 3. (I never saw a TV until I was 5!) There are still things that transcend the ever-present hunger for Extreme Style, like last night's Super Moon / Blood Moon / Full Lunar Eclipse (9/27/2015). The cloudy sky cleared at the very last moment to reveal this wonder to Madison, WI. The last time this occurred was 1982 and the next time will be 2033. I loved to see the moon slowly changing back from red to silver, peering cooly down our frantic world. On this finally clear night the eclipsing moon appears the same to me as it did the the pre-Celts of Stonehenge and to homo sapiens wandering out of Africa. For a shining hour or two, I'll escape - Extremes of Style