Volare

Should auld Plymouth automobiles be forgot and never brought to mind? In the nostalgic moments of a New Year's Eve I recall with exaggerated fondness the '61 Sport Fury of my college years. In a bitter winter in the early Seventies I learned that eating the citrus fruits floating in a rum punch was a bad idea. We won't dwell on that now, but my son hosted a fairly impromptu party for college friends at the condo.

In between the whirr of making margaritas in my blender and shuffling cards, I caught the sound of "Volare"! This was not Jerry Vale or Petula Clark singing the Italian ballad. It was not Sergio Franchi singing the jingle for the Plymouth Volare of the mid-Seventies. This was the Gipsy Kings on an iPod.

For auto lang syne, my dear,
for old Plymouth lang syne,
we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet, and a quart of oil
for auto lang syne.

To fly, Oh!, Oh!,

To sing, Oh!, Oh!, Oh!, Oh!

In the blue of your blue eyes

Happy to be there.

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Demolition Derby

Should you happen to need a 1999 Dodge Intrepid with peeling tinted windows which roll down but not back up, very occasional air conditioning, rear passenger interior door panels that fall off if you look at them, and a black exterior finish that has been sanded by the constant pummelling of teeny tiny asteroids that is the day-to-day unpolished gritty reality of Lubbock dust storms, please contact me. It is a big car with a huge trunk, just right for hauling all your worldly possessions to and from college. In that regard, it is not so very different from a 1961 Plymouth Sport Fury.

In Lubbock, you get small drifts of dirt on your patio, in your garage, inside your doors and on your windowsills. Back in 1987 my sons' father thought the little boys would love to see a demolition derby because they liked cars and crashing so much. The boys were four and two, and the baby was six weeks old. The derby was at night, somewhere in rural Iowa close to Omaha, and very loud. The two older boys did enjoy the smashing and crashing for awhile. Late in the evening, the wind picked up strong enough to blow over the concession tents. We were all coated with dirt from the derby track. We had dirt inside our eyes, ears, noses, and throats. Whenever the boys seemed deaf to the words of their mommy over the next two decades, and surely that never happened, I blamed it on the demolition dirt derby!

In our delightful Tech graduation weekend, the best meals were supper at Gardski's and Mother's Day "breakfast" at Freebirds. Gardski's is in a 1920s era home with a fine porch, and has an eclectic menu. We all found it hard to choose, and enjoyed our choices. Unlike the Dodge Intrepid, the a/c was on hyperdrive meat locker setting!

The Lubbock Freeb!rds World Burrito restaurant lacked the memorable visual of the guy with the tattooed Third Eye at the Austin restaurant. Still, it served up one mighty fine foil-wrapped burrito with avocado and roasted garlic on a cayenne tortilla. I love my occasional Sunday "breakfasts" at Chipotle, getting my Tabasco fix and reading the Dallas Observer. Freebirds has more choices than Chipotle for your special Sunday brunch!



When you think eye, think Intrepid!

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Rolling in Dough

I did not pass Go. I did not collect two hundred dollars. I've got lots of dough, though.

Friday afternoon I was seized with the urge to make the ground beef and the head of red cabbage I had on hand into runzas. I had a recipe from the Minnesotans for Nebraska web page celebrating that distinctly Nebraskan taste treat, the runza. A runza is ground beef, chopped cabbage, and diced onions "cooked down". The mixture is scooped onto a rolled out square of bread dough, then folded into a pillow, and baked. I replaced the onions with pepper and celery, then got a bit carried away with seasonings. Following recipes has never been my long suit.

I left Steven a message to pick up four loaves of frozen bread dough on the way home from work. Instead, he brought four packages, each containing three loaves. So I've got yer dough! I will be able to make many more test batches of runzas before I can fit anything else in my freezer.

Monopoly has been on my mind all week. I teach with a woman who will also hit the big fifty mark this year. We learned to play Monopoly in 1962. We were comparing our Barbie dolls. We both had the red-headed Midge doll with the flip hairdo. Midge was always my favorite, more friendly, playful, and approachable than my rather stern-looking brunette bouffant Barbie. We agreed that red-headed Midge dolls were never ever allowed to wear the magenta ballgowns. It was an unwritten law. We are both surprised when little red-heads come to class in magenta outfits. Alas, their mothers are way too young to have had flip hair-do Midge dolls, and so they just don't understand the law!

My brother has been driving to visit my dad every weekend. In my mind's eye, he is driving the silver racing car from the Monopoly set. He always used the race car. He always amassed all the cheap purple and light blue properties, improved them to the max, then made the rest of us go bankrupt paying rents. My sister usually chose the shoe/slipper. She was fond of the red and green properties because they were such nice colors. If we could convince my mom to play on a snow day off from school, she used the thimble or the iron game piece. I generally used the cannon game piece even though I wasn't sure what it was. It was just the easiest to slide around the board. That left the hat, ship, and dog for guests.

Midge always looked drop dead gorgeous in this green party dress. It's sad that the matching open-toed high heels wore out from dancing with Ken. I always wanted to own Pennsylvania, North Carolina, and Pacific Avenue, and Monopoly strategy be damned.

A dearly demented friend reported recently that she had to go break up a fight between her sons. Her youngest always wants all the yellow properties; Marvin Gardens, Ventnor, and Atlantic, but her older son had bought them up. Was it a matter of strategy that the youngest always wanted the yellows, in the way it was strategy for my brother to buy up Baltic and Mediterranean? Oh, no. It is because that particular yellow, henceforth known as Parker Brothers Yellow, is Henry's favorite. He would give his brother anything he owns, including his bedroom, to hold those yellow deeds.

When Henry was in my preschool class he would tell me about the continents. The continents were completely linked in his mind to the colors of the pieces on his world map picture puzzle. When he grows up he will probably become the world's foremost expert on European geopolitics, and it will be because Europe was the yellow continent on his map puzzle when he was three.

Everyday on my walk to and from Millard Lefler Junior High School I passed a green Camaro convertible. It was beautiful. The Camaro didn't radiate macho speed and power. It seemed to me more of a magical vehicle, like a leprechaun's magic carpet gliding just above the dew-laden grass in springtime. Although I would rather own a 1961 red and white Plymouth Sport Fury with rectangular steering wheel and push-button transmission, the 1969 green Camaro with the white convertible roof is my second choice.



For some people, choices are about strategy and power. For the rest of us, it's all about the color!

Follow the Yellow Brick Road

Have to fess up right up front. Canyon Road makes me claustrophobic. I can't see any horizon! The road is mighty narrow. I did know I needed to visit this famous collection of Santa Fe galleries, but I didn't exactly imagine why. When I reached the historic gardens of El Zaguan I thought I had found my purpose. What a beautiful spot!

My wandering eventually led me to Housang's Gallery. I've put in a link over there on the right. This gallery had large photos of rusty old cars and trucks. No 1961 Plymouth Sport Furies, but a wide spectrum of rust colors to enjoy. When I started to select the poor man's art form, the art greeting card, the woman behind the counter introduced herself as the photographer. Soon Barbara Bowles and I are in a discussion of junkyard dogs as dangers on our rusted vehicle photo shoots. I explain about my never-finished quilt of Kansas storms through car windows made with dyed and distressed fabrics. Barbara explains the process of scanning her negatives then correcting the colors in Photoshop. What great fun! Our chat becomes more personal and specific. Barbara tells me that she has the best results using 3M framing tape instead of archival glue sticks. That probably sounds petty to anyone who has never tried to create photo greeting cards, but it was the equivalent of telling the location of pirate's gold. Soon we were pondering the best college education choices for my high school photographer son. Please check out the link for the "Pickup Artist". Barbara has some great discoveries in her auto photo series. I really appreciate her willingness to discuss arts and education.

Making a list and checking it twice

Since I was first old enough to read a newspaper (we are talking about over forty years ago here), I've been pondering what four famous people I would invite to my fantasy dinner party. You know those kind of newspaper columns about some local person-of-the-hour: What kind of car do you drive? A rusted-out puke-yellow Chevy Nova with a defective air intake ...What kind of car do you wish you drove? The Rhinemaiden always wishes to drive the 1961 Plymouth Sport Fury...What would you choose to eat at your last meal? A Nebraska corn-fed beef T-Bone, of course, and a baked potato with sour cream...Your all-time favorite TV show? If you were stranded on a desert island for the rest of your life, what four books, four movies, and four LPs would you want to have with you? (Ignore the absurd premise of the question).

For much of my life of worrying about these major philosophical questions, I've been inviting Dr. Seuss, Alexander Calder, Jerry Garcia, and Henri Matisse to my fantasy dinner party. Sometimes I decide that I have to invite at least one woman, and that leads to lots of guilt and anxiety. Henri Matisse gets dumped, and I feel just horrible about that. The women I've considered inviting over the years include children's author Margaret Wise Brown, quilt artist Nancy Crow, novelist Louise Erdich, NPR contributor Bailey White, Bonnie Raitt, Hillary Clinton (when I thought she was going to change the health care system), and writer Nora Ephron. I can't ever seem to find a woman with the playfulness, creativity, humor, and impact to fit in with the guys. And who is supposed to cook and clean up at this fantasy dinner, I ask you that. It better not be me. I was planning to retire to the study for port and cigars with the men.

The desert island LP list has two constants; Derek & the Dominoes, and Dave Brubeck's "Take Five". A recording of Mozart's clarinet, bassoon, and oboe concertos is usually on the list. I used to sit out in the front yard digging dandelions and listening to the Top Forty countdown on my AM transistor radio with the earphone on Saturdays in the mid-Sixties. A 45 rpm recording of Petula Clark singing "Downtown" cost 88 cents, and a vinyl LP of Peter, Paul, and Mary cost $3.98 plus sales tax. I made between thirty-five and fifty cents per hour babysitting. Even then I worried about the fantasy dinner guests and the desert island.

"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" always leads the movie list. I would be quite willing to trade places with Katharine Ross/Etta Place even if I had to stay forever on the desert isle (or in Bolivia) with Paul Newman and Robert Redford. Let me ride just once on Butch's handlebars! I often list "Dr. Strangelove" and "What's Up Doc?" They have mysterious curative powers.

Desperadoes, by Ron Hansen, is always the first book. I know, I know. It's some kind of outlaw attraction that goes along with Butch and Sundance. The outlaw attraction is powerful, and can lead a good woman to marry a no-good gunfighter or a bankruptcy attorney... Pussywillow, by Margaret Wise Brown is next. After that I always decide I should get to choose at least ten books for the island.

I do have my heroes, despite my fondness for outlaws. "The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle" is my favorite TV show of all time. Mr. Peabody is sooooo my type!


I am hoping if I confess all this I will be relieved of my life-long obsession. Maybe I'll just be too embarrassed to ever mention it again.

Last Minute Shopping

Birthday Wish List:

1. Stomach muscles

2. Million dollars

3. Date with Lyle Lovett

4. Three book deal

5. Long weekend in the Monahans Sand Dunes

6. Archaeological trove of old-timey Barbie shoes, padlock keys, buttons, and bolts

7. Red & white 1961 Plymouth Sport Fury with rectangular steering wheel and push button transmission in mint condition

8. Self-cleaning carpet

9. Perfect purse

10. Perfect shoes

Tell Santa I'm being very good

We had the pea green Chevy until about 1972. Then my dad bought a red and white 1961 Plymouth Sport Fury with push-button transmission and rectangular steering wheel. The windshield was tinted so the whole world looked like "South Pacific" in Panavision. That is the car I used to load up with 4'x4' canvases. It is also also the car in the Unfortunate Incident When the Moth Flew Up My Bellbottom Pant Leg. The 1961 Sport Fury is quite probably the greatest car ever made, and I would very much like one in mint condition if you happen to be out shopping. Make sure it is red and white. Thanks.

Table matters

Been out back in my pith helmet, hacking back the cannas, elephant ears, and vines that have completely overgrown my tiny patio. The weather is lovely. Little lizards are hiding among the vines on the fence, and monarch butterflies are floating over.

The high school Gang of Six was here for lunch. I fixed a big bag of frozen hash browns, a bag of Little Smokies, ten scrambled eggs with a half bag of grated cheddar, and a quart bowl of fruit salad. They devoured it, all washed down with the requisite Texas national beverage, Dr. Pepper. Guess they were glad for a change from nachos, hot dogs, and pizza. Today I learned about the prevalence of french kissing in the school hallways, but I don't really eavesdrop.

One evening this week I gave my son The Talk about STDs and oral sex. Always wonderful dinner conversation! Normally we have the (equally disgusting) discussion of Dubya and his daily dastardly deeds. Lysol! Lysol! Clorox! Raid! Weedwackers! At breakfast the two of us don't talk much, but growl and hiss at the newspaper reports of the Texas Republican redistricting power grab.

The "Get Fuzzy" comic series on spray adhesive/deodorant for Satchel reminded me of my olden days in the art department's studio space. The building had been a brewery warehouse before being annexed by the university. It was devoid of windows and any climate control, and primitively partitioned into "private studios" for senior painting majors and grad students. All the rolls of canvas were a happy haven for miller moths. I HATE miller moths! Okay, I'm mostly over it, but there had been traumatic experiences in my childhood and teens that took years to work through with pharmaceutical assistance. The moths were so bad in the studio that they brought out my Dark Side. I came to enjoy, yes, enjoy, bringing down a moth with a well-aimed shot of aerosol artists fixative to the wings. Hell, I felt like Wyattetta Earp and Annie Oakley.

Yeah, I know you are trying to imagine kinky moth traumas! When I was little it was so scary to get up in the middle of the night, walk down the hall to the bathroom, switch on the lightl, and set a dusky miller moth flying at me. The only thing worse was when grasshoppers as big as cigars would jump at my bare legs in our parched backyard when we were sent out to get "fresh air".

When I got my driver's license, my dad drove a red and white '61 Plymouth Sport Fury with push-button transmission and rectangular steering wheel. This is quite possibly the greatest American car ever made. Should I ever be interviewed for one of those "County Snapshot" columns in the newspaper, I know I will name that as my fantasy vehicle. (I waver a lot on the guests for my fantasy dinner party, and my desert island books though, not due to any lack of consideration). The only trouble was my dad parked the Sport Fury in a gravel parking lot with the windows rolled down at his office. In the evenings, my hip-hugger, bell-bottom, macrame belt self would get the chance to drive to choir practice or cruise Taco John's. Mere words cannot describe the total panic of losing control of that car when a miller moth would fly up my flared pant leg while driving on "O" Street. Especially with Alice Cooper on the radio!

Did I happen to mention bagworms? We had mind-blowing infestations on all the bushes in our yard in my impressionable junior high years. My anti-chemical/fiscally strapped dad sent all his natural born children out to pluck the hideous things off the junipers. When we got a good coffee-canful of bagworms, we would roast them in the charcoal grill. The bagworms would emerge from their bags and writhe, but refuse to die. On the good side, I got to take my transistor radio with the earphone out on these shock and awe operations, tuned to KLMS Top 40. "Last Train to Clarksville", "Georgie Girl", "To Sir With Love"...

Alas, we still have bagworms in the Bushes.

I went out for a ride and I never came back...

Floating on a wave of optimism after posting so smoothly, I ventured forth into a glorious Lone Star evening to purchase three Quick Pick tickets--one for each college education. The sky is a lovely shade that I can only describe as the hue of vanilla ice cream when the carton is placed on top of the fridge instead of into the freezer. You discover the mistake the next morning, when it is certainly not convenient, especially before coffee. The ice cream has melted all down the side of the fridge; you see the gelatins, dyes, and other mystery components that have separated and recongealed into subtle agate bands of color. Alas, you find it has also affixed the kids' drawings, pizza coupons, emergency phone numbers, cutesy magnets, and Christmas card photos to the fridge in a very enduring way. Into this twilight glow, please imagine thin bands of canned salmon, not yet mixed with Campbell's Cream of Mushroom, and sprinkled lightly with violet powdered tempera paint from your first grade classroom, with the rust from the a/c evaporator coils you can't afford to replace. The only thing needed to complete this idyllic vision is a red and white 1961 Plymouth Sport Fury with push-button transmission and rectangular steering wheel.