Shirley

Those old ones never got to see their grandkid boogie in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat , either. This is the teenager I told you abo ut who almost hits the sky, j ust standing up. The ensemble writhing in their glitter and glasses and paint and belting out “Go Go Go Joseph,” for maybe two seconds he moonwalked. They had him stuck way at the back, but I saw. His mother a few seats away from me missed it but I didn’t. Grandmothers keep their eyes peeled. In the weeks of rehearsals leading up , Grandboy’d shrug, say he’d just be playing one of Joseph’s brothers, no big deal. We had no warning. Heels to scalp he’s 6 ft. 5 in. That mirror in the photo, even if you look hard, you can’t tell, but those crazy shiny pants scarcely reached his ankles. (Backstage photo by Liam. November production c/o Off Broadway Players, Broadway VA.)    

Also, my grandfather never visited my gymnastics club, watched at the window and chattered with my sister while I leaped and spun and waved my strong bare legs toward God’s high heaven. (That’s 11-year-old Grandgirl on the roll-y ball. And that’s 5-year-old Grandgirl with Paulson. A quick trip we made the other week allowed us the opportunity to go see.) Maybe things were better in the good old days, or maybe not. This isn’t about that. Just, times change. The generations pass. It’s our chance now and we’re taking it.        

I told Paulson, “My grandmother never took me driving.” For now, all I let 10-year-old Grandboy do is steer. Thirteen-year-old Grandgirl, though, planted in the seat, hands on the quavering wheel, foot on the gas—or brake—gets to creep the car the whole way down to the mailbox and back. Their glee. So little it takes to thrill them. (Photos by Grandgirl)        

Clothespins, cont’d   And then there’s playing. Using the squeeze kind, Grandgirl hung her allotment of undies punctiliously, perfectly. Also she overlapped the pieces oddly—no breathing room. Don’t think for one minute I remedied that. (I took a picture. But I’m not putting all our laundry out to air.)      

Clothespins, cont’d The staunch on-two-solid-legs ones, not grippy enough for slithery items, work splendidly for the big towels and hefty manly trousers. The trouble is they sometimes split from the pressure.    

Clothespins, cont’d The squeeze ones sometimes lack tenacity, can’t keep soggy wet clothes in their clutch. Also they fly apart anytime they get the urge. But they make good clips. Cinch shut your ripped-open Cheerios liner. Secure the parchment around your hunk of cake you’re putting into the freezer. Also, wedge a few wooden halves down between your pie crust and pan so the butter bubbling from the crust as it bakes has a place to puddle. You don’t want it dripping down onto the floor of the oven and smoking everybody out of the house.    

Clothespins, Introduction Which kind matters.  

1. My husband says we’re in hell now. He said this to the rabid father of the rabid relative I told you about. It might seem a bit strong. But yes, it’s warm for November, and for the people here who may again have to run for their lives, the terror alone is a torment. 2. Whether the filth that keeps coming from the mouth of the now-elected felon is more for attention, a stunt, than an indication of his depravity can perhaps be debated. My mother always said that people who used slang, or swore, merely didn’t have a big-enough vocabulary—so maybe filth, period, is just emptiness. Peabrain-ness. (One can only extrapolate.) (Rabid—is that a swear word?) 3. The actor Jeremy Strong, in an Oct. 28 Time article about the movie business and his role in The Apprentice (2024), speaks of the urge he feels to find good material—movie scripts of consequence, real worth, into which to pour himself. “I guess I feel like the world is on fire,” he says, “and I’m not that interested in laundry-fol...

On a perfectly awful day I have only this: so much, so much to weep for. P.S. One of our relatives, a rabid supporter of Sir Orange, informed us yesterday, “Peace and stability will once again return to the world.” Meaning, if he were to win. At least we’re not still out there suspended from the clothesline, twisting in the wind, wondering.      

Felicity Still loopy from Covid(?) the other week, I thought I might let you in on the songs I want sung after I leave. Not that I’ll care, anymore. They’re on a sheet of paper in a bag hanging right inside the back door. (I don’t know, just now, a single reason why I would die. But that’s hardly a prerequisite. What does anybody know?) Yellow was starting to hit the wisping leaves beyond the window. Released from his nighttime quarters, deliri ous with the freedom, Buster was paddling his legs across the grass . And all by happenstance, spouting from my laptop speakers were these flaming, clarion words—somebody’s I love— Write on the wall something beautiful Write something big when you feel small Write on the wall something beautiful To help you stand strong Oh world. I didn’t go dig out my requests right then, but now, below are three. Maybe listen—get out of cluttered busybody nastynasty Facebook and soak up every last scrap of felicity, turned way up loud. Then don’t co...