Fortitude

One day, my mom's brother, Chuck, called his siblings aside and told them to only take one helping of dinner.

"Dad and Mother won't eat until we're done," he explained. 

It was the Great Depression. My grandfather dug ditches and baked and decorated cakes to make ends meet. 

There were many days when the ends didn't come together.

My grandmother kept a ration book she once showed me. She kept meticulous notes about whose turn it was to get a new pair of shoes, for example. I marveled at her sense of fair play, particularly given that of the six children she was raising at the time, only one was hers. (She was my grandfather's second wife. Two more mouths to feed would arrive during the 1930s.) 

The two of them managed to persevere, and then thrive in the following decades, until my grandfather was felled by a stroke in the 1960s. And my grandmother, with her usual take-it-all-in-stride attitude, looked after him for the next nine years without complaint.

In this, the year of the rat (the Chinese certainly called that one), I try to remind myself that my forebears survived much worse than I have thus far. 

And I try not to boo-hoo about finding a permanent job. Or wearing a mask. Or having to curtail seeing loved ones in person.

I have discovered something about myself.

I'm a big wuss.

I wonder if, given the same circumstances as my grandparents, would I have been up to the challenge?

I hope I never have to find out.

From My Window

2020 can't be over soon enough for me.

In spite of my "one day at a time" philosophy, I'm finding it difficult to stay the course.

I would say the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg was the last straw, but something tells me that, with 3 1/2 months left in this bizarre year, we have a long way to go. 

So, this morning, after I skimmed the newspaper, read the funnies and did my best with the jumble puzzles, I turned my attention to the window to my backyard.

There I found about two dozen grackles, a couple of red winged blackbirds and a few brave sparrows, all vying for the premium birdseed I'd put out.

Alas, my puny feeder was not made for a descending herd, and while the grackles did their best, they were having trouble gaining purchase. So, being the birdie hostess with the mostest, I went out and threw a bunch of seed on the ground.

This did the trick, and soon they all tucked into the banquet in the grass and chowed away, leaving room at the table above for the more petite sparrows.

Inevitably, a squirrel came along to see what he was missing. In a serpentine move, he tried to nonchalantly sashay his way across the lawn toward the feeder. Alas, he couldn't compete with the grackles, so he backed off, prudently deciding he didn't want to risk getting his eyes pecked out.

Maggie and I watched until the show ended.

I know this isn't much of a post today, but I needed to remind myself of the persistence of life, nature's ennui with human concerns and that, in spite of the minefield that is 2020, it's a beautiful day outside my window and I need to go out and enjoy it.

I hope you can, too.

So Ap-Peel-Ing

When they talk about the lack of strong women role models in the 1960s, I can't help but think about Emma Peel.

Public domain image

Diana Rigg as Emma Peel quickly became the star of The Avengers, a British TV spy thriller. Emma, a sleek, sexy but very feisty female character could take care of herself, thank you very much. Alongside Patrick McNee as John Steed (the very definition of dapper), she fought crime as an intelligence agent. The show was suspenseful in an understated way. Not big on car crashes and macho displays of force. Rather, psychological and smart.

A fictional and unlikely character, perhaps, but one of my favorites.

Alas, Dame Diana Rigg passed away this week at the age of 82. But my, what a run she had. 

Leaving Mrs. Peel behind, Rigg took on a role in the Bond Film, On Her Majesty's Service, enjoying the distinction of being the only Bond girl who marries the commitment-shy action figure. Alas, she had to be killed off in the final frame to make way for the next Bond girl. 

A classically trained actress, Diana Rigg returned to the stage many times throughout her career, in a slew of theater productions both here and across the pond.

Rigg hosted the PBS Mystery series for many years, although she professed she wasn't a big fan of the genre herself. And from 1998-2000, she starred in The Mrs. Bradley Mysteries. 

Her swan song was the role of Lady Olenna Tyrell on Game of Thrones, which earned her four Emmy nominations.

Talk about a life well-lived.

Still, I will always and forever look back most fondly to her Emma Peel character. And that fabulous cat suit. 

How I wish I could have EVER carried off that look.

Getting Graphic

 "Here's one about the Beatles," Mr. Ginley intoned.

©1985 by Matt Groening

We were standing in the Rocky River library as he perused the latest graphic novel titles. It's a genre he's enjoyed over the course of the last year or two, observing that the breadth of subjects has expanded significantly in recent times.

"It used to be that comic books were outlawed in the library," Mr. said. Apparently, the librarian would point to the door if you brought one the offending publications into that hallowed space.

Today, graphic novels, the offshoot of comic books, cover a variety of topics and, as in the case of the Beatles book, are not confined to works of fiction. There are bios of Bowie, Elvis and a whole host of other celebrities. Science is now graphically explained. And some authors/illustrators have found a home for their memoirs. All this is in addition to traditional comic panels, mainstream and subversive.

Back in the day, I was a fan of Matt Groening's Binky and Bongo. And Lynda Barry. This was years after my childhood interest in Archie and Betty. 

More recently, I haven't paid much attention to the graphic novel section. But Mr. has been working on me, reading passages from the books he's checked out. So, for the first time, I selected three items from the stacks, and I'm looking forward to digging in.

Two are memoirs, one about NYC, penned by Roz Chast (of The New Yorker), the other, by Tyler Feder, is a tribute to the author's mom. The third is a collection of more classic comics, created by Reza Ferezmand, who has a wicked sense of humor. (Just my style.)

Time will tell if my newfound interest will last. Or if the genre will continue to expand or will die out. Given our society and its obsession with instant visual gratification, I suspect they are here to stay. 

Somewhere, I can hear the age-old argument as to the value of graphic novels to young minds.

"At least the kids are reading," it was argued.

True enough.