Music That Moooves

Anyone familiar with my M.O. will not be surprised that, when driving through the countryside and I spot a bovine, I call out, "MOO!"

I will do this in spite of the fact all I get from my traveling companions is eyerolls. 

So just imagine what their response would be if I said I was going to Denmark to play the cello for my four-legged friends.

According to an article that appeared in the The New York Times, the Scandinavian Cello School, at the behest of its neighboring farmer friends, do just that. 

Students of the school, aged 17 to 25, come to Denmark to hone their skills -- and serenade the cows. The owners of the farm heard that cows who listen to classical music allegedly produce better tasting beef. So they first tried a boom box, then invited the school's owner to stop by and play for the herd.

It turns out, the cows love the music. They get as close to the musicians as possible and listen attentively as the cellists do their thing. And moo appreciatively at the conclusion of the concert. 

Who could ask for a better audience?

While there's still no real verdict as to the quality of the beef from the music-loving herd, it is nice to know that before they are dispatched to steaks and hamburgers, Elsie and her kin are able to enjoy life to the fullest, thanks to the kindness of these visiting musicians.

A word to the wise, however. The cows do not cotton to Dvorak. 

So if you're going to play classical music for your herd, stick to Mozart.

Flapping in the Breeze

The other day as I was exercising, I caught a terrifying glimpse of my upper arm.

It jiggled. 

In spite of the fact I've been working hard to build up muscle, there it was, the skin flapping all around like a chicken wing, all with a mind of its own.

To add insult to injury, I also noticed my skin has taken on a crepe-like texture.

When did all this happen? Five minutes ago, I was 30 years old, living in the Washington, DC area, with a great job and a workspace with a view of the Potomac. 

Now I'm...my mom.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. I love my mom, and I miss her every day. I'm heartbroken she and my dad won't be there to see my son get married. (Although I'm convinced they'll be there in spirit, they wouldn't miss it.)

Do I hear whispers of karma? Yes, I do.

Back in my youth, when the temps were warm and my mom wore sleeveless blouses, I would gently poke the flesh under her arm and watch it wobble. I'd chuckle and duck as my mom flung out her arm and said something threatening. 

Payback is...well, you know.

My errant arms make me think of my mom and what an a-hole I was. Let this be a lesson to all you youngsters out there who think it's a gas to poke fun at old folks. It will come back to haunt you one day.

Not that behaving yourself will matter in the least. In years to come, you, too, will have a wattle beneath your neck. Your knees will creak. And even though you may be forever 30 in your heart, your body will betray you.

All this will not stop me from dancing at my son's wedding. The one advantage to being my age is I can get away with making an ass of myself because young people think it's cute when old folks do awkward things like try to dance the watusi. 

As if they know what the watusi is.

Go ahead, kids. Look it up in the encyclopedia. At the library.

I double dog dare you.

Gaining a Daughter

Having only been the mom to a boy, I've never experienced what it's like to have a daughter (assuming kitties don't count).
All that is about to change.

Last night I attending the virtual edition of my soon-to-be-daughter-in-law's bachelorette party.

In the age of Covid, we party where and how we can.

Having accepted the Facebook invite and in possession of a kit sent to me by mail from the maid of honor, I logged on to join the party.

I sipped something called a Mama Mango (a moscato) that was tasty but didn't render me incapable of an art project. Supplied with paint, a blank canvas and a rock, we were instructed to create something that reminded us of Jill, the bride-to-be.

If you've paid any attention to my blog at all, you know the limits of my artistic ability. I went with simple, painting a heart. After sharing my meager efforts, Jill showed me artwork she and my son did for each other. Sure enough, his prominently features a heart. Proving exactly where Joe gets his talent.

I got to meet Jill's clan, including her mom. Plus her bridesmaids, whom I enjoyed learning about. Like many of their generation, they give me hope for the future of this crummy world.

One highlight of the virtual party included finally meeting face-to-screen with Jill's grandmother, Joan. We've become Facebook friends and found we have a lot in common. Although she didn't comment on last week's blog, I discovered she, too, loved Bobby Sherman. And that she is a birder who goes to great lengths to ensure her backyard friends are fed. Through a quirk of birthing (I had Joe later and he is a little older than Jill), Joan and I are of the same generation. I look forward to seeing her in person at the wedding.

Soon, we'll welcome a daughter to our little family. Jill is a good-hearted person who has made my son a happy man. Who could ask for anything more?

Imagining things will be pretty hectic on their wedding day, I thought I'd share this Gaelic blessing here. (I may be Irish only by marriage, but good luck finding any German blessings. Maybe Axel can chime in here.)

May you always be blessed

With walls for the wind,

A roof for the rain,

A warm cup of tea by the fire --

Laughter to cheer you,

Those you love near you,

And all that your heart 

Might desire.

Mazel tov!

Dreamy Bobby Sherman

A Facebook follower posed the question, "David Cassidy or Bobby Sherman?"

I know he signed it just for me

I don't always chime in, but this time, I was compelled.

Bobby Sherman, absolutely.

My long-time friend Laura was a big David Cassidy fan, watching The Partridge Family religiously. Me, not so much. I always thought David Cassidy was kind of smarmy. I preferred the sweet-natured Bobby Sherman, who could sing and was easy on the eyes.

My Bobby crush started with Here Come the Brides, which I can honestly say now is a pretty awful TV show. (Maybe it's just because it's so dated). At the time, I thought it was the best in TV fare. Week after week, I'd tune in to see Bobby  play Jeremy Bolt, a shy, stuttering youngest brother with a heart of gold.

My big brother, John, who was definitely not a fan of Bobby but who took pity on me, purchased a Bobby Sherman album for me. Yes, I still have it. No, I haven't listened to it in ages. And yes, after this, for nostalgia's sake, I probably will.

Googling Mr. Sherman this morning, I discovered a few more things about him. Turns out, his first wife, Patti, left him and ended up marrying David Soul, who played Bobby's brother on Here Come the Brides. (Soul turned out not to have a very nice one, when he was accused of beating on Patti.)

After appearing on the TV show Emergency, Bobby Sherman decided to become an Emergency Medical Technician (EMT), and spent the next several years in the Los Angeles and San Bernardino fire and police departments. 

David Cassidy's fame never matched his Partridge Family days, although he performed in various venues for the rest of his life. He died from complications of alcoholism.

So, Bobby it is. And Bobby it shall ever be. 

Julie may (or may not) love Bobby. 

But I do.

Reggolections of Easter

This year, I traded in my Easter bonnet for a mask.

Sans measles, 1 yr. later

Not that I've worn many bonnets since my childhood. In my early days, hats were a cherished ritual, along with the pretty dresses that we'd wear to Easter mass. sashaying down the aisle like pastel butterflies. 

Afterward, we'd stand in the backyard and squint into the sun, and my mother snapped our photo for posterity. (She'd read in the Kodak manual that the photographer should stand with his/her back to the sun so the subjects' faces wouldn't be in shadow.)

German measles were my rotten-egg-of-a-surprise one Easter morning. I was five. If I'm recalling correctly, I still did the Easter egg hunt. But the goodies in my basket would have to wait. My mom, who insisted on returning our baskets to the attic the day after, assembled my treats and placed them in a cigar box. 

My next-in-line sister and I had bunk beds (I was on the bottom bunk), and we each had a small bookshelf as the headboard. That's where I kept the goods, suspiciously eying any sibling who came too close.

Time, orangy St. Joseph Children's Aspirin and calamine lotion took care of the measles. But there was no Easter bonnet that year. 

I wonder if hats will ever make a comeback. Once a cherished accessory, and a hallmark of Jackie Kennedy's wardrobe, they've pretty much disappeared.

I can imagine today's generation asking, "What's an Easter bonnet?"

One more thing that dates me. 

Oh, well. at least I'm getting dates...