The Legacy We Leave

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a daughter’s moving tribute to her father…enjoy!   MIndigo

(reposted from Gypsy Love Cafe)

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The Legacy We Leave.

via The Legacy We Leave.

1940s life guard girls in Santa Monica

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reminiscent of Lake Tahoe in the 40s (tho on a larger scale)…MIndigo

(reposted from We Heart Vintage)

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1940s life guard girls in Santa Monica.

via 1940s life guard girls in Santa Monica.

Status, Revelations, Forecast….

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For those of our kind followers who have been wondering what has happened to Mood Indigo in the last couple of weeks, this is the latest news: MIndigo has been devoting his time to finishing the first four tablets of Gilgamesh, as described on MI’s sister blog, Ampersand Press. Tablets 1-4 were published in paper this last Tuesday…so all is well on that front.

As if that weren’t enough, MI’s ongoing research into his family’s history turned up some astonishing facts and experiences: namely, he was able to locate and visit in Martinsburg, WV (where he and his mom live) the house where his father’s father was born. Later he was able to locate and visit a second house in Martinsburg where his paternal grandfather lived while growing up.

Considering that MIndigo’s father was born in California & MIndigo was born in Brazil, this is quite a homecoming.

Wow! As mom put it, “you’re never going to look at Martinsburg in the same way.” Only too true, and MIndigo is more-or-less quietly absorbing the experiences and wondering what it will feel/be like to actually locate relations in the area. Personally, MIndigo would like at a minimum to find/acquire a photo of his father’s father in his prime…but much more may be in store as a result of further researches. So MI was happy to hear that the town library has a genealogist on staff who can help him on his path…

In the meantime, MI is working on a post about Mel Torme and another about–guess what!–genealogy. Even A Daughter’s Song and Dance has not been lost sight of.  Things are OK, just catching up with themselves…   MIndigo

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Photo: The Apollo Theater, Martinsburg, WV. WikiCmns. CC 3.0 Unported. Author: Acroterion.

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Christie & Alex vs Dragon Fruit

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it’s early spring down under (reblogged from Our Suburban Eden)…  MIndigo

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Christie & Alex vs Dragon Fruit.

via Christie & Alex vs Dragon Fruit.

Dad and his pal on the town

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A vintage photo, a great father (from the Memories Project)…� MIndigo

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Dad and his pal on the town.

via Dad and his pal on the town.

Our Adaptable Adventure – Where the birds were the stars

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folks: beautiful photos, great attitude (reblogged from Cozy Travels)… Mindigo

Our Adaptable Adventure – Where the birds were the stars.

via Our Adaptable Adventure – Where the birds were the stars.

New York, 1909

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The first decade of the 1900’s was an era of possibility, of great opportunity linked to America’s emerging economy. Ordinary people did amazing things, went far in life, and acquired some enemies in the process. Here is the beginning of a melodrama from a melodramatic period:

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I don’t think what happened to the Councilman was an accident. He took the train down to Grand Central Station, a hansom cab to the hotel, was met by the manager, and escorted to his usual room.

When the Councilman was alone, he checked his pocket-watch and decided he had time to take a short nap before the evening’s activities. He took off his grey spring 5-piece suit, hung it over the chair for the maid to sponge down and iron if need be, hung up his good shirt with pearl buttons, its bow-tie hanging over to it, and arranged himself as comfortably as possible on the large bed. Ahhh. Before he knew it, he had drifted off.

A low creaking woke him up—he could see the nob of the room’s door turning. Had he forgotten to bolt the door? Someone gave the door a gentle push; it swung open a couple of inches. But the Councilman couldn’t make out the person on the other side of the door. “Who’s there?” he asked.

In response, the barrel of a gun emerged in the gap and jerked. The Councilman felt a blow to the left side of his chest, then excruciating pain. The smell of cordite reached him, and he tried to get out of bed. He realized he couldn’t move.

Blindly, he groped for the buzzer on the cord beside his bed, found it, and pushed it, falling back onto the pillows from the exertion. Distantly, he heard feet running down the hall, people entering the room…

The hotel manager was standing over the Councilman, talking into a phone: “We need the doctor. Now.” The manager was a thin man in his early 30s, not given to patience. While he waited, he stripped off the bloody shirt and began cleaning the wound. There had never been a death on his watch, and he was damned if he was going to have one now.

The doctor appeared after a few minutes and, seeing the blood on the sheets and the manager’s worried expression, began to work at once. This doctor had practiced in the city for years, and was more than familiar with gunshots and extracting bullets. He knew at once that the wound was serious—but at the moment, his chief concern was to stop the bleeding. And he also knew that the victim was important, important enough so that no word of the shooting must pass his lips. …

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photo: baby dragoon Colt, 1848; author: Hmaag; WikiCmns

Egg or Porridge?

Folks:

Here is an anecdote from the 1st chapter of the memoir, when Mom was still quite little. Her adoptive mother had brought in a *French Governess* (named Marie Diane–and also frequently called Mamselle) to give Mom the advantages of culture at an early age. The only problem was that Marie Diane spoke no English, and Mom, of course, knew no French. Here is one result of the language barrier:

 After that, I didn’t see much of Mama; I was on my own with Marie Diane. We communicated in sign language at first, but somehow I always seemed to know what she was talking about, and gradually I learned to understand her words and even to repeat after her during our meals in my room, served on the table with folding legs. If I wanted the butter, I had to call it le beurre, or she wouldn’t hand it to me. I learned that gentil meant nice, and that if I flushed my panties down the toilet, I was méchant.

I also learned some tricks. Once, I told Mama that I didn’t get porridge for breakfast any more; I only got a plain old egg in a shell, and Mamselle chopped off the top with her knife and made me eat it out of the shell with a little spoon.

Mama said, “Well, I never!” and turning to face Marie Diane so she could read her lips, said carefully and slowly, “In America, we cook our eggs before we eat them.”

“Mais, bien sur! (But of course!)” Mamselle replied, leading Mama by the arm to the kitchen. She got hold of the hourglass egg-timer, and, turning it up and down furiously, insisted, “Trois minutes! Ni plus, ni moins! (Three minutes! Neither more nor less!)” Mama looked to Anna, our Swedish cook, for help with translating, but Anna only put her arms around my shoulders and said, “I donna understand her neither.”

“I want porridge with syrup for breakfast!” I wailed, pressing my advantage.

Faced with the insurmountable barrier of language, Mama capitulated, and after that I got to eat breakfast in the kitchen so that Anna could supervise. It remains a remarkable fact that, while Mamselle and I slowly learned each other’s language, Mama never picked up a word of French.