What is it about ghost stories that make them so much shivery fun? There is something thrilling and scary and comforting—yes, comforting—about ghost stories.
Maybe they are comforting because they suggest mysteries beyond our comprehension. Maybe I like them because they point to the possibility that death isn’t the end of me. Whatever the case, ghosts are much more fun to contemplate than serial killers, the current most popular horror story genre. Ghosts can be really scary but they rarely hurt us, which is why I prefer them. Am I just a horror story whimp?
Most of my friends seem to love good ghost stories too. I hope that doesn’t mean we’re all horror story whimps. Whatever the case, we agree that there is a dearth of good novels about ghosts. And this doesn’t make sense when most of us have a ghost story or two that actually happened to us. Think about it. We aren’t talking urban folktales here. These are not stories that we ascribe to a friend of a friend. These inexplicable doings really happened to us.
The house my family rented when I was a child for our annual summer vacation was in Wellfleet, Massachussets. It sat a bluff called Pleasant Point. There was an unsubstantiated story that the house originally came from an island called Billingsgate that slowly eroded into the sea during the late nineteenth century. The house ended up in its present location after being floated aross to the low end of the point then dragged up the bluff by teams of horses. (The Victorians had a penchant for moving houses—but I digress.) Wellfleet was a prosperous whaling port and the the blubber was processed on the island, also home to taverns and brothels. So this house had had another life, though we didn’t know exactly what kind of life that had been.
I first became aware of the house’s spectral resident one summer when I was in my teens. The rest of the family had gone on a shopping excursion while I stayed home with Doug, the son of friends who shared the house with us that summer. I was downstairs and he was upstairs. Or so I thought. He certainly made enough noise, walking back and forth up there—that is until he piled out of the car some time later with everyone else. Freaked out by the realization that I had not shared the house with my “Purple Haze” crazed acquaintance, but with a ghost of dubious origin, I also discovered that I wasn’t the only one to hear his footsteps. Mom had heard them too, and so had other family and friends. At least we all agreed, he—the weight of the tread was definitely masculine—wasn’t unfriendly. He wasn’t one way or another; he was simply there.
As an adult I met some people who also rented that house. They heard the ghost too.
The ghost at my husband’s family’s summerhouse was not as easy a presence. The old farmhouse in Hampton, New Hampshire, dated back two centuries. This ghost, whose presence was felt by all, rarely made itself manifest like the Cape house ghost. Yet, its company was much more oppressive. Lucky for me, it didn’t seem to haunt the living room and so I spent most of every visit there. When home alone, especially at night, I hated leaving that room. If I could, I never entered another room without switching on the lights first. But light was never enough to keep the shivers away. Even so, I comforted myself with the idea that at least I’d be able to see the haunt should it come for me. I have no idea why that was a comfort. My sister in-law told me that once with the house already closed up in preparation for their leave-taking, her family was outside packing the car. Inside the house they could hear someone going up the stairs over and over again.
So, with personal stories like these out there waiting to become the root of someone’s creative flight of fancy, aren’t writer’s offering up more great ghost stories? The only ones I can think of are The Turn of the Screw, by Henry James, and The Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson. Peter Straub wrote the fairly shivery Ghost Story. Other than these, I haven’t read other great ones. The movie industry does better. “The Sixth Sense,” “Ghost Story,” and “The Others” are entertaining and VERY spokey.
Do I have this wrong? Are there great ghost stories out there that I have missed? It is a cold Sunday afternoon in January. I am home alone. It is the perfect time for a cup of tea and a good novel with a ghost at its center. Anyone have one to share?
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
Donut Musings
I'm not sure what made me think about donuts this morning. The subject came up in the shower. It happened as I poured the shampoo. Could the consistency of the shampoo have reminded me of jelly? Because the fact of the matter is, I only really love jelly donuts. As for the shampoo to jelly relationship, I admit, food is never far from my mind. I myself lay this at the table of my Jewish heritage. We are a food is love based culture. Vist our house and we will offer you food, not a cocktail. We tend to drown our sorrows in Challah and butter, rather than scotch. I tell myself that there is some virtue in this; I’ll get a lot more accomplished before I succumb to the ravages of overeating than if I indulged in other methods of slow suicide. It usually takes far longer to go this way than by drinking or drugging oneself to death. My Aunt Mabel is a shining example. She was a very large woman and although her health wasn’t so great in the end, she was still moving around well into her nineties. But I digress.
The subject here is donuts. Specifically jelly donuts. The fact is, a good one is almost impossible to find. Great donuts do not come in boxes or cellophane packages. They are not made in store bakeries. And sorry, great donuts are not manufactured by Krispy Kreme either. Great donuts are made by great bakeries, which alas, have all but vanished from the landscape.
An acceptable glazed or honey dipped donut can be faked. [Can someone explain to me the difference between the two?] But a jelly donut cannot be counterfeited, although the afore mentioned landscape is strewn with such pretenders. I ask you, how dare the bakers of America put that horrible cornstarch based, artificially colored and flavored goop into the middle of a donut and call it jelly? Jelly is made from real fruit!
A real jelly donut has real jelly, surrounded by a light yeasty sweat bread that isn’t all fluff coated with granulated or powdered sugar—feel free to weigh in on your preference. It should have a bit of crust. Not a crusty crust, but a covering that my teeth must break to get to the soft insides. A bit of pressure is required for the crust to yield, else wise the jelly won’t squeeze out the sides. This characteristic—the oozing of the jelly—is important. Knowing I could end up with jelly all over myself adds to the guilty pleasure of “consummation.”
Donuts are best eaten only a few times a year because they are BAD for us. If they weren’t so bad they wouldn’t be nearly as good. I learned this secret early from my wonderful Aunt Marsha, who taught me lots of great things about life. Her best lesson was how to see the absurd in everyday situations—remind me to tell you her story about the soprano and the Christmas tree—but I digress again. The important point here is that the introduction of donuts to my life was nearly as important as my aunt’s lesson about everyday laughter.
Aunt Marsha always served donuts on the morning we cleaned the cottage at the cape in preparation for leaving and for the next renters to arrive. To make breakfast fast and easy, she served up donuts on paper plates to me, my sister, brother and cousins. This yearly event was both naughty and sublime because my mother didn’t believe in donuts. She didn’t believe in or approve of donuts the same way she didn’t believe in or approving of smoking or sleeping with men before a person married. (And for the record, mom is probably right about all of these things, but I did most of them anyway, more fool me.) So this was it. Once a year throughout my childhood, I indulged in an illicit donut or three.
This is a tradition I uphold today, although as an adult with more responsibilities on most days than illicit pleasures, I indulge my appetite for donuts a bit more often, say two or three times a year. After all, being an adult isn’t nearly as much fun as it looked when I was seven, so adult privileges must be enjoyed to the fullest. Why only two or three times? Because, eating a donut more often would shift the delicate balance of pleasure to guilt toward guilt and away from pleasure.
I have bestowed the love of the once-to-thrice a year donut on to my progeny. Each year, on the morning we leave the Cape, my daughter and I stop for a donut on our way home. Mom sits with us in clear disapproval, munching her whole wheat toast while we indulge. In her defense, it is only fair to mention that at 78, she is spry and lean and in very good health. Her lack of donut eating may have contributed to this. However, since we’ll never know for sure, I’ll continue with my naughty, donut eating ways.
If you know of a good donut anywhere in the country, please share the location. If you have a happy or sad donut memory or an illicit food pleasure to share, please, dish (pun intended).
In case you are traveling through Vermont, here’s my donut tip for you: the best donuts are made at the Middlebury Bake Shop in Middlebury, Vermont. Lucky for me there isn’t a good donut closer to home since my willpower is practically nonexistent. Perhaps this is just as well, since at least for me, a good donut is equal parts good baking and good badness.
The subject here is donuts. Specifically jelly donuts. The fact is, a good one is almost impossible to find. Great donuts do not come in boxes or cellophane packages. They are not made in store bakeries. And sorry, great donuts are not manufactured by Krispy Kreme either. Great donuts are made by great bakeries, which alas, have all but vanished from the landscape.
An acceptable glazed or honey dipped donut can be faked. [Can someone explain to me the difference between the two?] But a jelly donut cannot be counterfeited, although the afore mentioned landscape is strewn with such pretenders. I ask you, how dare the bakers of America put that horrible cornstarch based, artificially colored and flavored goop into the middle of a donut and call it jelly? Jelly is made from real fruit!
A real jelly donut has real jelly, surrounded by a light yeasty sweat bread that isn’t all fluff coated with granulated or powdered sugar—feel free to weigh in on your preference. It should have a bit of crust. Not a crusty crust, but a covering that my teeth must break to get to the soft insides. A bit of pressure is required for the crust to yield, else wise the jelly won’t squeeze out the sides. This characteristic—the oozing of the jelly—is important. Knowing I could end up with jelly all over myself adds to the guilty pleasure of “consummation.”
Donuts are best eaten only a few times a year because they are BAD for us. If they weren’t so bad they wouldn’t be nearly as good. I learned this secret early from my wonderful Aunt Marsha, who taught me lots of great things about life. Her best lesson was how to see the absurd in everyday situations—remind me to tell you her story about the soprano and the Christmas tree—but I digress again. The important point here is that the introduction of donuts to my life was nearly as important as my aunt’s lesson about everyday laughter.
Aunt Marsha always served donuts on the morning we cleaned the cottage at the cape in preparation for leaving and for the next renters to arrive. To make breakfast fast and easy, she served up donuts on paper plates to me, my sister, brother and cousins. This yearly event was both naughty and sublime because my mother didn’t believe in donuts. She didn’t believe in or approve of donuts the same way she didn’t believe in or approving of smoking or sleeping with men before a person married. (And for the record, mom is probably right about all of these things, but I did most of them anyway, more fool me.) So this was it. Once a year throughout my childhood, I indulged in an illicit donut or three.
This is a tradition I uphold today, although as an adult with more responsibilities on most days than illicit pleasures, I indulge my appetite for donuts a bit more often, say two or three times a year. After all, being an adult isn’t nearly as much fun as it looked when I was seven, so adult privileges must be enjoyed to the fullest. Why only two or three times? Because, eating a donut more often would shift the delicate balance of pleasure to guilt toward guilt and away from pleasure.
I have bestowed the love of the once-to-thrice a year donut on to my progeny. Each year, on the morning we leave the Cape, my daughter and I stop for a donut on our way home. Mom sits with us in clear disapproval, munching her whole wheat toast while we indulge. In her defense, it is only fair to mention that at 78, she is spry and lean and in very good health. Her lack of donut eating may have contributed to this. However, since we’ll never know for sure, I’ll continue with my naughty, donut eating ways.
If you know of a good donut anywhere in the country, please share the location. If you have a happy or sad donut memory or an illicit food pleasure to share, please, dish (pun intended).
In case you are traveling through Vermont, here’s my donut tip for you: the best donuts are made at the Middlebury Bake Shop in Middlebury, Vermont. Lucky for me there isn’t a good donut closer to home since my willpower is practically nonexistent. Perhaps this is just as well, since at least for me, a good donut is equal parts good baking and good badness.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Favorite polite f-off letters
"I am sitting in the smallest room in my house with your letter in front of me. Soon it will be behind me."
--Voltaire to Marat
Letter to Warner Brothers: A Night in Casablanca
Groucho Marx
Abstract: While preparing to film a movie entitled A Night in Casablanca, the Marx brothers received a letter from Warner Bros. threatening legal action if they did not change the film’s title. Warner Bros. deemed the film’s title too similar to their own Casablanca, released almost five years earlier in 1942, with Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. In response Groucho Marx dispatched the following letter to the studio’s legal department:
Dear Warner Brothers,
Apparently there is more than one way of conquering a city and holding it as your own. For example, up to the time that we contemplated making this picture, I had no idea that the city of Casablanca belonged exclusively to Warner Brothers. However, it was only a few days after our announcement appeared that we received your long, ominous legal document warning us not to use the name Casablanca.
It seems that in 1471, Ferdinand Balboa Warner, your great-great-grandfather, while looking for a shortcut to the city of Burbank, had stumbled on the shores of Africa and, raising his alpenstock (which he later turned in for a hundred shares of common), named it Casablanca.
I just don’t understand your attitude. Even if you plan on releasing your picture, I am sure that the average movie fan could learn in time to distinguish between Ingrid Bergman and Harpo. I don’t know whether I could, but I certainly would like to try.
You claim that you own Casablanca and that no one else can use that name without permission. What about “Warner Brothers”? Do you own that too? You probably have the right to use the name Warner, but what about the name Brothers? Professionally, we were brothers long before you were. We were touring the sticks as the Marx Brothers when Vitaphone was still a gleam in the inventor’s eye, and even before there had been other brothers—the Smith Brothers; the Brothers Karamazov; Dan Brothers, an outfielder with Detroit; and “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” (This was originally “Brothers, Can You Spare a Dime?” but this was spreading a dime pretty thin, so they threw out one brother, gave all the money to the other one, and whittled it down to “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?”)
Now Jack, how about you? Do you maintain that yours is an original name? Well it’s not. It was used long before you were born. Offhand, I can think of two Jacks—Jack of “Jack and the Beanstalk,” and Jack the Ripper, who cut quite a figure in his day.
As for you, Harry, you probably sign your checks sure in the belief that you are the first Harry of all time and that all other Harrys are impostors. I can think of two Harrys that preceded you. There was Lighthouse Harry of Revolutionary fame and a Harry Appelbaum who lived on the corner of 93rd Street and Lexington Avenue. Unfortunately, Appelbaum wasn’t too well-known. The last I heard of him, he was selling neckties at Weber and Heilbroner.
Now about the Burbank studio. I believe this is what you brothers call your place. Old man Burbank is gone. Perhaps you remember him. He was a great man in a garden. His wife often said Luther had ten green thumbs. What a witty woman she must have been! Burbank was the wizard who crossed all those fruits and vegetables until he had the poor plants in such confused and jittery condition that they could never decide whether to enter the dining room on the meat platter or the dessert dish.
This is pure conjecture, of course, but who knows—perhaps Burbank’s survivors aren’t too happy with the fact that a plant that grinds out pictures on a quota settled in their town, appropriated Burbank’s name and uses it as a front for their films. It is even possible that the Burbank family is prouder of the potato produced by the old man than they are of the fact that your studio emerged “Casablanca” or even “Gold Diggers of 1931.”
This all seems to add up to a pretty bitter tirade, but I assure you it’s not meant to. I love Warners. Some of my best friends are Warner Brothers. It is even possible that I am doing you an injustice and that you, yourselves, know nothing about this dog-in-the-Wanger attitude. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to discover that the heads of your legal department are unaware of this absurd dispute, for I am acquainted with many of them and they are fine fellows with curly black hair, double-breasted suits and a love of their fellow man that out-Saroyans Saroyan.
I have a hunch that his attempt to prevent us from using the title is the brainchild of some ferret-faced shyster, serving a brief apprenticeship in your legal department. I know the type well—hot out of law school, hungry for success, and too ambitious to follow the natural laws of promotion. This bar sinister probably needled your attorneys, most of whom are fine fellows with curly black hair, double-breasted suits, etc., into attempting to enjoin us. Well, he won’t get away with it! We’ll fight him to the highest court! No pasty-faced legal adventurer is going to cause bad blood between the Warners and the Marxes. We are all brothers under the skin, and we’ll remain friends till the last reel of “A Night in Casablanca” goes tumbling over the spool.
Sincerely,
Groucho Marx
--Voltaire to Marat
Letter to Warner Brothers: A Night in Casablanca
Groucho Marx
Abstract: While preparing to film a movie entitled A Night in Casablanca, the Marx brothers received a letter from Warner Bros. threatening legal action if they did not change the film’s title. Warner Bros. deemed the film’s title too similar to their own Casablanca, released almost five years earlier in 1942, with Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. In response Groucho Marx dispatched the following letter to the studio’s legal department:
Dear Warner Brothers,
Apparently there is more than one way of conquering a city and holding it as your own. For example, up to the time that we contemplated making this picture, I had no idea that the city of Casablanca belonged exclusively to Warner Brothers. However, it was only a few days after our announcement appeared that we received your long, ominous legal document warning us not to use the name Casablanca.
It seems that in 1471, Ferdinand Balboa Warner, your great-great-grandfather, while looking for a shortcut to the city of Burbank, had stumbled on the shores of Africa and, raising his alpenstock (which he later turned in for a hundred shares of common), named it Casablanca.
I just don’t understand your attitude. Even if you plan on releasing your picture, I am sure that the average movie fan could learn in time to distinguish between Ingrid Bergman and Harpo. I don’t know whether I could, but I certainly would like to try.
You claim that you own Casablanca and that no one else can use that name without permission. What about “Warner Brothers”? Do you own that too? You probably have the right to use the name Warner, but what about the name Brothers? Professionally, we were brothers long before you were. We were touring the sticks as the Marx Brothers when Vitaphone was still a gleam in the inventor’s eye, and even before there had been other brothers—the Smith Brothers; the Brothers Karamazov; Dan Brothers, an outfielder with Detroit; and “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” (This was originally “Brothers, Can You Spare a Dime?” but this was spreading a dime pretty thin, so they threw out one brother, gave all the money to the other one, and whittled it down to “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?”)
Now Jack, how about you? Do you maintain that yours is an original name? Well it’s not. It was used long before you were born. Offhand, I can think of two Jacks—Jack of “Jack and the Beanstalk,” and Jack the Ripper, who cut quite a figure in his day.
As for you, Harry, you probably sign your checks sure in the belief that you are the first Harry of all time and that all other Harrys are impostors. I can think of two Harrys that preceded you. There was Lighthouse Harry of Revolutionary fame and a Harry Appelbaum who lived on the corner of 93rd Street and Lexington Avenue. Unfortunately, Appelbaum wasn’t too well-known. The last I heard of him, he was selling neckties at Weber and Heilbroner.
Now about the Burbank studio. I believe this is what you brothers call your place. Old man Burbank is gone. Perhaps you remember him. He was a great man in a garden. His wife often said Luther had ten green thumbs. What a witty woman she must have been! Burbank was the wizard who crossed all those fruits and vegetables until he had the poor plants in such confused and jittery condition that they could never decide whether to enter the dining room on the meat platter or the dessert dish.
This is pure conjecture, of course, but who knows—perhaps Burbank’s survivors aren’t too happy with the fact that a plant that grinds out pictures on a quota settled in their town, appropriated Burbank’s name and uses it as a front for their films. It is even possible that the Burbank family is prouder of the potato produced by the old man than they are of the fact that your studio emerged “Casablanca” or even “Gold Diggers of 1931.”
This all seems to add up to a pretty bitter tirade, but I assure you it’s not meant to. I love Warners. Some of my best friends are Warner Brothers. It is even possible that I am doing you an injustice and that you, yourselves, know nothing about this dog-in-the-Wanger attitude. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to discover that the heads of your legal department are unaware of this absurd dispute, for I am acquainted with many of them and they are fine fellows with curly black hair, double-breasted suits and a love of their fellow man that out-Saroyans Saroyan.
I have a hunch that his attempt to prevent us from using the title is the brainchild of some ferret-faced shyster, serving a brief apprenticeship in your legal department. I know the type well—hot out of law school, hungry for success, and too ambitious to follow the natural laws of promotion. This bar sinister probably needled your attorneys, most of whom are fine fellows with curly black hair, double-breasted suits, etc., into attempting to enjoin us. Well, he won’t get away with it! We’ll fight him to the highest court! No pasty-faced legal adventurer is going to cause bad blood between the Warners and the Marxes. We are all brothers under the skin, and we’ll remain friends till the last reel of “A Night in Casablanca” goes tumbling over the spool.
Sincerely,
Groucho Marx
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