Mark Wahlberg, Jack Black and Other Unknown Celebrities

Watching the Oscars the other night, I saw Mark Wahlberg presenting an award, and as the light bulb lit over my head, I thought to myself, “Ohhh, THAT’S Mark Wahlberg!”


It all started in Boston, in August of 2012. No, actually it all started in London in November of 2006. I was visiting a friend of mine, Sue; it was my first trip abroad and I was loving London. We were in the West End theater district one evening, which was packed with people, when Sue’s son, a photographer, rushed up to us and said he’d gotten a press pass and was going to get a shot of Jack Black, who was there for the premiere of The Holiday. Sue was very excited and stretched her 5’9” frame up to try to get a glimpse of Black. Being a bit on the short side myself, I had no hope of seeing Mr. Black, and truth be told, I had no idea who he was anyway. Having never seen The Cable Guy, or I Still Know What You Did Last Summer, Shallow Hal or any of the other films Jack Black had been in, he was an unknown to me.

Let me explain, I don’t see a lot of movies anyway, and if I do it’s usually a rented video viewed in my living room.

It took a little while for Sue to realize I had no idea who we were hoping to see. She was incredulous! “You don’t know who Jack Black is?!” “Uh, no.” She proceeded to name off a list of films he had been in, and I, embarrassed that I obviously was lacking in cultural knowledge of a great film star, shook my head no at each movie title. This was obviously an opportunity wasted on a small town country bumpkin. Ah well.

Fast forward to August of 2012. Sue was now visiting me in the States and we decided to take a road trip to Boston and Cape Cod. We arrived in Boston fairly early in the afternoon and on a whim I suggested that we take a commuter ferry to Hingham to get a feel for the locals.

It was approximately an hour commute to Hingham and I had a great time people watching. There was a particularly good looking gentleman aboard who just oozed “money” from his pores, sitting on the steps of the ferry. After a time he wandered over to the rail, which is my favorite place to be on a boat, so I started talking with him. I’m not sure what David actually did for a living, but it was obvious he knew a lot about stocks, trading, and the economic future of the United States. During the course of our conversation he suggested my friend and I stop at Alma Nove’s, a trendy restaurant in Hingham, for a drink before heading back to Boston.

Alma Nove is owned by Alma Wahlberg, mother to Mark, Donnie, Paul and a bunch of other Wahlbergs. Sue and I sat at the bar and started talking with a delightful barman, Gabriel, who was waxing eloquent about the restaurant being run by Mark Wahlberg’s brother Paul and sometimes Mark would stop in and visit with the patrons; and how Mark and Donnie had opened a restaurant across the street called Wahlburger’s. Now granted, it was loud in there and I was having a hard time hearing everything Gabriel was saying, but I gotta be honest; I had no idea who Mark or Donnie Wahlberg were. I thought I’d heard Mark’s name somewhere, but I thought maybe he was a computer geek or something, like Mark Zuckerberg or Bill Gates.

Again Sue couldn’t believe I was clueless. I was establishing a precedent here. So I texted my daughter, who is a very savvy individual, and I wrote, “Do the names Mark and/or Donnie Wahlberg mean anything to you,” clearly thinking I would be vindicated by her not knowing them either. She texted back, “Yeah, Marky Mark and New Kids on the Block.”

Once again I was laughing at my lack of current cultural knowledge, although I did actually know who the New Kids on the Block were. But, hey, after watching the Oscars, I realize there are a LOT of celebrities out there now that I’ve never heard of. And quite honestly, I really don’t care. I don’t watch movies much anyway.

I saw a bumper sticker the other day, “My pug is smarter than your honor student.” I’m not sure how smart the dog is, but it left no doubt in my mind as to the intelligence of the owner.

What kind of distain must this person have toward education? What kind of ignorance must they live in to put down children who are striving to be the best they can be?

In a country of dumbed-down education, where the lowest common denominator rules the rate and level of teaching, it’s a sad commentary where we vilify the more capable kids. Being a jock is held in highest esteem, particularly in some states, but being one of the “smart kids” is a cause for ridicule among some students and parents alike.

When I was a teen, if you were smart (and insecure), you hid your intelligence. Boys didn’t want to date smart girls. Hopefully we’ve gotten over that, although survey after survey still says girls don’t participate as much in the maths and sciences, don’t assert themselves for computer time in the classroom. Hopefully my information is old and behind-times.

I have nothing against dogs. I’ve known some very smart dogs. I’ve known some real dummies as well; kind of like people that way. Maybe we should come up with a bumper sticker that says, “My honor student is smarter than your dog’s owner.” Not particularly witty, but that’ll confuse ‘em for awhile.

Everywhere I look lately I see Wizard of Oz memorabilia - little tin men, miniature Dorothys, signs that say things like "Things just aren't the same since that house fell on my sister." I love the movie, The Wizard of Oz. I'm not sure if I'm seeing all these things because it's getting close to Halloween or if it's just the craze du jour and I'm really kind of sad about the whole thing.

The movie, The Wizard of Oz, was released in 1939. In the 1956 it became the first Hollywood movie to be shown on network television and it continued to be shown every spring for decades. You see, The Wizard of Oz is a story about a tornado taking little Dorothy far from her home in Kansas. Tornadoes occur primarily in the spring and hence, every spring they would show the movie and I would look forward to seeing that amazing film. I looked forward to it all year long. That all ended in 1980 when the movie became available on home video.

The anticipation is gone. The excitement of sitting down in front of the old black and white, and eventually color, television and watching the movie with friends and family is no longer there. Once again delayed gratification bites the dust. At the push of a button, or two, we can view Dorothy and Toto anytime of the day or night, all year long. It has lost its allure and it's a shame.

I'm sure the producers of The Wizard of Oz never dreamed it would still be going strong seventy two years later. And I'll bet they're rolling over in their graves at the continued profits from merchandizing they're missing out on. So fly on monkeys, go get 'em!

Insecta-cide

Should you be following me as I weave down the road, rest assured, I am not intoxicated. I’m dodging woolly bears. These lovely little caterpillars are making their annual pilgrimage to the perfect spot to spend the winter. Why they feel it necessary to cross the country roads and highways to find that spot is beyond me. Why can’t they just nestle down close to home?

Woolly bears, as is so often the case, are adorable youngsters with their beautiful brown and black bands of fuzz, and become rather unremarkable Isabella Tiger moths when they grow up. As a kid, I used to pick up the cute fuzzy things to inspect them more closely. They immediately roll up into a ball when so handled, which makes them even more intriguing. Trying to coax them to unfurl themselves was a challenge that could not be passed by.

As I drove down a particularly scenic five mile stretch of country road recently, I must have come across thirty or forty woolly bears in various stages of crawling across the road. So I dutifully swerved the avoid running over the little creatures whenever I could. Luckily there weren’t any other cars, or Amish buggies, on the road with me.

I’m sure I must have hit a few of them, and that saddens me. My parents instilled in me a great reverence for animal life. Or maybe it was just some misguided compulsion about killing. In either case, we didn’t kill beetles, moths, spiders, ants or other vagrant wildlife that found their way into the house. One side note: flies and mosquitoes were exempt from this act of mercy. Consequently, I am reluctant to kill any bugs I see in the house, or any animals, no matter how big or small, outside. This is a matter of great amusement and sometimes frustration to my husband, who will gladly squash anything that gets in his way.

While I don’t actually deliver the fatal blow to various insects or arachnids, I am not above condemning them to certain death by putting them outside on a night of certain frost or freeze. Infestations of box elder bugs have been removed en masse on chilly nights when they emerge by the hundreds in the sunlight of the day. My patience wears thin after gently placing the first fifty or so outside. After that, the broom is my weapon of choice.

Beauty has is merits in the animal kingdom. I have become more callous in my desire to save all creatures great and small. Ants, centipedes and some beetles are no longer guaranteed safety. Some spiders, especially those who remind me of Charlotte, are spared while others meet their doom. Anything beautiful; moths, attractive beetles, and particularly woolly bears, are gently placed in a dry warm spot to continue on with their day as best they can.

I can’t be held responsible for passing birds who spot a good meal.

The grape harvest is well underway. After a year of worry about not enough rain, too much rain, too cold, too hot, the grapes have ripened into a bumper crop. Running over seven tons to the acre, farmers are rushing to get in as many loads as possible before the processing plants stop receiving.

The harvesters and their sidekick tractors are busy all hours of the day and night and it's not unusual for the pickers to work until 9 at night, sleep for three or four hours and go back out at one or two in the morning. The drivers of the semi loads are under similar hours. Wake at 3 a.m., haul a load to the plant, wait in line for perhaps hours, return to the field and pick up another load and repeat the process. From the growers and their employees perspective, it is intensive labor for six weeks, going with little sleep.

There is something about seeing the harvesters and semi trucks loaded with grape bins that evokes ancient feelings of satisfaction and comfort in me. I feel an unexplained pride in each truck that passes by, knowing that it is loaded with a crop grown by local farmers, going to market to supply the world with grape products, from juice and wine to pastries and jellies.

I savor the aroma of ripened grapes in the air. It's a heady smell and I breathe deeply, almost hyperventilating in my urge to breathe it in again. The harvest will be over all too soon, but there is work to be done year 'round in order to insure next year's crop will be as good.

The following is my final column for the Westfield Republican newspaper. The editor has decided that my services are no longer required as a reporter, and has decided to eliminate my column as well. I'm sure this won't be the end of my writing ventures, but it will be some time before I appear in print. Thanks everybody for your interest and really nice comments.

Time Has Run Out

Remember that article I wrote a couple weeks ago about Time in a Bottle? Seems my time has run out with the Westfield Republican. The paper is moving in a different direction and my reminisces and ruminations are no longer part of the larger picture.

I will miss sharing news and views with you. Your feedback has been very gratifying and I want to thank each one of you who took the time to stop and tell me how much you enjoyed my columns. It’s been a fun run for almost three years – not nearly the longevity of some of the other columnists, but I’ve thoroughly enjoyed every minute.

My goal has always been to highlight the good in our town. The things I have written have largely had a positive slant. Several organizations and groups in Ripley have asked me over the years to write articles for them, or have cooperated greatly when I wanted to write something about the work they do. I have some special thanks to hand out. To the Ripley Veterans’ Roll of Honor, I wish you continued success in honoring our military here in Ripley. The Ripley volunteer fire department has been most kind in their cooperation regarding articles I’ve done about them, and they are a god-send in this small community.

Noah’s Ark from the Presbyterian Church, the anniversary celebration committee of the Methodist Church and the Ripley Senior Citizens have all asked me to help them out. Thank you for your confidence.

I’ve have covered events and stories from Ripley Central School as well as for the Town of Ripley. The Ripley Library and its support group, the Friends of the Library have provided me with ample opportunity to extol what’s good about this town.

To the many other organizations and people who have encouraged me, thank you as well.

For awhile I brought the Ripley Review back to life with reprints of the old articles. I had hoped to continue with that, but it’s not to be. But the Ripley bi-centennial is coming, and I’m sure I’ll have an opportunity to contribute to whatever is in the offing for the celebration. Ripley has a rich and interesting history, and we should be reminded from whence we came. We have a lot of which we can be proud.

I never intended to be a reporter, but rather just a columnist, writing whatever pleased me. You, the people, businesses and organizations of Ripley, allowed me the chance to stretch my writing skills. I am truly thankful to have talked and worked with each of you. Thank you for a great run. I’ll see you at Meeder’s.

Time in a Bottle

The words of the Jim Croce song, “If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I’d like to do, is to save every day until Eternity passes away, just to spend them with you,” resonate a great deal with me lately. It’s a love song, but it applies to many people in my life.

Time goes too quickly, and the older we get it seems the faster time goes by. Saying goodbye seems to be a big part of life. I’ve said goodbye to my children when they left home and again when I left them in Minnesota. I’ve said goodbye to dear friends who have visited, not knowing if I’d ever seen them again; and I’ve said goodbye to friends and relations who have gone on to a better life.

Every one of these goodbyes has been difficult and at times heart-wrenching. But with each goodbye I’ve come to realize how precious and short life is, and consequently, how important it is to live every day as if it were my last. Life is too short to hang onto real or imagined hurts or slights. It’s too short to hold grudges or not speak to people who were once friends. We don’t know if the last thing we said to a friend or loved one will be the last thing we ever say to them. Tomorrow is not guaranteed to any of us.

If I could have saved time in a bottle, I’d spend more time with people I love and make sure they knew they were loved. I’d spend more time listening and less time talking. I’d give more hugs and fewer frowns. I’d take the time to really get to know the people in my life, not just who they are on the surface or what they can do for me. I would make more time for living life and spend less time on the sidelines as a spectator.

If I could save time in a bottle, I’d certainly use it more wisely than I did many times in the past.