And not just because you’ve paid twice as much for the beans (which certainly adds to one’s self admiration, however).

Anyway, I am relieved to report that our morning tipple is a much more refined and elegant roast than heretofore.

But, I must reluctantly admit that the history of our Coffee Benightedness does not stop there.

It appears that there is a truly gross, egregious error which we have been engaging in all these years. WE HAVE BEEN KEEPING THE BEANS IN THE FRIDGE. What can I say, I learned this culpable storage technique at my mother’s knee. She probably learned it from her mother. I expect that back in the days when refrigerators were the latest greatest technology, people kept EVERYTHING in the fridge. For instance, we know from the movies that Marilyn Monroe kept her panties in the fridge. FACT.

But whatever the reason for refrigerated beans back in the 40′s and 50′s, it is now regarded as a mortifying proof of red neck know-nothing coffee imbecilitude.

Quote from Scientific Coffee Web Page:

“When to Refrigerate Coffee:
Never, unless you are conducting a science experiment on how long it takes to ruin perfectly good coffee. The fridge is one of the absolute worst places to put coffee. Store your coffee beans in a sealed container in a dark place.”

So in addition to our $15 a pound coffee beans, I am getting a Stainless Steel Vacuum Coffee Bean Container, guaranteed to keep beans fresh.

Thank goodness, we are no longer the coffee buffoons of yore! Slowly, but slowly, we are climbing up from the pit of darkness and into the light. I was blind, but now I see! That would be us—the coffee, on the other hand, is making the reverse journey, into the pitch dark of a Vacuum Sealed container ( “Easy Push Button Vacuum System Allows Coffee Bean Gasses To Escape Without Letting in Oxygen”).

Hope

The building is now a Philadelphia Cheesesteak Factory. Sic transit gloria mundi.

Anyway, Tom Waits has gone from strength to strength, and continues to produce interesting music. This song, God’s Away on Business, has been singing in my brain all month. Here is my illustrated version:

God’s Away on Business

The one thing everyone said is how loving Tensia is and has always been.

And indeed, all the students I see are cheery souls, who no doubt have as many sorrows as other young people, but who have been given a remarkable gift–a safe harbor, with a solid education in dance, and what at least seems to me respect for their fellow man. Of course the boys tease each other, and no doubt the girls gossip and fight, as girls do, but I have never yet come across any signs of rancour or tears. A pleasant place to be, whether young or old, and that is because of Tensia Fonseca. So, happy 90th, Tensia! And may there be many more!

Hope

http://www.marylandyouthballet.org/

What was the perfume? When had I seen it? Well, thanks to the magic of Google I found it–the image is for sale, in fact, on Ebay:

http://bit.ly/w4YgKQ

He is–of course–Hungarian. She is young, beautiful, carried away by the music. They will run away together, to Vienna. He will die in a duel, defending her honor. Oh Rapture of Love! Oh Sorrow of Love Lost!

Thank you, Google!

And now, I’d like to find that other memorable image—unfortunately I can’t remember what it was advertising, but such a powerful image it has stayed with me over the years: in a laundromat is a large woman, head in curlers, hands clasped in rapture, face beaming with joy; and on the television is a couple embracing in what is obviously a long awaited happy ending. A Norman Rockwell scene, but a photograph. Gorn, gorn! Though with the right search terms, one might find it somewhere.

I’ll see you again whenever spring breaks through again.

Time may lie heavy between, but what has been, is past forgetting.

Your sweet memory across the years will come to me.

Though my world may go awry, in my heart ’twill ever lie,

Just the echo of a sigh, goodbye.

All my life I shall remember knowing you,

All the pleasures that I found in showing you,

The different ways that one may face,

The changing light and changing shade,

Happiness that must die, melodies that must fly,

Memories that must fade, dusty and forgotten bye and bye.

Hope

And meanwhile, let me say, with Scrooge, that "I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach!"

Well, the first shock was the announcer–LINDA RONDSTADT. She is an opera aficionada? Who knew? I guess the idea is, the composer is Mexican; Linda has sung Mexican pop music, \ Linda introduces Il Postino. Anyway, there was Linda—but we only knew it was Linda because she said she was. She has, well, changed somewhat over the years. I thought it was that TV setting that makes everyone look like a barn, but no, it turns out, not. She REALLY does.

Anyway, she did the usual pre-cultural-event blather that is such an important feature on PBS: that earnest look, expressions of anticipatory rapture, and in her case, excellent pronunciation of foreign words. I particularly enjoyed the way she reverently pronounced Placido Domingo.

So, the curtains part, the music starts. After some business with cars, we move to the scene introducing the eponymous postman: nice voice and very easy on the eyes indeed. The music is lyrical and lovely, with shape and character. Good start!

Then on to the next scene–the villa where the famous poet (= Neruda, sung by Placido of course) is sitting on the patio thinking poetic thoughts. His gracious wife comes in with some flowers, and he is enraptured with the way she sets the flowers on the table. His ardor grows more and more–he rises from his chair! GOOD GOD! He has certainly put on weight! There stands a man who never said no to a second helping of lobster thermidor.

Oh well–more of him to love, don’t you know! Something of a shock, however, whenever he turns sideways. The belt holding up those elegant Argentinean trousers must be at least 4 feet long.

Query: could the fact of this more generous physique than heretofore, a trait shared by the tenor and the announcer, be the link that brought Linda R to the job?

Don’t be such a troglodyte, Hope, I beg. The VOICE, the MUSIC, THAT is what we came for.

So anyway, Placido keeps singing, and thanks to the miracle of subtitles, we can’t help but notice that he is sort of getting a little HOT UNDER THE COLLAR, if you know what I mean:

"naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.
Naked, you are blue as a night in Cuba;
you have vines and stars in your hair;
naked, you are spacious and yellow
as summer in a golden church".

Lovely stuff, of course, but meanwhile, the 2 ton tenor is PEELING THE CLOTHES OFF THE SOPRANO. She is a normal size lady, but not perhaps in her first flush of youth. As he succeeds in undressing her to the waist (as we only saw the back view, and I like to think that she was wearing a pair of decent operatic pasties) the sudden horrifying thought struck me that the next step might well be the undressing of the tenor.

Comrades, I quailed.

We returned to our movie, a pleasant little film of no particular interest, but entertaining enough.

It is shaming, but I find that I simply do not have the COURAGE and STAMINA for grand opera.

Hope

Until the next meeting, of course. But that is MONTHS away–6 of them, in fact.

This time we met in the fair city of Atlanta, where our chair shines as a beacon in this naughty world, DEAN of the school of Public Health of Emory University. And his wonderful and patient assistant did all the work that I would have done had this been in our usual place of celebration, for which I honor her–a very good woman. She was an angel of light in trying times, and I shall send her a box of chocolate.

In fact, I was dazzled by the good people of Atlanta–how friendly, how pleasant they were! Everyone I happened to have eye contact with smiled and said hello.

This is not the norm in Washington. We mostly avoid eye contact here.

The Dean wished to show off his splendid new building–in particular, his magnificent suite on the 8th floor, with views through huge windows spanning the whole floor, nothing but vistas of trees with the tall spires of downtown Atlanta in the distance–very nice indeed. The conference room featured 4 screens that lowered at the touch of a button over the windows, with shades that also lowered at the touch of a button, to cover the rest of the windows. Such luxury!

Though when I mentioned this to one of our board members he smugly retorted that he had THE SAME THING in his office, only he had a REMOTE CONTROL device to control them.

Which the Dean did not have.

The floor was a shining masterpiece of pieced wood, very lovely indeed–though, every footfall sounded like the trump of doom, and I found myself on tippy toes whenever I had to actually walk about. Everyone else did likewise.

A moment of joy, I own, to see the mighty titans of public health walk on tippy toes.

Also, it appeared that the architect had decided that a telephone would mar the beauty of the room, so that we had to resort to placing a cell phone next to the microphone to conference in one of our presenters, but there, this is the price for BEAUTY.

A lovely room, and looking at the magnificent view was some recompense for the ghastly blather I had to listen to.

After the meeting ended, I had some time to kill, having made reservations for a later flight in case I was required to do anything more–ever ready, don’t you know. Well, it turned out that there was nothing required of me, and so I went for a walk in a little park right by Emory there–a little jewel of a place, nothing but tall trees and quiet in the middle of the city, with a blue lake at its heart. Such an odd moment of limbo, walking in this tiny wilderness with moms and their strollers, the bikers, the runners–not to mention, the slow geese grazing on the grass, the ducks on the water—all under the bright blue sky, a precious moment in the hurly burly of a difficult and demanding event.

Hope

These items were neglected by Halloween revelers in favor of the Kit Kats and Babe Ruths—a very understandable preference. However, the smaller children had no such sophistication—eyes glowing with excitement, they took whatever lay before them. How charming they are—such lovely creatures, so vibrant, so full of joy! One tiny girl disguised as a honey bee took her candy and darted off, only to dart back to give me a tiny poke in the arm, saying that she had stung me! But she quickly reassured me, she didn’t really have a stinger at all! I am very allergic to bee stings, so this was a relief.

Hope

Here is why I have a soft spot for this poem.

Sitting comfy, are we? Is a long story.

There was a time when I attended boarding school in Yorkshire. My family was in Iceland, and there were no suitable schools for a girl my age there—true, a high school existed at the military base in Keflavik, but my parents balked at the idea of sending me–a tender 13 year old!—to make the daily ride (on a horrid dirt road) from Reykjavik to a place swarming with libidinous sailors (females very sparse on the ground at that time in the military). So, as going to school in America was outrageously expensive, they found a school in Yorkshire.

WHY YORKSHIRE, you may ask?

Who knows. A parental choice.

Enroute, I stayed with the Palmers, dear family friends who lived in a charming house in London, on Golders Green.

The Palmers were a Canadian family we met and loved during our time in Greece. Where are you, Patty Palmer, dear friend of my youth? My mother lost touch with the family, and I have never been able to find them again.

Mrs. Palmer was a second mother to me, and I deeply regret never having told her how much I loved and appreciated her. Her husband was a doctor in the Canadian army, a music lover, who played the clarinet. He would test Patty and me on various bits of music–who wrote this, what is this–andI will never forget how pleased I was on being able to identify a piece by Satie–out of nothing, I had no idea how that name came out of my mouth. Not as dumb as I looked!

Well, he played us this piece, the poem by AE Houseman, set to music by Vaughan Williams, and it stayed in my mind. I’d like to dedicate this small little movie to my great benefactors, the Palmers. How good they were to me.

http://www.hopeandlawrence.com/Hers/Archives/OhWhenIWas/index.html

Hope

So anyway, there I was, amiably cruising the mall of a Saturday, along with hordes of my fellow man. After a pleasant sortie through the Nordstrom’s shoe department (a therapeutic procedure conferring major medical benefits) I moseyed through the infinite variety of stores all anxiously awaiting customers. Anxious is the word. In each store I walked into, I got the distinct feeling that the attending clerk was suppressing the urge to overwhelm me with delirious embraces. "HELLO! Welcome to ____ ! We are having a sale on ___! Can I help you find anything?" I politely scanned the merchandise each time, and thanked them before I left, hastily turning away so as not to intrude on their grief at losing the sale. Where I did buy something, the gratitude and relief were palpable.

The shopping malls, emblem of the fat years we once enjoyed, seem very frail to me now—very dependent on shopping habits that are fading. Let us hope they will weather the storm! Shopping online is so much easier of course, and one never need leave the comfort of one’s little cell, but every once in a way, how pleasant to visit the shops.

Hope