Safe Haven

Dear Readers:
Sorry about lack of posts recently. I've been spending most of my "quality time" furiously working at an exciting web building project.  Hope to be back to normal writing, soon, but I'd like to help publicize this worthy event coming up Friday Feb 17, 2012. And you gotta admire their taste in piano players!  (me)

My critters and I have always had a good life for ourselves. Some, however are not so lucky.  Picture a household where domestic abuse is the order of the day.  Imagine being afraid to step away even for a moment from a life of domestic abuse because you're worried about what might happen to your cat or dog.  There are situations where the prospect of neglect, abuse or worse can be the deciding factor in the life of a woman trying to do something about her own domestic abuse issues.


Come if you can - talk it up among your friends if you can't.


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official press release info
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Fundraising Event for Safe Haven Program


Friday Feb 17:  6:30-9:00 pm


Companion Art Gallery 
In the Joyce Skylight Court
2680 South Kinnickinnic Avenue
Milwaukee, WI  


www.companionartgallery.com


The Wisconsin Humane Society and Sojourner Family Peace Center have partnered to provide the Safe Haven Program, which offers up to 60 days of shelter for animals of domestic violence victims.  Many victims are hesitant to leave a dangerous situation because they fear for their animal’s safety.  This program makes it possible for victims to leave a dangerous situation without losing their companion animal.  Animals provide companionship, comfort, and unconditional love to families affected by domestic violence, and preserving the bond between families and their animals is vitally important.


Companion Art Gallery will donate 20% of sales during the event, and will sponsor a Silent Auction and Raffle on behalf of the Safe Haven Program.


Bay View Bean Company, Le Botique So Chic, and Oscillations Art and Music Eclectic will also offer art and gift items for sale and will donate a portion of proceeds to the Safe Haven Program.  


Light hors d’oeuvres and beverages provided


Friday Feb 17:  6:30-9:00 pm


Music by Gary Alan


Remarks by Jill Cline of Wisconsin Humane Society Education and Advocacy Manager, 7:00 p.m.


Admission is free


Donations to the Safe Haven Program appreciated!


For more information or to RSVP  


Contact Sandy Sykora at 414-486-1891


Sandy@companionartgallery.com
Or visit Companion Art Gallery on Facebook, and click on “event” to RSVP

I Saw Her

I saw her last week.  A lady customer over at the retail parts counter of the place where I work in Milwaukee, getting a cartridge for her home humidifier.  She looked somehow familiar.  A rather large woman, but not embarrassingly obese.  Comfortable and confident, she had a strong clear voice and a melodic laugh I could hear back in my office.  Exchanging humorous comments with the counter clerk, talking about her cats  while her order was filled and rung up.  She was laughing.  I couldn't place her - but the face looked familiar.

She left. (I do not walk up to parts customers and harass them with 'Hey, sweetie, haven't I seen you somewhere before?')  Later, when I processed the sales slip and payment, I saw that had been Lena White!  (not her name - if classmates are reading this, please do not mention Lena's real name in comments).  And I realized why it was that I hadn't recognized her.  It was because it was the first time I had seen Lena happy.

Lena was in my Watertown WI grade-school class from the second grade through the end of high school.  And she lived right down the street from my house.  But I'm sure she wouldn't want to see me now, because I was part of another life she had transcended, gotten over, and left behind.

Lena was the one who was at the bottom of the pecking order in grade school.  She was very nervous and self-conscious, partly because her parents kept her so insulated from social contact.  She had no close friends, and if invited to participate in playground games, would usually turn down the offer. Lena was a bit clumsy from lack of practice, and would usually invite ridicule in playground sports.  Lena's style of dress was of another era - possibly hand-me-downs from her mother.  Her mother was very domineering and sheltered Lena from everything.  When she wasn't at school, her mother never allowed Lena to leave her yard, and the house always had all the drape drawn and windows closed, even in summer.   Her father was a high-profile eccentric, and once ran for mayor of Watertown, getting six votes. Lena had reason to be embarrassed about her parents, but never spoke against them.  Because she hardly spoke to any of us.

And we were mean to Lena.  Grade-school kids are the cruelest of them all. Nobody, I include myself, stuck up for Lena when the students would pass her "germs" around.  No physical abuse, Lena was simply ignored and excluded most of the time.  Personally I don't remember going out of my way to be mean to her, but neither did I defend her, and that's just as bad.

In high school, thankfully, things didn't get worse for Lena.  High school was a much larger social community, because all the various parochial and public grade schools consolidated into one high school class.  And, all the Lena Whites  from Watertown's other schools all found one another.  And they had a little group from which they drew strength - safety in numbers.

In the ensuing years, Lena's parents died, her house in Watertown was settled and sold.  Free of the no doubt detrimental parental influence, Lena made another beginning.  And now she owns a home in West Allis, a blue-collar Milwaukee suburb.  She has a job, she has cats, and she was laughing.    God Bless you, Lena White!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

At-LAWN-tis

PIG TALES - True stories and thoughts inspired in the Milwaukee Piggly Wiggly.

This sparkling Saturday morning - the air in the 20s, the sun is out, what little show fell is melting from the brightness of the sun, nothing can really go wrong.  I'm going to the Piggly Wiggly for my weekly inspiration.  So glad to have the CD player in my mini-van (why are people always hating on my mini-van?) Prince is singing to me from the 1980s - a time when drum-machines were a new thing, and these cool Roland Juno synthesizers in the recordings.  "Oo wee sha sha koo koo yeah! All the hippies sing together!"  Sing it with me! Music was a lot more fun before - and you could still understand the words of those new "rap" songs.  Lately it seems that the stardom comes before the creative output, and it has created a generation of self-absorbed divas who know what superstardom looks like, but have no idea how it sounds.  Music has deteriorated to a standardized synthetic pitch-corrected oatmeal.

I arrived at the Piggly Wiggly, and began to paw through the bargains. Always on the lookout for those green and white flags, and the Pig Point bonuses. It's always good news if I don't see my face on one of the votive candles. Just Jesus, John-Paul and Mary, so I must still be top-side.  I noticed that they had a new radio station on the overhead.  Selections limited to the years 1960-1968.  Pre-psychedelic pop.  Sam the Sham was singing "Wooly Bully" -  "won two three quaaaatro!"   And lesser-known works by the Beach Boys, the Beatles, and Peter and Gordon - the years fall away as Mama Cass muses "It seems so strange to be so friendly - to say 'Good Morning' and really mean it'. 

And then, one I'd forgotten about.  The coolest Hippie-crit of them all- Donovan Leitch.  In hushed, awed tones he expounds on the days of the lost kawntinent of At-lawn-tis - an imaginary place which achieved a level of imaginary peace and magnanimity that we modern materialistic mortals can never ever ever approach.  Shed a tear, Donovan - "...as the Elders of Our Time Choose to Remain Blind..."  Oh, Jesus wept!  Ah yes, the hippie dilemma:  as the love for Mankind increases, the hatred for individual people also increases proportionally.  When will they ever learn?   "HAIL,  At-LAWN-tis!",  Donovan bleats.  Well, all I got to say about that is "BWA-HA-HA-HAAAA!  Now get a job, hippie!!"   Fellow Piggly Wiggly shoppers are wondering what I find so funny on Saturday morning. When you're between the Wilderness Apple Sauce and the Post Grape-Nuts, nothing is really that funny of itself. Well, here's what it is - it's Hypothermia!  My brain has frozen!  Deal with it! Now enjoy your Piggly Wiggly shopping experience! Hail, At-Lawn-tis!

Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Safety Symbiosis

When driving the streets of Milwaukee, the motorist will frequently encounter perplexing signs.   Since the signposts are placed within the traffic lanes, the motorist must be careful not to hit them.

Arrow meets boat.  What does it mean? Through universally understood symbols, which could even be interpreted by a visiting space alien, the motorist is warned to drive on the right side of the road.  


How strong must be the drive of the Inner European in some of us, that we constantly fight the urge not to drive on the left side of the road!  How did this come about?

Many years ago, the city bought these signs from the Acme Keep Right Sign Company at great expense to the taxpayers. Although they cost three times the normal rate for traffic signs, obtained on a no-bid contract, the president of Acme Keep Right just happened to be an old school chum of the traffic commissioner. Isn't it remarkable how such unlikely circumstances bring old friends back together? And, although it was none of their business,  taxpayers kept pestering the city with questions such as "Why the hell did you stick a sign right in the middle of the road where people are trying to drive?"  "What is the meaning of these signs?"  "If I'm not within sight of one of these signs, does that mean I'm supposed to drive on the left?"


So, to find a legal way to stop all the citizen complaints,  the city decided to call a secret meeting between the mayor and the Traffic Commissioner.


"People are constantly complaining about the signs!  They say that the signs serve no purpose, the signs impede traffic in the public roadways, and are very costly to replace.  What can we do?" the Mayor paced around, furiously puffing his cigar. (This was long, long ago).


"Well, sir, we both know that the signs are really unnecessary.  Perhaps we could move them..."


"NO, YOU IDIOT - "  The mayor interrupted. (The mayor was in the same graduating class, and appreciated the unmarked bills slipped under his door now and then). "I don't want to eliminate the signs - I want to eliminate the complaints!  It's clear what we have to do - the signs must be protected!" 

And so the oily wheels of city politics continued to turn, and soon there emerged a plan. To protect the signs from being damaged, the city built a concrete barrier completely surrounding each sign.  These protuberances are anywhere from 6 inches to a foot high, and project into the roadway.  Anyone foolish enough to drive near one of these protuberances at normal traffic speeds can severely damage his vehicle.  Tires can be flattened, wheel rims bent, suspension destroyed, and, in some cases, total destruction of the vehicle can result.

And, so, to this day, in the streets without pity, the concrete barriers protect the signs.  And the signs serve as a warning to avoid the concrete barriers, which protect the signs, which warn of the concrete barriers, which protect the signs. . .    And All is Right on the streets.


Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

Cantique de Noel

Cantique de Noel - O Holy Night.  Every year but one, since I can remember I have performed this song, in some form or another.  Without this song Christmas is incomplete.   I've played it in all sorts of settings, solo piano, solo accordion, on church organs, with tenors, with choirs, and back in grade school Christmas programs as a part of the Heavenly Host.  It's a resonant infusion of peace and exuberant joy that can barely be contained in the human spirit - "a thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices".

But, last year, Christmas came and went without Cantique de Noel.  This one sad year, we had toiled away the entire week before Christmas, and only stopped working because other businesses had gone home for the holiday. We were setting up a new business, and there were not enough hours in the day. In the evening, my wife was making us some tuna casserole, (a Polish Christmas tradition) and she sent me out to read the marquee in front of the church, because they wouldn't answer their phone, so we'd know when their Christmas morning service started.

On the way, I turned off the music in my mini-van, unusual for me.  Big flakes of snow were falling, making Milwaukee's south side look like a Christmas card.  The various Christmas decorations lit the silent night, and the warm light coming from the house windows brought back memories of all the Christmases passed.  I felt an overpowering longing for the notes of  Cantique de Noel.  I realized, at that moment that Christmas pass you entirely by. At Christmas the slightest bit of giving, sharing, joy, can be returned to you a thousandfold.  But only if you give a little, else there will be nothing in it or you.  It's up to you. You have to put the tiniest light in your window, so the Christ Child can enter in.

This year, Cantique de Noel is back in my life. Bette hurt herself in a fall, and I was substituted for her piano accompaniment in Julie's show while Bette is recovering.   And, Julie and I  "did it up proper"!   Julie sang it in Db - perfectly suited to her vocal range, and, in my opinion, perfectly suited to the soul of a piano.  I even remembered the extra chords that Mr. Richter always threw in on the organ pedals back in the grade school days, a strange augmentation having something to do with fifths that propels the melody to the heavens.  Did I mention that I love this song?

So, here's my favorite rendition of Cantique de Noel - captured on December 17, 2011 by Julie's husband Bill on video:



Thanks for listening and contributing. I'd love to hear from you.

A Simulated Alligator Wallet.....

The night before the show, Julie called me to ask if I could substitute for an injured piano player - Bette had fallen and could not perform.   A Christmas show - no prob.  I had "done my time" in the Great American Christmas Songbook - if you ever need a piano player or accordioniste for a Christmas show, give me a call - Salvation Army tested and ready to go.  And Bette was not seriously hurt in her fall, she's on the mend, and I hope to see her at our New Year's Day gathering.


It was my privilege to work with Julie Alonzo-Calteaux, one of my favorite Milwaukee singers. With a hurried Saturday morning rehearsal, we made a few adjustments (She didn't think it was appropriate that I sing "Sisters" with her - what a relief!) and by noon we had the show ready to go.


Here's one of the songs from the Saturday show - Thanks to Julie's husband Bill for the excellent camera work.  That's me on piano.  A hilarious rendition of an Alan Sherman parody on the standard "The Twelve Days of Christmas".  




Merry Christmas to you all!. I'd love to hear from you.

Winston's Christmas - A Christmas Story - Part Two of Two Parts

Follow this link to Part One, if you're tuning in late.


Back to The Plan 
As he watched the truck recede into the distance, with his Christmas list on the old leather front seat, Winston stood stunned for a moment. "Maybe I don't have the list, but I've got most of it memorized!” There was no time to waste, now. Winston ran back up the hill to his bike. His feet mercilessly pounded the pedals of his trail bike slamming it into Turbo Warp Velocity. His head was swirling with the items of his list, trying to remember all of them, letting none slip away. As he reached the Brookridge Mall, Winston hit the ground running, leaving his bicycle on its side right next to the main entrance. He ran to the center court of the mall.


 But, something was wrong. It was too quiet in there, hardly any people. Santa was not in his customary place. “Maybe he's on his break” Winston hoped frantically to himself. 'Here Comes Santa Claus’ was blaring frantically from the ceiling, a jabbering chorus of of annoying adults trying to sound like annoying children.


A voice interrupted the music. “It is now 3:55 p.m. The Brookridge Mall will be closing in five minutes. Happy Holidays” The music cut back in, a frantic cacophany of Deck the Halls with blaring guitars and artificial snare drums.


Eyes wide with panic, Winston cut through Santa's village over to the registration desk. A teenager in an elf costume was talking on her cell phone. He tugged at her sleeve, to get her attention. She snapped her head around and glowered at Winston.


“Where's Santa?” Winston nearly shouted.

The elf-girl, annoyed, said “I'm sorry, we're closed.”


“I’ve got to see Santa!” Winston tried to keep the panic out of his voice.


“I SAID, I’m sorry, we’re closed. I need you to leave, now. Have a nice day.”


As he left, Winston said under his breath, “I need you to fall off a cliff”


Over
And the cold, gray reality came rushing around him like an icy fog. Winston was too late. Jagged fragments of his utterly failed plan fell about him as he slouched out of the mall, and back into the cold late-afternoon sunlight. Santa would never know, now, what he wanted for Christmas. Even the reconstructed list (which could possibly be missing a few items) was worthless now. Just as his brother had been telling him -- Santa would make the assumption, since he hadn’t heard from Winston, that Winston didn't want anything at all this year for Christmas. Or, worse yet, Santa would think that Winston didn't believe in him.


As he headed back up the hill, he came to the spot where he had met the truck. He could see the skid marks his bicycle had made earlier, back in a happier time when he had been a Robot Ranger traveling full of hope at Turbo Warp Velocity. He had been on a mission - a Robot Rangers Expedition. Winston stopped his bicycle, no need to hurry now, and looked back down the hill. Under the last reddish glow of sunset, the lights of the town below were coming on. In the wind-less, chill silence, Winston realized how seriously his mission had failed. “Operation Giftwrap”— indeed. His words came back to mock him.


“Well, at least I got that old man’s damn truck started!” he said to himself, fighting back the tears. “I hope that old fool has a nice Christmas, in his stupid old truck!” In the early evening sky, a falling star winked brightly and briefly, or maybe it was just one of the town lights distorted in a tear.


Back home, Winston passed unnoticed through the front hallway, where his sister was on the phone with one of her girlfriends. “Yes, a pen and pencil set. A Stupid Pen and a Stupid Pencil in a little velvet box. Yes, I showed him the necklace in the catalog. But my father said 'it wouldn't be appropriate'. Too young, my eye! I'm 16.

A Valuable Lesson
In the living room, his older brother Joshua had already opened his present from Mom and Dad — a Remington manual typewriter. "Back to basics" his father had reasoned. “Computers make things too easy, and the Internet takes all the challenge out of doing research.” Joshua poked listlessly at the keys, pressing them randomly, just for the old-time sound they made as they hit the paper.


Winston, sat down, talking to nobody. From the kitchen, he could hear his father's voice talking to his mother “This should teach him a valuable lesson in cooperation”. Great. His own parents turned against him, too! A valuable lesson! That’s what he’d be getting for Christmas. A valuable, bleak, hopeless and empty lesson. He pretended not to hear, just staring straight ahead without seeing. .


A sound penetrated Winston’s thoughtful wall of despair. A regular thumping noise seemed to come from inside the wall of the living room next to the front door, repeating at one-second intervals. From the kitchen, Winston's mother said, “Winston, what's that noise? What's going on out there? ”


Joshua could see that Winston was just sitting limply in his chair. He taunted — “Maybe it's Santa's reindeer on the roof with your stuff. Maybe we should all go out and help you bring in the big haul! HAHAHAH!” Winston jumped up, ready to punch his brother, but paused when the thumping noise stopped.


The sound of a truck door slamming. Winston froze as, one second later, an explosive POW! was followed by a deep roaring engine-sound that resonated with something recent in his memory. Winston bounded for the front door, and ran out onto the lawn looking down the road. But all he could see was a cloud of dense dark-gray smoke covering the road, tinged blue in the cold Christmas Eve moonlight. The engine sound was fading, and Winston thought he heard someone shouting “Merry Christmas” over the engine's roar.


Winston turned back to the house. It was unbelievable. The thumping sound they had all heard was explained. Packages were stacked on the front porch, on both sides of the front door. The veranda was FULL of gift-wrapped presents, and all of them had Winston's name on them!

epilogue
Joshua put the typewriter in the attic, only to discover it a few years later. The attic became his “garret” from which he still writes all of his best-selling novels.


Megan began doodling with her pen and pencil set, and, as anyone who frequents art galleries will tell you, the rest is history.


And Winston? — Well, let's just say, he's in the Package Delivery business. And, yes, he works on holidays...

Merry Christmas!  "God Bless Us, Every One!"


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The preceding is a work of fiction. If you notice any resemblance to real persons living or dead, then I did it right.  It was originally written for a Christmas variety show about 10 years ago, and has been re-written many times since.  Maybe this is it.