Tis The Season

Hello World, Beware the Ides of August, and then some! We're already more than half-way through the month already, and before you know it, back-to-school will be upon us in earnest. Of course, nowadays they start putting the back-to-school displays in the stores during June, when school is technically still in session, while a steady stream of circulars pours in, hawking everything for the student from backpacks to washing machines, and every high-tech gadget and gizmo under the sun. Heck, the dinosaurs and I can remember a time when it was considered routine for students to go back to school without the benefit of a new digital camera, big-screen TV or the latest Sony PlayStation, and that's not just the back-to-school wine talking, believe me. Speaking of technology, I was doing some research for which I required the services of a web browser with search capabilities, and luckily I have several of them on my computer, so I was all set. I typed my inquiry into the search box, which I assure you was in no way of a salacious nature of any sort, and I was more surprised than anybody when the results pointed me in a very different and decidedly unseemly direction from what I was expecting. Apparently one possible result of my query was an individual associated with erotic films, and I will say that the plethora of results indicated his immense popularity, especially since he was recently deceased, although obviously very far from forgotten. It was due to his esteemed reputation that so many of the results highlighted his numerous award-winning performances in what must have been a substantial career, and not just a one-night stand, as it were. And that is how I now know (however much I may have not been looking for, or ever desired to find out) that the awards presented to performers in the - ahem! - adult film industry are known as "The Grabbys." (As in, "How does that grab ya?") I thought that was so funny. Meanwhile, our friends in the world of plus-size apparel at Woman Within were kind enough to send out their latest catalog featuring what they refer to as their Semi-Annual Bra Sale with savings up to 75%, or as they describe it, apparently without irony, "End-of-Season Blowout." Now, I'll have you know it's been literally decades since I started wearing a bra, and this is the very first I'm ever hearing of any such thing as "bra season," and I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, I can assure you. What, do they have special fur-lined bras for winter, and different hot-weather versions in seersucker or gauze to keep the ladies cool as a cucumber? I realize that things have certainly changed since the dinosaurs and I roamed the vast unformed land masses in the primordial ooze, and not necessarily for the better, I can tell you that. But as much as lingerie has changed in all that time, I still can't see having a season associated with it, so that holding a sale at the end of the season would make any sense. You may as well have "fork season" or "sock season" or "piano season," for heaven's sake. The mind reels. In other mind-reeling news, we had our very own backyard miracle recently, that was not only just the right size, but also came along at precisely the right moment that we needed it. One corner of the yard has always had a towering Tree of Heaven, or Ailanthus Altissima, which is actually a native of China, and was widely cultivated there to support the ailanthus silkworm, providing the basis for famous Chinese silk. Although the species has been in this country for centuries, the trees are commonly disparaged for their messy and invasive habits, and I didn't have to go look that up, because I already have plenty of first-hand experience with it, that's for sure. Because they are considered "weed trees," they generally don't grow as tall as their more robust counterparts, and usually don't last much longer than 50 years. That being the case, ours was already on borrowed time when we got married, so we weren't surprised when it started dropping its branches over the years, and finally it just died standing there, straight as a pillar and nothing left to lose. It didn't seem to be going anywhere, and while we were happy to ignore it, I can tell you that it was about the most popular thing with the local woodpeckers for miles around. Then suddenly on a beautiful day, out of a clear blue sky - WHUMP! It came crashing down into the yard, landing in one piece just as it had been standing, and here's the miraculous part: it somehow missed absolutely everything in our entire yard, including the other old trees, our garage and garages in two neighboring yards, all of the fences in three neighboring yards, plus their hedges, and even our old ratty scavenged patio table and chairs. If you had drawn a line the size of this tree, you could not have found one single other spot that it could have fallen and not hit something at that distance, no matter how hard you tried. Even more providentially, it only lacked about 10 feet to reach the house, so to say that we dodged a bullet on this occasion, is to really say a mouthful. After the dust had settled, I went out and measured it with my tape measure, so like they say in boxing, I can now give you The Tale of The Tape and know that it's true. The tree as it fell was 35-feet tall, tapering to about 30" around at the top (approximately 10" diameter) and a hefty 60" around (20" diameter) at the main part of the trunk. However, since the tree grew up split into two equal trunks, rather than just one, the whole thing measured over 8-feet in circumference all the way at the bottom. So in the end, I guess we can say that it really did live up to its name as a Tree of Heaven, saving its surprise miracle for last - although it did go out with a bang, rather than a chorus of angel voices. Now that's what I call an end-of-season blowout, by golly. And while we're on the topic of measurable things, I came across one that I wasn't expecting, and also in an unexpected place. Our friends at Turner Classic Movies were running a marathon of Elvis Presley movies, so that just about any old anybody could get their fill of The King of Rock & Roll, and that's not just a lot of blue suede shoes, believe me. (Oh, settle down, Carl Perkins, you ain't nothing but a hound dog, and you ain't no friend of mine.) Last night when I turned on the television, they were in the middle of showing "The Trouble With Girls," from 1969 and featuring the talents of Joyce van Patten and John Carradine, of all people, besides The Mighty Pelvis his own self, who was looking admirably young and fit, I must say. At the time I tuned in, everyone seemed to be at some sort of fair, with the requisite rides, games of chance, balloons, cotton candy and stuffed animal prizes in profusion. Apropos of nothing, these two youngsters walked up to a booth with volunteers handing out treats, and as they walked away with their goodies, one observed to the other: "The Methodists make better cookies than the Lutherans," while his companion nodded in agreement. Did I laugh! I thought that was such a strange line of dialogue to plant in an old ditzy musical, and completely out of the blue like that, with no relation to the rest of the story in any way. And not to cast aspersions on the culinary abilities of Methodists through the ages, but I feel compelled to leap to the defense of my Lutheran brethren (and especially the sisthren of church basement ladies everywhere) when I say that while it's true that historically Lutherans may be more famous for their singing, rest assured that they can pot-luck with the best of them, and when it comes to casseroles and Jell-O molds, they take a back seat to nobody. So maybe in 1969 Hollywood, Lutherans could be treated as the punching bag of ecclesiastical finger foods, but nowadays they have long since checked out of that Heartbreak Hotel, and turned their Blue Christmas cookies into a hunk-a hunk-a Burning Love Me Tender, Teddy Bear. In fact, I would go grab myself some right now, but unfortunately, it's not the season. Elle