I had tried to learn her name and something of her life about four years ago, when I first purchased this computer. A chat room with comments that were then five years old, revealed that others in cyberspace did not know who she was either. The wondering really began with my first viewing of the film "A Christmas Carol" in the early 1960s. This 1951 English production starring Alistair Sim as Ebenezer Scrooge, had each year increasingly solidified its rightful claim in my family's hearts, as one of the treasured parts of our Christmas traditions and expressions of love. The film's ending included a cameo and silent role that instantly touched us all and was an added bonus to the present of this beloved film and its "father", Charles Dickens. The young woman, as I said, spoke not a word. Consequently, no literature on the internet could I find, crediting her as a cast member. But what was so special about her? If you have seen the movie, less than twice, it is possible that that question might arise to a casual observer of the movie. However, it would take a casualness, bordering on a want of feeling for Dickens' tale's message, to not have one's attention and sentiments arrested by viewing Miss X on consecutive presentations of the movie. Her only acting included the business of taking Scrooge's overcoat and then fixing him with the most supremely disarming look of heavenly encouragement as the hesitant old sinner weighs the decision to enter his nephew's Christmas gathering. She persists in her loving, inviting and yet chary glance and one intuits that she, with her goodness (and sublimely huge, innocent eyes), is part of Ebenezer's reclamation.
Well, the mystery of her identity ended quickly and quietly as another Christmas Day passed last week. "Ask and you shall receive" was never a truer statement, when on Boxing Day, I enquired of my Facebook friends in general: "Does anyone know who played Scrooge's nephew Fred's chambermaid?" And a mutual friend and new, much appreciated F.B. pal responded speedily and has now made it possible for me (to steal a line, but the identical sentiment of another friend who I had the pleasure of bringing these glad tidings to) "to at last, die in peace" with the identity and brief biography of this actress of so long ago. The chambermaid was played by Miss Theresa Derrington. It was in fact, very satisfying to learn that she is still with us, and that she has apparently led a remarkably unremarkable life with marriage, children, grandchildren and a long career as an art teacher. Her role in "Scrooge" (its title in the U.K.) was her second and last in film. God bless you, young lady. You shall forever remain a juvenescent soul to me and to all who love Christmas.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
And Hail The Old Years, Lads and Lasses Too
"That's the way the old year passes (fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!)…Hail the new ye lads and lasses." And yet , my eyes and heart turn toward yesteryear, with the considerable encouragement of a mini-marathon on cable t.v. this New Year's Eve of Rock 'n Roll exploitation films of the late '50s. One is entitled "Go, Johnny Go!" It was released in 1959 and it starred Jimmy Clanton and Sandy Stewart. Clanton was a twenty year old heartthrob from New Orleans, a dimpled, jelly rolled and blonde haired Adonis with soaring vocals and just the right plaintive sob in his instrument, sure to cause coming-of-age teen gals to swoon and spend on his vinyl discs, both in reel and real life. His character's love interest is an old friend and a career minded singer as well, portrayed by Miss Stewart. I only had eyes for her. She epitomized what society's merchants of entertainment envisioned were its audiences' hopes, dreams and aspirations of and for a young American woman. She was kind, sweeet, breezy, properly if conditionally platonic, with an indomitable upbeatness and sophisticated sense of humor that was a perfect match for her glorious smile and big, ever so pretty eyes. Where is Miss Stewart today? Common sense and mathematics tell us that she would be an old woman now. Happily, cyberspace sources report that she is still with us. Her singing career was short lived and she chose a traditional path of marriage and children within five years of this film's release. There is not much more to remark upon, except to say that her smile seems to defy time and the mortality that presses down upon us and that some of us are made more mindful of as another year slips away. Sandy, not unlike Miss Derrington (see blog entry of today also), soothes us in ways sometimes unfathomable as we begin no longer think of "angel" as a worn out term of endearment or a casual kind of "thank you" for a kindness.
Monday, December 30, 2013
Expired License Plates
They were invariably dirty, often greasy and not rarely were smeared with dog excrement. For a grade schooler to tote one was a conspicuous sight and more than fifty years ago, they were heavy, big and sometimes came with rusted accessories attached to them, like bolts, nuts and "ticker things" (in the parlance of my older brother and myself, i.e. small metal plates with the two digits of the formerly new year that were bolted over the old year's in one of the plate's corners). These were quite unlike today's lightweight, aluminum ones.
We learned early on that they were manufactured in prisons and that certain letters adjacent to the numerals referred to their issuance for motorists residing in certain parts of New York state. What attracted us to them? And why did we collect them with a quasi-religious fervor? Perhaps they were a bridge to adulthood; their availability was not assured and alertness and good fortune were factors in gathering them to our bosoms. They were artifacts, relatively small works of art with colors alternating from year to year or at an interval of several years. They were substantial and each one was unique. They proclaimed their identities in no uncertain terms and they silently exuded somehow, a certain confidence and independence. And yet they obediently permitted our harvesting.
In New York, the yellowish gold of numerals and letters contrasted with black backgrounds and then these elements exchanged colors in alternate periods. The motto "Empire State" with the abbreviations of year and state, "'55" (for example) and "NY", respectively, appeared above or below the characters. Very infrequently, but memorably, we found one in an empty lot or close by one of a service station's steel drum trash barrels that was a strange color and from another state! These discoveries were exotic and thrilling for an eight year old. Sometimes they were temptingly visible but nearly inaccessible. This was the case with a dark green specimen with white lettering and a curious image in its center, separating the alpha numeric grouping. "Why, that's a pelican!" said a genial old janitor from my school who sensed my excitement for the rectangular piece of metal lying in the short grass behind a very tall chain link fence painted black and protecting the community garden adjacent to the public schoolyard where I played during recess from classes in the nearby building. I was just learning to read, but the registration "tag" was upside down, though on its obverse. An older student with a hoe heard us conversing and we caught his eye. Perhaps the adult's authoritative as well as friendly ways encouraged the pre-teen. He was asked to simply throw the plate over the fence. Obediently, he complied and as it barely cleared the top of the structure, we thanked him. With a wave and a whistle the oldster left me to my treasure and the young gardener returned to his seedlings. I could clearly see the outline of the pelican now and tried to decipher the words below the numbers and letters. "S P O R T S M A N ' S P A R A D I S E" it spelled out. Below were the letters "L O U I S I A N A" and the numbers "'56". To this day, this plate hangs in the badly decayed wooden toolshed that my grandfather built in 1954 in our backyard.
So many plates were collected from the early '50s until into the '70s that some "pruning" became necessary over the years. Today, there are only several dozen remaining, but some of these have found a home in my brother's house and I even found a very utilitarian use for a rare pair of '57s. My antique Ford of that year sports them in lieu of regular historical plates. New York's law permits it as long as the vintage tags are not identical in number and/or letter sequence to an existing current N.Y.S. plate. Such a situation is a near impossibility, given the configuration and number of characters of modern era plates. By any measure, and certainly through an adult's eyes, typically more so than that of a child's, these souvenirs of American automotive history, or more usually one's own or family's history of car ownership, can easily help preserve that history by the collection of these objects. Enough dry space and a bit of care can keep them indefinitely.
We learned early on that they were manufactured in prisons and that certain letters adjacent to the numerals referred to their issuance for motorists residing in certain parts of New York state. What attracted us to them? And why did we collect them with a quasi-religious fervor? Perhaps they were a bridge to adulthood; their availability was not assured and alertness and good fortune were factors in gathering them to our bosoms. They were artifacts, relatively small works of art with colors alternating from year to year or at an interval of several years. They were substantial and each one was unique. They proclaimed their identities in no uncertain terms and they silently exuded somehow, a certain confidence and independence. And yet they obediently permitted our harvesting.
In New York, the yellowish gold of numerals and letters contrasted with black backgrounds and then these elements exchanged colors in alternate periods. The motto "Empire State" with the abbreviations of year and state, "'55" (for example) and "NY", respectively, appeared above or below the characters. Very infrequently, but memorably, we found one in an empty lot or close by one of a service station's steel drum trash barrels that was a strange color and from another state! These discoveries were exotic and thrilling for an eight year old. Sometimes they were temptingly visible but nearly inaccessible. This was the case with a dark green specimen with white lettering and a curious image in its center, separating the alpha numeric grouping. "Why, that's a pelican!" said a genial old janitor from my school who sensed my excitement for the rectangular piece of metal lying in the short grass behind a very tall chain link fence painted black and protecting the community garden adjacent to the public schoolyard where I played during recess from classes in the nearby building. I was just learning to read, but the registration "tag" was upside down, though on its obverse. An older student with a hoe heard us conversing and we caught his eye. Perhaps the adult's authoritative as well as friendly ways encouraged the pre-teen. He was asked to simply throw the plate over the fence. Obediently, he complied and as it barely cleared the top of the structure, we thanked him. With a wave and a whistle the oldster left me to my treasure and the young gardener returned to his seedlings. I could clearly see the outline of the pelican now and tried to decipher the words below the numbers and letters. "S P O R T S M A N ' S P A R A D I S E" it spelled out. Below were the letters "L O U I S I A N A" and the numbers "'56". To this day, this plate hangs in the badly decayed wooden toolshed that my grandfather built in 1954 in our backyard.
So many plates were collected from the early '50s until into the '70s that some "pruning" became necessary over the years. Today, there are only several dozen remaining, but some of these have found a home in my brother's house and I even found a very utilitarian use for a rare pair of '57s. My antique Ford of that year sports them in lieu of regular historical plates. New York's law permits it as long as the vintage tags are not identical in number and/or letter sequence to an existing current N.Y.S. plate. Such a situation is a near impossibility, given the configuration and number of characters of modern era plates. By any measure, and certainly through an adult's eyes, typically more so than that of a child's, these souvenirs of American automotive history, or more usually one's own or family's history of car ownership, can easily help preserve that history by the collection of these objects. Enough dry space and a bit of care can keep them indefinitely.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Autumn's Farewell
The stillness of a day in very late autumn: the telephone receiver has been placed off the hook and the seemingly incessant beeping of the phone company's scolding for not holding their service in sufficiently high esteem, has stopped. Only the crash of an airplane, nearby motor vehicles or car alarms could likeliest intrude on these peaceful moments. There has been much tumult in cyberspace, much of it the result of my pulling on the devil's tail. I am particularly appreciative of family at times like these and with Christmas Day nearly upon us. A nostalgia page on Facebook, the social networking phenomenon, has provided many hours of escape, but even that palls after only so many recollections start to remind us that present day challenges deserve our attention too. The coming new year: what are the hopes and fears? Lennon spoke in his smugness (was it a drug induced reverie?): "Nothing's gonna change my world." Perhaps Lenin bragged conversely to the following effect: "Everything's gonna change your world." They were both wrong and both overrated. The changes are already felt. My infirmities, nascent now but their advancements inevitable, telegraph their mischief and the socio-political landscape, with no friendliness, advises vigilance and forethought. My enemies on the 'net, underestimating the value of my intelligence, boast of the future belonging to the most adaptable to change, a silent tribute to cockroaches, no doubt.
Taking care of one's self is the priority, or "Quality is 'Job One'" as one of America's automotive giants asserts. Serving others must be part of the equation too. Yes, there is a natural conflict there to a certain degree. But both command respect and our efforts. Loving and being loved: they remain among the finest of human enterprises. Contributing to our civilization is so much more than an annual tax payment or weekly attendance at church. The smallest social interactions, if they evince caring, exposure of our frailties with good humor and are inclusive of all, can pile up the points, admirably and well competitive with single, dramatic events and expressions of good will by popes, presidents and other celebrities. Heroism is not limited to only the headline makers, the warriors and the rocket scientists. Even Gelsomina's rock in La Strada is good for something and has a purpose. And blessed silence is the moist soil and needed darkness in partnership with sunshiny/human consciousness. It's a special place and way of being that permits that small voice of truth to be heard.
Taking care of one's self is the priority, or "Quality is 'Job One'" as one of America's automotive giants asserts. Serving others must be part of the equation too. Yes, there is a natural conflict there to a certain degree. But both command respect and our efforts. Loving and being loved: they remain among the finest of human enterprises. Contributing to our civilization is so much more than an annual tax payment or weekly attendance at church. The smallest social interactions, if they evince caring, exposure of our frailties with good humor and are inclusive of all, can pile up the points, admirably and well competitive with single, dramatic events and expressions of good will by popes, presidents and other celebrities. Heroism is not limited to only the headline makers, the warriors and the rocket scientists. Even Gelsomina's rock in La Strada is good for something and has a purpose. And blessed silence is the moist soil and needed darkness in partnership with sunshiny/human consciousness. It's a special place and way of being that permits that small voice of truth to be heard.
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