Life in the Village: In which we come to a realization
Omaha, dear readers, is like a pudgy, balding, middle-aged man who can't stand the fact that he will never rise beyond the ranks of middle manager.
Council Bluffs is his long-suffering wife: a slightly older woman, who skimps and saves and makes her own clothes and gives herself home perms to look attractive to her husband. She doesn't really love him, but at least he's there. And he uses her as a whipping boy and blames all his failings on her.
This occured to me, as it often has, when I read a column in the Omaha "World-Herald" about how Iowa was so sinful in regards to their approach to gambling: The author implied that it's just a matter of time before we have prostitues shooting up schoolgirls with heroin before their booster abortions.
It's all sour grapes of course: Long before the Council Bluffs casinos opened, Omaha was making money on horse racing - they're just bitter that Council Bluffs took their elderly little cash cow away, and grew an entirely new herd of their own.
Here's the God's honest truth: Father Vel-DuRay was on the library board forever. He and the head librarian, (who was a perfectly darling lady - if you called central casting, and asked for a librarian, they would have sent her to you) tried forever to get this town to build a new library, and they could never get a bond issue to pass: The people were just too cheap. It wasn't until the casinos came to town, and they made an offer that even a Council Bluffs resident couldn't resist, that they got the new library - and it's quite a handsome place indeed.
(Thanks to The Madison Housewife for reminding me about that)
Speaking of Father Vel-DuRay, I forgot a small detail of yesterday: After the Easter Mass, we headed up to St. Joseph's Cemetary to pay our respects. When he died, Father VDR left quite a few unopened bottles of sherry, which no one else likes. (He was always buying sherry in those last years, for some reason. We tried giving them to the VFW, and even they wouldn't take them) so it is our custom when visiting him, to take a bottle of it, and pour it on his grave. I always take a swig first, because who wants to drink alone?
As we were observing Our Little Custom, an annoyingly pious Italian family, with their indomitable matriarch Mrs B, drove by (being Italian, they would of course be in the cemetary - Easter was just a bonus) and observed that ritual - or at least the part with me swigging.
Mother VDR, having reached That Certain Age, didn't care, but Sister-Woman acted as if we'd all been caught manufacturing meth in the nude. For my part, I just passed it off with a gracious Easter wave, and an theoretical offer of the bottle. I'm sure I'm on some prayer list now for my alcoholism, which is undoubtedly a direct consequence of my public schooling - but at least I can spell alcoholism.
Tomorrow: A photo essay (if I get my act together) and - by popular request - a critique of the new town square.
Council Bluffs is his long-suffering wife: a slightly older woman, who skimps and saves and makes her own clothes and gives herself home perms to look attractive to her husband. She doesn't really love him, but at least he's there. And he uses her as a whipping boy and blames all his failings on her.
This occured to me, as it often has, when I read a column in the Omaha "World-Herald" about how Iowa was so sinful in regards to their approach to gambling: The author implied that it's just a matter of time before we have prostitues shooting up schoolgirls with heroin before their booster abortions.
It's all sour grapes of course: Long before the Council Bluffs casinos opened, Omaha was making money on horse racing - they're just bitter that Council Bluffs took their elderly little cash cow away, and grew an entirely new herd of their own.
Here's the God's honest truth: Father Vel-DuRay was on the library board forever. He and the head librarian, (who was a perfectly darling lady - if you called central casting, and asked for a librarian, they would have sent her to you) tried forever to get this town to build a new library, and they could never get a bond issue to pass: The people were just too cheap. It wasn't until the casinos came to town, and they made an offer that even a Council Bluffs resident couldn't resist, that they got the new library - and it's quite a handsome place indeed.
(Thanks to The Madison Housewife for reminding me about that)
Speaking of Father Vel-DuRay, I forgot a small detail of yesterday: After the Easter Mass, we headed up to St. Joseph's Cemetary to pay our respects. When he died, Father VDR left quite a few unopened bottles of sherry, which no one else likes. (He was always buying sherry in those last years, for some reason. We tried giving them to the VFW, and even they wouldn't take them) so it is our custom when visiting him, to take a bottle of it, and pour it on his grave. I always take a swig first, because who wants to drink alone?
As we were observing Our Little Custom, an annoyingly pious Italian family, with their indomitable matriarch Mrs B, drove by (being Italian, they would of course be in the cemetary - Easter was just a bonus) and observed that ritual - or at least the part with me swigging.
Mother VDR, having reached That Certain Age, didn't care, but Sister-Woman acted as if we'd all been caught manufacturing meth in the nude. For my part, I just passed it off with a gracious Easter wave, and an theoretical offer of the bottle. I'm sure I'm on some prayer list now for my alcoholism, which is undoubtedly a direct consequence of my public schooling - but at least I can spell alcoholism.
Tomorrow: A photo essay (if I get my act together) and - by popular request - a critique of the new town square.
posted by Catalina Vel-DuRay @ Monday, April 09, 2007
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