More about The Major Concern........

Scores of you gentle readers have contacted me wanting to know more about The Major Concern. Of course, I'm still not at liberty to say (Us Irish are a supersticious lot. Not as supersticious as the Croations, but close) but I can give another hint, which should be instantly recognizable to those of taste and distinction. Of course, I thought the previous hint would have made it clear, but one never knows.



As you can see, it's much more suburban in nature than Today's World Plaza was. In fact, this will mark the first time in my career that I have not worked in the downtown core, and it shall doubtless be an interesting experience.

Let's keep the dance floor clean, shall we?

I am, in all likelihood, not a parent (although anything that happened prior to 1989 or so is anybody's guess). However, I realize that there are many parents in TGTC community, and many of your children are approaching That Dangerous Age (As are many of the husbands, but that's another matter entirely. I'll have to post something about that one of these days)

Anyway, in the interests of taste and decency, I thought I would bring you this PSA about something called "grinding" that all the kids are apparently doing these days. Whatever happened to nice dances like the Bunny Hug or the Turkey Trot?

Take a Kennedy Moment...

I was going to write today about a great KitchenAid Mixer I got at the thrift store (and I probably still will) but I just wanted to take a moment to acknowledge the Kennedy Family.

As an Irish-Catholic, it was of course required that We admire the Kennedys: We came from the same clan after all, and they succeeded brilliantly (where we just succedded. Somewhat). Sure, old Joe Kennedy wasn't the best daddy, and some of the stuff he did to get their money was a tad cringy, but really, he just took advantage of dumb Republican economical policies, so there you are.

And they keep getting better: Each generation seems to be smarter and more altruistic. They do important things with their money - things that help people other than themselves. They are sort of the opposite of the Bush family, who made most of their money off of dealing with the Nazi's (even old Joe wouldn't do that, although he kind of liked Hitler at first. But he soon realized what a stinker he was) The Bushes get more dumber and more inbred with each generation. Probably because no one wants to marry them, even with all their money.

Of course, being a Kennedy has its drawbacks: For one thing, none of them can fart without a thousand conservative boneheads pointing and going "EWWWWWWWW!!!!!" And those same dreary people keeep bringing up Teddy Kennedy and Chapaquidic (or however that's spelled) Never mind that he was acquitted, and has done all sorts of truly wonderful things since then. You sure don't see OJ Simpson reinventing himself as a statesman, do you? Not that Teddy Kennedy is anything like OJ Simpson. For starters, he dresses much better, and his children don't hate him.

It just stands to reason that, with so many of them, some are going to have problems. I come from a large extended family on my Mom's side, and if we were famous, you wouldn't believe the field day the tabloids would have over us. Unlike the Kennedy's, however, we have a few dullards who have become Republican (hey there Nora and Mary Emma!). Mostly because of their husbands, which just goes to show that my aunts should have worked harder on their daughter's self-image issues, because they're not stupid, just naive. But that's not important right now.

Anywho, They're just neat, neat, neat people. And they know how to dress. America is lucky to have them.



Now, onto the Mixer.....

In all the excitement of the putting together of The Lodge Room and The Game Room. I totally forgot to show you my latest score!

First, allow me to set the scene: Me, in the Highlander (this was during Sven's unfortunate braking episode) driving around downtown Kent. I spot the Children's Hospital Thrift Store. I say to myself "Should I or shouldn't I?" and I very nearly don't. But I do, and it's there that I find this



Yes, it's a KitchenAid Mixer, but it's not just any old KitchenAid Mixer: It's a Hobart-era KitchenAid Mixer (KitchenAid was originally the retail brand for Hobart. It was sold to Whirlpool in 1986 or thereabouts) and it was priced at $10, so of course I had to get it.

Hobart didn't/doesn't mess around, and these mixers were built like the proverbial brick comfort station. Made in America, by union laborers (as opposed to today's mixers, which are assembled by essentially slave labor, and have been plagued with problems) And it's HEAVY: Your coorospondent was panting and perspiring by the time he got it back to the car.

The lady told me that it had just gone out on the floor, and I'm not suprised: As most anyone can tell you, these puppies go for a couple of hundred bucks.

I can't tell if it's "Sunny Yellow" or "Harvest Gold", but I don't much care: It's just neat.

Of course, this would seem to indicate that I need to do some baking - it would be piggish of me to buy this and not use it, particularly since it was such a steal - but I find that I have to be inspired to bake. So I shall carefully peruse the owner's manual, and see what catches my fancy.

Let's just take one more look: Isn't it pretty? And it's hard-working and eminently functional. It could be a Kennedy.....

Of Bertoia, Shish Kebob, and Sputnik Fixtures....

Today, Dear Gentle Readers, I conquered the spectre of the no-mans land off of the laundry and the furnace, and on the way to The Lodge Room.

I've been at sixes and sevens about this space since we bought Chez Vel-DuRay, back during the Eisenhower Administration. Part of the problem was that I couldn't understand what motivated the original owners to put this strange little non-room room in, in the first place: It's certainly no destination, and one has to go through both it and the laundry to get to the interesting stuff in the basement. But one can only question the motives of others for so long before one goes mad, so I dismissed that train of thought, and confronted the space as a challenge.

For a long time, this area had been home to a wooden dining set that I had bought during what I now realize must have been a period of some sort of vague, undiagnosed liver ailment. It was fine, but it was just too big for the space. But for some reason, The Colonel liked it, so I let it be.

However, being finely attuned to the spiritual needs of good furniture, I had a nagging dread in the back of my mind: A few years back, I had scored a Cyclone table by the famous designer George Nelson. These tables sell for for several thousand dollars, and I got mine for $100, for goodness sake. I also had a set of Bertoia wire chairs, and a Sputnik fixture that were crying, just crying, to be let out of their confinement. So out went the table, and up went this:



And there was the matter of the board games: I have a ridiculous amount of board games, and they need to be displayed, and they need to be played. But it's much easier to play a board game at a round or square table (yet another Handy Housekeeping Hint for gratis, dear readers) The little counter thingy between the nebulous space and The Lodge Room had a storage area underneath it with a dreary sliding door. It was filled with a mish-mash of miscellaneous gunk, so I simply RIPPED the door off, cleaned out the shelves, and created a little media center.

The end result is this:


(There'll be more room for games after I get rid of those pesky VHS tapes.)

With that done, it was time for dinner, so I thought I'd use one of my newest aquisitions in my Gallery of Ridiculous Appliances. So without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I bring you Shish Kebobs from my Farberware "Open Hearth" Broiler/Rottiserie.



Shish Kebobs are both delicious and nostalgic to me: Years ago, long before I met the Colonel, I dated a series of Scotts. Scott 1 and I used to make Shish Kebobs quite frequently, out on the balcony of my old apartment. That was a fun summer.

I have no idea where Scott 1 is now. Last I heard, he was a stewardess for United Airlines. But that's been quite a while.

So there we are, dear readers. Life does, indeed, go on.

A Brush With Death!!!!

Oh, My dear lightly-floured-and-sauteed-in-butter readers, what a day I've had!!!

It started out normally enough: Still working on those finishing little touches on both The Lodge and the Game Room, but soon it was time for me to take a load of stuff to the dump. So I loaded up Sven and set off.

Things were fine until I was waiting in line at the transfer station, with my foot on the brake. Suddenly, we weren't braking, and the Sven was moving towards the truck in front of us! Remembering my driver's ed training from those long-ago days at Abraham Lincoln High School, I put dear Sven in Neutral, and used the emergency brake to stop us, and we were fine. But our brakes were shot. gone. no longer there. We were sans brakes.

I got through the whole transfer station experience, but there was no way I was going to risk driving all the way back to Chez Vel-DuRay, so I steered us to Second Use, and called both the Auto Club and The Colonel.

Soon Sven was on his way back to the repair shop who had fixed his brakes a few weeks back, and I was enjoying a restorative cocktail on the veranda. While at Second Use, I found a lovely new painting, which even now is hanging in the Sala Grande (pics will be forthcoming) but really - how much more dramatic can a day get?

Tomorrow, I'll try to get some pics of The Lodge Room and the Game Room, but The Major Concern is beckoning to me to take a pre-employment physical. The life of a transitioning homemaker is one mad rush!

Cocktails in the Lodge!

Many of you have been wondering (not in so many words, but I KNOW it's been eating at you) how the basement is coming along. As long term readers will know, it's been a mess the last couple of months, what with the replumbing and all.

Frankly, it had gotten pretty dusty down there, as had my thoughts about it, until I was inspired by our recent visit to the Izaak Walton Inn. It was there that I saw that knotty pine can be fun! So I started thinking, and came up with this. Ladies and Gentlemen, I bring you "The Lodge"


Above is a view of "The Lodge" from the bar. I decided to focus the furniture on the fireplace for a couple of reasons, but mostly because it makes us look like we do other things that just sit there watching QVC for hours. It also lets us see the view from the couch, which is nice during commercials, and gets us away from the exterior walls, which are cold as hell in the wintertime.

Also notice that I have incorporated the gigantic fork and spoon into the buffet area. Clever?

And below, we see "The Lodge" from the fireplace perspective:



The sofa, besides being vaguely Santa Fe-esque, was chosen primarilly for it's sinkability: You can disappear for hours in it, and have very satisfactory naps upon it. It's also handy for the occassional spontaneous houseguest who has drunk too heavily of the grape - not that we would ever do anything like that around here. The liquor is purely decorative.

You'll notice that Mrs. Dan Langdon is posing in the corner. That's where we are hoping to put a door to the outside this summer, just in case we have to duplex Chez Vel-DuRay during Mr. Bush's upcoming depression. Or just to make it easier to get out to the hot tub.

The Juke Box and Organ lend a delightfuly honky-tonk atmosphere to The Lodge, don't you think?

So we're thinking it's about time for a intimate little cocktail party to break in "The Lodge". What do you think?

Coming up tomorrow (or later today, depending on when you are reading this): A strange little space that needs your help in naming it. Put your thinking caps on.....

Career News!!!!

The Major Concern has told me that, pending my passing both a physical and background check, I have a new position!!!!

Suffice to say that The Major Concern is eminently stable, and has been in business for over 100 years (as opposed to Today's World, which could claim neither of those distinctions, and will most likely never be able to) In my new position I shall be dealing extensively with homeowners in Our Better Neighborhoods. (which is one of the few flaws I have detected - I shall be based out of the northend of Seattle, which means a commute. But I'll be in a building that is rather tasteful and boasts its own auditorium!)

I'm not at liberty to disclose the employer, but savvy Seattlites will no doubt know who I'm speaking of once they persuse this image....



The rest of you will just have to sit there, biting your nails and pulling at your hair.

Decor as Political?

In catching up with my correspondence after my Midwest Inspection Tour, I noticed an appalling little exchange on a dreary little website called lottalivin.com, which claims to be about everything Mid-Century Modern (with the occasional foray into Tiki).

Someone published an article about an appalling 32,000 square foot house down in Palm Desert, California. People were clucking and tsk-ing (as was I) when one of the moderators (A third-rate talent who, while a biological woman, reminds one of a Tacoma drag queen) shut it down. In her disjointed, simple-minded justification, she noted this:

throughout history - it is the wealthy that enable art to be pushed to its limits.......the l.a. times is notoriously liberal and leftist and anti-things that smack of individualism.

So, right off the bat, we know that the young lady paid a visit to Ayn Rand and was gullible enough to buy into her political viewpoint. Which is fine - the gullible make the world go 'round - but then she abruptly locked down the discussion.

Which got me thinking - is architecture and decor political? If so, what is Modern?

On one level, EVERYTHING is political, but we'll leave that to the Socialists. To me, modern was a rejection of the previous era's sensibilities. By rejecting the past, it looked to a bright new future - one where the empires were dead, the people were equal, and use of the atom was strictly peaceful.

Most of the designers were either Europeans who had fled fascism in Europe or Japan, or Americans from middle-class backgrounds who had grown up in the poverty of the depression and seen the horror of World War II. Hardly a bunch to venerate the rich, or even feel good about conspicuous consumption.

(Architects are another matter entirely, but aren't they always?)

Anyway, why am I bothering you about this, gentle readers? Mostly because that third-rate Tacoma drag queen wouldn't let me say it there, but also because it really, really annoyed me that ANYONE - let alone a female transvestite with delusions of grandeur - would link MY preferred decor to anything even remotely Ayn Rand.

So, as a palate cleanser, enjoy this picture of a what I'm sure was a solidly middle-class (and undoubtedly liberal and NON-objectivist) couple enjoying the high-fi in a case study home.

Montana Interlude

So Here We Are in Whitefish Montana!

Tuesday, I flew from Omaha to Chicago, and met The Colonel at a little motel by Union Station. After a truly delicious and delightfully expensive dinner at The Cape Cod Room at the Drake Hotel, it was off to beddy-bye.

The next morning, The Colonel headed off to his meeting, and I putzed around Chicago a bit. Blunch was at Lou Mitchell's by the station (A Chicago "must-do") I met the Colonel at the bar at the station, and we headed off to board the Empire Builder.

Everything about the train was perfect: The sleeper was new, clean, and staffed by a wonderful attendant. Dinner, while rolling along the banks of the Mississippi, was great, and I slept well. Woke up the next morning in North Dakota, and spent the day staring out the window at the view, which got progressively more interesting as the day wore on, and left the prairie in favor of the mountains.

During the afternoon wine and cheese tasting, I won a bottle of wine for knowing that Katherine Hepburn was in "A Lion in Winter".

As we started climbing into the rockies, it started to snow, which added to the whole festive atmosphere. After going over the Marias Pass, we arrived at The Izaak Walton Inn in Essex Montana.

The Izaak Walton is fantastic: Rustic as hell (no cell phone connectivity or TV) and literally in the middle of nowhere - but in a good way. Add to that a great dining room, and a fantastic little basement bar, and you have the ultimate getaway!

After a lovely stay at the Inn, we headed back on the train to Whitefish, and I spent another hour oggling out the window.

After the Izaak Walton, Whitefish was sort of a letdown: It's a city designed for tacky people with too much money. With that said, we did buy some wind chimes, which is so cliched on so many levels, but I don't care. They're really neat chimes. We also found thrift store where I got a fantastic California Pottery Lazy Susan ($3.95) and a Faberware "Open Hearth" electric broiler ($4.00). I'd been looking for one of these, as I found the Shish Kebob attachment back in Council Bluffs.

Tonight, we board the Builder for the final leg, which should bring us into Seattle at about 10am. And just in time: The Major Concern is now doing a background check on me, and I need to get them some paperwork. Hopefully, there will be some good career news to share with you in the near future.

In the meantime, enjoy these pictures of the inn. Here it is from trackside:



Here's looking across the tracks at these cute little cabooses you can rent.



Here's the lobby



And here's the bar!



More Bar! (There's skiing and snowbarding and things like that, but why bother when you have a bar like this?)



The pool and ping-pong room (off of the bar!)



Here comes the train to take us to Whitefish!



In case you are interested, the eastbound Empire Builder arrives at Essex at approximately 9am. The westbound Builder arrives at 7:40pm.

Life in the Village: The End is Near!

Dear, dear readers, tomorrow morning I jet off to Chicago, where I will join the colonel who is there for a Terribly Important Meeting regarding the National Rail System.

Wednesday, we shall be leaving aboard the Empire Builder, bound for Essex Montana, where we shall spend a relaxing evening and day at the Issac Walton Inn. From there, we we will reboard the Empire Builder for a short trip to Whitefish and, after a lovely evening there, we will once again board the "Builder" for the final trip on into Seattle.

It shall be a rather deluxe trip, of course. I'll try to get some pictures for you all to enjoy, as you ponder the possibilities of trans-continental rail travel.

It's been a lovely trip, of course, but I shall be happy to return home to Chez Vel-DuRay, where we keep the thermostat set on something under 80 degrees, and the decor is the last word in Taste and Style. Mother VDR is a dear, of course, but her home lacks that certain elan that One Comes To Expect.

So Au Revoir, Darlings! Regards will be sent from the Windy City and the Rails!

Life in the village: I've got to get out of here....

I'm starting to identify with Disney heroines. Hmmm, put a goatee on the Gaston character, and he'd look a lot like (sigh) Cole......

Special Report: The Gigantic Fork & Spoon Set!

Today, I visited two internet friends from the wonderful website, automaticwasher.org and we, in turn, visited Fremont, Nebraska - known previously to me only as the burial spot of my maternal grandparents.

We weren't there to visit grandpa and grandma (who had died by the time I came along anyway) but to visit junk shops. And it was there, gently shaken readers, that found this:



Yes! Yes! It's the hugest pair of wooden fork and spoon that I have ever seen!!!! (I took a picture of them in Mother VDR's hopelessly bourgeoisie living room, to give you an idea of the scale of these behemoths. They are even taller than me (not that that's saying much)

I spoke to The Colonel this evening, and alluded to these gigantic utensils, but I did not specifically tell him what they were - only that I was sending them to Chicago ahead of me, and that we would take them back to Seattle with us. The Colonel has a lot of things on his mind, and de-tails like that would only make him tense and nervous.

Have you ever seen a gigantic wooden fork and spoon as gigantic as this gigantic wooden fork and spoon? I didn't think so. Now I just need a gigantic pepper mill.

Life in the Village: Another really really really DUMB idea

Dear, Gently tossed Readers,

One of the joys I have experienced in my little visit to the hinterlands has been Mahm's thrift warehouse, which is located in downtown Council Bluffs, on the last block of buildings that actually somewhat resembles a downtown.

So imagine my knuckle-biting attack when I was informed today that THAT ENTIRE SIDE OF THE BLOCK IS TO BE DEMOLISHED!!!!

It seems that the city has bought up all the buildings on that side of the block for a development that is aimed at making it look "just like the Old Market"

The Old Market, for you gentle readers who have been fortunate enough to not visit Omaha, is a tiny little four block space comprised of old buildings that some hippies started vegetarian cafes, head shops and record stores in, back in the 1960's. It's now mostly kitschy restaurants, antique stores, and clothing stores for large women with too much money. It is the one part of downtown Omaha that can be remotely described as "thriving", and even that is generous. Omaha, in a typicaly brilliant stroke of mediocrity, assured that the Old Market will never get any bigger than it currently is by demolishing all the extra old warehouses that were adjacent to it in favor of an incredibly bland "corporate campus" for that manufactuer of everything evil, ConAgra.

So let me recap the sad irony: The city fathers of Council Bluffs are aiming to demoish a bunch of old commercial buildings in the hopes of creating an evironment that was born out of a bunch of old commercial buildings. Are you with me in the big head scratch?

If this were just any city, it would be bad enough - but this is Council Bluffs: The town that gave the world the Midlands Mall: A mall so bad, so ugly, so turned in on itself, that it only existed long enough to kill all the non-mall business around it, before eating itself.

ONE WOULD THINK THAT, after sacrificing FOUR SQUARE BLOCKS of previously thriving small businesses, all in funky old turn-of-the-century commercial buildings, to the abortion that was eventually Midlands Mall, they would have learned their lesson. But no: They did not, and now they want to repeat that hideous experiment on an entire city block. As we used to say back in the kitchen, "What the Fuck?"

And just so you can get a glimpse of what I am talking about here, Here is a view of the mall block back in the early 20th Century. These buildings were still in place in the 70's when they were demolished for the mall.



See in that picture where the cigar sign is? This is what's standing in that space now:


Now maybe you can understand why I have no hope for this ridiculous town.

Life in the Village: In which I visit the town square

A little bird told me that I should visit Our Town Square, and critique the new fountain, and I was happy to do so.

The Town Square, otherwise known as Bayliss Park, is a lovely little space - Very small town, in the Norman Rockwell sense of the term: On the four sides of the square were the offices of the Daily Nonpariel, the Public Libary, the three mortuaries, the Masonic Temple, the Baptist church, Doctor Dean's residence, the Oddfellow's Temple, and the Chieftan Hotel.

The Nonpariel has moved to new quarters, Doctor Dean's residence is gone (a victim of the Baptist's lust for parking). The library is now the Union Pacific Museum. The mortuaries merged into one, and the Cheiftan is now a senior citizen's residence called the Bluffs Tower (where the Council Bluffs office of the odious Steve King now is) but otherwise, it's pretty much the same.

Except for the fountain....

When I was a mere slip of a thing, the fountain was an ornate Victorian affair, with lots of overflowing basins, frolicking nymphs, and what have you. Perfectly suitable for a town square, even for a person of a mid-century sensibility such as mine. Some things are just better left untouched.

Then came the 70's, At which time the people who bought us the dreadful Midlands Mall set their misguided eyes on the Bayliss Park Fountain. It was suddenly deemed hopelessly outre, and was replaced with a ridiculous "dancing waters" fountain - a fleeting fancy that was big at certain California malls at the time.

This survived for several decades. Generations of Council Bluffs children waded in it, dumped soap flakes in it, and were chased out if it by the Council Bluffs police. But times change, and people change, and it was time for a new fountain, but they didn't want to start from scratch (I told you these people are cheap). The old fountain (the Victorian one), was still around - it had just been cooling its heels at the General Dodge House all these years. One would think it could have gone back to its old home, but for some reason that wasn't an option, so they stuck it in one of the numerous vacant lots in downtown Council Bluffs.

So I headed downtown to see the new fountain, and I was excited to see that it was operating. I went to pull in so that I could get a better view, but then I saw this:



The message on the side of the truck reads "YOU WERE ELECTED TO SERVE THE PEOPLE OF OUR COUNTRY SENATOR HARKIN. ENFORCE THE LAWS!"

This is typical of the political discourse one encounters in Council Bluffs, and it's one of the reasons why I honestly don't know if I could live here again. What sort of person takes the time to paint something tacky like that on the side of his truck (because you just know it's a man), and is then happy to drive around town with this as his constant companion? The other side of the truck had some sort of message about enforcing immigration laws, and God blessing America, which just goes hand in hand with this drivel.

Anyway, that threw me off my mission, at least as far as the fountain was concerned. This being Council Bluffs, it doesn't really matter what the fountain looks like, as they will just get rid of it in a few years. Yes, that's a bit bitchy, but I don't like anyone who disses my Senator Harkin.

Life in the Village: In which I visit a physician

This morning I woke up with a sore throat. Other than that, I felt fine, but since Mother Vel-DuRay is still in a compromised immune state due to the chemo, I thought I'd better get checked out.

Back in MY day, I would go to the Cogley Clinic, which was named for Doctor Cogley, who had a fabulous estate (Cogleywood) and a wood-sided station wagon with "Cogleywood" on the side who actually used his station wagon to meet people at the station. (I bet you didn't know that that's why we call station wagons "station wagons". La, the useless knowledge I can empart....)

The Cogley Clinic was a wonderful example of 50's medical: It looked like a serious version of a ranch house, with a fake fireplace in the waiting room, grasscloth wallpaper, lots of planters with fake plants, and TONS of glass brick. It was made for nurses in white dresses, sensible shoes, and caps, as well as doctors with white lab coats and neckties. It was what I would call "medical chic", and looked like something right out of "The Doctors" (which was a soap opera that most of you are too young to remember)

That's all gone now. I had no inkling where to go, except that I noticed that Allegant Health Care had a clinic out by the Hy-Vee. Since Allegant runs Mercy Hospital (where I was born) and Cogley was affiliated with Mercy, I thought that they were as good as anything.

The experience was not half bad: No fake fireplace, or glass brick, or plastic plants, or nurses with caps, but they were nice. And they gave me some pills that made the sore throat go away almost immediately.

The only false note was the doctor: When I mentioned to him that I was taking the train back to Seattle, he wrinkled up his nose and said (like absolutely everyone in this ridiculous town) "They have a TRAIN between here and Seattle? That sounds like an awfully long ride".

I had had such high hopes for this doctor, as he was a Canadian, but I had to face the truth: He was no Doctor Cogley. He's probably one of those Doctors who lives out in that awful subdivision I was telling you about. (REAL doctors, by the way, live on Forest Drive, Keeline or Kenmore Avenues)

So there you are. I am apparently healed, but my physician lacked pizzazz. Oh well. Things could be worse. I comforted myself by going over to the Hy-Vee, and buying some pork chops from (sigh) Cole....

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.

Life In The Village: The Dance Continues...

Well, Good Friday has come and gone, and here it is Easter Monday. Saturday was a day off, and that is a good thing - at least when it comes to Saint Peter's and their dreadful music department. Good Friday, we were treated to a rendition of "Were You There (when they crucified our Lord)?" which is an old Negro Spiritual, and that's where it should have stayed.

Saint Peter's has a history of absolutely slaughtering this hymn. It's not really our fault, I just don't think Catholics are capable of doing justice to spirituals: I remember one time in the 70's, when Father Klefman - who had what might be charitabley called a "dry sense of humor" - remarked, upon hearing our pathetic collective effort at this song, "I'm sure after hearing that, Our Lord is glad we weren't there" But we never learn.

After that was over, I headed on down to the old Rock Island Railroad Depot, which is now a museum, and known for having the dreariest model train set or something like that. I don't suppose you knew that there were separate waiting rooms for ladies and gentlemen until 1954 at that station. See? Never let it be said you never learn anything on this blog.

The old gal who was the tour guide was nice enough, but gave the the third degree: She liked the churchy part, but I lost major points for going to public school. I took comfort in knowing that my pagan education allowed me to learn how to spell and compose a sentence, however.

Easter Sunday we all got gussied up - even Mother Vel-DuRay - and went to church AGAIN. That was a big deal for her though, as it was her first public appearance since this whole thing began, and she handled herself well, even if her wig kept riding up. After that, we took the proverbial ride in the country, where we saw some hideous McMansions, all perched on the top of the most windswept hill, on tiny lots and no trees. Apparently, that's where all the doctors live. Why, I can't understand: If there's one thing Council Bluffs has, it's no shortage of Victorian mansions and stately homes that can be had for a song - plus, they are near the hospitals. If I had that kind of money, I wouldn't be isolating myself out. Omaha/Council Bluffs is already isolated enough.

Then it was home, and Easter dinner. I made a simple repast: Rack of Lamb, Mashed Potatoes, Peas and Brussels Sprouts. It turned out well if I do say so myself.

So I'm a loose ends today: Have a few projects to work on, but I think I might take the day to play. Any suggestions?

Life in the Village....

Darlings, here I am, back in the very HEART of nowhere, dear old Council Bluffs.

The train arrived on-timeish on Tuesday, and was a totally satisfactory ride. I have a post bubbling up in here somewhere about train travel in general, so I won't elaborate, except to say it was very nice.

Wednesday was spent mostly at the hospital, for the aforementioned last chemo. Mother Vel-DuRay is officially in remission, and will hopefully stay that way. Chemo is a dreary affair, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. But, like everything, it was a learning experience. Medical technology is truly both amazing and terrible, and I hope I never have to see the extremely capable and kind people at the Lied (pronounced LEAD, as in "follow the leader") treatment center at the University of Nebraska medical school ever again.

So with that under our belt, today was FUN day (well, comparatively speaking)!

It began early in the day with a meeting with a plumber who will hopefully be installing a washer hookup in my old bedroom, so that Mother VDR doesn't have to go to the basement (except for tornadoes). He had a very cute Mexican along as his sidekick, but I managed to contain myself.

Then it was shopping time: The social work people have said that Mother VDR is welcome to stay in her home, but certain allowances have to be made (grab bars, non-skid throw rugs, and something called a "toilet riser", to name just a few) so I started out downtown to find what I could.

Of course, there's nothing left in downtown Council Bluffs but bars and thrift shops, but isn't that a wonderful way to start? At the thrift store that used to be the appliance store (right next door to the church that used to be a grocery store, and down the block from the vacant lot that used to be a hotel that Abraham Lincoln stayed at) I carried on a very intense flirtation with an absolutely amazing cooktop, range hood and double wall oven, all in Turquoise. But - with the wisdom born of long experience - I know that long distance relationships seldom work out, and I really can't cheat on the Fabulous 400, can I? But then again, it could be my "ace in the hole" should I ever end up back in this godawful town: Mother VDR's kitchen is a true early 90's horror, and her basement has plenty of storage space. I'll keep you posted.

Then it was on to the thrift store of the Community of Christ (who are like the Mormons, but not. They used to be called the reorganized church of Latter-Day Saints. I think they were founded by Joseph Smith's ex-wife) It's located in the old Western Auto store, across the street from where the Livery stable used to be. It was there that I found a marvelous percolator for the project that I need to telll you about (well, not you, Sylvia. You have the inside scoop)

After that, it was the boring shopping: I found the grab bar and a drill at Romano's Hardware (which is located where nothing was before) and then to Sears, Target and Hy-Vee (where the cornfield used to be) for various pretties. And yes, I renewed my low grade obsession with The Dreamy Butcher, Cole. (who still doesn't know I exist) I swear to you, dear readers, that if I figure out a way to take a picture of him, without looking like a pathetic middle-aged queen with a puppy love crush, I will.

Then home, and several hours later, to the highlight of the day: Holy Thursday Service at Saint Peter's Catholic Church! (which, in what should have been a dire warning to me, now bills itself as "The country church in the city").

Back in MY day, Holy Thursday was a very theatrical event: Incense, hymns in Latin, processions, more incense, more hymns, all the statues draped in Purple - very, very Catholic, and hugely campy. It was really quite the production, so I was somewhat looking forward to it. Well, so much for that.

I really don't have anything against going to church when I'm home. It keeps the peace in the house and, as they say, When in Rome... but this was a tired, hackneyed affair, full of kiddies and hokey, hokey, hokey hymns that all sounded like they had been written by a theology student who needed an extra twenty-five bucks for tafetta.

After quite a few tacky hymns, all sung in the most insecure harmony by two parishoners who also strummed guitars, the time came for the big finale: The procession that culminates in exposition of the blessed sacrament in the monstrance (yes, I know I'm getting into the Catholic weeds here. I promise you I'm on my way out)

When I was an altar boy at St. Peters, back in the bronze age, I sweated out quite a few Holy Thursday services until I was finally promoted to the big time - the lead altar boy who had to walk backwards through the entire church, while vigorously swinging a heavy censer full of hot coals and incense, until we reached the side altar, where I handed the contraption off to the priest, and retreated to a corner to discreetly hack up a lung. If you don't think this is an accomplishment for a twelve year old, I want you to come to Chez Vel-DuRay in a pair of sansabelt slacks, a polyester dress shirt, a clip on tie, and dress shoes that are either a size too small, or a size too big. There, I will have you put on a floor length black robe, then a white blousy thing that goes over it, and have you try it. After you fall on your ass and are burned by the coals, I'll put out the fire, give you some bactine, and we can have a cocktail.

Anyway, needless to say, the procession is NOTHING like it used to be: Not only is there no backwards walking with incense (liability issues?) they don't even fire up the incense until they get to the area where the side altar used to be. And instead of a side altar (which was a victim of a 70's era renovation), they just set the monstrance up on a thing that looks like a 70's era stereo speaker (which just proves that all the priests at St. Peters are straight. No gay man would stand for such a tacky thing to set a monstrance on)

And to add insult to injury, after sitting through all those tacky hymns, they finally hauled out one of the good ones for the lackluster procession. Trouble was, they used an organist who had apparently just seen an organ for the first time. What he lacked in skill, he made up for in volume (which is a Council Bluffs thing) therefore totally drowning out the soloist, who decided to sight read the hymn and sing it in Latin, which he had apparently never seen before.

Needless to say, it was a disappointment. I can only shudder when I think of what tomorrow (Good Friday Service) will bring.

On the Road: Imagine my bitterness.....

So here I am in Chicago. Yesterday, was a drama: The flight was delayed - and people wonder why I take Amtrak. At least in a train station you can wander around a bit. On a train you can get up and walk around. Here, were were virtually imprisoned in the most dreary of airplanes. When we finally made it into O'hare (through the most harrowing of rainstorms) it took FOREVER for the CTA train to get into town. By the time I arrived, it was windy (duh. "The Windy City") and dark. My dear friend Miss Visene was nowhere to be found, so I walked around the area by the Sheraton before calling it a night.

Today, I woke up, all set to go to the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art only to find out that they are closed on Mondays. so I consoled myself by having a lovely lunch at the Walnut Room at the Marshall Fields Department Store on State Street (some may call it by its new name - I forget what it is - but those people are hopelessly vulgar)

The room is lovely, the food divine and the service excellent. My only complaint, and I find this more puzzling than anything, was the china: The new company obviously has made a committment to keep a dining room operating, and by all indications, it is doing quite well. But the china was nothing. Plain white, and not even an artsy white. Just white, institutional, boring, cafeteria-style china. Certainly not what one would expect from one of the nation's most historic restaurants.

After lunch I did some shopping, and returned to the hotel for a soak. Meeting with Miss Visene this evening (hopefully) and zephering off to Omaha tomorrow.