Full Disclosure: I’m 99.9% sure the target audience for this book are fans and collectors. Not children. Also, a portion of the sales goes to charity.
So there’s that.
And before any metalheads accuse me of casting aspersions on their band, let me set you straight: I recognize Metallica’s talent and influence. They are legend.
They’re not my cup of tea, but I recognize their talent.
When I was in high school my taste ran more toward oldies (Simon & Garfunkel and Cat Stevens). Though I was also fond of Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. (I believe I was about Timmy’s age when “Dark Side of the Moon” came into being.)
Oh, and sometimes in the early evening when the cloud cover was just right (for some reason it worked best with clouds), I could get a jazz station on my little radio that looked something like this:
I’ve no idea if it was real jazz or not, but it seemed so to my teenage ears and I felt quite sophisticated listening to it. Later I came to appreciate classical music as well, my taste heavily influenced by Bugs Bunny.
The point is, I like a wide variety of music. Especially when it’s done well, and I can agree Metallica does their thing well.
But in case you’re one of those holdouts who think heavy metal isn’t all that heavy, just hear what a couple of classically trained musicians do with Metallica.
The video is a bit old – 2015! – but worth a listen just the same:
Note: I’m currently working on the post regarding the Worm and the Water Cooler (which must sound strange if you don’t follow this blog – for context, see this post). In any case, I was nearly done when I realized it required another illustration. It takes me a good, oh, I don’t know… day or two just to draw a face. So the chances of posting this week were looking pretty slim. I decided to pull one from the vaults. This is a post from June 3, 2015 — my first year blogging. In fact, this was my 10th post and I think I had all of 10 followers. (Pretty sure they were all family.) It includes a recipe because I did that back then. Hope you enjoy it.
My Glorious Summer of ’76
Growing up in the 70s was great. I’m not even talking about the movies and music from that era, though we had some fine ones, have to admit.
What I’m talking about is the total lack of parental supervision. Even if a parent stayed home, they pretty much left us to our own devices.
It was great.
Brother and I had it even better, as our older siblings had already moved out. Meaning total lack of supervision, baby!
Frankly, it’s a wonder we didn’t burn the whole place down.
It’s their first visit since we moved here, the first they saw our new place, the first time they’ve been in Minnesota.
Before they arrived, I told Husband how strange it felt. It was like I wanted to show off the place, impress them a little. He agreed.
We wanted them to understand why we abandoned them in Arizona.
Now let’s be clear, we knew we didn’t really abandon them. They are in their early 20s, old enough to be on their own. They have jobs, they have an apartment, they have family and friends nearby.
Why do these images persist? My daughter is at an intersection with a cardboard sign: “Hungry, Motherless, Please Help”
Son is on a street downtown, playing his keyboard. He’s got a hat in front of him and he’s singing…
When you comin’ home dad? I don’t know when. But we’ll get together then. You know we’ll have a good time then.
We parents love riding that old guilt train, don’t we? If there isn’t enough to feel guilty about, we’ll make something up to fill the void. (One mother told me she felt guilty her daughter had to wear glasses. If she had eaten better when she was pregnant, maybe her daughter’s vision would be better.)
So it was good for us to see they were doing fine. Somehow for these last six weeks, they managed to keep themselves fed, clothed and sheltered.
They liked our new house, agreed the area was pretty. They seemed to enjoy Minnesota but thought our evenings were a little cold (HA HA, wimpy Arizonans!).
Still, I wondered what they thought of our moving. Did they understand? Did they think we were nuts?
It was a short trip as they had to get back for work, but before we dropped them off at the airport, we walked around Mall of America. We discovered it is one FREAKIN’ big mall. It has its own amusement park, for cryin’ out loud.
Husband and Son went on Ghost Blasters, Daughter and I did our roller coaster thing.
At some point (it may have been on the plunge down), a thought occurred to me: Our kids aren’t thinking about us.
Do you remember back when you were young and out on your own? When we’re trying to figure out the whole adult thing and find our way in the cold, cruel world? The one thing we weren’t doing at the time was sitting around wondering what our parents were up to. We had our own concerns and our parents didn’t enter into it.
Which is how it should be. Right?
They left the nest and are doing their thing, and now mama and papa bird have to figure out their thing.
Then later in life, after he was diagnosed with congestive heart failure and had a few serious illnesses, Dad realized he didn’t have a lot of time left. He began to “get his affairs in order” as they say. He made sure everything was in good standing for Mom. He sorted through his belongings, finished projects, made things for grandkids.
And he wrote letters. Lots and lots of letters.
He wrote to cousins he hadn’t seen since he was a kid, he wrote to his brothers and their wives, his nieces and nephews. He even wrote letters to his grown children who lived in the same city as he did. It wasn’t at all unusual that when you visited and it was time to go, he’d put a envelope in your hands, your name written in a shaky script on the front. It would be another letter telling some bit of family history, or a chart showing our ancestry, some copies of black-and-white photos of our grim-looking relatives.
First, a note: As I was typing, I realized I was editing and somehow that seemed dishonest. In the end, I decided to keep things pretty much as they were, grammatical errors and all. The only thing I changed was to break up his paragraphs a bit, as his thoughts occasionally jump from one story to the next, then back again.
One other note: When he says they provided all the milk for Bruce — that’s a small town in South Dakota.
A Letter From My Dad…
This letter is about things that happened over 80 years ago.
Mother was having a hard time raising her twin boys. She said she prayed every nite for help. Then Mother found she was pregnant again. She thought the Lord was going to punish her with this new baby. The twins would be 2 in August and I came along the 1st of May. The twins were still in diapers. The conditions were rather primitive on the farm back then, no running water, you did things the hard way.
Mother told me when I was an older kid what a good baby I was. At the time I never wanted to hear about it, it made me sound like a sissy. Mother said I never cryed only whimpered when something was wrong. The relatives said something is wrong with that baby, that baby don’t cry – all babys cry. Mother said I was ok and a happy kid and was an answer to the prayers to the Lord. She also said she could sit me down any place & I would be ok.
Then one day when I learned to crawl Mother heard a loud cry & found the twins stomping on my fingers & were proud of them selfs that they got me to cry. Mother thought they had ruined me & I would cry all the time, but I went back to the way I was.
The good that come from it was the twins were better behaved & watched over me & never let any thing bad happen to me. This has been true all our lives. They have always protected me. We never had any fights with them, altho they were always fighting with each other.
Roger & Rolf were always very fair & kind with me except when work was involved. They would divide the jobs in 3 equal parts, they was kind enough to give me the choice of the jobs, that went along quite well. Now the milking of the cows was another thing.
We always had 20 or so cows to milk. The cows were divide in 3 parts of 7 or so cows. I again got to choose the bunch I wanted. This was the evening milking in the summer as Dad & John could stay out in the field until dark. I was never very fast with the milking. I would have 2 or so left to milk when they were done. The fact that I was 10 years old & they were 12 had nothing to do with it so they would watch me finish. The reason we had so many cows was that we had to furnish most of Bruce with milk.
Bro. John was always to blame if any thing went wrong. When I was about 3 I was breaking the ice in the stock tank & fell in. I was in quite a long time when John found me floating under the ice, he was blamed for me falling in & not (praised?) for pulling me out.
Another time when I was about 3 Dad came home from town & found me layed out on the township road. He brought me to the house & looked for bruises. Then I woke up, I was just sleeping in the middle of the road. Bro. John was blamed for letting me sleep on the road.
They got a very good whipping for stomping on my fingers. I wound up with a deformed finger nail & at the time it got infected and got a swelling under my arm. I was brought to a Doctor & he lanced it. This did cause me trouble later in life.
Dad passed away 12 years ago. I often think of the stories he told, and the way he told them. He was great storyteller.
Sometimes my inner Reporter gets a little zealous digging for facts.
Actually, “a little zealous” describes her off-days. Most of the time she’s a research fanatic.
But I can’t complain much because she often finds some real gems. Case in point, a charming publication called Old Settler’s Gazette. A compilation of century old news, brought together for the residents of Pulaski County, Missouri.
Carol Brady was dead, to begin with. Actually, she was never alive to begin with, as she’s a fictional character. But beings how she is the epitome of a perfect mother, Carol Brady was dead as a doornail.
That doesn’t change the fact that on this Mother’s Day, Carol Brady visited C.J., late in the evening, when kids and Husband were out of the house because, let’s be honest, they knew that’s what she wanted.
“CeeeJaaayyy,” Carol Brady said, in a tone most spooky and weird for a 70s sitcom mom.
“Yeah?” C.J. replied, sipping her blueberry margarita, which she made because she had some leftover blueberries she didn’t know what to do with, and she’s not sure how she feels about the margarita because, you know, blueberries.