I should’ve been born in Lexington, Kentucky, but my mother, nine months pregnant with me, ignored her doctor’s advice and, with my two older sisters, boarded a northbound train, leaving my father behind to attend his mandatory graduation ceremony at the University of Kentucky marking the culmination of his Master’s degree in education, made possible by the GI bill. My mother was hell-bent that I should be born in Easton, her beloved home. Naturally my father caught up with her as soon as he could, and I have enjoyed annoying her for years, telling everyone that yes, I was born in Easton— but I’m Kentucky bred.
I've never eaten oysters out of the shell. I know better. To me, it bears the resemblance of post nasal drip and a head cold infused Kleenex Tissue in a shell. You're not kidding anyone with "Why yes, I east oysters. I put a dab of horseradish on it and it tastes great." You and I both know that you and the other loonies who "eat" oysters are just using the Oyster as the delivery system for the horseradish. Do yourself a favor, if you have a taste for horseradish, just use a spoon. It's not as nasty as that other thing. Oysters are for people who don't like seafood.
In closing, I'm in North Carolina now but I'm from New Jersey, born and bred. Everyone here knows I'm not "from" here when I talk. They usually don't ask and simply assume I'm a transplant from somewhere up north. The others who don't talk with that southern twang always ask where I'm from and we share our horror stories of the weather, taxes and rude drivers. Things are quieter here, much slower and less crowded. With a population of just over 4,300, which all seem to congregate at the Walmart at the same time, it's easy for one to ask oneself what took so long to get here. The biggest traffic jam we have here is the line at the Walgreens drive thru pharmacy. I like it here. The only thing I miss about New Jersey is my family and good pizza.
Oh one more thing, never put your laptop down anywhere. Ever.
I am so glad you recovered your briefcase. May I suggest that you use a thumb drive to backup your ‘good deal of work’ every day and keep that in your pocket?
I was driving down I-25 in Colorado in the 1990s and saw a lady pulled over with her hood up. I gave her a lift to the next exit and the gas station there. About 20 minutes down the road afterward, I realized she had left her briefcase in my car. So, at the next exit I turned around, drove back, and boy howdy was she in a panic. And dumbfounded that I came back.
Once in Idaho in the 1980s, I needed to make a phone call and there was a DayTimer in the outdoor phone booth. I made my call, then drove to the post office and mailed it to the address listed inside the cover.
I don’t know if where I was born or raised had anything to do with it. I just did the decent thing, what I hope someone would do for me if I had lost a big chunk of my work records. Just a simple application of the golden rule. Nothing fancy, just that.
Minnesotans are not the only ones who love SPAM. If this page accepted pictures, I'd append a picture of a Navaho valentine, a SPAM can inside a heart. Navahos love SPAM.
My wife and I enjoyed the evening with you in Easton. She's Canadian, and on her first visit to Maryland let herself be talked into eating a raw oyster. My mom took this as evidence that "she means business" whatever that meant.
The shouted "Oh" in the Star-spangled Banner is customary at Camden Yards, home of the Baltimore Orioles, locally known as the O's.
The sad part of your Union Station story was the women and children who chose to laugh at you rather than come to your aid. One of the many ugly manifestations of “American” society. The Talmud is one of the greatest explicators of human nature, deriving wisdom from Tanakh such as when your neighbor’s donkey falls in a ditch, help him get it out. Or make your kids help the senior whose briefcase is going the wrong way.
Garrison--In Easton, Md.,when people shouted " O!" (at "O say can you see...") of National Anthem, thats a tribute to the Orioles, as in Baltimore Orioles. Always a big "O"at Camden Yards
_- John, Woodstock,VT, former Marylander and Orioles fan, now part of Red Sox Nation.
I am so glad to have caught up with you again after all these years (I delivered that singing telegram to you at the Mayor's home in Princeton Junction, NJ when you came to the panel discussion ((more of a debate)) on the anniversary of Orson Welles' "War of the Worlds" ((broadcast back in the early days of Radio - the "fake news" extravaganza of the day - on which, as I recall, you took the extreme "con" position and drove it straight through the brains of all in attendance). You were very kind to me after I finished my original song (which was my personal way of thanking you for coming to our neighborhood to spread a bit of oratory classy in the suburbs of Princeton University). You and I are the same age and I think we should keep going. Ange Chianese - Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah Singing Telegram Co. (ret.) P.S. I loved the movie (PHC) and re-watch it occasionally to remind myself, as the Buddhists often remind me, that "the time of death is uncertain". Thanks!
Garrison, I'm originally from the Baltimore area and just as a note, the locals always shout the "Oh" in the Star Spangled Banner, especially at Oriole games. It references the "O' for "Oriole."
I'm glad to hear you found some happiness in Maryland. Now you can avoid Florida entirely!
Very glad to know you recovered your briefcase but was cringing a bit reading of your debut in slapstick. I had a heart attack in 2015 and while enduring a cardiac catheter I heard the cardiologist mumble "Jesus" under his breath so I have given up running and, for the most part, any sudden movements. I once felt sad having the "Big One" at the young age of 58 but at the moment I am staying with my 89-year-old Mom who is recovering from hip surgery (and a long list of post-op issues), and as she vents her frustration at having to avoid any sudden movements herself, I remind her that she is lucky to be alive, which is exactly what I was told by the cardiologist years ago, so the time has come for me to practice what I preach and just chill out. Still, running through train stations is now on my list of things to avoid, right up there with shoveling snow.
"It doesn’t matter where you live, you’re still from where you’re from. Provincial is baked into my blood and I can’t escape it by wearing a nice suit or eating seafood, I’m still from the land of the Spam sandwich."
I think that's true for most of us who enjoyed the stability that comes with sessile parents! I've known a few "Army brats" who bemoan the fact that they had to start a new school and a new life every time their parents were assigned to a new base. That's a different sort of childhood.
I doubt if we who have rooted family pasts recognize how "parochial" we are, until we move into a different locale. Certainly, we can find things that are better there than "What we were Used To!" I remember my father trying to teach us how to surf on the one-foot-high waves (if we were lucky) that wash ashore on the eastern beaches of Lake Ontario. I thought I "knew how to surf", but it was just a mechanical trick. Once I lived close to the Pacific shore, I discovered what a thrill it can be to be drawn along by a rolling mass of water. I could feel it's power under my torso as I surfed off Corona del Mar. I had to be careful when I chose to body surf in the five-foot high waves of "The Wedge" at Newport Beach! While there, I heard tales of broken arms and such from the habitués. And once, in Hawaii, I considered surfing "The Pipe," only to realize that it was completely beyond my ability!
That's a simple example, but it seems valid for some aspects of "relocating." I understand that Our Mobile Host decided to relocate in New York City, in part from hallowed memories of visiting there with his father in his childhood. There had been a lot of cities in his life in the mean time, of course - so it's probably not like coming straight from Anoka, Minnesota to the Big Apple. I know, I wouldn't have tried surfing at any beach in Hawaii, if my only prior experience had been the waters of Lake Ontario.
I guess I'm just noting that our lives have their courses. Like trees we have our roots, but we may also have many chances to "branch out" along the way. It seems to me that Our Beloved Host has made the most of his experiences, and, like an oak tree, is Crowned with Glory!
Speaking of eating shellfish... I just missed having one experience that made me cautious of bivalves for life! Our Girl Scout Camp's unit was coming back on the last leg of a week-long canoe trip through the Fulton Chain of Lakes (Eighth Lake through First Lake, what original names!). We were heading on down the Moose River to the point where we could portage along the railroad tracks, and paddle across our camp's pond to home.
We had paddled more energetically than previous groups out of our camp, so our counselors decided we could camp overnight at a river bend and make a "triumphant entry" the next morning. Since we had time on our hands, we explored the riverbank for "nature lessons." We found a few racoon tracks, a bit of a deer trail, and some black shelled freshwater mussels. One of our counselors was into "Eating from the Wild." She decided that we could boil the mussels, have some cattail shoots, and have a "Wild Night." I decided to take a pass on the mussel. As the daughter of a New England sea food lover, I had early on decided to take a pass on lobster, clams, oysters, and all that sort of "Try it, you'll like it!" sort of thing.
That last day turned out "wilder" than expected. We hadn't really registered it when we had passed the Old Forge Sewage Treatment Plant, half a mile upstream from our campsite. Before morning, everyone else in our group was losing the contents of their stomachs, and writhing in increasing pain. We could hardly pack up and portage the canoes back to our camp's lake. These were the days before cell phones and such. We didn't have any choice except shank's mare. As soon as we got to camp, the entire rest of our canoe trip had a mass evacuation to the hospital in Old Forge. I spent the rest of the camping period with a neighboring unit.
Until that time, my family had teased me about my anti-shellfish/lobster food fetish. After that, I never heard another word! Once, we were on vacation in Maine and our parents cooked lobster in an iron pot over a fire on the rocky beach. The most I heard about my abstinence from this "Glorious Food!" was "Lobster is expensive. If you don't want it, there's more for the rest of us!" I ate my solo hamburger in peace, secure in knowing that it came from a grocery store and was probably relatively germ free!
I should’ve been born in Lexington, Kentucky, but my mother, nine months pregnant with me, ignored her doctor’s advice and, with my two older sisters, boarded a northbound train, leaving my father behind to attend his mandatory graduation ceremony at the University of Kentucky marking the culmination of his Master’s degree in education, made possible by the GI bill. My mother was hell-bent that I should be born in Easton, her beloved home. Naturally my father caught up with her as soon as he could, and I have enjoyed annoying her for years, telling everyone that yes, I was born in Easton— but I’m Kentucky bred.
You got the best of both worlds, salt air and bluegrass. You wear it well.
Mr. Keillor,
I've never eaten oysters out of the shell. I know better. To me, it bears the resemblance of post nasal drip and a head cold infused Kleenex Tissue in a shell. You're not kidding anyone with "Why yes, I east oysters. I put a dab of horseradish on it and it tastes great." You and I both know that you and the other loonies who "eat" oysters are just using the Oyster as the delivery system for the horseradish. Do yourself a favor, if you have a taste for horseradish, just use a spoon. It's not as nasty as that other thing. Oysters are for people who don't like seafood.
In closing, I'm in North Carolina now but I'm from New Jersey, born and bred. Everyone here knows I'm not "from" here when I talk. They usually don't ask and simply assume I'm a transplant from somewhere up north. The others who don't talk with that southern twang always ask where I'm from and we share our horror stories of the weather, taxes and rude drivers. Things are quieter here, much slower and less crowded. With a population of just over 4,300, which all seem to congregate at the Walmart at the same time, it's easy for one to ask oneself what took so long to get here. The biggest traffic jam we have here is the line at the Walgreens drive thru pharmacy. I like it here. The only thing I miss about New Jersey is my family and good pizza.
Oh one more thing, never put your laptop down anywhere. Ever.
Thanks for your thoughts. Heading for the Oyster Bar now as we speak.
I am so glad you recovered your briefcase. May I suggest that you use a thumb drive to backup your ‘good deal of work’ every day and keep that in your pocket?
I was driving down I-25 in Colorado in the 1990s and saw a lady pulled over with her hood up. I gave her a lift to the next exit and the gas station there. About 20 minutes down the road afterward, I realized she had left her briefcase in my car. So, at the next exit I turned around, drove back, and boy howdy was she in a panic. And dumbfounded that I came back.
Once in Idaho in the 1980s, I needed to make a phone call and there was a DayTimer in the outdoor phone booth. I made my call, then drove to the post office and mailed it to the address listed inside the cover.
I don’t know if where I was born or raised had anything to do with it. I just did the decent thing, what I hope someone would do for me if I had lost a big chunk of my work records. Just a simple application of the golden rule. Nothing fancy, just that.
Good advice. I shall ask my wife to help me figure out how to do it.
Dear Garrison,
Minnesotans are not the only ones who love SPAM. If this page accepted pictures, I'd append a picture of a Navaho valentine, a SPAM can inside a heart. Navahos love SPAM.
My wife and I enjoyed the evening with you in Easton. She's Canadian, and on her first visit to Maryland let herself be talked into eating a raw oyster. My mom took this as evidence that "she means business" whatever that meant.
The shouted "Oh" in the Star-spangled Banner is customary at Camden Yards, home of the Baltimore Orioles, locally known as the O's.
The sad part of your Union Station story was the women and children who chose to laugh at you rather than come to your aid. One of the many ugly manifestations of “American” society. The Talmud is one of the greatest explicators of human nature, deriving wisdom from Tanakh such as when your neighbor’s donkey falls in a ditch, help him get it out. Or make your kids help the senior whose briefcase is going the wrong way.
Somehow I got a kick out of their amusement. I might've felt otherwise if the briefcase hadn't been recovered.
Garrison--In Easton, Md.,when people shouted " O!" (at "O say can you see...") of National Anthem, thats a tribute to the Orioles, as in Baltimore Orioles. Always a big "O"at Camden Yards
_- John, Woodstock,VT, former Marylander and Orioles fan, now part of Red Sox Nation.
I am so glad to have caught up with you again after all these years (I delivered that singing telegram to you at the Mayor's home in Princeton Junction, NJ when you came to the panel discussion ((more of a debate)) on the anniversary of Orson Welles' "War of the Worlds" ((broadcast back in the early days of Radio - the "fake news" extravaganza of the day - on which, as I recall, you took the extreme "con" position and drove it straight through the brains of all in attendance). You were very kind to me after I finished my original song (which was my personal way of thanking you for coming to our neighborhood to spread a bit of oratory classy in the suburbs of Princeton University). You and I are the same age and I think we should keep going. Ange Chianese - Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah Singing Telegram Co. (ret.) P.S. I loved the movie (PHC) and re-watch it occasionally to remind myself, as the Buddhists often remind me, that "the time of death is uncertain". Thanks!
Garrison, I'm originally from the Baltimore area and just as a note, the locals always shout the "Oh" in the Star Spangled Banner, especially at Oriole games. It references the "O' for "Oriole."
I'm glad to hear you found some happiness in Maryland. Now you can avoid Florida entirely!
Very glad to know you recovered your briefcase but was cringing a bit reading of your debut in slapstick. I had a heart attack in 2015 and while enduring a cardiac catheter I heard the cardiologist mumble "Jesus" under his breath so I have given up running and, for the most part, any sudden movements. I once felt sad having the "Big One" at the young age of 58 but at the moment I am staying with my 89-year-old Mom who is recovering from hip surgery (and a long list of post-op issues), and as she vents her frustration at having to avoid any sudden movements herself, I remind her that she is lucky to be alive, which is exactly what I was told by the cardiologist years ago, so the time has come for me to practice what I preach and just chill out. Still, running through train stations is now on my list of things to avoid, right up there with shoveling snow.
Remember me? Z.D.D. SingTelCo. 1987
I'm thinking, I'm thinking.
"It doesn’t matter where you live, you’re still from where you’re from. Provincial is baked into my blood and I can’t escape it by wearing a nice suit or eating seafood, I’m still from the land of the Spam sandwich."
I think that's true for most of us who enjoyed the stability that comes with sessile parents! I've known a few "Army brats" who bemoan the fact that they had to start a new school and a new life every time their parents were assigned to a new base. That's a different sort of childhood.
I doubt if we who have rooted family pasts recognize how "parochial" we are, until we move into a different locale. Certainly, we can find things that are better there than "What we were Used To!" I remember my father trying to teach us how to surf on the one-foot-high waves (if we were lucky) that wash ashore on the eastern beaches of Lake Ontario. I thought I "knew how to surf", but it was just a mechanical trick. Once I lived close to the Pacific shore, I discovered what a thrill it can be to be drawn along by a rolling mass of water. I could feel it's power under my torso as I surfed off Corona del Mar. I had to be careful when I chose to body surf in the five-foot high waves of "The Wedge" at Newport Beach! While there, I heard tales of broken arms and such from the habitués. And once, in Hawaii, I considered surfing "The Pipe," only to realize that it was completely beyond my ability!
That's a simple example, but it seems valid for some aspects of "relocating." I understand that Our Mobile Host decided to relocate in New York City, in part from hallowed memories of visiting there with his father in his childhood. There had been a lot of cities in his life in the mean time, of course - so it's probably not like coming straight from Anoka, Minnesota to the Big Apple. I know, I wouldn't have tried surfing at any beach in Hawaii, if my only prior experience had been the waters of Lake Ontario.
I guess I'm just noting that our lives have their courses. Like trees we have our roots, but we may also have many chances to "branch out" along the way. It seems to me that Our Beloved Host has made the most of his experiences, and, like an oak tree, is Crowned with Glory!
Speaking of eating shellfish... I just missed having one experience that made me cautious of bivalves for life! Our Girl Scout Camp's unit was coming back on the last leg of a week-long canoe trip through the Fulton Chain of Lakes (Eighth Lake through First Lake, what original names!). We were heading on down the Moose River to the point where we could portage along the railroad tracks, and paddle across our camp's pond to home.
We had paddled more energetically than previous groups out of our camp, so our counselors decided we could camp overnight at a river bend and make a "triumphant entry" the next morning. Since we had time on our hands, we explored the riverbank for "nature lessons." We found a few racoon tracks, a bit of a deer trail, and some black shelled freshwater mussels. One of our counselors was into "Eating from the Wild." She decided that we could boil the mussels, have some cattail shoots, and have a "Wild Night." I decided to take a pass on the mussel. As the daughter of a New England sea food lover, I had early on decided to take a pass on lobster, clams, oysters, and all that sort of "Try it, you'll like it!" sort of thing.
That last day turned out "wilder" than expected. We hadn't really registered it when we had passed the Old Forge Sewage Treatment Plant, half a mile upstream from our campsite. Before morning, everyone else in our group was losing the contents of their stomachs, and writhing in increasing pain. We could hardly pack up and portage the canoes back to our camp's lake. These were the days before cell phones and such. We didn't have any choice except shank's mare. As soon as we got to camp, the entire rest of our canoe trip had a mass evacuation to the hospital in Old Forge. I spent the rest of the camping period with a neighboring unit.
Until that time, my family had teased me about my anti-shellfish/lobster food fetish. After that, I never heard another word! Once, we were on vacation in Maine and our parents cooked lobster in an iron pot over a fire on the rocky beach. The most I heard about my abstinence from this "Glorious Food!" was "Lobster is expensive. If you don't want it, there's more for the rest of us!" I ate my solo hamburger in peace, secure in knowing that it came from a grocery store and was probably relatively germ free!