OFF TO THE LAND OF OZ (from my memoir) Part 2

Continuing our trip through Australia, we arrived in Adelaide one Sunday noon and found that, other than the one man staffing our motel, there was absolutely no one to be seen. We took a long stroll around town and never came across another person or saw an opened business of any sort, having been warned by our  host that there wasn’t an open restaurant or cafe in business anywhere. Regretting that we weren’t traveling with at least a jar or two of peanut butter and jelly, Lynn set out on a very determined search for sustenance of any sort. He returned about an hour later, waving a greasy paper bag full of hot bangers and chips. Never did the so-called Australian national dish taste so good. They even smelled good, in a slightly rancid way.

After an all-night bus trip, Coober Pedy was our next stop, one of the strangest places I’ve ever seen. The ocean views, yacht basins and gentle wine country were all left behind. This was open, undulating opal mining country, incredibly hot and sunny, covered with small cone-shaped piles of debris from the mining as far as the eye could see..  The town itself consisted of very wide, open streets and meager looking, scattered buildings. Most of the businesses and homes were built into the hillsides, taking advantage of natural cooling and shelter.

Going into the shops and a few of the homes was to me an unnerving experience. I realized immediately that I would never  get any farther than 2 or 3 feet from the only door or the front windows. I couldn’t wait to get back out into the heat, although the interiors were pleasantly cool. As evening rolled around we discovered how a lot of the miners cooled off.  They bought huge bottles of Foster’s beer and stretched out on the wide walkways right in front of the liquor store. They looked comfortable as they lounged, passing the time of day with their mates and passers-by.

Another overnight bus trip took us to Ayers Rock, an enormous sandstone inselberg (or ocean island) standing alone in the middle of the  desert wasteland. Visible over a great distance in all directions, it has long been a sacred spot for Australia’s indigenous people, the Aborigines.  The Abos, to use the Aussie term, are seen in every part of the country, an important part of life there and yet seemingly not really involved. They are treated cautiously and with great respect. Touring by bus as we were, we were always sternly warned not to leave the bus or have a conversation with any Abo while stopped at any of the small towns belonging to them.  There was no danger and we weren’t fearful, just respectful.

Ayers Rock and the surrounding countryside have a distinctive sandy red coloration,  Climbing to the top and signing the guestbook is a great tourist activity, and there is a small settlement with hotels near the base.  The climb is harrowing, the descent even more so. A chain is provided for assistance, maybe to slow down an out-of- control descent.

I convinced Lynn I was too exhausted to climb after all night on the bus, and let him get well ahead of me before starting, not wanting him nipping at my heels. He was quite surprised to meet me walking across the top toward him.

Alice Springs has been immortalized in Nevil Shute’s book, “A Town Like Alice” and the actual town deserves its fame. Surprisingly green and verdant in the midst of the red outback, it’s a very pretty, comfortable-appearing  place with a large shady park in the center of town, giving you the feeling that you might like to live there. One of their attractions is the annual boat regatta, held every August. Since the only river through town is bone dry year round, none of the boats has a bottom. Six or eight 0f the fleetest runners get inside, holding the boat waist high, and run through the sandy “river”  to the finish line. I like a town with a sense of humor.

We flew from Alice Springs to Cairns;  back to the ocean and some of the best game fishing in the world. We found a cozy motel within walking distance of downtown and, with a landlady who brought a hot breakfast to our room every morning, we decided to stay put for a while. Her coffee was excellent as was the usual fresh fruit.  Fragrant pineapples, mangoes, bananas, and my favorite, bright red papaya with zesty green lime were among the best. Tree ripened, newly picked bananas have a flavor totally unlike the weeks-old bananas we’d always had.

Evenings were restful. We would stroll over to the beach to sit and watch droves of native, parrot-like birds come in to roost. They flew in by the hundreds, colorful and very, very noisy. We quickly learned not to stand or sit anywhere under them as we watched  the day end.

A side trip up the York Peninsula was interesting. Our bus driver was a volunteer on a lifeboat rescue squad. One of the few really deadly jellyfish species in the world lives in the warm sea water along the coast and those big burly men wore women’s panty hose out on their rescue trips to prevent  stings. We made a brief roadside stop where he showed us how the Aborigines clean their teeth. A large green ant living in certain trees was easy to catch, the idea being to break off and chew the bulbous posterior. I found it to be quite astringent and refreshing.

We continued south out of Cairns by bus, driving along Australia’s famed Gold Coast, or vacation land, skirting the Great Barrier Reef and taking brief excursions out to some of the islands. We spent Christmas Day standing on a section of the Reef, well south of where the deadly jellies thrived. To us the water was much too warm for swimming.

We spent a week in Brisbane, visiting various sanctuaries for everything from koalas and wallabies to flying foxes. I was shocked to find that kangaroo and wallaby fur was soft and fine,  while koalas have a bristly, coarse fur. I’d expected it to be the other way around. I spent half my time on our bus trips craning my neck, trying to catch a glimpse a koala sleeping in a tree top, where they spent their days, but never did see one. A side trip to the small scenic town of Kuranda, home of the duck-billed platypus, had me staring into every watery slough or stream we walked or drove past, but I never spotted one of those curious creatures either.

After two months, we finally said a reluctant good-bye to Oz and flew from Brisbane to Auckland, New Zealand.  Australia is such a vast continent we didn’t begin to see it all, and missed out on Darwin, Tasmania, and Perth, which Aussies told us was the prettiest part of the country.  There was a National Park outside of Darwin which I had earmarked as a must-see and didn’t get to. I’d still love to go back. It was impossible to do justice to a country as large as the United States is just two months.

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Off to the Land of Oz, Part 1 of 4 (from my memoir)

OFF  TO THE  LAND OF OZ

by way of Fiji, Tahiti and New Zealand    (from my memoir)

PART 1:

Everyone needs at least one long, never-to-be-forgotten trip in their lifetime.  Travel is good for the spirit, good for the mind, good for the makers of cameras and scrapbooks, and good for stories with which  to bore friends and family for years to come.

I was delighted when my husband Lynn took an early retirement and we were able to spend time  exploring our own beautiful country. When we happened to sell a piece of property, we agreed it was time for us to make our dream trip.

A quick visit to a travel agent, a secure place to leave our R.V. and we were off to the Los Angeles airport and the South Seas, carrying one small bag and a light carry-on apiece.  We left in December of 1985 and returned in the spring of 1986 after enjoying the summer months in the Southern Hemisphere.

Our first stop was Nadi, Fiji. After a couple of days of decompression that included balmy patio breakfasts with homemade raspberry jam and our fill of fresh, fragrant tropical fruits,  I knew we had come to the right place.

I’ve always thought different countries have their own ambient auras, the sun, the humidity, the terrain all contributing to a distinct atmosphere.  Fiji’s skies were dreamy, the tropical sun mellowed by the nearby ocean, the jungles and the softly humid air. Colors and smells were mellow, too, flowers bright but never gaudy and the greens restful.

From Nadi we flew on to Suva, the capital city, a mixture of quaint and modern.  We spent 6 days there, Lynn wandering around with a bemused look on his face as he rediscovered sites he’d first visited some 40 years before with the U.S. Navy during World War ll.  The light cruisers he served on put in to port there periodically at that time for supplies and upkeep.

The Fijian people, once feared and reviled as cannibals, turned out to be extremely pleasant Melanesians, quiet, polite and gracious. Just about half of the locals were of Indian origin, mostly Hindu. Fiji’s past had been a colorful mixture of whaling ships and missionaries, and our hotel looked out on a small wooden church that would have been at home anywhere in New England.

One morning I braved a walk through the dense, shadowy  jungle, inhaling the rich, heavy, dark green smells, lured on by signs offering “Black Pearls for sale.”  I was a little nervous, thinking of both ferocious animals and cannibals, wondering if either species still existed. I rounded one last turn and came upon a typical tropical grass shack with a pleasant Fijian lady who greeted me with a breezy American “Hi!”  She had just moved home to escape the rat race after many years in Los Angeles. Her black pearls were beautiful, even though overpriced, and I admired them as we chatted, assuring her I’d try to bring my husband back later.

We enjoyed one last proper English tea that afternoon.  Imagine if you will, having a civilized tea with dainty sandwiches, tiny pastries and all,  while gazing out on the peaceful blue Pacific with the jungle for a backdrop. Early the next morning, a Saturday, we were back on a plane, heading for Oz.

Australian people refer to themselves as Aussies or, with their accents,  Ozzies, and their homeland as Oz. As Qantas Air bore us west, we had our first acquaintance with those proud, outspoken people. They are extremely independent, possibly a trait handed down from their renegade ancestors . Labor unions are a huge presence in Australia and there is always a strike or two going on somewhere. Strikes are referred to as Industrial Actions and we soon learned that the Sydney Herald publishes a list of current Industrial Actions on its front page every morning.

That day’s list included a strike by airline employees so we were forced to land in Auckland, N.Z. where we spent the day lounging around a hotel, enjoying 2 bountiful buffets laden with fresh seafood and tropical fruits of bright oranges, yellows and reds,  before finally reboarding our plane. We landed in Sydney at 2 a.m., and were met by a sleepy skeleton crew of airline employees who informed us that no one ever worked on weekends in Oz if they could possibly get out of it.

Most of the  passengers had hotel reservations and only one shuttle bus was in operation.  Our plan was to travel on the cheap and stay over in hostels so we had no reservation anywhere, a scary thought at that hour of the morning.  The only person on duty lined us up with a hostel. We finally got on board the shuttle for its last run and were dropped off at the hostel in King’s Cross, a busy part of the city.  It was staffed by a drowsy old gent who got our names and pointed us toward a room.

One night in the hostel and Lynn disappeared the next morning while I finished a hasty shower in the community shower room. He had located a fully furnished luxury apartment just across the street, ready to rent by the week and he grabbed it. That was the end of our plan to stay on the cheap. They aren’t called “youth hostels” for nothing. At 56 and 60 years of age, we didn’t quite fit in any more.

Australian sun is brilliant  and unending, the humidity is low and the prevailing smell to me was rocky. The entire continent seems to glitter and crackle with life.

Sydney is a bright, sparkling cosmopolitan city with wonderful ethnic restaurants. Other than those, Australian food is mostly distinguished by piles of chips, known to us as french fries, on every plate, at every meal of every day, along with big fat, bland sausages , called bangers, or meat pies, with  sometimes delicious lamb. Beer is a way of life, although Ozzie wine is gaining a well deserved reputation.

Sydney harbor has to be one of the loveliest harbors I’ve ever seen, dwarfing its 2 main attractions, Sydney Bay Bridge and of course the famed Opera House. We took a ferry out to the Atlantic 0cean through the harbor, winding among the many islands and spits. Aussies love their bridge, comparing it to our San Francisco Bay Bridge.  I failed to see its charm, thinking more in terms of a beginner’s Erector Set, solid enough that it will never fall down..

The beautiful Opera House, though disappointingly small, is lovely, soaring out to the harbor and the skies as though it can barely contain the  music it was built for. It was built by an American architect who won the privilege in an international competition. Construction was well along before it was discovered that no restrooms had been planned. Hasty revisions took care of that problem right away.

Touring around the country was amazingly efficient and comfortable. Greyhound buses went everywhere, their agents acted as travel agents and their drivers as tour directors, with commentary along the way.

Finally tearing ourselves away from Sydney, our next stop was Canberra, the national capitol. Interestingly enough, the entire city had also been designed, as was the Opera House,  by an American architect after another international contest. This time the results were mixed. Canberra is another clean bright city, quite small. but the uniformity is a bit off-putting.

Too much of a same-ness takes away a lot of charm. An occasional Victorian structure, or even a gritty industrial area tucked away somewhere would add to the interest. One expected to see the Stepford wives coming out of identical front doors of identical houses at 10:00 o’clock every morning, heading for the beauty shops and a daily touch-up to their beehive dos.

Our bus took us through wine country on the next leg of our journey,  picturesque as wine growing areas always are. Traveling through the many small towns, we would always spot at least one tennis court filled with energetic players at their favorite sport. Tennis is played everywhere by all ages. I got a kick out of the elderly matrons in their modest dresses having a late day game.

Melbourne turned out to be my favorite city, old enough by Australian terms to have a certain quaint charm, full of British touches, yet modern in every way. Captain Cook’s Cottage was a perfect example, restored for the tourists, and a reminder to the locals of their past.  Like almost all major cities in Oz., Melbourne is situated near the ocean and the many yacht basins are crowded with masts. I got the impression that if the Aussies aren’t sailing they’re playing tennis.

Our daughter and son-in-law lived at one time in Castlemaine, a small city just north of Melbourne.  Howard served as headmaster at a boy’s school and Mimi taught and served as the librarian. They enjoyed and treasured the two years they spent there.

Fifty Years of Fun

Fifty years, five decades of movie musicals!  What could have been more fun? From the 1930s right into the 1980s, Hollywood kept turning out one musical after another, songs that became classics, and performers who became superstars.   What great memories they left us!

THE JAZZ SINGER starring Al Jolson, produced in 1927, was the first of the real movie musicals. Silent movies were being replaced by “talkies” and our viewing habits were changing rapidly.

Musicals came into their own during the 1930s. The trend at first was toward depicting Broadway type stage productions.  Ziegfeld Follies, George White Scandals and Earl Carroll Vanities were some of the early extravaganzas. Before long story lines began to develop. Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald, soon to be famous as  “America’s Singing Sweethearts,” appeared in classics such as NAUGHTY MARIETTA, ROSEMARIE and NEW MOON.

Jimmy Cagney and the great Fred Astaire added their dancing talents to many memorable musicals. Astaire and Ginger Rogers partnered in 10 musicals such as  TOP HAT and SWING TIME and became lasting sensations. You’ve probably heard the old joke that Ginger could do everything Fred did, backwards and in high heels.

My research turned up some interesting tidbits. Actually, Ginger Rogers wasn’t considered that great a dancer, she didn’t even do tap, but her enormous appeal came from making Fred Astaire look like the only man alive. The saying was that she provided the sex and he provided the class. Astaire also danced with Eleanor Powell, the most talented female dancer of the decade. Unfortunately she lacked the crowd appeal others had.

Shirley Temple as THE LITTLE COLONEL stole everyone’s hearts, as did Mickey Rooney in the ANDY HARDY series.  The Marx brothers were hilarious in A NIGHT AT THE OPERA. By now humor and wit were being added to the genre. A Latin theme became popular with movies such as FLYING DOWN TO RIO.

The decade ended with the blowout ALEXANDER’S RAGTIME BAND.  That title song has been recorded by every major singer and band over the last fifty years.  And let’s not forget the enormous hit that made Judy Garland a mega-star. The classic WIZARD OF OZ is still popular today.

HELLZAPOPPIN’  opened the 1940s with a bang, showcasing the comedy duo of Olsen and Johnson and also Martha Raye, one of the first really successful comediennes.  The Latin trend continued with PANAMA HATTIE, WEEKEND IN HAVANA and RIO RITA. Carmen Miranda, with her outrageous headgear loaded with flowers and fruit, became another big star.

With a major World War raging, several musicals aiming to raise the nation’s  spirits appeared, I LEFT MY HEART AT THE STAGE-DOOR CANTEEN and THIS IS THE ARMY, MR. JONES were among them.

FANTASIA was another milestone in movie making, a visual treat and the first in a long tradition of animated films.

Jimmy Cagney’s little dancing feet were flying in his greatest hit, YANKEE DOODLE DANDY, which came out in 1942, still a staple on late night TV.  CABIN IN THE SKY and SONG OF THE SOUTH left their influences, and Judy Garland starred again in HARVEY GIRLS and MEET ME IN ST. LOUIS among others. Another hit that soon became a classic was EASTER PARADE, once again showcasing those two great stars, Judy Garland and Fred Astaire. SHOW BOAT was enormously popular.

The 1950s and 1960s became the heyday of the musicals, bringing us one hit after another.  ANNIE GET YOUR GUN, MY BLUE HEAVEN, AN AMERICAN IN PARIS and the ABBOTT AND COSTELLO movies. Also SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN,  CALL ME MADAM, GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES and THE GLEN MILLER STORY. And the list goes on, KISS ME KATE, CARMEN JONES, WHITE CHRISTMAS,  GUYS AND DOLLS and OKLAHOMA!

Elvis Presley burst on the music scene, truly an overnight sensation.  More and more wonderful stories poured out of Hollywood including FUNNY FACE,  PAJAMA GAME, PAL JOEY, DAMN YANKEES and GIGI. Never to be forgotten; SOME LIKE IT HOT,  PORGY AND BESS and SOUTH PACIFIC. Next came WEST SIDE STORY, GYPSY, MUSIC MAN, STATE FAIR,  BYE BYE BIRDIE, SOUND OF MUSIC, MARY POPPINS and MY FAIR LADY. We spent those two decades relishing one timeless treasure after another.

CAMELOT,  FUNNY GIRL,  OLIVER, MY FAIR LADY,  HELLO DOLLY and PAINT YOUR WAGON;  looking back we now realize how lucky we were.  There were so many others, I’m sure I’ve overlooked a lot of favorites.  Many of them enjoy a second life on television today.

The 1970s had their share too, but television was demanding more and more of our free time.  We still took the time to watch such blockbusters as FIDDLER ON THE ROOF, WILLY WONKA, CABARET,  JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR, SERGEANT PEPPER’S LONELY HEARTS CLUB BAND, A STAR IS BORN, and ALL THAT JAZZ.

The most recent decades have had fewer major musicals but the ones we’ve seen have all been hits.  BLUES BROTHERS, ANNIE, GREASE, MARY POPPINS and CHORUS LINE, also DIRTY DANCING, HAIR SPRAY, THE LITTLE MERMAID,  MOULIN ROUGE and PHANTOM OF THE OPERA to mention just a few.

Animation is more popular than ever today, and in the past few years we’ve had a new approach with GLEE  and LA LA LAND keeping the tradition alive.

Wouldn’t it be fun to be ushered down a shadowy aisle with your sweetie, each  carrying a tub of hot, buttered popcorn, a box of Milk Duds and a giant Orange Crush, ready to lean back in a squeaky seat as the music to  “Seventy Six Trombones” swells around you and the credits for THE MUSIC MAN begin to roll?

Oh, the good old days of the movie musical.

A Wartime Wedding (from my memoirs)

My husband-to-be, Lynn and I first spotted each other when I was 14 and trying to learn how to ride a bike in my front yard. Two of my brothers had pooled their paper route money to buy their first bike, a well used relic, and I had to sneak it out when they weren’t around.  I’d just fallen off for the umpteenth time when I glanced across the street to see a curly haired blonde guy sitting on the back steps of our neighbor Ruth’s house, watching me intently.

I threw the bike down, ran into our house, slammed the door and hid. I later recalled hearing that Ruth’s younger brother was home on leave from U.S.Navy boot camp. This was 1940 and he had enlisted at 17

with his step-mother’s help, a year before he was legal.

I babysat Ruth and Erv’s children and had often seen Lynn’s graduation picture in their living room, a sober looking face with hair slicked back in a dark, greasy looking pompadour. I’d shudder, my only thought being “Yuck!”

It would be almost 3 years before we actually met, typical years for me, eventful for him. In March of 1943 I was a 16 year old high school senior working a part-time job at S.S.Kresge 5&10 cent store, and making plans for my future. Lynn’s years had been spent on a Navy cruiser , World War ll  being now an ugly, terrifying reality. His ship was sunk in a battle in the South Pacific with a tremendous loss of life. He’d suffered major injuries, spent months in a U.S.Naval Hospital facility in Auckland, N.Z., and had just arrived home for a 30 day convalescent leave.

His curly hair was no longer slicked back, he wore a white sailor’s cap jauntily cocked on the back of his head, and he kept breaking out in a huge happy grin. My “Yuck” turned into a “Hmmm” as we met in Ruth’s kitchen, ever after referred to as the scene of the crime.

It was a Saturday and I was in a hurry to catch my bus for a 12 hour day at the 5&10.  I had agreed to go in early so I could say goodbye to a Naval Air recruit who was leaving for training. As things worked out the curly hair won out over the departing recruit and I was swept up in a whirlwind 30 day courtship. We were both surprised to find ourselves engaged on the last day of his leave.

Lynn returned to the Bay Area and a new assignment, another cruiser bound for the South Pacific.  I celebrated my 17th birthday, proudly wore my tiny diamond to my graduation and a few days later was on a train headed west, leaving our 2 stunned families worried and upset.

Lynn had made what few arrangements he could for our wedding, renting a cute little studio apartment in San Francisco for our starter home. It had no kitchen which didn’t seem like a problem at the time.  Lynn would be eating most of his meals aboard his ship, anyway. It did have a Murphy bed, a real novelty to me. He asked one of his new shipmates to be his best man and even located the wife of an acquaintance from his hometown to stand up with me. He also reserved a date for the ceremony in the office of a large Methodist church in Oakland, his idea being to make peace with our mothers, both staunch Methodists.

With all the major arrangements made, our first step was to take a 3 day blood test for venereal disease, now known as STD.  This was a legal requirement in those days. Next we headed for the license bureau at the courthouse and picked up our marriage license, going through a few very anxious moments. I had just turned 17 and had to fib my way into convincing the clerk that I was 18. She looked like the motherly type and must have had a romantic soul. After a good hard look at me as I tried to look 18, with my baby face, she signed anyway and wished us well.

Our wedding day dawned dark, drizzly and cold. No one had warned me about San Francisco weather in June and my graduation outfit, a black and white checked sharkskin 2 piece with a peplum, topped by a white straw hat was totally inappropriate. I donned my raincoat, stuffed the straw hat in a paper bag, and met up with my groom on our way to the church. I was already learning that the Navy ruled our lives as he’d been on duty most of the time since I’d arrived. He did manage to swap enough hours with other sailors to get 2 full days off for the wedding.

I met our attendants for the first time, both very nice people, and we greeted our minister who had spent a useful hour counseling us the night before. She was her husband’s assistant;  a female pastor in 1943 was a real novelty.

Flower carts stood on most downtown corners in the cities in those days and gardenias were the flower of the 40s. We picked out a fragrant corsage of gardenias and red roses on our way to church and we were all set. I removed my wet, soggy raincoat, pinned on my corsage and donned my hat long enough to mumble and shiver my way through vows I never could remember afterwards. Lynn wore his Navy blues of course. This was wartime and all servicemen wore their uniforms at all times in public. He insisted in later years that I had repeated the words “to obey”  in our ceremony and I insisted I never would have agreed to any such thing; one of those arguments that never got settled.

After the “I do’s”,  the soggy raincoat went back on, the hat was returned to its paper bag and we ducked through the rain to a photographer’s shop nearby. Off with the raincoat one more time, on with the hat and we were ready to pose for the pictures.  Just as we approached the setting, I fainted dead away for the first and only time in my life, throwing the entire procedure into turmoil. No, I was not pregnant, not in those days. I soon recovered, but our wedding pictures were so awful I hid them for years.

I look at them now and see a very young woman, glassy eyed and trying to wear a sickly smile. I look as if  I’d just spent 3 or 4 days in exhausting activity, nervous, asphyxiated from the overly heavy smell of the gardenias and nearly frozen to  death. The gardenias and the hat held up better than I did. As for Lynn, there he is, white hat cocked on the back of his curls with his usual slap-happy grin.

We stopped at a mom ’n pop grocery on our way back to the apartment and picked up a quart of milk and a packaged layer cake. It wasn’t until we opened our door that it dawned on us, no kitchen, no dishes. Taking turns gulping milk out of the bottle, we toasted one another and ate the cake with our fingers.  Somehow this seemed like the funniest thing ever and we were soon laughing our heads off. It was great comic relief after so many days of tension.

As weddings go, the only things we missed were our families and friends. Our wedding may have seemed meager and lonely to some but it was our wedding and it lasted for 65 years. The multiple bridesmaids, ushers and the sweeping trains were for others.  I’ve often thought about the thousands of other wartime weddings occurring at the same time, hoping they were as successful as ours. And we both remembered and could always laugh about our first look at one another over that rickety old bicycle.

Oh yes, our mothers did come around to accepting our marriage when they finally realized we hadn’t been quite as crazy as we seemed.

Some Really Old Oldies

Those of you loyal readers and listeners,  all 10 or 12 of you who follow my blog or chance to sit in on one of my readings, have probably realised by now that I have a great fondness for old music, the goofier the better.   Being a bit of a lowbrow I especially love the really old Vaudeville and British Music Hall entertainments.

True, I also enjoy the classics. I can get as fired up as anyone when the first notes of  “Toreador, O Toreador” ring out, and I get downright weepy over the rich voices of Dame Joan Sutherland and Maria Callas, but my real love is for the oldest of the Oldie Moldies.

As I headed for a shower one recent morning (it happened to be a  Sunday) I suddenly found myself belting out one of my favorites:

“From the Indies to the Andes in his undies,

Oh he nevah took a bawth except on Sundays.

He nevah took a shave except on Mondays.

And he didn’t eat a thing but chocolate sundaes.

“T’was a veddy veddy daring thing to do.”

Now that’s a classic! And right up my alley.

Originally a poem, it was put to music and became a standard in British Music Hall entertainment and American Vaudeville.  Both Music Halls and Vaudeville flourished from the mid 1800s to the 1930s when silent movies became talkies and took over their popularity.

Some of the zaniest songs of the day, including “From the Indies,”  started out as poems and were later set to music. Does anyone besides me remember “Abdul Albulbul Amir” and its many verses? Sheik Abdul and his arch enemy, Count Ivan Skivinsky Skvar, fought their way  through 25 or 30 verses before Ivan was finally dispatched into the Black Sea wearing cement boots. Their duel made a great song.

Another huge hit in Music Halls that had started out as a poem was  the great Gracie Fields sensation:

“The Biggest Aspidistra In The World.  It Stood Beside The Wotnot By

The ‘at Rack  In The “all.”

Gracie would stretch out the first syllable, ASs-s-s pidistra,  just long enough to get the big laughs. Her audiences loved her. A cockney accent was a must in those days.However, one of the most famous of the Music Hall performers, Sir Harry Lauder, was a rare exception with his heavy Scottish burr. He was a huge success in both England and Scotland. I’m not sure if he ever performed in American Vaudeville.

Among other favorites of those early years were Lilly Langtry and Sydney and Charlie Chaplin,  who went on to become huge stars on the stage and in American Vaudeville.

Some of the most famous performers who made it big in movies and early television got their start in vaudeville. I was surprised to learn that Don Ameche started out as a comedian.  Frank Fay, Fred Allen, Abbott and Costello, the Andrews Sisters , Fred Astaire with his sister, Adele, and Robert Alda were all seasoned vaudevillians. One of the Gumm Sisters found fame as Judy Garland, and Mickey Rooney performed as a child with his father, Joe Yule.

Al Jolson was one of the biggest stars of all with his resonating voice. His black-face humor and his speciality song,  “Mammy,” would never be accepted in today’s world but people loved him back then. Eddie Cantor, of course, had no problem breaking into early television.  One of his trademark songs, “Barney Google with the Goo Goo Googly Eyes,” was unforgettable, as were Eddie’s own enormous googling eyes.

I’m not a great Country-Western fan although I do have a fondness for some of the goofiest of those tunes. Hank Williams senior had a classic that was my favorite.

“I Picked Her Up In A Pickup Truck On The Tennessee Bor-DER”  was always good for a laugh.

However, I just came across a new C-W that is billed as “The Perfect Country-Western Song” and it  just may become my new favorite. Supposedly it has everything needed to become the best. You decide;  It goes like this:

“I was drunk the day my Mama got out of prison

And I went to pick her up in the rain.

But before I could get to the station in my pickup,

She got runned over by a damned old train.”

I haven’t heard the music to this yet but the words have to be a winner.

On the other hand, maybe I’ll just stick with the old Music Hall and Vaudeville tunes, all tried and true.  They’re hard to beat.

The Awful Truth about Ageing

They never give us the real low-down,  those advertisers, authors and authorities who make a living catering to any adults who have passed the ripe old age of fifty.  FIFTY!  I ask you!   Fifty is barely the prime of life! Most of us are just beginning to think we should get serious about our futures.  Our kids are on their way to finding their own lives and mortgages are being paid off as we catch that first glimpse of old age off in the distant future.

Gently gilded ladies in heels, and lightly silvered gentlemen with maybe a wrinkle or two here or there, start pitching financial planning, retirement communities, medications and other lucrative angles to ageing. They’re invariably engaged in dancing, tennis, golf, horseback riding, hiking, biking, swimming or sailing, They happily smile out at us with perfect teeth and they never wear glasses or holler  “HUH?” as they hold a hand up to their ear.

And we think to ourselves, “That doesn’t look so bad.  I can handle this old age stuff.”  Even the actors portraying the unfortunate souls who show up on television stretched out on the floor calling for help don’t look a day over sixty. Their attire is always fresh and neat, hairdos in place.

What about us, the real age afflicted, who’ve begun to suspect that The Golden Years are badly tarnished? Why don’t the illustrations show us as we really are? We’re out here in our faded sweats with the baggy knees, creaking and groaning as we work our way out of our recliners, wrinkled, bent over and anxiety-ridden.

We eagerly scan the magazine articles, watch the TV ads and listen to the spiels for medications for every ailment known to humankind, wanting to believe the hype. We can watch with relief as our money grows; all we need to do is invest with such and such a company, investment banker or credit union. We can revisit our younger years in carefree comfort just as soon as we get settled into  “Heavenly Haven, Home To Active Adults”  or  “Eden For The Elderly.”  We might even enjoy perfect health once again, just by using their advertised product.

Who would have dreamed the human body could suffer so many varied afflictions? We used to get the rheumatiz, the grippe, the gripes, or possibly a skin problem, quickly eased by a liberal rub down with Raleigh’s Salve. Hot packs, mustard plasters or Carter’s Little Liver Pills were other treatments of choice.

Nowadays we’re offered a miraculous panacea for every  possible joint, organ and bone we have. Our medicine cabinets overflow with tiny containers we can’t get open without a hammer and pliers, and slippery bottles of vile colored liquids concocted to cause, not cure, stomach aches. Still, hope springs eternal, as the old saying goes, and we use them all.

So do we end up looking like the vigorous, youthful models who supposedly represent us?  Well, let’s put it this way, if the shower has steamed up the bathroom mirrors enough, and we’ve misplaced our trifocals, there’s a slight possibility of recognizing our younger selves.

Just don’t count on it.

On the other hand, could a balding codger with a shaky voice inspire enough confidence to peddle tooth whitener by removing his full set of dentures and dropping them in a glass full of the product being pitched?

Would you be interested in moving into a senior residence where everyone sat around dozing in a wheelchair or staring at a wall? How  about negotiating at a Savings and Loan with a blue haired old dear who admitted she’d flunked math every year since the fifth grade?

Maybe the ad-men know what they’re doing with the younger, more glamorous representatives, and we can believe what we want to.

THE SEVEN AGES OF WOMAN: In Collaboration with Will Shakespeare, Feminist

(The Seven Ages Of Man, from Shakespeare’s AS YOU LIKE IT, was read recently at a reading group I belong to.  Someone suggested I rewrite it for women. Never one to resist a challenge, this is my effort.)

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one woman in her time plays many parts,

Her act being seven ages.

At first the infant, mewling and puking on her father’s chest.

And then the texting schoolgirl with her Smartphone and eager Facebook face,  gnawing on blue nail,  fearful of the maths.

And then the maiden,  blushing as a setting sun,  a-quiver as an arrow to the heart, streaming ballads moaned by lusty, yearning swains.

Then a soldier, proud of loyal oath,  clad in boot and camo,  medaled in valor – sudden and quick with lipstick and scent,  seeking the foul foe  even as her chopper tangles blonded tress.

And then the matron with fair girdled hip,  with rich cocoa bean padded,  with eyes mascaraed  and stilettos of risky cut,  full of self and full of worthy deeds, and modern in her romance.  And so she plays her part.

The sixth age shifts into the plump and slippered pantsuit,  with spectacles on nose and cane at hand.  Her youthful jeans poorly saved,  a world too tight for her rounded shank;  and her high, squeaky voice turning again toward childish lisp, pipes and whistles in her sound.

Last scene of all, that ends this strange, eventful history is second childishness and mere oblivion, mewling and puking on her caregiver’s shoes,

sans teeth,

sans eyes and ears,

sans most of her hair,

sans balance and muscle tone,

sans wit and common sense,

sans sandals and shift,

sans credit card and savings account,

sans love life,

sans dreams,

sans everything worth a darn.