For ABC Wednesday and Magpie 71

"X" is for "Exiting"

Speaking of flying, suppose you were given the assignment of shooting film footage of Mont Saint Michel?
Well, that was the assignment I was given some years ago by the French Government Tourist Office.
First off, I could see a problem: it’s been done.
Mont Saint Michel, as you may know, is one of the most famous tourist attractions in Europe, a magnificent monument in Normandy that stands alone and rises dramatically from sand and waves. As a film-maker, one couldn’t just shoot straightforward footage; you’d have to do something a little different, approach it from an unusual angle. So I decided to go upstairs, so to speak. I’d rent a plane and do it from the sky.

A bit of history. This marvelous church, with its incredible situation on an island, has been around for 13 centuries or so. Seems that St. Michael the Archangel, during the 8th century, instructed the local bishop to build a church on this rocky isle. The bishop, who had a lot on his plate and other things to think about, didn’t get around to it. So St. Michael, according to the historical record, “burned a hole in the bishop’s skull with his finger.”
That did it. Mont St. Michel came into existence.

I asked around about airplane rental in a nearby city and was told there was a photographic plane I could rent. A photographic plane was just what was needed so I signed up for it.
The next day, when I got a good look at the aircraft, my heart sank. It was old; it looked a lot like a World War I single-engine French warplane, which had perhaps been shot down a time or two, then more or less rebuilt. The thing wasn’t even in an airport, just standing on a huge lawn, a kind of meadow. There was a kid who wss sort of guarding it; evidently the pilot hadn’t shown up yet.
My confidence in this operation didn’t improve when I learned that the kid, who was about twenty, was the pilot. He also served as stewardess; he made sure my seat belt was fastened.
At this point I began to “rouspeter” – gripe, complain – as they say in France. Photographic plane? They had to be kidding. There was a single tiny window next to my seat; I could barely see out. And I was supposed to shoot 35mm wide-screen motion picture footage through this thing?
The kid had evidently been through this before. He ignored my rouspetting.
He unscrewed a number of nuts and bolts and then proceeded to lift off the entire side of the aircraft. I had to admit I could now see out.
We then went through takeoff, different from just about any other I had experienced. The old crate went bumpety-bumpety on the lawn and somehow made it into the air. We then headed out toward Mont St Michel at what I figured was about 60 miles an hour.

However, it was a beautiful day and the view from above was terrific. As we approached it from a distance I thought I’d get great footage of the place as we sailed by it.
But the kid had another idea. Trouble was, he hadn’t told me about it.
As we approached the church directly overhead, he proceeded to suddenly tip the plane completely over on its side. I nearly lost my lunch. With the entire side of the plane gone, it was as though someone had taken me to the top of the Empire State building and then hung me by a belt over the madding crowd far below.
I am not overweight. But still, if you add to my avoirdupois the weight of a huge professional 35mm Arriflex motion picture camera, complete with a heavy magazine full of 35mm color negative, it added up. All I could think of was that seat belt, which was the only thing that kept me from exiting the plane. I hadn’t thought to check it carefully; now I couldn’t even see it because of the huge camera in my lap.
Well, I said to myself, this may be the last thing I do on this earth so I might as well get some good footage. I shot the incredibly beautiful Mont St. Michel from directly overhead.
My pilot then righted the plane and said, “I’m going over there to approach it from a different angle.”
“No!” I cried, hurriedly, “no, I got what I need! Don’t want to waste film. Let’s head back.”
The belt didn’t break, I’m happy to say, and the footage was spectacular.

For Sunday Scribbling and Bluebell Books

“V” is for “Vinnie”
Sal: “Let’s go over this again. You gave the money to this guy – what’s his name again?”
Vinnie: “Joe. Joe Muriani.”
Sal: “You gave him the five grand? You realize that was Big Ed’s money, right?”
Vinnie: “Right. But Joe said he’d set the whole thing up – provide the boat, install the corpse, the whole deal.”
Sal: “Look at it, Vinnie. Look at the boat. It’s a rowboat, for God’s sake!”
Vinnie: “I know. When he said boat I naturally assumed it would have a motor. I think we got screwed.”
Sal: “No, Vinnie. We didn’t get screwed, you did. You bought a rowboat for five thousand dollars! If Big Ed ever hears about this…”
Vinnie: “Listen, Sal, it’s not all bad. At least we got a boat and the stiff is in it, there under the blanket. We can do what has to be done. No need to tell Big Ed about this.”
Sal: “Who is this Joe Muriani anyway?”
Vinnie: “He’s a guy I used to know years ago. From Secaucus.”
Sal: “What! You dimwit! Don’t you know we have nothin’ to do with nobody from the Secaucus family?”
Vinnie: “Look, Sal, I’ll do all the work. I’ll row the damn boat. I realize I may be partially to blame…”
Sal: “Partially! This is your show, Vinnie. The spotlight is on you. You’re gonna get full credit, believe me. If Big Ed ever hears about this…”
Vinnie: “Don’t keep saying that, Sal. Makes me nervous.”
Sal: “You got a lot to be nervous about.”
Vinnie: “Look, we row out to the spot in the harbor, tie the weight on the body and dump him in. He’ll sink right down to Danny Jones Locker without a hitch.
Sal: “Davy.”
Vinnie: “What?”
Sal: “Nothin'. What’s this, Vinnie? This is supposed to be the weight we’ll use?”
Vinnie: “Yeah, he said he was providing us with a weight that was a full kilogram. That’s – that’s heavy, right, Sal?”
Sal: “God you’re dumb! It’s nothin’; it’s a pound or two! This would be like tying a tiddleywink on the stiff and expecting that to cause him to sink. Don’t you get it, Vinnie? If this body pops back up and bobs about in the water out there for a day or two someone’s gonna spot it and it’ll get back to Big Ed. You wouldn’t like what would happen then!”
Vinnie: “I don’t like what’s happening now. Lemme look around for a big rock to use for the weight.”
Sal: “We’re supposed to be professionals, dammit! We finally got an important assignment, a real opportunity, and we’re expected to handle it like we know what the hell we’re doing. And you, you buy a crummy rowboat for five grand of Big Ed’s money and now you’re gonna look around for a big rock! I’m tellin’ ya – if Big Ed ever hears about this…!”

For ABC Wednesday

“W” is for “Worry”
Today I’d like to tell you about my problem.
I’ve been fortunate to have made quite a few friends here in Bloggoland, but in what I’ve written over the past year or two I’ve usually kept my problems to myself.
Truth is, other people’s difficulties may be amusing for a time – the famous “schadenfreude” in action – but after a while they tend to be annoying, so I keep the dark stuff (and we all have dark stuff, right, Congressman Weiner?) to myself.
But I can’t resist telling you about my recent medical problem.

It all began with my usual checkup with my physician, Dr. Watson (the names have been changed to protect the indigent).
I later thought it was odd that the Doc suddenly seemed very interested in making sure that he had the phone numbers of my son and daughter, and that he wondered if I wanted a “DNR” sign – for “Do Not Resuscitate” – hung on the bed in case I wound up in a coma.
Now why, I wondered, would he ask such questions? Is my general practitioner practitioning generally by subtly preparing me for really bad news?
I had just had a session of “blood work” at the lab, so the study of my circulatory fluid had probably revealed something potentially catastrophic, not to mention awful. Also, the Doc mumbled something about “protein in the blood” that I hadn’t quite understood.
So I did what a good many patients do these days. I rushed to Google and looked up “protein in the blood.” Boiling down the technical medical jargon of the internet, I got the impression that this is a disastrous condition, the only known treatment for which is to tell the patient to enjoy the next three months because that’s going to be about it.
Well, “W” is for “Worry,” and that’s what I did for the next week or so.
At my next medical exam, il dottore showed me a huge spreadsheet of arcane letters and figures, all of which had digitally popped up as a result of my recent blood examination and all of which, of course, were incomprehensible to me.
He pointed to one of the numbers and triumphantly exclaimed, “That’s it! That’s the important one!”
“Give it to me straight, Doc,” I said, showing great courage. “How much time do I have left?”
“What?” he replied. “Oh no, no, nothing like that. It’s just that you don’t have enough protein in the blood. Not enough iron. Have you stopped eating red meat?”
“Well, yes,” I said. “You know, they say to stay away from it so I’ve switched to a pretty well vegetarian diet.”
“Well, it’s an easy problem to solve. You’re anemic. Just eat a steak or a few chops each week; that’ll take care of it.”
In my car, as I prepared to drive away, I thought of the horrible fatal disease I had been sure I was suffering from. And what had my doctor prescribed? A steak or a few chops.
I started to laugh and it was quite a while before I could stop.
Somebody put it this way once: “Worrying is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do, but it gets you nowhere.”

Magpie 70

As I looked over this week’s Magpie prompt, a thought flashed through my mind:
Why, she could be the Dark Lady…
As you may know, Will Shakespeare wrote, in addition to the plays, a number of sonnets.
Quite a number – 154 of ‘em, in fact.
The sonnets were brief poems that touched upon just about everything: life, love, death, the passage of time, etc. By studying them, scholars over the years became convinced they could learn a lot about Shakespeare the man – his personal life and loves.

As one example, two dozen of the sonnets are devoted to a young woman who has come to be known as the Dark Lady. No one knows who she was but we know what she was: she was vivacious. tempestuous, witty, and very attractive. She’s called Dark because she had black hair and perhaps dusky complexion.
Our Will was crazy about her.
They evidently had a passionate relationship for a while, then she found another. To put it in modern terms, Shakespeare was dumped.
His girl had not only found another man, but it appears the new guy was a member of the nobility. What this meant, of course, in those days when social position was all-important, was that Will, a commoner, had not the slightest chance, not the slightest, of winning her back.
Why, he wondered, did I have to be what I am?
“I look upon myself and curse my fate.
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur’d like him, like him with friends possessed.”
He wrote that he once saw the two of them together; his jealousy had boiled over. He began to write about his Dark Lady as though he could convince himself that she was a person it was good to be rid of.
In one of his most famous sonnets, he wrote a strange love poem, quite possibly unlike any other ever written.
The body of the poem is devoted to all the things wrong with his lady love – and there’s a lot.
“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.
Coral is far more red than her lips red.
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.”
But then, in the rhyming couplet that ends the sonnet, he goes on to emphasize just how crazy he still is about her.

For ABC Wednesday and Sunday Scribblings

“V” is for “Vinnie”
Sal: “Let’s go over this again. You gave the money to this guy – what’s his name again?”
Vinnie: “Joe. Joe Muriani.”
Sal: “You gave him the five grand? You realize that was Big Ed’s money, right?”
Vinnie: “Right. But Joe said he’d set the whole thing up – provide the boat, install the corpse, the whole deal.”
Sal: “Look at it, Vinnie. Look at the boat. It’s a rowboat, for God’s sake!”
Vinnie: “I know. When he said boat I naturally assumed it would have a motor. I think we got screwed.”
Sal: “No, Vinnie. We didn’t get screwed, you did. You bought a rowboat for five thousand dollars! If Big Ed ever hears about this…”
Vinnie: “Listen, Sal, it’s not all bad. At least we got a boat and the stiff is in it, there under the blanket. We can do what has to be done. No need to tell Big Ed about this.”
Sal: “Who is this Joe Muriani anyway?”
Vinnie: “He’s a guy I used to know years ago. From Secaucus.”
Sal: “What! You dimwit! Don’t you know we have nothin’ to do with nobody from the Secaucus family?”
Vinnie: “Look, Sal, I’ll do all the work. I’ll row the damn boat. I realize I may be partially to blame…”
Sal: “Partially! This is your show, Vinnie. The spotlight is on you. You’re gonna get full credit, believe me. If Big Ed ever hears about this…”
Vinnie: “Don’t keep saying that, Sal. Makes me nervous.”
Sal: “You got a lot to be nervous about.”
Vinnie: “Look, we row out to the spot in the harbor, tie the weight on the body and dump him in. He’ll sink right down to Danny Jones Locker.”
Sal: “Davy.”
Vinnie: “What?”
Sal: “Nothin'. What’s this, Vinnie? This is supposed to be the weight we’ll use?”
Vinnie: “Yeah, he said he was providing us with a weight that was a full kilogram. That’s – that’s heavy, right, Sal?”
Sal: “God you’re dumb! It’s nothin’; it’s a pound or two! This would be like tying a tiddleywink on the stiff and expecting that to cause him to sink. Don’t you get it, Vinnie? If this body pops back up and bobs about in the water out there for a day or two someone’s gonna spot it and it’ll get back to Big Ed. You wouldn’t like what would happen then!”
Vinnie: “I don’t like what’s happening now. Lemme look around for a big rock to use for the weight.”
Sal: “We’re supposed to be professionals, dammit! We finally got an important assignment, a real opportunity, and we’re expected to handle it like we know what the hell we’re doing. And you, you buy a crummy rowboat for five grand of Big Ed’s money and now you’re gonna look around for a big rock! I’m tellin’ ya – if Big Ed ever hears about this…!”

Magpie 69

A few decades ago, back when I was but a callow youth, I often thought about traveling to France.
My knowledge of the language then was -- 'ow you say? -- rudimentary. (Later I was to work in France and live in France and I became reasonably fluent, though I still manage to make my share of grammatical errors, I assure you.)
Anyway, in those days one of the things that fascinated me about that country was its cuisine. For example, I was especially interested in the dish the French called “Coquilles St. Jacques.” For some reason, the local restaurant in my American home town, although it had such gourmet specialties as cheeseburgers, didn’t have this particular item on their menu so I could only imagine what it must be like.
I began to read up on it. (Many years before Google, of course.)
“St. Jacques” is the way the French spell “St. James.” (They always had trouble with spelling. :-))

For centuries, it seems that pilgrims would make their way to the shrine of St. James in Spain, and they’d usually have a scallop shell symbol on their hat or clothes. Note the shell on St. Jim’s chest, above. There’s a legend that he had rescued a knight who had fallen into the water and who emerged covered with scallop shells.
From this came a classic French dish: St. Jim’s Shells, or Coquilles St. Jacques.
I read about this dish with great interest. I decided that when I finally got to make my trip to France I’d order it as my first authentic French meal. I learned that in its classic version some sea scallops would squat in their own half-shell, added and abetted by mushrooms and shallots and of course some white wine, all swimming in a delicious bechamel sauce and topped with bread crumbs that would brown in the oven.
I couldn’t of course be sure, but it seemed to me it might almost taste as good as a cheeseburger.

Anyway, I finally arrived in Paris: on the very first day, knowing very little French, I went to a restaurant. I was starving. I was ready to say to the waiter: “Coquilles St. Jacques – lay it on me!” I stared at the menu. I was surprised to see that it appeared nowhere on the sheet. That place offered fifty different dishes, but my favorite was definitely not there. Disappointed, I then didn’t know what to order. I wanted something typically French but I had literally no idea what any of the dishes were that were listed on that menu.
I decided to go with one of the items that seemed to be perhaps more French than anything else listed. It was "choucroute." It had such a Gallic feel to it. I could pronounce it okay, even if I didn't know what it was. I was sure it was a classic example of gourmet cuisine, a piece, as they say over there, of resistance.
When the waiter brought it to me I nearly fell off my chair. My first day in France, my first meal in a fine, expensive French restaurant, and I had not only not been able to have my St. Jim’s Shells, I had ordered -- SAUERKRAUT!
Took a few days to get over that experience. :-)

[For Writer's Island, ABC Wednesday and Sunday Scribblings]
“U” is for “Unblemished.”
(As in an unblemished record.)
Good morning.
Our European History class will begin by studying the country of Spain, and we’ll start with the era before the Spanish-American War.
Take notes; this will be an important part of the final exam.
I thought that a good way to start off is with a certain musical work, an opera, something that, even if you don’t much like opera, I’m sure you’re all familiar with. The reason I’m using it for this class is that the particular musical work I have in mind says a lot about the customs, traditions and moral attitudes of that time.

It’s a story of an army man who was not just putting in his time before being released back into civilian society, but of a young career soldier who believed he had a great future in the Spanish Army.

When he wore the uniform and saluted his flag, he stood for centuries of tradition; he was constantly reminded of the glory days of the 16th and 17th centuries, when the Army of Spain was the most powerful and prestigious in Europe.

Let’s say his name was Don Jose. He was of course a young man of good family, all-important in those days, a capable, serious junior officer whose unblemished record unfortunately became – well, blemished. And all because of his love for a woman.

She was a Spanish Gypsy. The story of the Gypsies is the story of a persecuted minority. For centuries they had known discrimination, and this helped to create the powerful emotions – of tragedy, sadness, joy and love – found in their music and dance.

All of which ultimately led to the well-known flamenco of today.

The soldier named Don Jose had fallen hard for a beautiful, tempestuous Gypsy girl who had danced for him; he was even ready to take the next step, to leave his promising military career to be with her.
The punishment for this was severe; he was jailed. While he was behind bars a strange thing happened.

As he stood at the window of his cell she threw a flower to him. He caught it and was fascinated by the flower’s fragrance. Though the flower, as flowers do, wilted and became dry, the fragrance remained, and it was to keep alive for him the memory of the beautiful, incomparable girl for whom he had sacrificed so much.

Later, an operatic composer, Georges Bizet, was attracted by this romantic tale and composed a work that was to become a masterpiece, one of the most famous operas of all time. Among its best-known arias was one that had to do with the moment when the Gypsy girl threw the flower to the prisoner. (You’ve been able to figure out by now which opera we’re talking about?)
Here’s the scene:
Aria: “La fleur que tu m’avais jetee dans ma prison me’etait restee.”
“The flower you threw to me stayed with me in prison. It withered and dried, but it kept all the while its sweet fragrance, and I became intoxicated – because during the night I saw you!
“At times I took to cursing you, to cry out that I detested you. Why did destiny put you there, in my path?
“But then I realized that this was a kind of blasphemy because the only real feeling I had was a strong desire, a kind of desperate hope – to see you again, oh Carmen! To see you again!”