Monday, January 24, 2011

“Margaret Disowns Her Family”

My fambly dipped into the third season of Father Knows Best over the winter break, and we found ourselves once again caught up in genuinely moving — and sometimes bizarre — storylines. Genuinely moving: “Class Prophecy” (May 8, 1957), for instance, in which Jim’s college-roommate Henry Pruett (played by the terrific actor Harry Townes) unwittingly knocks on the Andersons’ door while selling kitchen gadgets. When Margaret answers and recognizes him, he casts aside his sample case and begins a painful (not funny) effort to pass as the doctor everyone had expected him to become. The bizarre: “Shoot for the Moon” (June 5, 1957), in which an itinerant laborer, Sageman (played by Royal Dano), conducts a fire ceremony that cures Kathy’s warts and restores the Andersons’ confidence in themselves. Not your father’s Father Knows Best.

The episode we liked best though attracted us by its title: “Margaret Disowns Her Family” (May 22, 1957). Like “Class Prophecy” and “Shoot for the Moon,” it was written by Roswell Rogers and directed by Peter Tewksbury. The story begins with Margaret composing a classified ad to sell an old crib. Jim gently mocks her wordy effort as the house falls into mild chaos, Bud having tossed his jacket on the floor, Kathy having left toys everywhere. (Betty is missing from this episode, off studying at a friend’s house.) Margaret is steaming. “Are you gonna disown us?” Kathy asks her mother. “Yes. Definitely, emphatically, yes,” Margaret replies. “There are moments,” she says, her voice trailing off toward despair.

In a Springfield apartment, Walt and Esther Garvin (James Ogg and Christine White) read Margaret’s ad. Esther is a worrier. She worried when her mother told her she was too young to marry, and she worried when she and Walt moved away to Springfield. And she’s worrying now, about the baby on the way. When the Garvins show up at the Anderson house, Kathy opens the door and invites them in. They hear Margaret railing at Bud and Kathy from another room. Kathy explains that her mother is in a mood and has threatened to disown the kids. Margaret enters, and the Garvins put some crumpled bills together to make ten dollars. They'll pick up the crib that night. Margaret notices how fearful and worried Mrs. Garvin seems to be (it’s Mrs. Garvin of course, not Esther), and how scarce money seems to be for this young couple.

Later that day: it’s not even 9:00, and Margaret orders Bud and Kathy off to bed. Jim is just getting home from work: he’s hours late and never called. His dinner is ruined. The Garvins haven’t come back for the crib, and Margaret knows that something must be wrong. It turns out that Walt too is working late, and he too hasn’t phoned home. Esther thinks he must be out with his pals. She calls her mother and makes arrangements for her father to meet her at the bus station. “I never should have gotten married,” she says. But before leaving town, she stops at the Andersons’ house, to let Margaret know that she won’t be taking the crib. And she needs the ten dollars for her busfare. But everything is all right, she tells Margaret. Then she confesses: no, everything is not.

Esther begins to unload her troubles in the Anderson foyer, saying that she knows Margaret will understand how she feels. And if things are bad for Margaret, who obviously has “a nice home and a good husband,” what will they be like for Esther? Margaret then explains how she really feels:

“Oh, my dear child — let’s go in and sit down for a moment. You have such a wrong idea about this. I don’t know what you heard me say to my children, but — oh, these are just the eternal little gripes of every mother. Now there are times when you almost feel like disowning them. But we might as well face it: raising a family is no simple bed of roses. It takes a lot of hard work. But tell me this, Mrs. Garvin: can you name me one thing, one worthwhile thing that doesn’t take a lot of hard work? And believe me, I know of nothing more worthwhile than a family. Oh, you can get irritated picking up your boy’s jacket a thousand times, but what if you didn’t have that boy to pick up a jacket for? You can get a little mad at your husband for barricading himself behind his newspaper at the breakfast table, but you just try eating breakfast without him there.

“These little irritations are all forgotten during those wonderful moments when you see your children begin to develop into — well, into people. The kind of people that you want them to be. Their triumphs at school, their awkward gestures of affection, their demonstrations of moral courage and fairness and good will. The warm feeling that fills your heart at those times you — you couldn’t buy for a billion dollars. You’ll have good times and bad times, but you’ll need them both. It’s from the bad times that you learn. And you’ll find that your family has good points and bad points. And you’ll love them for both. In fact, I think it’s people’s shortcomings, not their strengths, that bind them together.

“So the thing to do, Mrs. Garvin, is to muster up all your faith and your energy, your courage, whatever you have, and plunge headlong into the demanding, difficult but the most fulfilling and wonderful job in the world. Will you do that?”
The Anderson doorbell rings, and guess who’s there? Mr. Garvin wants to surprise his wife by getting the crib tonight. Margaret immediately sends Kathy to bed, directs Bud to clean up the mess from his snack, and orders Jim, now in his robe and slippers, to carry the crib to the Garvins’ car. Margaret turns to the camera and smiles: “This is one the bad days,” she says. In 2011, I want to hear Margaret’s words as a commentary not on motherhood but on parenthood. It’s the part about seeing your children develop “into — well, into people” that gets me. You too?

Other Father Knows Best posts
“Betty’s Graduation”
Card-file steals scene in TV debut
Father Knows Best Christmas episode
“A Woman in the House”

Sunday, January 23, 2011

National Handwriting Day


It’s National Handwriting Day.

[With apologies to Danny & The Juniors.]

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Friday, January 21, 2011

Six degrees of Richard Nixon

Can you work out your six (or fewer) degrees of separation from Richard Nixon? Yes, that Richard Nixon. Comments from Normann on my post about syllabus week have moved me to pose this question.

My Nixon number is two. I have met bassist Milt Hinton and trumpeter Clark Terry, both of whom played at Duke Ellington’s seventieth-birthday party in the Nixon White House (1969). I have another link that is both more and less solid: as a student, I spent a summer proofreading at Rogers & Wells (cap rogers amp cap wells, in proofspeak). Rogers was William P. Rogers, Nixon’s first Secretary of State. I never met Rogers, though, and I’m not sure that he was ever in the building.

But again, can you work out your six (or fewer) degrees of separation from Richard Nixon? You’re welcome to show how in the comments.

Related reading at Wikipedia
Six degrees of separation
Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon
Erdős number

[Richard Nixon, in his first presidential debate with John F. Kennedy, September 26, 1960. Photograph (here cropped) by Paul Schutzer. From the Life Photo Archive.]

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Typography PDFs from FontShop

“Time for ‘the talk’”:

You may notice that you’re changing. You’re noticing different letterforms. You may feel different around them. Don’t be embarrassed; these feelings are natural. A few basics can help you through the awkward years.
That’s an excerpt from FontShop’s Meet Your Type: A Field Guide to Love and Typography. It’s a free PDF, one of nine you can find via the link.

I like the way typographers (or at least some typographers) are able to explain, patiently and without condescension, things that are ridiculously obvious to them. From another FontShop PDF, Erik Spiekermann’s Typo Tips: Seven Rules for Better Typography:
Quotes can have different shapes. They generally look like “this”, and can be remembered as beginning and ending quotes by thinking of “66” and “99”. Beginning quotes are found on the Mac by pressing option-[; closing quotes, option-shift-[. The apostrophe is simply a raised comma, the shape of a ’9 in most typefaces. It is identical to the closing single quote, while the open single quote looks like a ‘6. Beginning single quotes are found on the Mac by pressing option-]; the apostrophe and closing single quote, option-shift-].
See how nice? May all teachers be that patient.

A related post
Helvetica (Erik Spiekermann: “I’m obviously a typomaniac.”)

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Boycott a Meeting Day

“Every minute you avoid spending in a meeting is a minute you can get real work done instead.” From 37signals: Boycott a Meeting Day. I especially like the vandalized stock photos.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Syllabus week

Have you heard? It’s “syllabus week.” Or was, last week. Urban Dictionary helps: “the first week of class, when syllabi are passed out . . . a basic waste of time.”

As you might guess from the definition, the term is one that college students (not faculty) use. I’m newly aware of it, I admit. Syllabus week seems to be an idea born of both wishful thinking (“No work!”) and diminished expectations (“No work!”). “Going over the syllabus,” as we say in pedagogy-speak, which means highlighting important matters and reading a few bits aloud, might take twenty minutes or so. It might even take a class meeting. But it doesn’t take a week.

A widespread belief that the first week of a college semester is “a basic waste of time” could have three unfortunate consequences. Younger, less confident faculty who believe that students expect (and are thus entitled to) a week of nothing might delay in getting down to the work of the course: they won’t want to alienate their charges early on. Faculty who plunge right in might begin to look like outliers. And students who aren’t yet showing up because they believe the first week to be a waste of time won’t be able to tell the difference.

A much smarter strategy for starting out: treat the first weeks of a semester as if they were the last ones. Work as if your grade depended upon it. (It does.)

A related post
New year’s resolutions (And academic life)

Monday, January 17, 2011

“I have a dream”



From the PBS NewsHour: fourth-graders from Washington, D.C.’s Watkins Elementary School read Martin Luther King’s 1963 speech.

MLK


[Photograph by Grey Villet, from the Life Photo Archive. The telegraphic description that accompanies the photograph: “Martin Luther King Trial Montgomery Alabama Integration.” On February 21, 1956, Martin Luther King Jr. was one of ninety-three people indicted on charges of leading an illegal boycott of Montgomery buses. On March 19, his trial began.]
The end of violence or the aftermath of violence is bitterness. The aftermath of nonviolence is reconciliation and the creation of a beloved community. A boycott is never an end within itself. It is merely a means to awaken a sense of shame within the oppressor but the end is reconciliation, the end is redemption.

From “The Power of Nonviolence,” an address at the University of California at Berkeley, June 4, 1957.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Hooker ’n Heat

John Lee Hooker and Canned Heat, Hooker ’n Heat. Liberty Records, 1971.

John Lee Hooker, guitar and vocal
Alan Wilson, guitar, harmonica, piano
Henry Vestine, guitar
Antonio de la Barreda, bass
Fito de la Parra, drums

Messin’ with the Hook : The Feelin’ Is Gone : Send Me Your Pillow : Sittin’ Here Thinkin’ : Meet Me in the Bottom : Alimonia Blues : Driftin’ Blues : You Talk Too Much : Burnin’ Hell (w/Bernard Besman) : Bottle Up and Go : The World Today : I Got My Eyes on You : Whiskey and Wimmen’ : Just You and Me : Let's Make It : Peavine : Boogie Chillen No. 2

Recorded May 1970. All songs by John Lee Hooker except as noted.

Hooker ’n Heat came out on January 15, 1971, forty years ago today. Still in print, it holds up as well as ever. To my ears, it’s the best record John Lee Hooker made. It might be Canned Heat’s best too, despite the performing absence of lead singer Bob Hite, heard here only in bits of studio chatter and one hearty cheer.

Anyone who thinks of blues music as formally rigid — three chords, twelve bars — has never listened to John Lee Hooker, whose music is typically monochordal and most often without evenly measured choruses. Hooker’s approach, known as “the boogie,” is sometimes characterized as “primitive” (or worse, “primal”), but its fluid sense of time makes much blues performance sound pedestrian and predictable by comparison. Listen to any number of Hooker recordings from the 1950s and ’60s, and you’ll hear a musician at odds with his supporting cast, players who cannot bear to abandon the proper three-chord, twelve-bar form. At times it’s as if two records are playing.

What makes Hooker ’n Heat immediately stand out from so much of Hooker’s work is that Canned Heat follows the leader, with genuine empathy. As good as the solo performances here are (I’d pick “The Feelin’ Is Gone” and “Send Me Your Pillow”), the high points of Hooker ’n Heat come in Hooker’s duets with Alan Wilson and in performances with the full (or nearly full) band. The greatest of the Hooker-Wilson duets is “Burnin’ Hell,” which begins with a variation on a couplet from Son House’s “My Black Mama” (1930). Here’s House:

Yes, ’tain’t no heaven and ’tain’t no burnin’ hell,
Said where I’m goin’ when I die can’t nobody tell.
And Hooker:
Everybody talkin’ about it, burnin’ hell,
Ain’t no heaven, ain’t no burnin’ hell,
Where I die, where I go, can’t nobody tell.
“Burnin’ Hell” builds in intensity, as the singer goes down to the church-house to ask Deacon Jones to pray for him. The singer prays all night, and his insistence that there is no hell begins to sound like a desperate plea not to be sent there: “Ain’t gonna burn in, ain’t gonna burn in, burnin’ hell.” The Hooker-Wilson connection here is uncanny: Wilson, on harmonica, anticipating and responding at every turn, shaping this performance into a piece of existential drama. “I dig this kid’s harmonica,” Hooker says before this tune begins. “I don’t know how he follow me, but he do.” “Burnin’ Hell” has an intensity rare in Hooker’s music, rare in Wilson’s music, rare in anyone’s music.

With the band on board, Hooker hits what he calls “that groovy spot,” with great support from Henry Vestine, Antonio de la Barreda, and Fito de la Parra (who, like Wilson, are attentive to every shifting current). There are many great moments: Hooker’s sermonette in “Whiskey and Wimmen’,” his drop to his lowest (and lewdest) vocal register in “Just You and Me,” the way Wilson’s harmonica mimics Hooker’s guitar and voice in “Let’s Make It,” Hooker’s frenzied lament in “Peavine,” where he repeats the word gone fifteen times.

The best comes last, “Boogie Chillen No. 2,” eleven minutes and thirty-three seconds of it, with strong guitar solos by Henry Vestine and a brilliant harmonica solo by Wilson (with a switch of instruments midway to get to some low notes otherwise unavailable). Here too the Hooker-Wilson connection is clear: during Vestine’s first solo, Hooker says, “You hear that cat? On the harmonica? Let the cat hear you,” as if inviting a club audience to applaud. (Vestine then wraps things up.) And as the performance nears its end, Hooker shouts:
Alan! You feel good, and you feel good,
Just like I thought that you would now.
It was not to be. Alan Wilson died (by his own hand perhaps) a few months after these performances were recorded. Thus the murky, somber album cover. Every musician on Hooker ’n Heat is now gone, save for Fito de la Parra, leading Canned Heat to this day.


[Bob Hite, Fito de la Parra, Henry Vestine, John Lee Hooker, Antonio de la Barreda. A photograph of Alan Wilson hangs on the wall.]

Related posts
Alan Wilson
Canned Heat (Live in east-central Illinois)