December 17, 2006
Tonight was cold-call Christmas Caroling at the Rodney Street Laundry. Actually it was the gathering place to go out singing and then come back to for hot chocolate, cookies, and many other treats. This was an official Rodney Street Neighborhood event. An ice sculpture contest is coming in February with training prior to on how to make the ice block ---snow in a box, water, let freeze, repeat. Then the attendees will learn about carving tools. I’ve seen chain-saws work wonders but I’m thinking you’d have to make a really big box of ice to use that machinery. Butte (it is not pronounced "but", try again) had a contest last weekend that was one to rival as well as get tips from, so I heard. All I know is that I won’t stick my tongue on the sculptures. My brother Paul taught me that with the ice trays in our freezer…twice…once with a babysitter that then had to figure out how to get my tongue unstuck. Rip.
I haven’t been caroling in a very long time. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I went. Must have been when I was a youth director at a church in Texas eons ago. I did participate in a Posada a little over ten years ago but though it was walking around in the dark from house to house (traditionally three) and some singing was involved, it was not caroling. The Posada is a Mexican tradition of re-enacting Joseph and Mary’s search for a room at the inn, the first two houses turn away the young couple. The third allows them in and that is the home that has the Posada for the evening. There is way more depth to the traditional, symbolic pilgrimage and my experience was more superficial, we went back to the church for cookies and hot chocolate…not that the people who welcomed Joseph and Mary weren’t willing to take us in, it was simpler to organize in the fellowship hall. Also as I recall from my Bible lessons I don’t think cookies and cocoa were a part of the nativity scene even after the wise men showed up with gifts but treats seem to always follow modern religious walks in the dark.
I don’t know what the weather was like in Bethlehem, but Texas was balmy compared to here where the temperature hovered around 18 degrees (Fahrenheit that is). It was a jolly group negotiating three-inch ice on some sidewalks. I’m certain it got thicker as the time went on. Next year I’ll remember to bring the kitty litter. There were some excellent singers in the bunch that led us and set the pitch and did other musical things. Emma went along and she got nose to nose with one dog from one of the houses we caroled.
But it was the house where they were celebrating the third night of Hanukkah where she got to all-out bark at two other big dogs, one a fellow golden retriever. I thought that house was an especially good one for her to cause a ruckus since we were singing a very Christian Christmas song (one about Jesus and not Santa) at a not-Christian home. We didn’t know that until one explained what they were doing inside when we came out of the before-midnight-clear blue and interrupted. The people were very, very gracious. It was an uncomfortable moment especially when one sang out a reminder, “Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel.” I say “uncomfortable” because we were a bunch of liberals –or at least those of us I knew-- that celebrate diversity and respect pluralism (there are at least three “bad” words in that sentence according to Jerry Falwell). And even though we had Jingle Bells, Deck the Halls, Up On the Rooftop, and Jolly Old Saint Nicholas in the repertoire and could add “Dreidel” how does one know where to sing what song. There isn’t time for carolers to sing (or households to hear) a medley of interfaith as well as secular songs at each house. But even without any religious purpose or intent, we were still putting Christ back into Christmas (though I don’t think he really comes out since he takes up all but the last three letters) or make that putting Christ into the Holidays…which is not something I really want to do for those of other faiths. And it’s not that I really have anything against Christians per se, some of my best friends and dearest loved ones are, some even clergy I might add, and I even received mail as Bishop Marilyn B. Alexander for a couple of years until my theology school alma mater figured out that I had falsified my name and address change card. But I love and honor my friend Acharya Swami Durga Das too!
I had been pondering our “cold-call caroling” as we started out, wondering if everyone would want Christmas Carolers coming to their house. Would there be cranky people like me, ambivalent about the season, over-educated and experienced about how the church has destroyed lives throughout history and still today through its discrimination? (Oh, that’s the holiday spirit.) In general though, it is a very happy thing to have a group of singing people surprise you at the door and a couple of people even put their coats on and joined us. One house we got cookies. At another house, the woman who opened her door said, “And they say that nothing ever good happens in this neighborhood.” Some people did look like they felt a little awkward but that might be because they were torn between really wanting to see the end of Desperate Housewives and being polite. A car of teenagers stopped just to hear us sing and clapped and hollered. I just imagined one of them saying, “I’ve heard of such but I’d never seen it in person.”
We returned to the Laundry by way of the B&B Market and a quick stop at Jesters if nothing else to get our dose of second hand smoke for the next decade. That was the only place where someone danced a jig to the music. By then and appropriately so we sang, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”
Over refreshments I got to talking with Mariann about what she liked about living in the Rodney Street neighborhood where she’s been for over ten years. She said, “What I like the most is everybody greets each other. The drug people don’t bother me. If there is a problem, people take care of it. I wouldn't want to live anywhere else in Helena.” Also in the thawing group was State Legislator Christine Kaufmann. I took her picture as a before-senator photograph as she is on the short-list to fill a senate seat and she’ll find out Tuesday if she is in. After refreshments, I gave one of the women in the group a ride home due to the bad ice. The last thing she said was, “There is no place like this neighborhood.” No doubt.
Happy Holidays!
NOTE: Some are still having trouble adding a comment. If you don’t have a google account, please click in the circle by “Other” or “Anonymous” before you click on Publish Your Comment” and see if that makes it work. I am reading the comments and will use some of them in future posts. THANKS!
Monday, December 18, 2006
Monday, December 11, 2006
Fairly quiet at the Laundry this Sunday morning except when I was trying to take some time-release pictures with the digital camera that my generous brother Curtis handed down to me and I never read the instructions on the finer details. My favorite place to sit and write is in a narrow spot tucked into the northeast corner of the Laundry, sided by two windows where my signs hang, the first row of washers, and an glass inset from the entrance, basically a 3x6 space. So between setting the timer, crawling over an enthusiastic Emma who is tied up so as not to get the avocado pit back behind the table or bother the non-existent (at the moment) customers, and getting in position in 10 seconds in front of a camera that I don’t if it really has this function, it’s a tight squeeze. One guy tried to take my picture but it kept coming out blurry –something I greatly sympathize with. I tell people that look at my blurry photographs to just tremor their hand a bit and they’ll be able to settle the image to see it properly. He and his friend left and during my comical attempts a woman came in that was very happy to take my picture. She’s gone now and it is quiet, except for the occasional sigh of the dog.
We’ve been cooped up all weekend due to me fighting a cold or the flu, neither of which I can remember which you starve and which you feed so I feed them both. While I have at least had movies to watch, Emma has only had treats to intersperse her napping. I guess that’s not all that different from me. We’re both trying the feeding-remedy. In her dogged mind, treats are the main food group. Just ask anyone who has ever given her one. She never forgets them or the pocket or desk drawer where the morsel came from. Though I’m sure in her heart of hearts she loves them for who they are.
Interlude I:
Sambo, the owner of the Jailhouse Sandwich Shop & Soup Kitchen just walked through. He’s a man of few words, some might say gruff but he is a surprising personality. One, he was very cordial about me including his business in my writer-in-residence title. Two, his karaoke specialty is Frank Sinatra. I admire that kind of seeming contradiction. Everyone has a story not only to tell but one that forms who we are, how we got to be how and where we are. Sometimes we get to know the underlying plot, often we do not. Unless of course E! Hollywood does a segment on you or 20-20 but either you’ve shown your privates to the paparazzi or been involved in exploiting children on the internet and those are at best squeamish options to even consider for a millisecond.
Interlude II:
Some guy with a steaming mug of coffee just stopped in because he was supposed to meet a friend here. Quoting the yellow sign he said, “I’m glad that the writer is in.” He and Emma had a mutual admiration minute and he guessed Emma’s age to be about 8 or 9. I said that I didn’t really know as I got her at the pound 8 years ago but at the time they thought she was 2. He replied, “Oh she was an inmate puppy. I want to get one of those death-row puppies this spring. I’ll just ask which one is next to go. Yes, Emma, you’re from the pen. You fit right in on Rodney Street.” Off he went with a smile. Nice fellow.
Interlude III:
Blurry-cameraman’s friend is back.
“How often do you come here?”
“About once a week is what I try to do.”
“Do you take a picture of the building every time you are here?”
“No, that was just for my blog.”
“There is a French-Canadian movie about a guy who took a picture of the same place at the same time every day. There was a clock in the picture. He did it for a year and then he asked a friend to take the pictures but his friend didn’t want to come back every day so he just changed the time on the clock to match the time it was supposed to be. So I wondered if you took a picture once a week.”
“That’s an interesting idea.”
“There would be different cars in the picture and snow and no snow but it’s not an urban setting so not that much would change.”
“No, probably not, but still an interesting thought.”
Interlude IV:
Sandy, the owner, came by to ask if it was Friday, my designated day to be here. She was off to open her other business, Birds & Beasleys, open 7 days a week for the holidays. Part seed store, gift shop, birding headquarters, and general store/community center, Sandy is a “connector” in the language of the book The Tipping Point, she knows everybody and can immediately tell you who you need to talk to about downtown business, non-profit organizations, and where in Home Depot you can get (or not) a particular part for a dryer.
Interlude V:
“The writer is in on a Sunday. You’re getting to know a whole different crowd.”
With these words I met Lila who after church each Sunday comes here to use the washers (her washer broke but not the dryer). She lives just down the street, her financial advisor business on the main floor, apartment in the basement. Amongst her array of financial wares, she sells life insurance. With the adult care services, coroner’s office, and funeral home clustered in the neighborhood, even the drive-by visitors might pause to consider.
Lila was very efficient in her washing, already had the loads separated into two bags with the perfect amount of detergent in a plastic container. No lugging the big box of detergent on the three-block walk. She knows the drill.
She’s a Montana native, hailing from Miles City on the eastern side of the state, though she moved here in time to go to Helena High School and stuck around after that. Decades later she stays and exudes the love she has for Helena and Montana. I got to asking her about the best thing to dissolve sidewalk ice and she said what she uses is kitty litter, not to dissolve the ice but to give traction. Good to have in the trunk too if you get stuck. This wasn’t exactly a uniquely Montana ice tip but she gave me some un-ice-related ones, two drink names that I’ll have to test on a local bartender.
Red beer: beer and tomato juice, 80/20, can be spiced but regular tomato juice is the usual. She ordered it once in Texas and they didn’t know what she was talking about. “Red beer?” Must have sounded suspicious.
Ditch: whiskey and water. She read somewhere that the name came from when the miners were here. They got their water out of the ditch.
I had my hours today set by the time-release on my laptop battery. It’s out of juice signaling the time to take the signs down and go home. Emma has shaken off her sleep and dander and is ready to go. Until next week, remember the agitator’s work comes before the rinse and spin cycles.
We’ve been cooped up all weekend due to me fighting a cold or the flu, neither of which I can remember which you starve and which you feed so I feed them both. While I have at least had movies to watch, Emma has only had treats to intersperse her napping. I guess that’s not all that different from me. We’re both trying the feeding-remedy. In her dogged mind, treats are the main food group. Just ask anyone who has ever given her one. She never forgets them or the pocket or desk drawer where the morsel came from. Though I’m sure in her heart of hearts she loves them for who they are.
Interlude I:
Sambo, the owner of the Jailhouse Sandwich Shop & Soup Kitchen just walked through. He’s a man of few words, some might say gruff but he is a surprising personality. One, he was very cordial about me including his business in my writer-in-residence title. Two, his karaoke specialty is Frank Sinatra. I admire that kind of seeming contradiction. Everyone has a story not only to tell but one that forms who we are, how we got to be how and where we are. Sometimes we get to know the underlying plot, often we do not. Unless of course E! Hollywood does a segment on you or 20-20 but either you’ve shown your privates to the paparazzi or been involved in exploiting children on the internet and those are at best squeamish options to even consider for a millisecond.
Interlude II:
Some guy with a steaming mug of coffee just stopped in because he was supposed to meet a friend here. Quoting the yellow sign he said, “I’m glad that the writer is in.” He and Emma had a mutual admiration minute and he guessed Emma’s age to be about 8 or 9. I said that I didn’t really know as I got her at the pound 8 years ago but at the time they thought she was 2. He replied, “Oh she was an inmate puppy. I want to get one of those death-row puppies this spring. I’ll just ask which one is next to go. Yes, Emma, you’re from the pen. You fit right in on Rodney Street.” Off he went with a smile. Nice fellow.
Interlude III:
Blurry-cameraman’s friend is back.
“How often do you come here?”
“About once a week is what I try to do.”
“Do you take a picture of the building every time you are here?”
“No, that was just for my blog.”
“There is a French-Canadian movie about a guy who took a picture of the same place at the same time every day. There was a clock in the picture. He did it for a year and then he asked a friend to take the pictures but his friend didn’t want to come back every day so he just changed the time on the clock to match the time it was supposed to be. So I wondered if you took a picture once a week.”
“That’s an interesting idea.”
“There would be different cars in the picture and snow and no snow but it’s not an urban setting so not that much would change.”
“No, probably not, but still an interesting thought.”
Interlude IV:
Sandy, the owner, came by to ask if it was Friday, my designated day to be here. She was off to open her other business, Birds & Beasleys, open 7 days a week for the holidays. Part seed store, gift shop, birding headquarters, and general store/community center, Sandy is a “connector” in the language of the book The Tipping Point, she knows everybody and can immediately tell you who you need to talk to about downtown business, non-profit organizations, and where in Home Depot you can get (or not) a particular part for a dryer.
Interlude V:
“The writer is in on a Sunday. You’re getting to know a whole different crowd.”
With these words I met Lila who after church each Sunday comes here to use the washers (her washer broke but not the dryer). She lives just down the street, her financial advisor business on the main floor, apartment in the basement. Amongst her array of financial wares, she sells life insurance. With the adult care services, coroner’s office, and funeral home clustered in the neighborhood, even the drive-by visitors might pause to consider.
Lila was very efficient in her washing, already had the loads separated into two bags with the perfect amount of detergent in a plastic container. No lugging the big box of detergent on the three-block walk. She knows the drill.
She’s a Montana native, hailing from Miles City on the eastern side of the state, though she moved here in time to go to Helena High School and stuck around after that. Decades later she stays and exudes the love she has for Helena and Montana. I got to asking her about the best thing to dissolve sidewalk ice and she said what she uses is kitty litter, not to dissolve the ice but to give traction. Good to have in the trunk too if you get stuck. This wasn’t exactly a uniquely Montana ice tip but she gave me some un-ice-related ones, two drink names that I’ll have to test on a local bartender.
Red beer: beer and tomato juice, 80/20, can be spiced but regular tomato juice is the usual. She ordered it once in Texas and they didn’t know what she was talking about. “Red beer?” Must have sounded suspicious.
Ditch: whiskey and water. She read somewhere that the name came from when the miners were here. They got their water out of the ditch.
I had my hours today set by the time-release on my laptop battery. It’s out of juice signaling the time to take the signs down and go home. Emma has shaken off her sleep and dander and is ready to go. Until next week, remember the agitator’s work comes before the rinse and spin cycles.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Posting Comments
I've had many people write that it isn't clear how to post a comment. The little envelope symbol below the post looks like it would be for comments but actually is for sending me an email. That's great if you want to email me. However, to add a comment you have to click on the word "comment" to the left of the envelope. It doesn't look like you would since it looks like it is just a record of the number of comments, like "5 comments, but it is. So click on it and a screen will come up that you can write your note on. You can also read the other comments. Others of you may have gotten a screen that said you had to sign in to leave a comment but I think I've fixed it now so anyone can leave a comment. Please feel free to invite others to the blog. One more thing, I will post every weekend. Won't promise a particular day but check on Sunday evenings or Monday mornings. If you'd like me to send you an email notification that I've added another post, please let me know. Thanks, MB
Saturday, December 2, 2006
Welcome to the Rodney Street Laundry & Jailhouse Sandwich Shop & Soup Kitchen
December 2, 2006
With some trepidation I start this blog. Like a lot of things that I put off, this task has grown larger in my mind than it needs to be, especially since those of you who will read this first round are so supportive. I was determined to set this up two weeks ago but once I had looked online at all the options for blog templates, I had forgotten why it was I was going to do a blog and took a nap instead. But my friend DD gave me a pep talk yesterday so here I am. My goal is to post once a week from the Rodney Street Laundry and Jailhouse Sandwich Shop & Soup Kitchen where I’ve been the writer-in-residence since April, 2005, about a year after I moved to Helena, Montana, from Chicago and Texas before that. You don’t have to name the city your from in Texas cause it’s just Texas, ‘nough said. –except to say that even though George W. claims TX as home, the Lone Star State has also bred such treasures as Ann Richards, Willie Nelson, Molly Ivins and Larry McMurtry. So there.
When I first started my residency –which by the way was kindly allowed by the Laundry owners Sandy Shull and Jacquie Gibson and supported by the sandwich shop business owner Sambo-- I came over to the laundromat at least once a week for several hours. Now I’m doing well to get here for a few hours each week but I’ve turned over a new page and am here now. One aspect of this blog is to have interaction with you readers so please figure out how to write comments so we can create a conversation and let me know that you are out there.
The idea of being the resident writer was not to live at the laundry as some have asked me but to sit here and listen to people’s stories. Some solicited but most from people working and waiting on their laundry that sit down to chat. I hang in the street windows two yellow laminated signs that read “WRITER IS IN’ when I come in to write. They spur some curiosity, my Golden Retriever is often with me and she is also a conversation started, and sitting, writing in a journal attracts people. Mostly though, for some reason people just want to share their stories with me even before they know why I’m here. I do tell them what I’m doing especially if the story seems like something I’d like to include in the book of stories that I’m writing. That way I get their permission. Otherwise, I just eavesdrop. Then there are the simple interludes like one woman asked me what I was doing here and I answered that I came here to write. When she got up to put her wet clothes into the dryer she turned to me and said, “Don’t you have a TV at home?”
Sometimes I feel like the village letter writer for those that think that they can’t write –something that people often mention, “I’ve always wanted to write this down.” So I am a recorder of stories that people feel compelled to tell but would not write down themselves. So far I’ve talked to a man who had just returned from serving in the Army Reserve in Iraq, an artist that hangs out with "the other ghouls" at the scary bar, Jesters, across the street (when he found out that I was lesbian he said, "Everybody's turning queer"), and a Holiday Inn launderer who was using the dryers at the laundry because the ones at work were broken. From New Jersey, he used to be in a rock band and once jammed with Bruce Springstein's band.
For those unfamiliar with the Laundry, it is in the three-block "hood" in Helena complete with meth trade and the Department of Corrections probation office. It's good to centralize. Other businesses include Jesters Bar, B&B grocery (both with apartments for rent upstairs), pawn shop, lawyers offices, funeral home, low-income housing, and various other county offices like the coroner’s. All this is smack dab in the historic Rodney Street neighborhood, quite the prime real estate at inception and growing more so once again. The Laundry’s red brick building houses about 20 washers and 10 dryers (but you want to use the big ones cause they dry faster) in the front and a four-table and three-stool-counter lunchroom in the back, grounded with a (retro from the youngsters’ perspective) black-and-white checkered floor. Around the corner from the tables is the kitchen, about twelve feet in length, wide enough for two people to closely get by each other to prepare food and take orders, and divided from the eating area by the jailhouse-barred order window. Only thing left to the building is a large bathroom --a favorite drop-in for the locals-in-need-- with a back outside door by the toilet blocked by plywood (with graffiti) and secured by a jailhouse door and padlock. The graffiti is minimal, unchanging, and not very interesting…unlike the many people and their stories that collect here.
With some trepidation I start this blog. Like a lot of things that I put off, this task has grown larger in my mind than it needs to be, especially since those of you who will read this first round are so supportive. I was determined to set this up two weeks ago but once I had looked online at all the options for blog templates, I had forgotten why it was I was going to do a blog and took a nap instead. But my friend DD gave me a pep talk yesterday so here I am. My goal is to post once a week from the Rodney Street Laundry and Jailhouse Sandwich Shop & Soup Kitchen where I’ve been the writer-in-residence since April, 2005, about a year after I moved to Helena, Montana, from Chicago and Texas before that. You don’t have to name the city your from in Texas cause it’s just Texas, ‘nough said. –except to say that even though George W. claims TX as home, the Lone Star State has also bred such treasures as Ann Richards, Willie Nelson, Molly Ivins and Larry McMurtry. So there.
When I first started my residency –which by the way was kindly allowed by the Laundry owners Sandy Shull and Jacquie Gibson and supported by the sandwich shop business owner Sambo-- I came over to the laundromat at least once a week for several hours. Now I’m doing well to get here for a few hours each week but I’ve turned over a new page and am here now. One aspect of this blog is to have interaction with you readers so please figure out how to write comments so we can create a conversation and let me know that you are out there.
The idea of being the resident writer was not to live at the laundry as some have asked me but to sit here and listen to people’s stories. Some solicited but most from people working and waiting on their laundry that sit down to chat. I hang in the street windows two yellow laminated signs that read “WRITER IS IN’ when I come in to write. They spur some curiosity, my Golden Retriever is often with me and she is also a conversation started, and sitting, writing in a journal attracts people. Mostly though, for some reason people just want to share their stories with me even before they know why I’m here. I do tell them what I’m doing especially if the story seems like something I’d like to include in the book of stories that I’m writing. That way I get their permission. Otherwise, I just eavesdrop. Then there are the simple interludes like one woman asked me what I was doing here and I answered that I came here to write. When she got up to put her wet clothes into the dryer she turned to me and said, “Don’t you have a TV at home?”
Sometimes I feel like the village letter writer for those that think that they can’t write –something that people often mention, “I’ve always wanted to write this down.” So I am a recorder of stories that people feel compelled to tell but would not write down themselves. So far I’ve talked to a man who had just returned from serving in the Army Reserve in Iraq, an artist that hangs out with "the other ghouls" at the scary bar, Jesters, across the street (when he found out that I was lesbian he said, "Everybody's turning queer"), and a Holiday Inn launderer who was using the dryers at the laundry because the ones at work were broken. From New Jersey, he used to be in a rock band and once jammed with Bruce Springstein's band.
For those unfamiliar with the Laundry, it is in the three-block "hood" in Helena complete with meth trade and the Department of Corrections probation office. It's good to centralize. Other businesses include Jesters Bar, B&B grocery (both with apartments for rent upstairs), pawn shop, lawyers offices, funeral home, low-income housing, and various other county offices like the coroner’s. All this is smack dab in the historic Rodney Street neighborhood, quite the prime real estate at inception and growing more so once again. The Laundry’s red brick building houses about 20 washers and 10 dryers (but you want to use the big ones cause they dry faster) in the front and a four-table and three-stool-counter lunchroom in the back, grounded with a (retro from the youngsters’ perspective) black-and-white checkered floor. Around the corner from the tables is the kitchen, about twelve feet in length, wide enough for two people to closely get by each other to prepare food and take orders, and divided from the eating area by the jailhouse-barred order window. Only thing left to the building is a large bathroom --a favorite drop-in for the locals-in-need-- with a back outside door by the toilet blocked by plywood (with graffiti) and secured by a jailhouse door and padlock. The graffiti is minimal, unchanging, and not very interesting…unlike the many people and their stories that collect here.
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