Limericks

Fifth Grade:

A lion lived in a zoo

along with a hog and a gnu

“I could eat three or more,”

said the lion with a roar.

The gnu said, “shame, shame on you!”

Yesterday (47 years later)

A cannery worker named Stan

concocted a devious plan —

he threw the town mayor

onto a conveyor,

and that’s how the mayor got canned.

Our Inner Child and Christmases Past

Do we as adults look for touchstones to our childhood Christmases?

My husband and I spoke about this while we were listening to Little Drummer Boy (Harry Simeone Chorale, 1959 version), the harbinger of Christmas in my childhood. I was born in 1963, but the trappings of those late 50’s still lingered in my house, as we listened to the album (33 1/3) on a 1957 Magnavox Continental console.

This is the exact make/model of our old stereo. I wish I had it because a restoration would be lovely.

My husband grew up in a town smaller than mine that still managed to have a Christmas parade, unlike mine. Both of us remember captivating displays in local businesses. He remembers church choirs, while my childhood was more secular.

We both remember Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer complete with the GE tie-in commercials, and we watch that and How the Grinch Stole Christmas and other children’s Christmas TV staples, and we still watch those every year.

We remember the iconic outdoor displays of our home towns — me, the industrial pipe frame-and-lights tree on top of the Nabisco carton factory, and he the star on top of the grain elevator. I remember a whole era of my life where I could look out the dining room window and see the tree lit in green or red across the neighborhood, waiting for my father to get home from his job 30 miles away, waiting for Rudolph to come on TV, worried about my father traveling through the snow.

We’ve made our own traditions — one of those being going to Starved Rock State Park in my hometown area to visit my dad and my sister’s family every year. Starved Rock Lodge was also a piece of my childhood, a massive log construction that existed since the 1930’s. To me it’s the epitome of Christmas, which its Great Hall sporting Christmas lights and families getting together there to open their presents. Again, a part of my past. We will not go there because of COVID, and I will miss that.

This makes me wonder if other people have this sentimentalism for the past when it comes to Christmas. Are we touched by our childhood Christmases and clinging to the traditions to keep our adult selves buoyant? I wonder this especially for this year, when we can’t have those big gatherings because of the contagion, when we put our Christmas trees out early for the colorful lights of hope.

Funk and an old white lady

I didn’t know it was called funk when I grooved to it as a child. I didn’t know that I, a white child, wasn’t supposed to groove. I just felt the thumping play and the sense of play, and I wanted to shake my booty, which the adults around me considered slightly scandalous. I listened to that top 40 Chicago AM station and got caught up in its infectious rhythms; I didn’t know their names as well as I knew the Beatles’ catalog, but they became part of the background music of my childhood. I know their names now: “Flashlight” by Parliament, “Fire” by Ohio Players, “Mr. Big Stuff” by Jean Knight, “Tell Me Something Good” by Rufus and Chaka Khan (which gave me goosebumps as a child).

Years later, in college, I followed a community radio show that dealt in blues and funk, mostly funk. The first time I heard Parliament’s Aquaboogie, I sat there with this goofy grin on my face wondering “What the hell is this?” and called the DJ to ask. That was my introduction to Parliament/Funkadelic/P-Funk.

As I studied the genre (as an adult, I study everything) I discovered that funk, in addition to being playful, was sexy. And political. And inspirational. For example, P-Funk melds aspirations of political dominance (“Chocolate City”) with tales of survival (“Cosmic Slop”) and perseverance (“Aquaboogie”). The politically incorrect “Superfreak” rubs elbows with the motivating “Yes We Can” from the Pointer Sisters.

I’m very aware as I listen to the music that I am, as P-Funk would have it, devoid of funk. I do not have the shared experience of slavery and discrimination that funk seeks to rise above; I don’t even have the ice cool of David Bowie, whose “Fame” fits the genre. (I detest the song “Play that Funky Music White Boy” because it seems to be blatant co-opting.) I think about this because I’m going to see George Clinton and his P-Funk All-Stars tonight on his closing tour, knowing that I was not the audience funk was written for. I hope funk will accept me as a respectful tourist.

***********

This is for Steve Emmerman, who was the DJ for that long ago funk radio show on WEFT.

Half awake

The feeling when you’re half-asleep and you can hear things around you move and stir; you let the sounds wash over you as you lay still, hanging onto the lassitude of your muscles and the fuzziness of your mind. You could move, break the film that separates you from the awake state; instead you lay suspended between the two states as long as possible. Outside is cold and things are expected of you; under the covers holds you in the arms of your childhood for just a few more moments.