The Kidnapping of Joan Crawford

Marla Baggs kidnapped Joan Crawford. That’s a fact, even though she wouldn’t admit to it, even if a couple of hard-nosed detectives gave her the bare-light-bulb treatment. Joan Crawford is a cat who showed up at my back door, meowing and hungry. Once inside, after being fed, she proceeded to strut from room to room until finding a proper place on the couch to curl up and fall asleep. My soft spot for all things orphaned sparked a protective kinship. However, Joan Crawford was born to wander. She begged to go outside where she could sit beneath the shade of the trees in the yard, keep an eye on passing beetles, and catch the occasional unlucky mouse. The great outdoors was her promised land.

Joan Crawford was solid grey....not a patch of any discernible markings, sort of like an approaching storm-cloud mixed with a dust bunny. Soon after becoming comfortable around the house, her true colors emerged...giving rise to her name. A bit of a troublesome truck, she developed the habit of using the couch as a scratching post, pulling out stuffing as if a valuable prize was hidden deep inside. And she quickly established a grudge against the living room drapes, taking a run at them, leaping halfway to the top, then hanging for a brief moment before clawing her way down to the floor. After one month, the drapes were a series of tattered streamers, and who knows when that would become a decorating trend, if ever.

Like it or not, Joan Crawford’s indelible signature found its way to our home. We’d given up on ever having a piece of furniture that didn’t look like it’d been hit by a hand grenade, or drapes that didn’t appear like the battle flag of a losing side. We contemplated the life-span of the average cat, fourteen years, maybe twenty. So we unsubscribed to all those decorating magazines and made it a point to drive past the Furniture Corral and the Drapery Depot without even glancing in the direction of the stores. Joan Crawford was our new decorator.

One evening, Joan Crawford failed to return home. The next day, I went out looking for her, ringing doorbells and stapling posters to utility poles. A week went by without the slightest hint of a response. Then, one afternoon, while walking by Marla’s house on the next block, there in the window was Joan Crawford, looking longingly at the outdoors, her Shangri-La. I gave a trepidatious knock on Marla’s door. Marla’s reputation for being a tough-cookie, prompted me to address the escapade with my hazard lights blinking. She works the counter at Greasy Gary’s Auto Parts and is the catcher on their softball team. And as she likes to say, “No one gets by me at home plate, and if they do, they’ll not soon forget it." They call her “The Fireplug,” unmovable in every way. She answered the door, dressed in her faded-red Greasy Gary jersey. Her number is 1.

–Marla: What’s up?
–Me: That cat in the window, I think it’s mine.
–Marla: It’s my cat. I opened the door one night, and it walked right in.
–Me: Her name is Joan Crawford. I had her spayed and everything.
–Marla: That’s no kind of name for a cat. Her name is Gasket, and she’s here to stay.
–Me: She’s my cat.
–Marla: Prove it.
–Me: She’s grey, enjoys spaghetti and watching beetles crawl across the sidewalk.
–Marla: There’s a million grey cats; this one is not yours. Go find another one.
–Me: She’s good at redesigning furniture. Her specialty is draperies.
–Marla: Whatever.
–Me: I’ll be a nuisance.
–Marla: I’m sure you will.

And the door slammed with a whoosh of certainty. Normally, I’d hatch a plan to bust Joan Crawford out of Marla’s house, but when mulling over the entire kettle of fish, the pieces began to unfold into an almost ordained, serendipitous stew-pot. For starters, despite Marla’s surly disposition, she likes animals, and perhaps she and Joan Crawford are suited for one another, two peas in a pod, as they say. The second thing: redecorating our home with furniture that doesn’t look like the aftermath of a Three Stooges’ pillow fight is no longer a distant dream. Surely, the universe cooked-up this outcome on its own, and who am I to mess with the universe’s cooking.

These days, I stroll leisurely past Marla’s house, imagining I’ve been awarded visitation privileges by the Court of the Milky Way. I give a hearty to wave to Joan Crawford and Marla as they take their positions in the picture window. Marla watches. There’s a slow simmer in her stare and she doesn’t return my wave. While I make plans to visit the Drapery Depot.

Reindeer vs Snowman

Christmas passed as usual on Kildare Avenue. Several homes were festooned with holiday lights and figurines, some elegant and some appearing like last-minute shopping sprees at Walmart. Either way, the entire neighborhood basked in a celebratory glow for the month of December. Then along came the dark and blustery month of January. On days when the cold North winds let up, the decorations were gradually taken down and placed in storage for next year’s regalia.  Except for Reindeer and Snowman. Reindeer and Snowman are seven-foot-tall figures, each wrapped in a tangle of lights, facing each other on opposite sides of the street. And neither one is budging, not for wind, rain, snow, or sleet. They are stubborn in their defiance of the forces of nature and neglect. The residents of Kildare Avenue began casting secret ballots as to which of the two holiday decorations will endure the longest. The Reindeer has somewhat of an advantage because it’s supported on four, painted-white, steel legs. However, the Snowman, though possessing a large round bottom, features a metal frame along with four guy wires staked on its sides. Each remains a feat of engineering in the face of abandonment.

In order to determine which figure endures the longest, I’ve been relegated to the position of “Decoration Monitor,” an appointment not to be taken lightly. And, like any good social anthropologist, I do not interrupt the natural order of things. My mission is to observe, take notes, and report the findings. The log of endurance is written mostly at night, when the glimmer of lights reflects the true spectacle of the perpetrator’s intentions. These are, after all, celebrated luminaries.

The Log of Endurance:

January 15th: All decorations and lighted displays have been removed from the homes on Kildare Avenue...except for Reindeer and Snowman. They remain defiant in their stand against convention.

January 25th: A terrible storm dumped twenty-two inches of snow on the neighborhood, covering the extension cords and the bases of Reindeer and Snowman. They stand unfazed by mother nature, and the remaining five feet or so of both figures rise statuesque above the snow.

January 27th: Snowman’s top hat is beginning to tilt with the weight of accumulated snow on the brim. The antlers on Reindeer remain unaffected. Their lights continue to shine against the stark winter landscape, proclaiming their courage and dogged determination against the elements.

February 2nd: A brief warm spell melted most of the snow off Reindeer and Snowman. The bright orange extension cords, like tethers to a space station, continue to offer life-support from the homes of the accidental visionaries.

February 10th: Strong northerly winds pushed hard against both figures all night long, tilting Snowman about ten degrees to the South. He looks worried. Reindeer remains undaunted with a somewhat superior gleam in his piercing red eyes.

February 20th: Hard rain and a power outage render a blackout on both Reindeer and Snowman. For the first time since early December, the lights no longer twinkle on either figure. Both are left to dwell on their predicament in the cold darkness of winter.

February 22nd: Power is restored and the lights once again glimmer on both Reindeer and Snowman. A collective sigh of relief, like a small tremblor, is felt throughout the neighborhood.

March 2nd: Random electrical sparking is seen on the mid-section of Snowman. One half of Snowman’s lights cease to function at 2:00am. Reindeer’s lights twinkle with extra exuberance, mocking Snowman, giving credence to the “used to laugh and call him names” behavior attributed to those who pulled Santa’s sleigh.

March 10th: An unexpected ice storm leaves Reindeer and Snowman coated in a sheet of ice. Reindeer’s antlers are covered with long icicles and are tilting Reindeer to the South about twelve degrees. Snowman doesn’t respond, but we all know what he’s thinking.

March 18th: Near tornadic winds topple both icons onto their respective lawns. Snowman lies on his side, anchored from blowing away by a single guy wire. Reindeer’s antlers gouge a divot in the ground, twisting his head ever so slightly. Snowman’s top hat and scarf and Reindeer’s red bow are nowhere to be found.

March 20th: Reindeer and Snowman, like dying soldiers, lay motionless on the ground. An occasional light flickers from each statue, a reminder that, in war, no one wins, no matter how valiant the players.

March 23rd: Spring has arrived, and near dawn, the first robins of the season perch on the fallen skeletons of Reindeer and Snowman. They are like buzzards on picked-over carcasses and use the vantage points as lookouts for hapless insects and worms.

March 27th: A brief ceremony is held on the street separating the two fallen icons. I hold a book of poems written by the bleary-eyed poet, Side-Street Mary, and read “Aw, Quit Your Blubbering,” a moving piece about a somewhat likeable dead guy. Though I’m alone, I sense the neighbors are watching from their windows, too overcome with grief to emerge and share their feelings. I close the book, walk home, and begin the wait for next season’s resurrection of Reindeer and Snowman.

The Folk Music Lynch Mob

There’s this folk music club, they call themselves “The Serious Folk,” and they meet every other Sunday afternoon in the conference room at Murray’s A-1 Driving School. Membership is by invitation only, followed by an audition. My invitation was proffered by the chairperson, after a chance meeting at Wang’s Health Food Emporium. Apparently, lingering in the exotic mustard aisle qualified me as a potential candidate for the club. 

Sharon Smoot is the chairperson’s name, though she prefers to be called “Joni” with an “i,” after the celebrated folksinger, Joni Mitchell. In fact, every member of "The Serious Folk" refers to themselves by the name of a famous singer of folk songs. The introductions took place with the members sitting on metal folding chairs arranged in a circle. One by one, the entire quixotic personas revealed themselves: Judy Collins, Arlo Guthrie, Donovan, Joan Baez, Shawn Colvin, all three members of The Kingston Trio (one of whom reminded me he knows his way around the banjo), James Taylor, Woody Guthrie, and Gordon Lightfoot (who said to call him “Gord” for short).

Joni (Sharon) called the meeting to order by tapping her hand on her acoustic guitar in the manner of a judge’s gavel. Then, taking turns, each member played a song attributed to their imagined persona.  Prior to Joni’s performance, she gave a long-winded spiel about how she’s worked in the folk music business for many years, and had a front-row seat at one of Joni’s shows, where, she’s certain, Joni sang three songs especially to her. So she sent a macrame plant-holder to Joni herself with a note signed, “The woman in the knitted vest in the front row at the Chicago show.”

As the performances commenced, it was clear everyone knew the chords to their chosen songs. But the vocals...oh boy. If voices were cars on a blacktop, they hastily veered onto the shoulder, and at times, left the road altogether, never quite finding their way back to the highway. During Joni’s rendition of “Woodstock,” I found myself wishing those “bomber jet planes riding shotgun in the sky” would zero in on Murray’s A-1 Driving School and put us all out of our misery. A group of hobbyhorsical impersonators if there ever was one.

When it came to my audition, I removed my accordion from its case, plugged in the special effects machine and stood in the middle of the chair circle. Years of childhood lessons from the bow-tied Mr. Totten prepared me for this moment. Joni asked which folk singer I was representing, and I assured her he’s very recognizable and well-liked. I switched the bubble machine on max and began a lively rendition of “Getting to Know You.” Iridescent bubbles filled the room, some landing gracefully on members of "The Serious Folk" who began restrained efforts at swatting them like flies at a picnic. Towards the middle of the song, Joni began yelling and flailing her arms at the bubbles, whooshing them ever higher into the room.

–Joni:  Outside accoutrements  are not allowed! Turn off that bubble-thing, and who are you supposed to be, anyway?”
–Me:  Lawrence Welk. Call me Larry for short. (I winked at Gord).
–Joni:  Lawrence Welk is not a folksinger! (Surely, the real Joni’s eyes didn’t bug out when irked) You’re not the same as us!
–Me:  Is there a separate drinking fountain for accordionists?
–Joni:  We have parameters. And I’ve sold T-shirts at the Newport Folk Festival!
–Me:  How about another selection, perhaps the catchy “Lady of Spain?”
–Joni:  We’ve heard enough! (A shriek that put neighborhood squirrels on high alert).
–Me: There’s a little dance number at the end.
–Joni:  This is a club for serious folk music. Play by the rules or you’re out.
–Me:  Love it or leave it. Where have I heard that before. (The Kingston Trio appeared agitated).

Finding courage in numbers, “The Serious Folk” began rising from their chairs, chanting, “No Lawrence Welk! No Lawrence Welk!” With their wrath piercing through the ever-growing cloud of bubbles, it had the makings of an old fashioned lynch mob. Quick as a flash, I placed the accordion in the case and made a bee-line for the door, dodging venomous threats like, “Get a banjo,” and the one that really hurt, “Keep away from the snacks.”  Just before finding my way outside, Donovan threw an Earth Shoe at me. It grazed the accordion case, and I turned to see the entire group in a bubble-filled frenzy, wind-milling the air. Joan Baez hollered, “Turn off that goddamn bubble machine. It’s going to poison the herbal tea.”

The door slammed behind me, a welcomed bulkhead from the firestorm. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s never confront the fury of a feverish mob, especially a serious one made jittery by an accordion and a swarm of bubbles. I chalked up the bubble machine to collateral damage and made a vow to, never again, linger in Wang’s exotic mustard aisle.