All posts by PlainJane

Happily retired pet lover and all-around pain in the posterior. I'm also fond of all kinds of ethnic foods which I love to cook and eat, staunch feminist engaged in liberal causes. My epitaph will NOT be: She was the consummate home-maker. Haven't quite figured out what it WILL be.
The Baboon Congress

Chance Encounters

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Header image – Washer Women by Barrington Watson 1966 via Wikiart

Today’s post comes from Plain Jane

When I think of the people who have had a lasting impact on my life, most of them are folks who were, or are, a steady presence in my everyday existence.

On several occasions, however, my life was impacted in a major way by a chance meeting, a short interlude. I have written about two of them, briefly, before on this blog: Bob Dean and Barry Watson. Both Bob and Barry had a far greater influence on my life than the short time we spent together would seem to justify, and for very different reasons.

I met Barry at a small cafe in Basel my roommate, Annette, and I often visited.   I don’t recall the details of why or how Barry and I started talking, but we did. By the time Annette and I left that evening, I had learned that he was a painter who had been studying a couple of years in London and Amsterdam, and that he was on his way to Madrid for a few months before returning to his native Kingston, Jamaica. As Annette and I were getting ready to leave, Barry asked if I’d be interested in meeting him the following afternoon; he wanted to visit the Basel Art Museum and show me some of his favorite works.  I said why not, and agreed to meet him on a bridge close to where I lived and worked, and not far from the museum.

I had never before had a conversation with a black person, so I was both fascinated and a little aloof; I think Barry sensed it. Our first afternoon at the museum was spent looking at the remarkable Klee collection for which that museum is renowned.  Barry had a high regard for Klee’s work and enthused about its merits to this complete novice.  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I had never before set foot in an art museum, and had not had prior exposure to modern art; I was mesmerized.

Afterward we had a bite to eat and talked for hours.  When Barry walked me home that evening he asked me if I would like to see some of his paintings. Promptly on high alert, I responded “not tonight, maybe some other time.”  “OK,” he said,” how about tomorrow afternoon?”  And so our next rendezvous was set.

When I met Barry the following day, he greeted me with a bear hug and a huge grin.  “You thought you were really clever last night when I asked if you wanted to see some of my paintings, didn’t you?” he asked.  Without waiting for a response, he continued, “I was really the clever one; I had the slides of my paintings in my pocket the whole time, and could have shown them to you anywhere. But I wanted to see you again, so I didn’t tell you. You thought I was trying to lure you to my room, didn’t you?” He was right, I admitted it, and we both had a good laugh.  After that I relaxed. I realized that we were kindred spirits who enjoyed each others company, and that I could learn a great deal from him in the few days he had left in Basel.

Barry and I met two more times, and on both occasions spent hours at the art museum. He introduced me to Picasso, Miro, Chagall, and the museums impressive collection of works of the Holbein family.

Barry Watson's portrait of PJ
Barry Watson’s portrait of PJ

As a parting gift, Barry sketched a portrait of me in pen and ink.  He signed it: Barry.  He didn’t sign his last name because he planned on becoming famous, he said.  He didn’t want me to sell this keepsake, but to keep it as a reminder of the time we had spent together.

When we parted, we made no attempt to stay in touch.

Seven years later, as a freshman at SIU, I came to know several students from Kingston, Jamaica.  I asked them if they had heard of a painter named Barry Watson. To my surprise, they said they had.  He had become a quite prominent figure in the Jamaican art world.  They told me he had become the director of the Kingston Art Museum.  This was in 1968, before the internet made access to all kinds of information possible, so I had no way of verifying whether or not this information was accurate.

Fast forward to sometime last year when a blog on the Trail Baboon jogged my memory, I decided to see if I could find out what had become of Barry.  I was astonished to discover that he had, indeed, become quite the celebrity in Jamaican art circles, although he had not been director of the Kingston Art Museum. I sent him a message asking whether he remembered our encounter so many years ago.  He did, and must have shared our story with his family.  I was saddened when on Wednesday morning I received the message that Barry had passed away the previous evening at 10 PM. He had just turned 85. The volume of his work is impressive, and the quality of his work is remarkable; check it out.

Thanks, Barry, for introducing me to art, and R.I.P. old friend.

Here’s a link to an obituary for Barrington Watson:

And one that shows some of his work:

When or how has a chance encounter impacted your life?

The Baboon Congress

Congratulations, You’re a Winner!

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Today’s guest post comes from Plain Jane.
OK, so I’m gullible, naive or plain old stupid, and I’m apparently not alone.

With some regularity I see Facebook friends “sharing” on FB a picture of Bill Gates holding up a note saying that says he’ll send $5,000.00 to everyone who “likes” this picture.  Really!  And where would he send it?

Another one is a little more nebulous as to where the money is going to come from.  It has some religious theme, praying hands, a lit candle,  or some other “spiritual” picture that promises that if you “share,” lots of money will soon come your way.

When I first arrived in Cheyenne, I remember seeing an advertisement from some coin dealer.  I don’t recall the exact wording, although that’s clearly where the deceit was lurking, but I understood the ad to promise me thousands of dollars if I owned a certain Indian head penny.  So I started collecting and paying attention to the pennies that came within reach, surely, sooner or later I’d stumble across one of these valuable coins.

I even recall, just to be on the safe side, taking every penny I owned to the local coin dealer to see if I might have something of value.  I remember being greatly disappointed when the coin dealer told me that what I had was exactly the face value of however many pennies I had brought in.  I began to appreciate the subtleties of the American language.

But, I still believed in luck.  For a while there, I sent in every Publishers Clearing House registration that came to the house.  You never know; although I knew the chances of winning were astronomical, I knew that if my name wasn’t in the hat, my chances weren’t slim, but nonexistent.  So I sent them in, and sometimes, for good measure, I’d buy a magazine, too.  Couldn’t hurt, could it?

That was years ago.  Imagine my surprise when last week I received a plain white, stamped envelope with a letter notifying me that I had won the tidy sum of $1,500,000.00 cash.  All I needed to do was call Mr. Richard Banks (don’t you love his name?), and give him my claim number.

I reread the letter, twice, just be be sure, but there was no mistake, I was finally a winner.  For some reason I didn’t think it odd that the envelope was plain with an extremely bad address label, and the letter itself was printed on cheap yellow paper.   No PCH van, or representative with flowers and a giant check.

I spent a few minutes pondering what I was going to do with my new-found wealth, and that was really fun.  I discovered that I don’t really need or want lots of money for my own use.  Rather, identifying the individuals and causes I’d support was a process that was both edifying and thought provoking.  I’m still thinking about it even though the letter from PCH was obviously an attempted scam.

What would you do if you suddenly came into a small fortunate of, say, $1,500,000.00?
The Baboon Congress

Doubting Your Own Memory

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Today’s guest post comes from PlainJane

 

Many years ago, I’m guessing 1977 or 78, I attended a PHC show on the campus of St. Kate’s.  I don’t remember who was on the show, but I recall vividly that when Garrison was holding forth with the News From Lake Wobegon, he became so enthralled with his own yarn that he completely forgot about time.  Mesmerized, the audience sat, leaning forward in their seats, and let themselves be transported to that magical place that only a good story teller can take you.

By the time his new report ended and he realized that he had exceeded the time allocated for the live radio show, there was nothing he could do about it.  So, he causally mentioned that the show had run long, but that we might as well just finish up with some music, after which there was a stampede for the bathrooms.

Last year was the 40th anniversary of the PHC, and everyone remotely familiar with the show was reminiscing about their favorite PHC memories.  But I didn’t see or hear anyone ever mentioning the show that had continued past it’s live broadcasting time.  I began to doubt that it had ever happened.  Until yesterday, that is.

Garrison wrote on FB about a show he had done the previous night.  The show had lasted three hours, too long for a weeknight in his own estimation.  He had promised himself earlier in his career, he said, to not be so long-winded, but admitted that it was a promise he hadn’t been able to keep, but a promise he is rededicating himself to.

One of the responses he got to this post was a from a woman in Eagan.  She, too, had attended that PHC show that had gone overtime.  I responded to her that I had been at that show at St. Kate’s, and she confirmed that that was in fact where it was.

I have mentioned that show to others a couple of times, but have never met anyone who had heard about it, or believed it.  I feel vindicated.

When have you come to doubt a memory?

The Baboon Congress

The Mink Caper

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Header photo by William Warby

Today’s guest post comes from Plain Jane, who told this story in the Trail Baboon comments a few days ago.  With the holiday party season just past, it is a cautionary tale about knowing your limits and keeping tabs on your property.

It was shortly before Christmas, and I had just separated from wasband a few months before; I was in a blue funk. A man I had absolutely no interest in dating had invited me to the NCO Club at Fort Snelling for a little Christmas cheer, and I had accepted his invitation because I couldn’t bring myself to say no.

That same day was our company’s Christmas party, held at the now defunct Minnesota Club, a rather posh establishment next door to the Ordway. I had two gin and tonics at the party, enough to make me completely oblivious to time and place – and apparently everything else as well. I had reasoned that having a couple of stiff drinks would make my upcoming date more bearable. As it turned out, I forgot all about him, and didn’t show up for out date.

Sometime later that evening, I became aware that I was dancing at the Smuggler’s Inn. I had no recollection of how I had gotten there, but there I was with a bunch of my coworkers. When I announced that I should probably go home, my firm’s office manager said “Margaret here’s your coat,” and handed me a short, blond mink coat. I said “Martin, that’s not my coat,” to which he responded “well, I’ve been sitting here watching it for you all night.” The Smuggler’s Inn wouldn’t let you check a fur coat because they didn’t want to be responsible for it, so Martin had been watching it while I danced. I left Smuggler’s, without a coat, leaving the fancy mink on my chair.

One of my coworkers offered to drive me home, but the problem was that my house keys were in the pocket of my coat – a dark, long muskrat bought at a Goodwill store on Lake Street – so I had to spend the night at her house.

The following morning I wondered who would know what had transpired the night before. Mary, an older secretary in our tax department, seemed like a good bet, so I called her. Mary told that when the official office party was over, a bunch of us had decided to continue partying at Smuggler’s. I had donned the short, blond mink coat from the unattended coat rack. She had protested that that was not my coat, but I had assured her that it was, that I had two fur coats. I seemed perfectly normal, she said, so she believed me.

At this point I realized that I had left The Minnesota Club wearing a mink coat that didn’t belong to me. I immediately called the club to ask if my coat was there, to which they responded “are you the woman whose $5,000 mink coat was stolen last night?”. “And no,” they added, “it hadn’t been returned.”

Oh lord, can you imagine how I felt at this point? I had left a $5,000 mink coat – that had been reported stolen to the police – slung over the back of a chair at Smuggler’s Inn.

I was lucky enough that the coat was still there when they opened a little later that morning. I returned it to The Minnesota Club and retrieved my own $25.00 muskrat which was still hanging where I had left it.

I was very lucky that this story had a happy ending, but I can assure you I learned a lesson about my capacity for handling hard liquor.

What innocent error might have put you in jail?  

The Baboon Congress

Mary Poppins in Russia

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Today’s guest post comes from Plain Jane. It was originally part of a conversation on our companion blog, The Baboondocks, related to the sudden shift in King Juan Carlos’ job description. The question was “What is the best job you’ve ever abdicated?”

The best job I ever had was working as an au pair for the Bridges family in Moscow in 1964.

It was a fun job with lots of challenges, satisfaction and privilege. Certainly not a high paying job, but at $90.00 per month and free room and board, all the necessities were covered. The rest was gravy.

Taking care of three kids ranging in age from three to nine was a blast. Mary and Elizabeth, the two youngest, were early risers. By the time I’d get out of bed around 7 A.M. they’d already have played ballerinas for hours and left a trail of fancy dresses discarded on the floor of the hallway. After a breakfast of Danish pancakes, they’d be off to school and daycare, and I’d a have a few hours to do laundry and tidy up our quarters.

After school we’d explore Moscow on foot, by bus, train and embassy car. If I didn’t feel like making them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, we’d head for the embassy snack bar where a German cook made wonderful burgers, BLTs and the best German potato salad. Then we’d hang out on the embassy playground in the afternoon. Au pairs from Canada, Australia and several European countries lounging in swim suits on beach towels spread on the ground, watching their charges happily at play.

On days with no school, we’d pack picnic lunches and take the bus and subway to whatever destination struck our fancy that day. One such place was Gorky Park. There we’d while away the hours. Locals – mostly old men drinking Kvass and playing chess at small tables, and work crews of matronly, babushka-wearing women with big shovels for maintaining flower beds would give us curious looks – our brightly colored clothes in stark contrast to their drab hues. Other days we’d go to the Red Square, hike through the Kremlin or explore the banks along the Moscow River.

I’d take a lot of photos on these excursions. Pictures of David staring longingly at a toy train display at the Gum department store on the Red Square, or of Elizabeth posed in front of the Tsar canon inside the Kremlin walls. Snapshots of all three of them in swimsuits, munching on a picnic lunch on a weekend outing to the beach along the Moscow River.

After dinner, bath time and a little horsing around in their pajamas. Then the kids and I would pile into David’s bed for bedtime stories and singing. Of all her obscure childhood memories, Elizabeth wrote me a few years ago, the one that stands out as her fondest is of me singing “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini,” to them. To this day it a song that she often hums to herself when cleaning house. She says it cheers her up to remember that summer fifty years ago. And David told me that he still makes those Danish pancakes for his own kids on their birthdays.

That’s a legacy I’m proud of.

What lifelong habit have you inherited from a teacher or caretaker?