- It’s farmers market day in Windermere, the next town over. The hunt for fresh produce that’s from nearby and isn’t sprayed, processed, exorcised or otherwise insulted has become a weekly obsession. I’ll accept as far as Georgia…after all, no peaches in Florida. But this one guy has baskets of local zucchini and yellow squash that are just aching to be grilled. Then there’s the cheese guy, who offered my 11-year-old son a shard of deeply aged Gouda and created a new Frenchman. This cheese is over-the-top good, but the guy sliding my VISA through one of those Square readers plugged into his iPhone kinda jars the quaintness out of the whole thing. (Wait; am I in his iTunes library now?) But the cheese…wow.
- Lest modern-day singles think their hookup hassles are peculiar to their own generation, they should make time for Marty, the 1955 film that won a Best Actor Academy Award for the late Ernest Borgnine. A timeless looking-for-real-love story set in a New York City that is no more, this film is sweetly and expertly acted in a way that almost kindles real nostalgia — but not quite. The serious end of the plot is never far away; even in the lighthearted moments, we never lose the tension of the drama of people’s lives trying to fit into their places in the universe — and not alone. Find a copy.
- My family doesn’t like to believe this, but when I was about 4, I thought Ernest Borgnine, who then resembled my father, actually was my father. McHale’s Navy was current on TV then, and with a 4-year-old’s leisurely grasp on reality, I simply plugged into the wrong outlet. After all, when my Dad was that age, he sort of looked like Borgnine, and….well, when HE was home, McHale’s Navy was never on, and when it was on, he was never home. (He was at the office in a suit and tie; it was 1965). What was a TV generation toddler to think? Anyway, I got over it after my Dad stopped reading the scripts I left for him….
- How is it possible to enjoy a good night’s sleep so much, yet have such an aversion to going upstairs and actually going to bed? Can it be there is really something that’s too good to miss? Or does the body/mind/soul crave a few moments of quiet in the house late at night? Maybe I want my kid to experience that warm security of falling asleep knowing that Dad is downstairs and all is well, which is what my Dad did for me. And to watch the 11 o’clock news. But also for me.