CBS Sunday Morning is like church.

By Anita Garner

CBS Sunday Morning is my church when I’m not in church.  When I hear the trumpet fanfare, wherever I am, I settle in.

There’s news, art and literature and music and lots of things I didn’t know before  – and without being saccharine they weave in stories about good people doing good things.

We’re familiar with every note of that opening theme, so we instantly noticed the difference when Wynton Marsalis recorded it. This, quote, right here, about the opening theme,  is the kind of background the show offers on any number of subjects.

“The piece spans two octaves of the trumpet’s range. A vinyl recording of a version by Don Smithers, played on an eight-foot baroque trumpet, was used as the theme song for almost 20 years until CBS opted to switch out the vinyl recording with a clearer digital recording performed by Doc Severinsen on a piccolo trumpet.”

Now we can watch as Wynton Marsalis records the new version, complete with his own frills and trills. Click the link to see Wynton at work.

And here it is from a Boston Pops string quartet

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New book, “The Glory Road: a Gospel Gypsy Life” is now available everywhere.

 

 

I love old stuff.

I’ve been fond of old stuff since long before I was old stuff myself.  Other people’s furniture and accessories and dishes and even old clothes call to me.  I try to avoid chotchkes because shelf space is limited, but I keep an open heart about anything else I might fall in love with.

Even old pieces of metal that fell off some object can be fascinating. Especially old iron that’s rusting.  Old wood?  Don’t get me started. Favorite thrift shops require a whole day. I have my route.  I always have a wish list.  A stop for lunch or coffee and on to the next. Three current favorites are Hospice By The Bay “Hodgepodge” stores in San Rafael and Novato and Mt. Carmel Thrift in Mill Valley.

Unintentional Lamp Collector

I love old lamps and old lampshades.  Some of us don’t start out as collectors by intention, but the numbers keep growing and I look around and I do have a bunch of lamps.

For my friend, Pam, it was an unintentional sofa collection. She had plenty of room in a big flat in Boston’s Back Bay.  From there she moved to a Maine farmhouse, and pared down her sofas, but last  time I visited, I noticed a lot of chairs.

I recently emerged from a small-table phase. I gave some away and sold some and I don’t miss the tables that left, but I’m unable to say goodbye to lamps.

Old lamps work fine, as long as you know someone who can rewire them.  My friend, Itsie,  in Mill Valley, at nearly 90 years old had a full workshop on one level of his hillside home and he kept all my treasures in working order.

Itsie re-wired this one

 

 

 

 

 

After he passed, one of my favorite old lamps flickered and died. Todd to the rescue.  Todd’s a prolific music producer who also knows his way around tools.  He sent me to Home Depot in Woodland Hills with a piece of paper specifying what part he needed.

Back in Northern California, I plugged it in and it glows. Todd, you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, being good at stuff like fixing old lamps.

This is a close-up of the one Todd re-wired.  She is obviously a lady who doesn’t mind showing her age.

Old picture frames – a topic for another time.

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Music this week is, of course, “This Little Light Of Mine.”

 

Mercy & Grace

By Anita Garner

Mercy and Grace are what I hope for each time I begin a new project. Major edits for my book, The Glory Road: A Gospel Gypsy Life, are underway.  It began as a book, then was adapted for a stage musical, then back to the book . Rewrites are tough. New outline.  Cuts.  Additions. Multiple pages of notes.  Mercy!

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Bacon has magic in it.

 

Bacon has magic in it.  The aroma.  The sizzle.  The taste.  The grease.  Bacon grease is a staple for Southern-born cooks. We put it in cornbread and biscuits and a good gravy roux isn’t possible without it. Sometimes it’s butter and bacon grease creamed together, but only one of those is crucial.

Gramma kept a grease can like this near her stove.  It had a strainer inside because some people filter out the chunky bits.

 

 

Here’s my jar.  Layers of delicious bits are in here. I scoop them up and they go right into my cooking.  When the jar runs low, I render bacon just to refill it. Put bacon on to cook and every creature in the house gravitates to the source. Two times lately I’ve been cooking up a couple of pounds of bacon while repair people were here working. The refrigerator service person and the pilot light fixer both left with slices of bacon and paper towels.

I come from a family of gospel gypsies, led through life on the road in the Deep South by a preacher and a singer. Our big sedan was filled with musical instruments and Daddy’s cooking implements. A cast iron skillet went everywhere with us, providing suppers from hot plates in motor court kitchenettes. A jar of bacon grease made every trip.  Sometimes supper was only cream gravy, featuring fresh milk from a nearby dairy, poured over anything – rice, potatoes, or leftover biscuits, and in a pinch, over white bread we picked up at our last stop.

If we stayed at a tent revival site for a couple of weeks, we’d get fresh churned butter nearby, which of course, didn’t go on the road with us when we left, but the bacon grease jar, refreshed, emptied and cleaned, was the constant companion.

A sale on thick-cut bacon is still cause for celebration around here.  There’s always room in the freezer.

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Music this week is “Tea For Two” from our friend, Colin Tribe, in England.

 

 

 

Easter Card Shopping

By Anita Garner

This week, the Grand and I will prepare an Easter surprise for her Mother.  A card and something chocolate, that’s the routine. It was easy in elementary school days.  Cotton balls and macaroni were supplies of choice.

She took me to her room and showed me the secret card made at school, hidden away for the big day.  After graduating from gluing macaroni onto things her cards matured into interesting combinations of construction paper, felt and cotton and were signed with many xxxx’s and oooo’s.

A trip to See’s Candies and we were handled.

Soon the cards came from a store. She was drawn to corny jokes and puns and Mom was a good sport about it.  The sentiment was circumstantial, based on which displays the Grand could reach.  She picked up whatever attracted her and asked me to read the words inside. Her card to her Mother one year featured a monkey.  Another year it was two cartoon rabbits insulting each other.

Me (reaching up for hearts and flowers): “Look at this one.”

She: “But this one’s hilarious.”

When she was tall enough to reach any rack, her tastes grew more sophisticated. Now’s she’s good at making anything her imagination conjures. We’ll find out soon whether this year’s offering is a giggle or an awwww.

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Birds of Paradise Season in Northern California

Birds of Paradise, Mill Valley, California

In the Deep South, Daddy could get anything to grow, but he never had Birds of Paradise until we came to California. The first time a big display of them popped up in his new yard in Glendale, he made us all come look. He stood there grinning, and said, “Well! I never!” Each time I see a magnificent group like these, I say the same thing.