The Scarlet Letters of My Life

Webster’s Dictionary has a multitude of definitions on the subjects I write about; but what I’m writing about today is the quality of a person’s empirical character. I am a person watcher. I enjoy the comings and goings of people at the park when I take my daughter up to play. People, as a general rule, fascinate me. I am taken in by the vastness of variety of people around us each and every day.

When I was growing up in the -- pretty much -- middle class neighborhood of Arizona, there wasn’t such a thing as race, at least not that I was aware of. There were all types of people who lived in my neighborhood. The Catholic family that lived on the other corner who had the nine children, the Hispanic family whose mother kept all the furniture covered in plastic, and the regular run of the mill ‘white protestant groups,’ like my own.
I guess it wasn’t until my parents divorced that I realized that people could be segregated, not only by race, but by a standard of living. If you got divorced, you were branded with a scarlet letter -- and not only the people who got the divorce, but the children also. That was “not what normal families did” in my neighborhood, they didn’t get divorced. That was my first taste of prejudice, and my first insights into the character of people as a whole.
As I grew up, I watch ‘clicks’ form in school, just another form of prejudice. Jocks, Nerds, Cheerleaders, and the Dope Heads all worked within their own tiers of hierarchy. Being branded with a scarlet letter here just meant you didn’t belong to a certain group, but it was painful for those who didn’t fit into any group. I was the nerd who played tennis, so I had a cross platform of branding. And to think I waited until I was 30 to get a tattoo -- I had already been branded, they just weren’t noticeable.
To be continued…

Derby Day

May 1, 2010 -- it’s Derby day for those of you who aren’t aware and for shame if you didn’t.

The race, the drinks (known as the mint julep), the stew (burgoo), and lord, the hats!

Hats are synonymous with the race.

Hats of every shape and size (large mostly) and ornately trimmed are the winning spectacle of the Run for the Roses.

When Millionaires row opened in the 1950’s, hats were the signature of stature in the area, and the bigger the hat the more bucks you had. Now it has become one of the best loved trademarks of the auspicious day at Church Hill Downs.

Hunter S. Thompson (surprisingly, a family friend) wrote a little ditty you can view on the website of the Kentucky Derby. It’s a tough piece to digest if you have any stomach problems, but it gives an unaltered view of what can and usually does happen on the infield of the Derby itself. It’s a rather riotous bunch in Kentucky when they are running their favorite race.

It’s almost post time; I have stew cooking and need to crush the ice for the juleps. Ya’ll get your hats on and join us for some stew and cheese grits and singing of Ole Kentucky Home.

Winter Blahs

Winter -- bleak, stark, and white. At least this winter was a white one. I found myself shoveling more snow than I have in all winters combined (even those in Minnesota). Winter isn’t a good time for me, I believe I was a bear in a previous life, hibernation sets in and I am ill-equipped to produce more than guttural noises at the approach of friends and neighbors. I am cold and unhappy, there is no sun to boost my mood and it shows (outwardly as well as inwardly).This weekend has produced temperatures into the 50’s (which for Pittsburgh is shorts weather) and an abundance of sunshine. My mood is improving exponentially with the coming of spring.