Saturday, November 14, 2009
I'm making lists, crossing things off. It's gratifying to realize all that we've accomplished but daunting to see what else remains undone. I'm falling to sleep exhausted and waking up at the crack of dawn thinking what next, even on the days I work at work and not at the house. I feel a vague anxiety that the first day of showing the house will come and I'll have forgotten something really important. Didn't wash windows, dirty dishes in the sink, laundry left on the floor, etc.
I'm not surprised I feel this mild panic starting to build -there's so much to do - some easy some hard. Most of what needs doing requires money and time of which I am short. Many things require me asking for help. Anyone who knows me understands I am not a fan of asking for help. I get to practice this everyday now and sometimes more than once. Also practicing humility and patience, other things that challenge me.
Paint bedroom - my beautiful aubergine bedroom with lotus smack dab in the center of the ceiling, this is not neutral enough. While I love the color, there are people who might have a hard time imagining their things in my bordello/harem oasis. It's now a very clean and conservative off-white. Meh.
Clear out the kitchen - urgggggh. I am not looking forward to this. It's currently on my schedule and I'll admit to a certain amount of hesitancy. First I will unload shelf by shelf my glassware and plates. Will I finally get rid of the many chipped or mismatched cups? Happily I am purging my life of tomato sauce jars and plastic tippy cups. How did I acquire so many?
Question for packing up etiquette: Do you wash/dust/clean everything you are packing? I'm not saying I think it's a good idea to pack dirty clothes. I know that much. But kitchen things that went into the cabinet clean, once they come out of the cabinet and into the box, isn't that clean enough? Isn't it safe to say I'll most likely wash them AGAIN before re shelving them once they've reached their final destination? I could drive myself nuts with little quandaries like this. Some of the stuff I have packed was really dusty and begs the question "if it's been so long since you've used this glass, cup, plate, nut chopper and it's now covered in dirt, isn't it time to get rid of it"? Well I did pack most of that stuff, washing before packing. I can honestly say I'll never use that toast divider/holder from England or the egg coddler (didn't wash that one and it was clean but slightly dusty). But there are some things that I just kept because I felt I must.
The above moral dilemma probably causes me to take way longer performing tasks that should take two hours tops. I should have had a minder of sorts that monitors me every step of the way. Someone yelling "toss"! and "throw it away NOW"! and "okay, you can keep it, but wash it first for Christ's sake"! Unfortunately my "minder" also is my dog sitter. Dog and dog sitter test drive a new feather bed while I stand stupefied in my kitchen. OH POOR ME!
Repaint trim in breakfast room that I INSISTED must be raspberry. Sorry, I'm not ready to talk about this yet.
In addition to packing, cleaning and repairing we also get to "stage" the house. This makes my brain ache. I know the purpose for this exercise is to display the house in it's most beautiful glory. The aching brain part happens like this - first you pack away all of your special things and then you go out and buy, hopefully on sale, more "things" to put into your house. My things are too eclectic apparently. I have been told that I must purchase a toilet paper holder. Since I have lived here, 19 years, my toilet paper has been housed neatly and beautifully in an antique basket. A basket that is the perfect size for toilet paper and is perfect in it's functionality. I do not want to stop the sale of my home based on the lack of a toilet paper holder and so, I'll be packing the beautiful basket and purchasing one of those normal holders, maybe one of those "holds 10 rolls" jobs that sits on the floor. Bleck.
Talk to neighbors. The last time I experienced being discussed publicly was when I was pregnant. Ladies would Touch My Belly in Safeway. I have very little in common with most of my current neighbors and while I'm sure they are perfectly nice people - I live my life, they live theirs. When you put your house up for sale, suddenly it's okay to ask you how much you are selling it for. I know that eventually everyone will know, public record and all. However, I don't ask how much you paid for your car, your toupee, your new boobs etc. Do I mind if my friends ask? Heck no. When the people are people would never talk to me in regular life, it sticks in my craw. The other day I was told by the lady across the street how much I will be missed when I move. This woman won't even wave to me when I wave to her as I leave for work. What's that about? My response to her statement of devotion was "really Inez? Are you really going to miss me"? Perhaps that was rude.
Talk to the neighbors part two. The next question after how much is where are you going? You should see the look of consternation when I reply, "no idea". I understand that, I wish I had an idea but question two depends greatly on question one. If I'm able to get a good price for my house, I'll relocate somewhere relatively close. If not, I believe I am bound for Tracy, CA. The only reason question two bothers me is that I am feeling a lot of uncertainty about where we will relocate and am bothered by people I am not close to constantly re stimulating my fear feelings. I must remember that scaring me is probably not why they are asking me these questions.
Talk to the neighbors part three. Lest you think I am completely horrid and uncaring, let me say this about the folks I am surrounded by. My property value has impact on theirs. If I sell low, I devalue their dreams. If I sell high their dreams could remain in tact as far as real estate goes. I just want to sell the house, pay my debts and my agent and move on. They are mostly concerned about property values and will they like the new neighbors. I understand that.
Talk to the neighbors part four. Some of the neighbors have been truly lovely. Shelly asked about fixing the fence and then went ahead and had it done so I didn't have to deal with it. Andrew had our jointly owned dead shrub removed and we'll split the expense of having something to stick in where the dead one was, I had to do nothing to make that happen. It's those little things that help so much when you're packing your house. Everyone has given great recommendations on handymen, gardeners, floor guys etc. Everyone wants to help. That part has been really nice and I am grateful.
I'm starting to see a small light at the end of the tunnel. I've been told we are very close to being ready to show the house. All of our work, and believe me there is much MORE, is starting to resemble a house fit for market. A lovely dwelling nearly suitable for anyone.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
The "coming soon" sign is in the front yard and we're racing like mad to get ready for the Realtors to tour and then hopefully the house will appeal to multitudes of excited families that think this place is just perfect.
We loved this house back when we were younger and our daughter was little. Back when my mom lived around the corner and down the block. Back when we felt like we had all the time in the world and our house would be perfect for a family with a kid and a dog and a cat and fish and geckos and a pet rat.
We had lovely neighbors. They would pick up your mail if you were out of town and talk over the fence and ask about your mom and your grandparents. Some of them would totter to your front door any time there was gossip to make sure you were well informed. Some of them were practically like family and you loved living next door. There was a connectedness whether you were weeding yards or refinishing furniture. They could count on you to water the plants or test out baked goods. Your daughter could run over and play and you never worried about her safety in their care.
Neighbors move and sometimes they die. Daughters grow up and go on about their own lives. It's the natural progression of life but sometimes it changes how you feel about where you live. It changed how we felt about our house and our block. I stopped loving the new projects and stopped caring about all of the old ones. The little world out there on my front lawn didn't matter any longer.
The time has come for us to start over in a different neighborhood with a different house. I'm feeling hesitant but mostly happy. There will be lots of new things to know and do and experience. There is some sadness as we pack up our old house. It would have been nice to be happy here a little longer.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
My first recollections were vague. Being the very first child in the family after many years, my Nana protected me from anything dangerous, evil or disgusting at all times. I was wrapped in a nest of pink at her home in the Oakland hills. I watched her sew beautiful things, had tea parties, and made up stories about “Mrs. McGillicutty” the grouchy lady next door for fun. Enter Gramps…”Christ-All-Mighty Lila, that is just nutty! There’s no Mrs. McGillicutty. It’s just crazy talk I tell ya. What are you teaching that kid? Come with me Linda Lee and I’ll show you some fun.”
Out in the yard we would go. He’d let me play with the garden hose, dig pits, and make mud pies while he told me about stories when he was in the Navy working in the sun until his hands bled. Then, Nana would swoop me up and give me a hot bath in a sea of pink bubbles just before the stories got too salty. That is when I realized that the loud, rough, sweaty, grimy man, was really FUN. He wasn’t very tall, he was wiry, very strong, sparse gray hair, light blue eyes behind wire rimmed glasses and smelled of Old Spice after shave at the end of the day. How could he be Nana’s husband and my Gramps? He was so different.
This type of activity went on all through my childhood. We were lucky kids having such attentive and adoring grandparents. They never batted an eye at including us in their excursions around the countryside.
My most memorable memory was when I was 13. Nana, her sister Beth, me, and my 2nd cousin Lynette piled in the car with Gramps at the wheel to careen down to Santa Barbara, and Joshua Tree National Forest (actually in the desert!). Along the way we were going to take the Hearst Castle tour. In Morrow Bay, we pulled in to spend the night at the Jade Motel that was just across the sand from the ocean. Lynette and I felt sick from the hours trapped in the car lurching to and fro…gas pedal to the floor, swerve, slam on the breaks, pedal to the metal again, screeching tires, more swerving. Where’s the Dramamine?
So Gramps tells us to sit tight while he goes in to wrangle the best deal in this “Sucker’s Paradise” of a place. Did I mention it was REALLY hot outside and there was no air conditioning and the car kept overheating? Anyhow, he came out of the little Motel office beaming, stating that he got a good deal from the “GD idiot” inside and we could now go upstairs and get unpacked before he took us out for burgers down the street. He said it was up on the second floor, orange door, can’t miss it.
Nana, Auntie Beth, Lynette and I trudged upstairs with our stuff while Gramps attended to the overheated radiator. The orange door was cracked open a bit, so we went into the steamy room and plopped down on the bed. We were discussing who would sleep where and that we’d have to rent a roll away bed for Gramps since we 4 women would utilize the 2 double beds. I started to mess with the air conditioner in the window when Nana screamed at the top of her lungs to “GET OUT OF HERE! What in the world are you doing in our room?” A poor befuddled man with a towel wrapped around himself was speechless as he saw the 4 of us and all our stuff all over the room. He stammered that WE were in HIS room and what were WE doing there? At this point, Gramps came in and asked us why we were in there “I said the orange door!” All the doors looked orange in the setting sun. Oh brother! What a mess. Lynette and I stared giggling and ran out as fast as we could. Gramps thought it was funny too. Nana and Auntie B didn’t. Gramps was going on and on about how funny that stupid knuckle head looked just standing there with us gawking at the bizarre situation.
Dinner was eaten and we got the air conditioner working in our room, Gramp’s roll away bed was delivered and we settled in for the night. The air conditioner was so loud we couldn’t have it on. We opened the window and listened to the waves crash instead. As we were laying there sweating, hearing the ocean churn, a new noise began…Gramps was snoring. Then, Snap! “Damn it! Get me out of here!” Nana flipped on the light to find that Gramp’s bed had folded in two with him sandwiched in between as he squirmed to get out. The blue streak of military swearing was going full force as two of us on either end of the bed tried to force it flat so Gramps could get out. We searched for the locking mechanism and found it.
It took us a good hour for us to stop laughing, and him to stop swearing before we could get settled down again. Nana had to bang on the wall several times to let the over zealous neighbors to tone it down a bit so we could sleep. Lynette and I thought it was absolutely hilarious. At last we were breathing softly as sleep was finally coming to us, when the Snap….Damn it, started all over again. We found that the bed lock was broken. Enter Gramp’s ever present bailing wire. He scampered down the outdoor hall and down the stairs in his “skivvies” to retrieve his famous fix all bailing wire from the trunk of the car. In no time he had that bed wired open never to close again. We finally fell asleep just in time for the alarm to go off for us to get ready to get in line to get our tickets for the Hearst Castle tour. He was fresh as a daisy that morning and we felt like we had been up all night. Wait…we had!
There were many situations like this with him that as we look back on now, was some of the funniest/happiest times of our childhood. Dear little Gramps, just being himself.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Originally I was going to tie this in to a movie. South Pacific was my choice because of my grandfathers tour there during WWII. I have decided that at least for this post to forgo the movie. I may still post on South Pacific. To date it remains one of the few musical theater shows that I've ever liked. I loved the sailors in the movie, the deck hands, the regular guys. They always reminded me of my Gramps. Enjoy the blog...
My Gramps was quite a character. I was about 17 when he died of cancer. He went out with a whimper not a bang; and I always thought that was sad.
My Grandmother met him at a dance at the Ali Baba Ballroom, in Oakland. He was her second husband and my mother’s stepfather. He grew up in Sutter’s Mill, raised by his Grandmother and had a brother named Hugh. During World War II, he served in the Sea Bee's Seabee and was stationed somewhere in the South Pacific. His history is very incomplete except for a few wartime photos and family pictures. I had portrait photos of his mother and grandmother but they’ve gotten lost over the years. I only knew him as my grandfather and I thought he was the best.
Loud, cantankerous, stingy, stubborn, abrasive, tactless, smart, cocky, proud. All true - but he was always there if family needed him. He was patient (at least with me) and kindhearted and as they used to say “the salt of the earth”. He was vibrant. I called him Gramps or Papa Cedge when I was feeling sleepy and sweet.
Cecil George Davey had no internal monologue. If he thought a thing, he said it. Over the years there were fewer and fewer people who would put up with the tactless remarks and I know that it used to make my Grandmother feel bad. Most people just didn’t understand her Davey. There was always family though, and we were completely immune to his yelling and brash comments and funny stories and horrid violin playing.
I should mention that he yelled, all the time, mostly not in anger but because he was very, very deaf and I don’t ever remember him using hearing aids. My sister used to say that when I got home from staying with them that I would be yelling for about a week. You get tired of having to repeat yourself and eventually, you give up and you yell, all of the time. It’s just polite.
After his military service, Gramps worked as an accountant. I remember visiting him at work one day shortly before his retirement. He always wore the same kind of outfit to work. White dress shirt, long sleeves in winter, short in the summer, one pocket, black tie, black slacks, black shoes and socks and suit coat or Mr. Roger’s sweater, strange little pork pie hat for driving and black horn rim glasses. I thought the “fancy” attire was neat. I always liked the way he looked so important and official.
I clearly remember working in the terraced garden with Gramps. I was really young, pre-school (we called it kiddie college back then) I think. We were sifting dirt. He had rigged up a little wire screen contraption that we were pushing the dirt through, picking out the little rocks and then pushing the dirt through again. It seemed like a lot of work but I loved it. No project was too dirty, too tough or too tedious for Gramps. He worked so hard at whatever he did and got so much pleasure out of his accomplishments.
Sometimes his accomplishments led to more projects. Upon returning from even the shortest trip to the grocery store, my Grandmother would find that Davey had again been fixing things in her absence. His fingerprints would be on whatever he touched. Paintings, mirrors, windows, glasses, walls, pictures. Everything breakable or fixable got the Gramps treatment. My grandmother was a calm, gracious and fastidious woman. It must have been maddening.
Gramps always said he had “people to see, places to go, things to do”. Shortly after he retired they sold the cabin he built with his own hands, sold their house in Castro Valley and bought a mobile home in Fremont. Gramps was very conscious of cutting expenses once he no longer had his paycheck coming in. He also had heart trouble and I think the big house and the cabin became too much for my grandmother and him to take care of. They seemed happy in the smaller space. He had the best vegetable garden there and my grandmother had her pretty flowers too. Gramps had a little tool shed for his “projects” and my grandmother was still canning fruit and cooking up a storm. My grandmother took up painting, my grandfather took up needlepoint of all things, and they bought a truck and trailer to take on the open road.
One of the strangest and sweetest times in my life was the road trip I took with them to Canada the summer my dad died. Gramps had researched Canadian dentistry and found that he and Nana could get high quality “choppers” for a fraction of the cost they would have to pay in California.
That road trip was an incredible adventure and Gramps and I ate rocky road candy bars as many times as we could sneak them past the watchful eyes of my Grandmother.
We drove on the wrong side of the freeway somewhere in Canada, avoiding capture and accident. It was very exciting and I thought my Grandmother was going to have a heart attack. My Grandfather was pretty nonchalant about it but complained that the Canadian road signs were really defective. Actually I think he may have said something like, “God damn signs aren’t worth a good God damn, how the hell is any person supposed to read that? Stupid idiot sign makers”.
The dentures were molded, fitted and purchased. I guess they went one at a time for the procedures but I hardly remember that part at all. Dentures were of little interest to me.
At some point during the trip, we decided to stay for a few days and do some blackberry picking. We picked a lot! My grandmother had brought all of her canning equipment and was going to put up blackberry jam. Sounds strange, but at the time it seemed perfectly reasonable to the three of us. I was mainly interested in the eating of the blackberries, so whatever my grandparents wanted to do with the rest was fine with me.
The trailer seemed huge to a kid, it was probably good sized with a queen bed, a little sleeping area for me that doubled during the day as the dining nook, a miniscule kitchen complete with working stove and fridge and an even smaller bathroom. The idea of my grandmother using the little 4 foot by 2 foot kitchen to stage a blackberry canning session now seems a little nuts.
After the appropriate amount of blackberries had been picked my grandmother told my grandfather to take me and the dog for a walk and she was going to get started with the canning process. We set off on our little walk and were gone for what seemed like hours and ended up with playing on the play ground that was provided for the trailer park guests.
I was swinging when gramps took the dog back to the trailer to see what was “cooking”. He tipped over the pot that was simmering with blackberries and pectin. It’s a lucky thing no one was burned.
The playground was probably 100 feet from the trailer and I could tell from the yelling and banging around that it would be a good idea for me to stay away. Out stomped Gramps and the Suzy the poodle declaring that they would go on ANOTHER walk. I stayed right where I was and waited for some kind of signal that all was well. Maybe 5 minutes later, my grandmother walked over to the playground and she definitely did look mad. “You just stay right where you are and don’t come near the trailer. Davey knocked the pot over and there’s blackberry juice everywhere. I’ll let you know when you can come back”. So I waited and pretty soon Gramps came back with Suzy and the three of us waited some more.
Eventually we thought the coast might be clear. Gramps went ahead to check the lay of the land. As a peace offering, he went and bought burgers and fries and shakes for us all. It would have been a bad thing if my Grandmother been asked to fix dinner that night.
Luckily there was a laundry facility at the campground because EVERYTHING need to be washed. Little rugs, curtains, blankets, towels, sheets. Some of the things came back from the wash a lovely lavender. I liked that color.
The next day they started over again, Gramps went and picked more blackberries, I played on the swings, Nana put up the jam, just like everything was the way it was supposed to be. That’s how they were. They’d go through the rough patch, get mad, make up and move on.
My grandmother had been a beautician and because of this, she was in charge of all family haircuts except my mothers. I didn’t mind the French braids and the cutting of the bangs when I was little and my grandfather would just be tickled pink thinking of all the money he was saving since she always cut what there was of his hair. She had all of her special beauty shop tools and I loved seeing her setting out the implements on a white towel and getting him covered in the haircutting cape. Then she’d cut his hair and shave his neck and fix his sideburns. When she was done she’d whisk the stray hairs with the little barber brush she had and place the glasses on his nose and give him a little kiss on the cheek. I always liked these times with them, it must have been calming to watch her do this little kindness for him and see them quiet and comfortable together.
For all of his swagger, he was not a disciplinarian. Oh you could tell when he was irritated. It always ended with, “Here, you go sit at that desk and make some drawings, I’m going to take a nap“. That was the death knell to my fun but also let me know in the gentlest of ways that Papa had had enough of me.
Gramps’ radio broadcasted baseball games were a source of enjoyment for me. This little ritual required a seemingly unending supply of mixed nuts, cheese and crackers, grapes and ice cream. Sublime. I don’t like baseball but I still love to hear the announcers even though I don’t know what’s going on in the game. It was just one of those peaceful, lazy times with him. He’d sit in his chair and I’d sit by his knee on a little footstool and try to nab peanuts.
Looking back with adult eyes, some of the activities I took part in with gramps weren’t all that safe. There were a lot of screwdrivers, hammers, rusty nails, engine oil, gopher traps, electrician’s tape, baling wire and I had full access to all of it. Sometimes you’ve just got to be allowed to get dirty, do dangerous stuff and make messes. Gramps was perfect for all of these things. I was never hurt once while in his care and I think it had to do with the confidence he instilled in me to just tackle a project - NO MATTER WHAT. I wish I had taken a little more of that confidence with me as I grew up, it was powerful stuff.
This doesn’t even scratch the surface of all the wonderful and irritating things I could write about my Grandpa Cedge. I think that he and my Grandmother were just the perfect Grandparents for a kid like me. He taught me to appreciate the multitude of simple pleasures that life offers if you pay attention. He was sweet in his own way, sometimes you just had to search for it.
Lastly, here are a few little quips and deeds from my Gramps:
“if you want to get anything done, do it yourself”
“what do you think I am, stupid or something?”
“what’s wrong with your hair, it looks like you’ve got the Filly Loo Bird in it”
“Chicken’s chicken, just eat it.” words of wisdom for me because I didn’t like the tendons and the veins, and I still don’t.
“Your eyes are bigger than your stomach”. He was a big proponent of cleaning your plate.
“I pruned your fuscias for you”. Completely ruined my mom’s beautiful fuscias in our backyard. Didn’t go over well.
“I fixed the back gate for you”. Never closed right again.
“Honey I fixed the stove”. Which then had to be held shut with bailing wire. It was less than two years old.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
It could easily have been created by the same folks responsible for the Power Rangers TV show for kids, but I really hope it wasn’t. My BFF insisted I watch it, so what could I say but, okay?
* heinous thong underwear worn under the blue and red pantyhose, an oddly fascinating and mesmerizing combination
Monday, August 3, 2009
The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada - Tommy Lee Jones doing his finest work in my humble opinion. Thank you to Eric for making me see this the first time
and following on that No Country for Old Men
The Red Violin
The Ghost and Mrs. Minniver - wow, Greer Garson! Thanks Mom
Howl's Moving Castle - Thank you Ticia
My Friend Totoro - with subtitles - my brother - this was the beginning of my quest for Japanese Anime
Bruce Lee Movies - Not recommended by Mrs. K (only using her initial only as I value my life) but she gave me the idea. How many homes in Piedmont, California do you think you might see with a huge Bruce Lee Poster glued to the front door of their Victorian house? Well, only one (and last time I drove by the poster seemed to be gone) and this was accented by the nunchucks hanging in the front windows and I heard from reliable sources that she drove with a machete in her glove box and could be heard yelling "I cut off the head". I. Kid. You. Not. Okay, more of a cautionary tale but when I went to her house the first time and saw for myself, I knew I had to see Enter the Dragon and find out what the fixation was. My love for martial arts and Hong Kong cinema was born. I have since found that my favorite Martial Arts movies are the more humorous ones and these take me to the Jackie Chan flicks. But were there no Bruce Lee, perhaps no Jackie Chan or Jet Li. So, Thank you Mrs. K
Pan's Labyrinth - Thank you Ticia and Corrie
Tommy - Recommended by Sheryl Daughters when we were in 4th or 5th grade - although I didn't see it until about 1990 or so. Her description was dead on even after all those years I still remember vividly her relating the bit about the beans. Ergghhhh!
Heavy Metal Bhagdad - thanks to Eric...probably the documentary which I have most advocated for. The young men in this movie are inspiring and scary and sad and sweet as they leave everything and everyone in pursuit of their musical dreams and the lure of freedom. Eric and I cried when we saw this the first time.
Jackie Chan Movies - by way of Bruce Lee and I guess another thank you to Mrs. K
Rutger Hauer Movies - first one I saw was LadyHawke...and I still love it. The rest of his movies, I don't know why...I just like them...another thank you to Eric
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - never thought I'd like the movie after the book and then the PBS show but I did
This is Spinal Tap - I cannot remember who told me about it but whomever it was, I love you man!
Best in Show and pretty much all the rest of the Richard Guest movies - can he pick a cast or what?
Brazil - love that Robert Di Niro plays a revolutionary HVAC guy and of course there is the Schiaparelli hat.
Adventures of Baron Munchausen - Hilary
Evil Dead II and Tank Girl - thank you old Bookpeople Comrade
Bubba Ho Tep - Amy Willis
Dead Snow - never would have seen this one and definitely not in the theater, thanks Ticia and more on this movie when I get to #4 favorite Zombie movie in a future post
The Ghost and Mr. Chicken, Harvey, Arsenic and Old Lace, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, To Sir with Love and all Peter Sellers movies - courtesy of Mom - god I love watching movies with her - she's one of those kind of people who will try just about any movie if it seems as though it's got a good plot
and there are so many more, but this is just a taste. I look at my list lovingly and am glad that I listened to my friends and family and watched each and every one of them
Right before Halloween one year when my daughter was still in high school, I bought a copy of Night of the Living Dead on video. We'd watch it Halloween night - Caitlyn didn't plan to go trick-or-treating that year and we had no plans for celebration except...the movie. We settled in with the dogs, the neighborhood kids had stopped ringing the doorbell, the candy was mostly gone and we were ready to watch what was for me the holy grail of zombie movies. Right away my daughter mentioned that she couldn't believe we thought this movie was scary or even a little bit creepy and how could we think this was such a great movie? I tried to explain the feelings a movie like Night of the Living Dead invoked in me and she gave me the blank fish look and left the room to talk on the phone to her friends. My husband and I were astounded....how could she?....did you hear what she said?...can you believe anyone not being captivated? In my opinion, my daughter's generation may be victims of so much everyday violence in their everyday world that the intensity of Night of the Living Dead is completely lost for them. Her comment was, "this is nothing compared to what I've seen on the news". And perhaps it's true, but to allow yourself to be captured by the Night of the Living Dead is to watch amazing cinematic history and I was not going to be bummed out by her media-saturated and jaded view. I was going be transported for an hour and a half to that cemetery, to that abandoned farm house, to the zombies of the Night of the Living Dead.
"They're coming to get you Barbara". Ahhhhh! I just watched it again and am still, I'm happy to say, enthralled by the movie. Poor Barbara, I feel so unsympathetic towards her, she's this mousy church girl who becomes completely unhinged as events unfold...she's perfect. Apparently the actress Judith O'Dea was so convincing that the previously intended strong woman character was changed once George A. Romero saw Judith in action as Barbara. She manages to avoid shambling zombie number one, but ultimately her weakness and hysteria makes you want her to be THE FIRST to go. It really does.
According to IMDB: "The social commentary on racism some have seen in this film was never intended (an African-American man holing up in a house with a white woman, a posse of whites shooting a black man in the head without first checking to see if he was a zombie). According to the filmmakers, 'Duane Jones (I)' was simply the best actor for the part of Ben". Poor Ben, he's the only one of the humans that the viewer can feel remotely sympathetic with. He's the only voice of reason, the only "still living" with any kind of a plan. You want him to succeed, you want him to survive. I didn't see this movie for the first time until probably the late 70's and wasn't in the least aware of the significance that the protagonist was played by a person of color. This wouldn't have seemed unique to me at the time and it wasn't until much later that I understood how (although unintentional) historically groundbreaking this was.
George A Romero's use of still photography as the credits roll at the end of the film run are some of the most powerful and truly creepy aspects of the whole movie for me. Originally premiered in Pittsburgh, PA in 1968, Night of the Living Dead will always be one of my favorites. The word Zombie is never mentioned once in the entire movie but it will forever remain my #2 favorite Zombie movie and worth watching again and again.
I still hold on to the hope that Caitlyn some day will grow to have an appreciation of this film.