Trick Questions

"I'd like a single-scoop chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream cone on a cake cone, please,"

I was confident that this was all the information needed to fill my order, but the sweet young girl at the Bruster's ordering window required clarification.

"When you say 'single scoop' do you actually want a ’single scoop' or do you really want a  'double scoop?'"

Was this a trick question, I wondered.  Sensing my confusion, she offered some additional explanation.

"See, some people say 'single scoop' when they actually mean they want a small cone, and our small cone actually has two scoops on it."

As I walked away with my ice cream cone, I had some questions of my own.  

Why doesn't Bruster's just call a single scoop a single scoop?  That's what they did at Isaly's in the dark ages when I was growing up (and the single scoops only cost a nickel).  Does anything still cost a nickel?  

And I wondered what Bruster's called the girl behind the counter (who really couldn't have been sweeter about it).  Was she a counter worker or a waitress or a scooper or an ice cream Barrista? You have to be careful nowadays, which I found out when I casually referred to the person taking our order at a Max and Erma's as our "server." "I prefer 'facilitator'," he informed me haughtily.

But the question that was harder to answer came from my father, who  despite being  90 years old and sharp as a tack mentally sometimes can't find the exact word he wants to use.  Hence the following conversation during lunch at the Cheesecake Factory:

Dad:                                  Sharon, what's that other name for grass? 

Me (Drawing a blank).       Um, a lawn?

Dad:                                  No, not that kind of grass!

Me (Totally confused now) Well, I don't know what other kind of grass there is.

Dad:                                  You know,  the stuff you put in a pipe and smoke.

Me (the light dawning)        Are you talking about marijuana, Dad?

Dad:                                  That's it!  That's the other name for grass!

Which led me to few questions of my own for Dad, who was in a particularly good mood that day even by his own relentlessly cheerful standards.  What had him thinking about marijuana and its pseudonyms?  Had he figured out how to use the internet on that new smartphone of his?  Exactly what were they doing over there at the senior living apartment building?

He explained that his new trivia book had a list of other names for marijuana.  He knew that I would know about marijuana.

It was Mr. Rip who asked the next obvious question.  "Why did you think Sharon would know about that particular subject Joe?"  

"Well, she's an intelligent person.  She knows things,"  answered my Dad without hesitation.

He always did have all the right answers.

Once a Catholic

A few months ago I attended a very fine production of "Doubt," John Patrick Shanley's Pulitzer Prize winning play about a nun and a priest caught in a conflict over events that may or not have happened.

While it was certainly thought-provoking, for me it was also a nostalgic period piece that provoked a flood of childhood memories. It was set in a Catholic school in the 60's, which is exactly where I spent my childhood.  The sisters in the play were Sisters of Charity, the same order who taught at St. Anselm's which I attended from kindergarten through 12th grade, so I recognized their bonnets.  And Sister Aloysius, the tough-as-nails, unyielding, humorless school principal?  I think I had her in the fifth grade.

But more telling was that every time the priest finished one of his on-stage sermons, I immediately felt the need to cross myself.  It was automatic.

The truth is that no matter how my faith or beliefs have evolved over the years, the fact that I attended a Catholic school has stayed with me in some very specific ways.  

I not only fight the urge to automatically cross myself after fictional sermons, I randomly cross myself in tough situations when I feel some divine intervention might be helpful.

I still say "Good morning, Sister" or "Good Afternoon, Father" when crossing the path of a priest or a nun on the street.

I still follow instructions to the letter due to the lessons of obedience taught me in school, which has served me well as an adult writing grant proposals in the workplace.

Whenever I have committed a misdeed, no matter how minor, I have this pressing need to confess it to someone before I can lose the crushing guilt that accompanies it.

Also, I have a pervasive aversion to uniforms, which I hated wearing in school.  I felt even then that my school uniform robbed me of my self expression and have avoided any profession requiring me to wear one as an adult. 

So I left the play with few conclusions about what took place in the play.  Was the priest guilty of misconduct?  I didn't think so but I couldn't be sure.  Was the nun on a witch hunt with no real proof to go on?  I thought so but I couldn't be certain.

However, there was one thing that was clear.  You can take the girl out of the Catholic school but you can't take the Catholic school out of the girl.  There's no Doubt about that.

Peace, Love and Catholic School

When I was a child I thought occasionally about what I wanted to be or do when I grew up.  I considered a lot of different possibilities, but didn’t get too serious about anything, because I was…a child.  You don’t have to make any hard and fast life decisions at the age of 12.

The only thing I knew for sure is that I desperately wanted to be a hippie someday.  I was a child of the 60's, and I was fascinated by the whole hippie lifestyle. It was all so romantic.  Peace, love, flowers and tie-dyed t-shirts, not to mention the anti-war folk music.

  

My hopelessly old-fashioned parents strictly forbid me from getting anywhere near the “scene” even when I became a teenager.  They wouldn't even let me walk the streets of Swissvale after dark or go to Frick Park with my friends, so it wasn't really surprising that they frowned on my attending two-day rock concerts in upstate New York, or even peaceful demonstrations in Point State Park.  They really weren't very groovy.

And they weren't the only ones holding me back.  When I was fighting for the rights of the migrant farm workers, my bosses at Winky's wouldn't let me wear my “Boycott Lettuce” button at work. When I wanted to wear my embroidered bell bottoms to school, the administrators at St. Anselm’s insisted that I wear a –shudder- navy blue uniform jumper.  Talk about squelching my creative expression!

What’s a wannabe radical flower child to do?  I dabbled as best I could under these restrictive conditions.  I listened to the Hair soundtrack until I practically had it memorized, and when I saw the show actually hung out with the Tribe, chatting with Joe Mantegna for a couple of minutes when they invited audience members on stage.  I immersed myself in folk music and protest music– Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, and Peter, Paul and Mary, were my favorites- as well as the other music of the day. I passionately supported the rights of all people everywhere, and was especially fond of the concept of world peace.  I was overjoyed when Godspell came out.  I joined the Folk Mass Group at church (we sang a rockin' version of “Our Father”).

And I bided my time.  I had big plans for college.  This would be my chance to embrace the lifestyle.  I envisioned philosophical discussions with my peers, and peaceful demonstrations and a sit-in or two on the lawn of the Dean.  I would be free to be a hippie and convene with like-minded folks.

Alas, a funny thing happened on my way to college.  By the time I got there, the original hippies were now young adults – they were doing things like getting married, having children, and realizing they had to figure out some way to make a living.  The war in Vietnam was over, and Nixon had left office.  And my peers?  No one seemed to want to discuss the bigger issues of the day while at the frat party.  Again, not surprising.  I don't think any of them ever listened to Woody Guthrie.

So, sadly, I saw my dream of being a hippie slip away.  The closest I got was when I attended Grateful Dead concerts as an adult, spending a few hours once a year seeing how it could have been and realizing that the things you regret most in life are those things that you don’t do, not the things you do.

Oh, and I still have those embroidered bell-bottoms.

You'll Never Sing Alone

Mr. Rip and I had what we consider the perfect plans for the Fourth of July.

We were staying home. Out of the hustle and bustle of the crowds and the parades and the fireworks.   We were having homemade pork goulash and spaetzle for dinner.  You know, typical Fourth of July fare.

The day started out with Mr. Rip fondly reminiscing about playing Benjamin Franklin in 1776 at Robert Morris University’s Colonial Theatre a few years back.  He was the best Benjamin Franklin ever. He posted his pictures from the show on Facebook, where they joined photos and remembrances of many of his fellow 1776 castmates.

I was a little envious that I didn't have photos from a patriotic show to post, but then I remembered that I sang in Salute! a musical revue celebrating our nation's military put on by RMU's Summer Colonial Theatre.  In a masterful argument to our ever-patient and flexible director Barbara, I made a case for including “You’ll Never Walk Alone” as a fitting tribute to our service men and women, and I proposed that I be the one to sing it.  Barbara saw the wisdom of my suggestion, or maybe she humored me.  Whatever, I have a photo of me wearing my favorite red dress while singing the song standing on a red, white and blue platform.  Perfect for a Fourth of July FB profile picture!

The evening brought our favorite part of celebrating the Fourth – watching the broadcast of A Capitol Fourth, the big concert at the Capitol, hosted by Tom Bergeron and culminating in a fireworks display.  We could join in the holiday fun from the comfort of our couch, moving only to refresh our drinks.

Tom kicked off the concert by introducing John Williams who was going to premiere his new cutting-edge arrangement of The Star Spangled Banner.  Uh, oh, I thought, I hope this isn't as badly received as Jimi Hendrix’s stunning instrumental guitar version that still give me chills every time I hear it.  I needn't have worried because it just sounded like The Star Spangled Banner.

 

I was relieved to see Kelli O’Hara seeming so healthy and happy as she shone singing a medley of patriotic songs in her glorious legit soprano voice.  See, I read this article that said she was absolutely devastated and disheartened that her show The Bridges of Madison County closed.  They said that Kelli would have done better if she had been born in another time, and lamented that the she had never won a Tony.  All I've got to say is “Cry me a river.”  She is a busy working actress and singer with five Tony nominations and she is only in her 30’s.  She’s already got her next show lined up.  I think she’ll be okay.

There was a parade of diverse, eclectic performers who mostly sang their own songs.  What, these professionals couldn't learn a nice version of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” to sing for the occasion? When Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons came out and belted out Grease is the Word,  You’re Just Too Good to be True (*SIGH*) and Just Hang On, I forgave him the non-patriotic songs because he is a National Treasure who has still got every bit of his vocal quality and charisma at the age of 70. 

Then came the tribute to the veterans who were wounded in the war.  Out trots American Idol Jordan Sparks in a red dress to sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” to those who were in the audience.  Wait one little minute here!  That sounds pretty familiar, doesn't it?  Who did it first?  Was she in the audience at Massey Theatre when I performed it during Salute?  I’m not being judgmental or anything but she went flat on a couple of notes.  Mr. Rip assured me that I sang it better, but then added “of course a cat if you stepped on its tail would sound better than that,” so I wasn't too flattered. 

  

Patti LaBelle entertained us for a lot of reasons when she came out to sing Over the Rainbow looking more like the Witch than Dorothy.  She was dressed all in black with an enormous overcoat that she tripped over as she took the stage to sing a very different version of “Over the Rainbow” that I don’t know if I liked.  It was full of what Mr. Rip describes as melisma (the act of singing one syllable of text sung over several notes).  I am not one of these people that think that there can never be a successful reinterpretation of an iconic song, but Patti was no Israel “Iz” Kamakawiwo’ole (the Hawaiian guy who did it with the ukulele).

Throughout the evening the Choral Arts Society of America Chorus was rocking it– singing back up to the stars, clapping and swaying, but they still didn't sound as good as the Pittsburgh Concert Chorale when we sing The Star Spangled Banner at a Pirates game.