The galactically talented Gil Shuler called me recently to help tell the story of the Steel City Pizza Co. Check out the killer identity he created for this delicious establishment that’s committed to handcrafting some seriously delicious food.

It’s always a pleasure to help people tell their story, and this one’s got it all: heart, Pittsburgh, and PIZZA.

Here’s their story:

We come from The Steel City – that’s Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We come from cold winters, hard-working families and loyal friends who’ve got your back no matter what. We come from a place where your reputation means something – so whatever it is you choose to make in the world, make it the very best.

That’s our approach. We’re builders of good food – and our name is riding on every slice and every sandwich. That’s the way we like it. We love the challenge of making the best every single time – and we can’t wait to share it with you.

Now I’m starving.

Image: © The Estate of Gisèle Freund, courtesy of National Portrait Gallery, London

I read Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse for the first time in 1995, in a class taught by the wonderful Dr. Susie Thomas, during a semester spent in London as part of a Drew University program.

Virginia, her book, my professors, fellow students, and London forever changed my life.

Happy birthday, Ms. Woolf. Thank you for your words.

Here are a few of my favorites:

“With her foot on the threshold she waited a moment longer in a scene which was vanishing even as she looked, and then, as she moved and took Minta’s arm and left the room, it changed, it shaped itself differently; it had become, she knew, giving one last look at it over her shoulder, already the past.”
-To The Lighthouse

“I told you in the course of this paper that Shakespeare had a sister; but do not look for her in Sir Sidney Lee’s life of the poet. She died young—alas, she never wrote a word. She lies buried where the omnibuses now stop, opposite the Elephant and Castle. Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the cross–roads still lives. She lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here to–night, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh. This opportunity, as I think, it is now coming within your power to give her. For my belief is that if we live another century or so—I am talking of the common life which is the real life and not of the little separate lives which we live as individuals—and have five hundred a year each of us and rooms of our own; if we have the habit of freedom and the courage to write exactly what we think; if we escape a little from the common sitting–room and see human beings not always in their relation to each other but in relation to reality; and the sky too, and the trees or whatever it may be in themselves; if we look past Milton’s bogey, for no human being should shut out the view; if we face the fact, for it is a fact, that there is no arm to cling to, but that we go alone and that our relation is to the world of reality and not only to the world of men and women, then the opportunity will come and the dead poet who was Shakespeare’s sister will put on the body which she has so often laid down. Drawing her life from the lives of the unknown who were her forerunners, as her brother did before her, she will be born. As for her coming without that preparation, without that effort on our part, without that determination that when she is born again she shall find it possible to live and write her poetry, that we cannot expect, for that would he impossible. But I maintain that she would come if we worked for her, and that so to work, even in poverty and obscurity, is worth while.”
-A Room Of One’s Own

“No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.”
-A Room Of One’s Own

“Beauty, the world seemed to say. And as if to prove it (scientifically) wherever he looked at the houses, at the railings, at the antelopes stretching over the palings, beauty sprang instantly. To watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy. Up in the sky swallows swooping, swerving, flinging themselves in and out, round and round, yet always with perfect control as if elastics held them; and the flies rising and falling; and the sun spotting now this leaf, now that, in mockery, dazzling it with soft gold in pure good temper; and now again some chime (it might be a motor horn) tinkling divinely on the grass stalks—all of this, calm and reasonable as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now; beauty, that was the truth now. Beauty was everywhere.”
-Mrs. Dalloway

Over the holidays, a few friends and I donated blood at a local Red Cross Blood Drive. My Mom, in town for the holidays, went with us for moral and Mom support. As it turns out, one of my friends, a virgin blood donor, was unable to give blood due to her “difficult to find” veins. My Mom stood by her side throughout the unsuccessful bloodletting, holding her hand and offering soothing, cooing Mom noises. I’m happy to report that the rest of us were successful donors, Incidentally, if you can give blood, you should. It’s a good thing to do, and you get free snacks afterward! Win, win!

A few weeks later, I learned that another friend of mine, a fellow writer, also gave blood. We swapped stories, and as both of our humor tends toward the dark, came up with the following list. Enjoy. Are you reading, McSweeney’s?

Words & Phrases Phlebotomists Should Avoid Saying To Blood Donors

1. Squirt
2. Oops
3. Problem
4. Medical mystery
5. 50-50
6. Hemophilia
7. Gross
8. Contagious
9. Hematoma
10. Clot
11. Enigma
12. I was afraid that would happen.
13. Your veins are all slippery.
14. I can’t find a vein.
15. It’s either a vein or an artery.

2011 was another banner, busy year for my pals at Blue Ion. As such, I had the pleasure of working with them on some wonderful projects.

Ahem, get your sparkle on with the kind and talented luxury jewelry experts at Kiawah Fine Jewelry. We are talking high-end baubles and bling, kids. And yes, diamonds, too! Props to Katie, Chris and Brian.

A while back, I shared Maverick Southern Kitchen’s family of house spirits with you. They make for some very enjoyable imbibing and are much fun to promote. Check out Katie’s super cool poster designs that I penned and which now adorn the walls of The Old Village Post House.

Taking a sharp left into healthcare, here again are the talents of one Katie Kosma for the MUSC Women’s Center on display. We created their new tagline that’s part internal mantra and part rallying cry. A new web presence is also in the works. Below is an ad that ran in The Charleston City Paper.

First, thanks to Allyson Bird and Diette Courrege from the Post & Courier. Allyson passed along my blog post to Diette, who covers the schools for the paper. Special thanks to Diette who made phone calls, asked questions and finally (mostly) got to the bottom of this gay/bright apparel kerfuffle.

Here’s the scoop from Diette who spoke to officials at both Moultrie Middle School and the District.

The Moultrie Middle School Choir sang two holiday songs that included parts of “Deck The Halls” during their holiday performance:

1. “A Holiday Invitation” by Victor C. Johnson

2. “‘Tis The Season Once Again,” a medley (or mashup, as the kids call it) of “Here We Come A-Caroling,” “O Christmas Tree” and “Deck The Hall” (Note: no “s” on Hall), arranged by Tom Anderson.

PDFs of the sheet music are below for your perusal.

A Holiday Invitation
Tis the Season Once Again

You’ll note that in “A Holiday Invitation,” the sheet music reads: “don we now our bright apparel,” while “‘Tis The Season Once Again” sheet music reads: “don we now our gay apparel.” According to Moultrie Middle School, both songs were performed at the concert, and the choir sang the lyrics as printed in the sheet music. Meaning, Moultrie Middle School didn’t de-gay the song. Hooray!

Interestingly, Charleston radio station, Y102.5, broadcast the Moultrie Choir performance, but only included the “Holiday Invitation” bright apparel version, so that’s the only one the greater Charleston public heard.

Here’s a video of the Y102.5 broadcast. “Holiday Invitation” begins at 3:30. Also of note, some serious middle school shimmying at 4:53.

So, it begs the question, did Y102.5 mean to only include the bright apparel version? Let’s hope not. Let’s hope it was a time constraint thing, or a completely benign omission and nothing more.

By the way, I’d love for anyone who actually attended the Moultrie Middle School performance to confirm that the choir did actually perform both songs. If so, please comment. Thanks.

Actually, I’d especially love to have a chat with Victor C. Johnson, writer of “The Holiday Invitation” to ask why he changed the word “gay” to “bright,” especially when he kept other dated words like “troll.” I couldn’t find much biographical information about Mr. Johnson, but I did run across this via ChoralNet.org:

Victor [C] Johnson is a native of Dallas, Texas, and is in his 10th year of teaching at the Ft. Worth Academy of Fine Arts. He is also in his tenth year as director of the Children’s Choir of Texas. Victor attended the University of Texas at Arlington where he majored in Music Education with a concentration in Organ. While attending UTA, he served as student conductor of the university’s choral ensembles and opera workshop accompanist. In 1997, he was named “Outstanding Music Freshmen” and also “Outstanding Musician” in 2001.

As a composer, Victor has won numerous composition contests and received ASCAP Awards for the past eight years. His first piece was published with Lorenz in 1994, while he was a sophomore in high school.

Victor’s professional affiliations include: American Choral Directors Association, Texas Music Educators Association, ASCAP, and Phi Mu Alpha Sinfonia, Inc.

Victor currently serves at the Shiloh Baptist Church in Plano, Texas, as Minister of Worship and Fine Arts.

And this biography from the Shiloh Baptist Church:

Victor Johnson joined the staff of Shiloh in 2007. His responsibilities include the administration of the music staff, assisting the pastor in planning and leading worship and other special services and directing the adult choirs.

Victor received degrees in music education/organ from The University of Texas at Arlington. He is in his 9^th year of teaching at the Ft. Worth Academy of Fine Arts and also 9^th year as Artistic Director of the Children’s Choir of Texas.

As a composer, Victor has over 75 published compositions in the catalogues of Heritage Music Press, the Lorenz Corporation, Hal Leonard Publishing and Neil A. Kjos Publishers. He has won ASCAP awards yearly since 1997.

His professional affiliations include the American Choral Directors Association, Texas Choral Directors Association, Texas Music Educators Association, ASCAP, and Phi Mu Alpha Sinfonia, Inc.

Is it possible that Mr. Johnson’s Baptist affiliation is the reason for the lyric change? The Baptist Church has rather mixed views on the word gay, when defined as homosexual. However, I don’t know Mr. Johnson personally, nor do I know his religious beliefs, his politics, nor the reason he changed “gay” to “bright.”

I do think it’s worth noting (and my nerd writer self is giddy with excitement about this) that the words we choose matter and are worthy of our mindful consideration.

I’m relieved and hopeful that Moultrie Middle School sang two songs verbatim from the sheet music and did not set out to change lyrics that someone/anyone deemed “inappropriate” or “controversial.”

As I watched the video of the performance, I was struck by the young faces singing. You can almost feel the nervousness, the mix of excitement to perform combined with the sheer and total embarrassment of having to do anything at all that draws attention to themselves, especially in front of their parents. As all of us former teenagers can recall, those moments were both slightly terrifying and brilliant.

And so friends, I wish you moments both slightly terrifying and brilliant this holiday season (just to keep things balanced), much peace, joy and gay apparel to all!

The Moultrie Middle School choir changed “don we now our gay apparel” to “bright apparel.” Is the word gay so evil that we have to remove it altogether?

A flurry of comments and dialogue ensued, including much outrage and a fair share of humor, including:

I’m offended they used the word “don” with its obvious pro-mafia connotation.

I'm gonna troll an ancient yuletide carol he can't refuse."

I’m sure they don’t use the word “don” every day, but they didn’t change that word. But by eliminating the word “gay,” they’ve sent a clear message that there’s something wrong with the word.

Let’s call the Flintstones. Maybe their theme song should say “fun old time” instead?

Reknown for having a gay old time.

Oh, Moultrie Middle School, you missed a fine, teachable moment.

Let’s rewind a bit.

Merriam Webster defines the word “gay” as:

1: a : happily excited : merryb : keenly alive and exuberant : having or inducing high spirits

2: a : bright, lively <gay sunny meadows> b : brilliant in color

3: given to social pleasures; also : licentious

4: a : homosexual <gay men> b : of, relating to, or used by homosexuals <the gay rights movement> <a gay bar>

Can we all agree that “gay apparel” refers to clothing and accessories that are merry in mood, brilliant in color, and happy-making?

Or do you seriously think that the writer of the lyrics to “Deck The Halls,” poet John Ceiriog Hughes was referring exclusively to the clothing and accessories of homosexuals?

For the love of gay apparel, people.

Can we also agree that part of education is learning that words have multiple meanings? That words need to be viewed in the context of intent and even history? I mean, do you “troll the ancient yuletide carol?” Other than with Fred Flintstone, that is. Pray, please invite me when you do.

Look, I grew up in a generation where the word “gay” was a synonym for stupid, lame, and basically anything anyone didn’t like. Know what? We still sang the original words to “Deck The Halls” for all of my school recitals.

Now. Did some kids giggle during rehearsals? Yes.

They also giggled whenever the words gas, chest, bathroom, or but(t) (the conjunction and the body part) were uttered. (Note: this is not a complete list.) Why? Because kids are even more nervous than we are about their bodies, its functions and how and when it will grow and change. Oh, and they’re silly. They’re kids.

Did these same kids giggle during our recital performance – in a room full of people that included their parents, families, teachers, and school administrators? Of course not, because they would have died of embarrassment/been killed by their parents for not “taking things seriously.” (See above: they’re kids.)

We prove ourselves as adults when we push through our own fears, our own uncomfortable, oogey (that’s a clinical term) feelings to engage in honest, thoughtful dialogue with children. To answer their very real questions, assuage their fears, and hear them. Let me repeat that: hear them.

Cue the well-executed teachable moment.

Take two minutes to watch the video below of a lesbian couple who so eloquently and graciously confront their mayor, Joyce Daniels, who recently posted anti-gay sentiments on her Facebook page.

Mayor Daniels’s post, dated June 25, reads:

I think I am going to throw away my I Love New York carrying bag now that queers can get married there.

With warmth, humor and intelligence, the couple introduces their two daughters to the mayor, shares their drawings with her, and in all ways, takes the high road to understanding and acceptance.

Rather than lashing out in anger. Rather than ignoring the post, or the changed lyrics. We each, we all, have the opportunity to share our experiences with our children, our neighbors, our fellow parents, and our community. We have the opportunity to engage each other in meaningful, respectful dialogue. To show our children, by example, that we all have the power to move through the oogiest of moments with kindness and grace. And, that we are all free to don our apparel, gay or otherwise.

Sometimes a rotating cast of other girls would feel brave enough to join us. And then the gang felt like a mob, like the start of something else.

Sometimes the boys would stop killing each other long enough to stand with their arms folded against their chest and scowl at us – or laugh. Sometimes they just rolled their eyes and said, “Come onnnnnn. Let’s play kickball.” Sometimes we would stop singing and play kickball, but mostly, we just sang louder.

The teacher’s aides who policed recess watched us out of the corner of their eyes, vacillating between looking annoyed and amused.

I know neither how the singing started, nor why it ended.

But there are days when I want it back. The singing. The stomping. The arms raised. The feeling that I could do anything, that we could do anything.

If we just sang loud and long enough.

The author. Her daughter, Quintana Roo. Her husband, John Dunne.

I recently read Joan Didion’s new book, Blue Nights, a memoir about the death of her daughter Quintana, who died at age 39 of pneumonia and septic shock.

This is a heartbreakingly beautiful book full of grief; vivid, happy memories – and a long list of questions about what it means to be a mother, a writer, an aging woman, and the surviving member of your own family.

For a few weeks after I read Blue Nights, I found myself thinking nonstop about how old, or rather young, Quintana was when she died, mostly, I’m sure, because I am the same age. I thought of my mother and where she was at 39. It was 1976 – she was married, had three children: ages 16, 9, and 4 (me), and was making beds and dinners and building people. I cannot fathom what my life would have been like had we lost my Mom when was 39, any more than I can imagine what my Mom would do if she lost me right now.

Mother and daughter

The truth is, none of us can fathom loss, expected or sudden, until we are in the midst of it – and even then it carries a surreal quality that, at times, feels so foreign we catch ourselves watching ourselves from the outside in.

Which makes me think of what Mona Simpson, Steve Jobs’s sister, said in his eulogy: “We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories.”

Even when we “have time.” Even when we “say what we need to say.” There is always the thought. It wasn’t enough time. I need more.

During an interview on NPR’s Fresh Air, Didion shared a conversation she and Quintana had near the end of her life about what kind of mother Didion was. “Quintana, to my surprise, said, ‘You were okay, but you were a little remote,’” said Didion. “That was a very frank thing for her to say, and I recognized myself in it.”

What are our parents to us and we to them? A collection of tics, idiosyncrasies, stories, secrets, assumptions and hyberbole? Do we ever truly know one another, or are we bound by our own definitions of parent and child?

A friend whose father has terminal cancer told me recently that her father is cleaning out dresser drawers and organizing things. “It’s almost as if he were a pregnant woman nesting,” she said. I was so struck by that – the notion that what we do to prepare for a new life could so mimic what we do to prepare for the end of life.

As our conversation continued, I spoke about my Dad, who died nearly two and a half years ago. I heard myself say, “I’ve adjusted to his death, but I don’t think I’ve accepted it.” I could not have surprised myself more.

My Dad lived a full life, 80 years, and by his last days, he was not living the way he nor anyone who loved him would have wished for him. And yet. But still. Grief is muted and morphed by time. And I still long for the sound of his laugh, his eyebrow raised in jest, his warm hand on the top of my head when I was young. As Didion writes, “Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms to what we think we remember.”

So she writes. And remembers.

As I do. As I will.

I think of the piercing ring of the rotary phone: the wake-up call in the heavy-draped darkness of our room at The Holiday Inn.

This is Oil City, Pennsylvania, halfway to my Mom’s hometown in Ohio where we journeyed most summers of my childhood.

This morning, I thought of those trips, those first moments after waking, my sister and I sharing the double bed next to my parents. I hear Dad grab the phone from its cradle, groggily but politely muttering, “thank you” to the operator, clumsily replacing the receiver. I remember his eyes, slightly swollen with sleep, his sheet-creased face. I remember the sound of running water, as he showered, then shaved, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair, in his underwear and dark socks.

I think of the sounds and face he made when he splashed on his aftershave, a combination of “brrrrr” and a groan, a shake of the head, a furrowed brow, a wink thrown over his shoulder to me, and done. I remember he was ready before any of us, strategically packing the car to accommodate the largest amount of stuff. I remember his hand on the top of my head, warm, heavy, steady, as we walked into the coffee shop for breakfast and continued down the road.