Miss Millie Plays the Oldies

A few people have asked the question: "What's become of Millie the Glass Eyed Wonder Cat?" Some have speculated that Mr. Sullivan is allergic to felines. Or that Bow won't let another four-legged creature upstage her rightful role as the reigning diva.

Miss Millie is still with us but keeping a low profile.

It's hard to believe that it was almost three years ago that we spent a couple of weeks at Lazy Acres, sorting through the junk and jewels there as it went on the market, now in new hands for more than a year and a half.

At the risk of hitting the rerun season before it's even spring, we thought we'd share this two part episode in which Millie makes a vainglorious appearance with a mirror as well as other residents of the estate that come to life after the sun goes down.

Closing Chapter

Today I made what is most likely a final visit to the house my grandfather built 50 years ago on a street he named in my honor and that later served as my parents' home for nearly 30 years. The happy memories far outnumber the sad ones that filled the place from around 2001 to 2006 as both of my parents, and the property, faded. I am risking jinxing the final signing by the new owners, a wonderful young couple, by mentioning it.

This final image that I snapped as I walked away is of my favorite feature which so evokes the spirit of my grandfather and his vision. It brought me happiness looking at it upon arriving there from my earliest memories. It is a fitting vision for farewell and a hope that the next 50 years will bring as much joy.

Garden Variety

Is it a sign of one's impending dotage or is it the absolute verification of a full blown, now officially in advance stages dotage to keep a garden journal? I've kept a life journal since I was age nine with never more than a three week gap in entries. There are also travel journals, gym journals, house journals, spiritual journals, and journals on...oh, I'll just let you use your imagination. I swear, I am truly carrying the torch of Brigid Berlin.

One of my exes, a Jewish-Italian American from Connecticut who always said I reminded him of the people from the other side of Connecticut, once remarked that the garden journal was actually the quirk that he found most endearing about me. He kept cooking and entertaining journals. The fact that he was one of a still to be disclosed number of ex-beaus of Jewish-Italian heritage from the states of Connecticut and New Jersey that are a concurrent theme in my life should, perhaps, inspire me to keep a journal on that topic. But, believe me, I've written and typed endless pages on those boys in the other journals.

Regardless, I've had a few recent nudges asking me to post shots from the aforementioned journal. While not spectacular, at least they show my nifty birdbath and those rose rocks in the background of the iron lantern that come from the famed Lazy Acres estate. How many of you have rose rocks in your garden?

Further Jewels from the Vault

Hey, ain't that jewel above just the grooviest thing you ever saw? It's an old purse of my mother's that around age 10 or 11 I turned into my case to hold 45s and stash of kiddie records. My aesthetic sense developed at a very early age, though some might argue it hasn't evolved much. I've got the original "Mommy's Little Helper" (not the Stones version but the one done by Joan Harris and the Toppers Orchestra on the Tops for Tots label) and other great hits.

It was one of the treasures I rescued from the basement of Lazy Acres this summer before the big estate sale. Since my folks held on to it for so many years, I just couldn't let it go. Since I've seen original issues of Abbey Road and other Fab Four discs fetch $100+, I'm curious what that little rarity below might go for on eBay. Naw, I think I'll hold on to it.

Buy me a couple of Jello shots and tell me you think I'm pretty, and I just might pull it out and play it for you. Uh, the 45, of course, what were you thinking I meant...

It Doesn't Mean I'm Gay, You Know

After all the pressure getting ready for the Memorial Day estate sale at Lazy Acres, I really enjoyed doing my mini-stoop sale with J today and managing to come up with enough cash to buy some DVDs at Amoeba and a jumbo burrito. Not bad for three and a half hours work and plenty of great street theater.

That hideous thing at the top that looks like something that was inspired by a 1986 Bill Cosby sweater was sort of the pièce de résistance (as in anyone with an ounce of class would resist it) of the sale. It was actually a birthday gift to J from an ex who insisted that they were being sold for $180 at a shop in Ghiradelli Square and that Bette Midler has one in her home. (Yeah, maybe as a memento from Ruthless People.) Sometimes called the menorah from Hell, it's been a running gag for a couple of years, something to drag out at parties to see people's mouths drop in horror. We just wondered if there'd be someone who'd actually have such bad taste that they'd buy it.

It managed to be a good source of humor with our customers, but finally there was a woman late in the day. We didn't catch her name, but we'll call her "Phoebe" -- 4osh, mildly hippie-chick who said she'd been spending the day buying shoes along 24th Street in Noe Valley. She has a thing for butterflies, and J gave her a small packet he had of them as an enticement. Phoebe was really drawn to the menorah from Hell and then went on a rant about how horrible it is that some people will come to a shop, try to bargain someone for a great piece of art and insult the artist and gallery owner. After agreeing to pay $3, she left paying $2. We tried to get her to buy a pair of beaded curtains. Phoebe said she already has some in her Potrero Hill home that are purple with sparkling turquoise accents. Oh, I can just see her and her Wednesday night nude women's yoga group with the menorah ablaze as they strike their sun pose to the sounds of Zap Mama.

One of the best parts of the deal, was that I got cash for crap left over from a number of exes, some of it going back 15 to 17 years. I unloaded the emotional baggage years ago, and it's liberating that none of their literal cargo is still festering in my closets or offsite storage. If I ever needed a sign that it's time to get back on the boyfriend hunt, this was it. Always smart and sassy, Junk Thief is now available for your dating pleasure. Bring it on!

Precious, J's tripod, was a great traffic builder in his 1950s house dress.

Best come back line I wish I'd said but waited to long: A couple really funny, Jewish-looking boho/bobo dudes in a mid-1980s Volvo station wagon bought a zebra striped vase. I razzed them about being so grand as to call it a vaz. Their parting shot (said with love, of course) "Now just because we're a couple of dudes buying a fancy vaz with pussy willow in it, I don't wantcha to go around saying I'm gay." My comeback, of course, should have been, "Whatever you say, Senator Craig."Woo hoo! I can upgrade from the $2 to $4 bottle of gin and treat a couple of the homeless people to their own bottle tonight. Now, this is what I call a holiday!

Where Death Had Bloomed

It took a while for me to fully grasp why the past weekend felt so weird to me, but then it dawned on me yesterday that it was a year ago that my father died after a fairly brief journey with Alzheimer's. The past year has been an odd journey, and with both parents gone, I still anticipate another call with bad news, of someone who has gone into the ICU, the term "critical condition" being bandied about, relatives I've not talked to in years needing to be called and informed.

One of my co-workers has reminded me repeatedly that joy will return to my life, and I've felt glimpses of it now and again. And after a year of sorting out my parents estate, I keep toying with how many things I want to hold on to, to pass on to extended relations or put into storage.

As I hear about horrific weather in many parts of the country and the globe, I can see glimmers of the supposed joy likely to return to life in a couple of items brought across the country back in June during my famed U-Haul trek. These two flower pots belonged to my maternal grandparents, and I have seen them in photos from the house in Kansas City at least as far back as the 1940s, possibly even the 1930s. I don't know the story behind them, but for the past 20 to 25 years, they were fixtures at my parents' house but always empty. When I emptied them to bring across the country, the dirt was as hard as concrete, having not been worked for decades. Seeing them filled with life again is encouraging on a sometimes disconcerting Tuesday. August, always a month of preparation for some (me) rest and retreat for others (not me), leaves me in that mode of frustrated anticipation for the show about to open. I am trying my best to take a moment now and again to focus on the coleus in the pot, appreciating that they are here now and will likely be gone in a few months. In the meantime I am reminded to seek more life.

Junk Thief Is an Evil Bastard!

Oh, that Mr. Junk Thief is one cruel man. Here it was a perfect, sunny (but not too hot) day in San Francisco, and little Greggy was hoping that after plowing away on overdue work projects most of Saturday, he could go play in the park today. But noooh, Mr. Junk Thief made poor little Greggy toil away like a singular band of elves, cranking out copies of the two set DVD of the first season of Junk Thief TV to give away to his far flung and local friends. Granted it looks and sounds 100 times better on DVD than with the tinny sound and fuzzy images on YouTube, but it's not like his show is that exciting.

With that project finished, you'd think he'd let our poor boy have a break, but then like an insane combination of Tina Brown and Busby Berkeley, he demanded content and two -- count 'em tw0 -- production numbers for the second season of Junk Thief TV. And then poor Greggy had to edit the thing, first on dinosaur Microsoft Movie editor until it just crashed, and he finally got around to learning to use Sony Vegas Movie Studio Platinum 7.0 that he bought months ago but has never taken the time to learn to use. It's infinitely more complex but also much, much more efficient and produces a gorgeous product. Unfortunately that product is as a few hundred MBs and thus won't load directly onto YouTube. Thus the product posted on YouTube is out of sync, the Vincent Minelli worthy colours are washed out and blurred, and the sound is like a 1971 transistor radio.

After all the work little Greggy had done, Junk Thief gave him no thanks and just went into a profanity laced rage and called our boy an incompetent idiot and was ready to hold him down and strangle him until...oh, yeah, wait, Gregg is Junk Thief.

Okay, folks, enough of the ever confusing mix of third, first and now second person. I'll just step out from the curtain and say that if you're one of my far flung blogger friends and would like the DVD set of Junk Thief TV, just email me at junkthief@gmail.com with where you'd like me to send your copy. It's really worth it for music and images on the second season preview.

If the "aesthetic" looks familiar, or obvious, it's no mystery that it heavily borrows from Kiss Me Kate, with the MGM Orchestra's version of "From This Moment On," reaching heights worthy of Charlie Parker or Miles Davis. This song plays heavily in the family memoirs section from which these two photos are borrowed, the first showing my mom, her dad and the infamous sister whom readers seemed intent on trashing in my previous post. She was a complex, conflicted, stylish, controlled, distant, compelling woman whom I simultaneously adored and feared. Our relationship was more about mutual admiration than love, and I have really been struggling to write something of significance about her suicide last December. Her only living heir, her son, has encouraged me to write something but it just won't come.
I truly adore this picture since it speaks volumes about the relationship between these two women and their radically different styles, and I am eternally indebted to both. What's especially telling is that this is not taken at the time of a formal event, but how they dressed for a casual Saturday supper. Though that supper would probably be meat loaf and brussel sprouts. Their high sartorial sense did not translate over to cuisine until the mid-1970s. Not only did this living room in Kansas City (my grandparents home) look like a Douglas Sirk set, the dramas that took place there were the same with everyone speaking in affected, clipped MGM English.
The other shot (just look at those drapes and the continued riot of pink!) features none other than baby Junk Thief and his family. And it was in this living room that Junk Thief was first introduced to "From This Moment On" from the Kiss Me Kate soundtrack. For years he hated that movie and the rest of the tunes that were played repeatedly, the only "pop" music allowed in a household where Chopin, Satie and Debussy were the ruling sounds. The movie itself never held appeal, mainly because it had only been seen on late night TV with drained colors, fuzzy sound and scratches on the print. But "From This Moment On," which is primarily a dance number, always got little Junk Thief leaping around that Douglas Sirk living room, performing balletic leaps as his grandparents looked on in delight, never fearing he'd knock over some priceless vase or tear the rug. (If you've never seen the video "Big Round Up at Lazy Acres," it tells you about how Junk Thief's macho grandfather had no problem with his little grandson being a flaming, dancing nutcase.)

Years later, Junk Thief would have the pleasure of seeing Kiss Me Kate in 3-D on the big screen, and it was as if a hideous building had been sandblasted to reveal a hitherto unknown architectural jewel beneath. Alas, you really can't appreciate the tune on the web.

So, if you're a local, let's plan on a screening soon and I'll give you your DVD. If you're not local, fly out soon or I'll happily mail you your version.

McCarthy/Eisenhower Era Rebels

One of the more encouraging aspects of going through the endless pile of items to sort from my family estate, is coming across little items like this one. It is evidence that although my mother's parents lived in the Midwest they were liberals bordering on leftists with an always mildly ribald sense of humor. Now I know which gene pool I got that from.

Seeking the Familiar at the Meeting Point

When I was in grade school, a favorite ritual to put myself to sleep was to circle my bed with my menagerie of stuffed animals, each with very specific, long names and assigned personalities, and I would pretend that we were camped in some remote part of the wilderness. I conjured up the howls and shrill cries of bears, coyotes and wolves surrounding us, taking comfort in our safe mobile cabin as we savored our protected corner of a hostile universe.

Since I spend a third to half of each year on traveling, I often conjure up that distant memory and am still compelled to find that tiny corner of safety and comfort amid the transient, chaotic waters, skies and horizons that I navigate any given week. In the midst of a crowd of annoying fellow travelers – such as the enormous, sweating man in the middle seat on the SFO-Denver flight on Monday – I close my eyes, take intentional deep breaths and go back to that place, the proverbial home at the end of the world to borrow from Michael Cunningham.

In my many travels, the recurring revelation or, more appropriately, reminder is how little I need in life I need to feel grounded. I feel greater affinity with the mobile house plant than the grounded sequoia since I too can easily take my roots to whatever destination my currents plants me. It has been years since anyplace has felt glaringly foreign, except for the supposedly familiar landscape of my native Midwest. The people I grew up with seem so far removed from any of my current realities, and the local landscape itself bears little resemblance to what is lodged in my memory. It felt as alien when I was growing up there as it does now – such as this and next week as I am stuck here for a conference. The sprawling development, oppressive mixture of unrelenting hot days and chilly over air conditioned venues leave me dizzy in this nature denying environment. I despise the heat and when indoors feel like a fading head of iceberg lettuce left a week to long in the display case at an Albertstons.

Gong through the long process of losing my parents and now dismantling their estate makes these trips even odder. Since putting the house on the market and fairly much emptying the place through an estate sale, their place seems increasingly odd and alien. All that is left that suggest any semblance of habitation is the bed my sister has left for me to stay over the weekend. She even took the care to pull out a few familiar, welcoming items such as the above featured butterfly quilt that likely covered me as a tot conjuring up those mobile home fantasies.

Home has certainly ceased to be a place that involves welcoming parents, even if I hold onto it in my memories. I’ve made relative peace with return to a house of my own where all that greets me besides the cat are stacks of mail, a litter box begging to be emptied and furniture begging to be dusted or brushed free of fur. When I have had a mate, a common sign that things are nearing their end are how I am greeted upon return from a journey. There are few things as humbling as knowing that your significant other is somewhere in the city to which you are returning while you take the shuttle to the offsite parking or public transit, making the final steps to the front door as the only sound heralding your return is the lonely whirl of the wheels of your suitcase echoing into the late night air. The only thing worse than returning to a musty, dusty smelling house is one where every system of order you left behind seems to be awry as you look for evidence of your presence being violated during your journey. My loneliest moments have not come during passages of solitude, but during those dysfunctional days of a relationship when a step through the door spotlighted every reason it was time to fly solo once more in my own nest.

Having made that journey so many times, I am lately finding myself wanting more than the overflowing litter box and stacks of ValuPack coupons and pre-approved credit card offers welcoming my return. The prospects of being home for an extended period of time are slim in the years ahead, but I find myself longing increasingly for the face that lights up as I near the meeting point at the far end of the United terminal.

In Its Right Place

This weekend has not been without mixed emotions, the first Memorial Weekend where both of my parents are gone and a three day estate sale is going on at Lazy Acres, the house that has been in our family for 50 years. Though I did not grow up there or ever call it home, it was built by my grandparents who developed the neighborhood and named the street after me. Over the past nine months, our family sorted through more than a century of heirlooms, keeping many things, pulling items from our own personal stashes and combining them for the huge sale this weekend.

Was it the right thing to do? That question has come up several times, and one of our cousins attended, as a sort of reconnaissance work, and he sent us his glowing approval. There was also the fear that no one would come (during heavy rains) or that nothing would move. Having assigned the sale to a contractor, we did not attend the event itself, but my sister has been giving me twice daily reports. She stood vigil across the street from a movie theatre parking lot. Though the sale began at 9 a.m., there were over 60 cars at 7:45 a.m.

This afternoon, I went to the little close out book shop at the SF Public Library. Along with the book section of the Community Thrift Store on Valencia, it's one of the most under-rated book sources in San Francisco. As I picked up a book titled Bungalow Nation, a young woman volunteer beamed at me and then disappeared as I continued to search for other finds. When I was checking out, she cooed, "Oh, the bungalow book. I was cherishing that for an hour before I started work and wondered whose hands it would end up in."

Seeing her obvious penchant for the volume I asked if I was grabbing something that she had already planned to purchase herself. "No, my husband would kill me if I brought home one more book. I just wanted to know that it was going to be in the hands of someone who would relish it the way I do. Seeing your face made my day."

Another Chapter Closes

Why surely you didn't think JunkThief could make a swing through the Heartland without a visit to the mothership of all things junk, Lazy Acres, did you? While this will not be my last trip here, it's one that marks the close of one major chapter. My sister and I did a final walk through before the estate sale team descends tomorrow morning. Beginning with the close of the holiday season, we began sifting through those things to keep, those to store and those to sell. It all climaxed in the Great Junk Sort featured on the epic two part JunkThief TV episode #19.

Closing this chapter is a bittersweet. It will be nice not having to worry about ALL that stuff but also a chore to sort through the things I have claimed and will be taking to California. And after always seeing my mother's house as the model of well ordered perfection with everything alphabetized and color coded, the sorting has turned it into our own Grey Gardens minus the racoons but with a few impromptu fashion shows.

Seeing her purple irises in bloom brought back many positive memories of this time of year and convinced me to transplant some more. For whatever reason, past ones that I've lugged across the Mojave have lived but not blossomed.

Finding a bag of the 2003 crop already has me misty eyed about saying farewell to the 25 pecan trees on the property. It's not the same buying a bag at Trader Joe's that I used to be able to have fresh from the trees my grandfather planted in 1957.

While sorting through some of the last few jewels, I came across some stray accouterments from Halloweens past and snapped these shots. Perhaps this should be the new signature photo for JunkThief. Whaddya think?

Which Way Goes the Wind?

I've completed the famed junk sort! Now to do something of the same back at home and begin consolidating heirlooms of the Great Plains with all my Pacific acquisitions of the past decade. Add in a few years in the Atlantic states and travels from Kathmandu and Ouagadougou, and the scale of this task starts getting overwhelming. Thank God for off site storage.

Today I met with our last realtor finalist -- gold shoes, Lincoln, jewelry and all. She is actually very good, and we will likely sign with her. How long this process will take is to be determined, but I hope to close this long chapter by the end of the year if lucky.

I hope to have the first YouTube document of this trip up tomorrow. In the meantime, here is a snapshot of a favorite feature of Lazy Acres. I am really tempted to climb up to take the weather vane with me since it is so emblematic of my grandfather's vision for this place 50 years ago. But, alas, it's one thing I will likely leave behind with the hope that our buyer has a similar vision.

Down the Street from Grey Gardens (almost)

As exposure to all things Grey Gardens is moving from saturation point to overkill, I was intrigued to hear Little Edie make passing mention of one of her brothers who lived in Tulsa and Oklahoma City and began wondering how many degrees of separation there might be from Junk Thief. As it turns out, about four to five blocks. The brother, Phelan Beale, died in 1993, as evidenced in the obituary below. As I prepare to dismantle my own version of Grey Gardens, Lazy Acres, next month, I could not help but be intrigued to know that Little Edie and I might have passed on Rockwell Avenue 14 years ago. (Junk Thief milestone note: This represents post #200 of our site as we near the six month mark.)

From The Daily Oklahoman (Oklahoma City, OK), on 1 July 1993

Deceased Name: Phelan Beale Jr.

BEALE Phelan, Jr., 73, died June 26 in Oklahoma City. He was born on June 16, 1920 in New York City to Phelan Beale, Sr., and Edith Ewing Bouvier Beale. He grew up in East Hampton, Long Island. He attended Westminster School for Boys in Simsbury, Connecticut and studied journalism at Columbia University. He was drafted into the U.S. Army in 1942 and sent to Camp Gruber in Oklahoma. He served in World War II in the Pacific theater of operations and participated in the battles of Saipan and Okinawa, where he was wounded in action. He was decorated with two bronze battle stars and a purple heart. He married Rosella Ramsey in Tulsa, Oklahoma on December 26, 1942. Mr. Beale had 30 years service with the Oklahoma Employment Security Commission in Tulsa and Oklahoma City, and consulted on unemployment compensation law following his retirement. He was also an American Kennel Club licensed dog judge and toured the U.S. judging obedience trials. He was an accomplished speaker and writer. He delivered speeches to numerous organizations on a variety of subjects, and wrote magazine and newspaper articles. He also won hundreds of writing contests. He appeared in television commercials for MCI Communications. He liked to fish in Galveston, Texas. He remained active writing, speaking and judging dogs until his death. He is survived by his widow, Rosella Beale, Oklahoma City; daughter, Michelle Beale, Houston; sister, Edith Beale, Miami Beach; and brother, Bouvier Beale, Glen Cove, Long Island. Funeral services will be 10:30 a.m. Friday, July 2 at Bill Merritt Memorial Chapel, Bethany. Burial will be at Forest Park Cemetery East in Houston. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the 50th Street Church of Christ, 6035 N.W. 50th, Oklahoma City, 73122 or the Gulf Coast Conservation Association, 4801 Woodway, Suite 220 West, Houston, 77056.