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Friday, August 29, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Home Life HOMEBuzz
Welcome Dear Readers! We were overwhelmed with responses to our October Buzz Reader Challenge: Yester-Shui in 1000 words or less. Our winner embodies the theme of Timeless Treasure and even introduces a Shui Today challenge of her own! Here then . . .
Ripples in Time by Lucy Switzer
My earliest, most vivid impression of Jo was when she visited one autumn afternoon. As I played on the backyard glider, she approached the garden gate. Noticing from afar the radiant white hair and navy dress, she looked for all-the-world like Grandma Switzer. “Gamma! Gamma!” I called, running on pudge-legs, knowing she would pick me up and hold me for awhile. That was the day she gave Mom the gift, the first time I ever saw the hand-crocheted green rippled afghan. I loved it on sight. All five of us kids loved it.
At first, it was when I wasn’t feeling well that the afghan comforted me most, as Mom covered me. I was allowed to rest in the living room, but had to stay still for hours or even days at a time. I used to count the rows of rich color, ranging from
As I grew older, I’d reach for the afghan, chilled from eating mint chocolate chip ice cream while watching TV with Dad; Fractured Fairy Tales were a guarantee of his laughter’s tears. Later still, I’d sit as close as I could to the stereo listening to the latest album my brother brought home on college break, memorizing the lyrics . . . The Magical Mystery Tour is waiting to take you away . . . Or, during our legendary winters, there I’d be, ignoring my pile of homework, preferring my stack of library finds, literally ‘curled up with a good book’.
A dozen grandkids came along, three of them my own children. They used the well-worn afghan for play, covering each other as they snuggled in laundry basket beds, keeping each other “cozy-warm”. All-so-soon, great-grandchildren are arriving. Now nearing ninety, as Mom and Dad sit for multi-generational photos, ‘The Green Blanket’ is featured a-purpose, the ultimate symbol of family continuity.
This morning saw my first customer come in offering an overstuffed box of fabric remnants, yarns, vintage patterns and books; a veritable craftwork cache. “I saw your Grand Opening sign,” she said by way of explanation. From St. Clara’s Eldercare, where Jo had chosen to spend her last year over a decade ago, the box had been found while clearing a storage room. Peering into that box was like peering into the soul of my youth, for there on top was a title I had received when I turned thirteen, Ripples Step-by-Step. Sense-waves tingling, breathing deeply, I opened it daring to find an inscription. I wasn’t disappointed: For Lucy, Always Remember, Today’s Creations = Tomorrow’s Connections! Love, Jo. So, on my momentous day, I heart-clutch a gift I thought long lost, feeling as though Jo had just picked me up and would be holding me awhile. Dear Jo, I'll "always remember . . . "
In honor of artists gone before us, this is our challenge then - let’s make or purchase a handcrafted blanket – a fabric quilt or appliqué, knit or crochet afghan or perhaps, polar fleece tied-fringe throw. Then consider donating it to one of the following more-than-worthy recipients. Let’s create ripples of love – waves of memory!
www.projectlinus.org
www.binkypatrol.com
Post Script: Last year at our annual family Christmas gift exchange, I received a soft blanket. I love it so - who wouldn’t love a blanket?! I am convinced that by no mere chance is it green, although a shade not found in the afghan of yesteryear. Soothing sage, it speaks to me of wisdom, the wisdom of the spirit of love in which it was given. It is not rippled, but I know that gift carries and covers me with unseen ripples of love.
November Buzz Reader Challenge: The Non-Ego Altar – A Photo Essay in Ten Snaps or less. Theme: Worship ♥ Service
'Til next month, SEE US BE BUSY? YES!
Susy Bee, Reader Liaison Home Life
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Culinary Q&A with Geir Ragnar
Greetings, my dear friends. Welcome to my new column for Home Life magazine. I am eager to share my thoughts and views with you and I am delighted to be part of the Home Life community. The initial response to my new column was overwhelming. I received so many e-mails, it was hard to choose the ones to respond to. If your question is not addressed in this issue, fear not; it may be addressed in the months to come. So without further adue, let’s get started with your questions.
The first question I would like to address came from a young lady named Eva. I received her question not from an e-mail, but from a chance encounter at a local park. She asked me if she could ask me her question in person or if she had to send an email. I had her ask me at that time and her question was this:
Q: Geir, when I use butter to cook my eggs, they do not stick to the pan; yet, if I use olive oil, they stick. Why?
A: Eva, as you know, I was initially stumped since I always use butter in my pans to cook eggs. I went home and tried the olive oil to see if I would have the same problems you encountered. I did not. The eggs did not stick to my pan using olive oil. So, the oil is not the problem. What is the issue then? I don’t know. It could be the way you prepare your eggs. I made an omlett, if I would have scambled eggs, I could have had a different result. Also, with oil, you may need to get it hotter, since it has a higher smoke point. Unfortunately, Eva, I do not have a definative answer. All I can say is to try it with the oil hotter or try making an omlett with the olive oil. Perhaps we will meet again in the park someday, and you can let me know your results.
Q: Geir, Slátur, or blood pudding, is my husband’s favorite meal, yet I can not seem to get it as “smooth” as his mother made it. Do you have any suggestions? - Dadda from Hella, Iceland.
A: First of all Dadda, let me say that I am glad that you are making your own Slátur and not buying it from the supermarket. It is becoming a lost art, and frankly, the supermarket varieties just aren't very good. There are a couple of suggestions I can give you that may help. First, if you want your Slátur to have a smoother texture, try chopping the fat fine, so that you can not see the fat when eaten. Also, I believe that it is extremely important to never mix your Slátur with anything other than your hands. The hands are the best tools that you have in the kitchen.
Q: Geir, since you are from Iceland, I just wanted to know your own personal thoughts on Hákarl. - James from Syracuse, NY.
A: Ahh, James, I was wondering if someone would email me about Hákarl. For those of you who do not know, Hákarl (meaning ‘shark’ in Icelandic) is rotten shark meat. It is known for its pungent taste and smell of ammonia. The reason the shark is basically allowed to rot is simple; the shark meat is poisonous before the curing process begins. In Iceland, the predominant sharks are Greenland sharks. Greenland sharks do not have urinary tracts and; therefore, must secrete their urine from their skin. As a result, high amounts of uric acid become so concentrated
in the shark that eating even some of it can potentially cause people to vomit blood. By allowing the shark to fully decay and be cured, the acid is removed from the flesh; making it easier to digest.
Now that you know what the dish is, let me say that I have tremendous respect for the tradition of Hákarl and I do eat it. Hákarl looks somewhat normal, like any other fish, but there's something about un-refrigerated meat hanging on hooks, unprotected from the elements that makes some a little nervous. I would not say that it is the single worst, most disgusting and terrible tasting thing I have ever eaten. It is, though, an aquired taste.
The first question I would like to address came from a young lady named Eva. I received her question not from an e-mail, but from a chance encounter at a local park. She asked me if she could ask me her question in person or if she had to send an email. I had her ask me at that time and her question was this:
Q: Geir, when I use butter to cook my eggs, they do not stick to the pan; yet, if I use olive oil, they stick. Why?
A: Eva, as you know, I was initially stumped since I always use butter in my pans to cook eggs. I went home and tried the olive oil to see if I would have the same problems you encountered. I did not. The eggs did not stick to my pan using olive oil. So, the oil is not the problem. What is the issue then? I don’t know. It could be the way you prepare your eggs. I made an omlett, if I would have scambled eggs, I could have had a different result. Also, with oil, you may need to get it hotter, since it has a higher smoke point. Unfortunately, Eva, I do not have a definative answer. All I can say is to try it with the oil hotter or try making an omlett with the olive oil. Perhaps we will meet again in the park someday, and you can let me know your results.
Q: Geir, Slátur, or blood pudding, is my husband’s favorite meal, yet I can not seem to get it as “smooth” as his mother made it. Do you have any suggestions? - Dadda from Hella, Iceland.
A: First of all Dadda, let me say that I am glad that you are making your own Slátur and not buying it from the supermarket. It is becoming a lost art, and frankly, the supermarket varieties just aren't very good. There are a couple of suggestions I can give you that may help. First, if you want your Slátur to have a smoother texture, try chopping the fat fine, so that you can not see the fat when eaten. Also, I believe that it is extremely important to never mix your Slátur with anything other than your hands. The hands are the best tools that you have in the kitchen.
Q: Geir, since you are from Iceland, I just wanted to know your own personal thoughts on Hákarl. - James from Syracuse, NY.
A: Ahh, James, I was wondering if someone would email me about Hákarl. For those of you who do not know, Hákarl (meaning ‘shark’ in Icelandic) is rotten shark meat. It is known for its pungent taste and smell of ammonia. The reason the shark is basically allowed to rot is simple; the shark meat is poisonous before the curing process begins. In Iceland, the predominant sharks are Greenland sharks. Greenland sharks do not have urinary tracts and; therefore, must secrete their urine from their skin. As a result, high amounts of uric acid become so concentrated
in the shark that eating even some of it can potentially cause people to vomit blood. By allowing the shark to fully decay and be cured, the acid is removed from the flesh; making it easier to digest.Now that you know what the dish is, let me say that I have tremendous respect for the tradition of Hákarl and I do eat it. Hákarl looks somewhat normal, like any other fish, but there's something about un-refrigerated meat hanging on hooks, unprotected from the elements that makes some a little nervous. I would not say that it is the single worst, most disgusting and terrible tasting thing I have ever eaten. It is, though, an aquired taste.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Home Life
Tribal Cosmopolitan that is.
Gene pools, movies stars.
Have a heaping helping of our hospitality
in this etheric frameup of time/space non-locality.
Don't I know how to manage my domestic affair!
I can now Google my daydreams and random thoughts that
enter my mental gateway.
I have set work hours during the weekdays.
Limited range of work with in 3 parsecs of homonid planetary base.
I find work disagreeable and agreeable on a binary switch that flip-flops in
a range of femto seconds. Governed by an internal non-reality clock that mimics
the external sensory field in close proximity.
Strange Games. Homelife is a submarine who's hatches are painted and open for FedX
and UPS. These are the prime movers. Mostly, I bellow within the bowels of my sturdy
ship, knowing at best she can withstand a sudden 3 psi overpressure.
Still, I fret and stew about Japanese dive bombers coming in. Although not involved personally
with any of the world wars, the very crust of this Earth hide is magnetically imprinted with
the hostile aggressions carried forth in yon younger day.
My conscious perceptions of my surroundings likened to a thermodynamic inversion.
Whereby I am intricately interwoven into the immediate circumstances.
There remains some small part of me that has merged with Timbuk3 somehow back
in the 1980's.
I struggle to extract my essence from most of the unwarranted ingress of my early
deluvian existence. I have tried cloistering myself in a small room that was packed densely
with fresh hops blossoms as I listened to chanting monks on an Ipod for 16 hours.
I found no resolve, albeit a raw ravenous hunger abetted by depravity turned upon my own soul. Running naked down abandon railroad tracks, I fled my home.
Again, why is natural carbonation non detrimental?
Why is carbonated commercial beverages damaging to the cells?
There is no love in the giant cold CO2 tanks that traverse long asphalt highways.
Dock into mass bottling plants and recharge depleted vessels with carbon dioxide.
My 'honey-do' list reads:
You will be father to all the children
Get everything that you don't want.
Paint and touch up large tribe of unknown Africans
Replace brain filters
I don't quit or stop along the wayside to chit-chat.
My dustpan is always full and my lower back is a hinge for an enormous door.
I am a dutiful creature. I revel in my insipid universe of stadium capacity loneliness.
Have you ever seen a picture of the Sombrero Galaxy?
The whole thing has reached enlightenment, no dark spiral arms.
It demonstrates the static harmonic wave resonance within the universe.
The idea of a linear event, 'big bang' is a mental trap for the wage slaves who
dwell as denizens on dim orbiting globs in makeshift habitats throughout creation.
My heart, a field of battle where all have been hurt and killed ad infinitum.
Looking for a wave of fresh love from the great heart of God while the dead and dying
transform their shape and compositions.
I feel as if I must design an interface device whereby I may communicate with the
ocean stingray. These alien creatures must be keeping tabs on quite a few events
of this planetary saga.
There is no home life. This deception is a medicated travesty of senile banking interests
and shareholding pressure cookers.
Managed compliance optimized by hopeless reflex response of the working class generations.
Moreover, it's become a life behind a dashboard. The construct is based in a distorted mythos
and dependence of members to become compliant or face ridicule and scorn.
There can be no home here if a fellow man is expending milliwatts of his cellular
engine on toil and anguish. The draw of misery quickens all men unto a demise unimagined
across all oceans and space.
Otherwise, I open my home to spiders. Some of which may have shrunken due to lack of
nourishment. I adore a nice tight juicy spider butt. They are wise and creative.
Know who, when and how to bite, if the need arises.
My home, it's a crawl space with eight foot ceilings.
Marc
Gene pools, movies stars.
Have a heaping helping of our hospitality
in this etheric frameup of time/space non-locality.
Don't I know how to manage my domestic affair!
I can now Google my daydreams and random thoughts that
enter my mental gateway.
I have set work hours during the weekdays.
Limited range of work with in 3 parsecs of homonid planetary base.
I find work disagreeable and agreeable on a binary switch that flip-flops in
a range of femto seconds. Governed by an internal non-reality clock that mimics
the external sensory field in close proximity.
Strange Games. Homelife is a submarine who's hatches are painted and open for FedX
and UPS. These are the prime movers. Mostly, I bellow within the bowels of my sturdy
ship, knowing at best she can withstand a sudden 3 psi overpressure.
Still, I fret and stew about Japanese dive bombers coming in. Although not involved personally
with any of the world wars, the very crust of this Earth hide is magnetically imprinted with
the hostile aggressions carried forth in yon younger day.
My conscious perceptions of my surroundings likened to a thermodynamic inversion.
Whereby I am intricately interwoven into the immediate circumstances.
There remains some small part of me that has merged with Timbuk3 somehow back
in the 1980's.
I struggle to extract my essence from most of the unwarranted ingress of my early
deluvian existence. I have tried cloistering myself in a small room that was packed densely
with fresh hops blossoms as I listened to chanting monks on an Ipod for 16 hours.
I found no resolve, albeit a raw ravenous hunger abetted by depravity turned upon my own soul. Running naked down abandon railroad tracks, I fled my home.
Again, why is natural carbonation non detrimental?
Why is carbonated commercial beverages damaging to the cells?
There is no love in the giant cold CO2 tanks that traverse long asphalt highways.
Dock into mass bottling plants and recharge depleted vessels with carbon dioxide.
My 'honey-do' list reads:
You will be father to all the children
Get everything that you don't want.
Paint and touch up large tribe of unknown Africans
Replace brain filters
I don't quit or stop along the wayside to chit-chat.
My dustpan is always full and my lower back is a hinge for an enormous door.
I am a dutiful creature. I revel in my insipid universe of stadium capacity loneliness.
Have you ever seen a picture of the Sombrero Galaxy?
The whole thing has reached enlightenment, no dark spiral arms.
It demonstrates the static harmonic wave resonance within the universe.
The idea of a linear event, 'big bang' is a mental trap for the wage slaves who
dwell as denizens on dim orbiting globs in makeshift habitats throughout creation.
My heart, a field of battle where all have been hurt and killed ad infinitum.
Looking for a wave of fresh love from the great heart of God while the dead and dying
transform their shape and compositions.
I feel as if I must design an interface device whereby I may communicate with the
ocean stingray. These alien creatures must be keeping tabs on quite a few events
of this planetary saga.
There is no home life. This deception is a medicated travesty of senile banking interests
and shareholding pressure cookers.
Managed compliance optimized by hopeless reflex response of the working class generations.
Moreover, it's become a life behind a dashboard. The construct is based in a distorted mythos
and dependence of members to become compliant or face ridicule and scorn.
There can be no home here if a fellow man is expending milliwatts of his cellular
engine on toil and anguish. The draw of misery quickens all men unto a demise unimagined
across all oceans and space.
Otherwise, I open my home to spiders. Some of which may have shrunken due to lack of
nourishment. I adore a nice tight juicy spider butt. They are wise and creative.
Know who, when and how to bite, if the need arises.
My home, it's a crawl space with eight foot ceilings.
Marc
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
The Mirabelle Tree
He called me and in between snorting air from his nose like a Taurus, he told me he planted a walnut tree.
Of course I was delighted. I loved nuts maybe even more than fruit because nuts never made my teeth hurt.
I asked him where he planted it and he said he planted it behind the cypress, where the mirabelle tree used to be.
I couldn't understand what he said because this mirabelle tree was standing the day I left.
"Well, where is the mirabelle tree?" my voice contorted with fear.
"I cut it down."
"You mean you cut down some branches?"
I couldn't believe that this sixty year old, dark-barked, corkscrew branched, privacy giving tree could possibly be the victim of such an act and by a man I was supposed to love. And I speak nothing of its gifts of golden, soft mirabelles so sweet, always with one side blushed dusty pink.
"No, I cut it down. It barely gave any fruit last year and besides, it had a fungal attack."
He couldn't have known that it was I who tiptoed downstairs, unlocking the door in the early morning hours to pick as many mirabelles as I could before his mom would wake up. I secretly popped the warm orbs into my mouth one by one, spitting the pits out all over the yard. Should I tell him it provided me with many secret summer breakfasts?
The tears welled up and I cried, the tears running into the receiver. I hung up.
The next day he called back. He said what was done was done, that the walnut tree was doing well and that he was sorry and that he collected mirabelle pits from the lawn and planted them in a pot.
I wasn't consoled at that moment. But the distance made me hurt for him again, so I went back.
I saw that auburn splintered stump next to the walnut tree. I tried to ignore it as we worked the vegetable patch those bright spring days.
I was away again when I got his call.
"The mirabelle tree has sprouted a limb."
I thought he meant the pits he had planted long ago had finally germinated. But he meant the stump, the roots, of the original tree were still alive and that they had sent up a spindly branch to the sun.
And a little place inside me I had bolted shut opened up a crack, this young tendril coiling its way inside, opening me a little more. It whispered, "life."
Of course I was delighted. I loved nuts maybe even more than fruit because nuts never made my teeth hurt.
I asked him where he planted it and he said he planted it behind the cypress, where the mirabelle tree used to be.
I couldn't understand what he said because this mirabelle tree was standing the day I left.
"Well, where is the mirabelle tree?" my voice contorted with fear.
"I cut it down."
"You mean you cut down some branches?"
I couldn't believe that this sixty year old, dark-barked, corkscrew branched, privacy giving tree could possibly be the victim of such an act and by a man I was supposed to love. And I speak nothing of its gifts of golden, soft mirabelles so sweet, always with one side blushed dusty pink.
"No, I cut it down. It barely gave any fruit last year and besides, it had a fungal attack."
He couldn't have known that it was I who tiptoed downstairs, unlocking the door in the early morning hours to pick as many mirabelles as I could before his mom would wake up. I secretly popped the warm orbs into my mouth one by one, spitting the pits out all over the yard. Should I tell him it provided me with many secret summer breakfasts?
The tears welled up and I cried, the tears running into the receiver. I hung up.
The next day he called back. He said what was done was done, that the walnut tree was doing well and that he was sorry and that he collected mirabelle pits from the lawn and planted them in a pot.
I wasn't consoled at that moment. But the distance made me hurt for him again, so I went back.
I saw that auburn splintered stump next to the walnut tree. I tried to ignore it as we worked the vegetable patch those bright spring days.
I was away again when I got his call.
"The mirabelle tree has sprouted a limb."
I thought he meant the pits he had planted long ago had finally germinated. But he meant the stump, the roots, of the original tree were still alive and that they had sent up a spindly branch to the sun.
And a little place inside me I had bolted shut opened up a crack, this young tendril coiling its way inside, opening me a little more. It whispered, "life."
the future empty swing - a homelife poem
Grasping your hand
And the whoop of your dress
Morning sunshine
Glazing the orchid sky
Posturing the stair upward
So you climb
And slide down
Misty words behind and all around
The grateful grass wets our feet
The finish of the woods
Like a hollow planet filled with wild things
You laugh and stick out your tongue
Snow falls in another world
Here we dance and cover our heads
A warrior and wizard
Together and walking this beautiful yard
Who joins us in the evening
Is anyone’s guess
Our land is open to any
And all guests
There are chairs edging the drive
Ten years down the line
Folded and wrapped with rust
But for now we fly our bodies ‘round
This future empty swing
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
A Special Message from Home Life
Home Life Presents: Culinary Q&A with Geir Ragnar
Home Life is pleased to announce Culinary Q&A with Geir Ragnar. In this new column, award winning chef and culinary mastermind, Geir Ragnar, will be answering questions from you, the reader.
Geir was born and raised in the seaport town of Akranes, Iceland. At the age of ten, Geir’s father was killed in an accident at the aluminum smelting plant where he was employed. Geir’s mother assumed the role of the primary breadwinner for the family, and worked night and day in order to give her five children a good life. Geir, seeing his mother exhausted after a long day at work, began cooking and preparing all the meals for his family.
After learning traditional Icelandic recipes and experimenting with new ingredients and flavors, Geir knew he wanted to become a chef. Geir attended Le Cordon Blue in Paris, France and completed his culinary education at the top of his class. After graduating from Le Cordon Blue, Geir returned to Iceland and was inspired to open his own restaurant; the world renowned Restaurant Lækjarbrekka.
Now, as a modern Icelandic chef, Geir is known for placing an emphasis on the quality of the available ingredients rather than age-old cooking traditions and methods. As a three-time winner of the annual Food and Fun chef’s competition, Geir Ragnar has established himself as one of Iceland’s most innovative chef’s.
Home Life is delighted to give you the chance to get advice and opinions from one of the most influential Icelandic chef’s of our generation. If you have a culinary question or would like to know Geir’s thoughts on ingredients, techniques, tools, or traditions, please submit your questions to homelife.geirragnar@gmail.com; and be sure to check our next issue to see if Geir responds to your question.
Home Life is pleased to announce Culinary Q&A with Geir Ragnar. In this new column, award winning chef and culinary mastermind, Geir Ragnar, will be answering questions from you, the reader.Geir was born and raised in the seaport town of Akranes, Iceland. At the age of ten, Geir’s father was killed in an accident at the aluminum smelting plant where he was employed. Geir’s mother assumed the role of the primary breadwinner for the family, and worked night and day in order to give her five children a good life. Geir, seeing his mother exhausted after a long day at work, began cooking and preparing all the meals for his family.
After learning traditional Icelandic recipes and experimenting with new ingredients and flavors, Geir knew he wanted to become a chef. Geir attended Le Cordon Blue in Paris, France and completed his culinary education at the top of his class. After graduating from Le Cordon Blue, Geir returned to Iceland and was inspired to open his own restaurant; the world renowned Restaurant Lækjarbrekka.
Now, as a modern Icelandic chef, Geir is known for placing an emphasis on the quality of the available ingredients rather than age-old cooking traditions and methods. As a three-time winner of the annual Food and Fun chef’s competition, Geir Ragnar has established himself as one of Iceland’s most innovative chef’s.
Home Life is delighted to give you the chance to get advice and opinions from one of the most influential Icelandic chef’s of our generation. If you have a culinary question or would like to know Geir’s thoughts on ingredients, techniques, tools, or traditions, please submit your questions to homelife.geirragnar@gmail.com; and be sure to check our next issue to see if Geir responds to your question.
Monday, August 4, 2008
NEW ASSIGNMENT
What a pleasure to read all of our entries from the last topic! Wow!
The new assignment is to write an article for a "magazine" called Home Life.
Let go, be careless and reckless and generate an article based on any aspect of life in the home.
assignment due 26th of august!
The new assignment is to write an article for a "magazine" called Home Life.
Let go, be careless and reckless and generate an article based on any aspect of life in the home.
assignment due 26th of august!
Saturday, July 26, 2008
"It's a good thing"
I'm really happy with our writing group. Sorry my post was so long, I couldn't seem to cut it down.
I love to scroll down the blog and see all of the text that's there from everyone's wonderful stories!
What new assignments might we encounter next? .....Anyone?....
I love to scroll down the blog and see all of the text that's there from everyone's wonderful stories!
What new assignments might we encounter next? .....Anyone?....
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Faux Newspaper Piece
Ghost of Barney Pressman
by Carly Simone - Manhattan Daily Press
As a twenty-something, I scoffed at the concept of spirit worlds and life after death and wanted nothing more than to surround myself with people of the same notion; those who were rational thinkers, independent from any “higher source” like myself. I felt more empowered seeing my life as a mistake - a cog in a meaningless wheel. There was power in a life meant for personal, even selfish, pursuits. I didn’t spend time worrying about the effects of my actions or what my decisions on earth would cause in some afterlife. I grew up in a wealthy family and reveled in the thought that I’d live my adulthood in the same high class world, living it out for my own gratification and success.
My parents passed down to me and my brothers a strong and healthy respect for money, and a drive to work hard. As teens we each took summer jobs to learn the basic values the working world had to teach us. We didn’t need the money, so instead of putting our hard earned cash toward savings we’d head to the center of the Big Apple to bite at the core of a delicious and juicy shopping experience every weekend. My brothers Tom and Guy would head to the cafes to meet girls while my eldest brother Tad, the fashion savvy one of the bunch, would meet me at Barneys New York.
Aside from being the place to find the most indulgent fashions, it was like a religious experience for us; the closest we ever came to attending a church. Clothing displays were like altars, designers like deities. You could get lost in the holiness of Amberton Wilke’s tempered leather boots and the exotic scent of “Rimi One” by African perfumer Claz Nubo. It was my Manhattan Barneys that introduced me to Ermeneglido Zegna, and Manolo Blahnik, Diane von Furstenberg and Gucci. But it was also to become the place where a most unforeseen event would occur that would shake me of my beliefs, or lack thereof, and change my life forever.
It was only ten days before Christmas in the year 2000. I had just turned the big Three-O, and still recovering from an intoxicating birthday bash thrown by a friend the night before, I decided to buy myself some new facial cleanser at Barney’s before I headed back to my apartment for some much needed sleep. I groggily pushed through the mass of holiday consumers outside on the sidewalk and made my way through the entrance, following the divine scent of chocolate-pecan coffee being served at the Chanel makeup counter. Nearby, people were standing together, all aglow with warmth and holiday chatter. I walked over and began sampling some new perfumes and crèmes, when all of the sudden I became aware of my surroundings on a much larger scale than I was used to. I had the strange ability to utilize new senses. I felt the excitement of the children outside who stood in front of the magical window display where Santa and his reindeer aimed for the sky. I heard a newlywed speaking to his wife over a cell phone, describing what a wonderful first Christmas they were going to share together as husband and wife, and I felt her powerful emotion on the other end. I heard a jazz musician playing his soulful saxophone on Manhattan Avenue and felt the numbness in his fingers, frigid with the December cold.
I never questioned this experience while it was happening, I just let it overwhelm me and fill me with awe. Until suddenly, like a piece of small feather being pushed in front of a fan, I began to float upward, headfirst toward the ceiling, and soon had full view of the entire store below me. I felt a strong urge to yell out for help but couldn’t speak when I tried. I frantically looked around, left and right, up and down, to find the cause of this strange occurrence. I was out of my body and desperate to come down. Then, just as suddenly as it all began, my body stopped moving; suspended in an unknown realm. Everything around me turned to pure white light, and a calming silence fell over my ears. Then, a small wooden staircase was presented from out of the bright light. Slowly manifesting into the whiteness, it became solid and real. At this point, baffled and in awe of everything I decided it wouldn’t hurt to lift my foot and see what where the stairs would lead. I took five careful steps, feeling more and more at ease with each one. My body felt as weightless as cloud, and I had the amazing mental ability to feel my life, as if it were a small rock. It had sharp edges that could cut you and make your fingers bleed, and there were very few smooth spots. I had the overwhelming sensation that the rest of my life was to be lived “to smooth out the stone.” My intuition told me that other people who had made it to thirty years of age had many more smooth edges on their stones than I did, so I made a pact with myself to live more consciously and lovingly from that point forward.
As I was pondering these new sensations and abilities, I heard a male voice exclaim vibrantly from what seemed like a hidden speaker system. “Welcome!” I looked around to try and find the man, and peering hard through the gleaming whiteness, I made out the silhouette of a figure holding something out to me. As he slowly came more into view I saw that he held out a pair of black fur muffs. With gracious intention he announced, “Warm your hands, with the finest mink muffs you’ll ever feel”. I realized there was quite a chill in the air, so I slipped them on savoring their warmth and softness. I thanked him and he offered for me to take a seat, just as a fancy chair appeared. I sunk down into it, luxuriating in the feel of gently aged suede. When I looked up at him again, I noticed he had caught me admiring his vintage taste. Stylish and refined, he stood still as if from out of an old photograph. “I like your style,” I gloated, hoping to humor him. His response startled me when he said confidently that he was very well aware of that. “Wow! Who is this man?” I thought to myself. He then casually added, “You shop my style, dear.” He brought a dark wooden pipe to his slender lips and took a small puff. I didn’t quite get where he was coming from, but before I said a word I spotted a large white pin on the left lapel of his suit that read “No Bunk, No Junk, No Imitations”.
“That’s Barney’s slogan from the 20’s!” I spurted out. He chuckled warmly and responded by saying, “It is indeed. I am closely familiar with it.” This man was mysterious and odd, but not quite as odd as my weightless body and the new strange world I had floated into. I shifted in the chair to feel less awkward. “I mean, I hate to date myself…but one should give credit where credit is due, correct?” He looked at me with a smile and his big blue eyes twinkled with a youthfulness I had never seen in an older gentleman. I sat there looking up at him, a tall proud man who very well could have…wait one minute! Could this be? Barney Pressman?! It was suddenly as clear as the glass face on his Tru Gold pocket watch. “You wrote that slogan, then?” I asked him exuberantly. “You are the Barney??”
“Mr. Pressman. Barney. Please, address me by the latter.” he stated.
“Wow Mr. Pressman…uh…Barney, sir…I don’t know what to say. So much has just happened.” I paused for a moment. “Why am I here? Where am I?”
He went on to reassure me that I was not dead, and that I would be back to my normal self before I knew it. He thanked me for being such a loyal customer of his store, and he laughed when I asked if I could look at one of his wholesale catalogs. He was charming and kind, and had a simple elegance that probably graced his whole generation. He described that he always had a strong interest in business and as a young man he saved up money to open a small bargain shop that offered discount prices for high quality clothing. He had seen some initial startup success, but within a year of opening he was in danger of going out of business. He reminisced about how his wife Claire had saved the business from going under with one of her many ingenious ideas. When I asked how she did it, he took a deep and yet shaky breath and then walked slowly over to me without speaking. He got down on one knee next to my chair, focused his eyes on my left hand, and gently took it up in his. “This ring.” he said with a forlorn look in his eye. “This ring saved us.” His eyes met mine.
I looked down at my hand, “My emerald ring?” I ran my finger over the delicate gold band, and noticed the tiny green stone was sparkling more than usual.
“This was Claire’s wedding ring. We pawned it in 1923 to make some quick cash. ” He gazed at the ring like it was an old friend he thought he’d never see again.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Whoa, hold on. Is this really…for real?” I pulled my hand off of his gently. “You mean to say I have your wife’s ring?!”
“The very one.” he said assuredly.
“How did this happen? I mean, you pawned this ring way back then…”
“It was always meant for a special girl, it has stayed true to that. That I do know.”
I sat there next to him, both in extreme shock and pure familiarity and love. I felt like I had been blessed by an invisible force, and that I was a part of a secret universal plan. I had been sucked into a whirlwind of synchronicity of a magnitude beyond any single event I had ever had in my life. And joining me, a man of great influence, success, and style. An American icon, a force of nature…the namesake of a store that had brought me so much joy. He described how his wife demanded he pawn the ring, even though she was very fond of it. It was that one small selfless act that resulted in unimaginable long term success for the Pressman family.
“How much did you get for the ring, may I ask?” I said, still baffled by this incredible news.
“It got us five hundred dollars, which helped us bring in fresh inventory and clean up the storefront.”
“Your store is thriving almost a century later, due to this one small stone. This is unbelievable. The ring…I have to give it back, it’s yours.” I began to twist it off of my finger but he quickly put his warm hands over mine, ensuring it stay with me. I closed my eyes and lowered my head in gratitude. A great warmth washed over me, like a sudden ray of liquid sun broke through a cloud and poured down. And then everything went dark.
“Would you like to remove your ring?” I heard a new and unfamiliar voice ask. “Ma’am?” The voice spoke again. When I tried to open my eyes, they felt like they’d been glued shut. When I tried to respond to the voice, I had no ability to speak. I was hanging in a darkness that went on infinitely. And then suddenly my body shifted into what felt like a long corset, making me feel stiff and trapped. I tried to open my eyes again and again, finally reaching relief. My eyelids lifted and I had crystal vision, as if my eyes been replaced with brand new ones. All of my senses were back to normal, but they made me feel so limited and constrained. I realized I was back in my body, grounded in reality again.
I was back at the Chanel counter in Barneys, standing before a woman who held out a tester of Neroli hand cream in anticipation of my sampling it.
“Oh…” My small voice felt like it escaped my mouth like a trapped fly. Had she been waiting for me all that time I was with Barney? I wondered, looking at her small, sad face.
“Your ring, let me remove it for you.” The woman began to reach out hastily for my hand. I looked down at the tiny ring on my pale finger. I still felt the warmth of Barney’s hand on mine.
“No.” I pulled my hands to my sides. “It’s alright.” I picked my cup of coffee from off of the counter, and watched as the steam rose up toward me, as if I had just poured it. “Have a nice holiday.” I said as I walked quickly away from the crowded counter. I needed to get to higher ground.
How long had I been out of my body, or had I really gone anywhere at all? The longer I thought about meeting Barney the more it seemed like a dream. I wanted to ask the people around me if they had witnessed anything strange. I looked down at my ring. Could it be true that Barney’s wife once wore it, calling it her own? Was that a figment of my imagination? Something I made up to feel I have a special purpose? Maybe it was my sleep deprivation that caused it all. But even if it were all imagined, I felt like I had been renewed in a way I had never before experienced. I had a spring in my step and was mentally rejuvenated. I walked over to the escalator to move up to the second floor, where I hoped to find a quiet place to sit and think away from all of the noise and disturbance. I rode the escalator to the top, but as I stepped off I slipped on something slick, almost wiping out in front of a great many shoppers. I regained control of myself and postured myself upright, aside from my head which I kept down to prevent any eye contact with those who must have seen me. That’s when I noticed the piece of literature that must have caused my fall. I leaned down and picked it up as gracefully and inconspicuously as I could. Turning it over, I noticed it was some sort of store brochure that I had never before seen. An old black and white photograph graced the front, of a young man and woman standing to the left of a large window front. The man looked unusually familiar and I was sure I had seen his picture somewhere before. As I studied the brochure more, it became clear that this was a picture of Barney and Claire as a young couple. Chills ran down my neck and spine, and my fingers began to tingle, almost causing me to drop everything. I felt a connection to a man and woman in a photo taken nearly eighty years ago, as if they were my dear friends. My eyes shifted down the brochure to a box with bright green font running along the bottom, “Emerald Ring Foundation: Free Educational Programs for Young Entrepreneurs in New York City -est. 1991 by Barneys New York in honor of the late Barney Pressman”
I couldn’t stop reading the words. It was like my eyes were on a typewriter reel, being pushed back over and over again. Emerald Ring…Emerald Ring?! The ring they are talking about is on my finger! It was a true and obvious sign that a miracle had occurred, and the overwhelming, paralyzing love I felt was the result of it. I wanted to call my family, and describe this unbelievable experience. I wanted everyone to know, even the strangers that surrounded me. I had never before believed in paranormal or spiritual worlds, but suddenly I knew that they were all around me. I had witnessed life outside of my common reality, and met someone with a truly angelic spirit.
The powerful gem of this miraculous experience sat delicately on my finger, an unlikely remnant that had changed both the history of fashion and my life in a profound way. It works daily as a great reminder for me to be conscious of every choice I make, and to make decisions based on compassion and selflessness. The ghost of Barney Pressman revealed to me that I was a precious cog in a most magnificent wheel. I couldn’t wait for life to package up a new transcendent surprise for me; the kind of gift I was now open to receive. No handbag or hot new designer had ever made me feel that divine.
Licenses taken:
*Barney Pressman did actually pawn his wife’s wedding ring in 1923 for $500 to stay in business, but I fictionalized the type of ring it was. I also made up his wife’s name.
*The Emerald Ring Foundation does not exist.
*“No Bunk, No Junk, No Imitations” was Barney’s original slogan in the 1920’s and Barney did indeed pass away in 1991.
*Amberton Wilke’s tempered leather boots and the exotic scent of “Rimi One” by African perfumer Claz Nubo are both of my imagination
by Carly Simone - Manhattan Daily Press
As a twenty-something, I scoffed at the concept of spirit worlds and life after death and wanted nothing more than to surround myself with people of the same notion; those who were rational thinkers, independent from any “higher source” like myself. I felt more empowered seeing my life as a mistake - a cog in a meaningless wheel. There was power in a life meant for personal, even selfish, pursuits. I didn’t spend time worrying about the effects of my actions or what my decisions on earth would cause in some afterlife. I grew up in a wealthy family and reveled in the thought that I’d live my adulthood in the same high class world, living it out for my own gratification and success.
My parents passed down to me and my brothers a strong and healthy respect for money, and a drive to work hard. As teens we each took summer jobs to learn the basic values the working world had to teach us. We didn’t need the money, so instead of putting our hard earned cash toward savings we’d head to the center of the Big Apple to bite at the core of a delicious and juicy shopping experience every weekend. My brothers Tom and Guy would head to the cafes to meet girls while my eldest brother Tad, the fashion savvy one of the bunch, would meet me at Barneys New York.
Aside from being the place to find the most indulgent fashions, it was like a religious experience for us; the closest we ever came to attending a church. Clothing displays were like altars, designers like deities. You could get lost in the holiness of Amberton Wilke’s tempered leather boots and the exotic scent of “Rimi One” by African perfumer Claz Nubo. It was my Manhattan Barneys that introduced me to Ermeneglido Zegna, and Manolo Blahnik, Diane von Furstenberg and Gucci. But it was also to become the place where a most unforeseen event would occur that would shake me of my beliefs, or lack thereof, and change my life forever.
It was only ten days before Christmas in the year 2000. I had just turned the big Three-O, and still recovering from an intoxicating birthday bash thrown by a friend the night before, I decided to buy myself some new facial cleanser at Barney’s before I headed back to my apartment for some much needed sleep. I groggily pushed through the mass of holiday consumers outside on the sidewalk and made my way through the entrance, following the divine scent of chocolate-pecan coffee being served at the Chanel makeup counter. Nearby, people were standing together, all aglow with warmth and holiday chatter. I walked over and began sampling some new perfumes and crèmes, when all of the sudden I became aware of my surroundings on a much larger scale than I was used to. I had the strange ability to utilize new senses. I felt the excitement of the children outside who stood in front of the magical window display where Santa and his reindeer aimed for the sky. I heard a newlywed speaking to his wife over a cell phone, describing what a wonderful first Christmas they were going to share together as husband and wife, and I felt her powerful emotion on the other end. I heard a jazz musician playing his soulful saxophone on Manhattan Avenue and felt the numbness in his fingers, frigid with the December cold.
I never questioned this experience while it was happening, I just let it overwhelm me and fill me with awe. Until suddenly, like a piece of small feather being pushed in front of a fan, I began to float upward, headfirst toward the ceiling, and soon had full view of the entire store below me. I felt a strong urge to yell out for help but couldn’t speak when I tried. I frantically looked around, left and right, up and down, to find the cause of this strange occurrence. I was out of my body and desperate to come down. Then, just as suddenly as it all began, my body stopped moving; suspended in an unknown realm. Everything around me turned to pure white light, and a calming silence fell over my ears. Then, a small wooden staircase was presented from out of the bright light. Slowly manifesting into the whiteness, it became solid and real. At this point, baffled and in awe of everything I decided it wouldn’t hurt to lift my foot and see what where the stairs would lead. I took five careful steps, feeling more and more at ease with each one. My body felt as weightless as cloud, and I had the amazing mental ability to feel my life, as if it were a small rock. It had sharp edges that could cut you and make your fingers bleed, and there were very few smooth spots. I had the overwhelming sensation that the rest of my life was to be lived “to smooth out the stone.” My intuition told me that other people who had made it to thirty years of age had many more smooth edges on their stones than I did, so I made a pact with myself to live more consciously and lovingly from that point forward.
As I was pondering these new sensations and abilities, I heard a male voice exclaim vibrantly from what seemed like a hidden speaker system. “Welcome!” I looked around to try and find the man, and peering hard through the gleaming whiteness, I made out the silhouette of a figure holding something out to me. As he slowly came more into view I saw that he held out a pair of black fur muffs. With gracious intention he announced, “Warm your hands, with the finest mink muffs you’ll ever feel”. I realized there was quite a chill in the air, so I slipped them on savoring their warmth and softness. I thanked him and he offered for me to take a seat, just as a fancy chair appeared. I sunk down into it, luxuriating in the feel of gently aged suede. When I looked up at him again, I noticed he had caught me admiring his vintage taste. Stylish and refined, he stood still as if from out of an old photograph. “I like your style,” I gloated, hoping to humor him. His response startled me when he said confidently that he was very well aware of that. “Wow! Who is this man?” I thought to myself. He then casually added, “You shop my style, dear.” He brought a dark wooden pipe to his slender lips and took a small puff. I didn’t quite get where he was coming from, but before I said a word I spotted a large white pin on the left lapel of his suit that read “No Bunk, No Junk, No Imitations”.
“That’s Barney’s slogan from the 20’s!” I spurted out. He chuckled warmly and responded by saying, “It is indeed. I am closely familiar with it.” This man was mysterious and odd, but not quite as odd as my weightless body and the new strange world I had floated into. I shifted in the chair to feel less awkward. “I mean, I hate to date myself…but one should give credit where credit is due, correct?” He looked at me with a smile and his big blue eyes twinkled with a youthfulness I had never seen in an older gentleman. I sat there looking up at him, a tall proud man who very well could have…wait one minute! Could this be? Barney Pressman?! It was suddenly as clear as the glass face on his Tru Gold pocket watch. “You wrote that slogan, then?” I asked him exuberantly. “You are the Barney??”
“Mr. Pressman. Barney. Please, address me by the latter.” he stated.
“Wow Mr. Pressman…uh…Barney, sir…I don’t know what to say. So much has just happened.” I paused for a moment. “Why am I here? Where am I?”
He went on to reassure me that I was not dead, and that I would be back to my normal self before I knew it. He thanked me for being such a loyal customer of his store, and he laughed when I asked if I could look at one of his wholesale catalogs. He was charming and kind, and had a simple elegance that probably graced his whole generation. He described that he always had a strong interest in business and as a young man he saved up money to open a small bargain shop that offered discount prices for high quality clothing. He had seen some initial startup success, but within a year of opening he was in danger of going out of business. He reminisced about how his wife Claire had saved the business from going under with one of her many ingenious ideas. When I asked how she did it, he took a deep and yet shaky breath and then walked slowly over to me without speaking. He got down on one knee next to my chair, focused his eyes on my left hand, and gently took it up in his. “This ring.” he said with a forlorn look in his eye. “This ring saved us.” His eyes met mine.
I looked down at my hand, “My emerald ring?” I ran my finger over the delicate gold band, and noticed the tiny green stone was sparkling more than usual.
“This was Claire’s wedding ring. We pawned it in 1923 to make some quick cash. ” He gazed at the ring like it was an old friend he thought he’d never see again.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Whoa, hold on. Is this really…for real?” I pulled my hand off of his gently. “You mean to say I have your wife’s ring?!”
“The very one.” he said assuredly.
“How did this happen? I mean, you pawned this ring way back then…”
“It was always meant for a special girl, it has stayed true to that. That I do know.”
I sat there next to him, both in extreme shock and pure familiarity and love. I felt like I had been blessed by an invisible force, and that I was a part of a secret universal plan. I had been sucked into a whirlwind of synchronicity of a magnitude beyond any single event I had ever had in my life. And joining me, a man of great influence, success, and style. An American icon, a force of nature…the namesake of a store that had brought me so much joy. He described how his wife demanded he pawn the ring, even though she was very fond of it. It was that one small selfless act that resulted in unimaginable long term success for the Pressman family.
“How much did you get for the ring, may I ask?” I said, still baffled by this incredible news.
“It got us five hundred dollars, which helped us bring in fresh inventory and clean up the storefront.”
“Your store is thriving almost a century later, due to this one small stone. This is unbelievable. The ring…I have to give it back, it’s yours.” I began to twist it off of my finger but he quickly put his warm hands over mine, ensuring it stay with me. I closed my eyes and lowered my head in gratitude. A great warmth washed over me, like a sudden ray of liquid sun broke through a cloud and poured down. And then everything went dark.
“Would you like to remove your ring?” I heard a new and unfamiliar voice ask. “Ma’am?” The voice spoke again. When I tried to open my eyes, they felt like they’d been glued shut. When I tried to respond to the voice, I had no ability to speak. I was hanging in a darkness that went on infinitely. And then suddenly my body shifted into what felt like a long corset, making me feel stiff and trapped. I tried to open my eyes again and again, finally reaching relief. My eyelids lifted and I had crystal vision, as if my eyes been replaced with brand new ones. All of my senses were back to normal, but they made me feel so limited and constrained. I realized I was back in my body, grounded in reality again.
I was back at the Chanel counter in Barneys, standing before a woman who held out a tester of Neroli hand cream in anticipation of my sampling it.
“Oh…” My small voice felt like it escaped my mouth like a trapped fly. Had she been waiting for me all that time I was with Barney? I wondered, looking at her small, sad face.
“Your ring, let me remove it for you.” The woman began to reach out hastily for my hand. I looked down at the tiny ring on my pale finger. I still felt the warmth of Barney’s hand on mine.
“No.” I pulled my hands to my sides. “It’s alright.” I picked my cup of coffee from off of the counter, and watched as the steam rose up toward me, as if I had just poured it. “Have a nice holiday.” I said as I walked quickly away from the crowded counter. I needed to get to higher ground.
How long had I been out of my body, or had I really gone anywhere at all? The longer I thought about meeting Barney the more it seemed like a dream. I wanted to ask the people around me if they had witnessed anything strange. I looked down at my ring. Could it be true that Barney’s wife once wore it, calling it her own? Was that a figment of my imagination? Something I made up to feel I have a special purpose? Maybe it was my sleep deprivation that caused it all. But even if it were all imagined, I felt like I had been renewed in a way I had never before experienced. I had a spring in my step and was mentally rejuvenated. I walked over to the escalator to move up to the second floor, where I hoped to find a quiet place to sit and think away from all of the noise and disturbance. I rode the escalator to the top, but as I stepped off I slipped on something slick, almost wiping out in front of a great many shoppers. I regained control of myself and postured myself upright, aside from my head which I kept down to prevent any eye contact with those who must have seen me. That’s when I noticed the piece of literature that must have caused my fall. I leaned down and picked it up as gracefully and inconspicuously as I could. Turning it over, I noticed it was some sort of store brochure that I had never before seen. An old black and white photograph graced the front, of a young man and woman standing to the left of a large window front. The man looked unusually familiar and I was sure I had seen his picture somewhere before. As I studied the brochure more, it became clear that this was a picture of Barney and Claire as a young couple. Chills ran down my neck and spine, and my fingers began to tingle, almost causing me to drop everything. I felt a connection to a man and woman in a photo taken nearly eighty years ago, as if they were my dear friends. My eyes shifted down the brochure to a box with bright green font running along the bottom, “Emerald Ring Foundation: Free Educational Programs for Young Entrepreneurs in New York City -est. 1991 by Barneys New York in honor of the late Barney Pressman”
I couldn’t stop reading the words. It was like my eyes were on a typewriter reel, being pushed back over and over again. Emerald Ring…Emerald Ring?! The ring they are talking about is on my finger! It was a true and obvious sign that a miracle had occurred, and the overwhelming, paralyzing love I felt was the result of it. I wanted to call my family, and describe this unbelievable experience. I wanted everyone to know, even the strangers that surrounded me. I had never before believed in paranormal or spiritual worlds, but suddenly I knew that they were all around me. I had witnessed life outside of my common reality, and met someone with a truly angelic spirit.
The powerful gem of this miraculous experience sat delicately on my finger, an unlikely remnant that had changed both the history of fashion and my life in a profound way. It works daily as a great reminder for me to be conscious of every choice I make, and to make decisions based on compassion and selflessness. The ghost of Barney Pressman revealed to me that I was a precious cog in a most magnificent wheel. I couldn’t wait for life to package up a new transcendent surprise for me; the kind of gift I was now open to receive. No handbag or hot new designer had ever made me feel that divine.
Licenses taken:
*Barney Pressman did actually pawn his wife’s wedding ring in 1923 for $500 to stay in business, but I fictionalized the type of ring it was. I also made up his wife’s name.
*The Emerald Ring Foundation does not exist.
*“No Bunk, No Junk, No Imitations” was Barney’s original slogan in the 1920’s and Barney did indeed pass away in 1991.
*Amberton Wilke’s tempered leather boots and the exotic scent of “Rimi One” by African perfumer Claz Nubo are both of my imagination
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