Titles, Inc.

Documentary in the Works

A documentary on Nelson Algren was filmed at Titles in Highland Park. At least a portion of the film. Being interviewed were ME, Art Shay (again) and surprise!, rock star Billy Corgan (Smashing Pumpkins).

Me first. They had to move the huge light stand to get my wheelchair in position. “Don’t look at the camera,” cautioned interviewer and producer Michael Caplan, Associate Professor and an Associate Chair of the Film & Video Department at Columbia College. “Address your answers to me.” Good advice – when I see Art’s camera aimed at me, I direct my most beguiling smile to this lens.

Since Nelson Algren hung out at our house long ago, Caplan was looking to me for some human interest. The first answer set the tone of our interview and was not what he was anticipating. He asked, “What was Nelson’s personality like?” “Personality?” I repeated. “He didn’t have one.” Mike baffled, just looked at me. I said “He didn’t have a Presence.” When he came to the house, we didn’t say, “oh look, Nelson’s here. He was just there.”

I had a few anecdotes to relate: Nelson shows up to join us at a party we will be going to. He asks, “Is this alright? I couldn’t find a belt.” He was referring to the rope through the belt loops. For Nelson it was alright. Do you think I’d let Art out with a rope?

Then Art, who has had two books published about Algren, “Nelson Algren’s Chicago,” and the second one, “Chicago’s Nelson Algren’s.” (No comment about the publisher’s choice of title on the second book – don’t get me started) was interviewed again with new questions.

Then Billy Corgan sat in the chair under the big lights. He had read all of Algren’s books and discussed them and how they related to his own life and this music. He discussed Nelson’s place in literary history. He spoke fluidly, explaining Nelson and his works.

We listened in awe at the scholarship of his presentation.

Thank goodness that’s not the Bily I know. The Billy I know buys books and chats. This other Billy is intimidating.

--- Florence

Celebrating, Mexican Style

We knew we were at the right house even though the numbers were too small to read because we could see clusters of people at the far end of the long driveway. As we approached we heard the strident music of a Mexican band and there they were – three trumpets blaring and a violin (at one side) and three guitars at the other facing side.

As I rolled between them I saw how elegantly they were costumed, black pants, white shirts, crisp white bolero jackets (although the super-fat trumpeter’s jacket made no attempt to meet at the middle). The large fuschia bows at the necks added a jaunty touch. I smiled kindly at them as I rolled through in my wheel chair. They were playing so loud and earnestly even though I was certain each was playing from a different song in his head. It sounded that way to me the entire evening, although they did begin and end at the same beat.

Then we approached the long table where several people were seated eating from the very many bowls lining it. Our host greeted us and encouraged us to sit down and partake of the large variety of Mexican food. I ate mostly guacamole. The bowl was decorated with two exquisite flowers hardly recognizable as the tomatoes they were. And whimsically the avocado pit was in the spicy mix too.

I whispered to a friend that since there were no napkins, was it fair to wipe my fingers on the runner down the center of the table? He jumped up and brought me a stack from the well laden bar on the back lawn although he had to tiptoe through the tomato plants to get there.

After eating from all the bowls that kept arriving on our long table, along comes a big truck down their driveway. Ovens are unloaded and tables are set up in the garage for the ovens and several Mexican ladies start cooking tacos. The truck forced the band onto the back lawn at my shoulder where they clustered in a group trampling down some garden growth. Now I noticed that one of the horn players was a vocalist. He had a little mike at his neck. I think he was good.

At one point the host’s daughter joined the band singing the Mexican song. It was a lovely moment. The only song I could catch a beat to was "Roll Out the Barrel." What?

We left before the birthday cake for the 50th birthday of our young host was brought out. I wonder what a Mexican birthday cake looks like?

---Florence

 

Big News

Bye bye rehab nursing home where I spent the last 100 days. My doctor had been urging me to leave the comfort of lying about to get out to a more challenging environment.

I can’t go home because home is a split level with lots of stairs I cannot negotiate yet and I do not want to be isolated in my bedroom – even though I will have access to the rest of the world with the computer on the desk.

So listen to this – we checked into the Embassy Suites! Art will hang out with me. It is seven minutes from home, so he can be back and forth.

There are ramps all over leading to the restaurants which are cleverly centered in the building. Will I be able to control the wheel chair or will it merrily roll down and away? I doubt I’ll have the strength to push uphill. Fortunately, Art will be on hand.

The lady showing us around kept repeating they have a six o’clock social hour.

From rehab straight to party time!

Oh yes, most important – a very rigorous three times a week, hourly sessions of physical therapy.

---Florence

Rehab. Vignettes.

1. Knees High

In physical therapy a lady is sitting slumped in the wheelchair, her head lying sideways on her shoulders, rather buried there, eyes closed. What is this sad little body doing in PT? As I watch, the PT trainer says, “Left knee up 10 times, one” and up came the left knee high. She did her count of 10 and proceeded with the right. She did all the leg exercises with vigor and precision --- the body never moving. Amazing.

2. Rolling Blind

She rolls through the hallways endlessly, her eyes closed. She’ll often rolls into any room with an open door. If I’m in bed, I ring for someone to steer her out, otherwise I turn her around. One day she came in and kept pressing forward into the chair against the wall. She appears to be falling out so I rolled over and pushed her back into her chair screaming, “Nurse” while she hollered, “Help!” The nurse wheeled her away and told me she was tied into the chair.

So today when she came upon two of us in our chairs discussing whether it was too hot to sit outside on the porch, this person, still with eyes closed, rolling towards us says, “Move, you’re blocking me.”

Now my turn to almost fall out of my chair. None of it makes sense.

---Florence