I guess I just like books I can connect to — and I’m finding a lot to connect to in Loving Frank by Nancy Horan.

Growing up in Northern Illinois, I could not help but at least be aware of Frank Lloyd Wright. Driving past Fabyan Forest Preserve in Geneva always elicited a mention of the house that Frank built by whomever was in the car. Because the only thing I really remembered about Fabyan Forest Preserve was the large Dutch-style windmill, I thought Frank Lloyd Wright built buildings that looked like windmills. Luckily, before I could make a fool of myself, I learned that Frank Lloyd Wright built other kinds of buildings. Although it seems, he did build a windmill after all! I may or may not have seen the actual house built by Wright at Fabyan Forest Preserve. I’m guessing not.

Anyway, in the early 1980’s a friend moved to Oak Park, Illinois and I had the chance to walk the streets there and see some of the homes built by Wright. I don’t remember being terribly impressed — except that Frank Lloyd Wright was famous and I was walking the area where he once walked.

Then, on one of my birthdays while we lived in Pittsburgh, my soon-to-be husband took me to see Fallingwater near Ohiopyle State Park. I finally realized why Wright was made such a big deal of. His arcitecture fit in with the natural surroundings. I’ve since been back there a few times and have visited a few other buildings designed by the man.

So, none of that — except the Oak Park part is why I’m loving this book. Or maybe all of it is plus some other things.  As I said before, it is all about connections.

On page 28 of the book the narrator mentions Lorado Taft. Now, I may or may not have come across that name in The Devil in the White City, but I cannot find it in the index. It turns out that Lorado Taft was a reknown sculptor and friend of Frank Lloyd Wright and not the outdoor education enthuasiast and Native American researcher I’ve always believed him to be.

Why would I have such a misconception? Here’s why — Students in the teacher education program of Northern Illinois University were (maybe still are?) required to take an outdoor education seminar. The location for the seminar was, and still is, at Lorado Taft Field Campus in Oregon, Illinois. This seminar, although I dreaded it, was one of the highlights of my college experience. I was not a birder at this time, but watching the bird banding demonstration might have planted the seeds for my interest in birds. I was afraid of heights, but the repelling exercise down the side of a tall wooden building made me realize I could do things like that when few others would. I also remember learning basic tree identification — and I’m still interested in that.

So, I figured that Lorado Taft was the name of whomever founded the outdoor education facility in Oregon, Illinois. I thought he liked Native Americans because of the very tall Blackhawk statue near the entrance to the campus.

It turns out that Lorado Taft Field Campus used to be Eagle’s Nest Art Colony which was founded by the famous sculptor Lorado Taft whose Blackhawk statue overlooks the grounds.

It is highly possible that they told us all about this at the time, but obviously I was not listening.

I wonder what else I’ve missed in my life by not listening or not paying attention. Probably a lot.  We’ve got friends whose relatives own a Frank Lloyd Wright house and they’ve converted it into a B&B. We’re planning on spending a night there sometime — perhaps for our 25th wedding anniversary celebration.

Man — this post is pretty convoluted and messy. Oh well, I’ve got a book to finish.

It’s Indian Summer here in the DC area. How do I know? I know because we had a frost and now the weather’s turned warm again. That’s my definition of Indian Summer. Other people have different definitions, but I’m sticking to mine.

When I lived in Illinois, the sure sign that winter was coming was the Chicago Tribune’s annual “Injun Summer” cartoon by John T. McCutcheon on the front of their Sunday magazine (if I recall properly). I’m pretty sure that now it is considered a politically incorrect view of this weather phenomenon and I don’t know if the Trib still runs this in the fall, but you can purchase a copy for $5.95 from their store.

I always looked forward to that cartoon. It meant Halloween was on the way and Thanksgiving not too far behind. It was a tradition in a time that traditions were becoming rarer. My first taste of nostalgia perhaps — a reminder of what the summer was like, and would be again after the cold winter of the Midwest.

I was thinking yesterday about golden birthdays and wondering if my family was the only one to celebrate them. (an Internet search returned several results including definitions, a marketing site, some blog posts, a photograph, bulletin board messages, a newspaper article, and a band — so I guess other folks celebrate them too)

If you don’t know what a golden birthday is, it’s when you turn the same age as the date of your birth. Mine was August 23, 1979 when I turned 23 years old. I don’t remember how we celebrated as a family — I was still living at home (I know, I know…) and two things I remember about it was wanting to have a pie thrown in my face* (chocolate please) and getting a beautiful flower arrangement from The Man Who Would Eventually Become My Husband. We’d only been on two dates and he was off on a wild west camping adventure with his buddies, but he’d arranged to send me flowers. See, he used to be romantic.

Anyway — we continued the tradition in our family — my son had his a few years ago and we made it a special birthday by talking it up and giving him $111.04 in cash (he was 11 on 1/11/04 at exactly 11:11, but that’s another post).

Clare’s won’t be until she is 26. If she’s expecting $726.15, she’ll be disappointed.

Do you celebrate golden birthdays? If so, how did you celebrate yours?

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*in case you’re wondering — I didn’t get a pie in my face and have since quit wanting one thrown in my face — just so you know.

Mrs Tidwell managed to humiliate me in several ways during my year in her 4th grade class at Highland School. She refused to write my name on my Thanksgiving Turkey name tag because she said I colored it in poorly. She wouldn’t let me sing Beautiful Dreamer for our class play (a minsteral show, complete with classmates in blackface of all things) because I couldn’t hit the high notes — Janice something or the other got to sing it instead. She let me play a violin duet of Shortnin’ Bread with my friend Rhonda instead. We weren’t very good.

Mrs Tidwell also liked to throw candy out to her class and watch us scramble on the floor. I refused to scramble. Perhaps that’s why she was unkind to me.

She loved opera and let her students know she would much rather be on stage singing Italian arias instead of teaching us our multiplication facts. The fact that she was shaped like an opera singer only made me wish she had chosen that career path even more, especially when she decided to have her class perform Carmen for the entire school.

We probably didn’t perform the entire opera, but I remember one scene. Of course I didn’t get to be a Carmen (she broke the class into 4 or 5 groups and we performed in different areas of our gymnasium, so there were 4 or 5 Carmens). Instead, I got to be a bullfighter, crawling on my knees and holding my hands out to my beloved Carmen along with several other crawling bullfighters. At least I wasn’t the bull.

Anyway, my daughter is filming that scene from Carmen right now with a few classmates from her Spanish class. I just peeked out the window. Guess who’s playing Carmen?

You guessed it — Clare. And she’s directing it too. So, Mrs Tidwell, where ever you are, someone with my genes gets to be Carmen.

We won’t be putting on any mistral shows though, that’s a promise.

Back in 1983 or so, Dean and I spent the summer in Southern California. Dean had a summer job at Rand and we got to stay in various homes in the area — house sitting for other employees of Rand. I’d just begun to “bird” in earnest and California held a wealth of birds I’d not seen before. I especially remember seeing my first California towhee and California thrasher. I also saw dozens of Anna’s hummingbirds and several Bullock’s orioles. I don’t have my California list in front of me, but it goes on and on.

One place we stayed was near the Topanga Canyon in the Santa Monica Mountains. The house overlooked the city of Los Angeles, had a courtyard and was full of Real Art. The couple who lived there were high up in the Rand administration and somewhat wealthy. They had a woman who came in and cleaned their house — daily. This woman and I talked a lot — she loved cats (as did I) and she was an avid birder. She invited me to accompany her on an overnight trip to see some of the few remaining California condors in the wild, but I declined for a reason I don’t recall, but could kick myself now.

Her favorite bird was the white-crowned sparrow. In fact her license plate read wht crwn or something like that. She said it meant white-crowned sparrow. I’ve wanted to see one ever since, but never did. Until yesterday morning.

I’d just slipped a half a bagel into the toaster and was waiting for it to pop up so I took a look out the kitchen window. There, hopping among some spilled seed was a large sparrow with black and white stripes on its head. And no yellow spot between its eyes nor white at its throat. My first thought was white-crown! I ran to get the camera and of course it was gone when I got back. I thought I might be seeing one soon since one had been spotted a few streets away according to the Maryland birding email list to which I belong.

I sort of feel like my long ago connection with the birdwatching housekeeper in the Santa Monica Mountains was rekindled for a while when I finally saw the bird she cared enough about to pay extra for vanity tags.