Let the Countdown Begin ...

Yippee! Less than 19 hours til Oscar.

If you want some laughs about just how serious I get about this prediction business, be sure to read Kevin Frisch's "Funny Thing" column in today's Sunday Messenger. (And by the way, that photo is the only place you'll see me clutching my little Office Oscar. Ordinarily, he sits on top of my desk where I can keep an eye on him.)

So, you know how all of us viewers back home start yawning when the winners start rattling through a nonstop list of 50 bijillion names of industry insiders (like agents, attorneys, ninth-grade drama teachers, etc.)? Well, the Oscar organizers finally decided to get a little more serious about that 45-second rule than leaving it all in the hands of the orchestra conductor (whom Julia Roberts, you may recall, had no trouble man-handling when it was her turn at the microphone). This year, it seems they intend for a new little invention to restore dignity, spontaneity and warmth to the whole process of thank-you speeches (as opposed to the verbal air-kissing to which we have sadly, become accustomed). Not to mention, this little gem should keep the show from wading into embarrassing late-night punchline fodder with URL's like the one Billy Crystal sheepishly rattled off one year in his monologue: www.whyistheshowsolong.com
Naturally, a woman -- in this case, producer Laura Ziskin -- was the brainchild behind that creative solution. You go, girl!

Lunch with Little Rachel

It's not too often that a reporter gets an invitation to a birthday lunch with a reader's family just for the sheer why not of it. So, when the phone at my desk rang Friday morning and a Mr. Elvin Weaver asked if I would be free at noon to come out to see his daughter, Rachel, I wasn't sure what to think. The paper generally doesn't cover any birthday parties except the 100-year-old kind. I was trying to find a kind way to phrase that when he added that it wasn't a request to be in the newspaper. Rather, the "scholars" of the family would be home at noon when their one-room school house let out for the day, and if I was free then, he thought it would be nice for one Rachel to be at the birthday of another Rachel.

It hit me all at once Elvin Weaver was Mennonite, Old-Order Groffdale to be specific. (In laymen's terms, that's horse-and-buggy Mennonite to those of you who may never have read my four-part series on the influx of Mennonite families to the Finger Lakes.) It's been almost four years since I wrote that, and though there have been a few, rare articles that have served as touchpoints to their community since, I never met anyone from this particular family. I hung up thinking it was one of my most unusual calls and nearly dismissed it. But when I heard "Aww, that's sweet. You should go. How often does that happen?" from a handful of co-workers, I reconsidered.

A few hours later, I found myself, flower plant in hand, inside a neat, simple farmhouse outside Rushville. They'd held lunch for me while my car fought the snowdrifts that had blown back into the roads along the way. This was not just soup-and-sandwiches, but a full-fledged, farm-hardy spread: mashed potatoes, corn, beef-and-pork meatballs from the pig slaughtered last week, sweet gravy, macaroni-and-cheese, and homemade sweet pickles. The older boys -- Irvin, John David, and Timothy -- put quite a bit of it away. There was cake too, of course, a simple, single-layer strawberry cake in a rectangular pan that the older girls, Rosene and Norma, helped their mother decorate with icing, flavored mint chips and a few plastic flowers.
And I'm sure several children were involved in the makings of the bucket of hand-churned, homemade vanilla ice cream. It was rather humbling for a perfect stranger to be welcomed in and given a seat at the head of the table. Back in the days I knew attempting to gain the confidence and hopefully, respect of such conservative folk might be helped by more conservative apparel, I wore long dresses and skipped the jewelry. No such luck Friday, and goodness knows, the bright pink sweater, silver necklace, and blue jeans almost certainly had something to do with the whispers and glances coming my way from the kids. However, some cultural traditions are shared no matter what community you come from, and birthday cake rituals are certainly one of those.

Chubby-cheeked little Rachel Weaver stood on her daddy's lap and contemplated the burning candle atop her cake while brother Nelson, two seats away in his booster seat wasted no time in showing her how to blow it out. She promptly stuck her fingers in the frosting, like every one-year-old any of us has ever sung "Happy Birthday" to. The lone present, from her grandparents, was a set of plastic training pants and a hardy book with a kitten on its thick cover. As expected, she seemed more intrigued by the shiny, crinkly paper it was wrapped in.

Before I left, I was shown the stack of paper five-year-old Lamar has filled with drawings: silos, tractors, milk trucks, barns, and even snowplows he's seen. I heard about the English and arithmetic classes some of the kids had been studying, and how the farm is now a fully-organic
operation. As expected, a few references were made to my old news series and other articles Mr. Weaver had followed since. He enjoyed reading them, had been meaning to issue an invitation for some time, he said, and had heard about me from English and Mennonite neighbors quoted in my original series. For whatever reason, he'd remembered that idea Friday and followed through.

I left thinking it may have been little Rachel's celebration, but this Rachel was given the treat.
Unbeknownst to the Weaver family, Friday was my last day as a reporter for the Daily before I move to a new role writing for one of MPN's Monroe County weeklies. A momentary immersion in the Mennonite community again isn't technically "coming full circle," but it was definitely a delightful way to cap my daily career. Simple, sincere, sweet.

Little Rachel will probably never remember her first birthday, but I will never forget it.

A Letter on "Letters"

Dear fellow film fans,
For the next few weeks, you have an unprecedented opportunity to see a pair of movies exactly as their director designed them to be seen -- together.

On Tuesday the 6th, Clint Eastwood's "Flags of Our Fathers" came out on DVD. I was one of the lucky folks who snapped up a rental copy this week and then managed to get to the nearest theater showing the companion film "Letters from Iwo Jima" in less than 24 hours. Seeing them essentially back-to-back made comparing and contrasting the two simple. It also made for a holistic cinematic experience. While each film can stand alone (and well), taken together, the message of each is more powerful and more profound.

Here's why I'm urging you to try and do the same:
First, if you're not familiar (or comfortable) with the style of a subtitled "foreign" film, starting with "Letters" might be chewing off a bit much at one time. The actors were filmed speaking Japanese, and for the novice film-goer, that takes a bit of getting used to. But because each movie serves as the backdrop for the other, you can't let a little thing like subtitles scare you away from one of the films or you'll only have one side of the story.

Second, you don't have to worry that because the films are telling different "sides" of the same major WWII battle, it's going to seem like watching a tennis match twice, just from seats at opposite ends of the court. There were a few rare moments in "Letters" where I caught myself asking: "Did I see this before?" But I think it only seems that way, in part because "Flags" was so fresh in my mind. And frankly, that was a good thing, because the films don't "mirror" each other. Rather, any common touchpoints from the battle for Iwo Jima (the raising of the American flag on Mt. Suribachi, for example) aren't American-vs.-Japanese perspective, but just threads that intertwine on the back of the tapestry of history. You can't look at all the knots and tangles on the back of a tapestry, focus in on one or two colors and figure you've understood the weaver's design. It won't make sense until you look at it from the front and see how all the threads came together to form the finished work.

Third, it's not so much the battle that Eastwood is trying to capture on film, but the personal battles each character faced. Just because the soldiers from each country were considered enemies doesn't mean they didn't have fears, failings, or fortitude in common. Yes, the critics are right and "Letters" is the better cinematic achievement of the two, and the better "war movie" of the pair, but that is almost irrelevant. (Almost, considering "Letters" could walk away with the Best Picture Oscar this year.)

What Eastwood wants to get at, it seems, is that while war is hell and the soldiers tasked for it do want to serve ably, and hopefully, nobly, the greater hell is going home without the guy that fought next to you. And it would seem that holds true no matter which "side" you were on, or under what circumstances you actually make it home. And further, it seems the truth of all of that is something that's sometimes too difficult for a soldier to share with the people he loves most. Eastwood seems to caution us against claiming to understand a battle or the soldiers that fought it if we're basing it primarily on a famous photo, or a letter from the front -- or just one movie.

Most sincerely,
your aspiring amateur film buff (me!)

In the Spirit of the Game ...

... let's have an informal poll, shall we?

Name the funniest Super Bowl ad you saw tonight. Admittedly, I didn't catch them all, but my top two picks were the Coca-Cola chugging senior citizen who suddenly found new zest for life (professing love to the cute grandma; getting a tattoo; driving a motorbike, etc.) and the wedding officiated by the auctioneer. (Think it may have been a Budweiser commercial?) Sadly, I missed the debut of the do-it-yourselfer clip that supposedly cost the amateur filmmaker just $12.59 cents to produce, but was sponsored by some big-bucks corporate outfit footing the bill for it to air during the priciest night of prime-time TV.

Sad, though, that just two of tonight's ads have stayed with me, out of the dozens that played. But the same is true for every Super Bowl year. There just aren't many really great ones to remember. But the good ones? Ah, they go on to live in infamy. Here are my favorites:

5) The Budweiser Clydesdales play football in the snow, while two zebras serve as referees. Even these "stripes" get criticized for making bad calls.

4) A number of stone-faced kids, filmed in black and white, prattle on about how their dreams are to grow up to be underpaid, overstressed, brown-nosers that can never get ahead. Oh, the irony!

3) Big-name athletes and coaches like Charles Barkley, Barry Sanders, Tara Lipinski, and Mike Ditka play bingo, share dorm rooms, etc. at a "retirement" home where they've all been put out to pasture. Retiring rich never looked so painful.

2) Rough-hewn cowboys representing some unheard-of dot-com company have to herd a bunch of unruly kitty-cats. This ad truly was "the cat's meow."

1) NFL player Terry Tate works as Reebok's "Office Linebacker" cutting down on the secret games of computer Solitaire, the personal phone calls on company time, the waste of paper at the copier, breaks that run overtime etc. etc. One word: Hysterical.

But do tell, ReD Zone readers, what were your favorites?

Tales of a Novice Knit Wit

So what is it that entices us "young 'uns" into a craft seemingly reserved for grandmothers and aunts rocking by a fireplace? When did knitting, and its close cousin, crochet, start attracting our attention? Is it just the new prevalance of sparkly-soft, trendy-textured yarns and the plethora of stylish patterns now that can be made from them? Or are there other reasons it's now hip to knit squares?

As for me, I bought my first set of knitting needles (hot pink!) at Wal-Mart along with some intriguing looking yarn while visiting a friend in Colorado, back in October 2004. I'd flown out to visit, determined to escape the stress of work, to completely unplug. The house where she was living was perfect: the TV only worked to watch videos, Internet access was dial-up only and shared, and everyone who lived there was coming and going so much "entertainment" was essentially a do-it-yourself project. Just the night before, my friend Celina had completely astounded me by whipping up a golden-tinged scarf, fringe and all, in a matter of hours while we'd gabbed away the evening. Another woman living in the house had also been diligently working away at some brightly-colored scarves she was knitting for Christmas gifts. So, after four days of overexposure, I was sick of watching all this creativity come to life around me. I wanted in.

Celina recommended I start learning on some rather "fat" plastic needles, and I picked out a few skeins of the prettiest yarn I could find. I remember being very impressed at all the different colors and textures vying for attention on the shelves. The yarns didn't seem to be as boring and ordinary as what I'd remembered when I first tried to learn to knit about age 12 and abandoned shortly thereafter. Back at the ranch, Celina showed me how to "cast on" and within an hour or so, I'd made a decent start at a scarf. There was just one problem: I kept getting "snagged" on little colored tufts set along the strand, and I feared I was countering that by tugging too tightly on the yarn as I went along. Celina pulled out my stitches and had me start again with the other skein, and things went much more smoothly. But I hadn't counted loops correctly, so it became clearly pretty quickly I'd have to start again on that one too. But before we did, I insisted on documentation. Here's the proof:

And that's the night I officially became a "knit wit."

Granted, I didn't receive the book with that very title until Christmas '05, but I went a little nuts. I kept knitting that first scarf over the next day, and was delighted to discover that -- yes!-- plastic needles were permitted as a carry-on by the airline. By the time I landed home in Rochester, the scarf was about two-thirds done. I finished it within the week, thanks to the help of another friend, Sarah, whom readers met in Sunday's Freestyle feature. Sarah taught me how to "cast off" and given she had been the one who taught Celina how to knit shortly before Celina moved west, the knitting trend/craze/what-have-you had come full circle. In my exuberance, however, the scarf was extra-long, but that just made it perfect for my very tall friend Sonya. Come Christmas, I'd knitted more scarves as presents, giving them to one of my sisters, my tiny niece, and my mom. Over that winter, two more went to one co-worker and another friend, and a third intended for a birthday present for yet another friend started taking shape.

After interviewing others in my generation who've been bitten by the knitting/crochet bug, and hearing similar stories, it appears we've followed a similar pattern: youthful introduction, lapse into latency, re-introduction, newfound devotion, and ultimately, consistent creation, hopefully with a growing expertise. That's what it was like for East Rochester resident Kristine Colucci, who crochets because she says it's a better fit for someone who is "the least patient person most of my friends have ever met."

"I just need instant gratification," she told me, describing how she first learned from her grandmother back when Kristine was in 7th grade. Like me, like Sarah, Kristine let it slide until later. She picked up crochet again in college one day in junior year when she was "over-stressed," she says. (Speaking of stress, veteran knitter Noma Kent -- whom you also met in Sunday's article -- told me she finds it "soothing" to do something repetitious like knitting after a hectic day. She called it her "stress-meter" because she can tell she needs to relax more if her stitches start off too tight.)

Kristine must have been tracking that kind of vibe, because she said she went straight to the nearest craft store, bought yarn and crochet hooks, came back to her dorm at the University of Delaware and dug in. She'd picked up yarn in each of her friend's favorite colors and pretty soon, an "afghan of many colors" was growing longer and longer across her lap, she said.

Her two roommates and two more girls down the hall were quickly hooked on the new hobby (yes, she did intend the pun!) and she said the five of them would spread out their crochet projects when they plunked down in front of the TV each week to watch "their" show. (Interesting, isn't it, she couldn't remember which show, but she remembers everything else about their little crochet klatch? Something about working with one's hands always seems to spark good conversation.)

Kristine was 19 then. She's 35 now and said she's been crocheting ever since. She considers crochet a perfect pastime because "it's something I can do while my girls are playing or while I'm watching TV." She also told me it's an easy way to fill time waiting for the next ambulance call at the Greece base, where she volunteers.

She's even got a new crochet-partner-in-crime: her next-door neighbor Tracy. The two moms are planning to take a class later this year to advance beyond simple afghans, Kristine said.

Kudos to Kristine for being so consistent. I confess, I haven't been all that consistent myself recently, and my friend Sarah would tell you she's seen that in a lot of individuals she's introduced to the practical art. But there must still be hope, because she senses that even if newcomers don't stick with it, more members of this generation have an appreciation for handmade goods. For example, it's not entirely uncommon for someone Sarah's age to hire her to knit a sweater they want to wear themselves or one they want to give as a gift at a friend's baby shower. Beats Wal-Mart or Baby Gap, she figures. Plus, it tells her they desire "to support something made around here rather than China, Mexico or Sri Lanka," she told me.

I think she's got a point there. Who doesn't love "accessible" art, as she calls it? Maybe that's why so many of us don't mind being knit wits -- novice, veteran or every stripe in-between.

One thing's for sure: just writing about the craze motivates me once again to be more consistent about this particular creative craft. After all, there are some gorgeous wooden needles and yummy yarns in the corner of my room calling my name. Plus, my sister has begged me to knit a poncho for my niece -- she thinks they're adorable, we both know Sky will love it, and she's not about to drop $35 on one from a store when she's seen my stash. Given my schedule, it couldn't happen by Christmas, like I hoped, but a March birthday is do-able. Luckily, with the public posting here, I'm sure to be held accountable. :)

Here's to the Knit Wits!