We visited Corpus Christi last weekend for our annual 36 hour pre-Thanksgiving weekend trip, our first time leaving town this entire year. We stayed in an overpriced VRBO home, as per the usual, and even at thrice the cost, it’s always better than hotels. No kids running up and down halls, no slamming doors at midnight, no God-knows-what under a hotel bed that hasn’t been cleaned since the Obama administration, no sharing walls with anyone at all. We spent a total of about 20 minutes at the beach, none of us wanting to take a swim and spend our brief visit picking sand out of crevices. But it was nice just to breathe somewhere other than home for the first time this year. We still haven’t gathered with friends or family since pre-COVID, minus dropping off a meal and waving to my folks for Thanksgiving. I am so ready for this year to be over.
On the right, we see Charles Umlauf, Professor of Life Drawing and Sculpture, during his first year of teaching at the University of Texas. While you may not be familiar with his name, chances are you have heard of one of his art major students, Farrah Fawcett, who called Umlauf her “favorite professor.” Understandably, she posed for him as a muse, as well as sculpted on her own. Here they are in his studio, during a very stripey 1971.
Below is the bronze bust of a feathery Fawcett, made by Umlauf.
Before the Braves moved to Atlanta in 1966, they were the Milwaukee Braves, playing at Milwaukee County Stadium, where this family, the McCluskeys, enjoyed opening day in April of 1964. Maybe he even wound up with a snazzy tee like this one.
Let me qualify that. Male Puerto Ricans. Puertorriqueños. From his bangs to his jaunty mustache, to his feminized clunky yellow sandals, to his flesh belt matching flesh socks, to his choice of stool, everything is wrong wrong wrong. Even 41 years later, his lady friend looks stylish and composed. But Enrique, not so much. I mean, look at his jean hem! Look at the cut of it!
I know Puerto Rico wants to be able to vote, and I don’t blame them. Really, the main barrier I can see is that we’d have to add another star to our flag, and OCD people would go nuts with an odd number of states. It wouldn’t line up correctly on the flag. We’d have to adopt yet another state to make it even. Or Texas could secede! Most folks my age still think we have nine planets; we’re not going to suddenly remember 51 states. Or we’ll say it with finger quotes, as if it isn’t real yet.
But maybe Enrique’s problem was that he was lit, juiced up on the rum for which he was plugging in this ad.
The thing is, they knew they were being photographed. Ingrid should have offered spously guidance. Could they even possibly still be married, after this atrocity? Or is the rum that good?
Nope, it’s not Texas, and it’s not rain, although we could use it.
I can’t tell you the last time I wore a smile so big as those baton twirlers, who seem tickled pink.
The contest took place in Soldier Field, Chicago in 1957.
I hope no noggins were injured from errant batons.
These days, I imagine they’d have to wear helmets and sign a non-litigation form.
Actually, it’s neither Muscle Shoals nor Muscle Beach, but rather like Muscle Valley, as these tots flex their biceps in a ridge overlooking California’s Antelope Valley in 1962. With perseverance, they might have tanks like Popeye.
Mary Arneson knew how to take her Toni doll’s vital signs way back in 1951. After wearing out a nursing kit she received at Christmas, Mary went on to pursue a career as an occupational therapist, helping those facing medical challenges of a different sort.
Two-year-old Billy Jones of Wilmot, South Dakota plucked a geranium from his mother Jean’s flower box in August of 1957, and shoved it into the face of sister Lois Ann, 1. We can only hope that Lois gathered her rosebuds while she may, and lived a life of being fully present and carpe-ing the diem. We also hope that neither sibling is perched atop red diner chairs anymore, as a broken hip could only make 2020 that much worse.