"I'll be seeing you, in every lovely summer's day; in everything that's bright and gay; I'll always think of you that way; I'll find you in the morning sun and when the night is new; I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you."*

   Grandma was angry at the state of Colorado.

   Aunt Dudie had gone to reheat Grandma’s soup so we were alone for a minute at our little booth inside Panera.

   “People are uncouth here,” she said. She was mad. “When I was trying to fill my drink, those people acted like I was invisible.”

   “Well, if it makes you feel any better, they didn’t let me in there, either,” I offered. “Even those big, burly men pretended I wasn’t there so they could refill their Mountain Dews. Not very chivalrous!”

   “That’s the word! They aren’t chivalrous! I think it’s just the way people are in Denver,” Grandma decided.

   Now, Grandma and I both spent a fair number of years living in Omaha, Nebraska, a smallish city, where people will regularly turn themselves into human doormats before they offend or inconvenience someone, so I don’t know that our perspectives are very accurate as a basis of comparison to the fine people of Denver.

   “You seem pissed off,” I suggested.

   “I am pissed off!”

   My Grandma is so funny.

   “Don’t get too mad, Grandma! People are much more polite here than they are in Los Angeles.”

   “Well, I’m sure that’s true,” she harrumphed.

   “Maybe it’s a big city thing? The bigger the city, the less patience and manners people have?”

   “Oh, poor Julie,” Grandma sighed, referring to Aunt Dudie, my Grandma’s fourth of five daughters, my Godmother, and my hostess for the weekend. “She must get so tired of taking care of me.”

   “She does not! She likes it. And Julie’s boys are chivalrous, so it can’t be Colorado that’s doing it. It’s not where you are, it’s who you are, and some people are just nicer and better bred than others.”

   “Well, none of my grandchildren are uncouth, that’s for sure.” She was very proud of this fact and, as a way of proving it, took a huge bite out of her roll.

I wrote this nearly a year ago. Apparently Grandma and I had all our conversations in exclamation points!!!!

   I’d just spent a weekend in Parker, CO, with my family: Aunt Julie and Uncle Rick, my cousins, Connor and Trevor, and my Grandma. Grandma had just moved out there from Omaha and I was lonesome for her, as I was used to seeing her every day growing up and, later, every time I was home to visit. And this year she wasn’t in town for Thanksgiving or Christmas.

   But by January she was fully ensconced in the Leahy’s ENORMOUS basement, and it was as though her entire house had been replicated into an apartment in the suburbs of Denver. All her pictures and tchotchkes were there, along with her voluptuous cat Lucy/Alice, and the best of her beautiful furniture. She was super excited about all the deer she could see in her backyard (and spying on deer seemed to be almost as interesting as her old hobby, which was spying on the neighbors). We spent two days talking and watching movies and running errands all over town.

   My grandmother was born Mildred Rose Wilson in 1925 in Washington, Indiana (pronounced “Warshington,” which, as my cousin Connor pointed out, is the only thing Hoosiers pronounce funny. I’m not entirely sure that’s true). And when she was growing up in Washington, she was so beautiful it makes my face ache to look at pictures of her. It makes me proud that her DNA is floating around in me. She had brown, wavy hair and high cheekbones, big eyes, big boobs, narrow hips, and long, long legs. What’s even more interesting about Millie Wilson is that she was an amazing dancer, something that seems to have eluded most of her progeny. She used to go out jitterbugging with her friends every day after school, taking breaks only for a soda (pop) or a hamburger. And then they’d all run home for dinner and homework. Ah, the “good old days”. It all sounds like a scene from Back To The Future to me (funny...'cuz that movie was made in the 80's).

   Sadly, her kids are helpless fools when it comes to dancing: her daughters do lots of weird disco-era thumbing and pathetic gyrations along with the occasional Prince in “Dirty Mind” imitations (picture middle-aged women doing the splits and bouncing off a mock-velveteen couch. Yeah, that’s what I grew up watching. It's one of my earliest memories of Aunt Krissy who, for some reason, I always thought was "the cool one." Kids are stupid. And it’s a miracle I didn’t run away from home. Or stab my own eyes out).

   Her grandkids, of which I am the oldest (sigh), are a mixed bag. My youngest sister, Penelope, is a very gifted dancer, as are my cousins Ellie and Kate. Hell, Ellie and Kate are acrobats—they can do flips and Russians and all that crazy stuff. Connor and Trevor are natural athletes, but I doubt they’re dancers. Elizabeth, my other sister, could easily twirl her way through ballet lessons, but when is that appropriate at a club or school dance? I’m not sure how she handled it, but given her era in high school, there was no way it made her popular.

   I’m a total lost cause. My generation grew up in the Nirvana/Pearl Jam/Offspring era with flannel shirts and greasy hair and “dance” started to take on a sort of quality that made it look as though one were a drunk puppet randomly swinging his or her arms and pelvis around to no particular beat. I took classical ballet for a couple of years as a young child and it left me feeling as though I couldn’t get my rear end in the right position. It turns out, I just have a really sizable backseat and there was no way it was ever going to stop sticking out, no matter how many times my teacher told me to reign it in.            

   While I was in Denver, Grandma told me that Grandpa Charlie (who I’ve mentioned here and also here) once took Arthur Murray dance lessons, so he could take Grandma out stepping. This was around 1960, and my grandparents already had three of their eventual five children (Mom, Aunt Mel, and Aunt Mary). He went to the studio, without my grandma’s knowledge, and tried to learn to dance so he could keep up with her and take her to, as my grandma and her generation called it, “trip the light fantastic.” But, according to Grandma, he had no rhythm. I guess the majority of us must have inherited his dance moves.

   But when I was a tiny child, she used to pull up her skirts when no one else was looking and dance a little jig for me, and she still had a pair of the most beautiful Ginger Rogers-style legs. And the fact that Grandpa tried to fight his natural inability to dance so he could take my grandma dancing makes my heart heavy and happy all at once.

   Millie Wilson was a carefree dancing queen, but Millie Lett was a mother and a wife and a homemaker. Her husband, my Grandpa Charlie, tried to let her be all four. And that’s kind of what love is all about, right?

   My Grammy died yesterday at home, in Denver, with all her daughters around her. I think she would’ve liked that they were all there and I hope she knew they were. When I think of her, I think of good smells and stylish clothes and The BeeGees. And I think of gardens and picture frames and mac and cheese and small animals. But most of all, I think of dancing.

           

Mildred (right) with her friend Betty, 1946.

            

Mildred Rose Wilson Lett

February 20th, 1925 - December 10th, 2012

*I initially had a quote here from "Moon River," but Grandma really loved "I'll Be Seeing You" by Irving Kahal and Sammy Fain, because it was a song that reminded her of the 40's, when all her friends (and her brother) were off in WWII and all the kids would hear this song and think about the people they were missing. Seems more appropriate, somehow.

           

           

"There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient."*

    After spending the last month re-watching some of my favorite A&E and BBC movie versions of Jane Austen’s books, I spent some serious time thinking about my life. And all that thinking gave me a headache has convinced me that in 19^th Century England, I would've been super hot.

Greer Garson as Elizabeth Bennett (Robert Z. Leonard, 1940)

    My friend Laura and I like to talk about how we'd be 10's in England, though we're probably only 8's in the U.S. (she's closer to a 9) and maybe only 4's in Los Angeles (she's more like a 6.5...what can I tell you? People are made of plastic here.) But standards in England are notoriously low. I think it has a lot to do with their teeth.

    Okay, so back then you were considered a really hot catch for a wealthy country gentleman with a large fortune if you could do the following:

1. Read and write. (Check)

2. Ride a horse. (I’ve totally done that before. Check.)

3. Play the pianoforte (I can play “Moon River” and both parts of “Heart and Soul” on a real piano, so I’m sure that the pianoforte would’ve been no big deal for me. Another check.)**

4. Walk a 30-minute mile without getting tired, even while wearing binding clothing. (Check and check. While my clothes aren’t usually binding, they’re often short, which presents a whole different set of problems. Also, I’ve worn corsettes in plays and I think we should bring those back. They preclude breathing, but are super slimming.)

5. Play Whist. (I can play Go Fish, War, Bullshit and Spoons, so Whist should be a snap. Check.)

Jennifer Ehle as Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice (Simon Langton, 1995).

6. Not have a job. (I’m actually really good at this one. Check.)

7. Be “handsome.” It’s not quite clear what, exactly, makes for a “handsome” woman; but based on the movies I’ve watched, it doesn’t seem to take a lot. You just have to be female, have hair and teeth, and not have a hunchback or a debilitating illness. (Of course, if you’re wealthy, you can totally have a debilitating illness and it’s no big deal. But I’m not wealthy.) And since I have a strait, full set of teeth and can walk upright (when I try) I’m going to give this another Check.

8. Recite poetry or Shakespeare. Now here’s where my theatre degree would finally pay off, if you discount the fact that in that time period actresses were generally considered to be whores. But they’re considered whores in this period, too.  So Check.

Keira Knightley as Elizabeth. I'm sorry, is Elizabeth a model? A major film star? (Joe Wright, 2005).

9. Engage in witty repartee. I do that all the time! I was just engaging in witty repartee a few moments before I began writing this list! Check.

10. Sit around all day with little to nothing to do. Check. (Actually, if napping wasn't permitted, I probably couldn't have pulled this one off.)

This is what I'm talking about: Jane is considered the "pretty one." See, this time period was a whole different ballgame. Not saying she's ugly, it's just....different, you know?

    Here’s what I’d have some trouble with: in order to be considered a “lady” you'd have to be able to do the following:

1. Keep your opinions focused on the weather and everyone’s health. I have a natural inclination towards what the 19th Century folk might call "quite talkative," though I seldom make a strong point about anything. Okay, actually this should probably be up there with the pluses.

2. Needlepoint: yikes. I’ve actually tried this, and it REALLY didn’t pan out as I’d hoped. Also, it sucked and was boring.

3. Dance: oh my god, I’m really, really bad at dancing. Like, I’m scary bad. The gentlemen would run from me at your run-of-the-mill, friendly, neighborhood ball.

4. Be under the age of 25. Sadly, I cannot do that without a time machine.

Emma as Elinor Dashwood. Everything about it was brilliant, despite the fact that Emma was a solid 36 years old playing the 20-year-old Elinor. Eh. She's entitled, since she wrote the screenplay.

5. Sit around all day listening to other people talk about really boring things.

6. Not ask any guys out because they have to ask you first: if that were the case today, I’d have never had a date or a boyfriend in my entire life. (It's probably not ladylike to mention that.)

7. Keep your trap shut when someone is being boring/stupid/rude. That’s hard for me. I really like calling people out on their bullshit. I like it even more than Whist. But if someone calls me on my bullshit, I can't handle it at all. NOT AT ALL.

8. Sit around in times of extreme heat, cold, and boredom with no electricity.

9. Not drink alcohol, except for the occasional sherry during an acute (and most likely life-ending) bout of tuberculosis. Ew.

    On the advice of Emily, I recently started reading Mansfield Park, which is perhaps one of Jane Austen’s most opinionated/judge-y books. It has me convinced, based on the way some of these purported “hot bitches” behave, that I would have probably been considered a bit of a “forward” young lady (old lady? I'm not under 25, after all). But I honestly think that I would’ve had dudes coming out of the woodwork and begging me to marry them and live on their 400 billion acre estates. Seriously, based on the size of my forehead alone, I would be hitched to a thousandaire by the age of 18, tops.

Here's Fanny. From Mansfield Park. Fanny sucks. I could totally get married before her.

    It would be advantageous if I could go back to this time period with information about the future (our present), though. Not to scare anybody, but just so I seemed really smart and informed. I’d say things like, “If Napoleon keeps up with these petty battles, he’s going to end up exiled to an island of some sort.” Or “The days of the French Monarchy seem to be drawing to a swift close.” Or “Why don’t we all start doing something about the drinking water around here? It seems most of us are developing rather unsightly teeth.” Or “Have you guys heard the latest song I’ve written (insert “Moon River” on the pianoforte)?”***

*Lady Catherine de Bourgh explains how she'd be a really great musician if she'd ever learned an instrument. My feelings exactly. From Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice.

**Just did some research and discovered that “pianoforte” is just the Italian (and, I believe, the original) word for “piano.” So, um, yeah. I could totally play that. A little bit.

**But they won’t know what “Huckleberry friend” refers to, which will make it less impactful.