Old Songs in a New Cafe (13 page)

But we press on. With highways and toxic waste and all-terrain vehicles and acid rain and pesticides and the straightening
of pretty creeks to gain an extra acre or two on which to grow surplus crops. In the name of progress and something called
“development,” we press on, though we seem reluctant to define exactly what it is we seek. That definition, you see, likely
is too frightening to contemplate, for the answer along our present course might be nothing other than “more.”

More of what? Nothing in particular. Just more. We must have more, always more, for if we stopped, we would have less of that
nothing in particular.

So the citizens buzz over blood and money around the boxing rings of Atlantic City and worry, ludicrously, about holding wineglasses
properly and titter in a breathless way over Cher’s ruthlessly salacious gown at the Academy Award ceremonies. And each day
the hammer falls again. And each day another small cry arches upward; slowly and forever it arches upward. And sometimes I
sit with my back against a granite ledge, near a river in a distant twilight colored blue, and say, “I am Orange Band,” and
the words come back alone through the trees and along the grass.

______________________________________

J
ust when I was settling comfortably into my middle years, confident that I possessed a certain stock of savoir faire acquired
from decades of living and travel, comes now Diane Roupe to remind me of how far 1 have yet to go. In one of those punchy
and informative articles common to newspaper society pages,
The Des Moines Register
published a piece on June 29, 1988, that contained directions for holding a wineglass properly.

It seems that Ms. Roupe, formerly of Des Moines and lately of New York, has returned to her home, awaiting what the article
labeled “career developments.” While awaiting, she became aware that lowans might not be handling their wineglasses properly
and decided to set us straight.

And, I must tell you, it was a shock. There I was, drinking coffee at 6
A.M
., awaiting developments in my career, and mulling over the choice between wearing my dirty blue canvas shirt or my “How ‘bout
Them Hog-eyes” T-shirt, when I chanced upon the interview with Ms. Roupe. Stunned at the apparent deficiencies in my repertoire
of deportment when amidst polite company, I read the article with near reverence. Nay, more than that, I was riveted by her
words.

Then I immediately checked with Stanley Walk at the Sportsman’s Lounge in St. Ansgar to see if he had read and understood
the instructions. He was smashing a hole through the wall of the establishment he and Allen Kruger operate and had difficulty
hearing me over the phone. It turns out, though, he had missed the article and implored me to repeat the core ideas for the
benefit of his customers. That, and my unceasing interest in improving the lot of all lowans, compels me to provide here the
essence of Ms. Roupe ‘s wisdom. Now pay attention, this gets complicated.

DO NOT: Do not place two fingers and the thumb at the bottom of a wineglass bowl, with the last two fingers holding the stem.
That used to be just dandy, but not anymore. This is known as the Marlene Dietrich Caress, and IT IS DEFINITELY OUT.

DO: Do place four fingers on one side of the stem and your thumb on the other side (never allow your thumb to stop touching
the stem for more than five seconds). Such a grip prevents a premature warming of the wine due to your hand and also enables
you to grasp the glass securely, according to Ms. Roupe. This is the Distinguished New York Authorities Clamp, and IT IS IN.

I know, I know, change is difficult. I whined at first, too. After all, old habits are notoriously hard to break. I learned
my drinking skills from emulating guys such as Red and Corny and Zip and Lefty in my Iowa youth. All of them dictated, by
example, the standards of proper etiquette to be followed while sipping from assorted containers in the bowling alleys and
taverns of Rockford. Sometimes they were kind enough to offer exhibitions right on the street, usually late of a Saturday
evening. And with only minimal persuasion, Lefty and the others would gladly move into more advanced techniques, such as the
proper handling of quart bottles and gallon jugs.

Yet, Diane Roupe assures us that such a revision in our drinking manners is critical She even manages to tie the new, and
admittedly difficult, glass grasp into economic development. The syllogism runs as follows: Industry wants to locate in sophisticated
surroundings; lowans will be seen as sophisticated if we hold our wineglasses correctly; therefore, etc., etc. In other words,
just wait and see if those silly old companies will move here unless we clean up our social act.

That piece of logic alone settles the issue and ensures rapid adoption of the new grip by all right-thinking lowans. Remember
Groucho Marx’s duck that used to come down from the ceiling when people said the magic word on “You Bet Your Life”? That entitled
the players to a bonus. Say “economic development” in Iowa, and the duck descends like the value of farmland after a speculative
binge. The universities picked up on that right away.

But wait! There’s more. Beer and highballs are out, and ordering either of those in a fine restaurant, according to Ms. Roupe,
will definitely identify you as not being a New Yorker. I’m having trouble with this part. If a Brooklyn cabdriver goes to
the CafÉ Carlyle to hear Bobby Short and orders a Pabst, does that mean he’s not from New York?

There are other things that will identify you as not being a New Yorker also, though Ms. Roupe did not point them out. Since
she believes that people from Iowa will want to emulate the good manners of New Yorkers, I will provide several more guides
for behavior when you visit the ol’ Apple. For example, if you know the names and locations of all the states and have a fair
idea of what transpires in each of them, you’ll immediately be identified as not being a sophisticated New Yorker. This is
particularly true if you know that Idaho grows potatoes. So, be careful.

Here’s another example. You will not pass for a New Yorker if you dislike pieces of styrofoam pasted on yellow cardboard displayed
in art galleries and selling for $27,542. Likewise, be careful of criticizing kitsch photography done in sort of an art deco
style, featuring boring pictures of bored surburban couples sitting by bored backyard swimming pools. Be sure you like these
photographs or you will be OUT.

Obviously, I’m joshing a little bit. We all agree that lowans are not as well turned out socially as they might be, and there
are serious questions that were not covered in the article. Here is a partial list of dilemmas that I hope will be answered
in future interviews with Ms. Roupe:

Is balancing a wineglass on your nose or head okay? Or is that permissible only at the end of world wars?

Why are there sometimes two wine lists-—one bound in leather and the other in plastic?

If you like to hold your glass down along your pant leg, what is the correct grip?

What is the proper grasp if you prefer your wine at body temperature?

New York waiters yank my wineglass from the table and pay more attention to other patrons right after I say, “Gimme a Bud.”
Why?

lowans chill their wine to just above freezing. Does this have any effect on the right way to hold a glass?

How about those plastic champagne glasses where the stem detaches from the bowl? What is to be done here?

Why do busboys often err and put a fork at the top of my plate, perpendicular to the other flatware? Should I refuse to tip
the waiter when this occurs or should I just cackle and point?

Why doesn’t my van get better gas mileage?

Well, it’s apparent that a whole new vista is opening for the
Register.
To paraphrase photographer Galen Rowell, many lowans come, looking, looking. And we need directions while we’re looking, looking,
so that we will never be mistaken for lowans while mingling with the tonier elements of New York society. God forbid such
confusion and its impact on economic development. Thus, we will continue to seek guidance from our newspaper wherein our arbiters
of taste will instruct us in model behavior. The next article in the series will deal with how to keep score in tennis.

Oh yes, in line with this new thrust toward Iowa chic, Messieurs Walk and Kruger will begin offering wineglass-holding classes
on August 1 at the Sportsman’s Lounge (students must bring their own glasses, preferably clean). I advise other such establishments
to consider similar instruction if you want to be part of a future Iowa. The duck is falling.

I think I’II stop. Writing nasty things about such nonsense is on the same order of difficulty as nailing guppies to plywood
and hitting them with roofing hammers. I’m sorry to be quite so blunt, Ms. Roupe, but I have other work. You see, children
are dying in the Sudan from disease and hunger. Then there’s acid rain, water pollution, soil erosion, the mistreatment of
animals, child abuse, drug addiction, race relations, toxic waste disposal, the clear-cutting of the Amazon basin, students
to be taught, and so forth. Besides, once the Arabs get their act together, New York will cease to exist.

But I am troubled by a single thought. I try to reject it, yet I cannot. In a world that pays so little attention to the things
that ought to matter and focuses instead on the trivial fringes of what it means to be civilized, truly civilized, I must
admit to the following: Diane Roupe is probably right. And God help us all.

______________________________________

W
hen Harriet Smith told her boss she was quitting her job and moving to Florida to write a novel, he offered her three months’
paid leave and psychiatric help. By contemporary standards, his reaction was understandable. Harriet was selling $5 million
worth of computers each year to high-level corporate executives. She was the personification of what is supposed to be the
modern woman’s dream, slugging it out and moving up fast in a glamour industry.

That was six years ago. And Harriet wanted neither a paid leave nor psychiatric help. She wanted to be free. So she chucked
it all, sold just about everything she owned, loaded her ten-year-old son in a camper, and headed south from New Hampshire.
She was running hard, escaping from a world where time is measured in nanoseconds, where worth is judged by the crackle of
the bank check and the close of the sale. She never looked back.

Now it’s late afternoon on the Florida gulf coast, and the long swamp grass behind her house turns a soft yellow-green in
the fading light. Twenty feet away at her Cedar Key Seabird Rescue, brown pelicans recuperating from various injuries flap
around in a large confinement. Harriet Smith leans forward, rests her chin on her hands, and says, “I want to open up people’s
heads and pour some things in there.”

It took her a while to find herself and this half-acre in the Florida scrub country. She wandered around Florida for three
years, south to the Keys and then north once more. By 1983, Harriet was living in Tallahassee, picking oranges and painting
houses, doing some writing on the side. But the novel went poorly, so she tried plays and short stories, then articles. None
of it caught on.

She drifted down to Cedar Key where the wild beauty of Levy County took hold of her. And, sitting on a bench along Second
Street, she decided this was her place. While launching her painting business in a new market, she worked as a waitress at
the Island Hotel, a place of quiet fame among those who seek gourmet food and similar comforts.

Harriet’s Cedar Key Seabird Rescue started with an injured brown pelican on the beach. The story is a common one along the
coast—five fishhooks embedded in various parts of the bird’s body and monofilament line wrapped so tightly around a grotesquely
swollen leg that the line itself disappeared within the swelling.

She waited four hours for a busy wildlife officer to respond to her call And Harriet Smith, waitress and house painter, spent
that time watching over the pelican and raging within herself at her own ignorance about what might be done to help. She remembers
making herself a promise: “Never again, never, am I going to have this helpless feeling.”

An internship at the Suncoast Seabird Center south of Clearwater gave her some basic knowledge. A correspondence course in
bird biology from Cornell University added to it. But most of what Harriet knows about birds has come from the day-to-day
caring for them. She disdains the more clinical, drug-oriented approach of many bird veterinarians and labels her approach
to bird medicine as “holistic.”

Harriet’s landlord in Cedar Key initially was tolerant. But the birds and cages and dead fish and droppings in his backyard
finally wore him down. So, now what?

The situation presented her with a moral dilemma. You see, when Harriet Smith left the computer business, she had made up
her mind to be poor. “I decided that I always was going to be poor, that I was never going to own property, that I was never
going to own a new car again, never get a bank loan, and never have a checking account.” When she talks like that, you can
feel the foundations quake just a little, and folks in the chrome and glass houses along the southern beaches probably sense
a sudden chill in the wind and wonder about its origin.

Yet there had to be a place for the birds. So she compromised a little with the system and scraped together $400 for a down
payment on a small piece of land near Cedar Key. She makes her monthly payments of $83.68 directly to the previous owner.
The tallyman again, but no banks at least.

Connie Nelson, friend and local artist, ramrodded a modest fund-raising push on Harriet’s behalf. “Okay everybody, $5 each
for Harriet’s Seabird Rescue Center.’5 Harriet was under way.