Memory Bank

Yesterday afternoon they had back-to-back Bonanza and Gunsmoke running on one of the stations.  Bonanza played on Sunday nights at 8:00 p.m. back in the day and usually we were having our baths when it started and then we were tucked into bed.  But we usually got to see the first part of the program when the boys and Pa rode up the field to the famous theme song.  Bonanza got a bit boring for me after a while because the beautiful girl that Adam, or Joe, or Hoss or even Ben was involved with always died.  Years later when Jessica Fletcher got on the bus my dad commented that if he saw her get on the bus he would get off because you knew a murder was going to happen!  But the success of these shows must indicate that people like things to be predictable and steady.

            I watched the episode yesterday, it was about Samuel Clemens writing for the newspaper in Silver City.  Interestingly enough I had just watched an episode of Rifleman the previous day which also had a story about Mark Twain. Both episodes ran in 1959 and it shows that things simply don’t change in Hollywood.  When one studio produces a comic book movie, at least 2 others will also come up with one.  With all the imaginations in the world you’d think there would be more originality in fantasyland.

            But I also noticed how the Cartwrights were quick on the draw which surprised me because I remember Ben as a peacable man.  I suppose the episodes from the 1960’s mellowed down because the 60’s heralded an era of peace and brotherly love.  I’ve noticed the programs of today seem to be having a very republican flavour to them.  Last week Harry’s Law made me want to turn off Kathy Bates forever as it had such a rant on about bleeding heart liberals that I was seriously shocked.  And last night The Good Wife was leaning heavily towards capital punishment and I thought “shame on you Alicia, you are supposed to be about justice and balance; not bring emotion into the equation”.  That’s the law.

            Back at the advent of television the producers didn’t realize the power of media to the extent that they do today.  So it behoves us to be aware as we tune in to our programs that manipulation is always there to pounce on us.  Know what your own values are so that you won’t take up that six iron when your neighbour’s dog barks in the middle of the night.  After all, we are civilized.  Right?

What Women Want

I don’t know what all women want and I find that a little surprising because I am such a good listener. My observations do lead me to think that most women want a man who understands them. They want someone who looks romantic like Colin Firth, who dances like John Travolta and who listens like Dr. Phil. If he is smart like Dr. Oz that is even better but not as necessary. Women settle for lesser gods because they are realistic in their expectations and hubby usually turns out satisfactory. They have children, they work to support the desires of their children, or at least what they believe are the desires of their children and then suddenly they discover that they are turning 50 next week and “is that all there is” springs to mind.

More shocks are in store for them as their marriage falls apart for any one of a variety of reasons. Then suddenly they are alone again, still expecting that wonderful godlike combination and yet they settle for whoever will ask out a 50 year old woman. This is the part that I find bewildering. Why wouldn’t women take a little breather from the treadmill they have been on and get to know themselves for a year or two before they start dating after a marriage breakup? I think perhaps they are frightened by their age and the competition and they feel a sense of urgency to get right back on the horse before it is too late. Too late for what? Living the life you’ve already led which ended in failure?

Don’t get me wrong I do understand that we all would like a partner. We are taught in life that everything ends happily ever after with the prince by our side. The commercials we are inundated with show happy, carefree women leading men down the garden path of life if we drink a cool beer, use the right deodorant and eat the right yogurt. No one tells us that men never mature beyond the age of 13 when they first start paying attention to their penises. Obnoxious as Gerard Butler is in the movie The Ugly Truth he is telling it like it is. That’s what men think about. Sex, sex and more sex. Even at 70 for heavens sakes. Huh, that reminds me of what happened to me in my younger, innocent days.

Like all girls I always loved horses and wanted to ride like Dale Evans on a beautiful palomino. When we moved to this little town my dad became friends with some older men, older than my dad even. Way older. Like in their 70’s. One of them had a cattle ranch and invited me to ride with him west of town on his free range. I loved it and I even got to go on an all day cattle drive. I wore genuine chaps and he even lent me his son’s spurs to wear with my boots because I was on a bit of a stubborn old horse. This went on all summer and I was in heaven when I was riding thinking he was just like a great old grandfather. Imagine my shock when one evening as we got home he leaned over and kissed me. With tongue. I was so upset and shaken up and didn’t know what to say or do. And my stunned ears were being assaulted with words like “if we had met at another time and place”. Was he drunk? Was he out of his mind? Hadn’t he seen my finance at the branding? I was 32 years old and he was at least 78. You are fucking kidding me!

When I told my brother Peter he howled with laughter. I was furious. This was serious. This man was a friend and business acquaintance with my dad and I didn’t know how to tell my father that there was no way I was going to be in the same room with a letcher. Finally I just told him the truth and thank goodness my dad understood. But he didn’t severe his relationship. All the books I had read led me to hope that he would at least punch him in the mouth but I guess my dad had a cooler head than I did.

Men.

Rain Drops Keep Falling on My Head

I am extremely cranky this morning from lack of sleep. I woke up to the sound of pouring rain and the drip, drip around my head. So much for Ecuadorian repairs. The rain was hard and steady (it’s still raining) and this time I was surrounded on all sides by drips. At one point I got a drip directly in my ear. I found myself lying stiffly at attention, on my side, and thought about French duelists who buttoned up their jackets to hide their white shirt fronts and when they prepared to shoot they stood to the side to give the least amount of target area for their opponent. But nature in the form of rain is inexorable, as the residents of New Orleans, Australia and other areas know only too well.

Does it seem petty to compare my plight with those poor souls in New Orleans? Picture it, Ecuador’s lonely coast, mud in every direction outside the house, bugs swarming through the cracks of the ill fitting window, and the poor victim itching from head to toe with mosquito bites and sand flea bites to the point of hysterics. That victim is moi, me, Sanne.

After seemingly hours of distraction, getting up to pour nail polish remover on my itch, I finally braved the act of looking at my watch. 2:30 a.m. Four more hours of hell. Alrighty then. Back to my teenage version of counting sheep. I tallied up the episodes of Laredo. I got to the one where Linda Littletrees sees Joe Riley stripped to the waist. Sanne and Linda have something in common – be still my beating heart!

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine!