Consortium of Seven: Year 4

    In  this recent post I looked at some of the people involved in a songbook called The Fireside Book of Favorite American Songs, first published in 1950. I didn't know much about most of the people involved, so I did some research for the essay and I figured out that some people were related, by blood or marriage, to the literary Van Doren family. Carl Van Doren had written the preface for the book, and his former wife's sister, Margaret Bradford Boni, was the editor of the volume. Van Doren's former wife, Irita Van Doren, is the subject of today's post.   When reading up on Irita's sister Margaret while doing earlier research, I had not realized how difficult the sisters' lives were when they were children. The family lived in Florida, where their father owned a sawmill. A disgruntled employee killed Mr. Bradford, leaving Irita, age nine, and Margaret, age seven, to be raised by their widowed mother, who gave music lessons and made and sold fruit pr

I really don’t like the word “goodbye.” It’s so final. I’ve said goodbye to so many people and places through my seventy years that the word carries with it echoes of sorrow and regret.  Parting is linguistically different in a couple of languages that I know a little bit: The German auf wiedersehen literally mean “until we see each other again,” as does the French au revoir . That’s nicer.  But sometimes parting is final, in blogging as well as in life. After nearly four years of throwing stuff at the wall here, this is my last piece for the Consortium of Seven. And, appropriately, it’s about “goodbye.”  When I sort the 106,000 mp3s in the RealPlayer for the word “goodbye,” I get back 332 entries. Some of them won’t work for us today: I have to ignore all but the title tracks to Cream’s 1969 album Goodbye and Groove Armada’s 2001 album Goodbye Country (Hello Nightclub) . And I have to also forget about a few stray tracks from Tim Buckley’s 1967 album Goodbye and Hello and one

For four years, every Sunday, I’ve attempted to write something, or share photos that might be entertaining. In the beginning I hoped to grow as a writer of short stories. The demands of work intruded on that hope, and to be honest, maybe I’m not ready for that kind of artistic endeavor. Nonetheless, I enjoyed being a part of The Consortium of Seven, reading what the other members shared, and the small joys of hearing what others thought of what I shared there. As we are wrapping up the project, I feel a pang of sadness coupled with the pragmatic realization that it will be one less thing on my too full plate.  And now, having a little trove of remembrances to delve into from time to time will be a delight for me. I could never maintain a diary, I tried when I was young. This will be much more entertaining. Recalling things is part of my nature, and fashioning those recollections into stories is what I hope to do, in good time, I suppose. So I wish you well, and all the best, and a hea

On the one hand, it’s going to be more time to do something else. On the other, I never thought I’d get this far, last this long or be able to sustain writing an arty entry EVERY SINGLE WEEK. Yet since starting almost three years ago, I’ve managed to keep it going & in particular through the past (& hardest) ten months of my life. So although it’s fine that the Consortium of Seven is coming to an end as a group of bloggers, it’s been a year of endings for me. Perhaps it is the right time after all. This is dedicated to all my fellow Consortium bloggers, who are members of what has been a generous & attentive group. In particular, thanks to Garbo who gently shoved me into doing something I didn’t think for a minute I could do. People like that are valuable. Let them wrangle you into the apparently impossible. In your bid to avoid disappointing them, you may find out something about yourself. Egon Schiele (1890-1918), Portrait of Paris von Gütersloh , 1918 Okay, I won’t lie –

  Wow.     Four years ?      Doesn't feel like it, but I suppose it never does.      I meant to do something more with it, but my time-management skills are often crap, and there seemed to always be something hanging over me, stressing me out, at any given time. Me "just" waiting for that thing to be "over", and then, surely, time would be mine and energy would return. Dream on.       Part of me thought this might be something I'd be carrying with me through the planned transition in my personal life sometime in 2026, but nothing lasts forever.     When Garbo told me about the Consortium of Seven project back in 2019, inviting me to be take one of the seven days after someone (I'm not sure that I ever knew who), originally in the mix to handle tv and film, had to bow out, I was interested. In large part I found it attractive because back closer to the start of this century one of my main online point of expression was blogging. Something I e

 And so, we come to the last of these columns before we come to an end next week.  I hope you've enjoyed them over the years and if you care to follow me elsewhere for the sheer silly nonsense I do on social media, you can find me on Facebook (as Joseph J. Finn) and on Bluesky as well.   Now on to the thrift stores! ____________________________________________ Let's start with the (presumably) classy; A New Kind Of Love  (1963) is a Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman vehicle written and directed by Melville Shavelson, an old-school comedy writer who I'm pretty unfamiliar with.  It doesn't appear to have gotten particularly good reviews but hey, Woodward and Newman! A New Kind Of Love  is available for rent and for sale at the usual places. ____________________________________________ On to the schlock!    Q: The Winged Serpent  is the most simple of premises.  Someone accidentally brings Quetzalcoatl to New York and he takes up residence, swooping down on unsuspecting New