Celebrating the silent Marx

One of the first places we went upon receiving our driver’s license (and the mobility that came with it) some—gulp!—36 years ago was the miniscule (and long since defunct) Mini-Mall Theatre in north Oklahoma City. They featured old movies there, mostly comedies, and we wanted to see a Marx Brothers movie. We had become intrigued somehow with the Marxes—Groucho, especially—but had never seen one of their pictures.

The bill that evening was Horse Feathers (1932), followed by Duck Soup (1933). As Horse Feathers opens, Groucho is being inducted as President of Huxley College. Following his introduction by the outgoing president, Groucho begins his speech this way:

“Members of the faculty and faculty members, students of Huxley and Huxley students—I guess that covers everyone. I thought my razor was dull until I heard his speech, and that reminds me of a story that’s so dirty I’m ashamed to think of it myself. I came to this college for one reason: to get my son out of it. I remember the day he left for school, a mere boy and a beardless youth. I kissed them both goodbye.”

Groucho was off and running, and so were we. From that night on, we couldn’t get enough of Groucho, Harpo, Chico, and sometimes Zeppo. The Marxes quickly became our avocation, and an avid one at that. We were initially drawn most strongly to Groucho, who was cracking the jokes we would had made if we were clever enough.

But we also loved Chico’s puns and crazy piano stylings and, even more, Harpo’s innocently mischievous ways. Over the years, our affection for Groucho has not faded, but we’ve grown ever fonder of Harpo. Our appreciation for the second eldest Marx may have been fueled by our increasing knowledge of—and appreciation for—the great silent comics such as Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, and Charlie Chaplin. We’re convinced that, had Harpo not been part of a family act that very much relied on dialogue and wordplay, he could have been right up there with those comic greats in the silent era.

By all reports, it wasn’t hard to love Harpo. Everything we’ve read (and we’ve read just about everything there is to read on the Marxes) suggests that he was as lovely a fellow as you’d ever want to meet, kind and gentle and fun-loving (the term that so often gets used to describe him is “childlike”).

Harpo’s autobiography, Harpo Speaks!, is still (or, perhaps, again) in print, and we highly recommend it to you. We have enjoyed it more every time we’ve read it, and Ms. Cladrite, who has to date viewed only a couple of Marx Brothers movies, found it an engaging and charming read.

But we also want to recommend a delightful web site of which a pal made us aware recently. It’s called Harpo’s Place, and is described on the home page as The Official Arthur Harpo Marx Family Online Collection. It’s a lovingly crafted tribute to Harpo—the man, the actor, and the father—and it has no other agenda than to celebrate and commemmorate his life and career. There’s nothing for sale on the site (heck, we almost wish there were), and it’s loaded with material even the most devoted Marxist might never have seen before. Harpo’s Place is clearly a labor of love, and that labor has paid off in a delightful site that we heartily recommend to you.

Check it out, and tell ‘em Cladrite Radio sent you.

'Tis Autumn (well, almost)

We love autumn more than any other season, and it’s not even close. We love it so much that we wrote an essay about it a while back that we hope you’ll find amusing (you may even have heard us present it on NPR’s All Things Considered some years ago):

See You in September

Another Labor Day has come and gone, and once again, I spent the last week of summer gritting my teeth as op-ed columnists and on-air commentators bemoan the passing of another summer. At times like this I feel like a Unitarian enduring a fire-and-brimstone fundamentalist sermon: Though I may concur with certain of the preacher’s points, I can’t help but feel that he’s overstating his case.

For, unless you’re at the beach or poolside—and let’s face it, at any given time, what percentage of us are?—summer is surely the most overrated annual event this side of New Year’s Eve. The joys of the season are largely mythical. For many the word “summer” conjures images of sun, sand, and surf, of long, lazy days spent idling in a hammock, of cookouts, pool parties, and miniature golf. All of which admittedly sounds delightful, but whose docket is so clear? Unless you’re under the age of 16 or make your living as a teacher, your boss, like mine, probably expects you at the office 8 hours a day, five days a week—even in June, July, and August—and would consider “But—it’s summer!” an unacceptable explanation of a prolonged absence.

No, that vision of summer is largely a pipe dream but I’m happy to remind you of some of the season’s attributes that are not: searingly hot vinyl carseats, clothes that stick to one’s damp skin, and yard work. This last is reason enough to resent the onset of summer, and is perhaps the primary motivation for my immigration, all those years ago, from the suburbs of Oklahoma City to the island of Manhattan. Not that this concrete jungle is any kind of summer paradise: It’s hot, hazy, and humid. But at least it doesn’t need mowing.

But in autumn! Ah, autumn is a grand time in Gotham: The city is imbued with the sort of glow usually seen only in the work of a master cinematographer. The haze dissipates, there’s a nip in the air, and the island’s energy, once sapped by the summer heat, returns with a flourish, like a leggy supermodel just back from the Hamptons.

It’s been suggested to me on more than one occasion—and by members of more than one gender—that summer’s tribulations are worth enduring if only for the expanses of skin that are bared for our pleasure: Even this, I submit, is a mixed blessing, at best. Let’s face it, it’s a relatively rare human being who possesses a midriff or a set of gams worthy of display. Most of us look far better in a sweater and slacks than we ever would in a cut-off T-shirt and bikini briefs. The good Lord has blessed us each with a perfectly good imagination: Pray let us give each other occasion to exercise it.

Perhaps the biggest trial summer presents us is olfactory in nature. Yes, there are pleasant smells associated with the season: the sweet scent of a perfectly ripe peach, the alluring aroma of steaks on the grill, the wafting delights of honeysuckle in the air. But summer is decidedly unkind to many of nature’s creatures. Late some August afternoon, stand close and take a good of whiff of your dog, your eight-year-old, or your next-door neighbor. Chances are, all three are in dire need of a good scrubbing and none is likely to undertake it on his own.

So decry the passing of summer if you must, but be aware that the sentiment is not unversal, that there are others like me whose hearts are set aloft by the delights of autumn—by shopping for new school clothes, sampling the season’s first pumpkin pie, or indulging in a long stroll on a chill night with just a hint of woodsmoke in the air. And we fall-o-philes will no longer remain silent. We will loudly celebrate our seasonal preferences with energy, enthusiasm, and pride—autumnal pride!

We know it’s not quite autumn yet—not according to the calendar, anyway—but just as Labor Day is by viewed by so many summer lovers as the unofficial end of their favorite season, for us fall-o-philes, it’s the unofficial beginning of autumn. So we’re celebrating by adding a slew of autumn-themed tunes to the Cladrite Radio playlist. Keep listening—you’ll notice them over the coming days and weeks.

And just to whet your appetite, we’ve included two of our favorites below, along with some delightful lyrics that capture our mood.

Happy autumn, everyone!

Nat “King” Cole — “‘Tis Autumn”

Kay Kyser and His Orchestra — “Shine on, Harvest Moon”

‘Tis Autumn
Old Father Time checked, so there’d be no doubt.
Called on the North wind to come on out,
Then cupped his hands so proudly to shout,
“La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ’tis autumn!”

Trees say they’re tired, they’ve born too much fruit.
Charmed on the wayside, there’s no dispute.
Now shedding leaves, they don’t give a hoot.
La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ’tis autumn!

Then the birds got together
To chirp about the weather.
La-dah-di la-dah-di la-dah-dum
After makin’ their decision,
In birdie-like precision,
Turned about, and
Made a beeline to the south.

My holding you close really is no crime.
Ask the birds and the trees and old Father Time.
It’s just to help the mercury climb.
La-di-dah di-dah-di-dum, ’tis autumn.

—Henry Nemo, words and music

The Karen Files, pt. 9

Another in an ongoing series of posts celebrating the life of our mother:

Some years ago, our father underwent heart surgery. We flew down from NYC to OKC for a few days, to spend some time with Dad before the surgery and to be with him for two or three days after.

He was already in the hospital in preparation for the surgery when we arrived, so there wasn’t much to do but shoot the breeze. With the surgery just 36 hours away or so and the unaddressed but undeniable possibility hanging in the air that these might be our last conversations (they weren’t, thank heaven—he came through the surgery with flying colors), we spent a lot of time reminiscing, talking about his childhood and youth.

We were already vintage-clothing buffs by then (though we’d not yet started wearing hats, which we do with regularity now), and it occurred to us that we’d never seen Dad in a hat. Did he ever wear them? Was he excited, when he became a young man, that it meant he got to start sporting a fedora?

No, he said, he and his crowd didn’t often wear hats. He owned one or two over the years, but he’d never worn them much.

Hi-res view

But when we sorted through the boxes and boxes of family photographs upon Mom’s passing in April, we came across a pair of photos of Dad in a hat (in one, Mom’s wearing a scarf, which we have only the vaguest memories of her ever doing, and in the other, she’s wearing white gloves, which we don’t ever recall seeing).

The first one dates to the early sixties, we’re guessing—Mom’s gone blond, and they’re standing in front of the house we lived in till 1964.

We like that Dad looks like kind of hipster-y in this shot—he’s got the stingy-brimmed fedora so popular today (with a higher crown than one tends to see today, and with what looks to be a center dent on the top of the crown, with no indentations in the front of the crown—hey, hat wearers notice these things!). He’s also got the David Byrne-esque closed top button (though we’re probably dating ourselves by mentioning Byrne; his days as an arbiter of hip are probably long past).

Mom looks pretty sharp, too. Healthy and happy and vital. This photo makes us smile (and not only because it confirms that Dad did occasionally wear a fedora).

Hi-res view

The second photo’s from a few years later. Mom and Dad have had a new home built (we resided there from 1964 through 1974), and it’s kind of modern and space-age-y—an angular structure with towering wrought-iron gates that led through an entryway into a square courtyard around which the house was built. It so stood out in that surburban neighborhood that our grade school pals were convinced that we were wealthy (we were not).

In this photo, taken in the aforementioned courtyard, Dad could be wearing the same chapeau as in the earlier photo, but we suspect it’s a different one (not drastically different in style, though), and, as we mentioned above, Mom’s wearing gloves, which pleases us but also surprises us—we don’t remember her ever doing so. We suspect Mom and Dad are on their way to church (perhaps it’s Easter morning, which might explain the corsage). Here, Dad looks much more Mad Men-esque than in the previous photo, a young Don Draper (only without the philandering).

So it’s nice to know that, in wearing fedoras, we’re carrying on a minor family tradition. Ours sport a wider brim than did Dad’s, but that’s a mere detail.

The Karen Files, pt. 3

Every movie buff has seen scenes set in nightclubs during which a scantily clad gal with a camera slides over to the protagonists’ booth and asks if they’d like to have a picture taken.

We’ve often wondered, when watching one of these movies, just how common a practice it was for night spots, tony and otherwise, to employ someone for the purpose of taking and marketing souvenir photographs. Was it always a woman?

And if it was common, what’s become of all those pictures?

Well, we can tell you what’s become of one of them.

As part of our ongoing weekly tribute to our mother, we’re very pleased indeed to share with you this shot, discovered in the days following Mom’s passing, as we explored hundreds of stashed-away photos and documents that she long meant to take down from the attic and organize.

View in hi-res

The setting, as you can see from the cover of the folder in which the picture was stored, was Louie’s Club 29, which was located at 2929 S.W. 29th Street in Oklahoma City.

We’re guessing the year was right around 1955, give or take a year or two. Mom and Dad can be found smack dab in the middle of the picture, and she hasn’t yet gone blond, a transformation that occurred in the late ’50s. And that’s Dad’s younger sister, Marilyn, and her first husband, Ronnie, on the left, each sporting a wedding ring. As Dad recalls it, they were wed in 1954 or so.

And that’s Katie and Lowell (Lo-Lo to us kids) on the right, backyard neighbors to our folks from 1955 through 1964. The two couples were so close they ran a fireworks stand together for a couple of summers in the mid-1950s (doesn’t that sound like the plot of a forgotten I Love Lucy episode? “Fireworks”: Lucy hatches a get-rich-scheme, convincing the Mertzes to go in with the Ricardos on a seasonal fireworks stand.”)

There are other details we find intriguing about this photo. For one, everyone appears to be limiting themselves to Coca-Cola—there are several bottles scattered about the small table and what appears to be a ice bucket. Was that how soft drinks were served at Louie’s: self-service, with bottles, glasses, and a bucket of ice provided?

We note from the cover of the photo folder that Louie’s Club 29 featured three floor shows nightly. We don’t mind admitting we’d give our eyeteeth to see one of those shows.

And the photograph, as the cover touts, was taken by a gal named Peggy. We can’t help but wonder where Peggy is today? Is she still snapping souvenir photos somewhere at some time-capsule of a night spot? Probably not, but here’s hoping she’s still going strong somewhere, taking photos of her great-grandkids, perhaps.

So give the gift you know can't fail…

Anyone who grew (or is currently growing) up in the Oklahoma City area knows that it’s just not the Christmas season until you’ve heard the B.C. Clark Christmas jingle on television or the radio at least once.

B.C. Clark, for the non-Okies among you, is a jewelry store that’s been in operation in the Sooner State since 1892, and since 1956 (just one year outside Cladrite Radio’s purview, but we’re stretching a point for the holidays), they’ve been running the aforementioned jingle advertising their annual sale, which takes place not after Christmas, like most stores (or so the lyrics to the jingle insist), but just before.

So for 53 years, denizens of central Oklahoma have been humming along to this catchy ditty, and it’s now our pleasure to share this holiday highlight with folks from other parts of the country (and around the world).

Ms. Cladrite, who grew up in New Jersey, has the darned thing memorized after just two or three Christmas seasons’ exposure to this seasonal delight and can sing along whenever it’s played.

It’s just that catchy a tune.

If we’ve managed to pique your interest, just follow this link. You can hear the original version from the ’50s, compare that to a more recent recording of the song, and even watch an animated television commercial that features the jingle.

But be forewarned — watch or listen more than two or three times, and you’ll be hooked, no matter how far away you live from the nearest B.C. Clark location. And soon, as with the millions of Okies who have come to associate the Christmas season with this venerable jingle, you’ll come to feel that it just isn’t the holidays each year until you’ve heard the jingle once or twice (or a dozen times).