Jean Shepard and A Christmas Story

So if you haven't heard, Cleveland has finally gone all a'twitter for A Christmas Story, twenty years after it was filmed down in Tremont and failed at the box office, then (just like Cleveland!) picking up word of mouth and becoming a cult classic. This is actually a good thing, because we need some excitement around here. I mean, last year our downtown Christmas tree fell over and it snowed all winter. The city had a communal case of seasonal depression, and then it hit 95 degrees the first week of June. We are exhausted. We need cheer. And then an out-of-town dude bought the house the movie was filmed in off eBay. And we look around and wondered, "Why the hell didn't someone from here think of that?" Because it is Cleveland. We don't think big like that. And we don't browse for real estate on the 'bay. Ah well.

Right, so all last weekend there were tours of the house and filming sites, 3 showings of the movie at Tower City, actors from the movie visiting, the opening of the stage version of the story and the adoption of many Electric Sex Leg Lamps in windows to show how Cleveland is One Fun Town, a move I heartily approve of. Even Civilization in Tremont has a leg lamp in the window. Looks good. Rallying behind this movie and our new pal who bought the house has brought Cleveland together better than anything in recent memory, including that stupid One City, One Book campaign.

I was already familiar with the works of Jean Shepard before all this happened, because Jean Shepard's books were some of the few in the house when I was growing up. You have to understand, in a move of somewhat lazy but inspired (and appreciated) parenting, after making sure that I knew how to read, my parents gave me free rein over what I did read. On the one hand, they weren't many books in our house, they were kind of chintzy with the funds to buy any (and if I did ask for money for books, that invited scrutiny and I was all about slipping under the radar). The closest library was poorly stocked, open 24 hours a week, and 3/4 mile down a dangerous major road. My parents might have just thought that there was little damage I could do to myself. Ha! I read anything I could get my hands on, and I am perversely grateful for their parenting in the area of intellectual freedom. I would say that was instumental in who I've become, good and bad. And I have to say, the unfettered access to materials regardless of age is a public library right I am willing to stand up and shout about.

One of the few books that I was directed to was the Jean Shepards. It was my dad who gave them to me. Considering that the only other books I remember him giving me to read were The Last Days of the Weinmar Republic and Joe Montana's autobiography, you and understand how Wanda Hickey's Night of Golden Memories and In God We Trust: All Others Pay Cash made a big impression on me. I am sure I didn't understand them fully, but I understood they were funny and that when read aloud, they were captivating. Something about being able to tell the story was the important part, the connection made with the listener/reader when spoken aloud. That and the self-depreciating humor, the swirl of chaos--it matters not the story but how you tell it. It occurs to me that that's exactly what I do with this blog.

Anyway, a bit of parlance from Shepard made its way into my family's vocabulary. The Bumpuses are the billyjack neighbors with the pack of dogs and the trash strewn yard--the dogs break into the house and steal the turkey at the end of the film. Well, we use the Bumpuses as as a watchword when our behavior starts betraying our less than middle class origins.

"Kerry, take the garbage cans out to the back!"
"Why? It's easier to take the trash out if we keep them in front."
"Dammit, we are not the Bumpuses! Now go do it!"

I may joke about Shambles House here, but I have to confess that I am now the Bumpus family of my street. I even beat the renters and the pot house. Hell, I think I even beat the never-seen family who lived illicitly in the boarded up store front across from Genevieve's old apartment. At least they put up Christmas lights.

I was out shoveling snow yesterday when I looked up at the windows. Now I know that I broke the window on the right when it slammed down as I put in the storm this fall. And the one on the left is in the (still-locked) red room. I recall it had a crack in the glass. Well, I don't know if it's the cold or the wind or what, but now it's completely cracked. I went upstairs and checked through the keyhole.

Crap. I should be ashamed. But after this week, I confess I just find it funny.

And calling a locksmith is now first on the list.