NEWKIRIK, OK – In case you need reassurance that everlasting love really does exist, this video of a couple at their 50th anniversary party will certainly help. Back in the 1960’s, Harvey and Mildred Wosika met while she was working at his brother’s café. The couple hit it off and they were married on August…
John Lennon’s Ex-Wife, Cynthia Lennon, Dead at 75
LONDON (AP) — Cynthia Lennon, the first wife of former Beatles guitarist John Lennon, has died of cancer at her home in Spain. She was 75.
The news was announced Wednesday on the website and Twitter account of her son, Julian Lennon, and was confirmed by his representative.
Cynthia Lennon died at her home in Mallorca “following a short but brave battle with cancer,” a statement from the representative said. It said Julian Lennon was at his mother’s bedside throughout.
The family is “thankful for your prayers. Please respect their privacy at this difficult time.”
Julian Lennon also posted a tribute video to his late mother with a song he had written in her honor. The lyrics thanked her for giving up her life for him.
Cynthia Lennon – In Loving Memory
John Lennon Wife – Cynthia Lennon EXCLUSIVE 30 Minute BBC Interview & Life Story
Cynthia and John Lennon met at art school in Liverpool and married shortly before the Beatles shot to fame. Early on, the fact that Lennon was married was concealed to protect his image as a teen idol.
They divorced in 1968 after John Lennon started his relationship with Japanese artist Yoko Ono.
Author Hunter Davies, who wrote the only authorized Beatles biography in 1968, described Cynthia as a “lovely woman” who was ill-treated by her famous husband. He said that unlike John, she was “quiet and reserved and calm” and “not a hippy at all.”
He said their friends at art school never thought the relationship would last because they were so different.
In her book, Cynthia described being mistreated by John. Julian was their only child together.
The Lennon Companion: Twenty-five Years of Comment
His novel is at the top of the Amazon bestsellers list, nearly 90 years later after it was written. He’s widely considered one of America’s greatest novelists and his work has inspired writers ever since he was published. So then why is F. Scott Fitzgerald, who is more famously associated with places such as Paris, New York and the French Riviera, buried near a highway surrounded by concrete strip malls in Rockville, Maryland?
Beyond the train tracks, with glum office buildings in the backdrop beneath a gravestone that looks like any other, the celebrated novelist, although not in this case, is laid to rest with his wife Zelda. Most local commuters that pass the cemetery probably aren’t even aware that the author is buried there. The only thing about Fitzgerald’s grave that would attract anyone’s attention would be the unusual items occasionally placed on it by visitors– bottles of alcohol and coins; the two things he needed the most before he died.
F. Scott Fitzgerald died of a heart attack in 1940 in Hollywood California at his lover’s apartment. At the time he was utterly broke and considered himself a failure. Years of excessive drinking since his college years had left him in poor health and after the Great Depression, readers nor publishers were interested in stories of the glitzy Jazz Age. By the time of his death, you would be lucky to find a copy of The Great Gatsby on bookstore shelves. Because of his adulterous relationship and the notorious lifestyle he was known to have lived, F. Scott was considered a non practicing Catholic and denied the right to be buried on the family plot. Only around 25 people attended the rainy funeral at Rockville Union Cemetary and the Protestant minister who performed the ceremony allegedly had never ever heard of him. Almost as if it had been foreshadowed in the book, Fitzgerald’s sadly unsensational farewell was in fact very similar to that of his description of his own character’s funeral, Jay Gatsby.
The day for Gatsby’s funeral arrives and the attendees include myself, Gatsby’s father, Owl Eyes, and Gatsby’s servants. How could a man of such status have such a pathetic and depressing last farewell?
–The Great Gatsby
It wasn’t until 35 years later that Catholic St. Mary’s cemetery just up the road, accepted both the Fitzgeralds into the family plot you see pictured here (Zelda later died in a fire in 1948 and was buried with him), a small step up from the forgotten grave at the Rockville Union cemetery.
The stone lifts a quote from his famous novel with his full name inscribed, Francis Scott Key, the name he was given after a distant relative and Maryland native, who also happened to be the author who wrote “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
As the highly anticipated new film adaptation hits cinemas this month, the Reverend Monsignor Amey of St. Mary’s Catholic Church tells the post that the gravesite has been receiving more visitors than usual. “We usually see a handful of people visiting the cemetery in a given week … That number has tripled in the last week,” he told the Washington Post. “Aspiring authors leave pens, and admirers occasionally write handwritten notes. A top hat, adorned with a martini glass ribbon, is the most recent addition.”
Perhaps some of that box-office money should go towards giving this great American writer the resting place he deserves?
Information on Visiting Fitzgerald’s Grave Here
TORONTO – The gourmet cupcake craze has been declared dead by more than one trend-watcher, but it’s still got sweet appeal for a Toronto man who spent $900 on an elaborate confection for his wife’s 40th birthday.
Lisa Sanguedolce, owner of custom sweetmaker Le Dolci, says she was asked to make the elaborate creation featuring some of the woman’s favourite ingredients, and ended up including tiny Champagne bubbles, fondant decorations painted with edible gold, Kona coffee from Hawaii and 21-year-old Courvoisier.
Pastry chef Devonne Sitzer, who’s had stints at Toronto’s Distillery District and the tony Langdon Hall in Cambridge, Ont., dreamed up the cupcake along with designer Annie Sung Lee.
“It was a lot of labour, going back and forth with him, showing him sketches and sourcing everything,” Sanguedolce said Friday. “Our chef is amazing. She came up with it all. I was, like, this is beautiful.”
Tiny Champagne bubbles sprinkled over the cake were created using a molecular gastronomy technique – “they explode in your mouth,” Sanguedolce said – and “diamonds” carved out of sugar were placed around the edge of the chocolate cupcake, which was made with organic sugar, flour and honey with a pinch of salt from France. The cupcake was hollowed out slightly in the centre and filled with a vanilla bean pastry cream and topped with mocha icing.
Delicate fondant flowers were etched in edible gold, stylized gold strips crisscrossed the sides of the cupcake and a fondant branch and leaves were painted with edible gold. Kona is one of the most expensive coffees in the world and the pricey chocolate came from Italy.
“The Courvoisier was more to his liking,” Sanguedolce said with a laugh. The cognac was drizzled on top and poured into a small tube inserted into the cupcake.
For quality control, they tasted as they went along, and Sanguedolce pronounced the chocolate, vanilla and coffee mix delicious.
The elements took a few days to prepare and assembly took a day. The lavish cupcake was delivered last Friday.
“The customer was super happy. We used all the ingredients that his wife loved and some things that he loved. It turned out to be a really fun project.”
This is the first costly cupcake Sanguedolce has supplied, though she’s produced numerous cakes that cost upwards of $1,000, such as replicas of a celebrant’s grand piano for a 65th birthday, a Porsche for a son’s wedding and a Corvette for a husband’s 40th birthday. The time-consuming task of recreating each of them was done from photos supplied by the customers.
Of the luxury market, Sanguedolce said, “It’s a different world, not my world, but I’m happy to oblige.”
THERE are those who, on hearing that the tintype photographer John A. Coffer lives without car, phone or plumbing, might call him a Luddite. This, he insists, is not true — for one thing, he has a computer. He even has a computer room. The walls are bales of hay, the roof is tin, and the power source is a 75-watt solar panel outside in the pasture. Mr. Coffer, who lives on a 48-acre farm in the Finger Lakes, built his computer room in March. It’s lasted nicely through heavy rains and if it falls apart, Mr. Coffer says, no matter: He’s invested all of $15 in it.
You consider yourself a dedicated artist because you lived in a tenement walk-up without air-conditioning? Mr. Coffer, who is one of the few people credited with a recent revival of tintype photography, and who supports himself with the sale of his work and his tintype workshops, does not just make photographs as one did in the 1860’s, he lives, to a large extent, the way one might have in the 1860’s. (In late July, he played host to his sixth annual tintype jamboree, free of cost, for dozens of fellow aficionados.)
He spent seven years on the road with a horse and buggy, and that’s the way he still gets around. He uses an outhouse. He lives in a small log cabin, which he built. The heat in the cabin comes from a wood-burning cast-iron stove, so that everything in the cabin, including Mr. Coffer, has the soft, smoky scent of soot.
One also senses, early on, a low smoldering anger. Mr. Coffer, who, with his suspenders, straw hat, horse and buggy, is frequently mistaken for Amish, is not a mad artist in the woods, but he can be a somewhat cranky one. Asked why subjects in 19th-century photos rarely smiled, he says it is because they were dignified; it is only in recent times that people “feel they have to show their teeth like a used-car salesman.” He is annoyed with the values of modern women — an attitude which is easier to understand once you learn that his wife, after a short time in the cabin, ran off.
And while Mr. Coffer, who is 54, prides himself on living off the grid, he does not want to be lost there. Meeting a reporter for the first time, he brings his scrapbook of newspaper stories about his life on the road. Much of Mr. Coffer’s work in those days was at Civil War re-enactments, and as he flipped through his scrapbook, he said that he sometimes drove eight and a half days in his buggy to get to a site, while the re-enactors pulled up in their trucks or vans.
“You’d be surprised at how delicate some of these re-enactors are,” Mr. Coffer said.
No one could ever accuse Mr. Coffer of being delicate. His log cabin is 12 feet square. He hauls water from his well with a two-bucket yoke. He sleeps in a small loft, with sheets that scream out for an intervention. Since Mr. Coffer has no refrigerator to which he can affix photos, a few favorite tintypes cling to the cross-saws on the cabin wall.
One shows two young women Mr. Coffer met at a Civil War re-enactment a few weeks ago. They’d been bored, so he’d photographed them in their Civil War underwear — pantaloons and tops — along with a whiskey jug and gun belt that he added “to make it interesting.” Mr. Coffer is a man, it is becoming clear, who could use an online dating service, but as his computer is not connected to the Internet, some hardy woman of pioneering spirit will have to find him, taking care not to kick the chickens as she crosses the cabin threshold.
It is also clear that Mr. Coffer is a very handy fellow. His farm includes a half-dozen structures: wagon barns, outhouse, darkrooms, root cellar, all of which he built. The skull atop Mr. Coffer’s corral is what remains of White Lightning, an ox who appeared in many of his tintypes. Mr. Coffer reduced the skull to bone by placing it on an anthill.
Mr. Coffer is not opposed to all modern convenience. His solar panel charges batteries for the single bulb in his cabin and for the radio on which he listens to NPR. He keeps his expenses to the bone. His cabin cost $800, most of it for cedar shingles. The handsome claw-foot cast-iron tub near the woods, in which he bathes in fine weather, was $1. The 60-gallon cauldron that he uses to heat bath water was $20.
How often does he bathe?
Twice a week in winter, when he uses a portable aluminum tub indoors; every day in summer.
What about the sheets?
Mr. Coffer proudly led the way to a 1925 Maytag, which is outside the cabin, near the woods. The rubber wringer is corroded but the inside is fine. Mr. Coffer hauls the water from his well and hooks the Maytag up to a battery. The washer cost $15 at a farm sale.
The big question: why does Mr. Coffer choose to live like this?
“Modern living was always too fast for me,” he said. “I was not good at 20th-century living.”
He grew up in Las Vegas. His father was a magician and hypnotist; his mother was a schoolteacher who refused to marry his father until he became a responsible provider. That turned out to be never. His father gambled; both parents were hooked on diet pills. Both are now dead. Although his father was “kind of a louse,” Mr. Coffer admired his independence.
Mr. Coffer, as a young man, tried several careers: doing underwater construction on oil rigs; running a diving business; working as a studio photographer in Orlando, his subjects schoolchildren and businessmen.
“There was one approach to portraiture,” he later wrote, in a self-published book “Horsehair In My Soup: Book 1.” “The broad smile, the flash, the color prints that fade all too soon and the aura of glamour that surrounded the studio began to grate against my sensibilities. Something within me was intent at looking deeper than face level.”
Then one day, he saw an old wooden Century Number 4 camera in a shop window and knew, in an instant, that it would change his life. He bought the camera for $50 and began photographing re-enactments, soon trading in his car for a horse and buggy. He mixed his own chemicals, creating images on glass and metal plates.
It took about an hour to make a portrait, including sensitizing the plate, taking the picture, then developing, fixing, washing, drying and varnishing the plate. Subjects also had to sit unmoving for several seconds, sometimes with the aid of a neck brace. Sitting for that amount of time, it is difficult to hide one’s true face.
On the road, Mr. Coffer also found a wife.
“Big mistake,” Mr. Coffer says now. His wife had wanted adventure, but after a while she said she’d leave if they didn’t settle down. In 1985, they came to Yates County, where land was $300 an acre and an Amish community provided a support system for horse-drawn conveyances. Mr. Coffer’s wife stuck around for the building of the cabin. Then came her demands for the car and the phone, he said. Then, he said, after two years in the cabin, she ran off with Mr. Coffer’s assistant for the bright lights of Ithaca. She left him 18 years ago and Mr. Coffer hasn’t had an affair of the heart since.
“Nobody likes it up here, I guess,” he said, out in the canvas-covered darkroom in the pasture, as evening came on and with it time to milk the cow. “It’s like a monastery here, I guess.”
He could go out and try to meet a woman.
“I used to do all that, go to singles bars,” Mr. Coffer said. “It was cheap. It just wasn’t fulfilling. I don’t want to live up to other people’s expectations. I own this land, 50 acres free and clear. I’ve got a lot of money in the bank. I’ve been in galleries in New York. And yet girls go, ‘He doesn’t have a phone.’ ” Mr. Coffer rarely curses, but speaking about women, he does. They’ll chase down a guy 10 feet in debt over his head, working at some dead-end job, who’s got a phone and a car, he said angrily.
Actually, it’s probably the lack of plumbing, he was told.
“I love my outhouse,” Mr. Coffer said. “It is a little bit of a challenge in January, but I don’t linger out there.”
Also, since we’re on the subject, there’s no place inside the cabin to bathe. That claw foot tub near the trees might be okay in August, once, if a lady is feeling like doing a little nymph in the woods number, but after that, forget it. There aren’t many hippie chicks left. And Mr. Coffer is 54, and if we’re talking women his own age, they’ll be getting up in the middle of the night to hit the bathroom. Often.
Mr. Coffer was unmoved. He happens to like living as he does, he said. Conveniences like e-mail and phones end up being your master. Driving a horse and buggy, he’s not beholden to auto and gas companies.
“I was a great student of how people lived in the 19th century,” he said. “I emulate my heroes, the independence people had, the old wagons and things. It’s just more of an earthy way of moving, the natural rhythm, the poetry, the pace.”
And he headed down to the pasture, to the cows.
Posted on Thursday, 01.23.14
Dear Abby: Husband enlists Hemingway in campaign to have an affair
Dear Abby: I am 36. My husband is 60. We have been together for 10 years. During the first four years we got along great, but he now says he wants to have affairs.
He texts women and tries to hide it from me. I found out he was texting his first ex-wife. It made me uncomfortable, so I asked him to stop. He didn’t. When I realized he hadn’t, I told him I would leave if it happens again. This kind of behavior has been going on for more than half our marriage.
I am at the point where I don’t want to cuddle or be affectionate with him at all. He commented the other day that he should be allowed to have an affair because I mentioned that I find Hemingway interesting. (He was known for affairs.)
I’m at a loss. I care for my husband and don’t want to hurt him. But I’m also scared that I can’t afford to be on my own. A little advice?
Hemingway was also known for his drinking and big-game hunting. Is your husband considering doing those things, too?
If ever I heard of a couple who could benefit from marriage counseling, it’s you two. As it stands, your marriage is broken. Counseling may help. If it doesn’t and you don’t have a job, find one and figure out a way to cut your expenses so you CAN afford to be on your own, because it looks like you will be.
HIWAY AMERICA-SPRINGFIELD IL. -ROUTE 66, COZY DOG DRIVE-IN, LINCOLN’S GRAVE AND MEMORIAL
Cozy Dog Drive-In
The restaurant is a shrine to Route 66 and to itself, packed with mementos, clippings, and old signs, as well as with Mother Road souvenirs for sale. The “corn dog on a stick” was invented during World War II by Ed Waldmire when he was in the Air Force stationed in Texas. Cozy Dogs were officially launched at the Lake Springfield Beach House in 1946, and a stand was opened on Ash and MacArthur. The Cozy Dog Drive-In is now situated where the old Abe Lincoln Motel used to be.:
HISTORY PRESIDENT LINCOLN’S TOMB
The Tomb is the final resting place of President Lincoln, his wife and three of their four children. It was constructed between 1869-1874 in Springfield’s Oak Ridge Cemetery. Be sure to rub the nose of the bronze Lincoln bust at the entrance, which is said to bring good luck. Dogs are allowed on the site; they are not allowed inside the monument. Dogs must be under their owner’s control, leashed, and cleaned up after at all times.
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