Showing posts with label Jimmy Stewart Museum. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jimmy Stewart Museum. Show all posts

Saturday, December 3, 2016

Seeing "Wonderul Life" a national obligation (from '15)


It is my patriotic conviction no one in America should be allowed to see “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” until everyone can prove they’ve seen “It’s A Wonderful Life.
It’s that important to our national well-being.
I’m dumbfounded over how many people haven’t seen our most essential Christmas classic.
It is, I guess, understandable for younger generations. They’re subjected to too many techie distractions, are reluctant to engage programs older than “SpongeBob,” and many are unfairly burdened by moronic parents.
But, c’mon, everyone over 40 should have by now seen it and should make time each Christmas to see it again and again.
Why?
Because watching it makes everyone feel better about themselves. The message — that every life has enormous worth — is one that needs constant reinforcing.
And it’s just perfectly entertaining. It’s funny. It’s sentimental. And it gives us heterosexual men our annual opportunity to fall in love with Donna Reed all over again.
I practice what I preach.
I was appalled when I learned a 45-year-old friend of mine had never seen it.
“Okay, that’s it,” I said. “You’re calling in sick this afternoon. You and I are going so spend the afternoon getting drunk and watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’”
Oh, he demurred, I can’t. I’m too busy.
“You have to! You can’t go another minute without seeing this movie!”
He said people were counting on him. His job was too important. And getting drunk in the middle of the weekday was irresponsible … 
Blah, blah, blah.
When did they stop putting auto pilots in commercial jet liners?
It’s that important to me. 
So, by all means, be sure you watch the movie. It's on NBC tonight at 8 p.m..
Or how about this?
Wait until next year and join us on our annual holiday pilgrimage to The Jimmy Stewart Museum in the actor’s native Indiana, Pennsylvania.
We were there Saturday. We go every year.
The museum is wonderful. Stewart is indelibly linked to George Bailey and vice versa. As Stewart was a Boy Scout, a war hero, a father and consummate gentleman, it was the best typecasting since “Wizard of Oz” producers cast a dog named Toto to play a dog named Toto.
Best part? The museum includes a cozy theater that throughout the year matinees “Harvey,” “Rear Window,” “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” and other famous Stewart films. At Christmas, of course, the feature is “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
We don’t stay for the whole thing (that’s for Christmas Eve at home), usually just to the honeymoon scene.
This is the year we’ll remember because the audience included a woman who we think must have escaped from the local lunatic asylum.
We deduce that because she laughed hysterically at even the most mild laugh lines.
She roared when George was shopping for luggage, she cackled when Harry Bailey was carrying plates on his head, and when the floor to the pool opened up she laughed so hard we thought the building would collapse.
It was excessive and we figured the woman, about 40, was probably nuts.
Or maybe she was just one of those perfectly nice and joyful people, the kind of person you’d imagine Jimmy Stewart was all the time.
Either way, it’s pretty clear she’s the kind of person who won’t cut in line, ruin your day with road ragery or cause a nasty Facebook fight over pointless political differences.
For those reasons alone, I hope she carries the movie’s message with her throughout her every day for as long as she lives. 
I hope she wakes up realizing her joyful exuberance is making a difference throughout the world, that she is an inspiration to those who struggle and that by finding happiness in even little things, she is making everything better.
Because she matters. A lot.
We all do.
Because it’s a wonderful life.
It’s a pretty darn good movie, too

Related . . .

Monday, December 14, 2015

Seeing "Wonderful Life" a national obligation


It is my patriotic conviction no one in America should be allowed to see “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” until everyone can prove they’ve seen “It’s A Wonderful Life.
It’s that important to our national well-being.
I’m dumbfounded over how many people haven’t seen our most essential Christmas classic.
It is, I guess, understandable for younger generations. They’re subjected to too many techie distractions, are reluctant to engage programs older than “SpongeBob,” and many are unfairly burdened by moronic parents.
But, c’mon, everyone over 40 should have by now seen it and should make time each Christmas to see it again and again.
Why?
Because watching it makes everyone feel better about themselves. The message — that every life has enormous worth — is one that needs constant reinforcing.
And it’s just perfectly entertaining. It’s funny. It’s sentimental. And it gives us heterosexual men our annual opportunity to fall in love with Donna Reed all over again.
I practice what I preach.
I was appalled when I learned a 45-year-old friend of mine had never seen it.
“Okay, that’s it,” I said. “You’re calling in sick this afternoon. You and I are going so spend the afternoon getting drunk and watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’”
Oh, he demurred, I can’t. I’m too busy.
“You have to! You can’t go another minute without seeing this movie!”
He said people were counting on him. His job was too important. And getting drunk in the middle of the weekday was irresponsible … 
Blah, blah, blah.
When did they stop putting auto pilots in commercial jet liners?
It’s that important to me. 
So, by all means, be sure you watch the movie on Christmas Eve, 8 p.m., on NBC.
Or how about this?
Wait until next year and join us on our annual holiday pilgrimage to The Jimmy Stewart Museum in the actor’s native Indiana, Pennsylvania.
We were there Saturday. We go every year.
The museum is wonderful. Stewart is indelibly linked to George Bailey and vice versa. As Stewart was a Boy Scout, a war hero, a father and consummate gentleman, it was the best typecasting since “Wizard of Oz” producers cast a dog named Toto to play a dog named Toto.
Best part? The museum includes a cozy theater that throughout the year matinees “Harvey,” “Rear Window,” “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” and other famous Stewart films. At Christmas, of course, the feature is “It’s a Wonderful Life.”
We don’t stay for the whole thing (that’s for Christmas Eve at home), usually just to the honeymoon scene.
This is the year we’ll remember because the audience included a woman who we think must have escaped from the local lunatic asylum.
We deduce that because she laughed hysterically at even the most mild laugh lines.
She roared when George was shopping for luggage, she cackled when Harry Bailey was carrying plates on his head, and when the floor to the pool opened up she laughed so hard we thought the building would collapse.
It was excessive and we figured the woman, about 40, was probably nuts.
Or maybe she was just one of those perfectly nice and joyful people, the kind of person you’d imagine Jimmy Stewart was all the time.
Either way, it’s pretty clear she’s the kind of person who won’t cut in line, ruin your day with road ragery or cause a nasty Facebook fight over pointless political differences.
For those reasons alone, I hope she carries the movie’s message with her throughout her every day for as long as she lives. 
I hope she wakes up realizing her joyful exuberance is making a difference throughout the world, that she is an inspiration to those who struggle and that by finding happiness in even little things, she is making everything better.
Because she matters. A lot.
We all do.
Because it’s a wonderful life.
It’s a pretty darn good movie, too

Related . . .


Monday, October 15, 2012

Weddings, friendship & a pooka named Paul



We spent a good deal of the Saturday wedding reception lamenting there’s only one Peirce sister left to wed. Three down, Kelly to go.

The sisters are uniformly vivacious, beautiful and fun, just like their mom, Patti. 

The weddings have been such joyful extravaganzas we were all sorry Patti didn’t have a dozen daughters.

Patti is married to Paul and Paul is my pooka.

More on that in just a bit.

I’ve lost track but Paul and Patti are on the verge of celebrating something like their 68th wedding anniversary.

Because theirs was a mid-70’s shotgun wedding, they celebrated both an actual anniversary and one they told their parents to avoid scandalous questions involving birthdays and basic math.

I remember one time Paul and I were sitting in a bar -- our natural habitat -- and hearing a guy instruct a college-age friend on the importance of proper birth control.

“Getting a girl pregnant in college,” he thundered, “can ruin your life!”

I’ll never forget Paul setting down his beer, turning to the pair and offering this emphatic counterpoint: “I got a girl pregnant in college  . . . and it was the greatest thing that ever happened to me!”

I met Paul in 1989 after bosses at the Greensburg Tribune-Review transferred me to work with him in the two-person Latrobe bureau office. Prior to that Paul’d worked with a string of co-workers whose extracurricular interests did not merge with his.

Or as Patti put it: “Before you got there, he used to always come home unhappy. Now he’s always happy, but he’s never home.”

It was the start of a nationwide carouse that’s lasted nearly 25 years.

What’s been most fun for me is to watch how peoples’ opinions of Paul have changed over the years even as Paul hasn’t changed one bit.

By remaining the way he’s always been, he’s become absolutely beloved.

I began noticing this a few years ago whenever friends started coming up to me whenever I was momentarily Paul-less.

“Hey, have you seen Paul?” they’d ask.

Of course, I had.

They’d want to know how he was doing. I’d tell them without exaggeration he was doing great. He’s one of the happiest men I’ve ever known.

“Would you please tell him I asked about him and that I said hello? Tell him I hope to see him soon.”

It was like Paul was Santa and I was the elf in charge of the naughty and nice lists.

Those conversations confirmed what I already knew: Paul’d become my pooka.

I didn’t even know I had a pooka until a couple of years ago after we took the kids to the Jimmy Stewart Museum in Indiana, Pa. From the DVD bins, I snagged the 1950 movie “Harvey.” Hadn’t seen it in years.

In it Stewart plays Elwood P. Dowd, an affable dimwit who believes he’s accompanied everywhere by a 6-foot-3 invisible white rabbit who shares his fondness for drink and laughter.

For the purposes of this story, I’m the affable dimwit, the most obvious casting since 1939 when producers of “The Wizards of Oz” cast a dog named Toto to play a dog named Toto.

Here’s what Dowd says about having Harvey:

“Harvey and I sit in the bars... have a drink or two... play the juke box. And soon the faces of all the other people they turn toward mine and they smile. And they're saying, ‘We don't know your name, mister, but you're a very nice fella.’ Harvey and I warm ourselves in all these golden moments. We've entered as strangers, soon we have friends. And they come over ... and they sit with us ... and they drink with us ... and they talk to us. They tell about the big terrible things they've done and the big wonderful things they’ll do. Their hopes, and their regrets, and their loves, and their hates. All very large, because nobody ever brings anything small into a bar. And then I introduce them to Harvey ... and he's bigger and grander than anything they offer me. And when they leave, they leave impressed.”

That exact situation’s happened thousands of times with Paul and I, and Paul is bigger and grander than any 6-foot-3 invisible rabbit. It helps we’re both attentive listeners.

I admit to growing misty at Meghan and Ryan’s wedding watching Paul walk his youngest daughter down the aisle and later hearing all the warm tributes to this most happy bride’s parents.

It’s been a real privilege for Val and I to be part of their lives and to watch Paul and Patti raise Tiffany, Lindsey, Kelly, and Meghan from precocious and engaging children into joyful and successful adults, two of them now parents themselves.

Spoiler alert:

“Harvey” concludes with Dowd selflessly giving the warden of the mental hospital from which he’s just been liberated permission to take Harvey with him.

But Harvey has other ideas.

He chooses to stay with Dowd.

I guess that’s the way it is with all the great pookas. They’re too important to too many to keep all to yourself.

You just have to thankful any time the big pooka chooses you.


Related . . .