There are no other restaurants that are good enough for the Australians

One of the worst parts about the Mill's closing is that I will never be able to take my Australians there.

For many years now I've hoped that some or all of my Australians might decide to travel over to this here hemisphere, and for many years now I was certain that the first place I'd take them would be the Mill. Where they would be greeted with the kind of warmth and hospitality they've shown me each time I've set foot on their fine, fine continent, then served a great meal by a magnificent staff. It would be like a fancy extension of my own living room, only with much better atmosphere, friendly faces to do our bidding and a fully-stocked bar.

But...it was not to be. Now where will I take them for dinner when they visit? The closing of the Mill has far-reaching and global consequences.

(It is completely irrelevant that the Australians are not currently planning a trip here, nor am I certain that they ever will be able to visit. Not the point.)

1989-2007

I am a freaking surly, emotional mess of late. I have been since August 7. The reason: my favorite bar/restaurant is closing. And before you go thinking it's like my neighborhood Applebee's is shuttering, let me explain.

Though it is not mine, it is "mine." It is "ours," mine and a spirited group of regulars' who could drink Norm, Cliff, Frasier and the whole damn Boston lot of them under the table any day. To say that my family has been patronizing this establishment regularly is putting it simply; more accurately, my family has chosen its hallowed, cozy, comfortable walls before, say, any number of substantial purchases and/or retirement plans that might have been realized in the absence of such a wonderful place.

The Inn at Turner's Mill, we will miss you so.

We will miss your warm, dark, welcoming glow. Your gleaming wood bar, and your deep, rich sandstone walls. Your 150-year-old construction, your shining and spotless hurricanes (how did the servers avoid fingerprints on those globes all these years?). Your port-in-a-storm hospitality. And your staff. Good lord, your staff. Who catered to our every whim, even when we must (surely!) have been drunk and perhaps moody. Many of you have become friends, good friends, the type of friends who won't disappear once the doors are locked for good. My father has said it best: there will never be another place that is as comfortable as the Mill.

During the past week and a half, I have had my own Kubler-Ross stages-of-grief situation:

Denial. I received the call that the Mill was closing from my father, while standing in the check-out line at a local store. I was in such disbelief, the cashier had to ask me if everything was OK. I immediately drove over to the restaurant, in the hopes of learning the rumor wasn't true. It was.

Anger. Ask my co-workers. And my husband. I have not been a pleasant occupant of space recently. Favorite bartender Chris, who has admirably commanded the Mill's bar for many years, might be in his own anger stage right now, as last Friday he looked me in the eye and, flying in the face of the Mill's strict no-facial-hair policy, stated, "Know what starts today? MY GOATEE." A round of anger, on the house.

Bargaining. "I promise to come here every night if you'll only stay open." Four nights a week wasn't enough; but I swear, I will take one for the team. Alas, I could eat lobster at market prices each Monday through Saturday, topped off by several glasses of Louis XIV, and I still would not be able to keep the doors open. The owner is ready to close. And that is that.

Depression. When I got home from work yesterday, I was stricken by a sort of unwarranted malaise. Husband: "What's wrong?" Me: "I don't know. The Mill is closing. I want to take a nap." At the risk of offending those who have lost loved ones recently, or even not-so-recently, I sort of feel like there has been a death in the family. I might need that medication that, if you were represented by a frowny oval caricature, would make you into a smiley oval caricature.

Acceptance. We were all at the Mill tonight, including my five- and two-year-old nephews, who love it there because of the fun service they get from favorite bartender Chris. The owner's mother walked over to say hello and my older nephew looked at her and said, "This place is turning into something else." My tears started flowing, but he had said it all. Last week, he wouldn't admit it was closing. He kept asking, "But when will it open again?" I think he gets it now, and so do I.

Sadness, but also indignation

As I was spreading mulch yesterday, I was thinking a lot about the tragic development in the case of Jessie Davis, the missing pregnant woman from Canton, Ohio. Police have arrested her boyfriend -- himself a cop -- as well as a friend of his whom they claim helped him clean up the crime scene and dispose of the body. How a man could kill the woman who is nine-months' pregnant with his daughter, in front of his two-year old son, then call in help to drag the body away and leave the toddler to fend for himself is completely beyond me. But that is not the point of this post today. The point is this: Bastard took Jessie to the Summit County Metro Parks, within the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, and buried them ("them" includes the unborn child, who had been named Chloe). I drive through this very section of the Park each day on my way to work -- incuding, of couse, the past week, during which time I've been listening to the news on the radio about the search for Jessie, all the while driving right past her "grave."

So. As I filled wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of mulch and hauled it around the house to my backyard, I started thinking about the sick and horrifying case of the father who killed his kids along the Ohio Turnpike, exited the road and buried them in my hometown -- where they remained, undiscovered for two years, as a national search went on around us.

I started to get mad. How dare these twisted fuckers use my hometown and my national park as the burial grounds for their innocent girlfriends and children? How dare they commit such horrible crimes and bring their own brands of hideousness to our pristine and idyllic spaces? This is not to imply that one's anger should be directed solely at the detail of where the bodies were disposed. I know this is not all about me, or the way I feel about my hometown and my national park (and yes, it is mine, in the way that it is all of ours who pay taxes). I understand that the greater outrage here are the crimes themselves, not the location where the criminal tried to hide the evidence.

But still. I look at the road in Hudson where that father buried his kids, and I look at the gorgeous Metro Parks where Jessie and Chloe were dumped, and I can't help but think that nobody and nothing deserves this. Woman and child, or landscape, flora and fauna.

A detached consideration of a very scary situation

I'm having strange reactions to a story that's big news in Akron right now, about a young woman, nine-months' pregnant, who disappeared from her home last week. Her two-year-old son was left in the home, unharmed, and he told his grandmother, heartbreakingly, that his mommy was crying and was "in the rug."

My overriding reaction is one of horror, as kidnappings are frightening, let alone kidnappings of pregnant women, let alone kidnappings that occur in front of terrified two-year-olds, let alone the fact that something very similar to this happened a few years ago in nearby Ravenna.

But once I got past my initial visceral reaction, I started thinking about all those times you hear about news bias, and how stories about white women and children in peril are reported with much greater frequency, and with much greater sympathy and outcry, than are stories about black women and children in peril. Not knowing the race of the woman involved in this current abduction, I considered this supposed bias and assumed she must be white.

Imagine my surprise when I saw the photo that accompanied the Akron Beacon Journal story, which featured the abducted woman's baby's father, a black man, kneeling on the ground.

Interesting, I thought. A black victim is, in this case, the recipient of public outcry and indignation. (Not that your race matters when you are kidnapped, but that goes without saying, yes? [Yet I still feel compelled to mention it, lest you, gentle reader, think I think it's OK or surprising or good for anyone to get abducted to buck some trend.])

But then the papers finally printed a photograph of the victim: she is white. So it's just like the media bias says, regardless of the interracial relationship.

RIP, Barbaro

Seriously. I am sitting at my desk crying.

Thankfully, this story has nothing to do with Troy Polamalu

As if I haven't had my fill of sad animal-related news this week, I've read that Steelers' linebacker Joey Porter's dogs got loose and killed a neighbor's miniature horse. Poor little guy was less than three feet tall (the miniature horse, not Joey Porter).

Though Porter says he raised the dogs as pets -- not attack dogs -- Cesar Millan would be sure to say that if your dogs are attacking and killing other animals, clearly you have screwed up in your pack leadership. He would also be sure to tell you that dogs' killing other animals is a severe red-zone warning sign; such animals might be inclined to kill again (perhaps a human) if they are not rehabilitated. (The Presa Canarios that killed Diane Whipple in her San Francisco apartment building had honed their skills by killing farm animals earlier in their lives.)

So, Joey, get it together and call Cesar. Or at least tune into the National Geographic Channel to watch his show. And my condolences to the owner of the miniature horse.

Please indulge me in two more thoughts about the Crocodile Hunter

I mentioned last night that one of the saddest moments of the Steve Irwin memorial service was when his fellow croc-catching mate loaded up his ute and drove it out of the arena. Here's a photo of the ute as it appeared during the service:

I'm so moved by this. What is left of a man? A truck, some canvas, a net or two, a surfboard. Why do these meaningless things endure while the most meaningful thing of all must leave? Certainly his legacy is his widow and his children, but there's an inherent cruelty in the permanence of possessions and the transience of being.

It's a notion that has haunted me for many years, since it was first articulated by the pile of victims' shoes in the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. Inscribed on the wall above the 4,000-odd pairs: "We are the shoes, We are the last witnesses / We are shoes from grandchildren and grandfathers. / From Prague, Paris and Amsterdam / And because we are only made of fabric and leather / And not of blood and flesh, / Each one of us avoided the Hellfire". Of course I'm not comparing Steve Irwin's death to the Holocaust. But the concept of what remains behind once we are gone is the same. It's sad, and unfair. And it's unavoidable.

One last point: The photo also reminds me of how real Steve must have been. When a person attains a certain level of success and celebrity, often they leave the tasks for which they became famous for others to carry out. For example, Martha Stewart has an army of minions to do her cooking, cleaning, gardening, crafting, etc. Looks to me like Steve Irwin did his own work, in his own old ute, right up to the end. He had a team behind him, yes, but his car was just as he left it, ready for his next foray into far north Queensland. He didn't outsource his vision; he did it himself.

OK, enough. Tomorrow, I swear I am going to write about The Biggest Loser. The new season debuts tonight!

Fair dinkum

I just finished watching the Steve Irwin memorial service, and I have come to the official conclusion that, legally, I am not cynical enough to be a blogger.*

The service was heartbreaking. I sat on the sofa for nearly an hour, bawling. The dog was concerned. I'm not sure which moment was most devastating: Steve's father, Bob, asking us not to grieve for Steve, but rather for the animals -- who lost the best friend they ever had; Steve's daughter, Bindi, doing a brilliant job of reading a note for her daddy while displaying more poise than I exhibit on any average day; the sight of Bob, Bindi and Steve's sister feeding his three favorite elephants, who were brought into the service by Australia Zoo staff; a video of Steve's crying as a baby elephant touched his face with its trunk; Steve's "right-hand croc man" loading up Steve's ute, which was parked in the middle of the arena, and driving it out of the venue for the last time.

I weeped like a child during each of those moments. But I think the most devastating thing might be this. Interspersed throughout the program were video clips of Steve, as well as taped messages from all manner of celebrity. One clip showed Steve as a guest on Steve Harvey's radio show. Harvey told Irwin that he was "officially a brother" for his speed and agility, ostensibly in the service of bad-ass croc wrestling. A lesser man would have worked very hard to come up with a witty, clever, ironic response. With a gravitas and sincerity that is probably not often heard on Steve Harvey's radio show, Steve Irwin said something like, "I'm just a regular bloke from Australia. Your acceptance of me just goes straight to my heart."

Then, a message from Kevin Costner. Now, I am not normally in the habit of quoting Kevin Costner -- or believing in his words as somehow transcendent. However, he perfectly articulated what's been bothering me so much about the loss of Steve Irwin. He said that of all the fearless things Steve had done, the bravest was letting people see who he was. Because letting people see who you are opens you up to criticism and mockery. But he didn't care, because he knew that his truth was much bigger than whatever jokes people could make of him. Well put, Costner. And well executed, Steve. That's the kind of perspective you need to really make a difference amid the static and choas of this world.

Perhaps that's why people liked him so much, because he wasn't afraid to be honest, positive and enthusiastic in a world where cynicism and bitterness reign. There's a dorky little kid inside all of us who still secretly loves snakes or geology or butterflies, though we may not get the opportunity to explore or exclaim that passion because we are too busy peppering our daily conversations with measured mixtures of detachment, irony, cleverness and wit. Steve was that dorky little kid, and he didn't have to hide anything behind anything. Imagine how liberating that must be; is it any wonder he was so happy? And what does it say about us that many of us thought he was too happy, too gushing?

The worldwide outpouring of emotion following Steve's death has been an "acceptable" chance for the mirthful reptile geeks in all of us to let loose. For example, check out these University of Florida students:

Maybe they only like him because he liked crocodiles and they are Florida Gator fans; I don't know if they are even the ones who put the sign there. Still, this photo strikes me as particularly poignant. If you had asked those kids two weeks ago how they felt about Steve Irwin, they might have been too cool to give you a straight answer. But that poster had to get there somehow. I imagine those fine students waking up early at their fraternity house to go to Kinko's and pick up their Steve Irwin tribute poster, then trekking to the hardware store for a few roles of electrical tape to affix it to the stadium wall. Really, they ought to be hungover or something instead. But that's the thing about true blue honesty -- people understand it; people celebrate it. They are relieved that someone has put aside the affectation and artifice to be real, even if it is just for a moment.

I haven't even touched on my pride in a nation for seeing Steve off in style and with the kind of dignity and love that only Australian mateship can provide. John Howard wasn't exaggerating when he told Terri and her children that there are "20 million pairs of Australian arms reaching out to you today." Good on all of you.

And Steve, good on you, too.

*Though I would like to state that Justin Timberlake taped a video message that was played during the memorial service. And he is bringing sexy back! So I can't be that uncool....

Why I am upset about Steve Irwin (even though I did not particularly like him)

As everyone from Cairns to Surfer's to Hobart to Torquay to Adelaide to Kalgoorlie to Perth to Darwin to Alice already knows, the Crocodile Hunter died Monday in a freak diving accident involving a stingray's barb and an unimaginable level of accuracy.

My heart just sank when my husband told me the news. And I didn't even really care for Steve Irwin, especially after that crocodile feeding/infant dangling incident in 2004. Yet....

My reasons for feeling so awful are seven-fold:

(1) He left behind those little kids.

(2) He is Australian and therefore would have been my mate if I had ever met him.

(3) People are idiots and will claim that he harassed the stingray, and/or people are idiots and will think that stingrays are evil villains -- a perception of "dangerous" animals that Steve Irwin spent his life trying to change.

(4) The animal kingdom lost a high-profile advocate. I can't think of many other people who could look at a snake and see "beauty." Yet there is beauty in every animal. Steve Irwin understood this.

(5) It's always extra-pointless when someone dies in a freak accident. It would have been "better" if he had been killed by a crocodile.

(6) Australians rally around their own and I just feel bad for the whole country.

(7) Like him or hate him, he was passionate. I've read that he was passionate about the big stuff (his wife, his family, his work, reptiles) as well as the small stuff (a delivery of mulch to the Australia Zoo). I totally get people who are passionate about things; a few months ago, I was totally excited about a mulch delivery to my house.

(8) The world needs larger-than-life personalities who are working for good.

The whole thing really has been bothering me. And although I am surprised to be typing these words, I will miss Steve Irwin. My heart goes out to his family and his little ones.

Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr and shine!

Rest in peace, Syd Barrett. Though he left us long ago.

Desire to blog remains strong despite recent shift in priorities

So it's been awhile since I've posted on this here blog, and I hear that my reader (singular) has grown tired of clicking on his Sympathetic Weather bookmark only to see the same ol' languishing page. I've been rather mercurial over the past month(s), what with a family emergency that has yet to sink in (bad) and the purchase of and move into our first home (good). February and March were at once tragic and exhilarating, despairing and hopeful. It's hard to blog at such times, let alone care about The Bachelor: Paris and Best Week Ever and Obi-Wan Kenobi and all the other crap to which the 'Weather is dedicated.

But it all just goes on, and so must I. The dot-com don't stop for nobody. However, I don't really have anything to say at the moment:

1. I am five episodes behind on Lost and Desperate Housewives (thank God for TiVo).
2. I have not watched The Soup in ages.
3. I have no idea what Martha Stewart is making that I should be purchasing, beyond Blueprint (my trial issue -- yay! -- should be in the mail).
4. I have not purchased tickets to the INXS show in Cleveland in May, even though I was willing to drag husband to Detroit to see them in February.
5. I haven't watched Rachael Ray open a store-bought pound cake and call it a "recipe" since at least '05.

Instead, given my status as a new homeowner, I'm now focused on a completely different set of things:

1. Oak leaves do not decay in any sort of timely manner, and must be raked in spring if the prior owner failed to do so last fall.
2. 10%-off Lowe's coupons do not apply to Fisher & Paykel or John Deere products.
3. In many cases, lamp shades are more expensive than they should be -- worse even than king-size bed sheets.
4. Old English Scratch Filler is a miraculous product.
5. We have two water meters: one to measure indoor use, one for outdoor. Sewer usage is based on the indoor meter reading.
6. Even after I remove the dead battery, the smoke detectors in the house keep chirping. Just like what happened to Phoebe that one time on Friends.
7. Pedestal sinks are somewhat impractical.

I need to find a way to reconcile these varied interests and foci so that this blog remains fascinating and not weighed down by tedious tales of painting shutters or re-keying dead bolts. Perhaps there will soon be an episode of Lost where Hurley begs Sawyer for a bottle of Milsek from his stash, because Locke asked Hurley to polish the stainless steel appliances in the Swan Station. But Sawyer won't relinquish it unless Hurley promises to spackle, tape and otherwise prep his tent for a new paint job. (Sawyer wants to create interest by painting an accent wall in his tent, making a focal point that draws the eye when you enter the space.) Hurley obliges, and is inspired to reupholster his salvaged airplane seat with cotton matelasse that he found in Ethan Rom's craft room in Caduceus.

Someone please alert J.J. Abrams and HGTV. If you thought Bad Twin was a brilliant if manipulative marketing ploy, just wait until the island-themed home makeover spin-off.

Ah, it's good to be back.

Because I don't know what else to do

I am departing from my usual levity to post the following links:

Pancreatic Cancer Action Network
American Cancer Society

Check them out. You might not think that cancer could ever have anything to do with you, but then it does, and it's heartbreaking.

I'd like to be serious, just for a moment

Last Friday police in my small town of Hudson, Ohio, found the remains of two children who had been murdered by their father and buried somewhere along I-80. The father only gave minor clues about where he'd buried the kids before he committed suicide in jail. The poor mother not only lost her kids, but also was robbed of the chance to bury them and achieve some level of closure.

The children were found on wooded land just a few miles southwest of downtown Hudson. Yesterday there were reports that their mother would come to Hudson to collect their remains and get some of the closure she needs.

My cynical side is curious about whether the Hudson Police Department might better spend its time stopping strange men who seem to be burying children not far from large residential neighborhoods -- instead of stopping and checking the IDs of people who are walking on sidewalks at night (this has happened to five people I know in Hudson) or beating people up over picnic baskets. Of course I don't blame that New Hampshire father's psychosis on the Hudson Police, but the officers might simply consider sharpening their view of what constitutes truly menacing behavior.

My compassionate side has been wondering what Hudson can do to offer support to the mother when she comes here. She has rightly stated that she does not want her visit to have any media attention, and it is my hope that people heed her request. But surely there is something we can quietly and privately offer her in recognition of the fact that Hudson has been her kids' resting place for the past two years. Then I got an e-mail from my mother, who works in the Hudson City Schools. Teachers and support staff are pooling resources to contribute to the memorial fund that has been set up in the children's names (after checking with police to make sure her trip expenses were covered, which they are courtesy of the FBI and other sources).

I don't know why I feel so strongly about making sure that mother knows that Hudson is an OK place. It's not that I care about Hudson's image or anything, and I certainly don't expect that she'll ever think, Yes! Hudson! I love it there! Even though my kids were hastily and cruelly buried there through two harsh Ohio winters! I think it's because it might bring her some modicum of comfort to know that, after the horrifying end of their lives, however hideous and undignified, her children were buried in a community that cared, whether it knew it or not.