The Royal Edinburgh Military Tattoo on the Castle Esplanade

Back in the days of yore, a military tattoo was the drumbeat that signaled “lights out” to British soldiers reveling in local taverns. The nightly ritual has evolved into a modern-day spectacle of music and majesty, none more renowned than the Royal Military Tattoo. The invitational event since 1950 has unfolded for three summer weeks against the backdrop of Edinburgh Castle in  Scotland’s Capital City. This year’s Tattoo runs from August 3-25.

The two-hour program showcases the talents of bands, drill teams, cyclists, equestrians, gunners, flag-twirlers and others from the British Commonwealth of Nations and worldwide. Bagpipers and percussionists are the mainstays, although in any given year they could be joined by the likes of Caribbean steel bands or Cossack dancers. The United States has been represented about 20 times. The collective cast of about 1,000 comes to entertain, but nearly all the performers are soldiers first–and combat-ready.

A ticket to the Tattoo was part of our 10-day package tour of Great Britain by Globus and the sole reason we chose that particular itinerary. On the night of our scheduled performance, we trudged up the narrow, cobbled incline of the Royal Mile en route to the Castle. The Esplanade, which is a stretch of asphalt leading to the drawbridge and the thousand-year history behind it, was flanked by spectator stands along three sides to create an outdoor stage roughly the size of a football field. Despite the slight drizzle, regiments of fiery torches wrapped the ancient fortress in a golden glow. No Tattoo performance has ever been cancelled, and this one wasn’t, either. We took our seats, our very tiny seats, and waited for darkness.

The first full act assembles the massed bagpipes (“pipes” for short) and drums from each participating country. After all, these are the players who started  the tattoo tradition, back in the 17th and 18th centuries when British soldiers were fighting in the Low Countries of Belgium, Luxembourg and the Netherlands. “Doe den tap toe,” in the vernacular of the time, meant “turn off the taps.” Early drummers were joined by pipers, and then flautists, and things just took off from there. To date, more than 45 countries have taken part in the Edinburgh Tattoo.

Next up are the headliners, who give new meaning to the concept of “military theater.” They mix up pomp and circumstance with pop and circus acts, and with a playlist that includes anthems, marches, jazz, lullabies and Broadway hits. We saw the Representative Band of the Border Guard of the Republic of Poland play trombity beskidzkie, instruments that are similar to alpine horns. The Imps Motorcycle Display Team, a children’s daredevil exhibition group from London, zig-zagged up and down the arena at thrilling speeds, individually and in pyramids. There were bagpipers from South Africa, Jordan and Switzerland. Highland dancers kicked and twirled to folk songs while British Army gymnasts flipped and somersaulted to can-can music. The New Zealand Army played Swan Lake, the “Get Smart” theme song and the Haka war chant. The Citadel Regimental Band and Pipes blasted When the Saints Go Marching In. Of course, they did.

After the individual countries take their turns, the massed performers return to the Esplanade. They parade and counter-parade in unison, filling every inch and corner of pavement. Only the multi-hued fantasia of uniforms, tartans, headgear and regalia revealed the diversity behind their alignment.

“This is a class act,” said Noel Fields, a former career Air Force officer from Sierra Vista, Ariz. “I thoroughly enjoyed this, especially the Poles with their monster trumpets.”

The Tattoo is the most popular event on the Scottish cultural calendar, drawing more than 200,000 spectators annually from Great Britain and beyond. Tour guide Paul Barton, who works for Globus, has escorted many of them over the past 20 years.

“The reaction from people on seeing the Tattoo is always one of how moving and spectacular it is, not least the setting,” he said. “Many people book their tours with the performance in mind, but for those who are traveling unaware, it is a huge surprise. The massed pipes and drums make one’s spine tingle!”

Regardless of who the performers are or from where they hail, each night ends the same–with a somber, emotional tribute to active and fallen soldiers everywhere. The musicians play “Auld Lang Syne,” and the audience sings along, hand in hand, swaying in time. Fireworks explode above the Castle. The sky grows dark once more, and a lone piper, high up on the battery wall, plays the haunting lament, “Sleep Dearie Sleep.”

It’s time to turn out the lights. It’s time for peace.

Massed Pipes and Drums at the Royal Edinburgh Military Tatttoo

www.edintattoo.co.uk

www.globusjourneys.com

The Wynn hotel in Las Vegas. Don't take chances with your money.

Two words often associated with freelance writers are “poor” and “starving.” It doesn’t have to be that way. Life is expensive, and ramen noodles and pbj soon lose any culinary charm. Many writers earn comfortable livings, some even in the six figures. Here’s my advice for becoming a career freelancer:

* Take any assignment offered. We all love bylines, but most magazines and newspapers don’t pay well. Especially not when you’re starting out. My ultimate goal was to do strictly editorial work. However, to keep the cash flowing and my rent paid, I also wrote newsletters, press releases, brochures and speeches. One of my early assignments was a press release about a new battery-operated, plastic sump pump. I got paid $50. At least I was writing.

* Find a steady side job. I tended bar and worked in a jewelry store, 20 hours a week or so. These gigs were flexible enough that I could fit them around my writing assignments. I also got health insurance. As my writing income grew, I ditched the part-time jobs.

* Always have multiple sources of income. The freelance world is volatile, and clients come and go. Years ago I made the mistake of keeping myself busy with only two clients. When one relationship went bust, I lost half my billings. It took me two years to make up the money, with several smaller clients and editors.

* Live under your means. I love great clothes and beach vacations as well as anyone, but what I love more than spending money is saving it. I’m a bargain shopper and a coupon queen. I drive a 16-year-old Toyota Corolla. I could buy another car, but this one runs just fine. Someday you’ll want to buy a home. Lenders don’t look favorably on freelancers, so you’ll need a big down-payment to get their attention. Start saving now.

* Invest in your career. You’ll find many writers groups, organizations and conferences, but most aren’t free. Some focus on professional development, and others are more social. I attend only the events that will help me make money. Networking is fine, but I’m not looking for a sorority. Visit a few groups to see which is best for you. As for getting a master’s degree, I’m lukewarm. Don’t go into debt for grad school unless you know your writing income will increase.

* Fund an Individual Retirement Account. Every year. You don’t have an employer to help finance your future, so you’ve got to do it yourself. The sooner you get started, the less money you’ll have to sock away. Give up a vacation if you must. Or sock away your side-job earnings.

* Writing is an art, but treat it like a business. That means keeping regular  hours, marketing your skills and managing your time and money. My philosophy: As long as I take care of the business end, I can afford to practice my art. You can, too.

Glass sculpture by another favorite radical, Dale Chihuly

I grew up in a place where dreams ran small: rain for the corn crops, a win for the high school basketball team on Friday night, a blue ribbon for the dress I entered in the 4-H fair. Few women worked outside the home. If anything, they were teachers or nurses or secretaries. My father resisted, but my mother got hired as a typist, so I could go to college. That’s where I discovered both “Cosmopolitan” magazine and the women’s movement. These entities aren’t as opposing as they might seem.

My radical, Helen Gurley Brown, was the long-time editor-in-chief of “Cosmo,” as the publication is affectionately known to readers. But she didn’t start out that way. She spent many years as a secretary and a copywriter before authoring the then-sensational and best-selling “Sex and the Single Girl” in 1962. Three years later she took the helm of “Cosmopolitan,” and she steered it for 32 years.

Helen Gurley Brown, who married when she was 37, celebrated women and the single lifestyle. She urged us to pursue big careers, to be financially independent, and to enjoy sex and lots of it–but only when we chose to and when fully protected. She championed birth control when it was inadequate and abortion before it was legal. She promoted inner strength and outer beauty. Unlike her bra-burning contemporaries and often scorned by them, she delivered her message of freedom and choice while dressed in Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses and high-heeled pumps. And no one from my generation will forget the infamous nude centerfold of actor and heart-throb Burt Reynolds, with one hand delicately draped in front of his delicates.

The magazine for many years was my personal instruction manual in both life and eyeliner application. When I launched my career as an independent journalist, I took its encouragement to heart. Yes, you can do this, it said, issue after issue. I came to believe.

In more ways than one, my life has paralleled that of my radical. I, too, was a secretary and a copywriter. I went on to write magazine and newspaper features, and have been published in dozens of national and regional consumer, trade, association and special interest publications. I marched for abortion rights in Washington, D.C., with the National Organization for Women. I compiled a stock portfolio and bought a sports car. Then I got married.

I wear stilettos.

Chef Tom makes pizza with Mamma Mia! Pizza Beer

“Beer so good it deserves a wine glass.”–Chef Tom from Mamma Mia! Pizza Beer

Tom Seefurth of St. Charles, Illinois, was a long-time hobby brewer who often experimented with eclectic flavorings such as curry and oatmeal-raisin. He gravitated toward what he calls “lawn-mower beer,” the kind of quick, cold kick you crave on a hot summer day after cutting the grass. But then, a garden overrun with tomatoes and herbs gave him an idea: a beer that paired with Italian food, especially pizza. The result is Mamma Mia! Pizza Beer, a light golden ale that is subtly reminiscent of your favorite trattoria.

Because the recipe includes many of the same spices found in Italian cuisine, pizza beer complements both red and white sauces, says Tom, who adopted the moniker, “Chef Tom.”

The brewmeister made the first batches in the same place he displays his extensive collection of beer cans and bar memorabilia: his garage. After winning a couple of regional brewing competitions, he and Athena–his wife and the “Mamma Mia” of the duo–went into business. They found a commercial brewer and hit the market. Mamma Mia! Pizza Beer is now poured in restaurants and sold through retailers nationwide. It’s generating a lot of buzz, if you’ll excuse the pun. Jay Leno has joked about pizza beer on late-night, and the producers of the reality show for entrepreneurs, “Shark Tank,” have invited the Seefurths to compete for big-time funding. They’re also being featured by the Food Network Magazine this fall and on its new television show, “Crave.”

Pizza Beer is concocted with chopped tomatoes, garlic, basil and oregano thrown into the mash. Chef Tom also tosses in a whole Margherita pizza, sans cheese and oil “for good luck.” The mixture is boiled and filtered, seasoned with spices and hops, and filtered again and again to remove any residue. You won’t find any chunks or pieces, just a clear amber refreshment that sends you yearning for the Trevi Fountain. (Did I tell you that I’ll be visiting the Trevi Fountain in August? Just an aside.)

Chef Tom and Mamma Mia spend many a weekend doing tastings and demonstrations. They were asked so many times, “Where’s the pizza?”, that they complied. They created a line of food products, including pizza crust and bread mix plus gluten-free versions, under the label, “Pizza Beer Company.” They’re constantly developing new recipes that use pizza beer as an ingredient. How about chicken wraps or marinated tilapia?

www.pizzabeer.net

Tom and Athena Seefurth, founders of Mamma Mia! Pizza Beer

Celebrating my column and more on July 4

Writing a column, for me, is both privilege and challenge. It’s a journalistic assignment that positions the writer as an authority on a particular subject, builds an audience of readers, and earns a somewhat regular income.

In the magazine and newspaper arena, which is where I’ve keyboarded most of my career, there are several types of columns. Some dispense opinion; others give advice. Others are informational. Columns run daily, weekly, monthly or any other frequency, and usually in the same space on the page.

I’ve written several columns. My first effort was for the local newspaper when I was a senior at Silver Creek High School in Sellersburg, Indiana. I wrote the Dragonland Review, which was a compendium of school goings-on. Our mascot was a dragon. Maybe it still is.

My first professional column was also one of my first freelance writing jobs. I’d been working as a fashion coordinator and stylist when I was tapped by a subsidiary of the Chicago Tribune to cover suburban fashion events. It’s customary to ask established reporters to do columns, but in my case, my background filled a need at the paper. From there, I graduated to general writing assignments. I’ve settled into lifestyle features, which includes homes, architecture, design, healthcare and education as well as fashion.

For the past decade I’ve written a column called “Community Living” for the Chicago Tribune. The goal is to give readers information that will make their condominium and homeowner associations more successful and harmonious. I’ve covered a broad range of topics such as new legislation, special assessments, smoking wars, bedbugs and how to have a pool party for 400 people. My column runs twice a month in the Chicago Homes section.

The biggest challenges are coming up with ideas and meeting deadlines. It doesn’t matter how many other projects are on my desk or where my social interests lie. Every two weeks without fail I turn in a column on a brand-new subject, complete with sources and references. The column doesn’t pay the highest of all my freelance jobs, but it’s the most prominent and recognized. I am honored the assignment is mine.

How do you get started as a columnist? Launch a blog. Come up with a subject you have a lot to say about, perhaps your life as an at-home mom or photography advice for neophytes or your hippie political views. Then write about it, and write some more. Just keep on writing.

Perfume bottle display at the IPBA convention

The International Perfume Bottle Association came to Indian Lakes Resort in Bloomingdale, Illinois, for its 2011 convention. For four days I was surrounded by enormous displays of exquisite bottles, many rare and all beautiful. Collectors from around the world came to learn, share, buy and lust.

Some people collect bottles made by a particular glassmaker, such as Lalique, or bottles that originally were sold with fragrance, such as Evening in Paris. My collection, which I started about 25 years ago, is an eclectic assortment. I have art glass and dressing-table bottles. I have bottles by Irice, Mikasa, Lenox and Waterford, and three DeVilbiss umbrella-girl atomizers. I’m especially partial to Prince Matchabelli crown bottles. Wind Song was a popular fragrance during my teen years.

At the IPBA convention, members and other experts gave presentations on Art Deco design, filigree jewel-top bottles, Julien-Henri Viard and DeVilbiss. The keynote speaker was Simon Brooke, a British real estate developer, who discovered his great-great grandfather had been a perfumer to Queen Victoria. He tracked down the formula book and bottle molds and has revived the Grossmith empire.

The perfume bottle auction offered for bid and sale about 250 extraordinary pieces. The most expensive was the 1913 d’Heraud “La Phalene,” a Lalique bottle with butterfly design and lacquered box. It sold for $31,000. Antiques Roadshow celebrity Nicholas Dawes served as the auctioneer.

I bought a bell-shaped Evyan bottle from one of the dealers for $20.

The highlight of the convention was the reception and tour at the Place de la Musique, the private home and magnificent music-machine collection of Marian and Jasper SanFilippo. Their son, Jeffrey, is an IPBA member and Art Deco enthusiast. The evening agenda included rides on the fully restored 1892 Eden Palais carousel and a concert on the 8,000-pipe theater organ.

The 2012 IPBA convention will be May 3-6 in Jacksonville, Florida.

www.perfumebottles.org

www.placedelamusique.org

My Office Assistant

I knew I could write. The problem was, no one else did.

I’d been writing since I was four years old. “Dear Mommy,” I crayoned. “I love you. Do you love me?” My first query letter.

After college, I wanted more than familial correspondence. I wanted to write for the Chicago Tribune. I sent off my resume and soon received a reply that thanked me for my interest but pointed out I had little journalism experience.

No experience? I was an English Literature major. I was the editor of the campus newspaper at Elmhurst College. I had been a high school correspondent for my hometown press. My weekly column, the Dragonland Review, covered basketball scores, homecoming queens, canned food drives and other goings-on of interest to those whose revered mascot was a winged reptile.  That’s experience, I thought.

The job I did land was in the public relations department of a large toiletries company. Mostly I wrote letters of apology to customers who had bought aerosol cans of hairspray that clogged and sputtered. On the side, I modeled wedding gowns at bridal fairs and taught make-up classes for a modeling school.

A year later I updated my resume for the Chicago Tribune and received another copy of the previous rejection letter.

A department store chain, however, was impressed by my background in haute hairspray and hired me as a stylist. I auditioned teen models and produced fashion shows in the mall.

Another year passed, and again the Chicago Tribune turned me down. I still hadn’t written anything, by the company’s definition of “anything.”

I continued modeling and teaching. I produced a fashion show for Bonwit Teller, and I created a feature spread that paired luxury cars and fur coats for a suburban lifestyle magazine. I became a creative consultant for a chain of edgy boutiques. My name appeared in a couple of industry publications, and my wardrobe was quite chi-chi. That’s because more than once my rent money was diverted to a designer dress or boots.

One morning a friendly colleague, who was the promotions director for a regional shopping center, called to chat. An editor at the Chicago Tribune had asked her to write a weekly column about suburban fashion events. But she was too busy, she said, and suggested the editor call me instead. I was thrilled.

The editor called and gave me the first of many assignments: 600 words on fashion trends for men. I didn’t need writing experience any more–I had become an expert, and that was just as good.

The Art Ladies at Ten Chimneys

I call them the Art Ladies. Actually, they are the Community Associates of the Art Institute of Chicago, but that’s way too long for everyday conversation. I’m a member of the Glen Ellyn-Wheaton chapter, and our purpose is to look at art. Any kind of art. Art that hangs on the walls of the Art Institute, for sure, but also glass, tile, architecture, sculpture, fashion and mausoleums in the Chicago area and beyond. And we eat and shop for souvenirs. About once a month we board a very nice bus and go someplace, such as Ten Chimneys. That’s the former estate of Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, who were Broadway legends between 1930 and 1960. Ten Chimneys is in Genesee Depot, Wisconsin.

My favorite outing was the Chicago cemetery tour. We first visited Graceland Cemetery, a Victorian-era resting place, where many of the city’s founders and notables are buried. Among them are Bertha and Potter Palmer, who sold his retail emporium to Marshall Field, and architects Louis Sullivan and Daniel Burnham. Then we went to Bohemian National Cemetery, a working-class burial ground that embraced 143 victims of the 1915 Eastland boat capsizing in the Chicago River. Such a contrast between the rich and the poor! Many of the markers at Bohemian are sculptures of branches or cut-off trees, which signify lives cut short. At Graceland, the monuments are stately and the landscape is lush.

Another good day was themed around angels. We bussed to the Art Institute for a presentation on how angels are portrayed in art throughout the ages. We learned the differences between archangels, cherubim and seraphim. Then we lunched “in the heavens,” on the 95th floor of the John Hancock Building. In the afternoon, we viewed the 14 human-sized angel sculptures at Fourth Presbyterian Church.

The Art Institute has 16 Art Ladies groups. Our group is the largest, with about 350 members. Occasionally we meet for lunches or desserts at a nearby banquet hall, and art experts come to give presentations. We’ve had programs on art restoration and on fashion during Jane Austen’s lifetime.  At those events, some of the Art Ladies wear suits. And hats, even.

The Art Ladies take a break during the summer, but that’s when I look forward to receiving my new program booklet in the mail. I can hardly wait to see where we are going next.

The Dive Shop at Secret Harbour

Perhaps you know St. Thomas, USVI, for cruise ship layovers or for duty-free emporia, but this Eastern Caribbean island is my favorite vacation destination. St. Thomas is a tropical world of contrasts: Beach bars and refined dining. Dinghies and yachts. Tchotchkes and precious gems. Lurid history (slave traders and pirates) and luxury timeshares. One day is not enough to linger. Nor is a month. I must return. Soon.

Let me show you my St. Thomas:

* Gallery St. Thomas. Fine art is one way that Arnie and I bring home our shared experiences. Not only have we bought several pieces from Gallery St. Thomas, but we’ve planned our itineraries around the monthly artist receptions. The gallery recently moved to Palm Passage, one of the downtown covered alleyways.

* Vendor’s Plaza. You won’t miss the mass of blue tented souvenir stalls on the Charlotte Amalie waterfront. I’ve bought beach cover-ups, t-shirts and shell jewelry. “These are knockoffs,” admitted a vendor when I asked about his handbags. “But they are very good knockoffs.”

* St. Thomas Synagogue. Built in 1833, the synagogue has Baccarat chandeliers and a white sand floor.

* Old Stone Farmhouse. A former stable for a sugar plantation, Old Stone Farmhouse today is a rustic but elegant AAA Four Diamond restaurant. On our most recent visit, we were presented with personalized menus with our names in calligraphy and a wax seal. Then we were led to the immaculate kitchen to choose our entree and meet the new Executive Chef Greg Engelhardt. The offerings that night included rack of lamb, duck breast, branzino and wahoo–or any combo we could dream of.

* Duffy’s Love Shack. Here’s the party bar, an open-air shed in the middle of a parking lot. Fruity libations are accessorized with toys and trinkets–and sometimes applause, depending on how dangerous the concoction. Arnie likes the Berry Berry, preferably in a parrot glass. We have a collection. (No applause for Berry Berrys.) Pub grub is tasty fare, and includes lobster and ribs, the Caribbean way. There are always specials and wacky promos going on. As the hour gets later, the music gets louder.

* Beaches. All St. Thomas beaches beckon with powdery sand and crystal blue water, but their personalities are distinct. Magens Bay is a mile-long, postcard-perfect horseshoe. Alas, few fish for snorkelers. At the smaller Coki Beach, fish are so plentiful you don’t need a mask. Hold out a dog biscuit and the sergeant majors swarm you for nibbles.

* Night Snorkeling. If you really want to see what’s happening in the water, do it in the dark. Homer’s Night Snorkel provides both guidance and gear. We’ve seen squirrel fish, crabs, lobsters, turtles, a big ugly puffer fish and lots more.

www.gallerystthomas.com

www.synagogue.vi

www.oldstonefarmhouse.com

www.duffysloveshack.com

www.nightsnorkel.com

Joey has diabetes

For more than three years, twice a day, our blond tabby, Joey, has taken insulin injections. He has diabetes. His disease altered our schedule greatly–no more spontaneous late nights out because the cat needs a shot. But he’s the one who endures the needle sticks and wobbly hind legs that are part of the deal. Quite nobly, in fact.

I didn’t know cats could get diabetes. My first clue something was wrong was after returning from a two-day writers conference and finding puddles in the litter box. I’d cleaned it before I left, and I cleaned it again, but the puddles kept forming. We have two cats (Bailey is the younger), so I didn’t know who was peeing so fiercely. Then I noticed Joey, age 14, lapping up large quantities of water. I took him to see Dr. Kerry Lancaster at Wheaton Animal Hospital. The veterinarian suspected diabetes, ran tests and confirmed the diagnosis the next day.

I cried. My husband, Arnie, and I lost another cat to pancreatic and liver issues two years earlier, and I dreaded going through that pain again so soon. Dr. Lancaster assured us that, with care, diabetic cats can live full, contented lives. He prescribed Lantus, a long-lasting insulin used by humans. I thought “long-lasting” might mean “several months,” but I was wrong. It means “12 hours.” What about pills? I couldn’t stick Joey with pins.

“It’s much easier to give a cat injections than pills,” Dr. Lancaster said.

He was right. The injections are simple to administer. Each morning and evening, usually between 7 and 9, either Arnie or I load a super-fine, short-needled syringe and entice Joey with food. While his face is in the bowl, we grasp a bit of scruff, insert the needle and squirt. The deed is over in seconds. Joey doesn’t flinch, not unless my hand inadvertently jerks. I’ve stuck myself twice.

The two biggest challenges were supplies and vacation care. We need to buy syringes and insulin at a human pharmacy. The Lantus is $100 for a vial, and lasts four to five months. The syringes cost $15 for 100. Some people re-use their needles, but Dr. Lancaster advised against it for sanitary reasons.

Some pharmacies are more animal-friendly than others. Walgreens and CVS are great. But a grocery-store pharmacy gave me larger syringes with a fatter needle. I didn’t notice until I got home. When I tried to return them, the pharmacist said that’s the size they carry and he wouldn’t take them back. “It’s just a cat,” he said.

I donated the syringes to an animal shelter and found a new pharmacy.

As for cat-sitting, I felt I couldn’t impose upon friends. I turned to Lynn’s Pet Care in Glen Ellyn. She and her fabulous team have been tending all kinds of creatures in our village for more than 20 years. They are professional, reliable and loving, and we are thankful for their help.

Today Joey is doing well for a senior cat. His appetite is good, and he wrestles and snuggles with Bailey. Because his back legs have weakened, he no longer jumps from the floor to the kitchen counter to wait patiently for pats and treats. Instead he devised a new route: from the living room coffee table to the sofa to the piano, over the pass-through and then onto the counter. He likes Friskies Party Mix treats the best. Also, it’s hard to hoist himself in and out of the litter box. I place disposable doggy pee-pads in his favorite corners. My dog-owner friends taught me that technique.

At his age, Joey doesn’t have a lot of time left. I will be distraught when we must say good-by. But I’m confident that diabetes didn’t cut his feline life short.

www.lynnspetcare.com

www.wheatonanimalhospital.com