‘Tis the Season

Once upon a time, when I was a child, celebrating the Christmas season was very different.

Back in those days, people did not decorate their houses with lights and inflatables for Halloween. A single jack-o-lantern with a candle in it (yes, a real candle with a flame) on the front step or in the front window was all the decoration any house would have, if they chose to decorate.  Lights were strictly for Christmas.

There were no inflatable turkeys on front lawns to indicate Thanksgiving.

And Christmas decorations definitely did not make an appearance in stores in August!

No, in my day – as my grandmother would have put it – Christmas decorations began going up in the shopping centers in the last two weeks of November, to be in place by Black Friday, when the Christmas shopping season officially began, and not on people’s houses until the weekend of Thanksgiving, at the earliest.

Even Black Friday has changed meaning somewhat. Whereas when I was a child, the day after Thanksgiving was the day  stores hoped to finally be “in the black,” that is, finally showing a profit for the year, it now is more akin to being a black day of kill-or-be-killed trying to get a parking space in any mall or restaurant parking lot.

Stores, in an effort to outdo one another, hold pseudo-Black Fridays in September, October, and in some cases, in a “Christmas in July” sale.

There are those who no longer hold Thanksgiving sacred as an American Holiday for family and friends. They drag their employees away from the family meal to work on what should be a holiday, all for financial gain over their competitors.

None of this would work if there weren’t those who gobble the turkey early so they can be first in line at the tradition-scoffing stores to buy up everything they see, needed or not. Thanksgiving has become, for some, a glut not of food, but of consumerism.

In recent years, the internet has come to the aid of those who hate crowds and lines, and created an alternative to Black Friday called something like “Cyber Monday.” It usually happens the Monday after Thanksgiving, and provides discounts on consumer items for sale on the internet. With offers like Amazon Prime, which offer next day delivery in some cases, it saves time, frustration and physical confrontations with someone who wants the last of the same item you do.

But I remember a time when Thanksgiving was a time to visit relatives. Thanksgiving dinner at Grandmom’s was often a feature of the kick-off to the Christmas season. I can still remember the food smells at Grandmom’s and the feel of plastic slip-covers against my skin because visiting Grandmom and Grandpop required wearing one’s Sunday best.

One Thanksgiving in particular sticks in my memory. It’s the only one I remember going to the Philadelphia Thanksgiving Day Parade, the event that welcomed Santa Claus into the area.

I was perhaps three or four. There was snow – yes, snow in November, which was common then – and I stood on a snow pile provided by the plows that had cleared the road.

I was nice and warm in my dress coat – it was red – with matching leggings and hat. My feet in dress shoes were ensconced in white rubber boots that were meant to have shoes inside them. Beneath the coat, of course, was a dress that had a poufy petticoat beneath.

We watched the parade go by, and then went to our grandparents’ house in South Philadelphia.

While at their house, once we were warmed up and sufficiently fussed over, we kids often went for a walk with Grandpop and Dad while Mother and Grandmom finished the preparations for dinner.  We usually went around the corner to visit my father’s Aunt Marion and her family, and then to the corner bar to visit his cousin, Jack.

Dinner at Grandmom’s sometimes included an aunt and uncle with children in tow as well. But it was always best manners, please and thank-you, and not complaining about anything at the table. My grandmother’s home-made mashed potatoes were my favorite, lumps and all.

If we’d gone to Aunt Marion’s before dinner, we went down the street to the next block after dinner to visit my mother’s Aunt Mary, and my mother’s cousin, Janey May. Aunt Mary died when I was very young, but I remember her making a fuss, as if we were the most wonderful children every created. She was the happiest adult I ever knew.

The other holiday tradition our family adhered to was the “Annual Trip” into Philadelphia at Christmas time. Being good Catholics, we children all attended Catholic school. December 8, Feast of the Immaculate Conception, was the last school holiday before Christmas. That was our day in the city.

Once rush hour was over and train fares were cheaper (off-peak), my mother, brothers and I, all dressed in our good clothes and dress coats, would walk the few blocks down the main road to the train station.  Back then, one did not “go out” in play clothes or casual coats. I recall once or twice being in the stroller on the way there.

The trip to the city was more pleasant than the one home because we were in a no-smoking car. When we came home with Dad, we were in the airless smoking car so he could have his cigarettes. That and the fact that we were tired by then made for a less happy return ride.

As we approached the city, my brothers would point out the window and say, “Look, there’s Billy Penn,” referring to the statue of Pennsylvania’s founder atop City Hall, which could be seen from the station before the terminus. As a preschooler, I had no idea what they were looking at, and thought they said “Billy the Penguin.” I didn’t want to be thought stupid – Rob always said I was – so I pretended I could see him, too. I spent my day wandering around staring up at the sky, not because I was a country bumpkin in the city, but because I was looking for the floating penguin in the sky.

Once in the city, we were on a mission. The first stop was Gimbels. That was where the “real” Santa Clause was (hadn’t we seen him get out of the sleigh and climb the fire truck ladder into the 8^th floor window at Gimbels on Thanksgiving?). Along the long line for our turn with the Jolly Elf, were animated Christmas scenes and decorations.

When we finally reached Santa’s lap, we had our picture taken with him, and told him what we wanted for Christmas.

After the Santa line we strolled down Market Street, taking in the decorations in the various windows of Lit Brothers and Strawbridge and Clothier. We entered each of those stores in search of new outfits and Stride Rite shoes. Unlike children today, we did not pick clothes from the racks and have tantrums if Mother didn’t like our choices. No, we stood patiently or not, waiting for my mother to pick out two or three outfits and then asking us which one of those we wanted. That was our freedom of choice.

Usually, we had clothes picked out by lunch time, and only shoes or a new coat, if necessary, in the wings for the afternoon. Lunch was usually at Horn and Hardart’s automat.

I loved the automat. First of all, there was usually a blind man sitting outside with a tin cup and pencils. One of the highlights of my day was being allowed to put money in his cup. While it was only a dime or a quarter, his response was always the same, “Thank you. God bless you.”

I never took a pencil because I didn’t know I was allowed to. But I didn’t need the pencil, anyway.

Once inside the automat, we would decide what we wanted, then put our coins in the slot to open the glass door. Behind the door was our meal. Mine was usually a beef pot pie.

After lunch, we would walk farther down  Market Street to Broad Street. City hall was at that intersection, and the John Wanamaker store was across Market just before City Hall. Into Wanamaker’s we would go. The final items we needed would be purchased there. My AAA shoes in whatever size I currently wore would be either black patent leather, or, a couple of times when I was allowed to be particularly elegant, black velvet.

Once my brothers and I had our shoes, and my mother had shoes or occasionally a new dress, we would go to the main hall of the store, where the eagle was.

People who were getting together in Philadelphia frequently used the phrase, “Meet me at the eagle.” The eagle was a bronze statue created by a German sculptor. The centerpiece of the store, it was, actually, in the center of the store. A wall opposite was the site of the Christmas display.

Wanamaker’s was famous for its organ. An organist played music while people shopped. Alas, those days are gone, although the organ is still there, and the store is now owned by Macy’s.

But in those days, as is still true today, every day between Black Friday and New Year’s Day, at 2, 4 and 6 pm a light show animation would play on the wall while the organist played and someone narrated the story that was appearing like magic before our eyes. I think we usually saw the 4 pm show, crushed by all of the other people jockeying for position to see it at its best.

After the light show, we would make our way back down Market Street to 12^th and walk down 12^th to Callowhill, where my father worked. We spent some time having a fuss made over us by my dad’s boss and others with whom he worked. Then it was off to dinner.

That day out was one of the few in the year when we actually ate out. And on that evening, it was at a restaurant rather than a diner. We went to Wanamaker’s again to the Crystal Room, an elegant restaurant on one of the upper floors, back when there was an elevator operator to take people to the desired floor.

In addition to the tables and waiters, there was a silver tree decorated with lights and Christmas ornaments. There were wrapped packages under it. It was in a cordoned off corner, and it shocked me when I saw children climbing around the tree. Having had “the talk,” (“We’re going out. You’re to be on your best behavior. If I have to speak to you while we’re out, just wait till you get home.”) I assumed all children were given the same directions. I couldn’t imagine what horrors awaited these children when they got home.

Once dinner was over, we went back up Market Street to Reading Terminal for our train home. When we arrived at our station, we didn’t have to walk back home, because Dad had the car parked at the station, and the tired little teddy bears were able to ride in comfort.

What a shame children today miss the wonders we experienced.

Who Are You?

I’ve often said that if some of my friends knew how I really feel about some subjects, they would reject me as a friend. For this reason I usually don’t discuss politics, and keep silent when they do. If they take that as agreement, that’s up to them.

           

But I’ve decided to be brave. Despite my distaste of politics, I’m going to go there. No, not in the Republican vs Democrat debate, since I believe that both parties have lost all sense of ethics and morals and stand only for getting re-elected (as seen in the POTUS having re-election campaign rallies less than a month after he was sworn in rather than getting down to the business of learning his job and carrying it out.)

           

I suppose what I’m really going to discuss is morals and values, but they get tangled up in politics. People like to be able to throw a label at you: liberal, conservative, right wing, left wing, chicken wing, whatever. I don’t categorize myself as any of those.

           

I consider myself a moderate, politically. I look at what’s on the menu and choose some from each column. Besides, labels are for food containers, not people.

           

Having been raised Roman Catholic, certain people expect me to have a certain set of very strict rules I live by. People make assumptions about what I believe about faith as well as certain social issues. Those people would be wrong, in the main. As a Catholic priest once told me, I’m something the Catholic Church fears: a thinking Catholic.

           

I took that to heart, along with things I felt the Catholic Church was doing wrong, namely not defrocking priests who molest or rape people.

If I were the victim of one of those priests, I would not go to the pastor; I would go to the police. Yes, I know the reason those who were abused did not come forward. They were children, they believed what they were taught and they were afraid.

But as a “thinking Catholic,” I do not consider a criminal capable of condemning my immortal soul, so a priest who commits a crime against me has no authority to  restrict me from telling anyone what he has done.

The fact that the Church did nothing but hide these criminals made me question more than a few things about the institution. The fact that one of the people who, when in ultimate authority (pope) in the church did not do anything about it, and was then canonized for it by the next pope, who was his deputy in deceit was the final straw that caused me to leave the church.

I joined another church, one I was assured had a zero tolerance policy with regard to priests molesting people.

While the Episcopal Church is similar to the worship and practices with which I was raised, I can’t say I was entirely comfortable with my choice. I’m not really sure why.

I suppose part of it is that I’ve never considered myself terribly religious. Church on Sunday, try to do what is right, but people who constantly bring religion into the conversation tend to annoy me. I can pray on my own; I don’t need to be a Pharisee about it.

I also got annoyed that everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) about my chosen religion was done by committee.

Ok, I can see that they have a committee who decided on a new pastor. But please, why does it have to take more than a year? If you have to have a questionnaire for the congregation on what they’re looking for, fine, do that as soon as you find out the old pastor is leaving, and have someone collate the results. The 10 most often listed things are your criteria. Give people a couple of weeks to return their questionnaires. I could get that list together in a couple of hours.

But no. Not enough people participated, so we need to have a meeting to set up what our quest is. 

Then there’s another meeting to tell the people about the quest. 

Then months go by, waiting to make sure absolutely everyone who wishes to participate has had the opportunity to do so.

Meanwhile, we had interim pastors.

To one who was used to the archdiocesan office sending a new pastor the day the old one left, this was nonsense. 

But finally, after a year of interims, I suppose an ad went out, and eventually applicants were interviewed. And the names of the ones who fit were submitted to a committee for approval and finally –finally – a pastor was chosen.

And this is the way things are done. Needless to say, I was not one of the participants. I was there to be in the choir. I don’t care about the politics of the church. And I ended up leaving because that church didn't meet my needs, either.

The truth is, I probably don’t belong in any church. I think much of what I do is to cover myself in case all of this afterlife business is true.

Some will be horrified that I am such a pagan. Others would laugh at the idea that I would adhere to a superstitious talisman. I’m just trying to make the best of an unknowable situation.

The idea of religion then brings us to the moral question. I’ve often been told, “Oh, you’re Catholic, so you don’t believe in birth control.” Have I mentioned that I hate having people tell me what I do or do not believe? 

Perhaps it’s because I don’t believe what they think I do.

I do believe in God, after a fashion. I believe he (oh, don’t get all feminist on me; I was taught masculine by preference in English class, and it’s shorter than he/she, etc.) gave us minds to think with. 

He put things on this earth to be discovered. If he has an agenda and things he doesn’t think we’re ready for, we don’t discover those things (which makes one wonder why we discovered how to make nuclear weapons; but I digress). 

The fact that we have discovered how to do birth control tells me that it’s something there for our use. And I believed that when I was still Catholic. There is no “thou shalt not use birth control” commandment.

And I do not equate birth control with abortion. It doesn’t kill anyone. It prevents two cells from connecting. Abstinence does the same thing. Cancer drugs kill something growing in someone’s body, but I don’t hear anyone complaining about that.

When I was in Catholic school, three pregnant women (“We wanted to get pregnant,” they said. Uh huh) came in to class one day and gave us very detailed, scientific rules for using the rhythm method. I found it very hypocritical, since it was a method of preventing pregnancy. Oh, but it’s not 100%.

Newsflash: Nothing is but abstinence.

Oh, but the Catholic Church declared artificial birth control a sin.

Fact: no, they did not. Pope Paul VI issued an encyclical letter about it. An encyclical letter is NOT doctrine. It is a guideline. And if you want to go out on a limb, it is a guideline set out by men who either molested children or protected those who did. So, you see where I’m going with this.

The funniest (well, not to the person involved) thing I ever heard was years ago when a friend told me she was pregnant, and she wasn’t married. That in itself isn’t funny, especially considering how religious she was. When I asked why they hadn’t used birth control, she said, “But that’s a sin!” (Well, no, as I explained above) My reply was, “Not to be judgmental, but what you did was a sin. If you’re going to sin, sin well.”

Then there’s abortion. Personally, I have never been in a position where I would need to make that choice. But then again, I’ve never been pregnant. And I'm not bothered by either of those facts.

Personally, I don’t agree with that as a form of birth control.  To me, birth control is something you take care of before you get undressed (or at least before sex). But then again, those birth control methods are not 100%. I don’t think it takes 5 months to figure out that you’re pregnant or that you want to terminate.

I also recognize that some people DO feel that abortion is a form of birth control or controlling their own bodies, and who am I to lecture? I don’t try to tell others what to believe.

I don’t think women who decide to have abortions should be made to jump through hoops: listen to a heartbeat, wait a week, etc. I have never met a woman who had an abortion who didn’t know exactly what it was she was doing. It was not a decision that came lightly, and it wasn’t  simply a “procedure” that she had done and then forgot about. I don’t see the need to torture anyone who comes to the difficult decision to terminate a pregnancy.

There are also circumstances in which I feel abortion is justified. If the woman’s life is in danger, I don’t see why anyone would hesitate. I’ll put this in terms a gun owner can understand: if your life is in danger, protecting it is self-defense.

Saying the baby’s life is paramount above all else is ridiculous. If that baby was meant to live, the mother’s life wouldn’t be in danger.

Also, if the mother dies, there might be no one else to raise that child. Would you like living with the knowledge that you killed your own mother? It was difficult enough to grow up with the reality that my mother and I both almost died at my birth.

If there are other children already, they will also be deprived of a mother. The woman could always have another child – not to say that people are interchangeable.

I also believe that if a child has no chance of any quality of life because of severe debilitating disease, that is a case where a mother choosing an abortion is acceptable.

I find it curious that the same people who complain about welfare are the same ones who are adamantly against abortion at any cost. For those who are opposed to any abortions who say their tax dollars should not go to abortions, I say that then you must assume the cost of the myriad services needed for a child who has no quality of life, who will have to be taken care of for the rest of its life.

I’m not saying anyone should be forced to have an abortion. I’m saying it’s a decision made by the individual or the couple. There are consequences in choosing it and consequences in not choosing it.

Rape goes without saying, as the most acceptable reason for an abortion. If, despite all of the services and medical care available, a woman who is raped gets pregnant, she should not be forced for any reason to have that baby.

My opinion is that that baby has no business being born. It is not the result of a sex act, it is the result of violence.

Forcing a woman who is raped to have a baby that is the result of a rape is forcing her to be raped a second time.

Rapists are criminals, and as such, should have no rights in the decision. And if the woman chooses to have that baby, the rapist should have to pay support as any rightful father would have to, since he forced the pregnancy.

As far as married couples go, both should have a say in whether or not an abortion happens. They have made a commitment to each other. Unless they’re in the process of a divorce, they should be in this together. The only instance where I don’t think this should be so is in the case of rape. (See above paragraph.) But the woman has to file charges of rape in order for that to be a consideration. No one should ever be forced into an abortion.

A single woman should not have to have the “permission” of the “father” in order to get an abortion. If you’re not willing to make the commitment, you shouldn’t have the authority to decide what happens to a woman’s body.

The idea that, as has been put forward in our male-dominated political structure, a woman is a host organism for a fetus is patently absurd. These same men would be horrified to be considered the same.

If a woman wants an abortion and the man who impregnated her wants the child, there is now a scientific solution, what amounts to a womb outside the body. Let the artificial womb be the “host,” relieve the woman of any parental responsibility, since she doesn’t want the child, and let the “father” raise it.

My guess is that, confronted with that reality, most men who want to stand in the way of a woman having an abortion would disappear, since their stance is more often than not about control, not about parenting.

Euthanasia was another hot topic when I was in high school. The nuns painted horror stories about doctors putting people to death if we started down the slippery slope of abortions. While euthanasia has become spoken about, the gunslinger mentality has failed to materialize outside of authoritarian political regimes.

I believe that one has the right to choose not to have heroics performed to save their life. Whether the individual believes that when their number is up, it’s up and we shouldn’t play with nature, despite what science has devised, or whether an individual is terminally ill and has a DNR in their file, that is their right, and the government, as well as the Church backs this up.

I don’t happen to believe in saving a life at all costs. The chances of someone waking up out of a permanent vegetative state and going on to lead a normal life are so miniscule that I don’t think it should be forced on someone. If a person wishes to be kept alive that way, that’s their option and their expense. Of course you have to think about this while you’re still sentient enough to have something written down.

While I understand why some people take their own lives, I could not go that route. There are palliative care options to take away pain. Since I am not in their shoes, just as in the situation of abortion, I wouldn’t judge them one way or the other.

I would imagine no matter which side of the conservative/liberal debate you may be on, I’ve probably offended or at least shocked you.

While I wouldn’t necessarily participate in some of these options (I think – again, I have never been in the situations), I don’t believe I have the right to deny others these same options, and I would defend their right to make decisions on their lives.

Memories

Memoirs have become a popular forum, not just for the rich and famous, but also for the unknown and middle class. And while the “misty water-colored memories” of song fame may sound cheerful and nostalgic, more often the modern memoir is an outpouring of vengeance on those who are perceived to have done the memoirist wrong. Too often, common decency takes a back seat to salaciousness.

Famous actresses are particularly fond of tell-all stories cataloguing the transgressions of their numerous ex-husbands, without taking into account how trashy their lack of propriety may make them look.

Fans buy into it in an effort to get to know what it’s like to be one of the rich and powerful. But I wonder if some of those tell-all books are any more honest than the headlines from the tabloid newspapers reporting on the 20-pound, two-headed baby or the, “She’s having my alien-abducted baby” stories.

           

Knowing what these memoirs are often like, it was with some trepidation that I bought Carly Simon’s Boys in the Trees. While I’d bought her albums and learned to sing and play many of her songs on guitar in college, I’d also heard enough gossip about her life that now would be touted as, “It’s on the Internet; it must be true.”

           

Wanting to know how the other half lived didn’t mean I wanted confirmation of slutty behavior. It was refreshing to read the book.

While it was a fairly comprehensive autobiography, it didn’t give a blow-by-blow recitation of her every sexual encounter. She was private about what should stay private.

           

There were even surprises, like her admission that she had met and was delighted to play a concert with Cat Stevens, someone the inquiring minds in college had insisted she’d had a torrid affair with.

Even on her marriage to James Taylor, which ended in divorce, she was polite. She didn’t lay blame. She took and gave blame equally, and demonstrated that she still cared about him.

           

Compared to other famous memoirs, Carly Simon’s was so non-lurid that the biggest headline about it were what few revelations she made about who “You’re So Vain” was really about.

           

The fact that a famous person can pen a revelatory memoir without sinking into the muck shines a light for regular folks to see that they can write a memoir that can be insightful for their children and grandchildren. They can show how their lives mattered, and what life was like in a different time.

The key is to find what makes an individual’s life important by showing how it reveals the times in which they lived.

Caught by the 21st Century

Recently, I bought my first iPhone. Many of my friends consider that as my having been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the 21^st century.

Not so.

I love the idea of technology. But I don’t necessarily see the point sometimes. I don’t like to have things just to accumulate them.

 The technology that exists today is not what I was expecting, growing up. In the ‘60s we were told that by the year 2000 we would have robot maids and possibly flying cars. While I never really expected to live like the Jetsons, 17 years beyond the promised date, I’m still waiting for my robot maid (and no, the Rumba doesn’t dust or make beds -- or dinner).

While Star Trek may have hinted at mobile phones and computers with Siri (or Alexa, depending on the brand), expecting that future seemed a bit too Twilight Zone for this century. Perhaps next century was my thinking.

I like computers. I truly do. In fact, it always surprises me when I know how to do things with them that my much younger colleagues don’t. I mean, they grew up with computers, whereas laptops appeared too late for me to have benefitted either time through college. Yes, the big ones were around, but my family couldn’t afford one, and the Internet wasn’t ubiquitous back then.

To me, a computer is a fantastic typewriter, one that saves a lot of paper when I’m writing a novel. I love being able to delete or move words, sentences and paragraphs without having to start from scratch. And autocorrect is great for my typical typos. The fact that I can also save the many novels that I’ve written on a single thumb drive instead of a filing cabinet is fantastic.

I love being able to look up information on the Internet instead of needing an entire set of Encyclopedia, which are outdated in a year or two. It is frustrating, though, when I type in a search word, only to be flooded irrelevant information. In that regard, it doesn’t save me time or frustration.

While research on the Internet can be frustrating, social media is an introvert’s dream.

Facebook allows me to be social with people I might otherwise never meet. It also allows social contact without physically being in a crowded room. I can read someone’s blather, call them an idiot and never type a word. They’re none the wiser and we’re all happy. (So, if I actually answer something you've posted, I haven't called you an idiot.)

The idea of email is exciting, but the actuality is it’s mostly junk mail. I had dreams of keeping up correspondence via email. I do that with a small group of friends I’ve known since elementary school, but  most people now tell me they’d rather get texts.

There are several things I wish I could do with the computer. Being married to an IT guy, you’d think I’d have an easy time of learning cool things like Photoshop. But no. I had to take a class to learn the finer points of blogging. My husband, The Blue Scream of Jeff (read his blogs) didn’t understand why I needed to take the class when he could have shown me. The point was he didn’t.

I was told I can’t do Photoshop because I don’t have the program on my computer. When I asked about getting it, I was told I didn’t need it. Blue Scream could do those things for me. What about independence? What about creativity? I think I could be good at it, even if I can’t draw. When I do need something, I have to wait around until Blue Scream has time, instead of being able to do it myself.

But he says it’s expensive, so I won't be getting Photoshop anytime soon.

I’m not anti-technology.

I am just against wasting things.

I have a computer.

I have an iPod.

And until recently, I had a perfectly good phone to talk and text on. 

I also have a perfectly good DSLR camera, although it will never be as good to me as the old 35 mm camera for which I have difficulty getting film.

I don’t need a phone that does all of those things. Once everything breaks, a single item that does it all might be okay, although I don’t know how you can listen to music, chat on the phone and take photos all at once.

But why waste things that still work perfectly well? Besides, the camera on the phone isn’t very good compared to my real camera, as it demonstrated recently at a Moody Blues concert. And the charge on the phone battery doesn’t last anywhere near as long as the one on my iPod, despite the iPod being an ancient 5 or 6 years old.

Originally, I got a mobile phone because Blue Scream was worried about my having to drive long distances for my job. Once, on the way home, a not-so-reliable previous car broke down. There was no payphone anywhere, even at the gas station I stopped in to find one. The attendant was kind enough to let me use his mobile.

With the total demise of pay phones and a job that requires my boss to be able to get in touch with me when I’m in different places, I got a phone that allows texting as well as calls. Of course, outside work, I seldom get calls or texts, other than robocalls and hoaxes.

People have frequently, over the past few years, told me I need an iPhone or droid.

Why?

It has Internet!

My old phone could’ve had that, but it was far more expensive than the phone plan I had. Besides, I have a computer for getting on the Internet. The phone that had texting had been a concession to modern advances. The one before that was a flip phone. Ever tried to text on one of those? Can you imagine trolling the Internet on one?

Still, while my newer model phone suited my needs, it was getting old and the battery was starting to go. It was showing other signs of failing, too. I had been hearing about plans that included Internet and were cheaper than the plan I had. I thought I might just have to give in simply to save money.

Looking around, I noticed that many of the stores I frequented (mostly for tea between schools) had apps now rather than punch cards to allow one a free cuppa every 7^th or 10^th purchase. But you couldn’t get apps without Internet.

So, I bought an iPhone.

I still seldom get calls or texts. My boss, colleagues and Blue Scream call or text at times. And it does have some interesting features.

It’s nice that I can get weather updates, but not being tied to my phone, I usually don’t see them until a couple of hours after a storm has already passed. I really don’t need the news flashes about the latest governmental lunacy. I still don’t use it for the Internet; I don’t send emails or look up information. When I have the time, I do those things on a computer.

Recently, I even used the GPS, although I couldn’t get mine to show the cool map on the screen in my car the way Blue Scream’s does (we have the same model car). After I came home, with a bit of playing around with my phone (he has a droid, so it works a little differently), he was able to show me how that worked.

I do know I’ve earned 2 free teas so far and a hoagie, and I’ve recently earned a free Rita’s water ice on my apps. I wasn’t able to download my boarding pass for our recent vacation on it, although I suspect having it on the phone will be as awkward as a paper one going through TSA.

Getting the iPhone has allowed me to get an iPad for a really good price. I haven’t yet figured out what to do with an iPad, but I’m sure I’ll eventually find it useful.

Just know you’ll never see me walking anywhere with my head down and eyes glued to a phone screen. And don’t expect me to give up my SLR any time soon.

The Thrill of Pretty Things

The scene: Philadelphia in spring or summer. My mother, my aunt, my cousin and I were in the city for a day, but the reason escapes me. My cousin and I were 10 or 11.

We spent the day shopping, I suppose. I don’t recall going to the city for any other reason as a child before malls had been invented. I liked the idea of shopping, but the reality was headache-inducing, what with overheated stores, crowds and standing in line.

Then there was outside. A rural girl, I found cities gritty, and sidewalks tiring on the feet that, in those days, had to be in dress shoes for any excursion. I had yet to own my first pair of sneakers.

Despite the negatives, I found department stores magical; the window displays a thing of beauty.

But whereas I felt the internal wonder of it all – an emotion inexpressible in words but easily seen on my face – my cousin was exuberant. Experience had taught me that verbal expression of my joy led only to ridicule, from cousins as well as peers.

“You like that?”

“You still believe in that?”

“You’re stupid.”

“You’re a baby.”

“You’re weird.”

My cousin had, apparently, never met with those experiences, so she didn’t hesitate to say, “Oh, that’s beautiful! I love that! How pretty!”

I would nod, enjoying my internal experience, but apparently not showing it enough on my face. My cousin had, at every turn, beaten me to the punch.

The intersection of, “I’m tired and my feet hurt,” and the thrill of pretty things was face-in-neutral.

Face-in-neutral is apparently interpreted by extroverts as boredom.

Yes, I am an introvert. I can hold my own and more in a conversation if it’s something I’m interested in. But starting a conversation with a stranger or someone I don’t know well is something the other person needs to do. I can no more get beyond, “Hello. Nice weather,” than my non-artistic mind can find the horizon line on a blank canvas.

When someone isn’t having a conversation with me, but enthusing over the sights and sounds of the environment, what is there to do beyond nodding and saying, “Yes” ?

Perhaps the reason I don’t remember much about the day is the one memory of it that did stick out: my mother scolding me in the train station – in quiet but deadly “mom voice” – after my cousin and aunt had departed. “Why can’t you be like your cousin? She, at least, enjoyed this trip.”

Wait a minute. I enjoyed the day enormously. I got to ride the train, see the sights, and enjoy the wonder and beauty in my own way. We even ate lunch at Horn and Hardart’s automat, my absolute favorite restaurant at the time, where I put the coins in the slot and took out my favorite, beef pot pie, from behind the little glass door. My cousin hadn’t even liked hers. Why was I expected to repeat every rapturous thing she said? What’s the point of that?

My mother destroyed the day with her admonishment. Now I understood: my mother wanted a daughter, but I wasn’t the one she wanted.

I was well-mannered and smart and inventive, and did what I was told. But somehow I was lacking.

Admittedly, my social skills have always been in negative numbers. I spent my childhood waiting for friends to happen, and never quite understood the odd looks or social cues or whatever they were that were directed my way. Unfortunately, that is still the case.

I liked my cousins. I always liked the idea of visiting them, but the visits never met my expectations.  No, not expectations; my hopes and dreams of what it would be like to have someone to play with.

Any of my cousins my age or near it could run faster than I, climb trees better, and generally disappear so I couldn’t find them. They were good at grabbing my shoes so I’d have to chase after them in my bare feet, and when I wouldn’t, they’d toss the shoes into a nearby rose hedge where the thorns would tear at my skin as I retrieved the shoes.

They wouldn’t discuss books or invent stories or jump rope or anything I was good at. The trip to Philadelphia fit right into the same mold.

Which is why I travel alone. And wear sneakers.

The Grammarian

Okay, you knew I’d eventually have a grammar rant.

When people discover that I have a degree in English – I like to say I’ve mastered it as a foreign language – they fall all over themselves trying to prove that they know the rules of grammar. Inevitably a sentence pops up, “Just between you and me – I mean I…” to which I reply, “No, you were right the first time.” That baffles many people, and they try to argue the point until I tell them me is the object of a preposition, so it’s me, not I. It’s surprising how many people have no idea what I’m talking about.

The information has nothing to do with my degree. That was in writing, not in grammar. The grammar is from fifth grade English. From grades five through eight we learned parts of speech, and diagrammed sentences of increasing complexity. I was the diagram queen of my eighth grade class.

What solidified my knowledge of English grammar was studying Spanish for four years in high school. Whatever I didn’t quite understand about English grammar, I learned through Spanish grammar.

Unless they’re using double negatives or saying seen without an auxiliary verb (that’s a helper verb, folks), most people’s grammar doesn’t bother me. What I do find aggravating are commercials where the combination of poor spelling and bad grammar make me shudder.

 I can accept a company using a misspelling for their name. Dunkin’ Donuts, for example. It follows the play on words of ‘60s bands, The Beatles and the Byrds. The trouble is other companies followed the lead and began misspelling doughnut to the degree that now most Americans think “donut” is the correct spelling.

Spelling isn’t the worst. Ad writers show their ignorance of word meaning with words like less. Ask what the opposite of more is, and they’ll say less. But wait. Only sometimes. Fewer is also the opposite of more. “More taste, less calories.” No, no, no! If you can count it, it’s fewer.

More recently a healthcare company has proven its ad people don’t have a good command of the language. Their slogan is “Live fearless.” Gaaah! Live is a verb. Fearless is an adjective. Verbs are modified by adverbs! Even people on the streets who think donut is correct spelling have taken markers to correct the ad posters with an ly.

With advertisements misspelled and with poor grammar assaulting us daily, is it any wonder people have lost their ability to use correct grammar? To make matters worse, spell check – at least on American computers – is wrong on several words. Its/It’s is wrong. Spell check/Grammar check on Word documents will insist it’s is possessive. Lay and Lie are wrong on Grammar check as well. And forget phrases set off by commas. Grammar check apparently doesn’t like commas. It also frequently doesn’t recognize common verbs.

When the ads in print or on TV and the computer tools designed to help us are constantly bombarding us with bad spelling and incorrect grammar, is it any wonder many Americans can’t write a grammatically correct, correctly spelled sentence? And don’t even get me started on to, too and two.

Let’s eat Grandma.

Let’s eat, Grandma.

Commas save lives.

What Would You Do?

Imagine it: what would you do if you were given the chance to start over? We’ve all been asked at one time or another, “If you had the chance to do your life over, what would you change?”

            

Most of us like to fantasize other scenarios our lives might have played out while still expecting to meet our loved ones but avoiding the mistakes. Most people wouldn’t give up a beloved spouse or children. But what if…

            

Movies have been written with this theme. Think of Rose in Titanic. Wealthy, engaged to a rich Englishman, she feels stifled by the second class existence she’ll live as his wife. When fate, in the form of an iceberg intervenes, she is given a second chance, and she runs with it. On the rescue ship, she gives a false name, and gives up her chance at wealth in a quest for happiness. By all accounts, she finds it.

            

Yes, it is a movie, but isn’t it just possible that some survivors of the Titanic – or the Lusitania or any other ship that sank – made similar choices, and took on new identities?

            

There are stories of members of the SS eluding authorities and moving to South America to start new lives, avoiding the jail sentences they deserved. No doubt other, lower ranking participants in the Second World War, or even those from other European countries trying to evade becoming soldiers found ways of disappearing and reappearing elsewhere years later with new identities.

           

  Not everyone given that opportunity would do it. But not everyone who would do it is necessarily a bad person.

            

Imagine you’re in a bad relationship, but you’re significant other has threatened you harm if you ever try to leave. Imagine that on your way to work one sunny Tuesday, instead of going directly to your office on the 103^rd floor of the North Tower of the World Trade Center, you make a stop at a local drug store. As a result, you’re late for work, standing outside as the plane crashes into the building, your life saved. You can make the phone call telling people you’re all right or you can walk away, give up everything and start a new life.

            

While I don’t know quite how someone gets a new identity without being in witness protection, I can well imagine that at least a few people survived 9/11 who were listed as dead, as well as other disasters throughout the world.

            

While it’s interesting to fantasize about what you would do if you were presented with the opportunity to start a new life, I’m also reminded of a Night Gallery episode from the 1970s in which a young man finds himself transported from nearly dying aboard the Titanic to waking up on the Lusitania. From there he escapes death once again to wake up on the Andrea Doria. I think the lesson to be learned is: Be careful what you wish for.

What’s Wrong with Pretty?

Perhaps I’m a victim of my time. When I was growing up, movie stars were gorgeous. They were not overweight, their hair was beautifully coiffed at all times in public and they wore lovely clothes. They did not look like anyone I knew.

Even on TV people were nice looking, although perhaps not as glamourous as movie stars. With the exception of very few shows, like The Honeymooners, leading men and ladies were not overweight, and men never had a five-o’clock shadow, much less a beard, unless representing another century. The only negative piece was that all of the lead roles were white people.

I’m not saying here that I lived in ugly town. Quite the contrary. The people in my neighborhood were nice looking, but average. The women looked like – well, moms. A testament to the fact that mothers weren’t always perfectly coiffed was the fact that before we went to any of the shops, mothers of my neighborhood changed into a dress – or at least a skirt – combed their hair and applied lipstick.

 And I never knew my mother to own pearls, much less wear them while vacuuming, as Beaver Cleaver’s mother did. My dad didn’t wear a sweater while sitting around the house, although he did carry a brief case, as the dads did in shows such as Father Knows Best and Leave It to Beaver. My parents didn’t have a maid or a nanny, either. My mother did sometimes break into song for no apparent reason, so I assumed other mothers behaved the same.

With the advent of color TV, something else happened. Leading roles began to be performed by people of color. Diahann Carroll was the first breakthrough African American actress to have her own show, Julia, in which she played a single mom who worked as a nurse. While having a show that portrayed a black family having the same trials and tribulations as a white one was groundbreaking, Ms. Carroll was a strikingly beautiful actress who fit in with the other actresses at the time.

But her show paved the way for other programs featuring African American actors, such as The Mod Squad, Amen, Star Trek – which featured the first interracial kiss on TV – and The Cosby Show. In time other ethnic groups were represented in the weeknight lineup, and more recently, more sexually diverse characters.

But gradually over the years, leading ladies and men in both film and TV became less elegant. Perhaps it was the revolutionary atmosphere of the ‘60s that started it. Male leads no longer looked like my dad, but more like The Beatles. Female leads no longer acted in ways my mother would. People who had heretofore been relegated to supporting roles because they lacked the beauty, the elegance or the trim figures of stars of earlier days, were now starring in their own shows.

It wasn’t just the shows that made this change. Commercials also reflected this change. Where once a beauty queen would have hawked butter, now a somewhat dowdy beautician soaked people’s nails in dishwashing liquid to prove it was gentle on hands. Margaret Hamilton, best known as the wicked witch of the west in the original Wizard of Oz movie and looking less elegant without the green skin, sold Maxwell House Coffee. And commercials that required singing turned to the tone deaf to croon the jingle.

I wonder if the casting calls looked like this: tone deaf child with a lisp wanted to sing in commercial.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I don’t find a child singing off-key – or lisping, for that matter – remotely cute. And it certainly doesn’t encourage me to buy a product. In fact, I find that worse than having 10 different adults singing a jingle one at a time in different keys. It does speak to me; it says here’s a product that will kill any talent you may have had.

People may like the fact that actors in film and TV are just like them. Maybe they enjoy watching people like Roseann or Archie Bunker make fools of themselves. That was never my cuppa.

It is reassuring to know that just because you don’t fit a narrow image of beauty like, perhaps, Marilyn Monroe or Twiggy, doesn’t mean you can’t have a career in acting. But I’d like to see people make an effort to look good to the best of their ability if they want to be stars.

I want my leading men and women to be beautiful. I want the singers to be able to sing, and I don’t want the speakers to have a speech impediment. Is that too much to ask?

Perhaps it’s because I see film and TV as fantasy, not reality. I want the actors to reflect the fantasy of how I wish life was. Reality I can get without leaving home. Yes, when I was a child I dreamed of growing up to be the singers or actors of whom I was a fan. But I knew then that’s what it was: a dream. I wasn’t going to have plastic surgery or starve myself to turn into a fantasy.

I don’t look at actors as role models. They are human, just like the rest of us. But they are the cream. The people in my neighborhood don’t look like David Tennant or Meryl Streep. The lady next door could most likely not get up in front of an audience and perform in a Shakespeare play.

When I turn on the TV, I want to be entertained by someone who would never be my next door neighbor. I want to be enchanted, captivated and taken to a fantasy land, that place we only find in dreams. Otherwise, I’m just looking in the mirror and not liking what I see.

Searching for the Fountain of Youth

     I admit it: I’m vain

     Oh, I know I’m no beauty – more like the Beast. But in all honesty, I’m ordinary-looking. No one would pick me out of a crowd. On a good day, if the hair cooperates and the eyeliner on my lower lids goes on just right to make my grey eyes look a bit blue, I may even look nice.

     I’ve enjoyed looking younger than my actual age most of my life. But in the last five years, gravity has taken over. Wrinkles have taken command of my face. In the last year or two, I’ve noticed the left side of my face looks older than the right, the result of driver’s-side-window sun during the daily hour-long commute each way to and from work.
     The 25-year-old who lives inside this body now looks in the mirror in shock and thinks, “Oh, my Timelord! There’s an old woman in that mirror. Who the heck is she?”

     I am an eternal optimist. I really want to believe those too-good-to-be-true ads about skin creams that reverse the signs of aging giving one a youthful appearance. I’ve spent scads of money on the promise of regaining the face of my misspent youth, all to no avail.

     I’ve bought creams I didn’t believe in to help out friends or relatives who were trying to start up a business, more because I enjoy doing senseless acts of niceness, although I’d be better off supporting their Go-Fund-Me account for their next vacation. The result of most of these changes in my normal moisturizing regimen is a case of that scourge I never had as a teen: acne.

     I’m also a believer in that Judeo-Christian ethic called Karma. Perhaps if I help out friends and relatives with their skin creams, someday people will return the favor and buy my books.

     Not long ago, I again believed in a miracle face cream that promised youth in 30 days. It did look nice, and had no scent. The texture was rich and creamy. It felt nice going on. But it was, for all its pricey-ness, about as effective at rejuvenation as applying vegetable oil.

     Out of curiosity, I looked at the ingredients. What I didn’t realize when I bought it was that it supposedly contained snake venom. Wait, snake venom?

     I’m fairly certain no snakes were harmed in the production of this cream. More than likely, it was the result of some 30-something with a new chemistry kit. But snake venom sounds more daring than a string of unpronounceable polymers.
     I know what they were going for: the manufacturers wanted the public to believe that applying a topical toxin would have the same effect as an injection of botulinum toxin (aka Botox)

     It didn’t.

     But think about snakes for a moment. Even young snakes. Have you ever seen their skin? It’s positively scaly. I don’t even like snake skin shoes; I certainly don’t want a snake skin face.

     Into the trash went the promised snake oil, and I vowed I was through with promises of rejuvenation. My ordinary, Jennifer Aniston-endorsed, inexpensive moisturizer works just fine to keep my face from cracking.

     Enter the evil commercial from the competitor, another inexpensive lotion. “In just seven days you will see a decrease in fine lines and wrinkles,” they said – cue “In Just Seven Days” from the Rocky Horror Picture Show as you shake your head.

     Okay, it must do something. If I can see results in a week, it’s worth a try. Besides, it isn’t expensive snake oil.

     So, off to the local drug store’s beauty aisle I go. There it sits, just next to my usual cream. It has Retinol as one of it ingredients. That’s Vitamin A. That’s got to be good for you, yes? No.

     I gently washed my face each morning and studiously applied this lotion. It was sucked into my face – or the ozone – in seconds, leaving my skin feeling like it would tear if I cracked a smile.

     “Works well with any moisturizer,” the package said. 
     Okay, so it isn’t a moisturizer itself? I slathered on my usual moisturizer. Every. Single. Day.

     Each day, that 25-year-old peeked at the face. Day 1: nothing. Day 2: nothing. Day 3: some dry patches cropping up on my face. Each day thereafter, my face was redder and patchier. By day 7 it looked like it has looked in more naïve times, when I didn’t know about sun screens, after a day at the Jersey shore in strong sun. That was the only nod toward my youth that this cream provided.

     Fortunately, after a few days of simply using my regular skin cream, after I tossed out yet another failed promise of youth, my skin returned to its soft, although still just as wrinkled self.

     Once again I am determined that I will accept Mother Nature’s decree, and stop looking for the fountain of youth in a bottle. I can say that now, looking at a blank piece of paper, with no commercials or ads down the side of my Facebook page to lure me into another deception.

     I wonder if there’s a Fountain-of-Youth-Seeker’s Anonymous.

Working with Kids

  Working in schools can really keep you honest. Children tend to speak without filters. Perhaps because I usually work with one or two at a time, once they get to know me, they ask questions they would probably not ask their teachers.

            They particularly like to know how old adults are. When I was in my 40s and they’d ask, it came as a shock when some would tell me I was older than their grandmother. I didn’t really need to hear the follow-up statement, “My mother had me when she was 15.”

            Children want to know if you have children or grandchildren. Here’s one of my favorite conversations:

            “How many children do you have?”

            “I don’t have any children.”

            “Well, then, how many grandchildren do you have?”

            As if.

            What I could never answer was, after saying I had no children, when a child would ask, “Why not?”

            I had plenty of sarcastic answers, such as I might give an adult, but they’re hardly appropriate. It occurred to me to tell them, “Because I hate children.” But it might scare them. They certainly wouldn’t understand the sarcasm.

            As I got older, I would make a joke of being old when telling them of my experiences in school.

            “When I went to school with Fred Flintstone…” got me some wide-eyed looks until they realized I was joking. I stopped using that phrase when one student asked, “Who’s Fred Flintstone?”

            Now I usually say, “When I was in school and dinosaurs roamed the earth…” Usually, that gets a laugh. Occasionally, I still get a wide-eyed stare and a, “Really?”

            More recently, I was playing Jacks with a sixth grade student during an OT session. Because it’s a game where you can’t really keep the ball on a table, we sat on the floor to play. Once I was seated, the student made the comment that I wouldn’t be able to get up when we were finished.

            “Why not?” I asked.

            “Well, you’re old.”

            “I got down here, didn’t I?” I asked. Perhaps my look put him in his place. Perhaps the fact that I soundly beat him at a game I learned 55 years ago did it. Or maybe it was the fact that I was able to get up faster to retrieve his out-of-control ball than he was. Regardless, he hasn’t made a comment about my age since.

            Yes, kids can really make you feel old.