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.