JUST BECAUSE

I had an interesting experience a couple of days ago. Well, actually, I have lots of interesting experiences every day, but this one seemed more noteworthy than most. Mostly because it turned into an exercise in self examination for me.
I am given to over-thinking things. A lot. Like motivation. Did I make a particular decision based on – what? What it says about me? Good or bad? What influence it might have on the world around me? (Judging by past experiences, I would have thought “Not Much.”) Did I do it knowing no one but me would ever know about it therefore it is only important to me?
Did I go out of my way to do that all-inclusive “right thing” even tho it was inconvenient for me and no one would know the difference?
Well, the answer is…I don’t know the answer. But I DID feel like something a little special happened for me with this latest decision.
It will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me well at all, that I was at the Jewish Women’s Council Thrift Shop on this particular day. And almost any other day for that matter.
I tried on a pair of shoes that looked really good, but hurt like hell…and this time, I DIDN’T buy them. But they WERE cute and I may still go back. I mean really, if they’re still available three days later, I must be supposed to suffer to look good.
I DID buy a new book…a novel by Dave Barry. I find him one of the funniest guys around and this time he has produced a book of fiction. As far as I know, it’s his only novel. But I don’t know that for sure, so if you care, you’ll have to look it up for yourself.
I really went over to donate some stuff, but you know, you can’t get that close to a possible bargain and not at least look, right? Found some good stuff..the book, of course, and a great looking belt one of those stretchy things that fit just about everybody, and it had a great buckle…bronze-colored sea shell that snapped in to place…pretty.
Anyway…
I was in line, waiting to check out behind a woman who couldn’t make up her mind if she did – or did not – want to actually buy a would-be leather jacket.
There was an older woman standing behind me. Not older than me, no one is ever older than me any more. But she WAS elderly. And kind of run down looking…you know that look? Like she’s not expecting much of the world…and is seldom disappointed.
She was clutching a pair of shoes. Good, solid, RED shoes. And she was waiting patiently for her turn.
I smiled and said hello and she smiled back. Kind of a timid smile. But a smile just the same. She glanced away and then turned back to me.
“Your earrings,” she said. “I love your earrings. They are so pretty.”
I did what almost every woman I know does when someone mentions her earrings. I fingered them to remind me which of the hundreds of pairs of earrings I possess, I had chosen to wear that morning.
I smiled and said something about them being among my favorites. This was not necessarily true, but if I didn’t like them I wouldn’t be wearing them, right?
She looked away again and we stood in silence patiently waiting for the lady ahead of us in line to decide if she REALLY, REALLY wanted to buy the damn jacket. The lady behind the counter was much more patient than I would have been.
Finally it was my turn. I put my treasures on the counter and the volunteer totaled the cost. It was very small.
I turned to say goodbye to the little lady behind me. She smiled again., and said, very, very quietly, “Those are lovely earrings.”
She turned back to the counter and I walked away.
I went about five steps, stopped, removed the earrings and turned back. My little lady was counting out six dollars for her shoes. I tapped her lightly on the shoulder and handed her the earrings.
“Wear them,” I said. “they’ll be perfect with your new shoes.”
She looked at me in confusion and then at the lady behind the counter.
“Enjoy them,” I said and patted her shoulder.
“But…” she stopped. “No one ever…” She stopped again. “She started again. “What can I…”
I smiled at her and kept walking. And then the demand for an explanation started. Why had I given this perfect stranger my earrings?
Okay, the lady had looked kind of weary and like she could use a boost. But why from me? I’m not a big believer in stars in a crown at some future date. I don’t think a personal God is sitting up there is heaven making notes on nice gestures. So?
Well, maybe it was so the lady behind the counter would notice what a good person I really am. If nothing else she might give me a little break on the price of something on my next trip.
No, that can’t be it. What kind of a break do you need when a book costs two dollars and a belt four?
Then I remembered some very wise words from my mother when I was about 10. I came home from school very pleased with myself. I had helped a little boy who was being teased by a couple of the older kids. Very excited I told mom about how Sister said I was a good example of “ helping thy neighbor.” She said I deserved to be rewarded for what I’d done. I agreed with her whole heartedly.
But my mother? She sat there and looked a lttle sad. That was not what I wanted. I wanted her to gush over the wonder that was ME!
“You did a good thing Betty,” she said. “You helped someone in need. But until you do it just because it needs to be done instead of because it got you a smile from Sister Mary Alice, it isn’t really a good deed at all.”
So there it is. Things my mother taught me – and is still teaching me after all these years.
“Okay Mom,” I said into the air. I think I’ve finally got it.” Then I let myself into my car and drove home.
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The word I have chosen for this month OLEAGINOUS. I love this word. It means exactly what it should…it is, to my ears at least, smarmy, unctuous and fawning. All wonderful words to describe oily. Containing oil. Just roll it around in your mouth for a bit…doesn’t feel exactly like something that is – well – oily?

December/January Blog

NEVER APOLOGIZE, NEVER EXPLAIN. EXCEPT SOMETIME
I realize that in the greater scheme of things, my having missed a deadline is NOT a big deal. However, to me it is a mortal sin. ONE JUST DOESN’T. Rather like the mail…a promised BLOG must go through. And in December, I failed to do that. I’m sorry.
I realize too, that there is the remote possibility that you, the reader here, might not even have missed the December BLOG, consumed as you were by your own happenings. However, I prefer to assume that, like me, you missed my writing tremendously. I will proceed from there.

WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

It happened many years ago. I wasn’t intentionally listening in on someone else’s conversation, it just happened that two of my offspring, Celia and John, were discussing an upcoming Christmas dinner. Actually, they were helping me get ready for a party of 10. They were arguing about the proper placement of the three forks: salad, dessert, dinner…or salad, dinner dessert?
Celia suggested that it really didn’t matter all that much and they should just get on with the job when John came up with this piece of wisdom.
“Whoa. This is Mom we’re talking about. You know she isn’t happy if the table doesn’t look as beautiful as a Van Gogh. She demands perfection.” Celia agreed and they set out to make it happen.
Back in the kitchen, I glowed. That sounded pretty much like what I thought about me too.
Many, many years later, I was listening to that same discussion on the radio, only this time it was Danny, discussing dinner parties and table settings with a guest on his show. The lady -sorry I forget who she was – was saying how important a beautiful table is to setting the mood for the party. Danny disagreed.
“We had GREAT parties at my house,” he said, “and my Mom never cared about stuff like matching china and the proper fork!”
How could that happen? Really? How could one’s children, all raised in the same general time frame have such disparate opinions of their mother? And at least one of them. be so wrong!
I’d always been pretty secure in who I was and how I fit in to the scheme of things. I KNEW I would never use paper plates and throw- away cups for wine. Yet here was one of my kids telling the radio world that I really didn’t give a damn about that sort of thing?
It set me to wondering: If your own children have this kind of split, how many versions of you are there out there in your world? And how close is anyone to really knowing you.
For that matter, how well do you know yourself?
Needless to explain – (so why am I about to?) I have ruminated on this for many years, and just a couple of years ago, the subject came up when I was visiting some friends in Philadelphia.
Among the many who were important to me, there was one outstanding exception. This was a guy who showed up everywhere, determined to be a major part of all activity and loudly resentful if he wasn’t included in ALL plans. But the plans never suited him until he had argued everyone in to going to THE one restaurant that HE chose, arranged for someone else to drive, and just generally run the whole event to please himself, with, as far as I could tell, not the slightest notion that – just maybe- he should consider what others want.
On one occasion I was alone with this man and he was talking about his family. Particularly he was talking about his brother, Francis, who, according to my not quite friend, was a selfish, egocentric, man who never gave anyone else a thought.
“Of course” said this almost friend (I’ll call him William because that’s not his name) “I was always known as the empathetic, caring, thoughtful one in my family.” I took a close look at him to make sure he wasn’t being purposely sarcastic, but no, he meant every incredible word.
Are we all this blind to our true selves? I hope not because after all these years, I rather like my picture of me. I can be quite amazing sometimes…I’d tell you all about the wonder of me but you might find that a bit – well – intimidating.
I’m kidding…but I DO think I’m an overall pretty good lady.
So to the heart of the matter.
What do YOU think of you?
If, like the 12 Rabbis, you gathered 12 of your friends together and asked them to describe you, would you get back 13 opinions? None of them having anything to do with the person YOU think you are?
And, importantly, how close to the real you is the personality you have presented to your world? Have you hidden the temper that you barely manage to keep under control? Do you have to fight every day to make yourself go out, talk to people, be pleasant when you really want to be left alone to read a good book?
Is there a bit of the closet bigot in your makeup that you are ashamed of but which definitely exists? Do you hate people who aren’t smart enough to see things the way you do?
I’m going to suggest that ALMOST everyone is hiding a secret that scares them…something in their history that they keep from the world…except maybe from the one person they trust implicitly to keep their secret…who may not.
Another person of interest to me was a classic bubble headed blonde who seemed to need a man around her just to prove that she was a girl. It seemed possible she had never had a serious idea in her life. I knew her – or thought I did – for about 15 years.
If I tried to recreate one of our conversations, I couldn’t. She really never said anything of substance. But she was fun at a party. Always had a smile for everyone, never made a fuss. Was big in the sing-a-longs but never sang solo. All good. Happy bubble head.
And then one day we were having tea together and she put her cup down carefully looked at me sadly and said, “I’m so tired of being this happy-go-lucky dumb blonde.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say…but that seldom stops me. “Then why did you invent her?”
“I was afraid no one would like me, “ she said simply.
Now THAT’S sad. Forty years old and the only person other people know under her name is a woman she doesn’t even like.
She moved away soon after that. Said she was going some place new when she could be herself. But first she had to find out who that was. I saw her about three years later. She was a bubble headed dumb blonde with a new husband who loved to muss her hair and make jokes about some word she’d misused. “Cute” as a bug” was his description. She just smiled at me…then giggled.
So maybe that’s who she really was all along. I don’t know. I’m having trouble enough working out me.
So let me ask you? Who do you think you are” Would you recognize yourself if one of your closest friend wrote about you in a book and every body knew who she meant but you? Here’s a clue. Most people don’t.

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WORD OF THE MONTH

IMPERATOR:

1: an absolute or supreme ruler.
2: (in Imperial Rome) emperor
3: (in Republican Rome) a temporary title accorded a victorious general.

You may not have many occasions to use this one but I like the sound. I’ll find a way.

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BIG BROTHER

It has occurred to me recently, that a Big Brother…or Sister or maybe a Little Brother or Sister…(a sibling in other, more precise terms) may ultimately be more responsible than parents for the person someone turns out to be.
Despite their best intentions – and sometimes because of them – parents have rules they follow and agendas to pass on. These are the treasured things they learned on their way to the position of power that is PARENTHOOD. Things that they are not only willing, but determined to pass on to you, their beloved child.
Let’s get something out of the way first. I firmly believe that most men and women DO intend only the best for their children. Despite the many horror stories of child abuse by parents, despite the current picture of “MOM” that is emerging daily on the television screen in yet one more “raunchy” comedy(?), I cannot picture a man or woman waking up one morning to announce that he or she will now devote him/herself to destroying a child.
This is not to suggest that it doesn’t happen…only that it wasn’t the plan, even though I feel sure most children at one time or another firmly believe that neither Mother nor Father was EVER a kid.
For one thing, parents are frequently blinded by love and by their own surety that “MY CHILD WOULD NEVER DO THAT! While the sibs sit and grin, knowing full well that “the kid” certainly would do it – IS doing it even as we speak.
It’s here, in this area of disconnect that children come together.
You have to take my word for it that I found myself an ideal parent. I felt I was clear-eyed and free of prejudice when it came to my kids behavior.
I was wrong. And I didn’t know how wrong until I got involved in a conversation with my four adult children. I mentioned the family who lived across the street from us in Woodland Hills. I told them, rather righteously I must admit, that I had had to tell Mrs. M. that her kids were sneaking out at night. I told my children that I thought she would want to know but that she’d reacted badly and accused my own kids in return. Things were never the same between us and the woman refused to let her kids play with mine…ever again.
This sad tale evoked almost NO reaction from my children…for a good three seconds…and then they, one by one, broke into hearty, healthy laughter.
I don’t think they were sure how to tell me, but tell me they did. Not only did my little darlings sneak out at night but they snuck out to meet up with the kids across the street.
But that was the proverbial tip of the iceberg. They laughingly, even triumphantly told me about some their other little peccadilloes…like how each of them in turn had learned to forge my signature on those dreaded “Please sign this report and have your (check one) Son/Daughter” return it to the teacher within three days.”
They found all this hysterically funny…I did not. All my preconceived, and very comforting, notions of my outstanding talents as a parent went swirling down what we used to refer to genteelly as “the porcelain appliance.”
But that night it occurred to me that while I laid some good ground work, these four kids of mine worked together finding ways to deal with the world as they knew it.
It was a very different world from the one I grew up in. Much more complex and exclusively belonged to the young.
Peer pressure was so strong it was almost impossible to get through. Take out that word almost. Peer pressure might be the strongest emotion in the world. Okay, technically I guess, peer pressure isn’t’ an emotion, but it results in incredibly strong emotions rising up and boiling over in the young folks who had to deal with it.
Admittedly, I didn’t understand it the way I wish I had. But the four kids understood it together and dealt with it.
If you know my kids, you know that each responded in a different fashion to what was going on. But they still shared the experience. They knew they were different one from the other – well I knew that much. But they were more aware of what each decision cost them and how they arrived at their own choices.
They learned to deal with differences – (no matter how wrong) and that was a good thing. And they talked – endlessly – about everything that was important to them No secrets, no pretending. Just honest and sometime loudly discussed disagreements. But in the end…in the end of the time when we were all together…before their were wives and husbands and friends and all of that, they always had each other. They could always tell the other guys what was going on. No one told Mom or Dad. It was their world and they kept it to themselves as much as possible.
This is not to denigrate the role of the parent. Ideally, we parents provided the situation where the chidren could discover each other and realize that forever and the day after, they would always have someone who knew them, who cared, who helped them find the way to becoming who they are.
It’s true that adage that you don’t choose your family. But if you are lucky, you might find that if you could choose them you would pick the ones you were assigned.

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The word I have chosen for this month OLEAGINOUS. I love this word. It means exactly what it should…it is, to my ears at least, smarmy, unctuous and fawning. All wonderful words to describe oily. Containing oil. Just roll it around in your mouth for a bit…doesn’t it feel exactly like something that is – well – oily?

A few months ago, Dr. Eddy, my new primary care physician, asked me my age, and I told her I was 90. She checked my chart and then looked at me thoughtfully;
“You’re 89.” She said. “Why do you keep saying you are 90?”
I thought about it for just a minute…I had indeed been saying I was 90 for about six months before actually reaching that advanced age. But why?
I’d lied about my age before, but not usually with the intent of being older than I actually was.
“I think,” I said, “I think it’s because 89 has no legs. It isn’t anything special. But 90? Ninety is a destination.”
I thought that sounded really deep. I hoped she was impressed because I certainly was.
I thought about that later, on my way home from her office. Why would I be hurrying toward 90? Well, the first thing is, it took me 90 years. That’s not really a hurry when you think about it. But there was still truth in what I said. Ninety WAS and IS a destination.
It’s a time, I believe, when we have arrived at who we’ve been becoming forever. We have taken advice from many sources and ignored other advice at our peril. We have experienced births and deaths and love and sometimes hate. If we’re very, very lucky, we have been loved by some wonderful people…beginning, of course with Mother and Father. But then, they pretty much HAD to love us.
On the other hand we have made friends, some who have come and gone on, some who have stayed with us, physically or mentally, through the ages. And every one of them has influenced who we are now….even if only fleetingly.
I’ve had a pretty fine life. I didn’t think too much a lot of it while I was living it, but that’s just because I wasn’t seeing that big picture everyone talks about…I was looking through a small lens at tiny little events and concentrating too much on the part that wasn’t going according to MY plan. It didn’t occur to me that the world had no plan to arrange itself for my pleasure.
I was an average student. Average pretty, unless you asked my Mother who saw me as beautiful and a Father who saw me as clever and talented. Not average at all. I believed them. Which helped a lot.
I turned out to be amusing. I tell stories well. Always have, and with luck will die still having a good punch line at the ready.
I write well too. I thought I’d get that out of the way so you don’t have to wonder about it. It is a wonderful gift. I was able to make a comfortable living writing. Which made me luckier than a whole lot of people because I loved my work.
Only twice in my life did I ever have to take a job where I had to show up at an office at a certain time and stay until the bell rang and I was set free.
The first time was when I worked at a financial company where, for some reason they hired me as an “executive assistant” (read secretary.)
Now, as one of the world’s least organized people, getting the files of four dedicated executives into some order was a major challenge. But I developed this wonderful, color-coded system which made my four executive bosses insanely happy. They even got to choose their own colors! If one man loved green and another yellow…then each got his own favorite.
The problem, and the thing that lead me to leave the office after about a year, was that I was never quite sure where anything was and I felt sure that at some time, they would realize that.
The other misadventure took me into the land of “office work” at a large manufacturing company where I worked on the newspaper for an editor who described himself as neither a reader nor a writer. I decided not to pursue that line to its illogical conclusion.
I had been free lancing for the company for nine years when they decided they would use only full time employees and I was a consultant. The option was mine. Work for them full time or find another client. I joined the ranks.
This time, however, one of the execs noticed that I had a strange attitude toward full time work. He took me aside after about three months and asked me, gently, but insistently if I didn’t know anything about office politics. I assured him I did not and had no intention of learning about it. I was invited to look elsewhere very shortly after that. However, I was then 72 so retiring didn’t seem like a bad idea.
One thing I learned from that experience that has stuck with me for the rest of my life, was how fortunate I was to enjoy my work. Office politics or not, I loved to write and I got to do that every day – and got paid really well. The people I worked with, loved the fact that they HAD jobs, but they weren’t happy with the work. I found that very sad and it is one of the experiences that colored who I became.
See, that’s the thing about 90. At 72, I was still becoming someone. Now I believe, I am who I am and that’s all that I am.
I am told that with age comes wisdom, and that, in fact, seems to me to be true. After all, you would have to be really stupid to live 90 years and not learn a thing or three.
I have learned that the people I love do not have to agree with me on much of anything. It’s nice when the important things are shared, but it isn’t essential to the friendship. What IS essential is that you respect the opinion of others and their right to have those opinions, no matter how wrong you may find them. Name calling and accusations don’t help anything.
I believe I have learned when to give advice and when to withhold it…not matter how wise and wonderful you find yourself, the smartest thing you can learn I find, is that the time to give advice is when it is asked for…otherwise, hold your tongue. (Not literally, of course.)
I think one of the wisest things I learned recently is something that I should have known all along. When someone says something rather mean or petty to you, you must stop and realize that It isn’t about you. It’s about THEM. There is something in their lives that makes lashing out necessary to them. Maybe they need to feel superior and know they have very little to build on. Maybe someone has recently hurt them and they are hurting you to relieve the pressure they feel. If you can master that one bit of wisdom you will save yourself a lot of grief.
It was a relief to find out that I am fairly well satisfied with what I have done with my life. Mistakes…of course, lots. But like everything that one does along the way, the mistakes had something to teach me too. Would I change a lot if I got a do-over? No, not really. Even the parts I didn’t like were helpful. And above all, they got me to this place and I am happy with the journey.
So that’s my short story of a long life. Now it’s your turn. If you’d like to have a cup of coffee, stop by, I’m always willing – make that eager – to chat.

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PROLOGUE:

Once upon a time, my parents sent me to a psychiatrist…They felt that my asthma might be “all in my head.” I, on the other hand, was pretty sure that I wasn’t making this stuff up, especially since my breathing problems seemed to be confined to Spring.
However, Mommy and Daddy said I should go, and off I went.
Dr. Scott was a pleasant man. He paid attention when I talked to him about my life and my real, or imagined, problems. But I had read, and been told, that people often fell in love with their doctors. So I asked him about that.
He patiently explained the idea of “transference” to me. Told me how people focused on their doctor as the source of comfort and reassurance.
“For instance,” he said, “How do you feel about ME?”
I gave it serious thought. He was nice, kind, attentive and apparently caring but…
“For me, I finally said, “You sort of fade in to the wall paper. I mean, it’s nice you listen to me, but you wouldn’t if my parents weren’t paying you. What I REALLY want is someone who will listen to me because they want to.”

POINT:

I, like many other older Americans, sometimes sigh in despair over “What is happening to the youth of America? What ARE their parents thinking?”
What this really means is that we, parents who have already raised our children – usually to the best of our limited abilities – are astounded at “what parents let their kids get away with these days.”
The most frequent response is – “Haven’t people been asking that since Cain killed Abel?”
And, yes, we the people have been asking that question for practically ever.
Speaking pragmatically, I’m suggesting in-breeding from the get-go. After all, who was there to mate excepting a brother or sister no matter how many times removed?
However, I am looking now for a more up to date reaction to the question. Is it the same question we have always asked, and are children no better – or no worse – than they have ever been? And is it the parents fault?
First off, let me make something perfectly clear. I admire young people. They are the only hope of the world. I admire how brilliantly they all adapt to the latest inventions…things that baffle me entirely. They don’t even have to read all the impossible directions that are so thoughtfully included in every box. Five year olds seem to know instinctively what everything is for. They speak digital fluently. I don’t.
But I see things about today’s younger generations that worry me mightily. I fear the growing remoteness. Today’s generation is buried behind its incredibly involved – and ever evolving – electronics.
Parents are still pushing babies in their little strollers but Mom or Dad is frequently also involved in a conversation with someone on a Smart Phone. What’s worse, I am told that there are strollers being developed with built-in diversions so that Mother isn’t really required to pay attention to Baby, who will be gurgling happily at a small screen which pictures Mother Nature in all her glory. with intensified colors to keep the little ones amused.
So what happens when baby looks up at a real tree? Is he or she disappointed that the green isn’t that same breath taking crayon box color the child has come to expect? Are the real life flowers that are in varying stages of opening, glowing briefly, then dying, a disappointment? The flowers on the screen don’t die. They are glorious…all the time. People don’t grow old as a rule…They stay beautiful until they are beaten to death by a bunch of incredibly ugly zombies. But they’ll show up in the next show anyway, so not to worry.
So my big problem with today’s youth is that they are once, twice, three times removed from the real world of births and deaths and illness and beauty and love and kindness. They are being insulated from reality by devices meant to make the world a better place – if not through electronics then through chemistry.
One of the joys of my family’s life was “going for a ride.” We didn’t have a destination…just some place pretty. Someplace where the mountains rose majestically into the air and the children could supply their own stories about the giants who live there, in harmony with great, exciting lions and tigers and bears…Oh my!…
Grand expanses of butter cups stretched for miles and the kids could concoct a hymn to their beauty. Along the highways and the quiet side roads to not much of anywhere, millions of flowers bloomed and perfumed the air…even though, when seen on private lawns those same beauties were identified as weeds.
That doesn’t happen today. Today’s cars arrive with television screens so that the children don’t have to look out windows for their entertainment. They don’t have to actively DO anything…It is all done FOR them.
They don’t even sing to live music anymore. Their accompanist is a karaoke machine…and there is no need to learn the words because they carry a smart phone on which they can summon up the lyrics – without a clue as to their meaning .
It is already a cliché – a cartoon – that two people having lunch together don’t necessarily speak to each other at all. Rather they text somebody someplace else. Maybe the cute kid at the table to the left.
I think one of the saddest scenes I’ve ever watched on television was on The Big Bang Theory when Leonard explained that he once invented a robot arm that he could program to hug him occasionally when he’d had a triumph or a disaster in his life – and Mom was too busy being a professional success to pay attention.
Of course it was an exaggeration but the inspiration came from something in the current world’s social climate.
Why have we come to this point? Why is emotion so suspect that it can only be expressed through the impersonal devices that are taking over our world? Or suppressed by a potent pill?
Can’t sleep? Take a pill. Can’t wake up? Take a different pill. Mother died?…here..take a pill. Cheer up!

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I think the word for this month is EMPATHY

In my crossword puzzle dictionary the words used to explain empathy include compassion, warmth and fellow-feeling. Those are all good words. They mean that one person offers concentrated attention to another person – usually in times of great stress or sorrow. Even when there are no television cameras on hand to prove how much you REALLY care.

WHEN IS A BLOG NOT A BLOG?
Now.
I haven’t (successfully) written one this month’ And it isn’t for lack of trying.
The fact is, I’ve had this idea brewing for several months. It’s a good topic, and, I believe, an important one.
But it is a very difficult topic and no matter how many times I have rewritten it I have ended up with something – well – missing. I can’t seem to follow the thought from beginning to satisfactory end.
I’m going to dedicate the coming month to making it work. Surely with all the words I know I can find the ones needed to present my theory and make it compelling to you.
I hope you will wait patiently…I’m impatient enough for all of us.
See you next month. Betty

   
 
 
     It was a perfectly normal plane ride.  Of course, this was before airlines gave up serving food in the “back cabin,” and there were no movies being shown.  We were all just pretty much sitting there, checking watches, trying to stretch in those non-stretchable spaces airlines provide for our comfort.
     Some lucky people were sleeping – I’ve never figured out how they do that – and I was trying to do the crossword puzzle without looking at the answers in the back of the magazine.
     All of a sudden the fasten your seat belt sign came on and the captain’s voice came across the intercom.  He told us there was a problem with the engine and that no one should get upset, but there were some “pro-active” steps to be taken.
     I don’t remember most of them.  There was the bit about removing glasses and dentures, and about stowing anything lying loose in your area into a secure space.  And then there was this:
      The captain said that, as a precaution, the crew would ask that men traveling alone, find seats beside unaccompanied female passengers wherever possible.
      To me that seemed very sensible.  And no one on the plane at the time seemed to find it amiss. But later, after the safe landing and relieved debarking, I discovered that many people resented it.
      “How totally sexist!” remarked one of my male friends when I told him the story.
“What a sexist thing to do!” complained one of my woman friends after hearing the same tale.
   Okay.  Am I just missing something here, or have we come so far in our crusade to make the sexes equal that we cannot admit that – on average – men are taller and stronger than women?
   Doesn’t it seem merely common sense that, in case of an accident, a man might more easily push up a toppled seat or a bit of airplane that is sitting on a person’s head?   And mightn’t a woman be able to squeeze through a smaller break in the metal to get out and signal for help?   Work together guys!  It’s just COMMON SENSE.
    Remember those two words.  They should join Please and Thank You in your Little Book of Magic Words.
   Don’t get me wrong.  I firmly believe that I am as bright – or brighter – than many men.  But I give guys the edge on height and strength.  That seems inescapable to me.
   Several of my male friends have told me sad tales of their efforts to volunteer assistance.
    One example came from my son, Anthony, who, on returning from night class at a local college, announced that he would never, ever, again offer to help a woman do anything.  It seems that as he was walking away from class, the student ahead of him dropped her books.  He moved up and bent to help her retrieve them.
     She stomped on his hand!  “I can do that myself!” she yelled, obviously confusing good manners, and a willingness to help, with condescension.  Did he think she couldn’t pick up her own damn books?
  He got up, walked away, fuming.  
 “You most certainly will help another woman in trouble,” I said.  “It’s the right thing to do!”  Right, but not PC.  And, judging by the bruise on his hand, sometimes dangerous.
   But is putting yourself in the position of being embarrassed by an irate female sensible? Well, no.
   Is yelling at someone who is extending a courtesy sensible? NEVER!  EVER!  NEVER!
   Instead of condescension, why can’t we acknowledge this as just plain old-fashioned common sense,  Books fall…papers scatter.  Two people working together can pick them up more easily than one.
   Is “polite” a bad word these days?  In our mad rush to sameness, have we done away with just being nice to one another? 
   If I am approaching a door, and walking directly behind another person, I expect him or her to at least make sure the swinging door doesn’t hit me in the face – or the butt depending on location.  And I will do the same for the person coming up after me,  no matter the sex, age, race or religious affiliations of that person.
   Is a guy supposed to stand aside and allow a woman to leave the elevator first?  Don’t be ridiculous. That just slows the stampede. Just don’t knock her down getting out first.
   My personal horror story of misplaced independence and lack of empathy occurred when I was living back in Philadelphia  I was riding with a VERY  pregnant – as in ANY MINUTE NOW – friend.  We were in her car because mine was in the shop.  I drove because she didn’t fit behind the wheel. Suddenly a cloud of grey smoke came flowing up from beneath the hood of the car and I began to panic. Obviously, that’s a BAD sign. She said “That happens. We need to get some water.”  
   Luckily, we had just arrived at our destination.  A messenger came out to pick up the papers I was delivering for publication and started off.  I stopped him with a kind of incredulous screech  “Wait.  Look.  Smoke.”  He allowed there was smoke.  I pointed out we needed water, Immediately.  
   By this time my pregnant friend had gotten out too and was standing there just watching.
   The young man looked at the car, looked at us and went barreling off toward the building , returning with a huge bucket of water – WHICH HE HANDED TO THE PREGANT LADY! And even worse SHE TOOK IT!
I yelled at her to put the damn bucket down and at him to take the bucket, add the water to the car.    To this day I do not know if either of them understood my objection  
   I really just didn’t want to volunteer for curb side delivery – of a baby girl, who, incidentally, arrived a few hours after we got home.
   Restaurants are loaded with tricky situations.  Is it essential that a woman go ahead of the man, following the maitre d’ through the crowded aisle? I don’t think so.  Must she sit with her back to the door and should the prices be left off her menu? Must everyone wait while she makes up her mind?  Once upon a time, those were absolutes…Now? Not so much.
   Even though tradition holds that a woman order first, it is just plain rude for a woman to hold up the party while she debates her selection.  When the waiter (waitstaff person?) arrives, if the female in question is not yet ready, everyone should feel comfortable ordering in turn 

 I find it insane that women insist on doing things that are difficult for them, like putting very heavy bags up in the overhead bins on airplanes.  Why?  when there is a perfectly healthy, friendly man standing by who would rather help than watch but is afraid he will insult her.
   Accept help if you need it ladies.  Men have all this testosterone lying about and very few approved places to spend it.  Give them a break.
   Gentlemen, wake up.  Notice that if the bag falls, someone is going to get hurt.  Offer.  On the other hand, if the woman can swing the bag up there as easily as any guy…that’s fine.  That’s equality.                         Someone once told me that the major difference between a man’s approach and a woman’s to almost any problem is that he would rather just hit the problem with a hammer and get it over with while a woman is happy to have a cup of coffee and think of alternate – but slower – ways to deal.
   I could suggest that women fit in the middle seat of today’s planes more easily than the average male and that it would be polite of me to offer to change seats with a big guy scrunched so miserably into the small space.  But come on, I’m talking polite here, not sainthood.
 
                            *******************

Okay, here’s irony at work in a BIG way. I decided a while back that I would write this month’s Blog about memory. And guess what? I forgot to print it out! Does that sound like cosmic interference?

OH YES, I REMEMBER IT WELL!

     I’ve been thinking a lot about memory lately. Probably because, at my age, memories take up a lot of my time.

     The thing is the more I remember, the more I question the accuracy of memories – mine and everyone else’s.

     I have been working on the IDEA of memory quite a lot lately, probably inspired by a book I am reading called Pieces of Light by Charles Fernyhough.

     Mr. Fernyhough suggests that “…when you have a memory you don’t retrieve something that already exists, fully formed – you create something new.” I find that idea fascinating, and acceptable.

     For one thing, I have discovered that when I think back on shared experiences – like those of my children and me – I find we have amazingly different takes on the same subject. Mine being the correct oe of coruse.

     Who said what and how he or she said it for example. Was the tone angry or perhaps teasing?

     I (think) I remember, very clearly, having a discussion with my, by then adult, children, about an incident involving one of the boys and his father. He remembers it as a focused argument between himself and his Dad. The other kids said it wasn’t that way at all, it was a general argument.

     Each one had a point of view and the only thing they agreed on was that it happened., The son who initiated the conversation had the last word. He said, “I don’t care what you say, “This is MY memory and YOU can’t change it.”

     Well, he was right. The memory belongs to the person who owns it, but that doesn’t mean it is exactly as it occurred.

     Watching television has made me wonder how crimes are ever solved when police have to depend on people for information. I have seen interviews where people, all watching the same event, sound off on their memory of “what happened?”

     According to one man, the “perp” was a “short dark, but not VERY dark, man, probably in his thirties.” Yet the woman next to him says “No, he was definitely a white guy..maybe 18 to 24.”

   One witness will swear that the man was a woman in disguise with red hair who limped, but another definitely remembers a heavy set black man. Probably an athlete. They are all working from well-intentioned memories of what they think they saw.

     Chances are really good, that when you talk to them later, they will “remember” things a little differently. By then the possible witnesses are away from the excitement and possibly fear involved in – well – in being involved at all.   So the atmosphere is different. The circumstances are different…their memories are different.

     I can’t speak for anyone but myself but I think I can admit that my memories are probably influenced by a bit of ego. In most of my clearest remembrances I behaved very well. And if I wasn’t the bravest person on the scene, I was undoubtedly the cleverest or the most logical – or perhaps the kindest.

     Actually, I think the memories I have saved up are those that “make good stories.”

     For example, I remember one time, rather long ago when I was back in Philadelphia, I noticed a very old and rather frail looking lady walking down the street carrying what seemed to be a really heavy bag of groceries. So I stopped my car and got out and asked her if I could drive her some place. She accepted, gratefully, and got into the car where she began a recital of the way she was mistreated by her thoughtless grand daughter who didn’t seem to care that she, the grandmother, had to walk to the store because the girl was too lazy.

     It took about five minutes to get to the lady’s home and as we drove up the much maligned grand daughter came racing out of the house. She’d been worried. She couldn’t find the older woman. Why had she left without telling anyone?   She hugged her grand mother and then turned to acknowledge me. She said thank you and took the bag from her grandmother and turned to go in to the house. Her grandmother turned to me and invited me in for tea. I said no but she persisted and her grand daughter joined her so I accepted.

     It was a pleasant home. And the tea was fine. I asked the old lady what she did with her time and she told me she knitted…and then she smiled at me. I must, she said, have one of her hand made scarves. And, despite my protest that that wasn’t necessary, she sent her grand daughter to fetch them.

     The girl returned with a stack of some really, really ugly shawls…all in brilliant crayon box colors. The old lady showed them off proudly and said that I must have one. I should, she said, just take my pick.

     Reluctantly, I chose the white one. It wasn’t pretty but it came closer than any of the others. I said thank you and assured her it wasn’t necessary She said “That’s twelve dollars!”

     Okay, I did a good deed and I got punished for it. I left the house in a hurry, really angry that I’d been suckered like that. But then I rethought. This was one of those happenings that was going to be a really funny story – later.

All these years later, I remember it well.   But look at what I get out of it. I get to tell everyone about a good deed I did, plus get a little empathy for being taken advantage of, and still get a laugh. Is it 100% accurate? Probably not But it’s MY memory, and you can’t change it.

     What’s in your memory bank?

REALITY CHECK…

     I was out driving a few day ago and as I rounded a corner I noticed a particularly good looking young couple standing down the road a bit. They were an attractive pair. She, fairly tall and slender, wearing one of those long skirts that moves gracefully in the breeze, and he, in a fitted Tshirt and jeans, looking just the way he should.

     As I watched they would glance tenderly into each others eyes then quickly look down as if embarrassed by the emotions they were obviously feeling.

   I’m a writer…I see a scene, I automatically fill in the dialogue. This one danced around beautiful blue eyes and strong hands, and maybe marriage and a honeymoon back packing around Europe…or no…maybe climbing to the top of the Eiffel Tower and gazing at the world’s most romantic city.

   It was all there and it fit so perfectly.

   But, no matter how slowly I drove I finally reached them and started to go around the next corner. I couldn’t complete the turn without looking back for one last glance. There it was…the exchange of glances and the quick look down at the ground, where stood the explanation I really didn’t want to see.

They were standing together, small bag in hand, tenderly watching and waiting as their doggie pooped!

                                    ***********************

Ode to a Small Town –         Part Two

As I mentioned in the first part of this tale of the Bonaduces Life and Great Times in the wonderful little town of Birchrunville, we really lucked out when we moved there. Tucked sweetly in the hills of Pennsyvania Dutch country, it really was a place where everybody knew our name and we loved our life there.

Getting there however was not half the fun!

To begin with, we chose to buy a schoolhouse that hadn’t been occupied for a very long time. Our first clue as to how bad things could be came when our early effort to force the door open failed We had to get help from a neighbor to bull through the trash holding the door closed.

The roof had fallen in and debris was everywhere. In addition, the schoolhouse had never been used by a private family, so there were no room as such…just a lot of open space. There was no kitchen, but there were TWO bathroom structures – one on either side of the building…sort of attached outhouses.

More importantly, there was no usable heating system.

I don’t know who first said that ignorance is bliss, but it certainly worked for us. We saw no reason at all to believe that two writers with no practical life skills, couldn’t put a hundred year old schoolhouse together at little cost and even littler worry.

We learned everything the hard way.

We should probably start with the heating system since it was cold outside – and inside. We read up on heating systems of course, and then we went shopping. What a lot of helpful people we met. Why by the time we started to work on installing a fine, fully guaranteed set up, it sounded like almost everything was done for you by the guy who was selling it to you.

Ever the optimists, we lassoed a few equally incompetent friends and set to work. It didn’t take long to install the whole thing. “Ha,” we thought. “There is just no stopping us.”

Now you must remember that this schoolhouse was very, very large. The walls were of stone and about three feet thick and the windows were a more than six feet tall. There were two floors, and I’m guessing each was about 40 fee† square. As I say, I’m guessing, but if 40 X 40 isn’t huge, then double it   This house was BIG. Obviously the job of heating it all was of major importance.

Unfortunately no one ever voiced the fact that heat rises -.at least not in our hearing. So we installed the system so that the heat went straight up to the top of the building, our bedrooms became a toasty 95 degrees while the living room hung in there at closer to 43.

We took down the outdoor bathrooms and built one on the second floor. Joe took over this job on his own and one of his first efforts involved the medicine chest. He decided to open a small space in the back of the closet so that he could toss all used razor blades in there and let them fall safely between the walls.

Not to say that the man had a short fuse, but when Joe worked we mostly stayed out of his way. It took about two hours to fix the medicine chest to his complete satisfaction. But he DID it and he called me up to admire his handiwork. With great joy – and more than a little swelling of his chest – he demonstrated how the blades went into the slot he’d provided and were safely removed from the children’s paths.

All of which was just splendid – until Celia called from her bedroom, right behind the bathroom…

“Mom! Mom? Why is Daddy throwing razor blades through the wall? They’re all over my room!”

No one laughed until AFTER Joe had left the building.

The kitchen was mine to do with as I pleased and on the whole I was very excited by what I accomplished Working from lessons learned, this time we started by calling in an expert on plumbing to guarantee that the water works did. Work that is.

Because we were in the country, we had to make sure our systems didn’t interfere with those of our neighbors and so we had a man come by to dig hundreds of feet of trench to serve as a purifying run.

I don’t remember much about the man except that for several weeks he showed up, dug his trenches added a deep layer of stones and sang. Always the same song with the same few words. “Down on my knees eating peas,” Honest. He seemed quite devoted to the song, and, since neither Joe nor I felt like taking over the task, we pretended it didn’t drive up nuts.

For my part, I elected to have a pink and silver kitchen. I was particularly pleased with my choice of a stainless steel double sink The bowls were round. I never knew anyone else who had a round double sink so of course I had to have one. What a mistake. The things had wide tops that tapered down to a totally useless base. No utensil in my collection fitted in that damned sink. I was majorly ticked off but could never bring myself to admit the thing was an on going horror story.

While all of this was going on, my father, who hated everything about this move, arranged to have a puppet theater built. It fit perfectly on the stage (yes, stage) that came with the house and resided in the living room area. With a family like ours, it was the most popular spot in the whole establishment,

We moved in to the schoolhouse long before it was ready for us. We had successfully divided the upstairs into four bedrooms and a bath…most people managed to live with just one bath back then. Besides, we really couldn’t afford to put I two.

At the time Joe was the PR man for the Philadelphia Zoo and he used to bring home animals every once in a while because it was easier to have them at the house when he got ready to take them to local schools or an occasional television show.

On one memorable night he arrived home with a sack of four snakes, (one for each child to play with) a chimpanzee, a monkey or two and a lion cub. All of these he deposited in our bedroom because the animals loved the heat up there.

Most unfortunately, it snowed very hard that evening and we were stuck in the house with all the wildlife for several days. It was okay with the chimp and the monkeys…they went swinging all around the house. And the snakes were taken out for an airing and feeding as needed. My role in all this was to pretend I wasn’t terrified of snakes and having monkeys jumping all around was just grand fun! I was, if I say so myself, very convincing. But then there was the lion cub…a 40 pound little bundle of – is hate too strong a word? But cute.

Meantime, we had not yet installed the hardwood flooring and the animals spent three days there, smelling up the place and soaking through piles and piles of newspaper and sub flooring. The house smelled like – surprise – a ZOO!

However, on the fourth day the sun rose and shone happily down on us all. Most of the animals were in great shape. They’d really enjoyed the visit. But the little lion? Well, he was suffering from three days in his cage and he REALLY needed a bath.

Together Joe and I attacked the problem mentally. Finally Joe said that he would hold the little boy and I should take a wash cloth and wash his pretty little face.

Always ready to help – hey, it’s my story so you get my version – I agreed. Joe lifted the baby out of his cage It growled and clawed at the air. But it wasn’t until I approached it head on with a warm cloth and soap, that it realized what was in store for it…and objected strenuously. I backed off. Joe took a firmer grip and I tried again. The cub let loose a great bellow of objection and tried to scratch my face off. It roared and twisted and Joe and I stood there…What next?

What next turned out to be music. I started to sing and suddenly the lion turned into a lamb. It hung loosely in Joe’s arms while I washed and dried it. He only bellowed if I stopped.

Joe packed up the many animals and the kids and took them all to their assigned schools, where Anthony got into a great battle when he told his classmates about our guests and they called him a liar.

Of course, with the animals gone, the stench remained so we had to put in new sub flooring which we did in a great hurry.

All of this activity took a little more than a year…and that doesn’t include digging out the basement or where the conveyor belt came from that made that job possible. It showed up one day and it was much too helpful for me to challenge its rightful address.

We only lived in Birchrunville for three and a half years but it was an outstanding time and I would suggest – no, wonderful as it was I wouldn’t suggest – you undertake this kind of adventure unless you can afford to bring in people who know what they are doing.

After thought. It occurred to me that I have been missing something in today’s ever more mechanize world. It is TENDERNESS. How long has it been since you’ve even heard the word?