Never to be left behind, my parents have joined the parade of companies and individuals bestowing instructional directions. Our world is full of helpful hints, from a cup of coffee informing us of its heated content to the mattress label hinting the brigade will be surrounding our bedrooms if removed. Not to be left in the cold, Honey and Pappa (otherwise known as Big G) have accepted a leadership role.
Their house is full of educational listings, from the clock radio, to the DVR, to the oven. Truly, taped to each mechanical feature is a multi-tiered paper giving the reader a clear process to operate said item. How many people do you know, take the opportunity to improve our reading skills while setting the alarm or watching a movie? Not to miss an opportunity, the yellow pad even explains the telephone. All that is fine and dandy, I am willing to dawdle over writings within the cozy confines of their abode but they have taken their need to inform the public to a new and more complex level.
This is an extremely cold winter in Mystic, Connecticut. Not only is the temperature below the comfort zone, the wind and salt air make for a less than inviting environment to have outdoor experiences. Taking odds with the Denver weatherman that expounds - "No such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing" - this weather has led one to forgo crisp walk and cross country-skiing expeditions.
Honey and Pappa have decided we all need assistance in operating a storm door, the first point of entry to their home. Really, how many of you need help opening and closing a door? Well, according to Generation One - we do. There is a rather large note taped afore-mentioned storm door explaining how to successfully achieve the goal of entering their home. Honestly, it is a several step process. Unfortunately, my father's handwriting needs the Rosetta Stone to decipher so one is left standing in sub-zero temps trying to decide if the note is a warning for smallpox or some other dreaded disease lurking inside the walls. By the time, one realizes it is simply further helpful hints on how to grab and latch and pull, frostbite has set in and one cannot operate the latch. So, doorbells are rung - shuffling occurs inside and one eventually gains admittance.
To date there are no instructions where to sit - perhaps that will be a 2010 improvement. Now that Pappa, Big G or Dad (depending on where you are in the line-up)has discovered the internet and Megan as his cameraman, we may have youtube performances informing us on the best methods of can-opening, handling an electric toothbrush or operating the remote control.
An exciting year ahead.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Rub A Dub
One knows civilization is doomed. Really we are in a crumble. You know what has given me insight that we should gather our belongings and build the ark? Laundry Rooms. Yes, laundry rooms, or should I say laundry buildings? Isn't that what you have in your casa?
I am fortunate enough to have a home in Palm Beach. That mecca of sun, charity events that cost more than they raise, and size 2 dresses. Sadly, my size 10 is regulated to "let me check in the back for you", while slipping me a business card for nutri-systems and lipo-suction. I digress.
There is a bit of a construction boom on the Island. Those in the know are constructing free-standing two-story structures for their laundry. Wow - they must have alot of it to need all that square footage. But design and build it is, I think the contractors are delighted for things are a little slow in the real world. While others are worrying about their mortgages being more than the value of the house, true islanders are cementing away - complete with architects to ensure their no-iron shirts have a proper rise cycle.
I learned from one of the owners that it isn't appropriate to have the laundry underfoot. Truly, that was said. So, where is your laundry? At your feet? Where do you keep it - across you kitchen floor? What do the rest of us, do - stomp it with a bar of soap? Honestly, I think it is so the noise of the machines do not disturb the living environment. Okay, good. Come the revolution I do not want to be at that house - off with their heads - or maybe simply the burn the permanent press.
So, why is there a backlash toward the rich? I don't understand.
I am fortunate enough to have a home in Palm Beach. That mecca of sun, charity events that cost more than they raise, and size 2 dresses. Sadly, my size 10 is regulated to "let me check in the back for you", while slipping me a business card for nutri-systems and lipo-suction. I digress.
There is a bit of a construction boom on the Island. Those in the know are constructing free-standing two-story structures for their laundry. Wow - they must have alot of it to need all that square footage. But design and build it is, I think the contractors are delighted for things are a little slow in the real world. While others are worrying about their mortgages being more than the value of the house, true islanders are cementing away - complete with architects to ensure their no-iron shirts have a proper rise cycle.
I learned from one of the owners that it isn't appropriate to have the laundry underfoot. Truly, that was said. So, where is your laundry? At your feet? Where do you keep it - across you kitchen floor? What do the rest of us, do - stomp it with a bar of soap? Honestly, I think it is so the noise of the machines do not disturb the living environment. Okay, good. Come the revolution I do not want to be at that house - off with their heads - or maybe simply the burn the permanent press.
So, why is there a backlash toward the rich? I don't understand.
Rough Riders
Much of today was spent driving around town.
Must admit, when sunny and 75, not a harsh task. Alas, the top of the convertible is latched due to my turkey leg nose but it is wonderful not to be testing the automobile interpretation of ice dancing.
When zipping on 95 (yes, I have a lead foot), I reflected on the number of people consumed with making contact with those in a galaxy far, far away. Surely that is what is happening - we are on the verge of discovering Spock's favorite planet. Everyone is so intent on diverting attention - from the cell phone, to the DVD, to the pods. No one is speaking to one another. I know the topic of cell phones and texting while driving has hit the mother overload - I am focusing on missed opportunity.
The car is a wonderful place to discover what is happening in loved one's lives. It provides an environment where sharing is natural and tales told do not survive beyond the wheels.
When playing chauffeurette for the myriad of school trips, I learned what was truly happening in the classroom. I learned who was the princess, the pea and the bad apple. As long as I stayed silent and became an extension of the steering wheel, I gleamed who was on first base and who was in left field. I was able to better comprehend the social fabric of their lives.
When providing transport to and from high school, modern music provided the veneer to explore deeper issues. The girls created tapes and forced us to name the artist and title within the first 5 notes. Inbetween discussions centered on course loads, life-goals, summer jobs, vacation destinations and, if very lucky, a bit of their love lives. Since the music broke the rhythm, it was easy to tackle tough subjects - the exit ramp was simply the next stanza. Amazing what one can learn in a 30 second span. When a particularly rockin' song hit the waves, we would burst into song with Michael beating the steering wheel and my ear-splitting voice creating cracks in the windshield.
In younger days the required games of car bingo, license plate alphabet and I Spy were constant accompaniments. We interacted with each other often wishing we had arrived where we needed to go long before it appeared on the horizon. Sometimes it was downright ugly - with me facing backward (no, I wasn't driving) to placate screeching babies - to humorous sidelights.
Truly, one of my all time favorites occurred when driving from Boston to Cincinnati. The girls were small and we were broke - hence the car piling to visit Michael's old homestead. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, Jennifer requested that Meredith remove her finger from Jennifer's nose. How special is that, think of the dexterity involved in reaching from one's car seat across the span to the other's nose - you really want to explore that nose to stretch those fingers to that point. An athlete in training. During that excursion, Michael and I decided no matter the shallowness of the piggy bank, we would fly on future pilgrimages to the fatherland.
During the years of Wendy's wrappers strewn across our feet, we gained a closeness - an understanding of our inner workings. As cars zip by with DVD screens flipped down, blu tooth and ipods attached to passengers' ears, I think of what the inhabitants are missing. A perfect opportunity to learn what is happening in the lives of those they care about.
Isn't that more important than making that dinner reservation or returning the missed business call?
Must admit, when sunny and 75, not a harsh task. Alas, the top of the convertible is latched due to my turkey leg nose but it is wonderful not to be testing the automobile interpretation of ice dancing.
When zipping on 95 (yes, I have a lead foot), I reflected on the number of people consumed with making contact with those in a galaxy far, far away. Surely that is what is happening - we are on the verge of discovering Spock's favorite planet. Everyone is so intent on diverting attention - from the cell phone, to the DVD, to the pods. No one is speaking to one another. I know the topic of cell phones and texting while driving has hit the mother overload - I am focusing on missed opportunity.
The car is a wonderful place to discover what is happening in loved one's lives. It provides an environment where sharing is natural and tales told do not survive beyond the wheels.
When playing chauffeurette for the myriad of school trips, I learned what was truly happening in the classroom. I learned who was the princess, the pea and the bad apple. As long as I stayed silent and became an extension of the steering wheel, I gleamed who was on first base and who was in left field. I was able to better comprehend the social fabric of their lives.
When providing transport to and from high school, modern music provided the veneer to explore deeper issues. The girls created tapes and forced us to name the artist and title within the first 5 notes. Inbetween discussions centered on course loads, life-goals, summer jobs, vacation destinations and, if very lucky, a bit of their love lives. Since the music broke the rhythm, it was easy to tackle tough subjects - the exit ramp was simply the next stanza. Amazing what one can learn in a 30 second span. When a particularly rockin' song hit the waves, we would burst into song with Michael beating the steering wheel and my ear-splitting voice creating cracks in the windshield.
In younger days the required games of car bingo, license plate alphabet and I Spy were constant accompaniments. We interacted with each other often wishing we had arrived where we needed to go long before it appeared on the horizon. Sometimes it was downright ugly - with me facing backward (no, I wasn't driving) to placate screeching babies - to humorous sidelights.
Truly, one of my all time favorites occurred when driving from Boston to Cincinnati. The girls were small and we were broke - hence the car piling to visit Michael's old homestead. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, Jennifer requested that Meredith remove her finger from Jennifer's nose. How special is that, think of the dexterity involved in reaching from one's car seat across the span to the other's nose - you really want to explore that nose to stretch those fingers to that point. An athlete in training. During that excursion, Michael and I decided no matter the shallowness of the piggy bank, we would fly on future pilgrimages to the fatherland.
During the years of Wendy's wrappers strewn across our feet, we gained a closeness - an understanding of our inner workings. As cars zip by with DVD screens flipped down, blu tooth and ipods attached to passengers' ears, I think of what the inhabitants are missing. A perfect opportunity to learn what is happening in the lives of those they care about.
Isn't that more important than making that dinner reservation or returning the missed business call?
Monday, January 25, 2010
Under The Boardwalk
So,childhood summers were spent at the Jersey Shore. A bit south of the infamous MTV show of the same name.
We traveled in herds, our parents had no idea where we were for most of the day and the lasting legacy of this generation of fun in the sun is two-fold. A deep understanding of friendship and family, and a guaranteed annual income for the family dermatologist. We have been carved up in more places than we care to describe (my nose is a dead ringer for a gnawed turkey leg at the end of the Thanksgiving feast) and one brother has experienced melanoma. But something more important than our tribal scars, we carry with us comforting memories of lazy days, of each other's fears and joys and what it means to be a member of an extended family.
My grandparents owned the house next door. The cousins and my family sometimes shared the same roof (depending if the sisters were delighted with each other or less than enamored), sometimes we spilt the summer by months and sometimes one group was with my grandparents while the second group had their own abode. My grandparents house had real furniture, with beautiful rugs and lovely china. We had linoleum floors, sofas that had been around the block a few times and wicker chairs. No matter what house we had to dress for dinner - okay meaning a collared shirt and no jeans. We always sat down to a real meal and we always ate together.
My mother had this thing for Jersey tomatoes. Nothing like it in the world. We would even take them back to Connecticut with us at summer's end. That is another story for another day - the flat tire, the Jersey tomatoes and the tow truck. I think my mother came close to leaving us behind and taking the Jersey tomatoes. We had them at almost every meal. Sliced tomatoes everywhere and the meal wasn't a meal if we didn't say grace and have the tomatoes with my mother commenting on the soil, what farm stand had the best and whether it was the height of the harvest. Really, I was too young to understand mantras, but I know now my mother had a tomato mediation theme. The piece da resistance was when she made Chili Sauce for canning. Makes my mother sound like Betty Crocker which isn't quite accurate, she was one of the original proponents of processed foods. (Probably why they are living so long - my parents are semi-petrified). But Chili Sauce was her thing - an all day affair with the cutting boards, Ball Jars and flipping the lids to ensure a tight fit. Christmas presents for all and chili sauce at every family gathering.
One evening, my darling brother, Jim, decided that I needed to have a lesson in global politics.
It was the beginning of the cold war streaming into our beings. Russia was going to take all our shoes - at least that it is what I thought when I saw Kruschev take his and slam the table - and once our shoes were gone - they were going to send us to work in the factories and wear those red scarves everywhere. (I look terrible in red, very concerning to me)
Jim and I were sitting at the water's edge at dusk. I noticed a blinking light on the horizon. What could that possibly be? Jim informed me the Russians were invading the US and the point of entry was our beach on the Jersey shore. OH NO - what to do. Head home and tell Mom and Dad. Immediately chastised for my selfishness, my trusted older brother said it was important to have their last hours be happy ones. Really, if Mom wanted one more evening with her chili sauce she should have it, who was I to ruin her last hours of joy. Made sense to me so I ran to the house, and dove under my bed (not too comfy with the linoleum floor) and spent the night with the sand and the spiders. Imagine my surprise when the next morning I awakened to one more day at the Jersey shore and no red scarves anywhere. When I questioned Jim, my trusted source, the invasion force decided that last night was not the night but it could happen anytime. After a few nights, I forgot the threat and realized the bigger issue in my life was picking the individual weed quota. Years later, I realized it was a buoy that I had spotted that fateful August evening.
Other stories abound, like running through the DDT clouds when the crop duster planes sprayed the beach (really, one wonders about our mental capacity - so much for Catholic school education), determining if the duck head was on or off during the airport trip to greet our grandfather (worth 5 bucks if we guessed correctly) or watching my oldest brother's first forays into dating (not exactly smooth, although he thought so).
But here is the real situation. We laid the groundwork for life. While so much swirls around us, I realize that we have each other - we have each other's backs. Perhaps we should all have a little of the Jersey Shore. How fortunate that my grandparents had the good sense to bring us together, to exhibit to us the importance of each other and creating our own binding history. We all have our moments but I actually like my brothers and sister, I even like who they married. Their children are pretty cool too. Maybe I wouldn't have this, if it hadn't been for the Jersey Shore.
So, here is my situation, I am glad for the wide beaches, the white lifeboats but most of all, for my family.
.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Biggest Losers
Reflection on the state of affairs is appropriate on the anniversary of Winston Churchill's passing. A great statesman who was not afraid to swim against the tide, never lost sight of his vision for England and understood the complexities of achieving goals within a democratic society. His was not an easy task - he switched parties, was "left out in the cold" at various points in his career and he was wrong - Gallipoli was a major tragedy from planning to operation. But he spoke his mind and dealt with people on both sides of the aisle to accomplish his goal of captaining his country through treacherous waters to eventual safe harbor.
Today's pundits believe the election of Scott Brown is a reaction to health care. I believe it is not, I believe the people of the United States, and, in this instance, Massachusetts are disgusted with how our country is being governed. Congress no longer believes in understanding, or trying to understand another's point of view. They are too busy screaming at each other to listen, they are too busy worrying about the next vote, the next election, the next pork barrel project to be granted as payback rather then where all this is leading the United States. What happened to honest disagreement, to attempting to come together with a compromise to move the ball forward?
The shrillness emanating from the lips of our elected officials takes my breath away. Surely we have learned that extremism, in all forms, is not a good thing. From religion, to food, to drugs, to politics - where is it that extremism has served anyone well?
When will we realize we have been given a golden gift by being United States citizens? When will we treasure our birthright and understand the obligation bestowed upon us by being part of this grand democratic plan? Scott Brown, in his first news conference, spoke of his path to becoming senator. From a child of welfare to the halls of the United States Senate. Doesn't that make you proud? We have a President climbed the ladder to success through hard work, ambition and dedication - not from a trust fund. We have leaders of our society from business to politics who rose from nothing and achieved. Why are we losing sight of this?
The atmosphere is poisonous and we are ALL LOSERS. Every single one of us. The flag burning of Wall Street, the tom-toms against Bernanke, the falsehoods on health care being circulated because of vested interests - who are the real losers? Us, all of us.
When we reflect on what we have been given and how we have handled our treasures, do you think we will be proud of ourselves? I think not. It is not simply the politicians, it is us. We are permitting this to happen. Shame on all of us.
Today's pundits believe the election of Scott Brown is a reaction to health care. I believe it is not, I believe the people of the United States, and, in this instance, Massachusetts are disgusted with how our country is being governed. Congress no longer believes in understanding, or trying to understand another's point of view. They are too busy screaming at each other to listen, they are too busy worrying about the next vote, the next election, the next pork barrel project to be granted as payback rather then where all this is leading the United States. What happened to honest disagreement, to attempting to come together with a compromise to move the ball forward?
The shrillness emanating from the lips of our elected officials takes my breath away. Surely we have learned that extremism, in all forms, is not a good thing. From religion, to food, to drugs, to politics - where is it that extremism has served anyone well?
When will we realize we have been given a golden gift by being United States citizens? When will we treasure our birthright and understand the obligation bestowed upon us by being part of this grand democratic plan? Scott Brown, in his first news conference, spoke of his path to becoming senator. From a child of welfare to the halls of the United States Senate. Doesn't that make you proud? We have a President climbed the ladder to success through hard work, ambition and dedication - not from a trust fund. We have leaders of our society from business to politics who rose from nothing and achieved. Why are we losing sight of this?
The atmosphere is poisonous and we are ALL LOSERS. Every single one of us. The flag burning of Wall Street, the tom-toms against Bernanke, the falsehoods on health care being circulated because of vested interests - who are the real losers? Us, all of us.
When we reflect on what we have been given and how we have handled our treasures, do you think we will be proud of ourselves? I think not. It is not simply the politicians, it is us. We are permitting this to happen. Shame on all of us.
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