I love Christmas newsletters. I read them avidly even if I have never heard of the people mentioned in them. They are windows into other people’s lives and are always positive.
Deaths get announced in one sentence. A whole paragraph is given to the fish that got junior’s picture in the newspaper. That’s the way of Christmas newsletters. What’s the point of sharing misery when it’s the season of joy?
Christmas newsletters have to sound reassuring, hopeful, and friendly. The underlying purpose is to maintain the idea of the holidays as a time of family and thankfulness. They say we’ve had a wonderful year—one you might envy. The truth is that if celebrations are in order, it may be because family members have not murdered one another. For that, of course, there’s always next year.
I’ve written my share of newsletters, I must admit. I too have made them upbeat and informative. And I too have glossed over the truth.
This year I wrote in my newsletter that we had been blessed with visitors. True. But not all of them were blessed events. One couple treated me as if I were an incompetent bus driver. The husband took control of the maps and tried to direct me how to drive on roads that I knew. The wife told me I needed psychiatric care because it my job to please them. When they left, I cried tears of joy. That wasn’t in the letter. Instead I emphasized the fun when the Australian visitors came to town and I took them on the same trip. Night and day.
I also emphasized my writing and the two signings. What I didn’t go into were all the turndowns that every writer experiences. I’m an expert now on turndowns. They fall into types: The Impersonal: printed cards with no signature. The Practical: the letter of inquiry returned with scrawl on the top-“not for us.” The Apologetic: Sorry, we can’t use it. The Encouraging: Best wishes on placing this somewhere else. The Regretful: This just doesn’t fit with the rest of our list. The Blunt: There are three hundred books I would read before this one. The I’m-Having-Fun-Turning-You-Down: I find your topic repugnant and so will everyone else. The Marketer: This just won’t sell unless you permit us to rewrite it for you. And so it goes.
People want to hear about happy endings and that life goes on and will do so for ever. When my husband died just before Christmas in 1997, I wrote about rebuilding and trying to move on and not about how each day was a struggle and I was close to despair. I knew people could share courage and success with me. They could not help with the pain.
And that’s why I like Christmas letters. They don’t –or shouldn’t—include surgeries or illnesses(unless the outcome has been miraculous), or financial information (whether winning the lotto or going bankrupt), or divorces (unless very positive and even then carefully worded). They are to be read with an eggnog in one hand, in the complete assurance that no one needs to do anything more than smile and nod. The serious stuff can wait until later.
I sometimes wonder if people would be interested in writing a January letter that tells the truth: how family members rowed and walked out before Christmas dinner, how the family matriarch subtly complained about everyone, how one branch of the family mailed back still-wrapped presents because they were angry with the sender, and how the kids got overtired and cranky.
No? Somehow I didn’t think so.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
The Ultimate Lay Away Plan
Somehow the mass marketing industry has found out my age bracket—don’t ask me how—and they send me what they consider to be targeted sales pitches. These tell me reams about what they think about me and what they think is important to me.
The brochures for motorized wheel chairs and hearing aids tell me that I must be on the decline. The offers of dinners to listen to some financial guru means that the marketers think I have some disposable income they can separate me from. That impression is confirmed by the time share offers, the latest one allowing me two weeks a year at a Vail condo for $250,000—for life, the brochure breathlessly says. Wow. I don’t include here the well-meaning offers from the folks at the local senior center who want to offer me ball-room dance lessons, crafts, and the occasional bus ride to go gambling. They after all are not trying to sell to me in the same way. But there are plenty of others lurking behind the banner of providing me with help whether I need it or not.
Of all these offers to help fill my golden years, however, the one that amazes me the most comes from the cemeteries. They obviously believe that I have one foot in the grave and that it will not be long before the rest of me follows.
The pitch from the cemeteries is something they call pre-need. That has to be the ultimate lay away plan. Now, I am an old English teacher, and the logic of the language requires that there be a post-need. This perplexes me. Need I can understand: I have managed to launch myself off a cliff at a ski resort and did not live to tell the tale. Pre-need I assume means figuring out in advance that I might get on one of the double-diamond runs by mistake and that my family might have to do something with what is left of me. But post-need? Does that mean I should buy insurance so that I do not get dug up after the fact either because my family can’t pay or because the city wishes to redevelop the land as it did with Cheeseman Park? The brochures do not have much to answer my questions.
The cemeteries, in fact, all send brochures designed to be soothing. After all, they are asking me to consider things that are generally left to the family. Funerals are for the families. Most of the dearly departeds couldn’t care less. But we are now told, the responsibility for our funeral is ours—not in the sense of arranging for one glorious, gilt-edged ego trip, but to “save” our families from having to make decisions when they are grieving. I’d actually be more worried about families arranging funerals when they are jubilant. But that’s me.
Needless to say, I am not a sale.
All this talk of moving on has, however, made me consider what I would like at the time of need. I like the idea of going out like a valkyrie. Load all my stuff on a boat, put me on top, set it on fire, and shove it out to sea. The Viking way. I realize, however, that there are environmental, maritime, and public health ordinances against this. Too bad. It would have been a very nice blaze.
Since I can’t go out like a Viking, I would like to say to the cemeteries that I do not want your psuedo-sympathy or your rip-off pre-planning. I do not want your eternal flames or side by side urns. I do not want the choice grave sites with a view that you so kindly offer me. I do not want memorials or cherubs or crosses. I do not want flowers. In fact, I do not want anything that will cost this poor old earth we live on any more of its resources.
If I can’t go out like a Viking just cremate me and scatter the ashes where they will do the least harm. I do make one request, however, please don’t store me in the back of a closet as the family has done to my ex mother-in-law. I’d much prefer to blow with the wind somewhere out on the infinity of the plains.
The brochures for motorized wheel chairs and hearing aids tell me that I must be on the decline. The offers of dinners to listen to some financial guru means that the marketers think I have some disposable income they can separate me from. That impression is confirmed by the time share offers, the latest one allowing me two weeks a year at a Vail condo for $250,000—for life, the brochure breathlessly says. Wow. I don’t include here the well-meaning offers from the folks at the local senior center who want to offer me ball-room dance lessons, crafts, and the occasional bus ride to go gambling. They after all are not trying to sell to me in the same way. But there are plenty of others lurking behind the banner of providing me with help whether I need it or not.
Of all these offers to help fill my golden years, however, the one that amazes me the most comes from the cemeteries. They obviously believe that I have one foot in the grave and that it will not be long before the rest of me follows.
The pitch from the cemeteries is something they call pre-need. That has to be the ultimate lay away plan. Now, I am an old English teacher, and the logic of the language requires that there be a post-need. This perplexes me. Need I can understand: I have managed to launch myself off a cliff at a ski resort and did not live to tell the tale. Pre-need I assume means figuring out in advance that I might get on one of the double-diamond runs by mistake and that my family might have to do something with what is left of me. But post-need? Does that mean I should buy insurance so that I do not get dug up after the fact either because my family can’t pay or because the city wishes to redevelop the land as it did with Cheeseman Park? The brochures do not have much to answer my questions.
The cemeteries, in fact, all send brochures designed to be soothing. After all, they are asking me to consider things that are generally left to the family. Funerals are for the families. Most of the dearly departeds couldn’t care less. But we are now told, the responsibility for our funeral is ours—not in the sense of arranging for one glorious, gilt-edged ego trip, but to “save” our families from having to make decisions when they are grieving. I’d actually be more worried about families arranging funerals when they are jubilant. But that’s me.
Needless to say, I am not a sale.
All this talk of moving on has, however, made me consider what I would like at the time of need. I like the idea of going out like a valkyrie. Load all my stuff on a boat, put me on top, set it on fire, and shove it out to sea. The Viking way. I realize, however, that there are environmental, maritime, and public health ordinances against this. Too bad. It would have been a very nice blaze.
Since I can’t go out like a Viking, I would like to say to the cemeteries that I do not want your psuedo-sympathy or your rip-off pre-planning. I do not want your eternal flames or side by side urns. I do not want the choice grave sites with a view that you so kindly offer me. I do not want memorials or cherubs or crosses. I do not want flowers. In fact, I do not want anything that will cost this poor old earth we live on any more of its resources.
If I can’t go out like a Viking just cremate me and scatter the ashes where they will do the least harm. I do make one request, however, please don’t store me in the back of a closet as the family has done to my ex mother-in-law. I’d much prefer to blow with the wind somewhere out on the infinity of the plains.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Has Anyone Seen Where I Left My Short-Term Memory?
The other day I finally found a glass mug I’d been missing. It was on a shelf behind a glass case and I must have left it there when I was dusting. I can’t remember how long ago I was dusting, but when I found it there was something growing in it that looked vaguely like a mushroom. That mug is the latest victim of my short attention span.
I began noticing things had a tendency to disappear a few years back. The first thing was my wallet. I put it down on the seat next to me at Wendy’s and said to myself I must remember this. Well, I didn’t. I got a phone call from Wendy’s not too much later saying that someone had turned it in. The manager had counted my money and searched for identification. There it all was, bless them, and they refused any reward.
If I’d done it once, I couldn’t be sure that I wouldn’t do it again, so I knew I needed a strategy. My inspiration was airline personnel who wear their name tags round their neck. I bought a lanyard from the Denver Museum of History and used it to chain my wallet to my purse. Now, when I take out my wallet, the strap snakes out with it. It means that if I drop my wallet it swings like a pendulum. But it also means I can’t lose it unless I lose my purse. One problem solved.
Losing my wallet started an uncomfortable series of thoughts, however. I checked on memory loss on the internet. I convinced myself that I was in the starting stages of some sort of terrible, progressive decline. But in my more lucid moments, I noticed that my long term memory was fine and that when I actually focused on something, there was no problem. Gradually I realized that I was not losing my mind, but I was losing my ability to multitask.
Multitasking used to be one of my strengths in a high stress job. Now I had to admit that coming into the house with arms full of groceries, my keys, and my purse was an immediate invitation to losing something. Cleaning the house with a cup of tea (or a glass of wine—you should see what grows in that!) meant that the cup got put down and became organic compost for organisms with names I couldn’t pronounce. Going to the airport and dealing with various forms and documents was a certain invitation to losing the piece of paper with the flight details. Losing things happened when I was tired, distracted, frustrated, and overwhelmed—and not all at once.
All right, I said to myself, if I can’t multitask, there has to be a strategy for dealing with this. I made a list. What was I was most likely to lose? Besides cups and glasses, it was whatever was in my hand when I was thinking about something else. That covered a lot of territory.
Understanding my tendency to lose things wasn’t easy for the organized among us. Be consistent with where you put things was Sid’s advice. OK. I was willing to give it a shot. As soon as I came in the front door, I was supposed to hang my purse on a coat rack. Well, after a week or two of very hit or miss, I realized it wasn’t going to work. I’d remember where my purse ought to be but not where it was. I even tried one of the alarms that is supposed to sound when you clap or whistle. It didn’t. Apparently I couldn’t clap at the right pitch and loudness, and my whistle was more spit that sound. But the gadget did make a nice buzz when a door slammed.
That’s when I finally got smart. If I can’t be relied on to be consistent, and if I am still going to try to multitask even when I have this new handicap, I need to outsmart myself and make it unlikely (notice I don’t say impossible) to put things down and forget where I put them.
Problem: how to find my keys. Answer: I now chain my keys to my cell phone and when I go out, I hang them round my neck. People either look at me strangely or (if they are older) they comment on what a good idea it is. I haven’t seen anyone else with it—yet—but since that time I can find my keys easily by dialing my cell phone on the cordless house phone.
Problem: what to do with the letters that I read as I come in from the mailbox and put down and then lose. This is the really the crux of the problem. I haven’t yet figured out how to deal with it. But I have made a rule that seems to be helping: anything I put down must be on a flat surface and in plain sight.
My strategies do seem to be helping somewhat, although I’m not sure how to deal with tea cup that Sid found on the pantry shelf where I had been putting groceries away. I don't remember putting it there, but I must have. I guess I must have been thinking about what to cook for dinner.
I began noticing things had a tendency to disappear a few years back. The first thing was my wallet. I put it down on the seat next to me at Wendy’s and said to myself I must remember this. Well, I didn’t. I got a phone call from Wendy’s not too much later saying that someone had turned it in. The manager had counted my money and searched for identification. There it all was, bless them, and they refused any reward.
If I’d done it once, I couldn’t be sure that I wouldn’t do it again, so I knew I needed a strategy. My inspiration was airline personnel who wear their name tags round their neck. I bought a lanyard from the Denver Museum of History and used it to chain my wallet to my purse. Now, when I take out my wallet, the strap snakes out with it. It means that if I drop my wallet it swings like a pendulum. But it also means I can’t lose it unless I lose my purse. One problem solved.
Losing my wallet started an uncomfortable series of thoughts, however. I checked on memory loss on the internet. I convinced myself that I was in the starting stages of some sort of terrible, progressive decline. But in my more lucid moments, I noticed that my long term memory was fine and that when I actually focused on something, there was no problem. Gradually I realized that I was not losing my mind, but I was losing my ability to multitask.
Multitasking used to be one of my strengths in a high stress job. Now I had to admit that coming into the house with arms full of groceries, my keys, and my purse was an immediate invitation to losing something. Cleaning the house with a cup of tea (or a glass of wine—you should see what grows in that!) meant that the cup got put down and became organic compost for organisms with names I couldn’t pronounce. Going to the airport and dealing with various forms and documents was a certain invitation to losing the piece of paper with the flight details. Losing things happened when I was tired, distracted, frustrated, and overwhelmed—and not all at once.
All right, I said to myself, if I can’t multitask, there has to be a strategy for dealing with this. I made a list. What was I was most likely to lose? Besides cups and glasses, it was whatever was in my hand when I was thinking about something else. That covered a lot of territory.
Understanding my tendency to lose things wasn’t easy for the organized among us. Be consistent with where you put things was Sid’s advice. OK. I was willing to give it a shot. As soon as I came in the front door, I was supposed to hang my purse on a coat rack. Well, after a week or two of very hit or miss, I realized it wasn’t going to work. I’d remember where my purse ought to be but not where it was. I even tried one of the alarms that is supposed to sound when you clap or whistle. It didn’t. Apparently I couldn’t clap at the right pitch and loudness, and my whistle was more spit that sound. But the gadget did make a nice buzz when a door slammed.
That’s when I finally got smart. If I can’t be relied on to be consistent, and if I am still going to try to multitask even when I have this new handicap, I need to outsmart myself and make it unlikely (notice I don’t say impossible) to put things down and forget where I put them.
Problem: how to find my keys. Answer: I now chain my keys to my cell phone and when I go out, I hang them round my neck. People either look at me strangely or (if they are older) they comment on what a good idea it is. I haven’t seen anyone else with it—yet—but since that time I can find my keys easily by dialing my cell phone on the cordless house phone.
Problem: what to do with the letters that I read as I come in from the mailbox and put down and then lose. This is the really the crux of the problem. I haven’t yet figured out how to deal with it. But I have made a rule that seems to be helping: anything I put down must be on a flat surface and in plain sight.
My strategies do seem to be helping somewhat, although I’m not sure how to deal with tea cup that Sid found on the pantry shelf where I had been putting groceries away. I don't remember putting it there, but I must have. I guess I must have been thinking about what to cook for dinner.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Hanging on for the End
During my working years, a lot of people seemed to living for the day they could retire. You’d hear things like “Three more years to go,” or “Soon they can have this place and they can . . . ." The end of the rainbow was always doing things there hadn’t been time for while raising kids and paying down the mortgage. Just out of curiosity, I did an unscientific canvass of retirees to see what they had thought they would do in retirement and what actually happened.
1. The Dream of Travel
I heard this everywhere. Seeing the Canadian Rockies or Maritimes, taking a cruise, or becoming a snowbird. Must be part of the myth of the American road. Many sold the house, got a large RV, and hit the highways. But somehow the world had changed by the time they did it. Air travel became a hassle. Gas station owners hung out the welcome flags when the large RVs showed up and retirees got on a first name basis with the truckers because they all used the same truck stops. Many of the RV folk ended up staying in one place, adjusting to life in a 40 foot with slideouts while looking for a house. Verdict: tends to get old, sooner for some people.
2. The Dream of Activities
Some people had wanted to sell their house and move into a small condo next to a golf course or tennis courts. Others thought they would spend their retirement years taking cruises. They had the kids come over to pick out what they wanted from the to-be-downsized house and then help out with a series of garage sales and donations to charity. It sounded romantic—all those views out over the immaculate greens—until the first golf ball came through their window and until all those planned activities finally became more of a chore or a literal pain than a pleasure. Verdict: OK as long as your health and money hold out.
3. The Dream of Volunteering
Some people wanted to use their new leisure to help others and make a difference. This sounded noble and compelling. Even I fell prey to this one. I volunteered and soon found that it takes skill to value volunteers. I couldn’t tell the difference between working for pay for an overbearing boss and working without pay for an overbearing boss. The skill to supervise volunteers turned out to be rare. One supervisor told me that I should be grateful to be volunteering. It was to be done for its own sake and volunteers should not expect to be appreciated. Amazing. Verdict: not all volunteering is equally satisfying.
4. The Dream of Getting a Part-time Job
I heard this one quite often from the men who had passions like woodworking. They dreamed of working a few hours a week, making a few dollars, and doing something they loved. Some of them did. The local railroad shop is full of older guys holding forth on the subject of engines and layouts. They are also greeters at Walmart. But it’s been tough for others when the HR department make assumptions about older people and think they need to keep a defibrillator on hand for emergencies. Verdict: check out the people already hired. Everyone has to say they support equal opportunity.
5. The Dream of More Time for the Family
This dream took several interesting turns. Some retirees felt very useful providing free childcare. Most thought that their children would be in touch and the family would become closer. Maybe some did. I didn’t find many. Instead the children still had their own lives and retired parents became another responsibility. I heard over and over that some adult child never calls or takes forever to return a call. There are a whole series of jokes about just that situation. Verdict: don’t bank on the kids being happy to entertain you. If you want a friend, get a dog.
Undoubtedly there are many who enjoy some or all of these ways to spend their retirement. But for many others, they are illusions fostered by people who are still in the workplace and only dreaming of this magical thing called retirement.
So what is the reality? The biggest challenges of retirement—given that health is not an issue—are finding something worthwhile to do and avoiding loneliness. This is why retirees at some point consider senior communities so they can be with others. This is fine as long as people are willing to completely change their lives about and make completely new friendships. That’s a big overhaul.
If I could go back to those twenty-year-olds already planning their retirement, I would say this. Retirement will work if you keep your friendships. Old friends are best. Travel is fine, but not if it takes you away from the people you know. Activities are fine as long as you have someone to share them with. Volunteering is fine as long as you are part of a group of like-minded people. Working is fine as long as you are valued and wanted. But ultimately realize that you are on your own even if the world is as open to you and your choices as it has ever been.
1. The Dream of Travel
I heard this everywhere. Seeing the Canadian Rockies or Maritimes, taking a cruise, or becoming a snowbird. Must be part of the myth of the American road. Many sold the house, got a large RV, and hit the highways. But somehow the world had changed by the time they did it. Air travel became a hassle. Gas station owners hung out the welcome flags when the large RVs showed up and retirees got on a first name basis with the truckers because they all used the same truck stops. Many of the RV folk ended up staying in one place, adjusting to life in a 40 foot with slideouts while looking for a house. Verdict: tends to get old, sooner for some people.
2. The Dream of Activities
Some people had wanted to sell their house and move into a small condo next to a golf course or tennis courts. Others thought they would spend their retirement years taking cruises. They had the kids come over to pick out what they wanted from the to-be-downsized house and then help out with a series of garage sales and donations to charity. It sounded romantic—all those views out over the immaculate greens—until the first golf ball came through their window and until all those planned activities finally became more of a chore or a literal pain than a pleasure. Verdict: OK as long as your health and money hold out.
3. The Dream of Volunteering
Some people wanted to use their new leisure to help others and make a difference. This sounded noble and compelling. Even I fell prey to this one. I volunteered and soon found that it takes skill to value volunteers. I couldn’t tell the difference between working for pay for an overbearing boss and working without pay for an overbearing boss. The skill to supervise volunteers turned out to be rare. One supervisor told me that I should be grateful to be volunteering. It was to be done for its own sake and volunteers should not expect to be appreciated. Amazing. Verdict: not all volunteering is equally satisfying.
4. The Dream of Getting a Part-time Job
I heard this one quite often from the men who had passions like woodworking. They dreamed of working a few hours a week, making a few dollars, and doing something they loved. Some of them did. The local railroad shop is full of older guys holding forth on the subject of engines and layouts. They are also greeters at Walmart. But it’s been tough for others when the HR department make assumptions about older people and think they need to keep a defibrillator on hand for emergencies. Verdict: check out the people already hired. Everyone has to say they support equal opportunity.
5. The Dream of More Time for the Family
This dream took several interesting turns. Some retirees felt very useful providing free childcare. Most thought that their children would be in touch and the family would become closer. Maybe some did. I didn’t find many. Instead the children still had their own lives and retired parents became another responsibility. I heard over and over that some adult child never calls or takes forever to return a call. There are a whole series of jokes about just that situation. Verdict: don’t bank on the kids being happy to entertain you. If you want a friend, get a dog.
Undoubtedly there are many who enjoy some or all of these ways to spend their retirement. But for many others, they are illusions fostered by people who are still in the workplace and only dreaming of this magical thing called retirement.
So what is the reality? The biggest challenges of retirement—given that health is not an issue—are finding something worthwhile to do and avoiding loneliness. This is why retirees at some point consider senior communities so they can be with others. This is fine as long as people are willing to completely change their lives about and make completely new friendships. That’s a big overhaul.
If I could go back to those twenty-year-olds already planning their retirement, I would say this. Retirement will work if you keep your friendships. Old friends are best. Travel is fine, but not if it takes you away from the people you know. Activities are fine as long as you have someone to share them with. Volunteering is fine as long as you are part of a group of like-minded people. Working is fine as long as you are valued and wanted. But ultimately realize that you are on your own even if the world is as open to you and your choices as it has ever been.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
The X Tours of Coffee
The other day I went into Starbucks to get the usual: a tall decaf Americano with room. I usually get the order wrong in this highly complex world of baristas and cups of coffee that cost well over $4. Sure enough, my order was translated to become one tall with room decaf Americano. Ordering coffee has become an art. The monthly special is peppermint mocha gingerbread latte. In addition to the three flavored syrups, the coffee can be made with a variety of choices: decaf, regular, or half of each; number of shots (at least one person has six); types of milk including cream (yes some people actually have hot whipped cream), organic, soy, half and half, 2%, or skim; then the extras: whip or no whip, dry or wet, foam or no foam, extra hot. All must be asked for in the right order as little Xs snake down the side of the cup. There is a lot of social responsibility to ordering coffee.
How long ago it seems that we were happy with a cup of joe and a doughnut to dunk in it.
But it’s not only the coffee that’s gone high tech. It’s also the equipment to make it. No more metal pots with little glass knobs on top burbling away on the stove. Today’s
espresso machines remind me of the old steam tractors: polished brass, hissing valves, and steaming fluid. I like to watch the cups lined up in an assembly line along the shelf beside these gods of foam. They look like something out of a Charlie Chaplin movie.
But even that’s not all. Coffee today is more than high tech. It’s global. Our local Starbucks will give you a free coffee if you bring a picture of you outside another Starbucks. These pictures are pinned on the wall. They now cover the world from the Forbidden City in China to Turkey to Russia and all throughout Europe and the Americas. They show that Starbucks is now literally everywhere and that ordinary people have gone literally everywhere. This amazes me.
When I was a child a holiday meant camping up in the mountains or driving to the beach. We even went for a vacation once on a Greyhound bus. A trip to Europe or Hawaii required years of savings and, once taken, was trotted out for company with the help of slide projectors. Those who were wealthy enough had other ways to flaunt their travels. Suitcases used to be plastered with labels from exotic places: the Danieli in Venice, the Hotel Geneve, the Waldorf-Astoria, the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, all showing the cachet of their owners. You never see those labels any more. I suppose they look gauche now that such travel is within most people’s reach. Such status symbols as remain are more discreet—a luggage tag from the Concorde (allowed since it no longer flies) or a golden membership key from some exclusive London club. For most people the immortality of having been somewhere seems to survive only on the wall at Starbucks.
Far be it for me to complain. I’ve had a couple of free coffees myself. But what is going to happen when all the Starbucks have been visited and duly photographed? It has to happen. The world is a finite place after all. Some time in the future, people wanting a free coffee will find themselves challenged to find new frontiers. But where will these be found?
I have to admit I drew a blank for some time on this question.Then one day the answer came to me. Why doesn't Starbucks offer Generation-X Coffee Tours designed for those who wish to lift their coffee cups where no one has gone before. This could be a whole new business opportunity for Starbucks and we could look foward to seeing signs for the Starbucks Travel Agency on every street corner.
I love that idea. I can see endless possibilities. It can't fail among the adrenaline group who love to outrun avalanches. So in the spirit of adventure, I’d like to be among the first to offer some suggestions for the first tours that might attract these intrepid coffee drinkers:
Seven days in Tibet: Learn about the contribution of yak milk to the global economy. Thrill to your hands-on lessons in milking this wonderful animal. Then taste the richness of yak milk in your coffee as you travel to neighboring Nepal to celebrate the opening of the first Starbucks in that country.
Explore the Euphrates: Fly by helicopter to visit one of the world’s oldest civilizations, the cradle of coffee brewing. You and your party will have lunch in the shadow of one of the largest oil wells in the area and receive an expert briefing on dousing oil well fires. Your tour will include useful hints in avoiding roadside bombs and how to dive into a trench without spilling your coffee.
Conquering the Mountains of Afghanistan: Experience the challenge of scaling untamed mountains and meet friendly local tribesmen who will gladly sell you their local product, a perfect gift for that special someone back home. You will stay in a native hut and sip coffee while you participate in group discussions about the impact of the DaVinci Code on Muslim culture. As an added bonus, you can win a year’s supply of coffee beans if you spot insurgents and call in an air strike.
I have to confess that I am not young enough to experience these wonderful opportunities, so my motives are pure. I just want to see coffee enrich our lives even further. And I know that anyone who can order a venti, half decaf, six shot, sugar free vanilla syrup, half skim, no whip, no foam, extra hot latte in one breath will certainly be in shape for the adventure.
Yak milk anyone?
How long ago it seems that we were happy with a cup of joe and a doughnut to dunk in it.
But it’s not only the coffee that’s gone high tech. It’s also the equipment to make it. No more metal pots with little glass knobs on top burbling away on the stove. Today’s
espresso machines remind me of the old steam tractors: polished brass, hissing valves, and steaming fluid. I like to watch the cups lined up in an assembly line along the shelf beside these gods of foam. They look like something out of a Charlie Chaplin movie.
But even that’s not all. Coffee today is more than high tech. It’s global. Our local Starbucks will give you a free coffee if you bring a picture of you outside another Starbucks. These pictures are pinned on the wall. They now cover the world from the Forbidden City in China to Turkey to Russia and all throughout Europe and the Americas. They show that Starbucks is now literally everywhere and that ordinary people have gone literally everywhere. This amazes me.
When I was a child a holiday meant camping up in the mountains or driving to the beach. We even went for a vacation once on a Greyhound bus. A trip to Europe or Hawaii required years of savings and, once taken, was trotted out for company with the help of slide projectors. Those who were wealthy enough had other ways to flaunt their travels. Suitcases used to be plastered with labels from exotic places: the Danieli in Venice, the Hotel Geneve, the Waldorf-Astoria, the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, all showing the cachet of their owners. You never see those labels any more. I suppose they look gauche now that such travel is within most people’s reach. Such status symbols as remain are more discreet—a luggage tag from the Concorde (allowed since it no longer flies) or a golden membership key from some exclusive London club. For most people the immortality of having been somewhere seems to survive only on the wall at Starbucks.
Far be it for me to complain. I’ve had a couple of free coffees myself. But what is going to happen when all the Starbucks have been visited and duly photographed? It has to happen. The world is a finite place after all. Some time in the future, people wanting a free coffee will find themselves challenged to find new frontiers. But where will these be found?
I have to admit I drew a blank for some time on this question.Then one day the answer came to me. Why doesn't Starbucks offer Generation-X Coffee Tours designed for those who wish to lift their coffee cups where no one has gone before. This could be a whole new business opportunity for Starbucks and we could look foward to seeing signs for the Starbucks Travel Agency on every street corner.
I love that idea. I can see endless possibilities. It can't fail among the adrenaline group who love to outrun avalanches. So in the spirit of adventure, I’d like to be among the first to offer some suggestions for the first tours that might attract these intrepid coffee drinkers:
Seven days in Tibet: Learn about the contribution of yak milk to the global economy. Thrill to your hands-on lessons in milking this wonderful animal. Then taste the richness of yak milk in your coffee as you travel to neighboring Nepal to celebrate the opening of the first Starbucks in that country.
Explore the Euphrates: Fly by helicopter to visit one of the world’s oldest civilizations, the cradle of coffee brewing. You and your party will have lunch in the shadow of one of the largest oil wells in the area and receive an expert briefing on dousing oil well fires. Your tour will include useful hints in avoiding roadside bombs and how to dive into a trench without spilling your coffee.
Conquering the Mountains of Afghanistan: Experience the challenge of scaling untamed mountains and meet friendly local tribesmen who will gladly sell you their local product, a perfect gift for that special someone back home. You will stay in a native hut and sip coffee while you participate in group discussions about the impact of the DaVinci Code on Muslim culture. As an added bonus, you can win a year’s supply of coffee beans if you spot insurgents and call in an air strike.
I have to confess that I am not young enough to experience these wonderful opportunities, so my motives are pure. I just want to see coffee enrich our lives even further. And I know that anyone who can order a venti, half decaf, six shot, sugar free vanilla syrup, half skim, no whip, no foam, extra hot latte in one breath will certainly be in shape for the adventure.
Yak milk anyone?
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Phasing in the Holidays
One of the things that come with age (make that experience) is the realization that celebrating the holidays comes in phases.
Phase one started in the early years of my marriage. I call it the phase of neurotic perfectionism. I thought hosting Thanksgiving gave me the chance to be taken seriously: “By golly, I’m grown up. See, I’m hosting Thanksgiving.” My table had little paper turkeys with fluted paper tails. My salad was jelled into a circle with fruit shapes formed out of the white, sour cream topping. My candles were a subtle shade of pumpkin. Dessert was chocolate cups filled with mousse. In other words, I fussed for days. It never turned out quite as I expected though. In an Italian family with long memories, someone would drag out some past injustice, one of the babies would mash potatoes into the tablecloth, and the dog would throw up loudly and usually right under the table.
By the time I had my own family, phase two began. I call this the game of dodge and weave. People grew wary around August. “Who’s doing Thanksgiving this year?” No one was in a rush to volunteer. We all had families and jobs and while there was no question we would get together, who was going to do it was another matter. Excuses were offered. Suggestions were made. Why not have it at a restaurant? The matriarch of the family opposed that on the grounds that she’d done it for so many years, surely one of us could do it for her. Guilt was ladled on like curdled cream. Finally, offers were cautiously made. Someone would do the turkey if someone else would do whatever. The menu was built by committee. This went on for many years while the children grew up.
Then came phase three, what I call minimalism. By then the kids had all left for college or moved away to new lives. Families became reduced to two people with the occasional visit. For a time the family still potlucked the dinner, but the clean-up was what did it in. No one wanted to take that on. The family contented itself thereafter with phone calls. My husband and I never resorted to turkey TV dinners, but we got close. Neither of us could eat the rich foods anymore. Between indigestion and cholesterol, our bodies simply didn’t work the same way. At the supermarket, while others eagerly chose their turkeys, we stood comparing the fat and sodium ratings between turkey breast and turkey roll. That choice made, we threw a box of instant mashed potatoes into the cart along with a pre-cut bag of salad greens, non-fat dressing, and reduced fat ice cream. It was all right. We got by.
Bur recently things have changed yet again. It began at the supermarket the other day. “Have a wonderful Thanksgiving,” the checkout clerk burbled at us as we collected our groceries. I felt myself form a slight snarl at her cheeriness. It was all very well for her: she hadn’t walked down the gridlock of the shopping carts that people had thoughtfully left parked in the middle of the aisles or selected from among the picked over veggies in the grocery section. My silent snarl convinced me that I had entered the dread final phase: the “I’m in a rotten mood, so this must be the holiday season” phase.
I’d been told to expect this, but I hadn’t thought I would ever really stop thinking with nostalgia about small children, fluted paper turkeys, and pumpkin candles. Well, I have. And—worse—I realize that it’s not just Thanksgiving. I have an overwhelming urge to send my ceramic pumpkin, harvest placemats, outside icicle lights, and lawn reindeer to the thrift shop. I might as well. I know right now there is no force on earth that will send me up the tree in front to string holiday lights. I shudder at the thought of crowds and tired children and endless tinny carols in the stores. I feel I’ve done my time. I’m impatient. I no longer suffer well. I’m not willing to tramp my tired feet through the stores anymore. I have become the grinch.
This doesn’t mean I won’t do Thanksgiving dinner ever again. We have ten coming for dinner this year. There will not be paper turkeys or pumpkin candles, but there will be the usual overeating and the genuine pleasure of seeing family and friends. Sid will help with the cleanup and the house will smell for days of turkey. Oh the joys of the season. What it does mean, though, is that I am going to have a very stiff brandy and egg nog before I start cooking and probably a glass of wine with my meal. It also means that I will not be at Wal Mart at 5:00 a.m. next day ready to trample people for bargains. Instead, I’ll be dropping stuff off at the Salvation Army.
Phase one started in the early years of my marriage. I call it the phase of neurotic perfectionism. I thought hosting Thanksgiving gave me the chance to be taken seriously: “By golly, I’m grown up. See, I’m hosting Thanksgiving.” My table had little paper turkeys with fluted paper tails. My salad was jelled into a circle with fruit shapes formed out of the white, sour cream topping. My candles were a subtle shade of pumpkin. Dessert was chocolate cups filled with mousse. In other words, I fussed for days. It never turned out quite as I expected though. In an Italian family with long memories, someone would drag out some past injustice, one of the babies would mash potatoes into the tablecloth, and the dog would throw up loudly and usually right under the table.
By the time I had my own family, phase two began. I call this the game of dodge and weave. People grew wary around August. “Who’s doing Thanksgiving this year?” No one was in a rush to volunteer. We all had families and jobs and while there was no question we would get together, who was going to do it was another matter. Excuses were offered. Suggestions were made. Why not have it at a restaurant? The matriarch of the family opposed that on the grounds that she’d done it for so many years, surely one of us could do it for her. Guilt was ladled on like curdled cream. Finally, offers were cautiously made. Someone would do the turkey if someone else would do whatever. The menu was built by committee. This went on for many years while the children grew up.
Then came phase three, what I call minimalism. By then the kids had all left for college or moved away to new lives. Families became reduced to two people with the occasional visit. For a time the family still potlucked the dinner, but the clean-up was what did it in. No one wanted to take that on. The family contented itself thereafter with phone calls. My husband and I never resorted to turkey TV dinners, but we got close. Neither of us could eat the rich foods anymore. Between indigestion and cholesterol, our bodies simply didn’t work the same way. At the supermarket, while others eagerly chose their turkeys, we stood comparing the fat and sodium ratings between turkey breast and turkey roll. That choice made, we threw a box of instant mashed potatoes into the cart along with a pre-cut bag of salad greens, non-fat dressing, and reduced fat ice cream. It was all right. We got by.
Bur recently things have changed yet again. It began at the supermarket the other day. “Have a wonderful Thanksgiving,” the checkout clerk burbled at us as we collected our groceries. I felt myself form a slight snarl at her cheeriness. It was all very well for her: she hadn’t walked down the gridlock of the shopping carts that people had thoughtfully left parked in the middle of the aisles or selected from among the picked over veggies in the grocery section. My silent snarl convinced me that I had entered the dread final phase: the “I’m in a rotten mood, so this must be the holiday season” phase.
I’d been told to expect this, but I hadn’t thought I would ever really stop thinking with nostalgia about small children, fluted paper turkeys, and pumpkin candles. Well, I have. And—worse—I realize that it’s not just Thanksgiving. I have an overwhelming urge to send my ceramic pumpkin, harvest placemats, outside icicle lights, and lawn reindeer to the thrift shop. I might as well. I know right now there is no force on earth that will send me up the tree in front to string holiday lights. I shudder at the thought of crowds and tired children and endless tinny carols in the stores. I feel I’ve done my time. I’m impatient. I no longer suffer well. I’m not willing to tramp my tired feet through the stores anymore. I have become the grinch.
This doesn’t mean I won’t do Thanksgiving dinner ever again. We have ten coming for dinner this year. There will not be paper turkeys or pumpkin candles, but there will be the usual overeating and the genuine pleasure of seeing family and friends. Sid will help with the cleanup and the house will smell for days of turkey. Oh the joys of the season. What it does mean, though, is that I am going to have a very stiff brandy and egg nog before I start cooking and probably a glass of wine with my meal. It also means that I will not be at Wal Mart at 5:00 a.m. next day ready to trample people for bargains. Instead, I’ll be dropping stuff off at the Salvation Army.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
One Avocado Green Freezer
Sid favors the tried and true. As long as something works, he doesn’t see any good reason for getting rid of it. On the one hand, I’m glad about that. It means I’m getting longevity and maybe tenure. On the other, it’s a challenge when something is approaching the end of its natural life but is still gasping along its inefficient way.
Case in point: one avocado colored freezer out in garage.
Sid bought this freezer nearly thirty-five years ago, back when parts were really made of metal and forged in the US. It has been a good friend and Sid has resisted every effort to downsize it, most notably when we combined our two households and moved into the house we live in now. I’d be rich now if I had made him pay a dollar for every time he said the words, “It doesn’t eat much,” when I asked about whether he was bringing something from his house to ours. I should have charged him ten dollars when he used those words about the freezer.
A few weeks ago, there seemed to be some excuse for sending it away when water leaked from the bottom. But it was a false alarm. Sid had inadvertently unplugged it. Once the electricity was reconnected, it started up right away.
This morning, Sid asked me how much it would cost to have the freezer hauled away. It seems he wants to expand his woodworking shop and the freezer stands in the way of progress. I made a few calls and found out the minimum was about $95 with additional charges at the landfill.
“But they could resell it,” he protested. “It’s an antique. It was made by Montgomery Ward and they don’t exist anymore.”
His comments made me think about the TV program Antiques Roadshow. Watching the price tags on that show can make somebody think that anything old has to have value. I treasure the things I inherited from my mother and the very few things I have from my grandmother, but it took only a bit of inquiry to find out that their value was primarily to me. Unless something has happened to make a thing collectible and desirable, it’s not going to appreciate that much. I may be wrong, but I don’t think an avocado green freezer is going to make it.
But as long as I’m on this topic I have to admit that I’m in the same boat with Sid. I have collected things through the years that maybe will have value in another hundred if everyone else breaks or loses theirs. I have two sets of bone china dinnerware (one was my mother’s). Every young woman wanted a set when I got married. I also have a set of
Waterford crystal glasses. So does everyone else. You go round to estate sales, and there they all are. The only appreciation in price is the cost of the new ones.
Seeing my treasures on sale for a few dollars after somebody’s death says to me that when you buy something you should buy it because you love it and not for any possible investment. Same thing with art pieces. Buy them for the joy they will bring on your walls, not for the possibility they might one day command a fortune. If they do gain in value, it’s gravy.
Back to the freezer. As Sid says, it owes him nothing. He paid a couple of hundred dollars for it and it’s served him well. He now faces the possibility of paying almost as much to get rid of it. It sounds like appliance divorce. He doesn’t know it yet, but after resenting the freezer for so long, I’ve grown rather attached to it myself. There’s something comforting about knowing it’s out there, its old heart still ticking away. So when he comes back this afternoon, I plan on telling him I think we should keep it. I’ll get rid of some of my junk in the garage so he can expand. “After all,” I will tell him, “it doesn’t eat much.”
Case in point: one avocado colored freezer out in garage.
Sid bought this freezer nearly thirty-five years ago, back when parts were really made of metal and forged in the US. It has been a good friend and Sid has resisted every effort to downsize it, most notably when we combined our two households and moved into the house we live in now. I’d be rich now if I had made him pay a dollar for every time he said the words, “It doesn’t eat much,” when I asked about whether he was bringing something from his house to ours. I should have charged him ten dollars when he used those words about the freezer.
A few weeks ago, there seemed to be some excuse for sending it away when water leaked from the bottom. But it was a false alarm. Sid had inadvertently unplugged it. Once the electricity was reconnected, it started up right away.
This morning, Sid asked me how much it would cost to have the freezer hauled away. It seems he wants to expand his woodworking shop and the freezer stands in the way of progress. I made a few calls and found out the minimum was about $95 with additional charges at the landfill.
“But they could resell it,” he protested. “It’s an antique. It was made by Montgomery Ward and they don’t exist anymore.”
His comments made me think about the TV program Antiques Roadshow. Watching the price tags on that show can make somebody think that anything old has to have value. I treasure the things I inherited from my mother and the very few things I have from my grandmother, but it took only a bit of inquiry to find out that their value was primarily to me. Unless something has happened to make a thing collectible and desirable, it’s not going to appreciate that much. I may be wrong, but I don’t think an avocado green freezer is going to make it.
But as long as I’m on this topic I have to admit that I’m in the same boat with Sid. I have collected things through the years that maybe will have value in another hundred if everyone else breaks or loses theirs. I have two sets of bone china dinnerware (one was my mother’s). Every young woman wanted a set when I got married. I also have a set of
Waterford crystal glasses. So does everyone else. You go round to estate sales, and there they all are. The only appreciation in price is the cost of the new ones.
Seeing my treasures on sale for a few dollars after somebody’s death says to me that when you buy something you should buy it because you love it and not for any possible investment. Same thing with art pieces. Buy them for the joy they will bring on your walls, not for the possibility they might one day command a fortune. If they do gain in value, it’s gravy.
Back to the freezer. As Sid says, it owes him nothing. He paid a couple of hundred dollars for it and it’s served him well. He now faces the possibility of paying almost as much to get rid of it. It sounds like appliance divorce. He doesn’t know it yet, but after resenting the freezer for so long, I’ve grown rather attached to it myself. There’s something comforting about knowing it’s out there, its old heart still ticking away. So when he comes back this afternoon, I plan on telling him I think we should keep it. I’ll get rid of some of my junk in the garage so he can expand. “After all,” I will tell him, “it doesn’t eat much.”
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Exploding Ducks: A Recipe for Life
Thanksgiving brings back memories of culinary disasters. I can’t help it. Other people remember warm family gatherings full of laughter. Ours are usually that way too except that a lot of the laughter comes from what people remember me doing.
Like the time I left the shells on the shrimp and cooked them in a sweet and sour sauce. Or when I left the giblets in the turkey and we had to pull the paper out of the stuffing. Or the time I made pastry shells that were so thick and overworked that they became like Brighton rock (for those not British, these are boiled candy sticks so hard you can break your teeth on them). Or the first time I cooked a duck and managed to explode it. Grease poured out of the oven and on to the floor. Thick, gray smoke filled the kitchen, and the smell of duck grease got into everything, including the drapes and our clothes.
But embarrassing as these were, the greatest mischief in my culinary life happened when we moved from sea level in Hawaii to the mile high city of Denver. Nobody told me that I couldn’t continue to use my cherished recipe book put out by the Honolulu Advertiser. It’s called “My Favorite Recipe” and includes the best of entries in a cooking competition. I loved the buttered shrimp recipe, and the meat loaf with clams was a couldn’t miss for me. At least until I moved to Colorado.
What I didn’t know was that many sea level recipes won’t work here in the mountains. Among other things, altitude lowers the boiling point of water (try cooking beans) and reduces atmospheric pressure (think soufflés that erupt like volcanoes). Everything has to cook longer because the water doesn’t get as hot, but there are no hard and fast rules for how much. Potatoes break apart and get starchy. Unless you’re careful, pie crusts burn before the contents are cooked. And add onto all this the fact that Denver is cracked-heels dry. Invariably more water has to be added to recipes. Whole books have been written locally on what is called “cooking at altitude,” with conversion tables to make recipes, particularly bread and cakes, work up here. Even then things can be tricky.
Into this, insert me, basically unaware of what dangers lurk in my kitchen and faced with my first thanksgiving “at altitude.”
Well, my turkey had to cook so long the drumsticks fell off the rest of the carcass. My stuffing had a thick toasted crust on it. I was rushed and tried to mash the potatoes in the food processor. The result was something like the consistency of liquid cement. My peas were hard. And I was in tears. The only things that were all right were the pumpkin pie, the rolls, and the cranberry jelly, because they were bought.
“That’s OK, hon,” my husband said as he picked out the edible bits of the turkey carcass and threw the hard bits out for the fox, “We aren’t going to starve.” And we didn’t.
Since then I’ve concluded that cooking’s a lot like life. We take it for granted until something happens to make us aware of it. Some people live life by the cookbook. They wouldn’t have exploded a duck because they would have read up on it and maybe bought duck insurance. Others would have exploded the duck anyway because they hate reading cookbooks and want to do it their own way. Yet others—like me, I guess—learn by trial and error. I read the directions for the duck but they didn’t register until I was cleaning up grease. “Oh that’s what they meant,” I remember thinking.
Now I’m older and can get some perspective, I think that’s maybe how I’ve always lived my life. I wish I could have seen up front what I can see so clearly looking back. I envy the people who have recipes for their lives that actually work. My life at times has resembled that exploded duck.
Well, this year Sid’s family is coming over and we are going to brine the turkey. It will turn out fine because Sid likes to focus. I doubt very much that he’ll let us get to where he has to comfort me about some new culinary disaster. But even as our turkey comes out golden brown and juicy, I’ll be thinking about that untidy, exploded duck and the laughter it has produced whenever I tell the story.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Like the time I left the shells on the shrimp and cooked them in a sweet and sour sauce. Or when I left the giblets in the turkey and we had to pull the paper out of the stuffing. Or the time I made pastry shells that were so thick and overworked that they became like Brighton rock (for those not British, these are boiled candy sticks so hard you can break your teeth on them). Or the first time I cooked a duck and managed to explode it. Grease poured out of the oven and on to the floor. Thick, gray smoke filled the kitchen, and the smell of duck grease got into everything, including the drapes and our clothes.
But embarrassing as these were, the greatest mischief in my culinary life happened when we moved from sea level in Hawaii to the mile high city of Denver. Nobody told me that I couldn’t continue to use my cherished recipe book put out by the Honolulu Advertiser. It’s called “My Favorite Recipe” and includes the best of entries in a cooking competition. I loved the buttered shrimp recipe, and the meat loaf with clams was a couldn’t miss for me. At least until I moved to Colorado.
What I didn’t know was that many sea level recipes won’t work here in the mountains. Among other things, altitude lowers the boiling point of water (try cooking beans) and reduces atmospheric pressure (think soufflés that erupt like volcanoes). Everything has to cook longer because the water doesn’t get as hot, but there are no hard and fast rules for how much. Potatoes break apart and get starchy. Unless you’re careful, pie crusts burn before the contents are cooked. And add onto all this the fact that Denver is cracked-heels dry. Invariably more water has to be added to recipes. Whole books have been written locally on what is called “cooking at altitude,” with conversion tables to make recipes, particularly bread and cakes, work up here. Even then things can be tricky.
Into this, insert me, basically unaware of what dangers lurk in my kitchen and faced with my first thanksgiving “at altitude.”
Well, my turkey had to cook so long the drumsticks fell off the rest of the carcass. My stuffing had a thick toasted crust on it. I was rushed and tried to mash the potatoes in the food processor. The result was something like the consistency of liquid cement. My peas were hard. And I was in tears. The only things that were all right were the pumpkin pie, the rolls, and the cranberry jelly, because they were bought.
“That’s OK, hon,” my husband said as he picked out the edible bits of the turkey carcass and threw the hard bits out for the fox, “We aren’t going to starve.” And we didn’t.
Since then I’ve concluded that cooking’s a lot like life. We take it for granted until something happens to make us aware of it. Some people live life by the cookbook. They wouldn’t have exploded a duck because they would have read up on it and maybe bought duck insurance. Others would have exploded the duck anyway because they hate reading cookbooks and want to do it their own way. Yet others—like me, I guess—learn by trial and error. I read the directions for the duck but they didn’t register until I was cleaning up grease. “Oh that’s what they meant,” I remember thinking.
Now I’m older and can get some perspective, I think that’s maybe how I’ve always lived my life. I wish I could have seen up front what I can see so clearly looking back. I envy the people who have recipes for their lives that actually work. My life at times has resembled that exploded duck.
Well, this year Sid’s family is coming over and we are going to brine the turkey. It will turn out fine because Sid likes to focus. I doubt very much that he’ll let us get to where he has to comfort me about some new culinary disaster. But even as our turkey comes out golden brown and juicy, I’ll be thinking about that untidy, exploded duck and the laughter it has produced whenever I tell the story.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Fly America: My Life as a Terrorist
It doesn’t take much these days to realize that our government considers us all wannabe terrorists. In their eyes, we are one indiscriminate mass of potential damage to the nation. You can be a baby in arms, have made your hundredth birthday, or be massively disabled: you will go through the sheep dip at the airport. There’s a reason why they call the passenger area beyond security the “sterile” area. We probably all are or will be after the scanning.
All this suspicion takes its toll on people. Take Sid, for example. He finds it demeaning.
About ten years ago, Sid broke his hip back-country skiing. He was found by some other skiers, hopping down the mountain using his cross-country skis as crutches. He drove himself to the hospital with one good leg. (And they say there are no more mountain men). He now has a metal replacement hip and a permanent problem with airport security. He claims that he could go through the system naked and he would still set it off (I may have to disown him if he tries this). He is offended when he is isolated in a glass cubicle waiting to be wanded, groped, and patted down. He now refuses to fly unless the only alternative is swimming.
I don’t usually set anything off, but I managed to land on a watch list at the Rapid City airport in South Dakota. At the time I was working with a project based at the South Dakota School of Mines that required several trips to South Dakota. On one visit, I mislaid the paper with the details of my return flight. I phoned the airline, gave my identification, and asked if they could confirm the time of my Denver flight. Apparently that did it.
When I went to the counter to check in, a security guard took me and my luggage to another room where he put my suitcase on a table. He held up his hands and looked at me: “Is there any in here that will make my wife an unhappy woman?” I looked at him blankly until I realized he was talking about the family jewels. I shook my head and then he took everything out of my case. Only after that was I allowed to get a boarding pass.
When I got to the gate, the security personnel dropped everything to focus on me, my documents, and my carry-on. “I’m a sixty-year-old woman,” I said plaintively as they looked at my pens and hair brush. “I’m not a threat to national security.” They were not amused. I had the uneasy feeling that they might want to strip search me and I might not get on the plane. I did get home that night, but it wasn’t over. The next time I flew to Rapid City, it all happened again. That’s when I knew that the Rapid City airport will always be on high alert whenever I travel through it.
Most people deal with this scrutiny with resignation, obediently offering up their belongings and clothing in the name of security—hoping that while they tell you off for not putting your toothpaste in a plastic bag they are actually catching the more dangerous things. Younger folk don’t seem to be so upset by it. Maybe it’s just that they are more used to the current world. Their high school probably resembled some Texas mega church and they’ve had plenty of practice walking through metal detectors. For them, the lines must simply be the way things are in a crowded, dangerous world.
To me they are a nuisance, an obstacle to where I want to go that I will overcome (as long as I don’t get too cranky in Phoenix and get shot). Sid, on the other hand, feels completely trapped. And he’s right. It’s a matter of pride. Older folk remember a more genteel time when boarding an aircraft was not a cattle call. They also see through the pretence of it all. Everyone goes through the sheep dip because the government pretends not to profile. We all know they do. My Hispanic daughter-in-law could pass for Near Eastern. Never mind that her family comes from the San Luis Valley in Southern Colorado and has been there for longer than the US has been a nation--she has never gone through a security line without getting the South Dakota treatment. The irony is that for all this inconvenience, tests tell us that they still aren’t finding potentially hazardous things in luggage.
So where does that leave us? Sid will only drive or sail. I will continue to fly because I have to. When you have family in Australia and England, there’s no choice. I wonder sometimes if it’s time to bring back the glory days of trains and liners. But then, I suppose they would start massive security procedures for them as well. That’s because we’re all potential terrorists, don’t you know?
All this suspicion takes its toll on people. Take Sid, for example. He finds it demeaning.
About ten years ago, Sid broke his hip back-country skiing. He was found by some other skiers, hopping down the mountain using his cross-country skis as crutches. He drove himself to the hospital with one good leg. (And they say there are no more mountain men). He now has a metal replacement hip and a permanent problem with airport security. He claims that he could go through the system naked and he would still set it off (I may have to disown him if he tries this). He is offended when he is isolated in a glass cubicle waiting to be wanded, groped, and patted down. He now refuses to fly unless the only alternative is swimming.
I don’t usually set anything off, but I managed to land on a watch list at the Rapid City airport in South Dakota. At the time I was working with a project based at the South Dakota School of Mines that required several trips to South Dakota. On one visit, I mislaid the paper with the details of my return flight. I phoned the airline, gave my identification, and asked if they could confirm the time of my Denver flight. Apparently that did it.
When I went to the counter to check in, a security guard took me and my luggage to another room where he put my suitcase on a table. He held up his hands and looked at me: “Is there any in here that will make my wife an unhappy woman?” I looked at him blankly until I realized he was talking about the family jewels. I shook my head and then he took everything out of my case. Only after that was I allowed to get a boarding pass.
When I got to the gate, the security personnel dropped everything to focus on me, my documents, and my carry-on. “I’m a sixty-year-old woman,” I said plaintively as they looked at my pens and hair brush. “I’m not a threat to national security.” They were not amused. I had the uneasy feeling that they might want to strip search me and I might not get on the plane. I did get home that night, but it wasn’t over. The next time I flew to Rapid City, it all happened again. That’s when I knew that the Rapid City airport will always be on high alert whenever I travel through it.
Most people deal with this scrutiny with resignation, obediently offering up their belongings and clothing in the name of security—hoping that while they tell you off for not putting your toothpaste in a plastic bag they are actually catching the more dangerous things. Younger folk don’t seem to be so upset by it. Maybe it’s just that they are more used to the current world. Their high school probably resembled some Texas mega church and they’ve had plenty of practice walking through metal detectors. For them, the lines must simply be the way things are in a crowded, dangerous world.
To me they are a nuisance, an obstacle to where I want to go that I will overcome (as long as I don’t get too cranky in Phoenix and get shot). Sid, on the other hand, feels completely trapped. And he’s right. It’s a matter of pride. Older folk remember a more genteel time when boarding an aircraft was not a cattle call. They also see through the pretence of it all. Everyone goes through the sheep dip because the government pretends not to profile. We all know they do. My Hispanic daughter-in-law could pass for Near Eastern. Never mind that her family comes from the San Luis Valley in Southern Colorado and has been there for longer than the US has been a nation--she has never gone through a security line without getting the South Dakota treatment. The irony is that for all this inconvenience, tests tell us that they still aren’t finding potentially hazardous things in luggage.
So where does that leave us? Sid will only drive or sail. I will continue to fly because I have to. When you have family in Australia and England, there’s no choice. I wonder sometimes if it’s time to bring back the glory days of trains and liners. But then, I suppose they would start massive security procedures for them as well. That’s because we’re all potential terrorists, don’t you know?
Saturday, October 27, 2007
This blog
Hello all:
Now that the California fires are (hopefully) dying down
and we (maybe) haven't bombed Iran, despite Cheney's
macho bellowings, writing this blog has settled into something
I do once a week. Please keep checking back or sign up to be
notified when a new entry appears. But there's absolutely no
reason why we can't all use this to express ideas and maybe
challenge one another a bit. I'll be happy to post something of
yours. Also, if you click on the word comments below each entry
you can offer your thoughts right away. You'll need a G-mail
account but that's free and quite useful anyway. It's hard to
know which evil empire will win--Google or Microsoft. I plan
to do the smart thing and play both sides.
Now that the California fires are (hopefully) dying down
and we (maybe) haven't bombed Iran, despite Cheney's
macho bellowings, writing this blog has settled into something
I do once a week. Please keep checking back or sign up to be
notified when a new entry appears. But there's absolutely no
reason why we can't all use this to express ideas and maybe
challenge one another a bit. I'll be happy to post something of
yours. Also, if you click on the word comments below each entry
you can offer your thoughts right away. You'll need a G-mail
account but that's free and quite useful anyway. It's hard to
know which evil empire will win--Google or Microsoft. I plan
to do the smart thing and play both sides.
Friday, October 26, 2007
The Fang
When I was a child, one of the most vicious looking tools in my mother’s kitchen was the can opener. It had a pointed end that looked like a fang attached to the end of a wooden handle. My mother’s was very well used, as I remember, as the red paint on the handle was flaking.
I remember her driving that point into the top of a can with a powerful downward blow as if she were stabbing an ice pick. Opening the can that way left an ugly, jagged can as well as a jagged lip. Washing out a can was a hazard as was putting out the garbage.
As I grew up, the technology changed. A new type of opener appeared with a pair of handles. You clipped the sharp edge over the lid, clamped the handles together, and then turned a key that—providing you had caught the lip properly—created a clean curved cut along the top. This version removed the jagged edges, although the tops were still very sharp, but substituted another hazard. If you had not properly caught the lip edge and you applied too much force, you tipped over the can with predictable results. A child was particularly liable to do that. I can remember sending a can of soup like a missile across the kitchen.
I’d forgotten all this until I saw a fang in a shop specializing in antique kitchen tools. There it was among the old cookie cutters with handles on them and the butter scrapers that no one uses anymore. “Do you know what that’s for?” the owner asked me. I looked at him blankly. It hadn’t occurred to me that anyone wouldn’t. He took my look to mean he should demonstrate it. I watched him go through the motion of that downward swing and the sawing that followed. It was all very familiar. I could see my mother doing it all those years ago. I bought the can opener. I had to.
On my way home I felt a little strange that something I remembered and had actually used was now considered “vintage” if not antique. But then I suppose my life is also vintage if not antique. Until I saw the fang, I hadn’t thought of myself as aging. It seems just yesterday that I was young--when I could rely on my mother to take care of the little unpleasant things of life, like opening cans. I suppose that my grandson feels the same way about relying on his parents and me. And that’s as it should be despite the conflicting messages our society gives us about “growing up” and “taking responsibility” while also fighting every wrinkle and sag. We do grow up. Our technologies change. The whole world becomes something very different from what we grew up in. But we don’t always notice until we see something like a fang on the pile of things that are now outdated and worthy only of curiosity. How we deal with that insight, I suppose, is a measure of who we have grown into.
I’m glad that my proud mother didn’t live to see her can opener for sale in an antique shop. The pulse of the universe beat in her veins and she hated letting go of life. I think she would have taken the fang very personally. She would have tossed her head in defiance and said she still had lots of life left. As I have grown older, I respect her more and more. So in her honor I did something to tell her that I now understand as I could not as a child. I went home and opened a can with the fang.
I remember her driving that point into the top of a can with a powerful downward blow as if she were stabbing an ice pick. Opening the can that way left an ugly, jagged can as well as a jagged lip. Washing out a can was a hazard as was putting out the garbage.
As I grew up, the technology changed. A new type of opener appeared with a pair of handles. You clipped the sharp edge over the lid, clamped the handles together, and then turned a key that—providing you had caught the lip properly—created a clean curved cut along the top. This version removed the jagged edges, although the tops were still very sharp, but substituted another hazard. If you had not properly caught the lip edge and you applied too much force, you tipped over the can with predictable results. A child was particularly liable to do that. I can remember sending a can of soup like a missile across the kitchen.
I’d forgotten all this until I saw a fang in a shop specializing in antique kitchen tools. There it was among the old cookie cutters with handles on them and the butter scrapers that no one uses anymore. “Do you know what that’s for?” the owner asked me. I looked at him blankly. It hadn’t occurred to me that anyone wouldn’t. He took my look to mean he should demonstrate it. I watched him go through the motion of that downward swing and the sawing that followed. It was all very familiar. I could see my mother doing it all those years ago. I bought the can opener. I had to.
On my way home I felt a little strange that something I remembered and had actually used was now considered “vintage” if not antique. But then I suppose my life is also vintage if not antique. Until I saw the fang, I hadn’t thought of myself as aging. It seems just yesterday that I was young--when I could rely on my mother to take care of the little unpleasant things of life, like opening cans. I suppose that my grandson feels the same way about relying on his parents and me. And that’s as it should be despite the conflicting messages our society gives us about “growing up” and “taking responsibility” while also fighting every wrinkle and sag. We do grow up. Our technologies change. The whole world becomes something very different from what we grew up in. But we don’t always notice until we see something like a fang on the pile of things that are now outdated and worthy only of curiosity. How we deal with that insight, I suppose, is a measure of who we have grown into.
I’m glad that my proud mother didn’t live to see her can opener for sale in an antique shop. The pulse of the universe beat in her veins and she hated letting go of life. I think she would have taken the fang very personally. She would have tossed her head in defiance and said she still had lots of life left. As I have grown older, I respect her more and more. So in her honor I did something to tell her that I now understand as I could not as a child. I went home and opened a can with the fang.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Victoria's Secret
Every year, Victoria’s Secret models sway down the runway, wearing the next-to-nothings frothed up by this year’s designers. I usually wince for them, imagining all the waxing and not-eating that has gone into the making the shine and smoothness of their bodies. But I also have to admire the way the stuff actually skims over their bodies and the feral expression on their faces.
I used to think about these models whenever I went into a department store to buy my undies. I was usually taken over to what I call the prosthetic department. This is where they sell bras that have one hundred different ways of stretched elastic to hold things up and hold things in. They look like nursing bras. Or panties that look more like the gym knickers I wore in school, designed to camouflage and be—that very British word—comfy. I couldn’t imagine the VS models in anything like these aircraft carriers of underclothes. Of course, they wouldn’t need to be. But I also came to the conclusion that they wouldn’t put up with a choice of only white, beige, or black.
One day, I mutinied. I crossed the mall from where I had been shopping and went into Victoria’s Secret. When I first heard the name of the store, I’d thought it must stock things like lavender sachets and lace-trimmed petticoats like Queen Victoria might have used to tempt her Albert. I was soon disabused of the idea.
Here was everything I had been lusting for. Shiny panties in kaleidoscopic colours that came in three sizes: small, smaller, and did I forget to put them on today? Their bras came with one angle of thrust: out and up. Size was optional and an asset. I fell in love.
That first day, though, I decided that my initial self-consciousness in this unapologetic celebration of the body would only allow me to look at nighties, with the prepared excuse that I was shopping for my non-existent daughter. I found frilly baby-doll confections, some even in sizes that I might hope to get over my head. But I didn’t need my pretense. The saleswoman didn’t seem to turn a hair and showed me to the changing rooms.
The first one I tried on was full of straps and I had trouble finding where my arms were supposed to go. Back to the hanger. The next one was virginal white with silver satin bands. Very pretty but made me look as if a mound of cotton candy was trying to sneak into a slumber party. The third was soft layers, with a strawberry pink cover over taupe under. I could get in it. True, I looked a bit like a dumpy fairy, but I decided to take it and promised myself to lose weight. Then I tried on the last one: a lacy black confection with little ribbons and an intoxicating sway about the hips. I posed in front of the mirror, putting on the Victoria Secret’s pout. I looked bloody ridiculous, but it wasn’t the outfit’s fault. Where was all this when I was young?
“Are you doing all right?” the saleswoman called over the swinging door.
“Just fine,” I called back. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Reality had intruded. Quickly, I took off the black nightie and hung it back on the hanger. I had a momentary horror that someone might have been watching on a surveillance camera. What a story that person would have to tell tonight. But as I put on my street clothes, I noticed that the room seemed empty and very quiet. I fingered the black nightie again and heard again the distant jungle roar.
When I went over to pay, I bought them both. I had a smile on my face. I could wear the pink one. I could dream about the black one. I’d have to keep the black one secret though, so no one would laugh. That’s when I knew why they chose the name Victoria’s Secret.
In a confidential mood, I leaned into the cashier and whispered to her. “Not all your customers look like your models, you know.”
She leaned back to me and whispered. “Neither do the salespeople.”
I like Victoria’s Secret. I will be back.
I used to think about these models whenever I went into a department store to buy my undies. I was usually taken over to what I call the prosthetic department. This is where they sell bras that have one hundred different ways of stretched elastic to hold things up and hold things in. They look like nursing bras. Or panties that look more like the gym knickers I wore in school, designed to camouflage and be—that very British word—comfy. I couldn’t imagine the VS models in anything like these aircraft carriers of underclothes. Of course, they wouldn’t need to be. But I also came to the conclusion that they wouldn’t put up with a choice of only white, beige, or black.
One day, I mutinied. I crossed the mall from where I had been shopping and went into Victoria’s Secret. When I first heard the name of the store, I’d thought it must stock things like lavender sachets and lace-trimmed petticoats like Queen Victoria might have used to tempt her Albert. I was soon disabused of the idea.
Here was everything I had been lusting for. Shiny panties in kaleidoscopic colours that came in three sizes: small, smaller, and did I forget to put them on today? Their bras came with one angle of thrust: out and up. Size was optional and an asset. I fell in love.
That first day, though, I decided that my initial self-consciousness in this unapologetic celebration of the body would only allow me to look at nighties, with the prepared excuse that I was shopping for my non-existent daughter. I found frilly baby-doll confections, some even in sizes that I might hope to get over my head. But I didn’t need my pretense. The saleswoman didn’t seem to turn a hair and showed me to the changing rooms.
The first one I tried on was full of straps and I had trouble finding where my arms were supposed to go. Back to the hanger. The next one was virginal white with silver satin bands. Very pretty but made me look as if a mound of cotton candy was trying to sneak into a slumber party. The third was soft layers, with a strawberry pink cover over taupe under. I could get in it. True, I looked a bit like a dumpy fairy, but I decided to take it and promised myself to lose weight. Then I tried on the last one: a lacy black confection with little ribbons and an intoxicating sway about the hips. I posed in front of the mirror, putting on the Victoria Secret’s pout. I looked bloody ridiculous, but it wasn’t the outfit’s fault. Where was all this when I was young?
“Are you doing all right?” the saleswoman called over the swinging door.
“Just fine,” I called back. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Reality had intruded. Quickly, I took off the black nightie and hung it back on the hanger. I had a momentary horror that someone might have been watching on a surveillance camera. What a story that person would have to tell tonight. But as I put on my street clothes, I noticed that the room seemed empty and very quiet. I fingered the black nightie again and heard again the distant jungle roar.
When I went over to pay, I bought them both. I had a smile on my face. I could wear the pink one. I could dream about the black one. I’d have to keep the black one secret though, so no one would laugh. That’s when I knew why they chose the name Victoria’s Secret.
In a confidential mood, I leaned into the cashier and whispered to her. “Not all your customers look like your models, you know.”
She leaned back to me and whispered. “Neither do the salespeople.”
I like Victoria’s Secret. I will be back.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Manolo and Me
Hi Everyone. I'm having great fun doing this blog and thanks for reading this. If you want to follow my further misadventures, you can click below and sign up to be notified whenever I post another bit of nonsense! Diana
I went into Nordstrom the other day to look at shoes. Under the best of conditions, this experience is—to use the British word—fraught. For one thing, most of the shoes they stock are what my mother used to tell me to shun.
“Think about your feet,” she’d say as I longingly eyed shoes with toes that belonged on the top of umbrellas. “You’re going to be very sorry.”
Of course, I didn’t and I am. I have what I insist on calling a genetic defect. I absolutely refuse to call it a bunion. I wear orthotics to balance my foot from tipping inwards and aggravating it.
Last time I bought a pair of shoes, I went to an athletic shop. I really had to have an everyday pair for comfort. In my youth, we used to laugh at descriptions of little old ladies in tennis shoes. These were the ladies who hit politicians on the head with signs.
Although that’s not a bad idea, the idea of being a little old lady in tennis shoes didn’t appeal. I planned on buying a super-duper, bells and whistles, naturally breathing athletic shoe. No tennies for me, thank you very much.
First thing the saleswoman did was tell me I’d lost my arches. I had visions of some thief in the night making off with them. “Your foot has spread because you’ve lost your arches,” she told me.
I looked in horror at my inadequate feet. When I held them out in front of me and pointed my toes I could see the foot I remembered. Double AA, cut for a very high arch. When I stood on them, they turned into the paws of a Great Dane. They splatted beyond even what I could call luau feet from going barefoot in Hawaii. I slunk out of the store with a sensible New Balance shoe cut for comfort and people with fallen arches.
Then I had a moment of mutiny. I went through my shoes at home, trying them on. If they fit, she was a lying traitor to my sex and age. But she was right. Something had happened to my feet that even spraying the shoes with leather relaxer couldn’t solve. Hence my need for new shoes and my visit to the fabulous shoe floor at Nordstrom.
Anyone who hasn’t been to a shoe floor lately probably doesn’t realize that there has been a profound shift in the theory of shoe design. Maybe it’s Sex and the City that did it, but shoes now have four inch heels and prices to match. They are what Sid would call (rhymes with duck)-me pumps. The only experience I’ve ever had with anything like them were the old platform shoes that we fell off and twisted our ankles. I could envision putting on a pair and promptly breaking the heel.
“Do you have anything stylish in soft leather with a middle heel?” I asked the sales person.
She took me to a row of leopard-patterned knee boots and then, seeing my face, to a station with absolutely flat ballerina slippers.
“Nothing in between?” I asked.
She shook her head sadly. “They just don’t sell.”
I surveyed the counters and stands displaying glittering, strappy shoes, with glittering strappy names and prices. I found myself wondering when we elevated our foot ware into symbols of virility and attraction. I suppose shoes have always had this power or there wouldn’t be shoe fetishes. Still, somewhere along the way something happened and I just didn’t notice it. Finally, I resigned myself to trying to spray my favorite Bally shoes again, the ones with the worn leather that I can’t bring myself to part with. Ah, my dears, those were the days.
But then the assistant had a brain storm and took me to a special display by a new designer who is a ballroom dancer. The shoes had a very wide toe box and were so supple the sole bent in half.
I’m still thinking about them. I’d have bought a pair but they look something like the Mary Jane black patent shoes I wore when I took tap dancing. I like the idea, though. I can say that my genetic problem with my feet was caused by all those years of ballroom dancing in those glamorous skimpy outfits.
I wonder if anyone will believe me.
I went into Nordstrom the other day to look at shoes. Under the best of conditions, this experience is—to use the British word—fraught. For one thing, most of the shoes they stock are what my mother used to tell me to shun.
“Think about your feet,” she’d say as I longingly eyed shoes with toes that belonged on the top of umbrellas. “You’re going to be very sorry.”
Of course, I didn’t and I am. I have what I insist on calling a genetic defect. I absolutely refuse to call it a bunion. I wear orthotics to balance my foot from tipping inwards and aggravating it.
Last time I bought a pair of shoes, I went to an athletic shop. I really had to have an everyday pair for comfort. In my youth, we used to laugh at descriptions of little old ladies in tennis shoes. These were the ladies who hit politicians on the head with signs.
Although that’s not a bad idea, the idea of being a little old lady in tennis shoes didn’t appeal. I planned on buying a super-duper, bells and whistles, naturally breathing athletic shoe. No tennies for me, thank you very much.
First thing the saleswoman did was tell me I’d lost my arches. I had visions of some thief in the night making off with them. “Your foot has spread because you’ve lost your arches,” she told me.
I looked in horror at my inadequate feet. When I held them out in front of me and pointed my toes I could see the foot I remembered. Double AA, cut for a very high arch. When I stood on them, they turned into the paws of a Great Dane. They splatted beyond even what I could call luau feet from going barefoot in Hawaii. I slunk out of the store with a sensible New Balance shoe cut for comfort and people with fallen arches.
Then I had a moment of mutiny. I went through my shoes at home, trying them on. If they fit, she was a lying traitor to my sex and age. But she was right. Something had happened to my feet that even spraying the shoes with leather relaxer couldn’t solve. Hence my need for new shoes and my visit to the fabulous shoe floor at Nordstrom.
Anyone who hasn’t been to a shoe floor lately probably doesn’t realize that there has been a profound shift in the theory of shoe design. Maybe it’s Sex and the City that did it, but shoes now have four inch heels and prices to match. They are what Sid would call (rhymes with duck)-me pumps. The only experience I’ve ever had with anything like them were the old platform shoes that we fell off and twisted our ankles. I could envision putting on a pair and promptly breaking the heel.
“Do you have anything stylish in soft leather with a middle heel?” I asked the sales person.
She took me to a row of leopard-patterned knee boots and then, seeing my face, to a station with absolutely flat ballerina slippers.
“Nothing in between?” I asked.
She shook her head sadly. “They just don’t sell.”
I surveyed the counters and stands displaying glittering, strappy shoes, with glittering strappy names and prices. I found myself wondering when we elevated our foot ware into symbols of virility and attraction. I suppose shoes have always had this power or there wouldn’t be shoe fetishes. Still, somewhere along the way something happened and I just didn’t notice it. Finally, I resigned myself to trying to spray my favorite Bally shoes again, the ones with the worn leather that I can’t bring myself to part with. Ah, my dears, those were the days.
But then the assistant had a brain storm and took me to a special display by a new designer who is a ballroom dancer. The shoes had a very wide toe box and were so supple the sole bent in half.
I’m still thinking about them. I’d have bought a pair but they look something like the Mary Jane black patent shoes I wore when I took tap dancing. I like the idea, though. I can say that my genetic problem with my feet was caused by all those years of ballroom dancing in those glamorous skimpy outfits.
I wonder if anyone will believe me.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Of Lug Nuts and Wheels
My doctor once told me with far too much glee that the wheels started coming off the car at fifty. I don’t dispute the inevitable need for extra tuning and servicing, but I do want to protest that it’s much later than fifty.
Claiming to be aged at fifty it self-indulgent. It’s the rather smug assurance that at fifty the wheels are most definitely not coming off the car. Consider whether there’s any joke in the statement that the wheels start coming off the car at seventy.
In fact, a great deal of talk about the aging process tends to be the vain ruminations of people who don’t think they qualify as seniors. The person who gets upset when the first AARP bulletin arrives in the mailbox is really wondering what list they are on rather than whether they are really “old enough.” They don’t think they are seniors or they wouldn’t be offended. They think of themselves as still being with it. Still active and alive while all those “seniors” are sitting around reflecting on their lives and probably peeing themselves.
What they haven’t realized yet is that being offered a senior discount or an AARP membership is only stage one of the aging process. It is far different from having a senior discount automatically deducted. The offer implies that there is a question. The deduction is a slam dunk. It is also a moral dilemma.
What do you do when you are at the counter and the young thing offers a discount to you and you have more than enough resources to not need any favors from local merchants? “Oh no, I’m not that old yet,” you can say proudly if you aren’t, as if it mattered to the young thing who is actually trying to be kind. But what do you say to the automatic deduction? You can hardly say “Oh please, I’m not that old, I can easily afford this, please add on more money to the bill.” You can’t without making a fuss and a fool of yourself. So you slink away with your ten percent discount. Society, in fact, has just loosened one of the lug nuts on your wheel without even asking you.
But you’re just getting started in the process. Stage two happens when everything that goes wrong with you, from the common cold on through everything more serious somehow becomes tied to the number of years you have been alive. It’s almost a convenient excuse. You broke your leg skateboarding? Obviously, your bones have become weaker through age. You need a tooth crowned? Must be age is weakening your tooth enamel. You need a skin cancer removed? Must be all those years of sun exposure and not the fact that you haven’t used sun block at 11,000 feet at the ski runs. Quite apart from the fact that these things may be true, it’s discouraging to think that age has to be eliminated before other reasons are even considered.
But it’s stage three in the process that you have to look out for. That’s when advertising shows pictures of people your age and suggests strongly that spending thousands of dollars for botox and plastic surgery is justified so that no one needs to look like you. You have now become the bad example. That’s why they show men in the Viagara commercials who look far too young to need any help. They don’t show the countless real seniors who use it. Perhaps they think that no one would believe that seniors are still interested in sex.
What a surprise is waiting for these people.
Bette Davis once said that growing old was not for sissies. True enough. But things look different from the other side of the “senior” divide. Certainly there are seniors who are incapacitated, but so too are some “younger” folk. Not every eighty-year-old is a candidate for a nursing home, although news reports suggest that. Being a senior is a relative term even if my fiftiesh cousin once commented that it was too bad that I had all this experience that nobody wanted. To him and everyone else, I want to say that while the lug nuts may loosen on my car, the wheels aren’t going to come off that easily.
Claiming to be aged at fifty it self-indulgent. It’s the rather smug assurance that at fifty the wheels are most definitely not coming off the car. Consider whether there’s any joke in the statement that the wheels start coming off the car at seventy.
In fact, a great deal of talk about the aging process tends to be the vain ruminations of people who don’t think they qualify as seniors. The person who gets upset when the first AARP bulletin arrives in the mailbox is really wondering what list they are on rather than whether they are really “old enough.” They don’t think they are seniors or they wouldn’t be offended. They think of themselves as still being with it. Still active and alive while all those “seniors” are sitting around reflecting on their lives and probably peeing themselves.
What they haven’t realized yet is that being offered a senior discount or an AARP membership is only stage one of the aging process. It is far different from having a senior discount automatically deducted. The offer implies that there is a question. The deduction is a slam dunk. It is also a moral dilemma.
What do you do when you are at the counter and the young thing offers a discount to you and you have more than enough resources to not need any favors from local merchants? “Oh no, I’m not that old yet,” you can say proudly if you aren’t, as if it mattered to the young thing who is actually trying to be kind. But what do you say to the automatic deduction? You can hardly say “Oh please, I’m not that old, I can easily afford this, please add on more money to the bill.” You can’t without making a fuss and a fool of yourself. So you slink away with your ten percent discount. Society, in fact, has just loosened one of the lug nuts on your wheel without even asking you.
But you’re just getting started in the process. Stage two happens when everything that goes wrong with you, from the common cold on through everything more serious somehow becomes tied to the number of years you have been alive. It’s almost a convenient excuse. You broke your leg skateboarding? Obviously, your bones have become weaker through age. You need a tooth crowned? Must be age is weakening your tooth enamel. You need a skin cancer removed? Must be all those years of sun exposure and not the fact that you haven’t used sun block at 11,000 feet at the ski runs. Quite apart from the fact that these things may be true, it’s discouraging to think that age has to be eliminated before other reasons are even considered.
But it’s stage three in the process that you have to look out for. That’s when advertising shows pictures of people your age and suggests strongly that spending thousands of dollars for botox and plastic surgery is justified so that no one needs to look like you. You have now become the bad example. That’s why they show men in the Viagara commercials who look far too young to need any help. They don’t show the countless real seniors who use it. Perhaps they think that no one would believe that seniors are still interested in sex.
What a surprise is waiting for these people.
Bette Davis once said that growing old was not for sissies. True enough. But things look different from the other side of the “senior” divide. Certainly there are seniors who are incapacitated, but so too are some “younger” folk. Not every eighty-year-old is a candidate for a nursing home, although news reports suggest that. Being a senior is a relative term even if my fiftiesh cousin once commented that it was too bad that I had all this experience that nobody wanted. To him and everyone else, I want to say that while the lug nuts may loosen on my car, the wheels aren’t going to come off that easily.
Suicide on the slopes
Last season, I used my season pass at Copper only twice. I was taken down by a boarder. It could have been a skier, I know that. But it wasn’t. And all the other times I have felt lucky to escape with my life, it has been a boarder.
My boarder didn’t stop, which made me wonder how many encounters on the slopes go unreported. How does one identify a fleeing back?
My enforced vacation away from skiing last season with a torn tendon did have some benefit, however, as it gave me time to think about these matters.
I have to admit that my mental image of boarders is that they are schuss warriors, usually younger, who want to be in the X games.
They are the ones who ski jump over bumps and scream things such as “Cool” and “Sweet” as they thump down. On the highway, they speed up to the slopes as if the snow will melt before they get there. They tend to believe in their own immortality.
I, by contrast, am long-in-tooth. Lift attendants take one look at me and slow the chair. I can ski the blue slopes, but I try to look graceful in order to hide the fact that I ski slowly (I prefer to say “in control”). I associate adrenaline with terror and I don’t like it.
Inevitably there is a culture clash between the boarders and me. Yet I am wise enough to recognize that we must share the slopes both graciously and safely. We all want the same things, to enjoy Colorado’s blue skies and sunshine and the powder snow beneath us.
Given that, I realize the importance of détente. Consequently, exercising the privilege of relative age, I have drawn up a contract for boarders who wish to avoid the nuisance of knocking me down.
Please, boarders, do not target the five feet between me and my skiing partner as the passageway to your nirvana.
If you decide to pass me, please do not make a sharp turn that sprays me with snow and then make a contemptuous sway as you move on.
Please do not run (or slide) up to the lift chair when we’re already at the loading line. That time you got on between us when we didn’t know you were there until we sat down was certainly spine tingling, but not as much as when your board caught my ski getting off and I landed on my back.
Please notice that I steadily weave down the slope. I am not going to suddenly start heading down toward the bottom in a straight line like you tend to do. If you come very close, like your board is in contact with my skis, you are going to scare at least the heck out of me.
If you do a 360 over a bump, yelling “Geronimo” is not sufficient warning. Please let me pass unscathed before you jump.
Finally, please do not sit down in lodge later with a beer and talk about stupid skiers. I may feel tempted to bean with you with my ski pole.
In return, I promise you the following.
I will work on my understanding that many boarders are now in middle age and that boarding is here to stay.
I will stop complaining about the ironed out stretches of snow where you came screeching to a stop.
I will not ski close to your terrain park jumps, as much for your safety as my own.
If you are lined up like birds on a telephone wire thinking about taking off down the hill, I will either wait for you to go or I will stay well off to the side by the trees and try not to weave into your path.
Above all, I will understand that we share the mountain and that for all our sakes as well as that of the ski industry that makes it possible, we want to end the day by counting the number of runs rather than doing a body count.
My boarder didn’t stop, which made me wonder how many encounters on the slopes go unreported. How does one identify a fleeing back?
My enforced vacation away from skiing last season with a torn tendon did have some benefit, however, as it gave me time to think about these matters.
I have to admit that my mental image of boarders is that they are schuss warriors, usually younger, who want to be in the X games.
They are the ones who ski jump over bumps and scream things such as “Cool” and “Sweet” as they thump down. On the highway, they speed up to the slopes as if the snow will melt before they get there. They tend to believe in their own immortality.
I, by contrast, am long-in-tooth. Lift attendants take one look at me and slow the chair. I can ski the blue slopes, but I try to look graceful in order to hide the fact that I ski slowly (I prefer to say “in control”). I associate adrenaline with terror and I don’t like it.
Inevitably there is a culture clash between the boarders and me. Yet I am wise enough to recognize that we must share the slopes both graciously and safely. We all want the same things, to enjoy Colorado’s blue skies and sunshine and the powder snow beneath us.
Given that, I realize the importance of détente. Consequently, exercising the privilege of relative age, I have drawn up a contract for boarders who wish to avoid the nuisance of knocking me down.
Please, boarders, do not target the five feet between me and my skiing partner as the passageway to your nirvana.
If you decide to pass me, please do not make a sharp turn that sprays me with snow and then make a contemptuous sway as you move on.
Please do not run (or slide) up to the lift chair when we’re already at the loading line. That time you got on between us when we didn’t know you were there until we sat down was certainly spine tingling, but not as much as when your board caught my ski getting off and I landed on my back.
Please notice that I steadily weave down the slope. I am not going to suddenly start heading down toward the bottom in a straight line like you tend to do. If you come very close, like your board is in contact with my skis, you are going to scare at least the heck out of me.
If you do a 360 over a bump, yelling “Geronimo” is not sufficient warning. Please let me pass unscathed before you jump.
Finally, please do not sit down in lodge later with a beer and talk about stupid skiers. I may feel tempted to bean with you with my ski pole.
In return, I promise you the following.
I will work on my understanding that many boarders are now in middle age and that boarding is here to stay.
I will stop complaining about the ironed out stretches of snow where you came screeching to a stop.
I will not ski close to your terrain park jumps, as much for your safety as my own.
If you are lined up like birds on a telephone wire thinking about taking off down the hill, I will either wait for you to go or I will stay well off to the side by the trees and try not to weave into your path.
Above all, I will understand that we share the mountain and that for all our sakes as well as that of the ski industry that makes it possible, we want to end the day by counting the number of runs rather than doing a body count.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Learning Curves and Technology
I hate learning curves. It’s not that I’m intellectually lazy—well, maybe that’s part of it—it’s more that I don’t like starting to learn something without some assurance that the time spent is going to be worth it.
Sometimes this gets me into trouble. Like the time Sid gave me a digital camera for Christmas. It was an expensive present and it deserved warm appreciation. Instead, I inwardly groaned, said how nice of him, and then put it aside. He was crestfallen. He said later that he had expected me to immediately assemble it, read the thick booklet that came with it, and go out that very afternoon and start shooting pictures.
Well, needless to say, I didn’t. Instead, I gingerly opened the booklet over the next few days and read a page or so at a time. I felt like a predator confronted with a school of fish. Too much information. Too many choices. I had to prioritize. I read the pages about focusing first. I then took out the camera and tried out those directions. Then I read about the zoom. Then I read about saving and deleting. Eventually I got through the book, but still needed to refer to it. The problem was that I didn’t use the bells and whistles enough to remember them. I could see why people still used film. Film is familiar. It produces a known product, a print that can go in an album.
Gradually, I came to terms with the camera and downloading it onto my computer. It became more familiar and the convenience of being able to take hundreds of pictures overcame the obvious increased complexity of actually getting something called prints, which now emerge from a machine that no longer reads negatives but insists on CDs and chips. I am still not excited by counting pixels, but I use the camera by choice.
Then we got a new dishwasher. It came with a row of electronic settings that beeped at me. In the old days, someone came with the machine to show you how to use it. Now it’s just you and the manual. I sat on the floor in front of this shining black marvel and read about each of the buttons and choices. My first dishwasher was a portable that connected to the sink. You set it up each time you wanted to use it. It had an on and off button and a circular disk that let you select how many minutes you wanted. Now I had to choose between a smart wash, a normal wash, a hot wash, and a pots and pan cycle. Then a hot rinse, a sani-rinse, and a rinse and hold. By the time I had figured out what everything meant, I had decided on settings that I essentially never changed. Same with my new electronic washing machine. I’m not even sure about the difference between the pre-wash and soak cycles. And this was a “standard” model. The top of the line stuff looked like the cockpit of a 747 and had instructions as incomprehensible as those that come with electronic watches.
I suppose new and improved is inevitable. What this means is that we as a society are constantly in the process of learning. Thirty years ago, Alan Toffler wrote a book called Future Shock. He argued that there are predictable ways in which people react to continuous change. There are those who ignore it until it’s forced on them. I guess they’re the ones still using Kodak brownies and film. Then there are those who embrace change and want to be cutting edge. They’d be the ones with cell phones that play tunes, connect to the internet, and show movies. Then there are people who just give up and go into what he called “information overload.” A lot of folks out there refuse to use a computer. Finally, there are those who selectively change. I guess I’m among the latter. But maybe not. This Christmas Sid gave me a street pilot. When he handed it to me he said that he’d had the store demonstrate it and it didn’t have much of a learning curve.
Sometimes this gets me into trouble. Like the time Sid gave me a digital camera for Christmas. It was an expensive present and it deserved warm appreciation. Instead, I inwardly groaned, said how nice of him, and then put it aside. He was crestfallen. He said later that he had expected me to immediately assemble it, read the thick booklet that came with it, and go out that very afternoon and start shooting pictures.
Well, needless to say, I didn’t. Instead, I gingerly opened the booklet over the next few days and read a page or so at a time. I felt like a predator confronted with a school of fish. Too much information. Too many choices. I had to prioritize. I read the pages about focusing first. I then took out the camera and tried out those directions. Then I read about the zoom. Then I read about saving and deleting. Eventually I got through the book, but still needed to refer to it. The problem was that I didn’t use the bells and whistles enough to remember them. I could see why people still used film. Film is familiar. It produces a known product, a print that can go in an album.
Gradually, I came to terms with the camera and downloading it onto my computer. It became more familiar and the convenience of being able to take hundreds of pictures overcame the obvious increased complexity of actually getting something called prints, which now emerge from a machine that no longer reads negatives but insists on CDs and chips. I am still not excited by counting pixels, but I use the camera by choice.
Then we got a new dishwasher. It came with a row of electronic settings that beeped at me. In the old days, someone came with the machine to show you how to use it. Now it’s just you and the manual. I sat on the floor in front of this shining black marvel and read about each of the buttons and choices. My first dishwasher was a portable that connected to the sink. You set it up each time you wanted to use it. It had an on and off button and a circular disk that let you select how many minutes you wanted. Now I had to choose between a smart wash, a normal wash, a hot wash, and a pots and pan cycle. Then a hot rinse, a sani-rinse, and a rinse and hold. By the time I had figured out what everything meant, I had decided on settings that I essentially never changed. Same with my new electronic washing machine. I’m not even sure about the difference between the pre-wash and soak cycles. And this was a “standard” model. The top of the line stuff looked like the cockpit of a 747 and had instructions as incomprehensible as those that come with electronic watches.
I suppose new and improved is inevitable. What this means is that we as a society are constantly in the process of learning. Thirty years ago, Alan Toffler wrote a book called Future Shock. He argued that there are predictable ways in which people react to continuous change. There are those who ignore it until it’s forced on them. I guess they’re the ones still using Kodak brownies and film. Then there are those who embrace change and want to be cutting edge. They’d be the ones with cell phones that play tunes, connect to the internet, and show movies. Then there are people who just give up and go into what he called “information overload.” A lot of folks out there refuse to use a computer. Finally, there are those who selectively change. I guess I’m among the latter. But maybe not. This Christmas Sid gave me a street pilot. When he handed it to me he said that he’d had the store demonstrate it and it didn’t have much of a learning curve.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Australia Redux
Australia Redux
Australians take national pride in being perverse. Down under is a way of life that consciously translates into different, unexpected, and deliberately upside down. It’s as if Australia was born to look crooked at the world and then wink about it.
This particular point of view became very clear to me when a group of four Brisbaners plus one foreigner arranged to climb Mount Warning, the pastime for Western Australians seeking a challenge.
The one foreigner, an American, was the only one who took the climb seriously. He came equipped with hiking boots, back pack, rope, electrolyte drink, granola bars, and various first aid kits. The rest of the group threw in elastic bandages, a bottle of water, and linament and picked up a hamburger along the way. Conversation in the car was not about the climb, which only one of them had done before, but about who was going to be the most sore the next day.
The expedition was clearly going to be the daring leading the unprepared followed by the unfit.
The trail turned out to be difficult. There were loose rocks and parts were wet and slippery. Soon there were the start of blisters. The group stopped to let socks be changed and plasters applied. The mood was gregarious. The blisters were a badge of honour. If someone lagged behind, they were genially offered as an excuse. “Hold on there, Mate, don’t you know I have blisters?”
Soon other excuses joined the blisters. Sore muscles, pre-existing arthritic knees, banged toes, backs and hips all took their toll. It became competitive to see who was climbing with the greatest handicap.
At that point, three groups were formed. The daring, also the most fit, went on ahead. The unprepared walked stolidly on, gaining new respect for the mountain with every step. The unfit fell behind but promised to catch up at the final pitch to the top. There’s a chain
fixed there to assist with an almost vertical climb over boulders to the summit.
The first group went up the slippery chain, sending back down the message not to pull oneself up on the chain but to use it only for balance. “Christ,” said one of the unfit as he looked up, “my arms are the only things that don’t hurt.” He sat down and watched as the others got up it one by one. It took him several minutes to even begin.
“You don’t have to do it,” someone called down.
“Bloody hell I do,” he shot back. “I got this far.”
Everyone cheered as he laboriously got up the pitch, one small step at a time, and with only one skinned knee. They took pictures at the top of them all and declared victory.
The way down, though, turned out to be worse. Does one go down the chain frontwards or backwards? Toe nails began to hurt as they banged against the front of boots. Knees began to ache. Occasionally someone would slip and a stream of invective against the mountain and those who had planned the trip rang through the trees.
Then they finally piled into the car and did the only thing sensible. They headed to the nearest pub for a recovery beer. The daring were stiff when they got out and even admitted to having sore muscles. The unprepared were making promises about getting into better shape and doing it again. The unfit were counting the few places they didn’t ache. As for the foreigner, he stood by the side of the car not moving.
“What’s up with you, Mate?” he was asked.
“I’m trying to see if I can lift my leg high enough to get my foot on the curb,” he replied.
Cheers rang all round. National honour had been upheld. Mount Warning had been scaled. Over a couple of beers, the day was pronounced a great success. And the unfit demanded the greatest credit because they were—well—unfit.
How Australian can you get?
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