(This is either a same/old same/old or a tradition, depending on your point of view. Either way, our family wishes the best for you and yours this Christmas and in the New Year.)
The year was 1961. I was working in Boston at the New England Conservatory of Music as a receptionist. It was, in all respects, a wonderful year. I was in love (still am) and was surrounded by talented, generous and joyful people.
But Christmas was always hard for me. What to give to my parents? My father never wore anything but a suit, had enough ties to last several life times, bought his own socks and had no hobbies. My mother was choosy about the things she wore and the things she had in the house. I always had great angst about what to give them. That year I found a little Japanese porcelain dish which I hoped they would like, but it cost more than my small salary could comfortably bear. Still, I bought it. There wasn’t any joy in the purchase, however. I was worried and poorer…not a good combination.
The Conservatory was, back then, in a less than desirable part of town. It was surrounded by poverty level housing and people. There was a drug store right across the street that I visited on my lunch hour to pick up necessary items.
One day, near Christmas, I was at the drug store, mindlessly purchasing some stuff, not giving it any thought as I stood in line to pay for my items. An older woman was in front of me. She wasn’t dressed warmly enough for the cold Boston December day. It did strike me that she most likely didn’t have a warmer coat, but the thought was fleeting.
And then something happened that I will never forget. As my arms were carelessly full of stuff, I realized she was buying a single box of tissues. And I heard her say to the clerk: “This is for my friend for Christmas. She’ll really like it.”
I find myself as speechless now as I did then. And still a little close to tears. It was a hard reality. She was delighted with her choice of a gift for her friend, confident that it would be given, received and used with love and affection.
And I was worried about an expensive porcelain dish for my parents who needed nothing and would most likely put the dish in a drawer anyway? Not a Christmas goes by that I don’t think about that moment.
Sometimes, I wish our family could just exchange boxes of tissues, carefully choosing one that might appeal…they come in such jazzy colors and designs these days. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could wrap them up fancifully with pretty paper and ribbons, confident they would be used and appreciated.
Now, I know we can’t….and would never want to…deny our families the joy of Christmas morning and presents under the tree. Santa Claus does exist.
But, for me, perhaps, a box of tissues has become a symbol of friendship and love, of a longed-for simple Christmas season, of joy, of an opportunity to share with others less fortunate, and, of course, in its own way, the true meaning of Christmas.
Where, Oh Where, Did Soft Go?
Not to make “weather” of it but did soft melt into a puddle on a hot summer’s day? Or turn to ice on a freezing winter’s eve?
Either way, from my perspective, soft got up and went away.
Everything feels transactional these days. So very “quid pro quo.” If I do for you, then you must do for me. Otherwise, I’ll just be on my way.
Soft implies a safe place. A welcoming place. A place to share, discover, screw up, change, develop. A place to cry, laugh, fuss, and celebrate. A judge-free place.
I’m lucky. Soft exists right here at home. But it gets scary out there. So many sharp edges. So many agendas.
Covid and the pandemic went a long way to put us here. We couldn’t shake hands, cheek/air kiss or even fist bump. Elbow-bumping was the only contact sport left to us and we all know how painful a sharp elbow can be. Soft, comforting, caring touches were simply not allowed.
Will we ever get all the way back to soft? i hope so. Maybe it’s out there. On its way. Blowin’ in a soft breeze. We’ll know it when we feel it. It can’t get here fast enough for me.
Trust.
Trust is big issue. And not always an easy one to manage.
In whom do we put our trust? The media? Our family? Our friends? Our country?
And do we trust any of those entities unconditionally and with our whole hearts?
Or is it a matter of trust but verify? The phrase not originated but often quoted by Ronald Reagan.
In any case, trust may well be a rarity these days which is why this little story is such a good one.
Jump’s Almonized Peanuts, as you might rightly infer, makes “Almonized Peanuts.” They’re delicious, fresh, crunchy, healthy and not necessarily available in many parts of the country.
Our favorite grocery store, Dorothy Lane Market in Dayton, Ohio, always had shelves and shelves of them. They’re produced just down the road from the market and were a staple in most Dayton homes.
Our son in who lives in South Carolina recently had a hankering for a jar of Jumps. He called them to place an order. Once they calculated the cost of packaging and shipping, they sent him the following message:
Seriously? Who does that????? Well, apparently Jumps does.
They trust that the check will be in the mail when the invoice, and, of course, the product, is received. They can’t be bothered with PayPal, Venmo, Mastercard and all that other red tape. They’re too busy making the world’s best almonized peanuts.
Do they occasionally get stiffed? Maybe. But they‘re willing to take the chance. They prefer to spend their time lovingly and carefully tending their product. So, give ‘em a call and order some peanuts. You’ll be glad you did. Trust me on this one.
The Christmas Spirit.
(This is either a same/old same/old or a tradition, depending on your point of view. Either way, our family wishes the best for you and yours this Christmas and in the New Year.)
The year was 1961. I was working in Boston at the New England Conservatory of Music as a receptionist. It was, in all respects, a wonderful year. I was in love (still am) and was surrounded by talented, generous and joyful people.
But Christmas was always hard for me. What to give to my parents? My father never wore anything but a suit, had enough ties to last several life times, bought his own socks and had no hobbies. My mother was choosy about the things she wore and the things she had in the house. I always had great angst about what to give them. That year I found a little Japanese porcelain dish which I hoped they would like, but it cost more than my small salary could comfortably bear. Still, I bought it. There wasn’t any joy in the purchase, however. I was worried and poorer…not a good combination.
The Conservatory was, back then, in a less than desirable part of town. It was surrounded by poverty level housing and people. There was a drug store right across the street that I visited on my lunch hour to pick up necessary items.
One day, near Christmas, I was at the drug store, mindlessly purchasing some stuff, not giving it any thought as I stood in line to pay for my items. An older woman was in front of me. She wasn’t dressed warmly enough for the cold Boston December day. It did strike me that she most likely didn’t have a warmer coat, but the thought was fleeting.
And then something happened that I will never forget. As my arms were carelessly full of stuff, I realized she was buying a single box of tissues. And I heard her say to the clerk: “This is for my friend for Christmas. She’ll really like it.”
I find myself as speechless now as I did then. And still a little close to tears. It was a hard reality. She was delighted with her choice of a gift for her friend, confident that it would be given, received and used with love and affection.
And I was worried about an expensive porcelain dish for my parents who needed nothing and would most likely put the dish in a drawer anyway? Not a Christmas goes by that I don’t think about that moment.
Sometimes, I wish our family could just exchange boxes of tissues, carefully choosing one that might appeal…they come in such jazzy colors and designs these days. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could wrap them up fancifully with pretty paper and ribbons, confident they would be used and appreciated.
Now, I know we can’t….and would never want to…deny our families the joy of Christmas morning and presents under the tree. Santa Claus does exist.
But, for me, perhaps, a box of tissues has become a symbol of friendship and love, of a longed-for simple Christmas season, of joy, of an opportunity to share with others less fortunate, and, of course, in its own way, the true meaning of Christmas.
What To Do?
That’s the question and I know the answer. But I can’t just toss it out. He’d notice. Just like he noticed the disappearance of the double boiler many, many years ago. I don’t want to revisit that. No one does. The mere thought brings shivers.
Here’s the problem: A thoughtful person recently gave The Mister a lovely leather-bound notebook. For making notes. Obviously. They didn’t know that he’s quite phone and computer literate and takes notes on those devices, not in a notebook. But he greatly values the gift. It sits at his spot at the breakfast table. Every day, he touches it, leafs through it, admires and considers it until he returns it, sans notes, to its spot. From my perspective, its time has come and it needs to go bye-bye. Difficult as that may be. The question at hand is “how?”
Hold on! I think have a solution! I remembered the torn and tattered bankies of the children’s youth. You couldn’t just toss those things out. No matter how badly you wanted to.
But we, as mothers, eventually learned that we could quietly snip off tiny bits of those bankies, every day, day after day, until there was nothing left. Then, poof! All gone. No tears. No tantrums. No bankies.
If I apply the bankie lesson to the notebook, it means I’ll be carefully and quietly removing a page every day, each day, until there is nothing left. It ‘ll be slow going. I’ll have to cut pages alternately from the front, the middle, the back. There can be nothing drastic. Nothing noticeable. Slow and easy wins the game.
So, now the questions of “how” and “what” are answered. The new question is “Why?” And I have no good answer for that one. If he wants to keep his little notebook, well then, he should certainly keep his little notebook. Surely, I have better things to do than rattle that cage. Don’t I?
The Tale of the Lost and Found Tissue.
That would be the tissue that was lost because it got tucked in a pocket or stuck in a sleeve.
That would also be the tissue that was found.
In the washing machine.
In a billion little white bits.
Yep. We’ve all been there and done that.
Most say: “Oh no, not again!”
I say : “Oh, goody.”
See, I know that all those little bits and pieces will become one again as the dryer gently blows and gathers them onto the lint catcher. And what the dryer misses will be swept up by the dust-buster.
This matters because our lint catcher lies fallow since our old clothes don’t shed much anymore. And the dust-buster’s life is largely one of sucking up kitty litter. So, when a tissue comes their way, they both get to kick up their heels a bit. Show their stuff, if you will.
I’ll not go so far as to overtly put a tissue or two in the wash. Even for the great fun of it all. But I will always appreciate the happy emergence of the lost and found one.
IT’S BACK!
And not a moment too soon. At least in my humble opinion.
Cursive writing, by law, is set to return to many states’ schools.
The reasons for re-introducing cursive are various. Whatever they are, I am delighted that cursive writing will, once again, be taught to our children.
Cursive allows each of us to develop our own style, distinct from others. I especially look forward to the holidays when Christmas cards, bearing the unique handwriting of our friends, arrive at the door. Each one bringing its own memories.
For example, Susan has a gracefully right-sloping style and Mary Earl writes in a hurry….you can always tell. I look forward to Julie’s clear penmanship from Maine and I will sorely miss Adele’s strong, artistic hand. My old school roommate writes in calligraphy! The Mister’s handwriting…well, some things defy description.
So, get out the pens, the ink, the stamps, the pretty note cards. Texting is soon to be a thing of the past. Thank-you notes and graciously written letters will soon be coming your way. Well, maybe not tomorrow but we’ll take it when we get it and hope for the best.
In the meantime, carry on, all you good and caring teachers. Those whorls and loops will take root. On paper and in the brain. Cursive writing benefits everyone. Science has proven it.
True Confessions.
I must confess that I read Dear Abby every day. My “excuse” is that her column is right beneath the bridge column and right next to the New York Times crossword puzzle. Consequently, I really have no choice in the matter.
This past Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, was no different from every other day with regard to my newspaper habits. The puzzle was a bit tough and the bridge column was above my pay grade. But, happily, Abby was there to save the day.
Apparently, her late mother wrote a common prayer for Thanksgiving many years ago. Somehow, through all these years, I’ve either missed it or forgotten it. It seemed too appropriate this year to not share it with others who may never have seen it or, like me, may have forgotten it. Here it is (slightly altered):
We give thanks for food
And remember the hungry.
We give thanks for health
And remember the sick.
We give thanks for friends
And remember the friendless
We give thanks for freedom
And remember those in captivity
May these remembrances
Stir us to service.
To share our gifts with others.
Soap Operas.
They’ve been around a long time. And I’ve been right there with them. I fondly remember watching The Edge of Night with my mother. It was early days of television. Very early. The television set wasn’t deemed pretty enough to be in the living-room so it lived in a corner of the dining room. We’d pull up two straight chairs from the table and watch the 15-minute segment of The Edge of Night. Every single day.
These days, instead of soaps, we, the Mister and I, watch British mysteries which proudly present themselves as exactly that….mysteries. But they’re really soap operas in disguise. Sure, there’s always a murder or two but the deceit, the lies, the affairs, the duplicitous behavior? That’s soap opera redux.
Of course, The Mister never watched soap operas. Consequently, he didn’t receive soap-opera training. He has a hard time remembering what happened from week to week in our mystery shows. Who did what to whom and why. He lways has questions when we (attempt to) pick up the story where we left off. Many questions. And he wants clarity right that very second. Tell me again who that person is, he’ll say. What does he/she do? Is he/she married? Are there children? Is he/she the murderer? Should I be worried? And, on and on.
By the time I’ve explained the family tree (again), I’ve lost track of the story line. But I don’t care anymore. What will be will be. Ms. Christie and her beloved Hercule Poirot will solve the mystery and the British will carry on carrying-on as they’ve always done. Just like all my old soap opera friends.
It May Be the Littlest Room in the House……
But it’s frequently the most expressive.
I speak of the Powder Room, the Lav, the Ladies’ Room. It’s a space which can, and often does, express the owners’ decorative styles and interests. Obviously in small and condensed ways.
For example, an old house’s powder room might be wall-papered with beautifully trellised roses, reminiscent of its heritage. Younger owners might choose broad stripes and bold geometric patterns. Maps papered on the wall could represent trips taken and enjoyed. Story books in baskets and step stools by the sink tell us that grandchildren often visit.
Our “little room” has art. A fair amount of art. Each piece meaningful to us for its own reasons.
There’s one particularly unique piece of art, prominently hung in our ” little room” which was re imagined by our artist friend Ted Jordan from an Andy Warhol painting. (See it above, at the top of the blog.) The little girls are quoted as saying: “His zipper isn’t zipped.” It makes us smile and giggle every time we see it. Just like the little girls on the wall.
If that’s not perfect powder room art, I don’t know what is. So, come on over. You’ll giggle, too. I promise. But, please, keep your zipper zipped! We can only take so much unbridled jollity.
Winter’s Comin’.
Yes, it is. Just as surely as day turns into night and summer follows spring, we know in our hearts that it’s gonna get cold. But we’re prepared. Maybe overly so. Read on.
Now, remember. We live in the south. Cold is a relative thing. Sure, we say things like “Cold enough for ya?” but we don’t really know what that bone chilling, deep-in-your-soul cold is all about. We haven’t shivered in our boots for a long, long time.
Our preparation for winter is easy-peasy. We switch out our tees for turtlenecks and our swim suits for jeans.
And, so it seems redundant, if not a bit excessive, that Beaufort County, seat of Hilton Head and surrounding areas, just spent $35,000 on blankets. And “weighted” blankets, to boot.
“Why?” we ask. Why spend $35,000 on blankets? And super-heavy ones at that. Surely there are better ways to spend our tax dollars down here in South Carolina. Where it never gets THAT cold. Ever.
The answers are murky.
There’s definitely a whiff of hanky-banky. We hear tales of behind-closed-door meetings. Under-cover transactions are suspected. Lips, according to rumors, are sealed. The debate is heated and we may never get the full skinny.
In the meantime, we hope you’ll come on down. Winter’s easy here and if you should feel a chill, well, we’ve got you covered.
The State of Maine.
Maine may be geographically large, but it has the feel of a small town whose residents collectively admire, appreciate and respect it.
Sure, winter can get cold, but that’s part and parcel of the deal. You pull on gloves, don a parka and take to the slopes. Or go on a brisk walk. Come back to a warm house, shed your stuff and sip a hot toddy. What could be better?
Spring brings melting ice and a hint of warmer weather. Summer brings breathtaking flowers. And, fall…..well, Maine’s fall colors are like no other.
We have family in Maine. We understand, intellectually if not viscerally, their sense of being part of a whole. If you don’t like what Maine has to offer, you leave. But for those who stay, for the “Mainers”, it’s a wonderful way of life.
This week’s mass murder shook them all to their core.
They’re not accustomed to multiple sirens blaring in the night. Of lockdowns. Of helicopters flying low and overhead. Of the fear, as one family member put it, not unlike that of 9/11. They shouldn’t have to experience that.
And neither should we. When are we going to act?
Photo Courtesy of Tim Crockett
A Slight Change of Pace.
There’s a lot…..maybe too much…… going on in the world right now. It all deserves our attention and our thoughts . But we recently decided to take a break from all that and we’re very glad that we did.
During that hiatus, we streamed two perfectly wonderful shows. Both took us into wildly different worlds and rewarded us for doing so.
The first show was “Unbelievable.” Produced by Katie Couric, it relates the true story of a serial rapist and how he met his match through the unwavering dedication of two indomitable female detectives.
The two cops were initially oil and water to each other. How could they ever work together, we wondered? But work together, they did. They decided to make absolutely certain that not even one more woman would suffer at the hands of this cruel man. Nailing him became their sole focus.
The show took us step by step, misstep by misstep until……. Well, you’ll just have to see for yourselves. I don’t want to give it away.
The second show was “The Burial,“ starring one of my favorites actors Tommy Lee Jones and a brand new favorite, Jamie Foxx.
Like “Unbelievable” it’s a true story and it has it all. Courtroom scenes, potential financial and societal ruin, racial issues and persistence. Oh, and laughs. Lots of those. And, no, I won’t spill any beans here either. Just watch and enjoy.
Both shows were ultimately about commitment. About doing one’s best, no matter how hard or tough the going got. And, finally about the value of working together despite vastly different approaches.
Our recommendation: Take a break from the news. Go for a slight change of pace. Just like we did. There’s nothing to be lost and, perhaps, much to be gained.
TMI.
In my humble opinion, you frequently get just that,Too Much Information, when you dine at restaurants referring to themselves as Farm to Table, locally sourced, inventive or rustic chic.
When we go out to dinner, which is “lesser and lesser” these days, I go for one reason: The Joy of NOT Cooking. I’m okay hearing the wine is Italian, the bread is French and the strawberries were picked just this morning. That’s all soothing and appetizing.
But I don’t care a whit about the tomato’s heritage, the lettuce’s country of origin or how lovingly the corn was harvested. By the time I’ve sat through all that, I’d rather be home, foraging in my own fridge. Where I could have something on the table in a heartbeat and know exactly where it all came from: Publix.
But the worst, the totally unacceptable, the ultimate TMI, is hearing thoughtful tales about the unsuspecting benefactor of the evening’s filet mignon. Ditto the dear little lamb whose chops are on the menu. With that information, my appetite gets up and leaves the room. And, so do I.
The whole thing makes me want to go back to a favorite restaurant. No reservations were accepted…for anyone! You sat/stood at the bar until your name was called. If you were a regular, no menus were needed/offered. The waitress simply asked what you wanted and how you wanted it cooked. Onion rings? she’d ask. And crumbles? (blue cheese on your salad.) Absolutely, we’d say. And that was that!
It was perfect and we could hardly wait to go back. Never mind the potentially long wait at the bar. After all, that’s where we sated our hunger for fun, friendship and laughter.
Dress Codes
They’re a hot topic these days. Just tune in to the current debate in Congress.
When I was in high school, we wore uniforms. It was an all-girls’ school so we all looked alike. All the time. The uniforms weren’t pretty but we wore them without complaint.
Getting dressed was easy. There was no energy, time, nor thought devoted to “what to wear.” Our job was to attend classes, learn and participate. The fewer distractions, the better.
“Sartorial statements” were seriously frowned upon and typically resulted in an extended study hall. Respect for our system kept us on the straight and narrow.
The uniforms/dress codes were great levelers. Backgrounds never mattered. Our contributions, or lack thereof, were the meaningful factors.
Clearly, I’m a fan of dress codes/uniforms. My school was a microcosm for the success of both. Happily, all those benefits and plusses are easily transferable to larger institutions.
Put simply, we wore our uniforms and tended to business during the week. Then we let it rip on the weekends. How easy is that? It made sense then and it makes sense now.
There It Sits.
Just like its predecessor. And all those before it.
And there have been many. They have come. And they have gone.
Some have stayed longer than others. But eventually, they all leave. It’s predictable, predestined and inevitable.
It’s not that they’re bad. Their purpose in life is good. Constructive. Well intentioned.
Their final resting places are unknown. All I know for sure is that they had it easier during their stay here than they could ever have imagined or hoped for.
But all good things must come to an end.
And so it is that we offer it up to an enthusiast of all things healthy. We’ll hope that it finds its true potential with its new family.
I speak, of course, of the stationary bike that’s sitting upstairs in the hall.
But, wait. Maybe, just maybe, I should take another look at it. Who knows? After all, this one’s smaller than the others. More compact. Easier to get on and off. Really quite unobtrusive.
My wheels are turning. Unlike the bike’s because it has none but this one may be a keeper. So, give it a whirl, I say to myself. Nothing to be lost and much to be gained.
It still sits, of course. As it always will. I just have to sit upon it. Aye, and there’s the rub.