Had to re-load the music in my car. This season, the radio is no longer an option for listening entertainment while I drive. It’s not that I don’t like Christmas carols; most of them I do. But they are playing on all the stations I normally listen to, the ones pre-programmed at the touch of a button. And while I’m as much for crass commercialization of a religious holiday as the next person, sometimes you just have to draw the line.
Or, in the case of holiday music, several lines. I find I can’t change stations fast enough to avoid the most dreaded songs. Calling them carols is too kind.
- Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer. Maybe it was fresh and novel once. Maybe not. There is a new crop of six-year-olds each year, but I can’t imagine it appealing to anyone else. And I’ve aged out.
- Anything by Kenny G. We sat in an airport in Kerala, India, in traveler’s stupor one March morning waiting for a 3:00 a.m. flight to Mumbai.The Muzak choice was Kenny G’s Christmas repertoire. Evidently some Indian programmer thought it innocuous enough that no one would notice or care. He was right. I feel that way still.
- Something about buying red shoes for momma to wear when she meets Jesus tonight. And isn’t that full of holiday cheer and goodwill toward men! This is maudlin X10. I remember three wise men going to see Jesus, but nothing about a pair of ruby slippers.
- Pa rum pa pa pum.
- Local takes on the Twelve Days of Christmas. It wasn’t enough, all those calling birds and swans and geese, the lords and ladies and milking wenches. Everybody has to get in on the act.
- Perfectly good carols set to a hip hop beat. There’s a difference between personalizing an arrangement and screwing it up. Some things are better left alone.
Call me Scrooge, I won’t hear you. I’m turning a deaf ear.
The day before Thanksgiving, my eighteen-year-old nephew chose to end his life. His decision blew a hole through the collective heart and soul of his large, loving family, who then spent the next ten days grieving their loss. Instead of celebrating their many blessings and giving thanks for all they had, they focused on what they didn’t have: their only son. And instead of joining the ranks of holiday shoppers with Christmas lists in hand, the devastated parents bought a casket, a mausoleum slot, flowers and funeral services and the temporary trappings of burying a young man who had made a very bad, very permanent choice.
Trying to make sense of a senseless act didn’t help. He was known by all as a very caring individual, yet this action hurt the very people who loved him best more than anything else he could have done. He didn’t say goodbye. Now he can’t say he’s sorry. There is only the silence of a lifetime not lived that will echo through the years.
We who have the benefit of hindsight and maturity can look back over our lives and see enough high points to balance the valleys. We can hope that through a life well lived we leave the world a better place. At eighteen, the path isn’t always clear cut. But with trust in the process of learning and hope for the future, we muddle through. With luck, it won’t always be easy. In challenge there is opportunity. That, too, comes with the hindsight of years.
There was huge concern for all of this young man’s friends that there might be a copycat. That some of the teens would see the attention as a celebration rather than a means to deal with the wound inflicted when someone dear is plucked from the fabric of our lives. The high school made certain professional counselors were available to talk to troubled students. Parents were on high alert. How to help teens realize that they have a purpose yet to be fulfilled? How to give them goals and ambition and, yes, support in this moment when emotions are running raw?
The worst of times often brings out the best in humanity. For a week high school kids set aside their rivalries and dislikes to offer condolences to the family and to one another. The turnout for services surpassed all expectations. As officiate, my bro-in-law summed it up nicely when he suggested we look around at all the people willing to lend a hand if only we will ask for help. And, he said, don’t wait for a eulogy to praise good works. Tell someone he’s doing good things while he’s here to listen.
This season, reach out with kind words. Choose to give the easiest, cheapest, best gift in the world.
One of my favorite writers, Erma Bombeck, once did a column on people coming into a lot of money and how it changed their lives. Lottery winners, inheritors of unexpected fortune, diamond diggers and treasure hunters all talk about one splurge, and then settling into doing exactly what they’ve always done. They would continue at their jobs, attend the same church, (possibly drop a heavier envelope in the collection plate) live in the same neighborhood, same house but pay off the mortgage. Share the windfall with family members.
Most people insist that money wouldn’t change them, that they’d remain the same souls they were before their instant wealth. Some reach that goal; some go a little crazy. It’s tales of the instantly rich who forget to pay income taxes and wind up in jail that titillate the rest of us.
We are like turtles wearing our formative training into our adult lives like a shell. Change that’s too different, too fast and we lose our comfort zones and internal compasses. If we don’t regularly dress in tuxedo or evening gown and go dancing after an expensive dinner, we might not be comfortable cruising with those who do. Shopping pleasure is still the thrill of the hunt for bargains rather than a tighter jam in the closet. People who regularly give to charity will continue to share a similar proportion of newfound wealth.
Bombeck’s posit was then, “If I came into a lot of money, how would I splurge?” And her basic, stay-the-same self would spring for another good salt and pepper set so she’d have one for the kitchen and one to put on the table. That’s all she really needed. And it wouldn’t take a sweepstakes ticket to make it happen.
It’s true for many of us. What we need to make life easier or happier isn’t always so far beyond our financial fingertips. We keep planning and saving for a special something, but what we want isn’t a new Ferrari, it’s an oil change and new tires. It’s not a round-the-world cruise; it’s a weekend on a neighbor island or a camping trip with buddies or a remodel of the old cranky kitchen. Something to aim for when making out the wish list, the annual budget.
What many discover is the truth in the old adage that money can’t buy happiness. It creates rifts in families, tax headaches, and a circle of vultures willing to help spread that money around.
In a younger year my hubby earned a bonus and splurged on an expensive stereo system. On the same shopping trip, he picked up a couple of dish scrubbers he thought we needed. Good wood handles, natural bristles, metal hooks for storing. Proudly displaying the new electronics as he removed each component from its box, he was suddenly overcome with a slight wave of guilt and held out the scrubbers for me. The contrast was laughable. So much so that I hung them on my ears like the expensive earrings they weren’t. The joke outlived the stereo. Now when considering what we’d like to splurge on, the usual reply is “a pot scrubber would be nice.”
The truth is I’m frugal to the bone. Sacrilegious as it seems for a woman to admit it, I don’t like shopping. The fashion industry abhors my ilk. My car is old, and I can’t bring myself to replace it. Luckily, while the want list exists, the need list is short. Sudden discovery of a pot of gold wouldn’t change those penny-pinching characteristics.
So a splurge? I’d spend it on good times with friends and family, possibly travel that included a lot of activities, and great meals. Wait. That sounds like the upcoming holiday season in ski country.
I’ll be looking for best fares and gift items on sale.
On our way home from Europe, we attended a friend’s milestone birthday celebration. No mere cake with six decades of candles, this. The couple own a second home in Pennsylvania, and they had invited friends from Hawaii. Preparations started last spring, with invitations extended to quite a number, perhaps assuming that many wouldn’t make it.
Wrong. Nine couples said yes and meant it. Part of it could be attributed to the demographics of the group. Most are above average income; several are retired and thus more flexible with their schedules. All are traveling fools.
The host and hostess scrambled to arrange accommodations. Over the course of the summer they completed conversion of the garage into a charming two-bedroom cottage. The main farm house has been expanded over its 100 year history from quaint and cramped into cozy and spacious. It now has three guest rooms, living room, formal dining room and large family room. Hostess’ brother and sister-in-law own the neighboring farm, only a tramp through the meadow and over the hill. They graciously took in house guests for the weekend. And host’s sister also owns a home in the county. In absentia, she and her husband housed two more couples.
Some party-goers came directly from Hawaii. Others had extended their travel plans and routed themselves through PA for the weekend. They arrived from New York, from San Francisco, Maine, and us from Rome. Old friends who used to live in Hawaii and now in Seattle made the trek. The lure of a weekend in the crisp autumn air with a parade and re-enactment of the skirmish at Fort Ligonier during the French and Indian War proved irresistible. We weren’t disappointed. Fall came late to the eastern United States this year, and the leaves were still showing off their colors. We could wear our jeans, our sweaters, our dress up clothes that hang in storage closets or lie in plastic tubs most the time.
As usual, travel stories—the current version of war stories—came with each new arrival. In two instances, luggage arrived separately, delivered in the dark hours by a baggage handling service driver who was lost, but undaunted, on back country roads. Flight delays and hassles of one kind or another have become so routine that an on-time departure and on-time arrival are now the surprise feature. As a nation we have learned to accept the humiliation of emptying our personal lives into a gray tub and running those items through an X-ray machine while another machine scans our bodies. No one locks luggage anymore.
But we still travel.
For business, leisure, and any excuse at all, we will still get on a plane and go. It’s not just those of us who live on an island. Travel is up all across the country. Personal reasons and finances might give people second thoughts, but safety has dropped back down the list. It’s not that we’ve forgotten the events of 9/11. In fact, after all the birthday festivities, we visited the site of Flight 93 near Shanksville, and the makeshift memorial is testimony that people haven’t forgotten. We’ve adapted to the new reality of stricter regulations in the name of security, and we go on with our lives. We visit friends and family, we tour foreign lands, and we celebrate the freedom we have to move across borders and oceans for the sake of learning or commerce or just plain fun with friends at a parade or bonfire or big birthday dinner in a state thousands of miles from home.
Osama bin Laden, holed up in a cave somewhere in a remote mountain range, hasn’t altered the essence of American living. I hope winter chills him to the bone.
We have been indulging in one of our favorite pastimes: walking up and down mountains. This week we happen to be in the Dolomites in Northern Italy. Yesterday’s trek took us along the side of a hill with rather steep drop offs in several areas, no handrails and occasionally not much of a toehold either. When the pathway took us through private pastures, vineyards and orchards, it was understood that we close the gate behind us and please look without touching. The grapes, the ripe golden and red delicious apples being harvested at every turn were someone’s livelihood.
The walk couldn’t have been more beautiful. But the lessons here were subtle and sorrowful in comparison to our native USA.
1) Walkers are responsible for themselves. No lawsuits, no lawyers declaring the pathway too dangerous and unfit for public use. In America, private land is seldom opened to casual trespassing because of liability issues. Our gates have locks.
2) Respect for the farmers runs deep. No petty theft, no need to fence out strangers. In fact, the only cover is fine netting to protect the grapes from hungry birds. This is especially painful in comparison to Hawaii, where at least one Big Island farmer has quit growing oranges because thieves beat him to his own crop. An Oahu farmer faces prison for finally killing a man who continually helped himself to crops, tools and even machinery.
The result is that we hem ourselves in by not trusting one another to be decent human beings. Too often it’s true. We think of ourselves as residents of the land of the free, but Austrians, Italians, other walking Europeans have more personal freedom than we do because of a common respect and an expectation of personal responsibility.
Had a difficult time returning to Hawaii this trip. I know, we get no sympathy when we live in two of the most beautiful places in America. But it’s a life divided; even though we love both homes, we can never really commit to either community. As a result, we’re not sure where we belong.
Luckily, weather has been pleasant instead of the stifling humid heat that can happen this time of year if the trade winds die. We grumbled through two days of jetlag. Then the usual sticker shock of restocking the kitchen wore off, we reconnected with friends, the cars worked, the house survived, and we fit back into our own tropical skins.
Our last night in Utah on the backyard patio, we felt like kids leaving summer camp. So many good memories and fun activities only made us want to stay longer and do more. We never had lunch mid-mountain at Royal Street Café. We hiked Thaynes Canyon, but didn’t get into the high Uintas that are such great hiking country. Swiss Days in Midway and a trip to Utah’s red rock country are still on our to-do list. Maybe next year.
Our quick trip to Jackson Hole turned into the perfect getaway within our getaway. We hiked up Cascade Canyon and were delighted that, after 33 years away, our legs still made it up and back. We had dinner that evening at Jenny Lake Lodge and felt much more in tune with the employees than the other guests. We still see ourselves as the newlyweds we were when we first got acquainted with the Tetons instead of the seniors that everyone else saw as us. We were envious of Wyoming’s terrific efforts to preserve the natural beauty of the area by demarking so much national park, national forest and wilderness. Park City has no such foresight guiding development.
First weekend back in Honolulu we were invited to join a very small tour group through (Hawaii Heritage Foundation) of the Cooke estate in Manoa. DL, friend and docent, walked us around the grounds and gardens and heiau, explaining the significance of plants and structures and how this all fit into the history of Hawaii. We were invited into the home for refreshments, something very seldom done on the usual tours. S. and M. Cooke are guardians of a living history. Artwork by some of the islands’ finest artists grace the walls, and rare books on Hawaiiana fill a private library that could be a movie set. Everywhere we turned we encountered valuable objects, from koa calabashes to the collection of owls peering over the shelves of books. The Cookes are protecting and sharing the heritage of Hawaii.
Best was DL’s very enthusiastic and optimistic view of Hawaii. Instead of thinking of Hawaii as a small island kingdom victimized by westerners, he portrays it as having a huge influence on world culture. Given its size and remoteness, it still made an impact in the days of canoe voyages and continues today as visitors come here for a taste of its charm. Hawaii welcomes and assimilates strangers; it exports aloha. Who but the most jaded can think of Hawaii and not have warm feelings toward it?
Not me. The tour settled my wandering spirit, at least for a while. It’s nice to be home.
I flew out of my comfort zone and into the Twilight Zone. The Romance Writers of America conference in tweaked my thinking in respect to what I write and how I market my writing. Or should be marketing my writing. The learning curve continues to be steep. And there's no place for shyness or thin skin if you ever want to be published.
In fiction, character growth takes place through conflict. I believe that’s true in real life, also, although we may not recognize it because it’s not tied up neatly between pages on a specific timeline or end with a season finale. This year in Hawaii, the shower trees are particularly beautiful because of drought conditions. I’ve heard told that to make mango trees produce more fruit, you should either prune or drive a nail in the trunk before they begin to flower. When the going gets tough, the innate sense of reproduction and survival kicks into gear. For humans, the need to put food on the table and pay the mortgage compels us to work. Writers often produce their best work under deadline. Stress has its place.
Self-induced stress can be a good thing. When surrounded by the best and the brightest in the industry, comparison is inevitable. Why her, why not me, and how to go about remedying the situation? One of my favorite lines to come out of the workshops was from Kate Duffy, editor at Kensington. To paraphrase her slightly, she said, “The gap between published and unpublished authors is a chasm as big as the Grand Canyon.” This is not to say it’s insurmountable; three days of workshops teaching the craft of writing, channeling raw talent toward producing a product that will sell attest to that. There is even a term for those who make the leap: debut authors. I like to think I’m not exactly standing on the North Rim of the Canyon, more like ready to ford the creek at the headwaters.
Now that conference is over, I’m trying to digest what I heard and hope to apply to my own writing life. I know that the status of being published electronically has risen slightly in credibility, which is a good thing. And once again I have heard reiterated in a dozen forms the essence of every good story. It’s the writing, (stupid). It also helps if that really great story is submitted to a publishing house instead of left to collect dust in the laundry room. Imagine it, write it, mail it. Simple as one, two, three?
A writer friend included me in a group email asking if we had horror stories of houseguests. Since we have the welcome mat out at two houses, both in resort locations, we have seen our share of house guests. Surely, she suggested, there are tales of people asking to stay three days and remaining three weeks. What about those who nosh through your fridge, your hurricane supplies in the store room, help themselves to the liquor cabinet? Did someone smash your car or keep you up nights with their lousy karaoke singing?
I’ve tried to come up with some clever anecdote and been empty-handed thus far. Unlike many residents, we’ve had the advantage of being able to put guests in hotels where P worked. They might be people we know and like but are not familiar enough to have under our roof. One year we had too many family members staying and had to put those with the slickest credit cards in hotels. Outsourcing of the fiscally fittest. During the kids’ high school years, we had guests of a number indeterminate until they came downstairs for breakfast the next morning. We’re fairly sure we’ve had house guests we never knew about.
The truth is that we’ve had wonderful luck, and memorable moments, with the people who have stayed with us. We’ve mixed people who barely knew each other for a long weekend. They ended up friends ready and willing to meet again. We’ve had guests overlap. The first ones dutifully stripped sheets and mopped the bathroom before the second set unpacked their suitcases. In March R. asked if she could entertain at our house. (We got invited) She did all the shopping and cooking for a delightful dinner party. Our longest term guests were nieces, two at a time, and on two different occasions. The youngest sisters were teens who came for six weeks of summer school. The other set were young adults who had recently become cousins through marriage. Like college roommates, they got acquainted and made the most of their time in the islands. We’d welcome them all again, any time.
Nowadays our most frequent guests are own children and their spouses. When they can, wherever they can. They love to get back to Hawaii, but it’s much easier to rendezvous in Utah. All of them are quick to pitch in with cooking, entertaining, and connecting with aunts, uncles and cousins they don’t ordinarily get to see. They’re easier to live with now that they are grown and curfews have disappeared. We’ve been known to offer them beer or wine now that they are well past legal drinking age. And they sweep off the welcome mats at their own homes in reciprocation. Someone obviously raised them right.
Our most recent guests came from on a meandering route through the South Pacific. They brought us a bottle of peppers, a specialty of Pohnpei, which was perfect for us. We’ve known P. since our days in Puerto Rico, and the connection reminded us of another couple there who had frequent house guests. We’ve adopted their motto: If you can’t read it or eat it, we don’t need it. It keeps luggage simple.
House guests? Invite ‘em in! We have yet to write horror stories.
Paul McCartney released his latest album, not through the usual music sales channels, but through Starbucks. I learned this through listening to one of the usual music channels: NPR while driving my car. I do that often. My car has a cassette tape player, and, music non-aficionado that I am, I haven’t put a new one in the glove box for years. Hence, the dozen existing ones have all dried up in Hawaii’s heat so that they squeak when played.
The NPR interviewer thought the Starbucks release was Sir Paul’s way of showing his displeasure with music sales, which evidently have dropped 20 per cent in the last year or so. People just aren’t buying CDs anymore. Part of that is piracy—copying songs without paying for them—and part is the iPod and MP3 revolution of media players customized with your favorite tunes.
We succumbed to the latest sales pitch, mostly because our bedside clock radio only picks up one or two stations that feature annoying disc jockeys (another anachronism) and hip-hop music. I swear it’s that, not caffeine deprivation, that makes morning grumpy. This Father’s Day we installed a new clock radio complete with iPod docking station.
And then the fun began. Logged into the on-line music store and perused a gazillion titles and performers from the most current to way, way back. Classic, folk, rock in all its permutations, singles or complete albums, (If they’re still called albums) are available for a buck a number, or you can buy the whole original release. Hooked into the PayPal account and sprung for a memory stick full of new tunes.
Or, in our case, old tunes. We listened to clips of Peter, Paul and Mary, Crosby Stills and Nash, and a scattering of others. Close harmony, lyrics with meaning, a beat not synthesizer generated, made great music. No wonder we liked it then and still. We sang along, mining our memory banks for words we didn’t know we remembered. Songs we haven’t heard since, well, since long before our record player died. The office was a regular hootenanny, a nostalgic trip back to an era of protest songs and sing-alongs.
Last week I also bought McCartney’s new release, “Memory Almost Full” through Barnes&Noble. I bought on-line, so is that still considered a usual music outlet or new and hip? If we copy into our own iPod for our own use, is that piracy? The sound quality on that tiny media player is really good. And since it’s Paul McCartney, carryover of another era, I’m sure I’ll like the music.
My hat is off to teachers at all grade levels of education. I led a Saturday workshop for our local chapter of Romance Writers of America and was over and done with it in less than an hour and a half. To think of standing before an audience day after day and holding their attention is more than I care to contemplate. To those who have chosen teaching as a profession, I salute you.
My theme was “Plot, and How to find it in Your Story.” I had a willing audience of adults who had made the effort to come participate. And participate they did, which made my job much easier. But a class of junior high school students, attitude firmly embedded in chips on their shoulders? I’d last an hour, maybe a day, but a school year would never happen. It takes a dedicated person to face a bored or, worse, hostile audience all day every day. If my “students” fail to hone their fiction skills and continue to meander through their story lines, the world probably won’t suffer. If schools turn out students who haven’t learned the basics of science, math, reading, and cultural arts, then the world is a poorer place. A teacher’s responsibility is huge.
Most of the learning in my workshop belonged to me. I sifted through old RWA workshops taped during national conferences, re-read Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey, Robert McKee’s Story, and several other sources in search of a cohesive plot on which to hang my plotting. I printed handouts. I anticipated some of the questions that would inevitably arise. And I prepared for much more material than would ever fit into the allotted time because I couldn’t bear the thought of running out of things to say. It would be worse than running out of food at a party. It’s true. If you become a teacher, by your pupils you’ll be taught. A morning’s worth of lesson plans took more than just a morning’s worth of research. Imagine plotting how to get your high school students from August to June, proficient in seven to ten (?) subjects.
My reward was in good audience participation as people jumped on the idea of describing their plot in one sentence. Several tried writing their back cover blurbs, highlighting the conflict of the story. More than one questioned whether character growth was really necessary to a good plot and cited examples. (Yes, Virginia, it can happen.) Many people thanked me afterwards. I got “lei’d” with a beautiful Thai weave orchid lei.
I also got off the hook. Went home, and didn’t worry about lesson plans for the next class, next week, next workshop, next anything. Not many teachers have the luxury of one-time shots. Teaching is certainly not a thankless job—it’s wonderful—but it’s a job nonetheless. Congratulations to all who make the human race better by imparting wisdom, encourage learning and continue to do so on an ongoing basis.
