Every Other Minute

Fireworks Not Welcome

Beverly Breton Carroll — Wed, 23 May 2012 13:50:00 GMT

The calendar has not yet turned to June let alone July, and yet my evening was disrupted by the violent "report" of fireworks last Sunday night, May 21.

I enjoyed fireworks growing up, the colors and the designs, not the noise. As an adult, I've seen enough fireworks to make the negatives of attending Fourth of July displays--sitting in traffic, walking through crowds, perspiring and swatting at mosquitos, gagging on air thick with Off, and covering my ears repeatedly at the violent noise--completely outweigh the positives--which are, what? Gathering with friends and family? Seeing the pretty colors? I can gather with friends and family without all the hassle, and thanks to the computer, if I have a hankering for fireworks, I can watch some from the comfort of my couch. Or go to Disney World.

So there is never a question where I will be on Fourth of July. Home. Enjoying the peace and quiet? Never. Who invented this idea of entertainment--explosions that can be heard across such distances with such immediacy? The Chinese, according to infopedia. Fireworks are "phow chook," which translated is "bamboo explosions." The earliest fireworks were bamboos stems that popped and cracked, making noises that were believed to drive off evil spirits. Over the centuries, the phow chook came to be used to commemorate joyous occasions. And we Americans picked up the tradition to celebrate Independence Day. After a war that shattered the country with noise and violence and death, we now commemorate it with a festival that sounds remarkably like a war has started up again. Couldn't we celebrate independence and the reinstatement of peace to our country with...peace?

I could put up with the noise, as annoying as it is, and illegal a large majority of the time, for most people setting off random fireworks are breaking a law. But I have a dog, and she cannot put up with the noise. Here's one of many warnings I found on the internet about fireworks and animals: "Fireworks may pose a problem for animals, both domestic and wild, who can be terrified by the noise, leading to them running away or hurting themselves in an attempt to escape." So even if I wanted to go to see fireworks on the Fourth, I wouldn't, because it would be cruel to leave our terrified dog home alone to face this fright of a night. Right now my dog has a major leg ailment, and is not supposed to be running or jumping, scrambling or clawing, all of which is impossible to stop when she starts hearing those loud bangs and wants to take flight.

So special thanks, people, for partaking in what is apparently your idea of fun, and my idea of illegal torture, almost seven weeks ahead of the Fourth of July.

Can I Get a Volunteer?

Erin McCormack — Mon, 21 May 2012 19:02:12 GMT

Not me; not that kind of volunteer. I’m the last to put up my hand to come to the front of the room. Instead, I scrunch down and pray, “Don’t call me, please.” However, I have years behind me as an upaid, often unseen, sometimes unacknowledged VOLUNTEER at school, church, town and various organizations. It’s a tradition that I fell into – my mother always volunteered, and my sisters and sisters-in-law. Not so much my brothers, but my husband is a volunteer extraordinarie - treasurer of church, the youth hockey league, and coach of our sons’ sports teams. It might not be possible to count the hours we have put in, but it’s never been a question that we would do it. Some people don’t have the luxury of time to give back, and others might think it’s not worthwhile to do something unpaid. Still others have individual pursuits, arts, hobbies that fill their hours. Recently, I’ve limited my volunteering to a once-a-month arts organization that is all fun and limited responsibility – to free up time to write. But I have no doubt, I’ll be saying yes to someone asking for help before long. Why?

When I think back, it occurs to me that my mother volunteered on School Committee, and Democratic Town Committee and Zoning Board of Appeals as something to do in the evening to get out of the house and be with other adults. As a widow at 30 with six small children, she had little opportunity for social life. However, she had a built-in sitter, my grandmother. Although Mom worked part-time when we were growing up, she no doubt needed the stimulation of adult conversation and meaningful problem-solving. With my husband, I suspect that his volunteerism originated out of a desire to “network”, using his accounting skills, that might eventually lead to clients. In terms of sports, he became treasurer to be part of decision-making. He became a coach, he told me once, “because I can’t sit still in the stands; I’d rather be with the kids and have some impact.”

For me, volunteering in the schools was an automatic – my sisters did it and many friends who were available during school hours. It was a good way to get to know the teachers, other kids and parents, to see what’s really happening, and to make myself a known presence. Over the years, I took part in various projects – helping to build a new playground; coordinating the Middle School Magazine Drive; heading the Celebrating Differences program for disability awareness; running enrichment programs. I never wanted a leadership position, especially while the kids were young and I was teaching. At times, I admit, it was a true headache – too time consuming, conflicts, or volunteers who didn’t show up or do their part. But mainly, there were a lot of good people, fun times, and a sense of accomplishment

My favorite part of volunteering was at the elementary school libraries over a six-year period once or twice a month, sometimes more. I love books. I like funny, quirky librarians and other parents to talk to. Mainly, I liked checking out books to the kids, learning their names and seeing what kind of books they liked – volcanoes or mysteries or sports or cooking. Gradually, I put a name to a face of almost all the kids in my sons’ classes, and many from the couple years ahead and behind. There is, I discovered, power in names. The kids know me as Mrs. McCormack or Mrs. K. I have watched them grow up, and still today, they will give a friendly hello or, in the case of the boys, lift a hand in my direction. There are a lot of great kids in our town. And I do believe that were I in distress on the side of the road, they would come to my aid. And I also believe, were they in trouble in some unfamiliar situation, they would ask me for help. In fact, I know this to be true. It’s not world power, but it’s a dividend well worth the hours I put in for so many years as a volunteer.

The Mad Among Us

Erin McCormack — Tue, 15 May 2012 17:55:59 GMT

By mad, I don’t mean angry. I mean the mentally or emotionally ill, who may seem agitated, pursued by demons. Or else, who seem to drift along in the ether of a slower and quieter world than ours. In our small town, there is a center for the mentally ill, which hosts monthly support meetings for clients and families. There are also a number of group homes, for those who are not, for whatever reason, able to negotiate the rules and requirements of daily life in the greater society. Some people I know by sight, having passed them on the sidewalk, at a bus stop, or maybe at the CVS. On a nice day, one or two may be sitting out on the picnic tables by the center. Not one do I know by name or have had an extended conversation with. In a world where barriers of all kinds have fallen, where I have friends of all colors and backgrounds, including blind and hearing impaired, there is a kind of invisible wall that keeps me, us, apart from the mentally ill or disabled members of our community.

Over the years, I’ve come to recognize their shapes, their clothes, their posture and their stride. The lady who seems like a teen from behind, with her long legs and swinging hair, until she turns and you see her weathered face. A heavyset woman who shuffles along, puffing a cigarette. The one whose pocketbook hangs like a necklace over her chest. The dark, scruffy man with his furtive looks, and the tall, skinny one with hollowed cheeks. To its credit, the local grocery store hires workers who are mentally disabled, mainly to bag groceries and retrieve carts. Some smile shyly while others hardly speak at all, but each has direct guidance and supervision. They also have nametags, and don’t provoke the same kind of fear or discomfort that some of the mentally ill do. I don’t believe my sons would take part in overtly racist or sexist behavior. But a crazy person, that’s different. In a recent incident, one of the local “crazy” ladies reacted strongly to the kids’s horsing around in a public place. In response, the boys yelled at each other to get away from her, and sped off. No one thought to say, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Mental illness generally doesn’t frighten me. There is mental illness in my family, as in many, following rather clear and direct genetic lines. Certainly a strain of post-partum depression, which I’ve experienced, and some of my sisters, cousins and aunts. A great-uncle was institutionalized. Several cousins developed emotional/mental illness in young adulthood. I have a childhood friend, sweet, smart and creative, who had a psychotic break in her twenties, followed by a few tumultuous out-of-control years, and then many more peaceful and productive years, with some disability support and adjustments of medication. My husband Donald has visited a client in the psychiatric ward. I’ve had a number of students who were bipolar or schizophrenic, some quite open about it, and one who wrote a research paper on her disease, concluding “there’s never been a better time to be mentally ill, with all the science and treatments available.”

I wonder. In an information age, those who can’t process information in the “normal, traditional” ways seem to exist in a world apart. The crisis with the veterans returning with PTSD highlights that there is still a stigma, and not enough treatment. Autism, as a developing mental/emotional condition, seems to have ballooned in a society not ready to deal with it. Yet, mental illness and disability is part of the human condition, and perhaps in the past, in more rural societies, it was less of a hardship. That is, the “disorder” is defined as much by society as the actual condition of the individual. I think in some places, mental illness had its own place and status, just another point on the continuum. But in others, great cities like London or Paris, it was its own hell on earth.

Still, sometimes, overburdened with deadlines and responsibilities, I wonder if there might not be some upside to it, being “exempt”, so to speak, from childcare and taxes, etc. Sometimes, I think it might be nice to be sitting at the picnic table on a nice spring day, pondering only how to get through the day from A to B, and not on keeping up with the Jones’s or going to the gym and dieting off the extra weight. “There is a certain pleasure in madness that only a mad man knows.” I don’t remember who said the quote. But I wonder if there’s a certain freedom there as well.

Women and Writing and Maine, oh my!

Beverly Breton Carroll — Thu, 10 May 2012 03:11:00 GMT

Deep inhale, and exhale, and then again and again and again. The luncheon tea for SPARC, the writing and mentoring program I and a number of other incredible women presented this year, came off with only the smallest hitches last Saturday. As we set up for the mini-fair and the tea Saturday morning, I discovered the tea was no where to be found (actually, it was to be found, later, in my car that was at home), but thankfully we live in a country with lots of super markets, so that glitch was quickly remedied. And the program turned out to have some pages out of order, but hopefully attendants who really wanted to read what we had thoughtfully written took on the challenge to puzzle out the page jumps.

But mostly what we'll all remember is a lovely gathering that provided a chance to play some games and raffles, win some great prizes, enjoy fabulous tea sandwiches and cookies, and talk and share in community with other women.  We wrote six-word biographies and if I say the entire room was rapt with attention as I read, in six evocative words, what each woman held closest to her heart about herself and her life, I would not be exaggerating.

By some time next week, I hope to have news, pictures and these six-word bios up at our SPARC website:  www.sparcforwomen.org   In the meantime, one of our attendants summed up the day pretty darn perfectly--a la limerick:

There once were some ladies at tea
Who gathered together with glee
They opened their hearts
With the women of SPARCS
The luncheon and gifts are lovely!

I actually managed to write a blog during our tea prep weeks...but only because I'd committed to it months and months ago, and I'm glad I did for I had another chance to write about my dear Grandmother Breton, and to return to my travel writing roots, and write a bit about some of my favorite places in Maine.  Check me out--I'm "Lovin' Maine," at Annette Snyder's Fifty Authors from Fifty States: www.annettesnyder.blogspot.com

Love and History, One V-mail at a Time

Erin McCormack — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 22:00:33 GMT

On my last visit to Pennsylvania, my mother handed me a packet of 25-30 v-mails written by my uncles, her brothers, in WWII to keep and share with family as best I could. My mother had five (out of 8) brothers in active service during the war – the Five Fighting Maloney’s, but most of the letters are from her brother, Johnny, with a few from Ed and Andy, all now deceased. Having had a chance to read them, the events of the war seem more real – the weather, the conditions, the chores. They were single, twenty-something year olds, who’d never seen much life outside of Vermont. They were gone for years, on the greatest adventure of their lives that would for the most part stay inside of them once the war was over. But these little slips of paper, what a treasure trove – of news and events, but most of all of family, feelings and home.

The v-mails (victory) are small, 4 in. by 5 in., single-sided notes that were filmed by the war administration and then reprinted onto pieces of paper to be delivered to folks back home, and to soldiers fighting elsewhere. All of them are dated, with the country of origin, stamped by the censor, and deleted of anything of strategic interest. My uncles covered a lot of ground between them: England, France, Italy, Sicily, N. Africa, Germany and the Pacific over the course of almost all five years of the war. Their progress can be charted from the vmail, along with general ideas of weather and climate. Once in a while a reference to the bigger movements of war – “Winnie Churchill and Gen. Eisenhower were here to inspect our famous division. I’ve seen quite a few of the big shots….”

But more than that, I feel a much warmer, closer connection to these men who were generally not big talkers later in life -- my Uncle Johnny esp. who shows so openly in these little letters his feelings and affection for his family and girlfriend, to become wife, at home. His greetings and teasings, his little doodles and passing remarks – so sweet and respectful. No doubt valuing the love, comfort and support of home, all the more precious due to the uncertainties of war. There is so much family history embedded in the vmails – “heard Pat’s ears were bothering her” (my Mom), or “that Dick has turned into a real Killer Diller” (Uncle Dick) or “Andy’s operation” or “Gramma’s funeral.” As short and restricted as these communications are, I can hear my uncle’s voice – his humor and expressions, and his effort to be strong, uncomplaining and reassuring. And, once in a while, a note of weariness and dismay.

Today we might consider the notes a little corny or sentimental. But I would give a lot to read the fond wishes and tender hopes of my sons, for them to be able to express themselves in that way, rather than the tough-guy sarcasm and trading of insults that seems to have arisen in our society, despite the fact that most of their peers have grown up in relative safety and comfort. But, I suppose I would not want those words at the high cost of losing them in a war.

Or, even surviving a war. Uncle Johnny was at the D-Day invasion in Normandy, early June, 1944. His next vmail is dated June 28, 1944, FRANCE. “Can’t say much,” he says, “Not much to tell.” I never heard any of my uncles tell war stories. “They didn’t talk much about the war,” says my mom, their baby sister. Mostly, after the war, they became quiet men, who didn’t say much about whatever they felt.

Taking a Bite out of an Apple

Peggy Yalman — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 00:37:52 GMT

This is a follow-up to my blog of January 6, 2009 called "Blackberry Blackberry". At that time I was about to purchase my first pda - a blackberry. I had done the research and made the decision to go the blackberry route instead of puchasing the Apple Iphone. Fast forward 3 years later and I just bit into an Apple!!

Yesterday I purchased an Iphone. Yippee! I had been planning this purchase for a few months, but waited until my AT&T contract had expired and I would get the phone at a great discount - I paid $100 for the Iphone 4. I have been playing with it now for over 24 hours and I am as entertained as a kid with a new Lego set!

In the 3 years since I bought my first blackberry a few things have happened that make the switch to the Iphone inevitable. First of all, although I liked my blackberry and was very comfortable using it, the technology hasn't advanced since 2009. In technology age that is like 25 years. If there is one thing we expect from technology it is change - new and faster features. The blackberry is stagnant while the Iphone continues to upgrade its features. In fact, I read that about a million people a month are moving away from the blackberry to the Iphone. Talk about a company that could go under...

Second of all, Steve Jobs died. I never paid much attention to Steve Jobs. I knew that he started Apple, he looked good in his jeans and he thought up cool products, but I wasn't that interested in him - until he died. Then I watched the documentary on pbs about him and read the Isaacson biography, Steve Jobs and I was blown away by the man and how his mind worked. He was a genius! The man had amazing vision!

Third, many of my friends and colleagues had Iphones and loved them. I was jealous of their apps - they could find restaurants, play games, listen to music, do all kinds of things that I couldn't do with my blackberry.

And I was really convinced the day I showed a house and the customer asked which direction the house was pointing and I said, "I'm sorry that I don't have a compass on me." And another broker whipped out her Iphone and immediately showed the customer the direction the house was pointing. No blackberry I know has a built-in compass.

So, here I am sliding, enlarging, downloading...doing all the things that my poor blackberry couldn't do and I'm having a ball! Did I make a mistake 3 years ago when I bought my first blackberry? Maybe. But I'm eating an Apple now!!!!

Real Estate Hint - Realtors understand that a house that is on the market for sale but has tenants living in it will undoubtably not show as well as a home occupied by its owners. Tenants generally do not take as good care of a home as homeowners; they are often in a temporary living arrangement, they don't care about the house because they don't own it, and they often don't even want the house to sell because that means they will have to find another house to rent. Realtors understand this, but buyers often don't and get turned off by the general messiness and lack of upkeep associated with rented homes. Let this be a warning to homeowners that are considering renting out their houses.

Choices: Before and After

Beverly Breton Carroll — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 21:39:33 GMT

I've often looked back on my choice to convert from Catholicism to Judaism before I got married. My then-fiance had explained how important it was to him to have Jewish children, which meant their mother had to be Jewish. He never said it out loud, but I knew this was important enough to him that it might have been a deal-breaker if I didn't convert. I loved him, and I wanted to marry him. And I figured at some point, he'd be willing to make as serious a compromise for something that was equally important to me. I assumed he'd get his turn to be generous and selfless for the greater good of our marriage and family.

My mother was thrilled that I was marrying a Jewish doctor from New York. I could picture her using her hands like a scale--Jewish doctor in one hand, Catholicism in the other, weighing the pros and cons of each, then saying, "There's guilt on both sides of the fence, so you might as well live comfortably while feeling guilty."

My father kindly kept his opinions to himself. And my friends thought I was nuts.
"Oh, my God, you won't get married in a church?" they asked.
"Nope," I said.
"You can still have a Christmas tree, right?"
"No."
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yup."

I knew there was no way to explain my choice to my friends, so I didn't. They couldn't accept that I had truly embraced the faith for what it was--a better choice for me. I was raised Catholic. My father took me to church every Sunday, and rewarded me by taking me out for breakfast to the place of my choice. But once I had turned 14, it became my decision to go to church, or not. Like any rebellious teenager, I stopped going to tick off my mother, who'd been the militant, insistent one about my religious education. She was equally insistent about her not having to go to church with us. As young as I was, I recognized the hypocrisy in her "do as I say, not as I do" attitude, and I didn't like it.

I also spend a lot of time between the ages of 12 and 21 with my father at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, held in church function rooms full of people humbled by the power of addition, yet committed to breaking free of it. Their "religion" seemed the most manageable to me--decide who or what your higher power is, and pray like heck for the courage to be a better person. If you grasped this simple concept, you could find faith in your God of choice anywhere, in any situation. Call it what you want, as long as it worked.

So, by the time I was asked to convert, I'd been exposed to a few different ways to connect with God. I saw Judaism as a new and refreshing path to my higher power. When we were first married, I never considered how I would feel about having converted if we ever got divorced. But fifteen years after embracing Judaism, I found out.

I had chosen to convert, assuming that my husband and I would instill good Jewish values in our children, together. Instead, while we were married, the responsibility for my children's religious education was relegated to me. Once we had divorced, I continued to do it as a single parent with no Jewish family for support. Suddenly, I was facing my mother in my ex-husband, someone who told me to do one thing in their best interest while they chose to do another. I had many private moments of festering resentment, when giving up Judaism seemed like the ultimate revenge. That rebellious teenager in me wanted to tick off my ex-husband in the same way I had ticked off my mother.

But I didn't. I was no longer comfortable with Catholicism; and truthfully, I love being Jewish. I've been to Israel, twice. I can mumble through Hebrew prayers with the best of them. I love hosting the holidays, and going into my kid's classroom to make latkes, and, yes, I even like sitting in temple on Rosh Hashanah for two and a half hours, thinking about the past year and the one to come, reflecting on my choices. The ones I've made, and the ones I'll have to face in the future.

Just recently, my second daughter became a Bat Mitzvah. Her older sister did the same two years prior. Both events were hard work--for me, and mostly, for them. I had the privilege of watching them confidently stand before our congregation to lead a service, teach a lesson from that day's Torah reading, and share their experience of giving back to the community. I don't think they had any idea what they were giving back to me. But when each ceremony was over, the clarity of my choice was there. I had spent all this time driving each of my daughters to temple for lessons and tutoring, arguing with them about doing many things teenagers don't want to do. By supporting the girls in the tasks necessary to be considered as independent, young Jewish women who were responsible for their own participation in their faith, I received the gift of clarity.

Emotions can cloud our judgement. We can be challenged by certain circumstances, such as divorce, to remember why we made a particular choice, what the benefit or reward was supposed to be. It can be difficult to understand the choices of others, or to explain our own. By sharing my chosen faith with my daughters, and seeing them take part in Judaism, I know why I made that choice, and I am reaping the rewards.

By guest blogger Beth Chariton.
Beth works for Art Matters, bringing eye-opening art presentations to groups in Eastern Massachusetts. A divorced mother of three teenagers, she welcomes the retreat into her basement office in the Boston 'burbs. She writes short stories, essays, poems, and whatever else she feels like, and is currently working on a nonfiction book about growing up in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Rant

Peggy Yalman — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 13:03:15 GMT

Yesterday the cashier was rapidly scanning my groceries when she suddenly stopped to ask me, "Do you mind if your dog food is in the same bag as the human food?" What???????

"You have got to be kidding. Are there people who don't want their canned or bagged dog food to touch their own food inside the grocery bag?"

"Oh yes, " answered the cashier, "plenty of them."

And therein lies what's wrong with the world I live in. For God's sake, imagine worrying about the can of dog food, which for all intents and purposes is the same as a can of soup or a can of tuna, contaminating your own food by just touching it.

Get a life!!!!

I just can't stand it anymore...

Do these people have nothing else to worry about? Nothing else to occupy their minds? Do they not read the paper or watch TV and see how so many people live in abject poverty while they are worrying how their bags and bags of groceries are being packed?

It makes me want to scream!

More than once when I have shown a family a lovely house to purchase, the mother has told me that there just aren't enough bathrooms. Why? She doesn't want her little boy children to share the same bathroom with her little girl children. AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!! How many people in the world don't even have one bathroom in their house?

A friend told me recently that she doesn't keep books in the house because they collect dust.
Dust? Books are a source of wisdom and knowledge - not just dust collectors.

Televisions have to be huge and have HD. Whole rooms are devoted to watching TV. What about the families that live in one room?

Am I being unrealistic? After all, these are First World Concerns and I live in a First World country. Should I be more understanding. I like my creature comforts as much as the next person. But really... Shouldn't people of priviledge, which is the majority of Americans, spend less time fretting the little stuff and spend more time worrying about the big stuff like hunger, poverty, global warming, Beethoven, Presidential candidates...

Real Estate Hint - Multiple offers are very tricky. Noone knows how they will play out. If you are a buyer involved in a multiple offer situation always offer the most you want to pay on the first round. You may not get a second chance. You will never know what the other prospective buyers have offered. And don't muddy the waters! The offer that has extra contingencies will probably not be considered. Have your realtor help write a "clean" offer which is straightforward and as high in price as you are comfortable making.

Welcome, Wood Friend

Beverly Breton Carroll — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 13:42:00 GMT

We're getting new wood floors in our family and living room. The man recommended to do the work appears to consider the wood not a material, but a colleague. He shares insights into the different personalities of the woods, the different ages and journeys--he is big into reclaiming--with the enthusiasm of someone telling a favorite family story. I like this; we choose him. Now, the new wood--we went with virgin--has arrived to breathe in the air of our house for a few days, to get used to a new place to live.

I studied horticulture, perhaps an unusual profession for someone who can't pull up a weed without feeling like a murderer. Anthropomorphic trees, flowers, fruits and vegetables are one of my very very favorite things in the entire world. I own two copies of Peach & Blue by Sarah S. Kilbourne chronicling the growing friendship between a fallen peach and a frog; one to read and one to cut out and frame. I have other books in my library with pictures featuring cabbages in a row opening their eyes to morning or photos of grapefruits smiling to greet the day. Over my desk in my kitchen are two fabulous Michael Sowa postcards, one featuring potatoes walking about their business over cobblestone streets, while an eggplant directs traffic and pickles drive by in their pickle jar car; the other features two pears, a plum, an apple, and a lemon on a picnic holding up their glasses to toast.

Natural woods surround my house. When I go to sleep at night, I think about the different sizes and shapes of trees as kind old souls, quiet but strong sentinels literally watching over me and my family and the house and yard while I sleep. In my woods, unlike Dorothy's, these gnarled creatures never get cranky or throw rocks. When I can't go to sleep, I think about flowers, peaceful-faced rambling roses exuding a delicate scent or smiling meadow daisies carefree in the breeze, to free myself from worries and cares and slip me back into dreamland, escorted by my flower friends.

The first Bible passage that truly stayed with me, arriving on one of those hot slow summer Bible-school mornings, solidified then, there, and forever, that leafy creatures and humans were at least on a par. Actually, the leafy creatures appeared to have a bit of an edge, at least in the wisdom department:
"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; And yet, I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith? Therefore, take no thought, saying What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink: or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?"

So how do I come to terms with the harvested sleepy-eyed cabbages that I grate for coleslaw, the baby-faced Peach that drips down my chin as I take a big bite, the diligent sentinels that now lay cut into flooring planks resting in my house? Not easily, but one has to believe that our botanical colleagues are only living out their natural purpose, and how wonderfully, spectacularly, honorably, humbly, and amazingly they do it. I am indebted.

Dear and generous wood; welcome to our home.

Life in Extremes

Erin McCormack — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 17:19:50 GMT

Recently, I was talking with friends about the reluctance of young people to go out on their own. Even those with college degrees were not eager to become apartment dwellers with rent and bills to pay, and having to share space with others. Living independently, their standard of life was lower than what they were used to. This generation doesn’t tend to run away; they are hesitant to live outside the nest. But it wasn’t always so. In many cultures, young people traditionally had some kind of rite of passage to adulthood, whether symbolic or testing their ability to survive. Most likely, it was a universal norm in the past, including our own ancestors who came to a new place and had to adapt to an unfamiliar and sometimes dangerous environment.

But what about the people who choose to live in harsh landscapes, and have seemed content and even committed to doing so? I’ve always had a fascination with how cultures adapt to their environments, changing the land around them, or else changing themselves to fit their world -- especially those in difficult places such as deserts and arctic regions, where daily life is often a matter of life and death, not by enemy, but by extremes of weather or climate.In these places, strength and character are not true until tested, and the measures are other than fortune or fame.

In Arizona, we visited the dwellings of ancestral Indians, who made a home high up in caves, requiring them to come down rock-faced cliffs for water and food. Mainly, these were places of defense, but generations lived there and seemed to thrive. While in Sedona, a Hopi woman spoke to us about her culture – those who consider themselves “the peaceful ones”, who live high up on mesas in the middle of the desert, far different from the Navaho’s and Apache’s who were nomads from the north. I was intrigued by Hopi spiritual life, the ceremonies in kivas and the Kachina’s, who live in the mountains and visit the Hopi, regulating all aspects of life from cradle to grave. Every moment of every day is sacred, ritualalized,lived with awareness from first prayer to last. In their origin stories, the Hopi clans were separated when they emerged from the earth, and spent eons searching to meet up at the right place. Other places they stopped were too green, easy, and pleasant; that is where trouble began. Better they find the hardest place to survive, and know that every moment is a gift that must be given thanks for. And so on the mesas they stopped, finding Eden not in a garden but in their souls.

Recently I had a student of Inupiak origin, born in Barrows, Alaska. She wrote about a childhood skating accident on the tundra that was a near-death experience. This culture, too, is the source of great art, like that of Cape Dorset, with strong connections to the spirit world through shamans and relationships with birds and animals. I rented a video called “Atanarjuat – The Fast Runner”, filmed in northern Canada in the Inuit language. Long, powerful, and sometimes hard to follow, it depicts the legend of two brothers who have overcome their father’s bad luck in hunting. But their success is met with jealousy by the son of the tribal chief, who received his leadership under questionable circumstances. One brother is murdered and the other escapes naked across the tundra, until by some mysterious force, he is able to leap a chasm and land near the hut of a family who saves him. When he regains strength, he returns to the village, intent on revenge. But in a vision he sees that revenge will only destroy the clan. A spirit speaking through a female leader says the offenders must leave and try to live elsewhere. The cycle is broken, the group is preserved.

We preach moderation, but there is wisdom in the extremes.

Frugality - Or, A Couple of Cheapo's

Erin McCormack — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 16:38:38 GMT

“You two are such cheapo’s,” said our six-year old son as we stood in line at the toy store, unwilling to buy some item, which none of us now remembers. He spoke loudly enough for the cashier and those behind us in line to hear. He did not get the toy, but we were embarrassed that our child was so affronted by our unwillingness to buy him some little thing that he wanted. Ten years later, our son is still not happy with our budget-minded ways, and frugality as a way of life is not particularly popular Where We Live Now. He has argued with us on more than one occasion that his friends find us cheap, and it puts him at a disadvantage to not keep up. From our point of view, our sons are fairly indulged with travel and opportunities. We also feel we’re spending more than we could ever imagine on their sports and education. So…the great divide.

My husband has always been thrifty, almost like he was raised in the Depression era: lights out, recycle bags, keep cars and clothes until they fall apart. He’s a coupon clipper and has fond memories of saving bottle caps until he could send away for a new baseball mitt, or some such treasure. I learned the harder way, having lived at times with almost no money. I’m the one who scrounged chair cushions for change and on occasion had to tell roommates I would be late with rent, which is still something I’m ashamed of. Our general philosophy: “Watch the pennies and the dollars will take care of themselves.” TJ’s, Marshall,s, or thrift stores. Eat out rarely; budget vacations.

Not to say that my husband hasn’t bought me generous gifts or that we deprive ourselves of all good things. We have a second house, at the Cape, because we enjoy it, and because of the investment. We’ve been to Disney, twice. We have taken family trips every year, and I’ve gone off on retreats and jaunts to Europe with friends. That’s not the point. And I’m not proclaiming frugality as a moral virtue that makes us superior to others. We can’t help ourselves; it stems from how we were raised and our experiences, even if our lives may be more comfortable now.

We know things can change, and often do. Plus, having had much, lost much, and gone through my dear departed Uncle’s belongings, I don’t put a lot of stock in STUFF making us very happy. Maybe for a little while, but in the end it disappoints. I had a vision some time ago of all the plates and glasses in our cabinets smashed to shards with time or uselessness. And my jewelry and clothes, who wants any of it after I’m gone? Already I’m trying to consign or give away. We’re not an heirloom family -- just use it up until it’s gone.

Frugality is a trait that we would like to pass on to our children, because we believe that it gives us more freedom from debt and worry, which makes it worth the trade off of fewer or lesser things. But they don’t really want to hear about it. It is less convenient, and clearly is seen as cheap by others, including our children and their friends. They don’t identify with the families who are mindful or even limited about money – single parent households, or those with four or more children. They’re pretty sure we’re misguided on this point, and despair that we will ever see the light. Yes, we do have our good points, but this is their cross to bear – cheap parents.

High Anxiety in Tornado Alley

Erin McCormack — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 20:30:17 GMT

High Anxiety

My mother always said about parenting, “It’s not the things you worry about, but the things you never anticipated.” How right she was. In this case, the thing I never expected was tornados across the center of the country, stretching from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes. On March 2, my son and his college roommates were headed off on spring break for a road trip from North Carolina to Boulder, CO, right through Tornado Alley, without a clue about the weather.

It went like this:

The idea for the road trip came up in January. Mom and Dad were OK with it. My son and his roommate had already made a trip in August from CA to NC to get the roommate’s car to campus. Slept on floors, ate road food. A great adventure; they had a ball. For the March trip, they had a budget and itinerary – two days out, two days back – four days of fun with friends in the snow. All good. ETD: Friday, March 2, at 5 pm.

On Friday, I check the weather once or twice in the day, and looks like tornados in Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois – along their route. I email my son to ask, “Do you know about tornados? And, does it make sense to delay trip and/or take an alternate route, maybe more southerly?” An email back, “We’ll be leaving later in the day; should be past. We’ll use caution. It will be fine.” As 5 o’clock approaches, and I check weather.com and NOAA, I’m thinking it won’t be fine at all. The tornados are listed at 8 and 9 on the Torcon scale, and they are stretching across 1,000 miles, including the south. The time line now is about 4 pm Friday until about 4 am Sat. morning. On the computer screen, it looks like a solid line of misery, a gash across the country, even for those who are prepared, and I know with a certainty that someone’s going to be suffering soon.

My husband gets home, and I convince him to call the boys, and do a “reality check” – do they know what they’re getting into? On their smart phones, they see some kind of news about storms in the Midwest – well, that’s s big place, isn’t it? My husband is frowning and hands the phone to me.

“Have you looked at the maps on-line, and compared them to your planned route? Does there look like a safe route? Not really. I’m asking you to re-consider. “

“Oh, Mom, you’re such a worry wart. If we see a storm, we’ll drive away from it.”

“But it will be dark, and you won’t see it coming.”

Big sigh. “If it gets rough, we’ll pull over to the side of the road.”

“That’s not how it works. They come up suddenly. You’ve never experienced a tornado. You don’t know what to expect.”

“Mom, we’re packed and ready to go. The other guys are just sitting here, waiting.”

“The other parents haven’t called about this?”

“Just you, Mom, and Dad.”

“Please. Just wait until morning.”

“We’ll talk it over and I’ll call you back.”

“Wait! One more thing,” I’m getting a message from Dad, which I convey on the phone. “If the emergency crews are out there saving people who live there, why should they have to help you, too? Have you thought of that?”

“All right. All right.”

He calls back. They looked on-line again. There seem to be a lot of watches and warnings. OK, he says, they’ll wait until morning.

At 6 am next day, we get a text. “We’re headed out. Looks like there were some deaths, probably better we didn’t go. Thanks.”

Did they go, or not? How will we ever really know? But they’re alive, and I like to believe they did wait. And I wonder why it’s my job, always, it seems, to raise the flag, even though I’m a proponent of adventure and first-hand experience. I had my moment of questioning, is it a real danger or just my fear? But then, I know, in my heart of heart of hearts, that they needed me to say my truth, right or wrong, and that’s the only form of courage that I know and that I could ever teach.

Unorthodox by Deborah Feldman

Peggy Yalman — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 15:38:21 GMT

Unorthodox is a fascinating new book by Deborah Feldman. Deborah grew up in the Satmar hasidic neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The book describes her upbringing in the home of her very religious grandparents, her marriage and eventual departure from Hasidism. It gives an unflinching view into the Hasidic culture - the strict rules, the history, the all encompassing adherence to religion.

Deborah's desire to further her education, experience more of the world and save her son from the cloistered life that she led leads her to break with the Hasidic way of life. One must admire her brave decision and hope she finds happiness and contentment on the Outside.

I learned a lot about the Hasidim from Unorthodox. I did not realize that the insulation of the community derives from the horrific experience of the Holocaust when one couldn't trust neighbors and friends. Nor did I realize that the rebbes mandate rules which can change frequently. Furthermore, the role of girls and women simply to be obedient wives and mothers is anathema to everything I know to be fair.

Also interesting as a subplot is the neverending and all-probing use of gossip among the Hasidim. No areas of life seem to be private - sex, menstruation, relationships between spouses, illness, privacy. Every aspect of life seems to be governed either by Hasidic rules or community protocol - quite excruciating to think about!

Although I am Jewish, I don't know any Hasidim and my interest in the Hasidic world is the same as the one I have for the Amish (see my blog "Horse and Buggy"). I did take a tour of a Hasidic neighborhood in Brooklyn (see my blog "A Tour of Crown Heights") so I have seen with my own eyes a Hasidic neighborhood - the mikvah, the temple, the Torah scribes,a restaurant. That tour explored the Lubavitcher neighborhood of Crown Heights. Unorthodox describes the Sitmar neighborhood of Williamsburg which is an even more isolated community.

Especially interesting to writers is Deborah's self-promotion of the book. By now you may have seen her on The View and other talk shows. She has a great blog with pictures, videos, commentary, etc.. I 'liked' her on facebook and she appears on social media everyday to get the word out about her book, her appearances, related stories and the response of the Hasidic community to her authorship. I am fascinated by her ability to publicize her book relentlessly and in fact the book is now on the New York Times bestseller list. Go Deborah!!

An adjunct to the book is the response by the Hasidic community. Apparently she is getting a lot of backlash and even death threats. It's hard to believe that a group whose culture is based on religion and spirituality would be so vengeful. I do know that I received a nasty comment from someone on facebook after I "liked" Deborah. In fact, this blog might even incite a comment. That's how wide reaching the negative response to Unorthodox is! Terrible!

Real Estate Hint - It continually surprises me that folks with kids in college or older insist on purchasing a home with bedrooms for everyone including their grown children. Perhaps understandable if your child is still spending summers at home, but I have sold houses to families with children who are fully employed, have an apartment, and probably will never live with their parents again who will not purchase a home without Susie or Billy having their own room. I am convinced that the the depression caused by their child's independence is influencing their home-buying decision.

The Siren Call of Sabotage

Beverly Breton Carroll — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 03:21:00 GMT

Even as the debate continues on whether negative attacks on an opponent are effective, Republican presidential candidates continue to employ them. Now some members of the floral industry do, too. This year Proflowers Valentine's advertisements featuring rose bouquets urged consumers: Don't order from your local florist. This tactic may have worked, short term anyhow. One customer came in to buy local because he ordered from Proflowers last year and thought the ads were misleading, drawing him in with the low prices then slapping shipping and handling costs on at the end that cost more than the roses themselves...but overall, our shop sold fewer roses this year.

When I first began writing, I remember enountering a more subtle version of sabotage. Writers weren't necessarily badmouthing each other, although a few were doing that, too, but there was a definite atmosphere of non-assistance. The motivation went something like this: there are a finite number of publishers looking to publish a finite number of works; if I help you, and you sell, that makes my chances of selling that much smaller.

Then I met Jennifer Crusie. Even before the era of electronic publishing exponentially expanded opportunities to be published, Jenny sold books and mentored authors alike. When I met her, she was already becoming hugely accomplished at both, and that garnered my immediate and complete admiration. More than once, I had realized that if I gave someone this tip about that magazine looking for articles, or passed on that this agent was looking for an author to write thus and such, and then had any plans of submitting there myself, I could have just paved the way for that author to nudge me right out. But being stingy about whatever information I had didn't feel right. Refusing to help fellow writers didn't feel right either. Certainly not after Jenny left her book signing all those years ago with my chapter under her arm, later mailing it to me edited to the nines! She targeted my biggest writing weakness, and after about three months, when I could face all the red marks on those sheets of paper, I began to learn how to write fiction.

I don't believe sabotage ever succeeds in making the originator of the slurs look better or have more success in the long run. But can sabotaging rivals work short term? Some people in politics and the floral industry apparently think it can. In the writing community? Not in my mind, or the myriad of fabulous lend-a-hand authors I've met over the years who have reinforced my focus on improving my own abilities, not taking pot shots at those around me in a misguided bid to improve my chances at success.

Thanks, Jenny. I'm still following your lead, and I don't intend to ever stop.

Family Trees

Peggy Yalman — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 17:38:22 GMT

Rabbi Geffen
1700's Lithuania

My 88 year old father has discovered a new hobby - growing the family trees. He is researching 4 trees - both his and my mother's maternal and paternal families. He spends hours on the computer, writes letters to offices and clerks, connects with distant relatives, writes down every piece of new data he discovers and spreads the information to other family members. It is truly remarkable how he has taken to this pursuit.

On my mother's maternal side - the Geffen family - there is an existing family tree online that covers 8 generations beginning in the 1700's in Lithuania. Included on the site are descriptions of little villages, photos, videos, memorials, updates. It is an outstanding piece of work and has won an award. It even links to Steven Spielberg's archive of films depicting Jewish life prior to and during World War II. I encouraged my father to send our small twig of the tree to the creator of the site as it stops with my maternal grandmother and neglects to mention my mother and father and their offspring including me! (Note: Google Ourfamilystory.net/GeffenFamilyTree and marvel at the wealth of information on the site- a true model family tree!).

On my father's maternal side - the Rice family - my father is caretaker of the famly bible which has a handwritten family tree on the inside cover that my father has extended to include his family - my sister, myself and my son. Following the branches of this tree has been a bit easier since my father has newspaper reports of marriages and deaths that his mother had collected. Interestingly, this family has some southern branches.

Turning to his father's paternal side - the Yalman family - has taken my father on a real detective hunt. Again, this branch started out in Lithuania - the same shetles mentioned in my maternal grandmother's family tree. My grandfather changed our name from Yalowitz to Yalman but he was the only one in his generation to make this change. My father actually tracked down a long lost relative in Indiana and was sent a very detailed family tree although it stopped in 1985. Again, my father needs to fill in the blanks. Who knew a branch ended up in South Africa??

My mother's paternal side - the Ostermans - has proved most futile. Nothing is on the web, nothing shows up, no documents, no letters. This branch spread out from Latvia and my grandfather's family arrived in America in the early 1900's but that is the start of the tree so far - no mention of the family back in the old country.

Anyway, all this research provides my father hours of pleasure. He has found a subject that is fascinating, full of surprises and needs his input. He feels that every family should cultivate their family tree...before it's too late.

Real Estate Hint - Please be sympathetic to a broker on vacation. Brokers need to get away just like other people! But, real estate goes on and on. Brokers usually get someone else in the office to cover for them while they are away. Please understand that this "temp" broker will show you properties, write offers, attend home inspections, but they may not be as diligent as your "real" broker. But, it's only for a week or two! Please don't buy a house with a competitor while your broker is on vacation! Brokers need to take a break now and then just like you do! But they don't want to lose a sale while sailing!

To Clean Refrigerators And The Like

Beverly Breton Carroll — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 03:04:00 GMT

I am much better these days at keeping my refrigerator produce drawer clean. I'm mostly vegetarian so my produce drawer can become quite full, including some pretty squishy vegetables like tomatoes, and some prone-to-rotting choices like peppers and cucumbers. Shielded by, perhaps, a triple pack of lettuce, or a bag of celery or baby carrots, some of these likely offenders can filter down to the bottom of the drawer, become forgotten, and start to dissolve into decidely slimy results. But I'm keeping the drawer clean these days, wiping it out and getting rid of any potential offenders before they offend. In fact, I'm not just keeping up with the produce drawer; I'm doing much better with keeping the entire refrigerator clean.

This is of import because...?

Because I never question why God designed a world where twinkly-eyed three-year-olds die of cancer. Where an exuberant young mother dies giving birth to her firstborn. Where a newlywed husband gets hit and killed by a drunk driver. Where a considerate teen gets shot and killed by countering a mugger. For some reason, I can accept that there is a grand design, and that a person's time here is finished exactly when it is supposed to be.

What I do question, often and always, is why did God make it so easy for those of us living to obsess on everything that is wrong? What we haven't done? What we can't accomplish? What it looks like we will never succeed at now?

These are the kind of thoughts I find myself, and my friends, all competent women living lives full of a myriad of successes, focusing on:

I've haven't gotten over to my mother's to help her with fill-in-the-blank. (No thought given to the hundreds of times and hundreds of helpful tasks she HAS completed for her mother.)

I sprained my ankle weeks ago and I haven't done the rehab so I can't run like I could when I was 12. (She doesn't really need to run like she was 12 anymore, and if fact, doesn't even like to run.)

My house/car/office/purse/laundry/junk drawer/you-name-it needs to be cleaned. (Forgetting every other item and locale that she has been keeping clean.)

I keep trying to leave work early enough to see my son/daughter's fill-in-the-sport game, but I've missed every one. (Yup, she's a bad mother, making a living to keep food on the table, the car on the road, a roof over her children's heads, not to mention sports equipment in their hands.)

And this is before we get to the subset of the writer's life.

I've rewritten the beginning page 30 times, and it still sucks. (According to her.)

I still can't figure out plotting. (Maybe she's not quite James Patterson yet.)

Every time I start revising, I can't get beyond the first chapter. (Perhaps that is because she saves no time for herself to do the revising.)

I've come up with 20 titles, and none of them are good enough. (And on and on and on...)

I realized several years ago that however difficult, the key to successful aging (assuming this is not an oxymoron) was going to be accepting what is no longer part of my life, and rejoicing about what is a part of my life now at this age that was not a part of my life at an earlier age.

So there it is. The refrigerator. I'm doing a good job keeping my refrigerator clean these days.

Getting Back to Nature - 2012

Erin McCormack — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 17:07:03 GMT

In the coming year, I would like to renew my relationship with nature. My time in nature has always been precious to me, yet lately, I feel it has been pushed to the back burner. My time has filled up, my energy has slowed down, and I’m reluctant to go out if it’s too hot or too cold. I put on my IPod to get me up and down the street in twenty minutes, but I miss the pleasures of the natural world, and I lose perspective on what’s important. I also miss the beauty of nature, both in growth and decay, and the surprise of discovery, even in places that I’ve walked so many times before. Spending time in nature, for me, is a spiritual practice, and like any practice, it needs to be attended to, to gain any benefit.

Over the years, spending time outside in nature was part of my daily life, giving me exercise, fresh air, and a sense of being part of the greater world. Growing up in a fairly rural area, playing outside was a big part of my childhood. All of us kids spent time in the woods or on the mountainside; we enjoyed the freedom and were not afraid of being in the great outdoors. In my college years, I spent time near the shore or hiking in the woods with friends. When I had my own family, I spent lots of time with my sons outside, just going to the ponds, streams and woody areas around our house. It was important to me to help my children establish their own relationship with nature – to be familiar and comfortable with it, to feel a part of it.

As an adult and as a writer, I would go to the Great Meadows Wildlife Refuge in Concord, MA, two or three times a week, observing the changes in seasons, or taking my binoculars to do some bird watching. Even at the most trying times of my life, these experiences gave me some balance and breathing room, and a good way to get out pent up energy. Plus, I had the entertainment of watching creatures at their daily lives. Many times, even as I was scanning the sky or marshes for signs of life, I would be working out writing problems in the back of my head. Every step I took and every breath I inhaled gave me new energy and fuel for the creative process.

This past year, I had a chance to get away to two places that gave me some of the joy and inspiration of nature. The first was Dorset, Vermont, for a family reunion in the towering and majestic Green Mountains, where the shadows of the clouds on the mountain sides are like small boats on an ocean. For a writing retreat, I spent a weekend in Ogunquit, ME along the rocky shore. The waves pounding on the cliffs and the far off horizon give such a perspective to my little problems, and the feeling of being just another of God’s creatures in this natural element. These getaways were like a wake up call to remind me how much my relationship with nature means, and how much I miss it when I don’t make the effort. And that, sometimes I have to put it first.