A Celebration of the Lost Arts

When I'm in the check-out line at the grocery store, I look for coupons, get out my checkbook and try to keep an eye on the cashier to make sure she's keying in the right code for my produce. So I don't always pay attention to the way my bags are being packed. On any number of occasions, I've groaned as I unpacked the bags at home to discover bananas at the bottom of a bag of canned goods. Or eggs tossed in willy-nilly with items that could cause breakage.

There is an art to bag packing. I have met these artisans. Generally, they are mature men in bow ties, who take bagging seriously, rather than the high school boys who view it as a bottom-of-the-totem-pole kind of task. This led me to think about some of the other lost arts in our supersonic fast-paced society.

Here are a few I've come up with...

Typography
If you cruise through magazines from the 1960's and 70's, you will find that type mattered. It was used to convey the look and feel of an ad. It was part of the design. Up-and-coming designers today rely too much on lifestyle and product images to set the tone. They see words as a necessary evil. As if to say, "well, of course, you have to include the 60% off message and all of the disclaimers, but those other words just get in the way." Maybe I'm just sensitive to it because I'm a word person. But the words, the way they look and feel can convey emotion just as effectively as a photograph.

Frugality
My mother used everything. And used it. And used it. Aluminum foil was not a one-time gig. Nor was string or plastic bags or even milk cartons. Towels became rags and rags became threadbare. A lot of them did not leave the premises until after she did. My parents and their parents lived through the Depression, which was largely why they were reluctant to let go of anything. Food was not left on our plates growing up. Over-ripe bananas were made into banana bread. Stale bread was ground into breadcrumbs. My mother was appalled when she saw waste. She was a proponent of recycling long before it became fashionable.

Letter Writing
Yes, we have email. And yes, I have succumbed to the evils of electronic communication. But I still get a thrill when snail mail arrives in my beat-up metal letter box. I love that someone took the time and effort to write to me. This is not to discourage those who email with their news. There are many advantages to the speed and efficiency of email. But speed has its price...words sent this way are often dashed off in haste, unedited and uncrafted. Letter writing is a lost art.

Movie Making
These days, it's all about the special effects. There are very few new ideas in Hollywood. If you doubt this, think about all of the remakes (or remakes of remakes) that have been released over the last several years. The original Star Wars was filmed in a garage with home made props. Computer technology didn't exist in the movie industry at that time. It all had to be done by hand, frame by frame. That took imagination and ingenuity and persistence. With all of the instant graphics at hand today, something grand has been lost.

I'm certain there are lots of other lost arts. Feel free to comment with your own. For now, I'm a little blue.

Maybe I'll go bake something. Or curl up with a book and some classic Christmas music. Ahh, that's better. Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom.

Toying with My Affection

When the toy catalog from Toys R Us arrived in our newspaper a couple of weeks ago, I knew the holiday season was off to its official start. The whole toy thing is really below my radar. My son is in college now, so my shopping list will consist of things like gift cards, clothes and X-Box accessories.

When he was small, I was up on the latest trends, although he rarely asked for the hottest toys. So I wasn't inclined to get caught up in the mad dash. I do remember going from store-to-store one year, trying to find a Spiderman web shooter. It straps to your wrist and spews the equivalent of Silly String. I was so proud of myself for finding it. He played with it once. Maybe twice. The toy he loved best as a child was his set of Thomas the Tank Engine trains and track. He played for hours, days, weeks, with those trains. I used to read him the original stories by Reverend W. Awdry. Then I'd hear him playing with the trains later, saying things like, "Cinders and Ashes, Percy, we're going to crash!"

To me, that's what toys are all about.

Playing my new "Beatles Flip Your Wig" Game

Lately, I've been thinking about the toys that shaped my own childhood. I still have my first slinky. And the dolls, much loved, but incapable of doing anything but blinking their eyes. I have my (one and only one) Barbie doll, complete with the original bubble cut, a few outfits and some mismatched shoes. From my mom I snarfed the cardboard frame puzzles we played with. Then there were the games. Christmas Day was our annual game fest, when we cleared the kitchen table (or living room floor) and played board games. My pride and joy was the Beatles Flip Your Wig Game. We had the classics like Clue, Risk, Monopoly and Life, plus card games. One sister had Barbie Queen of the Prom. My other sister had a game with a small purple princess phone that you had to dial for instructions. It took the place of the dice.

Then there were the crafty toys. Looms for making pot holders. The Easy Bake Oven. The too-hot toy that made creepy, crawly bugs so our brothers could torture us (like they needed help). The Spirograph. The white building blocks that were the predecessor to Legos. The Lincoln Logs.

Just out of curiosity, I googled to see what this year's hottest toys are. Although in some ways they have become a little more complex (and obviously more high tech) the themes are essentially the same. Included on the list were Legos, a make-your-own-bracelet kit, Elmo, a couple of board games and some dolls. My favorite of these was an "exclusive" by Toys R Us called the "Tub & Toot Doll." Yes, it does what you think it does. Complete with bubbles. I may have to get one for myself.

Christmases are much quieter these days. I can sleep in -- in fact, I'll probably be the first one up this year. That's nice, in a way. But I will reminisce about those Christmases past, when a family of eight swarmed around the tree and ripped open presents and spent the day together.

Am I glossing over the fights and disappointments that also took place on those long-ago Christmases? Of course. But they're my memories, and I'm sticking to them!

Gobbling it All Up

It's funny how we set aside just one day a year to be thankful for all we've been given. I pondered this on Thanksgiving morning as I walked to the corner to get a cup of coffee. It was cold and grey, typical C-town wintry weather. It was also kind of sleepy and peaceful. A little snow crunching under the old boots. The birds were raising a ruckus, but otherwise it was kind of quiet. Just a few cars out and about at 8 am.

I love mornings. The promise of new beginnings. I like being up early, and roaming around the house like a ghost before anyone else is up. It gives me time to get my bearings. And time to think about the things I'm grateful for.

So here they are, my thankfuls.

I'm thankful for my husband, my son, my warm home. And a job that keeps a roof above me, food within me and clothes upon me. (And a Kindle in my lap, just because.)

I'm thankful for siblings and other family and friends and coworkers and the coffee and the conversations that unite us. And for my parents and the others who have gone before, who still talk to me and urge me along the path.

I'm thankful for the earth, for its ability to keep me connected to everything. For its joys, small and large. For birds, sunshine, moon beams and flowers, grass and trees, soil and sky. (Yes, I understand the sky is not part of the earth, please don't get all technical on me.)

I'm thankful for the spirit that guides me, even though I'm not certain exactly how the whole thing works.

I'm thankful that my health is good. I still have my aches and pains, but they're manageable. I feel pretty good right now, anticipating breakfast with my kid. Eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee, lots of coffee and good times together. But I digress...

I'm thankful that I have all of my senses -- the five basics and the ones that keep me sane.

I'm thankful for books, their mysteries and their ability to transport me to places I'd never otherwise visit.

I'm thankful for all of the things I take for granted. I can't list every one here, but I wouldn't want to leave them out.

I think maybe the trick is to remember to be thankful every day for something. Just to acknowledge that, yes, things are good, right in this moment. To step back and take a breather and smile.

Gobble, gobble!

Tuning Up

My taste in music can best be described as "eclectic." A toodle through my record/cassette/CD collection brings up a whole range of music, from classical to jazz to pop to rock.

There was a time when my sister despaired of my ever listening to anything besides the Beatles. Really, she needn't have worried.

Over the years, I've developed a love for a lot of artists who didn't cross my path in childhood. Discovery of previously unknown artists is often by accident. Or maybe it's fate. I'll hear something on the radio or I'll pick up a CD at the library. Just because. That's how I discovered Kat Edmonson. And kd lang. And Julie London.

Music transports me. The Beatles take me to my childhood and my brothers, who played their records over and over nonstop until I could easily sing along. Mantovani's Italia Mia album brings my dad back to me, as do old Mitch Miller standards. Boz Scaggs and Steely Dan remind me of my antics in high school. Michael Jackson, Paul Simon and and Tears for Fears make me think of the time in my life when it was just me and the cat. "I Only Want to Be With You" was the song my husband sang to me from a phone booth (remember those?) that stood outside the Wendy's restaurant around the corner from my apartment. And my husband continues the tradition of wooing me, singing songs about me in the shower, putting his own lyrics to any tune you can name. (It's endearing, if frustrating when I'm trying to recall the real words to a song.)

So many memories tied to music. So many times I take music for granted, but honestly, I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't slip on my headphones and play keyboard or drums on the edge of my desk. Or crank up the radio in my car and wail away with Patsy Cline or Lesley Gore or Ella Fitz at the top of my lungs.Even background music has the power to set the mood. Some of the most popular Bugs Bunny cartoons are the ones set to classical musical. (Who can resist "The Rabbit of Seville"?). Music is life's soundtrack.

Of course, for every desperately wonderful thing in this world, there is a downside. "1,001 Strings plays the Beatles," for example. And those rotten songs that we call "brain worms," the ones that take up residence in your head, possibly for days, and will not be deposed, unless it's by an equally abhorrent melody.

Still, I'll take it all, the good, the bad, the off-key. Music adds the color and flavor to this drab world. And I feel blessed to have the ability to hear.

I might even acquire a taste for rap music someday.

Or not.

Perchance to Dream

Sleeping is one of those activities where my body and my brain are at odds.

If my body had its way, I'd get seven hours of shuteye every night. I have no trouble falling asleep...I often comment that I could fall asleep on a bag of rocks. Not the behavior of a night owl. But then, somewhere around 5am, I usually have to hurl myself out of the rack to make a bathroom stop. When I return to the comfort of my bed, there's a click -- my brain begins to kick in. Joining in are an assortment of fears, concerns, to-dos for the day, and other noise that build into a crescendo until I'm unable to tumble back into the Land of Nod.

So, there I am, an hour or so from waking for the day, and my brain will not let me rest. Sometimes I can fool it by trying to retrieve from my memory banks what it was I was dreaming about before I was so rudely interrupted by my bladder. By engaging in this exercise, my brain is tricked back into slumber. The trouble is, this tactic doesn't always work, and I give up and arise for good at my usual time, feeling cheated of much-needed rest.

My husband is my opposite. He is a night owl. Although he will say how tired he is in the evening, by the time my bedtime rolls around, he is wide awake, often not conking out until the sun has nearly made its reappearance. He has done some of his best research at 2 a.m. This is frustrating for him, especially on the weekends, when he sleeps through a good chunk of the morning and our time together.

Then there are the dreams. No one can really escape what's going on inside their head. On nights when I am so exhausted it is an effort to breathe, I will often begin to dream about work, and proceed to labor through a series of tedious exercises all night long. There are a lot of theories about why we dream and what our dreams mean. I figure dreams are a personal thing, tailored to our experiences. Sometimes they are just a series of meaningless episodes, strung together like a bad movie, replayed in our heads before being discarded.

I seldom remember my jaunts through other-consciousness. I know there are techniques for remembering them. Perhaps there's some benefit in this, but quite frankly, the dreams I do remember are pretty lame. And they don't help me sort out my awake self at all.

There are times when I wonder if our sleeping lives are just as real as our awake lives. Maybe it's a parallel universe kind of thing.

Maybe I just need a little more sleep.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

You can pick your seat, you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your family. Or your neighbors.

Like every other aspect of your life, neighbors can be a true blessing or a real pain. This week I attended the funeral of one of the former.

My sister and brother in the old neighborhood.

I grew up in 1960's style, in a middle class neighborhood, constructed post-World War II, where most of the homes were identical, single-story structures with three bedrooms, one bath and no basement. Only the paint job and the landscaping gave each house its personality. And there were the trees. Our neighborhood was shaded by old maple trees, planted when the lots were first plotted out in 1929 (I'm assuming right before the market crashed and the owner could no longer afford to construct the homes.)

Through the years, the houses became associated with their long-term tenants. Among those who have lived there for any length of time, my childhood home is still referred to as "Tony and Mary's house." Throughout my childhood, into adulthood and even today, this is the case, although my parents have not lived in our neighborhood home for several years.

Then, last week, we lost one of our old neighbors.

Mr. and Mrs. K lived two doors down from us. I have known them for the majority of my life, along with their three children. Their oldest daughter, Linda, I count among my dearest friends. I attended Mr. K's funeral this past week. It brought back many memories and felt as though I was losing a part of my childhood. Like many of the folks in our lives, we take our neighbors for granted. Although we may move on and get older, somehow the neighbors we knew growing up are frozen in time, waiting for us to go back and give them a hug.

It occurred to me, looking at the photos the family arranged, that I'd really only scratched the surface of who Mr. K was, in the way kids know an adult in their neighborhood. I remembered the polka music, of course -- his family made sure it was playing in the background during the wake. I remembered that he worked at the Chevy plant, that he was full of life, and like many of the men in his generation, he didn't take shit from anyone. He loved his family fiercely and worked his ass off to provide a good home for them. One of my favorite stories was of Mr. K. reluctantly taking his daughter to see Elvis Presley, her hero. He didn't want to go, but he wasn't going to let her go alone. As it turned out, the event transformed him. He talked and talked about how much he'd enjoyed the concert and wanted to go back and see Elvis the next year.

I look at my neighbors today. We have been lucky to date. We say "hi" and wave and chat every now and again. Then go on our way. I wonder if our house will be known as "Ginleys place" when we move on. People don't stay in one home as long as they used to. There are only a handful of people on our street who are still here since we moved in 20 years ago. We are a far more transient society.

I guess all you can do is foster that neighborly feeling while it lasts. Be considerate of your next door neighbors. And remember them when you can no longer shout a greeting over the fence.  Remembering people keeps them alive, even when they move to better neighborhoods than this world can support.

So long, Mr. K. I look forward to sharing a polka with you someday. In the meantime, have a beer for me, will you?

The Pain, The Wonder of Modern Technology

I think it's telling that when describing technology I chose the word "pain" before "wonder." I have a love/hate relationship with modern devices.

There was a show we watched a year or so ago that underscored the fast pace with which technology has taken over our world. The producers took a family in England and rigged their house with only the contraptions that would have been available for a specific time period. I think they started in the 1940's and worked their way up to modern day. Each "era" lasted one week. The family included a teenage daughter and a couple of younger sons. They found creative ways to entertain themselves in the early years. The kids grew bored by the time they got to the 1970's and they were able to play Space Invaders and Pac Man. By the time they completed their journey, they were ready to hook up to the google and jump back into the 21st Century.

This started me thinking about my own experiences. I've aged during a time in history when technology has advanced at breakneck speed. I learned to type on a manual typewriter. Then mastered the electric typewriter and 10-key calculator. I worked in a print shop in high school on a then-state-of-the-art CompuGraphic typesetting machine. You had to change the font by replacing a strip of film. You saw your copy in a window that was about 6 inches wide. Once you hit the return button, the words printed on the light-sensitive paper, which had to be developed in a chemical bath. Then you could take the type and cut and paste it onto your board, which was shot by a huge camera. You developed the film and used it to make a plate, which you put on a press to print. Piece of cake.

In 1983, my place of employment purchased a Wang Word Processing System, which was quite the thing. The Wang was a mainframe system. A clunky box with a green screen lived on my desk. I was in accounting at the time and was required (after half a day's training) to create elaborate spreadsheets. Mastering the beast was no easy feat. I had to code in each column manually. If I miscalculated, I had to go back into the system and rejigger the formula until the columns lined up the way I wanted them to. It was cool back in the day. Really.

Fast forward to 1990 and my first Mac.It was small, but all I was doing was typing words, so it sufficed. Today at work I have a Mac with a 25-inch screen, a trim keyboard, a small orange box and a CD player. Pretty amazing.

On the home front, we have an old laptop that gets the job done.I don't have all of the latest electronic doodads, but I keep up fairly well. My husband uses my cell phone more than I do (he has a dumb phone). He takes panoramic photos and makes movies and checks the score of whatever game is playing. I admit that texting is a cool thing. And we get a fair amount of entertainment value from seeing how our phone translates our voice-activated messages.

There are times I wonder, now that I've experienced these modern contraptions, would I be able to go back and live in the past?

I would miss the ease of looking up information on the internet, of finding out what happened to old friends and doing genealogical research with a world full of information at my fingertips. I would miss the ease of keeping in touch via Facebook and email. And it's nice to be able to communicate with my son via texting.

I would not miss the frantic pace that modern technology has helped to create. Because everything is instant, people think results should be instant. There's no time to ponder anything. We joke at work because every job that comes through our department is labeled "HOT!" This is just one of the symptoms of a larger problem. It's not that more is being accomplished -- the work actually takes longer to accomplish because changes can be made right up to the last minute.

Of course, it would be a whole lot harder for my son to exist in a world without computers and such because he's never known any other way. I'm glad to have come of age when I did. It's nice to have been able to see how our tools have changed over the years.

I almost said "how we've evolved" but I'm not sure that's true.

I see couples sitting across the table from each other texting and ignoring one another. I'm not convinced that's progress.