Snow Job

This week, the question "Why am I here?" was less about waxing philosophical and more about the buckets of snow that piled up in my driveway.

I was born in this part of the country, so it is no surprise when the white stuff shows up every year. What is a little surprising is that, in view of how much my husband and I hate the cold weather, we haven't moved someplace warmer.

We did live in Washington, DC for awhile. When I first moved there, they told me they didn't get a lot of snow. Both the weekend before I arrived and the one after, they got a foot of snow. When I showed up for my first day of work, my red-faced boss swore this was an aberration. I got a lot of comments about how I brought the snow with me. That was over 25 years ago, and they are still getting significant snowfalls.

I've dreamed of living somewhere in the Southwest. But, I don't know, either I'm just getting too old to move or I'm too practical. The logistics of such a transplant make me tired. So, the dream remains a dream, and I remain in Northeastern Ohio.

Like many others in this neck of the woods, I do enjoy having four seasons of weather. I just wish so much of it wasn't filled with the white stuff. I wouldn't mind it so much if I didn't have to shlep back and forth to work. This week was made manageable because my son was home from college and could dig me out of the driveway.

What surprises me is that the process of snow removal on the roads hasn't changed much in the last 40 years. For all the advances in science and technology, they still haven't figured out how to make the roads safe after the white stuff does its thing. It appears that we can conquer many obstacles, but Mother Nature ain't one of them.

So...I will go and wrap my hands around a hot cup of coffee and read the paper. And keep the curtains closed. Then I'll suit up and head off to face the cold and ice and snow.

Yuck!

What We Learn

One of the things I admire most about my husband is his voracious appetite for learning. He reads mostly non-fiction books on a variety of topics, including sports, history, travel, math and the English language. Oftentimes, he will read a passage aloud to me from one of his tomes, or he will call me over to the computer to read me something he's found on the internet. The cool thing is, he retains much of what he reads.

This comes in very handy when we're touring the Smithsonian. He will pull obscure facts from the recesses of his memory and share them as we walk through museum. I am constantly amazed. It occurred to me that I take this ability of his for granted. So I started trying to imagine what it would be like if he didn't have this incredible mind of his. And I realized how much I would miss it.

Unlike my husband, I read something, comment on how cool it is, and promptly forget. This causes a certain amount of consternation on my husband's part, especially when he is doing his crossword puzzle, and I can't remember the name of Jane Eyre's charge. (I read a lot of fiction.) My brain just isn't wired that way. I can recall jingles from TV commercials that ran 40 years ago, and I'm very good with song lyrics. I also have a good memory for events that took place at work. But don't ask me who the 26th president is, ask him.

I'm not sure I'm headed anywhere else in particular with this today. I just thought it was right and proper to give kudos to the man who has enlightened me in so many ways over the years.

So, here's to you, Mr. Ginley.

P.S. For those of you playing along at home, Jane Eyre was governess to Adele. And the 26th president was Theodore Roosevelt. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is!

Confessions of a Worry Wart

There's a TV commercial for insurance that features a guy, calling himself "Mayhem," who causes all sorts of accidents. I hate those ads. They're like a streaming video of the scenarios that keep me awake at four o'clock in the morning.

My status as a "worry wart" began at a young age, according to my mother. I fretted over each and every "what if." I once ran into my parents' room in the middle of the night because I knew cursing was a sin, and I'd used a swear word in my dream. I wanted my mom to assure me I wasn't going to hell. Although I would later embrace the colorful language that dots my vocabulary, I am still a worrier.

I sat here for a long time staring at the phrase "worry wart," and it started to looked weirder and weirder to me. (Yes, I have no life to speak of.) So I decided to google it and see what happened.

I learned that the phrase is derivative of "worryguts," an English expression that dates back to 1936. There was a comic strip character named "Worry Wart." Then, in 1956, the phrase gained credibility when it was used in a medical tome to define someone who worries needlessly. (Of course, this information has not been exhaustively researched, so it could be complete bollocks. That's the joy of The Google.)

There is some part of me that believes if you worry about something happening, it won't. Therefore, it's worth worrying about. Yes, this is dumb, but it gives justification to my bouts of fear about the future. The trouble is, there will always be things I don't think of to worry about that will blindside me. So in the grand scheme of things, I'd be much better off not thinking about what could happen.

I look up and the sky, calculate the enormity of the universe and my teeny tiny place in it, and try to leave my troubles behind. I count my blessings. I meditate. I take one day at a time. I do exercises to let go and just be. But alas, it's a struggle.

For now, for this moment, for today, I'm going to be thankful for the chance to spend the holidays with my family. I will make a wish that we are all healthy and in good spirits and able to celebrate cheerfully. I will wish in positive ways, and try not to stray into the dark areas around the edges.

Wish me luck!

P.S. I just read my horoscope for today. It says, "Let go of worry, as it is absolutely pointless." I swear, I didn't make this up!

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.