The Lesser Knowns

I'm listening to the audio version of  Sarah Vowell's book, "Lafayette in the Somewhat United States." I enjoy reading her work because she talks about people who, over time, have surrendered their spotlight to the brighter stars around them.

Let's face it, it's tough to compete with George Washington.

I've often found that the people in history who hang around the famous folks are often just as fascinating. In this particular tome, I have heard about a handful of minor players who were not on my radar screen but who made contributions to the Revolutionary War. As usual, Mr. Ginley, who is exceedingly knowledgeable about American history, recognized these characters, but I daresay they remain strangers to too many Americans, who are still fuzzy on whether the Civil War or Revolutionary War came first.

My point (that I'm taking so long to get to, sorry) is that it's often the people behind the scenes who get things done. The unsung heroes, who may or may never get a mention in a history book. The worker bees. The terracotta soldiers, fashioned after real, living souls who walked the earth in anonymity but whose faces survive, centuries later, captured in clay.


If the squeaky wheel gets the grease, in history, its often the larger-than-life figures who get the press. I don't take anything away from George Washington, who was an amazing human being or Lafayette, a real character. But it's cool to be reading about others, too, who made a difference in a quieter way. They didn't have meetings, they didn't talk about how great they were, they weren't plotting to take over, they just quietly went about the business of helping a new country establish a place in the world.

Flash forward to today and the cacophony that the media has become. It's easy to contribute to the noise, but not easy to be heard.

Who are today's heroes lost in the hoo-ha?

The Lost Letters

In the ongoing march to Idiocracy, we've decided it's a good idea to stop teaching cursive.

The brain trust behind this one believes that students use computers anyhow, so they don't need to know how to write in cursive.

No, we don't want our children's children to be able to read historical documents. Or their grandparents' old letters. Or to sign their name to anything. (If an "X" was good enough for any ancestor who never had the opportunity to go school, it should be good enough for the next generation.)

Following this logic, I've come up with other curricula we can eliminate from our schools. No sense in our kids learning stuff they're not going to use every day, right?

So, here we go:

1. Scale back on the math. Young folks don't balance their bank accounts anyhow. Why would they need to? The bank would never shortchange anyone. They never make mistakes. And cash registers scan your purchases and tell the cashier how much you need to pay. The money magically comes out of your debit or credit account. All you have to do is swipe your card. Anyone who really wants to know all that number stuff can take an accounting class. We'll leave it all to the accountants and bankers. They've done a marvelous job so far. (If you don't believe me, ask the Google to look up "2008 banking scandal".)

2.  Don't bother teaching proper English. That's what spell check is for, right? And with a couple taps on your keyboard, your Word program very kindly check your grammar, too. It may not correct all your mistakes, but who cares? The reader will know what you meant. If they can't figure it out, it's on them.

3. History is boring. There's plenty of it online. Just ask Wikipedia. Whether it's right or not doesn't matter. As long as you can say you saw it on the internets, you've got credibility. Or you can watch the History Channel, which broadcasts plenty of shows with educational value. Like Ax Men, Hunting Monsters and Big Foot Captured. If those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it, we're screwed.

Well, you get the point. Dumb children equals cooperative children. Put an idiot in the highest office in the land, convince an uneducated populace he's the smartest person in the world, and they will follow him anywhere.

Is it too early for a drink?

Snaps

Whilst digging through boxes of pictures looking for something else, we found a book of old photographs from 1976-1977.

JC is watching me.

At the time, I took a quick glance and set the book aside. Last night, I took a second look, then a third. Not just peering at the subjects in the photos, but the backgrounds, too. My childhood home. The neighborhood. My grandmother's place, her lake, my brother with the tiny fish he caught. Each photo a snapshot of a place and time long extinct.

The idea dawned on me that my parents, in the photos, were younger than I am now.  My self at that moment, as a senior in high school, had no idea what was ahead. No inkling of a husband or a son or career. Or anything that was to come.

My parents at the park.

Little things. The big maple trees that used to arc over the street in glory, almost all cut down now. The hallway in the background of two photos that clearly shows my mom's handiwork. (I still remember coming home from school and seeing green sponge prints on the wall, an idea she got from one of her magazines.) Me dressed as Groucho Marx for Halloween. My much-younger siblings, long-haired brothers and bell-bottomed sisters.

All captured in fading snapshots.

How bittersweet that such technology exists.

Mom, Kelly and "The Wall"

Carry Me, Mommy

Sometimes it sucks being an adult.

When I'm sick or life kicks me in the nasty bits, that's when I need my mom most. I want her to make me some chicken soup or hand me a candy bar and tell me I'm beautiful and everything is going to be just fine.

Mom has been gone for over three years. I don't think you ever get over losing your parents. They are the lighthouse when you're on turbulent waters. When the light goes out, you're left to wander the seven seas alone.

I do talk to my folks on a regular basis. Sometimes I can feel them nearby, other times, not so much. I sense my mom when I'm trying to sew something or I'm trying a new recipe. I'll contemplate taking a shortcut, and I'll hear her admonishing me. Or I'll be bringing in too many bags from the trunk of my car, and I'll hear her whisper, "Lazy man's load," right before I lose my grip and drop one of them.

Looking back, I wonder how she did it. With few exceptions, my mom held it together very well. Until the last few years of her life when her mind failed her, she was the glue that bonded our family. She was counselor, master hugger, comfort food maven and the source of seemingly bottomless love for us.

This morning, I was thinking about how much fun she made holidays like Halloween. She decorated the house, carved the pumpkin, and managed to keep us from chomping all the candy before the trick-or-treaters arrived. She helped us go through the limited selection of costumes and applied makeup where necessary. Then she kept an eye on us after we'd schlepped door-to-door to make sure we didn't consume all of our candy that night.

I wondered if Mom knew I was writing about her. I had a feeling she did. So, I decided to ask her a question.

"Hey, Mom, is all of this stuff in my life going to work out?"

"We'll see," she said.

Of course.

Scouting it Out

Every now and then I have weird flashbacks to my childhood. Lately, I've had the Ma Ku Ay song going through my head.

I'm not sure if it was the twilight stroll through the MetroParks last week. Or what exactly started this particular soundtrack going through my brain. But once it did, I had to dig a little deeper.

Following in my sister Diane's footsteps, I signed up with the Girl Scouts. I only lasted about two years or so, but it was enough to learn some cool stuff. Like a traditional Maori stick game. Thanks to the Google, I discovered the GSA calls them lemme sticks, but what they actually are is Ti Rakau. (Lemme sticks are part of a gambling game.) Stick games were used as a way to train young men in spear fighting.

We just called them Ma Ku Ay sticks, after the song that's chanted as you tap the sticks on the ground, click them together, or toss them to a partner:

Ma ku ay ko e tay O way ko e ta no
Ma ku ay ko e tay O way ko e ta no

My dad fashioned our sticks from old ladder rungs.  Back in the day, you didn't just go out and buy stuff like that. You went to your folks, told them what you needed, and they hauled something out of the garage or the attic and made it work. (In those days, EVERYTHING was recyclable.)

Also part of the Girl Scout experience was the "sit-upon." My mom made one out of an old Charles' Chips can. The concept is pretty ingenious, actually. You put your stuff in the can and carried it around by the rope handle mom put in the sides. You could use your sit-upon to plant your butt in front of a campfire. If I'm remembering correctly, mom even spray painted the can so that only we knew it was the can that wasn't returned to Charles when he delivered his next round of chips. (Yes, back in the day, CC delivered snacks to your door. When you returned the can, you got a deposit back).

Sometimes I wish I'd stuck it out with the Girl Scouts a little longer. We didn't do enough camping or hiking to suit me. But I enjoyed what we did. (Except for the outhouse thing. I still remember trying to hold it in until morning because I didn't want to have to wake up my "buddy" to walk with me through the dark.)

Unfortunately, Mr. Ginley's idea of roughing it is basic cable at a Motel 6. So I probably won't be doing any camping anytime soon.

But maybe we can take another walk in the park. I can crunch some leaves. And sing the Ma Ku Ay song to myself as we stroll.

Falling Fast

One day this week, I was driving down the street and noticed a few leaves changing color. Two days later, BAM, the leaves had burst into yellows and oranges and reds.

Must be autumn in Cleveland.

Like most seasons, the best part is here and gone so quickly, you can miss it if you blink. While that white stuff that shall-not-be-named seems to linger on and on.

I would love to enjoy this time of year, if only it would stick around long enough. If we're lucky, we'll have a few more days of warmish weather and some sunshine before all the leaves turn brown and it's time to rake. It feels like the statute of limitations is running out on hot apple cider and colorful drives through the parkway. Although I won't be able to experience the smell of burning leaves, a childhood favorite, since the practice has been outlawed. (Yes, I know, it's not good for the environment, but there was something about that aroma.)

So, before I have to go extract my rake from among the seldom-used tools in the basement, I think I'll make a pledge to take a stroll through the park or grab an apple or raise a glass of pumpkin ale and make a toast to this oh-so-short-lived season.

But, with my sense of direction, I think it's best if I stay out of the hay maze!

Do You Know Where You're Going To?

Our senior high school class song was the theme from Evergreen. Diana Ross belted out "Do You Know Where You're Going To?"

Let me be clear, this was not my choice. And, while the first few lines are appropriate, the rest of the lyrics dissolve into a what-used-to-be-wonderful-in-our-lives love story.

The irony is, for me it turned out to be perfectly appropriate. I had NO idea where I was going -- figuratively or literally.

As for the latter, I have never had a good sense of direction. If such a thing is hereditary, I believe I got the gene from my aunt. She told a story of a time she was invited to an event at someone's house with a group of people she'd corresponded with but never met. She got to the general area and kept driving around the neighborhood until she saw a house with a bunch of cars parked in the driveway, and figured she must have reached her destination.

She went in, introduced herself, and had a perfectly lovely time.

A few weeks later, she got a note from her group, saying they were sorry she wasn't able to attend. She never did find out whose party she crashed.

This is me all over. Mr. Ginley learned long ago that if I was navigating and told him to turn left, he should turn right. If I were a bird, I'd spend all my winters freezing my tail feathers off in Canada. I simply don't have the inner map that tells me where to go. (Although there are a number of folks, I am certain, who would love to tell me.)

Any journey to a new destination in which I fly solo involves excruciating planning. I consult Google maps and print out enlarged views so I know what the cross streets are before my point of arrival. Thanks to Mr. G., my skills have improved somewhat. He's said when he's no longer crawling the earth, I should probably get a GPS. Of course, those things aren't infallible. There was a tour bus in England that drove into a lake because the GPS said there was a road there. (It had been removed.) So one must still use one's noggin.

And Google maps are far from foolproof. One of the directions we were given in getting to my nephew's wedding was, "Drive over the Key Bridge and do a U-turn." During rush hour? Seriously? No, we didn't do that. We weren't feeling suicidal.

My problem is that not only do I have a difficult time navigating new territory, I also have to stop and think where I am going in familiar places. When we drive around Parma, for example, my spouse will spout, "But you grew up here! What do you mean you don't know which way to turn?" At which point I tell him the particular street we are on is not one which I frequently traveled, and, anyway, I didn't drive most of the time I was growing up, so I didn't have to pay attention. I could sit back and let Dad do the driving.

All of which just goes to show, I really do need a chauffeur to drive my sorry ass around town.

One with a very good sense of direction.