?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Kodak Moments

Posted on January 25, 2007

Years ago television ads promoted the taking of pictures to preserve memories. As the Kodak Company made its pitch, singer Paul Anka provided the musical background by crooning that the photos captured “the times of our lives.” I was always a sucker for that commercial.

It meant that people took photos with a camera that required a roll of undeveloped film which, when fully exposed, one took to Walgreen’s for processing. The result was a bevy of photos that were held in the hands and elicited strong memories of the particular event that had been recorded.

Digital fans don’t seem to see it that way. They take photos and move them to their computers’ hard drives. From there, perhaps they crop and size and improve and adjust. This function alone alters reality. Hopefully, in the process, they take time to recall the memory.

But what I have noticed most about people who are into digital photography is that you never get a photo via snail mail from them. In fact, it’s rare that you get to see what they’ve taken at all, in spite of such Internet venues as flickr.

My cousin, Steve, is a case in point. Every Thanksgiving he seems to take copious photos of our annual gathering; but I have yet to see one of them. He does it all digitally, then returns home to review them, and most likely files them on his computer. I grant it’s a great space saving device — as I have about 2000 photos in various boxes on shelves screaming for attention and organization — but I don’t think it is more human. I mean, aren’t memories to be shared?

When I die, my two sons will be left the task of sorting the one hundred years of family photos I have. If they were all on my computer, they could be gone in the blink of a delete’s eye. But in my case, someone will have to go through them. I hope they enjoy some Kodak moments along the way.

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Undecking the Halls

Posted on January 23, 2007

Four weeks ago yesterday we celebrated Christmas with the usual family festivities: lots of food, lots of gifts, and lots of merriment. Then Earl and I left on our annual January vacation, which consists of finding warmer weather for a couple weeks so that Earl can endure the balance of our local weather regardless of whether the groundhog sees its shadow.

We always have the discussion about when to take down our tree and undeck our halls. Do we do it before we leave or after we return home? This year, we opted to face the task when we got back. So two days ago — somewhat suntanned from our trips to California and French Polynesia — we tackled the tree, removing its finery and taking the branches apart. I gathered my collection of snowmen from various strategic points around the house and wrapped them in tissue. And last night, I delivered the last Christmas gift to my next door neighbor and we had a holiday toast of alcoholic cheer. Today, I reread all the cards we’d received in 2005 and spent some time reminiscing about those who’d sent them.

That’s not a typo. I always save the cards we get for a full year before letting them go. It’s as if I keep the friendships they represent close by too, until their 2006 greetings arrive at our door. Then, after being displayed in our family room, this past year’s batch of cards is safely stored with my ornaments until next year.

Yesterday morning, Earl reminded me that Christmas is only eleven months and three days away. This pronouncement is his final farewell to the recent season, while mine is usually a heavy sigh of relief.

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The Glass Castle

Posted on January 20, 2007

One of my New Year’s resolutions is to read more, since I hardly read half a dozen books in 2006. Oh, I salved my conscience with magazines and newspapers and catalogs, but that is hardly what I’d call quality reading. It’s escapism.

So my friend Judi and I are going to read a book a month together this year and then discuss it. She picked the first selection, The Glass Castle, which I dutifully purchased and took on my Tahitian vacation. After all, there is no better relaxation than to sit by the ship’s pool with a drink in one’s hand and a good book in the other.

At first, I detested The Glass Castle (Judi, if you’re reading this don’t go on as I know you haven’t finished the book yet.). Actually I detested the parental figures in The Glass Castle. The book is a memoir written from the point of view of one of the children. It opens when she is three years old and attempting to cook something for herself on the gas stove. Her gown catches fires and she ends up in the hospital for serious burns requiring skin grafts. Her parents spirit her out of the hospital before the doctors would sign her out because they didn’t want to — and couldn’t — pay the hospital bill.

The first half of the book describes in detail the parents’ attitude toward raising children. They don’t believe in doctors, dentists, or medical care. They don’t believe in paying rent. They don’t believe children need discipline either. So the three girls and one boy raise themselves more or less.

I wasn’t sure I could finish the book, given that the parents were such self-centered, self-righteous, self-indulged personalities. I wanted to shake them or, better yet, remove their children from their care. At the same time, the children loved their parents as most abused children do.

My heart ached when one of the daughters had her eyes examined in school and was found to need glasses. The mother felt that glasses only made the girl’s eyes lazier, and she refused to buy them. The school got around this by not allowing the child into the classroom until she had the glasses, so the parents eventually capitulated. The description of what the girl saw both before and after having glasses was enough for any reader to cry.

In the last half of the book, the children grow up and fend for themselves. They see their parents as obstacles and move to gain some semblance of order in their lives by leaving home. It’s an heroic thing to do. And one that makes reading the book worthwhile.

I can’t wait until Judi finishes reading it, so we can discuss the arc of the story. Until then, suffice to say I’ve vetted my feelings here and now.

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Back to Routine

Posted on January 18, 2007

We have been home about 36 hours from our recent vacation, but I am still in low gear. I’ve slept in, read various magazines, and finally gotten around to emptying my suitcase of Tahiti’s sand. I only did this because Earl was eager to do laundry, and I never want to discourage someone else’s productivity.

At the same time, I appreciate that Earl doesn’t expect me to hit the ground running when we return from various trips. I just can’t do it, and I believe it’s because my body always arrives anyplace way ahead of my mind. In this instance, my mind is still on the cruise ship Tahitian Princess watching the world go by from our cabin’s balcony. Eventually, it will come home.

Knowing this about me and travel, my axiom is that it takes a day for every day I’m away to catch up. We were gone seventeen days this time — a record length — so I expect to be ready to greet 2007 somewhere at the end of February. It should make the year fly by. In contrast, Earl’s daughter — who traveled with us along with her husband, Mark — commented that she allows a day to get settled in. I admire her efficiency and maybe I should ask how she does it.

And maybe not. Secretly, I like keeping the relaxed attitude I acquire on vacations and I almost resent having to address reality again. Cases in point: I now am the one who makes the bed. I also do the cooking. Neither of these things occupied my time on our trip, as we had a bevy of ship’s staff at our beck and call. In addition, while we were gone, our cable company stopped our service and a bill that got lost in the mail arrived on my return, only to be past due. Both of these situations require immediate attention, but I doubt any room steward will handle them. Wait a minute. I AM the room steward again. Ugh!

I’ll get over it when my mind shows up. I always do; and, in fact, I like being in charge once the shock of it recedes. However, at the moment, I’m still struggling. Which is why I think I smell our dinner burning.

My mind better show up soon or there will be Hell to pay!

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Maybe I’m Back

Posted on January 17, 2007

Early this morning, Earl and I returned from our annual January search for warm weather and sun. After all, we live in the upper Midwest. This year’s pilgrimage led us to Tahiti in French Polynesia, where we were pampered for two weeks. It was heaven.

And while we were waited on by French speaking natives, I began to think about writing. It has been almost five months since I stopped my blog, using the excuse that I wanted to write other things in other media. The truth, however, is that I haven’t written one significant work in that time. I’ve thought about writing, even come up with some topics, but haven’t put fingers to keyboard even once.

While I was on vacation, I made a list of goals for 2007. Suffice to say that most of them are not relevant here. But two are. The first is that I plan to revise a novel I wrote in 1999, one for which I won a writing contest. Besides the thousand dollars I received, first place entitled me to a review of the work by a reputable publishing house. And when the representative of that house told me the novel needed work, I felt rejected. I put the manuscript away and never looked at it again.

Eight years later that seems so silly. So I’m setting forth this year to try and revise the work. In the interim, the genre known as “Chicklit” has come into its own. And since my novel was in that vein before it was mined, it’s possible my timing could be right. Cross your fingers.

In addition, I’ve decided to return to blogging. I’m not sure just yet what form it will take. Every day? Every week? A theme for a while? Or random picky thoughts? I don’t know. I only know I sat down a few minutes ago to begin . . . And it felt good.

No. It felt great. So maybe I’m back.

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Taking a Break

Posted on August 21, 2006

I’ve decided to stop writing my blog for a while. It’s not that I’ve run out of things to say; rather, I’ve run out of enthusiasm. And one must be eager to write what one must.

When I started my blog in May, 2004, I made a personal commitment that I would not write anything for public purview that I wouldn’t shout from the corners of State and Madison Streets in the heart of downtown Chicago. I might impugn some public figure, but people in the public eye were fair game. I might express my disgust at a certain person or subject, but whatever I wrote I would have said to that person’s face.

I kept this promise, although in some cases it limited my free speech. For instance, when I was annoyed or frustrated with a family member and wanted to write about it my blog was not the outlet. It just never seemed fair to reveal family issues to the world. When I wanted to examine some possible off-color topic, my blog wasn’t the place either, because I didn’t want to disappoint readers who sought gentle commentary over blatant expose.

Now I feel the need to write in private; and, given the amount of time I have to write each day, I must make choices. There’s the book I want to edit, the essays I want to hone, the new ones I want to write so they don’t die in my head. To do this, I must cut back on my blog and my web site.

This decision has been coming for a while, although I didn’t recognize it until this past weekend. But looking back, I’ve begun to skip days and then dreaded catching up. I’ve sighed when I sat down to write, as if it were a chore. I’ve felt as if my mini-essays were all sounding alike too. So it’s time to take a breather.

My plan is that the break is temporary, and I’ll return to blogging one day fairly soon. Yet, if I don’t take this break, then neither the projects I want to tackle nor my blog will receive conscientious attention. That’s not a good thing.

I’m reminded of an A. E. Housman poem, “To An Athlete Dying Young.” It’s about a young athlete, dead before his time. While the community mourns, Housman notes that he died in the prime of his life and never experienced waning ability or lack of public interest. In a way, I’m like that athlete. I want to quit while I’m ahead and not when readers pass me by.

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Ashley

Posted on August 17, 2006

I have a new hair stylist, and it reminds me of a tentative dance with a possible beau. We’re getting to know each other, trying to be in sync, hoping that it will last.

I don’t believe in love at first sight where hairdressers are concerned. You might get lucky — just as you might get lucky in love — but the more probable course of events goes something like this: You make an appointment with an unknown, carrying your baggage from your last hair stylist with you. You fret that the next stylist won’t understand your hair’s texture or curling ability. You have pictures in your head of what you want but can’t communicate them clearly when the stylist doesn’t know you.

The way to combat all of this is to commit to two or three haircuts before making a decision if Ms. or Mr. New Stylist is the one for you. This gives the new hairdresser time to evaluate your hairs’ quirks; it also give you time to let go of your former stylist in your mind. After all, hair grows.

Ashley and I have been together now through four haircuts, and I’m beginning to feel as if this will work out fine. At first, I told her not to cut too much off, in case I didn’t like the result; but, as each appointment has come and gone, I’ve gotten braver. Yesterday, I told her to whack away . . . and I am pleased with the result. She even colored my hair — something that takes a real leap of faith — and nobody in my personal circle of friends commented. I think this is the greatest kudo, because it means she has made my hair look familiar to my friends and family. In fact, they didn’t even know I’d gotten a haircut.

Go Ashley.

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Deck of Cards

Posted on August 16, 2006

Today’s efforts to track down bargains rely on a deck of cards. However, it’s not the standard 52-card deck that you play canasta or gin or bridge with. Rather it’s an eclectic sort of credit cards that various merchants offer to entice you to return to their stores.

I have a Liz Claiborne Preferred Club card, probably the equivalent of a Queen of Hearts, which entitles me to fifty dollars of free merchandise after I’ve spent five hundred dollars with Liz. This really amounts to a ten percent discount across the board; and because Liz clothing fits my body style, it isn’t difficult to accumulate.

I also have a Jockey Club card, maybe a Ten of Spades, that allows me to purchase one free item after I’ve bought twelve items of similar value. This one is harder to use because I have to drive to the next state to find Jockey outlets. No matter, I’ve got the card when the moment arrives.

Then there’s the AARP card that is good at various hotels for senior discounts, my Kinko’s express pay card that enables me to make copies if my in-home printer is down, my Delta SkyMiles that adds points so that someday I can take a free airplane ride, my supermarket cards that give me discounts on fruits and veggies, my Country Kitchen card that gives me a free breakfast after I’ve paid for six, and my JCPenney’s card that offers the seventh bra I purchase for free.

You never know what savings you’ll accumulate with all these cards. And, believe me, the ones I mentioned are only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

There’s also the Qdoba card, the Aerosoles card, Target, Home Depot, Chocolate Cafй, Hallmark Cards, Wyndham Hotels, Starbucks, Jimmy John’s Repeater Eater, problem is that I don’t carry most of these cards in my purse. Instead, they have permanent residence in my desk. It’s a function of the size of purse I choose to carry (which is probably a blog unto itself) and also the fact that, if my purse is stolen, I would have many more cards to alert to possible fraud. This means that, whenever I plan a shopping excursion, I need to go through my desk and determine if a particular discount card will be relevant in the coming hours.

I’m not good at this. Rather, I forge ahead, shopping on impulse; and when the cashier asks if I’m a member of the store’s club, I nod yes but can’t produce proof. Sometimes the cashier tries to connect my address or telephone number to an account, but just as often he or she gives up and I pay regular price.

So . . . why do I have a deck of cards in my desk? I’m not sure, except that I hope someday I’ll make the time to purchase that fifty dollar Liz Claiborne item or claim my seventh bra as free. Wish me luck.

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Jet Lag

Posted on August 14, 2006

My definition of jet lag is: That period of time where your body shows up first and your mind arrives some time later. It isn’t necessarily about airplanes.

Earl and I returned home yesterday afternoon from our recent road trip, and I unpacked right away. Then I settled in to read the Sunday newspaper and enjoy the last few moments of our “vacation”. I stared out the living room window and relished the waning evening light. I resisted checking my email and refused to practice piano even though there was time. I know better than to rush into my regular regimen.

Some people can return from vacation in the middle of the night, wanting to eke out the last few moments of pleasure, and show up for work the next morning bright eyed with little sleep. I am not one of them. I need a transition period, one where my body and my mind give up the relaxing atmosphere of hotels and restaurants and not having to make one’s bed. I need time to shift from being taken care of to taking care of myself.

It’s not that I’m incapable. Rather, it’s that I leave everything behind when I vacation; and picking up the reins of my regular life takes some doing. Don’t get me wrong, I love my regular life just as much as I love vacationing; but there needs to be a bridge between them, a bridge I slowly traverse over the course of a day or two. Then, once my jet lag disappears, I’m ready for anything.

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Road Trip Requirements

Posted on August 13, 2006

We arrived home from our road trip earlier this evening, having driven 770 miles over the past week. As road trips go, this wasn’t a grueling pace. Regardless, I learned some things about road trips that will be useful in the future.

When I was a teenager and my family took a road trip, I always lobbied to stay in a motel with a swimming pool. Whenever possible, my mother obliged; and I would make a beeline for the water as soon as we checked in. It made me more agreeable for whatever the rest of the evening held in store. Only one of the three hotels we stayed at had a swimming pool; Earl and I did use it, but we certainly didn’t miss it when we didn’t have it.

We DID miss our Internet, which just goes to show how hard it is to leave home without it. Each hotel we stayed at was of a different vintage than, say, our home. The first was built in 1880; while it has been updated to include air conditioning and indoor plumbing, Internet access was spotty at best. I grumbled, but didn’t realize that things would go downhill from there.

The second hotel was built at the end of the last century, but it was designed to replicate a Swiss chalet. There was no Internet access, except for a small computer with a dial-up connection near the front desk. It was for guests to check their emails, but it wasn’t the sort of thing I could download files on and take them with me in the morning. The last hotel we stayed at didn’t even have that, and I had to resort to a local Starbucks for my online fix.

So my list of “must haves” for road travel these days includes: wireless Internet access in the room, preferably free, but I’ll ante up if necessary. I also want a quiet room, not one near the boiler or kitchen or front desk. I’d like an in-hotel restaurant too, although I may choose to eat elsewhere. But just knowing it’s there is comforting. And, finally, because Earl’s hand and a hotel clicker are one continuous limb, I’d like televisions to come with a jack for a headset. You’ll notice I didn’t mention a swimming pool at all.

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