?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Central High

Posted on September 25, 2007

Fifty years ago today nine black students entered Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, for the first time — in defiance of then Governor Orval Faubus but with the support of the U.S. Army and the national government. You have to be a certain age to remember this as a pivotal point in our country’s desegregation process. I am of that age.

In addition, I moved from St. Louis, Missouri, to Little Rock one year later. I was a sophomore. No, I didn’t enroll in Central High; instead my Mother registered me at the local Catholic girls’ school, which — for the record — was segregated too. Being a private school, it could make its own rules and wasn’t under the jurisdiction of the United States Supreme Court that had ruled against “separate but equal.”

I learned quickly that my views on black people and how to treat them were not the views held by my classmates, their parents, or the community at large. In the North, I’d gone to school with black people all my life; in Little Rock, that was seen as an aberration. I wanted to fit in, so I kept my opinions to myself. After a week in school, I was voted treasurer of my class.

The year I moved to Little Rock, 1958, Governor Faubus closed the city’s three high schools rather than continue desegregating them. So I wasn’t the only new student at Mount Saint Mary’s Academy, as other parents — Catholic and non-Catholic alike — sought to keep their children not only in school, but in a segregated classroom.
The year I was a junior, the public high schools opened again but not without a battle between the local integrationists who wanted to comply with the federal laws and the segregationists who didn’t. Ultimately, the former won, but it wasn’t until 1972 that all grades in Little Rock’s public schools were integrated.

Today is a special anniversary, no doubt, but it was hardly the end of segregation in our educational system. The Little Rock Nine, as they came to be called, attended a special commemorative ceremony today to mark their place in history. One of them said from the podium that he felt more advances needed to be made. I tend to agree and am now at an age in my life where I wouldn’t keep opinions to myself.

For the record, I took this photo last spring when my son Keith and I returned to Little Rock for a visit. It really is an imposing building, even after all it’s been through.

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A Pressing Time

Posted on September 24, 2007

Earl informed me this morning that there are only three months left until Christmas Eve. I wasn’t even out of bed when he made this observation, but I felt exhausted. There’s a lot of work to Christmas. Nevertheless, once I rose I put Earl to work ordering gifts that I‘d been considering for various family members and friends. He likes Christmas more than I do, so he set to the task with a will.

My list of things to do today also included ironing the clothes that Earl washed this past weekend. Laundry is a love/hate thing with me. Earl does the actual washing, so that’s not a problem. He does the drying and folding too. But where the love/hate thing comes in is in the ironing of the items involved. I hate to iron, but I love to wear pressed clothing. I wish I could be a perma-press type of gal, but I’m not. So about twice a month I resign myself to eliminating wrinkles from my pants, tops, shirts, etc. Recently, I wrote about how using an iPod helps pass this pressing time, but it’s still a couple hours from my day.

‘Pressing’ is a word with various meanings, but whether one is considering deadlines or ironing boards, the concept is the same. There is a heavy weight on the shoulders to get something done so that one can enjoy the end result. I’m not sure which kind of pressing — the work involved in Christmas or the work involved in wearing clothing with smart creases — has the heavier weight. I do know, however, that I always enjoy the end result of both.

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Car Salesmen

Posted on September 22, 2007

I went to my appointment at the local car dealer’s armed with facts, figures, tactics, and trepidation. Earl had provided me with copious information from the Internet; and, after studying all of it, I felt certain buying a new car was akin to being flogged by pirates.

I usually drive my cars into the ground before succumbing to such an assault on my psyche. However, I’d agreed to take a test ride with Blake because there was a relatively new car on the market that looked really sporty, and his dealership had one. My most recent cars would never claim that adjective, and I’ve been thinking I should do “sporty” soon. Or I might never get around to it at all.

Anyway, my two hour meeting with Blake was 180 degrees from the other car purchasing excursions I’ve been on. It was the most upfront, non-pressure, informative session I’ve ever had at a car dealer’s. It made me wonder why things were different this time.

I’ve usually purchased a car in Chicago, where dealerships seem to encourage fast talkers and deal makers who are interested in the sale rather than the relationship. Besides, once the paperwork is done a new car owner is usually handed off to the service department for future contact. In addition, Chicago’s population is probably more mobile, which theoretically means the chance for repeat business is less.

It’s different in a small town. Of course, sales people want to sell their products — whether they are automobiles or air conditioning parts or apples — as much as their Chicago counterparts. But they know the odds are great that they’ll see you again in town, at church, at the market, at high school football, at funerals etc. They know you’ll talk too.

In the end, I ordered a new car from Blake. Direct from the factory too. Everything I wanted on it, manufactured just for me. It won’t arrive for a few weeks yet, but if the rest of the process is as smooth as it’s been so far, I think I’ll write something for the Internet about my positive experience. Maybe pirates are a dying breed.

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Car vs. Piano

Posted on September 20, 2007

Due to pressing engagements — working out, piano lesson, appointment at Starbuck’s to purchase a latte, cocktails with a friend — I moved my test driving of a possible new car to tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ve decided I will never pay more for a car than I did for my piano. Which shouldn’t be too difficult to manage.

My piano was pricey for someone who can’t carry a tune, but I was assured it would be around and sounding great seventy-five years from now. This is more than can be said either for any car I buy or its owner.

The unsuspecting salesman that I meet tomorrow probably has no clue what he’s competing with. It isn’t another make or model. It’s a benchmark about what’s important in my life. After all, a car only gets you from Point A to Point B; but a piano enriches the whole of your life.

Some would say a particular car makes a statement; of course it does. But I say a piano makes a statement too. A car can reek of speed, status, price, luxury and drivability. Unless it’s merely a piece of furniture in one’s home, a piano reeks of the same things, only in terms of music. One can go fast or slow. A grand piano trumps most uprights for status and price. If you want luxury you purchase a Boesendorfer. For the record, I have a Kawai. In a way, it’s the economy version in pianos that the cars I’ve purchased are in the auto world. Yet, it cost more than any car I’ve ever purchased. As for drivability, I guess that depends on the driver. Or pianist.

Suffice to say, I prefer my piano over any car. I only hope the car salesman can get his arms around this notion and work with me as I really don’t need a new car at all. My current one performs well.

Unfortunately for me, the piano salesman I worked with knew he had the upper hand.

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New Car Update

Posted on September 19, 2007

Tomorrow I’m test driving three cars, all five speeds, to see which one handles the best under my hand. They’re all Toyotas, so it’s not a competition among brands. Rather it’s among models.

I’ve been online searching for insurance quotes on my potential new car, searching for what my current car gets in the open market, and also searching for the safety rating of the three models I’m considering. It’s quite daunting.

I’ve learned that all three of these models cost more to insure than Earl’s fancy Lexus. As my insurance agent said, “The price of a car isn’t directly related to the insurance cost.” It seems the industry believes Earl’s car is less prone to accidents, because it’s bigger, and more prone to survival than any of the models I’m considering.

“I’ll walk away if I’m in an accident,” Earl regularly reminds me. “You might not.” Maybe not, but I drive defensively and have never had an accident since I started driving on public highways. Besides, what Earl gains in comfort and car payments, I gain in gas mileage and the knowledge that there are fewer and fewer people out there who can drive a stick-shift and want to steal one.

As for what my current Neon gets on the open market, that is a well-kept secret. I’ve been searching websites to learn what I might expect when the car salesman and I get down to mano a mano, but I can’t find that magic number without giving out a lot of personal information, the better for car dealer wolves to find me. I don’t want people calling me, at least not just yet. So I still don’t know what my trusty Neon is worth.

Finally, the safety ratings . . . those statistics that, one would think, help raise or lower the insurance rate. Except that I have it on the best authority that one’s insurance is tied to one’s credit score. I called my agent to inquire why, and he told me that people with high credit score do not report fender benders to their insurance companies. Rather, they pay to repair them themselves so as to keep their premiums low. I see the rational, but it makes me wonder why we have insurance in the first place.

Armed with this data, I’ll show up at the dealership tomorrow to test drive the cars I’m interested in. And, truthfully, I’m not sure any of this research is valuable. In the end, I’ve always bought a car on gut reaction. And always been happy with it, even it if wasn’t a fancy car wannabee.

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The O’Reilly Factor

Posted on September 18, 2007

Every now and then I hear a snippet of Bill O’Reilly’s radio show, and today was one of those snippety times. I admit I am not an O’Reilly fan, and I try to take my bias into consideration when criticizing him.

Today, he was talking about presidential candidate Hillary Clinton, who has refused to appear on O’Reilly’s TV show. “Her staff has told her I’ll ask the hard questions and make her answer,” O’Reilly said. “She doesn’t want to look stupid.”

Since I’m not necessarily a fan of Senator Clinton, it seemed “fair and balanced” — to use a phrase — to write about why I wouldn’t go on that show either. Here, Mr. O’Reilly, are my reasons and none of them really has to do with politics.

First, the few times I’ve watched your show you interrupted your guests more than once to disagree with them. When you thought they were being too long winded, you also interrupted, sometimes with a snide remark. You have told guests they can have the last word and then one-upped them. In other words, you interject yourself and your opinions (Even if you’ve done research to support those opinions, they are still just opinions.) into every conversation I’ve watched. Basically, you’re rude, so I would have no reason to engage in a conversation that was a hardly a discussion, much less a dialogue.

The kind of talk shows I’d like to watch are ones where the host (That’s you.) invites opposing points of view (Republicans and Democrats, liberals and conservatives, etc.) and asks insightful questions that allow viewers to make up their own minds. It’s difficult to do that when your opinion is so prevalent on every topic you present.

It’s possible Senator Clinton may object to being on your show for the same reasons as I do and not because she’ll look stupid.

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Idyllic Weekend

Posted on September 16, 2007

This was the weekend I usually only dream about.

After visiting Blake at the local car dealership to consider whether I want to buy a new car or hang on to my current one, Earl and I returned home; he watched both college and professional football while I read and played piano and read and played piano without a commitment in sight.

I finished The Other Side of the River for the second time; it’s something of a documentary about St. Joseph and Benton Harbor and a certain death that occurred here in the early 1990s. At the same time, it’s an allegory for race relations in our country. I read my older son’s still-searching-for-a-publisher novel about crime in the Twin Cities. Which is also allegory for mobs and crime and the police. There’s something parallel about these two books. Then I attacked the local newspaper and the Sunday edition of the Chicago Tribune.

Also practiced piano like a dervish. Did the usual technique exercises. Studied a classical piece that wasn’t a challenge and an arrangement of the “Star Spangled Banner” that was. Pulled more than a couple weeds as the weather disinvited mosquitoes and invited me to get outside and be one with Mother Nature. I hadn’t been with her in a while.

Heard from both my sons, which makes any weekend a winner even without the reading and piano playing and weed pulling. They are both fine,both following their own paths. I feel as if I’m following mine too.

All in all, what life should be about.

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New Car

Posted on September 15, 2007

I’m thinking maybe I’ll buy a new car. Not that there’s anything wrong with my current car, a stick-shift no-frills Dodge Neon that I’ve kept in pristine condition. I suppose purists would point out that it’s almost six years old, probably depreciated considerably, and hardly in the running anymore for Car of the Year. Maybe it never was.

But the purists don’t know me. I don’t see a car as a status symbol; it’s merely transportation. With that in mind, I have owned a Pacer, which hasn’t been manufactured in ages; then a cardboard Chevette, which may or may not have also disappeared; followed by a Volkswagen Golf that died on the Kennedy Expressway; and then — just before the Neon — a Saturn. All of these cars lived in my garage at least eight years apiece. So buying a new car when my Neon is only six years old suggests a new approach.

Today Earl and I visited a Toyota dealership where Blake met us on the blacktop as soon as we’d alighted from my Neon. It must have been his turn to greet customers. He didn’t know what he was in for. I’m not very good at negotiating deals, but I am the Woman of a Thousand Questions. I tested the first hundred or so on Blake this afternoon. He had the answers. Additionally, I have peculiar needs when it comes to cars. I want stick shift, I like certain colors for the exterior, I prefer a CD changer that only has one CD in it, I love sunroofs, I want good mileage . . . and — because I’m short — I have to see over the steering wheel. I guess this last criterion really should be first.

I don’t care about heated leather seats, the color of the interior, mudflaps, the spoiler on the rear, or the brand of tire as long as there’s at least four of them.

Blake, Earl, and I spent an informative hour together as I sat in various cars and asked my questions. What is the gas mileage? Does the car have front-wheel or four-wheel drive? Is it compatible with Sirius radio? Or my iPod? Do you negotiate?

When all was said and done, Blake didn’t have a stick-shift model on his lot; but he promised to get me one and call so I could do a test drive. So it remains to be seen if my trusty Neon will leave my garage before the eight-year parole. Given Blake’s attentiveness without pushiness, I’m betting it’s possible. More to come.

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A Patriot

Posted on September 13, 2007

It all started when I programmed my new Sirius to specific stations ranging from fifties rock ‘n’ roll to classical to talk. Now I am not a devotee of talk radio at all, but I am getting ready to become more informed about the presidential candidates. So I felt it was appropriate to preset one conservation talk radio station and one liberal one. I’m going to give them equal time.

The thing is, the conservation station was called the “Conservative Patriot,” while the liberal station was called the “Liberal Left.” This is unfair, but certainly not unusual. It goes along with much contemporary thinking that someone who is liberal cannot be a patriot. Oh please!

I believe there are patriots in both camps. I checked the meaning of the word in my Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary and learned a patriot is “a person who loves, supports, and defends his or her country and its interests with devotion.”

I love my country, and I support it in many ways. First, I vote. Conscientiously too. Next, I pay taxes even though I’m not always happy with how the government spends them. I abide by the laws. I stand when the National Anthem is played, and I scowl at those who talk during the final words before a sporting event gets under way.

Would I defend my country and its interests? Of course, but this is not the same as defending politicians’ interests. Or blindly thinking everything the United States does is right. As for the radio stations, if we wanted parallelism here, why couldn’t they be called the “Conservative Patriot” and the “Liberal Patriot”?

On another note, my Webster’s gives a second definition for patriot that is somewhat jarring in light of the first definition. It is “a U.S. Army antiaircraft missile with a range of 37 miles and a two hundred pound warhead, launched from a tracked vehicle with radar and computer guidance and fire control.”

On second thought, maybe I don’t want to be called a “Liberal Patriot.”

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Thoughts on Blogging

Posted on September 12, 2007

I’ve been blogging since May of 2004. Back then, I thought I’d never run out of material. Today, I wonder. Because in the ensuing three years, I’ve pretty much said what I’ve had to say about the changing of the seasons, various human quirks, even our president. I’ve commented on more than one book that I’ve read and more than one meal I’ve eaten. I’ve saluted friends and family, and also made fun of them.

It’s made me wonder how columnists do it, week after week, year after year. I think of Molly Ivins, Ann Landers (although she had people sending her grist for her advice mill), Bill Moyers, Anna Quindlen. Where does their inspiration come from?

I don’t have the answer; I only know it’s gotten harder to find topics that I haven’t already exhausted. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving up. Rather, I think it means I should plumb greater depths, take greater risks, and offer a more arguable message. I’m not sure, but in the coming weeks I may plan to explore more controversial subjects, not for any readership I have garnered, but for my own education.

In the end, blogging should inform both the blogger and the bloggee.

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