skip to main |
skip to sidebar
My dad's game of "catch the finger" goes international. (NO, not that finger!)
Doing my laps this morning, I paused to exchange greetings with a visiting toddler. The youngster in question--glad in a big hat and dark glasses to protect him from the summer Sarasota sun--was in his mother's arms. They are the daughter and grandson of one of my condo mates, who is French.
I'm not sure how much English either understood, but it's a moot point. Without thinking, I slipped into my usual behavior at these moments. I extended my index finger in front of the child's face. He reached to grab it--almost every child does--I folded my finger, foiling the attempt. He laughed and tried again, and again and again--as I repeated the action. A child a bit older would have started moving his hand closer and closer, until I couldn't pull the finger away.
Anyone with a child who knows me, knows the game. At first, I did it mindlessly. But after my Dad died, I started wondering how it got started. I'm sure it was "invented" in a moment of desperation, to amuse me and my brother. I honestly can't recall a time before I played it myself.
A second game involving only one's hands that he often used--as do I-- is "walking fingers", a self-explanatory game with the fingers walking toward the then onto a child, if he/she is willing.
I still miss my Dad. But at times like these I realize that he does live on in me--and in many children he's never met.
To continue with the subject of pleading for money...
I confess to being one of a handful of folks who look forward to—yes, adore—pbs station pledge weeks.
It’s not that I enjoy the begging for cash part. But the smarty-pants program directors husband the best of the best to coax said cash out of our hands.
Wayne Dyer, Daniel Amen, Christiane Northrup, John Denver, Peter Paul and Mary, South Pacific, along with some new folks. Songs of the ‘50s, ‘60s, ‘70s, ‘80s, (The sound track of our collective lives )... “Visions of southern Italy” ...and the list goes on.
I can’t get enough of these shows and I watch them over and over, every chance I get in the allotted time period, using the pledge breaks to toggle between pbs stations to catch what’s on there.
I am greedy, storing up the images until the next time. Sometimes, I even pledge...
On my way home from work, stopped at a light. Out of the corner of my eye I spy I youngish woman with mousy blond hair.
She stands perfectly still, staring straight ahead in 95 degree heat. She holds a sign chest high: Homeless. Hungry. God Bless.
Thoughts of my impending Chinese take-out start to make me queasy
It's a long light. She does not move, doesn't even blink. She makes no eye contact. Her quiet dignity touches me. I don't even care if its true.
I pull out the only cash I have--$1--roll down my window & reach out--apologizing it isn't more. She smiles, thanks me, takes a step forward & renews her stance.
And I head for the Chinese restaurant.
With the flaps over the Arizona immigration law and the building of a mosque at Ground Zero, I’ve once again been considering “the other.” By that I mean the tendency of us human animals to cull out “those people” from the herd.
Once done, we imbue those “others” with unfavorable qualities, e.g : lazy, greedy, opportunistic, fanatic. “They” are the enemy, dangerous, the source of our problems—whatever they are at that moment in time. They are out to take our jobs, our resources, corrupt our youth or terrorize us.
Illegal aliens. Muslims. Gays. Whoever.
It’s a subject I have long considered. I recall sitting in high school history class marveling at my good fortune—being both female and Jewish--at being born in the mid 20th century America.
Yet, I was still never far from the definition of “outsider.”
I was a hs junior when Kennedy was assassinated. I returned home from school to a call from my mother. I’ll never forget the first thing she said: “Thank God he (Oswald) wasn’t Jewish.”
Regardless, she was not immune from turning on “others.”
Fast forward a decade. She and I are arguing about the then California uproar over illegal immigrant mothers “ abusing” our healthcare system. My mother, first generation born in this country, ranted on about these Mexican women crossing the border to give birth on our soil. So what, I retorted, they are risking their lives so their children can have a chance at the American Dream. (Sound familiar? I read now some law makers want to change this. )
Ok, so here’s the rub. I found out not long ago, that I, too, am descended from an illegal alien. It seems that when my paternal grandfather came over from eastern Europe he couldn’t enter legally. So like many other Jews at that time, he went to Canada and crossed the border in the Chicago area before making his way to New York.
So he wasn’t a wetback—he was a coldback.
We have met the “other” and he/she is US!
Decades ago, my young daughter reproached me with those words: writers write. It has haunted me lately because I haven’t been—writing, that is.
I could blame the extremely thick Florida heat.
I could say I am distracted and out of sorts since giving up sugar about 6 weeks ago.
I could curse the atmosphere at my day job.
I could bemoan being homesick for the Jersey Shore—the real one, not the TV variety.
I could complain about my shifting work schedule.
I could whine about being empty, with naught to say.
While all this may be true, it matters not.
My daughter is correct: writers write.
All else is irrelevant.
There are few things more miserable to be near than a “non-writing” writer. So I find myself avoiding people when not at work, trying in vain to pressure myself to produce.
As for what I’m doing here, writing about how I’m not writing, it’s akin to those Seinfeld shows where they jabbered on about “nothing.” Big yuk.
I guess I’m just trying to prime the pump, move my fingers across the keys in the hope that something will catch. It’s a bit like going through the motions of exercise, meditation et al...sort of the ol’ “fake it until you make it.”
Writers write. Writers write. Writers write...
Looking back, it started about a month ago, with a noisy, but innocuous seeming microwave problem. It made a loud noise which continued even after it shut off. After a few moments of panic, I discovered the motor running the turntable seemed to be running on. I wound a metal flap to access it and now shut it down manually after its use.
Then I awoke from a couch nap just before the holiday weekend to find no picture on my flat screen TV, which couldn't be more than 2 years old. So I shut off the power to reboot and was rewarded with a series of well-spaced colored lines. To this date it remains, with me watching on my old not-so-flat, not-so hi-def bedroom TV.
And today, it's my laptop. (I'm writing this on my Dell net book). I started getting weird virus messages--even tho I have so-called virus protection. And before you know it, I couldn't connect to the net. Since the net book and my nook connected fine, I knew it was the computer. Now, I can connect to certain site, the machine shows I have an "excellent connection" however, most other sites refuse to connect and when I run the diagnostic--get this--it won't work because there is no connection and THEN Verizon directs me to and ON-LINE SITE to correct the problem. Since this is a holiday, I can't get a hold of a human, of course.
Since I have an old TV and this tiny computer I'm gettin' by. And through all this, it's hard to get too upset. In fact, I awoke this morning to a sound that made me more than smile--I let out a breath I wasn't aware I was holding.
Abbie, my calico cat/companion of 17 years, appeared whining at my door. She had been AWOL for 2 nights, the longest ever. I was hoping it was a combo of the driving rain and fireworks that sent her into hiding, but some part of me feared she was hit by a car or fodder for some gater.
Her arrival put things in perspective.
ps: Did I forget to mention my toilet--recently repaired--has started leaking from the bottom again. A story for another day...
AND the tub drain is still running slow even tho I fed it liquid plumber........................................
As of last week, I have officially aged another year. I find myself in one of those reflective moods that affects us as the years pile up. In taking stock, I have given considerable thought to those old saws and whether or not I’ve found any truth there. So, here goes.
• You’re not getting older, you’re getting better. Maybe a bit wiser, but not better. My back hurts, my teeth are wearing thin while the rest of me is thickening. Youth is most certainly wasted on the young.
• The best things in life are free. Nothing in this life is free. And the best are the most dear. Nonmaterial things such as love, trust, family, fitness—you name it—all require a significant investment of self. And that can be not only personally expensive and time consuming, but painful. Oh well, no pain, no gain.
• A stitch in time saves nine. I have repeatedly ignored this one to my detriment. I can’t seem to get it through my thick skull that things break down, wear out and need maintenance. I expect them to go on forever and continue to be surprised when anything fails, be it my car, my toaster oven or my body.
• You are what you eat. If this were true, I’d be a lot sweeter and quite a bit richer.
• If you’re happy, your children will be happy. Many of us, myself included, raising a family in the 1970s swallowed this one, I’m sorry to say. And our children paid the price. The needs of adults and children are often not in harmony. Being the adult means taking care of the kids first. And that can mean postponing careers and making peace with a marriage that has fallen far short of expectations.
• All you need is love. See above.
• Children should be seen and not heard. Actually, it’s the grown-ups who should be seen more and heard less.
• It’s just as easy to marry a rich man as a poor man. Sure it is, if your bust size is at least twice your age.
• Better safe than sorry: a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Well, that all depends on the type of bird in your hand, the kind of birds in the bush, how far away the bush is and the length of your reach. Sometimes it pays to go out on that limb.
• Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Most of us play it too safe all our lives, for which many of us are sorry later on. I, for one, have come to regret the chances I let pass by rather than the ones I took.
• You can’t judge a book by its cover. True. Remember Ted Bundy?
• If you lie down with dogs you get up with fleas. Also, true.
• Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. Don’t make me laugh.
• Take care of the pennies and the dollars will take care of themselves. Yeah, right.
• A fool and her money are soon parted. I’m the poster-girl for this one.
• The meek shall inherit the earth. No way. As a character in the musical “Camelot” sings: “It’s not the earth the meek inherit, it’s the dirt.”
• A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Ignore this at your own peril. I have. There is just no way around this one. And I’ve tried. Nike puts it best: Just do it.
• Ninety percent of life is just showing up. Woody Allen was on to something here. Of course, it’s the remaining 10 percent that separate the haves from the have-nots, the doers from the did-nots, the Woody Allens from the rest of us.
• Do unto others, as you would have others do unto you. This makes more sense and becomes easier the older you get. I’m not sure why. Maybe it has something to do with where we begin. As babies, children, adolescents and even young adults, we assume we are the center of the universe. Perhaps as we mature, we move off center a bit. Suddenly, letting someone into your driving lane or cleaning up after yourself is not such a big deal. Besides, it feels good.
The best is yet to come. Maybe, maybe not. But whatever good comes, I’ll appreciate it. As my mom always said: “Tomorrow is another day.”
