Unexpectedly free

If there ever was any doubt, today helps clinch the fact that I am certainly one weird duck.

So I oversleep this am to 6:30 and rush to make it in to work by 8, arriving only 3 minutes late. I punch in and dig in fast, only to be called over by my manager who asks if I have traded shifts with anyone. You guessed it, I wasn’t scheduled. I thought my day off was tomorrow.

So there I be, dressed, earings bra et al by 8 a.m. with no place to go. After a pit stop at a local Publix, I drop by Bed Bath etc. to purchase a new toaster—one which toasts on both sides simultaneously. I am unsuccessful.

By now it is 9:30. I head over to the local mall, an uncharacteristic move, only to find it doesn’t open until 10—this in the midst of a cutthroat holiday season. I hang out anyway, finally trolling the most upscale of shops, including Saks, trying to get into a festive mood.

Here I am, fresh from a bankruptcy, with what amounts to not much more than a minimum wage job, strolling through yards of merchandise well beyond my means. And here comes the strange part: It makes me feel better. It always has. I find being surrounded by abundance, seeing it, touching it and (in the case of Whole Foods, for example) smelling it calms me. It is somehow uplifting to know it’s out there. I’m not sure why.

I bought nothing but a short eggnog latte and sat reading on my nook for a while, as the din of shoppers around me slowing mounted.

I was there—but apart. And that’s fine.

page one revisited

During my tenure at a large daily New Jersey newspaper, I was fond of watching the presses roll. The owners had installed the huge machines behind a glass wall which loomed above the common area.

High drama.

It was dejà vu all over again. (OK, I couldn’t resist a Yogi-ism, so sue me.) As I watched the film Page One: inside the New York Times, there was a definite frisson at the establishing shots of those impressive presses.

I stumbled into journalism in my mid-30s, raw and untrained. It was as close to a calling as I’ve ever found. I’m not claiming everyday was a joy, but it was both my longest job and most fulfilling work.

My longing washed over me today in the tiny dark theater. The film focused on how the paper both covered and dealt with the change in the media landscape, as one after another newspaper was devoured by internet pixels.

Frankly, I was less interested with stirring the pain in the collapse of journalism as a profession, as in revisiting it. While I do know several former colleagues who went on to work at the Times, I have never made it through the doors –until this afternoon.

I was mesmerized by the sheer physical space. My newsroom, the size of a football field, was dwarfed by that of the times. The place actually had a polish to it. I swear, I’m not jokin’.

Being the proverbial fly on the wall for news meetings was a joy. The familiarity of a reporter’s frustration when a source refuses to go on the record still cut deep—even after all these years. I couldn’t get enough of the backstory--editors agonizing over what to go with and how, flashbacks to the glory days…I confess to a passing stab of jealousy when reporter/columnist David Carr remarks that he’ll need another week of reporting (for a total of 3 weeks) and then a week to write. Such luxury!

I came to journalism too late, yet I am among the lucky who’ve had the good fortune to experience the rush of nailing a story and the comradeship of the newsroom.

And in related news: The Star-ledger, New Jersey’s largest newspaper announced large scale buyouts and layoffs.

I learned about it on facebook, naturally.

catch the finger

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.

pledge week

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...

Hungry. Homeless. God Bless.

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.

coldback

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!

writers write

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...