I grew up calling a garden hose a hose pipe. My husband thought it was a very strange and redundant way to refer to a simple hose. Obviously, hose pipe was a term that evolved. I can just imagine a time when there was no such thing as a garden hose. There must have been pipes for watering flowers. Then someone came along with a flexible rubber tube and the hose pipe was born. There is probably some relation with hosiery, but I am not going to go there.
My grandmother used to water her flowers every night and she let me help her. She showed me how to use my thumb to intensify the spray. Sometimes she used a nozzle. She would set it so that the water would spray out in a fine mist over all of her flowers. I don’t remember watering the grass very often, and there was no such thing as a lawn sprinkler. Somehow the grass did OK, content with rainwater.
We used to use the hose to fill the plastic wading pool, but the one thing I simply was forbidden to do was to drink from the hose. Somehow there was a connection between polio and drinking from the hose. Some of my more raucous little friends did sneak and drink from the hose, and fortunately they didn’t get polio. Of course, I was an obedient child and didn’t drink from the hose. I must confess, however, that I sometimes did enjoy a squirt from a water gun (which has been filled by the hose), applied directly to the mouth. Nobody seemed to notice. All of this became moot once the Salk vaccine hit the streets. From a kid’s view this meant – finally we can drink from the hose.
When I was a teenager, we moved to the suburbs and we got a big lawn. The big lawn required a sprinkler. We had one the kind that flipped-flopped back and forth; the kind you could easily dash through to get to the mailbox if you were fast. We had a special faucet at our house that allowed us to get high pressure. Apparently the faucet was somehow hooked up directly to the water line. My father would use it to wash down the driveway and the sidewalk, as with that big lawn came lots of pine needles.
There was a decade in which hoses were irrelevant to my life. I was in college and as a young married couple we lived in an apartment.
We moved to California in 1971 and got a sudden immersion all things related to watering. Our first home was in Highland, California, near San Bernardino. Without imported water the place would look like a desert. There were months on end without any rain. Some folks gave up and paved their front yards and painted them green; others opted for the Astro-turf effect. Our house, fortunately, came with built in sprinklers in the front yard, but the back required constant watering. Our sprinkler heads were “Rainbirds.” People in the know bought Rainbirds because they were high quality and wo rked great. The sprinklers were not everywhere they needed to be, so watering was a daily necessity for most of the year. Of course, brush fires are a way of life in Southern California. I recall once using the hose to soak our wooden fence and the wooden shingles on our roof, as a fire endangered us.
When we got to Maryland in 1976, our new house didn’t have any sprinklers built in. We found a Rainbird unit we could mount on a garden hose and endured 16 years of occasional watering when the rain was not sufficient. Mostly we didn’t do much with our hoses in those years. We would spritz off the porch or carport floor sometimes or wash the spiders off the house.
Thirteen years ago, we built a new house and we installed a sprinkler system. Yes, we used Rainbird heads. This sprinkler system is tied in with home automation unit. We can set the sprinklers to go on at a certain time every day, but there’s more! We can turn them on remotely from anywhere using a phone. Not that we ever do, but it is nice to have that capability I guess.
We put a hot tub room in the basement of our house. At first it was great! I had the room filled with lush plants and watered them using a hose with a spray gun attachment. Yes, we designed the room so that it used outdoor materials, so getting the walls wet is not a problem. Of course, the hot tub broke and is now on Steve’s to do list. The plants that didn’t die, got moved upstairs and the hose sits idle in its custom designed box.
This house came complete with lots of decks and they seem to always need cleaning. Just washing them off with the hose won’t cut it. We must power wash them. For years Steve insisted on doing all the power washing, but eventually I got impatient and asked him to teach me how to do it. Of course, now he has opened Pandora’s box.
I have to say I get a charge out of power-washing. I feel like an avenging angel setting the world right. Step by step I make the decks look brand new again. The power is great. Now if I could only have enough strength in my hands to connect the hose tightly enough so that it won’t drip all over the place.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
A Smoker's Tale
Both of my parents smoked, and as a child growing up I didn’t think much about it. Many grownups smoked – in fact, most grown-ups, who weren’t really old, smoked. My mother smoked Winstons and my dad smoked Kents. My mother drank a lot of Cokes and the combination of a Coke and a cigarette punctuated the completion of each major task. For both my parents, the morning started with a cigarette and ended with a cigarette. From the Lucky Strike Hit Parade, to a barrage of TV tobacco commercials, to magazines with pages filled with cigarette ads, cigarettes were part of our culture and a part of my daily life. I couldn’t smell it; it was around me all the time.
I went through a period when I was an adolescent when I thought smoking was a disgusting habit and I vowed I would never do it. But vows are easily broken when the pressures of teenage life kick in. About the time I was a junior in high school, I noticed that the “cool kids” smoked. And, being a normal teenage girl, I longed to be “cool.” Soon the pressure mounted and the temptation was just too much. One night when my parents were away, I tried it. I coughed and sputtered, but I felt so “cool.” During the remainder of my high school days, I smoked very rarely and even then, I didn’t inhale (really, I didn’t.)
In college, almost all my friends smoked. Cigarettes were sold freely; there was even a machine in the dorm next to the Coke and candy machines. By spring, I was hooked on Newports; I preferred the menthol flavor. I guess about my sophomore year in college, my mother confronted me. She said that she knew I was smoking and I might as well do in front of them. She also told me that she didn’t see anything morally wrong with it; just that it was not too good for you (but it 1966 and the evidence was sketchy and my father said he didn’t believe any of it!). So I kept on smoking and now smoked more and more. I was a grownup and I was still not “cool,” but I was hooked. Cigarettes were only about $.35 a pack, but still a costly habit.
I smoked all the way through college and grad school. I preferred to study at the dorm rather than the library because they made all the smokers sit in one room at the library and it made me cough. My library research was probably weaker than it might have been had I been a non-smoker.
Shortly after I got my masters I married Steve and he also was a smoker. Being a purist in many ways, he smoked unfiltered Pall Malls. They made me gag. Somewhere along the way I switched over the Benson and Hedges 100s. They had a really smooth taste and lasted longer. Besides, we could get our cigarettes really cheap at the BX. I think they were only about $.20 a pack.
When I was pregnant with David in 1971, I confess I didn’t totally stop, but I still had one now and then. There was some “talk” that smoking could be harmful to a developing fetus, but it mostly seemed like talk. Still, I took it seriously enough to cut way back. My mother had smoked all through her pregnancy with me and I turned out OK.
My parents continued to smoke and we did too! The years crept by. When we would visit my parents, a regular ritual was the trip from Vestavia south across the Shelby County, Alabama line for cheap cigarettes. All four of us puffed and puffed away.
Steve, my husband, suddenly decided to quit. I am not sure exactly why he made that decision, but he did it “cold turkey.” He smoked his last cigarette the night that Nixon made his famous “I am not a crook speech.” About a week later my parents came to visit us in California. Steve was not a pleasant person to be around – not surprisingly.
But time passed and in 1976 we moved to Maryland. Steve never smoked again and I continued to smoke and smoke away. Everyday I worked on fixing up our new house and every day I seemed to smoke more and more. By February 1977 I was up to 2 ½ packs a day. I had tried to stop a few times, but with no luck. I tried the low “everything” cigarettes, NOW, but just smoked more of them.
Then on March 23, 1977 everything changed. My mother had a massive heart attack and had to be resuscitated. It was a nightmare that went on for weeks and weeks as she clung to life in a Birmingham hospital ICU. My father and I sat in the waiting room and smoked and smoked—I guess I was smoking three packs or more a day during that period and living on Cokes, cheese crackers and candy from the machine. I gained 15 pounds. Whenever we went into see my mother in ICU, she said she would ask for a cigarette. She could smell it on us! Of course, smoking was not allowed in ICU (although it was in regular rooms).
The one day in April 1977, her conditioned worsened. The doctors told us she had a 1 in 5 chance of making it through the night. But if she could survive the night she had a good chance of surviving long term. I sat in a lounge chair at midnight in the ICU waiting room and I made a silent prayer to God that he would let her live and if he did I vowed that I would never smoke another cigarette until the day she died. She DID make it through the night. She lived another ten years.
I think my deal with God was pretty powerful and the other factor in my quitting was that my world was turned totally upside down. I fashioned a plastic tube and stuffed in with peppermint. I sucked on it A LOT. I knew that smoking was as much a physical addiction as a mental one. There is something about the movement from hand to mouth that is very addictive. For months after I stopped smoking I would smell the tobacco odor whenever I showered – as if it was coming from my every pore stimulated by the hot water. I cleaned my house and removed the yellow scum from everything. My health started to improve and my energy level soared. There was no longer the need to punctuate every accomplishment with a cigarette. With in a year, I found myself employed in a private school where smoking was not allowed.
Gradually, fewer and fewer of the folks I associated with smoked. I found myself disliking the smell of tobacco. In particular, I couldn’t stand to smell the brand my Dad smoked.. For some reason, that brand make my eyes water and gave me a sore throat. Whenever I would visit him, I asked him to smoke another brand – any other brand! In general, however, as the years went by I came to hate the smell of smoke, although every now and then I got the urge to smoke. But I never gave in.
Meanwhile, my mother was doing well after open-heart surgery. She never smoked again, while my father continued. She didn’t like the fact that he still smoked and he tried to smoke more often outside. He still didn’t think there was any real health issue with smoking.
Ten years after my mother’s heart attack, she was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. That diagnosis rocked my world! And to compound the problem, her doctor told my father it was his fault; that it was his second-hand smoke that gave her the cancer. He was never the same after that. He was there lovingly for my mother throughout her year-long illness. He never smoked in the house while she was there. More and more of her time was spent in the hospital.
One afternoon, he left the room for a smoke and I stayed there with her. It was at that moment she stopped breathing and despite a Code Blue and about eight hours of manual respiration, she was gone. I have to admit that in the flurry of activity, the signing of the big black and the realization that she was really dead, there came to fleeting thought that “this is when I supposed to have my cigarette. I don’t have to not smoke anymore.” Then, of course, there was no power on earth that could make me smoke. I had just witnessed my mother’s year long struggle with lung cancer! What a bitter irony!
My father suffered greatly after my mother’s death. Depression took its toll. He loved my mother so deeply and the doctor’s words blaming his second-hand smoke for her death kept going around in his head. Within less than two years, he was dead from congestive heart failure. I honestly think it was a broken heart.
My parents were amazing people. My mother was talented, creative and probably the most all around capable person I have ever known. People loved her outgoing personality and her zest for life. My father was brilliant; he was an inventor; he was a leader in his community. He was the man who first transmitted data over a telephone line – really! And yet, these wonderful and bright peoples’ lives were damaged by tobacco.
My parent’s things were coated with the same yellow scum that coated everything in my house years before. I cleaned it off furniture, art, crystal and more. I found that Dow bathroom cleaner would take the scum off the furniture without damaging the finish. Some of my parents; furniture was very special because my mother had refinished it. My favorite piece is a chifferobe that belonged to my grandfather and which my mother lovingly refinished. It stands in my entrance hall today.
What about me? Was I damaged too? Certainly, the 14 years I smoked were not good for me, nor were they good for our son (who fortunately has never even been tempted to smoke). Once I had a doctor tell me that if I had not quit, I would have been dead by now. That was probably 15 years ago. It has been 29 years since I smoked a cigarette. I am not around smoking any more. I request non-smoking seating in restaurants. There is no force in this universe or amount of money that could make me smoke even just one cigarette. I know that if I had even one, I would be hooked!
Soon after my mother’s diagnosis I became a volunteer for our local American Cancer Society. I guess it was my way of striking back. After her death, I continued to volunteer. It seems that our County has an unusually high cancer mortality rate and the cause is not clear. I was intrigued by this problem and agreed to work with our local County to chair a Cancer Task Force. This seventeen member multi-disciplinary task force looked into possible environmental and lifestyle causes of cancer, including lung cancer.
And, so here’s the kicker! I was running a meeting of the task force one evening and speaker was an expert in the causes of lung cancer. The expert reviewed various lung cancer types one after the other, but did not mention oat cell. Oat cell is kind of lung cancer that killed my mother; it is aggressive and fast growing. The expert’s response literally blew me away! I felt light-headed; I could believe what I was hearing! Oat cell cancer lung cancer is connected with chemical exposure more than smoking. Huh! My mother didn’t mess with chemicals. So, I asked “what kind of chemicals?” In an instant I knew that everything we had thought about her illness and how it happened was wrong. It turns out that the chemicals that often cause oat cell lung are the kind that were used to refinish furniture. My mother LOVED to refinish furniture. That was her hobby. Patience was not one of my mother’s virtues. She used the most powerful chemicals she could buy to strip off the old finish and she never wore a mask. She was not known to be a person who took the directions and precautions all that seriously. Usually she did her work with the garage door open, but little other ventilation.
Had we but known! My father would not have tortured himself with guilt about the second-hand smoke. My mother would have surely been more at peace with the whole situation. She was someone who always wanted to get to the bottom of a problem and find out what went wrong. Sadly, neither of them ever knew.
So, maybe it wasn’t the cigarettes after all! Still no doubt they made the situation worse.
Did this outcome change my opinion about smoking? No way! It is a terribly addictive habit and I personally will NEVER smoke again. Still, those 14 years may get me one day. No more smoking and no more furniture refinishing for me.
And, what about our task force? We never could get to any “smoking gun” for the cause of cancer in Anne Arundel County. What we do know is that with a lifetime of human behavior it is difficult to isolate the variables that may lead to death. More likely it is a confluence of factors that come together for any individual to make the cancer kick in. Lifestyle, environment, and heredity all matter. It is clear that more of these factors come together in our area than in most places. One thing for sure, we are on our own in this. The government can’t protect us from ourselves. Smoking is bad for you; chemicals can harm you; our environment has many problems and no one really knows what they all are. Smoking is a nasty, stupid habit that can destroy your life.
I see young women today smoking. Despite all the evidence, they keep on smoking. If only I could somehow make them understand.
I went through a period when I was an adolescent when I thought smoking was a disgusting habit and I vowed I would never do it. But vows are easily broken when the pressures of teenage life kick in. About the time I was a junior in high school, I noticed that the “cool kids” smoked. And, being a normal teenage girl, I longed to be “cool.” Soon the pressure mounted and the temptation was just too much. One night when my parents were away, I tried it. I coughed and sputtered, but I felt so “cool.” During the remainder of my high school days, I smoked very rarely and even then, I didn’t inhale (really, I didn’t.)
In college, almost all my friends smoked. Cigarettes were sold freely; there was even a machine in the dorm next to the Coke and candy machines. By spring, I was hooked on Newports; I preferred the menthol flavor. I guess about my sophomore year in college, my mother confronted me. She said that she knew I was smoking and I might as well do in front of them. She also told me that she didn’t see anything morally wrong with it; just that it was not too good for you (but it 1966 and the evidence was sketchy and my father said he didn’t believe any of it!). So I kept on smoking and now smoked more and more. I was a grownup and I was still not “cool,” but I was hooked. Cigarettes were only about $.35 a pack, but still a costly habit.
I smoked all the way through college and grad school. I preferred to study at the dorm rather than the library because they made all the smokers sit in one room at the library and it made me cough. My library research was probably weaker than it might have been had I been a non-smoker.
Shortly after I got my masters I married Steve and he also was a smoker. Being a purist in many ways, he smoked unfiltered Pall Malls. They made me gag. Somewhere along the way I switched over the Benson and Hedges 100s. They had a really smooth taste and lasted longer. Besides, we could get our cigarettes really cheap at the BX. I think they were only about $.20 a pack.
When I was pregnant with David in 1971, I confess I didn’t totally stop, but I still had one now and then. There was some “talk” that smoking could be harmful to a developing fetus, but it mostly seemed like talk. Still, I took it seriously enough to cut way back. My mother had smoked all through her pregnancy with me and I turned out OK.
My parents continued to smoke and we did too! The years crept by. When we would visit my parents, a regular ritual was the trip from Vestavia south across the Shelby County, Alabama line for cheap cigarettes. All four of us puffed and puffed away.
Steve, my husband, suddenly decided to quit. I am not sure exactly why he made that decision, but he did it “cold turkey.” He smoked his last cigarette the night that Nixon made his famous “I am not a crook speech.” About a week later my parents came to visit us in California. Steve was not a pleasant person to be around – not surprisingly.
But time passed and in 1976 we moved to Maryland. Steve never smoked again and I continued to smoke and smoke away. Everyday I worked on fixing up our new house and every day I seemed to smoke more and more. By February 1977 I was up to 2 ½ packs a day. I had tried to stop a few times, but with no luck. I tried the low “everything” cigarettes, NOW, but just smoked more of them.
Then on March 23, 1977 everything changed. My mother had a massive heart attack and had to be resuscitated. It was a nightmare that went on for weeks and weeks as she clung to life in a Birmingham hospital ICU. My father and I sat in the waiting room and smoked and smoked—I guess I was smoking three packs or more a day during that period and living on Cokes, cheese crackers and candy from the machine. I gained 15 pounds. Whenever we went into see my mother in ICU, she said she would ask for a cigarette. She could smell it on us! Of course, smoking was not allowed in ICU (although it was in regular rooms).
The one day in April 1977, her conditioned worsened. The doctors told us she had a 1 in 5 chance of making it through the night. But if she could survive the night she had a good chance of surviving long term. I sat in a lounge chair at midnight in the ICU waiting room and I made a silent prayer to God that he would let her live and if he did I vowed that I would never smoke another cigarette until the day she died. She DID make it through the night. She lived another ten years.
I think my deal with God was pretty powerful and the other factor in my quitting was that my world was turned totally upside down. I fashioned a plastic tube and stuffed in with peppermint. I sucked on it A LOT. I knew that smoking was as much a physical addiction as a mental one. There is something about the movement from hand to mouth that is very addictive. For months after I stopped smoking I would smell the tobacco odor whenever I showered – as if it was coming from my every pore stimulated by the hot water. I cleaned my house and removed the yellow scum from everything. My health started to improve and my energy level soared. There was no longer the need to punctuate every accomplishment with a cigarette. With in a year, I found myself employed in a private school where smoking was not allowed.
Gradually, fewer and fewer of the folks I associated with smoked. I found myself disliking the smell of tobacco. In particular, I couldn’t stand to smell the brand my Dad smoked.. For some reason, that brand make my eyes water and gave me a sore throat. Whenever I would visit him, I asked him to smoke another brand – any other brand! In general, however, as the years went by I came to hate the smell of smoke, although every now and then I got the urge to smoke. But I never gave in.
Meanwhile, my mother was doing well after open-heart surgery. She never smoked again, while my father continued. She didn’t like the fact that he still smoked and he tried to smoke more often outside. He still didn’t think there was any real health issue with smoking.
Ten years after my mother’s heart attack, she was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. That diagnosis rocked my world! And to compound the problem, her doctor told my father it was his fault; that it was his second-hand smoke that gave her the cancer. He was never the same after that. He was there lovingly for my mother throughout her year-long illness. He never smoked in the house while she was there. More and more of her time was spent in the hospital.
One afternoon, he left the room for a smoke and I stayed there with her. It was at that moment she stopped breathing and despite a Code Blue and about eight hours of manual respiration, she was gone. I have to admit that in the flurry of activity, the signing of the big black and the realization that she was really dead, there came to fleeting thought that “this is when I supposed to have my cigarette. I don’t have to not smoke anymore.” Then, of course, there was no power on earth that could make me smoke. I had just witnessed my mother’s year long struggle with lung cancer! What a bitter irony!
My father suffered greatly after my mother’s death. Depression took its toll. He loved my mother so deeply and the doctor’s words blaming his second-hand smoke for her death kept going around in his head. Within less than two years, he was dead from congestive heart failure. I honestly think it was a broken heart.
My parents were amazing people. My mother was talented, creative and probably the most all around capable person I have ever known. People loved her outgoing personality and her zest for life. My father was brilliant; he was an inventor; he was a leader in his community. He was the man who first transmitted data over a telephone line – really! And yet, these wonderful and bright peoples’ lives were damaged by tobacco.
My parent’s things were coated with the same yellow scum that coated everything in my house years before. I cleaned it off furniture, art, crystal and more. I found that Dow bathroom cleaner would take the scum off the furniture without damaging the finish. Some of my parents; furniture was very special because my mother had refinished it. My favorite piece is a chifferobe that belonged to my grandfather and which my mother lovingly refinished. It stands in my entrance hall today.
What about me? Was I damaged too? Certainly, the 14 years I smoked were not good for me, nor were they good for our son (who fortunately has never even been tempted to smoke). Once I had a doctor tell me that if I had not quit, I would have been dead by now. That was probably 15 years ago. It has been 29 years since I smoked a cigarette. I am not around smoking any more. I request non-smoking seating in restaurants. There is no force in this universe or amount of money that could make me smoke even just one cigarette. I know that if I had even one, I would be hooked!
Soon after my mother’s diagnosis I became a volunteer for our local American Cancer Society. I guess it was my way of striking back. After her death, I continued to volunteer. It seems that our County has an unusually high cancer mortality rate and the cause is not clear. I was intrigued by this problem and agreed to work with our local County to chair a Cancer Task Force. This seventeen member multi-disciplinary task force looked into possible environmental and lifestyle causes of cancer, including lung cancer.
And, so here’s the kicker! I was running a meeting of the task force one evening and speaker was an expert in the causes of lung cancer. The expert reviewed various lung cancer types one after the other, but did not mention oat cell. Oat cell is kind of lung cancer that killed my mother; it is aggressive and fast growing. The expert’s response literally blew me away! I felt light-headed; I could believe what I was hearing! Oat cell cancer lung cancer is connected with chemical exposure more than smoking. Huh! My mother didn’t mess with chemicals. So, I asked “what kind of chemicals?” In an instant I knew that everything we had thought about her illness and how it happened was wrong. It turns out that the chemicals that often cause oat cell lung are the kind that were used to refinish furniture. My mother LOVED to refinish furniture. That was her hobby. Patience was not one of my mother’s virtues. She used the most powerful chemicals she could buy to strip off the old finish and she never wore a mask. She was not known to be a person who took the directions and precautions all that seriously. Usually she did her work with the garage door open, but little other ventilation.
Had we but known! My father would not have tortured himself with guilt about the second-hand smoke. My mother would have surely been more at peace with the whole situation. She was someone who always wanted to get to the bottom of a problem and find out what went wrong. Sadly, neither of them ever knew.
So, maybe it wasn’t the cigarettes after all! Still no doubt they made the situation worse.
Did this outcome change my opinion about smoking? No way! It is a terribly addictive habit and I personally will NEVER smoke again. Still, those 14 years may get me one day. No more smoking and no more furniture refinishing for me.
And, what about our task force? We never could get to any “smoking gun” for the cause of cancer in Anne Arundel County. What we do know is that with a lifetime of human behavior it is difficult to isolate the variables that may lead to death. More likely it is a confluence of factors that come together for any individual to make the cancer kick in. Lifestyle, environment, and heredity all matter. It is clear that more of these factors come together in our area than in most places. One thing for sure, we are on our own in this. The government can’t protect us from ourselves. Smoking is bad for you; chemicals can harm you; our environment has many problems and no one really knows what they all are. Smoking is a nasty, stupid habit that can destroy your life.
I see young women today smoking. Despite all the evidence, they keep on smoking. If only I could somehow make them understand.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Funerals
When my grandmother died on June 5, 1957, life was never the same for me. I had just turned 11 a couple of days before. I simply couldn’t believe that she was gone. It was horrible. That was my first real acquaintance with death and I hated it. My mother planned the funeral and did what she could do to make it a good funeral, as such things go. She was very pleased that so many friends came to the funeral, sent flowers, and came back to the house afterwards. From my perspective, it was gut-wrenching. I was old enough to understand about death and its finality, but not old enough to accept it.
Over the years, I have been to many funerals – some for dear friends and relatives and others for acquaintances. My grandfather died a few years after my grandmother. Nothing, however, prepared me for the pain of having to bury each of my parents decades later.
I come from the South and down South, when people die, they are embalmed and put in a casket for viewing. The funeral follows the funeral home chapel or at the church, with the burial to follow. Everyone then comes back to the house for a pot luck spread in honor of the deceased. Depending on religion, there might be something to drink. In my family, we congregate in Birmingham at the Embassy Suites (with free drinks, free breakfast and nice suites). We have been to so many family funerals where we opted to stay there that my son calls it the “death hotel.”
My mother used to always take the same thing to funeral gatherings. She made a molded chicken salad, done up in individual gelatin molds. When she died, one of her friends made her recipe for the funeral. My mother would have been proud.
When my father died, he was living in a retirement high rise. His two bedroom apartment was way too small to accommodate a funeral gathering. He founded the Chamber in the town of Vestavia Hills, so the town leaders got together a gathering at the local library. It was a fine tribute.
These days more and more people are getting cremated. That thought used to make me shudder. Now it isn’t so bad. I am not sure I could do it though, but I guess if I was dead it wouldn’t matter anyway. Of course, I am an organ donor and can’t imagine any better final gift.
As I approach 60 I am not comfortable contemplating my own mortality. Not that anyone really is! I could just ignore the whole subject and let my family figure out what makes sense for them to do. After all, funerals are really for the living! They give a sense of closure. On the other hand, I suppose I should do the really responsible thing and figure out something that makes sense to me. That would be kinder than giving them one more thing to worry about.
Lots of things have changed over the decades. Open caskets are less popular. Personal tributes are generally done, as opposed to the generic funerals of the past. Memorial services weeks later are a popular option. Charitable donations are preferred over flowers. Guests don’t have to wear black. Cremation seem more common than in the past. Internet tributes and Web pages are sprouting up. In Maryland there is a big public dispute about the appropriateness of roadside memorials. I spoke with a friend recently who reported going to her first “PowerPoint funeral.” As Bob Dylan said, “The times they are a changing.”
Over the years, I have been to many funerals – some for dear friends and relatives and others for acquaintances. My grandfather died a few years after my grandmother. Nothing, however, prepared me for the pain of having to bury each of my parents decades later.
I come from the South and down South, when people die, they are embalmed and put in a casket for viewing. The funeral follows the funeral home chapel or at the church, with the burial to follow. Everyone then comes back to the house for a pot luck spread in honor of the deceased. Depending on religion, there might be something to drink. In my family, we congregate in Birmingham at the Embassy Suites (with free drinks, free breakfast and nice suites). We have been to so many family funerals where we opted to stay there that my son calls it the “death hotel.”
My mother used to always take the same thing to funeral gatherings. She made a molded chicken salad, done up in individual gelatin molds. When she died, one of her friends made her recipe for the funeral. My mother would have been proud.
When my father died, he was living in a retirement high rise. His two bedroom apartment was way too small to accommodate a funeral gathering. He founded the Chamber in the town of Vestavia Hills, so the town leaders got together a gathering at the local library. It was a fine tribute.
These days more and more people are getting cremated. That thought used to make me shudder. Now it isn’t so bad. I am not sure I could do it though, but I guess if I was dead it wouldn’t matter anyway. Of course, I am an organ donor and can’t imagine any better final gift.
As I approach 60 I am not comfortable contemplating my own mortality. Not that anyone really is! I could just ignore the whole subject and let my family figure out what makes sense for them to do. After all, funerals are really for the living! They give a sense of closure. On the other hand, I suppose I should do the really responsible thing and figure out something that makes sense to me. That would be kinder than giving them one more thing to worry about.
Lots of things have changed over the decades. Open caskets are less popular. Personal tributes are generally done, as opposed to the generic funerals of the past. Memorial services weeks later are a popular option. Charitable donations are preferred over flowers. Guests don’t have to wear black. Cremation seem more common than in the past. Internet tributes and Web pages are sprouting up. In Maryland there is a big public dispute about the appropriateness of roadside memorials. I spoke with a friend recently who reported going to her first “PowerPoint funeral.” As Bob Dylan said, “The times they are a changing.”
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
My Treo - The Little Magical Computer
Just over a year ago I was wearing a pager and carrying a cell phone and a pda in my purse. I seldom left home without my laptop computer. It took all of this equipment just to keep me organized and in touch, especially when I traveled. I spent two hours each evening, after a busy day at the office or after a day of travel, just dealing with my email. In short, I was a slave to my equipment; my shoulders were dragging from hauling all this stuff around; and I longed to make a change.
Finally, my excuse came along. The pager started to fail; the cell phone couldn’t hold a charge. The blue paint chipped off the Zire. These were all clear indications that the time was right.
At first I thought I would get a Blackberry. People who have them seem to love them. But I loved my Palm Zire and on a whim checked to see what Palm offered. I was amazed to see that they had a product that would replace my cell phone, my pager, and my pda and also do email. I read the reviews and I was hooked. It had to have a Palm Treo 650.
No, I am not getting any money from Palm for writing this. They have no idea that I am doing this. I just love my little Treo and want to tell the world about it.
Is it perfect? No! It sometimes has to reboot and sometimes it gets as ornery as any computer I have ever dealt with, but its good qualities far outweigh its bad.
Is it addictive? You bet! Just having the capacity to deal with things almost in real time is a bit of a rush. But, the most amazing thing I have found with the Treo is that it allows me to capture little snippets of time that would otherwise be essentially wasted. And that alone is a precious gift.
Can I live without it? Of course, and life is actually very calm without it. But I would rather know what is going on and deal with it immediately when I can. That keep small problems small and I don’t have to waste time worrying about what “might be happening.”
Finally, my excuse came along. The pager started to fail; the cell phone couldn’t hold a charge. The blue paint chipped off the Zire. These were all clear indications that the time was right.
At first I thought I would get a Blackberry. People who have them seem to love them. But I loved my Palm Zire and on a whim checked to see what Palm offered. I was amazed to see that they had a product that would replace my cell phone, my pager, and my pda and also do email. I read the reviews and I was hooked. It had to have a Palm Treo 650.
No, I am not getting any money from Palm for writing this. They have no idea that I am doing this. I just love my little Treo and want to tell the world about it.
Is it perfect? No! It sometimes has to reboot and sometimes it gets as ornery as any computer I have ever dealt with, but its good qualities far outweigh its bad.
Is it addictive? You bet! Just having the capacity to deal with things almost in real time is a bit of a rush. But, the most amazing thing I have found with the Treo is that it allows me to capture little snippets of time that would otherwise be essentially wasted. And that alone is a precious gift.
Can I live without it? Of course, and life is actually very calm without it. But I would rather know what is going on and deal with it immediately when I can. That keep small problems small and I don’t have to waste time worrying about what “might be happening.”
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Documenting Our Lives
When I was kid I was given a diary. Each day I wrote what I did. In those days, I was a lot like the kid (arts commercial) who recounts his day in monotone at the dinner table. I went to school. I went to Brownies. I went to the grocery store with my mother. She bought chicken. We had fried chicken for dinner. I watched I Love Lucy. I read a chapter in the Bobbsey Twins and I went to sleep. My, what an exciting life!
I couldn’t imagine why anyone would be interested in reading that and I couldn’t think of anything else to say. But, for about 3 weeks, I dutifully wrote an entry each day and locked the book with a key. So much for keeping a diary!
When I was in junior high and high school, I faced what I now know was normal teenage angst. From my perspective it was a constant “tug of war” between the desire to be popular and the desire to make good grades. If you made good grades you were condemning yourself to be a social outcast. I got my first taste of depression and I reveled in it, writing my deepest darkest thoughts in what might be called an “occasional diary.” It wasn’t a diary at all, rather a three ring binder left over from “speech lessons.” I hid it when I went to college and I don’t think my mother ever found it. I took it when we cleaned out the house.
In college, I was really too busy to write down much of what I felt. But sometimes, when depression would grab me, I would turn to my old trick of writing out my feelings. Most of that stuff went out with the dorm trash, but it was therapeutic.
For decades I never wrote anything personal and I didn’t keep a datebook. I didn’t need one; I could remember my schedule (that was when I was younger and still had an agile brain).
My parents, on the other hand, were living busy active lives and both of them kept calendars in 8”x10” calendar books. My father’s was mostly just a record of his appointments and speaking engagements. My mother’s, however, got progressively more personal. Hers was more of an after-the-fact documentation of how she spent her days. In some respects, it resembled my childhood “diary.” When she was diagnosed with lung cancer, she started recording her medical appointments, as well as how she felt each day. She knew she was documenting the end of her life.
Both of my parents are gone now. I still have their calendars stuffed carefully away in the attic. I can’t throw them away, because to do so would be to not value their lives. Maybe in another ten years or so I will read their calendars again and look for similarities in my own life at their age.
Meanwhile, over the years, various people have suggested that I journal. They would have me take use a journaling book and with pen and ink write down my innermost thoughts. I tried it. Truth is I don’t do handwriting very well these days. I think far faster than I can write so I end up with skipped spaces and funny looking letters. Sure, I can make to write a check and sign my name on a charge slip. I can even write a post-it note of instructions for a staff member. About the longest document I write these days is a handwritten thank you note. Truth is, handwriting for me in now agony. I can type on my Treo far faster and more accurately than I can handwrite. Sad, but true!
The next logical step was to try journaling on my laptop. For a few months last year I documented my struggle to lose weight and exercise. I found myself journaling, but it took up too much time. The diet failed, as did the exercise program. So that was the end of journaling. Will I try it again? The diet and exercise -- yes. The journal – not likely.
Then along came blogging. I had been reading about blogging for some months. When I was ill with the flu I decided that it was time to find out more about how to blog. Within half an hour of finding out how to blog, I was blogging. At first I thought I could do it every day, but after a while I soon realized that once a week was about the right pace for me. Honestly, I am enjoying writing my blog and I am also enjoying your positive feedback. It always surprises me that people are reading. I expected that some FacetsWoman readers would read it, but now I find I have readers from other parts of the US and even one reader from Scotland.
Comparing journaling with blogging, I have to say I like blogging much better. With journaling the idea is that other people WON’T read it and you go to some effort to keep them from reading your innermost thoughts. With blogging you write stuff (admittedly not always your most innermost thoughts) with the idea that someone might read it. For me that makes it a lot more fun!
I couldn’t imagine why anyone would be interested in reading that and I couldn’t think of anything else to say. But, for about 3 weeks, I dutifully wrote an entry each day and locked the book with a key. So much for keeping a diary!
When I was in junior high and high school, I faced what I now know was normal teenage angst. From my perspective it was a constant “tug of war” between the desire to be popular and the desire to make good grades. If you made good grades you were condemning yourself to be a social outcast. I got my first taste of depression and I reveled in it, writing my deepest darkest thoughts in what might be called an “occasional diary.” It wasn’t a diary at all, rather a three ring binder left over from “speech lessons.” I hid it when I went to college and I don’t think my mother ever found it. I took it when we cleaned out the house.
In college, I was really too busy to write down much of what I felt. But sometimes, when depression would grab me, I would turn to my old trick of writing out my feelings. Most of that stuff went out with the dorm trash, but it was therapeutic.
For decades I never wrote anything personal and I didn’t keep a datebook. I didn’t need one; I could remember my schedule (that was when I was younger and still had an agile brain).
My parents, on the other hand, were living busy active lives and both of them kept calendars in 8”x10” calendar books. My father’s was mostly just a record of his appointments and speaking engagements. My mother’s, however, got progressively more personal. Hers was more of an after-the-fact documentation of how she spent her days. In some respects, it resembled my childhood “diary.” When she was diagnosed with lung cancer, she started recording her medical appointments, as well as how she felt each day. She knew she was documenting the end of her life.
Both of my parents are gone now. I still have their calendars stuffed carefully away in the attic. I can’t throw them away, because to do so would be to not value their lives. Maybe in another ten years or so I will read their calendars again and look for similarities in my own life at their age.
Meanwhile, over the years, various people have suggested that I journal. They would have me take use a journaling book and with pen and ink write down my innermost thoughts. I tried it. Truth is I don’t do handwriting very well these days. I think far faster than I can write so I end up with skipped spaces and funny looking letters. Sure, I can make to write a check and sign my name on a charge slip. I can even write a post-it note of instructions for a staff member. About the longest document I write these days is a handwritten thank you note. Truth is, handwriting for me in now agony. I can type on my Treo far faster and more accurately than I can handwrite. Sad, but true!
The next logical step was to try journaling on my laptop. For a few months last year I documented my struggle to lose weight and exercise. I found myself journaling, but it took up too much time. The diet failed, as did the exercise program. So that was the end of journaling. Will I try it again? The diet and exercise -- yes. The journal – not likely.
Then along came blogging. I had been reading about blogging for some months. When I was ill with the flu I decided that it was time to find out more about how to blog. Within half an hour of finding out how to blog, I was blogging. At first I thought I could do it every day, but after a while I soon realized that once a week was about the right pace for me. Honestly, I am enjoying writing my blog and I am also enjoying your positive feedback. It always surprises me that people are reading. I expected that some FacetsWoman readers would read it, but now I find I have readers from other parts of the US and even one reader from Scotland.
Comparing journaling with blogging, I have to say I like blogging much better. With journaling the idea is that other people WON’T read it and you go to some effort to keep them from reading your innermost thoughts. With blogging you write stuff (admittedly not always your most innermost thoughts) with the idea that someone might read it. For me that makes it a lot more fun!
Monday, May 01, 2006
Ironing
My grandmother ironed A LOT. I think she really somehow enjoyed it. She was very good at it. Actually she taught me to iron when I was very young. I used to be assigned all the handkerchiefs. My father used white handkerchiefs, and they were frankly pretty dull to iron. My grandfather, on the other hand, used handkerchiefs that were white in the center with colored borders. Some were blue and others brown. His were much more exciting to iron. What I especially liked was folding all the corners just so.
Ironing in those days involved sprinkling first. We had a Coke bottle with a sprinkler head on top it of. Before you started to iron a piece, you had to sprinkle it first. I think most things had been pre-starched first, so the water seemed to wake up the starch.
Sometimes the maid would also help with the ironing and my mother would also iron. My grandmother, who was in charge of ironing in our household, kept the frilly dresses for herself and for my mother to do. The maid did the really boring stuff and I did the easy stuff. In retrospect, we spent a lot of our lives ironing. Mercifully, only one person could iron at once. Summer days were especially hard; the iron was hot and the sweat poured off of us in the Alabama heat. The oscillating fan helped a bit.
My uncle somehow came by an electric ironer and gave it to my Dad. This is an example of appliance that never really hit the big time. My mother was happy to get it, but using it was a different matter. It was OK for tablecloths, but not much else.
Men’s shirts were always sent out the laundry. They came back stiffly starched and wrapped around what we called “shirt cardboard.” My father’s shirts, like his handkerchiefs were always white and he liked them heavily starched. No pink or blue shirts for him. My grandfather, on the other hand, preferred striped shirts with white colors. He always wore a collar pin that connected the two corners of his collars. His shirts were very interesting! He used to let me help him pick out his clothes each night. It was fun to coordinate his suit, with his shirt, tie, handkerchief and socks. Between the two of them, they used 10 sheets of “shirt cardboard” every week. This means that I had an endless supply of “shirt cardboard” for drawing or school projects.
When I was in high school, I liked to wear oxford cloth shirts with Peter Pan collars. My mother hated them because they were so hard to iron. By then I was not too interested in ironing (strange how that happened) and she had to pay the maid to iron them. She could have sent them to the laundry like my Dad’s, but that would have been too expensive – besides, they wouldn’t look right all stiffly starched like his. I think that was one of the best parts of my going to college; I took my oxford cloth blouses with me and ironed them myself.
In my dorm, they had something called the “Ironing Room.” There was one of every floor. They may have still them for all I know. We spent a lot of our time in college ironing and soon gained an appreciation of the drudgery ironing involved. Still, it was a necessary evil.
About the time I graduated from college, things started to change. Men were wearing “wash and wear” Haspel suits. Some fabrics were coming out that didn’t need ironing. My father was wearing “permanent press” shirts. These new fabrics were a mixed blessing. We hated to iron the old cotton stuff, but these new fabrics felt a bit “slimy” and were hot in the summer. Most of us had some of each.
I recall back in 1969, when we were first married, we had dinner with a couple who lived in the apartment across the hall from us in Illinois. Steve spilled something on the tablecloth. The hostess replied, “That’s OK. It’s wash and wear!” My engineer husband still chuckles about the idea of a “wash and wear” tablecloth.
Enter POLYESTER! I was in California at the time and embraced it. Hooray, no more ironing ever! The stuff was ugly and it was hot, but everybody was wearing and loving it! The ironing board was stuck in the back of the garage and iron stuffed in the closet. Until we moved to Maryland in 1976, we lived in an ironing free bliss. Sure, you had to be quick at getting to the dryer and hanging things up, but it beat ironing.
At the time when we were in California, Steve was in the air force and wore a wash and wear blue shirt and polyester trousers. Rarely, he would have to wear fatigues and they had to be ironed. I soon tumbled to fact that they are best handled by the laundry. The irony – the thing he wore to do dirty things had to be starched and ironed! The uniform he wore daily as an “officer and a gentleman” could come right out of the dryer onto the hanger!
In Maryland, polyester was not as prevalent as in California. In fact, it was going out of style in 1976. But, I still had a lot of it and wore it. Within a few years, however, it was gone from my wardrobe. What remained was a mixture of “wash and wear” fabrics, wool (that mercifully seldom needed ironing) and things that had to go to the drycleaner.
Soon, I started ironing again and I wasn’t enjoying it either. The spray starch I had discovered in college was now my best friend. But I wanted us all to look good and ironing seemed the only way. How I hated it! My husband preferred the softer feel of un-starched shirts, but they often still needed ironing.
My son wore oxford cloth shirts in high school and they had to be ironed. Guess that is nature’s revenge. I taught him how to iron them and he took care of them himself in college! Shortly after he married, I suggested to his wife that she send them to the laundry. She took my advice! His come back from the laundry handing on hangers and he is happy.
After 37 years of marriage, I am on my third iron. The one I bought in about 1978 recently died. I bought the new one at Costco. It is digital and wonderful and it is heavy enough and large enough to do a really good job. Does it make my like ironing any better? No! But it does seem to go faster.
Unlike in my grandmother’s day, ironing is not a big part of my life. It is something I do when I have to (because I need to wear something) or when I am on one of my “organized” kicks. Still, it is necessary sometimes.
My husband no longer wears a coat, tie and white shirt to work. He wears plaid shirts without a tie. His employer, like many others, has changed their rules and he is very happy to go to work in a plaid shirt (the plaid is not required, but he IS an engineer and they seem to like plaid for some reason) and slacks. If I am fast, his shirts don’t need much ironing, but they do need touching up a bit. The microfiber slacks are great – no ironing required. I have learned to send the Dockers to the laundry.
I stopped wearing oxford cloth blouses decades ago and I hate “fat” polyester. These days I wear knit tops most of the time and mercifully they don’t need ironing. Some of my slacks require ironing; others don’t (a tough of polyester is just fine, thank you). I have to iron many of my blouses, as I wear them over my knit top in the summer time. More ironing is one thing I dread about the summer. Right now, I have loads of stuff I washed at the end of last summer that I need to dig out and iron. And by now, it is all really wrinkled.
I have a fancy laundry room in my house with a small pull-down ironing board. It reminds me of the ironing room in my college dorm. I put a small black and white TV in there for use while ironing. BUT, I kept my old standard size ironing board. It is now set up in my sitting room, calling to me every night. One night soon, it will grab me. I will turn on the TV and take pleasure in ironing my husband’s shirts just so and remembering my grandmother.
Meanwhile, however, there is this wonderful stuff put out by Downy and it is magic. You can spray it and wrinkles go away on all but the seriously wrinkled. I never travel without it. While it is not a complete ironing replacement, it really does help!
Will future generations iron? Thirty years ago, I would have said “never.” Now I say, “probably, but only when they can’t figure out how to get out of it.”
Ironing in those days involved sprinkling first. We had a Coke bottle with a sprinkler head on top it of. Before you started to iron a piece, you had to sprinkle it first. I think most things had been pre-starched first, so the water seemed to wake up the starch.
Sometimes the maid would also help with the ironing and my mother would also iron. My grandmother, who was in charge of ironing in our household, kept the frilly dresses for herself and for my mother to do. The maid did the really boring stuff and I did the easy stuff. In retrospect, we spent a lot of our lives ironing. Mercifully, only one person could iron at once. Summer days were especially hard; the iron was hot and the sweat poured off of us in the Alabama heat. The oscillating fan helped a bit.
My uncle somehow came by an electric ironer and gave it to my Dad. This is an example of appliance that never really hit the big time. My mother was happy to get it, but using it was a different matter. It was OK for tablecloths, but not much else.
Men’s shirts were always sent out the laundry. They came back stiffly starched and wrapped around what we called “shirt cardboard.” My father’s shirts, like his handkerchiefs were always white and he liked them heavily starched. No pink or blue shirts for him. My grandfather, on the other hand, preferred striped shirts with white colors. He always wore a collar pin that connected the two corners of his collars. His shirts were very interesting! He used to let me help him pick out his clothes each night. It was fun to coordinate his suit, with his shirt, tie, handkerchief and socks. Between the two of them, they used 10 sheets of “shirt cardboard” every week. This means that I had an endless supply of “shirt cardboard” for drawing or school projects.
When I was in high school, I liked to wear oxford cloth shirts with Peter Pan collars. My mother hated them because they were so hard to iron. By then I was not too interested in ironing (strange how that happened) and she had to pay the maid to iron them. She could have sent them to the laundry like my Dad’s, but that would have been too expensive – besides, they wouldn’t look right all stiffly starched like his. I think that was one of the best parts of my going to college; I took my oxford cloth blouses with me and ironed them myself.
In my dorm, they had something called the “Ironing Room.” There was one of every floor. They may have still them for all I know. We spent a lot of our time in college ironing and soon gained an appreciation of the drudgery ironing involved. Still, it was a necessary evil.
About the time I graduated from college, things started to change. Men were wearing “wash and wear” Haspel suits. Some fabrics were coming out that didn’t need ironing. My father was wearing “permanent press” shirts. These new fabrics were a mixed blessing. We hated to iron the old cotton stuff, but these new fabrics felt a bit “slimy” and were hot in the summer. Most of us had some of each.
I recall back in 1969, when we were first married, we had dinner with a couple who lived in the apartment across the hall from us in Illinois. Steve spilled something on the tablecloth. The hostess replied, “That’s OK. It’s wash and wear!” My engineer husband still chuckles about the idea of a “wash and wear” tablecloth.
Enter POLYESTER! I was in California at the time and embraced it. Hooray, no more ironing ever! The stuff was ugly and it was hot, but everybody was wearing and loving it! The ironing board was stuck in the back of the garage and iron stuffed in the closet. Until we moved to Maryland in 1976, we lived in an ironing free bliss. Sure, you had to be quick at getting to the dryer and hanging things up, but it beat ironing.
At the time when we were in California, Steve was in the air force and wore a wash and wear blue shirt and polyester trousers. Rarely, he would have to wear fatigues and they had to be ironed. I soon tumbled to fact that they are best handled by the laundry. The irony – the thing he wore to do dirty things had to be starched and ironed! The uniform he wore daily as an “officer and a gentleman” could come right out of the dryer onto the hanger!
In Maryland, polyester was not as prevalent as in California. In fact, it was going out of style in 1976. But, I still had a lot of it and wore it. Within a few years, however, it was gone from my wardrobe. What remained was a mixture of “wash and wear” fabrics, wool (that mercifully seldom needed ironing) and things that had to go to the drycleaner.
Soon, I started ironing again and I wasn’t enjoying it either. The spray starch I had discovered in college was now my best friend. But I wanted us all to look good and ironing seemed the only way. How I hated it! My husband preferred the softer feel of un-starched shirts, but they often still needed ironing.
My son wore oxford cloth shirts in high school and they had to be ironed. Guess that is nature’s revenge. I taught him how to iron them and he took care of them himself in college! Shortly after he married, I suggested to his wife that she send them to the laundry. She took my advice! His come back from the laundry handing on hangers and he is happy.
After 37 years of marriage, I am on my third iron. The one I bought in about 1978 recently died. I bought the new one at Costco. It is digital and wonderful and it is heavy enough and large enough to do a really good job. Does it make my like ironing any better? No! But it does seem to go faster.
Unlike in my grandmother’s day, ironing is not a big part of my life. It is something I do when I have to (because I need to wear something) or when I am on one of my “organized” kicks. Still, it is necessary sometimes.
My husband no longer wears a coat, tie and white shirt to work. He wears plaid shirts without a tie. His employer, like many others, has changed their rules and he is very happy to go to work in a plaid shirt (the plaid is not required, but he IS an engineer and they seem to like plaid for some reason) and slacks. If I am fast, his shirts don’t need much ironing, but they do need touching up a bit. The microfiber slacks are great – no ironing required. I have learned to send the Dockers to the laundry.
I stopped wearing oxford cloth blouses decades ago and I hate “fat” polyester. These days I wear knit tops most of the time and mercifully they don’t need ironing. Some of my slacks require ironing; others don’t (a tough of polyester is just fine, thank you). I have to iron many of my blouses, as I wear them over my knit top in the summer time. More ironing is one thing I dread about the summer. Right now, I have loads of stuff I washed at the end of last summer that I need to dig out and iron. And by now, it is all really wrinkled.
I have a fancy laundry room in my house with a small pull-down ironing board. It reminds me of the ironing room in my college dorm. I put a small black and white TV in there for use while ironing. BUT, I kept my old standard size ironing board. It is now set up in my sitting room, calling to me every night. One night soon, it will grab me. I will turn on the TV and take pleasure in ironing my husband’s shirts just so and remembering my grandmother.
Meanwhile, however, there is this wonderful stuff put out by Downy and it is magic. You can spray it and wrinkles go away on all but the seriously wrinkled. I never travel without it. While it is not a complete ironing replacement, it really does help!
Will future generations iron? Thirty years ago, I would have said “never.” Now I say, “probably, but only when they can’t figure out how to get out of it.”
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Bed Linens
When I was a kid beds came in three sizes: double, twin and cot/rollaway. There were no queen or king size beds and nobody seemed to notice that they didn’t exist. Mattresses were relatively thin by today’s standards and there was no such thing as a pillow-top on a mattress. Ticking was all blue and white striped. Pillows came in one size – the modern equivalent of “standard.”
From the time I was about four on we always had a clothes dryer, but one simply didn’t use the dryer for sheets. Instead, sheets were hung out on the line to dry. Bottom sheets looked pretty much like top sheets because they had not yet invented fitted sheets. I think the reason everyone liked to dry the sheets on the line is that they didn’t come out very wrinkled and they smelled nice.
In those days, sheets were white and not made out of permanent pressed material. They were always washed in hot water with bleach and bluing, ensuring a bright white. It was important to have bright white sheets. I don’t remember anyone ever ironing sheets in my time, except for the period when we had an ironer (which turned out to be of little value except for sheets). I do, however, vividly remember ironing pillowcases. My grandmother taught how to iron pillowcases—a skill I still practice today.
Sheets came in two types – muslin and percale. Nobody talked about thread count, but the greater the count, the better the sheet. “Nice people” used percale. Muslin was considered a lesser product. I could only assume that poor people slept on muslin, but it was OK for them (since they were poor and all).
Pillows had feathers in them until about the time I was in elementary school; then they started being made out of foam rubber. My father HATED foam rubber pillows and one day made quite a stink about it. My mother went out that day and bought him a new pillow. That pillow was made of goose down and cost $35 – a princely sum in 1950s dollars. I still have that pillow; it is by far the best pillow we own and I use it in the late evenings to rest my head on while I watch TV. It still has its tag on it – you know the one that you can’t remove “under penalty of law.” We are a VERY law-abiding family. That pillow is about 52 years old and it still has its tag!
Department stores used to have “white sales” – even after bed linens came in an array of colors. For all I know, they still DO have “white sales.” I just don’t pay attention to stuff like that any more, as I have a lot of sheets (and that’s another story). Now and then I do buy some sheets for our king size bed, but rarely and usually when I stumble on them cheap at some place like Costco (more on that later).
When I was about six my mother went to one of those “white sales” and got really carried away. Knowing my mother, it must have been quite a sale. She bought all sorts of colored sheets and they were even monogrammed in fancy white script letters. I had some that said PEH (Patricia Elizabeth Humphreys). They were soft pink, giving me the hint that soon she was going to paint my room pink (and she did). She also bought a set for my grandparents (who lived with us). Theirs were soft green to match their bedroom. For herself and my father she bought a pinkish raspberry color. All in all, we were pretty hot stuff with all of our monogrammed sheets in pastel colors.
Bedspreads were generally white or beige and lightweight, with little bumps in them, otherwise know as chenille. There were no pillow shams or comforters. You just pulled the spread up over the pillows (which had been rolled), after the sheet and blanket had been pulled up, pulled up the sheet and blanket and tucked them in, added a couple of throw pillows and the bed was made. I wonder why you can’t easily buy chenille bedspreads any more. They were all made by a company named Bates --- I wonder if they have a Web site? Hmmmh…
My favorite bedspread was brown, with little fuzzy cowboys on it. It was too big for my bed, so they put it on the cot in the hallway up in the attic by the attic fan. I don’t recall any ever sleeping on that cot, but it was nice to know it was there. I still have that bedspread. When our son was little I used it sometimes on his bed, but he was never that fond of it. It I now up in the cabinet above the washer and dryer with a few other odd bedspreads I am holding onto for some reason.
When I went to college my mother took me to JC Penny’s and we got matching sheets and towels. My sheets were pale apricot color, as were my towels. It was some sort of warped tribute to the Auburn University colors, orange and blue. Besides, I liked pale apricot; it went well with my freckles. My mother made me pale blue bedspreads.
These sheets served me well through graduate school, but when I got married it was time for new sheets. Permanent press was new and hot, so some of my gift sheets were permanent press and some were not. Guess which ones I still have.
In the late 60s and early 70s sheets were, like everything else, very colorful. Flowers were big and bold and the colors were bright. Bottom sheets were fitted and sometimes were a solid color in contrast to the bold print of the top sheet.
When we first got married we bought a king-sized bed. My husband is 6’5” and didn’t like for his feet to hang off the end of the bed. He selected the mattress and it turned out to be not very good and made of foam. By about 1973 it had to be replaced and we were in southern California at the time, courtesy of the air force. We went to the local mattress store and bought a mattress; it was a California king. None of our old sheets fit it because California kings are shaped differently from regular kings. Of course, we didn’t know that when we bought the mattress.
For the life of that goofy mattress, we bought California king sheets. By 1976, we were in Maryland, in the land of regular kings. California king sheets were not to be had at any price. So, we got along without new sheets, save those purchased on an occasional trip to San Bernardino (our old home) and the local Pic’N Save.
Eventually, the California king mattress wore out and we bought a regular king. The old sheets that were wedding gifts fit again and we could buy new sheets at almost any store. Ah, the freedom!
Then that mattress wore out and we bought a new one. It was somehow thicker than the old one and the old sheets (including the California kings) didn’t fit. They would spring off at the corners. Undaunted, I purchased some garter like contraptions to hold them on against their will. These little devices, that resemble a garter belt, stretch diagonally across each corner of the fitted sheets.
I bought some new sheets and they fit my new mattress just fine. For a time we were in sync – but only when I used the newest sheets.
Then I bought some more new sheets and the bottom fitted sheets were WAY too big. Not only did I not have to use the garters, I had to fold them over in the corners. Strange, I thought! Maybe they think they will shrink. Then I discovered the sad truth, the new sheets were designed for pillow-top beds. So once again, my mattress is out of sync with my sheets.
While I was going back and forth with sheets for the king size bed, I was quietly collecting twin and double sheets. My grandmother gave all of her sheets to my mother and so did my aunt. When my mother died, I got all of her sheets. Conveniently, I also got all the double and twin beds. The sheets fit the mattresses until we had to replace one twin mattress. The only kind we could buy had a pillowtop. Now my antique sheets don’t fit anymore on that bed and I have to use the old garter things, now unneeded for the king-size bed.
I still have the old chenille bedspreads on three of the beds in the house, but I have quilts for all the beds (but they are too good to use). One bed has a quilt on it. Our king size bed has a comforter that won’t cover the pillows because it is too short (but that has to be OK, as I like the comforter) and the pillows look OK in their cases. No way am I going to pull them out of pillow shams every night. Do people really do that?
What’s next? Probably a king-size mattress with a pillow-top. Only my newest sheets will then fit at all. My newest sheets are flannel. I never heard of flannel sheets when I was growing up, but in recent years I decided to try some of them. My husband insists on cutting the thermostat back at night and those flannel sheets feel great on a cold winter night. They aren’t percale, nor even muslin – oh the shame of it all! They are what might well be described as “Yankee sheets.” They are OK for winter, but not for the other seasons. Percale is still required!
Yesterday I was at Costco and looking at king size sheets. They had some for $59.95 that were of fine percale and soft colors popular today. I was tempted, but $59.95 still seems like a lot of money for sheets. I’ll have to give it some more thought and see how bad the ones I have really are. This is a major investment after all. They had some others for $35.99, but they were made out of jersey. For a brief moment, I contemplated getting a set of the jersey sheets, but I decided my self-esteem required percale. After all, I am a southern lady and a southern lady doesn’t sleep on muslin, much less jersey. Isn’t life strange?
From the time I was about four on we always had a clothes dryer, but one simply didn’t use the dryer for sheets. Instead, sheets were hung out on the line to dry. Bottom sheets looked pretty much like top sheets because they had not yet invented fitted sheets. I think the reason everyone liked to dry the sheets on the line is that they didn’t come out very wrinkled and they smelled nice.
In those days, sheets were white and not made out of permanent pressed material. They were always washed in hot water with bleach and bluing, ensuring a bright white. It was important to have bright white sheets. I don’t remember anyone ever ironing sheets in my time, except for the period when we had an ironer (which turned out to be of little value except for sheets). I do, however, vividly remember ironing pillowcases. My grandmother taught how to iron pillowcases—a skill I still practice today.
Sheets came in two types – muslin and percale. Nobody talked about thread count, but the greater the count, the better the sheet. “Nice people” used percale. Muslin was considered a lesser product. I could only assume that poor people slept on muslin, but it was OK for them (since they were poor and all).
Pillows had feathers in them until about the time I was in elementary school; then they started being made out of foam rubber. My father HATED foam rubber pillows and one day made quite a stink about it. My mother went out that day and bought him a new pillow. That pillow was made of goose down and cost $35 – a princely sum in 1950s dollars. I still have that pillow; it is by far the best pillow we own and I use it in the late evenings to rest my head on while I watch TV. It still has its tag on it – you know the one that you can’t remove “under penalty of law.” We are a VERY law-abiding family. That pillow is about 52 years old and it still has its tag!
Department stores used to have “white sales” – even after bed linens came in an array of colors. For all I know, they still DO have “white sales.” I just don’t pay attention to stuff like that any more, as I have a lot of sheets (and that’s another story). Now and then I do buy some sheets for our king size bed, but rarely and usually when I stumble on them cheap at some place like Costco (more on that later).
When I was about six my mother went to one of those “white sales” and got really carried away. Knowing my mother, it must have been quite a sale. She bought all sorts of colored sheets and they were even monogrammed in fancy white script letters. I had some that said PEH (Patricia Elizabeth Humphreys). They were soft pink, giving me the hint that soon she was going to paint my room pink (and she did). She also bought a set for my grandparents (who lived with us). Theirs were soft green to match their bedroom. For herself and my father she bought a pinkish raspberry color. All in all, we were pretty hot stuff with all of our monogrammed sheets in pastel colors.
Bedspreads were generally white or beige and lightweight, with little bumps in them, otherwise know as chenille. There were no pillow shams or comforters. You just pulled the spread up over the pillows (which had been rolled), after the sheet and blanket had been pulled up, pulled up the sheet and blanket and tucked them in, added a couple of throw pillows and the bed was made. I wonder why you can’t easily buy chenille bedspreads any more. They were all made by a company named Bates --- I wonder if they have a Web site? Hmmmh…
My favorite bedspread was brown, with little fuzzy cowboys on it. It was too big for my bed, so they put it on the cot in the hallway up in the attic by the attic fan. I don’t recall any ever sleeping on that cot, but it was nice to know it was there. I still have that bedspread. When our son was little I used it sometimes on his bed, but he was never that fond of it. It I now up in the cabinet above the washer and dryer with a few other odd bedspreads I am holding onto for some reason.
When I went to college my mother took me to JC Penny’s and we got matching sheets and towels. My sheets were pale apricot color, as were my towels. It was some sort of warped tribute to the Auburn University colors, orange and blue. Besides, I liked pale apricot; it went well with my freckles. My mother made me pale blue bedspreads.
These sheets served me well through graduate school, but when I got married it was time for new sheets. Permanent press was new and hot, so some of my gift sheets were permanent press and some were not. Guess which ones I still have.
In the late 60s and early 70s sheets were, like everything else, very colorful. Flowers were big and bold and the colors were bright. Bottom sheets were fitted and sometimes were a solid color in contrast to the bold print of the top sheet.
When we first got married we bought a king-sized bed. My husband is 6’5” and didn’t like for his feet to hang off the end of the bed. He selected the mattress and it turned out to be not very good and made of foam. By about 1973 it had to be replaced and we were in southern California at the time, courtesy of the air force. We went to the local mattress store and bought a mattress; it was a California king. None of our old sheets fit it because California kings are shaped differently from regular kings. Of course, we didn’t know that when we bought the mattress.
For the life of that goofy mattress, we bought California king sheets. By 1976, we were in Maryland, in the land of regular kings. California king sheets were not to be had at any price. So, we got along without new sheets, save those purchased on an occasional trip to San Bernardino (our old home) and the local Pic’N Save.
Eventually, the California king mattress wore out and we bought a regular king. The old sheets that were wedding gifts fit again and we could buy new sheets at almost any store. Ah, the freedom!
Then that mattress wore out and we bought a new one. It was somehow thicker than the old one and the old sheets (including the California kings) didn’t fit. They would spring off at the corners. Undaunted, I purchased some garter like contraptions to hold them on against their will. These little devices, that resemble a garter belt, stretch diagonally across each corner of the fitted sheets.
I bought some new sheets and they fit my new mattress just fine. For a time we were in sync – but only when I used the newest sheets.
Then I bought some more new sheets and the bottom fitted sheets were WAY too big. Not only did I not have to use the garters, I had to fold them over in the corners. Strange, I thought! Maybe they think they will shrink. Then I discovered the sad truth, the new sheets were designed for pillow-top beds. So once again, my mattress is out of sync with my sheets.
While I was going back and forth with sheets for the king size bed, I was quietly collecting twin and double sheets. My grandmother gave all of her sheets to my mother and so did my aunt. When my mother died, I got all of her sheets. Conveniently, I also got all the double and twin beds. The sheets fit the mattresses until we had to replace one twin mattress. The only kind we could buy had a pillowtop. Now my antique sheets don’t fit anymore on that bed and I have to use the old garter things, now unneeded for the king-size bed.
I still have the old chenille bedspreads on three of the beds in the house, but I have quilts for all the beds (but they are too good to use). One bed has a quilt on it. Our king size bed has a comforter that won’t cover the pillows because it is too short (but that has to be OK, as I like the comforter) and the pillows look OK in their cases. No way am I going to pull them out of pillow shams every night. Do people really do that?
What’s next? Probably a king-size mattress with a pillow-top. Only my newest sheets will then fit at all. My newest sheets are flannel. I never heard of flannel sheets when I was growing up, but in recent years I decided to try some of them. My husband insists on cutting the thermostat back at night and those flannel sheets feel great on a cold winter night. They aren’t percale, nor even muslin – oh the shame of it all! They are what might well be described as “Yankee sheets.” They are OK for winter, but not for the other seasons. Percale is still required!
Yesterday I was at Costco and looking at king size sheets. They had some for $59.95 that were of fine percale and soft colors popular today. I was tempted, but $59.95 still seems like a lot of money for sheets. I’ll have to give it some more thought and see how bad the ones I have really are. This is a major investment after all. They had some others for $35.99, but they were made out of jersey. For a brief moment, I contemplated getting a set of the jersey sheets, but I decided my self-esteem required percale. After all, I am a southern lady and a southern lady doesn’t sleep on muslin, much less jersey. Isn’t life strange?
Monday, April 17, 2006
Keeping Cool
When I was growing up, we didn’t have air conditioning, but neither did anyone else we knew, so we didn’t miss it. Alabama summers were hot and sticky, but we used fans to keep us cool. We had several of them, including a big one that sat on the floor and oscillated. You were hot for a while, but then the fan would blow on you and cool you instantly. Sweating was something you did all the time, all summer, not just a physical phenomenon that happens at the gym (but then nobody went to the gym except boxers). Nobody ran unless they were in a hurry to catch a bus!
My father really did NOT like to be hot and, although our house was sheltered by lots of trees and we had our fans, it wasn’t enough for him. One day he came home with an enormous fan. It was 4 ft. square and was mounted on the wall in the hallway at the top of the stairs in our attic. When that thing was on, it would blow women’s dresses up over their heads as they walked up our attic stairs (fortunately, the only women who walked up the stairs were in our family or those specifically invited to go upstairs and watch the fan, so it was OK). Obviously, my parents didn’t want me to be sucked into the fan or put curious young fingers in its invisible spinning blades, so they covered it with hardware cloth. After that, we were comfortable most of the time. All we had to do was to open the windows and gale force wind swept through the house.
While we were staying comfortable at home with our monster attic fan, central air conditioning was taking over the commercial world. Department stores, hotels, and grocery stores were installing air conditioning and bragging about it far and wide. Wealthy people were air conditioning their homes, but most new homes still came sans air conditioning.
We moved “over the mountain” in 1958 to a lovely home in the suburbs. It too had lots of trees, and it even had a small attic fan in the ceiling in the hallway. The fan was about half the size of fan the old house and it had louvers over it that opened when the fan was on. It did an OK job, but not for the basement (where my mother sewed). My parents bought a window unit for downstairs. But within a year, my father decided to install central air conditioning. He and my mother wrapped the ducts with insulation and suddenly we were among the elite with a cool house!
The schools were not air conditioned in those days. My high school, which was among the newest and best, had window units for the principal’s office and the guidance counselor’s office. The rest of us coped with the summer heat the best we could. School was out in late May and didn’t start again until after Labor Day, so we never had to deal with the worst of the summer heat.
In 1968 I went to college at Auburn University and I remembered what it was like to be hot again. I had a small fan that usually lived in the window, sucking in air from the outside and circulating it in my room. I remember that one particularly hot night I improvised a cooler by taking a Styrofoam ice bucket and filling it with old pantyhose. I then cut out the bottom and stretched a panty hose leg around over it, creating a cover. Then I taped the ice bucket to the fan. I poked a hole in the top side of the ice bucket and poured water in, saturating the pantyhose. In effect, I created a “desert cooler.” It was similar to my little invention for cooling myself in the car (see road tirp article). It was better than nothing!
In my junior year, I got to move to a new air conditioned dormitory. Life was good again, but I did miss having the windows open in the evening.
In graduate school, I had an apartment that was air conditioned, so I was comfortable and didn’t have to cope with the hot days. In the evening, if it was cool, I could turn off the air conditioner and open the windows.
Then in 1969, I married Steve. Steve grew up in New York City and sweltered through summers without air conditioning. Our first apartment in Illinois was air conditioned and we went straight from heat to air conditioning and that suited him just fine. He doesn’t like humidity and pollen can set off his sinuses. I hated having to have the windows closed at night.
When we moved to Southern California in 1971, we bought our first house. It had two desert coolers (evaporative). There was a large one on the roof, and a smaller room in the wall of the family room. These units were remarkably similar to my earlier inventions. They used automatically wetted excelsior pads and a fan to circulate the air. The folks next door had central air, but most of the time our house was cooler. In that kind of heat central air can only do so much. The desert cooler on the roof would often need new pads or get stopped up and Steve would have to do on the roof to fix it. I bought him some special shoes for this purpose at a local athletic store. They were funny looking shoes – orange suede, with a swoosh stripe on the side, made by a company I had never heard of – Nike. I wish I had bought another pair as an investment. Just think what they would go for on eBay now!
When we moved to Maryland in 1976, we bought an air conditioned house. Steve was happy; he could have heat in the winter and cold in the summer and never have to open a window. The house had a built in attic fan and I would have preferred to use on those nights that were not all that hot. But that was not to be. When he was away, I would open windows and air out of the house.
When we built the home we are in today in 1992, we air conditioned it and we also installed an attic fan, at my insistence. This fan is SO noisy and doesn’t do much to cool the house. It is, however, useful when clearing the house of smoke after a cooking accident. Steve is still very happy to go from heat to cool and never open a window. But on lovely Spring nights like last night, when he is away, I enjoy opening the windows and turning on the ceiling fans. I slept SO well last night and was awakened by the birds this morning.
These days almost everywhere you go there is air conditioning. For that reason, it never occurred to me when I went to Skyland Drive last summer to work on my business plan that they didn’t have air conditioning. I had only been there in the past in the Spring and Fall. There was NO way I was going to get any work done in my room in the sweltering 90 degree plus July heat. I got in the car and headed for the nearest Walmart, in Luray, and bought an oscillating fan on a stand. Once I had that fan, I was cool and comfortable and I could think. Most of all, I felt like a kid again! And I could sleep with the windows open!
My father really did NOT like to be hot and, although our house was sheltered by lots of trees and we had our fans, it wasn’t enough for him. One day he came home with an enormous fan. It was 4 ft. square and was mounted on the wall in the hallway at the top of the stairs in our attic. When that thing was on, it would blow women’s dresses up over their heads as they walked up our attic stairs (fortunately, the only women who walked up the stairs were in our family or those specifically invited to go upstairs and watch the fan, so it was OK). Obviously, my parents didn’t want me to be sucked into the fan or put curious young fingers in its invisible spinning blades, so they covered it with hardware cloth. After that, we were comfortable most of the time. All we had to do was to open the windows and gale force wind swept through the house.
While we were staying comfortable at home with our monster attic fan, central air conditioning was taking over the commercial world. Department stores, hotels, and grocery stores were installing air conditioning and bragging about it far and wide. Wealthy people were air conditioning their homes, but most new homes still came sans air conditioning.
We moved “over the mountain” in 1958 to a lovely home in the suburbs. It too had lots of trees, and it even had a small attic fan in the ceiling in the hallway. The fan was about half the size of fan the old house and it had louvers over it that opened when the fan was on. It did an OK job, but not for the basement (where my mother sewed). My parents bought a window unit for downstairs. But within a year, my father decided to install central air conditioning. He and my mother wrapped the ducts with insulation and suddenly we were among the elite with a cool house!
The schools were not air conditioned in those days. My high school, which was among the newest and best, had window units for the principal’s office and the guidance counselor’s office. The rest of us coped with the summer heat the best we could. School was out in late May and didn’t start again until after Labor Day, so we never had to deal with the worst of the summer heat.
In 1968 I went to college at Auburn University and I remembered what it was like to be hot again. I had a small fan that usually lived in the window, sucking in air from the outside and circulating it in my room. I remember that one particularly hot night I improvised a cooler by taking a Styrofoam ice bucket and filling it with old pantyhose. I then cut out the bottom and stretched a panty hose leg around over it, creating a cover. Then I taped the ice bucket to the fan. I poked a hole in the top side of the ice bucket and poured water in, saturating the pantyhose. In effect, I created a “desert cooler.” It was similar to my little invention for cooling myself in the car (see road tirp article). It was better than nothing!
In my junior year, I got to move to a new air conditioned dormitory. Life was good again, but I did miss having the windows open in the evening.
In graduate school, I had an apartment that was air conditioned, so I was comfortable and didn’t have to cope with the hot days. In the evening, if it was cool, I could turn off the air conditioner and open the windows.
Then in 1969, I married Steve. Steve grew up in New York City and sweltered through summers without air conditioning. Our first apartment in Illinois was air conditioned and we went straight from heat to air conditioning and that suited him just fine. He doesn’t like humidity and pollen can set off his sinuses. I hated having to have the windows closed at night.
When we moved to Southern California in 1971, we bought our first house. It had two desert coolers (evaporative). There was a large one on the roof, and a smaller room in the wall of the family room. These units were remarkably similar to my earlier inventions. They used automatically wetted excelsior pads and a fan to circulate the air. The folks next door had central air, but most of the time our house was cooler. In that kind of heat central air can only do so much. The desert cooler on the roof would often need new pads or get stopped up and Steve would have to do on the roof to fix it. I bought him some special shoes for this purpose at a local athletic store. They were funny looking shoes – orange suede, with a swoosh stripe on the side, made by a company I had never heard of – Nike. I wish I had bought another pair as an investment. Just think what they would go for on eBay now!
When we moved to Maryland in 1976, we bought an air conditioned house. Steve was happy; he could have heat in the winter and cold in the summer and never have to open a window. The house had a built in attic fan and I would have preferred to use on those nights that were not all that hot. But that was not to be. When he was away, I would open windows and air out of the house.
When we built the home we are in today in 1992, we air conditioned it and we also installed an attic fan, at my insistence. This fan is SO noisy and doesn’t do much to cool the house. It is, however, useful when clearing the house of smoke after a cooking accident. Steve is still very happy to go from heat to cool and never open a window. But on lovely Spring nights like last night, when he is away, I enjoy opening the windows and turning on the ceiling fans. I slept SO well last night and was awakened by the birds this morning.
These days almost everywhere you go there is air conditioning. For that reason, it never occurred to me when I went to Skyland Drive last summer to work on my business plan that they didn’t have air conditioning. I had only been there in the past in the Spring and Fall. There was NO way I was going to get any work done in my room in the sweltering 90 degree plus July heat. I got in the car and headed for the nearest Walmart, in Luray, and bought an oscillating fan on a stand. Once I had that fan, I was cool and comfortable and I could think. Most of all, I felt like a kid again! And I could sleep with the windows open!
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Road Trips
I remember traveling with my parents when I was a kid. We would pack the car to the limit and head cross country from Birmingham to Boston or LA or Denver or Florida. My father seemed to feel that on good day you had to make 600 miles. This was not 600 miles at 65 mph on the Interstate. This was 600 miles on US Highways, like US 66 and US 11. We loaded up the car with an ice chest, packed with Coca Colas. When the ice melted, we looked for an ice house, as each small town had one.
At the end of each day, we would stop at a motel. We didn’t make reservations; we just picked a decent looking place at the end of the day. The chains were too fancy and costly for us. Usually my parents got a room with a double bed and a rollaway for me. By today’s standards the places we stayed would be considered motels of “last resort.” But in those days they were clean and sometimes even air conditioned. Some even had a tv in the room and maybe even a swimming pool. Usually I think we paid about $10-$15 per night.
I learned to look out the window when traveling and the savor the joy of open windows in the sweltering summer heat. Even mile after mile of Kansas, Texas, Arizona and New Mexico wasn’t boring. I took imaginary photographs of scenes along the road, carefully framing each scene in my head.
When I was grown and married and the mother of an infant, we still had the travel cross country, as plane fare was too costly. With the freeways, travel was faster, so the 800 mile day became possible for us. Why not? We were young and full of energy! We opted for the major motel chains. Our son needed a crib and not every motel had one. We went from stopping when we were tired, to mapping out a route and making reservations well in advance. At that time we lived in southern California and our families were back East! You haven’t lived until you have traveled from California to New York to Alabama and back with a three month old in a two door ’71 Dodge Dart. When they dropped the speed limit from 70 to 55 mph it added a full day to our last trip!
I have now been in every state I think but North Dakota and Alaska and I’ve seen the countryside up close and personal. We now can afford to fly on vacation travel, especially since we have loads of frequent flyer miles. Still, however, sometimes it makes sense to drive.
I think I have driven the full width of Texas for the last time. But when we are headed for someplace along the East coast, the car is the way to go. I don’t mind sharing in the driving with my husband and we make enough rest stops and meal stops. Is the trip up the Jersey Turnpike boring? Or how about Virginia as seen from I-95 or I-81? These are long boring rides, but so is sitting for two hours in the Atlanta Airport.
A new kind of trip has entered my life in the last few years, and that is the “road trip with girlfriends.” I realize “girl” is perhaps not the best way to describe my friends, most of them 50+. But you get the idea! It is more the “spirit” of “girlhood.” We love the men in our lives deeply, but sometimes it is fun to just get away with the “girls.”
Women understand the “art” of shopping. My husband, on the other hand, wanted to buy two shirts in Gatlinburg at the Van Heusen outlet. He walked in; picked up two shirts in his size (all in less than a minute) and was quickly in line at the cashier. Had he been a woman, he would have first scoped out the whole store, zeroed in on about half dozen blouse candidates; felt the texture of each fabric; selected at least three for purchase and perhaps picked up a pair of coordinating slacks. Any self-respecting woman would then consider trying to pick up a matching purse and shoes, and maybe a sweater to match. This process could take up to two hours, finished up by a restroom break and lunch and a few more stores, just in case.
Women tour differently too. Men want to know all the facts – what happened when and to whom. If a war was involved, all the better, and who was the commanding general? On the other hand, we women want to know what was life really like in the historic place in question? What did they wear; how did they spend their days?
When looking for a hotel room, women want security, cleanliness, and convenience. Good food and a smoke-free bar are appreciated. But if there is a spa where you can get a massage – so much the better. Affordable is better than expensive, but scuzzy won’t cut it.
Women like to act on impulse! “I know we planned to do X, but, hey, here is Y and it seems like more fun! Let’s do it.” And if we can experience something of the local culture, that is a big plus!
So let’s face it, husbands and men friends are great, but to really enjoy travel, it is best to go with “girlfriends.” You laugh; you relax; you share memories and you build friendships.
I just returned from a five day road trip to Charleston with three fellow Facestwomen. Nancy Badertscher, Jane Tyson, and Barbara Polito and I had an incredible time. We squeezed every ounce we could out of our time in Charleston. In my next entry I will hit the highlights.
At the end of each day, we would stop at a motel. We didn’t make reservations; we just picked a decent looking place at the end of the day. The chains were too fancy and costly for us. Usually my parents got a room with a double bed and a rollaway for me. By today’s standards the places we stayed would be considered motels of “last resort.” But in those days they were clean and sometimes even air conditioned. Some even had a tv in the room and maybe even a swimming pool. Usually I think we paid about $10-$15 per night.
I learned to look out the window when traveling and the savor the joy of open windows in the sweltering summer heat. Even mile after mile of Kansas, Texas, Arizona and New Mexico wasn’t boring. I took imaginary photographs of scenes along the road, carefully framing each scene in my head.
When I was grown and married and the mother of an infant, we still had the travel cross country, as plane fare was too costly. With the freeways, travel was faster, so the 800 mile day became possible for us. Why not? We were young and full of energy! We opted for the major motel chains. Our son needed a crib and not every motel had one. We went from stopping when we were tired, to mapping out a route and making reservations well in advance. At that time we lived in southern California and our families were back East! You haven’t lived until you have traveled from California to New York to Alabama and back with a three month old in a two door ’71 Dodge Dart. When they dropped the speed limit from 70 to 55 mph it added a full day to our last trip!
I have now been in every state I think but North Dakota and Alaska and I’ve seen the countryside up close and personal. We now can afford to fly on vacation travel, especially since we have loads of frequent flyer miles. Still, however, sometimes it makes sense to drive.
I think I have driven the full width of Texas for the last time. But when we are headed for someplace along the East coast, the car is the way to go. I don’t mind sharing in the driving with my husband and we make enough rest stops and meal stops. Is the trip up the Jersey Turnpike boring? Or how about Virginia as seen from I-95 or I-81? These are long boring rides, but so is sitting for two hours in the Atlanta Airport.
A new kind of trip has entered my life in the last few years, and that is the “road trip with girlfriends.” I realize “girl” is perhaps not the best way to describe my friends, most of them 50+. But you get the idea! It is more the “spirit” of “girlhood.” We love the men in our lives deeply, but sometimes it is fun to just get away with the “girls.”
Women understand the “art” of shopping. My husband, on the other hand, wanted to buy two shirts in Gatlinburg at the Van Heusen outlet. He walked in; picked up two shirts in his size (all in less than a minute) and was quickly in line at the cashier. Had he been a woman, he would have first scoped out the whole store, zeroed in on about half dozen blouse candidates; felt the texture of each fabric; selected at least three for purchase and perhaps picked up a pair of coordinating slacks. Any self-respecting woman would then consider trying to pick up a matching purse and shoes, and maybe a sweater to match. This process could take up to two hours, finished up by a restroom break and lunch and a few more stores, just in case.
Women tour differently too. Men want to know all the facts – what happened when and to whom. If a war was involved, all the better, and who was the commanding general? On the other hand, we women want to know what was life really like in the historic place in question? What did they wear; how did they spend their days?
When looking for a hotel room, women want security, cleanliness, and convenience. Good food and a smoke-free bar are appreciated. But if there is a spa where you can get a massage – so much the better. Affordable is better than expensive, but scuzzy won’t cut it.
Women like to act on impulse! “I know we planned to do X, but, hey, here is Y and it seems like more fun! Let’s do it.” And if we can experience something of the local culture, that is a big plus!
So let’s face it, husbands and men friends are great, but to really enjoy travel, it is best to go with “girlfriends.” You laugh; you relax; you share memories and you build friendships.
I just returned from a five day road trip to Charleston with three fellow Facestwomen. Nancy Badertscher, Jane Tyson, and Barbara Polito and I had an incredible time. We squeezed every ounce we could out of our time in Charleston. In my next entry I will hit the highlights.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Gatlinburg, Tennessee
My mother took me to Gatlinburg when I was very small; I was about four or five years old. We had a good time; we rode the Incline Railroad, stayed at a motel and bought fudge. I always treasured that trip; one of the few times my mother and I went anywhere with just the two of us. Of course, we traveled, but always with my Dad. I have no idea why my father was not along on this trip. I can only speculate that he had planned to go, but couldn’t at the last minute and my mom didn’t want to lose the deposit. But for whatever the reason, I was in Gatlinburg in about 1950 with my mother and I always wanted to go back.
In the mid-70s, Steve and I, along with our son, went back there—just passing through. I remembered a sleepy little mountain town. What I found was a “tourist attraction.” It seemed overbuilt and far too overdeveloped to please me. I had no interest in going there ever again.
Then about eight years ago, an old friend offered me a week at a Gatlinburg timeshare. The price was right – FREE. There was that business about the condo fee every year and the fee to join Interval International. Still it seemed like a bargain. After all, we could trade the time for anywhere in the world.
And for the first few years, we did exactly that. We traded for Cornwall and Myrtle Beach. We banked our time. We missed one year all together but failing to make our deposit on time. Still, it was a good deal.
Then one day we got a notice from the Club Chalet that “our” unit was going to unavailable for some weeks because of a problem associated with a landslide and the small creek that runs THROUGH the cabin and the need to build a retaining wall and redecorate the unit. Now we were curious – just what kind of place is this anyway? A landslide, a creek, a retaining wall?
So, we decided to actually “use” our time and go to Gatlinburg and stay at our cabin. That was several years ago. When we arrived one dark, rainy, and foggy March night to start our week, we discovered that “our” unit was STILL not available, due to all the remodeling work. They had, however, assigned us to a similar unit.
Right before arriving at the timeshare office, we had gone about 2/3 up Ski Mountain Road, and had just passed the most incredible hairpin turn I have ever seen in my life. To find the unit reserved for us, we had to follow a map. It seemed easy enough, a few roads and a few turns. Well, not exactly! The roads off Ski Mountain Road are all the same – narrow spiral ribbons of asphalt, with edges that drop down about eight inches. The thought of hooking a wheel is terrifying because you will instantly “flip” down an embankment into a ravine and die a horrible death!
The chalet (they call them that in Gatlinburg) that first trip was really nice and had an incredible view – no wonder it was near the top of a big mountain! Three bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room and dining room, plus three baths. Not bad for two people! I was supposedly "just like" our chalet, just minus the creek and the retaining wall.
That first trip, we went to see “our” unit and discovered a construction crew hard at work. We didn’t bother them for a tour…we knew we would be back. This place, crazy as it was, was actually starting to appeal to us. Sure, the town of Gatlinburg was even more “touristy” than it had been in the 70s. The “strip” (maybe it has some other name) between Pigeon Forge and Sevierville is every bad hillbilly cliché wrapped into one. It is continuous series of miniature golf, “Dixie” shows, catfish places, “As Seem on TV Stores,” motels of all stripes, outlet malls, and pancake houses. I can’t believe this place can support so many pancake houses!
We did go back the next March and actually stayed at our chalet. Sure enough, it had a BIG new concrete retaining wall behind it and still a stream trickled through the basement. It had been redecorated and was actually quite pleasant, and it was certainly quiet.
We felt more comfortable than the first trip. We knew where to find a good grocery store and had found a few good relatively authentic restaurants the previous trip. Some friends came up from Alabama to join us for a few days. Being with friends gave us an excuse to do some things we had resisted the previous trip, like ride the aerial tramway up to Ober Gatlinburg, at the top of Ski Mountain.
This past week, we went back yet again, mostly because we failed to deposit our timeshare with Interval on time to get the better trading opportunity. The two previous trips we had spent considerable time in our cabin, just working. That was what made it appealing – the opportunity to get some work done. We felt we had already seen everything we really wanted to see. After all, we had driven through the width of Great Smoky Mountain National Park, including the driving nature trail (really), toured Cade’s Cove, shopped at the outlets, walked through town and looked at the shops, and even visited an As Seen on TV store. We had eaten at some interesting restaurants and had lots of barbeque, steak, catfish and trout. In Gatlinburg there is a restaurant that specializes in trout (pretty good too – trout a lot of different ways). No, we have not gone to any of the shows. The thought of men in Confederate and Union army sequined uniforms racing on ostriches was not tempting enough to lure us to the Dixie Stampede (maybe some year). And Dollywood is closed in March.
This trip we mostly worked, and worked, and worked. Steve set up his laptop at one end of the table and I at the other. We tried to go out once each day and get back by sunset, after an early dinner. Those roads are scary enough in the daylight! The “designated driver” among us (only the two choices) agreed to not drink any wine with dinner. Those roads and even slight intoxication do not mix!
This trip we found a few more things of interest, including the Gatlinburg Arts and Crafts Community. This is a few clusters of interesting craft shops off the beaten path. They have everything from pottery to brooms. I picked up a few interesting items to feature on the FacetsWoman online boutique.
As we were leaving the craft shop area, I noticed a sign on the side of the road. It said Buckhorn Inn, since 1938, Dinner by Reservation. The sign was in great condition and road looked inviting. We soon came to an enclave of white clapboard cabins and main building reminiscent of the Gibson Island Club. Yes, they could take us for dinner. Dinner would be at 7 p.m. and the menu was clam chowder, salad, trout, green beans, rice, and marscapone cheesecake, for $30 a person (expensive by Gatlinburg standards). If we didn’t want trout, we could have chicken. They don’t have a liquor license, but if we bring our own wine they will serve it. Our immediate reaction was very positive. We were ready for something quirky and casually elegant. We arrived back promptly at 7 p.m. and were seated in the dining room at a table for two, among about a dozen other tables. The food was fabulous, as was the service! On the way out, we picked up a brochure. They are a B & B, and the cabins are upscale, but still reasonable. They have an estate with nature trails and a labyrinth. I definitely want to come back—maybe as an overnight guest.
This trip we set aside one day for exploring – no work, just clear our brains! We opted to make the car trek to Catalochee settlement. From our cabin, it is about 60 miles each. On the way there we chose the shorter, more scenic route (aka back roads). The last 15 miles or so of the trip was on gravel roads, around hair pin curve after hair pin curve. Thank goodness it was a beautiful day. Cataloochee Settlement is one of those very quiet little tourist destinations that most folks never visit. At one point it had nearly two hundred buildings. Today, just a handful remain. The townspeople had to leave when the Park was formed. There was a church, a school, and a few houses, barns and cabins, all along a quick running and broad mountain stream. Small blue butterflies darted about and each wooden surface was peppered with ladybugs. It felt good to be outside!
I guess what I am saying is, there is more to Gatlinburg than meets the eye. We will continue to trade our time share out some years, but some years we will go back for a quiet week at our cabin with the BIG retaining wall and stream through the basement. And, for sure, we will plan on dinner at the Buckhorn Inn.
In the mid-70s, Steve and I, along with our son, went back there—just passing through. I remembered a sleepy little mountain town. What I found was a “tourist attraction.” It seemed overbuilt and far too overdeveloped to please me. I had no interest in going there ever again.
Then about eight years ago, an old friend offered me a week at a Gatlinburg timeshare. The price was right – FREE. There was that business about the condo fee every year and the fee to join Interval International. Still it seemed like a bargain. After all, we could trade the time for anywhere in the world.
And for the first few years, we did exactly that. We traded for Cornwall and Myrtle Beach. We banked our time. We missed one year all together but failing to make our deposit on time. Still, it was a good deal.
Then one day we got a notice from the Club Chalet that “our” unit was going to unavailable for some weeks because of a problem associated with a landslide and the small creek that runs THROUGH the cabin and the need to build a retaining wall and redecorate the unit. Now we were curious – just what kind of place is this anyway? A landslide, a creek, a retaining wall?
So, we decided to actually “use” our time and go to Gatlinburg and stay at our cabin. That was several years ago. When we arrived one dark, rainy, and foggy March night to start our week, we discovered that “our” unit was STILL not available, due to all the remodeling work. They had, however, assigned us to a similar unit.
Right before arriving at the timeshare office, we had gone about 2/3 up Ski Mountain Road, and had just passed the most incredible hairpin turn I have ever seen in my life. To find the unit reserved for us, we had to follow a map. It seemed easy enough, a few roads and a few turns. Well, not exactly! The roads off Ski Mountain Road are all the same – narrow spiral ribbons of asphalt, with edges that drop down about eight inches. The thought of hooking a wheel is terrifying because you will instantly “flip” down an embankment into a ravine and die a horrible death!
The chalet (they call them that in Gatlinburg) that first trip was really nice and had an incredible view – no wonder it was near the top of a big mountain! Three bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room and dining room, plus three baths. Not bad for two people! I was supposedly "just like" our chalet, just minus the creek and the retaining wall.
That first trip, we went to see “our” unit and discovered a construction crew hard at work. We didn’t bother them for a tour…we knew we would be back. This place, crazy as it was, was actually starting to appeal to us. Sure, the town of Gatlinburg was even more “touristy” than it had been in the 70s. The “strip” (maybe it has some other name) between Pigeon Forge and Sevierville is every bad hillbilly cliché wrapped into one. It is continuous series of miniature golf, “Dixie” shows, catfish places, “As Seem on TV Stores,” motels of all stripes, outlet malls, and pancake houses. I can’t believe this place can support so many pancake houses!
We did go back the next March and actually stayed at our chalet. Sure enough, it had a BIG new concrete retaining wall behind it and still a stream trickled through the basement. It had been redecorated and was actually quite pleasant, and it was certainly quiet.
We felt more comfortable than the first trip. We knew where to find a good grocery store and had found a few good relatively authentic restaurants the previous trip. Some friends came up from Alabama to join us for a few days. Being with friends gave us an excuse to do some things we had resisted the previous trip, like ride the aerial tramway up to Ober Gatlinburg, at the top of Ski Mountain.
This past week, we went back yet again, mostly because we failed to deposit our timeshare with Interval on time to get the better trading opportunity. The two previous trips we had spent considerable time in our cabin, just working. That was what made it appealing – the opportunity to get some work done. We felt we had already seen everything we really wanted to see. After all, we had driven through the width of Great Smoky Mountain National Park, including the driving nature trail (really), toured Cade’s Cove, shopped at the outlets, walked through town and looked at the shops, and even visited an As Seen on TV store. We had eaten at some interesting restaurants and had lots of barbeque, steak, catfish and trout. In Gatlinburg there is a restaurant that specializes in trout (pretty good too – trout a lot of different ways). No, we have not gone to any of the shows. The thought of men in Confederate and Union army sequined uniforms racing on ostriches was not tempting enough to lure us to the Dixie Stampede (maybe some year). And Dollywood is closed in March.
This trip we mostly worked, and worked, and worked. Steve set up his laptop at one end of the table and I at the other. We tried to go out once each day and get back by sunset, after an early dinner. Those roads are scary enough in the daylight! The “designated driver” among us (only the two choices) agreed to not drink any wine with dinner. Those roads and even slight intoxication do not mix!
This trip we found a few more things of interest, including the Gatlinburg Arts and Crafts Community. This is a few clusters of interesting craft shops off the beaten path. They have everything from pottery to brooms. I picked up a few interesting items to feature on the FacetsWoman online boutique.
As we were leaving the craft shop area, I noticed a sign on the side of the road. It said Buckhorn Inn, since 1938, Dinner by Reservation. The sign was in great condition and road looked inviting. We soon came to an enclave of white clapboard cabins and main building reminiscent of the Gibson Island Club. Yes, they could take us for dinner. Dinner would be at 7 p.m. and the menu was clam chowder, salad, trout, green beans, rice, and marscapone cheesecake, for $30 a person (expensive by Gatlinburg standards). If we didn’t want trout, we could have chicken. They don’t have a liquor license, but if we bring our own wine they will serve it. Our immediate reaction was very positive. We were ready for something quirky and casually elegant. We arrived back promptly at 7 p.m. and were seated in the dining room at a table for two, among about a dozen other tables. The food was fabulous, as was the service! On the way out, we picked up a brochure. They are a B & B, and the cabins are upscale, but still reasonable. They have an estate with nature trails and a labyrinth. I definitely want to come back—maybe as an overnight guest.
This trip we set aside one day for exploring – no work, just clear our brains! We opted to make the car trek to Catalochee settlement. From our cabin, it is about 60 miles each. On the way there we chose the shorter, more scenic route (aka back roads). The last 15 miles or so of the trip was on gravel roads, around hair pin curve after hair pin curve. Thank goodness it was a beautiful day. Cataloochee Settlement is one of those very quiet little tourist destinations that most folks never visit. At one point it had nearly two hundred buildings. Today, just a handful remain. The townspeople had to leave when the Park was formed. There was a church, a school, and a few houses, barns and cabins, all along a quick running and broad mountain stream. Small blue butterflies darted about and each wooden surface was peppered with ladybugs. It felt good to be outside!
I guess what I am saying is, there is more to Gatlinburg than meets the eye. We will continue to trade our time share out some years, but some years we will go back for a quiet week at our cabin with the BIG retaining wall and stream through the basement. And, for sure, we will plan on dinner at the Buckhorn Inn.
Monday, March 27, 2006
How I Work
I just read an article in the March 20 issue of Fortune called “How I Work.” They interviewed some important people about their work habits. The range of responses was incredible. These folks ran from the techno addicted to the technophobic, with some in between. Imagine --- Wynton Marsalis has never written an email. Senator John McCain has his wife do things for him like print boarding passes. Other people, important people who run big corporations work hard, read hundreds and emails, and are glued to their Blackberries. Clearly, success in our modern times is not defined by how well you use the electronic tools we have. What then is it based on – honestly, I have no idea!
I am often asked how I manage to get everything done. People who know me well know that I have diverse interests, both professional and personal, and that I am involved in community work. Honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way! The thought of a quiet retired existence makes me shudder.
Reading this Fortune article made me stop of a moment and ask myself, “How Do I Work?” Is it a good way to work? What if I changed the way I work? Would I then make lots of money and be wildly happy? Interesting thought!
Each morning, I lie in bed about ½ hour and just think about the day ahead of me. What do I have to do? Where do I have to go? What am I going to wear? What do I want to accomplish? Often I will contemplate a solution to a challenging problem. I find this time of morning I am at my most creative. Often my dreams give me ideas that trigger solutions to problems.
Once fully awake, I grab my Treo from my bed-side table and verify my schedule. Am I really doing the things I thought I was doing? Did I leave anything out? What email has come in overnight? Did anyone sign up for an event? Who? (People sign up for things at the strangest hours). Usually there is email from Amy, my accounting consultant. I try to get her whatever answers she needs from me early in the morning.
I shower, get dressed, eat something and arrive at work about 9:30 a.m., already fully caught up on my emails, having read my email on my Treo. I typically go through the office and talk with my employees….do they have anything they need of me before I get going in my day? Usually Most days I have appointments scheduled from 10 a.m. until about 3 p.m., with some breaks in between. I use those breaks to review my email, review my paper mail, review printing and Web project proofs, send specifications to printers for bids, and deal with issues that come up. More often than not I have a lunch meeting. About once a week our VP, Nancy Badertscher, and I go to lunch and review project progress.
Those appointments I have each day, who are they with and what are they about? This varies all over the place. Often they are with clients and prospective clients who want me to put together a proposal. Sometimes (though rarely) I need to meet with small groups of employees about a project. Maybe one every couple of weeks, I meet with someone who has asked for an appointment for advice in finding and job or becoming involved in community work. Of course, I never turn down an interview with the press and have one or two of those a month. There is the occasional off-site meeting, in addition to lunch once or twice a week at nearby Mezzanotte with clients and business associates.
Most of my volunteer community work I do in the evenings, as much of it involves going to meetings. Board meetings typically start at 6 p.m. or 7 p.m. and run until 9 p.m. Fortunately, I don't have meetings every night.
Focused time is the thing I find hardest to find. The best way for me to complete a really challenging project is to designate a day (or even a morning) to work on it and nothing else. Saturday is my “best” work time each week. I can work at my office all by myself and focus very narrowly on what I want to accomplish. I guard my Saturdays! Between 10 a.m. and 6 p.m. I can accomplish as much as I could in a week at the office. Sometimes, however, I will take a Saturday and just play – just is important too!
Yes, sometimes I also work on Sunday afternoons. Sunday night is usually “family time” when our son and his family visit or we go to their home. Effectively this means I have three hours each Sunday afternoon to “get something done.”
Another technique I use is to isolate myself for a week to do the really “tough” work – the business planning in particular. I run three businesses; they interact with one another in many ways; each of them has a plan and goals. I have to stop living in “real time” in order to do the analysis and reflection needed to keep them moving forward. My strategy is to dedicate two weeks away each year for just this purpose. Sometimes my husband goes with me; other times he doesn’t. It doesn’t really matter that he is with me, as he brings similar work for himself. We can go out for dinner in the evening and enjoy ourselves.
As I write this, we are at a cabin on a hillside overlooking Gatlinburg, TN. It is snowing outside and we are inside working happily, each at our respective ends of the dining room table. We both have laptops and Treo cell phones (with good reception) and there is a printer/scanner on the table between us. There is no high speed Internet, but there is a local number we can use for dial-up. We only need the Internet to send files and search the Web, as we have the Treos for email. It works! We are in the first day of our spring retreat. I spent the morning organizing my temporary office and reviewing my work notebooks to re-sort priorities. I am doing some clean-up work on my laptop to make it run faster.
But regardless of where I work or when I work, I must be organized. I would like to say I am totally paperless, but that isn’t so. What I can say is that I don’t have any more paper than is necessary and what paper I do have is well-organized and that organization matches the organization of my laptop.
I think there are three kinds of people on the world: pile-people, file-people, and notebook-people. I never have been a pile person and quite frankly I have a hard time comprehending that approach (although it seems to work OK for those who are so inclined). I used to be a file person and still am where some things are concerned – like contracts and financial documents—pieces of paper that for sure really, really need to be kept. But within the last year I have become a notebook person.
I think notebooks are easier to deal with than files. A plus is that you can use those nifty clear vinyl sheets and stuff them full of all the papers related to a project. Another plus is that they don’t spill out all over the place.
My notebook system is really simple. I have one notebook that has all of my empty plastic sleeves and blank project/consultation forms. I have one LITTLE notebook for the stuff I must do within the next few days. That way I am not overwhelmed looking at how much stuff I really must do. I have another notebook for things I have to do soon, but not immediately. Then there is another notebook for stuff I would like to do eventually – good ideas that are not a priority. I have two pending notebooks – one for things that are simply in some body else’s court and another for things related to money that not resolved (such as pending proposals). Finally I have BIG archive notebook for all the thing I have taken care of. I have to start a new one each quarter. It takes about two hours once a month to go through my notebooks and re-shift my priorities.
Similarly, my computer is set up to focus on priorities. One nice thing about Eudora, our email program, is that it allows you to “find” any word in any message. As a result, I don’t have many folders for Archived email. Instead I have one email archive per year. I have a TO DO mailbox and a HOT mailbox. It works!
One last thing, I try to combine work and play when possible. If I have a business trip to a city, I will try to stay over another day (on my own money and time) and go to a spa, shop, and experience the city. My vice president shares this same guilty pleasure, so we have fun in our little “after-event” adventures and come back refreshed.
These are the techniques that allow me to keep sane while dealing with lots of shifting priorities. By far, however, the greatest tool that has enhanced my productivity is my Treo (cell phone that gets email and more). While traveling, or even in the average workday, I can view and answer my email on the fly. I figure this saves me two hours each day!
Am I a workaholic? Maybe, but I also play hard, on those times I allow myself to play. I may not lead a balanced life daily, but I certainly live an interesting life. In the end, I think there is a balance there – just over the course of time, not daily. Is that good or bad? Who knows?
I am often asked how I manage to get everything done. People who know me well know that I have diverse interests, both professional and personal, and that I am involved in community work. Honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way! The thought of a quiet retired existence makes me shudder.
Reading this Fortune article made me stop of a moment and ask myself, “How Do I Work?” Is it a good way to work? What if I changed the way I work? Would I then make lots of money and be wildly happy? Interesting thought!
Each morning, I lie in bed about ½ hour and just think about the day ahead of me. What do I have to do? Where do I have to go? What am I going to wear? What do I want to accomplish? Often I will contemplate a solution to a challenging problem. I find this time of morning I am at my most creative. Often my dreams give me ideas that trigger solutions to problems.
Once fully awake, I grab my Treo from my bed-side table and verify my schedule. Am I really doing the things I thought I was doing? Did I leave anything out? What email has come in overnight? Did anyone sign up for an event? Who? (People sign up for things at the strangest hours). Usually there is email from Amy, my accounting consultant. I try to get her whatever answers she needs from me early in the morning.
I shower, get dressed, eat something and arrive at work about 9:30 a.m., already fully caught up on my emails, having read my email on my Treo. I typically go through the office and talk with my employees….do they have anything they need of me before I get going in my day? Usually Most days I have appointments scheduled from 10 a.m. until about 3 p.m., with some breaks in between. I use those breaks to review my email, review my paper mail, review printing and Web project proofs, send specifications to printers for bids, and deal with issues that come up. More often than not I have a lunch meeting. About once a week our VP, Nancy Badertscher, and I go to lunch and review project progress.
Those appointments I have each day, who are they with and what are they about? This varies all over the place. Often they are with clients and prospective clients who want me to put together a proposal. Sometimes (though rarely) I need to meet with small groups of employees about a project. Maybe one every couple of weeks, I meet with someone who has asked for an appointment for advice in finding and job or becoming involved in community work. Of course, I never turn down an interview with the press and have one or two of those a month. There is the occasional off-site meeting, in addition to lunch once or twice a week at nearby Mezzanotte with clients and business associates.
Most of my volunteer community work I do in the evenings, as much of it involves going to meetings. Board meetings typically start at 6 p.m. or 7 p.m. and run until 9 p.m. Fortunately, I don't have meetings every night.
Focused time is the thing I find hardest to find. The best way for me to complete a really challenging project is to designate a day (or even a morning) to work on it and nothing else. Saturday is my “best” work time each week. I can work at my office all by myself and focus very narrowly on what I want to accomplish. I guard my Saturdays! Between 10 a.m. and 6 p.m. I can accomplish as much as I could in a week at the office. Sometimes, however, I will take a Saturday and just play – just is important too!
Yes, sometimes I also work on Sunday afternoons. Sunday night is usually “family time” when our son and his family visit or we go to their home. Effectively this means I have three hours each Sunday afternoon to “get something done.”
Another technique I use is to isolate myself for a week to do the really “tough” work – the business planning in particular. I run three businesses; they interact with one another in many ways; each of them has a plan and goals. I have to stop living in “real time” in order to do the analysis and reflection needed to keep them moving forward. My strategy is to dedicate two weeks away each year for just this purpose. Sometimes my husband goes with me; other times he doesn’t. It doesn’t really matter that he is with me, as he brings similar work for himself. We can go out for dinner in the evening and enjoy ourselves.
As I write this, we are at a cabin on a hillside overlooking Gatlinburg, TN. It is snowing outside and we are inside working happily, each at our respective ends of the dining room table. We both have laptops and Treo cell phones (with good reception) and there is a printer/scanner on the table between us. There is no high speed Internet, but there is a local number we can use for dial-up. We only need the Internet to send files and search the Web, as we have the Treos for email. It works! We are in the first day of our spring retreat. I spent the morning organizing my temporary office and reviewing my work notebooks to re-sort priorities. I am doing some clean-up work on my laptop to make it run faster.
But regardless of where I work or when I work, I must be organized. I would like to say I am totally paperless, but that isn’t so. What I can say is that I don’t have any more paper than is necessary and what paper I do have is well-organized and that organization matches the organization of my laptop.
I think there are three kinds of people on the world: pile-people, file-people, and notebook-people. I never have been a pile person and quite frankly I have a hard time comprehending that approach (although it seems to work OK for those who are so inclined). I used to be a file person and still am where some things are concerned – like contracts and financial documents—pieces of paper that for sure really, really need to be kept. But within the last year I have become a notebook person.
I think notebooks are easier to deal with than files. A plus is that you can use those nifty clear vinyl sheets and stuff them full of all the papers related to a project. Another plus is that they don’t spill out all over the place.
My notebook system is really simple. I have one notebook that has all of my empty plastic sleeves and blank project/consultation forms. I have one LITTLE notebook for the stuff I must do within the next few days. That way I am not overwhelmed looking at how much stuff I really must do. I have another notebook for things I have to do soon, but not immediately. Then there is another notebook for stuff I would like to do eventually – good ideas that are not a priority. I have two pending notebooks – one for things that are simply in some body else’s court and another for things related to money that not resolved (such as pending proposals). Finally I have BIG archive notebook for all the thing I have taken care of. I have to start a new one each quarter. It takes about two hours once a month to go through my notebooks and re-shift my priorities.
Similarly, my computer is set up to focus on priorities. One nice thing about Eudora, our email program, is that it allows you to “find” any word in any message. As a result, I don’t have many folders for Archived email. Instead I have one email archive per year. I have a TO DO mailbox and a HOT mailbox. It works!
One last thing, I try to combine work and play when possible. If I have a business trip to a city, I will try to stay over another day (on my own money and time) and go to a spa, shop, and experience the city. My vice president shares this same guilty pleasure, so we have fun in our little “after-event” adventures and come back refreshed.
These are the techniques that allow me to keep sane while dealing with lots of shifting priorities. By far, however, the greatest tool that has enhanced my productivity is my Treo (cell phone that gets email and more). While traveling, or even in the average workday, I can view and answer my email on the fly. I figure this saves me two hours each day!
Am I a workaholic? Maybe, but I also play hard, on those times I allow myself to play. I may not lead a balanced life daily, but I certainly live an interesting life. In the end, I think there is a balance there – just over the course of time, not daily. Is that good or bad? Who knows?
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Women in Afghanistan
When I was growing up I didn't think much about Afghanistan, nor did I as a college student or an adult. In fact, I don't think I thought about it at all or even knew where it was.
For a year or so prior to 9/11, I got occasional emails about how horrible things were for women in Afghanistan, and then shortly after 9/11 the pace quickened. This is an excerpt from an email message that was sent to me on October 8, 2001.
Madhu, the government of Afghanistan, is waging a war upon women. Since the Taliban took power in 1996, women have had to wear burqua and have been beaten and stoned in public for not having the proper attire, even if this means simply not having the mesh covering in front of their eyes. One woman was beaten to death by an angry mob of fundamentalists for accidentally exposing her arm(!) while she was driving. Another was stoned to death for trying to leave the country with a man that was not a relative.
I remember this email. It was filled with similar anecdotes, and I have to say it got my attention. It was not the first email I had received about the plight of women in Afghanistan, but it was the one that really got to me. The others I had passed off as email foolishness... nothing in today's world could really be that horrible! WRONG!
I have been to Dachau and I wondered how the people in this lovely little German village could have possibly not noticed the German death camp in the middle of town. Now we live in a Global Village and I find myself wondering -- are we just like those people in Dachau when it comes to pretending not to see what is happening in Afghanistan?
Back in 2003, I met Fahmina Vorgetts, an Afghan woman now living in the United States. She is a woman on a mission. She owns a rug shop in Annapolis and uses the money from the sale of Afghan rugs to to help the women of Afghanistan. But more than money, Fahima gives of herself -- her time, her energy, her many talents. Listening to Fahima and seeing her photos from Afghanistan left me with no doubt in my mind that the lives of Afghan women are horrible by 21st century standards -- even today when the Taliban are no longer in power.
Last week, Fahima spoke to a group of 74 attendees at a FacetsWoman event we called "Women of Afghanistan: An Insider's View." Fahima, who works as an advisor to Women for Afghan Women, has taken on the challenge of helping Afghan women build a better future for themselves. She is teaming up with women (and caring men) to build schools, provide women with computers, dig wells, build good will and more. We saw dozens of photos of Afghan women in make-shift classrooms, using improvised chalk boards, but learning to read and write. Their country is in ruins, but their grit and determination to succeed shows on their faces.
We also saw the faces of Afghan orphans. Their eyes have a vacant look that penetrates your soul. It is hard to explain the depth of emptiness found in their eyes. Their ranks continue to swell, and one must wonder what their odds are for a good future, even by current Afghan standards.
There were photos of the charred faces of scarred women in burn units. These women have poured cooking oil all over themselves, then set fire to the oil. This low-budget and horribly painful form of suicide is seen by some Afghan women as the only way to escape the pain of the lives. Some Afghan women also kill their children the same way for the same reasons. The women and children who don't die end up in under-staffed burn units as low priority patients, lost in a living hell.
Our FacetsWomen were clearly moved by what they saw. Cash donations that evening, made directly to Women for Afghan Women, exceeded $1200. Many women brought clothing and school supplies to the event, so that Fahima can take the items in one of her frequent shipments to Afghanistan.
For many of our FacetsWoman attendees, the catered Afghan dinner that evening was their first taste of Afghan food. The tasty chicken kabobs, rice, salad and baklava harkened to a happier time in the life of Afghanistan. For those who are interested, the caterer for the evening was Maiwand Kabob, 5467 Harpers Farm Road, Columbia, MD 21044, Ph: 410-992-7754 or www.maiwandkabob.us.fm.
We hope that someday the women of Afghanistan will enjoy the same opportunities we women now have in the US. Sure, many doors are still closed to us and our salaries don't match those of our male counterparts, but we are free in so many important ways. As one FacetsWoman put it, "Tonight, before I came here, I was focusing on spending money to re-d0 my bathroom and get a new bathtub. Now I realize how fortunate I am to have a bathtub at all."
For a year or so prior to 9/11, I got occasional emails about how horrible things were for women in Afghanistan, and then shortly after 9/11 the pace quickened. This is an excerpt from an email message that was sent to me on October 8, 2001.
Madhu, the government of Afghanistan, is waging a war upon women. Since the Taliban took power in 1996, women have had to wear burqua and have been beaten and stoned in public for not having the proper attire, even if this means simply not having the mesh covering in front of their eyes. One woman was beaten to death by an angry mob of fundamentalists for accidentally exposing her arm(!) while she was driving. Another was stoned to death for trying to leave the country with a man that was not a relative.
I remember this email. It was filled with similar anecdotes, and I have to say it got my attention. It was not the first email I had received about the plight of women in Afghanistan, but it was the one that really got to me. The others I had passed off as email foolishness... nothing in today's world could really be that horrible! WRONG!
I have been to Dachau and I wondered how the people in this lovely little German village could have possibly not noticed the German death camp in the middle of town. Now we live in a Global Village and I find myself wondering -- are we just like those people in Dachau when it comes to pretending not to see what is happening in Afghanistan?
Back in 2003, I met Fahmina Vorgetts, an Afghan woman now living in the United States. She is a woman on a mission. She owns a rug shop in Annapolis and uses the money from the sale of Afghan rugs to to help the women of Afghanistan. But more than money, Fahima gives of herself -- her time, her energy, her many talents. Listening to Fahima and seeing her photos from Afghanistan left me with no doubt in my mind that the lives of Afghan women are horrible by 21st century standards -- even today when the Taliban are no longer in power.
Last week, Fahima spoke to a group of 74 attendees at a FacetsWoman event we called "Women of Afghanistan: An Insider's View." Fahima, who works as an advisor to Women for Afghan Women, has taken on the challenge of helping Afghan women build a better future for themselves. She is teaming up with women (and caring men) to build schools, provide women with computers, dig wells, build good will and more. We saw dozens of photos of Afghan women in make-shift classrooms, using improvised chalk boards, but learning to read and write. Their country is in ruins, but their grit and determination to succeed shows on their faces.
We also saw the faces of Afghan orphans. Their eyes have a vacant look that penetrates your soul. It is hard to explain the depth of emptiness found in their eyes. Their ranks continue to swell, and one must wonder what their odds are for a good future, even by current Afghan standards.
There were photos of the charred faces of scarred women in burn units. These women have poured cooking oil all over themselves, then set fire to the oil. This low-budget and horribly painful form of suicide is seen by some Afghan women as the only way to escape the pain of the lives. Some Afghan women also kill their children the same way for the same reasons. The women and children who don't die end up in under-staffed burn units as low priority patients, lost in a living hell.
Our FacetsWomen were clearly moved by what they saw. Cash donations that evening, made directly to Women for Afghan Women, exceeded $1200. Many women brought clothing and school supplies to the event, so that Fahima can take the items in one of her frequent shipments to Afghanistan.
For many of our FacetsWoman attendees, the catered Afghan dinner that evening was their first taste of Afghan food. The tasty chicken kabobs, rice, salad and baklava harkened to a happier time in the life of Afghanistan. For those who are interested, the caterer for the evening was Maiwand Kabob, 5467 Harpers Farm Road, Columbia, MD 21044, Ph: 410-992-7754 or www.maiwandkabob.us.fm.
We hope that someday the women of Afghanistan will enjoy the same opportunities we women now have in the US. Sure, many doors are still closed to us and our salaries don't match those of our male counterparts, but we are free in so many important ways. As one FacetsWoman put it, "Tonight, before I came here, I was focusing on spending money to re-d0 my bathroom and get a new bathtub. Now I realize how fortunate I am to have a bathtub at all."
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Old Age
It is amazing how your perspective on old age changes as you age. At one point in my life I honestly thought that anyone who was over 40 was getting on up there; someone at 50 was over the hill; and at 60 you were definitely old. I saw those in their 70s and 80s as really, really old.
They say that 60 is the new 40 and the 80 is the new 60. I choose to believe that. Why not? At 59 I really don’t feel old. Sure, some work days are long and babysitting the grandchildren leaves me a bit tired. But I don’t think I feel “old” the way my mother and my grandmother felt “old.” My mother died at 69 and her mother at 67. Here I am at 59 and going strong!
They had various aches and pains. I just have colds, flu and an occasional infection. My joints don’t ache and I still have all my teeth. My hair has turned grey and I like it OK that way. My face looks a bit saggy in the mirror, but it isn’t a mass of wrinkles. I am overweight, but then I have been for the last 50 years, so what else is new?
But from what I read, time is catching up with me. My bad habits (like enjoying food and not enjoying exercise) will soon take their toll. I imagine I am not too different from many of my babyboomer colleagues. We are in denial about encroaching “old age.” If we don’t give in to it, maybe it won’t happen! Yeah, right!
Life keeps going by, day after long-day. I keep working from 8 in the morning until 9 most nights. My body isn’t that active, but my mind certainly is working overtime. They say if you keep your mind agile you will keep your mind longer. If that is the truth, mine should be in good shape long after my body has given out.
Despite my protests against aging, I find myself reading the obituaries daily. Often I see someone I know – a friend or an acquaintance. Sometimes the deceased is younger than me. Most often the cause of death is cancer or heart disease. I take a deep breath and thank God I am still alive.
I wish I could look at each day as a gift; I wish I could do only those things that were good for me; and I wish I didn’t have to face the fact dying is inevitable. I saw an article in the paper the other day that said, “Test predicts odds of dying if you are over 50.” I don’t need a test – the odds are 100%. But in the meantime, let’s all us boomers enjoy life. There are no second chances!
I
They say that 60 is the new 40 and the 80 is the new 60. I choose to believe that. Why not? At 59 I really don’t feel old. Sure, some work days are long and babysitting the grandchildren leaves me a bit tired. But I don’t think I feel “old” the way my mother and my grandmother felt “old.” My mother died at 69 and her mother at 67. Here I am at 59 and going strong!
They had various aches and pains. I just have colds, flu and an occasional infection. My joints don’t ache and I still have all my teeth. My hair has turned grey and I like it OK that way. My face looks a bit saggy in the mirror, but it isn’t a mass of wrinkles. I am overweight, but then I have been for the last 50 years, so what else is new?
But from what I read, time is catching up with me. My bad habits (like enjoying food and not enjoying exercise) will soon take their toll. I imagine I am not too different from many of my babyboomer colleagues. We are in denial about encroaching “old age.” If we don’t give in to it, maybe it won’t happen! Yeah, right!
Life keeps going by, day after long-day. I keep working from 8 in the morning until 9 most nights. My body isn’t that active, but my mind certainly is working overtime. They say if you keep your mind agile you will keep your mind longer. If that is the truth, mine should be in good shape long after my body has given out.
Despite my protests against aging, I find myself reading the obituaries daily. Often I see someone I know – a friend or an acquaintance. Sometimes the deceased is younger than me. Most often the cause of death is cancer or heart disease. I take a deep breath and thank God I am still alive.
I wish I could look at each day as a gift; I wish I could do only those things that were good for me; and I wish I didn’t have to face the fact dying is inevitable. I saw an article in the paper the other day that said, “Test predicts odds of dying if you are over 50.” I don’t need a test – the odds are 100%. But in the meantime, let’s all us boomers enjoy life. There are no second chances!
I
Monday, February 27, 2006
Snow
The first time I saw snow I was about three, but I was sick and couldn’t go outside. I watched out the front window as my parents and neighbors slid down the snowy sidewalk on the coal shovel and garbage can lids. Now it is hard to imagine my parents ever doing such a thing. But they were young; why not?
The next time it snowed I was able to go outside and I had a snowsuit with stirrup pants. The little blue snowsuit had a furry hood and a furry collar. I thought I was pretty special when I put it on. My mother helped me build a snowman each snow!
When I was in elementary school, it didn’t snow very much. I do recall that it often snowed on Valentine’s Day. Those snows were not big or particularly troublesome, just white and beautiful!
My days in junior high and high school coincided with heavy snows. Birmingham simply was not prepared to deal with snow, so an inch or two of snow and everything closed down. One winter when I was a young teenager was particularly snowy. They were building a new four lane highway down Shades Mountain; when it snowed the road happened to be graded, but not paved. All of us spent magical snow days literally sliding down the mountain on sleds. Of course, we had to walk back up the mountain each time, so a few trips and we were done for. Hot chocolate shared around the kitchen table was a special memory.
Whenever snow started to fall, every teenager became glued to the radio. One by one, we listened while they closed the highways. We knew that once US 31 south of the city was closed, there would be no school. It was usually several days before the road graders could clear the highways – especially if we were hit with an ice storm. This gave me plenty of time to wear “Uncle Will’s boots.” Uncle Will was my grandfather’s fraternal twin brother. He died around the turn of the century, but somehow we had his boots. They fit me and I loved them!
I remember one New Year’s Day when we lost power for a couple of days. Our neighbors with electric stoves were hurting, so my mother invited everyone in for New Year’s breakfast. Since my father worked for the gas company, we had a gas stove and could cook. That breakfast still is a treasured memory.
I married Steve in 1969 and moved to Lebanon, Illinois. There they have REAL snow. I learned to drive in it. Driving on snowy roads was the only way I could get to my graduate classes at SIU. One time on April 1 it snowed three feet. Now that was enough to get them to close the roads!
When we moved to San Bernardino, CA, I learned that snow was more of an entertainment destination than an act of nature. I can recall one snow of about 1/4 “ ever falling in San Bernardino. But snow was easily found. All we had to do was to drive about 30 miles to Big Bear Lake, Lake Arrowhead or Forest Falls. We used to take our small son sledding for the afternoon, then drive home on bone dry roads to 60 degree winter temperatures. In a way, it was surreal!
We arrived in Maryland in 1976 – in time for some wonderful snows. Our son, now capable of sledding without Mom and Dad, loved gathering his friends (ages 5 – 14) in the back yard. We had the best hill in the community! When we fenced our backyard, we put in a large gate that allowed the kids to sled on through to the woods. The kids built snow houses, snowmen, had snowball fights and enjoyed hot chocolate around the kitchen table.
We missed many Maryland snows by going to Alabama for Christmas for decades. And in Alabama we experienced incredible ice storms.
Our son grew up; we sold the house with the hill in back and bought another house on the water. There is no hill for sledding; and there isn’t much driveway to shovel. We love watching the snow fall on the trees behind our house. The creek freezes over and becomes white with snow. The sailboats are the only dots of color. It is beautiful and peaceful! Our grandchildren are just a few miles away, but we don’t see them when it snows. They stay safely at home, go sledding, and enjoy hot chocolate around their kitchen table.
Living in Maryland for thirty years, I have learned to drive on the snow pretty well. I know to carry kitty-litter and a snow shovel, plus some metal gutter grates to drive out of the snow on. I have AAA in case of emergency and have a blanket in the trunk – just in case. I know how to clear my windows with a credit card almost as well as with a special ice scraper! I carry a walking stick with a point on the end for use on the ice. I have enough experience to know when it is time to leave the office in a snowstorm and still arrive home safely.
And with all of that experience with snow in all those places, there is one thing I have never experienced…a White Christmas!
The next time it snowed I was able to go outside and I had a snowsuit with stirrup pants. The little blue snowsuit had a furry hood and a furry collar. I thought I was pretty special when I put it on. My mother helped me build a snowman each snow!
When I was in elementary school, it didn’t snow very much. I do recall that it often snowed on Valentine’s Day. Those snows were not big or particularly troublesome, just white and beautiful!
My days in junior high and high school coincided with heavy snows. Birmingham simply was not prepared to deal with snow, so an inch or two of snow and everything closed down. One winter when I was a young teenager was particularly snowy. They were building a new four lane highway down Shades Mountain; when it snowed the road happened to be graded, but not paved. All of us spent magical snow days literally sliding down the mountain on sleds. Of course, we had to walk back up the mountain each time, so a few trips and we were done for. Hot chocolate shared around the kitchen table was a special memory.
Whenever snow started to fall, every teenager became glued to the radio. One by one, we listened while they closed the highways. We knew that once US 31 south of the city was closed, there would be no school. It was usually several days before the road graders could clear the highways – especially if we were hit with an ice storm. This gave me plenty of time to wear “Uncle Will’s boots.” Uncle Will was my grandfather’s fraternal twin brother. He died around the turn of the century, but somehow we had his boots. They fit me and I loved them!
I remember one New Year’s Day when we lost power for a couple of days. Our neighbors with electric stoves were hurting, so my mother invited everyone in for New Year’s breakfast. Since my father worked for the gas company, we had a gas stove and could cook. That breakfast still is a treasured memory.
I married Steve in 1969 and moved to Lebanon, Illinois. There they have REAL snow. I learned to drive in it. Driving on snowy roads was the only way I could get to my graduate classes at SIU. One time on April 1 it snowed three feet. Now that was enough to get them to close the roads!
When we moved to San Bernardino, CA, I learned that snow was more of an entertainment destination than an act of nature. I can recall one snow of about 1/4 “ ever falling in San Bernardino. But snow was easily found. All we had to do was to drive about 30 miles to Big Bear Lake, Lake Arrowhead or Forest Falls. We used to take our small son sledding for the afternoon, then drive home on bone dry roads to 60 degree winter temperatures. In a way, it was surreal!
We arrived in Maryland in 1976 – in time for some wonderful snows. Our son, now capable of sledding without Mom and Dad, loved gathering his friends (ages 5 – 14) in the back yard. We had the best hill in the community! When we fenced our backyard, we put in a large gate that allowed the kids to sled on through to the woods. The kids built snow houses, snowmen, had snowball fights and enjoyed hot chocolate around the kitchen table.
We missed many Maryland snows by going to Alabama for Christmas for decades. And in Alabama we experienced incredible ice storms.
Our son grew up; we sold the house with the hill in back and bought another house on the water. There is no hill for sledding; and there isn’t much driveway to shovel. We love watching the snow fall on the trees behind our house. The creek freezes over and becomes white with snow. The sailboats are the only dots of color. It is beautiful and peaceful! Our grandchildren are just a few miles away, but we don’t see them when it snows. They stay safely at home, go sledding, and enjoy hot chocolate around their kitchen table.
Living in Maryland for thirty years, I have learned to drive on the snow pretty well. I know to carry kitty-litter and a snow shovel, plus some metal gutter grates to drive out of the snow on. I have AAA in case of emergency and have a blanket in the trunk – just in case. I know how to clear my windows with a credit card almost as well as with a special ice scraper! I carry a walking stick with a point on the end for use on the ice. I have enough experience to know when it is time to leave the office in a snowstorm and still arrive home safely.
And with all of that experience with snow in all those places, there is one thing I have never experienced…a White Christmas!
Monday, February 20, 2006
Information - Changing Needs
When I was about four my parents bought Encyclopedia Americana, and I thought it contained everything that anyone would ever need to know. At night I would sneak out of my bedroom and look at the big books. Of course, I couldn't read and there were few pictures. But I felt very grown-up.
Throughout my childhood, each year we bought the World Almanac and subscribed to National Geographic. My father saved Readers' Digest. Later, as his career advanced, my father started subscribing to Fortune and American Heritage. We saved them all!
When my mother died, and my father closed the house, we had to part with our cherished Encyclopedia Americana and about 30 years of annual yearbooks, plus all the old magazines of every type. By then there was Southern Living to add to the collection. Nobody really wanted them, not even the hardcover American Heritages. Not that this should have surprised me. My years as a librarian taught me that these things are hard to dispose of. Libraries subscribe to the publications that want to keep. They are beseiged by potential baby boomer donors looking for a good home for cherished old magazines and encyclopdias, and, of course, a write-off.
When I was in college, they told us it was very important for a teacher to maintain a resource file. As a professional, it was important to create a file of all those topics that were of professional value and collect clippings about those topics. Of course, it was also important to save your textbooks and to create a professional library. I listened intently and did just what they said. By senior year, I had a book collection worthy of a large metal shelf and a small metal file filled with treasured articles. I felt very professional!
As the years went by, I kept up the habit of collecting information and filing it. They must have told my husband to set up a rsource file and save textobooks, because he did the same thing, even as an engineer. Now four decades later we are inundated with old books, magazines, and files of interesting articles.
My personal major contribution was to save Travel and Lesiure magazine from the first issue. Now they are taking over my bookshelves. I need to see if the early issues are worth anything on E-bay before I take them to the dump.
You see, I have reached a major realization. I don't need to collect information anymore. Some reference books, and even magazines, have value in the marketplace. Others have sentimental value. There are a few with very specialized, hard-to-find information. For the most part, however, whatever information I need, I can easily find using Google. I even was able to buy all of National Geographic on a set of CD-roms. And that's the point!
I have developed the habit of clinging to information because I might need it later. I grew up with that mindset, and my education nurtured it. Soon it became a habit, more than a need. Now, it is just silly!
Within about 30 seconds, using my Treo phone, I can find out almost anything I want to know. It makes sense to save my bookshelves for the books I truly love and want to read again and again, as well as those valuable treasures that make sense to pass down through the generations. But the rest....it is time to part company!
Throughout my childhood, each year we bought the World Almanac and subscribed to National Geographic. My father saved Readers' Digest. Later, as his career advanced, my father started subscribing to Fortune and American Heritage. We saved them all!
When my mother died, and my father closed the house, we had to part with our cherished Encyclopedia Americana and about 30 years of annual yearbooks, plus all the old magazines of every type. By then there was Southern Living to add to the collection. Nobody really wanted them, not even the hardcover American Heritages. Not that this should have surprised me. My years as a librarian taught me that these things are hard to dispose of. Libraries subscribe to the publications that want to keep. They are beseiged by potential baby boomer donors looking for a good home for cherished old magazines and encyclopdias, and, of course, a write-off.
When I was in college, they told us it was very important for a teacher to maintain a resource file. As a professional, it was important to create a file of all those topics that were of professional value and collect clippings about those topics. Of course, it was also important to save your textbooks and to create a professional library. I listened intently and did just what they said. By senior year, I had a book collection worthy of a large metal shelf and a small metal file filled with treasured articles. I felt very professional!
As the years went by, I kept up the habit of collecting information and filing it. They must have told my husband to set up a rsource file and save textobooks, because he did the same thing, even as an engineer. Now four decades later we are inundated with old books, magazines, and files of interesting articles.
My personal major contribution was to save Travel and Lesiure magazine from the first issue. Now they are taking over my bookshelves. I need to see if the early issues are worth anything on E-bay before I take them to the dump.
You see, I have reached a major realization. I don't need to collect information anymore. Some reference books, and even magazines, have value in the marketplace. Others have sentimental value. There are a few with very specialized, hard-to-find information. For the most part, however, whatever information I need, I can easily find using Google. I even was able to buy all of National Geographic on a set of CD-roms. And that's the point!
I have developed the habit of clinging to information because I might need it later. I grew up with that mindset, and my education nurtured it. Soon it became a habit, more than a need. Now, it is just silly!
Within about 30 seconds, using my Treo phone, I can find out almost anything I want to know. It makes sense to save my bookshelves for the books I truly love and want to read again and again, as well as those valuable treasures that make sense to pass down through the generations. But the rest....it is time to part company!
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Playing with Clay
The other night FacetsWoman held an event at the Baltimore Clayworks. We had a great time, making tiles and pots. Yes, we got our hands (and our clothes) very dirty and enjoyed every minute of it.
As I poked a plastic fork at my tile, creating an effect similar to chicken footprints, I felt like a kid in camp. In those days we made ashtrays. Of course, today that would a politically incorrect thing to make. That’s OK, as those little ashtrays we all made we ugly and never really that suited to actually be used as ashtrays.
I don’t normally make anything with my hands. My hands type; they stir, the pick-up things; and they clean. Of course, there is the occasional hamburger patty, but that is hardly what one would call creative. Let’s face it; the link between the creative side of my brain and my hands is barely functional.
I must confess to an annual diversion with Silly Putty. Each November I attend a meeting in Chicago. The meeting is held at a fancy conference center. At each seat there is always an egg filled with silly putty. The first year I played with the silly putty the entire four hours. I rolled it; I cut it; I shaped it. The next year, I restrained myself and didn’t take it out of its egg until about two hours into the meeting. This year, I only played with it during the last hour. The reason we have the Silly Putty at the meeting is to open up our creativity. I figure if I use the Silly Putty I give the impression of being bored. Does it make you more creative to play with Silly Putty during a meeting? I don’t know, but it makes a good theory and a great gift for the grandchildren. They have come to expect Silly Putty as a Thanksgiving present.
Any seven year old could have made a tile at least as creative and pretty as the one I made at the Clayworks. I poked and prodded at it with various things lying around the table and I painted it with a glaze. Unlike my colleagues, I did not make any kind of additional clay attachment for the tile. Despite my abstract design in yellow, green and blue, my traditional and driven side took over and I concluded that I wanted to make a flat tile and get on with the pot.
So while my colleagues were still laboring with their tiles, I was off to the pottery wheel. My first attempt at a pot was OK until the thing fell completely apart. I am amazed at the amount of pressure required to shape the clay on the wheel. My second attempt, with much help from the instructor and a potter friend, actually came out looking like a small vase. I decided to quit while I was ahead. No doubt had I kept fussing with it, the thing would have collapsed just like its predecessor. In that respect, I am getting smarter in my old age.
This little experience has taught me that we really don’t change that much. I am no more artistic or patient than I was when I was a kid. I was the kid who wanted to make both the painted match holder and the clay ashtray. And at the Clayworks, as in life, I was not content to do one thing; I had to experience both the pot and the tile. Yes, I am a Gemini!
As I poked a plastic fork at my tile, creating an effect similar to chicken footprints, I felt like a kid in camp. In those days we made ashtrays. Of course, today that would a politically incorrect thing to make. That’s OK, as those little ashtrays we all made we ugly and never really that suited to actually be used as ashtrays.
I don’t normally make anything with my hands. My hands type; they stir, the pick-up things; and they clean. Of course, there is the occasional hamburger patty, but that is hardly what one would call creative. Let’s face it; the link between the creative side of my brain and my hands is barely functional.
I must confess to an annual diversion with Silly Putty. Each November I attend a meeting in Chicago. The meeting is held at a fancy conference center. At each seat there is always an egg filled with silly putty. The first year I played with the silly putty the entire four hours. I rolled it; I cut it; I shaped it. The next year, I restrained myself and didn’t take it out of its egg until about two hours into the meeting. This year, I only played with it during the last hour. The reason we have the Silly Putty at the meeting is to open up our creativity. I figure if I use the Silly Putty I give the impression of being bored. Does it make you more creative to play with Silly Putty during a meeting? I don’t know, but it makes a good theory and a great gift for the grandchildren. They have come to expect Silly Putty as a Thanksgiving present.
Any seven year old could have made a tile at least as creative and pretty as the one I made at the Clayworks. I poked and prodded at it with various things lying around the table and I painted it with a glaze. Unlike my colleagues, I did not make any kind of additional clay attachment for the tile. Despite my abstract design in yellow, green and blue, my traditional and driven side took over and I concluded that I wanted to make a flat tile and get on with the pot.
So while my colleagues were still laboring with their tiles, I was off to the pottery wheel. My first attempt at a pot was OK until the thing fell completely apart. I am amazed at the amount of pressure required to shape the clay on the wheel. My second attempt, with much help from the instructor and a potter friend, actually came out looking like a small vase. I decided to quit while I was ahead. No doubt had I kept fussing with it, the thing would have collapsed just like its predecessor. In that respect, I am getting smarter in my old age.
This little experience has taught me that we really don’t change that much. I am no more artistic or patient than I was when I was a kid. I was the kid who wanted to make both the painted match holder and the clay ashtray. And at the Clayworks, as in life, I was not content to do one thing; I had to experience both the pot and the tile. Yes, I am a Gemini!
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Photography
When I was very small I used to like to look through the photo albums and see pictures of my parents and grandparents when they were young. The pictures were black and white and inserted in little corner tabs on all four sides.
My first camera was a Kodak Brownie; I got it when I was about 8 years old. I was so proud to be able to take pictures just like a grown person. The pictures weren’t great, but they were mine!
My father used a 35 mm Kodak Pony, as basic 50s style camera. He had me pose for what seemed like hours for the requisite Easter photos. But mostly he took travel photos. Some were in black and white and others were in color.
Daddy could process black and white film in his darkroom and I used to help him. We put the film in little black light-tight canisters and poured in smelly chemicals. He took the negatives out and hung them up with clothes pins to dry on a line he strung across his workshop. Once the film was dry the next day, we would make prints. We put out several trays of very smelly chemicals. Daddy had an enlarger that enabled us to insert the negative and an image would be projected on the paper. Magically, when we put the paper in the developers, the image would appear. When we put the paper in the stop bath, the development would stop. Then we had to rinse the photos. Still, the paper had to dry. We had large spiral blotter books that we put the pictures in to absorb the moisture. The finished product was usually a matte finish print. Paper was expensive, so 8” x 10” prints were reserved for the best shots.
About 1953, my Dad had my uncle, who was stationed in Germany, get him a Retina IIIc camera. It was a fine camera that produced high quality 35 mm. photos. He loved that camera and used it for about twenty years before he upgraded to a newer style 35 mm. camera.
Daddy tired of processing his own film after a few years and he started shooting slides. We bought an old Bell and Howell projector that used rectangular shaped trays. You had to put each slide in a separate little plastic frame. Putting a slide show together was a big deal! Still, after each trip or special event, slides soon followed. We had a small tripod screen that served us well for decades.
When I was a teenager I got a Polaroid camera. It took poor quality instant black and white prints that had to be coated with a gel as soon as they developed. The camera wasn’t great, but the price was right! I still have a madras covered photo album from the old Swinger.
When we got married in 1969, Steve had a 35 mm. Pentax camera. It is a nice basic single lens reflex camera and he has a range of lenses. He still uses it and is in no hurry to upgrade.
Shortly after our marriage, we bought a Kodak Carousel projector. We got a model 850 (the top model) and it came with a really nice zoom lens. Having used Carousel projectors routinely in my training and work in the audiovisual field, I thought I was hot stuff when we had our own. We even bought a remote control, a stack loader, and a synchronizer unit. I could make synchronized slide shoes.
My first serious adult camera was a 35 mm Yashica in about 1971. I was involved in the Norton AFB Officers’ Wives’ Club and worked on the magazine. All the photos were taken with the club’s old Polaroid camera, and the only place with enough light was the ladies’ bathroom in the O Club. The wall paper was light colored and there was one open wall that served as backdrop. All photos included the bottom of a window air conditioner power cord. My contribution was to provide 35 mm. black and white shots taken with a flash in rooms OTHER than the ladies’ room. But, of course, taking the pictures wasn’t enough. We worked a deal to pay an airman to develop them for us in the base hobby shop’s photo lab.
I took photography lessons in the local Adult Ed program in San Bernardino, California. Steve also patiently taught me how to handle the mechanics of photography. Like my father, he had a darkroom and we (mostly he) started processing our own photos. I soon lost interest and opted for camera store processing.
By the late 70s I was doing more and more serious photography and felt I needed a Single Lens Reflex. I bought myself a Nikon EM, a low-end Nikon. Nikon lenses use a bayonet mount and Pentax lenses use a screw mount. Steve, being a big Pentax fan, has never quite understood my appreciation of Nikons.
Using little red ceramic letters I could even shoot title slides, but that also required I use a copy stand. It was a unit that held the camera up above the subject and there were lights on either side. Getting the ceramic letters was hard, but I could make decent looking title slides. I felt so empowered!
I eventually replaced my old Nikon EM with a Nikon FG. It was still not the finest model by any stretch, but it had more bells and whistles than any camera I had ever had before. That camera was my all-time favorite and it served me well for many years. I accumulated a wonderful tripod, lots of great lenses and filters. With all of this equipment and years of experience I got to be a pretty decent photographer.
The years kept moving and I gradually learned that having a heavy camera was a liability. I hated to carry a camera that would not fit in my purse. I tried Instamatics, 110s and finally a small, automatic 35 mm. camera made by Nikon. It is a really good little camera and I still use it today when I want to shoot film.
About eight years ago, Steve gave me a Sony Mavica digital camera. It uses floppy disks and is a whopping 1.8 megapixels. Still, in many ways it was a miracle. I could shoot a photo and simply pop the disk into my computer’s floppy drive. But, as most digital cameras of its vintage, it was heavy and certainly wouldn’t fit in my purse.
Meanwhile, I got involved in a zillion other things and photography was not something I had much time for anymore. When I needed photos, usually I enlisted a staff member to do it for me. Gradually, my Mavica became a dinosaur. Usually I just used my little Nikon “purse camera” when the need arose.
Last spring I went to South Carolina and wanted to photograph a very special event there. The light would be limited and I couldn’t use a flash, so I opted to shoot with my old Nikons (black and white film in one and color in the other). I loaded up with high speed film and packed my tripod and big bag of cameras and film. The pictures were not great! I can no longer see to focus. One camera died in action and the other wasn’t working consistently. The Sony Mavica performed OK, as did my little Nikon “purse” camera. I took some pictures with my cell phone and they also were OK (though low resolution for sure). I had some photos, but not the great stuff I had wanted!
That incident did it! I went to the camera store and bought a new digital camera. Yes, it a Nikon and it is so tiny it fits in my purse or pocket with ease. It is 5.1 megapixels and turns out some terrific photos. I feel fulfilled, but I am sure soon something better will come along and I will have to have it. Meanwhile, Steve will just keep on happily using his nearly forty year old Pentax.
We have this drawer in our front hall cabinet. It is filled with cameras, lenses, filters, flashes and cords of all descriptions. Most of the stuff actually works. Maybe we should try to sell them, but doubt they would bring much. So, we just keep on stuffing old cameras in the drawer.
We have four large bookshelves downstairs and each one has a closed cabinet at the bottom. Each cabinet is filled with slides. Some are in boxes and others are in Carousel trays. Some are my parents’ and some are ours. Someday I should set up the light table and organize them all. Maybe I could have them copied and made into a Power Point programs. Just think of how easily I could make title slides and synchronize them. Then what! It is hard enough to find a friendly audience for vacation slides when they are fresh; age them for a few decades and lose track of where or when they were taken and try to find an audience.
Then there is that dresser full of photos; and, of course, the old military trunk under the stairs filled with photos from pre-World War II. Someday I should go through all of those photos as well. Maybe I could replace the crumbling album pages with new ones from the Hallmark store. Or maybe I should get some of those photo boxes like they advertise on TV. Someday, when I have nothing else better to do I will take this on for sure. Yeah right!
For now, I am going to keep using my little digital camera and maybe get one of those special little printers. Or maybe I will just upload all the decent stuff to a Web site and erase the rest.
I wonder…will the digital photos we take today and upload to our computers have anywhere near the staying power of those old prints in the trunk in the basement? Or will they simply go away as hard drives die and Web sites go down. Guess I had better get one of those little printers. Besides, is definitely easier than the dark room used to be.
My first camera was a Kodak Brownie; I got it when I was about 8 years old. I was so proud to be able to take pictures just like a grown person. The pictures weren’t great, but they were mine!
My father used a 35 mm Kodak Pony, as basic 50s style camera. He had me pose for what seemed like hours for the requisite Easter photos. But mostly he took travel photos. Some were in black and white and others were in color.
Daddy could process black and white film in his darkroom and I used to help him. We put the film in little black light-tight canisters and poured in smelly chemicals. He took the negatives out and hung them up with clothes pins to dry on a line he strung across his workshop. Once the film was dry the next day, we would make prints. We put out several trays of very smelly chemicals. Daddy had an enlarger that enabled us to insert the negative and an image would be projected on the paper. Magically, when we put the paper in the developers, the image would appear. When we put the paper in the stop bath, the development would stop. Then we had to rinse the photos. Still, the paper had to dry. We had large spiral blotter books that we put the pictures in to absorb the moisture. The finished product was usually a matte finish print. Paper was expensive, so 8” x 10” prints were reserved for the best shots.
About 1953, my Dad had my uncle, who was stationed in Germany, get him a Retina IIIc camera. It was a fine camera that produced high quality 35 mm. photos. He loved that camera and used it for about twenty years before he upgraded to a newer style 35 mm. camera.
Daddy tired of processing his own film after a few years and he started shooting slides. We bought an old Bell and Howell projector that used rectangular shaped trays. You had to put each slide in a separate little plastic frame. Putting a slide show together was a big deal! Still, after each trip or special event, slides soon followed. We had a small tripod screen that served us well for decades.
When I was a teenager I got a Polaroid camera. It took poor quality instant black and white prints that had to be coated with a gel as soon as they developed. The camera wasn’t great, but the price was right! I still have a madras covered photo album from the old Swinger.
When we got married in 1969, Steve had a 35 mm. Pentax camera. It is a nice basic single lens reflex camera and he has a range of lenses. He still uses it and is in no hurry to upgrade.
Shortly after our marriage, we bought a Kodak Carousel projector. We got a model 850 (the top model) and it came with a really nice zoom lens. Having used Carousel projectors routinely in my training and work in the audiovisual field, I thought I was hot stuff when we had our own. We even bought a remote control, a stack loader, and a synchronizer unit. I could make synchronized slide shoes.
My first serious adult camera was a 35 mm Yashica in about 1971. I was involved in the Norton AFB Officers’ Wives’ Club and worked on the magazine. All the photos were taken with the club’s old Polaroid camera, and the only place with enough light was the ladies’ bathroom in the O Club. The wall paper was light colored and there was one open wall that served as backdrop. All photos included the bottom of a window air conditioner power cord. My contribution was to provide 35 mm. black and white shots taken with a flash in rooms OTHER than the ladies’ room. But, of course, taking the pictures wasn’t enough. We worked a deal to pay an airman to develop them for us in the base hobby shop’s photo lab.
I took photography lessons in the local Adult Ed program in San Bernardino, California. Steve also patiently taught me how to handle the mechanics of photography. Like my father, he had a darkroom and we (mostly he) started processing our own photos. I soon lost interest and opted for camera store processing.
By the late 70s I was doing more and more serious photography and felt I needed a Single Lens Reflex. I bought myself a Nikon EM, a low-end Nikon. Nikon lenses use a bayonet mount and Pentax lenses use a screw mount. Steve, being a big Pentax fan, has never quite understood my appreciation of Nikons.
Using little red ceramic letters I could even shoot title slides, but that also required I use a copy stand. It was a unit that held the camera up above the subject and there were lights on either side. Getting the ceramic letters was hard, but I could make decent looking title slides. I felt so empowered!
I eventually replaced my old Nikon EM with a Nikon FG. It was still not the finest model by any stretch, but it had more bells and whistles than any camera I had ever had before. That camera was my all-time favorite and it served me well for many years. I accumulated a wonderful tripod, lots of great lenses and filters. With all of this equipment and years of experience I got to be a pretty decent photographer.
The years kept moving and I gradually learned that having a heavy camera was a liability. I hated to carry a camera that would not fit in my purse. I tried Instamatics, 110s and finally a small, automatic 35 mm. camera made by Nikon. It is a really good little camera and I still use it today when I want to shoot film.
About eight years ago, Steve gave me a Sony Mavica digital camera. It uses floppy disks and is a whopping 1.8 megapixels. Still, in many ways it was a miracle. I could shoot a photo and simply pop the disk into my computer’s floppy drive. But, as most digital cameras of its vintage, it was heavy and certainly wouldn’t fit in my purse.
Meanwhile, I got involved in a zillion other things and photography was not something I had much time for anymore. When I needed photos, usually I enlisted a staff member to do it for me. Gradually, my Mavica became a dinosaur. Usually I just used my little Nikon “purse camera” when the need arose.
Last spring I went to South Carolina and wanted to photograph a very special event there. The light would be limited and I couldn’t use a flash, so I opted to shoot with my old Nikons (black and white film in one and color in the other). I loaded up with high speed film and packed my tripod and big bag of cameras and film. The pictures were not great! I can no longer see to focus. One camera died in action and the other wasn’t working consistently. The Sony Mavica performed OK, as did my little Nikon “purse” camera. I took some pictures with my cell phone and they also were OK (though low resolution for sure). I had some photos, but not the great stuff I had wanted!
That incident did it! I went to the camera store and bought a new digital camera. Yes, it a Nikon and it is so tiny it fits in my purse or pocket with ease. It is 5.1 megapixels and turns out some terrific photos. I feel fulfilled, but I am sure soon something better will come along and I will have to have it. Meanwhile, Steve will just keep on happily using his nearly forty year old Pentax.
We have this drawer in our front hall cabinet. It is filled with cameras, lenses, filters, flashes and cords of all descriptions. Most of the stuff actually works. Maybe we should try to sell them, but doubt they would bring much. So, we just keep on stuffing old cameras in the drawer.
We have four large bookshelves downstairs and each one has a closed cabinet at the bottom. Each cabinet is filled with slides. Some are in boxes and others are in Carousel trays. Some are my parents’ and some are ours. Someday I should set up the light table and organize them all. Maybe I could have them copied and made into a Power Point programs. Just think of how easily I could make title slides and synchronize them. Then what! It is hard enough to find a friendly audience for vacation slides when they are fresh; age them for a few decades and lose track of where or when they were taken and try to find an audience.
Then there is that dresser full of photos; and, of course, the old military trunk under the stairs filled with photos from pre-World War II. Someday I should go through all of those photos as well. Maybe I could replace the crumbling album pages with new ones from the Hallmark store. Or maybe I should get some of those photo boxes like they advertise on TV. Someday, when I have nothing else better to do I will take this on for sure. Yeah right!
For now, I am going to keep using my little digital camera and maybe get one of those special little printers. Or maybe I will just upload all the decent stuff to a Web site and erase the rest.
I wonder…will the digital photos we take today and upload to our computers have anywhere near the staying power of those old prints in the trunk in the basement? Or will they simply go away as hard drives die and Web sites go down. Guess I had better get one of those little printers. Besides, is definitely easier than the dark room used to be.
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