Let's bring out our Tennessee Williams and re-visit The Glass Menagerie. In this play, we meet Williams' pitiful single mom, Amanda Wingfield. She's the lady whose telephone company husband "fell in love with long distance," leaving her with the rent, the bills, and two young adult children. In a world without entitlements, Amanda says she has always depended on "the kindness of strangers" to get by. I haven't seen a production of the play lately, but I wonder how contemporary audiences would react to such a dependency? I suspect half the audience would have a thought bubble above their heads reading WTF? The other half would mutter, "Yeah, right."
OK, I am a bit cynical. I live in a world where I absolutely would not leave the house with the thought of depending upon the kindness of strangers. I can depend on myself, my friends and family, and a well-charged cell phone. In emergencies, there is always 911. But the kindness of strangers? Please.
That's the attitude that made my most recent non-adventure all the more astonishing.
I was headed south on Highway 231 after work one Saturday morning with the thought that I would run a quick errand, get some gas, and go home for an undemanding afternoon. I was driving a car that had primarily been my son's. In my own defense, I should say that I was not aware of how long I could delay the fuel stop once the "Low Fuel" warning appeared. Still, I was only slightly surprised when the car coughed a bit and slowed down in spite of my insistent foot on the accelerator.
I was in a fortunate location for unfortunate circumstances. A quick right turn off the highway found me on Green St., coasting downhill into downtown Wetumpka. I was hoping that, miraculously, a brand-new filling station would have sprung up between the ancient buildings, and I could be on my way with a minimum of trouble.
Sadly, the only thing I found at the bottom of Green St. was a STOP sign. Who knew that cars with no fuel lost power-assist steering and brakes? I learned that, because I couldn't use my momentum to cruise through the intersection. There was a car coming.
I was able to stop for a second or two, roll across the intersection, and come to a stop barely off the road in the parking area of--what is this?--a repair service? A garage? A garage SALE? I spied a couple of antique gas pumps and a sign advising me of the price of kerosene. I put the car in PARK, turned off the key, and ventured out.
I crossed the concrete tarmac and was met by four adolescent cats. Two meowed a greeting, and two thought I was a monster, so they scurried under a shed. Then I saw a human--a very senior human, who approached me slowly with a questioning expression.
I sheepishly pointed to my car, which was decidedly off the road, but barely into the parking area. I indicated the gas pumps and explained my poor job of parking. I hadn't been able to roll quite far enough to stop beside the pump. I was intentionally ignoring the saw horses and other debris in the space a car would occupy.
The gentleman shook his head. "We don't have any gas, ma'am." He didn't elaborate or explain why there were gas pumps. He didn't say anything else. A little rat terrier/chihuahua-looking critter put her front paws against my knee and looked sympathetically up at me. I absent-mindedly scratched behind her ears, and she ambled away. A long-haired tortoise-shell cat stood up in the rusted lawn chair where she'd been napping, circled a time or two, and went back to sleep. The teenagers stuck their heads out from under the shed and went back in. I lamely apologized to the man for parking in such an obvious non-parking area in front of his business. I walked back to my car and got in.
My next challenge would be to get Mr. Powers to answer the landline at our house. The odds of this happening were not good. If he were outside, he would never hear the telephone ringing at all. If he chanced to be inside, he would pretend to never hear the telephone ringing at all. Who answers a landline? I thought I would give it a try.
I took my cell phone out of my purse. I stared at it. Can cell phones run out of gas, too? No, Stupid, but they do go dead, especially if you have been playing Scrabble on them for the last two days! I shook my unresponsive phone as if it were a bottle of orange juice. There was no blink or beep of response. For a moment I thought I saw a glimmer of hope, because my son had left behind the car-charger for his old phone. Would it fit my phone? It would not. I wondered later on if an empty gas tank also disables the power point in a car. I had one option remaining. I would have to find the fellow whose job it must have been to oversee the dog and the cats. I would have to ask him if he at least had a phone.
I got out of the car again and went to find my new acquaintance. He was already walking toward me.
"Ma'am? I've called a fellow, and he's gone with a gas can to buy you $2 worth of gas. It'll take him a little while to go get the gas, but he'll be here in just a minute."
Speechless is not the word. I believe I remembered my manners and thanked the man. I think I reached down to pet the solid white kitty which had stolen out from under the shed again. I know for sure I got back in my car to wait for the Fellow with the Gas Can. I watched as cars, trucks and vans passed me by.
Along came an electric-blue Ford Taurus. A younger person than me would have admired the set of rims on the Taurus. Being from Slapout, I just wondered why the car sat up so high. Did the driver plan to take that thing stump-jumping? I've seen 4x4's that weren't that tall.
The Taurus pulled into the business that by now I had concluded used to be a service station. A tall middle-aged man unfolded himself from the driver's seat. (Maybe he, too, was driving a car used mostly by his kid?) He opened the trunk, and sure enough, he removed a red gas can. I believe I sighed relief and grinned at the same time.
The man spoke briefly to the Senior Citizen-Keeper of Dogs & Cats and Summoner of Help. Then he approached my car with a friendly expression and a chuckle as I described my apparent predicament and apologized for my irresponsibility.
"It happens," said he, and we chatted about the ridiculous price of gas as he poured $2 worth into my tank. "You want me to crank it for you?" he asked. "Sometimes they won't start right up."
My Chevy started right up. I asked him how much I owed. He told me to go see Mr. H. So my Senior Savior had a name. He was Mr. H! But Mr. H said, "Just pay him," and indicated my Junior Savior. "He helps me out with the wrecker sometimes."
I was at a wrecker service! Taking another look around, I noticed all kinds of things that would suggest a towing service, not the least of which was an aging tow truck. Why had I never noticed this place before? A gold and white cat sprang artfully onto a gas pump, which contained no gas to be pumped.
I gave my new-found friend a $5 bill and thanked him for his trouble. He, of course, said, "No problem," and went on his way. I never got the name of this unusually tall African American neighbor who likes to wear a Vietnam-era camo hat. He might be driving around in that electric-blue Taurus.
Mr. H smiled and said, "Come back to see us when you can stay longer. Come on, Eula Mae."
The dog's name was Eula Mae!
I do intend to go back. I will have dog and cat food with me.
I will keep a good eye on that gas gauge from now on. I am pretty independent, and when my cell phone is fully charged, I'll go just about anywhere. After all, I can depend on my family and my friends--and the kindness of strangers.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Tacky Pleasures!
In preparation for Lent or in observance of Valentine's Day, I notice the popular press having fun with Guilty Pleasures. "What's Yours?" scream the blurbs. "Jen's Secret Temptations!" squalls the cover of some magazine. One read is all that is necessary. These articles are going to talk about how we will overlook budget constraints, diets, and rational thinking when it comes to our favorite pricey indulgences. Examples are easy to come by--designer chocolate, fancy-label jeans, shoes that will match one outfit, flying first class, and $6.00 lattes. These guilty pleasures are not my concern.
I'm interested in the OTHER pleasures we don't talk about much and that the popular press most surely ignores. These are tacky pleasures. They differ in many ways from the more sought-after guilty pleasures mentioned above. They are cheap. They are common. They are strangely ill-suited to the persons who own them.
In order to write about the tacky pleasure phenomenon, I first had to research it. This was a two-step process. First, I had to look up tacky in the dictionary. According to the American Heritage Dictionary, tacky is an adjective which means "lacking style or good taste. tawdry. distasteful or offensive; flimsy, rundown or in poor repair." Here's the kicker: The term derives from tackey, an inferior horse.
Step two was for me to canvas the riders of the inferior horse. To put it bluntly, I went around asking people what their tacky pleasure was. (Such a tacky thing to do!) The list of their responses was as varied as their personalities. I should interject here that some folks could not come up with a tacky pleasure. They seemed genuinely apologetic about it, and they wanted to cooperate. For example, the supervisor of my workplace, who is just not tacky in any way, could only come up with her weekly Sunday smoothie, which, it turns out, is an extravagant little treat. Alas, I informed her, that is just a guilty pleasure, nothing tacky about it. She seemed a bit disappointed, and she promised to think it over and let me know "in the morning" about her tacky pleasure. I have yet to hear from her. The lady isn't tacky.
Those of us who do have a streak of tacky ( and we are the 99%) don't have to think about it much to come up with an answer, Oh sure, there were a couple--both teachers, coincidentally--whose hesitation really alarmed me, as I had so hoped their tacky pleasures would be revealing. Both of them, however, came through, identifying pleasures so deliciously tacky that I was nearly envious.
So I present a sampling of my favorite tacky pleasures, offered up by a group of people who are generally not tacky. If I save some reader from being racked with guilt about his/her tackiness, I shall not have labored in vain. Except that tacky folks won't care anyway.
Chosen by a lady who is my friend, confidante and go-to when I need HELP is a particular shopping experience. Not the Galleria. Not Kohl's. Not even Wal-Mart. My buddy loves her shopping trips to Dollar General! Not only Dollar General, but a specific, "nice, new" Dollar General in a nearby neighborhood. She goes out of her way to shop this particular store. I suspect she and her daughter have already planned their summer wardrobes around what is soon to be the sale rack.
An associate of mine, an able paraeducator in a challenging alternative school setting, seems to go beyond the necessary in service to community activities for kids. She sponsors Scouts, keeps the nursery in her church, and boosts the high school band. I would expect her tacky pleasure to not involve kids in any way, since she certainly deserves a break. But no, when this world-class chaperone winds down, she turns to the tackiness of Smurfs. That's right, the little blue midgets with boring wardrobes and shallow dialogue. She puts in a Smurfs video on purpose and watches. She simply shrugs. "They help me unwind," she says, "and I think they're funny."
This was an admittedly gender-biased survey, but I did ask one guy (a football and baseball coaching, hunting, fishing kind of guy) about his tacky pleasure. There was no hesitation from this fellow, and I believe it was with a great deal of pride that he replied, "My Christmas lights!" Moving right along . . .
. . . to my sisters. One lives in Alaska, so I had to text her with my query. Her text came back in less than 30 seconds. I am pleased that tackiness does not stop at the Mason-Dixon line. Her tacky pleasure in the frozen North? Marshmallow cream! Yep. The gooey, sickening sweet nonfood that as far as I know is only used in Fantasy Fudge. (Because we have to fantasize to believe that recipe actually does make fudge. But I digress.) "Get me a jar of marshmallow cream," read her text, "and I am good to go."
My other sister, a resident of Georgia, and only slightly less tacky than her Alaskan counterpart, shared her 3-way tie. I suppose that means she has so many tacky pleasures that she had to take the top 3. In order, then: She loves being the Queen of her Red Hat group, watching Alton Brown "for hours" and topping it all off, buying yard gnomes for her son, my policeman nephew. She admitted that she bought him his first one as a tongue-in-cheek housewarming gift. Now, she buys the poor guy a new gnome for every holiday. At the time of our interview, she had already purchased his Valentine Gnome.
I mentioned a couple of teachers above, and they both had to think a little while before they came up with anything. But I must admit, they have both pegged the tackymeter with their choices. The first teaches English, which makes this tacky pleasure all the more admirable. This beautifully educated, articulate and witty lady likes (and buys!) supermarket tabloids. She probably owns the one I only glanced at, and she could tell us every one of Jen's Secret Temptations! The other is actually retired from teaching--she was a professor of communication at a university that I will not name out of kindness to the institution. The former prof is elegant in every way. She is tasteful, gracious, and a master gardener. So get ready--She likes Moon Pies, the "big, fat, chocolate ones." She will even eat boiled peanuts, slimy though they be. I guess she was mortified to have to utter the truth. At any rate, she ratted out her equally elegant, articulate, and educated husband. He likes Stadium Dogs. "No telling what they put in those things," she worries. May this couple rest in peace after they die of hot dogs and squishy marshmallow sandwiches.
Odd how things with marshmallow keep cropping up . . .
Confession, they say, is good for the soul, but I admit, I have been putting this off. I am no less tacky than my Dollar General-shopping, gnome-buying, marshmallow cream-eating, tabloid-reading companions. It's just that my tacky pleasure doesn't match any of the things my profile says I am. This proud Navy mom who just became a proud Army mom is also decently educated, a member of a professional organization, and I even studied art history one time. So how can I confess this without blowing my self-image wide open? Here goes.
I like Thomas Kinkade. No, no, I don't collect the cookie jars or the lighted tapestries. I just like looking at those impossibly lit-up, cozy, thatch-roofed cottages situated by stone bridges arching across babbling brooks. I was at the local Slapout flea market one Saturday before it closed, and I was elated to find, for a mere $5.00, a framed 199something Christmas print. It showed a snowy village Main St., a hansom cab drawn by a horse (probably a tackey), light pouring from shop windows into the lavender dusk, and glowing gas lamps. No disparagement meant to the artist's effort or success, but I don't do sentimental, and I can't stand contrived collectors' items. Yet, those romantic cottages, the gardens just wild with hollyhocks, the glow from every window that says, "Come home." It would make me weep if it weren't so tacky.
So there we have it . . . the tackiness of a dozen or so otherwise rational people poured onto a page that will be read by maybe another dozen or so who have their tacky pleasures, too. Maybe we can get together with a jar of marshmallow cream and laugh about it. I will be by the fire . . . in my cottage . . . .by the bridge. . . .over the babbling brook.
I'm interested in the OTHER pleasures we don't talk about much and that the popular press most surely ignores. These are tacky pleasures. They differ in many ways from the more sought-after guilty pleasures mentioned above. They are cheap. They are common. They are strangely ill-suited to the persons who own them.
In order to write about the tacky pleasure phenomenon, I first had to research it. This was a two-step process. First, I had to look up tacky in the dictionary. According to the American Heritage Dictionary, tacky is an adjective which means "lacking style or good taste. tawdry. distasteful or offensive; flimsy, rundown or in poor repair." Here's the kicker: The term derives from tackey, an inferior horse.
Step two was for me to canvas the riders of the inferior horse. To put it bluntly, I went around asking people what their tacky pleasure was. (Such a tacky thing to do!) The list of their responses was as varied as their personalities. I should interject here that some folks could not come up with a tacky pleasure. They seemed genuinely apologetic about it, and they wanted to cooperate. For example, the supervisor of my workplace, who is just not tacky in any way, could only come up with her weekly Sunday smoothie, which, it turns out, is an extravagant little treat. Alas, I informed her, that is just a guilty pleasure, nothing tacky about it. She seemed a bit disappointed, and she promised to think it over and let me know "in the morning" about her tacky pleasure. I have yet to hear from her. The lady isn't tacky.
Those of us who do have a streak of tacky ( and we are the 99%) don't have to think about it much to come up with an answer, Oh sure, there were a couple--both teachers, coincidentally--whose hesitation really alarmed me, as I had so hoped their tacky pleasures would be revealing. Both of them, however, came through, identifying pleasures so deliciously tacky that I was nearly envious.
So I present a sampling of my favorite tacky pleasures, offered up by a group of people who are generally not tacky. If I save some reader from being racked with guilt about his/her tackiness, I shall not have labored in vain. Except that tacky folks won't care anyway.
Chosen by a lady who is my friend, confidante and go-to when I need HELP is a particular shopping experience. Not the Galleria. Not Kohl's. Not even Wal-Mart. My buddy loves her shopping trips to Dollar General! Not only Dollar General, but a specific, "nice, new" Dollar General in a nearby neighborhood. She goes out of her way to shop this particular store. I suspect she and her daughter have already planned their summer wardrobes around what is soon to be the sale rack.
An associate of mine, an able paraeducator in a challenging alternative school setting, seems to go beyond the necessary in service to community activities for kids. She sponsors Scouts, keeps the nursery in her church, and boosts the high school band. I would expect her tacky pleasure to not involve kids in any way, since she certainly deserves a break. But no, when this world-class chaperone winds down, she turns to the tackiness of Smurfs. That's right, the little blue midgets with boring wardrobes and shallow dialogue. She puts in a Smurfs video on purpose and watches. She simply shrugs. "They help me unwind," she says, "and I think they're funny."
This was an admittedly gender-biased survey, but I did ask one guy (a football and baseball coaching, hunting, fishing kind of guy) about his tacky pleasure. There was no hesitation from this fellow, and I believe it was with a great deal of pride that he replied, "My Christmas lights!" Moving right along . . .
. . . to my sisters. One lives in Alaska, so I had to text her with my query. Her text came back in less than 30 seconds. I am pleased that tackiness does not stop at the Mason-Dixon line. Her tacky pleasure in the frozen North? Marshmallow cream! Yep. The gooey, sickening sweet nonfood that as far as I know is only used in Fantasy Fudge. (Because we have to fantasize to believe that recipe actually does make fudge. But I digress.) "Get me a jar of marshmallow cream," read her text, "and I am good to go."
My other sister, a resident of Georgia, and only slightly less tacky than her Alaskan counterpart, shared her 3-way tie. I suppose that means she has so many tacky pleasures that she had to take the top 3. In order, then: She loves being the Queen of her Red Hat group, watching Alton Brown "for hours" and topping it all off, buying yard gnomes for her son, my policeman nephew. She admitted that she bought him his first one as a tongue-in-cheek housewarming gift. Now, she buys the poor guy a new gnome for every holiday. At the time of our interview, she had already purchased his Valentine Gnome.
I mentioned a couple of teachers above, and they both had to think a little while before they came up with anything. But I must admit, they have both pegged the tackymeter with their choices. The first teaches English, which makes this tacky pleasure all the more admirable. This beautifully educated, articulate and witty lady likes (and buys!) supermarket tabloids. She probably owns the one I only glanced at, and she could tell us every one of Jen's Secret Temptations! The other is actually retired from teaching--she was a professor of communication at a university that I will not name out of kindness to the institution. The former prof is elegant in every way. She is tasteful, gracious, and a master gardener. So get ready--She likes Moon Pies, the "big, fat, chocolate ones." She will even eat boiled peanuts, slimy though they be. I guess she was mortified to have to utter the truth. At any rate, she ratted out her equally elegant, articulate, and educated husband. He likes Stadium Dogs. "No telling what they put in those things," she worries. May this couple rest in peace after they die of hot dogs and squishy marshmallow sandwiches.
Odd how things with marshmallow keep cropping up . . .
Confession, they say, is good for the soul, but I admit, I have been putting this off. I am no less tacky than my Dollar General-shopping, gnome-buying, marshmallow cream-eating, tabloid-reading companions. It's just that my tacky pleasure doesn't match any of the things my profile says I am. This proud Navy mom who just became a proud Army mom is also decently educated, a member of a professional organization, and I even studied art history one time. So how can I confess this without blowing my self-image wide open? Here goes.
I like Thomas Kinkade. No, no, I don't collect the cookie jars or the lighted tapestries. I just like looking at those impossibly lit-up, cozy, thatch-roofed cottages situated by stone bridges arching across babbling brooks. I was at the local Slapout flea market one Saturday before it closed, and I was elated to find, for a mere $5.00, a framed 199something Christmas print. It showed a snowy village Main St., a hansom cab drawn by a horse (probably a tackey), light pouring from shop windows into the lavender dusk, and glowing gas lamps. No disparagement meant to the artist's effort or success, but I don't do sentimental, and I can't stand contrived collectors' items. Yet, those romantic cottages, the gardens just wild with hollyhocks, the glow from every window that says, "Come home." It would make me weep if it weren't so tacky.
So there we have it . . . the tackiness of a dozen or so otherwise rational people poured onto a page that will be read by maybe another dozen or so who have their tacky pleasures, too. Maybe we can get together with a jar of marshmallow cream and laugh about it. I will be by the fire . . . in my cottage . . . .by the bridge. . . .over the babbling brook.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Three Epiphany Gifts from Three Wise Kids
I am attached to an Episcopal parish named Trinity. Like many Episcopal churches, we have occasionally found ourselves between priests. During one such period, our interim rector was my friend, the Reverend John Keith. Mr. Keith is the author of a revealing memoir called Complete Humanity in Jesus (Newsouth Books, 2009). He is also a fine preacher. One Sunday in the course of his sermon, he remarked that Epiphany--the season we entered on January 6--was his favorite season on the Church calendar. I had never heard anyone claim Epiphany before, and I was always inclined to love Advent most, so his remark surprised me a little.
Nowadays it doesn't surprise me a bit. I have joined my friend in favoring Epiphany, and it isn't because of Mardi Gras. No, I treasure Epiphany because it reminds me of three other treasures I received over a period of years, treasures delivered by three Magi named Lori, Jonathan, and Seth.
Lori's gift came first, and I am not exaggerating to say that I have been opening and re-opening this gift periodically for the last several decades. Lori was a seventh-grader when I met her. She was a student of mine when I had just landed a part-time teaching post a couple of counties south of here. Lori was a bug-eyed, freckle-faced, grinning annoyance with an amazing vocabulary and the ability read beautifully anything I put in front of her. Upper-classmen shooed her away, and her peers tolerated her until her constant, steady stream of chatter drove them to yell, "SHUT UP!" I really liked her.
Lori was in the habit of joining me for lunch most every day, as my classroom was empty during the time the other students gathered in the multi-purpose room to eat. One day as I sat alone, eating yogurt and putting lesson plans on the transparencies (it was 1975!), Lori marched in, plopped her heavy book bag down by the door, and stomped up to my desk. She was exasperated.
"Miss Susan!" she began. (These were well-mannered country children in this school. If they knew an adult well enough, they would use her first name but always prefaced with Miss or Ms.) "I don't understand why people always say that money won't buy the best things in life, because the best things in life are horses and chocolate doughnuts, and you can get both of those with money!" I had to agree. At that moment, wrestling with the certainty that my part-time job would end, I couldn't think of anything really much better than horses or chocolate doughnuts.
GIFT #1: I have known for some time now what the best things in life are.
Many years later, I was the proud mom of a first-grader. That child's name is Jonathan, and he is an adult now. I am still his proud mom, and he was the bearer of the second treasure. On a mundane Sunday morning, I was fixated on getting breakfast on the table, the baby dressed, and husband and kids out the door on time. I don't recall the season of the year, but I do recall the rain that fell in thick gray sheets and created a curtain of water from the roof that we'd all have to navigate on the way to the car. Jonathan sat looking out at the yard through the kitchen window. I put two pancakes on his plate. It was quiet in the house for a minute. Jonathan looked up at me, smiling with pleasure. "It's raining outside," he said, "and there's pancakes in our kitchen. This is a good day for us!"
GIFT #2: I can't speak for everyone, but I know exactly what constitutes a good day in this household.
My second-born, Seth, was the third of the Magi to show up. He is now a young adult who never misses the opportunity to confound. I don't worry about him, though, due to the fabulous treasure he delivered one morning when he was only four.
We are a Christian family, so for some reason that morning, the name of Jesus came up in conversation. I do not remember why. I do recall with crystal clarity what happened next: Seth looked up from his breakfast and said, "I know who Jesus is."
Now, I don't know what I expected. It could have been "He's the Baby in the manger," or "He died on the Cross,: or something else Seth would have learned in Sunday school. But Seth said, "Jesus jumps on the trampoline with me, and we sing.:"
I said wow.
For sure I didn't worry about Seth jumping on the trampoline anymore, and I suppose that at some level, I believe that Seth actually experienced the presence of Our Lord singing and playing with him. I wouldn't be the only one. A couple of weeks later, I told our rector (All Saints', Montgomery, AL) about the incident. This was a priest named Albert S. Newton, the author of Biblical Interleaves in Prose and Verse, a wonderful, meditative little book (Forward Movement Publications, 1987). When I told Mr. Newton about my son's remark, Bert didn't smile or even raise his eyebrows in surprise. He nodded seriously and said, "He probably does."
But I believe there is much, much more happening in Seth's statement. Jesus jumps on the trampoline with me--I am safe--and we sing--I am joyful. I believe this statement was God's message to me about who He is and about His nature. This is true for me every day, and it may be true for anyone who has sought prayerfully or angrily to discover who God might be. God is Whoever or Whatever keeps us safe and brings us joy.
GIFT #3: I know who God is.
May the light of Epiphany shine brightly!
Nowadays it doesn't surprise me a bit. I have joined my friend in favoring Epiphany, and it isn't because of Mardi Gras. No, I treasure Epiphany because it reminds me of three other treasures I received over a period of years, treasures delivered by three Magi named Lori, Jonathan, and Seth.
Lori's gift came first, and I am not exaggerating to say that I have been opening and re-opening this gift periodically for the last several decades. Lori was a seventh-grader when I met her. She was a student of mine when I had just landed a part-time teaching post a couple of counties south of here. Lori was a bug-eyed, freckle-faced, grinning annoyance with an amazing vocabulary and the ability read beautifully anything I put in front of her. Upper-classmen shooed her away, and her peers tolerated her until her constant, steady stream of chatter drove them to yell, "SHUT UP!" I really liked her.
Lori was in the habit of joining me for lunch most every day, as my classroom was empty during the time the other students gathered in the multi-purpose room to eat. One day as I sat alone, eating yogurt and putting lesson plans on the transparencies (it was 1975!), Lori marched in, plopped her heavy book bag down by the door, and stomped up to my desk. She was exasperated.
"Miss Susan!" she began. (These were well-mannered country children in this school. If they knew an adult well enough, they would use her first name but always prefaced with Miss or Ms.) "I don't understand why people always say that money won't buy the best things in life, because the best things in life are horses and chocolate doughnuts, and you can get both of those with money!" I had to agree. At that moment, wrestling with the certainty that my part-time job would end, I couldn't think of anything really much better than horses or chocolate doughnuts.
GIFT #1: I have known for some time now what the best things in life are.
Many years later, I was the proud mom of a first-grader. That child's name is Jonathan, and he is an adult now. I am still his proud mom, and he was the bearer of the second treasure. On a mundane Sunday morning, I was fixated on getting breakfast on the table, the baby dressed, and husband and kids out the door on time. I don't recall the season of the year, but I do recall the rain that fell in thick gray sheets and created a curtain of water from the roof that we'd all have to navigate on the way to the car. Jonathan sat looking out at the yard through the kitchen window. I put two pancakes on his plate. It was quiet in the house for a minute. Jonathan looked up at me, smiling with pleasure. "It's raining outside," he said, "and there's pancakes in our kitchen. This is a good day for us!"
GIFT #2: I can't speak for everyone, but I know exactly what constitutes a good day in this household.
My second-born, Seth, was the third of the Magi to show up. He is now a young adult who never misses the opportunity to confound. I don't worry about him, though, due to the fabulous treasure he delivered one morning when he was only four.
We are a Christian family, so for some reason that morning, the name of Jesus came up in conversation. I do not remember why. I do recall with crystal clarity what happened next: Seth looked up from his breakfast and said, "I know who Jesus is."
Now, I don't know what I expected. It could have been "He's the Baby in the manger," or "He died on the Cross,: or something else Seth would have learned in Sunday school. But Seth said, "Jesus jumps on the trampoline with me, and we sing.:"
I said wow.
For sure I didn't worry about Seth jumping on the trampoline anymore, and I suppose that at some level, I believe that Seth actually experienced the presence of Our Lord singing and playing with him. I wouldn't be the only one. A couple of weeks later, I told our rector (All Saints', Montgomery, AL) about the incident. This was a priest named Albert S. Newton, the author of Biblical Interleaves in Prose and Verse, a wonderful, meditative little book (Forward Movement Publications, 1987). When I told Mr. Newton about my son's remark, Bert didn't smile or even raise his eyebrows in surprise. He nodded seriously and said, "He probably does."
But I believe there is much, much more happening in Seth's statement. Jesus jumps on the trampoline with me--I am safe--and we sing--I am joyful. I believe this statement was God's message to me about who He is and about His nature. This is true for me every day, and it may be true for anyone who has sought prayerfully or angrily to discover who God might be. God is Whoever or Whatever keeps us safe and brings us joy.
GIFT #3: I know who God is.
May the light of Epiphany shine brightly!
Thursday, December 22, 2011
The Family that Is Confused Together Stays Confused
All happy families are alike, but unhappy families are miserable in their unique ways. Tolstoy taught us that, although I've never really agreed with him. It seems to me that happy families invent their happiness in their own ways by determining how they'll either accept adversity or turn it to their advantage. I think that unhappy families are more predictable, as they slide into ugly archetypes and hapless living patterns based on inability to cope. Still, who am I to dispute Tolstoy? A man who could find the time to write War and Peace definitely had time to think about family dynamics.
I wonder what he'd have said about crazy families? (Disclaimer: I am not discussing mental illness here. I am talking about everyday bonehead thinking.) Are all rational families alike in their steadiness? Are all nutty families constantly loony tunes, or are some only nuts at times, depending on their stress levels? I believe some families are permanent fruit cakes, and never a day passes that they don't have at least one member whose antics are freakish. My family's craziness is not like a fruit cake. It's more like fudge--smooth, but with the occasional crunchy nut. My husband has christened these occasional crunches as "Powers Moments."
I can't get a family consensus as to what a Powers Moment is, but we know when we're having one. My husband says it's a moment when everybody needs to "shut up and start over." My #2 son is more descriptive: A Powers Moment is an unwholesome moment when we have our heads in an unusual part of our anatomy. A definition I devised is not totally accurate but might suffice to get us all on the same page: A Powers Moment is a brief period of collective indecision wherein a small annoyance blossoms into a major disagreement or obstacle, under which circumstance we all become stupid. I am not happy with that description, but I can give examples.
A Powers Moment often begins with something we all agree on, such as that we are hungry. That being established, we pile into the car. The driver, usually my husband, takes a left, which is my cue to ask, "Do you know where you're going?"
His answer is invariably vague, something along the line of "Oh, I don't know, I thought maybe"
Chorus from the back seat: "Chinese." "Mexican."
The passenger side, usually occupied by yours truly, stays quiet, because I like Mexican and Chinese equally well. I perceive, however, that the driver isn't happy about either option, and I don't want to cast a deciding vote in favor of a plan the driver is sure to oppose. The next few minutes go roughly this way:
"Mexican gives me heartburn."
"Yeah, that's why we need to get Chinese."
"OK, but not the little Chinese place."
"I'm not driving an extra five miles just to get Chinese I don't like that much in the first place."
"Whatever."
In the meantime, we have passed the little Chinese place, two Mexican places, the big Chinese place, and we are headed for the county line. I am still silent because I know that the last chance to stop will be in the parking lot of a wonderful restaurant specializing in steaks.
"Wow, good thinking, Dad!"
I'm thinking I hope some one grabbed a credit card on the way out.
Food is not the only subject that triggers a Powers Moment. Travel also seems to cause us to put our brains on hold. Last June, my husband and I, accompanied by our then-19-year-old, decided to see the USA in our Chevrolet. Specifically, we elected to drive from Central Alabama to Great Lakes, Illinois to attend our older son's U.S. Navy Pass-in-Review (boot camp graduation). The three of us agreed to travel light so we could bring a few boxes and suitcases full of civvies to our son who could have normal belongings on hand in his "A" school.
My 19-year-old is a good boy, but he's hard on tires. In the month preceding our trip, he had had at least two flats, and his doughnut was in such bad shape that he had removed it from the trunk altogether. This same teenager popped the trunk on the morning of our departure and began loading our boxes and bags. I admit he did a pretty good job--the parcels were wedged into the trunk in a space-saving jigsaw pattern with the big items belonging to our Sailor going in first, followed by suitcases belonging to us travellers, and finished off with our smaller satchels and light bags of things we might want to grab in case of a pit stop.
It was time to go, and Mr. Powers was the driver, of course, with our #2 son assuming the position of Navigator. I opted for the space and privacy of the back seat, a pillow and my iPod.
Gentleman, start your engine. The dogs are accounted for, the front door locked, the thermostat up.
"Did you put the spare back into the trunk, son?"
"What? Oh. No way. That thing is totally worn out."
"We're not driving to Chicago without a spare, son. Did you plan to walk to the next exit if we get stranded on I-65?"
"Let's just go. There's too much stuff in the trunk to unpack it."
Tell me this isn't happening. I am snuggled into the back seat with pillow, iPod, snacks, water, and a spare tire. I used it for a foot rest all the way to Chicago.
It was this same road trip that spawned the Powers Moment Supreme, our defining moment as Happy Family that Occasionally Goes Slap Plum Crazy.
It wasn't our fault. It was after midnight, and my husband, fortified by a Starbuck's off I-65 somewhere in Indiana plus some White Castles in Gary and a Chevy Cobalt that was getting pretty good mileage, decided to press on and get across Chicago all in one trip. (The original plan, to spend the night in Louisville, got ditched somewhere outside Bowling Green.)
We are not used to toll roads or toll booths that are eight-across and poorly lit. Just west of the Illinois state line, we approached what looked like the starting gate for a horse race. The Navigator spoke up, "Dad, I think you just pick one."
My husband nosed the Chevy into one of the narrow spaces between toll booths. There was the gate in the DOWN position; there was the price of entry to the toll road for each vehicle; there was the toll booth with no human inside, and there was the slot for the money. Except where was the slot for the money?
"It's $1.50. I have $1.50. Hon, where does the money go?"
I glanced out the window at the booth. I didn't see a slot for money, either. "I have no idea." I did see two bright headlights behind us, however.
"Dad. It's right there. Just put the money in, and the gate will go up."
"Where? I don't see where the money goes. Do I just leave it on the curb?"
"(mumble, mumble) DAD! Right there! Just put the money where it says exact change!"
"I don't see that. Do you see that? Well, here. You put the money in. There's some one behind us."
I thought the solution would involve Seth leaning across his dad and putting his head and arms out the window to deposit the change. Instead, Seth took the money, opened the passenger side door, walked in front of the car and put the money into the not-so-clearly-marked coin slot. The gate rose. Seth sprinted back around the front of the car to his side and got in before the gate closed again.
It was probably my imagination, but I could swear I heard gales of laughter from the car behind us. Never have I been so conscious of having an Alabama tag.
Powers Moments such as these occur, I would say, two to three times a week at our house. Sometimes we get quite vexed with one another; other times we take it in stride and make the best of our temporary lapses in judgment. I do not think we are alone in this. So for any families who have driven in circles for two hours looking for a place to eat, who have unpacked a meticulously packed car due to some oversight, or who have rearranged the same room five times to accommodate for electrical outlets, you are not in the fruit cake category. You're just having your version of a Powers Moment. Welcome to the family.
I wonder what he'd have said about crazy families? (Disclaimer: I am not discussing mental illness here. I am talking about everyday bonehead thinking.) Are all rational families alike in their steadiness? Are all nutty families constantly loony tunes, or are some only nuts at times, depending on their stress levels? I believe some families are permanent fruit cakes, and never a day passes that they don't have at least one member whose antics are freakish. My family's craziness is not like a fruit cake. It's more like fudge--smooth, but with the occasional crunchy nut. My husband has christened these occasional crunches as "Powers Moments."
I can't get a family consensus as to what a Powers Moment is, but we know when we're having one. My husband says it's a moment when everybody needs to "shut up and start over." My #2 son is more descriptive: A Powers Moment is an unwholesome moment when we have our heads in an unusual part of our anatomy. A definition I devised is not totally accurate but might suffice to get us all on the same page: A Powers Moment is a brief period of collective indecision wherein a small annoyance blossoms into a major disagreement or obstacle, under which circumstance we all become stupid. I am not happy with that description, but I can give examples.
A Powers Moment often begins with something we all agree on, such as that we are hungry. That being established, we pile into the car. The driver, usually my husband, takes a left, which is my cue to ask, "Do you know where you're going?"
His answer is invariably vague, something along the line of "Oh, I don't know, I thought maybe"
Chorus from the back seat: "Chinese." "Mexican."
The passenger side, usually occupied by yours truly, stays quiet, because I like Mexican and Chinese equally well. I perceive, however, that the driver isn't happy about either option, and I don't want to cast a deciding vote in favor of a plan the driver is sure to oppose. The next few minutes go roughly this way:
"Mexican gives me heartburn."
"Yeah, that's why we need to get Chinese."
"OK, but not the little Chinese place."
"I'm not driving an extra five miles just to get Chinese I don't like that much in the first place."
"Whatever."
In the meantime, we have passed the little Chinese place, two Mexican places, the big Chinese place, and we are headed for the county line. I am still silent because I know that the last chance to stop will be in the parking lot of a wonderful restaurant specializing in steaks.
"Wow, good thinking, Dad!"
I'm thinking I hope some one grabbed a credit card on the way out.
Food is not the only subject that triggers a Powers Moment. Travel also seems to cause us to put our brains on hold. Last June, my husband and I, accompanied by our then-19-year-old, decided to see the USA in our Chevrolet. Specifically, we elected to drive from Central Alabama to Great Lakes, Illinois to attend our older son's U.S. Navy Pass-in-Review (boot camp graduation). The three of us agreed to travel light so we could bring a few boxes and suitcases full of civvies to our son who could have normal belongings on hand in his "A" school.
My 19-year-old is a good boy, but he's hard on tires. In the month preceding our trip, he had had at least two flats, and his doughnut was in such bad shape that he had removed it from the trunk altogether. This same teenager popped the trunk on the morning of our departure and began loading our boxes and bags. I admit he did a pretty good job--the parcels were wedged into the trunk in a space-saving jigsaw pattern with the big items belonging to our Sailor going in first, followed by suitcases belonging to us travellers, and finished off with our smaller satchels and light bags of things we might want to grab in case of a pit stop.
It was time to go, and Mr. Powers was the driver, of course, with our #2 son assuming the position of Navigator. I opted for the space and privacy of the back seat, a pillow and my iPod.
Gentleman, start your engine. The dogs are accounted for, the front door locked, the thermostat up.
"Did you put the spare back into the trunk, son?"
"What? Oh. No way. That thing is totally worn out."
"We're not driving to Chicago without a spare, son. Did you plan to walk to the next exit if we get stranded on I-65?"
"Let's just go. There's too much stuff in the trunk to unpack it."
Tell me this isn't happening. I am snuggled into the back seat with pillow, iPod, snacks, water, and a spare tire. I used it for a foot rest all the way to Chicago.
It was this same road trip that spawned the Powers Moment Supreme, our defining moment as Happy Family that Occasionally Goes Slap Plum Crazy.
It wasn't our fault. It was after midnight, and my husband, fortified by a Starbuck's off I-65 somewhere in Indiana plus some White Castles in Gary and a Chevy Cobalt that was getting pretty good mileage, decided to press on and get across Chicago all in one trip. (The original plan, to spend the night in Louisville, got ditched somewhere outside Bowling Green.)
We are not used to toll roads or toll booths that are eight-across and poorly lit. Just west of the Illinois state line, we approached what looked like the starting gate for a horse race. The Navigator spoke up, "Dad, I think you just pick one."
My husband nosed the Chevy into one of the narrow spaces between toll booths. There was the gate in the DOWN position; there was the price of entry to the toll road for each vehicle; there was the toll booth with no human inside, and there was the slot for the money. Except where was the slot for the money?
"It's $1.50. I have $1.50. Hon, where does the money go?"
I glanced out the window at the booth. I didn't see a slot for money, either. "I have no idea." I did see two bright headlights behind us, however.
"Dad. It's right there. Just put the money in, and the gate will go up."
"Where? I don't see where the money goes. Do I just leave it on the curb?"
"(mumble, mumble) DAD! Right there! Just put the money where it says exact change!"
"I don't see that. Do you see that? Well, here. You put the money in. There's some one behind us."
I thought the solution would involve Seth leaning across his dad and putting his head and arms out the window to deposit the change. Instead, Seth took the money, opened the passenger side door, walked in front of the car and put the money into the not-so-clearly-marked coin slot. The gate rose. Seth sprinted back around the front of the car to his side and got in before the gate closed again.
It was probably my imagination, but I could swear I heard gales of laughter from the car behind us. Never have I been so conscious of having an Alabama tag.
Powers Moments such as these occur, I would say, two to three times a week at our house. Sometimes we get quite vexed with one another; other times we take it in stride and make the best of our temporary lapses in judgment. I do not think we are alone in this. So for any families who have driven in circles for two hours looking for a place to eat, who have unpacked a meticulously packed car due to some oversight, or who have rearranged the same room five times to accommodate for electrical outlets, you are not in the fruit cake category. You're just having your version of a Powers Moment. Welcome to the family.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
OUT! or The Coffee Blog
Part 1
I am in line at a conference with 10 or 12 other yawning ladies. We are all paying anywhere from $2 to $5 for the privilege of pouring our own coffee into paper cups. We have our choice of sugar or any of 3 kinds of artificial sweetener. We are supposed to have a choice between 2% fat milk or half & half. The carafe labelled half & half is empty. There is no choice after all! I inform the cashier that she is out of half & half. I decide as I pour my own milk that I am glad I chose the $2 size cup.
Part 2
It's late in the day. Wearily, I shut my computer down and get ready to lock my office. A voice comes over our PA: Attention, faculty and staff! Tomorrow would be a fabulous time for you to bring a pound of coffee. We are out.
The local grocery store has its own store-brand 13-ounce package of coffee on sale, buy one, get one free. Even though they are asking too much for their not-quite-one-pound brick-shaped package, I find the idea of getting 26 oz. for the price of 13 irresistible. I tell myself that I will take the extra short-pound to work with me so I don't have to contribute to the coffee fund. My co-workers will be so happy that we don't have to skip brewing our pot of coffee even one morning!
Anyway, the store is out of my favorite brand.
Part 3
My husband enters the kitchen at 6:30 in the morning wearing a T-shirt, plaid shorts, and cowboy boots. He is on auto-pilot at this hour as the boots steer him in the direction of the percolator. I stand between him and the counter to mask the fact that the percolator light is OFF. My mouth is open in semi-surprise; there is a hint of panic in my eyes.
"What?" he asks when he notes my expression. He reaches past me to open the dishwasher for a clean coffee mug.
"Um," I reply. The caution in my tone stops him as if we were playing freeze-tag. Mr. Powers is paralyzed, mid-reach.
"What?" he asks again. Who turned up the volume?
"I think we're out . . . " I say, as if I didn't know for sure. Of course I know for sure. It's my job to set up the percolator every night before I go to bed. That way all I have to do is plug it in when I get up. The miracle of 1930's technology does the rest, and Mr. Powers and I go to work slightly more alert than our non-caffeinated peers.
"What do you mean 'out'?" he asks me. I'll have to think about this for a second. Out has lots of meanings. My intention was to disclose, ever so carefully, that we had no coffee in the house. But my mate's question may have given me an out around the dangerous truth.
We are no longer closet coffee-drinkers. We are out of coffee. The world can at last know who we are. It's the end of the line for "Don't ask, don't tell," and we'll proudly place those coffee mugs on our desks for everyone to see. . . .
Or maybe out can be where we'll drink our coffee this fine autumn morning. We'll go out on the deck and watch the blue jays eat their breakfast . . . but we'll have to go out somewhere else first, like the grocery store.
"We don't have coffee?" The incredulity in his tone is deafening.
"Um." (Oh, rats! I already said that!) "I didn't notice until I came in to set up the coffee pot last night. I thought we had almost a pound of that store brand in there, but--"
"You didn't go get any?" More incredulity.
"It was kind of late. The store was closed by that time, and I didn't feel like going out . . . . " (Bright idea!) "I'm having some hot tea. Can I fix you a--"
I am talking to my husband's plaid-covered tailgate as the cowboy boots steer him back down the hall. I sip my hot tea and hope we're not out of BC powders, too.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
The Inevitable Football Blog
Gotcha. As Howard Cosell famously said, "I never played the game." We won't deal with whose team is best, whose defensive coordinator has got to go, or who deserves the Heisman Trophy. There will be no X's or O's drawn here. However, an affiliation check is expected of anyone writing about Football. So--I have a degree from Auburn. My mama went to Auburn. I'm for Auburn. Can we get on with this?
What I really want to do is gripe about the confusion of a visible football program with a quality education. When my son was a high school junior looking toward college and the possibility of playing post-secondary football, he received letters from schools like Wofford and Elon. These institutions, time-tested and respectable I'm sure, had not exactly been household words up 'til then. We had conversed about or visited the University of North Alabama ("I could walk on there!"), Auburn, Troy ("I'm not big enough to play there!"), and Jacksonville State ("I wonder why they didn't recruit Jim Bob?"). I don't recall my son ever asking me the average GPA of any of these schools' freshman classes.
I noticed the extent of the confusion when I was still a high school counselor. I would interview seniors at length every September to make sure their post-high school planning was on track. A typical interview went like this:
ME: Have you decided what you'll do after graduation?
SENIOR: Going to Alabama.
ME: Excellent. What majors have you thought of?
SENIOR: Ima play football.
ME: Really? Are you playing football now?
SENIOR: Nope. Got to get my grades up.
ME: Oh, right. Do you have any idea what it takes to get into the University of Alabama?
SENIOR (hopefully): Good grades?
More recently, I encountered this from a senior swaddled in red and white:
SENIOR: Roll Tide!
ME: War Eagle. So you're a Bama fan. Which of your family members attended Alabama?
SENIOR: None that I know of.
ME: So you're from Tuscaloosa.
SENIOR: Nope. North Carolina.
ME: So shouldn't you be wearing a Tarheels shirt?
SENIOR: Who're they?
Argh! Not only does football seem to guide educational choices, it appears to control the map as well.
In an effort to awaken an awareness of what an array of colleges there are in and outside the State of Alabama, and to remind kids that colleges are not NFL farm teams, I brought my gaggle of junior- and senior high school students two sets of survey results. One was the U.S. News & World Report listing of the top 50 public universities in the United States. I wanted my young scholars to know that even though the majority of Alabamians don't get college degrees, those who do can boast of a better than average, if grueling, 4 years at our two largest schools.
"Coming in at #31," I announced, "is the University of Alabama."
"That's bad," grumbled a sophomore Alabama fan.
"No, no, that's quite good," I admonished. "Do you know how many public universities there are in the United States?"
"About a hundred?"
"Thousands! and only 30 of them are rated higher than Alabama!"
Pleased smile from the sophomore.
I went on. ":Auburn University is #38 . . . "
"HA HA! We beat you!" This comment was apparently directed toward anyone in the classroom who had ever in his lifetime put A and U together in alphabetical order. I was thinking, Good! Academic competition for once.
I continued, "Alabama has been in the top 50 for about 11 years, Auburn for 19 years." Silence reigned as puzzled football heads tried to figure out what that all meant. When I announced happily that Troy University was #26 on the list of regional universities, the mood shifted again as some one asked, "What's for lunch?"
Undaunted, I changed my tactics and brought a new list to the group another morning. I hoped to kindle their curiosity about how colleges work by bringing in the list of the Top 5 Party Schools in the United States. According to Princeton Review, Ohio University is the top campus for students wanting to major in Fun. My group returned blank stares in place of comments on that information. Staring right back, I continued, telling them that OU's freshmen scored in the 21-26 range on ACT's and averaged a 3.28 GPA out of high school. Respectable! More blank stares. Not one to give up, I went on, "But they were only number 60 on the U.S. News & World Report list. Alabama and Auburn are both ahead of them." Not even a raised eyebrow? OK, desperate times call for desperate measures: "They play Kent State this Saturday if you're interested. They're in the Mid-America Conference."
"I knew it!" The Bammer sophomore again. Everyone else was in the hallway opening their lockers.
Don't get me wrong. I love football, and I share some of the same delusions as my fellow SEC junkies:
1. The Auburn-Alabama rivalry is the best rivalry in the Universe.
2. The SEC is by far the most challenging, expert, dynamic, talent-laden conference in the country, and all others are pretenders.
3. Either Dreamland or Momma Goldberg's is a synonym for lunch.
4. We don't care how loud Neyland Stadium is. Our stadium is louder.
5. The Florida Gators and the LSU Tigers are tied for the title of "Team with the Most Annoying Fans."
That said, I do wish that for at least nine months out of the year, we could somehow be reminded that education is primary, not a sideline. (Get it? Sideline?) If you have a veterinarian you like, you can probably thank Auburn. Aw, barn, you say? Farming feeds the world, buddy. Unfortunate enough to need an attorney? I bet there's a degree from the University of Alabama on her ego wall. Ditto for your doctor. And the number of great educators produced by Troy University is higher than this ex-English teacher cares to count. (Readers from the other 49 states, insert the names of your own universities.)
I have a solution in mind inspired, believe it or not, by a car owned by an unknown Alabama fan. The automobile in question was decorated--no, embellished--NO, FESTOONED--with Alabamorabilia. There were curlicued capital letter A's on every window, houndstooth-checked sayings spattered on every fender, a faded bumper-sitcker proclaiming the University of Alabama to be National Champions (in football) (parentheses mine). There is nothing unusual in this bazaar of a sticker display. We go get our Auburn stuff right after we get our new tags. What caught my eye was a small, red square in the midst of it all--the bumper-sticker equivalent of a Post-It. Centered on the square was a capital S. Underneath the S it said The Coach. It was direct, understated, almost tasteful.
Imagine a society so hellbent on educating its citizens that cars bore magnetic stickies in school colors reading: A The Chairman of the English Dept. (purple and gold); Z Professor Emeritus of African History (orange and blue); or J Dean of the College of Education (green and silver). Maybe The Coach could teach a few sections of Lifetime Fitness!
Or maybe we could, for the sake of the population still uncommitted as far as their education goes, add another slogan to the list that includes WDE, RTR, WPS, and Geaux Tigers.
How about GAE? Get An Education? No cowbells? No whistles? No high fives?
<sigh> War Eagle.
What I really want to do is gripe about the confusion of a visible football program with a quality education. When my son was a high school junior looking toward college and the possibility of playing post-secondary football, he received letters from schools like Wofford and Elon. These institutions, time-tested and respectable I'm sure, had not exactly been household words up 'til then. We had conversed about or visited the University of North Alabama ("I could walk on there!"), Auburn, Troy ("I'm not big enough to play there!"), and Jacksonville State ("I wonder why they didn't recruit Jim Bob?"). I don't recall my son ever asking me the average GPA of any of these schools' freshman classes.
I noticed the extent of the confusion when I was still a high school counselor. I would interview seniors at length every September to make sure their post-high school planning was on track. A typical interview went like this:
ME: Have you decided what you'll do after graduation?
SENIOR: Going to Alabama.
ME: Excellent. What majors have you thought of?
SENIOR: Ima play football.
ME: Really? Are you playing football now?
SENIOR: Nope. Got to get my grades up.
ME: Oh, right. Do you have any idea what it takes to get into the University of Alabama?
SENIOR (hopefully): Good grades?
More recently, I encountered this from a senior swaddled in red and white:
SENIOR: Roll Tide!
ME: War Eagle. So you're a Bama fan. Which of your family members attended Alabama?
SENIOR: None that I know of.
ME: So you're from Tuscaloosa.
SENIOR: Nope. North Carolina.
ME: So shouldn't you be wearing a Tarheels shirt?
SENIOR: Who're they?
Argh! Not only does football seem to guide educational choices, it appears to control the map as well.
In an effort to awaken an awareness of what an array of colleges there are in and outside the State of Alabama, and to remind kids that colleges are not NFL farm teams, I brought my gaggle of junior- and senior high school students two sets of survey results. One was the U.S. News & World Report listing of the top 50 public universities in the United States. I wanted my young scholars to know that even though the majority of Alabamians don't get college degrees, those who do can boast of a better than average, if grueling, 4 years at our two largest schools.
"Coming in at #31," I announced, "is the University of Alabama."
"That's bad," grumbled a sophomore Alabama fan.
"No, no, that's quite good," I admonished. "Do you know how many public universities there are in the United States?"
"About a hundred?"
"Thousands! and only 30 of them are rated higher than Alabama!"
Pleased smile from the sophomore.
I went on. ":Auburn University is #38 . . . "
"HA HA! We beat you!" This comment was apparently directed toward anyone in the classroom who had ever in his lifetime put A and U together in alphabetical order. I was thinking, Good! Academic competition for once.
I continued, "Alabama has been in the top 50 for about 11 years, Auburn for 19 years." Silence reigned as puzzled football heads tried to figure out what that all meant. When I announced happily that Troy University was #26 on the list of regional universities, the mood shifted again as some one asked, "What's for lunch?"
Undaunted, I changed my tactics and brought a new list to the group another morning. I hoped to kindle their curiosity about how colleges work by bringing in the list of the Top 5 Party Schools in the United States. According to Princeton Review, Ohio University is the top campus for students wanting to major in Fun. My group returned blank stares in place of comments on that information. Staring right back, I continued, telling them that OU's freshmen scored in the 21-26 range on ACT's and averaged a 3.28 GPA out of high school. Respectable! More blank stares. Not one to give up, I went on, "But they were only number 60 on the U.S. News & World Report list. Alabama and Auburn are both ahead of them." Not even a raised eyebrow? OK, desperate times call for desperate measures: "They play Kent State this Saturday if you're interested. They're in the Mid-America Conference."
"I knew it!" The Bammer sophomore again. Everyone else was in the hallway opening their lockers.
Don't get me wrong. I love football, and I share some of the same delusions as my fellow SEC junkies:
1. The Auburn-Alabama rivalry is the best rivalry in the Universe.
2. The SEC is by far the most challenging, expert, dynamic, talent-laden conference in the country, and all others are pretenders.
3. Either Dreamland or Momma Goldberg's is a synonym for lunch.
4. We don't care how loud Neyland Stadium is. Our stadium is louder.
5. The Florida Gators and the LSU Tigers are tied for the title of "Team with the Most Annoying Fans."
That said, I do wish that for at least nine months out of the year, we could somehow be reminded that education is primary, not a sideline. (Get it? Sideline?) If you have a veterinarian you like, you can probably thank Auburn. Aw, barn, you say? Farming feeds the world, buddy. Unfortunate enough to need an attorney? I bet there's a degree from the University of Alabama on her ego wall. Ditto for your doctor. And the number of great educators produced by Troy University is higher than this ex-English teacher cares to count. (Readers from the other 49 states, insert the names of your own universities.)
I have a solution in mind inspired, believe it or not, by a car owned by an unknown Alabama fan. The automobile in question was decorated--no, embellished--NO, FESTOONED--with Alabamorabilia. There were curlicued capital letter A's on every window, houndstooth-checked sayings spattered on every fender, a faded bumper-sitcker proclaiming the University of Alabama to be National Champions (in football) (parentheses mine). There is nothing unusual in this bazaar of a sticker display. We go get our Auburn stuff right after we get our new tags. What caught my eye was a small, red square in the midst of it all--the bumper-sticker equivalent of a Post-It. Centered on the square was a capital S. Underneath the S it said The Coach. It was direct, understated, almost tasteful.
Imagine a society so hellbent on educating its citizens that cars bore magnetic stickies in school colors reading: A The Chairman of the English Dept. (purple and gold); Z Professor Emeritus of African History (orange and blue); or J Dean of the College of Education (green and silver). Maybe The Coach could teach a few sections of Lifetime Fitness!
Or maybe we could, for the sake of the population still uncommitted as far as their education goes, add another slogan to the list that includes WDE, RTR, WPS, and Geaux Tigers.
How about GAE? Get An Education? No cowbells? No whistles? No high fives?
<sigh> War Eagle.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Surrealism in Slapout
The weirdest thing just happened to me--so weird, in fact, that it already seems like fiction. This is the sort of encounter that happens in quirky short stories or novels with misfit protagonists. Be prepared not to believe this, but please understand, I do not make stuff up. I know two priests and one Board of Education maintenance supervisor who will vouch for me.
It was an ordinary Saturday afternoon. We had barbecue and barbecue sauce at the house, but no buns; plenty of ice, but nothing to pour over it. As anyone with a Slapout, Alabama address will attest, one goes in these situations to the local grocery down by the flashing yellow light. So there I was, making a quick-in, quick-out trip that was as unplanned and spontaneous as a kid's jump into a fresh mud puddle. The store was a little busy that day, meaning I was second in line at the check-out. I noticed the couple ahead of me.
It was a man and a woman, so I assume they made a couple, but they could have been brother and sister. The lady looked like a tall, thin mouse with pale brown hair and no chin. She was skinny and murmuring as she counted out some one-dollar bills. I am no beauty myself, and I am not criticizing. I'm only setting the stage.
Her male partner stooped over their grocery buggy, mumbling complaints, it sounded like. He had a gruff voice, and the lady paid him no mind. He straightened up, and I saw that he was wearing a wife-beater (also called an A-shirt if you're not from around here), and he was missing a front tooth. It isn't nice to gape at gaps, so I turned away.
That was when I heard him say what I was so sure he couldn't have said, "Narcissistic." Because no one wearing a wife-beater or anyone else ever says narcissistic in the grocery line, I immediately thought to myself, I misunderstood. It sounded like he said "narcissistic," but a man in an A-shirt doesn't say that, especially not while his buddy pays for bread and milk. It was probably "Carl's a sissy," "Cars is cinches," or "Gnaw the stitches."
Anyway, they left; I paid; I grabbed my bags, and I was leaving, too. Here's where it gets really weird. I passed Mr. A-shirt as I headed for the door. He had decided to do the right thing and bring his buggy back indoors. As we passed each other, he looked me right in the eye and said, "Narcissistic."
I am a mental health counselor. I'm not bragging; Troy University and the Alabama Board of Examiners in Counseling say I'm a counselor, so I am. As a counselor, I can assure you that there is no positive context in which one might use the word narcissistic. Furthermore, used in conversation, the word is reserved for materialistic heiresses, corrupt politicians, and ex-husbands. In professional settings, narcissistic precedes personality disorder. Friends and neighbors, personality disorders don't budge. They simply are, and we mental health professionals just try to work around them or help our clients get better in spite of them.
Which brings me back to my chance encounter at the store in Slapout. What did I do, how did I look, what unconscious gesture on my part coaxed that specific term from the man's memory? I wasn't in a hurry or being impatient. I did not frown at Ms. Mouse as she counted her bills. I didn't even stare at the A-shirt or glance down to see if the wearer had remembered his shoes. I put my buns and Coke on the counter and waited.
I was wearing a plaid shirt and some olive-green cotton slacks. I had on a little make-up, and my hair was combed. After all, I had had to work that morning. There was no reason for me to think my appearance turned any heads at all. Still, we all remember the mythology behind the word narcissistic: Poor Narcissus, gazing witlessly into a pool of water, saw his own reflection and fell in love with it. Curious as to how I might see myself under these bizarre new circumstances, I stared into the mirror when I got home.
I saw nothing to flaunt. I have no athletic Nordic beauty, no warm Mediterranean appeal; I am as boringly Anglo as you can get. My hair is too thin, my ears too big, my complexion too muddy. Okay, my bangs are a good length right now. For appearance, I give myself a C, and that won't earn me a personality disorder.
Of course, looks are not what personality disorders are made of. Personality consists of character and the way we interact with the world around us. This would be harder to look into than a mirror. Haven't I had moments of pure selfishness? How about the time I persuaded my husband to put our house on the market when I knew he didn't really want to move? or the time I convinced my high-schooler to stay on the wrestling team because I might like to be the parent of a State Champion? Worst of all, what about my insistence on holding yard sales on weekends when my family wanted to go to Arkansas? Very, very self-centered decisions, all of them, and ones I sincerely apologize for. Did my accuser somehow learn about those?
No. Not possible, and although the idea of such hi-falootin name-calling in Slapout is absurd, there is a nightmarish quality to the whole encounter. The grocery store run is supposed to put lunch on the table, not trigger a cascade of introspection and self-doubt.
So I will do what most anyone would. I'll say I really did misunderstand; I'll say the guy was drunk; I'll say he mistook me for his ornery ex-girlfriend. I won't say he was the voice of one crying in the wilderness lest I find that I am a viper.
No, I'll just write it down the way it happened, shake my head, and mutter, "Weird." If you read this, you may agree, but if you find it interesting, don't tell me so. I may like the compliment so much that I'll write another column. That would be quite narcissistic of me.
It was an ordinary Saturday afternoon. We had barbecue and barbecue sauce at the house, but no buns; plenty of ice, but nothing to pour over it. As anyone with a Slapout, Alabama address will attest, one goes in these situations to the local grocery down by the flashing yellow light. So there I was, making a quick-in, quick-out trip that was as unplanned and spontaneous as a kid's jump into a fresh mud puddle. The store was a little busy that day, meaning I was second in line at the check-out. I noticed the couple ahead of me.
It was a man and a woman, so I assume they made a couple, but they could have been brother and sister. The lady looked like a tall, thin mouse with pale brown hair and no chin. She was skinny and murmuring as she counted out some one-dollar bills. I am no beauty myself, and I am not criticizing. I'm only setting the stage.
Her male partner stooped over their grocery buggy, mumbling complaints, it sounded like. He had a gruff voice, and the lady paid him no mind. He straightened up, and I saw that he was wearing a wife-beater (also called an A-shirt if you're not from around here), and he was missing a front tooth. It isn't nice to gape at gaps, so I turned away.
That was when I heard him say what I was so sure he couldn't have said, "Narcissistic." Because no one wearing a wife-beater or anyone else ever says narcissistic in the grocery line, I immediately thought to myself, I misunderstood. It sounded like he said "narcissistic," but a man in an A-shirt doesn't say that, especially not while his buddy pays for bread and milk. It was probably "Carl's a sissy," "Cars is cinches," or "Gnaw the stitches."
Anyway, they left; I paid; I grabbed my bags, and I was leaving, too. Here's where it gets really weird. I passed Mr. A-shirt as I headed for the door. He had decided to do the right thing and bring his buggy back indoors. As we passed each other, he looked me right in the eye and said, "Narcissistic."
I am a mental health counselor. I'm not bragging; Troy University and the Alabama Board of Examiners in Counseling say I'm a counselor, so I am. As a counselor, I can assure you that there is no positive context in which one might use the word narcissistic. Furthermore, used in conversation, the word is reserved for materialistic heiresses, corrupt politicians, and ex-husbands. In professional settings, narcissistic precedes personality disorder. Friends and neighbors, personality disorders don't budge. They simply are, and we mental health professionals just try to work around them or help our clients get better in spite of them.
Which brings me back to my chance encounter at the store in Slapout. What did I do, how did I look, what unconscious gesture on my part coaxed that specific term from the man's memory? I wasn't in a hurry or being impatient. I did not frown at Ms. Mouse as she counted her bills. I didn't even stare at the A-shirt or glance down to see if the wearer had remembered his shoes. I put my buns and Coke on the counter and waited.
I was wearing a plaid shirt and some olive-green cotton slacks. I had on a little make-up, and my hair was combed. After all, I had had to work that morning. There was no reason for me to think my appearance turned any heads at all. Still, we all remember the mythology behind the word narcissistic: Poor Narcissus, gazing witlessly into a pool of water, saw his own reflection and fell in love with it. Curious as to how I might see myself under these bizarre new circumstances, I stared into the mirror when I got home.
I saw nothing to flaunt. I have no athletic Nordic beauty, no warm Mediterranean appeal; I am as boringly Anglo as you can get. My hair is too thin, my ears too big, my complexion too muddy. Okay, my bangs are a good length right now. For appearance, I give myself a C, and that won't earn me a personality disorder.
Of course, looks are not what personality disorders are made of. Personality consists of character and the way we interact with the world around us. This would be harder to look into than a mirror. Haven't I had moments of pure selfishness? How about the time I persuaded my husband to put our house on the market when I knew he didn't really want to move? or the time I convinced my high-schooler to stay on the wrestling team because I might like to be the parent of a State Champion? Worst of all, what about my insistence on holding yard sales on weekends when my family wanted to go to Arkansas? Very, very self-centered decisions, all of them, and ones I sincerely apologize for. Did my accuser somehow learn about those?
No. Not possible, and although the idea of such hi-falootin name-calling in Slapout is absurd, there is a nightmarish quality to the whole encounter. The grocery store run is supposed to put lunch on the table, not trigger a cascade of introspection and self-doubt.
So I will do what most anyone would. I'll say I really did misunderstand; I'll say the guy was drunk; I'll say he mistook me for his ornery ex-girlfriend. I won't say he was the voice of one crying in the wilderness lest I find that I am a viper.
No, I'll just write it down the way it happened, shake my head, and mutter, "Weird." If you read this, you may agree, but if you find it interesting, don't tell me so. I may like the compliment so much that I'll write another column. That would be quite narcissistic of me.
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