You know what I hate? (those of you who know me are saying, “Yes, Jo, we know, but tell us anyway”). Well, I WILL tell you anyway, because recent events have brought it to the forefront once again.
I hate news people who are only too happy to gleefully report some gruesome and/or tragic story, over and over, reshuffling and regurgitating it, to the exclusion of all else till every last detail is finally wrung out and they can eagerly wait for the next tragedy. And if it doesn’t look bad enough at the beginning, they happily tell us to stay tuned, it could always get worse.
They warn, “We don’t have a final body count yet, but we’ll let you know when we do” or “We don’t know the extent of the injuries yet” or “We don’t have a damage estimate yet but tune in at 11:00 for a follow-up.”
Ok, I know that good news is boring. Isn’t that the origin of the favorite old saw, “no news is good news”? No one cares who lived, who didn’t get hit by a bus and which kids made it to school safely. It’s all about who died or disappeared, who was maimed and how it happened, in gruesome detail hopefully all caught on tape for the 6:00 news…
So when we had a critical situation last week, as usual the news people eagerly leaped to the story, reporting that a plane crashed on the Hudson River and God-knows-how-many people are probably dead. But much to the chagrin of the zealous media, the plane was handled so expertly that tragedy was averted; in fact not one life was lost; not one building burned to the ground; and the pilot was the last to leave the downed plane after the efficient and orderly rescue efforts to evacuate the passengers by both public and private servants. (“Aw, geez,” they seem to say, “I hate when that happens…”)
It’s so fun (for me at least) to see news people compelled by the facts (against their will and their training, I am sure) constrained to report good stuff. I laugh right out loud when they are forced by circumstances beyond their control to recognize the heroes, to praise the Good Samaritans, and report on the orderly procession of survivors to safety. They twist their faces into a gritty (and almost apologetic) smile as they reluctantly acknowledge the ever present public servants: police, fire and medical workers who, professionally and efficiently go about doing their jobs to get people, infrastructure and processes back to the business of everyday living. I know it must just gall them when nothing bad resulted… no one died, and the public could all bear witness to seeing the best in people (darn it).
In fact, even when the story is really, really bad (like 9-11), when the news people are reveling in their element; when there are plenty of casualties to report and plenty of gory and lurid details to recount over and over (when there is no fresh news) there are still the seemingly grudging reports from the media of the ever-present actions of millions of everyday people responding with generosity, compassion and understanding both on the scene helping with their hands, and from far away, helping with their wallets.
Fortunately, (or unfortunately) bad stuff brings out the best in us. We can’t help it. It’s hard wired in our bones; and it’s how we have made it as far as we have. Let’s face it, the only people living in this world today, are the progeny of generations upon generations of people who helped each other survive again and again. The ones who struck out on their own with nary a thought for the "family of man", usually got gobbled up by the saber tooth tigers, stomped on by wooly mammoths or fell off cliffs in the dark (with no one to pull them back) never to be seen again, (and whose passing was only noted by, probably even then, the ever cheery predecessors of today’s news media in gruesome and graphic detail).
We see it at every critical event. Once that first guy drags himself out of the ashes, smoke and muck, and gets a firm foothold, he looks around and then reaches back to grab the hand of that next struggling guy and pulls him to safety. The two of them then begin working to clear the way for the next few souls who come stumbling and gasping along, holding each other up. Inevitably, passers-by stop, first to gawk and then to help, and before you know it, the kids are back in school, streets are cleared of debris and we are driving home from work wondering what to fix for dinner and what happened today in the news (“Probably all bad”, we say. Whoever said "We are never at our best till things are at their worst" had it right on the money. (It probably wasn't a news guy...)
Jan 20, 2009
Jan 15, 2009
I am...
In 2004 my sister took a seminar called, "The Writing Project," in which she was given several ideas to help give children experience writing and inspire new ideas in that endeavor. This was one of them... We both practiced on them, for... well for "practice" since we both like to write.
This assignment is to write an essay based on "I am." (Boring Alert!!! Sorry about the length... When she saw it, she said, "Wow, it's sooo long Jo.")
July 29, 2004
I Am
I am from a small dusty house with dirt in the corners, raggedy rugs on the floors and dirty dishes in the sink. I am from a long dusty driveway where we parked our old cars. I am from a red naugahyde couch, an apple green kitchen table and a black cat we rescued from the vet. I am from a swamp cooler that once caught our wall on fire and a gas heater that killed our goldfish. There was a back porch where my brother slept; a dining room where my sister had her room; a bedroom I shared with my mom; and my Dad shared his room with his thoughts.
I am from a yard with tall grass and weedy flower beds. I am from dead roses on bushes and overgrown on vines on the wire fence that outlined our yard. I am from irises and hollyhocks and daffodils. I am from grapevines and purple grapes my mom picked to make jam. I am from an overgrown dry garden plot in our backyard. We had Mimosas in the front and a big black walnut tree in the back from which my brother bagged the walnuts to sell at the market. Yard work seemed endless.
I am from an old neighborhood in the middle of town, across from a park where we weren’t allowed to go, next to neighbors we weren’t allowed to play with. Lots of sidewalks led to my school 4 square blocks away and Brodersen’s market, 2 blocks away where I’d sometimes stop after school to spend my milk or ice cream money. I am from long summer vacations spent reading books from the library that I pedaled home on my bike. A bike was freedom.
I am from Dad and Mom, MaRee & Pete. Mom worked hard and Dad hardly worked. I am from Uncle Mc, Uncle Eldon and Uncle Eugene who died before we knew him but we knew he was a genius. I am from my mom’s twin sister Lucille who we never saw. I am from Grandma Gardner who raised her children alone and from Grandma and Grandpa Rose who were farmers. I am from lots of people I didn’t know.
I am from “No, you can’t,” and “Well if everyone jumped off a cliff, would you?” I am from “Just because your friends can, doesn’t mean you can.” I am from “Why would you want to go and do a thing like that?” I am from “If you are sick enough to stay home from church, you are sick enough to be in bed.” I am from “NO.”
I am from cottage cheese and chips; apple, raisin, celery salad; meat loaf and fried potatoes. I am from pork chops and applesauce; I am from Rocky Road ice cream. I am from cinnamon toast and soda crackers with chocolate chips. I am from lettuce wedges and thousand-island dressing. I am from pan-fried trout and TV dinners. I am from Tab and Fresca soda and Hydrox cookies. I am from junk food.
I am from the two bottom drawers in my old dresser at home where I put away my keepsakes. I am from a candy box a boy once gave me where I put all my letters one summer. I am from boxes I packed up from my mom’s house when we cleaned it out after she died. I am from a suitcase of my Mom’s old Navy memories and a box of my dad’s old letters that we found a long time after they died. I am from people who had a lot to say but managed to spend their whole lives not talking.
This assignment is to write an essay based on "I am." (Boring Alert!!! Sorry about the length... When she saw it, she said, "Wow, it's sooo long Jo.")
July 29, 2004
I Am
I am from a small dusty house with dirt in the corners, raggedy rugs on the floors and dirty dishes in the sink. I am from a long dusty driveway where we parked our old cars. I am from a red naugahyde couch, an apple green kitchen table and a black cat we rescued from the vet. I am from a swamp cooler that once caught our wall on fire and a gas heater that killed our goldfish. There was a back porch where my brother slept; a dining room where my sister had her room; a bedroom I shared with my mom; and my Dad shared his room with his thoughts.
I am from a yard with tall grass and weedy flower beds. I am from dead roses on bushes and overgrown on vines on the wire fence that outlined our yard. I am from irises and hollyhocks and daffodils. I am from grapevines and purple grapes my mom picked to make jam. I am from an overgrown dry garden plot in our backyard. We had Mimosas in the front and a big black walnut tree in the back from which my brother bagged the walnuts to sell at the market. Yard work seemed endless.
I am from an old neighborhood in the middle of town, across from a park where we weren’t allowed to go, next to neighbors we weren’t allowed to play with. Lots of sidewalks led to my school 4 square blocks away and Brodersen’s market, 2 blocks away where I’d sometimes stop after school to spend my milk or ice cream money. I am from long summer vacations spent reading books from the library that I pedaled home on my bike. A bike was freedom.
I am from Dad and Mom, MaRee & Pete. Mom worked hard and Dad hardly worked. I am from Uncle Mc, Uncle Eldon and Uncle Eugene who died before we knew him but we knew he was a genius. I am from my mom’s twin sister Lucille who we never saw. I am from Grandma Gardner who raised her children alone and from Grandma and Grandpa Rose who were farmers. I am from lots of people I didn’t know.
I am from “No, you can’t,” and “Well if everyone jumped off a cliff, would you?” I am from “Just because your friends can, doesn’t mean you can.” I am from “Why would you want to go and do a thing like that?” I am from “If you are sick enough to stay home from church, you are sick enough to be in bed.” I am from “NO.”
I am from cottage cheese and chips; apple, raisin, celery salad; meat loaf and fried potatoes. I am from pork chops and applesauce; I am from Rocky Road ice cream. I am from cinnamon toast and soda crackers with chocolate chips. I am from lettuce wedges and thousand-island dressing. I am from pan-fried trout and TV dinners. I am from Tab and Fresca soda and Hydrox cookies. I am from junk food.
I am from the two bottom drawers in my old dresser at home where I put away my keepsakes. I am from a candy box a boy once gave me where I put all my letters one summer. I am from boxes I packed up from my mom’s house when we cleaned it out after she died. I am from a suitcase of my Mom’s old Navy memories and a box of my dad’s old letters that we found a long time after they died. I am from people who had a lot to say but managed to spend their whole lives not talking.
Jan 13, 2009
the pretty one
My mother had a twin sister (fraternal twin that is). They didn’t look alike. My mom always thought that her sister was “the pretty one” because of her sister’s smaller size and “all that curly hair” as she would say. The thing is, when looking at pictures of them from long ago, I thought my mom was just as pretty. Her sister had sort of “obvious” good looks with light colored curly hair and small fine-boned features. My mom had a more classic look with her thick straight brown hair and a more serious expression, but she was striking and attractive, I thought. Different but attractive all the same.
On the extremely rare occasion when she would inadvertently speak about her youth (on accident, I assure you, because my parents were not the self-disclosing types), she always qualified that her sister was “the pretty one.” I know her perception of herself was influenced by her mother who struggled to keep 4 children clothed, housed and fed during the Depression. That was when my grandmother (who was a schoolteacher) raised her children as a widow.
Fast forward about 40 years. I have a sister and we are not twins. She is (and has always been) several years older than me (ok, 8 years). We are very close friends so we do a lot of stuff together. When we go places, we usually run into some well-meaning stranger somewhere who will say, “Are you sisters?” I frown and say “no” and she smiles and says “Yes we are.” And then they say, “Are you twins?” We say, “No” and they ALWAYS say, “Which one of you is older?” I roll my eyes. She laughs and grins her cheesy “picture” grin and admits guiltily that she is. I tease her that she is “the pretty one.” She just denies it. Of course. Humility is easy for the physically appealing.
To be sure, I have no disfiguring scars, or misshapen features to render me freak-show eligible but I am definitely just regular looking. She has the big grin, the good hair, the better proportions and the public speaking ability. She says, “but Jo, you are pretty and you are soo SMART, and clever and you know way more about how to work the computer than I do.” “Right,” I say. “I have inner beauty.” My dad used to talk about “inner beauty.” When someone was ugly, he used to say they had “inner beauty.”
The thing is that I think my mom’s whole life was adversely affected by feeling somehow lesser than her sister because of perceptions regarding their differing looks. We often reflected that if she had been a single birth instead of twins, her whole life might very well have been different.
Maybe that means that if I hadn’t been born (and my sister has kindly informed me on several occasions that I was, in fact, an accident), my sister wouldn’t be nearly so beautiful, without a plain Jane sister to be compared to. So I figure she owes her beauty to me. (You’re welcome…) Perception is everything. (And Mom always vehemently denied that I was an accident). Right...
On the extremely rare occasion when she would inadvertently speak about her youth (on accident, I assure you, because my parents were not the self-disclosing types), she always qualified that her sister was “the pretty one.” I know her perception of herself was influenced by her mother who struggled to keep 4 children clothed, housed and fed during the Depression. That was when my grandmother (who was a schoolteacher) raised her children as a widow.
Fast forward about 40 years. I have a sister and we are not twins. She is (and has always been) several years older than me (ok, 8 years). We are very close friends so we do a lot of stuff together. When we go places, we usually run into some well-meaning stranger somewhere who will say, “Are you sisters?” I frown and say “no” and she smiles and says “Yes we are.” And then they say, “Are you twins?” We say, “No” and they ALWAYS say, “Which one of you is older?” I roll my eyes. She laughs and grins her cheesy “picture” grin and admits guiltily that she is. I tease her that she is “the pretty one.” She just denies it. Of course. Humility is easy for the physically appealing.
To be sure, I have no disfiguring scars, or misshapen features to render me freak-show eligible but I am definitely just regular looking. She has the big grin, the good hair, the better proportions and the public speaking ability. She says, “but Jo, you are pretty and you are soo SMART, and clever and you know way more about how to work the computer than I do.” “Right,” I say. “I have inner beauty.” My dad used to talk about “inner beauty.” When someone was ugly, he used to say they had “inner beauty.”
The thing is that I think my mom’s whole life was adversely affected by feeling somehow lesser than her sister because of perceptions regarding their differing looks. We often reflected that if she had been a single birth instead of twins, her whole life might very well have been different.
Maybe that means that if I hadn’t been born (and my sister has kindly informed me on several occasions that I was, in fact, an accident), my sister wouldn’t be nearly so beautiful, without a plain Jane sister to be compared to. So I figure she owes her beauty to me. (You’re welcome…) Perception is everything. (And Mom always vehemently denied that I was an accident). Right...
Jan 12, 2009
my little baby nephew
I have a precious baby nephew. (I’ve had him for awhile now). He is the sweetest boy (although he tries his hardest to deny it). He is also kind and loving (although he tries his hardest to disguise it). And he is such a cutie (although he doesn’t want to recognize it in himself).
This little boy has such a funny sense of humor (oh, and he knows it, too, doesn’t try to disguise OR deny that). In its purest form it takes the shape of his trying to convince us of some sort of untruth, maybe a dangerous exploit of his own or some juicy tidbit about another person in earnest and sincere terms. He will go to great lengths to concoct a fantastic story then further embellish it with elaborate details, weaving a tale of the likes of Mark Twain or Jon Lovitz’ Pathological Liar character (from SNL).
When he tries this with his mom, (she used to) and still sometimes does fall for the story for two reasons, I think. 1. He’s her little boy and he’d never, ever lie to her and so she wants to believe everything he says is true. 2. As his mom, she also has a morbid fear that it might be true, could be true, however horrible or edgy he makes it sound.
My job, however, as the beloved aunt, is to emulate more of a “Mary Poppins-like” demeanor. “Stuff and nonsense” I say. “No way,” or “I simply don’t believe it. You wouldn’t do that. That’s simply not who you are.” “Yeah,” he says with a laugh, and he finally gives up the story. “But how do you know I didn’t?” “Because I know you,” I say.
My little baby nephew... His future will encompass many great and fantastic things. How do I know? Because I know him...
This little boy has such a funny sense of humor (oh, and he knows it, too, doesn’t try to disguise OR deny that). In its purest form it takes the shape of his trying to convince us of some sort of untruth, maybe a dangerous exploit of his own or some juicy tidbit about another person in earnest and sincere terms. He will go to great lengths to concoct a fantastic story then further embellish it with elaborate details, weaving a tale of the likes of Mark Twain or Jon Lovitz’ Pathological Liar character (from SNL).
When he tries this with his mom, (she used to) and still sometimes does fall for the story for two reasons, I think. 1. He’s her little boy and he’d never, ever lie to her and so she wants to believe everything he says is true. 2. As his mom, she also has a morbid fear that it might be true, could be true, however horrible or edgy he makes it sound.
My job, however, as the beloved aunt, is to emulate more of a “Mary Poppins-like” demeanor. “Stuff and nonsense” I say. “No way,” or “I simply don’t believe it. You wouldn’t do that. That’s simply not who you are.” “Yeah,” he says with a laugh, and he finally gives up the story. “But how do you know I didn’t?” “Because I know you,” I say.
My little baby nephew... His future will encompass many great and fantastic things. How do I know? Because I know him...
Jan 11, 2009
first picture
My blog needs a picture. Most blogs have them and so I guess mine should as well. It is an important picture, this first picture on my blog. As the first picture, it has a great responsibility. It should set the tone for the blog and say something about the “blogster” (is this a word?) It should be a picture that represents all the warmth, sense of family, loving commitment and beauty that is my life. I think I have found just such a picture.Jan 10, 2009
first post
The first note on my blog. It should be compelling; it should be controversial, timely, funny (of course); but most of all, it should be...um... it should be.... well... hmmm.... Have you ever noticed that once you say "but most of all" you can't think of a single thing to say? I guess "most of all" it should contain no misspelled words. (a tribute to my angel mother).
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