Feeling a Little Grinch-y

Must just be me . . .

Or is it? It seems as though, as one online columnist put it, the last 50 years never happened. Girl-gifts are hot on intense pink - and the same sexist connotations that were common fifty years ago before the women's movement roared into being. Pink frilly dresses hang on racks in Targe' - suggestive stuff I'd never would have let my two daughters wear when they were small. The girl ,who has taken on the makers of Easy-Bake Ovens, on behalf of her four-year old brother, who wants one for Christmas - after she discovered that the popular toy only comes in pink and purple.

 Then I read that folks can rent the Pope Mobile for special occasions such as weddings (the Vatican must be hard-up for cash - no comment why that might be so - that's another rant). And the article writer in the morning paper said that it means renting for good purposes - like "undefiled girls." That's right - undefiled - does that mean virgins only? And girls? I remember at the start of the women's movement, I still considered myself a girl rather than a woman. And that it took a bit of understanding on my part to learn how the word girl was used to keep women as the second class gender. When adult men did not refer to themselves as boys, other than as good-old-boys.

The other night, the PBS options were all fund-raising efforts - God bless them and their continued existence. Other than an occasional evening watching Dancing With the Stars, the only commercial TV we watch is the news. Perusing TV schedules, we decided to watch the annual Victoria's Secret show. After all, it started at 8pm CST, and thus couldn't be too risque - and since it is a world neither of us inhabit, it should be an interesting slice of culture. 

Unbelievable! Just one step short of what I'd call porn. Lots of navels and bare skin, and strutting around. One model had only a string up her otherwise naked butt to hold up the little thingy in the front. Commercials deemed too naughty for prime-time TV (thought this was TV we were watching, not something ordered from the nearest sex shop). Justin Bieber singing away among almost naked women (is he moving "up?")  And plenty of push-up bras - which we renamed pop-ups in honor of the pop-up ads selling stuff. After all, weren't these bras "selling stuff?"

I couldn't help wondering how many children of both genders were watching?

Don't get me wrong - these were beautiful women. And I don't think I'm a prude. It was the glorification of women as sexual objects that stunned me. All this after 50 years-worth of changing images of woman and enabling them to gain their rightful places as respected and contributing members of society. That women have brains, not just boobs and butts. I will constrain myself  from going on and on . . .

We become distressed, at least some of us, about conservative Islamist wars being fought in the Middle East. And horrified at the school girls in Afghanistan and Pakistan being killed over their being educated. But we need to take a serious look at our own culture and see what kind of messages we are sending regarding women.

As the saying goes: point your finger at another and three other fingers point back at you.

What Is Wrong With This Picture?

Reading the morning paper always provides a little something in the cultural realm. This morning was no exception. I read that there is now an app for parents who are bored with reading the beloved book, Good Night Moon, to their children at bedtime. Just turn it on, it "reads the story" to the child -  and the parent can leave the room to engage with more important things, things that are not boring.

Bored? Bored with the nightly ritual of ending a child's day with a story? The comfort of your child tucked safely into bed and snuggled down with Mom or Dad's full attention? What can be more important?

Bedtime stories were an important part of our children's growing up years - even after they learned to read the squiggles on the pages themselves. Their Dad was the story-reader in our family. And this time together with a child tucked under each arm was an loving act. How can that be boring?

And I remember my father reading to me when I was small. Honey the Bear was my favorite. And Honey on a Raft became an important theme in my life. Honey riding a raft through a flood, standing on his hind-legs "to see what he could see." Even in a disaster, Honey, who had been well-cared for by his loving keeper, had his eyes wide open to feed his curiosity.

When I was an adult, I wanted a copy of my favorite book - the original having been tossed or given away a long time ago. The best I could with eBay was another Honey book, another story about Honey by the same author. But it did have pictures of Honey, my hero, engaged in another adventure in his small bear's life. My generation's Good Night Moon - being loved and therefore "safe" even when the world was a scary place.

Boredom with parenting and having an app comfort your child with your love? Now tell me, what is wrong with this picture?

MOST UNUSUAL !

Here it is, almost Thanksgiving and not a drop of rain . . . not a flake of snow. Temps in the 60's.
Grass is greening up and the azalea buds are swelling. Two perennials are still in bloom along our
driveway. I see them each time I come or go. There presence gives me pause. How long will they
last?  This is what prompted the prose poem of a conversation between the two flowers. Years ago
I saw my first Scabiosa on a remote western island of Ireland. I never thought I would see one again.
And then they appeared in a retail garden center where I was working. I couldn't believe my eyes.
I bought one of the beautiful blue-flowering plants and planted it along our driveway.


And Thus Spoke Scabiosa

Nearly Thanksgiving in Minnesota - and still no snow . . . or rain
for that matter. Does that strike you as a little strange, Rose?

         It sure does, Scabiosa. One thing is for sure - this Thanksgiving
         I'm grateful for whoever that is that comes around and pours a
         pitcher of water on me once a week or so. Without that, I'm not
         at all sure I could make it through to see spring . . .

Me either Rose!  I think I heard that same water-bearer say that he 
had once seen one of my relatives in Ireland!

         Yes, Scabiosa. I heard that same comment. That it was somewhere
         on Inishbofin Island. (I'm pretty sure that is how it is pronounced.)

You've got it right, Rose!  Yes - that does make sense. I do have relatives
in Ireland and I've heard that Inishbofin is a beautiful place to live.

I wonder if they got any rain this fall?                     -Clem J. Nagel

It Is Over As a Nation Breathes Deep

As our entire country moves from election mode, its people breathe deep and slowly settle down to Earth. The historians and political analysts are busy, buried in mountains of data and trying to make some sense of what it all means.Op-ed writers are churning out opinions. And folks gathered over lunch or coffee are dissecting the turn of events.

It is hard to step far enough back to gain some perspective! However, a few things do stand out. Most parents lag behind their children's growth - still seeing grade-schoolers when their kids have moved on to middle school. Likewise, our country is changing rapidly - and like being parents, most people do not fully comprehend those changes.

The rapidity of technological change coupled with demographic changes are moving us faster and faster into some version of a new, more complex culture. But what we can name are the feelings each of us has that are generated in the aftermath of this election.

The 2008 election was called historic with election of a mixed-racial man to the presidency. How could anything top that! But as we reflect on this 2012 election, I suspect this year will be considered even more historic. Unexpectedly.

Feelings? Perhaps, just perhaps we have sloughed through years of paralysis to possibilities of hope. To be able to work together by bringing our differences to the table - to create solutions to tough problems.

Perhaps it is the strong visual images of the monster storm called Sandy. I think of the NYC I know and cannot imagine how some kind of semi-permanent shelter can be found for so many people left homeless. Yet, it will happen - somehow. Smart people working together will do the impossible. In the process, they won't all agree, they may argue some, but in the end New Yorkers will not spend a long cold winter huddled over bonfires in the streets.

The weeks and months ahead will not be easy. Smart people will not all agree - and they certainly will argue. But somehow, just maybe there is hope in the air.

We Is Ready!

We're ready for election evening. My dear love has bought microwave popcorn. We have crisp Haraldson apples and a supply of dark chocolate. Our plan is to vote in the morning - after those who vote before going to work. And then hunker down in the evening in front of the TV to watch it all unfold. For whatever happens.

To tell the truth, I am scared. Scared that too many American people are basing their votes on false information. Certainly I am a passionate person, but I have learned to temper my passions with solid information. I wish others in my country would do the same.

The other frightening aspect of this election is those who will  vote for "what will benefit me - and the hell with rest of you." The common good that I always thought was so embedded in this country has been badly eroded. Replaced by "I earned it and I want to keep it" - all of it." Tell that to your neighbors if we privatized everything from plowing snow from your street in the winter to repairing its potholes in the summer construction season.

What would happen if everyone voted on the candidates and legislation that best supported the idea that we are NOT all created equal - and that some need more help than others? What would happen if we embraced our neighbors' differences, instead of excluding those who did not look, think or believe as we do?

Meanwhile, we will munch on hot buttered popcorn, tempered by apple slices and dark chocolate - knowing that there are folks out there for whom our snacks are a luxury beyond them.

The Next Stage

In one of the articles about the monster storm in my morning paper, a man commented that they would rebuild and that in a year, no one would remember any of this happening.

I know what he meant - the determination not to let this storm have the final say. However, I have news for him. He, and all of us, will remember this storm - again and again.

Traumatic events are not erased from our memories when we pick up life and go forward. Ask any one of my generation where they were when JFK was assassinated - and most of us can describe exactly where we were and what we were doing. Ditto with the assault on the Twin Towers in New York. I was sitting at my computer. I can remember my husband coming home and standing in the doorway of our study, saying a plane had flown into one of the towers - and the ashen look on his face.We remember - whether we were on the scene or not.

Just as women remember their childbirth stories - and retell them every time a younger woman announces she is pregnant. Just as yesterday, I tried to imagine being in labor in NYC when the power went out - and what it was like to be carried or helped down flights of stairs lit only by flashlight while in labor. And the story of the man who used his cell phone for illumination, so physicians could complete delivery of their baby.

Now that the brunt of the storm has passed and people begin the work of restoration, we will hear their stories. Because our stories are our way of coping with life's traumas. The stories of death and major loss - and the stories of the little things that no one thought of while preparing for the onslaught. Toilets that can't be flushed, because there is no water. Cell phone service disrupted and trying to find places to re-charge cell phones we so take for granted. Searching for places to be able to take a hot shower. And the little kindnesses that are erupting all over. Like spring flowers bursting forth after winter snows.

There is the process of restoring life - and acknowledging that life will never be the same as it was before this hurricane. We are all altered permanently by what happened.

The Mega-Storm

Sometimes I cannot find words. Nor can I imagine what photos/videos portray. These places - all so familiar, having lived there. People's lives altered forever. The tenderness with which responders lifted terrified children and the elderly to bring them to safe places. The stories, the stories. All pieces of a gigantic event so beyond what any of us have ever seen or experienced.

People caring for each other - and determined to put life back in some semblance of order. Walking to work because there is no public transit - in a city where owning a car is not something worth doing.

The confluence of weather striking at the heart of our countries. May there be healing and new wisdom.