Feel Guilty? Join a Book Club
copyright by Ruth Lampert October 2008
For those of us who fell in love with books before we were strong enough to lift one, there has always been a price to pay in guilt for our passion. (This may come as a surprise to those who never liked to read, a condition which will probably not be explored elsewhere since no one would want to read it.)
But for book worms of all ages, as soon as a volume is picked up and you are comfortably settled in your chair, a nagging refrain turns on listing all the things you should be doing instead. (This excludes of course books which must be read for a class assignment. This topic also will probably not be explored elsewhere.)
As a child I remember hiding in the cellar with a beloved book while that merciless voice nagged:
Better you should go out and play in the fresh air.
Your room is a pigsty, why don’t you go clean it up and make it neat like your sister’s?
You’ll never make any friends this way, you goofus.
Growing up, the list of “should do instead” grows longer, including, but not limited to,
Doing your homework, especially the stuff you hate (like math.)
Washing your hair
Fixing dinner, or at least making a shopping list
Playing with my kids instead of stuffing them with graham crackers so they won’t bother you.
Better you should go take a walk and get some fresh air.
The house is a pigsty etc as above
Writing your blog instead of leaving it to the last minute
And then, to the rescue, comes The Book Club Remedy! If you belong to a Book Club, there is always something you not only should be reading, but quite likely also enjoy a lot... It’s not the same as reading a class assignment, because the book has been chosen either by you or by a friend who likely shares your tastes, and if not, you can begin the next month’s selection or read something new that can be your choice the next time around. I mean, you really should do your part and be prepared.
Some say this phenomenon is nothing but Jewish Guilt and since Jews are known to be The People of the Book it all takes on an added intensity. This would make a good subject for a scholarly study which I probably should undertake, but I can’t, because I have to finish this month’s book.
Ha ha ha.
I imagine the earth when I am no
more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a
strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song
in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the
shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from
radiance, heights.
Last lines from a poem by Czeslaw Milosz.
Quoted by Bruce Ja7 Friedman in New York Times Book Review
September 14, 2008.Name of poem not given.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
Who Knew?
by Ruth Lampert copyright September 2008
I'm Jewish, all right. I have a Jewish heart, a Jewish sense of humor, Jewish taste buds, and Jewish guilt. But I was raised in a tradition of "secular Judaism" in which these traits flourished in a climate devoid of formal Jewish education or religious practice. The only thing I knew about "kosher" was the connotation in the saying "that doesn't sound kosher to me," and a vague image of bearded, skull- capped men who didn't eat pork.
My father -- a kind and deeply moral man -- was philosophically opposed to organized religion. He probably would not have approved of the summer camp I went to the year after he died, when I was 10.
We called it "Camp Chi," pronounced "shy," although today I wonder if it wasn’t the Hebrew word “Chai,” meaning “life.” Be that as it may, the director’s name was definitely “Mother Seiman." As I think about it now that sounds more Catholic than Jewish, but Mother Seiman she was. I paid very little attention to her until the evening of My Sin.
Camp life was O.K. -- I liked the songs, and can still sing all the words to "I'm a hayseed, I'm full of seaweed..." and "Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro" and "Be kind to your web-footed friends, for a duck may be somebody's mother" -- but in a lot of ways it was dumb.
For example, cabins rotated the task of setting tables for the evening meal. On my Eve of Transgression I hurried to the dining room hoping no one would notice that I was a little late (I had probably been lying on my cot day-dreaming, as usual) and the other girls were hard at it, pushing and shoving as they grabbed utensils from a large wooden box which, if I thought about it at all, I probably assumed had formerly served some other storage or packaging use, since printed on the side in big bold letters was the word "MILK." Probably the little individual milk cartons had been delivered in it, I may have thought.
My dopey cabin-mates were all crowded around it in a frenzy of gathering spoons and knives and forks, and I wondered, in my sensible way, why some of them didn't just avoid the crush by taking utensils from the nearby box labeled "MEAT"- - probably brisket had been delivered in that one. I took what I needed from it, finished my share of the tables in short order, and slipped back to my cabin, my cot, and my interrupted day-dream.
Halfway through dinner -- which I didn't think much of, mostly just cheese-filled blintzes -- the door flew open and Mother Seiman stormed in from the staff dining room. Face blazing with fury, voice strident with rage, she bellowed something about having "just learned of this blasphemy... someone with a twisted sense of humor...I expect a confession by morning or everyone in the offending cabin will be punished...bla bla bla."
What the heck was she yammering on about, I wondered? Oh well, grownups were strange, and besides, I wasn't feeling too well. My throat was sore, and my head ached.
The next morning I was in the infirmary. I stayed there until Mother (mine, not Seiman) picked me up and drove me home where Doc Kraut said I had a strep throat and was I a lucky young lady that a new wonder drug called "sulpha" was available for just such cases.
So much for Camp Chi and Mother Seiman and her inexplicable temper tantrum. Growing up I became exposed to more traditional Jews and learned, among other things, about dietary laws, including the injunction against mixing milk and meat at the same meal.
Those boxes. MEAT. MILK. The tantrum became all too explicable.
I never have kept kosher. I do scrupulously observe a personal dietary law, which mandates eating lox, bagels, and cream cheese every Sunday morning at a deli.
I espouse the spirit of Reform Judaism described by the late humanistic Rabbi Leslie Freund, whose father was an orthodox Rabbi. Leslie recalled the day he realized he really didn't believe the words he was chanting, but, he said, “I still loved the music."
That metaphor continues to inform my spiritual life. So it is that on the coming Yom Kippur I will sit, as I do every year, with fellow Jews and examine my conscience. Have I been complacent? arrogant? unkind? self-righteous? etc. etc.
I know that getting strep throat was not punishment for my childhood sin of ignorance at Camp Chi, and no God I can imagine would expect me to ask forgiveness. Still, I offer up a little apology to Mother Seiman, and if a Higher Power hears me, hey...
Couldn't hurt.
by Ruth Lampert copyright September 2008
I'm Jewish, all right. I have a Jewish heart, a Jewish sense of humor, Jewish taste buds, and Jewish guilt. But I was raised in a tradition of "secular Judaism" in which these traits flourished in a climate devoid of formal Jewish education or religious practice. The only thing I knew about "kosher" was the connotation in the saying "that doesn't sound kosher to me," and a vague image of bearded, skull- capped men who didn't eat pork.
My father -- a kind and deeply moral man -- was philosophically opposed to organized religion. He probably would not have approved of the summer camp I went to the year after he died, when I was 10.
We called it "Camp Chi," pronounced "shy," although today I wonder if it wasn’t the Hebrew word “Chai,” meaning “life.” Be that as it may, the director’s name was definitely “Mother Seiman." As I think about it now that sounds more Catholic than Jewish, but Mother Seiman she was. I paid very little attention to her until the evening of My Sin.
Camp life was O.K. -- I liked the songs, and can still sing all the words to "I'm a hayseed, I'm full of seaweed..." and "Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro" and "Be kind to your web-footed friends, for a duck may be somebody's mother" -- but in a lot of ways it was dumb.
For example, cabins rotated the task of setting tables for the evening meal. On my Eve of Transgression I hurried to the dining room hoping no one would notice that I was a little late (I had probably been lying on my cot day-dreaming, as usual) and the other girls were hard at it, pushing and shoving as they grabbed utensils from a large wooden box which, if I thought about it at all, I probably assumed had formerly served some other storage or packaging use, since printed on the side in big bold letters was the word "MILK." Probably the little individual milk cartons had been delivered in it, I may have thought.
My dopey cabin-mates were all crowded around it in a frenzy of gathering spoons and knives and forks, and I wondered, in my sensible way, why some of them didn't just avoid the crush by taking utensils from the nearby box labeled "MEAT"- - probably brisket had been delivered in that one. I took what I needed from it, finished my share of the tables in short order, and slipped back to my cabin, my cot, and my interrupted day-dream.
Halfway through dinner -- which I didn't think much of, mostly just cheese-filled blintzes -- the door flew open and Mother Seiman stormed in from the staff dining room. Face blazing with fury, voice strident with rage, she bellowed something about having "just learned of this blasphemy... someone with a twisted sense of humor...I expect a confession by morning or everyone in the offending cabin will be punished...bla bla bla."
What the heck was she yammering on about, I wondered? Oh well, grownups were strange, and besides, I wasn't feeling too well. My throat was sore, and my head ached.
The next morning I was in the infirmary. I stayed there until Mother (mine, not Seiman) picked me up and drove me home where Doc Kraut said I had a strep throat and was I a lucky young lady that a new wonder drug called "sulpha" was available for just such cases.
So much for Camp Chi and Mother Seiman and her inexplicable temper tantrum. Growing up I became exposed to more traditional Jews and learned, among other things, about dietary laws, including the injunction against mixing milk and meat at the same meal.
Those boxes. MEAT. MILK. The tantrum became all too explicable.
I never have kept kosher. I do scrupulously observe a personal dietary law, which mandates eating lox, bagels, and cream cheese every Sunday morning at a deli.
I espouse the spirit of Reform Judaism described by the late humanistic Rabbi Leslie Freund, whose father was an orthodox Rabbi. Leslie recalled the day he realized he really didn't believe the words he was chanting, but, he said, “I still loved the music."
That metaphor continues to inform my spiritual life. So it is that on the coming Yom Kippur I will sit, as I do every year, with fellow Jews and examine my conscience. Have I been complacent? arrogant? unkind? self-righteous? etc. etc.
I know that getting strep throat was not punishment for my childhood sin of ignorance at Camp Chi, and no God I can imagine would expect me to ask forgiveness. Still, I offer up a little apology to Mother Seiman, and if a Higher Power hears me, hey...
Couldn't hurt.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Geezer Power:
A New Spin on Senior Scams
Copyright by Ruth Lampert, September 2008
Don’t just whine about it - beat them at their own game. As a chronologically gifted person, (my grandson’s creative term for “elderly”) you are in a position to: make scamming an equal opportunity activity. Scam the scammers! Turn a lemon into lemonade!
Here are some tips for effective telephone pitches to help you get started:
“Hello young fellow, (or ‘young lady,’ or if in doubt, ‘my friend’)”how are you today? Did you know there are thousands of elderly folks out there who have no one to leave their money to?” (this point gets a pitiful quaver in your voice, suggesting you may be one of them.) “All you need do is sign up for my seminar on ‘Beyond Roofing Rip-Offs With Retired Rubes...’ Yessir, this fantastic event will be advertised on national TV’. tomorrow for $999.99 – registration is yours at a special one-time only price of for only $18.75 just be using your credit card. Act NOW: I can take that information immediately on this here phone!”
Or try this one:
“Send $50.00 in cash (envelope must be marked by midnight tonight) for a full audio-cassette or compact disk recourse of instruction on ‘New Scams With Old Folks.’ This gem is by a A WELL KNOWN promoter, the very same con artist you have seen on late night television explaining “How I Made a Fortune With Nothing Down in the Scam Market.”
Hey there old timer, you weren’t born yesterday – far from it.
You’ve seen what Geezer Power can do politically. Let it work for you financially! You know you’ve been ripped off a time or two in your long life – here is the chance you have been waiting for to scam the scammers! How do you know who the scammers are? I will provide you with this and other vital information – information available no where else – just as soon as you tell me your credit card number, expiration date, and those three numbers on the back “
Win-win propositions aren’t the sole property of the younger generation you know. If you are wondering how to get the telephone numbers of MILLIONS of these so-called baby boomers, well, you know how to reach me.
And phone calls are only the beginning. There is also e-mail, text messaging and who knows what other new-fangled technologies are on the horizon? But don’t wait. The old-fashioned way was good enough to get you to invest in Nigeria, and it’s good enough to work in the USA.
Operators are waiting to take your information. You won’t regret it, I promise you. Would I lie?
Have a great evening!
A New Spin on Senior Scams
Copyright by Ruth Lampert, September 2008
Don’t just whine about it - beat them at their own game. As a chronologically gifted person, (my grandson’s creative term for “elderly”) you are in a position to: make scamming an equal opportunity activity. Scam the scammers! Turn a lemon into lemonade!
Here are some tips for effective telephone pitches to help you get started:
“Hello young fellow, (or ‘young lady,’ or if in doubt, ‘my friend’)”how are you today? Did you know there are thousands of elderly folks out there who have no one to leave their money to?” (this point gets a pitiful quaver in your voice, suggesting you may be one of them.) “All you need do is sign up for my seminar on ‘Beyond Roofing Rip-Offs With Retired Rubes...’ Yessir, this fantastic event will be advertised on national TV’. tomorrow for $999.99 – registration is yours at a special one-time only price of for only $18.75 just be using your credit card. Act NOW: I can take that information immediately on this here phone!”
Or try this one:
“Send $50.00 in cash (envelope must be marked by midnight tonight) for a full audio-cassette or compact disk recourse of instruction on ‘New Scams With Old Folks.’ This gem is by a A WELL KNOWN promoter, the very same con artist you have seen on late night television explaining “How I Made a Fortune With Nothing Down in the Scam Market.”
Hey there old timer, you weren’t born yesterday – far from it.
You’ve seen what Geezer Power can do politically. Let it work for you financially! You know you’ve been ripped off a time or two in your long life – here is the chance you have been waiting for to scam the scammers! How do you know who the scammers are? I will provide you with this and other vital information – information available no where else – just as soon as you tell me your credit card number, expiration date, and those three numbers on the back “
Win-win propositions aren’t the sole property of the younger generation you know. If you are wondering how to get the telephone numbers of MILLIONS of these so-called baby boomers, well, you know how to reach me.
And phone calls are only the beginning. There is also e-mail, text messaging and who knows what other new-fangled technologies are on the horizon? But don’t wait. The old-fashioned way was good enough to get you to invest in Nigeria, and it’s good enough to work in the USA.
Operators are waiting to take your information. You won’t regret it, I promise you. Would I lie?
Have a great evening!
Friday, August 8, 2008
The Scarlet Letter II
copyright by Ruth Lampert August 2008
When I was young, "virtue" meant saving your virginity for your husband. Strict guidelines governed "necking" and "petting;" “going all the way" meant virtue went out the window (usually a back-seat window) along with virginity.
Now that I am "of a certain age," you might think primrose paths pose no terror, but in fact only the name of the path has changed; the route itself remains wickedly similar. Today "virtue" means hanging on to a low cholesterol reading with the same determination as we once clung to that other anatomical gem.
(Fortunately, low cholesterol can be regained, and while I have heard that virginity is automatically restored after seven years of abstinence, I have my doubts.)
Thus we see the tenacity of early training, or interject, as we call them in the psychotherapy trade. I acknowledge that as an anti-stress technique I occasionally indulge in foods with a slightly naughty fat gram content or lick my lips over a handful of potato chips. But I exercise control, knowing that regardless of the temptation, setting limits is my responsibility.
This wicked world is full of seducers who will say anything to get me to indulge my baser tastes, but it's my body that will bear testimony to moral lapses.
Refusal can be gracious: "Don't think I'm not tempted. If I was going to indulge with anyone, it would be with you." And I've been around too long to fall for that old line about how if I really cared I would submit; I know that if my saying "no" means the ends of the relationship it wasn't worth preserving. There are plenty of women (or "girls" as we called them back in those benighted days) who, desperate for affection, will gobble down a double order of fries, but I have standards and values thank you.
So while I'd like to say the devil made me do it last night, I have to accept responsibility for my downfall.
Temptations were enormous. The setting was romantic, complete with Italian food, Italian music, and an Italian man. I was properly restrained with the salad, saying no to the Caesar salad dripping with egg-yolk dressing, and demurely accepting the more innocent mixed greens. I began to get a bit wayward with the foccacio, so voluptuously spread with fragrant oil. And then -- I can't explain what happened -- I could feel my resolve weakening, and it was as though a voice in my head was taunting me: "Still the good little girl, aren't you? Grow up! Everybody does it!" And down that slippery slope I went, reveling in deep-fried zucchini, lost in the rapture of fettuccini alfredo, until, passing passion's point of no return I surrendered to the Double Decadent Chocolate Torte.
I had gone all the way.
The man insists he still respects me. And maybe, it’s true that the scarlet letter "S" he placed around my neck stands for "Sweetheart" and not "Slut." He maintains that anything we do by mutual consent is healthy and beautiful because we love each other, and are husband and wife.
What a line.
copyright by Ruth Lampert August 2008
When I was young, "virtue" meant saving your virginity for your husband. Strict guidelines governed "necking" and "petting;" “going all the way" meant virtue went out the window (usually a back-seat window) along with virginity.
Now that I am "of a certain age," you might think primrose paths pose no terror, but in fact only the name of the path has changed; the route itself remains wickedly similar. Today "virtue" means hanging on to a low cholesterol reading with the same determination as we once clung to that other anatomical gem.
(Fortunately, low cholesterol can be regained, and while I have heard that virginity is automatically restored after seven years of abstinence, I have my doubts.)
Thus we see the tenacity of early training, or interject, as we call them in the psychotherapy trade. I acknowledge that as an anti-stress technique I occasionally indulge in foods with a slightly naughty fat gram content or lick my lips over a handful of potato chips. But I exercise control, knowing that regardless of the temptation, setting limits is my responsibility.
This wicked world is full of seducers who will say anything to get me to indulge my baser tastes, but it's my body that will bear testimony to moral lapses.
Refusal can be gracious: "Don't think I'm not tempted. If I was going to indulge with anyone, it would be with you." And I've been around too long to fall for that old line about how if I really cared I would submit; I know that if my saying "no" means the ends of the relationship it wasn't worth preserving. There are plenty of women (or "girls" as we called them back in those benighted days) who, desperate for affection, will gobble down a double order of fries, but I have standards and values thank you.
So while I'd like to say the devil made me do it last night, I have to accept responsibility for my downfall.
Temptations were enormous. The setting was romantic, complete with Italian food, Italian music, and an Italian man. I was properly restrained with the salad, saying no to the Caesar salad dripping with egg-yolk dressing, and demurely accepting the more innocent mixed greens. I began to get a bit wayward with the foccacio, so voluptuously spread with fragrant oil. And then -- I can't explain what happened -- I could feel my resolve weakening, and it was as though a voice in my head was taunting me: "Still the good little girl, aren't you? Grow up! Everybody does it!" And down that slippery slope I went, reveling in deep-fried zucchini, lost in the rapture of fettuccini alfredo, until, passing passion's point of no return I surrendered to the Double Decadent Chocolate Torte.
I had gone all the way.
The man insists he still respects me. And maybe, it’s true that the scarlet letter "S" he placed around my neck stands for "Sweetheart" and not "Slut." He maintains that anything we do by mutual consent is healthy and beautiful because we love each other, and are husband and wife.
What a line.
Friday, June 27, 2008
House Calls
copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
“What’s a House Call, Mommy?”
No kid, a “house call” isn’t when you call your brother from your bedroom on your cell phone to his bedroom on his cell phone. And no, smartie, it isn’t a greeting one dwelling makes to another.
When you overheard Grandma say to Grandpa, “I wish we still had house calls,” she was talking about something that existed in the old days (not necessarily “good,” but definitely “gone”) before there were things like cell phones and computers and HMO’s.
I myself am old enough to remember House Calls, so let me explain how they worked. When you were sick, you called the doctor, and spoke to him (rarely was it a “her) or his nurse (almost always a “her.) He said things like “How high is your temperature?” “Put ice on it” and the classic “take two aspirins and call me in the morning.”
If you were still sick the next day, he drove to your house before he went to the office. Yes, that’s right, he drove right up to your house himself, carrying a reassuring black bag (no, not a backpack) full of magical potions and pills as well as a stethoscope and thermometer. Lots of times just the sight of him and his black bag was enough to start the patient back on the road to health. Usually he was a little portly, a little bald, with a kindly smile If you were a child, he seemed elderly. No matter how old you were, he seemed wise.
Sometimes people called in the middle of the night, and the doctor might be a little cross and say “Why did you wait so long to call me?”
before recommending you take two aspirins and call him in the morning. l. If you were really in bad shape, he’d come over, in spite of his wife’s grumbling that he let his patients take advantage of him.
Call 911? That hadn’t been invented yet. Yes, of course we had police and firemen, and ambulances to rush people to the hospital after accidents and heart attacks, but I have no idea who you had to call or what you had to do to get one. Perhaps you could make that your project and report back to us. .
I also remember the days before antihistamines. My periodic attacks of hives were presumed to be the result of an allergy, but to what no one knew (somehow “strawberries” were high on the list of usual suspects.) The only thing that brought a measure of relief was Calamine lotion, liberally applied. *
I even remember the dawn of “wonder drugs.” I have written elsewhere about my camp experience with kosher food and strep throat and I recall that when I was sent back home with the mother of all sore throats, Doc Kraut dashed over immediately from his office above the corner drug store, (which also supplied marvelous ice cream drinks at the soda counter, but that’s another story, which will probably eventually appear on this blog.). Doc was more jovial than usual as he said, “You’re lucky you came down with this now instead of last year. Now we have medicine, called Sulpha that cures it. You’ll be up and about in no time.”
And I was. It wasn’t until many years later that I developed an allergy to sulfa, and then to the even more wonderful wonder drug Penicillin. These reactions could have finished me off; fortunately in each case huge dose of antihistamines cured the cure that was worse than the disease. But I digress.
Returning to the theme of House Calls:
They were still an accepted part of life the night my Dad died in his sleep. I remember my mother on the phone, not to 911, but to Doc Kraut. The next thing I knew he was huffing and puffing up the three flights of stairs to our apartment. He looked very stricken himself; he and my Dad had been buddies for lots of years.
He came out of the bedroom where my Dad was still stretched out on the bed and said in a shaky voice, “There’s nothing I can do... He’s gone.” I don’t know if I if I actually cried out “But you have to do something, or he’ll die!” or if I just thought it to myself. And I don’t know if under the same circumstances today a call to 911 would be life-saving. It’s pretty certain that the high blood pressure he had had for years would be treated. And who knew about cholesterol back then? So you see, it cuts both ways.
But back to olden, though not quite so golden, times: we were living in Tucson when Brian, then about 11 years old, was bitten by a spider, and had a severe reaction. The local doctor came over right away and took care of him – and of me, the anxious mom. Now you’ll probably think I’m making this next part up, but I swear it’s true: Two days later I got a call from the doc, saying “You know, I’m not easy in my mind yet about our young man. I’m going to be making a house call this evening right down your street, so I’ll drop by and see him just to ease my mind.”
I don’t know if he charged for that visit or not. Probably not – after all, he was in the neighborhood and it only took a couple of minutes to “ease his mind.” (His mind!)
The way we paid the doctor was different then too. . You’ve probably heard your folks talk about “HMO’s” and “Health Benefits” and maybe even “Medicare” – all that stuff hasn’t really been around for so very long, not per my time table. …
During times when there wasn’t much money, which, in my particular case seems to have been times beyond number, I sent the doctor $10.00 a month toward our balance. It was like a little annuity for him (I’ll explain “annuity” another time, honey). Month after month, year after year, that $10.00 came in regular as clock work, because as soon it came close to being paid off, someone else in the family got sick. From his point of view, I guess getting a whole lot of ten dollars every month, plus the money the rich patients paid in fall, added up o.k. (This was in the city – I don’t think he ever got paid in potatoes or chickens the way country doctors did. Or so I have heard.)
We old timers have lots of stories like this to tell. We tell them because, for one thing, that’s what old timers do.
Hey, you knew when you logged on this wasn’t MyFace.com. .
*Author’s note: Out of curiosity I just checked Google to see if Calamine lotion is still available – it is, but guess what; sometimes there is a severe allergic reaction...
copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
“What’s a House Call, Mommy?”
No kid, a “house call” isn’t when you call your brother from your bedroom on your cell phone to his bedroom on his cell phone. And no, smartie, it isn’t a greeting one dwelling makes to another.
When you overheard Grandma say to Grandpa, “I wish we still had house calls,” she was talking about something that existed in the old days (not necessarily “good,” but definitely “gone”) before there were things like cell phones and computers and HMO’s.
I myself am old enough to remember House Calls, so let me explain how they worked. When you were sick, you called the doctor, and spoke to him (rarely was it a “her) or his nurse (almost always a “her.) He said things like “How high is your temperature?” “Put ice on it” and the classic “take two aspirins and call me in the morning.”
If you were still sick the next day, he drove to your house before he went to the office. Yes, that’s right, he drove right up to your house himself, carrying a reassuring black bag (no, not a backpack) full of magical potions and pills as well as a stethoscope and thermometer. Lots of times just the sight of him and his black bag was enough to start the patient back on the road to health. Usually he was a little portly, a little bald, with a kindly smile If you were a child, he seemed elderly. No matter how old you were, he seemed wise.
Sometimes people called in the middle of the night, and the doctor might be a little cross and say “Why did you wait so long to call me?”
before recommending you take two aspirins and call him in the morning. l. If you were really in bad shape, he’d come over, in spite of his wife’s grumbling that he let his patients take advantage of him.
Call 911? That hadn’t been invented yet. Yes, of course we had police and firemen, and ambulances to rush people to the hospital after accidents and heart attacks, but I have no idea who you had to call or what you had to do to get one. Perhaps you could make that your project and report back to us. .
I also remember the days before antihistamines. My periodic attacks of hives were presumed to be the result of an allergy, but to what no one knew (somehow “strawberries” were high on the list of usual suspects.) The only thing that brought a measure of relief was Calamine lotion, liberally applied. *
I even remember the dawn of “wonder drugs.” I have written elsewhere about my camp experience with kosher food and strep throat and I recall that when I was sent back home with the mother of all sore throats, Doc Kraut dashed over immediately from his office above the corner drug store, (which also supplied marvelous ice cream drinks at the soda counter, but that’s another story, which will probably eventually appear on this blog.). Doc was more jovial than usual as he said, “You’re lucky you came down with this now instead of last year. Now we have medicine, called Sulpha that cures it. You’ll be up and about in no time.”
And I was. It wasn’t until many years later that I developed an allergy to sulfa, and then to the even more wonderful wonder drug Penicillin. These reactions could have finished me off; fortunately in each case huge dose of antihistamines cured the cure that was worse than the disease. But I digress.
Returning to the theme of House Calls:
They were still an accepted part of life the night my Dad died in his sleep. I remember my mother on the phone, not to 911, but to Doc Kraut. The next thing I knew he was huffing and puffing up the three flights of stairs to our apartment. He looked very stricken himself; he and my Dad had been buddies for lots of years.
He came out of the bedroom where my Dad was still stretched out on the bed and said in a shaky voice, “There’s nothing I can do... He’s gone.” I don’t know if I if I actually cried out “But you have to do something, or he’ll die!” or if I just thought it to myself. And I don’t know if under the same circumstances today a call to 911 would be life-saving. It’s pretty certain that the high blood pressure he had had for years would be treated. And who knew about cholesterol back then? So you see, it cuts both ways.
But back to olden, though not quite so golden, times: we were living in Tucson when Brian, then about 11 years old, was bitten by a spider, and had a severe reaction. The local doctor came over right away and took care of him – and of me, the anxious mom. Now you’ll probably think I’m making this next part up, but I swear it’s true: Two days later I got a call from the doc, saying “You know, I’m not easy in my mind yet about our young man. I’m going to be making a house call this evening right down your street, so I’ll drop by and see him just to ease my mind.”
I don’t know if he charged for that visit or not. Probably not – after all, he was in the neighborhood and it only took a couple of minutes to “ease his mind.” (His mind!)
The way we paid the doctor was different then too. . You’ve probably heard your folks talk about “HMO’s” and “Health Benefits” and maybe even “Medicare” – all that stuff hasn’t really been around for so very long, not per my time table. …
During times when there wasn’t much money, which, in my particular case seems to have been times beyond number, I sent the doctor $10.00 a month toward our balance. It was like a little annuity for him (I’ll explain “annuity” another time, honey). Month after month, year after year, that $10.00 came in regular as clock work, because as soon it came close to being paid off, someone else in the family got sick. From his point of view, I guess getting a whole lot of ten dollars every month, plus the money the rich patients paid in fall, added up o.k. (This was in the city – I don’t think he ever got paid in potatoes or chickens the way country doctors did. Or so I have heard.)
We old timers have lots of stories like this to tell. We tell them because, for one thing, that’s what old timers do.
Hey, you knew when you logged on this wasn’t MyFace.com. .
*Author’s note: Out of curiosity I just checked Google to see if Calamine lotion is still available – it is, but guess what; sometimes there is a severe allergic reaction...
Friday, June 13, 2008
The Corn Flake Cure – a Tribute for Father’s Day
copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
There must be 150 varieties of cold cereal in the market, and although I virtuously choose the crunchy high fibe “Heart Healthy” there will always be a special place in my heart for plain old corn flakes, the grain of tender memory.
I was about eight years old when I came down with whooping cough. That nasty childhood disease has now largely vasished. .I have forgotten most of my experience with it except for how exhausting and incessant that hacking cough was. What I remember is my father, and the loving part he, and corn flakes, played in smy recuperation
It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was wrapped in that delicious euphoria that comes with feeling better. Not yet completely well – still weak enough to be pampered. Mother, Bob, and Cine were out somewhere, and Daddy stayed home with me.
Just the two of us! How rare a treat. No need to share his special presence, his scent of shaving lotion and cigars, his gentle jokes. The apartment was warm and cozy. We listened to the radio - I don’t remember what was on, all the really good shows, like Jack Benny, Rudee Valley, and Major Bowes Amateur Hour came on in the evening – and after awhile he said
“Snack time! Doctor Daddy’s orders for the patient!”.
I still had no appetite , but it sounded like fun anyway. Declaring that this was a special occasion calling for the dining room, he brought out the fresh bottle of milk which had been standing on its head in the refrigertor so the cream would disperse evenly throughout (no homogenization, no 2%, no slick cardboard cartons, no lactose-free or soy milk back then, just the regular milk-man-delivered milk in a regular glass milk bottle, cream risisng to the top as things of quality and richness do ) He assembeld it all on the table with a fresh, unopened box of Kelloggs Corn Flakes.
There weren’t many choices of packaged cereals then. Rice Krispies were good, although they didn’t exactly snap crackle and pop as advertised. I understood Wheaties. The Breakfast of Champoins, to be for boys, as attested to by its sponsoring of the radio program “Jack Armstrong, the All American Boy” (We hadn’t yet evolved to gender neutrality) The various bran varieties clearly were intended for old folks who seemed to need some help with certain vaguely hinted at bodily functions that had to do with something called “regularity.” Puffed Rice wasn’t bad in a pinch, but my cereal of choice was Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.
I took one spoonful, just to please him. It was delicious! No ad, no singing commercial, could ever describe that heavenly crispness, slightly tenderized by fresh cold milk. Daddy laughed as I finished my bowl before he was halfway through his, and asked for seconds.
“You bet, but slow down a little, your stomach is empty and if you get sick, Mother will really holler at us!” A joke, because we both knew that he was the principal healer in the parental dyad. (Although as I think back,
I realize it was Mother who was there while he was at work through my long days of whooping and hacking.)
I finished off the second bowl, and then we “retired to the living room” to sprawl on the couch, and lazily listen to whatever was on the radio.
I dozed off, lulled by the sweet combination of returning health and quiet intimacy with a beloeved parent. The sound of his gentle snoring woke me briefly. I went back to sleep, waking again to see him looking at me with such tenderness in his eyes that I burst into delighted laughter.
The key turned in the front door lock. There was more laughter as Mother, Cine and Bob burst in, bringing cold Chicago winteriness in with grocery bags from the A&P. bringing cold Chicago winteriness with them. . .
They all exclaimed about good my color was, how chipper I seemed, how well I had done in Daddy’s care. He smiled a falsely modest smile, and said, “Nothing at all, she was just ready to make the turn around I happened to be here. I can’t take the credit. It was mostly the Corn Flakes that did it.”
“I think you’re good for her,” Mother said.
Indeed, he was.
copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
There must be 150 varieties of cold cereal in the market, and although I virtuously choose the crunchy high fibe “Heart Healthy” there will always be a special place in my heart for plain old corn flakes, the grain of tender memory.
I was about eight years old when I came down with whooping cough. That nasty childhood disease has now largely vasished. .I have forgotten most of my experience with it except for how exhausting and incessant that hacking cough was. What I remember is my father, and the loving part he, and corn flakes, played in smy recuperation
It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was wrapped in that delicious euphoria that comes with feeling better. Not yet completely well – still weak enough to be pampered. Mother, Bob, and Cine were out somewhere, and Daddy stayed home with me.
Just the two of us! How rare a treat. No need to share his special presence, his scent of shaving lotion and cigars, his gentle jokes. The apartment was warm and cozy. We listened to the radio - I don’t remember what was on, all the really good shows, like Jack Benny, Rudee Valley, and Major Bowes Amateur Hour came on in the evening – and after awhile he said
“Snack time! Doctor Daddy’s orders for the patient!”.
I still had no appetite , but it sounded like fun anyway. Declaring that this was a special occasion calling for the dining room, he brought out the fresh bottle of milk which had been standing on its head in the refrigertor so the cream would disperse evenly throughout (no homogenization, no 2%, no slick cardboard cartons, no lactose-free or soy milk back then, just the regular milk-man-delivered milk in a regular glass milk bottle, cream risisng to the top as things of quality and richness do ) He assembeld it all on the table with a fresh, unopened box of Kelloggs Corn Flakes.
There weren’t many choices of packaged cereals then. Rice Krispies were good, although they didn’t exactly snap crackle and pop as advertised. I understood Wheaties. The Breakfast of Champoins, to be for boys, as attested to by its sponsoring of the radio program “Jack Armstrong, the All American Boy” (We hadn’t yet evolved to gender neutrality) The various bran varieties clearly were intended for old folks who seemed to need some help with certain vaguely hinted at bodily functions that had to do with something called “regularity.” Puffed Rice wasn’t bad in a pinch, but my cereal of choice was Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.
I took one spoonful, just to please him. It was delicious! No ad, no singing commercial, could ever describe that heavenly crispness, slightly tenderized by fresh cold milk. Daddy laughed as I finished my bowl before he was halfway through his, and asked for seconds.
“You bet, but slow down a little, your stomach is empty and if you get sick, Mother will really holler at us!” A joke, because we both knew that he was the principal healer in the parental dyad. (Although as I think back,
I realize it was Mother who was there while he was at work through my long days of whooping and hacking.)
I finished off the second bowl, and then we “retired to the living room” to sprawl on the couch, and lazily listen to whatever was on the radio.
I dozed off, lulled by the sweet combination of returning health and quiet intimacy with a beloeved parent. The sound of his gentle snoring woke me briefly. I went back to sleep, waking again to see him looking at me with such tenderness in his eyes that I burst into delighted laughter.
The key turned in the front door lock. There was more laughter as Mother, Cine and Bob burst in, bringing cold Chicago winteriness in with grocery bags from the A&P. bringing cold Chicago winteriness with them. . .
They all exclaimed about good my color was, how chipper I seemed, how well I had done in Daddy’s care. He smiled a falsely modest smile, and said, “Nothing at all, she was just ready to make the turn around I happened to be here. I can’t take the credit. It was mostly the Corn Flakes that did it.”
“I think you’re good for her,” Mother said.
Indeed, he was.
Friday, June 6, 2008
First in Flex Time
Copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
When I think back to my experience as the candy counter girl at the Avon Theatre all those years ago in Chicago, I realize that my persona as the dreamy, creative, writer-type was only partly accurate. While my apparent lack of practicality was considered charming by those who loved me, it obscured another layer of personality, a crafty and shrewd entrepeneur, who at the age of 13 anticipated job-sharing several generations ahead of its time.
It was the forties, and my father had died a few years previously. My family never lacked food or shelter, but money was scarce for clothes other than hand-me-downs or for the frivolous pleasures of that adolescent time such as ice-cream sodas and velveteen hair ribbons. Like many of my friends, I was always looking for ways to earn a little cash so I could buy the “Sloppy Joe” sweaters (cardigans worn buttoned down the back with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows) pleated skirts, and dirty saddle shoes which were as much the uniforms of that time as are the painted-on jeans and breast-hugging tops and thongs of todays teen scene.
If we could pass for 16, we could get part-time jobs other than baby-sitting and running errands. Being tall for my age, I had already worked for Lerner's Dress Store I hated, hated, HATED having to re-fold ladies' lingerie after it had been tried on and rejected, which I did for hour after dismal hour, three evenings a week, and then at night dreamed fitfully of doing it some more. Girdles, bras, panties, half slips, full slips, small sizes, medium sizes, large sizes, pink, white, ecru, rayon, (silk was too expensive for this line, and nylon was not yet available ) rumpled, wrinkled, and sometimes smelly from having been tried on and pulled off dozens of times, fold them up, put them back in stock, then do it again and again...
The "Help Wanted. Candy Counter Girl." sign (“equal opporunity” was further away in the future than nylon; boys ushered, girls sold candy and that’s the way it was) at the neighborhood Avon Theatre was my ticket out of underwear hell. I filled out an application, lying about my age as usual, handed it in, and a couple of days later was called downtown for an interiew by the Personnel Manager, a pleasant, portly man who hired me on the spot : five evenings a week and half-day Saturday.
“You seem like the kind of young person this theater chain likes to encourage,” he said. “ Perhaps eventually you can get a position with us as a cashier. Good luck!”.
My duties included dispensing candy bars (Hershey’s, Three Musketeers, Mars) boxes of Good ‘N Plenty, Ju-Ju Bees, Milk Duds, Cracker Jack, and Necco Wafers, and of course, popcorn. I was also responsible for keeping the popping machine machine clean and full.
Perks included free admission (regular ticket prices: ten cents.) any time, and unlimited flirting with the ushers, handsome as young soldiers in their royal blue uniforms. A vast improvement over Ladies' Lingerie with its puny discount on stuff I wouldn’t be caught dead in.
The downside was that working so many hours didn't leave a lot of time for homework, or for what is now called “hanging out.” I don’t think we had a term for it then, we just did it.
Obviously, working half time would be perfect. The solution was at hand: I asked my best buddie Margot if she would like to share the job with me. After all, we shared school lunches, homework answers, deep confidences, so why not employment? She'd gotten a look at the cute ushers; her family had even less money than mine; we cut a deal. The paycheck was mailed to me weekly, I cashed it, we divided it. No problem.
Oh, the adventures we had! Entertaining the customers with jokes and conversation;, seeing for free movies like “Now Voyager,” “Fugitive of the Plains,” “Hollywood Canteen,” “The Contender,” and “Mildred Pierce,” with stars like Bette Davis, Sidney Greenstreet, Joan Crawford, John Garfield, and Buster Crabbe; comparing notes on our mutual time off on the perceived excellence of cinema art and boys.
A highlight was when the tub of viscous yellow flavoring, labeled “butter” (like “equal opportunity,” we didn’t know from “truth in advertising” back then) had to be refilled. One of the ushers would accompany the candy girl of the moment to the dark store room behind the screen and gallantly help lug the heavy metal container out to the candy counter. And a nice opportunity it was for them to display their strength, shouldering the tub as though it were no heavier than the Jumbo size box of the popcorn it would soon more or less flavor.
Ah yes, behind the screen. In that dim cavern redolent of artificial butter going rancid, and ancient dust and mouse droppings, I was given, and lost, my big chance with the usher of my dreams, the one with licorice black hair and knowing blue eyes. He asked if he could kiss me. I wanted him to; it would have been my first “real” kiss. But infected by the teen magazine morality of those old days, (which believe me were not as good as you may have heard) I refused. Steadfastly. Stupidly.
Finally he gave up, with a disdainful “I thought you knew the score.” We emerged from the den of prudery to the hoots and laughter of all the other ushers who of course assumed that we had been passionately “necking.” My pursuer, who did know the score, let them think exactly what they thought; he smirked, winked, and dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief as though trying to erase smudges of the Ponds Lips (guaranteed to “not only get their man but stay on and on and on”) I sparingly applied. Now I knew what my mother meant by “having the name but not the game." My reputation was smirched, though I had not smooched, nor had one moment’s pleasure.
I determined to play my cards differently the next time, but while I was trying to figure out exactly what the rules and strategies were, I received a letter from the downtown Personnel Manager, tersely instructing me to appear at his office immediately
Perhaps I was getting a raise! Silly, naïve me. What I got was dressing down To the effect that I was not allowed to "sub-contract" on my own authority. What "subcontract?" I was just sharing with a friend.
It didn’t occur to me to wonder then, as I do now, how he learned of the unorthodox arrangement. The usher of my dreams had been working at the Avon for several years – perhaps he realized something was out of order, and – could he have been so low? – retaliated for my rebuff by turning me in for a working arrangement I considered sensible, not criminal.
However I had been brought to this reading of the riot act, it was a short performance. As I braced myself for the line “You’re fired! Clean out the candy counter and leave!” the Personnel Managed leaned his considerable bulk back into the leather swivel chair, replaced the punitve frown with a friendly, avuncular grin, and said,
“O.K. Ruth, you get the point. Now I don’t mind telling you that you are a very enterprising young lady, and I like that. I’ll also tell you that the manager at the Avon says you and your friend are both cheerful, efficient, friendly counter girls. Maybe a little too friendly with the ushers, but we’ll let that pass. I’m willing to fix it so you and your friend are each hired on a part-time basis. Just don’t take matters in your own hands again, or you'll both be fired, without references.” (The Chicago version of Hollywood’s “You’ll never work in this town again.”)
Had I realized that young people kissing in the dark is not necessarily the first step to wanton degradation, my first real kiss could have been to the accompaniement of dialog between stars of the silver screen, maybe even Kathryn Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.
So much for what we now recognize as “thinking outside the box.”
As they say, “too soon old, too late smart.”
I didn’t get rich. I did get kissed, eventually.
Copyright by Ruth Lampert June 2008
When I think back to my experience as the candy counter girl at the Avon Theatre all those years ago in Chicago, I realize that my persona as the dreamy, creative, writer-type was only partly accurate. While my apparent lack of practicality was considered charming by those who loved me, it obscured another layer of personality, a crafty and shrewd entrepeneur, who at the age of 13 anticipated job-sharing several generations ahead of its time.
It was the forties, and my father had died a few years previously. My family never lacked food or shelter, but money was scarce for clothes other than hand-me-downs or for the frivolous pleasures of that adolescent time such as ice-cream sodas and velveteen hair ribbons. Like many of my friends, I was always looking for ways to earn a little cash so I could buy the “Sloppy Joe” sweaters (cardigans worn buttoned down the back with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows) pleated skirts, and dirty saddle shoes which were as much the uniforms of that time as are the painted-on jeans and breast-hugging tops and thongs of todays teen scene.
If we could pass for 16, we could get part-time jobs other than baby-sitting and running errands. Being tall for my age, I had already worked for Lerner's Dress Store I hated, hated, HATED having to re-fold ladies' lingerie after it had been tried on and rejected, which I did for hour after dismal hour, three evenings a week, and then at night dreamed fitfully of doing it some more. Girdles, bras, panties, half slips, full slips, small sizes, medium sizes, large sizes, pink, white, ecru, rayon, (silk was too expensive for this line, and nylon was not yet available ) rumpled, wrinkled, and sometimes smelly from having been tried on and pulled off dozens of times, fold them up, put them back in stock, then do it again and again...
The "Help Wanted. Candy Counter Girl." sign (“equal opporunity” was further away in the future than nylon; boys ushered, girls sold candy and that’s the way it was) at the neighborhood Avon Theatre was my ticket out of underwear hell. I filled out an application, lying about my age as usual, handed it in, and a couple of days later was called downtown for an interiew by the Personnel Manager, a pleasant, portly man who hired me on the spot : five evenings a week and half-day Saturday.
“You seem like the kind of young person this theater chain likes to encourage,” he said. “ Perhaps eventually you can get a position with us as a cashier. Good luck!”.
My duties included dispensing candy bars (Hershey’s, Three Musketeers, Mars) boxes of Good ‘N Plenty, Ju-Ju Bees, Milk Duds, Cracker Jack, and Necco Wafers, and of course, popcorn. I was also responsible for keeping the popping machine machine clean and full.
Perks included free admission (regular ticket prices: ten cents.) any time, and unlimited flirting with the ushers, handsome as young soldiers in their royal blue uniforms. A vast improvement over Ladies' Lingerie with its puny discount on stuff I wouldn’t be caught dead in.
The downside was that working so many hours didn't leave a lot of time for homework, or for what is now called “hanging out.” I don’t think we had a term for it then, we just did it.
Obviously, working half time would be perfect. The solution was at hand: I asked my best buddie Margot if she would like to share the job with me. After all, we shared school lunches, homework answers, deep confidences, so why not employment? She'd gotten a look at the cute ushers; her family had even less money than mine; we cut a deal. The paycheck was mailed to me weekly, I cashed it, we divided it. No problem.
Oh, the adventures we had! Entertaining the customers with jokes and conversation;, seeing for free movies like “Now Voyager,” “Fugitive of the Plains,” “Hollywood Canteen,” “The Contender,” and “Mildred Pierce,” with stars like Bette Davis, Sidney Greenstreet, Joan Crawford, John Garfield, and Buster Crabbe; comparing notes on our mutual time off on the perceived excellence of cinema art and boys.
A highlight was when the tub of viscous yellow flavoring, labeled “butter” (like “equal opportunity,” we didn’t know from “truth in advertising” back then) had to be refilled. One of the ushers would accompany the candy girl of the moment to the dark store room behind the screen and gallantly help lug the heavy metal container out to the candy counter. And a nice opportunity it was for them to display their strength, shouldering the tub as though it were no heavier than the Jumbo size box of the popcorn it would soon more or less flavor.
Ah yes, behind the screen. In that dim cavern redolent of artificial butter going rancid, and ancient dust and mouse droppings, I was given, and lost, my big chance with the usher of my dreams, the one with licorice black hair and knowing blue eyes. He asked if he could kiss me. I wanted him to; it would have been my first “real” kiss. But infected by the teen magazine morality of those old days, (which believe me were not as good as you may have heard) I refused. Steadfastly. Stupidly.
Finally he gave up, with a disdainful “I thought you knew the score.” We emerged from the den of prudery to the hoots and laughter of all the other ushers who of course assumed that we had been passionately “necking.” My pursuer, who did know the score, let them think exactly what they thought; he smirked, winked, and dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief as though trying to erase smudges of the Ponds Lips (guaranteed to “not only get their man but stay on and on and on”) I sparingly applied. Now I knew what my mother meant by “having the name but not the game." My reputation was smirched, though I had not smooched, nor had one moment’s pleasure.
I determined to play my cards differently the next time, but while I was trying to figure out exactly what the rules and strategies were, I received a letter from the downtown Personnel Manager, tersely instructing me to appear at his office immediately
Perhaps I was getting a raise! Silly, naïve me. What I got was dressing down To the effect that I was not allowed to "sub-contract" on my own authority. What "subcontract?" I was just sharing with a friend.
It didn’t occur to me to wonder then, as I do now, how he learned of the unorthodox arrangement. The usher of my dreams had been working at the Avon for several years – perhaps he realized something was out of order, and – could he have been so low? – retaliated for my rebuff by turning me in for a working arrangement I considered sensible, not criminal.
However I had been brought to this reading of the riot act, it was a short performance. As I braced myself for the line “You’re fired! Clean out the candy counter and leave!” the Personnel Managed leaned his considerable bulk back into the leather swivel chair, replaced the punitve frown with a friendly, avuncular grin, and said,
“O.K. Ruth, you get the point. Now I don’t mind telling you that you are a very enterprising young lady, and I like that. I’ll also tell you that the manager at the Avon says you and your friend are both cheerful, efficient, friendly counter girls. Maybe a little too friendly with the ushers, but we’ll let that pass. I’m willing to fix it so you and your friend are each hired on a part-time basis. Just don’t take matters in your own hands again, or you'll both be fired, without references.” (The Chicago version of Hollywood’s “You’ll never work in this town again.”)
Had I realized that young people kissing in the dark is not necessarily the first step to wanton degradation, my first real kiss could have been to the accompaniement of dialog between stars of the silver screen, maybe even Kathryn Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.
So much for what we now recognize as “thinking outside the box.”
As they say, “too soon old, too late smart.”
I didn’t get rich. I did get kissed, eventually.
Friday, May 9, 2008
"What was I saying?"
copyright May 2008 by Ruth Lampert
As a child my notorious absent-mindedness was something of a curse. Today, having passed the three-quarter century mark, (I forgot exactly when) I think it was the proverbial blessing in disguise. Other folks, even those a decade or two younger, fuss and moan about how they enter a room and wonder “what did I come here for?,” or can’t remember their appointments and must rely on writing everything down and then remembering to read what they wrote, or want to introduce their boss and can’t think of her name.
Heck, I’ve been doing that stuff for a lifetime, so it doesn’t really bother me.
My prime example of the phenomenon goes back to when I was about ten years old, a student at Darwin Elementary School in Chicago.( As we know, long-term memory remains muscular) One of my chores was to drop the garbage into the backyard incinerator on my way to school. (No garbage disposals back then, and no restrictions on home incinerators)
The routine was to dump the brown bag, exit the yard into the alley, proceed to Kedzie Boulevard where the crossing guard “Injun Joe” (no political correctness back then either) made sure cars stopped for us and where I usually met two or three buddies to walk with the rest of the way.
Maybe I left early that morning, or more likely, late, because I didn’t meet anyone on the way. If I had, they would doubtless have inquired as to what exactly it was I was lugging to school that day. As with “highway hypnosis,” which years later would become a recognized phenomenon (what can I say? I was ahead of my time) I correctly executed all the required turns and stops, arrived at school, went to my classroom, and sat down at my desk while still deep in day dreams. …
. The next thing I was aware of was the teacher asking:
“Ruth, why did you bring a bag of garbage to school with you?”
What? Who, me? Garbage? School? Huh?
I looked at the desk top. Sure enough, there it was, the bag of garbage which was supposed to have been dropped into the incinerator. It must have been a sturdy bag because the contents had not leaked through. The same cannot be said of the odor.
Probably there were some titters, probably the teacher instructed me to take the garbage down to the basement and dump it in a trash can, probably I did; the last clear recall I have is of how strange it was to see a garbage bag on top of my desk, right next to the ink well.
Another school-related incident of what would nowadays probably be labeled Attention Deficit Disorder:
` The playground at recess was always a noisy swirl of activity, with frenzied competition to get in line for the long, winding slide, a favorite, if frightening activity. Somehow I never got into the line quickly enough (probably I was looking for a misplaced jacket or picking up the pencils and paper I had accidentally flung to the floor in my clumsy haste to , just once, get to the playground in time) and there I would be as usual, waiting, squirming in line ,when the bell went off signalling the end of recess and the return to the classroom.
So it was with a sense of being hit with a miracle on that bright day when I got to the playground to find it – empty! Thrilled at being the first one out I ran immediately to the coveted slide, clambered up the steps, slid on down, and got back in line again – except there still was no line. I figured this was a reward for my having endured so many disappointing recesses – Someone up there had decided to make up to me for all the slide turns I had never gotten.
After about the fourth “turn” however something about all the calm and quiet began to seem..if not ominous, curious…where, in fact, was everybody? Why was I the only one on the yard? And was that my mother hurrying toward me, wearing the familiar parental expression of mixed relief and anger?
“What are you doing here, Mom?” I asked as she grabbed my arm.
“What am I doing here?” she shrieked, What are you doing here? You should have been home 20 minutes ago! I’ve been worried sick!”
Why, I started to wonder, would I be expected at home during rec…oh oh. It finally dawned on me……this wasn’t recess, it was the end of the school day and everyone had left for home. (This was before there were after-school programs for kids whose mothers “,worked” , the accepted workplace of all mothers was in the kitchen.)
Nowadays I obsessively note everything in my appointment so as to be sure I will be there at the appointed time and place. It works, too; in almost three decades of private practice I have only double-booked twice, and completely forgotten once. In all cases my clients were gracious about it, remembering that my policy re cancellations is that everyone gets one free goof ( forgetting to call, or arriving at the wrong time) and in all fairness, that policy that includes me. .
But it is embarrassing to ocassionaly think I have left a phone message for someone only to discover later that I actually left it on my own voice mail; even worse is e-mailing to the wrong address, writing to one person about another person, and sending it to the person being written about. Fortunately my friends, like my clients, remain forgiving about this sort of thing. So far.
Thus do I manage to live with this troublesome aspect of aging. My mantra of denial is,:
“Hey, I’ve always been absent-minded!”
Whatever works, right?
As a child my notorious absent-mindedness was something of a curse. Today, having passed the three-quarter century mark, (I forgot exactly when) I think it was the proverbial blessing in disguise. Other folks, even those a decade or two younger, fuss and moan about how they enter a room and wonder “what did I come here for?,” or can’t remember their appointments and must rely on writing everything down and then remembering to read what they wrote, or want to introduce their boss and can’t think of her name.
Heck, I’ve been doing that stuff for a lifetime, so it doesn’t really bother me.
My prime example of the phenomenon goes back to when I was about ten years old, a student at Darwin Elementary School in Chicago.( As we know, long-term memory remains muscular) One of my chores was to drop the garbage into the backyard incinerator on my way to school. (No garbage disposals back then, and no restrictions on home incinerators)
The routine was to dump the brown bag, exit the yard into the alley, proceed to Kedzie Boulevard where the crossing guard “Injun Joe” (no political correctness back then either) made sure cars stopped for us and where I usually met two or three buddies to walk with the rest of the way.
Maybe I left early that morning, or more likely, late, because I didn’t meet anyone on the way. If I had, they would doubtless have inquired as to what exactly it was I was lugging to school that day. As with “highway hypnosis,” which years later would become a recognized phenomenon (what can I say? I was ahead of my time) I correctly executed all the required turns and stops, arrived at school, went to my classroom, and sat down at my desk while still deep in day dreams. …
. The next thing I was aware of was the teacher asking:
“Ruth, why did you bring a bag of garbage to school with you?”
What? Who, me? Garbage? School? Huh?
I looked at the desk top. Sure enough, there it was, the bag of garbage which was supposed to have been dropped into the incinerator. It must have been a sturdy bag because the contents had not leaked through. The same cannot be said of the odor.
Probably there were some titters, probably the teacher instructed me to take the garbage down to the basement and dump it in a trash can, probably I did; the last clear recall I have is of how strange it was to see a garbage bag on top of my desk, right next to the ink well.
Another school-related incident of what would nowadays probably be labeled Attention Deficit Disorder:
` The playground at recess was always a noisy swirl of activity, with frenzied competition to get in line for the long, winding slide, a favorite, if frightening activity. Somehow I never got into the line quickly enough (probably I was looking for a misplaced jacket or picking up the pencils and paper I had accidentally flung to the floor in my clumsy haste to , just once, get to the playground in time) and there I would be as usual, waiting, squirming in line ,when the bell went off signalling the end of recess and the return to the classroom.
So it was with a sense of being hit with a miracle on that bright day when I got to the playground to find it – empty! Thrilled at being the first one out I ran immediately to the coveted slide, clambered up the steps, slid on down, and got back in line again – except there still was no line. I figured this was a reward for my having endured so many disappointing recesses – Someone up there had decided to make up to me for all the slide turns I had never gotten.
After about the fourth “turn” however something about all the calm and quiet began to seem..if not ominous, curious…where, in fact, was everybody? Why was I the only one on the yard? And was that my mother hurrying toward me, wearing the familiar parental expression of mixed relief and anger?
“What are you doing here, Mom?” I asked as she grabbed my arm.
“What am I doing here?” she shrieked, What are you doing here? You should have been home 20 minutes ago! I’ve been worried sick!”
Why, I started to wonder, would I be expected at home during rec…oh oh. It finally dawned on me……this wasn’t recess, it was the end of the school day and everyone had left for home. (This was before there were after-school programs for kids whose mothers “,worked” , the accepted workplace of all mothers was in the kitchen.)
Nowadays I obsessively note everything in my appointment so as to be sure I will be there at the appointed time and place. It works, too; in almost three decades of private practice I have only double-booked twice, and completely forgotten once. In all cases my clients were gracious about it, remembering that my policy re cancellations is that everyone gets one free goof ( forgetting to call, or arriving at the wrong time) and in all fairness, that policy that includes me. .
But it is embarrassing to ocassionaly think I have left a phone message for someone only to discover later that I actually left it on my own voice mail; even worse is e-mailing to the wrong address, writing to one person about another person, and sending it to the person being written about. Fortunately my friends, like my clients, remain forgiving about this sort of thing. So far.
Thus do I manage to live with this troublesome aspect of aging. My mantra of denial is,:
“Hey, I’ve always been absent-minded!”
Whatever works, right?
Friday, March 21, 2008
Would I Lie?
Copyright by Ruth Lampert March 2008
One of the ways you can tell that my memoir, “Ruth on Wry,” is true is that it is not about surviving a cruel , abusive past. And if I did embellish a bit here and there to make an anecdote more entertaining, isn’t that what story-tellers always do? O.K., so maybe every little detail isn’t totally in accord with the known facts. Maybe I wasn’t actually wearing a plaid pleated skirt and knee socks on the day I carried the garbage to school instead of dumping it into the backyard incinerator. But I did carry the garbage to school one time, and I did wear plaid pleated skirts and knee socks, lots of times.
And the story about my thinking the hot tub was for nude bathing when actually it wasn’t, isn’t the most original embarrassing moment ever recounted – apparently not only in dreams does one find oneself semi or not-at-all clothed in places where the dress code means you can’t be butt naked.
The instances of fake memoirs are increasing, or maybe they are just coming to light more frequently these days. I find myself wondering if some of those famous/classic life stories, which I will not mention here for fear of legal
consequences were – well, if not completely invented, significantly fictionalized. Michael Kinsley in his recent Time Magazine essay, says “It is time for a prestigious commission to re-examine all autobiographies, including classics like Rousseau’s Confession and The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.” I presume he has competent legal advisors. At first I thought he was serious, but then he notes “It’s only a matter of time until Little Red Riding admits that her story is ‘exaggerated’ I have some grandmother stories myself that benefit from a touch of creative embellishment, although it is quite true that when she scolded the neighborhood children for drawing chalk pictures on the sidewalk, and they responded “The sidewalk is public!” she did actually scream at them in her memorable Hungarian accent, “Your ass be public too!” I have witnesses to this and other less-than-typical-grandma anecdotes. .
Another way you can tell that my memoir is based on truth is that it is not particularly inspirational. Not that growing up was without trials and hardships, most significantly the tragedy of my father’s early death. But I did not experience sexual molestation, hunger, or homelessness. The apartment in Chicago was indeed crowded, and I guess by today’s standards five people and one bathroom seems semi-slum, but actually, it was pretty nice.
There is one inspirational aspect to “Ruth on Wry” – it may lead you to think “If this airhead can write a book, so can I.”
Margaret Seltzer was exposed by her very own sister for her recent, best-selling, and fraudulent, Love and Consequences. As for me, I am confident my sister will not blow the whistle on my creative exaggerations and adornments. She doesn’t have a computer, so she doesn’t read my blog.
About my brother, I’m not so sure.
One of the ways you can tell that my memoir, “Ruth on Wry,” is true is that it is not about surviving a cruel , abusive past. And if I did embellish a bit here and there to make an anecdote more entertaining, isn’t that what story-tellers always do? O.K., so maybe every little detail isn’t totally in accord with the known facts. Maybe I wasn’t actually wearing a plaid pleated skirt and knee socks on the day I carried the garbage to school instead of dumping it into the backyard incinerator. But I did carry the garbage to school one time, and I did wear plaid pleated skirts and knee socks, lots of times.
And the story about my thinking the hot tub was for nude bathing when actually it wasn’t, isn’t the most original embarrassing moment ever recounted – apparently not only in dreams does one find oneself semi or not-at-all clothed in places where the dress code means you can’t be butt naked.
The instances of fake memoirs are increasing, or maybe they are just coming to light more frequently these days. I find myself wondering if some of those famous/classic life stories, which I will not mention here for fear of legal
consequences were – well, if not completely invented, significantly fictionalized. Michael Kinsley in his recent Time Magazine essay, says “It is time for a prestigious commission to re-examine all autobiographies, including classics like Rousseau’s Confession and The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.” I presume he has competent legal advisors. At first I thought he was serious, but then he notes “It’s only a matter of time until Little Red Riding admits that her story is ‘exaggerated’ I have some grandmother stories myself that benefit from a touch of creative embellishment, although it is quite true that when she scolded the neighborhood children for drawing chalk pictures on the sidewalk, and they responded “The sidewalk is public!” she did actually scream at them in her memorable Hungarian accent, “Your ass be public too!” I have witnesses to this and other less-than-typical-grandma anecdotes. .
Another way you can tell that my memoir is based on truth is that it is not particularly inspirational. Not that growing up was without trials and hardships, most significantly the tragedy of my father’s early death. But I did not experience sexual molestation, hunger, or homelessness. The apartment in Chicago was indeed crowded, and I guess by today’s standards five people and one bathroom seems semi-slum, but actually, it was pretty nice.
There is one inspirational aspect to “Ruth on Wry” – it may lead you to think “If this airhead can write a book, so can I.”
Margaret Seltzer was exposed by her very own sister for her recent, best-selling, and fraudulent, Love and Consequences. As for me, I am confident my sister will not blow the whistle on my creative exaggerations and adornments. She doesn’t have a computer, so she doesn’t read my blog.
About my brother, I’m not so sure.
My Reading Disorder
copyright by Ruth Lampert
Hello. I'm Ruth and I'm a periodicaholic. Here is my story. . It all started one night many years ago in Tucson, Arizona when I discovered I had nothing to read. I searched every room in the house, including the bathroom, but all I could find was either stuff I had already read (my habit is the kind that can’t be satisfied by re-reading,) or stuff such as third-grade readers, which, thank God, I had not yet sunk so low as to ingest. And while I might read the odd cereal box of a morning, it just doesn’t do for a bedtime fix.
It was too late to knock on a neighbor’s door, and anyway most of them were addicted to different sorts of substances. The library was closed. We lived too far from a convenience store to drive out for the literary equivalent of a bottle of cheap wine; jeopardizing the kids' safety by leaving them alone for a lengthy period would mean I had indeed hit the skids, if not the bottom. I wasn’t that far gone. Yet.
It was heartbreaking to see four innocent children huddled together as I wildly searched the trash bin, the top shelves of the cupboards, and the bottom drawers of the dressers. Poor babies; their parents separated, their mother an addict. For their sakes, I got a grip and stoically went to bed with my craving unslaked. But not before I went outdoors, shook my fist at the dry desert night and bawled ala Scarlet O’Hara,
"I'll never be without reading material again!"
Like many addicts, I suffer from dual dependency. As I have confessed on other occasions, I can't resist a discount. So when those enticements arrive in the mail --First issue free! Save 75 % off newsstand price! Renew now at lowest possible price! -- my resolve weakens faster than you can say "One page at a time." A quick check mark in the appropriate box delivers a twofold rush of relief: the prospect of unlimited reading material and huge savings.
So I bite, and what hook has a more seductive tang than "the first one is free?” I can always cancel, right? So no big deal, right? I can quit anytime I want. Or better yet, I'll just cut back. I'll limit the number, exercise discipline, contain, control, be civilized about it, be a strictly recreational user. And no more hard stuff, like books. . Hey, I put in a long day, and if I want a little diversion to help me wind down, what's the harm?
The kids are grown now, and yes, some of them have inherited, or learned my compulsions. (1) But they handle it. They are functioning well. And some of the sins of the mother are offset, I hope, by her virtues. I have kept my desert night vow. I am never without something to read., although I am sometimes without a place to set down a coffee cup. (Actually, that is as much the fault of my co-dependant who has a really big classical CD habit. But I know that the only person I can control is myself.)
So that’s my story. And the truth is, I really don’t want to reform. I just want a bigger place to store all this stuff -- and I want it at a real bargain price.
Thank you for listening. And reading.
Hello. I'm Ruth and I'm a periodicaholic. Here is my story. . It all started one night many years ago in Tucson, Arizona when I discovered I had nothing to read. I searched every room in the house, including the bathroom, but all I could find was either stuff I had already read (my habit is the kind that can’t be satisfied by re-reading,) or stuff such as third-grade readers, which, thank God, I had not yet sunk so low as to ingest. And while I might read the odd cereal box of a morning, it just doesn’t do for a bedtime fix.
It was too late to knock on a neighbor’s door, and anyway most of them were addicted to different sorts of substances. The library was closed. We lived too far from a convenience store to drive out for the literary equivalent of a bottle of cheap wine; jeopardizing the kids' safety by leaving them alone for a lengthy period would mean I had indeed hit the skids, if not the bottom. I wasn’t that far gone. Yet.
It was heartbreaking to see four innocent children huddled together as I wildly searched the trash bin, the top shelves of the cupboards, and the bottom drawers of the dressers. Poor babies; their parents separated, their mother an addict. For their sakes, I got a grip and stoically went to bed with my craving unslaked. But not before I went outdoors, shook my fist at the dry desert night and bawled ala Scarlet O’Hara,
"I'll never be without reading material again!"
Like many addicts, I suffer from dual dependency. As I have confessed on other occasions, I can't resist a discount. So when those enticements arrive in the mail --First issue free! Save 75 % off newsstand price! Renew now at lowest possible price! -- my resolve weakens faster than you can say "One page at a time." A quick check mark in the appropriate box delivers a twofold rush of relief: the prospect of unlimited reading material and huge savings.
So I bite, and what hook has a more seductive tang than "the first one is free?” I can always cancel, right? So no big deal, right? I can quit anytime I want. Or better yet, I'll just cut back. I'll limit the number, exercise discipline, contain, control, be civilized about it, be a strictly recreational user. And no more hard stuff, like books. . Hey, I put in a long day, and if I want a little diversion to help me wind down, what's the harm?
The kids are grown now, and yes, some of them have inherited, or learned my compulsions. (1) But they handle it. They are functioning well. And some of the sins of the mother are offset, I hope, by her virtues. I have kept my desert night vow. I am never without something to read., although I am sometimes without a place to set down a coffee cup. (Actually, that is as much the fault of my co-dependant who has a really big classical CD habit. But I know that the only person I can control is myself.)
So that’s my story. And the truth is, I really don’t want to reform. I just want a bigger place to store all this stuff -- and I want it at a real bargain price.
Thank you for listening. And reading.
The Scarlet Letters Seniors
by Ruth Lampert
copyright December 2007
When I was young, "virtue" meant saving your virginity for your husband. Strict guidelines governed "necking" and "petting;" going all the way" meant virtue went out the window (usually a back-seat window) along with virginity.
Now that I am "of a certain age," you might think primrose paths pose no terror, but in fact only the name of the path has changed; the route itself remains wickedly similar. Today "virtue" means hanging on to a low cholesterol reading with the same determination as we once clung to that other anatomical gem.
(Fortunately, low cholesterol can be regained, and while I have heard that virginity is automatically restored after seven years of abstinence, I have my doubts.)
Thus we see the tenacity of early training, or introjects, as we call them in the psychotherapy trade. I acknowledge that as an anti-stress technique I occasionally indulge in foods with a slightly naughty fat gram content or lick my lips over a handful of potato chips. But I exercise control, knowing that regardless of the temptation, setting limits is my responsibility.
This wicked world is full of seducers who will say anything to get me to indulge my baser tastes, but it's my body that will bear testimony to moral lapses.
Refusal can be gracious: "Don't think I'm not tempted. If I was going to indulge with anyone, it would be with you." And I've been around too long to fall for that old line about how if I really cared I would submit; I know that if my saying "no" means the ends of the relationship it wasn't worth preserving. There are plenty of women (or "girls" as we called them back in those benighted days) who, desperate for affection, will gobble down a double order of fries, but I have standards and values thank you.
So while I'd like to say the devil made me do it last night, I have to accept responsibility for my downfall.
Temptations were enormous. The setting was romantic, complete with Italian food, Italian music, an Italian man. I was properly restrained with the salad, saying no to the Caesar salad dripping with egg-yolk dressing, and demurely accepting the more innocent mixed greens. I began to get a bit wayward with the foccacio, so voluptuously spread with fragrant oil. And then -- I can't explain what happened -- I could feel my resolve weakening, and it was as though a voice in my head was taunting me: "Still the good little girl, aren't you? Grow up! Everybody does it!" And down that slippery slope I went, reveling in deep-fried zucchini, lost in the rapture of fettucino alfredo, until, passing passion's point of no return I surrendered to the Double Decadent Chocolate Torte.
I had gone all the way.
The man insists he still respects me. Maybe. And maybe it's true that the scarlet letter "S" he placed around my neck stands for "Sweetheart" and not "Slut." He maintains that anything we do by mutual consent is healthy and beautiful because we love each other, and are husband and wife.
What a line.
copyright December 2007
When I was young, "virtue" meant saving your virginity for your husband. Strict guidelines governed "necking" and "petting;" going all the way" meant virtue went out the window (usually a back-seat window) along with virginity.
Now that I am "of a certain age," you might think primrose paths pose no terror, but in fact only the name of the path has changed; the route itself remains wickedly similar. Today "virtue" means hanging on to a low cholesterol reading with the same determination as we once clung to that other anatomical gem.
(Fortunately, low cholesterol can be regained, and while I have heard that virginity is automatically restored after seven years of abstinence, I have my doubts.)
Thus we see the tenacity of early training, or introjects, as we call them in the psychotherapy trade. I acknowledge that as an anti-stress technique I occasionally indulge in foods with a slightly naughty fat gram content or lick my lips over a handful of potato chips. But I exercise control, knowing that regardless of the temptation, setting limits is my responsibility.
This wicked world is full of seducers who will say anything to get me to indulge my baser tastes, but it's my body that will bear testimony to moral lapses.
Refusal can be gracious: "Don't think I'm not tempted. If I was going to indulge with anyone, it would be with you." And I've been around too long to fall for that old line about how if I really cared I would submit; I know that if my saying "no" means the ends of the relationship it wasn't worth preserving. There are plenty of women (or "girls" as we called them back in those benighted days) who, desperate for affection, will gobble down a double order of fries, but I have standards and values thank you.
So while I'd like to say the devil made me do it last night, I have to accept responsibility for my downfall.
Temptations were enormous. The setting was romantic, complete with Italian food, Italian music, an Italian man. I was properly restrained with the salad, saying no to the Caesar salad dripping with egg-yolk dressing, and demurely accepting the more innocent mixed greens. I began to get a bit wayward with the foccacio, so voluptuously spread with fragrant oil. And then -- I can't explain what happened -- I could feel my resolve weakening, and it was as though a voice in my head was taunting me: "Still the good little girl, aren't you? Grow up! Everybody does it!" And down that slippery slope I went, reveling in deep-fried zucchini, lost in the rapture of fettucino alfredo, until, passing passion's point of no return I surrendered to the Double Decadent Chocolate Torte.
I had gone all the way.
The man insists he still respects me. Maybe. And maybe it's true that the scarlet letter "S" he placed around my neck stands for "Sweetheart" and not "Slut." He maintains that anything we do by mutual consent is healthy and beautiful because we love each other, and are husband and wife.
What a line.
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