Copyright November 2010 by Ruth Lampert
I have attended a lot of professional seminars on topics such as “New Research on the Brain,” “ Latest Findings on Memory,” and so forth, which explained,with charts and diagrams and scientific terminology, the vagaries of memory including the kinds of exasperating experiences expressed in “Where the blankety blank did I put that blankety blank cup of coffee? (The use of “blankety blank instead of shorter, more pungent jargon is a clue to the age of the forgetter.)
Impressive though these scholarly theories are, I suggest a simpler explanation, one which tandems with my understanding of the loss of energy that accompanies aging. Here, then is “Lampert’s Law of Disappearing Objects.”
In order for inanimate objects (e.g. the check you just wrote for a bill due two weeks ago, or the cup of coffee you put down to answer the phone which is not where it is supposed to be, etc) to accomplish their mischief of quickly moving from where they were last placed to some highly unlikely location, extra energy is required. Where do they (the things) get this extra energy? Answer: They drain it from the very victims they are tormenting! Thus, elders are constantly looking for things we just put down this second. And we’re always tired.
In other words, forget (no pun intended) all that stuff about synapses and bundles and stuff. If my hypothesis seems simplistic, remember Ignaz Semmelweis who maintained, in the face of the medical establishment’s scorn, that childbed fever was caused by invisible organisms that doctors carried on their hands from the dissecting room to the delivery room. “Wash your hands! Wash your hands!“ he kept hollering, but to no avail. . His theory was deemed unscientific, and they laughed at him just as you may even now be laughing at my advice regarding disappearing objects.
Try it. Play a little game. Instead of standing there moaning “But I just had it in my hand a second ago!” adopt a relaxed posture, gently close your eyes, and call out pleasantly but firmly, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!’ Then pretend to forget about it and go do something else while you wait for the magic to happen, and the missing item travels to the refrigerator, where you will find it hours later while looking all over the blankety blank place for the blankety blank jar of peanut butter, which you just this second put down when the phone rang (where is that stupid phone?)
There is an alternative remedy, which has a special appeal to me as a Gestalt therapist emeritus. I sit quietly, with awareness, and fold my legs (no, not in the lotus position, haven’t I already acknowledged I am getting long in the tooth and stiff in the knees?) and imagine that I am the missing object.
“I am Ruth’s hairbrush (or stapler, or magnifying lens, or mascara tube, or whatever)” . I murmur softly. “ I wish to avoid being engaged by another person , but my defenses are quite primitive. . So, in order to achieve isolation, I am hiding…. (in the toilet brush holder, stack of papers to be recycled, or wherever )”
Scoff if you like, but it’s worth a try. Just don’t tell your therapist.
Or anyone.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
OTTER GUILT
OTTER GUILT
Copyright Ruth Lampert January 2011 (rev)
In the fourth grade of Darwin Elementary School in Chicago, Ill, two movies (on reels; VCRs were in the distant future) played a significant role in my life. The first had something to do with weather – specifically, cold weather, a topic Chicagoans know about. There was a still shot of a bush, or maybe a small tree, its round shape with irregular protuberances completely covered with pristine snow. After the film the teacher, a slim young woman with wavy dark hair and smiling eyes, and the school principal, a tall, dignified young man dressed always in blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie who visited the class frequently, discussed the movie with us. The principal commented on the beauty of the snow-covered bush and asked, “Did that remind anyone of anything else?”
My hand shot up – I was so happy he had asked!
“Yes! It looks just like a kellyflower!”
The grownups smiled at each other, in the way of loving parents whose dear child has just made an especially adorable comment. “Isn’t she just the limit!” they seemed to be saying.
They are in love! I thought. They are going to get married and have a family of their own, just like in the movies! (the ones shown in the theaters, not the educational ones shown in school.)
“You mean ‘cauliflower,’ Ruth,” my hero said in his deep soft voice. (If Teacher wasn’t in love with him, I was.) “Yes, that is exactly what it looked like to me too!”
I had assumed the resemblance was obvious to everyone, just as
everyone I knew said “kellyflower.” But apparently he and I shared an imagination unmatched by the other students or even by Teacher.
Heady stuff for a smitten fourth grader…
The second movie that proved to be significant in my life was about otters.
I was enchanted by the sleek, darling, playful creatures. I wanted to join them in the ocean (which I too have loved all my life) and frolic and duck and dive and be warmed by the sun and the company of my playmates.
The principal wasn’t there that day, so I was unable to impress him. Teacher instructed us to write something about what we had seen, and I wrote a piece titled, straightforwardly, “The Otter.” I reported what I had seen on the screen and heard from the relentlessly cheerful narrator. I made no mention of the feeling of joyful kinship the film evoked; I was romantic but not entirely unrealistic, and understood that personal reactions were not what fourth grade essays were about.
Again, my writing talent was “reinforced,” as we say nowadays. Teacher smiled her lovely smile at me (I think I was a little in love with her, too) as she announced that my report was so good she was sending it to the school newspaper.
When the paper came out and I saw, in print, what all my world could see:
The Otter
By
Ruth Tauber
I was hooked. My words and my name in print! It was my first by-line, although I didn’t know that’s what it was called.
The only fly in this syrup of self-importance was a vague, nagging sense of guilt. After all, I had done nothing more than repeat what I had seen and heard, and that didn’t measure up to the kinds of stories I loved to read. Only later did I learn about journalism, and reviewing; at the time I felt vaguely that the story wasn’t really mine, that I hadn’t truly earned the credit. I wondered uneasily if I might be some kind of a fraud.
Since that time I’ve been on both sides of the therapy couch, where guilt is a juicy, ubiquitous topic. Freud considered its roots to be in sexual soil; maybe. My friend and colleague Cara Garcia once noted: “there are those childhood fantasies of wreaking wonderful, ghastly horrible revenge on enemies, including but not limited to younger siblings.”
Maybe it’s all true. Maybe my fourth grade guilt was just a manifestation of one or another or all of the guilt brought forward from early childhood.
And maybe there is another, existential guilt, one that is somehow linked to the creative impulse, a self-questioning that walks with the need to transform, as when I earned the principal’s praise by perceiving a snow-covered bush as a “kellyflower.” Just as these days, when I travel down Overland Avenue on my way to the neighborhood library, the carefully trimmed trees lining the street look to me so exactly like broccoli stalks that in my mind it is Broccoli Boulevard.
Another time I will explore the subject of The Foodie as Writer. For now, let’s fast-forward to high school where I am in the Journalism class (still secretly considering it inferior to “creative” writing) and working on the staff of the Von Steuben Journal, my sole extra-curricular activity. Also on staff is Albert Rosenthal, bright, funny, audacious, and, I assume, next in line to be Editor-in-Chief.
“Little Moron” jokes were all the rage at the time. (This genre of “stupidity is hilarious” was followed not so long ago by Polish and Blond jokes.) It was quite acceptable then to be funny about retardation, but not about anything having to do with body parts, functions, or desires.
Standing guard over this journalistic purity is the English teacher and Journal advisor, Miss Cummings: small, round, grey-hair-in-a-bun, a nice lady, a good teacher, whose small sharp eyes could catch any hint of impropriety before it got into print.
Except for this joke which Albert manages to sneak in:
“Did you hear about the depressed little moron who got his face slapped for feeling low?”
Miss Cumming is furious. Albert is in her office for a long time, and emerges looking chastened until he is out of her range and gives a big wink to his followers.
I understand that it was because of this incident that Albert is passed over as Editor-in-Chief. That position goes to me, an honor tarnished by the old otter-guilt: of course I had been chosen by default and not by true merit.
Flash forward again. I have traveled from California to Chicago to attend the 50-year class reunion. Some people are total strangers to me, but I recognize Albert at once by his impish expression. We do the reunion things (laugh, hug, do you have kids? grandkids?) and I tell him I’ve always felt a little guilty about becoming Journal Editor when he really deserved it and was passed over because of the prevailing puritanical standards.
He gives me a puzzled look.
“What are you talking about? Everyone knew you were going to be the next Editor. You were the obvious and best choice. I was funny, but I wasn’t Editor material. You were. ”
I was?
Shades of deMaupassant’s “The Necklace.”
Writing has helped me to work it all through, and I am ready now for that shining moment when some prestigious prize is bestowed upon me. Poised and gracious, I will deliver an acceptance speech of rare brevity and honesty. I’ll simply say,
“I worked hard for this and I deserve it. Thank you for noticing.”
Copyright Ruth Lampert January 2011 (rev)
In the fourth grade of Darwin Elementary School in Chicago, Ill, two movies (on reels; VCRs were in the distant future) played a significant role in my life. The first had something to do with weather – specifically, cold weather, a topic Chicagoans know about. There was a still shot of a bush, or maybe a small tree, its round shape with irregular protuberances completely covered with pristine snow. After the film the teacher, a slim young woman with wavy dark hair and smiling eyes, and the school principal, a tall, dignified young man dressed always in blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie who visited the class frequently, discussed the movie with us. The principal commented on the beauty of the snow-covered bush and asked, “Did that remind anyone of anything else?”
My hand shot up – I was so happy he had asked!
“Yes! It looks just like a kellyflower!”
The grownups smiled at each other, in the way of loving parents whose dear child has just made an especially adorable comment. “Isn’t she just the limit!” they seemed to be saying.
They are in love! I thought. They are going to get married and have a family of their own, just like in the movies! (the ones shown in the theaters, not the educational ones shown in school.)
“You mean ‘cauliflower,’ Ruth,” my hero said in his deep soft voice. (If Teacher wasn’t in love with him, I was.) “Yes, that is exactly what it looked like to me too!”
I had assumed the resemblance was obvious to everyone, just as
everyone I knew said “kellyflower.” But apparently he and I shared an imagination unmatched by the other students or even by Teacher.
Heady stuff for a smitten fourth grader…
The second movie that proved to be significant in my life was about otters.
I was enchanted by the sleek, darling, playful creatures. I wanted to join them in the ocean (which I too have loved all my life) and frolic and duck and dive and be warmed by the sun and the company of my playmates.
The principal wasn’t there that day, so I was unable to impress him. Teacher instructed us to write something about what we had seen, and I wrote a piece titled, straightforwardly, “The Otter.” I reported what I had seen on the screen and heard from the relentlessly cheerful narrator. I made no mention of the feeling of joyful kinship the film evoked; I was romantic but not entirely unrealistic, and understood that personal reactions were not what fourth grade essays were about.
Again, my writing talent was “reinforced,” as we say nowadays. Teacher smiled her lovely smile at me (I think I was a little in love with her, too) as she announced that my report was so good she was sending it to the school newspaper.
When the paper came out and I saw, in print, what all my world could see:
The Otter
By
Ruth Tauber
I was hooked. My words and my name in print! It was my first by-line, although I didn’t know that’s what it was called.
The only fly in this syrup of self-importance was a vague, nagging sense of guilt. After all, I had done nothing more than repeat what I had seen and heard, and that didn’t measure up to the kinds of stories I loved to read. Only later did I learn about journalism, and reviewing; at the time I felt vaguely that the story wasn’t really mine, that I hadn’t truly earned the credit. I wondered uneasily if I might be some kind of a fraud.
Since that time I’ve been on both sides of the therapy couch, where guilt is a juicy, ubiquitous topic. Freud considered its roots to be in sexual soil; maybe. My friend and colleague Cara Garcia once noted: “there are those childhood fantasies of wreaking wonderful, ghastly horrible revenge on enemies, including but not limited to younger siblings.”
Maybe it’s all true. Maybe my fourth grade guilt was just a manifestation of one or another or all of the guilt brought forward from early childhood.
And maybe there is another, existential guilt, one that is somehow linked to the creative impulse, a self-questioning that walks with the need to transform, as when I earned the principal’s praise by perceiving a snow-covered bush as a “kellyflower.” Just as these days, when I travel down Overland Avenue on my way to the neighborhood library, the carefully trimmed trees lining the street look to me so exactly like broccoli stalks that in my mind it is Broccoli Boulevard.
Another time I will explore the subject of The Foodie as Writer. For now, let’s fast-forward to high school where I am in the Journalism class (still secretly considering it inferior to “creative” writing) and working on the staff of the Von Steuben Journal, my sole extra-curricular activity. Also on staff is Albert Rosenthal, bright, funny, audacious, and, I assume, next in line to be Editor-in-Chief.
“Little Moron” jokes were all the rage at the time. (This genre of “stupidity is hilarious” was followed not so long ago by Polish and Blond jokes.) It was quite acceptable then to be funny about retardation, but not about anything having to do with body parts, functions, or desires.
Standing guard over this journalistic purity is the English teacher and Journal advisor, Miss Cummings: small, round, grey-hair-in-a-bun, a nice lady, a good teacher, whose small sharp eyes could catch any hint of impropriety before it got into print.
Except for this joke which Albert manages to sneak in:
“Did you hear about the depressed little moron who got his face slapped for feeling low?”
Miss Cumming is furious. Albert is in her office for a long time, and emerges looking chastened until he is out of her range and gives a big wink to his followers.
I understand that it was because of this incident that Albert is passed over as Editor-in-Chief. That position goes to me, an honor tarnished by the old otter-guilt: of course I had been chosen by default and not by true merit.
Flash forward again. I have traveled from California to Chicago to attend the 50-year class reunion. Some people are total strangers to me, but I recognize Albert at once by his impish expression. We do the reunion things (laugh, hug, do you have kids? grandkids?) and I tell him I’ve always felt a little guilty about becoming Journal Editor when he really deserved it and was passed over because of the prevailing puritanical standards.
He gives me a puzzled look.
“What are you talking about? Everyone knew you were going to be the next Editor. You were the obvious and best choice. I was funny, but I wasn’t Editor material. You were. ”
I was?
Shades of deMaupassant’s “The Necklace.”
Writing has helped me to work it all through, and I am ready now for that shining moment when some prestigious prize is bestowed upon me. Poised and gracious, I will deliver an acceptance speech of rare brevity and honesty. I’ll simply say,
“I worked hard for this and I deserve it. Thank you for noticing.”
Friday, October 15, 2010
The Great Bedroom Hoax
The Great Bedroom Hoax
By Ruth Lampert
Copyright July 2010
Growing up during the depression years in Chicago, it was not unusual for one or two family members to have as their sleeping place a “roll-away” bed - when not in use for sleeping it folded in half and was covered with a shawl - or a couch , in the living or dining room.
When I was about eight years old my family of 5 moved into a nice 2 bedroom apartment. (how we got to that residence after originating in Chicago, then moving to Los Angeles, then to Long Beach, then back to Chicago and a couple of temporary dwellings, is quite another story.)
My parents slept in the big bedroom, and my sister Francine, as a teenager and the oldest child, had the privilege of being granted her own room. Who made the following decision I am not sure, but Bob (then about 12) and I (about 8) were told that he would sleep in the dining room on a “roll-away” and I would have the living room couch. (Where, you wonder did we keep our clothes and stuff? I wonder too – no doubt some in one closet, some in another, some in the dining room buffet drawers -- maybe some in a box under someone’s bed? I’ll have to research that.)
“Boy, do I feel sorry for you” Bob announced, after checking out the living and dining rooms.
“Why?” I asked, ready as always to believe anything he told me.
“Because,” he replied in his best solicitous big brother voice, “the living room is really a terrible place to sleep. The dining room, now, that’s the place anyone would want. Am I lucky they are letting me sleep there. Right next to the kitchen…a terrific lamp for reading…and a big table to sit at if you can’t sleep. Boy, am I lucky!”
And so on and so on, until I found myself pleading with him to change and let me have the dining room. I don’t know what I promised him in return, I’m sure I put on my most pathetic little girl voice, and sorrowful mistreated face, but after much pleading on my part and much protesting of “no way, you think I’m nuts?” on his part, he gave in.
“O.K., o.k., stop crying, you can have the dining room, I’ll be all right in the living room….I’m older, and a boy, so I guess I have to make some sacrifices……”
I thanked him and thanked him, promised I would do something wonderful for him some day. As I took my blanket and pillow into the dining room and he took his in to the living room, he called to me gleefully,
“Thanks a lot, I wanted the living room all along, it is super, wow, look at that big window, and it’s so cool and quiet, away from the kitchen,….” the list of advantages went on and on.
I had been had, in true little sister tradition. I have to add that in all important ways, and up to this very moment, Bob has been a generous and loving brother. We’re both elderly now, but I swear, I’ll get back at him for that yet.
Or maybe not. Actually the dining room was fine, and I did enjoy lining my dolls up on the big table at night and pretending that the chandelier was a magic lamp.
So I guess, now that we are both older and hopefully wiser, I can honestly say,
“Bob, I forgive you.”
By Ruth Lampert
Copyright July 2010
Growing up during the depression years in Chicago, it was not unusual for one or two family members to have as their sleeping place a “roll-away” bed - when not in use for sleeping it folded in half and was covered with a shawl - or a couch , in the living or dining room.
When I was about eight years old my family of 5 moved into a nice 2 bedroom apartment. (how we got to that residence after originating in Chicago, then moving to Los Angeles, then to Long Beach, then back to Chicago and a couple of temporary dwellings, is quite another story.)
My parents slept in the big bedroom, and my sister Francine, as a teenager and the oldest child, had the privilege of being granted her own room. Who made the following decision I am not sure, but Bob (then about 12) and I (about 8) were told that he would sleep in the dining room on a “roll-away” and I would have the living room couch. (Where, you wonder did we keep our clothes and stuff? I wonder too – no doubt some in one closet, some in another, some in the dining room buffet drawers -- maybe some in a box under someone’s bed? I’ll have to research that.)
“Boy, do I feel sorry for you” Bob announced, after checking out the living and dining rooms.
“Why?” I asked, ready as always to believe anything he told me.
“Because,” he replied in his best solicitous big brother voice, “the living room is really a terrible place to sleep. The dining room, now, that’s the place anyone would want. Am I lucky they are letting me sleep there. Right next to the kitchen…a terrific lamp for reading…and a big table to sit at if you can’t sleep. Boy, am I lucky!”
And so on and so on, until I found myself pleading with him to change and let me have the dining room. I don’t know what I promised him in return, I’m sure I put on my most pathetic little girl voice, and sorrowful mistreated face, but after much pleading on my part and much protesting of “no way, you think I’m nuts?” on his part, he gave in.
“O.K., o.k., stop crying, you can have the dining room, I’ll be all right in the living room….I’m older, and a boy, so I guess I have to make some sacrifices……”
I thanked him and thanked him, promised I would do something wonderful for him some day. As I took my blanket and pillow into the dining room and he took his in to the living room, he called to me gleefully,
“Thanks a lot, I wanted the living room all along, it is super, wow, look at that big window, and it’s so cool and quiet, away from the kitchen,….” the list of advantages went on and on.
I had been had, in true little sister tradition. I have to add that in all important ways, and up to this very moment, Bob has been a generous and loving brother. We’re both elderly now, but I swear, I’ll get back at him for that yet.
Or maybe not. Actually the dining room was fine, and I did enjoy lining my dolls up on the big table at night and pretending that the chandelier was a magic lamp.
So I guess, now that we are both older and hopefully wiser, I can honestly say,
“Bob, I forgive you.”
Friday, September 17, 2010
Who Knew?
by Ruth Lampert
Copyright date 9/26/08
reposted 9/17/10
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 date 9/26/08
reposted 9/17/10
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 3, 2010
THANKS, BETTY
(or, “The Last Ism”)
First in a series of “The Owl and the Elephant”
By
Ruth Lampert
Copyright Ruth Lampert September 2010
…and thanks also to the rest of you “old timers” who have come upon the scene just in time for this blog. You, Betty White, and many like you, are bringing down walls of prejudice, this time against “ageism.” I can remember (I’m sure some of you can too, and now it’s o.k. to admit it) when newspapers and other media pictorially portrayed various minorities in physically insulting ways. Political cartoonists especially employed grotesquely big noses, huge mops of then-unfashionably frizzy hair, gruesomely thick lips, etc to depict the various minorities which I am sure you can match to the racial/ethnic stereotypes. And while unattractive _ physical characteristics (think big ears) are still employed, they are ethnically neutral. *
It is still true that we elderly are often mocked in ways that go beyond the “hey where’s your sense of humor” rationale.’ Seinfeld is over, but repeats abound; on a recent one, Jerry’s parents move to a retirement facility where an election of officers is being conducted. The residents are uniformly portrayed as ludicrously stupid. It can be said in defense that everyone on the show is portrayed as ridiculous, but by no means are they all unattractive. On another episode the principals volunteer to “cheer” lonely old people – again, the recipients of care are without exception foolish, mean, and ugly.
Compare this with “Frazier,” also currently on repeats, in which the elderly father has foibles and eccentricities and sometimes he is right and sometimes wrong - - as are all the other characters. Case in point: “being funny” is not the same as “being made fun of.”
Stereotypically, if not mean-spiritedly, just about everywhere grandmothers are linked with grandchildren and cookies. Lord knows I adore my grandchildren and great-grandchildren (I told you I was old) and my long, loving relationship with cookies is widely celebrated, but as you can see I am also involved in other activities, as are most of my grandma buddies. We even sometimes talk about men – is that hilarious or what?
Which segues me nicely to the bright, talented, pretty, energetic, “new”comedy star, Betty White. They don’t come much funnier at any age, and I predict (remember, you heard it here first, unless you already heard it somewhere else) that we will soon see many other geriatric stars, new and recycled, in the entertainment firmament.
\
As in a recent Sunday edition of the Los Angeles Times which featured a long article about 84-year-old Mel Brooks who “has a new star in the Hollywood Walk of Fame” following 15 months on Broadway with “The New Mel Books Musical Young Frankenstein, ” and a film retrospective at the Egyptian Theatre.
Other fields are sure to come forward with recognition of the on-going accomplishments of “oldsters.” (Sports stars maybe not so much) Scientists, statespersons, musicians, authors, even blog-writers, will be lauded in paeans, likely to begin: “At an age when most of his/her contemporaries are dozing off at inopportune moments (blogger’s note: o.k. so what?) he/she is busily engaged in…..”
Of course it is not just the famous who can and should be portrayed in an “equal opportunity” manner. Simply by not having the white-haired extras doing stereotypical activities, any more than African American women are no long portrayed mostly as maids, the point is made.
A caveat: hopefully this movement will not go to a place where all older people MUST be portrayed as healthy, active, accomplished, etc. It’s got to be o.k. to age as nature intended, to be frail and diminished in so many ways; I do not believe the intention was for the process to be ludicrous or demeaning.
So pay attention to what I am saying, just as if I were a wise elder.
* An aside: why do we refer to Barack Obama as “black,” when he is actually bi-racial? #
First in a series of “The Owl and the Elephant”
By
Ruth Lampert
Copyright Ruth Lampert September 2010
…and thanks also to the rest of you “old timers” who have come upon the scene just in time for this blog. You, Betty White, and many like you, are bringing down walls of prejudice, this time against “ageism.” I can remember (I’m sure some of you can too, and now it’s o.k. to admit it) when newspapers and other media pictorially portrayed various minorities in physically insulting ways. Political cartoonists especially employed grotesquely big noses, huge mops of then-unfashionably frizzy hair, gruesomely thick lips, etc to depict the various minorities which I am sure you can match to the racial/ethnic stereotypes. And while unattractive _ physical characteristics (think big ears) are still employed, they are ethnically neutral. *
It is still true that we elderly are often mocked in ways that go beyond the “hey where’s your sense of humor” rationale.’ Seinfeld is over, but repeats abound; on a recent one, Jerry’s parents move to a retirement facility where an election of officers is being conducted. The residents are uniformly portrayed as ludicrously stupid. It can be said in defense that everyone on the show is portrayed as ridiculous, but by no means are they all unattractive. On another episode the principals volunteer to “cheer” lonely old people – again, the recipients of care are without exception foolish, mean, and ugly.
Compare this with “Frazier,” also currently on repeats, in which the elderly father has foibles and eccentricities and sometimes he is right and sometimes wrong - - as are all the other characters. Case in point: “being funny” is not the same as “being made fun of.”
Stereotypically, if not mean-spiritedly, just about everywhere grandmothers are linked with grandchildren and cookies. Lord knows I adore my grandchildren and great-grandchildren (I told you I was old) and my long, loving relationship with cookies is widely celebrated, but as you can see I am also involved in other activities, as are most of my grandma buddies. We even sometimes talk about men – is that hilarious or what?
Which segues me nicely to the bright, talented, pretty, energetic, “new”comedy star, Betty White. They don’t come much funnier at any age, and I predict (remember, you heard it here first, unless you already heard it somewhere else) that we will soon see many other geriatric stars, new and recycled, in the entertainment firmament.
\
As in a recent Sunday edition of the Los Angeles Times which featured a long article about 84-year-old Mel Brooks who “has a new star in the Hollywood Walk of Fame” following 15 months on Broadway with “The New Mel Books Musical Young Frankenstein, ” and a film retrospective at the Egyptian Theatre.
Other fields are sure to come forward with recognition of the on-going accomplishments of “oldsters.” (Sports stars maybe not so much) Scientists, statespersons, musicians, authors, even blog-writers, will be lauded in paeans, likely to begin: “At an age when most of his/her contemporaries are dozing off at inopportune moments (blogger’s note: o.k. so what?) he/she is busily engaged in…..”
Of course it is not just the famous who can and should be portrayed in an “equal opportunity” manner. Simply by not having the white-haired extras doing stereotypical activities, any more than African American women are no long portrayed mostly as maids, the point is made.
A caveat: hopefully this movement will not go to a place where all older people MUST be portrayed as healthy, active, accomplished, etc. It’s got to be o.k. to age as nature intended, to be frail and diminished in so many ways; I do not believe the intention was for the process to be ludicrous or demeaning.
So pay attention to what I am saying, just as if I were a wise elder.
* An aside: why do we refer to Barack Obama as “black,” when he is actually bi-racial? #
Friday, August 13, 2010
Ladies in waiting
Ladies in Waiting
by
Ruth Lampert
Copyright Ruth Lampert 2008
Anyone who says it's hard to make friends in Los Angeles has never stood in line to the Ladies Room during an intermission and experienced the intense female bonding which ensues. . For those anatomically prevented from bring privy to this activity (males) – here is how it goes: You remain in your seat in the theater until the applause has subsided, and then clamber up, down, across, or over toward your destination, utilizing all deliberate speed without, you hope, appearing frantic.
Your heart sinks as you approach the foyer and see ten ladies queued up. In the foyer, for God's sake! How many women are in line inside? How many stalls are there? The answer to the first question is "far too many;" to the second, "far too few."
Now the bonding ritual starts, with the standard opening:
"If women designed these buildings, there'd be twice as many stalls in the Ladies Room," followed by: "There'd be twice as many Ladies Rooms!" Heads nod knowingly, affirmatively.
Stage two begins when someone – perhaps you - asks, "So, what
do you think about the play/concert/lecture so far?”
Here the potential or lack of it, for deeper relationships emerges. There are those in that line who simply don't get it, and while they may be nice enough in their own way you know they are not persons you really care to cultivate. There are others who show promise of aesthetic compatibility. You make eye contact with a lady who appears, by her bearing, to be a person of breeding and good taste. If she responds with a quote from your favorite critic, you know you have made a connection.
But nothing promotes bonding like having a common enemy. At the sound of the chimes signaling only five minutes more of intermission, a chorus of anguished, outraged voices is raised.
"What? It will take at least 10 minutes for all of us to get out of here!"
"They're just trying to intimidate us; they wouldn't dare begin with this many still in line!"
"By God, I'm going to write to the management!"
"I'll e-mail my congresswoman!"
And so on and so forth.
Now critical analyses of the first half of the performance evolve to deeper intimacy with the sharing of urological experiences involving pregnancy, bladder surgery, and the efficacy of cranberry juice.
There have been poignant moments too. After having the same concert seats for many seasons, last year we sent our order in late and were assigned to a different location. We were not the only ones unsettled by this dislocation; in the line to the Ladies Room I met the woman who had been my former seat neighbor.
"Oh, I'm so happy to see you!" she cried, "we thought something must have happened to you folks. Is your husband alright?"
Had there not been a line, she might be worrying still.
Men typically don't experience either this tortuous waiting or cozy camaraderie. I do recall a concert a while back of big band music from the 40's, where to my surprise my husband's pit stop was longer than mine. As I waited for him (a first in this situation) I noticed that most of the men had gray or white hair, if any. They were all over 60. That explained it. I don't know if any friendships were formed, but what a networking opportunity for a urologist.
Actually the Ladies Room line was professionally useful to me too. When discussing psychological aspects of a play, for example, it sometimes leaked out (no pun intended) that I was a professional psychotherapist, and those who shared my viewpoint sometimes asked for a business card. I did not receive any direct responses to this kind of outreach, but I did once receive a call from a prospective client who said, "I found your business card on top of the tissue holder in the Ladies Room at the Music Center. I was impressed with your marketing ingenuity and thought you might help me deal with some of my frustrations starting a new business.
And besides, a therapist who goes to the opera is a therapist I can relate to."
Doesn't it seem that would have made the cost of the tickets tax-deductible? My accountant said "don't even think about it."
by
Ruth Lampert
Copyright Ruth Lampert 2008
Anyone who says it's hard to make friends in Los Angeles has never stood in line to the Ladies Room during an intermission and experienced the intense female bonding which ensues. . For those anatomically prevented from bring privy to this activity (males) – here is how it goes: You remain in your seat in the theater until the applause has subsided, and then clamber up, down, across, or over toward your destination, utilizing all deliberate speed without, you hope, appearing frantic.
Your heart sinks as you approach the foyer and see ten ladies queued up. In the foyer, for God's sake! How many women are in line inside? How many stalls are there? The answer to the first question is "far too many;" to the second, "far too few."
Now the bonding ritual starts, with the standard opening:
"If women designed these buildings, there'd be twice as many stalls in the Ladies Room," followed by: "There'd be twice as many Ladies Rooms!" Heads nod knowingly, affirmatively.
Stage two begins when someone – perhaps you - asks, "So, what
do you think about the play/concert/lecture so far?”
Here the potential or lack of it, for deeper relationships emerges. There are those in that line who simply don't get it, and while they may be nice enough in their own way you know they are not persons you really care to cultivate. There are others who show promise of aesthetic compatibility. You make eye contact with a lady who appears, by her bearing, to be a person of breeding and good taste. If she responds with a quote from your favorite critic, you know you have made a connection.
But nothing promotes bonding like having a common enemy. At the sound of the chimes signaling only five minutes more of intermission, a chorus of anguished, outraged voices is raised.
"What? It will take at least 10 minutes for all of us to get out of here!"
"They're just trying to intimidate us; they wouldn't dare begin with this many still in line!"
"By God, I'm going to write to the management!"
"I'll e-mail my congresswoman!"
And so on and so forth.
Now critical analyses of the first half of the performance evolve to deeper intimacy with the sharing of urological experiences involving pregnancy, bladder surgery, and the efficacy of cranberry juice.
There have been poignant moments too. After having the same concert seats for many seasons, last year we sent our order in late and were assigned to a different location. We were not the only ones unsettled by this dislocation; in the line to the Ladies Room I met the woman who had been my former seat neighbor.
"Oh, I'm so happy to see you!" she cried, "we thought something must have happened to you folks. Is your husband alright?"
Had there not been a line, she might be worrying still.
Men typically don't experience either this tortuous waiting or cozy camaraderie. I do recall a concert a while back of big band music from the 40's, where to my surprise my husband's pit stop was longer than mine. As I waited for him (a first in this situation) I noticed that most of the men had gray or white hair, if any. They were all over 60. That explained it. I don't know if any friendships were formed, but what a networking opportunity for a urologist.
Actually the Ladies Room line was professionally useful to me too. When discussing psychological aspects of a play, for example, it sometimes leaked out (no pun intended) that I was a professional psychotherapist, and those who shared my viewpoint sometimes asked for a business card. I did not receive any direct responses to this kind of outreach, but I did once receive a call from a prospective client who said, "I found your business card on top of the tissue holder in the Ladies Room at the Music Center. I was impressed with your marketing ingenuity and thought you might help me deal with some of my frustrations starting a new business.
And besides, a therapist who goes to the opera is a therapist I can relate to."
Doesn't it seem that would have made the cost of the tickets tax-deductible? My accountant said "don't even think about it."
Friday, July 16, 2010
Job Chutzpah
Job Chutzpah
by
Ruth Lampert
Copyright July 2010
In the unlikely event that there are some among you some who do not know the meaning of “chutzpah,” it is defined on the web as a Yiddish word meaning “unbelievable gall; audacity; insolence.”
I first became aware of this smarmy trait in myself back in the day when I was applying for a job in
It was to be my second job in
I had climbed up the University career ladder in only a few short weeks from a menial, boring clerical job in which I had earned the disdain and dislike of my co-workers by finishing all my assignments in about one third of the allotted time. This was less a reflection of the excellence of my work than of the prevailing job ethos which seemed to be: “Least accomplished, least demanded.”
I was promoted to the large cadre of Secretaries to the President, where, as but one of many workers, I had almost nothing to do. (It did not occur to me then, as it does now, to wonder how much the President himself had to do) I discussed my situation with the Head Secretary, (and how busy was she, really? Did her undoubtedly generous salary reflect the illusion that she supervised many hard-working underlings?) In any case she said, in what I am sure were meant to be reassuring tones, “don’t worry about it dear, we know you’re here if we need you, and that’s what counts.”
Well fine. I was bored out of my skull. In desperation I read through all the confidential files of all the professors, and they were pretty boring too. So much for blackmail as an adjunct profession. I secretly read books smuggled in from home. I tried to do some writing but I was so uninspired I couldn’t think of anything to write about except how un-inspired I was, and that didn’t stretch very far. (Not then it didn’t. The reader has probably noted that over time my ability to stretch material has increased markedly.)
Finally, I activated the defense which had served me well in the past, and would again in the future: I became sick. I went to our friendly family doctor. He could find nothing physically wrong, and said, with a perfectly straight face, “probably it’s stress; your job must be very demanding.” Did he know? Had he treated others before me with the same syndrome? In any case I apparently qualified for a generous sick-leave, during which, for some reason, I was not at all bored.
But we were financially strapped, so when my leave ended I resigned the University job and signed up with an employment agency, where I learned of an opening for Secretary/Registrar at the
Now that was a job I wanted. The site was a renovated small family home near downtown
Oooops. Now this was before dictating and recording devices had come upon the office scene. Shorthand was the skill that set secretaries apart from lowly stenographers,( although it not been a requirement for the Secretary to the President gig.)
So I did what had to be done. I lied.
“Yes of course…uh…that is, “I haven’t actually taken it for a while, so I am kind of rusty,” I improvised. “It will take me a few weeks to brush up.” “Will three weeks be enough time?’ he asked. (Did he know?) “Oh certainly “’ I replied. That concluded the interview, and I dashed over to the nearest bookstore where I bought an instruction manual in Gregg shorthand. In three weeks I had taught myself enough to get by. “It’s coming back to me, but kind of slowly” I explained to Frank with a straight face. He appeared to believe me.
Thus began my career as Secretary/Registrar.
The job didn’t just live up to my expectations, it exceeded them. In addition to the usual secretarial tasks of answering the phone and taking dictation (ha ha) I learned simple bookkeeping from the wonderful, now long-departed Mr. Alfred Panofsky, helped mount shows in the small museum portion of the “Center” and even learned a little art history.
I remained there until we moved from
So whenever I was asked “can you type?” I said I could not, and I did not offer to learn. A sin of omission.
There is a lot more drama (or tedium) to the saga of how I finally became a licensed Marriage and Family/ Gestalt therapist, and though it did take some chutzpah to get there, ethics and integrity in the work itself were never compromised. And that is the truth. I retired as a therapist a year ago, and, obviously, continue to write. Usually truthfully.
So you see, boys and girls….oh the hell with it, draw your own moral to the story.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Corn Flake Cure
THE RETURN OF THE BLOG
In response to the vast --well, maybe not exactly "vast," more like "many," well, let's say ""few" -- numbers of faithful readers who have written me to ask "WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO YOUR BLOG ?" herewith:THE CORN FLAKE CURE
copyright Ruth Lampert 10-08
copyright Ruth Lampert 10-08
There must be 150 varieties of cold cereal in the market, and although I virtuously choose the crunchy high fiber ones held to be “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, now virtually vanquished, childhood disease. I have forgotten most of the miserable ness of it, except for how whooping, and hacking, and incessant, and exhausting the cough was. What I remember is my father, and the loving part he, and corn flakes, played in my 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, still 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, we moved into the dining room. He brought out the fresh bottle of milk which had been standing on its head in the refrigerator so the cream would disperse evenly throughout (back then there was no homogenization, no 2%, no slick cardboard cartons, no lactose-free or soy milk -- just the regular milkman-delivered milk in a regular glass milk bottle, cream rising to the top as things of quality and richness do) two heavy white bowls, two soup spoons, and a fresh, unopened box of Kelloggs Corn Flakes.
There weren’t many choices of packaged cereals in those days. . Rice Krispies were good, although they didn’t exactly snap crackle and pop as advertised. I understood that Wheaties, “The Breakfast of Champions,” was for boys, as attested to by its sponsoring of the radio program “Jack Armstrong, the All American Boy” (we didn’t know from gender neutrality back then. ) 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, (the hot marketing device of the day) could ever describe that heavenly crispness, slightly tenderized by fresh cold milk. Daddy laughed as, finishing my bowl before he was even halfway through his, I 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 long days of whooping and hacking.).
I finished off the second bowl, and then we “retired to the living room” where we sat on the couch, lazily turning our attention back to whatever was on the radio. I dozed off, lulled by the sweet combination of returning health and quiet intimacy with a loved and loving 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, carrying in cold Chicago winteriness with the grocery bags from the A&P. . 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.
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