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

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.

The Four Letter “C” Word


Ruth Lampert Copyright May 2009


If you are thinking what I think you might be thinking, shame on you. This is a family blog. The word I am thinking is “cute.” As it is all too often applied to older people as in “Look at that couple over there on the bench, holding hands.
. Aren’t they cute?”

If the subjects of this comment were two little children holding hands, it would be appropriate. When the reference is to aged people being together, showing affection for one another, it is – well, not so cute.

My attitude might justifiably be ascribed to the fact that I myself am, as my grandson charmingly puts it, “chronologically gifted.” In case you wonder why occasionally I am snarly, argumentative, bossy, nasty, querulous, or all of the above, it is because I know that these attributes will not lead to my being described as “cute.” “Cute” goes with “sweet.” I prefer “tart.”

Other adjectives that go nicely with advanced age are “regal;” “dignified;” “inspiring;” “stately”.
“Humble?” Not so much.

Nothing brings out the cute card faster than weddings of older people. Wedding ceremonies that is. A quiet, inconspicuous marriage at city hall or in a clergyperson’s office can escape the appellation, but let there be traditional trappings such as long gowns, a flower girl, a fancy wedding cake, and I can hear it now:
“Oh, isn’t that adorable!”
Toddlers toddling down a make believe aisle, dressed up in grown-ups cast-off clothing, make a poor second in sickening sweetness.

Funerals, on the other hand, by their very nature escape the label. A cute corpse is, if not exactly an oxymoron, a rarity.
Many clichés apply, the favorite being “he/she she lived a full life” but while that aged body in the coffin may be many things, it is not “”adorable.”
If it’s all the same to everybody, I would prefer not to have to wait until my demise to be spared the “cute” word. So to all you medical personnel who say things like “just climb up here sweetie,” and salespeople who coo “Oh, you look just precious in that” and restaurant servers who advise “That is really easy to digest, honey” and so forth and so on, I recommend use of a c-word I particularly favor, as in:

Cut the Crap.

Remembering Mr. Popenoe or
“What Goes Around Comes Around – With Interest”

by Ruth Lampert copyright April 2009

I came in with a depression and, if health (mine and the
Global economy’s) fails me; I may go out with one. In between, I had the
Mixed fortune to experience a couple of personal financial catastrophes of my own. . I say “mixed” because one of the things I would have missed, if my fiscal life had been less tumultuous, was the experience of a bank whose name I have forgotten, and Mr. Popenoe, a bank executive whom I will always remember with gratitude.


I was in my late 40’s, divorced, in the process of “recycling me” (a term, like many others, seldom heard these days.) I had returned to college and earned my long-delayed bachelor’s degree (that’s another story, which I will tell another time) and was working as an educational therapist. My goal was to become a licensed psychotherapist, which required a master’s degree, which required more financial clout than I could claim. I did the logical thing – I applied for scholarships (and was awarded a partial one,) and also a loan from my bank. And that’s when “double standard” and “unequal opportunity” were dramatically and revoltingly illustrated.

The bank turned down my application. I asked why?? Because,” the
Loan officer (whose name, like that of the bank, I have forgotten but whose supercilious voice I will never forget,) said “You have money in your savings account (I think it was about $900.00) so you don’t need a loan.”

“But, but, but doesn’t the fact that in spite of starting over again on a small income, receiving no support from my ex-husband, I have managed to not only pay all my bills but put a little aside – doesn’t that prove I am a good risk? Doesn’t it?” I responded.

“Well yes, that’s true,” he said in effect, “so here’s another reason we are turning you down: as it is clearly spelled out (in what document I don’t recall) loans for higher education are limited to persons under a certain age, and you are too old.”

Yes, Virginia, in those days age and gender discrimination were rampant. My indignation and anger weren’t exactly muted either. I obtained the document in question, read it, and called back: “It clearly states that the age restriction is for undergraduates. I’m applying to graduate school so I’m not too old for a loan.”

“Uh, yeah, well, you’re actually right about that, but here’s another reason we are denying your request. When divorced women of your age go back to school presumably to pursue a career they actually are looking for a husband and if they find one they will never use the degree.”

I’m not making this up. That’s what he told me, I believe in almost those very words.
Somehow, through the haze of shock and rage which engulfed me, I learned about the bank’s “Consumer Advocate,” a Mr. Popenoe, may his name live forever in the annals of fairness and decency.

I wrote to him, explaining all the circumstances. In short order I received a copy of the letter he had sent to the bank’s lending office:
“Give this woman her loan and do so immediately.”
They did.
How I wish I had saved that particular piece of paper.

And that’s the story I have always told l to anyone who smirks about equal opportunity or feminism. Now I also tell it to anyone who talks about the failure of banks, the need for nationalization, I realize that this incident has nothing to do with the current troubles of the banking institution. It has everything, for me, to do with the misguided notion of the so-called “good old days.”

I’d like Mr. Popenoe to know that I did indeed get my degree and my psychotherapy license. After 30 years of private practice, I am on the verge of retirement. I’m also married. And to that mean-spirited, misogynistic loan office I’d like to say – well, this is a family blog, so use your imagination.

Evals

Copyright by Ruth Lampert February 2009

Report cards have a long and sometimes dismaying tradition, but back in the day it was students who received the evaluations from the teachers, and not vice versa. Of course teachers were always judged by students, with grades ranging from “fantastic” to “stinko,” but these were informal, word-of-mouth judgments. Everyone always knew who to seek out and who to avoid if at all possible. But it came as something of a shock about 15 years ago when I became an adjunct college instructor and was formally “evaluated” by my students, with the reports going directly to the dean. .


“Born too late!” I thought, not for the first or last time. It was weird beyond weird to realize that just as some students “sucked up” to teachers in the hope of getting a good grade, the reverse -- or corollary -- situation now existed for the teachers, ushering in a new and wicked temptation. When did this start? Of course it could not be objectively demonstrated that giving easy exams and being generous with high marks resulted in favorable evaluations from the students – but of course the thought had to pass the mind of at least one somewhat insecure instructor. (Not me, of course.)


The Great Evaluation Movement persists and increases unto this very day. Whether I order books online or avail myself of the grocery store’s delivery service, I am inevitably “invited” (or sometimes “chosen” – occasionally bribed) to “evaluate” the service. On the face of it this seems like a good thing, but really, it is getting out of hand.
How long will it be before it happens that at the conclusion of a dinner party given by friends for friends we will be handed a form to fill out with questions such as?


“How would you rate the food?” (on a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being
“To die for” and 1 being “I almost died of it.”)
“Was dinner served within a reasonable time after your arrival?”
“Were the other guests friendly?”
“Was the conversation stimulating
“Were the guest towels arranged creatively?
Etc etc etc


And weddings would be rated on the basis of such criteria as:
“Did the bride and groom seem truly happy, or was their pleasure
Forced and insincere?
“Was the wedding cake (check one)
1) Appropriately large and sweet
(2) Tilted
(3) Yucky


And funerals:
“Were the eulogies
1) inspiring
2) Too long
3) ‘Oh get off it’


“Did the mourners seem genuinely sad, or
was it obvious they really wanted to be
at home watching T.V.?”



For medical and dental appointments:
“Was the amount of time you had to wait in
the waiting room longer than (check
one
1) The time it takes you get home from
work during rush hour on the 405?
2) The time you stood in line at the airport
on your last trip
3) The time ou were put “on hold” when you
called to make the appointment in
the first place


“Were the magazines older than God?
1) A little
2) A lot
3) I don’t know, I am an atheist



Psychotherapy treatment offers an obvious opportunity for written evaluations after each session. E.G.:
Was this session? Productive? (Whatever that means to you.)
Do you feel angry at having to pay so much for so little?
Do you feel grateful for the therapist spending his/her valuable time with you?


And at the end of a first date, instead of the obligatory “I really had fun” the date-ees would each take a few moments to check off:
How, on a scale of 1 to 10, did this compare to other first dates?
If you were introduced by a friend, are you grateful or are you silently fuming “what was he/she thinking of?”
Would you recommend your date to your friends? Your enemies?


I know what you are thinking at this point, but relax. No need to evaluate this posting. After all, I can’t evaluate you as a reader; why should you have all the fun?