Clutter and Procrastination

Clutter and procrastination.  Procrastination and clutter.  One leads to the other in a never-ending loop, sort of like a mobius circle.  As we move forward into another new year, I have one over-riding resolution.  I am once and for all … Continue reading

The Demise of the King’s English

OK, I admit it; I am a grammar snob, a spelling snob, a pronunciation snob, and a vocabulary snob. A couple of years ago I did a short blog about some of my pet peeves. My top choice then was the constant misuse of its and it’s, closely followed by the butchering of the first person pronoun! For some reason people just don’t seem to understand when to use I, me, or myself. “John and myself went to the store.” “The snow fell on John and myself.” I fear a false sense of humility scares people away from using I or me; perhaps they think myself is more modest? Sadly, I still continue to be irked by those two instance of misuse. I could also get into the correct use of those pesky past participles, but that might be an entire blog in itself.

I also find that the headlines along the bottom of the screen during newscasts are fraught with errors. Those little banners used to done with a device called a character generator; no doubt they are all computer generated today. The spelling errors are amazing. I am not sure whether the stations have an undereducated bunch of journalism interns doing them or if perhaps they are letting a fourth grade Boy Scout troop do them (with apologies to the Scouts!). I also get weary with all the crazy governmental abbreviations such as POTUS, FLOTUS, SCOTUS, SOTU, and so on. I would prefer to see them written out in full, but I can accept that space is limited. Could they just refer to the President or the First Lady? I think we know that they are referring to the US President or First Lady.

I would never presume to say that I never make mistakes, but I do keep a Webster’s College Dictionary, a Super Thesaurus, and Brian’s Common Errors in English Usage right there on my desk to double-check myself from time to time. (Note the proper use of myself in this instance!). Since I am somewhat of a language nerd, I even have to use proper punctuation and spelling on my text messages. You won’t see me using U R for you are, etc.

Whatever you do, don’t trust the spelling and grammar checks on Microsoft and Apple! I’d like to have most of those little computer geeks in English class for a few weeks or months. Even Word Press which is what this blog is written with, can drive me crazy from time to time. When you are ready to post a blog, Word Press does an automatic spell check and “sort” of a grammar check. My favorite is “complex expression.” Well, I’m not trying to write at a fourth or fifth grade level. Then there is “passive voice.” Certainly we don’t want to use the passive voice too often, but there are times where it is warranted. The list goes on!

When our sons were still in school, they would often bring home notes from their teachers. In all honesty, I never knew whether to reply to the note or grab my red pen and correct it. No wonder many young people don’t have good language skills; their teachers don’t either. Just as we teach our children not to talk with their mouth full or to keep their elbows off the table during meals, we also need to help them learn proper language skills. On a side note, I am pleased to say that both our sons do have excellent written and spoken language skills; of course, they never had a chance to do otherwise I suppose!

I think that the rise and fall of civilizations and languages may well go hand in hand. When Rome fell, ultimately so did Latin as a spoken and written language. Except for a few misguided souls like me, most people didn’t study Latin for years or read Virgil’s Aeneid in the original Latin. As civilizations became more advanced, language went from the rudimentary, “Me want food” or “Fire hot,” to Plato’s Dialogues and the magical words of Shakespeare.

When we look at the English language, we see the evolution from the old Germanic based Anglo-Saxon; think of the epic poem Beowulf in its original form. Unless you too have had the pain of studying Old English, you probably couldn’t read a word of it! From there we find Middle English; think of the wonderful lyrics of Geoffrey Chaucer. While you might not get everything, you could probably get the gist of it. Spelling was pretty freeform in those days as well!

In early Modern English, you find the wonderful works of Shakespeare and Marlow and some of my favorites, the Cavalier Poets! I suspect that in terms of the evolution of the English language, we may have peaked in the late 19th and early 20th century and be on the downward spiral now. Of course, the British look askance at American English usage, and the Americans haven’t figured out why the British can’t spell “Department of Defence” properly!

The rise of all of our electronic devices and toys probably contributes to a decline in language skills as well, and don’t even get me started on not teaching cursive writing in schools! When I was in the doctorate program in English at a major US University, the chairman of the English Department, who looked like a character out of a Dickens novel, wrote only with a black fountain pen in an almost perfect-looking calligraphy sort of script. The poor man is probably rolling in his grave over the inability of young people even to write the King’s English, let alone use it properly!

As you can probably surmise, I love language and words. Few things are more satisfying than actually expressing your thoughts and creativity with the written word. I hope everyone can share in the enjoyment of the written word at some point. Now, I must wrap up this little discourse. My four-legged red-haired assistant is telling me that it is time to switch from writing to opening a can of dogfood!

©Eclectic Grandma, 2018

The Christmas Tree Revisited

In honor of the Christmas holidays, I am once again reflecting on our childhood Christmases!

Of all memories stored away in our brains, what can be more special and wonderful than memories of our childhood Christmases? I grew up in Texas in the fifties, two unrelated but equally spectacular feats. My parents moved us, me and my little sister, to Texas from Long Island when I was seven. We were the dreaded (and often fighting) word—YANKEES!     As I grew older and more mature, or perhaps as I began to acquire somewhat of a Texas drawl, the Yankee comments began to dwindle, and I actually began to identify myself as a Texan. Children are very amazing when it comes to fitting in.

My parents made all holidays special ones, but at Christmas they really pulled out all the stops. Across the brown, dusty lawns and homes of Dallas, outside lights, decorations, and Christmas trees went up the day after Thanksgiving and returned to their boxes in the attic the day after Christmas, with the now dried out and shedding fir lying on the curb awaiting the trash pickup. My family was different. They looked at the rush to put trees up with disdain as if Christmas itself were being compromised. In keeping with my parents’ German and English heritage, our tree went up on Christmas Eve and stayed up at least until twelfth night, and often longer. In fact, the sudden arrival of the Christmas Tree was accomplished not by Mom and Daddy, but by the Big Man himself. Yes, our tree was decorated by Santa!

Imagine if you can, the excitement and wonder of a small child heading off to bed on Christmas Eve with a naked fir tree sitting in the living room and awaking to a fully decorated tree with presents and toys surrounding it. Another slight difference with our southern neighbors was the lavishness of the tree itself. Decorating the tree was not a casual hanging a few ornaments and lights, it was a work of art right up there with the Sistine Chapel—and often taking nearly as long to accomplish! Today, as a dedicated lover of Christmas, I compromise between the two traditions; we generally put up our trees Thanksgiving weekend and leave them up until around mid January. Of course, my artificial trees need no water and don’t shed needles all over the carpets. In keeping with today’s more elaborate decorating approaches, we have a “traditional” tree and a southwest tree, not the single lovely focal point of my childhood.

Selecting the tree was a feat unto itself. A week or two before Christmas, the four of us would make the rounds of what seemed to be every Christmas tree lot in Dallas looking for the tallest and fullest tree to be found. Luckily our old rented farmhouse had tall ceilings; even so our tree usually appeared to have grown right into the ceiling, so we never had the tradition of a star or angle topping the tree; they would have had to sit in lonely splendor in the attic! After traipsing around multiple tree lots, my sister and I grew progressively less picky. Not my father; the search continued until we found the perfect tree or rather the almost perfect tree. Since Nature herself could not seem to produce quite the tree Daddy envisioned, she had to be helped along.  Once he selected the main tree, he would select another less perfect specimen of the same variety as the first. At last we headed home with our hard found booty

Once we arrived at home, the trunks of both trees—the full bosomy one and her scrawnier little sister—were trimmed off a little, and they were left to stand in buckets of water outside the house, not in ordinary buckets of water, mind you, but in a concoction of sugar water and other secret ingredients known only to my father.  A day or two before Christmas, we began the ritual of getting ready to decorate the tree. The prime tree was brought into the house first, placed in the stand, and then put upon a device known as the platform. The platform was a 4 x 8 foot sheet of plywood which rested upon four 12” sawhorses. The tree was then placed in the center of the platform with its top branches trying their best to break through the ceiling. Grudgingly, Daddy would trim minimal branches from the top, just to allow the tree to stand upright with the top branches spreading out around the ceiling.

Next both Mother and Daddy would examine the tree critically, noting every place where a more aesthetic Mother Nature should have placed a branch.  What she couldn’t do properly, Daddy could!  Armed with a drill, he drilled holes into every spot what a more competent Mother Nature would have put a bough.  Then the other little tree’s branches were cut off and inserted into the holes in the trunk until voilá, the perfect tree emerged!  The remaining branches from the second tree were used to decorate the mantle over the fireplace and make countless other kinds of Christmas centerpieces and decorations.

Now, the lights could be put on before Santa came to finish the job.  With his busy schedule on Christmas Eve, I suspect he appreciated the help.  In those days there were no little twinkle lights or LED’s.  It was strictly the strings of old screw-in bulbs. Even the lights were a production at our house!  I don’t know how many strings of lights the average household in Texas used in those days, but take that number and triple or quadruple it, and you begin to get the idea.  Lights on the tree, now it was time to rearrange the bulbs by color.  “Harve, there are two red ones right next to each other,” my Mother would say of “We need a green one over there,” and on and on.  At long last the light bulbs were arranged and rearranged to their satisfaction.  Suzanne and I didn’t take a very active part in the lighting process; we were just happy to lie on the floor and gaze rapturously at the tree which was slowly being transformed into an object of wonder and delight.

© 2015, Black Dirt and Sunflowers

Reflections on China

I’m sitting here in the bar at the airport Hilton in Narita (Tokyo) with a cold glass of chardonnay in hand writing this little post and waiting on a real hamburger and fries for dinner! I’m on the return trip … Continue reading

Truth in Advertising

A couple of years ago I did a blog about some of my pet peeves about people’s grammatical errors, especially usage of the first person pronoun and its versus it’s. Those still drive me crazy, and don’t even get me … Continue reading

The Haunted TV Box

Today most of us have multiple television sets, and the vast majority of us receive our TV via satellite or cable.  All of those connected TV’s across the country tend to have some kind of receiver box as well to … Continue reading

There is no Frigate like a Book

                                                 There is no Frigate like a Book                                                                                                                       To take us Lands away                                                                                                                          Nor any coursers like a Page                                                                                                                         Of prancing Poetry                                                                                                                                                      Emily Dickinson, 1894                                                                                                    

A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about some of my favorite fiction books.  In order to be fair, I should also blog a bit about some of the so-called literary classics.   By the 7th or 8th grade, my friend June and I had read most of the English and American “classics,” along with many of the Russian novels.  Looking first at English literature, I still think Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities is one of the best of all time!  Who can ever forget that opening line, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”?  Remember the bloodthirsty, infamous Madame DaFarge knitting the names of the victims of the French Revolution into her knitting patterns.  When we were in Paris a couple of years ago, we saw the site where the many guillotine executions took place.  What a sad time in French history.

One of my other favorite English classics is Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.  I was never too much into her sister, Charlotte Bronte and Jane Eyre; she always seemed a bit insipid to me.  In American Literature, I always really like Nathaniel Hawthorne!  I have warned you from time to time that I am somewhat strange.  I really like The Scarlet Letter and The House of the Seven Gables.  In fact on my first Master’s Degree I actually did my master’s thesis on Hawthorne.  Who can forget the sad and somewhat mysterious Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter or the cursed Pyncheon family in The House of the Seven Gables?   One of my hobbies is genealogy, and perhaps learning how many of my ancestors lived in both New England and Philadelphia in the 1600’s accounts for some of my interest in the stories of this era in American history.

The House of the Seven Gables, Salem, MA

There are so many great novels in world literature that it is simply impossible to even begin to mention them all!  There is F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, Gustav Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, and on and on!  Incidentally, Conrad was Polish, but he taught himself English by reading newspapers and wrote his novels in English, quite an accomplishment!

I’ve also read, or was forced to read, pretty well all of the famous Russian Novels. Tolstoy’s War and Peace is sort of an interminable bore, but his novel Anna Karina is much better in my opinion.   Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky is quite good!  I also like his final novel, The Brothers Karamazov, although it is pretty deep.

George Eliot

Oh so many moons ago when I taught high school English, we had a very prescribed curriculum we were expected to follow.  The poor sophomores had to read George Eliot’s novel of Victorian England, Silas Marner.  Now I have to tell you that I hated that novel (and still do, I might add), and really had to psyche myself up to teach it.  If you want to inculcate a love of reading into young people, I’m not sure Silas Marner is quite the way to do it!  My only sympathy for George Eliot, her nom de plume, was that as a woman writing in the mid 1800’s, she couldn’t publish under her own name of Mary Ann Evans, so she had to adopt the more acceptable male pen name.

For my junior students, they had to read Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage, a novel of a somewhat cowardly Union soldier during the American Civil War, or the War Between the States, as it is more properly called.  Crane is a bit better than Eliot, but not by much!  I also managed to get myself into hot water with my school principal and the Fort Worth School Board because I also had my junior students ready J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye.  Salinger’s novel of teenagers coming of age had way too much bad language and sexual innuendo for conservative Fort Worth in those days!

Maybe that is why getting to teach A Tale of Two Cities to the seniors was such a breath of fresh air to me.  I could actually work with a book that I personally liked and admired!  It had history, adventure, and a memorable cast of characters.

 I started this post with a famous quote from the American poetess, Emily Dickinson.  The wonderful thing about reading is that, no matter what your preferences might be, immersing yourself into a book can literally transport you to a different time and place, without ever having to leave the comfort of your own home!

©The Eclectic Grandma, 2017

Oh No! More PE Classes!

After graduating from Thomas Jefferson High School in Dallas, I headed off to North Texas State University in Denton, Texas.  I was the first person on either side of my parents’ families to go to college.  Sadly in those days … Continue reading

Gym Classes and Other Forms of Torture

When I was in Junior High School and Senior High School, the Dallas ISD (Independent School District) decreed that all students must have four years of PE in order to graduate.  Funny, in those days we didn’t have the epidemic of childhood obesity that we see today.  I can only recall one person in my entire graduating class of over 500 students at Thomas Jefferson High School who was “fat,” as we so nastily referred to it. In elementary school, we ran ourselves silly with playing Cowboys and Indians, King of the Hill, or Red Rover.  I also stayed active with swim classes, tumbling class, riding my horse, and plenty of outdoor activities.  I was the true tomboy in those days. Interesting, we had no diet sodas, little or no fast food, no computers or tablets.  We entertained ourselves and were generally outside the entire day when we were not in school.

For the infamous PE classes, we had the most hideous one-piece gym suits ever.  They were a stiff white, muslin type of fabric with an elastic waistband.  Our first name was embroidered in red on the front pocket and our full name on the back.  Maybe that was so that our gym teachers didn’t have to worry with trying to learn our names!  “Hey you, Waldman, get over here!”  Those gym suits would have made Marilyn Monroe look frumpy.  I was a tall skinny beanpole in those days so I looked somewhat like an old flour sack hanging on a flagpole.  I suspect they were designed by someone who flunked out of the New York Academy of Design or some such!  I am quite sure that the designer moved on to another highly successful career designing uniforms for our nation’s jails and prisons!  Maybe it was all a plot to be sure that the boys weren’t looking in our direction.

We only had two regular activities in those awful Gym classes year after year, both of which I detested.  When the weather was warm, which was most of the time in Dallas, we played girls’ softball outside.  Now I have to tell you I hate what I call object-implement games!  This entails any activity where I have to hit an object, such as a ball, shuttlecock, puck, etc., with an implement of any kind.  This would include bats, rackets, golf clubs, or even my own hands or feet.  Before I arrived on this earth, I’m sure God had a good chuckle as he was dishing out the chromosomes.  “Let’s not give this one any hand-eye coordination genes.  That should be amusing!”

The other activity when it was too cold or rainy to be tortured outside with softball, was volleyball inside the girls’ Gym.  Other people did spectacular leaps and hits back and forth over the net.  Not me, I mostly just stood there surreptitiously eyeing the clock on the wall.  Even time stood still for those endless games.  Once in a great while we got to do calisthenics.  That was fine; I loved that!  I probably would have loved and excelled at track and field types of activities or competitive swimming.  It is a shame that those activities were not offered or encouraged.  It was really a toss-up which I hated more, the softball or the volleyball, and I haven’t changed my opinion of either over the years.

Only one good thing in my life ever came out of volleyball.  At the beginning of my second year at NTSU (North Texas State University), now known by the loftier name of the University of North Texas, I went one evening with a couple of friends to the BSU or Baptist Student Union.  Now I was not Baptist or even overly religious, but figured I might meet some cute guys, so it was worth a visit.  With my hair fixed and make-up on, I wore one of my favorite dresses, an orange, two- piece dotted-swiss one.  We arrived at the BSU, and, God protect me, they were having a volleyball game!  Against my better judgement, I was coerced into playing that horrendous game yet again.

Then suddenly, Whap, right in the side of my head!  I got taken out by a spiked ball from some sadistic player across the net.  If I had been a cartoon character, I would have been covered with stars and chirping birds.  The culprit rushed to help me up and ended up walking me back to my dorm later that evening.  He turned out to be a tall, blue-eyed guy with a blond flat top.  We began dating, and the rest is history!  We now have two great looking blue-eyed, blond sons, and two adorable grandsons (and of course, two wonderful daughters-in-law as well).

It wasn’t until after we had been married for several years that Bill finally summed up the courage to tell me that he hated my beloved orange dress and thought it was hideous.  It was probably a good thing he didn’t tell me that sooner, or history might have taken a different path!

©The Eclectic Grandma, 2017

 

Favorite Skinny Dipping

The past couple of blogs have been a bit heavier in content.  Let’s take a look at a somewhat lighter topic today!  OK.  It’s true confession time!  How many of you will actually admit to having gone skinny dipping?  You do know what that is, right?  It is swimming butt-naked, usually with the connotation of doing it secretly.  Now I guess we have all done things that our parents didn’t know about.  This was one of my little adventures.

Camp Kiwanis YMCA

Somewhere in my mid-teens, my best friend June and I decided to give skinny dipping a try.  Now we were both strong swimmers and often participated in summer swim meets and classes.  She lived about a mile or two from me, and we often spent the night at one another’s house.  She lived in a somewhat more upscale neighborhood than I did with tall shade trees in the back yard and lush, green St. Augustine grass where you could actually walk barefoot outside.   I think I have mentioned before that our yard was a mix of weeds, a bit of Bermuda grass, and lots and lots of goats-head stickers just waiting to puncture anyone stupid enough to go barefoot in the yard.

Camp Kiwanis Grounds

June and I were inseparable buddies from the fourth grade all the way through high school,  What one of us didn’t think of, the other usually did.  I don’t recall whose idea it was initially, but we decided that we would sneak out of her house in the middle of the night and go swimming.  Her house was about a mile from Bachman Lake in Dallas.  One of our favorite activities was to hike all the way around the lake.  There was a YMCA camp next to the lake, called Camp Kiwanis.   Built in the twenties, it served decades of young kids and teens until it was finally closed and torn down in the nineties.  We used to go to summer camp there.  Activities included games, crafts, canoeing, and my favorite, swimming. We even had occasional swim meets with our peers and other Y groups and camps.

So, it was only natural that when we decided to go swimming au naturel, we should pick the familiar pool at Bachman Lake for our escapade.  I don’t recall the exact time, but somewhere about 2:00 AM or so, we donned our clothes and sneakers, and out we went.  To get over to the lake, we had to cross Northwest Highway, a busy four lane highway even in those days.  Luckily for us, it was very quiet with no traffic in either direction at that hour of the night.  Across the highway we went and then strolled along the grass and under the trees to the Y Camp and pool.  There were no street lights or any kind of security guards on duty.  Once again, lucky for us!

Once there, we quickly scaled the tall fence around the pool.   We discarded our clothes and quickly slipped into the dark, still water.  The total feeling of freedom with the cool water flowing along your body was a delight.  We swam leisurely back and forth the length of the pool multiple times, enjoying the darkness and the water.  When we had our fill of swimming, we dressed again.  We hadn’t bothered to bring any towels, so we just scrambled back into our clothes still dripping and retraced our steps back home again—over the fence again, along the dark quiet lake shore, across the highway, and back to bed.

Site of the old pool

I suppose if her parents had happened to look in on us, they might have wondered why our hair and the pillows were wet!  We didn’t do it again, just the one time.  Those were no doubt safer days with less to worry about!  As the adult looking back several decades later, I am somewhat surprised at myself that we actually did it!

Interesting side note to this story—as I was looking on the internet trying to see if the camp still existed, I actually ran into a Camp Kiwanis Alumni Facebook page with some old photos of that old camp.  Like my old elementary school that I wrote about a couple of months ago, it too is long gone.  The photographs that I have attached show the big old, white camp building, some of the tree-shaded grounds, and the outline of the now filled-in old pool where June and I did our infamous skinny dipping!

Ah!  The wonders of Google!  Isn’t it interesting that google has actually evolved into a verb in today’s lexicon!!

©The Eclectic Grandma, 2017