I'll Take Manhattan (But Only if There’s No Other Choice)

Carolyn J. Rose

 Some people love the hustle and bustle of cities. They love the crowds, the action, the sounds, the smells. They relish the sense of opportunity, of possibility, or even danger.

I’m not one of those people.

Perhaps it’s because I grew up in the country where the woods began at the edge of the lawn and the wild lands of the Catskill Mountains were a short hike beyond that.

Perhaps it’s because I’m just two inches past five feet tall. In a crowd, I see shoulder blades and shirt collars. I feel trapped. I get short of breath and dizzy. I want to scream and run, but there’s no place to go.

Perhaps it’s because I’m—in the words of my husband and others—a control freak. In a crowded city, almost everything seems out of my control.

There are great restaurants and theaters and museums in large cities. But no meal is so terrific, no performance or exhibit so amazing, that it can alter my visceral reaction.

So give me tall trees instead of tall buildings. Give me millions of grains of sand on a beach instead of millions of people in an urban area. Give me a view of mountains or a lake or a river instead of a view of my neighbor’s living room.

You take Manhattan. I’ll take a walk.

Snow Day!!!

February 7, 2014

Carolyn J. Rose

Schools closed two hours early yesterday here in Vancouver, Washington. Students and teachers were urged to get home quickly and safely. I didn’t need any prodding and was grateful that my commute was a mere three miles, very little of it uphill. There were few cars on the road and no one honked at me to move faster than what I considered to be a safe speed.

The snow piled up quickly and the bulletin soon went out—no school on Friday. Even though a school cancellation means no pay for a substitute teacher, I felt a jolt of joy, that sense of having received a gift, getting a “free” day when I hadn’t expected one.

In the Catskill Mountains where I grew up, the five inches that fell here might not have been enough to call off school. The snow days I recall were due to more accumulation of heavy snow, or freezing rain, or the dire threat of both. There were many snowy mornings when we hovered close to the battered radio in the kitchen, waiting for the announcer to repeat the closings, hoping to hear Onteora included on the list, certain there had to be a mistake if it wasn’t.

My mother, a school nurse, would cheer along with us when a snow day was called. For her, though, it was hardly a “free” day, not with three kids wanting lunch, tracking in snow, leaving wet clothing in heaps, and abandoning dirty dishes everywhere. And my father, who ran a small construction company, would go to work as usual—after plowing his way to the county road and clearing the lanes to relatives’ houses.

There won’t be anyone plowing our street—city crews manage the main roads, but ours is hardly that. So I may have a “free” day, but my choices of how to spend it will be limited by how much traction my tires can get.

Oh, say, I can see.

By Michael Nettleton 

Wednesday, I willingly let another human being cut open my eyeball. Okay, okay he was a doctor and all, but still, the prospect terrified me. Being basically a major chicken, I had visions of all kinds of dreadful things happening including: excruciating pain, double, no triple vision, total blindness, (even though he only operated on one eye) and sudden death. 

The bandage came off today (For 24 hours or so, I looked like some kind of hapless pirate wannabe).

Aaaaarrrr

But, guess what? For the first time since I was 5 or 6 years old the vision in my left eye is full strength, without the aid of glasses, contact lenses, or the Hubble Telescope. Ain’t science a wonderful thing? Even if it proves global warming is real even though you don’t want to believe it.

        

If you receive a diagnosis of cataracts in one or both eyes, don’t panic. The operation is fast, painless and quite routine. Dr. Kim, the wizard who choreographed mine through Vancouver Eye Clinic’s surgical facility, has performed so many of these, and can whip them out so fast, they’re considering opening a drive-up window. Then, you could also get fries and a large cola to accompany it. (Disclaimer for the terminally gullible. I made that up.) 

They use the twilight anesthesia, so all I remember about the procedure is the friendly nurse saying they were going to hook up the IV, a series of flashing lights, the low murmur of voices and my wife telling me it was time to go home. (All of this is not unlike my memories of the years 1967-1972) 

The nurses reassured me that I was a good patient and even told several jokes while Dr. Kim worked his magic. I have no memory of it. I hope I didn’t mess up the punch line. 

 Weird as it may sound, I look forward to a diagnosis of milky eyeball (cataracts) in my right eye, so I can have it corrected and leave the contact lenses behind forever. I will have traveled from that coke-bottle lens bespectacled little boy, to my destination as a clear-visioned, sharp-as-a-tack, lean-bodied senior citizen. (For the terminally gullible, I made the sharp-as-a-tack, lean-bodied part up, too). What a long, strange, fuzzy trip it’s been. 

This all plays into my master plan to live forever. So far, so good.

To Those Who've Gone On, We Salute You

By Mike Nettleton

 They say a sign of getting old is knowing more dead people than those who are living. I don’t know if I’ve gotten there yet, but I find myself inexplicably drawn to the obituaries these days. 

The local newspaper just ran the yearly list of notable who passed away in 2013. Some of them, I knew about. Others came as a surprise. I’d either skipped reading the paper or watching the news that day, or it had slipped what’s left of my mind.(A regular occurrence)

Some of the deceased were important players on the world’s stage, like Nelson Mandela, a man of incredible courage, intelligence and capacity for forgiveness. Or, long-time UPI White House correspondent Helen Thomas, whose blunt and penetrating questioning could make even the most poised world leader sweat bullets. But the names that caught my attention this year were somewhat lesser figures, but whose contributions had an impact on my life in some way, shape or form.

Annette Funicello. 70-Mouseketeer turned sex symbol. As teenaged boys, we flocked to the next “Beach Party” flick to see if she’d finally hear our psychic pleading and wear a two-piece swimsuit.

Andre Cassagnes 86-The guy who invented the “Etch-a-Sketch". Just one of the many toys, I never got the hang of, along with erector sets, Mr. Potato Head and paddle ball. (The rubber ball kept hitting me in the head).

Jonathan Winters 87-Wild man comedian who could, without fail, make me blow a recent mouthful of Coke up through my nose. He could take any ordinary object and improv on it with hilarious results.

Charles, “Chuck” Foley 82-The inventor of the game “Twister.” Genius, really, a way to legitimize groping one another in the name of good clean fun. An ancestor of twerking. 

Lou Reed. 71-He didn’t exactly sing, he just kinda talked rhythmically. Who can stop smiling when they hear: “and the colored girls sing doot-dee-doot-de-doot-de-doot-doot,” from “Walk on the Wild Side?

Peter O’ Toole. 81-One of my all-time acting faves. His scenes with Katherine Hepburn in A Lion in Winter rank as the state of the art hilarious on-the-screen most creative bitchiness ever filmed. Nominated 8 times for an Oscar and never won.

Honorable mentions include Chrissy Amphlett, lead singer of the punk group Divinyls, famous for “I Touch Myself,” James Gandolfini “Bada bing-badda-boom," and C. Everett Koop, the Amish-looking surgeon general who helped nag me into stopping smoking.

That’s the list. I’m ready to stop looking back and leap into 2014. Chief among my resolutions, “stop procrastinating (a holdover from last year), Take singing lessons and audition for the Metropolitan Opera, and finally, master paddle ball and the etch a sketch.

 

Going Gray – Part II

August 29, 2013

 Carolyn J. Rose
 

December 8, 2013

"It’s not bad now,” my hairdresser said as she trimmed off split ends a few weeks ago, “but it’s going to get scary when you have more gray showing.”

Scary?

Since my decision to stop coloring my hair cut into her income, I didn’t expect her to applaud and cheer me along.

But scary?

I found myself tipping my head to get a better view of the process underway since the end of the summer. Yes, there’s a definite line of demarcation. Yes, it’s obvious I haven’t been touching up the roots. Yes, it’s clear that there are strands and streaks of gray and even white.

But is that scary?

And if so, why?

Because we fear aging, fear the wrinkles and sagging and graying? Do we see those things not as symbols of wisdom and experience, but simply signs that time is passing and we’re no longer young?

If so, is that fear rooted in opinions about outward appearance? Is it based on what the makers of cosmetics and creams and diets and exercise programs tell us?

Or is the fear deeper, primal, coded into our DNA? Is it a fear of loss of ability and power and place in society? Is it fear about what comes next?

I have no idea. Do you?

SO MANY WORDS, SO LITTLE TIME

I’ve always loved words. Early on, I would remember words I heard on television or radio, or from grown up conversations and try to work them into my own spiel at a later date. Several times, repeating words I heard my father’s friends say in “guy” bull sessions earned me a corner table at the Lifebuoy Soap cafe, with the entree delivered by my mother. If you catch my drift.

My enthusiasm for the sound of words may have contributed to my career choices: semi-professional radio pronouncer and disk-jockey (reinforced by my love of music) and later on, writer of stories, books and doggerel. To this day, I continue my life-long habit of incorporating fun-to-say words into my day-to-day speech. Words such as: marginalia, kumquat and brap-a-dap-a-dap-a-dap.

Etymology, in itself a fun word to wrap your lips around, sounds like it should be the be the study of someone’s dining habits as in “I et last night at Tommy O’s and the night before I et at that Russian sushi joint over on Maybe Street. But, as I’m sure you know, etymology is the study of word origins. 

The internet is a wonderful place, allowing us to dig for information on a wide range of subjects. Occasionally, the excavated facts are even true. This is a great boon to a dedicated amateur etymologist like me.  Here are a sampling of my current favorite words and a brief explanation of their roots. 

·       hornswoggle—meaning to embarrass, disconcert or confuse. Nobody’s quite sure, but  they think it was one of those farcified words settlers in the American West liked to invent to confuse the tourists.

·       bamboozle—A cousin of hornswoggle. To practice trickery—to take advantage of someone. Again, they’re not sure, but think it might have spun off the Scottish word “bumbaze.” If you’ve had a few “wee drops” of single malt and a mouthful of haggis, it’s easy to see how it could evolve.

·       Unctuous—a favorite because it’s so perfectly descriptive. It means excessively smooth, suave or smug. With a side order of insincere. The word comes from Middle Ages Latin.

·       Wanker—This one is British slang. Used as a pejorative. Shows disdain for the person described.  It’s roots are 19th century British working-class and derives from a form (ahem) of self gratification. Thus the verb form “to wank.”

·       Snogging—another British slang tongue tantalizer. It mean’s kissing, cuddling and perhaps anything short of actually tummy bumping. The roots are uncertain but first turned up amongst U.K. hipsters in the late 50’s.

·       Pejorative—Expression of disapproval or contempt. Roots are Latin and adapted by the French because it was fun to pronounce through your nose. 

·       Loofah—sounds like it should be some sort of exotic sports chant, doesn’t it? Yes, the Samoans have scored again here at the exfoliation bowl and their fans reward them with their trademark cheer: “loofah, loofah, loofah.” It’s called the vegetable sponge and is the fruit of the Luffa plant. Arabic in origin.

So, now, it’s your turn to etymologize. Remember, if you can dazzle ‘em with footwork, baffle ‘em with B.S. Share a fun-to-say word or two in the comments.

Designing a Coat of Arms

Carolyn J. Rose

A few years before he died, I watched my father using a drill to shave away a sixteenth of an inch of plasterboard in a bathroom ceiling.

My father was a carpenter, so this wasn’t an act of born of ignorance. Rather it was an act of expedience. The exhaust fan almost fit. It was almost time for lunch. He was almost out of patience. Using the drill was quicker than going to the garage for a saw.

“If our family had a coat of arms,” I told him when the fan was in place, “it would have a picture of a man using a drill for a saw.”

“And a picture of a woman holding a drill behind her back while denying she’s done the same thing,” he shot back.

True. I had done that. Several times. I am, after all, my father’s daughter.

A few days ago I recalled that incident and started thinking about what would be on my coat of arms if I had one.

 I doodled a shield on a piece of scrap paper and traced the outline of the Catskill Mountains across it. I was born in those mountains, and they are ever in my mind.

I divided the shield into quadrants and, in the top right one, sketched a grove of white birches between a stone wall and a meandering stream.

In a second quadrant, I drew a camera and a television to symbolize my 25+ years in TV news.

In a third, I roughed out a stick figure holding a drill in honor of my father and to represent all the home repair projects I tackled—some successful and some downright disastrous.

Finally, I drew my husband, my dogs, and a pile of books. Then, in the interest of honesty and full disclosure, I added a sack of cheesy snacks.

I am, after all, still my father’s daughter. And we never met a cheesy snack we didn’t like.

If you had a coat of arms, what would you put on it?