Are You Tour Worthy?

Where the hell are we?

We all have moments of stupidity like pushing on the out door to enter a store, but this post is for those who are tortured by Neanderthal behavior of tour group members whose personal quirks mar a trip. Thanks to the creativity of my tour friends Victoria, Jane, Carol, and Shirley, I am offering this assessment for determining if you will be an asset to a tour group or if you will evoke eye rolling and mumbled profanities.
The assessment tests three areas of your travel abilities… cognitive, social, and physical. Answer the questions below to find out if you are tour worthy or if you will be directed to other tour companies so my friends and I can travel with sanity.

Are You Tour Worthy?
1. What animal are you most like…a. cat, b. sloth, c. jaguar, d. sheep.
2. When you are get on an elevator, how long does it take to realize you’re not going anywhere…a. immediately, b. 2 to 3 seconds, c. until someone in the back asks if anyone has pressed the button, d. what’s an elevator?
3. How often do you smile? a. often, b. if someone tickles me, c. never, it will stretch my face lift.
4. My friends would describe me … a. as a barrel of fun, b. like a pickle in vinegar, c. thoughtful, d. people call me ‘Flat Line’.
5. My hearing is…a. fine, b. I have hearing aids that work, c. I don’t have to listen to the tour guide because everyone is happy to repeat what she said, d. my nickname is “Huh?”
6. When crossing a street do I …a. look both ways, b. stand just a tad beyond the sidewalk into the street, c. what the hell, traffic is supposed to stop for me.
7. As a tourist I dress…a. like a devil in Prada, b. in clean clothes most everyday, c. people call me ’Spot’, d. in my favorite T-shirt that says ”Speak English, Dimwit.”
8. When interacting with the other travelers…a. people are blessed with my presence, b. I like to hear what people have done and where they’ve travelled, c. I immediately hand out business cards with exaggerated career descriptions so people know they are traveling with someone important, d. are there other people on the trip?
9. How is my health? a. after a dinner of rice and beans I can clear a room in 30 seconds b. I have a bad cold/cold sore/flu but double dipping in the taco sauce is OK because tomatoes kill bacteria c. I cover coughs and sneezes.
10. When visiting churches and synagogues a. I like to point out the breasts on the statues of angels, b. I talk loudly because the acoustics are so bad, c. I am respectful of the religious atmosphere, d. my favorite comment for beautiful religious icons is “holy shit, that’s cool.”
11. On moving walkways a. I stand on the left, b. I wait 3 minutes to get on to be sure I have my balance, c. I stand on the right and walk on the left, d. I do like the truckers do, keep in the middle so people have to slow down and smell the roses.

Answers (give yourself 1 point for each correct answer):
1.d Yes, in travel groups, it’s better to be a follower

2.a  Duh!

3.a

4.a or c (If your answer is ‘d’ you might consider therapy)

5.a

6.a (subtract 1 for b)

7.b (if ‘c’ is your answer, look at the back of your pants)

8.b

9.c

10.c (subtract 2 for d)

11.c .
Score:
10-11 You can travel with us
9-8 Read about travel etiquette
7 or lower Please click on the link for travel agencies we WON’T be using. http://www.donttravelwithus.com

Not Long Enough

In Honor of My Parents’ Seventy-Second Anniversary

April 18

Four  middle-aged couples, myself included, sat at a dinner table littered with wadded napkins, half empty coffee cups, and spots of dribbled food. Our conversation ranged from football, to restrained politics, and finally to the foibles of marriage. We tossed around good-natured comments about the challenges of men and women living together.

“My wife never puts anything away in the same place,” said the surgeon for whom order is key to his professional life. His wife responded, “And your point is?”

The sports widow in the group said, “When men marry, their opposable thumbs should be removed so they can’t work the remote.” The women laughed appreciatively, and the men rolled their eyes.

When an anecdote struck home, the males high-fived their buddies, and the women elbowed each other with empathy.

One person in attendance was not part of a couple, however—it was my ninety-year-old father who had lost my mother three years previous. They had been married fifty-five years. Sharp- witted, and personable, my father was frequently included in the dinners of this “younger” group. When the conversation turned to how long each couple had been married, my friend Mary turned to Dad and asked, “How long were you and Jane married, Walter?”

He sighed. “Not long enough.” He took another sip of coffee and stared off somewhere into memories.

The collective “ahhh” from the women and the stunned look of the men reflected the enormity of my father’s three word response.

As the daughter and chief observer of my parents’ love affair, my mind has replayed the scenes that  revealed their appreciation for each other, and, even if they were together for a hundred years, they wouldn’t have been together long enough.

My earliest memories take me to my father’s homecoming from work each night. My parents would hug and kiss, a little too fervently I thought, and as witness of this affectionate event, I would scream out, “Ewww! Gross!” The more I protested their ardent display, the more enthusiastically they kissed. It was a game in which all the players knew what they were doing. I enjoyed my pronouncement of their uncomely behavior, and they, well, I’m sure they enjoyed the kissing.

My parents were also staunch supporters of one another, and they regularly complimented each other publicly and privately. Certainly there were irritations, but not many. My mother boasted that she never had to pick up after my father, and my father bragged what a great golfer my mother was. A long time smoker, she finally gave it up for him, and she cried her way through withdrawal. My father told her he wanted her around for a long, long time—quitting smoking was the bravest gift she ever gave him.

Yet, they were individuals. My mother liked to watch television, which my father called the “idiot box” and he would read in another part of the house where he didn’t have to hear the noise from some variety show. Many times, they canceled out each other’s votes during elections. And my mother’s most famous declaration was at the beginning of their marriage: “I married you for better or worse, but not for lunch.” Aside from grilling, he never learned to cook , but he could make a decent sandwich and pour himself a glass of milk.

My father always claimed that a portion of their happiness came from an encounter he had with a peat farmer during World War II. On leave, he and a buddy were exploring the English countryside dotted with peat bogs. They came upon a farmer who was harvesting the black gold. The farmer stopped and talked to them. “Do ya’ young fellas have wives at home?” he asked. My father answered “Yes,” and the farmer gave each of them a chunk of dried peat. “Take this home and burn it in the fireplace of your first home. You’ll have a long and happy marriage, I promise ya’.” My mother and father did have a happy union of some fifty plus years… just not long enough.

To celebrate all of our parents, what memories do you have of their love? Please share!

The N.R.A. I Knew and Want Back

I’ve been playing a lot of Solitaire to avoid writing this post, but a presence within me is tapping, no…pounding, on my conscience to speak up. I write this so that another voice is added to what I hope is the building thunder of a call to action. Enough is enough. We do not need assault rifles and high capacity clips for civilian use, and we shouldn’t allow unlicensed persons to sell arms, especially at gun shows. Neither of these opinions reflects a threat to a sane interpretation of the Second Amendment.

I am not against guns or against gun rights. I still have several N.R.A. badges and medals I earned in camps I attended as a child and teenager; my parents, my brother, my husband and many friends have or have had guns for sport. My brother used to be a police officer and he had weapons for serious uses, which he had occasion to draw but never had to fire. I am a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, so I am no stranger to the passion and purpose of establishing and defending a nation.

The slaughter of innocent children and their teachers in Newtown, Connecticut, is the latest in the assault on undeserving citizens in our country by mentally ill men brandishing assault weapons. They join the list of other victims in theaters, malls, colleges, as well as on the streets of our cities, held hostage by rampant crime made more likely because of easy access to assault weapons. The N.R.A. would have you believe that more weapons are needed, as in arming teachers to protect our schools. Columbine High School had armed officers, and that assault was not stopped. At the shooting of Gabriel Giffords, Joe Zamudio put his hand on the butt of his gun when he heard the shots, but as he got to the scene, Loughner had been tackled and was on the ground. Zamudio jumped on top of Loughner to make sure he would not get away (New York Daily News, 24 Dec 2012). These are just a few of the incidents where guards or concealed carrying citizens could not stop attacks by  gunmen yielding assault weapons.

The N.R.A. used to be an organization that promoted gun safety and marksmanship, but that all changed in the 1977 when Harlan Carter was elected executive Vice-President of the N.R.A.. With his guidance, the N.R.A. stopped being an organization of hunters and marksmen and began its climb to a powerful lobby that zealously defends its no compromise interpretation of the Second Amendment. It is big business.

So, I looked up the Second Amendment. It reads: “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” In District of Columbia v. Heller (2008), the Supreme Court ruled that the Second Amendment protects an individual’s right to possess a firearm unconnected to service in a militiaand for traditionally lawful purposes, such as self-defense within the home. That’s OK.

The N.R.A., however, sees any gun regulation as a threat to Second Amendment rights. Wait a minute. We have freedom of speech, but we can’t libel a person. We have the right of assembly, but we can’t club people in the crowd who disagree with us.

It is the blind, self-serving N.R.A. to which Americans must rise against. There is, for instance, a loophole that allows unlicensed sellers to sell arms to people without conducting background checks. These unlicensed sellers are prominent at gun shows and help arm criminals and “bad guys” (Wayne LaPierre’s term-LaPierre is the current Executive Vice President of the N.R.A.). A Google search on the “Gun Show Loophole” yields multiple studies that reveal the connection between unlicensed sales of guns and crime.

If you are a member of the N.R.A., help take back the organization’s reputation for responsible gun ownership. President George HW Bush resigned his lifetime N.R.A. membership in 1995 when LaPierre called federal agents “jack-booted thugs” after the Oklahoma City bombing. (See the full text of Bush’s letter at  http://www.nytimes.com/1995/05/11/us/letter-of-resignation-sent-by-bush-to-rifle-association.html. )

Refuse to listen to Wayne LaPierre’s fear mongering about threats to the Second Amendment. Informed citizens can and should be skeptical about issues, but healthy skepticism leads to research and fact-finding. It is the N.R.A.’s resolute rejection of any gun control that is so alarming.

For those of us who are not members of the N.R.A., help weaken the stranglehold that the N.R.A. has on any progress for sane, responsible gun control while honoring the Second Amendment appropriately for the 21^st century. I am sending this blog posting to my senator, representatives, and my President. Each voice can promote even a little bit towards “peace on Earth and good will towards men.”

Resources you might want to check out:

Brady Campaign http://www.bradycampaign.org/

Coalition to Stop Gun Violence http://www.csgv.org/

James E. Atwood, America and Its Guns: A Theological Expose

Mayors Against Illegal Guns http://www.mayorsagainstillegalguns.org/html/home/home.shtml

The Mourner in the Corner

Remembering the Father of My Children

On this Father’s Day, I am thinking of my children’s father, and  my children. At his funeral last December I was the “mourner in the corner.” Widows can weep openly,  but ex-wives ache–ache over lost opportunities, ache from the loss of a love once publicly declared and now privately mourned, ache over inadequate ways to comfort children who have lost their father.

Father’s Day involuntarily evokes memories of fathering, and today it is my ex-husband’s fathering, and loving, that brings on my tears. I sense his spirit saying to me, “Remember, Patti, when we were painting the nursery for Amy-to-be and we spilled nearly the whole gallon of paint on the carpet? Remember when Justin put a sequin in his eye so he could wear contacts like you?” I remember times like the family vacations we had to Florida and Myrtle Beach and the shared giggles when the kids’ father would bounce them in the ocean waves (and my maternal cry “You’re too deep, you’re too deep!”) Remember when, remember when…?”

When two people love each other but are horribly matched, they wisely take separate paths. But when one of them dies, the horribly matched part seems to expire with them, and the blessings remain. At least that’s what I’m experiencing. In our marriage ceremony the priest said, “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.” That phrase frequently haunted me, but now it has a new and comforting meaning for me. It’s Amy and Justin that are God’s creation and they will always be the children of Tom Baker and Patti.

To my children, I am crying with  you today.

Review of The Artist’s Eye

Available at Amazon.com

THE ARTIST’S EYE is a magical journey into small town mid-century America as well as an intimate glimpse into the art and life of Vernon Johnson. Its scholarly foreword entice the artist, the loving and skillful story told by the artist’s daughter reward the reader, and the paintings themselves fill the eye and evoke fond memories of the 50s.

This is a beautifully written and illustrated book about Vernon Johnson’s watercolors and how they came to life, why they became so coveted, and why they are celebrated today, almost a half century after they were created. Janis Johnson, the artist’s daughter, masterfully weaves her research, experiences alongside her father’s easel, and her own artful writing to present a visual and written treat for historians, watercolor artists, and anyone who wants to inhale the culture of mid-century America.

There are many quotes from the artist on the technique and challenges of watercolor. “I love color. You make color work in light, light and shadows…In watercolor, it’s pretty hard to improve, revise or change…The quicker you paint the panting, the more successful it is…I love the challenge…” Johnson would frequently work from photographs but visit the site during different times of day to observe color and shadow. Or, he would paint on site and use photographs in his studio for checking detail. When painting Pitkin’s Corner, people saw him perched on an adjacent roof top, easel and brushes ready, waiting for the perfect light.

THE ARTIST’S EYE is also a visual documentary of architecture that ranged from Victorian mansions to mid-century ranch-style. His attention to architectural detail and his ability to capture the soul of a home made his paintings a must-have for many Mount Vernon families. Those paintings now grace the mantels of their children and grandchildren and hang on the walls of banks and museums.

Vernon Johnson’s daughter, Janis, applies her own art of storytelling to make THE ARTIST’S EYE a compelling read. It is a book to have off the bookshelf and onto a table where a person can stop, pause, and take the book in hand for a moment or for an hour. It will be time well spent.

Uncommon Christmas Stories

 

We’ve all read the sugary stories of what Christmas means, seen movies where Santa is guided by angels to know which child needs what, and reminisced about candle lit manger scenes. The photo on the left is one of my favorite Christmas moments when my son Justin used cotton snow bunting to make a Santa beard and his big sister Amy tried to butter up the Jolly Ol’ Man for bigger and better presents. That’s the sweet side of Christmas.

However…our human condition evokes our basic emotional and physical needs that we may try to meet in uncommon or desperate ways. “We are only human” are words people use when  they’ve done something not quite worthy for a spot on NBCs edition of ‘Making a Difference.’   Yes, those baser actions happen during Christmas, too, as evidenced by the song lyrics “I tied a knot in sister’s hair, somebody snitched on me and…I’m gettin’ nuttin’ for Christmas, ’cause I ain’t been nuttin’ but bad.”

Every Christmas, the memories of my own transgressions come tapping on my shoulder to remind me that I, too, took advantage of the season’s opportunities for greed, gluttony, and manipulation–all conducted, of course, when I was a mere child. Let me explain.

When I was about five years old, I lay in bed on Christmas Eve with my eyes wide open and my brain on full alert. The anticipation of the imagined bounty under the tree was just too much to bear, and my heart pounded with chocolate induced wakefulness. I waited an eternity between glances at the clock only to discover that only two minutes (or less) had passed with each hopeful look.  Because my parents gave issue to an exceptionally bright child, I was able to hatch a plan. “If I can turn the clocks ahead,” I told myself, “then Christmas morning will come earlier.” I sneaked into my parents’ bedroom and evaluated the soundness of their sleep. Not a creature was stirring, as they say. I carefully plucked the alarm clock off their night stand and turned the hour hand from the 11 to the 12. Satisfied, I went back to bed only to realize that Christmas morning was still too far away for an anxious child to bear. Two more trips back to the crime scene finally had the hour hand at seven…the allowable time for rushing to the tree.

“Wake up, it’s seven!”  My brother and I took about twelve and a half minutes to tear through our packages. Dad commented on how dark it was outside and Mom said she didn’t understand why she felt so groggy. My father went to the kitchen to make coffee, and he saw the clock, the clock that read 3…AM. I didn’t think to turn all the clocks ahead, and I was busted. My brother denied any participation in the ruse even though I had kept him apprised of my progress throughout the night. I’ll let you imagine the rest of the story.

Another time my cousins and I were at the kids’ table at my grandfather Rudin’s house. The oldest cousin Frank had graduated to the big person’s table, and the rest of us felt quite ignored. While the adults (and Frank) talked quietly midst the soft sounds of forks on porcelain china, we were getting a little rowdy. My cousin John was really getting on my nerves about something minor, I don’t remember the issue, but I do remember feeling that I had heard enough. To shut him up, I slammed one of the table’s decorative Christmas carolers into his ice cream.  John was furious, but speechless, so my attack worked. The downside was that my action didn’t feel as rewarding as I had anticipated. In fact, I felt pretty stupid.  My cousins looked at me with pity; I was never going to get to the big person’s table with that kind of behavior.

Both of these incidences taught me something, however, as most encounters with our human condition do. 1) If you’re going to stick your neck out, cover all your bases, and 2) Don’t mess with someone’s ice cream–it shows the world what a child you are.

How about you? What uncommon Christmas memories do you have?

 

Embracing the Good

My children’s father lies in a coma, stricken by a stroke in his brain stem.  Although we are no longer tied by marriage, and we are each happily married to other people, our children are like double-sided tape–they bond us in some way forever.  If they are mourning for their father, I am mourning with them, and I assume he would do the same. That’s what parents do.

This I know. Their father loves his children deeply. He thanked me for his daughter when Amy was born. He thanked me for his son Justin. He did his share of diapers (in the day when we washed them, yuck), and both  kids inherited his sense of humor. He gave my kids great aunts, uncles, and cousins that I, and they, still love to this day.

Divorce is never easy, but loving your children prompts us to act like grown-ups, and we worked at helping our children respect both their parents.

Their father and I met when I asked him to sit beside me in Latin class so this really weird guy wouldn’t. What can I say?! He was eager to please.

Our life journeys don’t always take us where we think we should go. In the hospital waiting room last week we talked about the ups and downs of life, divorce, and broken whatevers. In an unusually profound moment for me–jacked up on diet Coke and any chocolate I could find–I said to my kids, “Life is a lot like families. You can’t avoid the bad, but you can embrace the good.”

Their father has given them a lot of good.