Indiana Oh Indiana

I usually don’t endorse products, especially those on my blog or on Facebook, but I have a talented friend, Susan, whom I have known for more than fifty years, who now lives in Washington, D.C., where she arranges hotel reservations for groups and organizations and creates her own line of earrings.

Though Susan didn’t ask me to help promote her jewelry, I chose to do it because of her talent as a designer and, frankly, because of our old friendship. I’ll include some basic info with some photos of earrings Susan has recently designed.

Earrings $8 to $20 plus $3.50 shipping. Free shipping on orders above $50. No website but can send photos. All wires are sterling, only real gemstones (like garnet, labradorite) used. Will do custom work. Will repair and refurbish. Can turn old necklaces into updated dazzlers.

E-mail is the best method for contacting Susan and placing orders:

Email: SusanJaneFinch@gmail.com

She does beautiful work.   JB

There are few people more skeptical of technology than I. Despite claims by computer and cellphone manufacturers that we are more “connected” than ever before, I remain suspicious that we can too easily become delusional over the ease of using the polyester substitute for language through text messaging and the quick but impersonal forwarding of gang mail increasingly and insensitively. I am indeed a critic of an electronic civilization that seems to have been designed like a very fast sports car without seatbelts or brakes.

However, perhaps beyond any possible explanation, I have become an advocate of Facebook for the positive effects I have enjoyed there. Though there have been myriad complaints about lack of privacy, as well as about legal issues such as copyrights, I find on Facebook an enormous jigsaw puzzle of human interest, regarding any number of subjects from grandchildren to the best recipes for pumpkin pie. Because we get to choose our “friends,” there is on some level a shared scope of memory and values, even though we can also disagree and debate on any subject we choose mutually.

Sometimes Facebook becomes a large book of condolences over occasional hard times affecting individual members or groups, or tender consolation over the loss of loved ones, and in the honoring of those who have left us. There are photos of friends and relatives, pets, gardens, vacations, and comic situations that remind us that we are all prone to predicaments from time to time, as in having an uncle, who gets drunk at the family Christmas gathering, or having a pot of cooking rice boil over onto the kitchen floor. Those little incidents of daily life begin to form a huge mandala of the human situation in its inspiring, annoying, breathtaking, silly, loving, beautiful panorama of who we are as a species from day to day.

For me Facebook has been a place of happy reunions with many former students from the past forty-five years and a place for reconnections with lost friends and acquaintances with whom I have shared parts of my life but from whom I have been separated by circumstances of geographic relocation or occasionally frantic transformation of situation or revelation. At any rate, Facebook, in some extraordinary, inexplicable way, seems to provide some sort of anchor in our collective journey through the seasons of life, including those signposts about everything from birth to the grave, and if one has chosen well his or her friends, there will be a sympathetic bond that transcends electronics and the otherwise often impersonal or virtual world we have created through technology. That irony can give us hope.   JB

The other evening while visiting friends in Northwest Indiana, I had dinner with a few of them in a beautiful Mexican restaurant in Munster, a building that used to be the Town Hall. The staff was wonderful, and the food was absolutely delicious and plentiful. I was, however, unable to ignore a trio of diners in a booth across from our table. Sitting there were a man, who appeared to be in his late twenties, a beautiful woman his age (perhaps his wife or girlfriend), and an elderly woman of great dignity, handsomely dressed. My attention was drawn to the three only because they seemed utterly disengaged each from the other two. The young man was texting furiously even after his dinner was brought to him, the younger woman was playing games on her cellphone, as the older woman sat patiently as though she were a complete stranger. Not a word was spoken within the trio, as the games and texting continued, fingers taking little breaks only to ingest bits of the lovely food that had been served. The three might as well have been in separate rooms, separate states, or separate countries. At the same time, there was a look of supreme boredom on each of the three faces, as though all were going through the motions of patience in being with their companions. I felt most sad for the elderly woman, who had no toy to play with or other person with whom to chat.

This scene I have noticed being played out over and over again in restaurants and waiting rooms almost everywhere I go over the past few years. From where does such boredom and terrible rudeness come? Why have electronic images, texting, and games taken precedence over other human beings, who are in the same room or at the same table? We are becoming more and more desensitized in being beguiled by little devices that make the rest of the world around us simply disappear. Though I don’t think people really intend to be callous, they seem unaware that such behavior is uncivil at best. Such discourtesy compromises who we are and who we can be in a society that is becoming increasingly “virtual” and impersonal, despite the unending messages by phone and computer companies that we are all “connected.”

I’d like to think that I’m not alone in my concern that simple manners and consideration for others around us are fading into a colossal discourtesy so prevalent that it is not even noticed anymore by most people under the age of forty. The group with whom I had dinner that evening also noticed the lack of etiquette at the other table and were as appalled as I was at the apparently hardened, unfeeling behavior that came from ignoring others at their shared table. I’m not sure what can be done about such numbed social graces, but I can hope only that most people can figure out for themselves that they need to treat their companions with more respect and more kindness than to show that a text message, electronic game, or cellphone call is more important than being human. Finally, the problem may not even be a matter of social correctness as much as an issue of being conscious of how we ourselves would like to be treated in the same circumstances.   JB

I believe that being grateful is a natural part of being human. We may have to learn how to express and channel that reaction to kindness or help, but gratitude is innate in our species, as it is in other groups of the “animal” kingdom.  There are recorded cases of birds remembering who mended their broken wings, cats and dogs retaining memories of who saved them from starvation or cruelty, lion and tiger cubs recalling rescuers many years afterward.

For human beings gratitude is necessary for true happiness and a full sense of life. To be grateful is to be more aware of the joy in being alive, that powerful emotion that tells us life itself is a wonderful gift, which may even be what happiness itself is in the broadest sense.

In terms of religious doctrine and practice, human beings might use the adjective “thankful” to express a heightened sensation of appreciation or that feeling of being “beholden” for things that make life more beautiful or meaningful, like the birth of a healthy child, a reunion with an old friend, or the healing of a wound, whether physical or emotional. The idea of God seems a perfectly natural recipient of our thanks, the concept of God taking many forms in the many religions of the world. Though we humans do not often do well with nameless abstractions, it is still possible to feel a sense of thankfulness on some level without an act of worship. Dozens of  the world’s religions all claim to be the “true” ones, each with its own passionate argument about the real road to enlightenment or even salvation, but one thing they all seem to share is the need to feel and express being thankful for the unfathomable gift of life.

In our time we face a materialistic world of “things,” gadgets, machines, electronics, and generally venal values that many people actually believe determine their worth as human beings. The more we accumulate, the more spoiled we become and the more we want, until we lose sight of what are more essential things, like devotion, loyalty, love, generosity, compassion, and friendship. Some compare their wealth and that of others, sometimes holding on tightly to the illusion of entitlement based upon their having worked harder, having been more “godly,” or just smarter. At last they realize that mere “things” are not as important as they may have thought, even the smallest of which cannot be taken to the grave.

It has often been my experience that those with the least material possessions are also the ones most thankful for whatever they have. Maybe that’s because there is also a keen awareness of the frequent absence of even material necessities, let alone pleasures. The other side of this coin is that wealth can reach a point at which one has so very much in terms of material possessions that those “things” become blurred in an ever-upward climb toward more and more, so that the more things there are, the less they mean.

We’ve all complained about life’s little twists and turns. I’ve caught myself asking, “Why me?” when cutting myself shaving…a week after which I should also have been asking the same question about the healing of that cut. The bottom line is one of awareness of the good around and inside us, even on our saddest and worst days.

Whether or not one believes in an omnipotent and sympathetic creator, there remains an empty or hollow space in every life that can be filled only by gratitude, expression of that awareness of life as the most extraordinary and miraculous of gifts. Maybe we can and should look at those we love and at the beauty of the natural world whenever it manifests itself in a flower, a tree, a sunrise or sunset, and know that being alive is truly a remarkable thing. Such awe is perhaps finally what thankfulness really is, and happiness too.   

I dedicate this little essay to my friend and former student, Joe Guerra, whose recent expressions of gratitude on Facebook were so inspiring to all who read them.   JB

           CURRIED PUMPKIN SOUP

Ingredients:  

1 med. onion, chopped
1/4 cup butter or olive oil

1 29 oz. can Libby’s cooked pumpkin puree (not pie filling)
1 large can chicken or vegetable broth or your own stock
 1 tsp. sugar or honey
 1 bay leaf
 1 tbsp. good curry powder (or to taste)
 1/ 8 tsp. nutmeg
 1 tbsp. dry parsley
 2 cups milk (2% or whole milk)
 1 cup heavy cream
 1 tsp. salt
 freshly ground pepper (to taste)

****************************************************
Saute chopped onion in butter until onion is tender and transparent.
Stir in all other ingredients except milk and cream.  Simmer for about
fifteen minutes.  Then use blender (or immersion blender, which is
so much easier) to puree mixture until creamy smooth.  Finally, add
slowly the milk and cream while stirring.  Continue to heat until desired
temperature.   Serve with a crisp French bread or your own croutons.
*Freezes well

Stubborn Remnants of Childhood

We all have childhood memories, some of which we actually share. It’s wonderful when a friend says about something from many years ago, “Oh yeah, I remember that too!” Having grown up in Northwest Indiana, I find it difficult now as a resident of both Colorado and Florida to find people, who recall some of the same things with which I grew up, especially from the 1950’s.

There have been times when people looked at me as though my top floor were completely unfurnished after my heartfelt descriptions of things like TV shows from that early era. For instance, there was in 1956 and 1957 an afternoon television program called, “Susan’s Show,” starring a twelve-year-old with a brunette page boy hairstyle, who showed Popeye cartoons and conversed with a library table named Mr. Pegasus, whose only drawer was the mouth through which he spoke, the drawer moving in and out to the sound of his voice. I’m not making this up!

For years I thought occasionally that I had merely imagined some of those Hoosier entertainments, but now in the age of Google and other means to achieve instant research success, there is photographic proof that I have not just fabricated those characters.

Another Chicago-based children’s TV program from 1952 until October of 1976 was Garfield Goose and Friends, a show with puppets as characters depicting an ongoing narrative about a goose named Garfield, who thought he was king of the United States of America. This fantasy was bolstered by the other characters like, Chris, nephew of Garfield, who was born on Christmas Day (Christmas Goose), a sleepy bloodhound named Beauregard Burnside III, Romberg Rabbit, and Macintosh Mouse. The only actual speaking character was Frazier Thomas, the accommodating “prime minister,” who humored Garfield’s egocentric delusions by wearing a royal jacket with gold epaulets and many sparkling medals. The Little Theater Screen showed cartoons, like Clutch Cargo. Who would believe all this unless he has seen it for himself?

Then there was a program called, “The Happy Pirates,” a noontime confection with two guys dressed up as friendly pirates, who sang, danced and showed cartoons, like Felix the Cat. One of the pirates was Two-Ton Baker, who would often sing, “I’m a Lonely Little Petunia in an Onion Patch.” I’m not kidding!

There were other more famous kids’ shows, like Soupy Sales, Howdy Doody, and Pinky Lee, a live TV show on which I saw Pinky having an actual heart attack one afternoon during his funny dance routine, which the next day was front page news all over the nation.

I have other memories of a collection of strange little books, a series by Betty MacDonald called Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, who was a kind of nanny with cures for every juvenile behavior problem from not picking up one’s toys to bullying. The story that haunted me for many years was called, “The Radish Cure” about a little girl named Patsy, who absolutely refused to take baths or wash herself until she was encrusted by dirt so thick that Mrs. Piggle Wiggle planted radish seeds in Patsy’s arms, legs, and on her head while she was asleep. Of course, the radishes sprouted until Patsy looked like a mobile vegetable garden. Horrified, Patsy eventually began taking baths twice a day. In the year 2000 I finally found and purchased that entire series of these bizarre little stories and use them now to prove I didn’t just dream them up myself.

All of us keep recollections of childhood that are the most arresting, but perhaps we don’t share them after we “grow up” and become, ”level-headed” and more rational, afraid that others may think we are weird (which with any kind of luck we actually ARE). Nevertheless, those memories stay with us in one way or another, sometimes lingering just below the surface of our consciousness. They remain forever as parts of who we are.    JB

I’m guessing here that I’m not the only one whose life saunters merrily along until that moment when I discover after opening the refrigerator door that the contents have become a no man’s land of chaos and unidentified life forms packed so skillfully together that the remaining spaces could be measured only by a micrometer.

My thrifty nature is responsible for much of the problem. If, for example, there is a cup of cooked rice left from chop suey, a smidge of spaghetti sauce, a fragment of mushroom omelet, the mere memory of a pork chop, or crumb of cheese, my brain concocts an instant fantasy of gourmet creations for later, worthy of the Food Channel. If I were to turn loose the contestants on the cable cooking show, “Chopped” on the contents of the fridge on any given day, their resulting culinary creations could probably feed a small village for several days.

If I had the time and inclination to clean out the fridge contents today, I would have to discard such things as a jar of capers from 2008, which has no doubt capered its last, a container of what may be either plump raisins, or old radishes, and some geriatric celery too old and limp now even to stand on its own without crutches.

I’m certain that there may be bacteriologists somewhere, who if they directed their full attention and funding to the study of that fridge’s contents, might find cures to any number of current diseases, not to mention the discovery of any number of fascinating new illness-causing microbes. Who knows? So before I roll up my sleeves and put on my medical mask to clean out the many remnants and recollections of those former meals, maybe I should pause to consider the possibility, however remote, that something like that little container of expired tomato soup could provide a cure for cancer or diabetes. Who am I to dismiss such a possibility by throwing it away? I’ll clean the garage first.

Finally, I would like to think that when I die, if my body is found at home, having expired from starvation due to an empty but perfectly clean refrigerator, my dream would be that the fridge is at last pristine in its lack of any leftovers and that those who find me will be impressed beyond measure if they look inside it. “Well, this guy was certainly clean and organized, Pete. Look at the inside of this fridge. There’s nothing there. Cleanest one I’ve ever seen!”       JB

We’ve All Been There

No one has a “perfect life.” There is simply no such thing. All the people whose lives I think are “better” than mine never broadcast their grief, sadness, disappointment in life, their sense of loss or regret…but they ALL have these things in varying degrees. One thing I’ve learned is to look at the good things in my life and to shun the regret and self-pity that I could so easily have quite often about deaths of family and friends, not being rich, not being a famous author, not having health insurance, etc. Such thinking would render me a manic depressive…or worse. Every morning when I wake up, I ponder briefly just before getting up what and whom I have in my life that makes getting out of bed a good thing. I have woes, like everyone else, but dwelling on the absence of what I think might make life more heavenly is a waste of time and yields only a nonproductive melancholy that has no purpose in my getting on with things. One of my favorite quotations is, “Life is filled with doors to open or close….and rooms we cannot go back to.” Thinking too much about those doors we can no longer open or the “rooms” we can’t go back to serves no purpose except to create a ponderous sense of regret that impedes living in the present with whatever good things are there. I don’t know if any of this makes sense, but these thoughts help to keep me at times from being put into a padded cell at Shady Pines.   JB

No one stays the same. We all change over time, especially in this age of rapid technological development. The past thirty years have taken me from LP records to CD’s, from VHS tapes to DVD’s, from a primitive Commodore computer to a powerful PC, and from network television to streaming and Netflix.

The most fascinating and most useful achievement in electronics to me is the GPS (global positioning system). I’ve been using and updating my Garmin for the past four years and become rather dependent upon it locally and especially for cross-country driving. It must be understood here that Helen Keller would make a much better pathfinder than I ever could. Hence my dependency.

I’m assuming that because GPS mechanisms depend upon satellite signals, all those devices work pretty much the same way. I chose a female voice with a British accent as my navigator and named her Abigail because of a wonderful biography I read a few years ago by David Mc Cullough about John and Abigail Adams, two of my favorite characters in the history of our country. Abbie’s voice has a realistic human timbre with an accent somewhere between those of Margaret Thatcher and Mary Poppins, and I find myself talking to her and even apologizing when I miss a turn as she says, “Recalculating.” I also lose my temper occasionally when Abbie tells me to make an impossible U-turn in the middle of heavy traffic on an expressway. She will also sometimes say things like, “Now keep right and then keep left,” or “Now keep left and then keep left.” I don’t even know what those directions mean. How does one change from left to left, or right or right?

And then occasionally Abbie will be silent for frighteningly long periods, when I imagine her napping or stepping out for a coffee break or a couple of martinis. Then suddenly she will inject a new direction, providing a sense of relief and renewed faith that she hasn’t abandoned me. In the end I always reach my destination, which only increases a dependency that thirty years ago I couldn’t have imagined. Now I’ve reached a point at which I practically need the GPS to find my car keys.    JB

The term “oldster” irritates me, probably because it is supposed to represent that stratum of society of which I am now a member. The word sounds demeaning, at least to me, perhaps because it is the polar opposite of the word “youngster,” which as a ten-year-old child, I disliked because I was beginning to crave being taken more seriously. Both terms are meant to imply an affectionate dismissal with a pat on the head, as though for a puppy or a very old dog. Funny how our perspectives change over time, even though, in some ways, we end up pretty much where we started, if we live long enough.

Though I taught high school for thirty-five years, I have come to that juncture in my life, where I find it awkward to be around teenagers. A case in point was a dinner I attended three weeks ago at the lovely home of friends in downtown Denver, an interesting gathering including two vegans, the host and hostess (both gourmet cooks), my partner Jim and me, and two nephews of the host, one a high school junior and the other a sophomore. Jim managed to engage both boys in a surface conversation about gaming at War Craft, and Star Wars. The eyes of both boys lit up briefly. The rest of the evening neither boy said anything much, except an occasional “No” or “Uh huh,” despite the rest of us trying hard to draw them into conversation. Both boys are intelligent, doing all right in school but confined by what seem to be narrow boundaries of interest in or knowledge of reading or news about the world around them. This, of course, is not rare.

Maybe I’m complaining about something that has always been the case, though I do expect teenagers to know something about current events beyond the fluffy, personal revelations of Facebook. I didn’t want to grill the kids beyond asking what they liked to read, what they enjoyed best about school, and what their keenest interests were. Shrugs were the pat responses to those inquiries. I mean, teenagers have always been figuratively “a different species,” but I remember having wonderful discussions and debates with terrific feedback from the teens in classes I taught. Of course, it has been ten years since I was still a school teacher, so it may be that since that time teens have retreated ever more deeply into that tiny world of iPhones and the artificial preservative of texting that has, in many homes across the country (and world), replaced actual conversation and other human contact as we once knew it.

Then again, I do remember the dormitory in college. We didn’t have raves or crowd surfing, but much of what we did then wasn’t fodder for conversation with adults either. The rope harness my roommate created to sneak onto the third floor of the girls’ dorm, the contests in the study lounge to see who could break a wooden plank over his head, the chugging competitions with whisky smuggled inside dozens of English Leather men’s cologne bottles, and contests in the main dormitory lounge to see who could tumble over the big ottoman most like Dick Van Dyke ( one guy broke his collar bone in a valiant attempt to emulate Van Dyke). No, I too must have remained silent during many adult conversations with aunts, uncles, grandparents, and my parents’ friends, when asked what I was up to.

Maybe teens haven’t changed as much as I imagine they have. After all, the world of teens is still a citadel, where adults are foreigners, or at least tourists or trespassers. Even with a temporary visa, an adult can feel as dull in a teen’s environment as the teen can feel in the world of adults, where cocktails and politics remain alien territory.   JB