Today of course is, "What are you grateful for?" The list for most folks is typical: my family, my health, my job. If it's not too far beyond the pale, nevertheless, my list, in no particular order:
1. I'm grateful any day I wake up and the world doesn't spin. Sufferers of vertigo know exactly what I mean. For a control freak like me, nothing is worse for making a person feel miserable and out-of-control. Take it from me. If you don't suffer from vertigo, be grateful.
2. I'm grateful for people at my job -- co-workers, customers -- who care, offer their friendship, their companionship, and allow me to care for them. I'm lucky to have them and even though, like most of us, I complain about my job, and sometimes, my customers and co-workers, not a day goes by that I don't feel warmed by at least one moment, one exchange sometime during the day. And I know a lot of people can't say that; I'm grateful that I honestly can.
3. My cat, the ever-handsome, ever-sweet, ever-mischievous Simba. During a very black, but mercifully brief time a year ago, it seemed for awhile that Simba was the only one who loved me. (And, boy, am I grateful that that time was brief; I can't imagine feeling that misunderstood, disrespected, unappreciated and abused all the time). But I am fortunate to have an affectionate kitty who licks my face and literally hugs me. Yes, I'm lucky!
4. Even though she frequently annoys the crap out of me, I'm grateful to have my mother still alive and kickin' at age 75. She's my role model for growing old, if not gracefully, at least with spunk, spirit, and defiance. My mother follows the (Eight Is Enough TV family) Bradford formula of living: shoot from the hip, (often with highly amusing results) and then (maybe) say you're sorry later. She's lost 166 lbs. since 2008, gotten totally off diabetes and blood pressure meds; she walks, to date, 25 minutes a day on the treadmill (and adding every week), and she reads voraciously, works very hard at nurturing connections with her friends. Dreading the iron of her mind rusting into dementia, Mother deliberately watches crime shows and reads subject matter specifically designed to keep that mind active. She frequently opines that even though a person may be old in years, "they don't have to act old," and believe me, she saves much of her choicest disdain for those who "act old". But, Mother, we can't all wear Old Navy Rock Star skinny jeans in colors like purple and red -- especially when we're 75!
5. I'm grateful to live in America. The average citizen has a lot of opportunities he may not have elsewhere, the standard of living is high, and we have lots of choices. A safety net to catch us should we become the victim of bad luck or choices. Are we the best country in the world? That's in the eye of the beholder. Do some abuse the safety net? Absolutely. Are we guilty of laxness, softness, taking some benefits for granted? IMHO, damn skippy. But I've talked about that in other posts. My very vocal regard for personal responsibility stands. As does my gratitude.
6. I'm grateful for the opportunity to air my thoughts on this venue, and to know that you are reading those thoughts. Whether you agree or disagree, I'm fortunate to be able to communicate with you and know that I have been heard, by someone somewhere out there. And maybe that I've touched you or made you think. And this blog is my record, a way of saying, "Claudia was here." Having not had children, it's very important for me to leave something that will hang around awhile. Once it's on the Internet, it's forever, right?
That's my list. I hope we all, in our secret hearts, take a second or two, and really think about our list sometime today. And maybe every day. I believe what we feed, grows. I hope the good stuff in your lives continues to grow.
Good vibes to all of you,
Claudia
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
Passing The Torch
Today is the 50th anniversary of the assassination of John F Kennedy.
As is the case every year, but most especially this anniversary, the inevitable: pictures, films, stories, memories. Every city, every person, it seems, citing an individual connection to the awful theme.
And this, as in every year, come the inevitable questions: Was there more than one shooter? Was Kennedy the victim of a conspiracy? And if so, who were the conspirators? What if Kennedy had lived? Is there a Kennedy curse?
It is not my intention to participate in the above. Instead, I'd like to share a memory, (not of the assassination or of JFK, but his brother, Ted) and issue a challenge.
In my life I have met no one as taken by the Kennedy Mystique than my friend, Scott. So, picture it: the fall of 1983, both of us fresh out of high school. Scott hears that Massachusetts Senator Edward M Kennedy will be appearing at the Gold Room of the Allegheny County Courthouse on November 21, for a hearing on world hunger. This event will be open to the public. Would I, his ever-so-frequent partner-in-crime, like to attend and, perhaps, snag an autograph?
Would I!
I remember very little of the event itself, only that it took place in the early afternoon on a rather raw and chilly Pittsburgh day and was, therefore, not widely attended. I do remember Kennedy's startled reaction to a dropped briefcase, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room -- you can't tell me the impending 20th anniversary wasn't on his mind. But he wasn't wallowing, he was out doing good.
Scott and I did get to meet Ted Kennedy, who seemed to me very tall with humongous hands. It may be very hard for those who know me now to believe this, but I was at that time pretty shy (my Plaza persona is often, by turns, mischievous, boisterous, and shall we just say, assertive) and could not manage a word to this Famous Person (even though he was humanized somewhat by a spot of Wite-Out-type correction fluid on his face), while Scott effected the most adroit of discourses.
Eventually, everybody left the room but Scott and me, and we began to scavenge, uh, collect, yes, that's the word. Scott got Ted Kennedy's coffee cup, and I got his pointer. (Get your minds out of the gutter, I'm talking office equipment here). Thirty years later and I still have it, along with his autograph. A great memory and the closest we ever got to Camelot.
Ah, Camelot! 1000 days of a presidency that still haunts us. It appears to me that America was cruising along, high on dominance in two World Wars, in a postwar boom. It seemed like there was nothing that American ingenuity and muscle couldn't accomplish. Then two Kennedys and Martin Luther King, Jr. were assassinated, the complications and consequences of Vietnam and Watergate came to our awareness and suddenly, the world as we knew it ground to a screeching halt. And to me, it just feels like it all started with the assassination of JFK.
We can debate the rest, but John Kennedy could make a speech, couldn't he? In his Inaugural Address on January 20, 1961, Kennedy talked of a torch being passed. We in my age group are almost at that place now, with children that are or almost are adults. Are we happy with the world we are leaving them? What would we like to change about it? Do our children know they can affect change? Do they know how to? These, and many more, are questions we must ask ourselves as we prepare to pass the torch. Aren't these much more important than the other questions we usually ask anew this day every year? I submit that answering them, and following up with real actions that resonate with our value structures, and teaching our children to do the same, will do more to honor our 35th president than the way we customarily spend this day each year. If you agree with me, I hope to see you in the trenches.
Good vibes to all of you,
Claudia
As is the case every year, but most especially this anniversary, the inevitable: pictures, films, stories, memories. Every city, every person, it seems, citing an individual connection to the awful theme.
And this, as in every year, come the inevitable questions: Was there more than one shooter? Was Kennedy the victim of a conspiracy? And if so, who were the conspirators? What if Kennedy had lived? Is there a Kennedy curse?
It is not my intention to participate in the above. Instead, I'd like to share a memory, (not of the assassination or of JFK, but his brother, Ted) and issue a challenge.
In my life I have met no one as taken by the Kennedy Mystique than my friend, Scott. So, picture it: the fall of 1983, both of us fresh out of high school. Scott hears that Massachusetts Senator Edward M Kennedy will be appearing at the Gold Room of the Allegheny County Courthouse on November 21, for a hearing on world hunger. This event will be open to the public. Would I, his ever-so-frequent partner-in-crime, like to attend and, perhaps, snag an autograph?
Would I!
I remember very little of the event itself, only that it took place in the early afternoon on a rather raw and chilly Pittsburgh day and was, therefore, not widely attended. I do remember Kennedy's startled reaction to a dropped briefcase, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room -- you can't tell me the impending 20th anniversary wasn't on his mind. But he wasn't wallowing, he was out doing good.
Scott and I did get to meet Ted Kennedy, who seemed to me very tall with humongous hands. It may be very hard for those who know me now to believe this, but I was at that time pretty shy (my Plaza persona is often, by turns, mischievous, boisterous, and shall we just say, assertive) and could not manage a word to this Famous Person (even though he was humanized somewhat by a spot of Wite-Out-type correction fluid on his face), while Scott effected the most adroit of discourses.
Eventually, everybody left the room but Scott and me, and we began to scavenge, uh, collect, yes, that's the word. Scott got Ted Kennedy's coffee cup, and I got his pointer. (Get your minds out of the gutter, I'm talking office equipment here). Thirty years later and I still have it, along with his autograph. A great memory and the closest we ever got to Camelot.
Ah, Camelot! 1000 days of a presidency that still haunts us. It appears to me that America was cruising along, high on dominance in two World Wars, in a postwar boom. It seemed like there was nothing that American ingenuity and muscle couldn't accomplish. Then two Kennedys and Martin Luther King, Jr. were assassinated, the complications and consequences of Vietnam and Watergate came to our awareness and suddenly, the world as we knew it ground to a screeching halt. And to me, it just feels like it all started with the assassination of JFK.
We can debate the rest, but John Kennedy could make a speech, couldn't he? In his Inaugural Address on January 20, 1961, Kennedy talked of a torch being passed. We in my age group are almost at that place now, with children that are or almost are adults. Are we happy with the world we are leaving them? What would we like to change about it? Do our children know they can affect change? Do they know how to? These, and many more, are questions we must ask ourselves as we prepare to pass the torch. Aren't these much more important than the other questions we usually ask anew this day every year? I submit that answering them, and following up with real actions that resonate with our value structures, and teaching our children to do the same, will do more to honor our 35th president than the way we customarily spend this day each year. If you agree with me, I hope to see you in the trenches.
Good vibes to all of you,
Claudia
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
A Little Holiday Cheer...
Just for the hell of it, I thought it might be fun to step out from behind the hidey-hole of where I work just this much:
Coffee Paradise has a yummy drink called the Caramel Apple Spice. It's a hot non-caffeinated beverage consisting of Cinnamon Dolce Syrup, steamed apple juice, whipped cream, and caramel drizzle. Very popular in the autumn. When the components for the new holiday drinks came in, I fell to theorizing, and experimenting, and came up with a variation I call the Holiday Apple Spice. I tried it out on many of my co-workers, and, convinced of my success, submitted it to The Secret Menu. I hope you'll look it up on http://starbuckssecretmenu.net/starbucks-secret-menu-holiday-applespice/
and go to your local Coffee Paradise and give it a try. I can't guarantee you (non-alcoholic) Christmas spirit in a cup, but I wouldn't bet against it, either. Happy Holidays, and stay tuned -- I think I have a special holiday frappuccino in me, too. I'll keep you posted!
Good vibes to all of you,
Claudia
Coffee Paradise has a yummy drink called the Caramel Apple Spice. It's a hot non-caffeinated beverage consisting of Cinnamon Dolce Syrup, steamed apple juice, whipped cream, and caramel drizzle. Very popular in the autumn. When the components for the new holiday drinks came in, I fell to theorizing, and experimenting, and came up with a variation I call the Holiday Apple Spice. I tried it out on many of my co-workers, and, convinced of my success, submitted it to The Secret Menu. I hope you'll look it up on http://starbuckssecretmenu.net/starbucks-secret-menu-holiday-applespice/
and go to your local Coffee Paradise and give it a try. I can't guarantee you (non-alcoholic) Christmas spirit in a cup, but I wouldn't bet against it, either. Happy Holidays, and stay tuned -- I think I have a special holiday frappuccino in me, too. I'll keep you posted!
Good vibes to all of you,
Claudia
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Say What?
So the news has broken today that the NCAA has reversed its earlier scholarship penalties against Penn State University for alleged cover-up in the Jerry Sandusky child molestation scandal.
http://espn.go.com/college-football/story/_/id/9716482/ncaa-reduce-penalties-penn-state-regarding-jerry-sandusky-child-sexual-abuse-matter?src=mobile
Coach Bill O'Brien is, I'm sure, very delighted that he will now have 75 scholarship football players on his team in 2014, 80 in 2015, 85 in 2016, and back up to his full complement in 2017. Also, NCAA president Mark Emmert indicated that more scholarship cap reductions could be forthcoming a year from now. NCAA officials also mentioned that the post-season ban punishments could be revisited. Emmert, as the article mentions, was quick to insist that the reductions occurred not because it was felt they were too severe, but because those maintaining vigilance over this situation have decided that Penn state has done its due diligence in a good-faith effort to implement most of 119 recommendations issued by former FBI director Louis J Freeh in his eponymous report, issued more than a year ago, that led to the NCAA's punishments.
I have scoured the available outlets for reactions to this news, and besides what I consider to be the appropriate response, namely that this is a travesty of justice, a slap in the face to sex abuse survivors everywhere, I also saw a handful of other reactions quite repetitively, which I will list, with my responses underneath in red:
1. "Good! Now restore the vacated wins and the chance to play in bowl games!"
Are you freakin' kidding me??!! Hardly worth dignifying with a response; if I had one, it would be something along the lines of, "I really hope none of your near and dear ones is ever the victim of a sexual crime, because I fear your return from the planet you are currently on will then be a particularly bumpy ride".
2. "The NCAA didn't have a right to punish Penn State. This was not an athletic matter; this was a criminal/state/civil matter and the NCAA overstepped itself by sticking its nose in".
The abuser was a member of the athletic department, the whistle blower, Mike McQueary, was a member of the athletic department, and Tim Curley, one of the alleged cover-up artists in this scandal, was the head of the athletic department. Some of the abuse took place at the athletic complex of the University and on trips involving the athletic department. PSU belongs to the NCAA, which organizes the athletic programs of its members and in turn, the members agree to follow the rules and regulations set forth by the NCAA. "Ah," some of the commenters said, "Penn State didn't violate an NCAA rule by having a coach showering with, and behaving sexually inappropriately with boys at the Penn State facility and elsewhere, so the NCAA has no jurisdiction in this case!" Well, The Plaza has no rule specifically against me donning a chicken head, moving tables in the lobby and doing gymnastics on its dime, either, but you can best believe that if I did, I'd expect my lovely 16-year tenure there to come to a speedy and abrupt halt. It is just understood that we must conduct ourselves a certain way when we work/hang out somewhere and if we don't, some entity will appoint itself to make sure we don't work/hang out there anymore. It certainly should be understood by a reasoning individual that if there are no specific rules in the NCAA charter against sexual abuse, the NCAA will still punish this because most reasoning people understand that no one should sexually abuse anyone, particularly an adult should not abuse a child; no self-respecting university would want to be known as Ped State; and no governing body, such as the NCAA, would want to be affiliated with such a member university without taking a moral stand on its own behalf. What is wrong in the world that this has to be explained? But if a school doesn't like the punishments levied for wrongdoing, let them feel free to leave the NCAA, or file suit against them. And any fan who doesn't like the NCAA's punishments can feel free to quit watching college football.
3. "The athletes and alumni of Penn State are innocent -- why should they be punished because some administrators failed to do their jobs?"
I addressed this previously in my post Hopeful, Part 2. The football players with scholarships at PSU had choices. Most players talented enough to be recruited by a Division 1A school have lots of choices. How many choices did the victims have? I said, "...what about all the thousands of students, employees and others who benefited all these years from an opulent football program that prospered on the backs of at least ten innocent abused boys?...I believe the message Penn State and our society in general needs to receive here is to get our priorities in order. Football is not more important than education. And nothing is worth the sacrifice of one precious soul to abuse. Nothing!!" (As proof of the first part of my observation, interestingly, a PSU student commented today that the effects of the sanctions had trickled down to the non-athlete alums as well. Why do we not acknowledge the benefits they accordingly reaped during the time the abuse and alleged corresponding cover-up transpired?) I went on to say that many innocent people in our society are sacrificed to sexual abuse, such as a survivor's partners and children, because we have not risen up righteous to rid ourselves of it yet. I wish I heard nearly as much sympathy for them as for the innocent athletes and alumni at Penn State!
4. "Sandusky had left PSU as coach in 1999; nobody at the university should be considered responsible for anything he did there after that".
When Jerry Sandusky retired, Number 5 on his list of requests as part of his benefits package was to have "access to training and workout facilities". Joe Paterno's response: "Is this for personal use or 2nd Mile kids? No to 2nd Mile. Liability problems." Yet University President Graham Spanier overruled that opinion, granting Sandusky the emeritus status that allowed him to bring children to Penn State grounds long after his official retirement to abuse them, as Mike McQueary witnessed. Are we to believe that nobody who knew his history saw him there with kids? This is why, as much as I would like to believe in Joe Paterno's innocence in allowing this matter to perpetuate, I just can't quite let him off the hook. What I think is more likely is that he was getting older, being perceived as a has-been in the coaching biz, he nonetheless tried to exercise his influence in this matter, but his influence had wound down. And I doubt that he was the only one who knew and saw. My experience with molestation tells me otherwise. And I also still can't get past the fact that none of these mandatory reporters, including Joe, notified the proper authorities at any point.
5. "Well, since Penn State is catching a break, why not USC with the Reggie Bush incident? All he did was get a little rent money."
Hmmm, you may have a point. I don't know as much about the USC thing as the PSU scandal, only what I have read today. But based on what I have read, I think the punishments of both schools ought to stand.
6. "Why should Penn State be punished when even a couple of the victims said they shouldn't be?"
Gee, what a great idea! Tell ya what, while we're at it, from now on, we'll just eliminate jury trials -- they're so expensive, such a bother, and no one really likes to miss work to serve on a jury. From now on we'll just ask the victim, "What do you think we ought to do to his guy who molested you and 99-299 other kids?" Blood and body parts would run in the streets.
All sarcasm aside, as a survivor I can tell you, at this stage of the game the two overriding thoughts these victims have is: How soon can all this weirdness be over and I get my life back? (And the answer, from my experience is, life as you knew it is over forever. Prepare for the New Normal. Get yourselves some supportive people around you, people you can call at 2 AM, crying; who will never get tired of hearing you talk about this subject; people who will hold you and never let you go. They'll be tough to find, if you can find them at all, but worth it when you do. You'll need them). And the second is, as mentioned in Hopeful, Part 2, some of these kids had death threats levied at them. What the hell did you think they would say?
It goes without saying I am deeply disappointed in the decision of the NCAA. Another case of money talking. The message to society: Sex abuse is no big deal. Money is more important. The message to sex abuse victims: Nobody cares. You don't matter. Your pain and suffering are nothing.
Well, you do matter and I care. Recently, I became aware of the possibility of yet another molester (for a grand total of three) in my extended family. I am fed up to HERE with the prevalence of molestation in the world and the totally impotent attempts to end it. I have decided to do something to try to help all victims, which I have alluded to in the final paragraph of Hopeful, Part 1. I will have more details for how those interested can help after I assemble a plan and a team.
More Later,
Claudia
http://espn.go.com/college-football/story/_/id/9716482/ncaa-reduce-penalties-penn-state-regarding-jerry-sandusky-child-sexual-abuse-matter?src=mobile
Coach Bill O'Brien is, I'm sure, very delighted that he will now have 75 scholarship football players on his team in 2014, 80 in 2015, 85 in 2016, and back up to his full complement in 2017. Also, NCAA president Mark Emmert indicated that more scholarship cap reductions could be forthcoming a year from now. NCAA officials also mentioned that the post-season ban punishments could be revisited. Emmert, as the article mentions, was quick to insist that the reductions occurred not because it was felt they were too severe, but because those maintaining vigilance over this situation have decided that Penn state has done its due diligence in a good-faith effort to implement most of 119 recommendations issued by former FBI director Louis J Freeh in his eponymous report, issued more than a year ago, that led to the NCAA's punishments.
I have scoured the available outlets for reactions to this news, and besides what I consider to be the appropriate response, namely that this is a travesty of justice, a slap in the face to sex abuse survivors everywhere, I also saw a handful of other reactions quite repetitively, which I will list, with my responses underneath in red:
1. "Good! Now restore the vacated wins and the chance to play in bowl games!"
Are you freakin' kidding me??!! Hardly worth dignifying with a response; if I had one, it would be something along the lines of, "I really hope none of your near and dear ones is ever the victim of a sexual crime, because I fear your return from the planet you are currently on will then be a particularly bumpy ride".
2. "The NCAA didn't have a right to punish Penn State. This was not an athletic matter; this was a criminal/state/civil matter and the NCAA overstepped itself by sticking its nose in".
The abuser was a member of the athletic department, the whistle blower, Mike McQueary, was a member of the athletic department, and Tim Curley, one of the alleged cover-up artists in this scandal, was the head of the athletic department. Some of the abuse took place at the athletic complex of the University and on trips involving the athletic department. PSU belongs to the NCAA, which organizes the athletic programs of its members and in turn, the members agree to follow the rules and regulations set forth by the NCAA. "Ah," some of the commenters said, "Penn State didn't violate an NCAA rule by having a coach showering with, and behaving sexually inappropriately with boys at the Penn State facility and elsewhere, so the NCAA has no jurisdiction in this case!" Well, The Plaza has no rule specifically against me donning a chicken head, moving tables in the lobby and doing gymnastics on its dime, either, but you can best believe that if I did, I'd expect my lovely 16-year tenure there to come to a speedy and abrupt halt. It is just understood that we must conduct ourselves a certain way when we work/hang out somewhere and if we don't, some entity will appoint itself to make sure we don't work/hang out there anymore. It certainly should be understood by a reasoning individual that if there are no specific rules in the NCAA charter against sexual abuse, the NCAA will still punish this because most reasoning people understand that no one should sexually abuse anyone, particularly an adult should not abuse a child; no self-respecting university would want to be known as Ped State; and no governing body, such as the NCAA, would want to be affiliated with such a member university without taking a moral stand on its own behalf. What is wrong in the world that this has to be explained? But if a school doesn't like the punishments levied for wrongdoing, let them feel free to leave the NCAA, or file suit against them. And any fan who doesn't like the NCAA's punishments can feel free to quit watching college football.
3. "The athletes and alumni of Penn State are innocent -- why should they be punished because some administrators failed to do their jobs?"
I addressed this previously in my post Hopeful, Part 2. The football players with scholarships at PSU had choices. Most players talented enough to be recruited by a Division 1A school have lots of choices. How many choices did the victims have? I said, "...what about all the thousands of students, employees and others who benefited all these years from an opulent football program that prospered on the backs of at least ten innocent abused boys?...I believe the message Penn State and our society in general needs to receive here is to get our priorities in order. Football is not more important than education. And nothing is worth the sacrifice of one precious soul to abuse. Nothing!!" (As proof of the first part of my observation, interestingly, a PSU student commented today that the effects of the sanctions had trickled down to the non-athlete alums as well. Why do we not acknowledge the benefits they accordingly reaped during the time the abuse and alleged corresponding cover-up transpired?) I went on to say that many innocent people in our society are sacrificed to sexual abuse, such as a survivor's partners and children, because we have not risen up righteous to rid ourselves of it yet. I wish I heard nearly as much sympathy for them as for the innocent athletes and alumni at Penn State!
4. "Sandusky had left PSU as coach in 1999; nobody at the university should be considered responsible for anything he did there after that".
When Jerry Sandusky retired, Number 5 on his list of requests as part of his benefits package was to have "access to training and workout facilities". Joe Paterno's response: "Is this for personal use or 2nd Mile kids? No to 2nd Mile. Liability problems." Yet University President Graham Spanier overruled that opinion, granting Sandusky the emeritus status that allowed him to bring children to Penn State grounds long after his official retirement to abuse them, as Mike McQueary witnessed. Are we to believe that nobody who knew his history saw him there with kids? This is why, as much as I would like to believe in Joe Paterno's innocence in allowing this matter to perpetuate, I just can't quite let him off the hook. What I think is more likely is that he was getting older, being perceived as a has-been in the coaching biz, he nonetheless tried to exercise his influence in this matter, but his influence had wound down. And I doubt that he was the only one who knew and saw. My experience with molestation tells me otherwise. And I also still can't get past the fact that none of these mandatory reporters, including Joe, notified the proper authorities at any point.
5. "Well, since Penn State is catching a break, why not USC with the Reggie Bush incident? All he did was get a little rent money."
Hmmm, you may have a point. I don't know as much about the USC thing as the PSU scandal, only what I have read today. But based on what I have read, I think the punishments of both schools ought to stand.
6. "Why should Penn State be punished when even a couple of the victims said they shouldn't be?"
Gee, what a great idea! Tell ya what, while we're at it, from now on, we'll just eliminate jury trials -- they're so expensive, such a bother, and no one really likes to miss work to serve on a jury. From now on we'll just ask the victim, "What do you think we ought to do to his guy who molested you and 99-299 other kids?" Blood and body parts would run in the streets.
All sarcasm aside, as a survivor I can tell you, at this stage of the game the two overriding thoughts these victims have is: How soon can all this weirdness be over and I get my life back? (And the answer, from my experience is, life as you knew it is over forever. Prepare for the New Normal. Get yourselves some supportive people around you, people you can call at 2 AM, crying; who will never get tired of hearing you talk about this subject; people who will hold you and never let you go. They'll be tough to find, if you can find them at all, but worth it when you do. You'll need them). And the second is, as mentioned in Hopeful, Part 2, some of these kids had death threats levied at them. What the hell did you think they would say?
It goes without saying I am deeply disappointed in the decision of the NCAA. Another case of money talking. The message to society: Sex abuse is no big deal. Money is more important. The message to sex abuse victims: Nobody cares. You don't matter. Your pain and suffering are nothing.
Well, you do matter and I care. Recently, I became aware of the possibility of yet another molester (for a grand total of three) in my extended family. I am fed up to HERE with the prevalence of molestation in the world and the totally impotent attempts to end it. I have decided to do something to try to help all victims, which I have alluded to in the final paragraph of Hopeful, Part 1. I will have more details for how those interested can help after I assemble a plan and a team.
More Later,
Claudia
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
A Little Good News
Thirty years ago, Canadian singer Anne Murray won a Grammy for a song entitled "A Little Good News". The songwriter opined that when you dial in for your nightly dose of local news, weather, sports, etc., the vast majority of what you'd see and hear would be bad news, and
How I want to hear the anchorman talk about a county fair/
How we cleaned up the air/How everybody learned to care.
How many of us feel the same?
So when I opened up an email from my local Plum-Oakmont Patch yesterday, I expected the usual: area arrests, construction, the typical divisive commentaries about the upcoming election, etc. Instead I had the privilege of reading about little Kylie.
Kylie was 8 years old May 6, and she had a birthday wish. I know, you're saying, let me guess, she wanted games, toys, a humongous cake, a pizza party with a pony.
No, Kylie wants water for the people of Rwanda. Yes, you read that right, water for Rwanda. No, I don't think I'll explain any further -- Kylie can do that much better than me -- this is Kylie's page, I hope you'll pay it a visit: my.charitywater.org/kylies-birthday-wish
Not a dry eye in this house, I can tell you. What an inspiring little girl! I will be donating to Kylie's Water Campaign this Thursday when I get paid, and I pray you'll join me.
"And a little child shall lead them".
Good vibes to all of you,
Claudia
How I want to hear the anchorman talk about a county fair/
How we cleaned up the air/How everybody learned to care.
How many of us feel the same?
So when I opened up an email from my local Plum-Oakmont Patch yesterday, I expected the usual: area arrests, construction, the typical divisive commentaries about the upcoming election, etc. Instead I had the privilege of reading about little Kylie.
Kylie was 8 years old May 6, and she had a birthday wish. I know, you're saying, let me guess, she wanted games, toys, a humongous cake, a pizza party with a pony.
No, Kylie wants water for the people of Rwanda. Yes, you read that right, water for Rwanda. No, I don't think I'll explain any further -- Kylie can do that much better than me -- this is Kylie's page, I hope you'll pay it a visit: my.charitywater.org/kylies-birthday-wish
Not a dry eye in this house, I can tell you. What an inspiring little girl! I will be donating to Kylie's Water Campaign this Thursday when I get paid, and I pray you'll join me.
"And a little child shall lead them".
Good vibes to all of you,
Claudia
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Why, Oh Why Did You Leave Me?!!
Interestingly enough, my experience, as well as anecdotal evidence I've collected while doing some research for this post, has led me to the unhappy conclusion that many companies suffer from considerable long-term memory loss concerning discontinued products. Or perhaps they have a shortage of employees past legal drinking age who suffer from lack of curiosity and research savvy, but on two occasions I have written to companies about their products that I miss and was told "we have no record of that product". Alas, perhaps Claudia and a few others live in a parallel universe with cookies, sodas, and other sundries that those in this universe never had access to. Nah nah nah nah nah! Or maybe we're all just suffering from the same mass hallucination.
Anyway, in hopes that happy memories of some of your favorite products may be jogged, submitted for your consideration are some of my favorite discontinued products, in no particular order:
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1. Agree Shampoo and Conditioner - This very fragrant hair care duo promised to "banish the greasies". I don't know about that, but it had a one-of-a kind delectable scent that lingered all day. We all were provided a sample during a hygiene unit in health class, and I was an enthusiastic consumer until sometime in the 90's when the formula was changed. The original formula is still available on eBay from time to time, but the cost being prohibitive, the Agree experience resides in my memory only..JPG)
2. 7-Up Gold - This amber-colored soda, redolent with various spice flavors, came out in the late-80's and accompanied me on many a trip to my job at a local senior-care facility. I almost always walked to work, and the summer of '88 was a scorcher, with 90-degree F. days and high humidity being the norm from June into August. I would start out with a full frosty can, and finish my trek with a lukewarm empty one half a mile later. Awesome!.JPG)
3. Sunspray Coast - This was a yellow striped bar that smelled, I think, quite similar to Sunflowers perfume, with maybe a citrus undertone. Like Agree, the fragrance lasted all day. Haven't seen this anywhere since our local Hills department stores went out of business sometime in the 90's. Damn, wish I had stocked up!.JPG)
4. Lipton Almond Pleasure Tea - I discovered this during a short stay with my aunt and uncle in early 1987. My mother and I had gone up to visit New Year's afternoon. We did receive an early warning about a predicted snowfall, and my mother, who always hates to drive in the snow, promised we would leave long before the flakes flew, but you know how it is when you get to visiting. Owing to my drunken attendance of a New Year's Eve party, I was already sleep-deprived; we were invited to stay over at AuntandUncleland once the snow began in earnest, so I spent a second night short on sleep, staying up with my cousins watching the snow. The community that they lived in was finally dug out of the snow early our third day there, and I awoke with a cold. My cousin, Joy, entreated me to pamper myself with some of this tea, insisting that it would make my throat feel so much better. It did, and I conned her out of a few bags to take home. It was an herbal tea, so no caffeine, but what indulgent almond flavor! I don't know exactly when the name change occurred but it was sold until around 2000, give or take, as Lipton Almond Dessert Tea. A reasonable facsimile can be fashioned by adding, to your taste, some DaVinci Amaretto Syrup to your favorite tea -- white tea produces the closest match according to my palate. Not quite the same, but it makes me miss the original a little less!.JPG)
5. Big John's Beans 'N Fixins - Sublime whether heated through or not, these beans were actually two cans taped together -- the top (smaller) can contained onions and bacon housed in a tangy BBQ sauce; the bottom can had the beans in (very little) liquid. These beans were flavorful, seasoned just right, and not runny. My god, how much time and money I've spent doctoring up the sorry excuse for baked beans the competitors turn out these days!.JPG)
6. Avon Honeysuckle Perfume - Although I enjoy Bath and Bodyworks Honeysuckle scent, it's missing a little special something Avon's had -- maybe just my ten-year-old self's innocent nose -- but wasn't Avon's Honeysuckle a little sweeter?.JPG)
7. Oatmeal Raisin Chex - Tasted good, good for you, these came out in the late 80's, probably (I'm just guessing here) part of a campaign not to let Quaker Oats and General Mills reap all the rewards of the newly-discovered benefits of heart-healthy oats on cholesterol. These had plenty of raisins and a good oat flavor, and stayed pretty crispy in milk.
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8. Team Flakes - Speaking of non-sog, this cereal's commercial slogan was "Stays Crunchy Right To The Bottom Of The Bowl!", and it did! Made of corn, wheat, oats and rice, this cereal had a not-too-sweet flavor that kept it popular for years. Not popular enough, unfortunately, to survive the corporate acquisition feeding frenzy that reached a fever pitch in the late 80's/early 90's. .JPG)
9. Post Toasties - Post's much crispier answer to Kellogg's Corn Flakes. In the 70's and early 80's, my parents, in their infinite wisdom, decided it would be fun to get an RV and go to various area campgrounds and spend weekends. Let it be said that Claudia never enjoyed this endeavor and was grateful when this practice ended after their separation in '81. The last three years, we actually had a permanent lot in Slippery Rock, PA, where we parked the trailer and spent every weekend from May to September. While our local Foodland supermarket didn't carry Post Toasties or Team Flakes, the Golden Dawn near the Yogi Bear Campground did, so I ate these two cereals primarily at camp. 
10. Orudis KT - This was the OTC version of Ketoprofen, a wonderful NSAID. In my long war with back crankiness and stiffness, and a short-term grumbly shoulder battle, this worked almost as well as Day-Pro (Oxaprozin), and much better than either Celebrex or Relafen. After the flurry of concern over cardiovascular events associated with prescription NSAIDs like Vioxx, Celebrex, and Bextra, Orudis was taken off the market by Wyeth Pharmaceuticals in August, 2005, despite the FDA assuring that it was "not withdrawn from sale due to reasons of safety and effectiveness". Many of us miss it.
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11. McDLT - "Hot side hot, cool side cool", MickeyD's magic slogan in the late-80's. As long as they sold it, which was not long enough, I got the McDLT every time we went to McDonald's. My poor friend Scott and the drive-thru girl had to break the unhappy news on the unfortunate day, and my tears fell like rain. OK, maybe I exaggerate just a tad, but not much. The hot side had the burger; the lettuce, cheese, tomato, and mayo were on the cool side. Depending on who you believe, the McDLT fell victim to either its environmentally-unfriendly polystyrene packaging; the laziness of customers who protested having to (gasp!) put the sandwich together(!); or the possibility that some McDonald's locations didn't invest in the proper equipment which would have kept the hot side any warmer than warm. One big, fat raspberry from Claudia...
12. Long John Silver's Fried Oysters - (No pics for this one - sorry, gang. If anyone finds one, please reply to this post with a link for me, I'd certainly appreciate!) Again, poor Scott and the counter girl were the bearers of bad news. For a few brief shining years, I could get fried oysters regularly, without having to wait for Mother's annual Christmas oyster soiree, and Scott would eat chicken planks. Scott would get my share of the hush puppies, and I gorged on Scott's french fries. And then Long John's ruined my life (sniff, sniff). OK, another exaggeration. I've always wanted to try their lobster bites, but until the last 27 of 75 total pounds are lost, no dice, Chino.
13. Chunky Chili Beef Soup - (Sorry, despite my best efforts, again, no pics; you know the drill!) This was the first thing I ate post-wisdom tooth extraction, age 18, and it was great stuff! Truly a chunky soup, full of roast beef as opposed to ground beef, alot of beans and a very savory broth. I know Campbell's has a similar line of chili --the Firehouse, the Roadhouse and the Grilled Steak. I have not tried the latter yet (I'll update if I can find it to try it), but the former two are nowhere close and have not impressed me.
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14. Pepsi Light - The time is right/For Pepsi Light/Lemony Pepsi Light/We put a little lemony taste in/And took out/Half the caloriesI miss the jingles of the 70's...
But the song really did say it all. I didn't drink Pepsi Light for the lo-cal thing (once upon a time, I was very skinny -- hard to remember now), I honestly liked the taste, although I think now it was probably fake-lemony. I was about 11 when Pepsi Light came out, and this was another thing I consumed primarily at camp. At that point, we were camping at Fox Den Acres Campground, near Donegal, PA. I would never have been able to persuade my parental units to buy me a six-pack of this, but what I did with my allowance was my own business, so I frequently went to the camp store and bought me a can. Fox Den was, in alot of ways, my favorite campground, if I had a favorite. I would take my Pepsi Light up to the pond, walk around a bit, and once or twice, even enjoyed one during the rental of a paddleboat, soaking up the sun. The good old days!
16. And the product that started the idea for this whole post in the first place...Nabisco Sugar Rings - These were about 3 inches of sugary deliciousness, about 1/8 inch thick, with a hole in the middle so you could put them on your fingers like rings and nibble them down. They had scalloped edges with a spiral between the hole and the edge, just covered with granules of sugar. YUM! These and Nabisco Sugar Wafers were pretty much the only store-bought cookies I really ate much as a child. The best with milk right before bed. Let me just tell you that I flatly refused to even write this post until I had the name and a picture of this cookie. Not my mother, nor any of my friends could remember the name. During the Googling/searching process, I stumbled upon a website where I finally found my answer. Here's our discussion: http://chowhound.chow.com/topics/865608
My sincerest thanks to all the Chowhounds who helped me out with the Sugar Rings, especially goodhealthgourmet, who provided the all-important Nabisco Sugar Ring picture. My search inspired at least one other (I believe successful) cookie search. If you want to find the name of a long-lost food product, try the Chowhounds. They're awesome folks!
So, those are my favorite discontinued products. If you all have any you'd like to talk about, I'd love to hear from you. Until then...
Good vibes to all of you,
Claudia
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Bah, Humbug?
So, a few weeks ago, my mother and I had a fight. We've had many, in our long history together. Whose fault, what about? Not important. It's not easy to live with either a middle-aged woman or "mature" one (as my mother insists on being called now, not liking "the O word" or "the E word"). It's really not easy for them to live together, especially if they're mother and daughter. More interesting was my mother's reaction: she decided not to celebrate Christmas this year.
Yes, you read that right -- no Christmas for Mother this year, to the extent that she decided to pull down all the Christmas decorations she had just spent the previous two days putting up. (Wow, Claudia, for real? Oh, yeah!!!)
So, in the days since Mother's Great Christmas Kibosh, I have been, as I always do anyway this time of year, revisiting Christmases Past, and ruminating upon my attitude toward Christmas.
You see, for the most part, I am, and have been, since age 15, somewhat of a Scrooge. But it didn't start out that way.
Like all kids, I loved Christmas. Of course, I loved the presents under the tree. Even in the middle of the adolescent growth spurt, when toys had been replaced by clothes, I was grateful and happy to replace the too-short and tight tops and "flood-pants" that had been the right size when purchased in August. I remember a certain cardigan sweater from my 14th Christmas with fondness, and wish I still had it. But for me, most of the happy Christmas memories from days gone by consist of traditions and occurrences that I could count on happening, year after year:
The scrumptious cookies my mum baked, especially the chocolate chips, with and without walnuts, and the enormous quantity she had to turn out to keep up with the gluttony of my stepfather and still have enough to share with others.
The brass "Joyeux Noel" horn that hung on the door. The living-room archway adorned with festive holiday cards, the likes of which I never see anymore, either quality or quantity. My stepfather going out to get the tree on the designated Saturday, with my mother admonishing, "Don't get too big a tree like you always do!" The way that, despite her best efforts, his trees were always humongous, requiring pruning if not surgery, as well as much shifting of furniture, arguing and cursing before the tree was set up in its stand and my stepfather making his escape to wisely spend the afternoon at the bar. My mother muttering darkly about husbands leaving the hard work for wives to do while she spent the afternoon decorating the tree.
All the Christmas carols we sang in music class and Scouts.
Getting to stay up late during vacation. What can I say? I'm a night owl, honey!
That lovely last day of school before vacation, just sitting around talking and playing, no classes, everyone happy, buoyant, eyes sparkling in anticipation of the big day. Walking home, slipping and sliding on the snow and ice, someone always firing a snowball, much hooting and hollering and many more snowballs before cries of "See ya after Christmas!" and "Call me and tell me what you got!" were heard.
Pap, excited as a kid, showing for our admiration his beautifully decorated tree.
Grandma's Christmas Eve "Feast of the Seven Fishes", well, in her case, two fishes: fried shrimp and oysters, with french fries, all done to a perfect golden-brown in her patented Presto Fry Daddy, and her noodle and walnut casserole. Then the next day, her turkey and stuffing with raisins or ham, yams, and pineapple.
And some Christmases were just awesome for reasons all their own:
In 6th grade I was one of the kids chosen to put up the Christmas bulletin board in our school's hallway, which made me feel important. Those of us chosen got out of alot of classes in order to put up the board. That same year I was included in the group chosen by our music teacher, to sing Christmas carols in the hallway. We would stop by each homeroom on the last day before Christmas vacation and sing, the homeroom teacher would open the door, and the kids would all get up, listen, and smile. Did any of you do that? Again, made me feel special and important.
The year that Grandma let me borrow (and wind up keeping, as I was the only one that read them) a Reader's Digest Condensed book which contained among others, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Good Earth, and The Adventures of Robin Hood and His Merry Men. If it wasn't enough to have Christmas to look forward to, I had the excitement of something new to read on Christmas Eve. For me, books have always been among my best friends, and reading my greatest pleasure, so that was really huge. Also that same day, we were invited to a Christmas party being thrown by a friend of my stepfather, whose kids I went to school with. What a day! Especially after Grandma's Feast of the Fishes.
The year our Girl Scout leaders took us caroling all through the neighborhood. Getting to go out in the dark, with snow gently falling on us, and singing all the merry songs, the smiles on all the faces of all the folks who opened their doors to listen to us. Truly a special memory! And after we were done caroling, coming back to the fire hall where our troop held its meetings and finding steaming hot chocolate in a personalized mug for each of us, as well as a bag of candy and cookies. How warm and welcoming! Thank you, Mrs. Brosky and Mrs. Davis!
A bit of a corner was turned my 13th Christmas. My mother and stepfather, having heard horror stories of the drug use in our school district, and evidently not trusting my resistance to peer pressure, decided to move to a "safer" district in the town next door. The move occurred less than two weeks before Christmas, 1978. I was very unhappy, totally not in favor of the move, and filled with all the apprehension anyone faces in that situation. The poor teachers from my new school trying to deal with me right at the end of the semester! Amid all the stress, the first thing I did was get sick. A very bad ear/throat infection, temperature over 102 F. My mother gave me a dose of penicillin (the perks of being the daughter of a nurse), instructions for the rest of the day: rest, (yeah, like dizzy Claudia intended to move!) fluids, take antibiotic at such-and-so times, etc., and went to work. Well, then my stepfather came home, quickly ascertained how sick I was, and, very dismayed at seeing me not wanting to read, watch TV, or listen to music, called my mother to confer. She told him her treatment plan, but, not satisfied with that, he called the doctor, bulldozed him into squeezing me in for an office visit, and, lo and behold, I went and got a shot of penicillin. And let me tell you, there was hell for him to pay, in the form of cold shoulders and snippy asides from my mother for days after that, because Nurse Sylvia did not appreciate any whiff of having her nursing or her mothering called into question, but for me, the proof is in the pudding: With the shot, Claudia began feeling like a human being the day before Christmas; without the shot, definitely would've been a least a few days later. To this day, I defend my stepfather's call on that one. (Now taking me out after said doctor visit to Montgomery Wards to get a new coat, because "You got sick because you didn't have a warm enough coat," [!!!], through icy parking lots with me dizzy, that could've waited. But I digress). We had two more normal Christmases as a family, then came The Christmas From Hell.
As detailed in a previous post (The Sad End of One Era..."), in 1980, the summer I turned 15, I got fed up with my stepfather's abuse, verbal, physical, and sexual. One July day, after the umpteen zillionth time in our long history of his browbeating, culminating with him standing over me, literally poised to strike, a circuit finally blew in my brain and I faced him down, stating my intention to kill him if he ever put his hands on my mother or me again. After all those years of bowing, scraping, appeasing, cowering, and walking on eggshells, I was done. I knew it, and he knew it. His response to his slipped control over me was to drink even more, and about five weeks after our confrontation, to have an encounter with a woman that worked at the steel mill he and my mom worked at. The whole workplace knew about this assignation, (not his first) and since most of them hated my stepfather, ran to tell my mother. Surprisingly, she did not divorce him right away, but as his behavior continued to spin out, so did her stress level. It took about 16 months and a pretty attention-getting illness related to that stress, but she finally threw my stepfather out right before Thanksgiving, 1981.
Of course his parents, trying to get them back together, implored my mother to still come to their annual Thanksgiving feast. Left to her own devices, my mother probably wouldn't have gone, but I was close to Pap, and, while I was happy enough to lose a stepfascist, to lose the only person who, to this day, has ever spoiled me even a little bit, not so much. So we spent a very awkward Thanksgiving pretending everything was still the same. Oh, God, how horrible! Lesson learned: it's always best to make a clean break.
When Christmastime came, even I didn't want to go through that again, so my mother declared our independence from their holiday early on and determined to develop our own traditions. My stepfather decided to spend his Christmas in Atlantic City.
So Christmas Day, meal and gift-giving complete, my mother sat watching an old movie, and I repaired to the tub to let Calgon take me away. Assisting Calgon was a jar of Mauna Loa macadamia nuts and a multi-band radio on which I had managed to find a radio station playing a reggae/calypso program. Comfortably ensconced in a tropical Rastafarian fantasy, I didn't hear the phone ring, just my mother's subsequent reaction to what became a series of harassing and threatening phone calls from Atlantic City. These continued over the course of the next couple days, during which time my mother became convinced that my stepfather would come back and shoot us.
Calls to her divorce lawyer provided little sympathy -- or help. "Get a Protection From Abuse order," he suggested. "Will that stop a bullet?" was my mum's response. Which standoff continued until finally my frantic mother called my aunt and uncle and asked for asylum. We packed some clothes (and I packed up my precious Anne Murray and Gordon Lightfoot albums), and went to stay there for a few days, until the divorce lawyer convinced my mum she was making a big mistake: "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded of my mum. "You're paying me alot of money and I'm working very hard to win you that house in the divorce, and now you abandon it? You're gonna be damned lucky if you go back home, and he hasn't moved in! Do you know what a hassle it'll be to remove him? Sylvia, go back and claim the house as your own, before he does!"
Well, my mum quaked in her boots at the prospect, but with the lawyer, (and increasingly my aunt and uncle) not understanding the Battered-Wife Syndrome, nor fathoming the level of fear she was dealing with ("They think I'm a hysterical female," she wailed to me at one point), my mother decided to go home.
And when we got home, we were extremely lucky. Oh, my stepfather had been there, but for reasons of his own, decided not to attempt to occupy the house, and indeed even left a mea culpa letter. "Do we dare to believe it?" was my comment. "Probably still thinks he can get me back," was my mother's. Yes, an anti-climactic and relieved end to a drama. But still a ruined Christmas.
And my mother, God love her, during subsequent Christmases, she tried. She loves Christmas and attempted bravely to establish our own traditions but the true light and joy had gone out of it for me. We were not really that close to my aunt and uncle, and the one year we celebrated with them, the rest of the assembled family participated in a Secret Santa that we were excluded from. The experience left me realizing that though we shared common bloodlines, these people had no idea who we were and not much interest in learning. With no siblings, I just felt like alot of the family element had gone out of the festivities, and nothing my mother tried could replace it. I endeavoured (largely unsuccessfully) to communicate this to her, but not having had divorced parents, she just couldn't understand my new dim view of Christmas. After a few years I gave up the pretense of even trying to enjoy.
Then one year my mother hit on a novel idea: "Claudia, help me bake cookies this year." She reasoned that my Baklava was rather popular -- why didn't I make that to share with everyone, along with anything else the spirit might move me to bake? My vanity thus appealed to, I set about making Baklava, Pecan Sandies, Macadamia Snaps, Mexican Wedding Cookies, Linzers, and God-only-knows-what-else. Our cookies were a big hit and over the next several years we expanded our roster of people to share them with so much, the total we baked one year was a stunning 200 dozen.
Then came the year the bottom fell out: 1994, the year my mother became disabled. She had suffered a fall in the dark, icy parking lot of the VA Hospital where she worked in 1987. She received treatment over the next 6 1/2 years, but steadily experienced more and more pain until she could no longer do her Charge Nurse job there. This resulted in two unsuccessful attempts to win Worker's Compensation, and one equally futile stab at getting SSI Disability, before she finally won that in the fall of 1996. 1994 began as a year full of fear, commenced to an embarrassing but brief stint for us on Welfare while I built up a cleaning business, babysat (and I hate kids), sold Avon, and worked for a piano player. It was a very rough year, and near the end of it, my mother asked me if we could afford to do the cookies and if I had time -- and energy -- to make mine. I didn't have to think twice. We scaled back, cut our roster a bit. We also did not exchange presents that year, even with each other, deciding instead to budget for the cookies and our usual Christmas Eve and Day meals. I took a couple of extra holiday cleaning/babysitting jobs to help things along, and regretted it a bit when I got my sixth cold of the year right before Christmas. Rarely have I been so happy as when I finished my last cleaning job of '94, we delivered our last load of cookies, and I could come home, get into my jammies, eat and take medicine for my pounding head and raw throat.
The next Christmas for whatever reason, financial winds did not so much blow our way, and neither mother nor I wanted to spend another Christmas not exchanging gifts, so we made the difficult decision not to do cookies that year. In a way, I was glad -- two years doing four jobs had taken their toll -- but I knew the decision would not be popular, at least to some.
Sure enough, my mother went to get a trim the week before Christmas, and her hairdresser asked when we were bringing the cookies. My mother said we weren't doing cookies this year, due to finances. "Well, can't Claudia do them?" the hairdresser wondered. "Claudia's working seven days a week just to support us," my mother replied, "and I wouldn't ask her to do more than that." That quashed the matter temporarily, but, amazingly, it was brought up again mother's very next visit and boy, was she pissed! "Claudia is working seven days a week at four jobs and doing the best she can, but it's hard to make ends meet. Would you ask anyone to work that much, take care of a house, and then come home and bake cookies? And you know," this with fire in her eyes and acid in her voice, "the previous Christmas Claudia and I didn't even have gifts for each other, but you all still got your cookies!" This seemed to end the matter with these ones, but sadly, another business that we had been involved with for years that had always had appointments for us when we brought cookies, as petty as it sounds, suddenly were booked up and very cold in their manner for awhile when we didn't.
None of this brightened my attitude toward Christmas, and in the late 90's through the mid-00's my mum had three back surgeries, after which I took care of her for several weeks each. Two of the three surgeries were right before Christmas.
In recent years I have run hot and cold. Two years ago I really had no desire for Christmas, resented the carols piped over the airways at work, and other than baking baklava and buying presents for my mum, skipped the whole thing. But last year, I came home inspired by the Christmas music, and often put on more of it while I walked on the treadmill, singing all the way. And for the first time, I put a jacket on and toured the neighborhood, checking out the Christmas decorations, admiring the creativity (and the sheer bonanza being collected by Duquesne Light) and mentally awarding a prize for the best display. The downside was that although my mother and I had officially ceased baking cookies sometime early this millennium, I continued baking baklava and taking it into work for Christmas, but last year the plaza cut my hours and I couldn't afford to make baklava. Then, a week before Christmas, I wound up with some kind of throat infection, got well from that and promptly got the flu, and wasn't really back up to par till around the second week of January, so baking would've been impossible anyway.
So this year my mother and I squabbled and she nixed the Xmas. Anyone would bet that would wreck Christmas for me. Yet, ever the contrarian, I've watched all my usual Christmas faves -- Silent Night, Eight Is Enough Christmas, Auntie Mame, Always Remember I Love You, Brady Bunch Christmas, A Charlie Brown Christmas; took a turn two weeks ago checking out neighborhood decorations; and thanks to The Plaza giving out Christmas gift cards, I was able to afford to bake baklava, which I just finished doing. Last year, in the midst of my illness, I stopped off at Walgreens to get medicine, and they were selling little replica Charlie Brown Christmas Trees on clearance for $5. I bought one and put it up in my room. I joyfully put it up again this year right after Thanksgiving. And like last year, changed my iPod screen saver to different holiday themes. Bought presents for Mother and kitty. (Will Mother accept her presents? I'll keep you posted...)
With my mother in her seventies now, I wonder what my Christmases will be like when she's gone. Will I bake, decorate? Who will I exchange presents with? What will I cook? (A legitimate question, as my mother and I have each been, in recent years, on a single-minded crusade to lose weight. She's done such a good job, losing 166 lbs. to date, and now she's off insulin. Our fat- and carb-laden holidays have been replaced the past two years with Chinese food carefully chosen and conveniently delivered, but not traditional). As long as Mother lives and wants to stay off insulin, she must continue eating very carefully. And I'm not going to do anything radically different for the holidays or any other time till I lose another 19 lbs.
I remember going to church some time in the late 90's, and they needed bell-ringers for the Salvation Army. I volunteered, much to my mother's amazed bafflement, to a two-hour stint on a Saturday morning. (Claudia doesn't do mornings, as well as being hot/cold on Christmas). I went down to the local Giant Eagle to ring the bell on the appointed time and had a blast. Nearly everyone that passed dropped some money in the kettle. Spirits were high -- the joy was infectious. A lady came out with a can of Coca Cola for me -- "Honey, you looked thirsty..." Naturally, she wouldn't take any money from me, so heck, I donated to the kettle myself. My favorite Christmas memory from adulthood. Now I'm not condemning anybody's way of celebrating. I just think when my mother is no longer with us, I'm gonna be doing alot of thinking and weeding out of things that were her, and us, but not me. And I think I will be exploring some less commercialized ways to celebrate, more spiritual ones, 'cause that just resonates with me. Maybe making Christmas my own will help me to enjoy it completely again. 'Cause I'd really like to.
I do wholeheartedly wish all of you a Merry Christmas and lots of love and prosperity in your New Year. May you be blessed.
Claudia
Yes, you read that right -- no Christmas for Mother this year, to the extent that she decided to pull down all the Christmas decorations she had just spent the previous two days putting up. (Wow, Claudia, for real? Oh, yeah!!!)
So, in the days since Mother's Great Christmas Kibosh, I have been, as I always do anyway this time of year, revisiting Christmases Past, and ruminating upon my attitude toward Christmas.
You see, for the most part, I am, and have been, since age 15, somewhat of a Scrooge. But it didn't start out that way.
Like all kids, I loved Christmas. Of course, I loved the presents under the tree. Even in the middle of the adolescent growth spurt, when toys had been replaced by clothes, I was grateful and happy to replace the too-short and tight tops and "flood-pants" that had been the right size when purchased in August. I remember a certain cardigan sweater from my 14th Christmas with fondness, and wish I still had it. But for me, most of the happy Christmas memories from days gone by consist of traditions and occurrences that I could count on happening, year after year:
The scrumptious cookies my mum baked, especially the chocolate chips, with and without walnuts, and the enormous quantity she had to turn out to keep up with the gluttony of my stepfather and still have enough to share with others.
The brass "Joyeux Noel" horn that hung on the door. The living-room archway adorned with festive holiday cards, the likes of which I never see anymore, either quality or quantity. My stepfather going out to get the tree on the designated Saturday, with my mother admonishing, "Don't get too big a tree like you always do!" The way that, despite her best efforts, his trees were always humongous, requiring pruning if not surgery, as well as much shifting of furniture, arguing and cursing before the tree was set up in its stand and my stepfather making his escape to wisely spend the afternoon at the bar. My mother muttering darkly about husbands leaving the hard work for wives to do while she spent the afternoon decorating the tree.
All the Christmas carols we sang in music class and Scouts.
Getting to stay up late during vacation. What can I say? I'm a night owl, honey!
That lovely last day of school before vacation, just sitting around talking and playing, no classes, everyone happy, buoyant, eyes sparkling in anticipation of the big day. Walking home, slipping and sliding on the snow and ice, someone always firing a snowball, much hooting and hollering and many more snowballs before cries of "See ya after Christmas!" and "Call me and tell me what you got!" were heard.
Pap, excited as a kid, showing for our admiration his beautifully decorated tree.
Grandma's Christmas Eve "Feast of the Seven Fishes", well, in her case, two fishes: fried shrimp and oysters, with french fries, all done to a perfect golden-brown in her patented Presto Fry Daddy, and her noodle and walnut casserole. Then the next day, her turkey and stuffing with raisins or ham, yams, and pineapple.
And some Christmases were just awesome for reasons all their own:
In 6th grade I was one of the kids chosen to put up the Christmas bulletin board in our school's hallway, which made me feel important. Those of us chosen got out of alot of classes in order to put up the board. That same year I was included in the group chosen by our music teacher, to sing Christmas carols in the hallway. We would stop by each homeroom on the last day before Christmas vacation and sing, the homeroom teacher would open the door, and the kids would all get up, listen, and smile. Did any of you do that? Again, made me feel special and important.
The year that Grandma let me borrow (and wind up keeping, as I was the only one that read them) a Reader's Digest Condensed book which contained among others, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Good Earth, and The Adventures of Robin Hood and His Merry Men. If it wasn't enough to have Christmas to look forward to, I had the excitement of something new to read on Christmas Eve. For me, books have always been among my best friends, and reading my greatest pleasure, so that was really huge. Also that same day, we were invited to a Christmas party being thrown by a friend of my stepfather, whose kids I went to school with. What a day! Especially after Grandma's Feast of the Fishes.
The year our Girl Scout leaders took us caroling all through the neighborhood. Getting to go out in the dark, with snow gently falling on us, and singing all the merry songs, the smiles on all the faces of all the folks who opened their doors to listen to us. Truly a special memory! And after we were done caroling, coming back to the fire hall where our troop held its meetings and finding steaming hot chocolate in a personalized mug for each of us, as well as a bag of candy and cookies. How warm and welcoming! Thank you, Mrs. Brosky and Mrs. Davis!
A bit of a corner was turned my 13th Christmas. My mother and stepfather, having heard horror stories of the drug use in our school district, and evidently not trusting my resistance to peer pressure, decided to move to a "safer" district in the town next door. The move occurred less than two weeks before Christmas, 1978. I was very unhappy, totally not in favor of the move, and filled with all the apprehension anyone faces in that situation. The poor teachers from my new school trying to deal with me right at the end of the semester! Amid all the stress, the first thing I did was get sick. A very bad ear/throat infection, temperature over 102 F. My mother gave me a dose of penicillin (the perks of being the daughter of a nurse), instructions for the rest of the day: rest, (yeah, like dizzy Claudia intended to move!) fluids, take antibiotic at such-and-so times, etc., and went to work. Well, then my stepfather came home, quickly ascertained how sick I was, and, very dismayed at seeing me not wanting to read, watch TV, or listen to music, called my mother to confer. She told him her treatment plan, but, not satisfied with that, he called the doctor, bulldozed him into squeezing me in for an office visit, and, lo and behold, I went and got a shot of penicillin. And let me tell you, there was hell for him to pay, in the form of cold shoulders and snippy asides from my mother for days after that, because Nurse Sylvia did not appreciate any whiff of having her nursing or her mothering called into question, but for me, the proof is in the pudding: With the shot, Claudia began feeling like a human being the day before Christmas; without the shot, definitely would've been a least a few days later. To this day, I defend my stepfather's call on that one. (Now taking me out after said doctor visit to Montgomery Wards to get a new coat, because "You got sick because you didn't have a warm enough coat," [!!!], through icy parking lots with me dizzy, that could've waited. But I digress). We had two more normal Christmases as a family, then came The Christmas From Hell.
As detailed in a previous post (The Sad End of One Era..."), in 1980, the summer I turned 15, I got fed up with my stepfather's abuse, verbal, physical, and sexual. One July day, after the umpteen zillionth time in our long history of his browbeating, culminating with him standing over me, literally poised to strike, a circuit finally blew in my brain and I faced him down, stating my intention to kill him if he ever put his hands on my mother or me again. After all those years of bowing, scraping, appeasing, cowering, and walking on eggshells, I was done. I knew it, and he knew it. His response to his slipped control over me was to drink even more, and about five weeks after our confrontation, to have an encounter with a woman that worked at the steel mill he and my mom worked at. The whole workplace knew about this assignation, (not his first) and since most of them hated my stepfather, ran to tell my mother. Surprisingly, she did not divorce him right away, but as his behavior continued to spin out, so did her stress level. It took about 16 months and a pretty attention-getting illness related to that stress, but she finally threw my stepfather out right before Thanksgiving, 1981.
Of course his parents, trying to get them back together, implored my mother to still come to their annual Thanksgiving feast. Left to her own devices, my mother probably wouldn't have gone, but I was close to Pap, and, while I was happy enough to lose a stepfascist, to lose the only person who, to this day, has ever spoiled me even a little bit, not so much. So we spent a very awkward Thanksgiving pretending everything was still the same. Oh, God, how horrible! Lesson learned: it's always best to make a clean break.
When Christmastime came, even I didn't want to go through that again, so my mother declared our independence from their holiday early on and determined to develop our own traditions. My stepfather decided to spend his Christmas in Atlantic City.
So Christmas Day, meal and gift-giving complete, my mother sat watching an old movie, and I repaired to the tub to let Calgon take me away. Assisting Calgon was a jar of Mauna Loa macadamia nuts and a multi-band radio on which I had managed to find a radio station playing a reggae/calypso program. Comfortably ensconced in a tropical Rastafarian fantasy, I didn't hear the phone ring, just my mother's subsequent reaction to what became a series of harassing and threatening phone calls from Atlantic City. These continued over the course of the next couple days, during which time my mother became convinced that my stepfather would come back and shoot us.
Calls to her divorce lawyer provided little sympathy -- or help. "Get a Protection From Abuse order," he suggested. "Will that stop a bullet?" was my mum's response. Which standoff continued until finally my frantic mother called my aunt and uncle and asked for asylum. We packed some clothes (and I packed up my precious Anne Murray and Gordon Lightfoot albums), and went to stay there for a few days, until the divorce lawyer convinced my mum she was making a big mistake: "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded of my mum. "You're paying me alot of money and I'm working very hard to win you that house in the divorce, and now you abandon it? You're gonna be damned lucky if you go back home, and he hasn't moved in! Do you know what a hassle it'll be to remove him? Sylvia, go back and claim the house as your own, before he does!"
Well, my mum quaked in her boots at the prospect, but with the lawyer, (and increasingly my aunt and uncle) not understanding the Battered-Wife Syndrome, nor fathoming the level of fear she was dealing with ("They think I'm a hysterical female," she wailed to me at one point), my mother decided to go home.
And when we got home, we were extremely lucky. Oh, my stepfather had been there, but for reasons of his own, decided not to attempt to occupy the house, and indeed even left a mea culpa letter. "Do we dare to believe it?" was my comment. "Probably still thinks he can get me back," was my mother's. Yes, an anti-climactic and relieved end to a drama. But still a ruined Christmas.
And my mother, God love her, during subsequent Christmases, she tried. She loves Christmas and attempted bravely to establish our own traditions but the true light and joy had gone out of it for me. We were not really that close to my aunt and uncle, and the one year we celebrated with them, the rest of the assembled family participated in a Secret Santa that we were excluded from. The experience left me realizing that though we shared common bloodlines, these people had no idea who we were and not much interest in learning. With no siblings, I just felt like alot of the family element had gone out of the festivities, and nothing my mother tried could replace it. I endeavoured (largely unsuccessfully) to communicate this to her, but not having had divorced parents, she just couldn't understand my new dim view of Christmas. After a few years I gave up the pretense of even trying to enjoy.
Then one year my mother hit on a novel idea: "Claudia, help me bake cookies this year." She reasoned that my Baklava was rather popular -- why didn't I make that to share with everyone, along with anything else the spirit might move me to bake? My vanity thus appealed to, I set about making Baklava, Pecan Sandies, Macadamia Snaps, Mexican Wedding Cookies, Linzers, and God-only-knows-what-else. Our cookies were a big hit and over the next several years we expanded our roster of people to share them with so much, the total we baked one year was a stunning 200 dozen.
Then came the year the bottom fell out: 1994, the year my mother became disabled. She had suffered a fall in the dark, icy parking lot of the VA Hospital where she worked in 1987. She received treatment over the next 6 1/2 years, but steadily experienced more and more pain until she could no longer do her Charge Nurse job there. This resulted in two unsuccessful attempts to win Worker's Compensation, and one equally futile stab at getting SSI Disability, before she finally won that in the fall of 1996. 1994 began as a year full of fear, commenced to an embarrassing but brief stint for us on Welfare while I built up a cleaning business, babysat (and I hate kids), sold Avon, and worked for a piano player. It was a very rough year, and near the end of it, my mother asked me if we could afford to do the cookies and if I had time -- and energy -- to make mine. I didn't have to think twice. We scaled back, cut our roster a bit. We also did not exchange presents that year, even with each other, deciding instead to budget for the cookies and our usual Christmas Eve and Day meals. I took a couple of extra holiday cleaning/babysitting jobs to help things along, and regretted it a bit when I got my sixth cold of the year right before Christmas. Rarely have I been so happy as when I finished my last cleaning job of '94, we delivered our last load of cookies, and I could come home, get into my jammies, eat and take medicine for my pounding head and raw throat.
The next Christmas for whatever reason, financial winds did not so much blow our way, and neither mother nor I wanted to spend another Christmas not exchanging gifts, so we made the difficult decision not to do cookies that year. In a way, I was glad -- two years doing four jobs had taken their toll -- but I knew the decision would not be popular, at least to some.
Sure enough, my mother went to get a trim the week before Christmas, and her hairdresser asked when we were bringing the cookies. My mother said we weren't doing cookies this year, due to finances. "Well, can't Claudia do them?" the hairdresser wondered. "Claudia's working seven days a week just to support us," my mother replied, "and I wouldn't ask her to do more than that." That quashed the matter temporarily, but, amazingly, it was brought up again mother's very next visit and boy, was she pissed! "Claudia is working seven days a week at four jobs and doing the best she can, but it's hard to make ends meet. Would you ask anyone to work that much, take care of a house, and then come home and bake cookies? And you know," this with fire in her eyes and acid in her voice, "the previous Christmas Claudia and I didn't even have gifts for each other, but you all still got your cookies!" This seemed to end the matter with these ones, but sadly, another business that we had been involved with for years that had always had appointments for us when we brought cookies, as petty as it sounds, suddenly were booked up and very cold in their manner for awhile when we didn't.
None of this brightened my attitude toward Christmas, and in the late 90's through the mid-00's my mum had three back surgeries, after which I took care of her for several weeks each. Two of the three surgeries were right before Christmas.
In recent years I have run hot and cold. Two years ago I really had no desire for Christmas, resented the carols piped over the airways at work, and other than baking baklava and buying presents for my mum, skipped the whole thing. But last year, I came home inspired by the Christmas music, and often put on more of it while I walked on the treadmill, singing all the way. And for the first time, I put a jacket on and toured the neighborhood, checking out the Christmas decorations, admiring the creativity (and the sheer bonanza being collected by Duquesne Light) and mentally awarding a prize for the best display. The downside was that although my mother and I had officially ceased baking cookies sometime early this millennium, I continued baking baklava and taking it into work for Christmas, but last year the plaza cut my hours and I couldn't afford to make baklava. Then, a week before Christmas, I wound up with some kind of throat infection, got well from that and promptly got the flu, and wasn't really back up to par till around the second week of January, so baking would've been impossible anyway.
So this year my mother and I squabbled and she nixed the Xmas. Anyone would bet that would wreck Christmas for me. Yet, ever the contrarian, I've watched all my usual Christmas faves -- Silent Night, Eight Is Enough Christmas, Auntie Mame, Always Remember I Love You, Brady Bunch Christmas, A Charlie Brown Christmas; took a turn two weeks ago checking out neighborhood decorations; and thanks to The Plaza giving out Christmas gift cards, I was able to afford to bake baklava, which I just finished doing. Last year, in the midst of my illness, I stopped off at Walgreens to get medicine, and they were selling little replica Charlie Brown Christmas Trees on clearance for $5. I bought one and put it up in my room. I joyfully put it up again this year right after Thanksgiving. And like last year, changed my iPod screen saver to different holiday themes. Bought presents for Mother and kitty. (Will Mother accept her presents? I'll keep you posted...)
With my mother in her seventies now, I wonder what my Christmases will be like when she's gone. Will I bake, decorate? Who will I exchange presents with? What will I cook? (A legitimate question, as my mother and I have each been, in recent years, on a single-minded crusade to lose weight. She's done such a good job, losing 166 lbs. to date, and now she's off insulin. Our fat- and carb-laden holidays have been replaced the past two years with Chinese food carefully chosen and conveniently delivered, but not traditional). As long as Mother lives and wants to stay off insulin, she must continue eating very carefully. And I'm not going to do anything radically different for the holidays or any other time till I lose another 19 lbs.
I remember going to church some time in the late 90's, and they needed bell-ringers for the Salvation Army. I volunteered, much to my mother's amazed bafflement, to a two-hour stint on a Saturday morning. (Claudia doesn't do mornings, as well as being hot/cold on Christmas). I went down to the local Giant Eagle to ring the bell on the appointed time and had a blast. Nearly everyone that passed dropped some money in the kettle. Spirits were high -- the joy was infectious. A lady came out with a can of Coca Cola for me -- "Honey, you looked thirsty..." Naturally, she wouldn't take any money from me, so heck, I donated to the kettle myself. My favorite Christmas memory from adulthood. Now I'm not condemning anybody's way of celebrating. I just think when my mother is no longer with us, I'm gonna be doing alot of thinking and weeding out of things that were her, and us, but not me. And I think I will be exploring some less commercialized ways to celebrate, more spiritual ones, 'cause that just resonates with me. Maybe making Christmas my own will help me to enjoy it completely again. 'Cause I'd really like to.
I do wholeheartedly wish all of you a Merry Christmas and lots of love and prosperity in your New Year. May you be blessed.
Claudia
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