Re-redux on waste, tech, convenience, yada yada

I've been absent so long from my poor Melmoirs, and the guilt has been heavy upon me... I keep writing posts in my mind. This last one that has yet to be properly composed is all about the young lady who ran into me a few weeks ago, because although she had a stop sign and I did not, her GPS was instructing her to turn left—so she did, right into my driver's side front bumper.

But the point of that post would basically be how much control of our lives, and our minds, we have given up in order to have convenience-touting gadgets. I'd rant about how kids used to have to memorize things which (crazily enough) makes you better at remembering things, and how calculators and spell- and grammar-check have dumbed us down tremendously as a population.

And that would lead to my soapbox-ing about waste in our society, that not only are we spoiled and lazy and skill-less but now we throw so many things away that are perfectly good, or were never good for much to begin with...

Here's the problem. I have already written about all these things. When I searched my own blog for "convenience," I hit upon a surfeit of posts from years past that I almost recall penning... Posts like this, this, this, this, this, and this.

So, I'm not going to write that one again. It's been said, by me no less.

Should I be comforted by the fact that I am still so perturbed by the same things? Or disturbed that all the stuff I kvetched about years ago is even worse now?

I need a new shtick.

Hope for healing

In light of my last post, I thought I'd give everyone an uncomfortable glance into what the lower portion of my face looked like the day after I fell on it. However, in the event that some of you don't want to look upon such hideousness, I thought I'd better show the "healing in process" photos first. So, here are images of the current state of my countenance.

Scroll down.

Scroll down some more.

A little more. Skip right past the next pic, if you'd like.




And here (grimace, cringe) is a "before" photo.

The lessons from this experience keep multiplying. First, I thought the lesson was simple: Don't run, even in jest, when your hands are in your pockets. Foolish. Now I know; lesson learned.

But it turns out the lessons were many. Never minimize the emotional impact of a physical injury. Never assume that something is covered by insurance. Keep your chin up, especially in front of your small child. Try to be a good example, even under duress. Remember the kindnesses of friends, and pay those gestures forward whenever circumstances allow. And so on. And so on.

Then, just as things were getting back to normal, I watched the news and was horrified at a story of another school shooting. Small children, heroic teachers and leaders, a town shaken to its core. I have since turned off the rarely watched television, stopped reading the e-headlines about the event; there's just no point in reliving the awful but familiar stories. It's too upsetting.

Yet something keeps occurring to me, every time I look in the mirror: We are made for healing. Our bodies are designed to knit back together when things are broken. Not all injuries can be undone, I know that. Not all bodies have the same abilities to mend. There are some breaks that can never be repaired, and some defects that are innate and cannot be undone in this life, in this place. Perhaps the young man who caused that school tragedy could have been healed; perhaps not. We'll never know.

But I do know this: Most of our cells keep renewing, splitting and growing, replacing themselves. Our bones, too—with some placement help, our bones know how to join back together. Every time I'm putting oil on my newest scar, each time I rub the oil into my skin and feel the odd, tickling itch that follows, I am reminded that even now, new skin is forming, replacing the damaged. Blood is flowing through that area, bringing the necessary building blocks, bringing life.

Will my face ever be as it was before? No. Will that bleeding Connecticut town? Absolutely not. Healing doesn't mean that it will be the same as it used to be. Often, there are lasting, indelible marks left from pain. Those marks might be tender, or even sore, forever. On the flip side, like in stories of healing from the Bible, the healed person is better than before, not just restored but also improved.

Is it possible that improvement through healing doesn't have to be a flip side? Can scars and healing and improvement all happen simultaneously? Maybe.

I don't know what every type of healing looks like. I know only that healing does happen, and that we were created to heal. I am praying for healing that goes beyond our understanding, for all the people in that little Connecticut town. For people everywhere, in fact.

No blessing for you!!! *

There are a lot of weird phrases and behaviors that have been ingrained in us since childhood. Some such traditions help pave the way for courteous interaction; it has even been said that "good manners are the glue of our society," or something similar to that. Yet there exist a few archaic, misguided cultural morés that simply don't make sense.

The act of pronouncing "God bless you" after someone near you sneezes, for example. Doing just a few minutes' worth of research turns up limitless possible reasons why English-speaking cultures do this, but not a one of them still holds water. When someone sneezes, do any of us honestly believe that the sneeze is a vulnerable millisecond upon which the soul is more exposed to evil spirits? Is there a one among us who truly thinks the heart stops while the sneeze happens? No one is sneezing as a pre-cursor to the plague any longer; why do we all still bless each other as if the sneezer were at death's door?

The thing that makes me pause most of all is the fact that nearly everyone uses this phrase, or its secular third cousin, the shorter version of "Bless you." People who don't utter the word blessing in any other context are sure to trip over the next person in order to bless a complete stranger after his face has contorted and blown droplets nearby. Why?

We have decided in our home to oust this phony proprietary phrase. We're not saying it anymore. Instead, it's the burden of the sneezer to pardon him or herself after sneezing. After all, sneezing is actually rather disgusting, often resulting in flying spittle, snotty nose, and a loud shout whilst all that nastiness is expelled. In my family, it's more often a volley of sneezes. Yeeeeeuch.

I invite you to join us in the "No Blessing for You" campaign. It's easy. Simply say nothing when someone near you sneezes. It's okay. The sneezer likely does not have the plague, nor did his heart stop. And I hate to break it to you all, but evil spirits are all around, all the time—not just when you sneeze.

Blessings are good, when intentional and heartfelt. Praying for blessing for people is even better. But not when they spit on me.


*If you're a fan of the 90s sit-com Seinfeld, then you know the Soup Nazi—the crazy foreign fellow who makes stupendous soup but serves or withholds it as he sees fit. This title is a nod to that episode. The "glue of society" comment is another Seinfeld moment--Kramer said it.)

Crusade against the cowbird

There seem to be limitless examples of how nature takes advantage of changing environments in order to exploit smaller, weaker, more easy-going members of its society. I'm sad to tell you that it also happens in the bird world.

Meet the cowbird—a species I was happily unaware of until a few years ago, when we set up the feeders here in our yard and began to enjoy the beauties of our winged neighbors. This plain, sour-looking fellow showed up, and my son and I were curious enough to find his picture and read about him. We did not like what we read: this bird is a parasite.

Used to be, cowbirds hung out with the buffalo and followed them around, taking advantage of the insect explosion stirred up by the wandering herd. Since the big beasts moved around a lot, so did the cowbirds; in fact, they never stayed in one place long enough to build nests. So what did they do? Why, they used other birds' nests as their own little incubation system. And they still do it.

(If you don't believe me, you can read about it here or here. Appalling, isn't it?)

You can see why we aren't big cowbird fans; we know what they're up to, laying their big, nasty eggs in the nests of smaller, unsuspecting birds, to the detriment and even death of the host birds' own young. And when those cowbirds show up at our bird feeder, we scare them away. We clap at them, shout at them, even open the door and run at them until they flee in fear, their annoyingly high-pitched call echoing behind them as they vacate the premises.

But honestly, how much good does it do? They keep showing up. They've found a way to use and abuse the good, upstanding members of Birdville, and they're going to keep at it until somebody is defeated or disappears. Worst of all, the cowbirds aren't going anywhere because the constant destruction of forest and opening up of more woodland edges actually exacerbate the problem; that's just the sort of surroundings to which they flock.

We'll keep on fighting the good fight. And yet... it's feeling like a lost cause, because even as I type, Mama Cowbird is out there laying roughly an egg a day, invading as many happy homes as possible, dooming the rightful members of the family.

The worst part is that our own society is looking a lot like nature these days. Sigh.

Just a little pinch

This post might make some people angry. I'm not even sure how I want to say what I'm going to say. I guess I'll be blunt (since that's really all I'm capable of being). Here goes: I'm tired of free programs to help the needy, especially needy children.

I love children (well, most children). I love the potential in every child. I love how each one was created by our Maker to be unique and wonderful. I also realize full well that I had a great childhood, a blessed upbringing that continues to bless me in adulthood. I am very thankful. I realize I was shaped hugely by those young years.

I did not have a luxurious youth; I had a youth where my needs were met. I was given the necessities, a few luxuries, and love. I was supported by a married couple who also happened to be my parents (that's a bonus, isn't it?!) and who had no problem reminding me—frequently—that I was the kid and they were the adults. The adults who also happened to be in charge.

So I didn't have everything. But I had the essentials and a few extras. It's a big difference. Giving a kid all the physical tools for success, instead of giving them what they most need (which may or may not be a kick in the pants and some chores,) makes for a kid who gets a lot of stuff... but misses out on the most important building blocks of life. And it can happen in needy families, for sure. Those kids often run wild, with little to no parental modeling and supervision, and no matter what "stuff" they get from society, it's not going to make up for what's missing.

Maybe it's the recent election that has me thinking about helpful programs in general. Maybe it was today's book fair at my son's school, where all the children will receive a free book from the PTO. (I think that's awesome, though, because a few of the children at the same today couldn't buy a book and looked rather downtrodden. Plus, the government did not purchase said books; the PTO did.) Maybe it's just the fact that I'm beginning to realize that I, my little family, what we value—I fear we're the minority. We're becoming even more of a minority every day.

And I'm wondering who is populating the country. Who's having all these kids? Based on the countless help programs out there, and on increasingly alarming recent statistics, I'm guessing it's mostly the uneducated, unmarried, unstable, too-young or unprepared population. And I'm thinking this awful but true thought: I'd rather give money for birth control than keep on supporting kids who are not getting, and won't get, the basics.

Before you call me a monster, please hear me out. I spoke with a friend who subs for the City of Pittsburgh. She explained how it's a jungle in many of the schools. She explained how even the regular classroom teachers, often seasoned educators, have to address the children in short, loud terms instead of kind, soft tones because the kinder, gentler voice goes unnoticed. The kids are so unaccustomed to hearing that sort of language that they don't even notice, let alone respond. She shared, too, a meeting where she'd gotten a good look at the curriculum for elementary students. "What they want to teach them," she said, "is wonderful. Teaching it to kids who don't even know how to sit down and be quiet? That's something else."

I feel as if we're trying to arm these kids with advantages, with free meals, with new books and classroom aides. Yet I believe, truly, that none of those things will make a dent if the children aren't first taught the most simple skills of sitting still, listening, focusing, and showing courtesy. If a child can't stop shouting, how will he or she learn anything? If the kid doesn't know that some words are inappropriate, then how can he/she be expected not to use inappropriate words?

And the ball continues to be dropped, so many times, because it seems to me (just IMHO, of course) that so often the very nature of helpful programs is rooted in a well-meaning, liberal-minded member or members of society—people who want to help but would feel quite uncomfortable putting a foot down with their own families let alone strangers, people who want to believe in the innate goodness of mankind. Perhaps it flies in the face of the good they're trying to do, this unwelcome idea that good can't happen until order happens, that change can't occur if it's unlearned the minute a child leaves the helper's presence. Or perhaps these kind-hearted folks just cannot be the heavy hand.

But a heavy hand is much in need. Self-control is learned, not innate; to boot, it's often learned through suffering. And my guiding principle? People are basically bad news, not good. (Again, that's my opinion.)

This is why I say Yes, teach love for others, teach tolerance, teach abstinence. Give to good causes, help the little people of this world who don't have much, who need square meals and their own books and a warm bed and coat. But first, address the behaviors that make improvement impossible. And if you're not willing to go there? Then please, tell me where I can give money for those hormone shots to be administered to any and every young woman who isn't willing to go there either. Especially the ones who already have a child or two or five. For the love of God, let me give to that fund instead of watching us all try to play catch-up in a flawed and feeble system that, by the way, is failing miserably.

It doesn't "take a village." It doesn't require nearly that many people, at least not in this country. We need to start being honest about what it really takes to be parents.

See? I told you I'd make some people mad. Now, please excuse me while I go establish the "Free twice-annual BC shot if you opt out of other child support options" program. *


* Think about the money we'd save: the cost of shots twice per year, compared to the thousands upon thousands of dollars expended in raising a child—especially a child who is more or less supported by the taxpayers.

I could never be a garbage man

I couldn't be a garbage man, because I'm not a man, of course. Yet, nor could I be a garbage woman. I could not collect other people's trash.

Why? Am I a snob? I doubt it. Would it be too smelly? Certainly, it would be malodorous. Summer days, flies buzzing 'round the piles, stink emanating from every open container... Would the garbage be too heavy for a delicate flower (like me) to lift and hoist? Most assuredly, there would be at least one or two items on every street that would faze my feeble strength. Would I be able to pass the CDL test in the first place? And would I ever, in my wildest dreams, be able to maneuver the oversized truck through tiny nooks and skinny alleys? Between double-parked cars and adventurous plastic cans and their straying, rolling lids? I truly don't know. I can drive my small car, can parallel park like a pro most days thanks to Dad, but a garbage truck? On a suburban street?

In truth, it is none of these reasons that deters me from the sparkling career path of garbage expert. It's the waste.

Not the waste itself, silly. It's OUR waste. It's the amount of perfectly good, even great, stuff that is thrown away weekly in this ridiculously spoiled, self-centered country. It breaks my heart. It makes me feel ill. It makes me ashamed, makes me ponder moving to another place—yea, to another time; I suspect that short of embracing poverty, starvation, extreme civil unrest, or all three, no matter where I move I'll soon encounter more examples of materialism. I'd have to travel to another era to escape it now.

Drive around an even remotely comfortable neighborhood near any city, indeed in most small towns, and be horrified and appalled by what you see on the curb on trash day. Fully functional toys, perfectly useful furniture, books, clothes, the like. Yes, there is some junk. But oh, my goodness, there is a lot of stuff that's just fine, except that it's been set out with the trash. And for those of you who remember Seinfeld, "Adjacent to garbage is garbage."

What an unfair stigma, in a place where many charities will come pick up the goods at no charge, in a day when most people drive vehicles big enough to transport multiple children plus all their friends, but just can't find room to haul the perfectly good stuff to a second life somewhere. Yes, it is inconvenient. But there is a price for convenience! We're seeing it now. A society where people feel no awkwardness meeting strangers online, exchanging photos and details, sometimes even sharing intimacies with them, yet balk at the idea of acquiring a used table or chair, a "worn" shirt. So wash it, so clean it. It's fine. And I realize I am talking to myself about this much of the time.

Funny, isn't it, how nothing is too personal to "share," but truly sharing the icky stuff, like easily removed sweat or oil or dirt, is far beyond many folks' comprehension. And here we are, in this greedy, grasping place, on garbage day. And I want to weep.

Perhaps I could work for the garbage company, but I'd be the horse-drawn cart in front of the truck, scouting for goods that are still good. I could hurry ahead, throwing the desirables in my cart, saving them for another go-around. Even if we gave them away, that would be better. Anything would be better than the disposable mindset that permeates this modern country steeped in success, sinking into its own mounds of unnecessary newness.

Can anyone give me directions to the 40s?

Technoslaves

When I was a kid, there were two ways for regular people to talk to each other: in person and by telephone. This absence of options made parting with someone either a) sweet sorrow, or b) relief. Sorrowful partings were usually followed by a brief communication hiatus and then more contact, typically via telephone. And the relieved partings? They were followed by a lightness of heart, the knowledge that your duty was temporarily done, and further contact with that person was unlikely for at least awhile.

Along the way, cordless phones emerged, and the power of unfettered technology intrigued gizmo lovers everywhere. Those who could, did purchase the first ridiculously expensive cell phones as soon as they were available—huge, awkward contraptions especially when compared to their corded counterparts. But as people used and adjusted to them, distrust and fear of the new gadgets subsided, and the phones themselves became smaller and cuter. Then their techie accomplices, accessories and “improvements” came on board to form an army of accessibility: Blackberries and Bluetooth, IM and ipods, texting and twitter, and internet and photos via cell. Suddenly, I am capable of blogging from my phone. (Well, not from my phone—I don’t have enough bells and whistles on the equipment itself or my plan. But I could if I so choose to upgrade!) I could send messages during a movie or a meeting—I could check email as I simultaneously picnic in a meadow. I could tell people exactly what I’m doing every minute of my life. I could broadcast myself sleeping. And I could watch and listen and blab blab blab with the rest of the world while everyone else does the same thing.

The question is this: Why would I want that? I bought my first cell phone in order to get rid of my more expensive landline. My initial and enduring attraction with email and the web is still the same today as it was at the beginning: I can use it at my own convenience, in my own time, and it doesn’t necessitate face-to-face encounters. I haven’t been labeled as introverted for nothing; I need my space. Why would I want to take advantage of all these tools when they take away my precious space?

Always accessible. Incessantly in touch. No mystery remains. All this technology and its popularity directly reflects the “out there for all to see” tone of our society. Reality TV? Tell-all gossip channels and magazines? Tattletale biographies? Online surgeries? Even the increasingly revealing, often unflattering fashions of the day highlight the fact that we are a culture that hides nothing—including ourselves. What's so bad about privacy? I like it. And why is it a tragedy to find yourself in a dead zone? Being unreachable gives me a sense of that old relief I used to feel when I happily wrapped up a telephone call that was sucking the life from me.

I guess that’s why I feel more and more like an interloper in this world: because there are plenty of times when I want, and need, to hide. I think I’ll just stick to email and the blog; they should serve me well. If you want to comment here, that’s great—and if you want to talk, just give me a real, old-fashioned telephone call or stop by: those are still the best means of chatting most of the time.