Fishes from Heaven

After graduating college with a B.A. in English, I spent a few months living at home, enjoying the luxury of life with Mom, working at an upscale children’s clothing store. I think of it as my la-di-da period, when I had no idea what I wanted to be or what I should be doing. Mom was happy to have me around, I was making money, and life was pretty stress-free. But I was bored.

So, I phoned an employment agency in Manhattan, spent a day taking typing tests and getting wardrobe advice, and was set up for a few interviews.

The morning of my first interview I rose early, put on the suit Mom and I had carefully chosen from the sale rack at Bamberger’s, and took the short-cut across the park to the bus stop. As I passed the swing sets, there was a rustling in the oak tree above me, then a fish plopped to the ground at my feet.

Yes, a fish plopped from the tree to the ground at my feet. I was startled, but couldn’t dally in case I missed the bus. In a bit of a daze, from nerves and the fish, I made it to the bus, then to my appointment. When I entered the shiny, black, semi-skyscraper, I didn’t stop to look at the Company Directory for fear of appearing lost and unsure. I boldly stepped into the first elevator that opened its doors, stuck my index finger out, and pressed a button. I chose the 14^th floor, possibly attracted by the fact that the numbers went from 12 to 14 with no bad luck number in between.

The bell dinged, the lighted number 14 blinked out, and the doors slid open. Technical Publishing, read the brass letters on the wall opposite. I stepped out of the elevator, miraculously on the correct floor!

I left the interview certain that I would be offered the position. Between the fish and the fourteenth floor, there could be no doubt. Three days later, I was a research assistant for a publishing company, commuting daily to New York City.

What’s your sign?

A Little Family Story

My grandmother used to tell the story of how her fourth child, who later became my mom, was “born in butter”. This buttery birth occurred on a farm on the Gaspay Peninsula, a fairly remote area of Quebec. When Jeannette (yes, I’m her namesake!) awoke with the familiar signs of labor, she waited until the morning milking was done, then sent her husband across the street to his parent’s house to call the doctor on the only telephone for miles around. He was then to take the horse and sleigh (it was always cold and snowy in November, and not a snowplow around) and fetch her own mother. The ten-mile round trip would take him almost four hours.

So, she had four hours to fill. In labor. No man in the house; kids sent across to Grandma’s. Hmm. Well, Jeannette decided to do a few chores so her mom wouldn’t be overly burdened with work when she arrived. Churning the butter seemed like a good idea. Her husband had separated the cream from the morning’s milking, and carried it into the side room. Jeannette poured the thick, yellow cream into the butter churn, an elongated barrel-shaped thing that she tilted from side to side by pulling a metal bar. Slosh, slosh, slosh. With, I imagine, a few breaks for some Lamaze-type breathing at regular intervals. After a while, she decided to check on the butter’s progress, and unscrewed the wooden lid. Almost done, whew. Lid back on. Hee hee hoooo (that’s supposed to be Lamaze breathing). She took hold of the handle, pulled, and the lid flew off! Butter and buttermilk spewed out, splattering the ceiling and walls, and covering the floor. Shortly afterward came my mom.

When I was born, my mom went to a hospital in Illinois, got medicated to sleep, and woke a few hours later to be told she had another girl.

When my daughter was born, I was wide awake, being cheered on by my husband (Him: Oh my God, look at that, look at that! Me: Are you kidding, I can’t look, I’m busy here!)

Since I am FAR too young to be a grandma myself, I won’t even speculate about the birth of my future grandkids, but I bet no story will match the one of my mom being born in butter. 

Tick Tock

What time is it? That depends on whom you ask! If someone's hungry, it's dinnertime; if someone is on a deadline, it's crunch time.

Have too much to do? Not enough time. Bored? Time drags. Need a beer? Miller Time! You know what they say: It's five o'clock somewhere! 

Time to go. Time on your hands. Time after time. It's about time! Time's up. No time like the present. Do you have the time? What time is it, anyway? 

Sand through an hourglass. Shadows on a sundial. Analog. Digital. Wristwatch, grandfather clock, alarm clock. Roman calendar, Chinese calendar, Runic calendar. Does the Mayan calendar signal the end of all time, or the beginning of a new time?

Minutes, seconds, days, years. Decades, centuries, millennia. Some thought the turn of the millennium would cause computers to crash, but we had no time for that!

Springtime, wintertime, the good ol’ summertime. Ages past, look to the future, reside in the Now.

Me time. Private time. Go time. Happy hour, the hour of our discontent, these are the times that try men’s souls.

I’m so glad we had this time together.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Change is hard. We resist it with everything we have. We like the old ways! If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it! Who needs all these new-fangled thoughts and gadgets, anyway?

Ah, but change is inevitable. It is constant. It is wonderful! Think of the big, exciting change that happened 43 years ago when we went from simply dreaming about the moon, to actually standing on it! Ponder how life improved when we changed from being helpless witnesses of devastating epidemics, to being able to prevent many illnesses.  

These are big changes; maybe it’s the small ones that are more difficult to swallow. Have you resisted learning how to text-message? Do you bemoan the advent of eReaders? Technology aside, we hate it when our favorite deli closes, or our hair starts to grey, or our children grow up. We want our parents to stay young and our backs to stay strong and our favorite jeans to still fit.

It could be argued that not all change is for the better; but in general, accepting and rolling with the changes in our lives makes us stronger and more balanced. Learning new tasks and new ways of performing old tasks encourages your brain to connect new synapses, slowing – stopping?! – the expected, age-related degeneration of the mind. So get someone to teach you how to send a text, and send one every day. Try an eReader. Don’t worry, the story will be exactly the same. Give the new deli a chance, and for heaven’s sake, the waistline on those old jeans are so yesterday; buy a new pair! Take a different route to work, walk backwards up the stairs, and eat dessert first. (Well, that last one may not improve your brain, but it will make you smile!) Fire up the ol’ synapses! Use more of that grey matter!

See change as a way to grow.

My changes: eReader, non-fiction, reading glasses, laptop
Same old-same-old: "real" books, fiction, spiral notebooks, messiness