Tiger Eyes

My brother and I used to fight over whose turn it was to lick the S & H Green Stamps my mother collected when she shopped at Musser's Market. The minty green sheets with their bold red lettering were as good as gold to our family when we lived on Goshen Farm.

The goal was to fill all the pages in a booklet with the coveted stamps. The completed booklets could be exchanged for merchandise. And, it was with the help of S & H green stamps that my parents afforded most of our camping equipment: sleeping bags for all of us, a cookstove, and a Coleman lantern.

The sleeping bags were covered in a deep blue cotton and the inside was lined in a golden flannel imprinted with pictures of Canada geese caught in mid-flight and wood ducks nestled in clumps of cattails on a marsh. Our parents zipped their bags together, for reasons we did not yet understand, while my siblings and I were happy to snuggle into the depths of our own warmth. When my sleeping bag's big silver zipper closed me inside for the night, I would feel like the luckiest girl in all of Lancaster county.

Some of my fondest memories growing up were of the camping trips we took as a family. We would load the pop-up camper and head off for a weekend. These times were extra special to us because amid the hustle and bustle of our communal life at Goshen, we were always under the watchful eyes and listening ears of others. To have our parents to ourselves was the biggest treat we knew.

We camped in places that had trails that wound through the woods and along the water. Muddy Run. Nicely's Pond. Susquehanna State Park. Many of my best childhood memories include the heady scent of new pine needles mixed with the sweet decay of old; the sight of sunbeams poked like long, yellow fingers through the leafy forest ceiling; and the mighty voice of the Susquehanna as it tumbled to empty itself in the Chesapeake Bay.

It was my dad who taught us each how to build a strong campfire. The trick, you see, is in learning how to stack your firewood in a loose pyramid over a substantial bed of paper and kindling. You need to leave enough air pockets to let your fire breathe upwards.

Around those tidy campfires, my dad and mom would take turns reading us such stories as Gentle Ben and Little Britches. We would wrap biscuit dough around the ends of long sticks and hold them over the flames until they were toasted to perfection. The doughy goodness topped with melted butter was delicious even when it wasn't completely done.

The green cookstove always sat at the end of the picnic table in our campsite. Its rickety sides protected the burners from the breeze. It was on that stovetop in a large black skillet that our mother made us the pancake men we adored. Their limbs were always fatter than they were intended to be, and their heads disappeared into their shoulders, but we gobbled them up as fast as she could make them.

After the sun set, we learned to play Rook by the light of the Coleman lantern at the picnic table while dozens of brown moths gathered over our heads to beat their protest against the night air. Later inside the camper, we would watch as my father dimmed the lantern until the mantles glowed orange through the inky dark. "Tiger eyes" we called them.

Once the "tiger eyes" burned low and disappeared, I would burrow down in the warm safety of my S & H green stamp sleeping bag to dream of a new day.

Thank you, S & H. And, thank you, Mom and Dad for lasting memories.

Hello, my name is...

The truth is...I have never been very good at remembering names. Recently, it has gotten worse. Almost every day someone will greet me by name, and the keeper of my memory vault, with stubborn defiance, refuses to release their name to my consciousness.

Perhaps, it is a function of age. I am 42 and approaching menopause. Maybe, it is the reality of a head packed too full of junk. As a habitual multi-tasker, I sometimes have to e-mail myself in the middle of the night just to make enough room in my head for sleep.

Whatever it is, I am challenged to pull correct names to my lips. It has gone beyond the point of embarrassment. It would be nearly unethical, and bordering on immoral, of me to continue on without trying to increase my capacity for name retention.

One article I read years ago suggested that when you select a word to associate with a person's face, you are more apt to remember their name. Armed with this nifty piece of advice, I headed out to a meeting of the PTO at Jayna's school. I was new to the whole PTO thing, and I wanted to make sure that I remembered everyone's name.

This is what happened. I moved through the room-- confident that my strategy would be the turning point in my history of "name-forgetting." I met a woman; let's call her "Molly," who was an artist. Her work was on display in a local bagel shop. I pictured the bagels perched on her face like a pair of eyeglasses. Molly Bagels. This was a piece of cake. (or a piece of bagel)

It was nearly a month later when I ran into "Molly" again. We both smiled in recognition. And, my mind went completely blank. All I could remember was "bagel." And, then I remembered the other details, but I couldn't pull up her name to save my life.

This tip-of-tongue phenomenon has plagued me for as long as I can remember. I am excellent about details; however, the name escapes me 9 times out of 10. And, I have decided to do something about it. Again.

This time I started by trying to better understand metacognition, or the knowledge of my own thoughts and the factors that influence my thinking. One theory suggests that all those little details, such as "bagels," are stored in the frontal lobe. One has to be certain that these reminders are robust enough to correctly retrieve the word you need from where it is stored deeper in the cerebral cortex. The stronger the triggers, the more likely you are to recall the correct name.

Here are a few other things I am doing to flex my metacognitive muscles:

1. I tell myself that I CAN remember names. This doesn't allow me to be lazy about it.
2. When someone introduces themselves, I stop. Pay attention. Too often I am busy thinking about what I going to say rather than really hearing the name.
3. I repeat the name.
4. I ask about the spelling. "Is that Ann with an E?"
5. I look for a chance to introduce the person by name to someone else.

I probably won't try to think of bagels on someone's face again.

Romans 7:15

"I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do, I do not, but what I hate I do."

A Question of Blog Etiquette

I do have an invisible StatCounter on my site. Because I do, I know that there are multiple visitors to my blog who never leave a comment. Their visits are logged about the same time each day. If I had to guess, I would say that a stop over to Divagation is part of a somewhat daily routine. I get that.

I have my own routine. In the morning I grab a cup of coffee and head to the computer. After I check e-mail, I read the New York Times, Washington Post, Boston.com, and our local paper. Lest anyone think I spend all morning reading online news, please note that I am skimming headlines/articles and reading Op-Ed pieces. It takes half an hour. Tops.

Then if I have time, there are a half dozen or so blogs that I check up on--all for different reasons.

Some blogs touch my heart with the honesty of life shared. Some blogs inform me.  Some blogs humor me. 

And, there are a couple of blogs I continue to follow with a sick sort of dedication because I can't believe that anyone actually lives the way they portray themselves through photos, spiritual insights, and stories. Maybe part of me hopes that perfection like that does really exist, while the other more cynical part of me knows it does not--and those authors are full of shit no matter how hard they try to package it as godly.  

In all my blog travels, I leave comments as seldom as some of my most regular blog readers. It is not that I am not interested; it is just that I don't like to leave my electronic footprints all over the world wide web. 

I have been wondering though, what is the etiquette for removing a comment from your blog? It is true; we are all masters of our own cyber kingdoms. We control who may enter, and who may post a comment on our entries. However, in three years of blogging, I can remember only once that I deleted a comment left on my blog. It was a link for some online business startup. It didn't have anything to do with my post, so I removed it.

And, I must ask, if you don't want someone to leave you a comment, wouldn't it be better to have a "friends only" or approved setting? Or, if you know the person who has commented, mightn't  you at least stir yourself to offer the courtesy notification that "No offense or anything, but I don't want your kind to be muddying up the sanctity of my blog? And, P.S. Maybe you would like to be a real Christian like me."

Fat chance.

0's in a Trillion

One trillion still sounds like one of those words we made up as kids to brag about how much stronger our dad was than everyone else or how much smarter we were than our classmates.  

Trillion. Zillion. Kajillion. Infinity. We didn't know exactly what those numbers were, but we did know that they were impressive in size and indisputable in proportion. We tossed them around with all the authority of an 8 year old and dared anyone to defy us.

Today, "trillion" with all the attending O's is not made up. It is a number used to calculate our hulking national debt--11 trillion dollars.  It is very real. And, I will admit, I have never really wrapped my head around just how many O's there are in that number.

The answer: In the U.S. and Scientific Community there are 12 O's in a trillion. 1,000,000,000,000.

In the rest of the world there are 18 O's in a trillion. 1,000,000,000,000,000,000.

I haven't made a career as a financial advisor or an investment banker. I don't claim to know much about anything, but does anyone else see a problem with this kind of math?

Birdie, Rest a Little Longer

I remember my Nana repeating Tennyson's Cradle Song from Sea Dreams...

What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?

"Let me fly," says little birdie,
"Mother, let me fly away."

"Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger,"

So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away...

She would finish by saying, "Julie dear, rest a little longer, till your wings are a little stronger, and then you too may fly away." It has been many years since my wings grew strong enough to carry me out of the nest, but I have never forgotten her words.

My friend Karen reminded me of this today with a post she wrote about her own little birdie who is winging her way to the east coast this week.

Maybe I am cheating by blog pimping, but it is worth a read. She says things so well.

"Fly, little girl with the grumpy face, my bald little baby who came into this world with one eye stuck shut, a startled yell your only concession to being severed from me. Go away from me, now, stern little unsmiling baby with the big hairy ears and unbelievably beautiful face. Your long arms reaching out to stop the swing. You fussed night and day until you could crawl, so why should surprise me that you leave me now? "(read more ...)

Good Mystery Gone Bad

Why is it a bitter disappointment when good mystery writers try to pen a romance novel with the name Sunday in the title? Blech! I had a similar feeling when Mary Higgins Clark wrote My Gal Sunday.  Blech! I don't recommend it even if it sports a snazzy blue "adult bestseller" sticker on the cover. Its absurdity promises only to make you gag. And, it will cure you of being a romantic forever. It wouldn't surprise me if it gets made into a movie though.

The "Rush" ans are Coming

This man is frightening. I do wish he would do something about those awful ties and his putrid politics. That such hate and disregard for mankind exists in one human being is beyond me.

Growing up, I always wished that our family was Republican because we wanted to hang onto our amassed millions. Instead our family politics ran down the rigid backbone of the moral majority. 

It wasn't until I was much older that I thought to ask, "Who made you my moral majority anyway?" I don't remember casting a vote.

Then, more than a decade ago, my adult self chose a different party than the one handed to me by my parents. And, every time Rush opens his mouth, I know I made the right choice.

Talk show hosts and commentators on both the right and the left go too far. They have to. It is how ratings are built. They say the things that offend people to the core. But, there is always the danger of going too far. Just ask Howard Stern. Imus. Jimmy the Greek.

Rush mocking the condition of Michael J. Fox. Rush encouraging a parody of Obama to the tune of "Puff the Magic Dragon." Rush saying he hopes Obama fails. (later amended to say "I hope his policies fail.") These are just a few highlights of a career littered with bitterness and pockmarked with pain.

How far is too far? And, when will we say ENOUGH of your silly ties?

Facebook stares back...

My children think I am the biggest dork in the world for having a Facebook (FB) account. And, I might agree with them. It all began when my sister posted the pictures of our visit home last summer on her FB account; and, I created my own account so I could access the photos.

Within in hours of landing in the Facebook world, two dozen folks from my Kingdom past had "friend requested" me. I declined no one. Although, I must admit, it was strange to see the daily (and sometimes hourly) status updates of people with whom there had been little or no contact for years.

"So-and-so is fixin' to take a nap." OR, "Whosit just finished a cup 'o joe."

Then some of my colleagues joined Facebook. Against my better judgment, I accepted their invitations. I am not sure I ever wanted to know that "Whatsername" had a tattoo. THERE.

Something about too much information all the way around made me feel compromised, and I made a graceful exit. Well, it might not have been that graceful. I just deleted the FB account with a defiant push of a button.

Months later, when Ronda and I were doing a search for someone, I reactivated the account to follow a lead. In her cozy living room, we spent a January afternoon crouched over our laptop screens creeping through Facebook and "googling" like madwomen. People searches sure have changed since the days when she had to call every "Wright" in the D.C. area phone book to find the person who might know something about someone.

With my FB account back up and running, more friend requests rolled in. My own "mumma" is on Facebook. She POKED me last month. It cracked me up to read her status update, "Paulette just finished practicing some hymn variations on the piano." Love, love, love her.

I will confess that I have directed people in my "real world" to join my LinkedIn network if they ask to keep in touch with me. Somehow mixing the unpredictable land of social networking, full of Superpokes and cow flinging, with my professional standing doesn't sit right with me.

And, there is another reason. Although I avoid joining FB causes on either side of the aisle, there are many of my FB friends who are members of causes that lean a bit more to the right than I do. This makes me nervous. (as stated in a post that I did pull down out of respect to my more conservative husband)

And then there are the gifts connected to causes...

"Would you put this dust bunny in your dust bunny garden and send me one back? Together we can stamp out leprosy."

At first blush, you might ask, what is the harm in participating? No one wants anyone to suffer from leprosy; and dust bunnies are cute. However, if you choose to accept the innocuous dust bunny, you will find that you are agreeing to terms of service that require a morning sacrifice, your first born, and access to all the friends in your network.

FB applications are invasive by design. The first thing they do is load your entire address book and ask you if you want to invite anyone else to join. Once you have established your network, FB bleeds through the cyber layers to present you with a list of "people you might know." And, the truth is...you do know them. FB morphs you through six degrees of separation faster than you can say, "Bob's your uncle."

The straw that broke my FB back came this morning when I signed on to discover that I was now friends with "Christian Freedom." I scratched my FB head and tried hard to remember when I had accepted this request. Upon investigation, I discovered that "Christian" was married to my cousin, Karen.

D'oh. Jim Jacobson, Karen's husband, my former Sunday School teacher, and originator of the friend request in question, had changed his name to Christian Freedom, AFTER I had accepted his invitation. Call me a curmudgeon, but I was not (I am not) happy about this. Isn't "bait and switch" illegal?

Beware when you stare into Facebook, for when you stare into Facebook, it stares back at you. And, it WILL get your stuff when you least expect it.