THE ACCORDION EFFECT

THE ACCORDION EFFECT

Yup! The accordion, as in needing to open wide to take in the energy and squeeze it to get the music. It’s been a long time since I blogged. Blame the openings and closings. There’s a lot of squeezing together going on: time past becomes time present as I work on my memoirs, which will probably be of interest to no one but my family and me. I’m up to page 176 and not even divorced yet. In fact, the women’s movement hasn’t yet begun, or the bomb scares of the 60s. Well, that’s not quite true, because the way I’m writing it, some events from past and present do merge, accordion fashion.

Right now I’m living so many Christmas seasons all at once, from the days of huge family smorgasbords around Uncle Emil’s massive table to this year’s anticipation of Christmas Eve dinner at our favorite restaurant in Williamsburg, VA. From the days of anticipating visits from Santa Claus to the days of looking forward to his visits to my children to today’s Toys for Tots. Each year comes around faster, and each Christmas Eve I say the same thing (I guess I get boring): “I can’t believe I’ve been blessed with so many happy, healthy celebrations with family.”

The family, of course, gets smaller and smaller. I was basically the youngest of the youngest, so there aren’t many of us left. Most recently I’ve been spending time with the DVD of my trip to Sweden and Denmark with my parents in 1955. My son-in-law began the process by scanning my 35mm slides and, together with my memory and web searches, putting them in order and labeling them. Doug has coordinated them as much as possible with my reading of my mother’s diary from that trip. Now that’s what I mean about the accordion. It’s like hearing my mother speak at a joyful time in her life. And me? Well, I was a lot younger … Some things strike me especially, beginning with the end of our trip on the SS Kungsholm when we went off course into a hurricane in the North Atlantic to rescue nine men off a sinking Greek freighter. Truly newsworthy, we thought, until we came home to the devastation wrought to our town (fortunately not to our home.)

Items of note: Friends and family saw us off with a party in my parent’s stateroom before hearing the equivalent of “All ashore that’s going ashore.” No scanners. Remember? Not so long ago, actually. One of my father’s wealthy friends gave him a bon voyage gift of $10.00 to spend any way he’d like in the dining room! My mother made note of a hospital in Sweden where the nurses occupied housing in the building to the left of the hospital and the doctors were to the right. Remember that division of the sexes? But Skansen looked pretty much the same as it did in 1976 when I went with Doug and Lisa, and even today. And Tivoli in Copenhagen? The photos could have been taken yesterday.

That’s what I mean. I’m living in the past and the present at the same time, and pretty much surviving it. I’d much rather be the age I am now. I don’t want to go through all that again. Still, I wouldn’t mind having that body. Why that body? Well, it was a lot more agile, though truth be told I’ve always mistrusted my own feet when it comes to heights. Even in 1976 I made my kids climb down the hill rather than ride the steep down-escalator from Skansen. During Thanksgiving week in Italy, poor Doug had to put up with my panic going down the winding hill from our timeshare to the parking lot below – daily. It was worth it, though, at least to me. Food, food, food, fabulous food. Even our most favorite Italian restaurant can’t live up to what we had there. Wine, too. A friend of mine challenged me to try every wine in Italy. I did give it a try.

We spent a day in Rome, looking at the outside of the Roman ruins. OK. I’ve seen one Roman ruin I’ve seen them all. The Vatican? We walked right in. November is the time to visit. No crowds . Michelangelo’s Pieta, the Sistine Chapel, a chance to pray for a special friend in Connecticut. All good – even moving, but I loved the Duomo in Arvieto more. Breathtaking. I confess that I prefer the small towns: Spoleto and Assisi as well. I did get my wish to see Pompeii – a bit of that accordion effect as I thought of the wealthy folks living in fabulous beauty and luxury before they left their slaves behind to die in the ash. I’ve promised myself I’ll google it. I understand they escaped into slavery in Egypt.

Today I’m snowed in, missing a fun Holiday concert and celebration, but I’m counting on tomorrow to be better for the Minnetonka Choral Society Concert and dinner afterward.

Monday I’ll be doing what I still keep working at – with minimal success – trying to sell my books. I’ll spend the day on Monday at the LinkedIn holiday celebration with my books spread out on table #8.

I think of the friends who moved on to the next phase of the journey during the past year with deepest sympathy for their families feeling the emptiness. I hope memories act a bit like a musical accordion.

I wish happy holidays for all of you who had the patience to read this through. One thing about the accordion effect: I know that twenty years from now we’ll have a full understanding of what’s growing in the midst of today’s turmoil, and I count on being around to “get” it.

HIGH SCHOOL DURING WWII AND ITS END

Thanks to you kind folk who commented on my last blog. The concern and support felt good.

And now this is a segment from my "Riding in the Back Seat." I've tried to keep each section to 1000 words more or less, not counting the title. This one makes it exactly. What you see in it depends on your age, of course. I hope you find something of nostalgia, history, or comedy (how camp!) in it.

CARRYING THE TORCH

In September 1943, when we were bussed in from Forestville to become part of the Bristol High School class of 1947, the heaviness of WWII, the most widespread war in history, accompanied us. Bristol buzzed with activity, especially at New Departure Ball Bearings. Rumors claim that at least one of the clock companies did secret work for the war effort. Anyone who could work was employed, at high wages. Day care centers provided care for employee’s children. Air raid spotters and Wardens did the work I’ve described earlier, most with greater efficiency than Hallie and I demonstrated. When we recited allegiance to the flag, we pledged to “one nation indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

Visits to the movies, largely cheerful musicals, began with newsreels of war, horrible but distant except for habitual fear for the guys (sic) fighting overseas, and for the people living there. Isolated in our own freshman building, we concentrated on being teenagers. Miss Jones gave me an A with the comment “Excellent capture of an experience” for an essay I wrote claiming Thelma’s misadventure at People’s Forest as my own. Nothing sufficiently exciting had happened to me. In the spring I phoned Eddie McHugh to ask him if he wanted to go to the dance. His answer was “no.”

As summer vacation began and we anticipated, with some dread, our move to the big high school building in the fall, news came that changed the atmosphere we breathed. On June 6, 1944, as my parents celebrated their twenty-seventh anniversary, D-Day, the bloody but ultimately victorious battle of Normandy, began. Hope, a sweet, shallow-breathing, painful emotion, shaded our fun in the sun.

In 2001 our family visited Omaha beach. Feeling like hallowed ground, row upon row of crosses and Jewish stars brought order out of what had been terrible chaos. A few years ago an offensive e-mail made the circuit focusing on the crosses there, claiming that battle as evidence that we are a Christian nation. Wrong! It took all of us.

In August 1944, just before our sophomore year, tension began to yield as newsreels announced that all of Northern France was under allied control. Sadness, gloom, and dirges prevailed, however, in April when President Franklin D. Roosevelt died on the twelfth of the month. Our class history pointed out, “The President of the United States passed away before being able to rejoice at the end of hostilities in Europe” Harry Truman was sworn in. Who?

The dirges were personal for us as Uncle Everett died of heart failure at just about the same time, leaving Aunt Gerda alone, and the one who finally had to move in with my aging Grandpa Anderson to care for him until the end of his life at age ninety-two.

Close to the end of our sophomore year, on May 8, 1945, Germany’s unconditional surrender was announced and hope became more excitement than dread. Before the newsreels at the movies the bouncing ball led us in singing, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again ..”

That summer I learned to type. My parents insisted I should, but there was no hope of my taking that course in school; kids in the college curriculum were banned as there were only enough typewriters to serve students in the business courses. So I traveled daily that summer to a typing course in a private business school in Bristol. I became sufficiently proficient in QWERTY to make some extra money typing papers in college.

I’ll bet part of my parents’ motivation was the fact of my terrible penmanship. The Palmer method of wide circles and up and down motions in the early grades hadn’t done much for legibility, so I imagine typed papers in themselves might have biased teachers in my favor. On the other hand, I’ve claimed that the reason I got so many As in my bluebook exams was the fact that teachers just threw up their hands in despair for their eyesight with an “Oh what the heck! Call it an A and move on.”

The lack of room in the typing class may also have reflected what was an apparent growing population of Bristol teenagers. My memory is vague, but I recall that our days were divided in two, so that some of us went to school in morning sessions and the others in the afternoon. This isn’t a real memory, but I’ll guess I preferred the afternoon assignment. I still slept well, long, and late in those days.

In the meantime, adults were creating for themselves the perpetual problem of how to deal with teenagers. One solution was Teen Town as reflected in this quote from ‘The Torch,” our yearbook. “… many of our classmates could be found after school or in the evening at Teen Town. This teenager’s haven was something new in our town and attracted many of the students.” I think my attitude was closer to the truth. I resented being labeled as a member of some group that needed containment. I don’t remember that Teen Town lasted very long.

Just before we began our junior year, On August 6, 1945, the Enola Gay dropped “Little Boy,” the equivalent of 20,000 tons of TNT on Hiroshima, Japan, a city of 250,000, 70,000 of whom were killed instantly, another 70,000 of whom died of radiation within the next ten years. The bombing of Nagasaki followed on August 9. We were shocked and even gleeful, having no way to anticipate what it would mean that we had just initiated the atomic age. What we did know was that we started our third year in high school celebrating the Japanese surrender on September 2. Euphoria, an all-body wildness I’m not neurologically wired to experience often, zinged through our personal atomic structures.

The War was over. We would live in peace! Our Glee Club practiced “One World” for our participation in the state chorus: “One world built on a firm foundation; one world no longer cursed by war…

PRIDE GOES BEFORE A FALL; I’VE BEEN SCAMMED

There are at least two ways to tell a story. I could take you through the process, the tension, the fears, the resolution, the relief, the chagrin, and the therapeutic action, or I can start with the conclusion and then tell you the story. I’ve chosen the latter. Where does the pride come in? Mine. I thought I was perfectly immune to any kind of scam. Not only am I smart enough not to respond to e-mails from Nigeria, I thought I knew all the possibilities. I know I should never send money to a cause I haven’t initiated or explored fully, especially if I’m asked to do it in a hurry. Daily I check my accounts to be sure nothing weird is happening. I’ve had clients with whom I’ve sympathized when they’ve sent money off for the prize that never came or got caught in other scams. I do lots of things to protect myself, not all of which I’ll report here because I now know there are really bright people ready to turn anything into a plan.

I also want to say up front that, while all this was going on, my grandson Erik was innocently going about his daily business, oblivious to the way he and his voice were being used. And I want to express my high regard for the talent, creativity, and skill of the scammers. Boy! Were they good!

Grandparents among you, please take notice. My cousin in Florida tells me (Now she tells me!) there are warnings all over Florida about this scam, Florida being a great location to catch caring grandparents. I guess the scammers are now targeting wider and less informed territory.

Personally I am hurt. I’ve spent the summer being very careful so I could save for next summer’s vacation and I was just about there. But that’s all that’s lost. I can still pay my mortgage, enjoy my concerts and plays, give to the causes I care about. In other words, it’s not very bad. I’m mildly chagrined, but as the story unfolds, you’ll see how convinced I was that I was talking to Erik. So, on with what I’ve learned.

When I agree to keep a secret, my mind clamps down on it and imprisons it in a special place. Given my career, I think I’m especially susceptible to that. I’m also pretty good at not agreeing to keep a secret until I’m sure I want to and can. But when my grandson, in stress, asks me to keep a secret, I’m quick to agree. First step in the scam, of course. Don’t tell anyone.

What else have I learned? (1) Good people try to intervene when they suspect something may be wrong. (2) Western Union is the one untraceable way to send money. (3) An American accent calling from the police department in Canada should raise suspicions. (4) Essential to a good scam is lots of realistic detail; (5) the scammers could have been right next door to me, ‘cause phones can be rigged easily to appear to be coming from almost anywhere; (6) We hear what we expect to hear; (7) For a couple of reasons I think they were targeting me specifically, or at least my town of Chaska; (7) But here’s the clincher which I learned from my military friend who was once connected with the CIA, people can be, and are, trained to pick up someone’s speech patterns. It takes a short time for talented people, and it’s useful in the job they do. (As I said to my cousin, “Hmm, do you suppose my scammer was once trained with my tax money?)

My immediate reaction once I knew I’d been scammed and Erik was safe was to follow basic therapeutic principles and look for a way to get control of the situation. The money’s gone, but I could still look for a way to follow my former husband’s advice, “Turn a defeat into a victory,” or the saw “When you’re given lemons, make lemonade.” So I sent off a note to a local TV channel offering my story. They haven’t responded, but here I am hoping you’ll hear it to good purpose.

On Friday morning at about 9:30 a.m. I answered a call from a number I didn’t recognize.

Hi Grandma,

Erik, Hi. How are you? [Can’t you just imagine the victory signal in the hotel room? They had me.]

I’m OK Grandma, but – well – can you promise not to tell anyone for now?

Sure. What can I do for you?

Well, Grandma, Craig’s grandfather died suddenly a couple of weeks ago, and he loved his cabin in Canada, so the family came here to leave his ashes. Craig asked me to come, and yesterday, after everything was done, we found a nice fishing spot – kind of isolated and really nice. There were a couple of other guys there too and we got to talking. They seemed really nice, so we invited them to come back with us for a barbecue. On the way there, we got stopped for a broken taillight that Craig didn’t know was broken. The two guys in the back freaked out and the police made us all get out of the car. It turns out those two guys are known drug dealers, and one of them had slipped his stash under my seat. So they arrested us all. They charged us with using, dealing, and intent to transport over the border. So now they’re going to keep us here until the trial unless I can come up with bail. Grandma, I can pay you back tomorrow if you could just send it for now so I can get out of this place. I don’t want to spend another night in this box, and this is my only phone call. Craig’s grandmother has already bailed him out.

How much is bail?

$5,220

Oh my God! I haven’t got that kind of money!

That’s OK Grandma, if you can’t do it.

Of course I can find it! How do I get it to you?

[OK, You folks who are reading this now, knowing it’s a scam, I want you to understand that all this time it’s Erik’s voice. It’s Erik I’m talking to.]

I’ll let the officer tell you.

Officer John Bannon gets on to tell me that Craig and Erik both tested clean for drugs, though the other two didn’t. Then he explains to me what to do. I need to get cash and send it via Western Union to someone named Williams Prince in Miami, Florida. Sgt. Bannon emphasizes the “s” on the end of William. [ohmygod, looking back, isn’t that a suspicious name? Sure. Everything is clear once you know what’s going on.] He’s the person who handles bonding for U.S. Citizens, he tells me.

“Come on, I said, “You must know they aren’t guilty.” And Officer Bannon says, “If it were up to me, I’d let them go, but you know… “

Do I really need to leave home to do this? I have a client coming at 11:00. Can’t I just give you my credit card number? [Oh Mona. Were you ever hooked or what!?] Fortunately he declined that offer.

“It may not take that long,” says Sgt. Bannon. “Where do you live?” I tell him I’m in Chaska, MN. “Let me look it up on the web,” he says. “There’s one right there in Chaska at County Market. And let me know when you’ve sent it so we can let the bondsman be on the lookout for it. And be sure to keep track of the fee for sending it, because we’ll reimburse it.”

Yes, but my bank is in Excelsior. Isn’t there a Western Union there? He asks me to spell “Excelsior” and takes time to “look it up on the web” and tell me there isn’t a Western Union there. [See why I think Chaska was targeted?]

Now I’ll shorten the tale into a narrative. I called my client and asked her to postpone until Monday because of a family emergency. She kindly agreed. I went to the bank where dear Beckie asked me “Are you sure this isn’t a scam.?” I was sure. I had been talking to my grandson (but of course I didn’t tell her – sworn to secrecy, you know.) I asked the teller to look up on the web and see whether there is a Western Union in Excelsior. “Yes, there’s one at TCF bank,” she said, looking at the web. [I know, I know. I know. Why didn’t I catch on then? But I had been talking to Erik!] At TCF bank I learned they had given up the Western Union desk, so I found the County Market in Chaska.

At County Market I left the Western Union order on the order phone and gave the guy the money. “Are you sure this isn’t a scam?” he asks. Of course I’m sure. I’ve been talking to Erik. Once that’s done, I call the phone number I’d been given where a guy answers “Niagara Police.” I ask to speak to Sgt. John Bannon. The 'officer who answered' gets him on the phone, asking what the fee was for Western Union so they can reimburse me. I’ll be getting the check in about two weeks, he says. He tells me they’ll call me when Erik is released. The time goes deep into the afternoon and I’m about to go off with Doug, so I call the number again and the “Niagara Police” answer. “We’re processing it,” he tells me. It will probably get to be midnight or so. “Is Erik going to need a lawyer” I ask? “I don’t think so,” he says. “The charges will probably be dropped.” You can call anytime, though you might get a different officer tomorrow. "Tell Erik I’m going to be with Uncle Doug. Is it OK to tell him?” ‘Officer Bannon’ turns to ‘Erik” who says “No. I’d rather wait until I can explain it to the family tomorrow.” [Something about this is weird. The kids never keep anything from Doug. Is he really that embarrassed?]

Off I went with Doug. No phone call, and no phone call in the morning. Finally I called the number for the ‘Niagara Police” and got a recording in French, followed by an English translation, that no one is answering at that number. Getting scared for Erik’s safety I leave him a message on his cell phone. “Where are you?” and I check the web for reverse phone numbers. There is no one attached to the number of the “Niagara Police.” I call 911. “It’s a scam,” I’m told. “I’ll send an officer to talk to you.” Now I was really scared for Erik. I had been talking to him. Had they kidnapped him? Just as the cop arrived, Erik called. “What do you mean where am I? I’m in Philadelphia, of course.” When I told him the story, he said “I don’t even know a Craig.” I was so relieved Erik was safe. Money is only money.

And there you have it. Erik’s safe, and I’ve learned a lot. Oh, by the way, when I was believing the story of being stopped by the cops, I thought what a great way for smugglers to get their stuff across the border, hiding it in the car of the innocent and letting colleagues on the other side fetch it.

Camp Woodstock and stuff

I goofed! If you are on the automatic recipient list, please disregard the too-large double-spaced thing that just came through. Now I'll start over.

I haven't written here because I've been wrapped up in two things, trying to learn Italian, and enthusiastically writing "Riding in the Back Seat," a book no one will probably ever want to read, but I feel compelled to write it. Anyway, I decided to include one segment (the equivalent of pages 74-76.) I'm trying to keep each chapter/segment to 1000 words.

Reactions would certainly be appreciated, but in the meantime, I hope you'll just enjoy ...

CAMP WOODSTOCK: JOY, FUN, ACCOMPLISHMENT, AND SAD ASSOCIATIONS

I just googled myself right back there – into the wood smell of the cabin and my upper bunk, canoes in sweet blue waters, the barn with its long meal tables, craft stations for interlacing leather belts and lanyards that went home as gifts and souvenirs. Two-weeks at the YMCA camp in Woodstock Valley, Connecticut; the feel of total immersion. If that sounds like a form of baptism, it’s pretty close to the truth. The intimacy of the immediate and the sublime was realized in one of my favorite spots, the hallowed Cathedral in the Pines. Nestled in the trees, sweetened by the smell of living wood and the calm of blue lake waters, it was the site of formal worship, and more important, the place of escape from whatever was too much of the good and bad to bear in the busy day.

Hallie was with me in 1942; World War II was in full horror overseas; the outcome was unclear; and we were twelve. Gas cards were saved to fuel us there. We outlined the initials of our latest crush in tape on our upper legs so there would be a white imprint of sorts left after we got really tan. I chose the initials HB for Harry Belmar. He, of course, had no idea I had a crush on him – a cute blond guy who was in my confirmation class – a joint venture of our Forestville church with the Bristol church that shared the same pastor. I’m not sure I even felt an attraction for him. It was more important to have a crush than to experience it.

I received a blue ribbon, designed especially for me. Something like, “Most surprising progress in diving,” or whatever nice way they came up with saying it. The fact is, although I loved swimming and had no fear of the water, I did fear going in upside down. Learning to dive involved kneeling on the dock and going in headfirst. Having mastered that, one proceeded to do the same thing from a standing position, ultimately to propelling oneself into the water from the diving board. Daily, as everyone moved beyond me, I knelt on the dock trying unsuccessfully to invert myself into the water. Night after night in my bunk, I imagined the feeling of diving. On the last full day, I walked out on the board and, quite nicely if I do say so myself, executed the headlong catapult into the water that I had been imagining. I picture counselors huddling to discuss possible ways to recognize that astonishing feat which would not have been noteworthy had I not displayed a long period of failure.

It taught me something I later used in some of my classes; I discovered that athletes have been known to do that kind of practice in imagery – a great example of the intimacy of mind and body.

Overcoming shyness, I sang in the talent show. First time successfully performing in front of people – makings of a college professor?

I wish I could honor the memory one of our counselors by recalling her name; she was tall, blond, pretty, and very nice. On November 28, 1942, she died in the Coconut Grove fire in Boston, one of 492 killed, closed in by boarded up windows, locked doors, a revolving entrance trapping people unable to move either in or out, lax enforcement of insufficient fire laws, and overcrowding by 500 over the limit. Death by painful violence, unlike my Uncle Emil’s quiet demise at home.

I still find remnants of the empathic frustration and anger I felt at the image of people trying to escape out the limited exit space. I thought of her in my classes when on occasion I’d talk about the study that observed people pulling their own rope-attached beads out the neck of a coke-like bottle. When people cooperatively took turns, all their beads got out. Not so when people competed to be first to save themselves. The Coconut Grove fire spread so fast it was basically impossible for anyone to help anyone else, to say nothing of take turns. Even the firefighters couldn’t get in to help. I experience even more intensified anger when people have been trapped more recently in similar fires because a choice has been made to keep exit doors locked. More should have been learned from the Coconut Grove fire, or the concern for people’s welfare over profit.

By the way, googling reveals the photo of a Coconut Grove matchbook advertising dinner for $1.50. Among the dead was Buck Jones, in town to promote War Bonds and his own films.

In the mid 1980s, I had just finished teaching research related to pro-social behavior. It involved [fake] smoke creeping under the door and people’s reactions under varying conditions. As we were discussing those results, and the deception, another faculty member gestured me into the hall, pointing out the fire in the ceiling. I returned to the classroom, requesting that people leave calmly and quietly, because flames had been detected. Of course, they didn’t leave – not about to be fooled - until I sent one student out to validate the observation.

A few years back, after a picnic on the palace grounds in Colonial Williamsburg, the fireworks display ended in a sudden downpour of rain. In demonstration of the beads-out-of-the-bottle effect, some people huddled under the exit gate, making it almost impossible for the rest of us to get out. The following year that event was cancelled, citing the “riot” that occurred in the rain.

And there you have it – the juxtaposition of personal delight, war, terrible civilian tragedies, and very uncomfortable but minor inconveniences. That’s part of the accordion effect – juggling the simple and glorious with the complex and tragic.

When my children were of late childhood age they went to Woodstock. It was a nice experience for them, but not the thrill it was for me. We can’t relive our own pleasures by exposing our children to them.

HISTORY MOVES SLOWLY

I am constantly reminded that history moves slowly. In college in the late 40s and early 50s, I decided that I would follow my passion for psychology on to graduate school and still see myself as an attractive woman, potential wife and mother. Beginning in 1970 I began teaching the psychology of women with textbooks just beginning to appear. Related to that I did talks about town on A Healthy Woman is a Crazy Person, usually beginning by singing, “This Little Light of Mine; I’m Gonna Let it Shine.” Contrary to the beliefs of the opposition, the point was not to hate men, send women out to work, and avoid wife and motherhood. The point was to make possible the full potential of women’s gifts. We talked about flex time, working from home, shared jobs, help with child care. Indeed, at Southern Connecticut State College where I taught, we pleaded for a day care center for faculty. It would have made sense, since SCSC specialized in Education training, so it would have provided practical training for Early Childhood majors. Even there, though, the culture wasn’t ready. My memory tells me the day care center at SCSU didn’t develop until after I had retired in 1986.

Much of what we longed for then has come to pass, spurred by the culture’s economic need and the development of amazing technological advances. These thoughts have been inspired by the book I’ve been reading on my Kindle-- Steven Hill’s “Europe’s Promise: Why the European Way is the Best Hope in an Insecure Age.” Regarding the lesson of the influence of economic need, he refers to “the dependency ratio,” the ratio of dependent members of society to the wage-earning members who contribute to their support. A light bulb lit – like “of course” – when he referred to the dependents at both ends of the age scale. Kids are dependents too. While the number of aging is going up and is predicted to rise even more, childbirth rates are going down. On a short-term basis, that produces a ratio balance. Over time, however, aging will continue to increase, but fewer children will be growing into productive employment. That’s the problem. There will not be enough working folks to support both ends of the dependency ratio.

So, how does this relate to my opening points? Hill cites evidence that there are two potential sources for increasing the number of gainfully employed - immigration and women’s equality, which would have the effect of increasing the number of births. He says it more effectively than I can. “It is deeply ironic that a substantial part of the response to the continent’s dilemmas hinges on two solutions: less sexism and less racism. More immigration and better integration will help reverse the population decline and increase employment, which will positively affect dependency ratios; more women’s equality also will increase employment and the dependency ratio, and could lead to a higher birthrate.” (Kindle location 4669 – 74)

“Feminism is the New Natalism,” he says. Instead of forcing women to choose between career and motherhood, cultural and financial attitudes toward economic support of parenthood would have to change. Citing data from specific countries, he says. “Germany, Italy, Spain, and other countries need a new generation of women’s liberation, founded on freeing women to be both mothers and workers – working mothers. Fortunately, successful models already exist in neighboring Scandinavia and Britain.” (location 4612, Kindle) Those models include parental leave for both parents, high-level childcare facilities, business, insurance, or governmental subsidies for child wellness. The packages differ in different countries, but the goal is the same – to balance the economic health of the country.

The author is talking about Europe, but much of this may apply as well to the United States. I remember, for example, how quickly a child-care center was established in one wing of my grammar school during World War II. The emergency was clear. Similar centers were established in many businesses so mothers could work, knowing their children were cared for. We knew Rosie the riveter had to be freed up to work on the production line. There are employers today who are establishing similar care centers – a great way to help women to be gainfully employed and, not incidentally, providing jobs for the day care workers. It may not be so apparent, but we are in an emergency situation today as well.

I hope this will not be read to suggest that women should take the self-sacrificing role of providing financial as well as personal care of dependents at both ends of the age dimension. Rather, in a culture that cares about all its people, I read it – and I hope you read it – as encouragement for enriching women’s lives even as the health of the economic culture is supported. Remember, Rosie was paid men’s wages.

My favorite young critic (24) wants me to be sure to make the point that we won’t really be “there” until we talk about giving strength and encouragement to “parents.”

Oh, by the way. As revealed in one of my previous blogs and in this one, I’ve made the conscious choice to divulge and to take advantage of my age, knowing full well that our culture sees it not as an asset but a deficit. Who knows? Maybe my college friends and I can change that bias. In the meantime, I feel like a walking history book – a lesson in patience. It, whatever “it” is, takes time. That’s why I’m planning to hang in here at least for another 20 years so I can understand in retrospect what the heck is going on now.

WHEN DOES CAREGIVING BECOME CARETAKING?

This will be a short blog. I have the question but not much of an answer. It started a few days ago when a friend and I were discussing a book we had read. It took us to the issue of family systems and my comment that caregivers require people who need care.

She corrected my language, asserting that I should be distinguishing between “caregivers” and “caretakers.” The emphasis, she pointed out, should be on the last half of the word. I guess in a way it might even be biblical, with the assertion that giving should be done in quiet, without advertising one’s largess, with genuine concern for the person receiving the care. Given that distinction, the term “caretaker” would refer to folks who need some sense of control or competence or superiority or something else, with the emphasis on satisfying a need of one’s own by way of tending to the needs of others.

As you can see, I’m wrestling with the implications of this distinction, a very interesting one. Any reactions?

APPRECIATING GOOD FORTUNE (with special note of 1947 - 1979)

Snippets and snapshots have been dominating my thoughts these days, stimulated by working on “Riding in the Back Seat” and, recently, a request from Boston University for snapshots of memories of my time in the Ph.D. program there. Things that have hovered at the back of my mind are springing forward. How lucky I was that my father was the youngest of his family whose oldest brother was already here when he came from Sweden. There was a family waiting for him. Even though he never wanted to blow his own horn, he had friends at work who would, at appropriate times, tell the boss things like, “You’d better promote Carl Gustafson or you’ll lose him to another company that will appreciate him,” and so he made his way – almost in spite of himself, but based on his abilities – to a nice position.

How lucky I was to be the youngest in my family, born at the beginning of the depression, but old enough when we were pulling out of it so that I didn’t really experience it as my brother and sister did. My parents gave me the wonderful gift of a Connecticut College education. Years later I was fortunate to have a mentor in Bill Trinkaus at Southern Connecticut State College when “mentor” was just a word in the dictionary. And I was among the last group promoted to Full Professor there in 1978 before a long, dry season of limited spending on higher education set in.

All that is personal, but reading Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers this summer reminded me that my good fortune was directly related to broader demographic factors. My life and my career hit the years at just the right time. Remembering that my parents new home – which they moved into a month after I was born – relied on public events like new roads and electricity to the suburbs, I went back to one of my favorite books, Stephanie Coontz, The Way We Never Were. There I realized how the home ownership my husband Lou and I enjoyed depended upon government action guaranteeing home loans with less than the 50% down payment that was often required before WWII.

Wondering how accurate my perception was that the economic divide had widened during my career and parenting years, I decided to get more specific and google the year I graduated from High School – 1947. (Now you know!) I knew I was among the lucky ones that WWII was over. (Never mind that we really believed wars had ended.) It turns out that 1947 was a significant enough year that it got mentioned in several places. Coontz points out (p. 78) that 1947 was the year when the government began a project to build 37,000 miles of new highway. Oh, and in 1956, the year after I was married and before we bought our first home, the Interstate Highway Act provided for an additional 42,500 miles – all of which helped the growth of suburbs.

Recently I have commented on the lives of the wealthy in Bristol. We had rich folks connected to the clock companies and to businesses that had been especially important during the war. They lived in mansions, quite similar to the starter mansions I see near my neighborhood in Minnesota. But they were a part of our community. Their kids went to High School with me. My boyfriend’s father owned a diner, disparagingly called “Dirty Bills.” by some. One year the daughter of the president of one of the clock companies was his date for the prom. (If you want to know more about why I wasn’t his date, you’ll have to read “Riding in the Back Seat” when it comes out in a few years.)

Were we an unusual community, or was there really not such a huge disparity between the wealthy and the rest of us in those years? I found the Internet loaded with references to 1947. It really was an important year! It didn’t take long to come up with a brief quotable reference. “For a quarter-century after World War II, Americans grew more prosperous and less unequal. Families in every fifth of income distribution saw their incomes double between 1947 and 1979. But the next quarter-century changed course dramatically. Between 1979 and 1998, the top fifth gained 38 percent, and the top 5 percent gained 64 percent, while the bottom fifth lost 5 percent of real income.” (If you copy and paste the following, it will take you to the source of the quote, Dec. 15, 1999 entry, “United For a Fair Economy.”)

file:///Users/mona/Desktop/Report:%20growing%20divide%20at%20decade's%20end%20%7C%20United%20for%20a%20Fair%20Economy.webarchive

See how personal these data are. It wasn’t just my imagination that wealth distribution was fairer in my family-raising and career years. I was part of the filling in a metaphorical sandwich between 1947 and 1959. So much for the bootstraps theory and more evidence of my good fortune just for when I happened to be born.

One last word. Mrs. Job needs readers – and purchasers. And remember, she is now available on Kindle for $6.00. Also, please, if you like her, a review on Amazon.com would be really nice.

Some of you have been kind enough to tell me that you enjoy my blogs – quite a motivator, really. And all the more reason why I feel so remiss that it’s been so long since I wrote.

On Thursday, April 29, I returned from a fabulous Mediterranean cruise. As I took a few days to do the things one does to get back to normal after a long time away, I kept writing the blog in my head. I had so many things to say, I thought I might have to break it into two. Then I got hit with something very akin to the flu, except without gastro-intestinal involvement. Since “I never get sick,” it came as a shock. All I could do was cough, sneeze, use up boxes of Kleenex, sleep, and occasionally, when energy was really high, stare into space, or maybe even watch TV. Unfortunately it did nothing to reduce my appetite. By the time I was recovered enough to go grocery shopping I was pretty much down to black olives and ice cream bars. I’m happy to say I was able on Sunday, May 9, to see M. Butterfly at a Guthrie matinee. It was fabulous. Not one wink of nap was I tempted to take.

So now, about the cruise. We were fortunate to have a direct flight from Atlanta to the Rome airport, but even at the last minute it looked like we might not be able to do it with Iceland sending its ash over Europe. Even when we arrived at the airport in Minneapolis, we were told we wouldn’t be able to get to Europe. It took insistence and 20 minutes of consultation for the woman at the desk to discover that Rome would probably be opened. Still, even as we flew to Atlanta, we were planning alternatives – maybe John C. Campbell folk school. Meeting Atlanta friends at the airport, we found only Jeff and Max. Val was home preparing the house for our visit, which she was sure would happen. The fact is, we made it to Rome right on schedule.

But lots of people didn’t make it. Holland America kept the ship in port an extra day for passengers held up by the ash situation, and, depending on which rumor you go with, 200 or more people never did make it. And some others had their cruise inadvertently extended as they were invited back on board when they couldn’t fly home. Our schedule was modified to make up for that extra day in port (which we, of course, spent sleeping -- jet lag recovery.) I can’t tell you anything about Corfu. We never did get to do that stop. I can tell you we were lucky in Athens, being there before the strikes that closed down the acropolis. Well, I guess I was lucky. My acrophobia really kicked in there. All the while as I made my way halfway up, I was rehearsing, “What goes up must come down.” I found myself a piece of something to sit on/cling to, while Doug went mountain goating above me. But here I am. A survivor.

I’ll try not to get boring with detail, but I do want to mention the half hour we had in the Acropolis museum. It’s the best visit I’ve ever had to a museum. Our guide took us on a quick tour of the development of statuary art, from the stylized Roman statues to the more detailed and realistic Greek works – mostly marble, because bronze statues had a tendency to get melted down for ammunition. The one we did see had come from a sunken ship. Particularly intriguing was the – probably competitive -- development of grave markers. Engravings to honor the dead or their gods gradually emerged from the marble, finally becoming separate statues.

Marble in the art; marble in the streets - old and a bit uncomfortable to walk on in Ephesus, flat and beautiful in Santorini. Apparently that seismic area produces marble in quantity. That area also had me in awe of the smallness and yet significance of each of us. Civilization after civilization was built on top of the ruins of its predecessor – earthquakes, volcanoes, and the human desire to invade, possess and destroy. With apologies to those who hear this too often from me, all I could think of on seeing the statue of a famous conqueror, “And now he’s a pile of bones.” Makes one think about the meaning of our own existence, and what we’ll leave behind. And time! I wonder whether it affects the sense of individual significance to live on the remnants of so many previous civilizations.

More travel is planned for Italy in November. I’ve ordered Pimsleur “Quick and Simple Italian.” After all, people will see my last name and expect me to understand Italian. I sort of agree that I should have picked up something in my years in New Haven. Unfortunately my in-laws discouraged learning Italian from them. They wanted me to know only “proper” Italian. My parents, on the other hand, didn’t want me to learn Swedish after all the harassment my father had experienced as an immigrant. So here I am, reminded how very difficult it is to learn another language after the age of 4 or so. We’ve become so accustomed to people in other places speaking English as if it weren’t a second language that we tend to take it for granted. Well, I do, anyway. Then I hear someone delivering a major speech, or even a lengthy interview, in basically perfect English, and I am amazed. I do wish I’d been taught foreign languages in grammar school. German wasn’t so bad in High School – so much in common with English, and with the word order I heard in church as a child.

Ho hum, I have gone on. I’ve got some other stuff I want to talk about. Maybe I won’t be so slow to write the next blog. Just one last word. Mrs. Job is now available in Kindle format -- $6.00.

WHAT I WANT TO BE WHEN I GROW UP

I just decided what I want to be when I grow up. Well, not just now, but sort of early this morning as I woke up. Yesterday a friend of mine told me the reaction of the person to whom she had given a copy of Mrs. Job. Reportedly she loved it, and wondered would I be willing to do a retreat at her [Lutheran] church. There was no real offer, just the suggestion that I should think about it. It took a good night’s sleep for me to realize that this is exactly what I love to do. Forgiveness, Justice, Job and his wife. They are so intimately connected, and how they tie in to my interest in gender psychology and restorative practices! So now my thoughts are off and running. What a great two-day retreat we could have, or even a one-day workshop. It would have to be tailored, both in title and content, to the hosting group. If it were a group of Lutheran women, for example, it could be "Mrs. Job, forgiveness, and justice for the Godly woman." For others it might be "Forgiveness, Justice, Restorative Practices, and the influence of Mrs. Job." Who knows? It would take a lot of thought to name it, and more thought to arrange a fruitful presentation that would frame the issues and their solutions in general as well as personal gain for participants. But my cupboard is filled with so many great ingredients for the recipe. It would be fun. First job – construct a blurb that would describe it to a general audience.

OK. That’s it. Help me with your thoughts. In the meantime, I have spent some time (not enough) on “Riding in the Back Seat” and reading on my deck in halter and shorts. Imagine! It’s that warm here today.

I GET DISCOURAGED – AND THEN I’M NOT

I guess it’s all part of the process of deciding what I want to be when I grow up – or maybe just growing up. Anyway, I get discouraged when I sell only two books at the Bloomington Theatre and Art Center Writers Book Festival. I get discouraged when I discover I don’t have the energy I once had to contribute my efforts to the causes I care about. I get discouraged at the danger I put other people in when I attempt to drive in strange places in the dark. I even get discouraged when I find I want to do nothing but read my Kindle. (Currently it’s “90 Minutes in Heaven.”)

Then I watch the snow melt with much more enthusiasm than one might muster to watch the paint dry. Every morning I look out to see whether the really dirty stuff is gone. (not yet). My damaged deck chairs are now unencumbered by accumulated snow, and I can send them off for repair, dreaming of sitting in the warm summer sun. I can sit and read for an hour or more at a time without feeling guilty that I’m not being productive. I can catch up on phone calls to many of the people I care about.

Then there’s the four session series we’ll be starting tomorrow at the Presbyterian Church based on the DVD “The Power of Forgiveness.” It was a success when our JustFaith+ group sponsored it recently at Mount Calvary. And the booklet I’ve been preparing for my Connecticut College group is just about done, with the help of Diane Eidsmo, a very talented lady at Mount Calvary. On the 18^th I’ll be helping to facilitate a group discussion on the book “Riding the Bus With my Sister,” in a project sponsored in part by the Chaska Community Engagement Group. On March 25^th I’ll be doing a small part, helping to set up – being in attendance for conversation – at Mount Calvary’s new project which we’re calling “New Friend’s Community Meal,” with a goal of serving a meal for the community at the end of each month. My part is small, but I guess every little bit helps.

Oh yes! Tonight we Spring our clocks forward, giving us an extra hour of light at the end of the day – additional comfortable driving time for me.

Then there's the "Mona's book" business friends connection I've set up on Facebook. What I’m most excited about right now, though, is that I’ve finally begun “Riding in the Back Seat.” My head swims with ideas for the little vignettes I’ll be including. Just for the fun of it, I’ve decided to expose you to the beginning as it stands now. It will be edited, of course, but here’s the first section for your enjoyment – or whatever.

Of course, feedback will be greatly appreciated.

RIDING IN THE BACK SEAT

I’m riding in the back seat, but no one is driving the car. How is it there has been no fatal impact? Other vehicles scream by; fences bend as they barely avoid being hit; trees blow aside in panic; people fly about like cartoon characters. I’m glued to the right rear seat. No matter how hard I struggle I can’t make my arm reach far enough to push down on the brake in the front. Nor can I move my body into the front seat to take over the steering wheel and apply the brake. In fact, I can’t move at all. I save myself by waking up.

As bad as it is losing control of the car, it’s even worse on other occasions when I see it from outside bursting into bright red flames. I save myself by waking up.

I did wake up. Those dreams are emotion-free memories now, as are those of octagonal rooms filled with ancient debris. Over time I cleaned them out and created a bright, white, sun-lit, fragrantly airy space for myself. Even the dreams of a royal octagonal table standing atop long legs under which is rushing a brown, fetid stream are gone. The water was purified. The dream was no longer needed.

Most of us, I believe, have ridden in the back seat of a driverless car, eventually recovering to take over the direction of our own lives. Some of us have endured the passionate, fiery explosion of the vehicle that carries us through life. Many of us, I think, have discovered the bright new parts of ourselves after cleaning out the old, untended debris in our hidden rooms, or removed the personal pollution that contaminates our life energy.

Most of what I plan to say, however, is much less dreamlike. Besides being a psychologist who dreams, I am in many ways a walking history book. Some of you may find some glimmers of your own history in the snippets of stories I tell here. I know I’m writing this for my own family. I hope it will resonate with your memories and challenges.

FRONT SEAT DRIVING; BACK SEAT RIDING

I ride in the back seat as often as I can these days. I no longer enjoy driving. But I was excited about getting my driver’s license when I turned 16. By that time my father was out of the Ford (more about that later) and into a DeSoto, one of the first to have fluid drive. That was really nice for me – or maybe not so nice at all – because I never did learn to drive a “stick.” All I had to do was lift my foot off the accelerator and it would shift.

I liked the freedom and independence of driving, just like a real grown-up. Being a child always carried with it the sting of not being in charge of my own life, so my solo drive down the boulevard in Bristol, Connecticut, heading home to Forestville with my brand new license, confirmed my competent adult status.

It wasn’t long, though, before I went off to college, where we weren’t allowed cars (Yes! That’s really true), and then to graduate school in Boston, and who in her right mind would even want to drive in Boston? I walked. Occasionally I rode with Frances, an amazing driver who had controlled vehicles on the farm from the time she was 13. She understood that the rule in Boston driving is, “If you want to take that turn, take it. Somehow everyone else will get out of the way.”

In Johnson, Vermont, I walked to class, to the drugstore, to church, to bowling, and just for fun. That’s all there was to do there, except for an occasional trip into Burlington with Kate. I walked in Burlington, too, when I moved over to the University of Vermont.

END OF SAMPLE

RETREAT DAYS, MOURNING THE LOSS OF A FRIEND, END OF AN ERA, and WARNINGS

RETREAT

This is a potpourri of things I’ve been storing up. Earlier this week, after a therapeutic conversation with my granddaughter, KJ Neun, I decided to take Thursday and Friday of this week as retreat-at-home days, letting friends know that I would be accepting no calls or interruptions. It was such a great thing to do that I’m planning a repeat next Thursday and Friday. It’s amazing what one can accomplish going from one thing to another with time completely under one’s control. I still don’t have my tax information gathered together, nor have I begun “Riding in the Back Seat,” but I can see my way clear. In fact, I can see the surface of my desks. I recommend it. Well, maybe it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it was what I needed right now.

MOURNING THE LOSS OF A FRIEND

I did take a call from my college roommate, though, and received the very sad news that one of the husbands in our college friends group died earlier this week. Hale and hearty, he went to the hospital three weeks ago with a mysterious blockage in the abdomen. And now he’s gone. Bob Christensen was one of those men who make one sort of tingle with delight. He had such a subtle sense of humor, sometimes evoking deep belly laughter. He and his wife Rennie were such a loving and caring couple. It was they who arranged our occasional mini-reunions at Craigville on Cape Cod. When I was on the east coast at holiday time, I got to enjoy New Year’s Eve with them and the other east-coasters. It was through Bob that I learned two things: (1) how vicious can be the treatment of a company’s most successful (highly paid) salesman when there is the decision to downsize, and (2) how a cool, calm, collected person turns a defeat into a victory. Bob went straight to the library and took out some books: “What Color is Your Parachute,” and a bunch of books on wood stoves, just ‘cause he was interested. His children are still running his very successful wood stove business. I’m having trouble writing this with tears in my eyes. We will miss him.

THE END OF AN ERA

Bob’s passing is the end of an era, and suddenly what started as a casual little fun booklet I was putting together after our last stay at Craigville has become a kind of testimonial to the joys of our retreats there. For the CCers who may be reading this, it will take time, but it will be coming. I’ve enlisted the aid of someone with a more appropriate Word program than mine. And she’s more talented too.

WARNING

The things I learn from working with clients! Maybe you knew this, but before you let someone move in with you, it would be smart to check local laws. When I read a recent article in the Psychotherapy Networker about adult children moving back home, they recommended telling them to leave if the situation became intolerable. (not, but the way, what they felt was the common situation.) A similar thing happened to a client of mine who let her adult offspring move in – with dog – and found her new home being trashed. But here’s the deal. She can’t just tell the person to get out. I’ve checked this with the local Sheriff who tells me similar laws exist almost everywhere. The law is that you cannot force someone to leave who has used your mailing address as his or her residence for a week. (Probably this varies in different venues.) My client has had to fill out a long form, paying a fee of – if I heard it correctly -- $320 for processing. Now she has to wait 30 days for a judge to decide whether to evict the person. One certainly hopes that not every kind person would be trapped in such a situation, but I think it’s a good idea to be aware.

And so ends my potpourri, with a final farewell to Bob Christensen.

KINDLE AND REASONS TO HOPE

During Christmas-time in Williamsburg, my mind was brimming with blog ideas , a process which continued when I got home. But so many things intervened that I’ve pretty much forgotten what I wanted to say. Oh my, what precious gems may have been lost! Or maybe what icky dross you may have been spared.

At any rate, I’ll plunge in. I received a Kindle for Christmas. My family will tell you that my initial reaction was not enthusiastic. They could read my thoughts, “Oh my, why did they get me this. It doesn’t suit my way of reading, marking places in the book with sticky arrows and later using them as guides to type book notes into my computer. Now I’ll be holding a mechanical device which won’t accept sticky arrows.” And then I studied my new Kindle, and I love it. I don’t need sticky arrows, because I can just highlight interesting places – the ones that would have had the honor of a sticky – and the highlighted piece stays in my Kindle. Not only that, I can adjust the font. The fact is, given any ordinary publication, I can read it fine, but my eyes tend to get heavy and I get drowsy. With the larger font, that doesn’t happen. Hooray! And then the magical fact that I can order a book for $9.99 and as soon as I place my order, it’s on my Kindle, ready to read. My first order was for Greg Mortensen’s “Stones into Schools.” More on that later. My second order was based on Lisa’s recommendation, “Autobiography of a Yogi.” That was only $0.99, and in the search process I discovered that, if I wanted to, I could get Sherlock Holmes for $0.00. Yup! For nothing. Marketing …

Just for the fun of it I looked on the list of available books for my “Mrs. Job.” She wasn’t there. I knew there was an ISBN number for it as an e-book, so I contacted the powers that be at iUniverse and found I could get it listed for a $99.00 fee. I didn’t do that.

As for Greg Mortensen’s book – How happy I am that it was written and that I read it. What a beautiful example of fighting a war through waging education, and in the process responding to people’s real needs – not the ones we think they should have. I was also thrilled to discover that our military leaders were making “Three Cups of Tea” required reading for our troops. Sometimes I find reason to be hopeful.

The lesson is, I guess, if you can get someone else to pay for it, you can acquire books for lots less. I haven’t yet tried audio books, but it’s supposed to work.

And now I’m home, wearing my tire-tread shoes for the first time in several years. Bumpy ice is everywhere, and there’s no sign that Mrs. Job will hit the best-seller list so I can winter in Newtown in Williamsburg. But then, it was cold there too. I was fortunate flying on December 20 when Washington D.C. and other places were completely closed down because of the snow. My layover was in Atlanta – no visible snow – with ultimate arrival at Newport News – no measurable snow there either. Not like the arrival in Richmond that same day for Doug and KJ returning from the Galapagos. With nothing but their bare hands they had to dig their car out from under the snow. It didn’t seem to bother them much, though. The Galapagos trip is, apparently, magnificently worth any pain encountered on the return.

In Williamsburg, I gave a copy of Mrs. Job to Lisa’s neighbor, basically trapping her into reading it. I learned something from her reaction. She said she loved it, but she’d been scared to read it, ‘cause she thought it would be difficult academic stuff. So now I have to make sure that people know that it’s an easy-to-read love story.

The major thoughts today, after all this stuff I’ve been talking about, are for the folks in Haiti. The destruction is horrible, as is the aftermath. But I’m particularly horrified learning the history of why Haiti is such a poor country. Two factors stand out for me: (1) that the French basically raped the land way back when it was under their control, and (2) that the rebellion of the slaves, setting themselves free and driving the conquerors out, was met with boycotting by the major countries, including the U.S., who still held slaves and wanted not to support slave rebellions. Feel free to Google it and check out what I’ve said here. I hope something positive will come out of this awful event -- like the world pitching in to help the Haitians develop the kind of country and government they want.

I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t remember all the things I wanted to write about, because you must be suffering eye strain by now. Sorry …