Cindy on December 27th, 2010
Praise the bridge that carried you over.” ~George Colman
As the old year winds down, one of my favorite practices is to make a list of all the blessings in my life — people, places, and things for which I’m most grateful. In this week’s Royal Oak Patch column I share more than a dozen hometown “resources” I’ve used and counted on for many years. From my gifted hairstylist to our family doctor, these folks have earned my loyalty. Who’s on your hometown gratitude list? –CL
Cindy on December 8th, 2010
The trouble with talking too fast is you may say something you haven’t thought of yet. ~Ann Landers
A friend of mine, a school social worker, has an ingenious way of getting her kids to quiet down and “speak one at a time” in class. As she explained it, each child must wait until he or she is holding the “talking pencil.” I was reminded of an essay from Writing Home, which plays on a similar theme. It’s food for thought during the holiday season . . .
Talking Feather
Like many of the items at The Leaping Lizard gift shop in Traverse City, the talking feather was steeped in Native American lore. As soon as I saw it, I knew it would be the perfect souvenir of my last visit to Northern Michigan.
A bargain at $11.95, the feather was trimmed with strands of colored beads and gracefully suspended from a thin leather cord. But the legend printed on the attached card cinched my decision to buy it: ”When crowds gathered and conversation grew louder, it was hard to hear one speaker, so the person wishing to address the crowd was passed ‘the talking feather.’ It was held above the crowd to signify that the person had the floor as speaker.”
I’m not an expert on Native Americana, so I can’t vouch for the authenticity of the legend. Regardless, many intriguing possibilities come to mind.
The talking feather would come in handy at our extended family gatherings, especially during the holidays, when several conversations are carried on simultaneously and in competition with televised football games. But what if we all sat down to dinner with the sacred talking feather? Every in-law would be entitled to speak her peace while the rest of the family would listen intently, the room hushed.
Maybe I could use a talking feather to control the flow of conversation between members of my immediate family at our regular dinner hour. The magic words, “Please pass the talking feather,” would make our discussions more democratic. Everyone could get a word in edgewise. There would be fewer interruptions and better digestion.
And imagine how different things would be if every American used a talking feather. There would be time to cool our emotions before setting them free. We’d air opinions more carefully and breathe between sentences.
In the classroom, for example, a teacher could silence a roomful of chatty second graders with a mere wave of a feather. And what a boon it would be at business meetings when too many chiefs are present. Problems would be solved with greater efficiency, abrasive personalities subdued. Shouting matches would be curtailed, empathy encouraged. The simple phrase, “Please pass the talking feather,” would instill a sense of corporate dignity. And should hogging the talking feather become a problem, it could be remedied tactfully: “Excuse me, sir, but how long have you been holding the talking feather?”
A born talker, I’m inclined to interrupt, and sometimes I let my thoughts rush out of my mouth like too much salt from a shaker. I often find myself wishing I could take back the foolish things I’ve said. But what if I carried the talking feather in my purse, or hung it around my neck, to remind myself to think before speaking?
“The right word may be effective,” Mark Twain once said, “but no word was ever as effective as a rightly timed pause.” I’ll bet he knew about the talking feather. – Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on August 25th, 2008
The young man ringing the doorbell looked clean-cut and harmless. Opening the door, I assumed he was one of my son’s friends and greeted him with a smile. But the kid turned out to be a con artist posing as a needy college student.
âI’m selling magazine subscriptions to help pay for school tuition,â he began, racing through his spiel and waving a laminated brochure in my face. âYour neighbor Bob told me to stop by. I grew up in this neighborhood,â he added, motioning toward the next street, which he named correctly. This kid had done his homework. We do have a neighbor named Bob — but our Bob would never tell a solicitor to drop by and pitch magazine subscriptions. Smelling a scam, I said no and quickly shut the door.
âThe reason you don’t recognize me is because I’ve been away at college,â he shouted as the deadbolt clicked. Yeah, right. I might have believed his fairy-tale had I not fallen for the same trap several years ago when, duh, I wrote a check for two magazine subscriptions to another young con artist posing as a student. My check was cashed but I never received the magazines. I still turn red thinking about it, but I’m older (and a bit wiser) now, so I’m going public with my shame in the hope that others might be spared a similar rip-off.
Despite the âNo Solicitingâ signs posted at both entrances to our home, all kinds of salespeople ring our doorbells and pound on the front door, often interrupting dinner or a deadline. Some claim they didn’t notice the signs. Others insist they really aren’t âsolicitingâ but are collecting for a worthy charity or campaigning for God.
Door-to-door soliciting used to be little more than a garden-variety annoyance. But where I live in the Midwest, automotive companies and manufacturers announce layoffs or plant closings almost weekly, and our regional economy is sagging. Car theft and household burglaries are on the rise in our neighborhoods. Meanwhile, local police have traced several burglaries in my suburban neighborhood to thieves posing as door-to-door solicitors. We’ve formed a Neighborhood Watch group to keep everyone informed and on alert.
Regardless, I still find it hard not to answer a knock at my door. (What if it’s a delivery person? Or one of the neighborhood kids?)Â But as my husband reminds me, solicitors aren’t invited guests, and I have every right to ignore them.
These days, I’m learning to peek through the front window before opening my door to anyone. And, as the police advised our Neighborhood Watch group, I don’t judge anyone by appearances. Solicitors often dress professionally to earn confidence — sometimes carrying official-looking clipboards and bogus permits. Of course, not all solicitors are con artists, but now I find it hard to trust any stranger who comes to my door. Honestly, I never used to be like this. I miss the days when I opened my door to everyone, and my welcome mat really meant what it says. –Cindy La Ferle
As the old year winds down, one of my favorite practices is to make a list of all the blessings in my life — people, places, and things for which I’m most grateful. In this week’s Royal Oak Patch column I share more than a dozen hometown “resources” I’ve used and counted on for many years. From my gifted hairstylist to our family doctor, these folks have earned my loyalty. Who’s on your hometown gratitude list? –CL
