Posts Tagged ‘family life’
Cindy on November 9th, 2008
“Cell phones are the latest invention in rudeness.” — D.H. Mondfleur
I didn’t realize the darned thing was missing until my husband caught me off guard.
âWhere’s your cell phone?â he asked.
âGee, I dunno,â I said, faking genuine concern. I couldn’t even recall the last time I’d used it, and frankly, I didn’t care. Still, I dug through drawers and underneath the car seats. No cell phone. Oh well. But then my husband remembered we’d just dropped off a carload of discards, including some old purses, for the church rummage sale. I swore my phone wasn’t in any of those purses, but he didn’t want to believe me. That’s how we ended up at church the night before the sale, rummaging through my discarded handbags and coat pockets. And just as I suspected, my cell phone wasn’t there.
My husband and son still ridicule me about this. (We never did find the missing cell — and I rarely use the replacement they bought for me.)
Regardless, I suspect many of us are stressed-out because we’re ridiculously over-connected. As comedian and stress-management expert Loretta LaRoche observes, most people can’t even run a quick errand to the supermarket without an assortment of communication devices.
âWe now look more like a member of a SWAT team than someone shopping for groceries,â LaRoche writes in Life Is Not a Stress Rehearsal: Bringing Yesterday’s Sane Wisdom into Today’s Insane World. âGod forbid we should be out of touch for ten minutes, in case something critical happens,â LaRoche adds. âAnd since we have the contraptions there with us, what the hell, we can call home and tell everyone we got bread.â
LaRoche also worries that common courtesy has gone the way of the manual typewriter, thanks to what she calls âthe technology of immediacy.â I know exactly what she means.
At a writer’s conference I attended two years ago, somebody’s bleeping cell phone disrupted (twice) a wonderful lecture given by author Michael Beschloss. Last month, the same thing happened at a funeral service. And, at the drug store last week, I was subjected to another customer’s cell conversation while waiting in line for a prescription. Oblivious to everyone within earshot, the woman laughed and chattered on her phone, punctuating every sentence with the âFâ word.
Am I the only person in the world who can live happily ever after without a cell phone glued to her ear?
Lately, whether I’m traveling the back roads or expressways, every other car is driven by some Chatty Cathy with one hand on a cell phone. I’ve watched these drivers swerve in and out of lanes, fail to use turn signals, and even run red lights. I’ve had it with them.
I realize, of course, that some careers can’t be conducted without cell phones. Cell phones are essential to working parents — and they’re truly handy if your car breaks down after midnight on the highway. In any real emergency, they’re worth their weight in gold. But I refuse to treat my cell as if it’s part of my anatomy.
I believe LaRoche is right when she says that most of us are longing for real human connection. We look busy and productive, but maybe we’re just lonely. Maybe we need more time to connect — really connect — person to person. âOur grandparents’ generation was a lot saner than ours,â LaRoche writes. âIt was more in touch and more involved with friends, family, and community.â And somehow they managed it all without cell phones, pagers, and e-mail. Imagine that. – Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on September 29th, 2008
If you do not plant in the spring, you will not reap in autumn.” — Irish proverb
It was one of those luminous Indian summer afternoons — clear cobalt skies and pure yellow light shimmering through the maples on our front lawn. This was autumn’s last hurrah, and even the neighborhood kids sensed the day was ripe for celebrating. I’d taken the day off work and suggested we drive to the old cider mill in Franklin Village, where it’s always worth standing in line for the best cinnamon doughnuts made in Michigan.
But Nate, who was six at the time, had his own ideas. He and Catie, the little girl next door, would set up their own cider-and-doughnuts stand in our front yard, which faces a well-traveled boulevard. Naturally, I ended up at the local fruit market, loading a shopping cart with doughnuts and several gallons of apple cider.
Back home, I retrieved a card table and some cardboard for a poster, then rallied the kids to assemble the doughnuts and paper cups on a serving tray. The three of us positioned the cider stand at the corner of our front yard. The small entrepreneurs perched on lawn chairs and waited patiently for customers. They waved at passing cars and periodically rearranged the paper cups. Business was painfully slow.
Watching the eager pair from the front porch, I felt my heart skip each time a car sped past them. Surely some generous adult would step on the brakes, reach deep into a pocket, and pull out a dime for a cool cup of cider. But most drivers didn’t seem to notice.
I’ve been guilty of similar oversights. Rushing to the office, the bank, or an appointment, I’ve driven past countless children trying to earn spare change at their sidewalk stands. Sometimes I rolled down the window and promised to catch them on my way back, at my convenience, which was usually too late.
Slowly but surely, my faith in humanity was restored as a few neighbors came around to patronize the cider stand. Quarters, dimes, and nickels clinked musically in the collection cup, while Nate and Catie whirled around the card table.
And I’ll never forget how stunned the pair looked when a stranger pulled up in a red convertible with the top down, radio blaring. Leaping from the car, the man sprinted up to the table, grabbed one of the cups, and downed his cider in one memorable gulp. He smiled as he stuffed a bill into the collection cup, and didn’t wait for his change. As the stranger roared down the boulevard, the children flew to me on the front porch, chirping like startled sparrows all the way up the steps.
“Guess what! That guy in the car gave us ten dollars for the cider and he didn’t want any change!! TEN DOLLARS!!” Breathless and giddy, the two began negotiating how the miraculous windfall would be divided. One of them remarked that the cider must have been very good, having earned such an awesome profit.
Despite everything that’s wrong in the world, it’s hard to remain cynical on a grace-filled day like that. I remembered a phrase I’d read by the poet John Keats, and I knew that this was what he meant by “Moments big as years.”  –Cindy La Ferle
–This piece was originally published in the Christian Science Monitor and is also included in my essay collection, Writing Home –
Cindy on August 25th, 2008
My favorite comedy routine is the one in which Steve Martin blanks out in the middle of a monologue, then beams a vacant smile and informs his audience that he’s momentarily “visiting the Bahamas.” Martin redefined the ultimate dream vacation — which seems to be the only type of vacation most women can schedule these days.
Back when I was editor of a travel magazine, I studied the psychological benefits of taking real vacations. At a seminar for innkeepers and hotel managers, I was excited to learn that scads of scientific research had been done to determine what made female guests happy, and what inspired them to return for future holidays. Was it a room with a gorgeous view? Complimentary chocolate truffles? Bellhops who looked like Brad Pitt?
As it turned out, most women listed crisply laundered sheets, spanking-clean bathrooms, and attentive room service as top amenities on the hotel surveys. Or, as a mother of three explained recently, the best part of her family vacation to Disney World was simply returning every night to the hotel suite and discovering that the cleaning fairies had made all the beds.
So, lately I’ve been thinking: If women love to be pampered, why is it that so few of us book personal vacations when we need them? Why is it so hard for us to hit âpauseâ? Despite all the labor-saving devices that modern living affords, we still can’t shake our Puritan work ethic. Whether we’re buying groceries for a family of five or sprinting to the next marketing meeting, our lives are fractioned like the to-lists in our day planners. There’s never enough time.
Worse yet, the media have brainwashed us into thinking that free time isn’t for leisure anymore. If we’re not designing our own line of furniture or auditioning for the symphony on our lunch breaks, we feel like slackers. It’s tough to justify a fifteen-minute soak at home in a Crabtree & Evelyn bubble bath, let alone a week at a spa.
Years ago, when I was a younger mom with an office job and a preschooler, an editor with whom I worked was kind enough to share her well-thumbed copy of Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s inspirational classic, Gift from the Sea. First published in 1955, this little book of reflections was written during the famous author’s solitary retreats to an isolated beach house.
Using seashells to represent the various stages of a woman’s life, Lindbergh wrote with amazing clarity about issues that still baffle us today — how to find spiritual serenity in suburban chaos; how to manage work and family; how to jazz up a droopy marriage.
Just as Virginia Woolf reminded us that we need a room of our own in which to dream and create, Lindbergh gave busy wives and mothers permission to schedule precious time alone. I desperately needed that permission â and am forever indebted to the editor who loaned me Lindbergh’s book.
“The problem is not merely one of Woman and Career, Woman and the Home, Woman and Independence,â Lindbergh wrote. âIt is more basically: how to remain whole in the midst of the distractions of life.â A deserted beach is the ideal place to hear one’s inner voice, she emphasized. Wandering the shore minus goals, deadlines, or diaper bags, a woman can replenish her depleted soul and reclaim her sanity.
Revisiting Gift from the Sea 20 years later, I realize I still need âa central core to my lifeâ that will enable me to carry out my midlife obligations â caring for my aging mother; being a supportive wife; cheering my son’s independence; putting wings on my own dreams.
I don’t doubt that a solo flight to a cabana in the tropics would help me find that central core. A pina colada with a cute paper umbrella would help, too.
But right now, there’s a list of chores and deadlines competing for my attention, including a backyard garden that needs a good weeding. For now I’ll have to settle for a quick mental escape to a fantasy island. Once I get there, maybe I’ll run into Steve Martin. — Cindy La Ferle
– This essay originally appeared in the June 2008 issue of Strut for Women magazine –
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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
Cindy on August 20th, 2008
Well, our big-ugly sectional sofa went out with the trash last week. It was so huge that Doug had to break it into several parts in order to haul it up from the basement and pile it on the curb. Its saggy black leather cushions were marked with cat scratches, and it didn’t owe us another minute of use.
We’d purchased the thing several years ago, when our son started high school. We’d just remodeled the basement, hoping to create a cool space where our son and his pals would want to hang out. It worked. And that huge black leather sectional was the nucleus of the room, in more than a decorative sense. Like a bonfire at a campsite, it drew people together and inspired camaraderie.
Throughout the high school years, it provided ample seating on movie nights for “the crew,” my son’s inseparable neighborhood pals. Later, its built-in sofa bed (never very comfortable) hosted college buddies who came to visit. Its proximity to a private bathroom, in fact, made it a hit with any overnight guest we entertained.
Our son graduated college and left the state for his new career this summer, so Doug and I decided it was time to upgrade the furniture in the basement. Time to reclaim the space for ourselves.
“Wow, it’s the end of an era,” my next-door neighbor joked when she saw the sectional in pieces on the curb. “Maybe we should have a memorial service for it.”
Honestly, I didn’t feel the least bit tearful or nostalgic. But as strange as it sounds, I did feel sort of indebted to that piece of furniture for welcoming my son’s friends. I felt grateful that Doug and I were able to provide a safe place where young people wanted to be. Grateful that our home had the room and the heart for it.
– Cindy La Ferle writes on home and family issues at Cindy La Ferle’s Home Office: www.laferle.com
