Sometimes, I am completely overwhelmed by how our lives have changed so drastically. I hardly know where to begin.
The other day I overheard someone comment, “That was way back when we used to wait in line.” Used to wait in line? Did I miss something?
I suppose most people don’t have to wait in line these days, buying just about everything from flight tickets to dinner on the web. Not phone stores, of course, where ironically there always seems to be a line.
We don’t ask for the restroom key anymore or the time of day.
We don’t buy clothespins, ant buttons or rotary phones either. I suppose most young people don’t even know what these things are.
Baby toys are no longer stationary or static. Everything nowadays is electronic with movable parts, sounds, microchips and a variety of flashing lights.
Take for example the Fisher Price Rain Forest Swing. One button makes jungle noises, one plays songs, another turns hanging plants and animals into a merry-go-around and still another flashes lights choreographed to music.
And then there’s the Fish Under-the-Sea Gym Mat, comprised of soft colorful sea creatures, dangling rattles with moveable parts, a giant squeezable blue whale and a loveable octopus. Push this button and the thing lights up. Push that one and it plays Johann Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major, push another and it becomes a rotating mobile.
Speaking of kids’ toys, do parents today go to the grocery store to pick up several large cardboard boxes for their toddlers to play in?
With constant distractions of i-phones, i-pads and i-pods at our fingertips every waking hour, I don’t think we sit and listen attentively anymore.
Tags on shirt disappeared right along with sitting around the dinner table for meals. Nowadays, tags are stamped inside or outside shirts. People either eat out, in front of the TV or on the run, downing dinners in their cars.
When was the last time you sharpened a pencil, had new soles put on your leather shoes, hemmed skirts or trousers or brought your 20-year-old Craftsman drill into the shop for repair?
We don’t darn socks, sew on buttons or fix three-corner tears.
Remember when we patched holes in our jeans? Now, we buy brand new jeans with readymade tears and wear them as some type of fashion statement.
Why watch dough rise, knead bread or bake cakes, when we can just run to the store and buy whatever we want.
Doctors don’t make house calls and milk is no longer delivered to our doors in glass jugs or any other container, for that matter.
Where have all the circus tents gone? Whatever happened to drive-in theaters? Are there any filling stations left?
Where has time gone?
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Trespassing on Trails of Time Gone By
Here, on the long folding table borrowed from church, someone’s life is on display. Tools for woodworking, kitchen gadgets ordered from a catalog store and tangled tinsel.
Among office and household items, there’s a set of Homer Lauglin dishes, treasured by someone, somewhere, at some place in time, way back when.
A setting for eight “As Is” for two dollars with one dinner plate missing, a cracked creamer and only two salad bowls left to speak of.
A lonely exhausted rocking horse sits on the edge of the driveway next to a broken paper shredder and a crusty humidifier.
A greasy mower and bent weed eater stand side-by-side as sentinel soldiers with dried out clumps of grass clippings stuck proudly, as medals of valor pinned to a soldiers’ uniform.
Over there on an old wobbly card table, a dainty bouquet of roses and baby’s breath delicately rises from a sparkling crystal vase.
In sharp contrast, a tired old terrycloth bathrobe is neatly folded next to pair of once fluffy bedroom sleepers now worn flat.
The value here among scratched vinyl records from 1965 and a like-new ironing board circa 1970 is not monetary; no, not at all.
Where is the value in the one-dollar price tags? Is it in the need for a good used what-cha-ma-call-it? Possibly.
Or does the value here solely reside in relationships – connections between seller and former owner, between wife and deceased husband, son and ailing father, between mother and daughter, grandfather and grandson.
All this stuff – some would call junk – represents the treasures of a life lived with trial and toil.
Amid the many miscellaneous items is a well-trodden path of hope and heartache, a journey of pain and promise.
Here are the tattered kitchen towels, singed oven mitts and a men’s1950 Gillette hand razor. It’s still in the original case with “Made in the U.S.A.” stamped on the faded purple velvet lining inside the cover.
The now dulled stainless steel blade once smoothed a gentleman’s bristly five-o’clock shadow to a noticeably smooth freshness.
I imagine this old razor was used countless times to clean up before and after a day of work, maybe at the shop or in the fields, making him presentable over and over and over again.
Nervously gliding among these makeshift aisles, I distinctly feel as though I am trespassing in a private place where men's suits and women's dresses once embraced high and low points as they passed through thresholds of joy and misery.
I step lightly amid an array of used household items and sewing notions, relating ever so closely to the woman whose heart was intrinsically intertwined with this life. And, I imagine the many ways she so skillfully kept this family intact with quiet ingenuity and instinct.
If her husband were here, he might say she was the glue of this unheralded marriage for upwards of 60 years. Today, the remnants of this union, which she made seem so perfect, line the perimeter of the garage and spill out to the curb.
Nestled in fishing gear, old books and lots of interesting knick-knacks are memories of a life lived to the fullest – frugal and sometimes frenetic, but always very familiar.
Here, on the long folding table borrowed from church, someone’s life is on display. It is a worn, subtly pensive place with a heroic and cautiously hopeful glossary.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A Sioux City-area resident, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Among office and household items, there’s a set of Homer Lauglin dishes, treasured by someone, somewhere, at some place in time, way back when.
A setting for eight “As Is” for two dollars with one dinner plate missing, a cracked creamer and only two salad bowls left to speak of.
A lonely exhausted rocking horse sits on the edge of the driveway next to a broken paper shredder and a crusty humidifier.
A greasy mower and bent weed eater stand side-by-side as sentinel soldiers with dried out clumps of grass clippings stuck proudly, as medals of valor pinned to a soldiers’ uniform.
Over there on an old wobbly card table, a dainty bouquet of roses and baby’s breath delicately rises from a sparkling crystal vase.
In sharp contrast, a tired old terrycloth bathrobe is neatly folded next to pair of once fluffy bedroom sleepers now worn flat.
The value here among scratched vinyl records from 1965 and a like-new ironing board circa 1970 is not monetary; no, not at all.
Where is the value in the one-dollar price tags? Is it in the need for a good used what-cha-ma-call-it? Possibly.
Or does the value here solely reside in relationships – connections between seller and former owner, between wife and deceased husband, son and ailing father, between mother and daughter, grandfather and grandson.
All this stuff – some would call junk – represents the treasures of a life lived with trial and toil.
Amid the many miscellaneous items is a well-trodden path of hope and heartache, a journey of pain and promise.
Here are the tattered kitchen towels, singed oven mitts and a men’s1950 Gillette hand razor. It’s still in the original case with “Made in the U.S.A.” stamped on the faded purple velvet lining inside the cover.
The now dulled stainless steel blade once smoothed a gentleman’s bristly five-o’clock shadow to a noticeably smooth freshness.
I imagine this old razor was used countless times to clean up before and after a day of work, maybe at the shop or in the fields, making him presentable over and over and over again.
Nervously gliding among these makeshift aisles, I distinctly feel as though I am trespassing in a private place where men's suits and women's dresses once embraced high and low points as they passed through thresholds of joy and misery.
I step lightly amid an array of used household items and sewing notions, relating ever so closely to the woman whose heart was intrinsically intertwined with this life. And, I imagine the many ways she so skillfully kept this family intact with quiet ingenuity and instinct.
If her husband were here, he might say she was the glue of this unheralded marriage for upwards of 60 years. Today, the remnants of this union, which she made seem so perfect, line the perimeter of the garage and spill out to the curb.
Nestled in fishing gear, old books and lots of interesting knick-knacks are memories of a life lived to the fullest – frugal and sometimes frenetic, but always very familiar.
Here, on the long folding table borrowed from church, someone’s life is on display. It is a worn, subtly pensive place with a heroic and cautiously hopeful glossary.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A Sioux City-area resident, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Mercy killing: a swift and calculating account
Most stories start at the beginning. This one begins at the end.
My husband and I cut down an apple tree this morning.
Not just any old fruit tree lost somewhere in the middle of a massive orchard. It was once a Harvest Apple seedling, the second of three varieties of apple trees Brian set in the ground on our small patch of land more than 30 years ago.
I remember when Brian planted it right off the corner of the sundeck. As he scooped the last shovel of soil, he gently tapped his feet around its young, scrawny trunk and said, “Someday, I’ll be able to pick apples from the deck.” And, he did.
It grew hardily, weathering the seasons, standing against any number of summer storms and bearing much fruit, without conveying any hint of tiredness.
That was until last Sunday evening, when a strong suspended wind shear passed through, wiping out its main stalwart shoot. The storm left only two thick branches, one facing north, and the other south, to fend for themselves.
You could call it a mercy killing of sorts. The old tree did not bear fruit this season and would not have survived a storm headed our way. We decided to take it down gently and with whatever dignity we could provide.
Don’t be fooled by this swift and calculating account. Even though in the early morning hours before work, I appeared to be uncommonly detached. Taking turns hand-sawing with Brian, I experienced a nagging loss. It was a deep down sense I couldn’t penetrate amid the cutting and hauling of branches.
It only took us a half-hour and, now, all but the lower part of the trunk is gone.
Resting my hand on the scrappy edges of what’s left, I am grievously apologetic for my bad attitude toward it.
In early summer, I griped over having to compete with squirrels for the first fruits. In mid-summer, I complained about all the fallen apples attracting hornets. When autumn came around, I surely did my share of whining over having to rake all of those darn leaves.
Now that the tree is gone, my memories have turned satiny and supple.
As our family grew, the tree grew with us. The kids climbed it and so did our Dachshund, Poe.
It shaded our flowers, provided a safe home for a variety of birds and protected us from hail and hard-driving south winds. It was an abundant food source for squirrels, an irresistible attraction for bees and an enchanted landing for snowflakes.
For years, it supplied us with enough fruit to make delicious apple pies, mouthwatering apple crisps, tantalizing apple bread and smooth apple sauce.
This tree stood by as we went to the hospital for the births of our two sons and looked upon us as we returned with newborns bundled in our arms.
It greeted newly adopted puppies, foreign guests and long-lost friends. It watched us rescue baby bunnies, birds and ducklings. It heard my silent restless dreaming as I sat out late into the evening gazing at a starry sky.
Its absence has left a big gap in the yard and a huge lump in my throat.
My nervous chatter, “It’s a good thing we took care of it now,” is really a disguise for my grief. My edgy command for Brian, “Do not plant another tree there, and I mean it,” is just a cover for my sorrow. My dismissive comment, “Well, now there’s more sun in the yard,” is only an excuse for my regret.
I realize now how insolubly linked my life was to the old tree. I regret not having shown it my deep-seated appreciation for all it quietly and unselfishly offered.
When it died, a part of me went, too.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
My husband and I cut down an apple tree this morning.
Not just any old fruit tree lost somewhere in the middle of a massive orchard. It was once a Harvest Apple seedling, the second of three varieties of apple trees Brian set in the ground on our small patch of land more than 30 years ago.
I remember when Brian planted it right off the corner of the sundeck. As he scooped the last shovel of soil, he gently tapped his feet around its young, scrawny trunk and said, “Someday, I’ll be able to pick apples from the deck.” And, he did.
It grew hardily, weathering the seasons, standing against any number of summer storms and bearing much fruit, without conveying any hint of tiredness.
That was until last Sunday evening, when a strong suspended wind shear passed through, wiping out its main stalwart shoot. The storm left only two thick branches, one facing north, and the other south, to fend for themselves.
You could call it a mercy killing of sorts. The old tree did not bear fruit this season and would not have survived a storm headed our way. We decided to take it down gently and with whatever dignity we could provide.
Don’t be fooled by this swift and calculating account. Even though in the early morning hours before work, I appeared to be uncommonly detached. Taking turns hand-sawing with Brian, I experienced a nagging loss. It was a deep down sense I couldn’t penetrate amid the cutting and hauling of branches.
It only took us a half-hour and, now, all but the lower part of the trunk is gone.
Resting my hand on the scrappy edges of what’s left, I am grievously apologetic for my bad attitude toward it.
In early summer, I griped over having to compete with squirrels for the first fruits. In mid-summer, I complained about all the fallen apples attracting hornets. When autumn came around, I surely did my share of whining over having to rake all of those darn leaves.
Now that the tree is gone, my memories have turned satiny and supple.
As our family grew, the tree grew with us. The kids climbed it and so did our Dachshund, Poe.
It shaded our flowers, provided a safe home for a variety of birds and protected us from hail and hard-driving south winds. It was an abundant food source for squirrels, an irresistible attraction for bees and an enchanted landing for snowflakes.
For years, it supplied us with enough fruit to make delicious apple pies, mouthwatering apple crisps, tantalizing apple bread and smooth apple sauce.
This tree stood by as we went to the hospital for the births of our two sons and looked upon us as we returned with newborns bundled in our arms.
It greeted newly adopted puppies, foreign guests and long-lost friends. It watched us rescue baby bunnies, birds and ducklings. It heard my silent restless dreaming as I sat out late into the evening gazing at a starry sky.
Its absence has left a big gap in the yard and a huge lump in my throat.
My nervous chatter, “It’s a good thing we took care of it now,” is really a disguise for my grief. My edgy command for Brian, “Do not plant another tree there, and I mean it,” is just a cover for my sorrow. My dismissive comment, “Well, now there’s more sun in the yard,” is only an excuse for my regret.
I realize now how insolubly linked my life was to the old tree. I regret not having shown it my deep-seated appreciation for all it quietly and unselfishly offered.
When it died, a part of me went, too.
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
This is between father and daughter
The young girl standing next to me in the card aisle couldn’t be more than eight, maybe nine years old. Her strawberry blonde hair is braided in pigtails and swept back from her forehead, probably a tidy look her mother prefers.
She’s all alone, and I'm wondering how she got here. Did she walk to the store by herself? No, not likely. Did her mother drop her off? Maybe.
Our paths collide in this ocean of cards and envelopes for the sole purpose of picking out just the right one for Father’s Day.
I’m paddling through the “To My Loving Husband” section, while she’s wading in the “Hey, Dad” area.
It seems strange to have someone shorter than I am with whom to sojourn where usually adults, mainly women, flip through cards alongside of me.
For a time in a somewhat synchronous fashion, she and I navigate the greetings with precision, as though swimming laps, raising our hands, selecting cards, one after another, carefully reading and then placing them back into the endless pool of “No, not that one.”
Our arms tire, but we don’t stop in our pursuit of the perfect card.
I’m trying not to gawk at what appears to be a special moment in the young girl’s life. In fact, I’d really like to sit back and simply observe this blessed process, maybe even take some notes.
She appears intensely focused on choosing just the right Father’s Day card. How do I know? Because she keeps searching.
Besides, when was the last time I saw an eight-year-old behaving so selflessly in a greeting card aisle? Never, and I am impressed.
After all, it’s a beautiful blue summer day, and she could be out riding her bike, playing with friends or swimming at the pool.
Instead, she continues sorting through “Dad, Today Is All About You” and “You’re the Best Dad in the World.”
Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass and the mother in me wants to help her along.
“Isn’t this one cute?” I suggest, holding up a sweet card with a papa dog standing behind a puppy that reads, “Behind every great kid there’s a great dad!” Shaking her slightly tilted head in reserved affirmation, she smiles politely and replies quite unconvincingly, “Yeah.”
I stop trying – this is between father and daughter. Besides, everyone knows total strangers can’t help each other pick out cards.
As I walk away, albeit empty handed, I ponder her connections to her father.
Do they play board games and go on bike rides together? Does he attend her concerts and cheer her on?
Does he listen attentively when she is speaking to him, praise good efforts and encourage her when she fails?
Do they have meaningful conversations? Are they even silly at times? Does she share fears and dreams with him? Does she possess all that I did not have with my father?
Maybe so. Otherwise, why is she standing there 30 minutes later, looking, still looking?
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
She’s all alone, and I'm wondering how she got here. Did she walk to the store by herself? No, not likely. Did her mother drop her off? Maybe.
Our paths collide in this ocean of cards and envelopes for the sole purpose of picking out just the right one for Father’s Day.
I’m paddling through the “To My Loving Husband” section, while she’s wading in the “Hey, Dad” area.
It seems strange to have someone shorter than I am with whom to sojourn where usually adults, mainly women, flip through cards alongside of me.
For a time in a somewhat synchronous fashion, she and I navigate the greetings with precision, as though swimming laps, raising our hands, selecting cards, one after another, carefully reading and then placing them back into the endless pool of “No, not that one.”
Our arms tire, but we don’t stop in our pursuit of the perfect card.
I’m trying not to gawk at what appears to be a special moment in the young girl’s life. In fact, I’d really like to sit back and simply observe this blessed process, maybe even take some notes.
She appears intensely focused on choosing just the right Father’s Day card. How do I know? Because she keeps searching.
Besides, when was the last time I saw an eight-year-old behaving so selflessly in a greeting card aisle? Never, and I am impressed.
After all, it’s a beautiful blue summer day, and she could be out riding her bike, playing with friends or swimming at the pool.
Instead, she continues sorting through “Dad, Today Is All About You” and “You’re the Best Dad in the World.”
Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass and the mother in me wants to help her along.
“Isn’t this one cute?” I suggest, holding up a sweet card with a papa dog standing behind a puppy that reads, “Behind every great kid there’s a great dad!” Shaking her slightly tilted head in reserved affirmation, she smiles politely and replies quite unconvincingly, “Yeah.”
I stop trying – this is between father and daughter. Besides, everyone knows total strangers can’t help each other pick out cards.
As I walk away, albeit empty handed, I ponder her connections to her father.
Do they play board games and go on bike rides together? Does he attend her concerts and cheer her on?
Does he listen attentively when she is speaking to him, praise good efforts and encourage her when she fails?
Do they have meaningful conversations? Are they even silly at times? Does she share fears and dreams with him? Does she possess all that I did not have with my father?
Maybe so. Otherwise, why is she standing there 30 minutes later, looking, still looking?
2011 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamonpaula@gmail, follow her blog at my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on FaceBook.
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