While going through my notes from my Clinical Pastoral Training, I found these forgotten entries in my journal...
CPE Journal – December 2, 2005... First time visiting patients.
Walking into patients’ rooms at the hospital, I feel as if I am walking on holy ground. The reverence with which I approach the name, the room number, the condition, the age weighs heavily on me.
The walls, too, are heavy, carrying their concerns about family, children, job, home, pets, friends, illness, hope, despair, pain, anger, guilt, exhaustion.
As a new chaplain, I wonder where to start, what to say, how to pray.
Patients ask...Why is this happening? What could I have done differently? Where have I been? Where am I going? How will I get from there to here?
When people become ill, life as we know it ceases to exist - for some, momentarily, for others, permanently. When illness strikes, we can no longer push away the inevitable – the cancer, the dementia, the pneumonia, the lesion, the infection.
Everything but the pain of illness and life has stopped to make room in this room.
Words come gently, slowly – like a waltz that dips and sways, moving to and fro with hands clasped, hearts engaged, eyes locked in heartache and hope. There’s a sparkle – a light – behind those tears.
In some patients, I see stubborn will fighting back in their tightly compressed lips. In others, I observe resignation in the way shoulders slump. I see heads bow and nod in either agreement or disagreement.
And in some, I see hope and ask, "Where does your hope come from?"
"I am but a sparrow," one patient chirped. "He will take care of me – always has – always will."
"How do you cope?" I ask another.
"I pray. I say my rosary. I cry. I blow my top."
I hear strength. "Where does that strength come from?"
"I’ve had so many kids and grandkids – they keep me going," a patient heralds.
Another commends, "I am being cared for so well. The nurses and doctors – I trust them."
Inside these hospital walls resides the pressure of illness, the hard work of searching for hope and the fear of the unknown. There is spiritual tension between patient and chaplain as to where they will go in pastoral conversation.
Perhaps this strange and unfamiliar land – this uncharted territory of being a chaplain is where one finds the greatest meaning in relationship with oneself, with loved ones, with friends and with God.
Perhaps here in the isolation of illness one is walking on the most holy ground.
Being pastoral is letting go of your intent and going with the patient’s need.
Being pastoral is being with the person in the moment: accept the status, be patient with unanswered questions, bear the burden of the loneliness of the situation, acknowledge and embrace the direction even though it seems an aimless one, remain with hope and faith.
How have you been pastoral today?
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on Facebook.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Find out who needs God – a book review
For those who are looking for or who have turned away from God…
The issues and content in the book Who Needs God by Harold Kushner are rooted in the author’s personal frustration. He tells his readers that he wrote this book because he had to.
Kushner, a rabbi, says that people look away from God to find identity and meaning in work, family and retirement. His frustration comes from having spent nearly 30 years attempting to show his congregants "how much more fulfilled they would be if they made room for [God and] their religious tradition in their lives…."
With frustration in tow, the author sets out to marry his to two loves: his love for religious tradition and love for his congregation. In doing so, Kushner sets out to subtly and serendipitously answer the rhetorical question that the title of this work poses – Who Needs God.
Kushner takes all nine chapters to argue everyone's need for God. He contends that our souls crave spiritual nourishment. Without it, he says, we become spiritually "stunted and underdeveloped."
To receive spiritual fulfillment, Kushner contends, we need to enter into a kind of communion. This communion is often not accessible because "the world is so noisy and full of distractions, we are so dazzled by our power and success or religion in the late twentieth century is often badly packaged or presented by people we cannot trust or admire."
Throughout the book, he consistently and systematically takes to task our post-modern insatiable appetites for more power and more things in light of God’s covenantal relationship.
Creating a tension between sacred tradition and lack thereof, Kushner points his finger at modernization as the culprit to our inability to realize our need for God.
In Who Needs God the author presents an important debate about this need for God, a debate that often appears to be non-existent in today's world.
Who talks about this need? Where do you go to learn more about it? How do you even know if you need God?
This book evokes larger questions about how we approach this need for God in congregations.Is the absence of talk about needing God contributing to the declining rolls in mainline Protestant churches?
Kushner writes, "In a century which encourages us to use computers and makes it so hard for us to write or read poetry, it is so easy to put out the sacred fires which have been tended to for a hundred generations."
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
The issues and content in the book Who Needs God by Harold Kushner are rooted in the author’s personal frustration. He tells his readers that he wrote this book because he had to.
Kushner, a rabbi, says that people look away from God to find identity and meaning in work, family and retirement. His frustration comes from having spent nearly 30 years attempting to show his congregants "how much more fulfilled they would be if they made room for [God and] their religious tradition in their lives…."
With frustration in tow, the author sets out to marry his to two loves: his love for religious tradition and love for his congregation. In doing so, Kushner sets out to subtly and serendipitously answer the rhetorical question that the title of this work poses – Who Needs God.
Kushner takes all nine chapters to argue everyone's need for God. He contends that our souls crave spiritual nourishment. Without it, he says, we become spiritually "stunted and underdeveloped."
To receive spiritual fulfillment, Kushner contends, we need to enter into a kind of communion. This communion is often not accessible because "the world is so noisy and full of distractions, we are so dazzled by our power and success or religion in the late twentieth century is often badly packaged or presented by people we cannot trust or admire."
Throughout the book, he consistently and systematically takes to task our post-modern insatiable appetites for more power and more things in light of God’s covenantal relationship.
Creating a tension between sacred tradition and lack thereof, Kushner points his finger at modernization as the culprit to our inability to realize our need for God.
In Who Needs God the author presents an important debate about this need for God, a debate that often appears to be non-existent in today's world.
Who talks about this need? Where do you go to learn more about it? How do you even know if you need God?
This book evokes larger questions about how we approach this need for God in congregations.Is the absence of talk about needing God contributing to the declining rolls in mainline Protestant churches?
Kushner writes, "In a century which encourages us to use computers and makes it so hard for us to write or read poetry, it is so easy to put out the sacred fires which have been tended to for a hundred generations."
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
HTML – carrots and all – brings out geek in me
My husband warned me not to write about this. He said it is the most boring subject, ever.
"Don’t do it," he cautioned. "It’s a real yawner."
"Well, people who know about html will really appreciate it," I countered.
"And how many people know hmlt?"
"You mean html?"
"Yeah, hplm, whatever!"
I am silent, and then heave a deep sigh.
"You just don’t understand," I argued. "It's just so interesting. I love working with it." I struggled to contain my enthusiasm as I settled at my desk and proceeded to write about the most "boring" subject, ever.
I must tell you that, in my well-thumbed attempts to be a part of the twenty-first century, I have found this new language to be enthralling and terrifying at the same time. It's a web language called html.
I can't say whether it's the mathematical nature of html, with its perfectly balanced equations of numbers, letters and symbols, or its complex simplicity that holds my attention.
All I know is that I love html almost as much as I love Duct Tape and jump at the chance to code.
When encountering html, it can be intimidating. At first glance, it looks like a whole lot of gibberish – line after line of rambling codes and spaces all the way down your computer monitor.
Not to mention a type of carrot that in no way resembles the carrots in your grandmother’s garden.
Add to this, forward slashes and phrases in between that look like this: href=http://www.my_story_your_story.blogspot.com.aspx" class=homelink.
There are nonsensical-looking table equations, such as table cellspacing="0" style="font-weight:bold;".
Html coding looks excessively difficult to understand with funny words like href, aspx, http, span, cellspacing and homelink.
I am not your typical computer geek. Everything about me spews old school. My reminiscent "days gone by" sensibilities, my propensity to document the way it used to be, my hopelessly romantic search for simple details that go unnoticed.
In fact, I resisted learning html for years. When I was offered training, I let others learn it for me. After all, if I needed something posted to the web, my co-workers could do it.
However, there came a time when I had to learn it for myself.
I am very proud to report that I have graduated to studying coding without the help of tutorials. Like a modern-day miner in search of gold in crystal-clear mountain streams, I confidently scan line after line of coding, panning patterns for nuggets to reproduce styles, correct mistakes and fix broken links.
In sharing this with you, I must admit this has been an out-of-body experience. I pinch myself, realizing that it is I – Paula "not-a-computer-geek" Damon, born shortly after the end of WWII, raised during the Cold War, cut my teeth on black and white television, saw the first moon landing live on TV in 1969 – encouraging you to enter the world of HTML. Who would have thought?
"It will never fly," my husband piped from the next room.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on Facebook.
"Don’t do it," he cautioned. "It’s a real yawner."
"Well, people who know about html will really appreciate it," I countered.
"And how many people know hmlt?"
"You mean html?"
"Yeah, hplm, whatever!"
I am silent, and then heave a deep sigh.
"You just don’t understand," I argued. "It's just so interesting. I love working with it." I struggled to contain my enthusiasm as I settled at my desk and proceeded to write about the most "boring" subject, ever.
I must tell you that, in my well-thumbed attempts to be a part of the twenty-first century, I have found this new language to be enthralling and terrifying at the same time. It's a web language called html.
I can't say whether it's the mathematical nature of html, with its perfectly balanced equations of numbers, letters and symbols, or its complex simplicity that holds my attention.
All I know is that I love html almost as much as I love Duct Tape and jump at the chance to code.
When encountering html, it can be intimidating. At first glance, it looks like a whole lot of gibberish – line after line of rambling codes and spaces all the way down your computer monitor.
Not to mention a type of carrot that in no way resembles the carrots in your grandmother’s garden.
Add to this, forward slashes and phrases in between that look like this: href=http://www.my_story_your_story.blogspot.com.aspx" class=homelink.
There are nonsensical-looking table equations, such as table cellspacing="0" style="font-weight:bold;".
Html coding looks excessively difficult to understand with funny words like href, aspx, http, span, cellspacing and homelink.
I am not your typical computer geek. Everything about me spews old school. My reminiscent "days gone by" sensibilities, my propensity to document the way it used to be, my hopelessly romantic search for simple details that go unnoticed.
In fact, I resisted learning html for years. When I was offered training, I let others learn it for me. After all, if I needed something posted to the web, my co-workers could do it.
However, there came a time when I had to learn it for myself.
I am very proud to report that I have graduated to studying coding without the help of tutorials. Like a modern-day miner in search of gold in crystal-clear mountain streams, I confidently scan line after line of coding, panning patterns for nuggets to reproduce styles, correct mistakes and fix broken links.
In sharing this with you, I must admit this has been an out-of-body experience. I pinch myself, realizing that it is I – Paula "not-a-computer-geek" Damon, born shortly after the end of WWII, raised during the Cold War, cut my teeth on black and white television, saw the first moon landing live on TV in 1969 – encouraging you to enter the world of HTML. Who would have thought?
"It will never fly," my husband piped from the next room.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on Facebook.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Wait with me on the Writing Bench ...
A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people. –Thomas Mann
I affectionately call this place the Writing Bench. Nestled deep within the largest cottonwood stand in the State of South Dakota, the Writing Bench is situated at the Adams Homestead and Nature preserve – a 1,500-acre state recreation area.
To me, the Writing Bench is an endearing spot, where I sit perched like a mother hen, waiting for stories to hatch.
Previously on the writing bench, which is constructed with four two by sixes bolted to iron legs, I have written articles about Mom, Dad, the kids and God.
I travel here by bike each spring, summer and fall; and by foot in winter. Coming here in winter takes true dedication, trodding through snow-covered trails against sometimes bitter South Dakota wind to reach this hallowed place.
It is worth the effort because this is one of the few places where I retreat and wait for sometimes soothing, other times troubling stories to whisper softly or shout loudly, commanding a presence on my page. Such is the writer’s life.
I come prepared with a piece of scratch paper and pen so as not to lose these word gifts in time and space.
Most often, any hope of being supercharged with inspiration by simply being on or near the Writing Bench is competitively disadvantaged. Warblers, cardinals, woodpeckers and squirrels all vie for attention, distracting my train of thought.
Along comes a dad, his two boys, all on bikes with the family dog running alongside.
Kids chattering; Father playfully shouting, "Hi ho, Silver," as they fly by, heading down the winding trail, west toward the river.
Quickly out of sight, their conversing voices carry in crisp indiscernible sounds from deep within the cottonwood stand. Growing fainter and fainter still, their chattering is quickly silenced by distance.
A strong northerly breeze unexpectedly washes over me, as I wonder and wait for thoughts and memories to descend.
Sitting confidently in quiet stillness, I anticipate that my sheer presence on the Writing Bench will impart words, phrases, story ideas for my next article.
I raise my eyes prayerfully to an azure sky, hoping that I myself will be a conduit – or a convenient target – for such inspiration. I beckon the heavens to rain ideas down upon me from the cloudless ceiling above.
Tweeting, chirping, squeaking – more bird calls than I am able to name continue to encircle me.
Sunlight illuminates emerald green canopies of deciduous, scrub pine and cypress trees. Grape vines, poison oak and ivy lace this place with an intricately woven cover.
I sit quietly while five, 10, 15 minutes pass. Nothing comes to mind. No new discernible thoughts; only the fruitless, uninterrupted noise of nature clouding my thoughts.
[At 2 p.m. on Saturday, Aug. 8, Paula will give a prose reading from her collection "Look. Don’t Look." in the Lamont Country School, not far from where the Writing Bench is located at the Adams Homestead and Nature Preserve, McCook Lake, S.D. This free event is open to the public. Come!]
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
I affectionately call this place the Writing Bench. Nestled deep within the largest cottonwood stand in the State of South Dakota, the Writing Bench is situated at the Adams Homestead and Nature preserve – a 1,500-acre state recreation area.
To me, the Writing Bench is an endearing spot, where I sit perched like a mother hen, waiting for stories to hatch.
Previously on the writing bench, which is constructed with four two by sixes bolted to iron legs, I have written articles about Mom, Dad, the kids and God.
I travel here by bike each spring, summer and fall; and by foot in winter. Coming here in winter takes true dedication, trodding through snow-covered trails against sometimes bitter South Dakota wind to reach this hallowed place.
It is worth the effort because this is one of the few places where I retreat and wait for sometimes soothing, other times troubling stories to whisper softly or shout loudly, commanding a presence on my page. Such is the writer’s life.
I come prepared with a piece of scratch paper and pen so as not to lose these word gifts in time and space.
Most often, any hope of being supercharged with inspiration by simply being on or near the Writing Bench is competitively disadvantaged. Warblers, cardinals, woodpeckers and squirrels all vie for attention, distracting my train of thought.
Along comes a dad, his two boys, all on bikes with the family dog running alongside.
Kids chattering; Father playfully shouting, "Hi ho, Silver," as they fly by, heading down the winding trail, west toward the river.
Quickly out of sight, their conversing voices carry in crisp indiscernible sounds from deep within the cottonwood stand. Growing fainter and fainter still, their chattering is quickly silenced by distance.
A strong northerly breeze unexpectedly washes over me, as I wonder and wait for thoughts and memories to descend.
Sitting confidently in quiet stillness, I anticipate that my sheer presence on the Writing Bench will impart words, phrases, story ideas for my next article.
I raise my eyes prayerfully to an azure sky, hoping that I myself will be a conduit – or a convenient target – for such inspiration. I beckon the heavens to rain ideas down upon me from the cloudless ceiling above.
Tweeting, chirping, squeaking – more bird calls than I am able to name continue to encircle me.
Sunlight illuminates emerald green canopies of deciduous, scrub pine and cypress trees. Grape vines, poison oak and ivy lace this place with an intricately woven cover.
I sit quietly while five, 10, 15 minutes pass. Nothing comes to mind. No new discernible thoughts; only the fruitless, uninterrupted noise of nature clouding my thoughts.
[At 2 p.m. on Saturday, Aug. 8, Paula will give a prose reading from her collection "Look. Don’t Look." in the Lamont Country School, not far from where the Writing Bench is located at the Adams Homestead and Nature Preserve, McCook Lake, S.D. This free event is open to the public. Come!]
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Sea shells, cockleshells … she only says the words
When I overheard my 12-year-old granddaughter chanting jump-rope rhymes, my heart leapt with a sudden and reminiscent joy.
Three, six, nine. The goose drank wine. The monkey chewed gum on the telephone line.
As the singsong rhythm of her voice floated throughout the kitchen, memories flooded with the many summertime hours my girlfriends and I spent hopping and skipping over and under a swaying rope.
The line, it broke. The goose got choked. And they all went to heaven in a little rowboat.
"What jump-rope games do you do with those rhymes," I asked her, expecting a beautifully long-winded explanation of a half-dozen or so.
"A" my name is ALICE, my husband's name is AL, we live in ALABAMA and we bring back APPLES.
I mused to myself; maybe we could play some together. I keep a jump rope on hand for just such an occasion. With a little time and a lot of patience, I think it might all come back to me.
"None," she replied, matter-of-factly.
Raspberry, strawberry, apple jam tart. Tell me the name of your sweetheart.
"Not one?" I asked, not wanting to accept her first answer.
Cinderella, dressed in yellow. Went upstairs to kiss a 'fella…
"No. I just do the words."
Fudge, fudge, call the judge. Mama had a baby…
"Just the words?"
Mama called the doctor. The doctor called the nurse.
"Yes, Grandma, just the words."
Down by the river, down by the sea, Johnny broke a bottle and blamed it on me. I told ma, ma told pa…
I thought, how could this be? Jump-rope rhymes have been in all cultures where skipping is a form of play, dating back at least to the seventeenth century.
Sea shells, cockleshells, Evvie Ivy Over. My dog’s name is Rover…
"I can show you some jump-rope games," I offered with a deep reverential love for teaching her this new way to play.
Engine, engine, Number 9, on the New York transit line. If my train jumps the track, pick it up, pick it up, pick it up!
"No, that’s o.k., Grandma; I just like to say them."
A horse, a flea and three blind mice sat on a curbstone shooting dice. The horse, he slipped and fell on the flea. He said, "Whoops, there’s a flea on me!"
"Really, it’s a lot of fun," I tried again, wanting to impart such knowledge so that it would not be lost on future generations. She allowed me to indulge.
Down in the valley where the green grass grows, there sat Suzie, sweet as a pea…
"Jump rope games are all about getting into the rhythm of the rope," I explained.
Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear turn around. Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, touch the ground.
"You need two people to be the turners."
Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear tie your shoe. Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, how old are you?
"Then you stand by the rope and tell the turners to throw the rope over your head."
Bobbi and Sally sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
"When it reaches your feet, hop over it."
First comes love, then comes marriage. Then comes a baby in a baby carriage.
"Pretend you're jogging or skipping."
One potato, two potato, three potato, four.
"Want to give it a try?"
Five potato, six potato, seven potato more.
"No thanks, Grandma. I just want to say the words."
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
.
Three, six, nine. The goose drank wine. The monkey chewed gum on the telephone line.
As the singsong rhythm of her voice floated throughout the kitchen, memories flooded with the many summertime hours my girlfriends and I spent hopping and skipping over and under a swaying rope.
The line, it broke. The goose got choked. And they all went to heaven in a little rowboat.
"What jump-rope games do you do with those rhymes," I asked her, expecting a beautifully long-winded explanation of a half-dozen or so.
"A" my name is ALICE, my husband's name is AL, we live in ALABAMA and we bring back APPLES.
I mused to myself; maybe we could play some together. I keep a jump rope on hand for just such an occasion. With a little time and a lot of patience, I think it might all come back to me.
"None," she replied, matter-of-factly.
Raspberry, strawberry, apple jam tart. Tell me the name of your sweetheart.
"Not one?" I asked, not wanting to accept her first answer.
Cinderella, dressed in yellow. Went upstairs to kiss a 'fella…
"No. I just do the words."
Fudge, fudge, call the judge. Mama had a baby…
"Just the words?"
Mama called the doctor. The doctor called the nurse.
"Yes, Grandma, just the words."
Down by the river, down by the sea, Johnny broke a bottle and blamed it on me. I told ma, ma told pa…
I thought, how could this be? Jump-rope rhymes have been in all cultures where skipping is a form of play, dating back at least to the seventeenth century.
Sea shells, cockleshells, Evvie Ivy Over. My dog’s name is Rover…
"I can show you some jump-rope games," I offered with a deep reverential love for teaching her this new way to play.
Engine, engine, Number 9, on the New York transit line. If my train jumps the track, pick it up, pick it up, pick it up!
"No, that’s o.k., Grandma; I just like to say them."
A horse, a flea and three blind mice sat on a curbstone shooting dice. The horse, he slipped and fell on the flea. He said, "Whoops, there’s a flea on me!"
"Really, it’s a lot of fun," I tried again, wanting to impart such knowledge so that it would not be lost on future generations. She allowed me to indulge.
Down in the valley where the green grass grows, there sat Suzie, sweet as a pea…
"Jump rope games are all about getting into the rhythm of the rope," I explained.
Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear turn around. Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, touch the ground.
"You need two people to be the turners."
Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear tie your shoe. Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, how old are you?
"Then you stand by the rope and tell the turners to throw the rope over your head."
Bobbi and Sally sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
"When it reaches your feet, hop over it."
First comes love, then comes marriage. Then comes a baby in a baby carriage.
"Pretend you're jogging or skipping."
One potato, two potato, three potato, four.
"Want to give it a try?"
Five potato, six potato, seven potato more.
"No thanks, Grandma. I just want to say the words."
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
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Saturday, July 18, 2009
Bling, bling – hip or not – you be the judge
All speech, written or spoken, is a dead language until it finds a willing and prepared hearer. – Robert Louis Stevenson
Today more than ever, we find ourselves up against a language barrier.
It seems no matter how hard we try to look young, sound hip and remain contemporary, our use of the language seriously dates us.
Do you still say you'll wind or roll up the window in your car? Your age is showing. Most car windows today don't wind-up or roll-down. We simply push a button to open and close them.
When our guests are invited to have a seat on the davenport (couch), they have no idea what a davenport is and just stand and stare.
The term "Look it up in Funk & Wagnalls" (dictionary) registers a zero in the minds of most people under the age of 50.
We no longer use a hair dryer; we use a blow dryer. When you ask for a lift, you are requesting a ride or plastic surgery.
Try telling someone to place a chair kitty-corner (diagonally) in the room and see what happens.
The Frigidaire is the fridge. We have vents instead of radiators to conduct heat.
To zap or nuke it in the microwave is to warm up food. A hooded sweatshirt is a hoody.
Fifty years from now, will anyone understand that "Don’t beat around the bush" means "Get to the point"? Who will really know the meaning of "Don't let the cat out of the bag" (keep it secret) or "Go back to square one" (start all over again)?
Our language continues to evolve. We no longer pollute the environment; we leave a carbon footprint. When we decarbonize the planet, we are kinder to it.
Today's phrases sometimes stray into street rap. Another name for wearing a lot of shiny jewelry is "bling-bling." Some casually refer to the people in their departments or organizations as "my peeps."
So will you know what to do if you're told to roll up the window, look it up in Funk & Wagnalls, use a hair dryer, place it kitty-corner, get a cold drink in the Frigidaire, warm up by the radiator, zap it or nuke it in the microwave, wear a hoody, get a lift, don't let the cat out of the bag, go back to square one, reduce your carbon footprint, decarbonize the planet, wear less bling-bling and go tell your peeps?
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Today more than ever, we find ourselves up against a language barrier.
It seems no matter how hard we try to look young, sound hip and remain contemporary, our use of the language seriously dates us.
Do you still say you'll wind or roll up the window in your car? Your age is showing. Most car windows today don't wind-up or roll-down. We simply push a button to open and close them.
When our guests are invited to have a seat on the davenport (couch), they have no idea what a davenport is and just stand and stare.
The term "Look it up in Funk & Wagnalls" (dictionary) registers a zero in the minds of most people under the age of 50.
We no longer use a hair dryer; we use a blow dryer. When you ask for a lift, you are requesting a ride or plastic surgery.
Try telling someone to place a chair kitty-corner (diagonally) in the room and see what happens.
The Frigidaire is the fridge. We have vents instead of radiators to conduct heat.
To zap or nuke it in the microwave is to warm up food. A hooded sweatshirt is a hoody.
Fifty years from now, will anyone understand that "Don’t beat around the bush" means "Get to the point"? Who will really know the meaning of "Don't let the cat out of the bag" (keep it secret) or "Go back to square one" (start all over again)?
Our language continues to evolve. We no longer pollute the environment; we leave a carbon footprint. When we decarbonize the planet, we are kinder to it.
Today's phrases sometimes stray into street rap. Another name for wearing a lot of shiny jewelry is "bling-bling." Some casually refer to the people in their departments or organizations as "my peeps."
So will you know what to do if you're told to roll up the window, look it up in Funk & Wagnalls, use a hair dryer, place it kitty-corner, get a cold drink in the Frigidaire, warm up by the radiator, zap it or nuke it in the microwave, wear a hoody, get a lift, don't let the cat out of the bag, go back to square one, reduce your carbon footprint, decarbonize the planet, wear less bling-bling and go tell your peeps?
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Her front, her back, her insides transmit hope
"La esperanza muere ultima – hope never dies." – Studs Terkel
The smooth texture of the paper between my fingers, the nurturing aroma of newsprint, the blessed assurance of holding the paper in my hands has a calming effect on news junkies like me.
It was no different with the New York Times, which inaugurated my Sundays as a kid growing up in New York State. A tradition that predated me, stopping at the local newsstand after church was a religious ritual as natural as crossing my head, my chest and my shoulders with holy water when entering sacred places.
Then and now, the Sunday Times is a newspaper as thick as a novel and as wide as a seat cushion. Lugging it home took some doing.
Even though my parents were not self-described news junkies, they were more than casual readers. And when sharing the Sunday paper, I had to wait in line.
With subdued excitement, I hung out in the background of their mysteriously silent weekend interactions, while Mom carefully unfolded Section 1A and Dad pulled out the Sports and Business sections.
After they quietly settled into their places at the kitchen table, each gripping a coffee cup in one hand and the paper in the other, I carefully flipped through the bundle of newsprint and pulled out the Fashion, Arts and Classified sections.
Finding a place to sprawl on the living room floor in our spacious two-story century-old home, I spread the paper out before me and escaped to New York City.
Using the Times as a compass for my dreams, I virtually traveled down Broadway, up 72nd Street, across Time Square, through Central Park and over the Hudson to Long Island.
Ironically, when I lived in New York State from ages 9 to 19, I never did go to the Big Apple. It wasn’t until 1978, three years after I moved to South Dakota, that I traveled to the City on a business trip.
Therefore, the Times expanded my world to a larger world, a place that I could only imagine through dozens upon dozens of articles, photographs and artists’ renderings of glamorous people, famous places and important things.
For me, the Sunday Times was a map that simultaneously summoned and guided me. I camped in it and charted distances between where I was in the world and where the world was in me.
It was my classroom where editors, reporters and columnists were my teachers from whom I learned much.
On many characteristically dreary Sunday afternoons in Southwestern New York State, where annually there are more cloudy days than sunny ones, I slowly, methodically thumbed my way over the smooth and rough terrains of those back sections and was enlightened.
The presence of the newspaper in our home – her front, her back, her insides – transmitted the power of information and, therefore, hope.
With newspaper closings, some as old as 150 years, I shutter at the thought of them going away all together.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
The smooth texture of the paper between my fingers, the nurturing aroma of newsprint, the blessed assurance of holding the paper in my hands has a calming effect on news junkies like me.
It was no different with the New York Times, which inaugurated my Sundays as a kid growing up in New York State. A tradition that predated me, stopping at the local newsstand after church was a religious ritual as natural as crossing my head, my chest and my shoulders with holy water when entering sacred places.
Then and now, the Sunday Times is a newspaper as thick as a novel and as wide as a seat cushion. Lugging it home took some doing.
Even though my parents were not self-described news junkies, they were more than casual readers. And when sharing the Sunday paper, I had to wait in line.
With subdued excitement, I hung out in the background of their mysteriously silent weekend interactions, while Mom carefully unfolded Section 1A and Dad pulled out the Sports and Business sections.
After they quietly settled into their places at the kitchen table, each gripping a coffee cup in one hand and the paper in the other, I carefully flipped through the bundle of newsprint and pulled out the Fashion, Arts and Classified sections.
Finding a place to sprawl on the living room floor in our spacious two-story century-old home, I spread the paper out before me and escaped to New York City.
Using the Times as a compass for my dreams, I virtually traveled down Broadway, up 72nd Street, across Time Square, through Central Park and over the Hudson to Long Island.
Ironically, when I lived in New York State from ages 9 to 19, I never did go to the Big Apple. It wasn’t until 1978, three years after I moved to South Dakota, that I traveled to the City on a business trip.
Therefore, the Times expanded my world to a larger world, a place that I could only imagine through dozens upon dozens of articles, photographs and artists’ renderings of glamorous people, famous places and important things.
For me, the Sunday Times was a map that simultaneously summoned and guided me. I camped in it and charted distances between where I was in the world and where the world was in me.
It was my classroom where editors, reporters and columnists were my teachers from whom I learned much.
On many characteristically dreary Sunday afternoons in Southwestern New York State, where annually there are more cloudy days than sunny ones, I slowly, methodically thumbed my way over the smooth and rough terrains of those back sections and was enlightened.
The presence of the newspaper in our home – her front, her back, her insides – transmitted the power of information and, therefore, hope.
With newspaper closings, some as old as 150 years, I shutter at the thought of them going away all together.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
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