While I was sitting at a stoplight on my way home from work last Thursday night, I noticed a sedan with the right of way pull through the intersection and turn into the oncoming lane.
The car was teeming with what looked like an entire family: two adults in the front seat and tall gangly looking teenagers in the back.
As they passed, I turned my head and stared. Gawking from the inside out at this family "picture," I was hit smack dab in the middle of my 2010 consciousness with a new awareness.
We really don’t have family cars anymore. Mom has her car, Dad has his, Junior and Sister have their cars and so on. Even Grandma and Gramps have their own sets of wheels.
And for better or worse, we don’t really pile into the car as a family the way families did years ago.Why don’t we travel together, all in one vehicle across town, across state or across the country?
I understand that for some families this may not be a very good idea, since all members would not get along.
Even so, when I saw this family barreling along on their way to whereever, I came to the realization that we really do live much of our lives in isolation.
Coexisting in our homes, schools, offices and stores, we travel separately – often arriving alone at the same place: a school play, the wrestling match, a basketball game, Sunday morning church, Wal-Mart, Suzie’s house, Aunt Mabel’s or Papa John’s.
It has long been a status symbol of modern families, some more than others, for each member to have his or her own vehicle. And for most teenagers, it is not even an option to have their parents drive them anywhere. Heaven forbid! They would rather walk than to be seen riding with Mom or Dad.
Seeing that family car loaded down with a real family inside all going to the same place, I was refreshed.
Watching that family car with all of its passengers sitting side-by-side, heads bobbing to the beat of the potholes beneath sagging tires, I was rejuvenated.
Noticing that family car loaded down with a real family inside, all seeing the same dull night lit by the Dairy Queen on the corner, street lights up and down the lane and headlights from oncoming cars, I was renewed.
When I look back on that family scene, I feel reborn.
2010 © 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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Whazzup? Whazzup? Yo Whazzup!
I’ve always wondered why people say, Hello, the way they do. Come to think of it, fewer and fewer people actually use Hello these days.
I’ve noticed how other words have taken its place, like Hey and Hey there. And depending on where you are in the U.S., the old standby Hello translates to Hullo, Heylo and Hi Y'all.
Now that I think of it, we rarely hear Good morning, Good afternoon or Good evening. While we may hear Good morning, Good afternoon and Good evening from the consignor at a posh hotel in Chicago, San Diego or New York City, it is doubtful we’ll be greeted by our spouses or neighbors with "Good morning." And we probably should never expect to hear "Good morning" from a teenager.
For the most part, these greetings of yesteryear are artifacts from a bygone culture - a more formal and gentile one, unlike the "Yo!" times we find ourselves in today.
Not too long ago, a new synonym for hello entered our lexicon of greetings: Whazzup, which is a slurred way to say, "What’s up?" You couldn’t go anywhere without hearing Whazzup.
I’m glad that craze is over. I could never bring myself to greeting anyone with Whazzup. Not that I thought it was bad, it just wasn’t natural.
Sometimes I greet people with "What’s going on?" or "How’s it going?" but that's the closest I ever come to Whazzup.
I have never said, Hi ya. Once in a great while, I eek out a Hey and occasionally, I say, Howdy, but never Howdy, Partner. That’s a little too "Out West" for me, even though I do live west of the Mississippi River, which technically is considered The West.
I’ve done some reading on the salutation Howdy. I learned that it originated as a shortened form of the greeting "How do ye?" and was first recorded as part of the Southern U.S. dialect in 1840.
According to Wikipedia, "The use of Hello as a telephone greeting has been credited to Thomas Edison. Hello is alternatively thought to come from the word hallo (1840) via hollo…an exclamation originally shouted in a hunt when the quarry was spotted."
I read about a county in Texas that said, adios to Hello. A few years ago, the Klegberg County commissioners unanimously designated "heaven-o" as the county's official greeting. Why? Because they believed "Hello" contained the word "hell," even though "Hello" has no linguistic roots in the term.
They adopted "heaven-o" to symbolize peace and friendship. So now, when Klegberg County courthouse employees answer the phones, they say, "Heaven-o." I am thinking about calling down there just to see if they are doing their jobs.
After contemplating how we say, Hello, I have concluded that the way we greet each other telegraphs our attitude and our spirit within. The way we greet one another reports not only what’s on our minds but what's on our hearts.
Whether our salutation is Hi Y’all, Howdy, Yo, Watzzup, Hey, Heaven-o or Hello, it’s the spark in our eyes, the lilt in our voice and the energy in our words that serve as verbal hugs for those we greet.
2010 © 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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
I’ve noticed how other words have taken its place, like Hey and Hey there. And depending on where you are in the U.S., the old standby Hello translates to Hullo, Heylo and Hi Y'all.
Now that I think of it, we rarely hear Good morning, Good afternoon or Good evening. While we may hear Good morning, Good afternoon and Good evening from the consignor at a posh hotel in Chicago, San Diego or New York City, it is doubtful we’ll be greeted by our spouses or neighbors with "Good morning." And we probably should never expect to hear "Good morning" from a teenager.
For the most part, these greetings of yesteryear are artifacts from a bygone culture - a more formal and gentile one, unlike the "Yo!" times we find ourselves in today.
Not too long ago, a new synonym for hello entered our lexicon of greetings: Whazzup, which is a slurred way to say, "What’s up?" You couldn’t go anywhere without hearing Whazzup.
I’m glad that craze is over. I could never bring myself to greeting anyone with Whazzup. Not that I thought it was bad, it just wasn’t natural.
Sometimes I greet people with "What’s going on?" or "How’s it going?" but that's the closest I ever come to Whazzup.
I have never said, Hi ya. Once in a great while, I eek out a Hey and occasionally, I say, Howdy, but never Howdy, Partner. That’s a little too "Out West" for me, even though I do live west of the Mississippi River, which technically is considered The West.
I’ve done some reading on the salutation Howdy. I learned that it originated as a shortened form of the greeting "How do ye?" and was first recorded as part of the Southern U.S. dialect in 1840.
According to Wikipedia, "The use of Hello as a telephone greeting has been credited to Thomas Edison. Hello is alternatively thought to come from the word hallo (1840) via hollo…an exclamation originally shouted in a hunt when the quarry was spotted."
I read about a county in Texas that said, adios to Hello. A few years ago, the Klegberg County commissioners unanimously designated "heaven-o" as the county's official greeting. Why? Because they believed "Hello" contained the word "hell," even though "Hello" has no linguistic roots in the term.
They adopted "heaven-o" to symbolize peace and friendship. So now, when Klegberg County courthouse employees answer the phones, they say, "Heaven-o." I am thinking about calling down there just to see if they are doing their jobs.
After contemplating how we say, Hello, I have concluded that the way we greet each other telegraphs our attitude and our spirit within. The way we greet one another reports not only what’s on our minds but what's on our hearts.
Whether our salutation is Hi Y’all, Howdy, Yo, Watzzup, Hey, Heaven-o or Hello, it’s the spark in our eyes, the lilt in our voice and the energy in our words that serve as verbal hugs for those we greet.
2010 © 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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
She wants a self-cleaning toilet, dust bunnies that self-destruct
I've been hearing a lot about Smart Houses lately and the older I get the more I want one of those.
A Smart House, if you haven't heard, is a digital version of your own home.
Smart Houses require a lot less work. They turn lights on and off. They regulate your thermostat. They open and close your fridge for you. They even start and stop your gas fireplace.
It sounds sci-fi, but this technology is available off the shelf - the only limitation is what's in your wallet. It’s pricey stuff.
I could see retrofitting our 35-year-old home to do all these things and more.
My smart home would automatically water my plants, raise and lower my blinds and feed my three Dachshunds.
There is a courting of sorts that must occur between homeowners and their smart technology. You have to allow the smart home to get to know you well enough in order to predict your activities, sort of like dating.
On the one hand, I can't imagine handing over the control of my home to a centralized, calculating, computing system with motion detectors and sensors everywhere. Would I really want to do that?
On the other hand, if I could remotely start cooking dinner at home before leaving the office, that might make it worth it.
The more I think about it, the more appealing a helpful, intelligent and friendly robotic home becomes. Brian would like it, too, since it would significantly reduce his "Honey, do" list.
While dreaming about all these bells and whistles, I came up with a wish list for my very own smart home...
I want to be able to tell my front door, "Open," and my garage door, "Close."
I'd like my washer to load my dryer, fold the clothes and put them away.
If only there were a Swiffer that could "swiff" on its own and vacuum to do the same. I want that, too.
What about a self-cleaning toilet, tub and shower? Wouldn’t that be nice?
I could use windows that wash themselves (I really don't like washing windows) and a power washer to scrub my porch and siding on command. We bought a powerwasher two years ago and haven't used it on the siding yet.
How about a refrigerator with technology that tells the grocery store what I'm out of and the grocery store automatically delivers what I need to my door? That would be a good thing to have.
I want cobwebs and dust bunnies to self-destruct and the goop in the drains to disappear with the wink of my eye. Yes!
I really could get used to a Smart House. I'll take one of those, please...
2010 © 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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
A Smart House, if you haven't heard, is a digital version of your own home.
Smart Houses require a lot less work. They turn lights on and off. They regulate your thermostat. They open and close your fridge for you. They even start and stop your gas fireplace.
It sounds sci-fi, but this technology is available off the shelf - the only limitation is what's in your wallet. It’s pricey stuff.
I could see retrofitting our 35-year-old home to do all these things and more.
My smart home would automatically water my plants, raise and lower my blinds and feed my three Dachshunds.
There is a courting of sorts that must occur between homeowners and their smart technology. You have to allow the smart home to get to know you well enough in order to predict your activities, sort of like dating.
On the one hand, I can't imagine handing over the control of my home to a centralized, calculating, computing system with motion detectors and sensors everywhere. Would I really want to do that?
On the other hand, if I could remotely start cooking dinner at home before leaving the office, that might make it worth it.
The more I think about it, the more appealing a helpful, intelligent and friendly robotic home becomes. Brian would like it, too, since it would significantly reduce his "Honey, do" list.
While dreaming about all these bells and whistles, I came up with a wish list for my very own smart home...
I want to be able to tell my front door, "Open," and my garage door, "Close."
I'd like my washer to load my dryer, fold the clothes and put them away.
If only there were a Swiffer that could "swiff" on its own and vacuum to do the same. I want that, too.
What about a self-cleaning toilet, tub and shower? Wouldn’t that be nice?
I could use windows that wash themselves (I really don't like washing windows) and a power washer to scrub my porch and siding on command. We bought a powerwasher two years ago and haven't used it on the siding yet.
How about a refrigerator with technology that tells the grocery store what I'm out of and the grocery store automatically delivers what I need to my door? That would be a good thing to have.
I want cobwebs and dust bunnies to self-destruct and the goop in the drains to disappear with the wink of my eye. Yes!
I really could get used to a Smart House. I'll take one of those, please...
2010 © 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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Grocery store samples leave a lot to be desired
The other day, I was in the grocery store with my husband, Brian. It is rare for us to shop together, since he buys the groceries, which is the envy of all my friends.
When I do tag along, there’s usually a lady in the meat section wearing a white apron and cooking cocktail weenies on a little cart or she's in the dairy section passing out Dixie cups of juice or yogurt.
Her line is always the same..."Would you like to try a sample?"
My response is the same every time..."Not today, thank you." I’m not sure why I say that. I never take samples at grocery stores.
One of the great mysteries in life is the hoard of grown adults waiting at her booth pretending to be interested.
These people probably just came from the Golden Buffet or have cupboards chock full of food. Yet, they will take not one, but two or three samples.
I am wary of these shoppers, Brian being among them. On this run through the grocery store, he must have drifted past the cocktail weenie stand two or three times. I was so embarrassed I pretended I didn’t know him.
How can people be so hungry that they need to stop and eat teensy- weensy food samples that have been exposed to shoppers coughing, sneezing, touching and breathing?
I admit the aroma of barbecue sauce does tempt me. However, the thought of the high percent of grocery store samples contaminated with bacteria and germs really turns my stomach.
I know several people, my husband included, who consider a round or two of grocery store samples to be lunch!
Many shoppers do walk past the sample lady without indulging. They cast an "I don’t do food samples" glance, while she tends to the flock of "tasters" gathering like cattle at a feeding trough.
They brake to taste test, faking their interest in the latest brand of frozen pizza or brats. These people gobble up a bunch of samples without purchasing even one box or container of the product, and then walk away with full stomachs and grocery carts loaded down with other stuff.
You know, it makes me wonder if they realize the sample lady is not paid to give out free food, she is paid to help sell products.
I’d like to think that we are a nation with more sincerity and nobility than to take food samples with no intentions of buying the product. Or maybe I'm being too idealistic.
2010 © 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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
When I do tag along, there’s usually a lady in the meat section wearing a white apron and cooking cocktail weenies on a little cart or she's in the dairy section passing out Dixie cups of juice or yogurt.
Her line is always the same..."Would you like to try a sample?"
My response is the same every time..."Not today, thank you." I’m not sure why I say that. I never take samples at grocery stores.
One of the great mysteries in life is the hoard of grown adults waiting at her booth pretending to be interested.
These people probably just came from the Golden Buffet or have cupboards chock full of food. Yet, they will take not one, but two or three samples.
I am wary of these shoppers, Brian being among them. On this run through the grocery store, he must have drifted past the cocktail weenie stand two or three times. I was so embarrassed I pretended I didn’t know him.
How can people be so hungry that they need to stop and eat teensy- weensy food samples that have been exposed to shoppers coughing, sneezing, touching and breathing?
I admit the aroma of barbecue sauce does tempt me. However, the thought of the high percent of grocery store samples contaminated with bacteria and germs really turns my stomach.
I know several people, my husband included, who consider a round or two of grocery store samples to be lunch!
Many shoppers do walk past the sample lady without indulging. They cast an "I don’t do food samples" glance, while she tends to the flock of "tasters" gathering like cattle at a feeding trough.
They brake to taste test, faking their interest in the latest brand of frozen pizza or brats. These people gobble up a bunch of samples without purchasing even one box or container of the product, and then walk away with full stomachs and grocery carts loaded down with other stuff.
You know, it makes me wonder if they realize the sample lady is not paid to give out free food, she is paid to help sell products.
I’d like to think that we are a nation with more sincerity and nobility than to take food samples with no intentions of buying the product. Or maybe I'm being too idealistic.
2010 © 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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
New Year says bye-bye raccoon, squirrel, turkey neck
People have accused me of pedaling hope. I am proud of this accusation and the first to admit that I am guilty as charged.
Most likely, anyone could conclude this from reading my Christmas letter. There’s not a bit of bad news in it, which may give many people the wrong impression. Believe me; my life is far from perfect.
That’s why every year at this time I write about what happened between the lines of my holiday letter. Here goes…
Last January, I started the year with surgery to remove benign ovarian cysts. I took two weeks off from work but should have taken three. After returning to my job, I ended up with the worst cases of sinus infection and bronchitis and had to take two rounds of antibiotics to get well.
This past summer, the vegetable garden was a flop, again. We had some decent cherry tomatoes, but everything else was a complete disaster. It was the most miserable looking vegetable garden this side of the Mississippi.
Our shoreline eroded another foot this year, which is due to too many high-speed boats racing up and down our tiny lake. I’d like to hire a contractor to stabilize the bank, but Brian thinks it will cost too much, probably about $15,000.
This is coming from a man who for a brief spell considered having plastic surgery on his turkey neck. Here’s the funny part: he thinks the bill would be right around $5,000. If he only knew the real cost of plastic surgery, he would say, "Hello, turtlenecks, bye-bye turkey neck."
I decided to go all out in 2009 by taking name brand vitamins for women over the age of 50, instead of generic ones. I figured that at age 57 I’m worth it.
We had pouring down rain on all but two days of our fall vacation.
I went through a passage of sorts. Out of utter frustration over always losing my reading glasses, I very abruptly started wearing a glasses chain and started washing away more of my gray with ash blond. Go figure.
In November, Brian broke his right ring finger to go with the left ring finger he broke last summer. This latest break was when he started a mini-remolding project on our kitchen, which caused my OCD to flare up. (I thought the kitchen was fine the way it was.)
We had some run-ins with nature in 2009.
A raccoon decided that the inside of our house would make a better home than the outside of our house. So, late one night, he (or she) climbed up the downspout, tiptoed across the roof, pried open the cupola and settled in for a long winter’s nap, or so the raccoon thought. Brian added some mesh over the vents and that ended that.
Just last week, two of our three Dachshunds caught and killed a squirrel in our yard. It must have been a very slow squirrel or a very stupid one, because with our Dachshunds’ short stubby legs, we’re still wondering how in the world this all happened.
Unfortunately, by the time we arrived at the scene, it was too late. Fighting to the very end, that squirrel did not go down easily.
Zoe suffered five lacerations to the snout; Poe ended up with three and there was blood everywhere.
Both dogs landed in the veterinarian’s clinic for damage control and received shots to ward off infections. And now, I have a $148 bill to pay all because of a squirrel.
Even though these things occurred in 2009, I’d like to think that it was a pretty good year.
It amazes me, though, how much I really do leave out of my Christmas letters. It’s probably for the best.
2010 © 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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Most likely, anyone could conclude this from reading my Christmas letter. There’s not a bit of bad news in it, which may give many people the wrong impression. Believe me; my life is far from perfect.
That’s why every year at this time I write about what happened between the lines of my holiday letter. Here goes…
Last January, I started the year with surgery to remove benign ovarian cysts. I took two weeks off from work but should have taken three. After returning to my job, I ended up with the worst cases of sinus infection and bronchitis and had to take two rounds of antibiotics to get well.
This past summer, the vegetable garden was a flop, again. We had some decent cherry tomatoes, but everything else was a complete disaster. It was the most miserable looking vegetable garden this side of the Mississippi.
Our shoreline eroded another foot this year, which is due to too many high-speed boats racing up and down our tiny lake. I’d like to hire a contractor to stabilize the bank, but Brian thinks it will cost too much, probably about $15,000.
This is coming from a man who for a brief spell considered having plastic surgery on his turkey neck. Here’s the funny part: he thinks the bill would be right around $5,000. If he only knew the real cost of plastic surgery, he would say, "Hello, turtlenecks, bye-bye turkey neck."
I decided to go all out in 2009 by taking name brand vitamins for women over the age of 50, instead of generic ones. I figured that at age 57 I’m worth it.
We had pouring down rain on all but two days of our fall vacation.
I went through a passage of sorts. Out of utter frustration over always losing my reading glasses, I very abruptly started wearing a glasses chain and started washing away more of my gray with ash blond. Go figure.
In November, Brian broke his right ring finger to go with the left ring finger he broke last summer. This latest break was when he started a mini-remolding project on our kitchen, which caused my OCD to flare up. (I thought the kitchen was fine the way it was.)
We had some run-ins with nature in 2009.
A raccoon decided that the inside of our house would make a better home than the outside of our house. So, late one night, he (or she) climbed up the downspout, tiptoed across the roof, pried open the cupola and settled in for a long winter’s nap, or so the raccoon thought. Brian added some mesh over the vents and that ended that.
Just last week, two of our three Dachshunds caught and killed a squirrel in our yard. It must have been a very slow squirrel or a very stupid one, because with our Dachshunds’ short stubby legs, we’re still wondering how in the world this all happened.
Unfortunately, by the time we arrived at the scene, it was too late. Fighting to the very end, that squirrel did not go down easily.
Zoe suffered five lacerations to the snout; Poe ended up with three and there was blood everywhere.
Both dogs landed in the veterinarian’s clinic for damage control and received shots to ward off infections. And now, I have a $148 bill to pay all because of a squirrel.
Even though these things occurred in 2009, I’d like to think that it was a pretty good year.
It amazes me, though, how much I really do leave out of my Christmas letters. It’s probably for the best.
2010 © 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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
If you tell me yours, I'll tell you mine
I read that 40 percent to 45 percent of American adults make one or more New Year’s resolutions each year.
Among the top resolutions are losing weight, increasing exercise and quitting smoking. Next in line are better money management and debt reduction.
Even if people swear on a stack of Bibles that they will stick to their resolutions, their resolve seems to be short-lived.
I did some research on this and according to one study, 75 percent keep their resolutions after the first week, 71 percent after two weeks, 64 percent after one month and only 46 percent of those who make New Year’s resolutions are hanging in there after six months. Eventually, only 7 percent of all resolutions are ever kept.
Television advertisers are most certainly tapping into this apparent soft spot in the American psyche. If I see one more weight loss ad or stop smoking commercial, I am liable to start binge eating or, worse yet, light up.
Am I the only one who thinks making New Year’s resolutions and keeping them has lost its luster?
I remember a time when making resolutions on New Year’s Eve was a central and important year-end tradition. Do you remember the thought and care we used put into it?
I’ve made resolutions to be a better person, to spend more time with my husband and to do a better job of dusting my house.
Unfortunately, part of the problem is that too many New Year’s resolutions do not involve full disclosure. Most of the time, they are kept in a shroud of secrecy, making it easier to slip up.
Another problem when making New Year’s resolutions is that there is no plan or support system to help us tow the line and to hold us accountable.
Nowadays, I just think about what it is I want to improve, stop or start doing and hope for the best.
Once in awhile, I reveal my resolution and then I'm stuck. I have to either to keep it or spend the whole year making excuses for why I failed to keep it.
What is it about this age-old tradition that has fallen by the wayside in our disposable age, where "short-term" is the end of the week and "long-term" means the end of the month?
I am looking for a few sojourners in that 7 percent who have made and kept New Year’s resolutions. Just to know that resolutions aren’t empty promises gives rise to hope and promise.
When it comes right down to it, we probably have more control over our lives than we are willing to admit. Just think how much better the world would be if more people kept their New Year’s resolutions.
People would be healthier and happier. They would be less agitated and more peaceful. At least, I'd like to think so anyway.
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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Among the top resolutions are losing weight, increasing exercise and quitting smoking. Next in line are better money management and debt reduction.
Even if people swear on a stack of Bibles that they will stick to their resolutions, their resolve seems to be short-lived.
I did some research on this and according to one study, 75 percent keep their resolutions after the first week, 71 percent after two weeks, 64 percent after one month and only 46 percent of those who make New Year’s resolutions are hanging in there after six months. Eventually, only 7 percent of all resolutions are ever kept.
Television advertisers are most certainly tapping into this apparent soft spot in the American psyche. If I see one more weight loss ad or stop smoking commercial, I am liable to start binge eating or, worse yet, light up.
Am I the only one who thinks making New Year’s resolutions and keeping them has lost its luster?
I remember a time when making resolutions on New Year’s Eve was a central and important year-end tradition. Do you remember the thought and care we used put into it?
I’ve made resolutions to be a better person, to spend more time with my husband and to do a better job of dusting my house.
Unfortunately, part of the problem is that too many New Year’s resolutions do not involve full disclosure. Most of the time, they are kept in a shroud of secrecy, making it easier to slip up.
Another problem when making New Year’s resolutions is that there is no plan or support system to help us tow the line and to hold us accountable.
Nowadays, I just think about what it is I want to improve, stop or start doing and hope for the best.
Once in awhile, I reveal my resolution and then I'm stuck. I have to either to keep it or spend the whole year making excuses for why I failed to keep it.
What is it about this age-old tradition that has fallen by the wayside in our disposable age, where "short-term" is the end of the week and "long-term" means the end of the month?
I am looking for a few sojourners in that 7 percent who have made and kept New Year’s resolutions. Just to know that resolutions aren’t empty promises gives rise to hope and promise.
When it comes right down to it, we probably have more control over our lives than we are willing to admit. Just think how much better the world would be if more people kept their New Year’s resolutions.
People would be healthier and happier. They would be less agitated and more peaceful. At least, I'd like to think so anyway.
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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
"Together time" is riding shotgun on Christmas vacation
In the early morning hours of Christmas vacation, I would ride shotgun while my father drove our boxy Dodge van, tires crunching through several inches of freshly fallen snow on already frozen highways.
We were on our way to the store – our family-owned paint and hardware business – and this surely counted as "together time."
I was sixteen and old enough to help with odd jobs at the store whenever I had off days off from school. I ran errands and kept the place tidy by organizing and straightening merchandise. From time to time, I even processed bills.
The store was a main character in our family, one that sustained us in a lifelong drama agitated by Dad’s heart disease and Mother's depression.
The commerce that took place under that leaky roof fed, clothed and kept our brood of six children warm and secure in our century-old home.
The store seemed to own my Dad, not the other way around. He worked all the time, always returning home late, long after we were in bed.
Like most kids, I had an affinity for my dad. Because he did not say much to me, I got into the habit of making appeals for his attention with my heart, and sometimes in writing.
Moments like this, just Dad and me floating along wintry roads, expanded the definition of our father-daughter relationship.
While riding in silence, I would romanticize what I knew of his youth, including his WWII service in the Navy. He met Mom before he was deployed to a base in Puerto Rico. They exchanged love letters while he was stationed there for more than a year and were married when the war ended.
My dad was born to sell. During his career, he sold Chevrolet cars, Mary Carter paint, paintbrushes, rollers, adhesive, drop cloths and all the hardware accessories one could imagine.
I was in elementary school when he sold Thomas-built school buses. I rode along then, too, in spanking new buses Dad drove to waiting schools. I remember thinking he was the best salesperson ever with satisfied customers for miles around.
When I think of my dad, I gather those moments on the way to work – just Dad and me, speechless, traveling through sleeping neighborhoods, stopping while traffic lights turned green on empty peaceful street corners.
I treasure those memories like Christmas morning, rich and fulfilled.
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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
We were on our way to the store – our family-owned paint and hardware business – and this surely counted as "together time."
I was sixteen and old enough to help with odd jobs at the store whenever I had off days off from school. I ran errands and kept the place tidy by organizing and straightening merchandise. From time to time, I even processed bills.
The store was a main character in our family, one that sustained us in a lifelong drama agitated by Dad’s heart disease and Mother's depression.
The commerce that took place under that leaky roof fed, clothed and kept our brood of six children warm and secure in our century-old home.
The store seemed to own my Dad, not the other way around. He worked all the time, always returning home late, long after we were in bed.
Like most kids, I had an affinity for my dad. Because he did not say much to me, I got into the habit of making appeals for his attention with my heart, and sometimes in writing.
Moments like this, just Dad and me floating along wintry roads, expanded the definition of our father-daughter relationship.
While riding in silence, I would romanticize what I knew of his youth, including his WWII service in the Navy. He met Mom before he was deployed to a base in Puerto Rico. They exchanged love letters while he was stationed there for more than a year and were married when the war ended.
My dad was born to sell. During his career, he sold Chevrolet cars, Mary Carter paint, paintbrushes, rollers, adhesive, drop cloths and all the hardware accessories one could imagine.
I was in elementary school when he sold Thomas-built school buses. I rode along then, too, in spanking new buses Dad drove to waiting schools. I remember thinking he was the best salesperson ever with satisfied customers for miles around.
When I think of my dad, I gather those moments on the way to work – just Dad and me, speechless, traveling through sleeping neighborhoods, stopping while traffic lights turned green on empty peaceful street corners.
I treasure those memories like Christmas morning, rich and fulfilled.
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 www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
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