Do you ever wonder what happened to good old-fashioned Christmas Bazaars? I do.
If you're young and have never heard the term, let me enlighten you.
Bazaars were kind of a quirky combination of a bake sale, craft show and rummage sale all rolled into one. Everything was a quarter, a dime and sometimes even a nickle.
Today's craft and bake sale is the new bazaar, but most of them cost money at the door. Whoever thought of paying to shop?
When I was a tyke, I could wander right into the neighborhood bazaar. Every year after most of the leaves had fallen and winter was nipping at my nose, I remember going to the Christmas bazaar at the church across the street from my childhood home. Inside, among all the baked goods were homemade trinkets and a clutter of second-hand items in a section called a "White Elephant Sale."
This peaked my interest, as I could not imagine how an elephant, let alone a white one, could be for sale in a church basement.
Of course, there was no real elephant, but I remember seeing a ceramic one that stood about a foot high in the middle of a long cafeteria table. Its trunk was creased and curled into a circle with ivory tusks protruding from either side of a wide-open mouth.
Although a little scraped and scuffed around the edges, that white elephant was surrounded by a half-dozen pairs of someones grandmother's clip earrings, used ladies' church gloves, a collection of gaudy lapel pins, including an over sized poinsettia, a star-studded American flag, a sequined turkey and a blinking Rudolph.
The Christmas bazaars of my childhood always had a homey feeling: the co-mingling aromas of coffee brewing and cinnamon rolls baking; the sight of fully decorated Christmas trees and wreaths, the musty smell of old books, the endearing appeal of simple wood crafts and decorations, knitted sweaters and crocheted doilies.
So, the truth be told, the biggest thing that separates craft and bake sales of today and bazaars of yesteryear - the word bazaar is missing. I remember the challenge of learning to pronounce it when I was a kid. I liked the exotic ring as I slowly and dramatically said BA-ZAAR. There's nothing interesting or surprising about "craft and bake sale."
I also miss seeing those large clunky hand-painted signs with the giant letters BAZAAR, which, I'm not afraid to admit always looked like the word "brazier."
I looked up bazaar and found that it can be traced to Persia, which is Iran today. A bazaar meant "the place of prices."
Bazaars of days gone by were magical where Christmas was neatly arranged and mother's kitchen was transported to the underbelly of the sanctuary.
I think all Christmas craft and bake sales should be called bazaars. In fact, could I ask you a little favor? The next time your church or organization plans a holiday sale, please stop calling it a "Christmas Craft and Bake Sale" when good old nostalgic "Christmas Bazaar" will do just fine. Thank you.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comandfind her on Facebook.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Music breathes life into those once lost
Ordinarily, the thought of corralling 13 children, ages eight to 11, might make most of us run in the opposite direction. But not this group.
Behold the African Children's Choir, representing a population of millions of the most vulnerable. They are bright, articulate, well-mannered, grateful for the least bit of kindness and full of promise.
The majority were born in Kampala, Uganda's capital city, others in Ghana. If you ask about their parents, more than half will say that one or both have died from disease or starvation.
Once lost and abandoned to slums, garbage heaps or the streets, these children are now found. Their chilling back-stories tell of having nothing.
While toddlers, barely surviving, they were rescued by humanitarian Ray Barnett, who founded Music for Life. This start-up non-profit set out 26 years ago to keep Africa's forgotten children from dying at such a rapid rate.
Today, Music for Life cares for some 8,000 children by housing, feeding, clothing, educating, guiding and nurturing them.
The choir's conductor and tour guide are graduates of the program and say Music for Life saved them.
Everything in Uganda is celebrated by dance and the culture communicates with drums, so the choir sings and dances to the pulsating beat of three Ngoma drums, and can those kids play!
Their traditional costumes of bright lime green linen smocks drape over harvest orange goucho pants, sport beads, bangles, bells and even bird feathers.
These survivors with eyes sparkling, faces grinning, arms waving, sway about the stage in perfect patterns of radiating joy.
Feet first, stepping sprightly - heel, toe, heel, toe - and then in a great crescendo they stomp, while shoulders slink low, rise up and then exude a synchronized flow of gladness.
During one of several program segments, the chorus members share personal stories, introduce themselves and tell what they want to be.
Speaking in English, the official language of Ghana, with thick Ghanese accents, some say....
"Hello, my name is Debra, I want to be a lawyer."
"Hello, my name is Jordan, I want to be a pilot."
"Hello, my name is Stella, I want to be a writer."
Further down the recited string of aspirations are dreams of some day becoming a doctor, a nurse, high school teacher, engineer, musician and so on.
The rest of their stories spill out without uttering a word or singing a note. Their measured movements, their twinkling glances, their fixated focus on the conductor tell plenty about the new life they live.
You can't watch the African Children's Choir without desiring to adopt one or more. However, they resist such an inclination because they want to go home, as they say, "to make it better there."
An hour and a half of praise and thanksgiving music, this Gospel choir symbolizes the hope, spirit and might of a continent seeking rebirth out of a mire of poverty and war.
Nominated for a Grammy in 1993, this chorus radiates sweetly choreographed numbers, transforming audiences, who they themselves are reborn.
When you first set eyes on such innocence and vulnerability and hear those heartbreaking voices ring out at the top of their lungs "This Little Light of Mine" and "You Are the Shepherd," you, too, will experience a rebirth of sorts.
If the African Children's Choir appears in a venue near you, don't pass it up. It's a performance you have to see.
For more information, visit africanchildrenschoir.com.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Behold the African Children's Choir, representing a population of millions of the most vulnerable. They are bright, articulate, well-mannered, grateful for the least bit of kindness and full of promise.
The majority were born in Kampala, Uganda's capital city, others in Ghana. If you ask about their parents, more than half will say that one or both have died from disease or starvation.
Once lost and abandoned to slums, garbage heaps or the streets, these children are now found. Their chilling back-stories tell of having nothing.
While toddlers, barely surviving, they were rescued by humanitarian Ray Barnett, who founded Music for Life. This start-up non-profit set out 26 years ago to keep Africa's forgotten children from dying at such a rapid rate.
Today, Music for Life cares for some 8,000 children by housing, feeding, clothing, educating, guiding and nurturing them.
The choir's conductor and tour guide are graduates of the program and say Music for Life saved them.
Everything in Uganda is celebrated by dance and the culture communicates with drums, so the choir sings and dances to the pulsating beat of three Ngoma drums, and can those kids play!
Their traditional costumes of bright lime green linen smocks drape over harvest orange goucho pants, sport beads, bangles, bells and even bird feathers.
These survivors with eyes sparkling, faces grinning, arms waving, sway about the stage in perfect patterns of radiating joy.
Feet first, stepping sprightly - heel, toe, heel, toe - and then in a great crescendo they stomp, while shoulders slink low, rise up and then exude a synchronized flow of gladness.
During one of several program segments, the chorus members share personal stories, introduce themselves and tell what they want to be.
Speaking in English, the official language of Ghana, with thick Ghanese accents, some say....
"Hello, my name is Debra, I want to be a lawyer."
"Hello, my name is Jordan, I want to be a pilot."
"Hello, my name is Stella, I want to be a writer."
Further down the recited string of aspirations are dreams of some day becoming a doctor, a nurse, high school teacher, engineer, musician and so on.
The rest of their stories spill out without uttering a word or singing a note. Their measured movements, their twinkling glances, their fixated focus on the conductor tell plenty about the new life they live.
You can't watch the African Children's Choir without desiring to adopt one or more. However, they resist such an inclination because they want to go home, as they say, "to make it better there."
An hour and a half of praise and thanksgiving music, this Gospel choir symbolizes the hope, spirit and might of a continent seeking rebirth out of a mire of poverty and war.
Nominated for a Grammy in 1993, this chorus radiates sweetly choreographed numbers, transforming audiences, who they themselves are reborn.
When you first set eyes on such innocence and vulnerability and hear those heartbreaking voices ring out at the top of their lungs "This Little Light of Mine" and "You Are the Shepherd," you, too, will experience a rebirth of sorts.
If the African Children's Choir appears in a venue near you, don't pass it up. It's a performance you have to see.
For more information, visit africanchildrenschoir.com.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Splish splash, I was taking a bath
The other day, I was multitasking. Filling a container with water, while starting dinner, I could tell, sight unseen, how full the container was just by the rising pitch the water produced as it inched its way to the top.
I pondered how the sounds of water telegraph what's happening, when it's happening and where it's happening.
When we hear an oscillating sprinkler with its varying methodical forward motion, chew-chew-chew, and then the rapid cycling backward, chi-ch-chi-chi-chi-chi, we discern its direction as it soaks the lawn.
Certain sounds reveal when other sprinklers are in full operation, like squealing children affectionately leaping through tickling sprays. And the happy splish-splash of their bare feet carried by tireless legs that swiftly perform awkward ballets through airborne water.
It can be difficult to tell the depth of puddles. Yet, we immediately know how deep these isolated pools of water are by the sound of our steps or missteps.
A little spittle of a puddle only makes a benignly wet utterance, while a larger one plops, as it soaks our soles and socks.
We can tell when squirt guns are full by the juicy sound of a loaded trigger and empty by the airy wheezing.
Roaring water pounding over expansive towering ridges or lightly trickling through narrow rock passages, reveals the greatness or smallness of a waterfall.
Springtime is nearing when the sound of thawing lakes and streams produces musical scores, like crystallized chimes as icy edges melt and release their hard grip on shorelines.
Further out, once frozen ice fields begin to melt, letting off reverberating rumbles, as warm air currents make thawing ice quiver and quake while overhead geese fly north.
Birds gaily splash in once quiet pedestal baths, flitting and fluttering in a exercise of renewal.
The scooping and pouring of baptismal waters, the newness of life cleansing misdeeds, renewing old souls - all hopeful sounds.
Although, some water sounds have a dark side.
A bathtub overflowing.
Drains backing up.
Water boiling over.
Hail knocking, and then pounding.
A commanding wind-driven rain that presents itself, not vertically in delicately descending droplets, but horizontally, as it angrily storms eastward, forcing us to hide, first under overhangs, and then move indoors, as it slows life to a halt.
The wildly lurid rush of flood waters, racing over banks and through dikes, destroying order and peace.
There is the frantic gurgling and thrashing of a drowning person, the sudden harshness of falling through an old ice fishing hole and the choking sound as fluid travels down the windpipe instead of the esophagus.
And finally, the lungs of a dying person strangely rattling, signaling end-of-life, a time when discerning sounds of water ceases.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
I pondered how the sounds of water telegraph what's happening, when it's happening and where it's happening.
When we hear an oscillating sprinkler with its varying methodical forward motion, chew-chew-chew, and then the rapid cycling backward, chi-ch-chi-chi-chi-chi, we discern its direction as it soaks the lawn.
Certain sounds reveal when other sprinklers are in full operation, like squealing children affectionately leaping through tickling sprays. And the happy splish-splash of their bare feet carried by tireless legs that swiftly perform awkward ballets through airborne water.
It can be difficult to tell the depth of puddles. Yet, we immediately know how deep these isolated pools of water are by the sound of our steps or missteps.
A little spittle of a puddle only makes a benignly wet utterance, while a larger one plops, as it soaks our soles and socks.
We can tell when squirt guns are full by the juicy sound of a loaded trigger and empty by the airy wheezing.
Roaring water pounding over expansive towering ridges or lightly trickling through narrow rock passages, reveals the greatness or smallness of a waterfall.
Springtime is nearing when the sound of thawing lakes and streams produces musical scores, like crystallized chimes as icy edges melt and release their hard grip on shorelines.
Further out, once frozen ice fields begin to melt, letting off reverberating rumbles, as warm air currents make thawing ice quiver and quake while overhead geese fly north.
Birds gaily splash in once quiet pedestal baths, flitting and fluttering in a exercise of renewal.
The scooping and pouring of baptismal waters, the newness of life cleansing misdeeds, renewing old souls - all hopeful sounds.
Although, some water sounds have a dark side.
A bathtub overflowing.
Drains backing up.
Water boiling over.
Hail knocking, and then pounding.
A commanding wind-driven rain that presents itself, not vertically in delicately descending droplets, but horizontally, as it angrily storms eastward, forcing us to hide, first under overhangs, and then move indoors, as it slows life to a halt.
The wildly lurid rush of flood waters, racing over banks and through dikes, destroying order and peace.
There is the frantic gurgling and thrashing of a drowning person, the sudden harshness of falling through an old ice fishing hole and the choking sound as fluid travels down the windpipe instead of the esophagus.
And finally, the lungs of a dying person strangely rattling, signaling end-of-life, a time when discerning sounds of water ceases.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Aroma of sunburned leaf beds rise as incense
The old woman you saw skipping church this morning was I, darting pangs of
conflict over my sin of omission.
That was I wrestling with menacing guilt and then smiling quietly over feeling
justified by the grace of already being in the midst of a grand sanctuary.
Casting long glances first to the Epistle and then to the Gospel side, that was
I you saw settling into a pew carved by nature, as slivers of sunlight cut
through old pines whose tree-tops floated above in a backdrop of azure.
That was I on the Day of the Lord who became a silent witness to God's
tremendous grandeur and who exchanged church for the echo of any number of birds
as an angels' chorus melodically warbled in C Major.
That was I you caught a glimpse of trading traditional liturgy for the worship
of God-shaped canyons and finding contrition in delicately laced lichen.
The one you saw reflecting on life's path was I, who scattered deer while
lightly stepping deeper into the cathedral forest, where musty sage perfume and
sunburned leaf beds rose as incense.
That old woman you saw seeking wise counsel was I, listening to the wind winnow
in short intervals through thick stands of ash as it created a holy trickling,
like baptismal waters sprinkling over the soft new forehead of an infant.
That was I lingering while paying tribute to the place where rushes of wind
became a mighty spirit, a massive river ambling invisibly above and through me.
Yes, I confess that was I you found praying to the silent noise that this holy
house brings forth.
That was I petitioning it not to cease, imploring that it deafen the cry of my
otherwise morose mood.
The old woman you saw skipping church on Sunday was I welcoming the company of
finches swooping upward and then downward circling me, as a blessing of my
travels.
The one you saw kneeling before the ever rising sun - that was I.
Paula Damon 2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comandand find her on Facebook.
conflict over my sin of omission.
That was I wrestling with menacing guilt and then smiling quietly over feeling
justified by the grace of already being in the midst of a grand sanctuary.
Casting long glances first to the Epistle and then to the Gospel side, that was
I you saw settling into a pew carved by nature, as slivers of sunlight cut
through old pines whose tree-tops floated above in a backdrop of azure.
That was I on the Day of the Lord who became a silent witness to God's
tremendous grandeur and who exchanged church for the echo of any number of birds
as an angels' chorus melodically warbled in C Major.
That was I you caught a glimpse of trading traditional liturgy for the worship
of God-shaped canyons and finding contrition in delicately laced lichen.
The one you saw reflecting on life's path was I, who scattered deer while
lightly stepping deeper into the cathedral forest, where musty sage perfume and
sunburned leaf beds rose as incense.
That old woman you saw seeking wise counsel was I, listening to the wind winnow
in short intervals through thick stands of ash as it created a holy trickling,
like baptismal waters sprinkling over the soft new forehead of an infant.
That was I lingering while paying tribute to the place where rushes of wind
became a mighty spirit, a massive river ambling invisibly above and through me.
Yes, I confess that was I you found praying to the silent noise that this holy
house brings forth.
That was I petitioning it not to cease, imploring that it deafen the cry of my
otherwise morose mood.
The old woman you saw skipping church on Sunday was I welcoming the company of
finches swooping upward and then downward circling me, as a blessing of my
travels.
The one you saw kneeling before the ever rising sun - that was I.
Paula Damon 2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took five first-place awards statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comandand find her on Facebook.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
20 minutes to slim. Are you kidding me?
When I saw a headline on the cover of a women's magazine that read "20 MINUTES TO SLIM" in bold letters, I wondered who do they think is reading this stuff.
No, it wasn't The National Inquirer; it was your mother's women's magazine and your mother's mother's women's magazine.
No one in their right mind believes in miracle diets anymore, let alone slim in 20 minutes. Get out of here.
I'll admit that in the past I've been a sucker for such sensationalism. I couldn't resist the urge to find this silver bullet, a fountain of youth, the cure-all, so I could either laugh at this ridiculousness or cry with joy.
I studiously turned to the Table of Contents, madly searching for "20 MINUTES TO SLIM."
After flipping back and forth between the "Live Well," "Style," "Solutions," "Eat Well" and "In Every Issue" sections, I finally found the article under "Health." Well, of course.
No wonder I had trouble seeing it, since they changed up the wording to "Get Fit...20 minutes to SLIM - the quick workout that burns up to 250 calories" on page 80. Workout? Who said anything about working out?
I was hoping that I had already worked them off my 250 calories by the time I reached page 80.
It seems that most of us, especially women, have dieted our entire lives. I probably burn several thousand calories a day and hardly shed a pound.
Though, I admit my serious doubt didn't keep me from reading the article. And then I uncovered the truth beneath the untruth: "20 MINUTES TO SLIM" doesn't exist.
What does exist is a fat-burning, butt busting routine requiring 10 moves of two minutes each.
And, that's not all. Can you believe it? You have to do this workout three days a week for three weeks, which means you may "feel" slimmer, but you're actually not.
Every since I was 13 and that darn TV commercial promised that Noxema would miraculously erase zits, I've had a love-hate relationship with the media.
Why can't I be slim in 20 minutes, like the headline says, only with my feet propped up, staring at the tube with a jumbo box of my favorite truffles and an 84 ounce Mountain Dew to top it off. Yeah, I think I could do that.
No one in their right mind believes in miracle diets anymore, let alone slim in 20 minutes. Are you kidding me?
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
No, it wasn't The National Inquirer; it was your mother's women's magazine and your mother's mother's women's magazine.
No one in their right mind believes in miracle diets anymore, let alone slim in 20 minutes. Get out of here.
I'll admit that in the past I've been a sucker for such sensationalism. I couldn't resist the urge to find this silver bullet, a fountain of youth, the cure-all, so I could either laugh at this ridiculousness or cry with joy.
I studiously turned to the Table of Contents, madly searching for "20 MINUTES TO SLIM."
After flipping back and forth between the "Live Well," "Style," "Solutions," "Eat Well" and "In Every Issue" sections, I finally found the article under "Health." Well, of course.
No wonder I had trouble seeing it, since they changed up the wording to "Get Fit...20 minutes to SLIM - the quick workout that burns up to 250 calories" on page 80. Workout? Who said anything about working out?
I was hoping that I had already worked them off my 250 calories by the time I reached page 80.
It seems that most of us, especially women, have dieted our entire lives. I probably burn several thousand calories a day and hardly shed a pound.
Though, I admit my serious doubt didn't keep me from reading the article. And then I uncovered the truth beneath the untruth: "20 MINUTES TO SLIM" doesn't exist.
What does exist is a fat-burning, butt busting routine requiring 10 moves of two minutes each.
And, that's not all. Can you believe it? You have to do this workout three days a week for three weeks, which means you may "feel" slimmer, but you're actually not.
Every since I was 13 and that darn TV commercial promised that Noxema would miraculously erase zits, I've had a love-hate relationship with the media.
Why can't I be slim in 20 minutes, like the headline says, only with my feet propped up, staring at the tube with a jumbo box of my favorite truffles and an 84 ounce Mountain Dew to top it off. Yeah, I think I could do that.
No one in their right mind believes in miracle diets anymore, let alone slim in 20 minutes. Are you kidding me?
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
When thongs were flip-flops and other mysteries.…
Rarely before has a cultural divide been so wide, separating generations, as in our time.
Consider this - most students who entered college for the first time this fall were born in 1992.
According to the Beloit College Mindset List, they have never seen a carousel of Kodachrome slides. They know Clint Eastwood as a movie producer, not as Dirty Harry.
They think email is too slow and hardly ever use the U.S. Postal Service. They know Beethoven as a dog and Michelangelo as a computer virus.
Young people today don’t worry about a Russian missile striking the U.S. They don’t really understand why we had air raid shelters.
On the other hand, those of us who are 50-something contribute to this cultural divide without even realizing it. For example, you reveal your age if…
…You have the urge to lick postage stamps.
…You don’t text and you don’t want to learn how to text.
…You forward junk mail to all of your email contacts.
…You don’t own a computer.
…You don’t own more than one computer.
…You know what a rotary phone is and how to use it.
…You have a rotary phone and plan to keep it.
…You don’t know what skype is and really don’t care.
…You think blue ray is a tropical fish.
…You cannot figure out why so many people are tweeting.
…You don’t believe in cell phones, even though there is evidence they exist all around you.
…You own a cell phone but don’t know how to make calls or retrieve messages.
…You think marriage should last a lifetime
…You have the urge to hang laundry on a line.
…You bake from scratch.
…You have a checking account.
…You go to the bank, not on line, to do your banking.
…You still go to the cinema, not the Internet, to watch movies.
…You do not have a Facebook account.
…You do have a Facebook account but don’t know how to post photos on it.
…You don’t have a blog and don’t plan to have a blog.
…Your husband still pumps your gas and washes your windshield.
…You remember when gas station attendants pumped your gas and washed your windshield.
…You remember when gasoline was 20 cents a gallon or less.
…You still use the expression “save it for a rainy day.”
…You get excited when you find loose change on the ground.
...You pick up loose change when you find it on the ground.
…You are more comfortable putting your hand out to greet people than giving them a high five.
…You carry cash.
…You cook most of your meals at home and rarely eat out.
…When you do eat out, you get a doggy bag for what you cannot finish.
…You put leftovers in a stew for tomorrow, instead of pitching them.
…You reuse plastic containers.
…You understand the expression “to put up vegetables or fruits.”
…You know how to can tomatoes and cucumbers and relish the thought of putting up dozens of jars every fall.
…When you were a kid, thongs were flip-flops you wore on your feet, not underwear.
…You read the newspaper by holding it in your hands, not by clicking a mouse.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Consider this - most students who entered college for the first time this fall were born in 1992.
According to the Beloit College Mindset List, they have never seen a carousel of Kodachrome slides. They know Clint Eastwood as a movie producer, not as Dirty Harry.
They think email is too slow and hardly ever use the U.S. Postal Service. They know Beethoven as a dog and Michelangelo as a computer virus.
Young people today don’t worry about a Russian missile striking the U.S. They don’t really understand why we had air raid shelters.
On the other hand, those of us who are 50-something contribute to this cultural divide without even realizing it. For example, you reveal your age if…
…You have the urge to lick postage stamps.
…You don’t text and you don’t want to learn how to text.
…You forward junk mail to all of your email contacts.
…You don’t own a computer.
…You don’t own more than one computer.
…You know what a rotary phone is and how to use it.
…You have a rotary phone and plan to keep it.
…You don’t know what skype is and really don’t care.
…You think blue ray is a tropical fish.
…You cannot figure out why so many people are tweeting.
…You don’t believe in cell phones, even though there is evidence they exist all around you.
…You own a cell phone but don’t know how to make calls or retrieve messages.
…You think marriage should last a lifetime
…You have the urge to hang laundry on a line.
…You bake from scratch.
…You have a checking account.
…You go to the bank, not on line, to do your banking.
…You still go to the cinema, not the Internet, to watch movies.
…You do not have a Facebook account.
…You do have a Facebook account but don’t know how to post photos on it.
…You don’t have a blog and don’t plan to have a blog.
…Your husband still pumps your gas and washes your windshield.
…You remember when gas station attendants pumped your gas and washed your windshield.
…You remember when gasoline was 20 cents a gallon or less.
…You still use the expression “save it for a rainy day.”
…You get excited when you find loose change on the ground.
...You pick up loose change when you find it on the ground.
…You are more comfortable putting your hand out to greet people than giving them a high five.
…You carry cash.
…You cook most of your meals at home and rarely eat out.
…When you do eat out, you get a doggy bag for what you cannot finish.
…You put leftovers in a stew for tomorrow, instead of pitching them.
…You reuse plastic containers.
…You understand the expression “to put up vegetables or fruits.”
…You know how to can tomatoes and cucumbers and relish the thought of putting up dozens of jars every fall.
…When you were a kid, thongs were flip-flops you wore on your feet, not underwear.
…You read the newspaper by holding it in your hands, not by clicking a mouse.
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Being a non-elkaholic in an elkaholic world
When I saw a bumper sticker that said, "Elkaholic – bow hunting elk will be the hardest thing you'll ever love to do," I started to twitch.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not against hunting all together.
For whatever reason, I have difficulty killing anything. I struggle taking down spider webs because I know that without them spiders would starve to death.
I cup my hands around a wayward moth and carefully escort it out the door.
I cringe whenever I swat a fly. So you can see why the notion of hunting really does get to me.
It’s bad enough knowing that there are actually “seasons” for hunting established by the DNR, let alone actually hearing and seeing hunters in action, such as the distant sound of buckshot and hunters wandering corn fields or crouched in their deer blinds.
I’ve heard both sides of the argument as to what to do with the overpopulation of deer. As you may have figured, I side with those who want to put out hay and corn.
Seeing that “elkaholic” bumper sticker put me on edge. I just can’t stand the thought of sharp carbon arrows or cast lead bullets striking through the heart or piercing the guts of unsuspecting animals as rare elk are.
Behold the elk, cervus elaphus, or wapiti, as native tribes call them. These majestic and husky members of the deer family once populated most of North America.
Now, a resurgence of small herds live in remote mountainous regions in the Western U.S., primarily Wyoming, Colorado and South Dakota.
Some years ago, when my husband and I were visiting Banff, Alberta, Canada, elk roamed freely throughout the town.
Co-mingling with residents and tourists alike, they wondered about at will. Traffic halted while entire families trotted in single file across side streets, highways and byways.
The elk controversy in Banff – to love them or to kill them – was all over the news as the town wrestled with this divisive issue.
Wanting to understand why bow hunting elk is the “hardest thing you’ll ever love,” I mustered up enough courage to actually watch an elk hunting video on the web.
In the video, a brawny bull elk peacefully grazes with his herd in a wide-open pasture. Singled out by the hunter-narrator because of his mighty rack and with no cover to hide the hunter scopes and kills him.
As I watched the herd scatter and the tall brawny wapiti go down, I wondered how the hunter was going to sleep that night. Probably very well.
I know we won’t always see eye-to-eye on this subject. After all, this is the land of the free where opinions are not legislated.
This also gives me the freedom to create my own bumper sticker that reads, “non-elkaholic – killing elk is the hardest thing you’ll never want to do.”
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not against hunting all together.
For whatever reason, I have difficulty killing anything. I struggle taking down spider webs because I know that without them spiders would starve to death.
I cup my hands around a wayward moth and carefully escort it out the door.
I cringe whenever I swat a fly. So you can see why the notion of hunting really does get to me.
It’s bad enough knowing that there are actually “seasons” for hunting established by the DNR, let alone actually hearing and seeing hunters in action, such as the distant sound of buckshot and hunters wandering corn fields or crouched in their deer blinds.
I’ve heard both sides of the argument as to what to do with the overpopulation of deer. As you may have figured, I side with those who want to put out hay and corn.
Seeing that “elkaholic” bumper sticker put me on edge. I just can’t stand the thought of sharp carbon arrows or cast lead bullets striking through the heart or piercing the guts of unsuspecting animals as rare elk are.
Behold the elk, cervus elaphus, or wapiti, as native tribes call them. These majestic and husky members of the deer family once populated most of North America.
Now, a resurgence of small herds live in remote mountainous regions in the Western U.S., primarily Wyoming, Colorado and South Dakota.
Some years ago, when my husband and I were visiting Banff, Alberta, Canada, elk roamed freely throughout the town.
Co-mingling with residents and tourists alike, they wondered about at will. Traffic halted while entire families trotted in single file across side streets, highways and byways.
The elk controversy in Banff – to love them or to kill them – was all over the news as the town wrestled with this divisive issue.
Wanting to understand why bow hunting elk is the “hardest thing you’ll ever love,” I mustered up enough courage to actually watch an elk hunting video on the web.
In the video, a brawny bull elk peacefully grazes with his herd in a wide-open pasture. Singled out by the hunter-narrator because of his mighty rack and with no cover to hide the hunter scopes and kills him.
As I watched the herd scatter and the tall brawny wapiti go down, I wondered how the hunter was going to sleep that night. Probably very well.
I know we won’t always see eye-to-eye on this subject. After all, this is the land of the free where opinions are not legislated.
This also gives me the freedom to create my own bumper sticker that reads, “non-elkaholic – killing elk is the hardest thing you’ll never want to do.”
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon
is a national and state 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 and 2010 South Dakota
Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took first-place awards
statewide. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at
www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.comand find her on Facebook.
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