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.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
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.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Writer comes out about secret love
To call me a fan of Duct Tape is clearly an understatement. I am not just a fan. I am a diehard, Type "A" Duct Tape fanatic.
If I could keep only one thing in my toolbox, it would be two rolls of Duct Tape.
Not that I would disregard my Phillips and slotted screwdrivers, forget about my pliers and socket wrenches or abandon my glue gun and wood putty. It’s just that my sweet, ever-loving Duct Tape is irresistible. Wonderfully waterproof and fabulously flexible, it is the most amazingly adhesive super power tool ever created. I am in love....
If anything needs a repair, the first tool I think of is Duct Tape.
You know, I don’t always get the praise I deserve for my passionate resourcefulness. Recently, after repairing the hinges on our folding closet door, my husband cringed and said, "Oh no! You didn’t use Duct Tape, did you?"
"Yes, I did," I shot back. "I doctored that baby up with a little Duct Tape and, voila, it opens and closes just fine. And, you can’t even see the Duct Tape."
I love Duct Tape so much that I’ve been known to drop hints about my dream toolbox, which would include every color of Duct Tape ever made.
Fluorescent yellow and tangerine orange, navy blue and army green, hot pink and cool turquoise. Goodness! I'm getting hot and sweaty just thinking about them.
When I’m not planning what to cook or what to write, I am dreaming of the many ways I could use Duct Tape.
I've repaired skirt hems with it, recovered seat cushions, restored light shades, reconnected cupboard doors and reinforced storage boxes.
One Sunday awhile back, when I was on a road trip in Southern Nebraska, I used it to repair the undercover for my engine, which had come loose and was dragging beneath my car.
I stopped at a convenience store in the next town to pick up a roll of Duct Tape. While lying on my back underneath the car, people came and went, not stopping except one.
After Duct Taping my car back together, I stood up to see a silver-haired woman in church clothes waiting for me, looking bewildered.
"Hello," I said, dusting myself off.
"Well, I was wondering who that was down there," the woman replied without greeting me first.
"It’s me," I said. "How do you do?"
"Just fine, thank you. Lovely day isn’t it," she commented, raising her eyebrows.
"Yes, it is a lovely day to have car trouble and to be able to fix it with Duct Tape," I replied cheerily. "I love this stuff," I bolstered, holding up the roll with prideful resolve. "And this was the last roll in the store. Can you believe that? It must be my lucky day." Silence. "Well," I continued, "I’d better be on my way. I have a bit of a drive." We parted ways, and I could tell she just did not get it.
Yes, I definitely am more than a Duct Tape fan. I am head over heels in love. Duct Tape rocks!
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, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
If I could keep only one thing in my toolbox, it would be two rolls of Duct Tape.
Not that I would disregard my Phillips and slotted screwdrivers, forget about my pliers and socket wrenches or abandon my glue gun and wood putty. It’s just that my sweet, ever-loving Duct Tape is irresistible. Wonderfully waterproof and fabulously flexible, it is the most amazingly adhesive super power tool ever created. I am in love....
If anything needs a repair, the first tool I think of is Duct Tape.
You know, I don’t always get the praise I deserve for my passionate resourcefulness. Recently, after repairing the hinges on our folding closet door, my husband cringed and said, "Oh no! You didn’t use Duct Tape, did you?"
"Yes, I did," I shot back. "I doctored that baby up with a little Duct Tape and, voila, it opens and closes just fine. And, you can’t even see the Duct Tape."
I love Duct Tape so much that I’ve been known to drop hints about my dream toolbox, which would include every color of Duct Tape ever made.
Fluorescent yellow and tangerine orange, navy blue and army green, hot pink and cool turquoise. Goodness! I'm getting hot and sweaty just thinking about them.
When I’m not planning what to cook or what to write, I am dreaming of the many ways I could use Duct Tape.
I've repaired skirt hems with it, recovered seat cushions, restored light shades, reconnected cupboard doors and reinforced storage boxes.
One Sunday awhile back, when I was on a road trip in Southern Nebraska, I used it to repair the undercover for my engine, which had come loose and was dragging beneath my car.
I stopped at a convenience store in the next town to pick up a roll of Duct Tape. While lying on my back underneath the car, people came and went, not stopping except one.
After Duct Taping my car back together, I stood up to see a silver-haired woman in church clothes waiting for me, looking bewildered.
"Hello," I said, dusting myself off.
"Well, I was wondering who that was down there," the woman replied without greeting me first.
"It’s me," I said. "How do you do?"
"Just fine, thank you. Lovely day isn’t it," she commented, raising her eyebrows.
"Yes, it is a lovely day to have car trouble and to be able to fix it with Duct Tape," I replied cheerily. "I love this stuff," I bolstered, holding up the roll with prideful resolve. "And this was the last roll in the store. Can you believe that? It must be my lucky day." Silence. "Well," I continued, "I’d better be on my way. I have a bit of a drive." We parted ways, and I could tell she just did not get it.
Yes, I definitely am more than a Duct Tape fan. I am head over heels in love. Duct Tape rocks!
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, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Writer’s lack of strength sends her back to where she began
Growing up, I lusted to be a good fence climber, like my playmates Leslie and Christine. Those girls had it down. With such ease, they ran to greet fences, encountering them with all the skill and stamina of well-trained athletes.
One at a time, Leslie and Christine climbed fences with caterpillar-like moves inching higher and higher along straight, unforgiving planes of sometimes splintering wood.
Winging their way up and over, their arms and legs bulged, their necks bent skyward, their hearts fixed on making it.
How do they do that? I pondered, watching my friends with hope in my eyes, wanting to be like them. Where did they learn to climb fences like that?
I was not a climber, so fence lines always stopped me. Romping around town in those early days my childhood summers, I did my best to avoid them.
However, to no avail, after hours in the afternoon sun, chasing through woods, down sidewalks, over bridges, under railroad trestles, through creeks, around bends, fences certainly presented themselves as monsters preventing my passage.
Even though, I summoned every ounce of courage in an attempt to face down those barriers, ultimately my short stubby legs just would not go there.
I observed with frustration and a sense of failure as my friends scaled over the top. I saw how they grunted and groped with arrested energy. I listened as their feet landed victoriously on the other side.
I wished for a miracle, some sort of Pentecostal healing of my inability. But no such luck or blessing was bestowed upon me.
"Come on, Paula," Christine and Leslie hollered breathlessly. "What’s the hold up? Let’s keep going!"
"I can’t," I yelled back dejectedly. "I just can’t do it," I repeated with my feet firmly planted on the ground.
Although on the quiet when no one was around, I swallowed hard and tested my climbing ability. Gripping tall fence posts with my quivering fingers, positioning my toes as insufficient adhesives, I moaned under the weight of my own weakness.
On those occasions, even though I made it up a foot or two, my lack of physical strength sent me falling back down to where I began.
As June faded into July, I secretly wondered what qualified Leslie and Christine. With such ease, they greeted fences with all the skill and stamina of well-trained athletes. Yes, I do admit, I wanted what they had.
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, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
One at a time, Leslie and Christine climbed fences with caterpillar-like moves inching higher and higher along straight, unforgiving planes of sometimes splintering wood.
Winging their way up and over, their arms and legs bulged, their necks bent skyward, their hearts fixed on making it.
How do they do that? I pondered, watching my friends with hope in my eyes, wanting to be like them. Where did they learn to climb fences like that?
I was not a climber, so fence lines always stopped me. Romping around town in those early days my childhood summers, I did my best to avoid them.
However, to no avail, after hours in the afternoon sun, chasing through woods, down sidewalks, over bridges, under railroad trestles, through creeks, around bends, fences certainly presented themselves as monsters preventing my passage.
Even though, I summoned every ounce of courage in an attempt to face down those barriers, ultimately my short stubby legs just would not go there.
I observed with frustration and a sense of failure as my friends scaled over the top. I saw how they grunted and groped with arrested energy. I listened as their feet landed victoriously on the other side.
I wished for a miracle, some sort of Pentecostal healing of my inability. But no such luck or blessing was bestowed upon me.
"Come on, Paula," Christine and Leslie hollered breathlessly. "What’s the hold up? Let’s keep going!"
"I can’t," I yelled back dejectedly. "I just can’t do it," I repeated with my feet firmly planted on the ground.
Although on the quiet when no one was around, I swallowed hard and tested my climbing ability. Gripping tall fence posts with my quivering fingers, positioning my toes as insufficient adhesives, I moaned under the weight of my own weakness.
On those occasions, even though I made it up a foot or two, my lack of physical strength sent me falling back down to where I began.
As June faded into July, I secretly wondered what qualified Leslie and Christine. With such ease, they greeted fences with all the skill and stamina of well-trained athletes. Yes, I do admit, I wanted what they had.
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, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Cow-pooling and other ways to save and share
A new term for splitting a hog or a side of beef with your family and friends is "cow pooling."
Like car-pooling, cow-pooling allows people to share their resources, save money and connect with others.
Although I have no personal need for cow-pooling, because I don’t eat red meat, I like the idea.
Before convenience stores and 24-hour super centers, people more freely shared what they had by obliging neighbors and even strangers with a cup of coffee, a hot meal or a night's stay.
Back then, if you were smack-dab in the middle of baking a cake from scratch and found that you were out of vanilla extract or eggs, you would simply dial your neighbor or rap on her back door to borrow the missing ingredients.
Then, after the baked the cake, you would share some with your generous neighbor as a show of appreciation for her generosity.
Now, if you are out of something, you run to the store.
I miss the idea of borrowing a cup of flour or a teaspoon of cream of tartar. Most of all, I long for the sense of closeness and community such interdependence fosters.
Could the concept of cow-pooling extend to what’s in our cupboards? Could we cupboard-pool to save, share and connect?
Take, for example, my two cans of baking powder. Both are open and hardly used. I probably have two open cans because I couldn’t find the one and drove to the store to purchase the other.
Not being much of a baker, I will probably not use this amount of baking powder in my lifetime. Instead of it going to waste, I could cupboard-pool with my neighbors so that they could use my baking powder.
Consider the savings with cupboard-pooling. Fewer trips to the store to buy what neighbors already have and are not using. We would reduce gasoline consumption, which is good for the environment and lessens our dependence on foreign oil. We would save on the wear and tear on our vehicles.
Cupboard-pooling could be a co-op of sorts with goods such as sugar, flour, bread, milk, baking powder, cinnamon, sage, salt, cream of tartar, vanilla extract, allspice, black pepper, ginger, cinnamon sticks, chili powder, oregano, sweet basil, and ground mace.
This borrowing and lending would foster acts of giving and receiving. Cupboard-pooling would enlarge our relationships and diminish our self-absorbent independence.
Sharing resources would help us to connect with the people who are living out their lives in virtual isolation right next door or down the street – people we may hardly know or with whom we seldom converse.
Consider your neighbors. Look inside your kitchen cupboards. Think of the ways you can share your resources. You’ll probably see that my story is your story. Cupboard-pooling, anyone?
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, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Like car-pooling, cow-pooling allows people to share their resources, save money and connect with others.
Although I have no personal need for cow-pooling, because I don’t eat red meat, I like the idea.
Before convenience stores and 24-hour super centers, people more freely shared what they had by obliging neighbors and even strangers with a cup of coffee, a hot meal or a night's stay.
Back then, if you were smack-dab in the middle of baking a cake from scratch and found that you were out of vanilla extract or eggs, you would simply dial your neighbor or rap on her back door to borrow the missing ingredients.
Then, after the baked the cake, you would share some with your generous neighbor as a show of appreciation for her generosity.
Now, if you are out of something, you run to the store.
I miss the idea of borrowing a cup of flour or a teaspoon of cream of tartar. Most of all, I long for the sense of closeness and community such interdependence fosters.
Could the concept of cow-pooling extend to what’s in our cupboards? Could we cupboard-pool to save, share and connect?
Take, for example, my two cans of baking powder. Both are open and hardly used. I probably have two open cans because I couldn’t find the one and drove to the store to purchase the other.
Not being much of a baker, I will probably not use this amount of baking powder in my lifetime. Instead of it going to waste, I could cupboard-pool with my neighbors so that they could use my baking powder.
Consider the savings with cupboard-pooling. Fewer trips to the store to buy what neighbors already have and are not using. We would reduce gasoline consumption, which is good for the environment and lessens our dependence on foreign oil. We would save on the wear and tear on our vehicles.
Cupboard-pooling could be a co-op of sorts with goods such as sugar, flour, bread, milk, baking powder, cinnamon, sage, salt, cream of tartar, vanilla extract, allspice, black pepper, ginger, cinnamon sticks, chili powder, oregano, sweet basil, and ground mace.
This borrowing and lending would foster acts of giving and receiving. Cupboard-pooling would enlarge our relationships and diminish our self-absorbent independence.
Sharing resources would help us to connect with the people who are living out their lives in virtual isolation right next door or down the street – people we may hardly know or with whom we seldom converse.
Consider your neighbors. Look inside your kitchen cupboards. Think of the ways you can share your resources. You’ll probably see that my story is your story. Cupboard-pooling, anyone?
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, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Garage door revelation reveals fine line separates giving up, giving in, letting go
Some 40 years ago, my husband and I faced a good share of adversity. In the years leading up to our marriage in 1972, Brian’s mother died of cancer at the age of 47. Two years and one month later, his father died of a massive heart attack just weeks after turning 50.
Somewhere in between, his grandfather died.
We were young and probably in shock over so much loss in such a short span. Even so, we stayed with our plans to marry and move from our hometown of Jamestown, N.Y., to Iowa.
The day after we said, "I do," we loaded up the 1971 bumblebee yellow Chevy Vega station wagon with all of our belongings, including Brian’s childhood beagle "Princy," and headed down that long road to Iowa. Brian was finishing his undergraduate degree at Wartburg College in Waverly. We did not have jobs or a place to live.
Then, a few months after we were married his grandmother passed on.
We were sad but not defeated by our losses. We had hope, love, and each other, which seemed to suffice our every need.
Now, 37 years later, it came as somewhat of a surprise when Brian suggested that we cancel our annual vacation Out West after our automatic garage door closed on the very tip of the bumper of our car.
I had backed the car into the garage but, as I quickly learned by a loud grinding, crunching sound, I did not back it far enough to clear the door.
"Well, do you think we should go on vacation tomorrow?" Brian questioned while wrestling with the slightly mangled garage door.
"Why wouldn’t we?" I asked back.
"For a lot of reasons," he replied.
"What reasons?" I persisted, not wanting to let go of our treasured time away.
"This is a heck of a way to start a vacation," Brian debated, with a subtle tone of exhaustion.
"Yes," I reluctantly agreed, "But why would we let something like this stop us from doing what we love to do?"
Brian was silent while continuing to work on the door.
"Whether we stay or go, what difference will it make?" I added, pushing my perspective even further. "What happened to the garage door is past tense. It’s not still happening to us."
As the evening wore on and after Brian and I repaired the door, we talked it over some more; then decided to continue as planned, packed the car and left on vacation early the next morning.
On our long drive westward, I pondered what had changed. Over the years, we have shifted from possessing blind faith to being easily discouraged.
"Why so?" I asked Brian.
"You just get tired," he answered.
"Do you give up," I asked, not liking his answer.
"You just give in," he replied.
"So do you let go," I puzzled, not backing down.
"Sort of," he slightly agreed.
"What’s the difference between giving up, giving in and letting go?" I quizzed forlornly, resisting his side of the matter.
"Not a lot. You either accept your circumstances, quit trying to change them or you just get tired," Brian sighed. "Either way, you back down."
I kept quiet, holding tightly to the memory of our free-spirited start, not wanting to have anything to do with his reality.
"It’s really about not allowing adversity stop us, isn’t it?" I entreated with a sense of loss. "Isn’t it?"
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, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Somewhere in between, his grandfather died.
We were young and probably in shock over so much loss in such a short span. Even so, we stayed with our plans to marry and move from our hometown of Jamestown, N.Y., to Iowa.
The day after we said, "I do," we loaded up the 1971 bumblebee yellow Chevy Vega station wagon with all of our belongings, including Brian’s childhood beagle "Princy," and headed down that long road to Iowa. Brian was finishing his undergraduate degree at Wartburg College in Waverly. We did not have jobs or a place to live.
Then, a few months after we were married his grandmother passed on.
We were sad but not defeated by our losses. We had hope, love, and each other, which seemed to suffice our every need.
Now, 37 years later, it came as somewhat of a surprise when Brian suggested that we cancel our annual vacation Out West after our automatic garage door closed on the very tip of the bumper of our car.
I had backed the car into the garage but, as I quickly learned by a loud grinding, crunching sound, I did not back it far enough to clear the door.
"Well, do you think we should go on vacation tomorrow?" Brian questioned while wrestling with the slightly mangled garage door.
"Why wouldn’t we?" I asked back.
"For a lot of reasons," he replied.
"What reasons?" I persisted, not wanting to let go of our treasured time away.
"This is a heck of a way to start a vacation," Brian debated, with a subtle tone of exhaustion.
"Yes," I reluctantly agreed, "But why would we let something like this stop us from doing what we love to do?"
Brian was silent while continuing to work on the door.
"Whether we stay or go, what difference will it make?" I added, pushing my perspective even further. "What happened to the garage door is past tense. It’s not still happening to us."
As the evening wore on and after Brian and I repaired the door, we talked it over some more; then decided to continue as planned, packed the car and left on vacation early the next morning.
On our long drive westward, I pondered what had changed. Over the years, we have shifted from possessing blind faith to being easily discouraged.
"Why so?" I asked Brian.
"You just get tired," he answered.
"Do you give up," I asked, not liking his answer.
"You just give in," he replied.
"So do you let go," I puzzled, not backing down.
"Sort of," he slightly agreed.
"What’s the difference between giving up, giving in and letting go?" I quizzed forlornly, resisting his side of the matter.
"Not a lot. You either accept your circumstances, quit trying to change them or you just get tired," Brian sighed. "Either way, you back down."
I kept quiet, holding tightly to the memory of our free-spirited start, not wanting to have anything to do with his reality.
"It’s really about not allowing adversity stop us, isn’t it?" I entreated with a sense of loss. "Isn’t it?"
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, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Writer reveals pet peeves. Is she talking about you?
"What are your other pet peeves?" my son-in-law asked me with a detectable cautionary tone. "I want to know so that I can be sure to not commit any of them when I am in your presence," he explained.
His question came just after I had been ranting about how the table server had rested the water pitcher on each glass as she refilled them. "That’s one of my pet peeves!" I grumbled.
What are my other pet peeves? I drew a blank. Later I asked my husband, "Do I have a lot of pet peeves? For some reason, I can’t think of one, other than table waiters contaminating my water glass."
"Yes, you have a lot of pet peeves," my husband reassured. "For example, you can’t stand the sound of people chewing food."
He’s right. That drives me nuts.
"And you start to twitch at the sight of people eating while they are driving," he continued.
At that point, I wanted him to quit reminding me of my all my pet peeves, but he continued.
"Come to think of it, you have another pet peeve centered on food."
"What’s that?" I said, even though I wanted him to stop.
"You despise it when people talk with food in their mouths."
Right again. That makes me crazy.
"Okay. Okay." I get the point," I cut him off.
Nonetheless, more of my pet peeves came to mind.
It drives me bonkers when people chitchat when they’re supposed to be working.
I squirm when people use clichés, such as "Get a bigger bang for the buck," which has seedy roots in the business of prostitution; and "Close but no cigar," which refers to women in labor during childbirth. Don’t people realize what they are saying?
My list extends to cars and driving. It kills me when people park their cars on the other side of the street right at the end of my driveway.
People who drive too near the centerline really irk me, too.
And what is with people who compulsively forward junk email stories and poems to all their friends and family. Don’t they know that no one reads that stuff?
Anytime I see someone spitting chewing tobacco I get nauseous. Watching that slimy yellowish brown drool dribble down the chin makes me want to throw up.
It gets under my skin when people use the word "insure" instead of "ensure," as in "I ensure you that I really don’t have too many pet peeves."
It holds true for when people use the verb "loan" when they should use the verb "lend."
What really puts me over the edge is...is...No, I had better stop. At this rate, I will scare away my son-in-law and I don't want to do that.
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, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
His question came just after I had been ranting about how the table server had rested the water pitcher on each glass as she refilled them. "That’s one of my pet peeves!" I grumbled.
What are my other pet peeves? I drew a blank. Later I asked my husband, "Do I have a lot of pet peeves? For some reason, I can’t think of one, other than table waiters contaminating my water glass."
"Yes, you have a lot of pet peeves," my husband reassured. "For example, you can’t stand the sound of people chewing food."
He’s right. That drives me nuts.
"And you start to twitch at the sight of people eating while they are driving," he continued.
At that point, I wanted him to quit reminding me of my all my pet peeves, but he continued.
"Come to think of it, you have another pet peeve centered on food."
"What’s that?" I said, even though I wanted him to stop.
"You despise it when people talk with food in their mouths."
Right again. That makes me crazy.
"Okay. Okay." I get the point," I cut him off.
Nonetheless, more of my pet peeves came to mind.
It drives me bonkers when people chitchat when they’re supposed to be working.
I squirm when people use clichés, such as "Get a bigger bang for the buck," which has seedy roots in the business of prostitution; and "Close but no cigar," which refers to women in labor during childbirth. Don’t people realize what they are saying?
My list extends to cars and driving. It kills me when people park their cars on the other side of the street right at the end of my driveway.
People who drive too near the centerline really irk me, too.
And what is with people who compulsively forward junk email stories and poems to all their friends and family. Don’t they know that no one reads that stuff?
Anytime I see someone spitting chewing tobacco I get nauseous. Watching that slimy yellowish brown drool dribble down the chin makes me want to throw up.
It gets under my skin when people use the word "insure" instead of "ensure," as in "I ensure you that I really don’t have too many pet peeves."
It holds true for when people use the verb "loan" when they should use the verb "lend."
What really puts me over the edge is...is...No, I had better stop. At this rate, I will scare away my son-in-law and I don't want to do that.
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, blog with her at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
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