Close, But No Cigar

My sister and me with our grandfather. Pop smoked
MULTIPLE cigars daily, but we weren't at all close. Go figure?

There’s a term for unique words and phrases used within families—utterances that’d baffle anyone outside the group. “Familect” (family dialect—get it?) has been called a comfort language, reflecting a family’s history. How adorbs, thought I! We Seyfrieds must have a treasure trove of these gems—a veritable familect dictionary! 

Imagine my disappointment when I came up empty. Oh, sure, my kids said some really cute things when they were little, but nothing that became a shared catchphrase in the clan. The closest we came was “bitty back” which referred to the rear-most seats in our station wagon. Another slight oddity—we had, for decades, a pink-hued chair in our family room. Whenever it was referenced, it was called, quite formally, “the rose-colored chair,” (even in its dotage, when it was far closer to “the muddy brown chair”). This was the only piece of furniture we ever called by its color. 

But these don’t quite fill the bill. I wonder, now that our gang includes newly-hatched Dimitri: can I subtly introduce something familect-ish? Maybe I can start calling our fridge a “frigimator”, or shoes “toe homes.” Alas, familects cannot be imposed, so for us, it’s probably too late.

 

We were delighted to celebrate our Patrick’s engagement to lovely Ashlyn over the weekend, with Ash’s big clan—and many of our fam too. It was heartwarming to observe how close her family is—the five sisters see each other all the time, and are always doing fun things together. At brunch, Ashlyn’s mom mentioned that she would love to buy some property and build a family compound, upon which each of them could construct a house. I asked my daughters if they’d enjoy something similar, and if horror had a facial expression, it would be Rose’s. We are lucky indeed to have Sheridan, Ya-Jhu and their kids in residence, but in my wildest dreams I cannot picture all of my offspring happily residing next door to each other.

 

A phrase used often by my dad was “close, but no cigar.” This referred to near-misses in life, and had its origin in traveling carnivals of the early 1900s. When a grownup would win a game of chance, the barker would award them a cigar  (those fabulous bygone days of lung cancer encouragement!) If they missed the target, well: “close, but no cigar.” 

 

No familect, no compound (no daily phoning or texting either). So, are we Seyfrieds close, but no cigar?

 

I believe we are close enough to suit us. Our mutual affection is never in question, and when we’re together we always have a blast. In anyone’s time of need, we all rally around. I cherish, not only my individual relationships with them, but theirs with each other. We may not have a familect, but we speak the same language of laughter and love nonetheless.

 

Though maybe...if I win the lottery and buy land in the south of France? Would that lure everyone into building adjoining chateaux? 

Probably “mais non.”

Chateau du Seyfried? 
photo by Dorian Mongel on Unsplash

(Potato) Chip on My Shoulder

photo by Ron Lach on Pexels

For a family that consumed as much junk food as we did, I don’t have many childhood memories of potato chips. I must’ve eaten them on occasion as a (tater) tot. But it wasn’t until my teens that I really began crunching and munching (you know, during my sojourn in Zit City, the perfect time to consume quantities of greasy snacks). 

 

I quickly discovered that, while I would never dream of eating a thousand M&Ms, the same restraint did not apply to Ruffles (I had a definite preference for chips with ridges). And so, I tried to steer clear of this salty temptation. As the years passed, the up-scale chip made an appearance when dining out--the kettle-cooked, multi-colored, all-natural product that garnished my pricey restaurant sandwich (avocadoes, artisanal cheese and locally-sourced alfalfa sprouts). Based on total meal cost, these went for about a buck a chip.

 

I rarely purchased Wise or Lay’s when my kids were growing up, and my current chip budget remains low. These days I am more curious about chip lore, than taste. Herewith, a couple of random crumbs I’ve gathered…

 

Did you know that medically fragile people are sometimes called “potato chips”? This refers to their vulnerability when it comes to having certain operations; their precarious state of health puts them at greater surgical risk. I do not count myself as one of these folks YET, but I’m sure there’ll come a day when I overhear an M.D. refer to me thusly. I hope to accept my future chippiness graciously, although I’d vastly prefer being called “a delicate Limoges teacup” (maybe I’ll add that to my chart, along with my DNR).

 

During my European travels, I have been to Ireland, England and Scotland. Along with wrong-side-of-the-road driving, my biggest adjustment occurred at mealtime. Hamburger and--chips? No, they’re French fries! Bag of potato chips? Nope! Crisps! I find this stubborn refusal to call potato preparations by their proper names very annoying, and wish they’d all just agree with us Americans. While we’re at it, they should also jettison that pesky metric system, and talk instead about miles per hour and pints in quarts. Good riddance to liters (except for soda, naturally!) These stark differences, I feel certain, led directly to our declaration of independence way back when. Sorry, King George, no one tells US what to call our gallon of milk! And what’s up with the “pound”? In the U.K. having a huge amount of them means one can buy an expensive sports car. Here in America, it means one should step away from the potato chips—I mean crisps—I mean—now you’ve got me all confused! 

 

I’ve been sending pitches to a food history magazine recently, researching everything from pasta puttanesca (THAT’s a spicy story) to the inventor of chocolate mousse (the artist Toulouse-Lautrec!) Every issue has a theme; they’ve yet to tackle famous potato snack offerings.

 

But when they do, I’ll be ready to scribble! Let the chips fall where they may. 

Sound Affects

 

image by Gordon Johnson on Pixabay (after Munch's "The Scream")

“Yeeeeargggghhhh!” 

 If you’ve ever heard that particular, blood-curdling scream, in the movies or on TV, you may have wondered about its origin story. No? Well, here it is anyway (whether you want it or not😊). There’s a scene in the 1951 movie Distant Drums, where a character is attacked by an alligator. The accompanying shriek, which has been named for the character Private Wilhelm in the later film The Charge at Feather River, became a very famous sound effect. It has been sampled more than 400 times, and can be heard in Star Wars, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Toy Story, Pirates of the Caribbean, Lethal Weapon, etc. It’s really bone-chilling; in fact, I suggest that the makers of pepper spray and other bad-guy deterrents, program it into their devices. Imagine the effect it would have on a would-be mugger! “No, no! Anything but the scream!!!!” (runs away).

 

“Chuckle. Hahahahaha. Ho ho ho ho ho!”

 

If you’ve ever watched a sitcom, you’ve heard that long eruption of delight from the “audience,” when a character says or does something funny. So prevalent was the laugh track, that it was jarring to watch a comedy without one (nowadays, they are rare.) The thought behind the track was that if you were home alone watching, you’d be much more apt to howl with mirth with the cue of fellow laughers (comedy loves company?) Imagine Leave it to Beaver without a laugh track! Would we KNOW that Eddie Haskell was a regular riot? Legend has it that a specific canned laugh track from I Love Lucy is still in circulation, even though those laughers are very likely in the Big TV Studio in the Sky by now. Turns out that is not strictly true—Lucy used only its live studio audiences’ actual laughter. But that live laughter WAS recorded, and was used again in other shows.

 

After Rose graduated from Berklee with a degree in sound production, some early jobs involved “Foley” (named for film sound pioneer Jack Foley). She would be tasked with creating sounds such as footsteps and creaking doors, to be added to movies in post-production (real steps and door creaking in the scene were often too faint to be picked up). Rose’s out of that biz now, but I bet she could still come up with some cool audio effects -- “once a Foley artist…” after all.

 

How do sound effects, affect us? I remember performing our children’s shows in elementary schools. We wrote them to get laughs, but often the principal would introduce us by saying, “Now I don’t want to hear ONE PEEP! Welcome our guests, boys and girls!” and the confused but obedient kids would sit in total silence the whole show. You haven’t been mortified until you go onstage dressed as a giant dog, and NO ONE LAUGHS.

 

So, don’t be afraid to make some noise (joyful, terrified)! And who knows? YOUR voice could be captured for posterity—maybe for Die Hard 30!

At the Gratitude Meeting

We'll all get there eventually, right, yogis?

For savasana at the end of my weekly yoga class, I frequently read a poem or other passage to the supine assemblage in our sangha. I select these rather haphazardly; sometimes it’s a Zen-ish piece on being one with the universe, other times I am in more of a playful mood. 

This past Wednesday, in the face of our collective national angst over the upcoming election, and a heavier-than-usual list of prayer concerns (with which we always begin our practice), I decided to go for the funny. I found a terrific poem by Paul Hostofsky, “Late to the Gratitude Meeting.” It begins:

 

The guy in front of me in traffic
is letting everyone in,
waving at the cars like a policeman
or a pope--
and I really have no patience for all
the indulgence
and magnanimity at my expense

because I'm late for the gratitude meeting,
which is only an hour long.
And if I miss the first ten minutes
of silent meditation I'm going to scream,
because it's my favorite part and because
it helps me remember to breathe.
And I'm going to throttle this guy…

Ironically, as our friend continues to seethe, he is completely mIssing the fact that his actual gratitude teacher is that other, serene driver, generously waving people on.  Ha ha! What a dunce!

 

Except that dunce is usually me.

 

How often do I tick off the to-dos like a madwoman, oblivious to the multitude of Life Lessons that are right there, free for the learning? And even when I am cognizant of those golden opportunities, I’m too busy thinking about how I will use them in my writing. I’m walking through beautiful Hershey Gardens with my future daughter-in-law, taking endless photos of the flowers and butterflies (for my blog? My newsletter? That piece I’m working on for the spiritual magazine?) “Pix or it didn’t happen”? But it did happen, and I didn’t allow myself to just relax and experience it. I don’t trust that the learnings will sink in without my ultra-efforts to capture them for posterity. And, parenthetically, will I ever again look at most of the zillions of iPhone pictures I’ve taken? Will my survivors save them, or will they (much likelier) dump them all? 

 

Clearly, I need to change my focus (and not camera focus either). As I write this, it is very early Sunday morning. I am alone in Patrick and Ashlyn’s kitchen. Out the window, there is an awesome cloud formation in the shape of a big fish, its “scales” tinged with sunrise light. Those well-known Sunday Scaries have not yet arrived. The challenges of the week ahead are still a comfortable distance away. Can I jettison all those to-dos for once, and replace them with thank yous?

 

On this journey we undertake together, we'll all get there eventually, right? I sip my cup of coffee, savoring this brand new day. And I pray, right now, that I’m not too late for the gratitude meeting that is my life. 

Hello, Sunday!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Cleanup on Aisle Five

image by Erio Noen on Pexels

There’s nothing quite like shepherding a small child through a crowded store. It’s a combination of Demolition Derby, and Chevy Chase doing his classic, stumbling Gerald Ford routine (and if you have to ask, you’re too darned young!) Crash! Boom! Splat! Any item within reach (especially the enticing stacked pyramids of canned and bottled goods) is fair game to be swiped at or grabbed for. While my personal children weren’t major offenders, I’ve certainly seen my share of kinder-meltdowns in the aisles, along with the tut-tuts and nasty looks bestowed upon the helpless and mortified parents by people who clearly have never made a mistake in their lives. 

While it would be only fair to put a big push broom into little Susie’s hands and set her to work on cleanup, that’s not a practical option. So it’s left to the store employees to sweep up the broken glass, and straighten the toppled cans of beets. Soon the supermarket is all tidied up—until little Billy arrives ten minutes later, of course. Splat! Boom! Crash!

 

Life (my life, anyway) has felt like one big self-created mess after another, from saying the wrong things, to doing the wrong things—and, conversely, neglecting to say or do the right things. Ugh. How I long for a “spin doctor” to explain away my gaffes! I need a savvy PR type to re-direct the public’s focus away from my disasters, ideally to blame my missteps on somebody else! Nowadays, a lot of celebrity behavior (politicians and sports folks’ too) is really rude and/or profane. “Exaggerations” are rampant, as prominent people stretch the truth like Silly Putty. Granted, we all are guilty of pedestal-izing the rich and powerful, so maybe we asked for it. But after loudly cheering for this or that famous figure, we often deal with their revealed imperfections with denial, to save face (our own). 

 

“Sanewashing” is the new buzzword for those who attempt to paper over certain outrageous comments and actions. In the hands of these clever wordsmiths, even the most preposterous sayings and doings are “totally normal.” It’s either “He didn’t say that” or “He didn’t mean that” or even, “He said it, and he meant it, but it’s perfectly fine!” We Americans have been real pros at sanewashing a good bit of our crazy history (Columbus discovered America! The Native peoples were thrilled to be herded onto reservations! At least the slaves had food and shelter!). It’s a tough sell persuading many of us to let go of our harmful national myths.  

 

So, before we all wake up to reality, permit me a dab of sanewash. I did NOT send a very personal email to my entire contact list! I did NOT badmouth someone to someone else who happened to be their closest relative! I did NOT ask non-pregnant women about their due dates, nor did I ask a thirty something if she was going to prom this year. 

 

And if I did, it’s perfectly fine.

image by Carola68 on Pixabay

Memento Mori

Saint Oswald's Churchyard Grasmere, UK

Cemeteries are not usually very entertaining. I have been to my fair share of graveside services for folks I knew and loved over the years, and I readily acknowledge the solemnity of these places of remembrance. When we lived in Massachusetts in the 1970s, making grave rubbings was all the rage, and teenaged me visited churchyards in Boston, Concord, Plymouth, etc. to gather rubbings of epitaphs engraved on stone. There were prominent people and families galore in my collection, from Thoreau to Emerson to Alcott. There were also the heart-tugging memorials to deceased babies and children (SO many too many of those).

In my own family, we’re more fans of cremation than burial, so very few tombstones for us. However, my sister Maureen is buried at Arlington Cemetery in Atlanta, GA. When she was killed in 1981 at age 23, there was no hesitation about her marker. Mo was devoted to Saint Therese (the “Little Flower” of Jesus), whose feast day (October 1) was the same day as Maureen’s death—and Therese was Mo’s age! Hence the inscription: “Our Beautiful Little Flower” marking the spot where my sister was laid to rest. I go there whenever I return to Georgia, and am comforted by the lovely site, on a hill by a pond, with tall Georgia pine trees all around. And the fact that the entire hillside, once rather bare, is now totally covered in graves, is mute testament to the large number of people who have left this earth over the years.

 

Gone, for the most part, are the days when families habitually brought flowers to Granny and Gramps at Meadowview Cemetery on Sunday afternoons. We 21^st century denizens HATE to be reminded that we will die at some point, and besides, Sunday afternoons are for football on TV, right? 

 

I am personally torn, as I reckon with my mortality. I would much rather be cremated/donated to science than placed in a casket and buried six feet under. Yet, there is definitely an urge to have some sort of permanent memorial for posterity—you know, a sacred space where my children can feel sufficiently guilty over NOT visiting. 

 

My solution? A website with a virtual tombstone! Not sure if I just invented these, or if they are already a thing, but what a cool concept! Meeting my descendants where they are, which is onscreen! And this way I can program a changeable series of snappy sayings too! Imagine my busy, but bereft, kiddos, grabbing their phones to play Candy Crush—but first they pop over to momsrestingplace.com, curious to see what witty/sentimental inscription is posted today! In less than two minutes I am remembered, often with a chuckle, with no need to make any effort, or travel anywhere at all! 

 

Kicking around a few ideas for online epitaphs:

 

ELISE SEYFRIED (1956-20__?)

 

HAVE AS HAPPY A DAY AS POSSIBLE, CONSIDERING I’M DEAD!

HERE LIES THE WORLD’S GREATEST MOM--THIS IS MY REWARD?

SORRY/NOT SORRY YOU’RE SO SAD!

 

Your suggestions welcome!

Walking on Eggshells

photo by Peter Werkman on Pexels

I believe that all of us, at some point in our lives, have to deal with explosive people. You know, the easily angered, in extreme cases road-ragey types. Most of the time we can navigate fairly well (with a work colleague or even a difficult family member), but it often means making an extra effort not to trigger an outburst. So we tiptoe around, walking on eggshells as it were, to keep the peace.  

That kind of eggshell-walking just enables the offending person to keep on being—offensive. And it is so exhausting, always having to anticipate and try to head off trouble at home or work. I always considered myself more of an eggshell-walker, than an offender. But now, to my everlasting regret, I look back at my childhood, my marriage, my parenting, and see a very strong, rather demanding, personality (mine). When I was a kid, there was a lot of yelling and fighting at home, a verbal free-for-all, and each of us participated. I learned to be the best in the family at this game, giving as good as I got, and when I was in a certain mood, I knew that others would try to avoid my wrath. 

 

My early marriage to Steve was an attempted escape, not just from a chaotic home, but from a part of myself I hated. Alas, “wherever you go, there you are” proved true, and soon I was picking fights and insisting on winning every argument. Luckily our union survived, and it has been the greatest gift of my life. Not only do I have a world-class husband, but we were able to have our five amazing children. 

 

Raising our kids, I tried not to be an eggshell mom, but I could never be a sweet and gentle and permissive parent, not for long. I was never at all abusive, but I was fairly strict, and didn’t shy away from a confrontation, often ending with a too-loud, “BECAUSE I SAY SO!!” Do I feel my brood was afraid of me? Maybe. Sometimes. When those eggs cracked and crunched underfoot, I did not react very well. Of course, menopause and my mental illness did nothing to help the situation.

 

Nowadays, my moods have regulated much better, and the idea of shouting matches has zero appeal. But I do hope my attitude doesn’t devolve as I age. I would really hate to be the miserable old woman in the nursing home (the one everyone goes out of their way to avoid). 

 

We all need to stand up for ourselves in this world, for sure. But we also need to be there for one  another—and that involves copious amounts of kindness and empathy. It’s an age-old problem, painfully obvious in our current, bitterly divided world, and I wish we could solve it. 

 

We’ll continue to deal with eggshells as we bumble our way through life. But maybe we can find a way to use those proverbial eggs, to make each other omelets. 

Dimitri is counting on us to figure it out

Signs, Signs (Everywhere, Signs)

 

But I Speed Up for Scarlatti?

I come from superstitious Irish Catholic stock. My family tends to see signs from God (honestly? It’s usually the Blessed Virgin Mary) EVERYWHERE. You think that photo of the piece of toast that looks like Jesus is silly? I don’t! Why wouldn’t our Lord show up on my breakfast table to encourage me/warn me/whatever? I'm super big on statues that cry real tears and miraculous cures at Lourdes, and even though I’ve been Lutheran for decades now, I still believe in Messages from Above.

 

But this post isn’t about THOSE signs. No, this concerns the more commonplace signs one might encounter in a store window or on a car bumper. “No shoes, no shirt, no service!” scolds a sign outside a clothing store in the mall. I can’t help but think this is a poor idea—I mean, don’t you WANT shoeless, shirtless folks to enter your emporium in need of purchasing those exact items? Back in the day, dry cleaners offered “One Hour Martinizing!” Maybe they still do? I may award a complimentary martini (get it?) to the first reader who can explain what the heck martinizing is.

 

I am often amused by the stickers affixed to the cars in front of me on the road. There’s the “Student Driver” (I REALLY need to get one of those for myself, so that people stop expecting me to be a good automobile operator!), and the “Honk If You Love Jesus!” (I worry about that one, because what if the honking is because there’s a significant road hazard up ahead, and I just blithely assume it’s the other driver merrily toot-tooting in praise of the Lord?) Then there’s the ancient VW bug with so many old, peeling stickers (most involving the Grateful Dead) that the vehicle’s color is impossible to ascertain. 

 

It's Election Season once more, so many yards are festooned with political signage. I am very sad that posting a sign in support of your favored candidate or party now IMMEDIATELY invites animosity, and even theft of said placard. I read about Ye Olden Times, when one neighbor had a Goldwater sign and the guy next door had one for LBJ—and NOTHING HAPPENED. They even remained on speaking terms, arguing only over borrowed and unreturned lawn mowers! 

 

I am reluctant to put up any kind of sign, because frankly I’m not passionate enough about anything to risk trouble—oh, I’m Pro-Ice Cream and Anti-Tofurkey, but I’m not going to scream my preference to the world. I’d rather remain an enigma, a woman of mystery. Let others plaster their yards and cars with their opinions. I’ll leave you guessing! It’s safer that way.

 

Seriously though, I know I’m being cowardly, and right now none of us can afford to be that. At the risk of alienating my fellow travelers, I really should put out a lawn sign or two, just to take a stand. 

 

What do you think of:  “In This House, We Support One-Hour Martinizing”?

 

So there!

 

I feel much braver already.