Call and Response

Photo by Filip Andrejevic on Unsplash

Few kinds of songs have the rich and varied history as the “call and response.” From African-American spirituals, to beloved children’s songs, the concept of one line of music echoing the one before has been popular for ages. I love the call and response because it keeps everyone engaged—listening, coming in on cue, having a musical conversation. For the convict gangs toiling on the roads, a call and response set a rhythm for their efforts, and (I’m sure) helped pass the endless, grueling hours. In the military service, call-and-response (especially shouted responses) kept morale high on long marches. In spirituals, members of the gospel choir would interact, and underscore the beauty and power of the words. Little ones singing “Frère Jacques” and “Down By the Bay” repeat the previous line, which adds to the fun of the music. 

Sheridan told me recently about a Bird ID app called Merlin. You record birdsongs, and the name of the bird singing comes up on your phone. I was awake at 4:45 AM (as always), but this time I opened the window, and taped the symphony of sounds in our yard. Thanks to Merlin, I could identify the chorus—cardinal, American robin, white-throated sparrow, Carolina wren. It sounded for all the world as if the birds were listening to one another, and chirping a response (and that response would in turn cause the next bird to trill, and on on.) 

 

As a mom and Nana, I’m always looking for “entertaining” ways to give (loving) reminders, er, orders to my kiddos. If I used “call and response,” instead of grumbling and grousing, maybe they would actually answer! Better yet, maybe they’d actually do what they’re being asked! I can just imagine…

 

To Military Cadence ("I Don't Know But I've Been Told")

 

I don’t know but I’ve been told (I don’t know but I’ve been told)

Eat before your food gets cold (eat before your food gets cold)

All chew (all chew)!

All chew (all chew)!

 

Or…(to "Banana Boat Song")

 

Day-o, Mom say day-o

Daylight come and we wanna go school

Day-o, Mom say day-o

Daylight come and we wanna go school

 

Even…(to "Michael Row the Boat Ashore")

 

Put your laundry in the wash 

It’s so sti-n-ky

Put your laundry in the wash

It’s so sti-n-ky

 

Of course, this tuneful trick could become obnoxious. My tone-deaf dad used to “sing” us out of bed in the mornings. A miserable time was had by all, and we’d get up just to shut him up. 

 

"Annoying" is not my goal; rather, my hope is that “call-and-response” would engender a true, cheery esprit-de-corps in the household. Both Aiden and Peter have really nice voices and can often be heard singing while playing Legos. Maybe they could make up their own ditties! 

 

Example… (to Military Cadence "Everywhere We Go")

 

Every afternoon (every afternoon)

Nana always let us (Nana always lets us)

Watch some TV (watch some TV)

All the TV (all the TV)

 

On second thought, never mind.

 

 

 

 

Dashing--

Me, 1956-?

If you know my writing style at all, you know that I am super fond of using (parentheses), exclamation points!!! and-especially-dashes. Reading a paragraph of mine is an exercise in breathlessness, as you (the reader) zip along from idea to idea—much as you are doing right now!!!  Now, I am probably a wee bit too dependent on these punctuational flourishes, and the taciturn Hemingway no doubt would spin in his grave like a chicken on a rotisserie spit if he read my prose. Though I do try to be disciplined, my faves creep in anyway. Right now, the semicolon is having a moment; I’m pretty sure, however, the dash will eventually win the day.

The dash is also used to separate date of birth and date of death on headstones. When I stroll through a cemetery, I get a chuckle out of family monuments where good old Dad’s name and DOB are pre-carved, with a dash and then nothing (yet). It looks like a macabre version of “Wheel of Fortune,” where passersby might take their best guesses about his expiration date, and maybe win a valuable prize. As for me, I’m currently torn among “donated to science,” “scattered out at sea,” and “used as human mulch”—in any event, pretty sure I will go headstone-less. 

 

But that doesn’t mean I don’t often consider that enigmatic dash, representing the totality of my lifespan. There’s a famous poem, called (surprise!) “The Dash,” which is often read at funerals (including Senator Bob Dole’s service). I’ll spare you a recital, but the gist is that what matters most is “how we spend our dash.” Poetic value aside, “The Dash” serves an important purpose, reminding us to make the most of every minute we have here on earth. 

 

Therefore, I’m announcing ways I will no longer be spending my dash. They include:

 

*Dusting baseboards, ironing, and other super-pointless housekeeping tasks. My motto: if it doesn’t bother me, why bother at all?

*Answering ANY phone call from “unknown number.” I don’t even enjoy hearing from most of the “knowns,” so why subject myself to Mr. or Ms. Robocall?

*Finishing books I dislike. I used to plug along no matter what, which was a huge time-suck. Now, after the first chapter, I flip to the last page, and ask myself, “Do I really care about what happens on pages 10-226?” If the answer isn’t a resounding “yes,” I call it quits.

*Self-checkout, anywhere. I’m terribly slow at this, and I deeply resent having to search for the various barcodes to scan. If I’d wanted to work at Acme, I’d apply.

*Games—board, ball, card. And no, I won’t love them when I get the hang of them.

 

Exotic travel, wonderful theatre, concerts, gourmet meals—all eminently dash-able. I’m noticing, however, that none of these come cheap. So I guess the answer to “how will I spend my dash?” is “I’ll put it on my Amex!” 

 

Until next time, my friends, happy mortality-pondering. Gotta dash!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reunited

Long, long ago Seyfried reunion in Valdosta, GA

Hailing as I do from a small family, and also a family that was not very organized, or celebratory, reunions were not part of my growing-up experience. My aunts, uncles and cousins, while lovely people, were few. If you even mentioned the word “party” to my mom she would flip, because hosting one would be an unthinkable burden; merely attending one would take more energy and focus than Joanie possessed. The only times I recall being in one place with the whole extended fam involved wakes and funerals, and for obvious reasons they are not the happiest memories.

But then I joined the Seyfrieds, and suddenly reunions were an actual THING, not just a vague concept. Steve’s whole childhood could be considered one big family reunion, what with his 65 first cousins, most of whom lived in Indianapolis and environs. They were forever dropping by, having dinner, or going fishing, or playing cards, or other idyllic pastimes.  

 

As if all this familial togetherness wasn’t enough, the Baker branch of the clan has always hosted an annual summer blowout back in Indiana, featuring, as the invitation promised, “beer and brats.” I originally thought that was a rather rude way to refer to the children, until I was informed that “brats” were sausages! We never once attended, but ever-optimistic Cousins Ray and Linda kept us on the list anyway. 

 

Steve's brother Phil and wife Jackie held several Seyfried reunions while our offspring were young, which we did attend. My primary memories of these involved the long drive to Virginia, and little Patrick’s unfortunate tendency to read picture books in the car, then promptly throw up, which made the drives not only long but really smelly as well. After a while, those gala events tapered off, and that was it for decades.

 

I feel the same way about school reunions. As I attended three high schools, I've had my choice of classmate celebrations, and chosen “nope” for every one. I keep up with the friends I have always kept up with, and otherwise feel that a large gathering of half-remembered guys and gals--maybe less than half-remembered, because (unlike me, of course) everyone’s appearance has changed drastically--would be a tad depressing. 

 

At brother-in-law Rod’s funeral last summer, we all made the standard parting comments about “not waiting for the next death to be together,” but then the ever-reunion-minded Phil actually PLANNED something. This one will just be the adult siblings and their spouses, and the happy day is rapidly approaching. There’ll be another significant drive, this time to Tennessee. I promised Steve I will not read in the car, but it’ll be a long haul anyway. 

 

Actually I am looking forward to this. I’m truly fond of everyone, and agree that life is racing by, and seeing each other again on this side of the grave would be nice. 

 

And if all goes well, my 50th St. Pius High reunion is coming up next year. Might be fun! Hope there’ll be brats!

Beauty in the Cracks

Photo by Simon Lee on Unsplash

You know how, once you notice something that is flawed or imperfect, you are suddenly hyper-aware of other, similar flaws? This is especially true, I’ve found, when you purchase a new item for the house. You look around the living room, admiring your brand-new sofa, or chair, or print on the wall and…you can see your beat-up hall table age another century in an instant. And there are numerous additional chips in the mantelpiece paint, andandand…ugh. 

But it doesn’t have to be an “ugh.”

 

The Japanese have a lovely practice when dealing with worn out and broken things (cups, vases, plates etc.) They have elevated the fissures and cracks to an art form called kintsugi. The smashed pottery or porcelain is repaired in a way that is totally obvious: the artist uses gold. Not crazy glue or duct tape or any of the other ways we hide imperfection. The jagged lines of gold shine; they are beautiful in and of themselves. 

Photo by Matt Perkins on Unsplash

I think of kintsugi when I find myself spending way too much time trying to smooth over my physical flaws so that they become invisible. When I haul out the old magnifying mirror (surely a torture device if ever there was one) and make note of each and every wrinkle, the next step is often to apply “concealer” of some sort. I am abysmal at cosmetic stuff, so the usual result is a clump of caked-on makeup that actually accentuates my various skin imperfections. Lately I haven’t even bothered to try, because my age spots are popping up faster and faster, like dandelions in a field after a spring rain. Why bother?

 

When I just give up and let things go, however, it feels like a lazy solution, and I remain highly self-critical and unsatisfied with my appearance. I put away the magnifier, but then try to avoid mirrors altogether. I wonder, though…

 

Could kintsugi have something to teach me too?

 

The streaks of gold used to bind the broken things together enhance, they do not detract. While the flaws are clear, they are still treated with respect, and tenderness. Could I approach myself that same way? Could I find the middle ground between hating my aging face, and frantically trying to transform it?  I could still moisturize my skin, and gently massage those creases that life etched onto me. I could approach the mirror again, and see the face of someone I care about, someone who has lived fully. I could regard my every last laugh line and forehead furrow as beautiful.

 

I have been delighted recently to note that many celebrities of a certain age are embracing their wrinkles and their gray hair. You can see the story of their lives on their faces, and they are beautiful in a way that airbrushed perfection could never be. Now, I’m not kidding myself—I will never age like Jamie Lee Curtis or Andie MacDowell. But I can age like Elise Seyfried, gracefully and gratefully.

 

And THAT is pure gold. 

My mom at 79 (dolled up by my sister C, but there are the wrinkles, gray hair and all)

The Influencer

 

Trending influencer Elise @ dinner @

                                       Moosewood Restaurant, Ithaca NY

Christiano Ronaldo and Kylie Jenner move over.

 

There’s a new influencer in town (it's me!!!!)

 

As a long-time blogger, my burning question has been: how the heck do people make money doing this stuff? I mean, after 580 posts, “Working Title” ain’t exactly “working” for me. I am delighted to write these mini-essays and offer them to friends for free, but wouldn’t it be even MORE delightful to hear the little “ca-ching” sound when my missives are read? I think so!!

 

The deal seems to be, that I need to mention lots of products, good and services, in my social media offerings. Theoretically readers, dazzled by my fame, will automatically patronize/purchase whatever it is I’m touting, and it’s a financial win-win all around (ooh, except for the poor fans who are actually out some hard-earned moolah. But no matter!)

 

And so, with all the fervor of a newbie, I announce my Influencer Debut!! You can look forward to a future of endless product placements and links aplenty, and to heck with a coherent narrative or humorous point! 

 

Welcome to my curated world of wonder, gang. As I know you hang on my every written word, it’s frankly amazing you’ve survived thus far, with no guidance whatsoever concerning the latest popular items and destinations. But fear not, I’m about to change everything!

 

Let’s begin in my shabby-chic,1960’s inspired kitchen (think Sears, not IKEA.) It’s 5 AM, and I’m post-menopausal, so sleepytime is over. I have already consumed my first mug of Starbucks in bed (thank you, trophy husband Steve!) and I’m now rummaging in the fridge for breakfast: yogurt, berries and granola. After this hearty meal, it’s off to my capacious closet to choose my wardrobe du jour! I tend to favor sale items from LOFT, though occasionally I’ll dabble in Modcloth and Old Navy. Whatever I select, you can be sure it’s totally on trend! 

 

My WFH day commences!! Stylish silver Macbook Pro fired up, I tackle the first of several writing assignments. Oh, I know they say handwriting is better for creativity, and I do try, using my gorgeous pen sourced from wood found in an Irish bog. Alas, I cannot read my chicken scratch, so I head straight back to the keyboard.

 

Lunchtime! I don’t as a rule eat lunch, but an influencer cannot afford to miss an opportunity to suggest yummy comestibles! If I DID eat at midday, I might very well select cheese and charcuterie, with a fine baguette from Panera. 

When my workday ends, I might head to the gym, or yoga class. But who wants to sweat after a full day of influencing? So I proceed from kitchen to couch, and immerse myself in whatever is bingeable on Netflix, Hulu or HBO. 

 

Before I slumber, I haul out my array of beautifying lotions and potions, which will work their magic during the midnight hour. How relaxing, knowing my face cream is funding my retirement!!

 

Good night, all! Hope I’ve influenced you enough today (ca-ching!)

Photo by Gerd Altmann for Pixabay

The Very Worst Audition Helper

 

That would be…me.

 Especially when Steve needs assistance.

 

You see, in recent months Stevo has really stepped up his film auditioning game, which is wonderful. Only problem is, most of the time, once he gets notice from his agent about a role, he then has to submit an audition video. These are needed within a day, with little time to rehearse. 

 

I’m a very quick study. If you gave me a script, even of several pages, I could probably nail it in one take. But alas! I am not the one in the running for these productions, Steve is. Steve very often needs an off-screen voice delivering the other character’s lines during a scene. While I know at this point he’d adore for someone else, anyone else, to be that unseen presence, I’m usually stuck with—I mean game to be--doing these with him. My office is just down the hall from his in our house; there’s literally nowhere to hide. And my price of zero dollars is right.

 

My husband struggles with memorization. To be fair, many of these scripts are abysmally written, and it is MUCH easier to learn well-crafted material. Also, a great many films and TV commercials that he’s up for involve doctors, medications and medical procedures. Sometimes Steve is the patient, suffering from psoriasis or cancer or high cholesterol. Other times he’s the kindly physician, informing the invisible patient that they have some dreadful disease. Whichever side he’s on, he has to wrestle with miles-long, tongue-twistery medical terms. 

 

Here's how a typical session goes:

 

ME: Are you ready?

STEVE: Yep. I’ve been working on lines all morning! Let’s start the camera rolling!

ME: Great, because we really need to wrap this up so I can finish writing my essay.

STEVE: See, there you go again. When you get so impatient you make me nervous!

ME: OK, I’m sorry. Take your time.

STEVE: “Ask your doctor about Efflumidium. Side effects include…”

ME: My copy of the script doesn’t say Efflumidium. Mine says Emmlufidium. Which is it?

STEVE: Damn. I’ve been saying it wrong. Let’s take it again. (pause) Do you have to roll your eyes like that?

ME: Forget my eyes! Just pronounce the darned medication already!!!!!

STEVE “Ask your doctor if Efflu—Emmlyfidium…” 

ME: Not “if”! Not “if”!! “Ask your doctor ABOUT!!!”

STEVE: OK, OK. Geez. Can we try it again?

ME: One more time.

STEVE: I’ll need at least three more times.

ME: (calling downstairs) Ya-Jhu! Do you have time to come up here and help Dad?

 

Ya-Jhu of course is the very soul of patience, and in no time flat the video is ready to go.

 

Watching the Oscars the other night, I wondered if the actors up there getting their golden statuettes had to deal with terribly un-helpful partners like myself, as they prepared.

 

Christopher Guest: “Oh, for God’s sake, Jamie Lee! Try to get it right this time! Catherine O’Hara doesn’t flub HER lines!”

 

Nope. Probably just us. Poor Steve.

And we're rolling! Again!

Women's Way

 "The Trail West" (NOT the good old days for women!)

                                     

Today is International Women’s Day, as March 8th has been since 1911. Now, when it was first observed, women’s lots in life were quite different. “Mother” likely spent the day standing over a hot stove where a vat of porridge was bubbling, that she hoped was enough to feed her 17 children. Or she was scrubbing the family’s clothes with a washboard. If she worked outside the home, she had the grand choice of secretary, nurse, or school teacher. Her husband had full control of her finances. She couldn’t cast a ballot in an election. 

Well, here we are, 112 years later, and my goodness has life changed! Unlike the woefully under-appreciated gals of the early 20th century, we women are treated completely as men’s equals, with the exact same job opportunities and equal pay, and control over our own bodies, and we feel totally safe walking alone at night and…wait a minute. I guess we still have a ways to go, don’t we? And for our sisters of color, and women in some other cultures, the way forward is even longer and harder.

 

But today is a day to think about women, and to honor them and their many, many achievements and contributions to the life of the world. It offers a bigger umbrella than the limited “Mother’s Day,” and in recent decades it has morphed into, not just a celebration, but a call to action. There’s a theme each year; this year it’s "DigitALL: Innovation and Technology for Digital Equality," always pointing to areas where we as a society can improve our treatment of females. 

 

I’ve been pretty happy with my gender, even though I’ve always been aware of the drawbacks. As a little girl in a house of daughters, boys were alien territory—loud and rough and rude. Boys were the ones Sister Annunciata would usually berate, and boys didn’t cry about it. I, on the other hand, wept buckets if on the receiving end of even a raised eyebrow. Boys were a total mystery, until I had three of them. 

 

I tried hard to raise them to be kind, and thoughtful. To treat women with respect. To recognize the advantages men still have—and to be advocates for those who lack those societal advantages. And I let them know that boys can, and should be allowed to, cry.

 

We are in a time when gender identity is much discussed; for many people, it is a fluid thing. There have ALWAYS been people trapped in the wrong bodies, let’s not kid ourselves. In the past, they struggled along in misery. Now, at last, they are starting to be recognized and appreciated for exactly who they are, and that’s a wonderful improvement. I pray we will keep pushing forward toward true acceptance and inclusion of all human beings.

 

So Happy IWD to my female identifying friends. Onward, together, to make the world a better place. Not just better than 1911, but better than 2023. We can do this.

With my wonderful women, in Ireland

Jokes in My Pocket

My all-time favorite Gulman bit

I would describe myself as, at best, a part-time humorist. While I like to write funny, and people seem to enjoy the funny I write, I tend not to THINK funny, at least 24/7.  Now, I know some masters of the comedy genre can mine yuks aplenty, even from topics like relatives’ funerals and epic climate disasters. For me, though, it’s the flip of a switch: I’m sad (serious piece); I’m happy (fun piece)--and rarely the twain shall meet. 

 

That means I cannot keep up with the humor-writing machines of my acquaintance. I did a comedy writing sprint, and within a week I was exhibiting all the symptoms that I’d suffered from during my brief, ill-fated quest to run a 5K. I was dizzy, I was nauseated. Most of all, I was the exact opposite of a laugh riot. I’ll spare you my list of “hilarious” piece titles because honestly? I’ve deleted them from both my computer and my brain.

 

I had coffee with a very funny writer the other day, who shared that he keeps a notebook with him, in which he aims to write 10 jokes per day. 10. Jokes. Per. Day. I cannot conceive of such comedic bounty! To reach 10, I’d have to write Third Grade Jokes. For those who don’t recall that banner year, third graders LOVE Mad Libs. Aiden has insisted on a family session after dinner every night recently, and falls off his chair when the hysterical results are read: “After we finished our nostril (noun), it was time to take a fuzzy (adjective) nap.” Sides splitting yet?

 

Gary Gulman, one of my favorite comedians, shared 365 comedy tips online, a year’s worth. Super generous of him, and I enjoyed reading them. Alas, Gary also sings the praises of building a massive joke portfolio. Gulman’s so serious about funny, that he suggests aspiring comics use the subway ride home from a gig to analyze every failed bit they’d uttered from the stage that night. If it were me, I’d be taking an Uber to the nearest bar, and praying I’d forget ever performing at all. 

 

But I did break out a Moleskine, ready to scribble down all the inspiring humor nuggets that undoubtedly surround me. Here’s what I came up with yesterday:

 

 

 

 

You read that right. Zilch. Nada.

 

Maybe I should give up on “jokes” per se, and just write down funny WORDS instead. From years of reading comedy advice, I know for sure that:

 

“Banana” is good. “Tomato” is not, especially if you slice one into your cereal.

Words with the “k” sound are funny (“coffin” is always good for a howl).

Then there are silly actual words like “filibuster” and “hemidemisemiquaver.”

 

Tomorrow morning I’ll head to Shop N Bag with my humor notebook. I’ll load my cart with bananas, cucumbers and kumquats. Hopefully the cart wheels will go all cattywumpus, and there’ll be a hullabaloo as I crash into a display of Tastycakes. 

 

That’s really funny stuff. Right, Aiden?

"Hollywood" funny? Nope. "California"? SO funny!