Grocery Store Stories II: Jewel Tea Company

My next grocery store story takes place at the Jewel (used to be known as the Jewel Tea Company) on Morse Avenue on Chicago's north side. When my first partner Robert and I lived on Estes Avenue (three blocks away) I worked there part time. I had just begun teaching at the time but needed to hold down two jobs for a short time to support myself.

In those days, scanning prices was a technique (let alone a word) that was not known. Each item was marked with a price and the cashier (or were they called clerks) had to enter (ring up) the price by pressing several keys for each item.

The cash register had rows of keys (ones place, tens place, hundreds place, etc and then a row of Enter keys to allow the clerk to note whether the item was from grocery, deli, produce, flowers, drugs, etc.

The Grocery key was the largest because it was used most often and could be hit with the heel of the hand. There was also a silver lever which when pushed in and slid up or down would allow for various functions like refund, or no charge.

So for a can of stew which cost $1.29, the clerk had to press the $1 key, the 20¢ key, the 9¢ key and the grocery key before moving on to the next item. While scanning now-a-days moves pretty quickly, so did this earlier method and the clerk became quite fast at her job.

In the early days of my being at the Jewel, there was a person stationed in the produce department who would weight all the fruit and vegetables and put them into a paper bag with the price written on the side. All the clerk had to do was enter the price and hit the produce key. Very few items were pre-packaged on a Styrofoam tray and shrink wrapped in plastic. Those that were had a price sticker on the bottom.

Next came a scale attached to each register. At this point the clerk had to know that a tomato was a tomato and an orange was an orange. Next they had to know the price per pound or price each. There was no sticker on each piece of fruit telling the clerk what number to enter so the computerized register could weight and enter the price. The clerk had to do it all. 

With this added work for the clerk, more and more items started being pre-packaged and weighed and priced. In those days the quantity of fruit and vegetable items was not as varied as it is today and not all produce was available, as it is today, all year round. That made the produce job a little easier.

Being a clerk had an interesting side effect. You got to see and touch lots of food items about which you knew little or nothing. At least nothing based on what you were used to eating, what your mother used to cook, or what you used to buy for yourself. I got acquainted with pigs feet and pigs snouts. Unusual. Never ate them but got shake hands and sniff them out often.

First came across Summer Sausage which smelled smokey, even through the wrapper and tasted delicious (one day the store was giving out samples on a cracker.) Love it to this day. Also learned about Sharp Cheddar Cheese this way.

Every  now and then, as I was checking out a customer, I would get cravings. One strong one was a craving for citrus. As you know citrus has a visible odor as you handle it, especially since it is not wrapped in plastic. Some nights the craving was so great that I would purchase one of each and take them home for a feast.

Photo taken by Michael

Two memories of working at the Jewel stay with me, both having to do with old people. The first has to do with a very old man who shopped at least every other day. The main thing he purchased was paper towels. Most times he purchased four or five or six rolls at a time. He also purchased some food items but mainly paper towels.

At the time I thought it was strange but never thought past that. In rethinking the experience only one things comes to mind: Pampers!

In my cashiering days I came across many different types of customers: black, white, Mexican, Asian, men, women, children, happy, sad, angry, nice, mean, patient, impatient, intelligent, dumb, friendly, demanding, wealthy, poor and more.

The other story deals with a very old woman who used food stamps and takes place the day before Thanksgiving.  

This little old lady had only a few items in her cart and in a studied way placed each item on the moving conveyor belt. First was a sweet potato. Next was a small can of cranberry sauce. Finally was a can of turkey cat food. There was only one scenario that these items could paint. 

My heart went out to her so while pretending to ring up each item, I only entered 5¢ instead of the real price. Instead of $1.29, her bill was 15¢. I took three 5¢ stamps out of her stamp book. I am not sure if she noticed but that it didn't matter and thanks were not necessary. After she left, I paid the difference out of my pocket. 

Happy Thanksgiving Day to you!

Thin Places

Thanks to friend Roger for the heads up on this article:

Thin Places, Where We Are Jolted Out of Old Ways of Seeing the World - NYTimes.com 3/13/12 11:59 PM

March 9, 2012

Where Heaven and Earth Come

Closer

By ERIC WEINER

TRAVEL, like life, is best understood backward but must be experienced forward, to paraphrase Kierkegaard. After decades of wandering, only now does a pattern emerge. I’m drawn to places that beguile and inspire, sedate and stir, places where, for a few blissful moments I loosen my death grip on life, and can breathe again. It turns out these destinations have a name: thin places.

It is, admittedly, an odd term. One could be forgiven for thinking that thin places describe skinny nations (see Chile) or perhaps cities populated by thin people (see Los Angeles). No, thin places are much deeper than that. They are locales where the distance between heaven and earth collapses and we’re able to catch glimpses of the divine, or the transcendent or, as I like to think of it, the Infinite Whatever.

Travel to thin places does not necessarily lead to anything as grandiose as a “spiritual breakthrough,” whatever that means, but it does disorient. It confuses. We lose our bearings, and find new ones. Or not. Either way, we are jolted out of old ways of seeing the world, and therein lies the transformative magic of travel.

It’s not clear who first uttered the term “thin places,” but they almost certainly spoke with an Irish brogue. The ancient pagan Celts, and later, Christians, used the term to describe mesmerizing places like the wind-swept isle of Iona (now part of Scotland) or the rocky peaks of Croagh Patrick. Heaven and earth, the Celtic saying goes, are only three feet apart, but in thin places that distance is even shorter.

So what exactly makes a place thin? It’s easier to say what a thin place is not. A thin place is not necessarily a tranquil place, or a fun one, or even a beautiful one, though it may be all of those things too. Disney World is not a thin place. Nor is Cancún. Thin places relax us, yes, but they also transform us — or, more accurately, unmask us. In thin places, we become our more essential selves.

Thin places are often sacred ones —St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City, the Blue Mosque in Istanbul — but they need not be, at least not conventionally so. A park or even a city square can be a thin place. So can an airport. I love airports. I love their self-contained, hermetic quality, and the way they make me feel that I am floating, suspended between coming and going. One of my favorites is Hong Kong International, a marvel of aesthetics and efficiency. I could spend hours — days! — perched on its mezzanine deck, watching life unfold below. Kennedy Airport, on the other hand, is, for the most part, a thick place. Spread out over eight terminals, there is no center of gravity, nothing to hold on to. (Nor is there anything the least bit transcendent about a T.S.A. security line.)

A bar can be a thin place, too. A while ago, I stumbled across a very thin bar, tucked away in the Shinjuku neighborhood of Tokyo. Like many such establishments, this one was tiny — with only four seats and about as big as a large bathroom — but it inspired cathedral awe. The polished wood was dark and smooth; the row of single malts were illuminated in such a way that they glowed. Using a chisel, the bartender manifested — there is no other word for it — ice cubes that rose to the level of art. The place was so comfortable in its own skin, so at home with its own nature — its “suchness,” the Buddhists would put it — that I couldn’t help but feel the same way.

Mircea Eliade, the religious scholar, would understand what I experienced in that Tokyo bar. Writing in his classic work “The Sacred and the Profane,” he observed that “some parts of space are qualitatively different from others.” An Apache proverb takes that idea a step further: “Wisdom sits in places.”

The question, of course, is which places? And how do we get there? You don’t plan a trip to a thin place; you stumble upon one. But there are steps you can take to increase the odds of an encounter with thinness. For starters, have no expectations. Nothing gets in the way of a genuine experience more than expectations, which explains why so many “spiritual journeys” disappoint. And don’t count on guidebooks — or even friends — to pinpoint your thin places. To some extent, thinness, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. Or, to put it another way: One person’s thin place is another’s thick one.

Getting to a thin place usually requires a bit of sweat. One does not typically hop a taxi to a thin place, but sometimes you can. That’s how my 7-year-old daughter and I got to St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York. Video camera in hand, she paused at each statue of the various saints, marveling, in a hushed voice, at their poses and headgear.

She was with me, too at the Bangla Sahib gurdwara, a Sikh temple in New Delhi. The temple owes its thinness, in part, to the contrasting thickness amassed outside its gates: the press of humanity, the freestyle traffic, the unrelenting noise and, in general, the controlled anarchy that is urban India. We stepped inside the gates of the gurdwara and into another world. The mesmerizing sound of a harmonium wafted across a reflecting pool. The white marble felt cool on my bare feet. The temple compound was not devoid of people, but this was a different sort of crowd. Everyone walked to the edge of the water, drawn by something unspoken, lost in their solitary worlds, together.

At the gurdwara, time burst its banks. I was awash in time. That’s a common reaction to a thin place. It’s not that we lose all sense of time but, rather, that our relationship with time is altered, softened. In thin places, time is not something we feel compelled to parse or hoard. There’s plenty of it to go around.

Not all sacred places, though, are thin. Freighted with history, and our outsized expectations, they collapse under the weight of their own sacredness, and possess all the divinity of a Greyhound bus station. For me, Jerusalem is one of these places. I find the air so thick with animosity, so heavy with the weight of historical grievances, that any thinness lurking beneath the surface doesn’t stand a chance. Walking through the walled Old City, with its four segregated quarters, I feel my muscles tense. (By contrast, I breathe easier in supposedly godless Tel Aviv.)

Thankfully, Rumi’s tomb, in Turkey, has not met such a fate. It is very much alive. People from around the Muslim (and non-Muslim) world visit the tomb, in the central Turkish city of Konya, to pay homage to Islam’s poet laureate. Rumi’s coffin is draped in a green carpet, with a cylindrical black hat, the kind worn by dervishes, sitting atop. His 13th-century poems brim with an ecstatic love of Allah, and his resting place reflects that. People are encouraged to linger. Some curl up in a corner, reading Rumi. Others lose themselves in silent prayer. I noticed one woman, hand over heart, walking slowly on the carpeted floor, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks.

Perhaps the thinnest of places is Boudhanath, in Nepal. Despite the fact that it has been swallowed up by Katmandu, Boudha, as many call it, retains the self-contained coziness of the village that it is. Life there revolves, literally, around a giant white stupa, or Buddhist shrine. At any time of the day, hundreds of people circumambulate the stupa, chanting mantras, kneading their mala beads and twirling prayer wheels. I woke in Boudha each morning at dawn and marveled at the light, milky and soft, as well as the sounds: the clicketyclack of prayer wheels, the murmur of mantras, the clanking of store shutters yanked open, the chortle of spoken Tibetan. A few dozen monasteries have sprung up around the stupa. And then there are restaurants where you can sip a decent pinot noir while gazing into the All-Seeing Eyes of Buddha. It is a rare and wonderful confluence of the sacred and the profane.

Many thin places are wild, untamed, but cities can also be surprisingly thin. The world’s first urban centers, in Mesopotamia, were erected not as places of commerce or empire but, rather, so inhabitants could consort with the gods. What better place to marvel at the glory of God and his handiwork (via his subcontractors: us) than on the Bund in Shanghai, with the Jetsons-like skyscrapers towering above, or at Montmartre in Paris, with the city’s Gothic glory revealed below.

Bookstores are thin places, too, and, for me, none is thinner than Powell’s in Portland, Ore. Sure, there are grander bookstores, and older ones, but none quite possesses Powell’s mix of order and serendipity, especially in its used-book collection — Chekhov happily cohabitating with “Personal Finance for Dummies,” Balzac snuggling with Grisham.

Yet, ultimately, an inherent contradiction trips up any spiritual walkabout: The divine supposedly transcends time and space, yet we seek it in very specific places and at very specific times. If God (however defined) is everywhere and “everywhen,” as the Australian aboriginals put it so wonderfully, then why are some places thin and others not? Why isn’t the whole world thin?

Maybe it is but we’re too thick to recognize it. Maybe thin places offer glimpses not of heaven but of earth as it really is, unencumbered. Unmasked.

ERIC WEINER is author, most recently, of “Man Seeks God: My Flirtations With the Divine.” .

The Visit

This poem was motivated by having read the previously posted five poems by Ted Kooser and based on an experience I had while attending school in Champaign/Urbana, Illinois

• • •

THE VISIT

Driving twenty five miles
We arrived at the farm house
Abandoned long ago
At the intersection of two unnamed roads.

The arrival was in a cloud of dust
At a house shrouded in dust
To visit people turned to dust
And their spirits of etherial dust.

The front door easily pushed open
Greeting us with quiet as thick as years
No one in the rocker to greet us open armed
Nor at the table for their morning meal.

The rocker mocked a horror film, 

Gently rocking in its deathly rhythm

Next to an empty window pane
Glass resting on the floor glittering.

Cereal bowl with crusted spoon
Brown medicine bottle three quarters full
Rotting leather case with its spectacles
On the kitchen table waiting.

Up the stairs, carefully with fear
We dared what waited from time
No one in the bedroom asleep ... or dead
A bathroom and its no longer dripping faucet.

A single bedroom with bed neatly quilted
A frilly pink bathrobe on a nail on the door
Clothes hanging in the armoire, not many
A bureau drawer nested by a robin now gone.

The bathroom a disgrace if any housewife was asked
Rusted toilet, water mark ringed sink, smudged mirror
Abandoned animal tracks printing the floor in a scurry
Window curtains now hanging shredded.

Driving twenty five miles

We arrived back at home

Still filled for now with life
Marked by the experience of their life and now ours.

It's The Little Things

My day today started out with the usual cup of coffee, piece of toast, and interacting with my computer. I left the condo at approximately 11:20 to walk to my therapist appointment which is just 10 minutes away. The morning ended at about 1:30 as I was sitting in the Chandler's Building Plaza across from the condo having a Jumba Juice and listening to a street performer singing and playing his amplified guitar.

As I was sitting with my drink, I thought of all the little things that had occurred thus far in my day that if noticed were joyful, magical, and/or felt good. I decided to write this blog based on that thought and perhaps compile an ongoing list in future blogs.

It's The Little Things That Matter


1. An interaction with the Starbucks barista on "running late."

2. Interesting session with my therapist. Laughter. Political discussion. World weariness. Feeling even. Planning our trip to Mexico.

3. Noticing the beautiful, creative windows in a dress shop.

4. Getting my hair cut.

5. Getting a manicure that ended with a shoulder massage.

6. Interacting with the Jumba Juice employee.

7. Enjoying my Jumba Juice while listening to a street performer.

8. Visiting briefly with Gregory as he passed me on the way to a walk.

9. Discussing the street construction with an Evanston Public Works employee to find out that they were abandoning a leaking gas line and re-routing the gas to a newer line.

10. Thanking the front desk person at my condo as I picked up a package.

11. Walking into my air conditioned condo after being out in the sun and hot weather.

12. Being greeted by my kitty (actually 15+ years old.)

That's all one has to do is stop to notice the little good things that occur so frequently and the difficult things will seem small.

Winter

Snow cuts across the rise and fall of building tops
on the horizon of our condo balcony window.
Gray, bleak, dark, cold.

Thoughts cut to the ebb and flow of the sunlit waves
on the horizon of Puerto Vallarta Mexican beaches.
Golden, bright, sunny, hot.

Steam cuts through the flapping wings of the pigeons perching
on the horizon of chimney tops in my winter window view.
Smoky, steamy, misty, warm.

Memories cut between the years of life now passed, now passing
on the horizon of of my aging, fragile mind.
Fleeting, joyful, painful, comforting.

Fire, Fire, Fire!

Was in the middle of reading an e-mail when our emergency alert system announced that we needed to evacuate the building. Helped Gregory get himself together, shoved the cat in her carry box, threw on my coat and filled my pockets.

Loud horn wailing, pulsing. Lights flashing. Recorded voice announcing. Wailing, pulsing, announcing. Urgent.

Felt the door for heat, opened it carefully, proceeded to the escape stairwell across from our unit. Checked there for smoke. Walked down four floors, out of the building into the street and around the block to the condo entrance. 

Within less than a minute of the alarm the fire department arrived. Firemen running into the command center of the building to determine what the problem was and what further action be taken. By now the alert stopped ringing and we reentered the building.

The alarm was prompted by a problem in the mechanical room. A water leak was from coming from the building humidifier (which was just turned on with the heat yesterday) and easily taken care of. 

Back now and cat freed from her carry box. I am always amazed that here in our condo of 250 units on 25 floors, I can feel safe and protected. The system works. And if it didn't we live one floor above the roof top garden and I have a folding escape stair under the kitchen sink that would easily allow us to escape over the balcony and to freedom.

Finding Fascination in the Quotidian

Quotidian. Ordinary, common place, every day. Robert Weissenstein, as quoted by George Will in Newsweek 11/15/10 P. 24, finds exhilaration in the fact that there will always be a next new thing, and that it will not be new for long. 


Three million iPods were sold in 2.5 years; 3 million Kindles were sold in two years; 3 million iPads were sold in 80 days; 3 million iPhones were sold in three weeks. Also amazing is that the cause and effect cycle of change has no end and very often we are not, or cannot be aware of the chain that change creates and how or when that chain circles us personally.


I have always heard people who were older than I was say, "The older you get the faster time seems to fly." At 65, I am now in the position of experiencing this for myself. It gets a little more important when one realizes that the years left to fly by are not as many as when you first started flying. 


After reading Will's article and Weissenstein's observations, I wonder now if the cause of this exponential speeding up of time is due to age or due to the speed with which living life increases. Although one would think that since you can get so much more done in such a short period of time,  the days would seem longer, would seem to slow down.

Past Lives

Do you believe in past lives? I am not sure one way or another but every now and then an experience or situation rings so true, so comfortable, so right that I feel perhaps I have lived it before in another time or another place.

One such wave of emotion swam over me today as we were sitting at Nuevo Leon, a restaurant in the Pilsen area, a Mexican neighborhood of Chicago. I think I was one of the few Norte Americanos in the place but I was so at home ordering our dinner in fluent Spanish, answering questions from the wait person, and requesting extra napkins. "Necesito más servietas por favor."

When ordering the Guacamole appetizer and on being asked if I wanted it "¿En el estilo Mexicano?" I replied, "Si. Si. Si. ¿Como no?" just like anyone else in the room would have done. Mexicans never say "Yes." They always say, "Yes, yes, yes." "¿Como no?" means why not or of course.

Gregory and I had spent the afternoon at The National Museum of Mexican Art, also in PIlsen. We visit the museum every year at this time to go through their Día de Los Muertos exhibit, The Day of the Dead." This is a holiday that parallels the Catholic All Saints Day and the North American Halloween.

Mexican families honor their dead ancestors by creating an alter, "Oferenda," that is decorated with marigolds, candles, holy pictures and objects, and all of the favorite foods and drinks of the departed. When I was standing in front of an Oferenda, studying the pictures and objects that were dear to the person whom it celebrates, I felt awe, thought, "Here is someone's life." and decided that this year I would build an Oferenda for my mom who died last March.

The holiday is a celebration of life and of death as part of the cycle of living and dying. It is believed that the departed come to visit, enjoy the sights and sounds and smells (although they cannot eat the food or drink the beverages they can enjoy them anyway.) The grave plots are also decorated and the family will picnic with their family and their departed loved ones.

When I am surrounded by the Mexican culture, it is as if I have arrived home. I am so overjoyed at being able to speak Spanish, tell a joke to a native Spanish speaking person and get a laugh, and even dream in Spanish. I will never forget the day at the University of Illinois in Champaign/Urbana, in an advanced Spanish class with Professor Kronik (who brought the language to life for me) when I realized that I was no longer translating from Spanish to English, I was thinking in Spanish.

Perhaps in a past life I lived in Mexico and dreams on day of being able to speak English. Dream come true?

HaShem

This passage was shared with me by my friend Sheryl L. around the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur holidays. She received it as a greeting from a cousin.

• • • • •

1) HaShem' - (neither masculine nor feminine and absolutely no plural;) the word means, literally, 'The Name,' and it is the way that the Jewish people refer to God when not in a Prayer or Torah Reading or Torah citation context.

2) HaShem determines who walks into your life … It is up to you to decide who your let walk away, who you let stay, and who you refuse to let go.

• • • • •

What I like about the first passage is that HaSHem, GOD (If there is a god,) is neither masculine nor feminine which means that s/he is both masculine and feminine at the same time without needing to discriminate the difference. Ah that our society/culture could be so accepting.

One of my beliefs, not totally original, is that each of us is part male and part female, perhaps with different orders of importance, degrees of strength, levels of experience, types of daily practice, and/or abilities in admitting such.

I believe that to be a "whole person" one must acknowledge both parts of the self, male and female. How one understands those parts and how those parts contribute to one's world view determines how one interacts with others and how one accepts oneself.

Culture plays a large role in determining what is "boy-like" and what is "girl-like," what is acceptable and what is not. To be part of a culture is to embrace those culturally defined differences … but also, I believe, it is necesssary to make some personal decisions on how to adjust the cultural beliefs to fit one's own life. This idea is what the second part of the passage means to me which I rewrite to read: HaShem determines what walks into your life … It is up to you to decide what you let walk away, what you let stay, and what you refuse to let go.

Walgreens

Helen, Gregory's mom, lived graciously for several years in an assisted care apartment in Battle Creek, Michigan, Tony the TIger's home town. She was in her 90's and fairly healthy but had a hard time "getting around." She used to call her son Mark, who lived nearby, every day or two and tell him, "I need to go to Walgreens. When can you pick me up?" Mark, while a good and patient and supportive son, wondered why she didn't make a list and do her shopping every couple of weeks or so and all at one time.

Today Gregory and I ran errands. We made an adventure of it in our old neighborhood on Central Street, a ten minute drive from where we live currently. First we had lunch at Prairie Joe's, our favorite diner, and while eating visited with the owners. Next we stopped at Food Stuffs, hopefully to visit with Marlene, a neighborhood friend who works there, but she had already left for the day. We bought tonight's Yom Kippur dinner from Food Stuff's deli. We proceed on to Great Harvest Bread Shop where Gregory gets his Morning Glory Health Muffins. We also bought a challah with raisins for our holiday meal and played with all the different ways the name of that Jewish bread could be pronounced. Finally we stopped at Office Depot to have two copies of my manuscript spiral bound, to laminate several dozen Michael's Museum Book Marks which I made earlier, and to purchase several reams of paper.

We arrived home looking forward to our evening coffee and remembered how my dad used to announce "Cossie Tyne" when he poured his evening coffee and his dog Sandy would come running because it was the same time she got her treats. With our folding card, which we keep in the trunk of the car, loaded we took the condo garage  elevator down to the lobby, retrieved our mail, and took the tower elevator up to our unit.

While we were walking down the hall to our unit I commented to Gregory that now I understood why Helen used to call Mark every day or two for a trip to Walgreens. He agreed by saying, "Yes, it was her way of getting out." I added, "Yes, and it helped her feel that she was being productive by keeping her life in order and by running errands.

And now while I am typing this, both Gregory and I are having our Cossie.

Back to School

The signs on the street lights let us drivers know that children are out and around again and headed back to school now that September has shown its fall-like head. I started teaching when I was twenty, taught for thirty years, and am now retired for fifteen. I guess that makes me old. 


From age five through fifty of my sixty five years, I lived by the seasons. In the beginning I was the student and then the teacher. With fall leaves, followed by trick or treat and turkeys, Hannukah and Christmas ornaments, winter snow flakes, Valentines Day hearts, St. Patrick's Day shamrocks, spring flowers, and finally goodbyes "It's been a great year" my yearly story was told.


My gayly decorated bulletin boards helped tell the school year story along with posting shared student writings, poetry, art work and other student projects scattered around the classroom. With the students, I yearned for winter break, spring break, and chased downhill towards summer vacation but also relished each day I spent in the classroom with my students.


When I look back at my teaching career I have many wonderful memories as well as memories of difficult times in the process. Being a teacher is no easy task when students matter the most but educational politics and parental opinions color a lot of what you must do.


I always held very high expectations for my students least they fall short of their abilities but was told that my expectations were too high. My curricular goals for my students were "Be yourself! Do the best you can do! Perfect doesn't exist! Sometimes less than great is OK. You decide! Don't give up!" among others. But my goals didn't always show up on the yearly achievement tests, the district curriculum ones did.


I think I was a success although a teacher never really gets much feedback on the completed product. Actually I would hope that my students, now grown adults possibly with families of their own, are still not complete as they continue to grow, always seeking to learn more and to experience life to its fullest. 


You know, come to think of it, I still live my life by the seasons. Fall mums decorate my balcony, Indian corn and gourds fill the baskets on the kitchen counter, trick or treat candy is still a weakness. I go all out for Hannukah and Christmas decorations and entertaining, enjoy hot chocolate and a long walk on the first snow fall of the season, enjoy sending flowers to the older women in my family for Valentine's Day, drink a pint of green beer in honor of Saint Patty, and bring in small pots of daffodils and tulips as soon as they show up at the grocery.


Even though I haven't been teaching for fifteen years now and consider myself retired, I still enjoy weekends and look forward to "summer vacation." Come September I worry a little about what my new class will be like, have work oppressive dreams, then wake up and remember that I can turn over and go back to sleep or get a cup of coffee and spend the morning reading. No back-to-school for me.


Once in a while I do get to see the product of my efforts in their grown form and they usually say something like, "I still write in my journal every day." or "I still look at the books we wrote and bound when we were in fifth grade." One student told me, "You are the only teacher that really understood me!" Nice part is students still matter, nicer yet politics do not interfere anymore.

Curmudgeon or Youth?

curmudgeon |kərˈməjən|nouna bad-tempered or surly person. often associated with old age.
youth |yoōθ|nounthe state or quality of being young, esp. as associated with vigor, freshness, or immaturity
• • • • • 
Three experiences recently led me to realize that both can exist simultaneously.

1) Bubble Bath in the Fountain

The other night G and I were on our way out to dinner. Major joy, laughter, and fun had broken out at Fountain Square directly across from our condo. Some college kids had emptied a huge bottle of bubble bath into the pool of the three connecting fountains. The force of the water spouts, as you can imagine, was stirring up huge, six foot clumps of bubbles which the wind was picking up and distributing around the entire plaza. Young people were gamboling, frolicking, and swimming through the soap suds and having a wonderful time. My first reaction was, "Vandalism! Inappropriate! Immature!" My next reaction was: "What fun! How creative! What an idea!" I guess youth won.

2) Bicycles in the Parking Garage

As I entered the parking garage on my way home from grocery shopping, I noticed six young boys, early high school age at most, hanging out around the garage elevators. When I got to my tenth floor space I realized why they were hanging out in the elevator lobby. Did I mention they were on their bicycles? They had taken the elevators to the top of the garage (twelve floors) and by the time I next saw them, they were speedily, joyfully, laughingly racing down the ramps of the garage. My first reaction was: "Illegal! Dangerous! Disrespectful!" My next reaction was: "Wow! How fun! How creative! What an idea!" I guess youth won again.

3) Cracking One's Knuckles

As I was sitting here typing this blog, I cracked my knuckles as I am used to doing. All ten fingers went at the same time to a very loud "CRACK!" My first reaction was: "Well I didn't break anything!" My next reaction was to giggle.


Hopefully youth will continue to win out.

New Ways of Seeing

Thanks to my friend Jan for the motivation for this piece. Her Blog on Liu Bolin caused me to become sad, pensive, overwhelmed.


I am ALWAYS in awe of someone who can look at life, through their art, in a way that no one else has until that moment. To create new ways of seeing. It was there all along, s/he saw it, and now I can see it too.


I am always in awe of someone who can follow their vision, their passion and who dedicates their life to those beliefs.


Experiencing an artist's ability to cause me to see life differently makes me feel like my creativity is only a rehash of what is, not a view of what might be, could be, or should be. I yearn to live my life artistically and by doing so to bring joy and understanding to others. I'll keep trying. Why do I feel like I will never be that "Best Little Boy?"


My friend Jan causes these same emotions in me. I love her and am an avid fan of hers because: 1) She is good. 2) She is inventive. 3) She is one of a kind. 4) She is intense. 5) She doesn’t know how to settle for the ordinary. 6) I love her.


• • • • •

You can visit her blog at: Jan's Blog

The specific blog I am referring to here is at: Liu Bolin

More art by Liu Bolin can be seen here: Eli Klein Fine Art

A Facebook Conversation

C J: Sometimes people don't realize the hurt that they can cause by silence.

M H: So true! But sometimes the noise hurts more.

C J: Sometimes. Then at least speak softly with the openness and willingness to see things through to harmony.

Casa de los Arcos Review

We have been going to Puerto Vallarta and staying at Casa de los Arcos for over six years. Arriving at Casa de los Arcos is like coming HOME and is a magical, romantic, comfortable, clean, reasonably priced place to stay. The owners and staff are friendly and accommodating (we love them!) A fifteen minute walk down the mountain or a cheap cab gets you to and from the old town where "all the action is" but when at the house your time becomes a quiet and restful retreat with a wonderful view of Banderas Bay. Best of all worlds. PV itself is a safe, friendly place to visit, go to the beach, dine, play, shop, "do the boardwalk" and find most any kind of adventure you are looking for. Casa de los Arcos provides a great place to sleep, read, rest, cook at home, swim in the pool, sun, visit and if you want to (sometimes) get on the internet to check up on business. Highly, highly recommended.

YOU MIGHT WANT TO VISIT THEIR SITE

Casa de los Arcos

Moshi

The other day my alarm clock stopped working so I have been in the market for a new one. Needs to be battery operated, large digital readout, easy to set, able to light up during the middle of the night, and good looking. Not too much to ask but so far I have been jilted at every turn. I will keep looking until I find just the right one.


The other day we were at a store called Brookstone, which if you don't know features all kinds of household appliances that you would never think you needed until you see one and realize you can't do without it.In your mind, picture massaging chairs, self-opening wine bottle openers, talking picture frames, and B-B-Q thermometers that light up for night grilling. 


I went into the store to see if they had a clock that met my needs. I saw a clock called "Moshi." Sounds like a Jewish clock but I didn't ask. It has a 3" x 5" digital time window that when addressed, answers in a female voice. Not sure if you can set it to male. I interviewed the clock, the drill goes something like this:


"Moshi, What time is it." And Moshi replies, "It is seven fifteen pee emm." She sounds almost real. 


"Moshi, What is the date?" "The date is July seventh, two thousand and ten."


"Moshi, Set the alarm for eight a.m." "The alarm is set for eight ayy emm."


"Moshi, What is the temperature?" "The temperature is 72 degrees Fahrenheit."


"Moshi, Turn on the night light." 


If you rock the 3x5 window, Moshi will alternate between time, alarm, date, day, temperature, each with a different color read out. You can set her to "shut up" or "talk louder." I got to thinking about what Moshi could say if she put her mind to it.


"Moshi, What time is it?" "It is just a few minutes later than when you last asked!"


"Moshi, What is the date?" "Why should I tell you when you didn't even remember my birthday?"


"Moshi, Set the alarm for 8 a.m." "Say please!"


"Moshi, Turn off the alarm." "If I do you will fall back to sleep, miss your meeting again, and blame me. No way!"


"Moshi, Turn on the clock light." "Get up and turn it on yourself!"


Needless to say, I passed on purchasing the clock and am still looking for the perfect one.

Dreaming About Tea

There is a little tea shop in our neighborhood called "Dream About Tea." It is owned by a Chinese family, is not part of a chain, and is unique in design. In the window, on a low table with a colorful table cloth is a large fish bowl filled with broken cups, saucers, and other tea items. No explanation. One can only assume. On entering the store, however, there were several signs carefully placed that were printed, "If you break it, you buy it. If I break it, I cry." The shop sells all kinds of unusual teas from the world over as well as tea making and drinking accessories. You can also order a cup of tea and a sweet and sit at one of their tables. 


On a recent visit I noticed and purchased an unmarked cellophane bag of what looked like bits and pieces of stuff. Notice the absence of tea jargon. I asked the owner, "What type of tea is in the bag?" He told me, "It is an herbal health tea blended in the shop. I asked: "How many cups does the bag make?" He replied, "It makes one pot." I probably should have asked, "How big of a pot?" but I didn't.


He handed me a printed sign defining the herbal blend: Inner Part of Lotus Seed. Tribute Chrysanthemum. Dried Fruit. The Tuber of Dwarf Lilyturf. The Fruit of Chinese Wolfberry. Haw. Crystal Sugar. The Seed of Boat Fruited Sterculia. Honeysuckle. Hangzhou White Chrysanthemum. Raisin. Another sign lists the benefits: Clear liver heat. Brighten eyes. Relieve and smooth sore throat, tonsillitis, hoarseness, cough. Strengthen Chi. Help beat cold and flu.


Can I tell you how excited I am about trying a cup of this tea? Once I find out how big a pot I need.


TO VISIT THEIR SITE:
Dream About Tea