Mrs. Fitz's Story Emporium

It’s fun to invent new labels for people, a pasttime well known in the family I grew up in.

When a new beau came a-calling, the best he could hope for was to be called a manly man, as in, “Oh my yes. He is a manly man.”

When a newborn joined the clan, much attention was paid to calves, as in “Oh my yes. He has the family piano-leg calves.”

Here are a few new labels I invented:

Decade-jumpers.
These are folks who don’t live their story in proper sequence, such as those who get famous too young and miss childhood, those who marry the wrong person and miss the bliss, those who nurse a sick loved one and miss most of whatever else is going on.

Back-lookers.
These are folks who remember and reflect and recount what happened, who was there and what it meant. They are not goal-setters, forward thinkers, or futurists. They are hard to find but quite pleasant to have around.

Re-readers.
These are folks who read the same book more than once. They return to enjoy books they already met and find something good there.

Space-keepers.
These are folks who keep some things private. They are fading from existence.

Why the phrase “perception is reality” is getting so much attention beats me. I think it’s being over-used by the wrong constituency of the human race to explain what we don’t know, or are afraid to know.

Poets are the only folks who ought to be allowed to craft perception, since they do it so nicely, as in…

“To see a world in a grain of sand, and heaven in a wild flower. To hold infinity in the palm of your hand, eternity in an hour.” (William Blake)

Maybe toast-makers could be allowed a shot at it, as in…

“May your neighbors respect ya, trouble neglect ya, angels protect ya and heaven accept ya.” (Irish toast)

Come to think of it, Moms deserve a say in what perception is, as in…

“Don’t even think about it.” (Mom)

Politicians, newspersons, branding gurus, and uncles should opt-out of the perception-making business. Leave it to the experts.

Playing ball in Elmhurst during the 1960s was a great leveler, primarily because the playing fields lacked prestige. Nobody was too little, too girly, too nerdy to play on the little patches of grass surrounding our houses.

In our backyard, a run from home plate to second base was a sprint under the clothesline to the back stoop. Rounding third was a run past the strawberry plants, rhubarb and chive plants.

Things changed as my older brother showed real talent for the sport and my younger brother showed genuine skill for all things teamcentric. No question but they both were destined for broader fields and greater challenge.

But, they still let me play baseball with them on our home field. I was the one who quit as a preteener. Imagining a greener pasture, I suppose; or needing to find one.

On same days, unusual memories take on the patina of great entertainment. Today is a same day. Winter isn’t gone. Spring isn’t anywhere around Chicago. Today’s headlines duplicate yesterday’s headlines.

So I am entertained, remembering feeding a rhinosaurus, while writing a zoo feature at Brookfield Zoo.

The rhino keeper, Kate, didn’t need to let me feed Sarah, which is the rhinosaurus’ name. I didn’t anticipate feeding Sarah. And, I did a bad job of it.

In a room with a concrete floor and windows without glass, Kate gave me a hamburger bun and the go-ahead to profer it to Sarah, who stood so close to me, her breathing sounded like the hum of an approaching motorcycle. I stuck out the bun in the vicinity of her head, aiming poorly with shut eyes.

Like a whisper, something briefer than a gasp touched my hand, soft. Eyes open, bun gone, eye to eye with Sarah, her big-big mouth chewing, I knew gentleness and thank her still.

The upside of Chicago weather is it can be so bad, it doesn’t take much to cheer up residents.

Yesterday, at the butt-ugly end of a day filmed in black and white with sideways rain for special effect, 200 ticketholders clung around the Vic Theater entrance at Belmont and Sheffield avenues like icy ship barnacles.

The scheduled band of small reknown arrived in a big white bus and plunked itself in front of the theater. The crowd let out hoots, bleats and yumpin-yimminees louder than loud, bigger than the roar at a three-point winning dunk at the buzzer.

It was a magnificence not born of volume but spawned by joy. Powerful stuff.

I think twitter is great for one reason: It takes away the ridiculous notion that writing is elite, difficult, the domain of the few.

That stubborn old belief dates back even further than Medieval Times, when clergy wrote and nobody else could. Like most dumb ideas, it’s about power. Only some can speak, and few can rule. Those who DO rule are heard. Others? Not so much.

I think twitter is terrible for one reason: It takes away the valid notion that you should give some thought to what you write.

During the 1960s, Mom relied on the tombstone to create her unique brand.

With what I considered alarming frequency in our Elmhurst household, she would declare repeatedly she wished her tombstone to read, “She cared. She tried.”

I tried to determine her intent. She was stating the obvious so why did it have to be carved in stone? She had a lot of life left, so why commit to this indelible statement so, well, early?

I understood she might want to be remembered. I just didn’t understand her choice of words. In particular, I wondered why she didn’t take it to a logical conclusion, as in “She cared. She tried. She succeeded.”

With what I consider alarming frequency, I still often ponder her request.

On behalf of smiling, here are three items plopped like sandbags on a place that’s a bit flooded with sad stuff:

1. Gabrielle Giffords hasn’t let the tedious and lonely and crummy task of recovering from a brain-battering bullet get the best of her. She doesn’t owe us good news but she sure does deliver.

2. Driving yesterday, I approached an intersection and observed a fellow automobiler smiling…with teeth. She wasn’t on the phone and had not won the lottery far as I know. She wasn’t smiling FOR anybody. Cheered me up quite a bit.

3. There exists a group known as “Elders,” initiated by Nelson Mandela. This peace-promoting-pack comprises those who have been statesmen, like Desmond Tu Tu and Norway’s former prime minister Gro Brunkland. It’s neat that they donate their time to visiting places of global unrest, which is just about everywhere. It’s even neater that they believe the effort is worthwhile.

With practice, it’s possible to grow younger. It’s just a matter of ignoring everything you hear and women are very good at it, since we’ve had to practice.

At 25 years old, we hear we are too old to make snow angels, wear miniskirts or cry whenever the mood seems right for it.

At 35 years old, we hear we are too old to make babies…something about the deteriorating state of the egg.

At 45 years old, we hear we are too old to get ahead – careerwise; and woe betide career changers. Tisn’t done.

At 55 years old, we hear we are too old to for romance or anything that even vaguely resembles romance.

Ignoring what we hear is a great way to grow younger and feel cheerful. Everyone should attempt this.

In honor of warmth, which has arrived in Chicago, here are three phrases that should be allowed to melt and disappear:

1. Win-Win situation.
In order to feel the giggle-gurgle of winning, somebody has to lose and that somebody ought to be someone who isn’t you. Win-win is a lazy way of agreeing to give up the thrill of the win and no winner would do that.

2. Tickled pink.
This sounds uncomfortable. Fortunately, the phrase is only used marginally, and by people who remember Bing Crosby so they don’t count much. But with the comeback of the word “pink” on sweatpant butts and household utensils, we should be worried that it may resurge.

3. Bring it.
Bring what? This is a sissy way of saying “I am not scared.” Since everyone sane IS scared, we should not pretend otherwise.