Mrs. Fitz's Story Emporium

The nice thing regarding youth is you can build on it, expand from the start of it. During the 1960s in Elmhurst, Il, this was nicely controlled expansion. It may be no coincidence that nicely controlled expansion described our neighborhood, too.

A reasonable number of streets were laid in a grid and each house had about the same space to sit on.  Elm trees planted when each was about the same age seemed so happy to be there they grew fast to reach over the street to shake each other’s branched hands. Lots of our streets looked like green cathedrals.

Being little was not a problem like it might be in a more advanced neighborhood. Curbs were short and smooth and made good benches. Traffic was something that whizzed elsewhere. Youth could play baseball at 4-corner intersections or chinese jump rope in the middle of any street.

This last example is significant. Chinese jump rope requires two people holding a rope made of rubber bands around their ankles so a third person can do fancy footwork with it. Such a significant infrastructure can’t be dismantled just because a car wished to pass.

It was nice but not perfect. Youth needs other youth to build on. More advanced neighborhoods probably offered a variety of playmates. This wasn’t the case where we lived.

One girl my age lived near enough we could play after dinner before dark without being out of sight of our houses. One girl lived near enough to see after school without getting home  late for supper. One girl was a sleepover friend. Visiting required a car ride so planning was required and we might as well make it worthwhile by spending the night.

My three friends gave my youth something to build on. Patty was tiny with shiny black hair. From her I understood I was tall-ish and would never have shiny black hair. Patsy was smart and wore glasses. From her I understood being smart and wearing glasses went together. Alicia was a wonder of emotion. She could become laughy or tearful or hopping mad over just about anything, even peanut butter. She liked peanut butter quite a bit. From her I understood I had alot to build upon.

People read books uniquely. I mean the sequence in which we read varies, not the format, which can be Oral-Ebook-Audio-Print. Now that I’ve noticed, I’m pesty about asking others HOW they read.

Here are preliminary findings.

Some 1st read congratulatory blurbs on the back covers. If the author is really famous or has a lot of friends, praises may go on and on for several pages inside, too. I read them last, before I place a book in the “done” pile. I feel more independent this way.

Some don’t have “done” piles. They don’t perceive a book as finished or over or done. I wish I didn’t have a “done” pile but do. I think it’s because I am American.

Some read the contents page before they begin. In the past, I read the content pages but stopped. They rarely makes sense to me at the beginning. It sort of robs me of confidence.

Some read “About the Author” right up front, first thing. I read it last, saving it like a little surprise.

Some read “acknowledgments” and some don’t read them at all. This is one of my favorite parts. The WAY the author acknowledges help is interesting. I once read a first novel by an author from northeastern Africa and it comprised 5 full pages of names. He was an extremely grateful person.

Some read the publishing date and some are indifferent. After the Title, that date is the FIRST thing I read. Don’t know why.

Some keep track of what page they are on. I check what page is the end, say page 400 because books sometime end well in advance of the last page. At the end of Mark Twain’s biography, for instance, there is a full INCH of paper filled with notes and attribution. It saddened me because I was looking forward to more story.

No conclusions are forthcoming yet, no patterns, no insights. How do you read?

I didn’t think heaven had a photo studio but I believed holy cards accurately pictured what saints looked like when I attended Immaculate Conception grammar school in Elmhurst, Il during the 1950s.

I wanted to have a lot of holy cards, which were given out sparingly, let me tell you. A holy card was a prize for giving the most pennies to the pagan babies or perfect attendance or having no checkmarks on your report card on the list titled “Needs Improvement.”

I didn’t have too many legitimate reasons for receiving them but when I did, I treated them like gifts.

They made good bookmarks and they were nice to carry in your wallet and often there were prayers on the back but my favorite part was looking at the expression on the saints’ faces.

They mostly looked well fed and were looking upward but each one was really different.

Saint Theresa wore a black veil, white cape and brown habit dress. Like a nun with an attitude. Her face reminded me of Mom and Mom’s two sisters.

Saint Francis of Assisi always held a bird in his hand and usually there was a doe or some forest creature nearby. He didn’t seem like the most active saint.

Wowsa, though. Saint Michael the Archangel had a wing span that took up the whole card and a spear and a oversize snake at his feet. If Arnold Schwarrzenegger had wings, you can imagine.

Saint Patrick was nice but there were lots of Saint Patrick cards. He looked like a priest in a green robe, which I suppose he was.

I got one Saint Agnes holy card. She was a martyr and the nuns who taught us were Sisters of Saint Agnes. She was blonde.

The most emotional cards were Immaculate Heart of Mary and the Sacred Heart. I say emotional because both of them held a hand to a ruby heart that was visible on their chest. It was disturbing.

My favorite was Infant Jesus of Prague. Cute. Cute. Picture a cherub in the Pope’s clothes and crown. Picture a mini-me of God. Picture what gentle looks like. That’s him.

When it’s cold in Chicago, like, it’s chilly. But, again. It is what it is.

I’m warming up by omitting words and phrases that turn talk tepid. Three in particular:

1. IT IS WHAT IT IS  as in “I was too busy to call. Sorry. It is what is.”

This is a cold shoulder phrase. It negates the chance for any human action, particularly any responsible action on the part of the speaker.

2. AGAIN as in “We need gun control. Again, this is an important issue.”

This is a freeze-frame word. The speaker says the same thing in different words. Apparently the audience can’t comprehend something the first or second or third time around.

3. LIKE as in “We went, like, shopping; and then, like, we went home.”

This is a half-baked word. The speaker did something similar to shopping and somewhat akin to going home. All in all, it seems the speaker didn’t do much.

I advocate omitting these from discourse; but am unlikely to comply. Just because.

4. JUST BECAUSE is another phrase we might omit. Oh well.

5. OH WELL is another we might omit. On the other hand,

6. ON THE OTHER HAND is another phrase…See what I mean?

7. SEE WHAT I MEAN is another…

When journalist, feminist, and social activist Gloria Steinem was 45 (33 years ago), she wrote about her surprise discovery that women grow more radical with age. She reported this discovery after more than two decades speaking to campus groups, consciousness-raising groups, groups of many many ilks and ills. She had data.

This was 1979. At that time, she was pondering critics’ claim that radical feminism must be dead since it wasn’t prevalent on 1979 college campuses, where anybody with half a brain knew were the only places women could get away with this stuff.

Deploying her succinct logic, she determined that experience sparks women to confront  injustice and college women simply hadn’t enough flint on steel to ignite, not yet. What they had was the chance to earn a college degree and, bless them, many did.

Gloria is almost 20 years older than I am and I am almost 10 years older that the women in college in 1979. What strikes me from my middle-aged, middle ground, is that radical is a moment, a discovery, an affirmation.

I don’t think of Gloria Steinem as older. I don’t think of women our son’s age as younger. I don’t think of my contemporaries as any age in particular. But, radical? God, yes.

I first learned that smiling is not a universal language in a Russian Import shop in Sacramento, California. It was on the corner of an historic Main street that had its groove on for tourists, which my husband and I were.

Its proprietress wore clothes the hue of mud and the expression of impending storm. You’d have to move way beyond “grumpy” to describe it. Was she lonesome amid vivid Matryoshka dolls that perked on every surface? I  paid her pretty dolls a compliment to engage her. NO response. Naturally I tried harder.

“Is there one here that is your favorite?” She neither spoke nor looked up from the wood counter she was studying. Maybe her frown was just too heavy to lift. I thought about touching a tiny doll or two, you know, admiring; but decided that would be a bad thing. I took my smile and got the heck out, wondering if glum was contagious.

Later, our son, who had lived for months in Russia, cleared things up. He said that Russians generally suspect grinning and gushy friendliness to strangers for no apparent reason. He suggested they considered it phony.

I have to admit they may have a point.

 There is a piece of time so brief to be overlooked but it’s important. It is that piece that separates what was before from forever on. It comes as someone asks, “Did you hear about Sandy Hook elementary school?” or “Have you seen the news?” And in this heartbeat before you know the answer, a “NO!” deep inside deafens everything, everything.

Before shock, before denial, before grief, before outrage, before words emerge as ineffectual and inadequate and possibly offensive, “NO!” comes.

Before feeling selfish relief to have been spared the worst, before the need to do something leads to action, before the futile task of searching for a “WHY?” Before fear leads us through familiar ways to absorb tragedy, before another round of prevention is forged, there is a “NO!”

Evil must evoke “NO!” It is important.

Our Elmhurst living room was a homage to Mom’s baby grand piano. Scattered sit-upons dotted the remaining space like garden pavers. This may account in part for the fact Dad was an upsitter. He sat up on a couch, a chair. When he nodded off it was hard to tell since he looked about the same.

In contrast, my Uncle Frank was a blatant recliner. In fact he had a big brown one in his living room and made not one attempt to hide his enjoyment of it. Why would he? He was a big fellow with a big chair in a household that loved everything he did, including sleep.

Nobody else sat in his chair, though it could hold 3 or 4 midsized children. His chair was like having the man himself in the room, a man who gave off the warm scent of comfort. Creatures of all ages gathered near Uncle Frank like hands rubbing themselves above a firepot.

Dad didn’t draw others to himself. He didn’t withdraw either. He abided. He was a great abider, kind of like a horse happy in his stall. He was not a ground pawer. He gave off the plain smell of contentment. This made him the object of some suspicion to those who expected more of him.

My older and younger brother played “think fast” when we were growing up in the 1960s in Elmhurst, Il. They’d call my name, I’d turn around and they’d call, “Think fast!” as they threw a ball my way. I caught exactly zero balls but it was innocent fun. A different kind of think-fast game is not so innocent.

I think-fast all the time, triggered by the conduct of others who aren’t me. What I think is easy. What I believe is different, something to learn as I go along. Belief takes time and includes my own conduct in the mix.

Here is one example from news:  A General of the United States of America resigns shortly after some somebody points out that he has a relationship with an author who wrote a book about him. This gets noticed because a socialite tells authorities she received threats from this author. Opinions emerge think-a-dink-a-do. Lickety-split. Fast.

Are there beliefs to learn? I’m not sure, just considering:

1. When any group establishes standards of behavior, I think fast to question members who don’t meet those standards. Do I understand standards? Does the group, say, have zer0 tolerance for sexual or racial harassment? Does the group tell employees who they can and can’t date? Who picks the standard? I believe standards must protect something precious so here is the hard part: Do I make major decisions based on protecting something precious no matter the personal cost?

2. When a profession establishes a code of conduct, I think fast to question members who violate that code of conduct. Why does a code matter? Journalists, for instance, must disclose any relationship they have to a source. Generally, they can have a relationship but they must disclose it so their words are considered in context.  I believe codes of conduct build public trust when members live them, so here is the hard part:  Do I live my profession’s code of conduct?

3. When a person publicly claims that another person violated a standard or code, I think fast to scrutinize the accuser’s motives. I believe judging another’s conduct is the most serious, most serious, most serious conduct humans ever do, so here is the hard part: Am I willing to have my motives scrutinized?

Belief isn’t a spectator sport, like the think-fast game. It isn’t fun. Not at all.