Build It and They Will Buy (or Don't Replace What Ain't Broke)

FADE IN:

INT. ROW OF SEATS IN THEATRICAL PLAYHOUSE, NEAR STAGE - EVENING

In a playhouse in rural northwest Illinois, an attractive couple sits, reading playbills, waiting for onset of play, when another couple enters and takes adjacent seats.

DERF and his wife, LLENAR, nicely ensconced, full-time Privatopians are approached by GOOCH and his wife, LILY, full-time Privatopians, who “winter” in Florida.

GOOCH

Hey, Llenar and Derf! Fancy meeting you here.

DERF

I was thinking the same thing.

(The wives talk quietly to each other.)

GOOCH

Say, you’re not in favor of that new lodge, are you? …I mean, what are they thinking?!

***

I haven’t been blogging lately, and not because I don’t have anything to write. Rather, I am so chock-full of stuff that I’m afraid if I don’t stem the swell I will burst like an ill-maintained dam.

***

Where do I begin? To me it seems as if, currently, here in the USA, political divisiveness is as pervasive as it was during the civil war era. But, then I think about the recent UK referendum - on whether to leave or remain in the European Union... OR, the big debate here at Privatopia: Tear it Down and Rebuild or, The Old Lodge is Just Fine. Perhaps it’s just part of our collective tribal DNA to disagree…

***

Did you ever read the short book, “Mama’s Bank Account” by Kathryn Forbes? If not, perhaps you saw the play or film, “I Remember Mama” or, “Mama,” the television series.

It describes the joys and struggles of a Norwegian family in America in the 1910s. Each payday Mama gathers the family to see if there is sufficient cash for the family’s needs and thus no reason to go to the real “bank” in town to withdraw from their savings account.

"It will cost a little money,” says the son, Nels, as he expresses his desire to further his education by attending high school.

Nels had it all written out neatly. So much for carfare, for clothes, for notebooks and supplies. Mama looked at the figures for a long time. Then she counted out the money in the Little Bank. There was not enough. She pursed her lips. 'We do not,' she reminded us gently, 'want to have to go to the Bank.' We all shook our heads.' I will work in Dillon's grocery shop after school,' Nels volunteered. Mama gave him a bright smile and laboriously wrote down a sum and added and subtracted. Papa did it in his head. He was very quick on arithmetic. 'Is not enough,' he said. Then he took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at it for a long time. 'I give up tobacco,' he said suddenly. Mama reached across the table and touched Papa's sleeve, but she didn't say anything. Just wrote down another figure.' I will mind the Elvington children every Friday night,' I said. 'Christine can help me.'' Is good,' Mama said. We all felt very good. We had passed another milestone without having to go downtown and draw money out of Mama's Bank Account. The Little Bank was sufficient for the present."

It’s a heartwarming tale with a cute twist - (SPOILER ALERT!! - Actually, there is no downtown bank account. Mama has never set foot inside a bank. She used her weekly ritual to instill the idea of family responsibility and cooperation as to financial matters, to basically make certain that all were on the same page, -and, mind you, without unnecessary worry for the little ones.)

***

Privatopia is a common-interest community — governed by a property owners association (POA.)

Some property/home owners like having a governing body that instills balance and coherence within a locality by establishing rules that regulate its appearance and its use for the benefit of all. (I fall into that category.)

Often POAs/HOAs are governed by volunteer or elected board members. I thank them and applaud their service. However, sometimes members having little, or no, property management experience are then charged with the maintenance and allocation of hundreds of thousands of dollars. They make decisions such as paying down debt, building emergency or reserve funds. Reserves, as I understand it, are for items you know will have to be replaced or repaired, such as common roads, common building roofs, swimming pool/recreation areas, etc. How well should reserves funded? I don’t know. Rather than get involved, I put my trust in our board.

Logic dictates that the financial health of an POA community...

Let me stop right here- I can tell I’m losing your interest. But, do let’s talk for a minute about “logic."

Logic, as I recall being taught by Mr. Reardon in high school, centers around premises, which lead to a conclusion. It gets more complicated, but I’ll keep it basic.

Example of a logical conclusion:

All humans are mortal. (premise)

Ranell is a human. (premise)

___________________

So, Ranell is mortal. (conclusion)

Example of a counterexample in logic:

Ranell has never received a moving violation while driving a motorized vehicle. (true premise)

Ranell has been driving for 45+ years. (true premise)

_______________________

So, Ranell is a great driver. (invalid conclusion)

While the premises are true, it does not necessarily follow that the conclusion is true. Ranell could simply be lucky or skillful at eluding tickets.

Example of false premise, false conclusion

All stars emit light. (true premise)

Mars is a star. (false premise - Mars is not a star, but a planet)

___________________

So, Mars emits light. (invalid conclusion)

Now, back to Privatopia and our POA Board’s attempt to obtain approval for the demolition and rebuilding of our 40-year-old lodge building. I took a good look at the lodge recently and didn’t think it looked all that bad. Nor, do I consider 40 years to be too old for a building. Heck, Practical Husband and I resided in a Chicago bungalow that was about 77 years old when we sold it to a young man who adored it. And then I think about how the National Park Service works to preserve old lodges and historical buildings. Instead of demolition they opt to upgrade the building's HVAC systems, electrical and plumbing.

The board took pictures of some of the “problem” areas and posted them, e.g., an open electrical junction box. This sort of backfired because of numerous reactions, like: “Why aren’t we fixing these things as we go along?” “Somebody take a screwdriver and close the darn thing!”  Anyway none of the problems seemed insurmountable, something to justify razing the building. But, that’s me.

Here is their opening paragraph about the New Lodge (the italics are mine, to accent the parts I question):

The goal with this project is to create value for our property owners - a new four season, family oriented facility that will better support the pool and winter activities. This will attract younger families with kids. The plan is to build an attractive more functional facility that better connects to the pool with a central entry point. It will better support current and new activities. Better facilities for dinners, dances, weddings, movies, kid’s and young adult activities, fitness center, meetings, card clubs, ski hill, tube hill, and more. Having a first rate facility for these activities will help to attract new membership and increase property values. This is consistent with our Lake Carroll Mission Statement. Quality amenities including lake, golf, clubhouse, pool, and including a new lodge will only help to attract membership and improve property values. We need to invest in our future. 

I don’t follow their logic. Let’s start with that 2nd sentence: “This will attract younger families with kids.” -Where is the proof for this statement? And even if this were a true premise or conclusion, from where will these young families come? The Chicago suburbs? From the sometimes, economically challenged local small towns of northwest Illinois? Are they talking about families relocating completely or families buying second, weekend getaway homes? In which case they might have to wait for the economy to improve. And if it improves to the point that young families can afford 2nd homes, might they just might move here even without a new lodge?

Next: "build an attractive more functional facility that better connects to the pool with a central entry point” -Do you need to demolish an entire building? Can’t we just add a central entry point to connect the two buildings?

Next: "It will better support current and new activities. Better facilities for dinners, dances, weddings, movies, kid’s and young adult activities, fitness center, meetings, card clubs, ski hill, tube hill, and more.” -But, we have all of the above listed activities now. So what are the “new” or the “and more?” And please tell me you aren’t hoping to attract teenagers with foosball and Nintendo?!

Next: "Having a first rate facility for these activities will help to attract new membership and increase property values.” and "a new lodge will only help to attract membership and improve property values. We need to invest in our future.” - I know, it gets repetitious, right? But when you only have one talking point, I guess you just keep repeating it.

Now, here is my stab at logic:

Most children go to school 5 days per week for much of the winter.

Many children participate in extracurricular activities, such as sports, arts and science.

Many extracurricular activities, like sports, arts and science require weekday and weekend participation.

____________________________

So, most school children will have little time to use a building designed primarily for winter use, outside of a few weekends.

Are we to build a new lodge so that young families (who have not bought, nor moved here yet and thus actually do not exist) can use it two days per week, if that? We already have a restaurant that is only open 3 1/2 days during the academic year.

Beaver, do you want to go to Privatopia this weekend?

Golly jeepers, Mom, you know it’s the big game at school. And I promised the guys. Besides, what are we going to do there? Sit in the new lodge and play foosball or Nintendo? I can do that at home.

Here is another paragraph from our Board:

This is all about a long term investment in our future that will create value for our membership. Interest rates are at historic lows and will likely go up in the future. Construction costs go up 3 to 4% a year. It will only get more expensive to build as years go by.  -Sounds rather like a timeshare pitch or used car sale, doesn’t it?

We have just what you are looking for in a brand new lodge  -the latest in architectural engineering improvements  -longer lasting  -easy servicing  -fun to use  -plenty of room  -prices start at just $4,150,000, delivered!  -satisfaction guaranteed or your money back (if only!)

The board also tried to put this “it won’t cost you one cent" spin on it, by saying that instead of lowering the annual POA fee by $136, as promised, now that the prior loan has been repaid, they will keep those monies in the annual assessment and use it to repay our brand, spanking new loan. Kind of like using the “pug dog” economics theory from “Life with Father.” Have you read the book or seen the movie? They have a great scene where Mrs. Day purchases a life-sized ceramic pug dog for $15 from a NY department store. When Mr. Day spots it he flips. “What is this monstrosity? Get rid of it!” Their son, Clarence, wants a new suit from the same store and it also costs $15. Mrs. Day lets Clarence exchange the pug dog for the suit of clothes.

The suit is delivered, and Mr. Day sees the package and questions its contents.

Mrs. Day:     (explaining)It’s a new suit of clothes for Clarence, and it isn’t costing you a penny.
Mr. Day:     (looking at the package) It’s marked 'charge -$15.' It’s costing me $15.
Mrs. Day:     Clare, can’t you take my word? It isn’t costing you a penny.
Mr. Day:     I’d like to have you explain why it isn’t.
Mrs. Day:     Because Clarence took the pug dog back and got the suit instead.
Mr. Day:     Of course, and they’ll charge me $15 for the suit.
Mrs. Day:     Nonsense, Clare we gave them the pug dog for the suit. Don’t you see?
Mr. Day:     Then they’ll charge me $15 for the pug dog.
Mrs. Day:     But, Clare, they can’t. We haven’t got the pug dog. We sent that back.
Mr. Day:     (stammering) But, hmm, but..., now wait a minute, Vinnie. There is something wrong with your reasoning.
Mrs. Day:     Clare, I’m surprised at you. And you’re supposed to be so good at figures.  Why it’s perfectly clear to me.
Mr. Day:     Vinnie, they’re going to charge me for one thing or the  other.
Mrs. Day:     Don’t you let them!
Mr. Day:     Well, McClearys aren’t giving away suits and they aren’t giving away pug dogs. Why it should be clear to a child that if Clarence sent the pug dog back they… (stammering again) hmm… well… 

-at this point Mr. Day is so befuddled by his wife’s reasoning that he abruptly changes the subject.

I enjoy my POA community and I respect my Board. I have supported the Board's suggestions at each financial vote over the years. This time, however, I think they are wrong, and there's no shame in that. After all no one can always bat 1.000. If the vote goes through despite my opposition, that will be just fine. No hard feelings on my part. I will continue to respect my board, my community, pay my dues and follow the rules and regulations. $136 per year will not hurt me financially. I merely object to the demolition and replacement of a building that just needs a bit of TLC and some HVAC updating. And okay, perhaps some new furniture, some modern exercise equipment, and fine, fine! alright, a foosball, pool table and Nintendo. And you know, if we are going to focus on winter activities how about a nice ice skating rink or one of those fancy ice ribbons like they have at Maggie Daley Park in Chicago? Surely we can do all that for less than $4,150,00.00? 

NOTE: As a side note on attracting teenagers and young adults, both Harvard and Yale have completed thorough studies about teen participation in out-of-school activities. You can look them up on line, OR take my word that basically due to uber-busy schedules including, part-time jobs, sports, arts and other extracurricular activities, to say nothing of school and homework,  paid or volunteer internships, teens today have little time for hanging out at Privatopia-like havens. Teens who do have rare free time often prefer to hang out and have a pick-up basketball game or to go shopping with their friends. The desire to have parental or adult supervision plummets around the age 15 or 16. Having activities or gatherings with older adults around isn’t very appealing to teens and young adults. Surprise! Surprise!

Alas, such is the nature of teenagers. Privatopia should know this from the following report on a social event that resulted in the arrest of several teens: 

Minors arrested at drinking party

Carroll County Sheriff’s deputies and other agencies responded at 1:10 a.m. Saturday to a report of drinking party in the area of Pronghorn Court and Fawn Ridge Drive.
Eleven people from 18 to 20 years and four juveniles from 15 to 17 years, were taken to the sheriff’s department for processing. Two of the 11 were wanted on Stephenson County warrants; they posted bond and were released. Another one of the 11 was charged with obstruction of identification. He posted bond and was released. 
A search warrant was carried out at the home, and 30 more minors were found inside. All were processed and released to responsible parties, and all will receive notice to appear in court for consumption of alcoholic liquor as a minor. 
Chadwick, Lanark, Mount Carroll, and Savanna police, along with state troopers, state Department of Natural Resources police, Lake Carroll security, and the Carroll County State’s Attorney’s office assisted at the scene.

Is there any winter activity more wholesome than ice skating?

a flower grows

“Imagine what it was like when the dinosaurs roamed the earth,” my voice is barely above a whisper. I feel the small hand in mine clutch a bit tighter as we walk among large fronds from palms trees and then through an area lush with ancient ferns, mosses and outcroppings. We are enveloped by a fog-like mist and it’s not difficult to imagine the jurassic period. The older child, a couple of feet away, makes a low-pitched throaty sound. I look toward him and he smiles, “That was me,” to reassure us that there really isn’t a dinosaur milling nearby. It’s about 28 degrees fahrenheit outside, but we are warm and cozy, ensconced in the midst of sweet smelling, plant-purified air. 

I’ve been bringing my grandchildren to the Garfield Park Conservatory for about 10 years. The conservatory occupies 4.5 acres, including all of its indoor and outdoor areas. It stands proudly in the center of Chicago’s 185 acre Garfield Park. And it never ceases to stun me with its beautiful botanical treasure. It is a jewel of unmeasurable worth.

As you walk from one indoor room to another, you are bowled over with the ever-changing beauty of design, making each visit a unique experience. Oh, and did I mention that it’s free, with free parking? (Although donations are definitely welcome and well merited.) And when the harsh winter ends, they open up the outdoor gardens and the beauty seems to roll along forever. The first time I took our older grandson to the outdoor “city garden” he was about two. He ran out onto the lawn and threw himself on the ground, at first with his eyes closed he grasped the grass, then rolled onto his back, opened his eyes, laughing and throwing up his little arms, moving them as if he were awash in a sea of trees and birds and sunshine and clouds, that he could grasp, pull and place in his pockets.  

Yes, it is a jewel of unmeasurable worth, and one that is set in a war zone.

This grand piece of nature lies in an economically downtrodden neighborhood, one that is spiked with unfathomable gun violence, as at any given time, it can rank near the top in the nation for homicides by guns.

As I walk from my youngest grandchild’s home on the Northside of Chicago to the nearby Mariano’s grocery store, where well-dressed, young families peacefully abound, buying organic groceries or expensive ready-cooked meals, it’s hard to imagine that just 7 miles away, as the crow flies, that crow will leave a site with scads of young families safely and happily frolicking outside and fly to an area where young children, who aside from their walk to and from school, mostly remain inside their homes, for fear of stray bullets from warring gangs.

Like many U.S. cities, Chicago contains segregated neighborhoods. Although many areas  remain relatively unaffected by gun violence, in some neighborhoods the bloodletting is constant and unrelenting, and this is nearly always in black or Hispanic neighborhoods, where the victims are usually male.

When someone is shot, there are never any witnesses. I can’t blame them. I wouldn’t tell the authorities anything if it virtually guaranteed that I’d be the next victim. And I wasn’t raised with a lifelong mistrust or distrust of the police department. A code of silence is strictly enforced. It’s no different than turning evidence against the mafioso, except that there is no witness protection program for these people.

To whom does one turn for help if you can’t turn to the city officials? Even the religious leaders are stymied as to a permanent solution. Chicago's famed Catholic priest Michael Pfleger says, “Guns have become part of America’s wardrobe. People out here presume everyone has one, and they’ll tell you, ‘I’m going to draw mine before I get laid down.’ ” And throw in the fact that we, in the U.S., have a lily-livered Congress that kowtows to the gun and rifle associations' lobbyists (who insist "guns don't kill..." !) and thus refuse to put sensible restrictions on sales and ownership of assault weapons.

Teenagers are lured to gangs for companionship but also for a sense of protection, even though ironically it puts them at increased risk for one day becoming a statistic on the homicide chart. We all know that the teenage brain is not wired to think as logically as an adult brain, - “Consequence? What is consequence?"

Over a particularly bloody weekend, the youngest Chicago homicide victim is a 16-year-old boy, shot in the chest as he stands on a sidewalk in the East Garfield Park neighborhood. Was he a gang member? I don’t know, but I do know that 16 year old boys often make poor decisions, decisions they might rationalize differently were they lucky enough to live to be 28 years old.

There is a part of Werner Herzog’s Encounters at the End of the World documentary where a scientist discusses creatures found in the deepest of the oceans:  

"They range in the way that they would gobble you up from slime-type blobs, but creepier than classic science fiction blobs - these would have long tendrils that would ensnare you, and as you try to get away from them you just become more and more ensnared by your own actions. And then after you would be frustrated and exhausted, then this creature would start to move in and take you apart…" 

Werner Herzog responds (this may not be verbatim but it’s close):

“Life in the oceans must be sheer hell. A vast, merciless hell of permanent and immediate danger. So much of a hell that during evolution some species crawled... fled onto solid land.”

Come, come crawl away, flee from the danger and into the Conservatory, I think.

***

On a recent, unseasonably warm June day, I ask my youngest grandchild (almost 2 1/2 years old), “Where do you want to go today, to the beach or to Morning Glories?” Each Monday the conservatory hosts a program, for 2-5 years olds and their caregivers, called Morning Glories. There is no charge for this amazing program, where young children, mostly from privileged caucasian families, play in the sanitized dirt, dig for worms, plant seeds, mist the plants and flowers, have stories read to them, make take-home projects, -all against the prettiest backdrop you could envision. He’s a pretty sharp kid, so he replies, “Morning Glories first and then the beach."

I stand and watch as he clambers up a grass-covered hill and we look over the grounds. A Green Line CTA train passes nearby. As always, I’m astounded at the show of contrast between natural beauty and a city beset by combat. Just like the air purified by the trees, flowers and plants, there is a palpable change in this environment; the chaos of city life seems to have evaporated here and a sweet calm form of condensation falls upon us, like invisible raindrops. And I think of the flower that grows in a tiny crack or small fissure in the concrete...

Come on over, come on in, neighborhood children, this is your conservatory, too. Come, come and flourish...

a flower grows

grandson prepares to throw his small change into the ever-changing coin pond - this particular week a tribute to Prince

inspirational labyrinth

the ever cool cactus room

the fern room - when the misters are on seems like ancient america

the eye-popping color of the display room

the outdoor lily pond

the indoor koi pond

the indoor children's room slide

 this display just after the paris shootings, (when, I wonder, will I see a remembrance for
the nearby child victims of gun violence?)

would you believe me if I told you this is in the middle of "war-torn" Chicago?

Greatness from the Corner of Market and Main, (part two)

Where was I? Oh yes, on the corner of Market and Main Streets, just exiting the ice cream/coffee shop/bistro located across from the county courthouse, headed to the outdoor portion of a small, midwestern town's Memorial Day service.

The town seems to do the Memorial Day remembrance a bit different each year, but it always begins with a speech at the middle school, followed by an outdoor service that starts on the grounds outside the courthouse.

We find a shady spot on this unseasonably warm day. People are beginning to drift in from every direction, families, senior citizens, troops of brownies, girl scouts, cub scouts and boy scouts, individual military veterans…  -A motorcycle pulls up directly in front of us and a man in his 60s hops off, takes off his protective helmet, exposing a head of silver hair, upon which he places his veteran of foreign wars cap. A woman, carrying two military rifles, walks past. Kids of all ages clutch flowers in their small hands.

White crosses bearing the name of each war or conflict from the Spanish-American War to the present day Afghanistan War line the grounds on Market Street. Today’s celebration will include a portion where individual veterans ceremoniously place a wreath on each of the crosses, as we, collectively, pause a moment to remember those whose lives were lost.

Like I said, this little town seems to do the Memorial Day service a bit different each year, but no matter how it’s done, it never fails to bring me to tears. This year I am reduced to barely-controlled, audible sobs. Even the youngest of children seem to recognize the solemnity of the event.

As I gaze about taking in all of the people, I spot the guest speaker standing off alone. Usually Practical Husband, a Navy veteran, can identify the man’s uniform from at least 100 yards away as that of an Army Sergeant Major. I identify that he is a handsome, dignified black man. I’m happy to see a non-white person, representing our military in this rural area, with demography indicating a 98.53% white population. I could only have been more pleased had it been a female speaker. I glance at him once, okay maybe it was twice, before I decide to snap a photo, okay maybe it was two photos of him.

So I’m guessing, you probably don’t rise up through the ranks to the most senior enlisted position in the U.S. Army without some intelligence and observation skills. He has instantly noticed my glances and photo taking, and has fairly quickly made his way across the grounds to me. He extends his hand, respectively nods his head, looks me in the eye and addresses me, “Ma’am.” As I reach out, he envelops my hand with a warm, solid yet gentle enough grasp. I beam and he returns with an eye-crinkling, dimple-showing charmer of a smile. He asks how I’m doing. “I’m fine,” I answer. “I, as well, Ma’am,” he responds, “but I see I'd better check and find the location they’d like me to take,” as he gestures to the parade beginning to assemble. As he heads down the stairs, a gray-haired man extends his hand, “Thank you, Sgt. Major, for your inspiring speech. Very well done. I appreciate your words.” I can tell that Sgt. Major shook this man’s hand with a bit more firmness and physical strength than he did with my hand. He continues down the stairs to the middle of Market Street, where the veteran directing the ceremony puts his hand forth and escorts him to a spot saying, with utmost respect, “Sgt. Major, please stand here, directly behind our colors. I will walk beside you, followed by our veterans.” And so they line up, with the scout groups forming behind the veterans, followed finally by the veteran drummer and the trumpet player, followed by the tractor pulling the veterans, who due to age or injury cannot walk the distance to and from the cemetery.

An audible "Ten’ hut,” calls the Sgt. Major and veterans to attention, and you can see their spines and appendages immediately straighten. And as many times as I’ve heard the call and seen the reaction, it still fills me with a chilling pride for our military. The drum roll begins and the director calls “Forward march!”

As the groups pass, the audience files in behind and the procession to the river begins. "Ppparrumm, ppparrumm, pparrumm, ppumm, ppumm,” the group’s pace matches the beat of the snare drum. We stop at the river, where there is a twenty-one gun salute and Taps is played. Adults and children come forth and drop flowers in the river, to honor those who died in service for their country and are buried at sea.

The group reassembles and continuing to follow the cadence of the drum, marches to the town’s cemetery, where there is another twenty-one gun salute and Taps is again played. Flowers are placed on individual graves of those who died in military service.

I feel solemn, my heart weighted with sadness, and yet I feel good about myself, about this little midwestern town and about my country. There are many great places in the world to live. Many of those places have people who are also proud of their heritage and are also happy with their homeland. And so it is with me.

From the corner of Main and Market, I say, unabashedly, that America is great, it’s always been great, it’s always going to be great… But, recognizing that America doesn’t have a lock on “greatness,” as greatness comes not from a nation but from the individuals within a nation.

A cross for each conflict

a scout

a brownie

everyone assembling

I first spotted Sgt. Major chatting with this senior couple

veterans carrying wreaths

small town pride assembling

love seeing the female vets!

choke- sob

Sgt. Major

scouts assembling

cub scouts, then boy scouts

small town pride

the injured and infirm

flowers floating for those buried at sea

even pet spirit

Greatness, Part 1 (Or, Greatness on the Corner of Main and Market Streets)

It's been almost 5 years since we permanently moved from one of the busiest, most populated cities in North America to a rural area, where to quote myself, “the livestock outnumber the humans.” Usually Practical Husband has well adjusted to the less crowded, slower paced, laid-back kind of lifestyle. However, when it comes time to attend an event in one of the small towns outside of Privatopia, he slips right back into big-city-mode. He wants us to leave early to “get a jump on traffic” and to secure a “parking place” because in his mind there will be, not only gridlock, but nowhere to park. I’ve acquiesced to just going along with his needless fret and worry.

Sometime after buying our home in Privatopia, we began to attend an annual Memorial Day remembrance at one of the nearby towns (about 12 miles southwest of our home.) I know there are other such services in small towns around here, but this one is our favorite.

We arrive, oh, I don’t know exactly, but probably at least one hour early (having secured “primo” parking before the arrival of “throngs of people”). To pass the time we stroll about the small town. It’s quite a quaint little place.

Usually Practical Husband suggests we get some coffee from the newer ice cream/coffee shop/bistro on the corner of Main and Market streets. It’s in a newly gentrified building. An eager young lady, dressed in the latest, hippest fashion patiently awaits our perusal of the menu.

Standing closer to the counter, Usually Practical Husband begins, “I’ll have a regular coffee.” He turns to me and asks, "How about you, Hon?” 

“Uh, em, I’ll have the iced chai tea. Small, please,” and as I am half-way through my order, Usually Practical Husband begins chatting with the young lady. I discern that it’s perhaps somewhat difficult for her to follow the both of us talking at once. But, she does her best, taking in our words and simultaneously entering the two orders on the fancy computerized register.

Without missing a beat, she looks at me, “And you did say ‘small’ correct?"

I smile at her, “Yes.” She nods in acknowledgement as her finger hits the corresponding key.

“That will be $4.75, please,” she says. After Usually Practical Husband pays, she smiles and with a wave of her hand, gestures to an area with tables and seating, “Have a seat, please and I’ll bring out your order shortly."

We choose a small round table, next to a shelf of discarded, hard cover books on sale from the town's local Carnegie Library. After I glance at the book titles, I sit and pronounce to Usually Practical Husband, “She is freakin’ adorable!"

He laughs aloud and agrees. She is young, about 9-10 years old, or so, I’d guess. Yet her mannerisms had perfectly imitated the most capable adult waitress/barista I’ve ever encountered. We watch as she completes the order preparation herself (standing on her tiptoes to utilize the coffee urn pump), with only minimal verbal guidance from her parents. She delivers our order, producing a straw for my iced tea from her pint-sized waitress apron. Later, Usually Practical (and often fussy) Husband pronounces the coffee as “surprisingly very good.” I find my iced chai tea to be comparable to anything I’ve gotten from Starbucks.

At some point the cafe’s telephone rings and the girl instantly zips across the room to answer the call. Her mother and father are meanwhile busy overseeing the mixing and flavoring of ice cream, overseeing the updates that are still being completed in the rehabbed building and keeping one eye on their pint-sized assistant.  

This, I think, this is it, this is what it means when I hear the much-ballyhooed, political banter of American “greatness.” A family, working together, trying hard to make a living. It takes courage, toil and teamwork. You pour your funds into purchasing the wares you’ll need, put your best foot forward and hope that buyers will come, you hope that you can make a “go of it". 

As we leave the cafe, there is a lull in the action and I see the little girl off at a small, two-person window table, pulling a little cash out of her tiny apron. I smile at the familiar sight of a waitress tallying her tips.

“Are these your tips?” I ask (as there had been a tip jar at the counter.) She nods as I hand her some cash. “Thank you, that was one of the best iced chai teas I’ve ever had.” She adds the money to her coins and few singles.

On our stroll to the Memorial Day event, I beseech Usually Practical Husband, “Promise me we will make an effort to come here on the first Saturday of every month this summer (when the town has their artisan display/farmer’s market) and have breakfast.” He smiles and says, “Good idea.”

***

Check back in a couple of days for Greatness, Part 2.

our adorable barista

Once...

Once upon a time there was a girl who loved Elvis and Gene Pitney. The girl was only three years older than me but to me she always seemed wiser and more worldly. Urbane was a word I'd read as a young kid. Back then I'd looked it up in the dictionary. And, yes, back then I thought of her as urbane.

I’d often asked her for advice, or sought her approval. Depending on her mood she would either begrudgingly comply, defiantly ignore me or snickeringly mock me for my jejune concerns. This did not deter me from following her around like a needy puppy.

Years later my cellphone chimed. A male voice, “Rrrnll? Eeesh mme, Shmm. Shrry furr mm gubbdeegukkk bu I jeshh guch bekk furmm duh dentish offish. Mmm juh ish wwrrdd. Ennyhuh, Yeshshe ish nn duh hoshpidlll. Yeshshe ashdd mm tuh ttlll uuu.”

I made arrangements to accompany her to some of her doctor visits and to some of her chemo treatments, which were given in “rounds” or cycles of four weeks on-two weeks off, four weeks on-two weeks off, four weeks on-two weeks off…

I sat beside her in the waiting room. Were it not for the telltale identification wristband, it would be difficult to discern the patients from the accompanying friends and family. Often hale and robust looking adults were actually in treatment. As I glanced about the room I noticed that the person I sat with was clearly the sickest, most frail person in the room.

She was often handed sheafs of paper, to which she would cast a cursory glance, then pass off to me. On the top of one pack was a beautifully produced booklet entitled, “Dealing with Stage-IV Cancer."

We made the best of our time away from the hospital, going to favorite eateries, visiting the past haunts of our childhood, lazily watching the White Sox or Cubs on television, shopping, sipping wine, reminiscing and laughing until we cried.

*

“How've you been sleeping?” I ask her one day. “Not too well. They give me these sleeping pills, but I won’t take them.” “Why not?” “Well, I’m afraid I’ll become dependent on them."

*

“I was looking through your paperwork and one of the brochures says they have a 'support group' service and they can put you in contact with...” “Sorry, not interested.” “Well, they also have an online group, so you wouldn’t have to actually go in person…” “Thank you, no."

*

“I read somewhere that it’s sometimes less stressful to have your haircut very short, then it is to fret over watching it fall out.” As I tell her this I brace for a rebuff, but she is silent.

*

When I pick her up for lunch, she says, “Do you mind stopping somewhere first?” “No, of course not. Where are we going?” “To a salon a couple of blocks from the restaurant.” As I drive her to the address she seems chatty and upbeat. “Don’tcha wanna know why I wanna stop here?” “Um, to get fitted for a wig?” “No, Silly, to have my head shaved. It was your suggestion you know.”

*

“Are you angry that I asked someone else to take charge of my arrangements and estate?” “No, actually, I’m quite relieved,” I tell her, "I’m not good at that kind of stuff.” “Yeah, I know."

---

Once upon a time there was a group of trees, planted with purpose, the purpose of providing shade, the purpose of providing privacy from neighbors and passersby, the purpose of beautifying, the purpose of improving the quality of the atmosphere… The trees grew strong and beautiful and fulfilled their duty.

One day, while sitting outside my home, I look up and notice that one of the trees looked different, not as full as the others. Her once green leaves are yellowed and falling out at an alarming rate as it's still the middle of summer. An online search turns up info about infestations, mold, canker, fungus, mildew and other tree ailments. I trim her bare branches. I make certain she has sufficient nourishment and fluids, and I wait. But, she continues her decline. I call a tree “doctor,” actually an arborist. He examines just five of our dozen, or so, trees, five trees that his trained eye detects as problematic. The five are probably all sick, but in the tree where my concern began, the problem is the most pronounced. “But, why this tree?” I ask. I listen in a daze as he talks, “the invader seeks out the weakest tree first. This one has the most southern exposure. It’s probably been drier during drought periods…"  Three of his words strike a chord, “invasive” “spread” “aggressive." Why do those words affect me? Did he say “note the crown” or did he call it a canopy? I struggle to remember the biblical passage about a woman’s crowning glory, as he continues talking.

The arborist proposes a strategy of injecting what will basically be a poison…- I stop him, “Wait, will the poison hurt the environment, or the trees, or, or me?” “No,” he assures me, “It will not harm you or your nearby shrubs and greenery. It is safe to use and it targets just the invasive, blah, blah, blah...” I agree to his master plan, which he says will entail injecting annual “rounds” or cycles of poison. He will do the first injection today. He writes out a prescription for me, in the event I wish to have another arborist do the procedure in the future.

Today four trees stand tall, beautiful and strong, protecting our home. But, the fifth tree, the tree that I sat near, and that I couldn’t help but notice that it looked frail and weakened compared to its robust compatriots; that tree was eventually cut down and the wood was burned.

“Your yard looks great!” I hear from a golfer who passes our home. I stand with him and look out at the breadth of the property and force a smile. He doesn’t know that once there stood a tree, a strong and very beautiful tree, and now it is gone.

I'd No Gumption for Fashion

The temperature hovers around 63 degrees, it’s a bit breezy, but the sun shines brightly, nary a cloud in the sky. As we head outside my aging brain tries to factor the season, our latitude and the axis tilt of earth -all should add up to a warming sun, yet…  Aloud I say to my two-year-old grandson, “You better wear a sweatshirt or something.” I hold up two articles of clothing and ask, "Do you want to wear this beige sweater or this red sweatshirt?” “Beige,” he says slowly, smiling, rolling the word around on his tongue as if to taste it. I'm fairly certain he’s not familiar with the word ‘beige.’ But, I can tell that he likes the sound of it and is filing it away for some future date when he'll use it, appropriately and in his parents presence, and they'll marvel, “Where does he get these words?”

Then he says quickly and emphatically, “No beige. Want red sweatshirt.” How early does a child develop a sense of clothing color preferences?

As a child, I’d have picked the beige clothing, nothing flashy or fancy for me. If I’d a choice between navy blue and bright yellow, navy would do fine, gray better yet. Mind you, I quite enjoy looking at people who are fashionably clad and I can readily identify a “sharp dresser.” I’ve just never had the gumption to be one.

This makes me quite the opposite of my younger sister. Her keener sense of fashion, especially as it applies to “matching” outfits, is most apparent to me when she appears on the golf course. I’ll be darned if not only does she manage to nicely match her clothing, but also her hat, shoes, golf glove, golf tees and even golf ball as well. For that’s the way she’ll have shopped, buying entire outfits at once. (She and her husband are avid snowmobilers. When they traded in their slightly used machines to purchase the newest souped-up version, she donated her hardly worn snowmobile outerwear, helmet, gloves and boots to charity, as they no longer harmonized with the color of her new snow machine. She immediately purchased all new color-coordinated gear.)

I, on the other hand, tend to buy clothing motivated by three factors, 1) it fits me, 2) it’s practical and not too flashy and 3) it’s on sale. In this manner I end up with a bunch of stuff I then have to figure out how to put together in some manner that demonstrates I have at least some semblance of color and pattern sense.

In my head I have a picture of the two of us being featured in some Golf for Women-type magazine, with my sister, modeling a well-coordinated outfit under the headline, “How to Dress for Success on the Golf Course,” and my photo on the opposite side titled, “Don’t Let This Happen to You!"

I mention this notion to my sister and she says, eyeing me carefully, “Oh, you’re not that bad. Although might I suggest limiting yourself to two, perhaps three, different colors at the max. And try tucking your shirt in and maybe adding a coordinated belt. No, you’re fine."

Recently, Reliable Husband and I had lunch in one of those charming little touristy towns  with another couple. While they are both well-dressed, the wife of the twosome I  especially consider to be a person who epitomizes someone with good fashion sense. As we strolled about after lunch, window browsing, she pointed out a couple of beautiful items that caught her eye. The only clothing that caught my eye was a black knit sweater that some fashionista had cut about six inches out of just above the elbows and sewn in bright, multi-colored splotches of fabric. I wish I could pull something like that off, I thought. But it takes some courage.

I ask my friend if she’s ever looked at some of Bill Cunningham’s “On the Street” fashion photos for the New York Times. She hadn’t. It occurred to me later that I should have also mentioned Iris Apfel. Or the wonderful blog, “What Ali Wore” by Zoe Spawton. Iris and Ali are at the top of my charts for gutsy folks of fashionable taste. I love looking at both of them, wishing I could be as courageous. But it’s not in my genetic code, I guess.

I’ve never understood the humor behind the supposedly funny pictures of Walmart shoppers. I don’t care to laugh at people who may be poor, people who might be obese and have difficulty obtaining well-fitting clothing, people with possible psychosocial disabilities, people from other cultures, or people who are just plain different. I had a dream once that someone snapped a shot of me and I’d waken to find that the picture had gone viral and I was the butt of worldwide laughter. That was enough to scare me into really forcefully wakening myself from the nightmare, with a vow to myself to never, ever raise an eyebrow at anyone else’s style of dress.

Here are some photos of people who possess a style I wish I had the courage to use in expression of my soul.

Check out Spawton's blog or book for closeups of Ali and his wonderful outfits

There is an worth-watching documentary out on beautiful Iris Apfel

Ditto for Bill Cunningham, great documentary out about him