My CHRISTmas Card to You

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Friends & Family2 Comments

Every time I open a Christmas card, I feel a pang of guilt. As this year’s hustle and bustle and ho, ho, ho approached, I decided not to send cards.

This is a big, as in HUGE, break from tradition for me. I am one (of the shrinking few) who loves to sit down with my pen and compose a letter. 

I am one who prefers to address Christmas cards by hand. Writing each name on the envelope makes the snail mail delivery more personal somehow. 

I cannot tell a lie—well, I can, but I won’t—I’d rather address Christmas cards than wrap presents. Oh, I enjoy choosing boxes, paper, and ribbons for the first wave of gifts. But let’s be honest, unwrapping presents is way more exciting. 

I also find joy in opening Christmas cards. So, why didn’t I send them? 

It wasn’t a Grinch decision; I promise. 

OK. Maybe a hint of Grinch was involved. I wanted to boycott the Postal Service for its rate hikes and ongoing poor service.

But 90% of my reasoning had to do with time—finding it, conserving it. 

I surprised myself when I breezed through November without sneaking peeks at possible card options. Nor did I look for pictures I might include or stop to check out this year’s holiday stamps at the post office.

December 5th, my usual mailing deadline, came and went like any other day. If anything, the hectic pace of November and early December—travel, shopping, catching up with longtime friends, and work deadlines—reinforced my Christmas card sabbatical.

I was pleased with my decision—until I found that first card in my mailbox. I managed to keep the hint of guilt that came with it at bay—until I walked into Hallmark in search of a small gift.

Why I thought I could step into a Hallmark shop and keep my feet from straying to the Christmas card aisle remains a mystery. I don’t remember making a conscious choice to head in that direction. I just found myself standing there.

I look for a Christmas card that conveys warmth and commemorates the birth of Christ, the true reason this annual celebration began years ago.

The Partridge Family’s “My Christmas Card to You” is a musical example of the warmth factor. Go ahead, laugh, but the first lines wrap me in a cozy Christmas cocoon:

To you and all your family, your neighbors, and your friends

May all your days be happy with a joy that never ends

May peace and love surround you

At Christmas time and all the whole year through

Love the song, but it only checks off one of my boxes. 

As I scanned the colorful rows in the Hallmark store, my eyes landed on a card with the perfect mix of warmth and truth.

It was a Peanuts greeting. Charlie Brown, Lucy, Linus, Sally, Snoopy, Franklin, Schroeder, Pigpen, and the rest of the gang reenacting the Nativity.

I picked up the box of cards, and my resolve weakened. 

I said to myself, “Self, you can carve out the time, but you’re cutting it close for Christmas delivery.” 

I knew I couldn’t leave the store without those cards, but I did. 

There was only one box. Sixteen cards. Not enough. 

I had missed out on giving the perfect card, but then, maybe not. Maybe I can’t mail it, but I can share it. 

Picture the Peanuts gang dressed as shepherds and kings. Charlie Brown’s Joseph and Lucy’s Mary stand in the stable on either side of the manger. Sally is the Angel.

The words in the middle of the whimsical Nativity read:

May there be at least one moment this holiday season

 when you’re reminded what it’s really all about.

Inside, beneath a star: Christmas blessings to you and yours.

Merry CHRISTmas.

Fleas on my dog

On By VievesVineIn Entertainment1 Comment

José Feliciano’s “Feliz Navidad” hit the music charts in 1970. The song continues its fame as one of the most played/downloaded tunes each Christmas season. 

If you don’t believe me, check out the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP). The ASCAP recognizes Feliciano’s hit as one of the world’s 25 all-time most-played Christmas songs. “Feliz Navidad” also secured a spot in the Grammy Hall of Fame.

It’s easy to see why. 

“Feliz Navidad” is an earworm—a catchy tune that you can’t get out of your head. But the music is upbeat, puts an extra hop in your stride, and finds a home in your psyche. 

Hands and feet start tapping the minute the acoustic guitar, maracas, and drums introduce the words. No one can resist singing with Feliciano from the first “Feliz Navidad.”

It matters not whether you speak Spanish.

If you try to sing “Feliz Navidad” using only English, it goes from this…

Feliz Navidad

Feliz Navidad

Feliz Navidad

Próspero año y Felicidad

to this…

Merry Christmas 

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas

Happy New Year and Happiness

Nope. Nada. No, just no. 

We can modify syllables to match the Spanish cadence, but the words lose their pop. You could argue with me about that point. You might say, “But half of the song is already in English.” 

True. Every two Spanish Feliz Navidad stanzas are followed by two repeating English verses of “I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas. I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas. I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart.”

But switching the words to all-English or all-Spanish, for that matter, would betray our ears. One of the most beautiful components of Feliciano’s Christmas delight is the easy transition from Spanish to English and back.

Unless you sing it the way my family does, and if that is the case, the original masterpiece is forever ruined.

Once upon a long time ago, before cell phones, there was a technology called answering machines. Households had a telephone and possibly an extension upstairs, but calls rang in through one phone number.

And no one appeared to suffer, maybe because phones were not objects of our affection the way they are today.

But I digress.

When answering machines came on the scene, not missing calls became a reality. The process worked like voicemail. Someone in the family recorded a greeting asking the caller to leave a message.

In our family, that someone was Gary, the husband, dad, and veterinarian of the house. He got a kick out of making our greetings with his amusing impersonations of presidents, governors, cartoon characters—you name it. My husband’s knack for vocal impressions is one of his many hidden talents. 

One Christmas, Gary rewrote Feliciano’s Grammy-winning Christmas song and had the kids sing it to the music for our answering machine greeting. 

Anyone who called our house heard the music to “Feliz Navidad” with three wee voices singing:

Fleas on my dog

Fleas on my dog

Fleas on my dog

Itchin’ and scatchin’’ the whole night long

You need to call Dr. Ma-ha-cutcheon

You need to call Dr. Ma-ha-cutcheon

You need to call Dr. Ma-ha-cutcheon

To get rid of all these fleas

All English lyrics, I know, but Gary cut the syllables just right. 

Talk about an earworm. Each Christmas, when my family hears José Feliciano’s lively acoustic guitar, maracas, and drums, our hands and feet tap to the beat as we sing, “Fleas on my dog….”

Angel

On By VievesVineIn Everyday Life2 Comments

I started down the stairs when the sound of voices paused my progress.

I knew our friend Lloyd had stopped by for coffee with Gary, but their banter didn’t come from the kitchen. Like the steam floating above their hot mugs, conversation wafted up from the family room. 

I made like a “firefly on a wall” and tuned in.

A tinkling of bells trilled, stopped, then sang again. The melody repeated once, twice, four times. I pictured the lights on our Christmas tree switching on and off.

“It’s a magic wand,” I heard my husband say.

“Wowwww,” said Lloyd. “That’s so cool. Just like magic. Let me try it again.”

“My granddaughters love it,” said Gary.

Sounded like the grands weren’t the only ones who got a kick out of our magic Christmas (remote control) wand.

“Love your tree,” said Lloyd.

“The kids made a lot of the ornaments when they were young,” said Gary. 

I heard my husband point out three cardboard star ornaments—two blue, one gold—each holding a kindergarten photo of one of our children.

I never thought Gary paid much attention to our Christmas trees or the ornaments. I didn’t realize it until that moment, but all these years, I had imagined he just put up with the tradition. 

I leaned against the stair post on the landing and listened to the two men admire the ornaments.

“Hey,” said Lloyd, “someone took some time to stitch these.”

“Gen cross-stitched those—back when I was in Vet school.”

In my mind’s eye, I saw the green and white-checked cat, a cherub holding a star, and a sparse-needled Christmas tree—a few of the many ornaments I had cross-stitched while Gary studied.

The men’s voices stirred me from my reverie. 

“Look up there,” Gary said, “she’s the most special of them all.”

What? She? Who? I strained my ears to hear.

“That angel has topped our tree since our first married Christmas,” said Gary.

“Ohhh,” said Lloyd. “She’s beautiful.”

I, too, saw her golden hair, oval green eyes, and the metallic gold fabric wings that extend from the back of her flowing ivory gown, trimmed in glittery organza.

In the early years of our marriage, over the days leading up to Christmas, our angel cast hope upon us. But she spent her first four Christmas days alone in Alabama, one in a tiny apartment and three in our upsized mobile home. 

How lonely she must have been on the top of that unlit tree while we opened gifts beneath trees in West Virginia with our families. 

Our angel liked our first house, the one we bought when Gary took a job in Martinsburg. The tiny, white Cape Cod complemented her shine. She added charm to the built-in bookshelves on either side of the living room fireplace and to the corner cabinets in the dining room.

Our angel followed us without complaint when we relocated to a minuscule apartment in Bridgeport. We moved from there to a small red brick house a few streets away, and then to the “little brown house” while we looked for something roomier for our growing family.

From the tops of our many trees in the foyer of our rambling “this ole house,” our angel presided over our youngest child’s first Christmas. She survived the earthquakes of a few tree-climbing cats. She smiled over the merry laughter from more than a few “day before the day before” (Christmas) parties.

I don’t remember where we bought her, but I know why. I grew up topping my childhood trees with an angel.

We chose our angel because she felt safe, comfortable—at least to me, and from what I heard downstairs that morning, my husband feels the same way.

Boozy bandit

On By VievesVineIn Everyday Life, Friends & Family1 Comment

When I read about the liquor store break-in in Hanover County, Virginia, a visual image of my brother entered my mind. I pictured him running through the broken door of the store and along the aisles of glass bottles.

I said to myself, “Self, snap out of it!”

My brother may live in Hanover County, Virginia, but he was not the sneaky liquor store lawbreaker.  He’s got better things to do.

For one, he keeps his grands a couple of days a week. I’m sure he’s too tired on those nights to consider leaving the comfort of his bed to do anything, much less break into a liquor store.

For two, my brother plays pickleball. There may be pickle-ballers who are thieves on the side, but I doubt it. They wouldn’t want to face jail time unless they were guaranteed the facility provided state-of-the-art pickleball courts.

For three, my brother has been busy, busy rehearsing for an annual variety show his church sponsors each year. After putting in all those hours, he wouldn’t have wanted to take a chance on getting arrested and missing the performance. 

For four, my brother doesn’t match the suspect’s description. He is not one to wear a mask. He doesn’t have a black fur coat, and last I checked, he does not sport a bushy tail.

Mask? Fur coat? Bushy tail?

Exactly.

The liquor store in Hanover, Virginia, was ravaged by a raccoon—as in the nocturnal animal known for knocking over garbage cans, raiding gardens, and digging up lawns. Raccoons destroy roofs, gnaw on wires, and rip insulation.

I should know. Once upon a very, very long time ago, a family of five trash bandits took up residence inside our chimney. We turned into the driveway one night, and our car’s headlights caught a chubby raccoon scurrying up the lattice. 

We turned a flashlight toward the roof, and there they were—Mom, Dad, and their three kits hanging over the side of the chimney. They were probably scouting out which houses they’d terrorize that night.

After the trespassers were caught and “re-homed,” that chimney came down.

Oh, raccoons look so cute and cuddly with their tiny, pointed ears, ringed tails, and bandit faces. But they make trouble wherever they land.

This one landed—literally—in a store that peddles alcohol. Animal Control Officer Samantha Martin said the raccoon “fell through one of the ceiling tiles and went on a full-blown rampage, drinking everything.”

Imagine the faces of the employees when they returned to work the day after Thanksgiving to discover an early morning Black Friday break-in had taken place. Imagine following a path of smashed-up bottles and finding a raccoon passed out, drunk on the bathroom floor.

This scenario brings a couple of questions to mind:

Was the crime premeditated?

Did the raccoon acquire his taste for scotch and whiskey before he burglarized the liquor store?

Could it be that the culprit didn’t “fall” through the tiles, but had been a long time working his way through the roof with a night on the town in his sights?

Who knows? But it’s interesting that he, like most inebriated individuals, knew to make his way to the toilet.

Of course, these questions will go unanswered unless the raccoon—who was released back into the wild after he sobered up—loots another liquor store.

Until then, the only thing I can say for certain is that the guilty, drunk intruder in Hanover County was not my brother.

The berries

On By VievesVineIn Everyday Life, Friends & Family2 Comments

After taking a dip in the lake on a warm July evening, I took Louisa’s hand, and we hiked up to our castle on the hill. Our castle is our home away from home, though some mistake it for a cabin.

When my three-year-old grand and I reached the smooth fieldstone steps, we bumped into Bartholomew. Bartholomew is our resident toad. He lives in his own castle, deep in the cracks between the rocks that form a wall along the back of ours.

“Look, Louisa, there’s Bartholomew,” I said. “He’s come out to say ‘Hello’ to you.”

Louisa crouched low and tilted her head forward to have a better look. 

“Can I pat him?” she asked.

“Sure.”

The toddler reached out and lightly stroked the toad’s bumpy back with her index finger.

Bartholomew didn’t hop away until Louisa caressed his leathery skin a second time. 

My baby grand giggled when I said, “Wow, Louisa, Bartholomew thinks you’re the berries!”

I shared this story with some friends in South Carolina and discovered they had never heard the expression: “You’re the berries.”

“You’re the berries is the same as telling someone she is the bee’s knees or the bomb.com or, more simply put, the best,” I said. 

If you look up the phrase, experts claim it’s slang from the 1920s, not tied to any particular region in the U.S.  It says the same thing about “the bee’s knees.” 

I beg to differ. 

For one, when I related the story of Louisa and Bartholomew to my WV friends, they all knew exactly what “you’re the berries” meant.

For two, the 1920s took place a long, long time before I came into the world, and I am more than familiar with “you’re the berries” and “the bee’s knees.”

Old sayings? Probably. Slang they may be, but both phrases appear to be common in the Mid-Atlantic region. In the South, not so much.

While living in Alabama, Gary and I raised our eyebrows when a neighbor offered to “carry” us in her car to the store. 

It was also in Alabama that we heard news reporters say, “A cutting occurred last night around midnight.” “Cutting” as in someone had stabbed (or knifed) someone else.

In Charleston, SC, when I said, “Will you all be joining us at the courts?” a woman replied, “You all? You all? You must be from the north.”

True Southerners say, “Y’all.” 

OK. Fake Southerners also say, “Y’all” (bless their hearts), but it’s easy to tell genuine from imitation when it comes to dialect.

West Virginians face the problem of being stuck in between. Northerners consider us Southerners, and Southerners deem us Northerners. 

But I know I am a “you all” and not a “y’all.”

Midwesterners also have unique sayings. My hair ties are their hair binders. I would rather when they have their druthers. When I see a baby, I say, “Oh, how cute.” Midwesterners say, “Oh, for cute!”

The Western part of the U.S. claims its own slang to fame. For “all talk and no action,” they say, “All hat and no cattle.” People who talk too much are “jawing,” and a “tenderfoot” is someone in training.

Westerners say, “Don’t squat with your spurs on” and “Never ask a barber if you need a haircut.”

Food for thought.

Born in South Carolina, my grand toddler is a true Southerner with West Virginia in her blood. At three, she worked out her own understanding of “You’re the berries.” 

While eating breakfast the morning after she met our resident toad, Louisa said, “Vieve, will we see Bartholomew today?”

“I hope so,” I said, “but he doesn’t usually come out this early.”

At that, Louisa smiled at her mom and dad, and said, “Bartholomew thinks I’m the fruit!”

The stuff that makes us whole

On By VievesVineIn Throwback2 Comments

(Throwback re-post by request)

Funny how just a smell, taste, sight, sound, or a place can land us in the middle of a memory.

The scent of homemade bread puts me back at the table in my grandmother’s kitchen. At the sight of a child clanging a triangle, I’m a second grader again in Miss Hatfield’s music class holding out my fist for her to rap my knuckles with a ruler—probably for talking.

Whenever I hear Three Dog Night belt, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog,” I’m back dancing with my friends on the hardwood floor of the school gymnasium. The smell of a fresh, plowed field sends me racing between rows of tall tobacco plants across the street from our house in Kentucky, the soft mud squishing beneath my bare feet.

But I’m carried back to two special moments every time I play the third hole on the golf course at the Bridgeport Country Club, and whenever I hear the 1960s hit “Moon River.”

The summer the doctors added the word “terminal” to his name, my father danced over the green on Number Three. It was one of those days the sun lures golfers away from their day jobs to play hooky on the long, lush fairways. Number Three is also a par three, and my drive that afternoon dropped in the sand trap just below the green. Social golfer that I am, I was thrilled to land a ball anywhere near the hole.

Dad chipped up onto the green and waited for me, his hand ready to pull the flag. I laughed when I saw him, hat askew, fingers tight around the pole. I grabbed my sand wedge and trudged over to the beach. I hoped to only whiff the shot once, but I made contact on my first try, hitting sand first, then the ball.

I climbed out of the trap as my ball hit the short grass with a soft thud. I stepped onto the green just in time to see it roll into the cup. Dad howled, kicked up his heels, and danced around the flag. Then he skipped over to me, looped his arm through mine, and swung me ‘round and ‘round across the green.

A few months later, I danced one final time with my dad. The last leaf sashayed to a ground gone cold. Women wrinkled their brows over their first ponderings of a fat turkey stuffed at both ends. Men pulled blaze orange off their cellar hooks and prepared their guns in time to inaugurate buck season. Children, eager eyes toward December, sharpened their pencils for letters to Santa.

Me? I was with my dad, just the two of us. We were taking a walk around the house when he looked up into my eyes and said, “You’re not supposed to be taller than me.”

It was true. Cancer had reduced his frame, once just shy of six feet, by pounding him into a 5’4” cell. But he smiled, slipped his right arm around my waist and clutched my shoulder for support with his left.

“Let’s dance,” he said.

Dad embraced me, pressed his cheek next to mine, and hummed the bars of Moon River. Our steps were small and cautious, but he did not let the disease that stole away his strength take the lead. My father held on to me, and I held on to the moment.

We live in the present, as we should, but our memories are gifts. They warm us, lift us, and instruct us. Memories are the insurance that keeps special moments and the people we hold dear alive within us. The past is filled with the stuff that makes us whole.

Travel tales

On By VievesVineIn Places, travel2 Comments

Gary and I strapped on life jackets for our Snake River raft ride in the Grand Tetons. Kal, our guide, directed four women who were traveling together to one side of the raft. 

An older gentleman and what looked to be his 50-ish year-old son plopped down on the opposite side, leaving no room for us to climb aboard. 

“Uhh,” said Kal, “could you please move across so this couple can get in?”

The men hesitated but complied.

Once seated, I looked over to the dad and said, “Hi, where are you from?”

Unsmiling, the man said, “I’m from California. He’s from Arizona. Please, don’t talk during the ride. I want to enjoy nature.”

Hmmm. 

We were embarking on a 3.5-hour tour along one of the most beautiful stretches in the United States with a guy who didn’t like people.

For me, the joys of traveling include the people I meet along the way. 

If Gary and I had not engaged in conversation with Alexander, our breakfast server at Ole Faithful Inn in Yellowstone, we would have been lost, literally.

According to the map, Biscuit Basin was the starting point for our hike to Mystic Falls, but Alexander said, “It’s still closed after the hydrothermal explosion last summer.”

He said, “It’s a prettier hike if you go this way,” and gave us directions.

We reciprocated with information about hiking in West Virginia and rafting on the Upper and Lower New River.   

“I’m going to make that trip,” said our breakfast server-turned trail guide.  

At the overlook for the Grand Prismatic hot spring, a young woman used an extendable phone tripod to take pics and snapped one for us as well. 

“She’s a keeper,” I told her boyfriend, “You need to stick with her.”

“Hopefully forever,” he said. 

I paid the favor forward at the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone by taking photos for others. A Chinese family did the same for us.  

We didn’t know it then, but that sealed our friendship. As Gary and I looped our way back up the trail from the Lower Falls, someone said, “Here…here. You sit here.”

From a bench in the corner of a switchback, the Chinese grandfather beckoned us, laughing, “Here…sit here. I am worried about you.”

We sat. 

His English was limited. Our Chinese? Nonexistent. But together we enjoyed the majesty all around us.

Over a fireside chat, a New Jersey couple enlightened us about Wisecars, a company that saved them half on their car rental. They also said, “Eat at the Snow Lodge. It keeps its chef and a full menu while other spots prepare for hibernation.”

A National Park Service employee said she and her husband left upstate New York five years ago to work and live in Yellowstone year-round. In winter, she snowmobiles 33 miles to work and 33 miles back and loves every minute of it. 

Then, we landed on a raft below the Grand Tetons with a grumpy old man. Embarrassed, his son offered to take photos of us whenever I attempted selfies. 

The river ebbed and flowed beneath the towering beauty of the Grand Tetons. The dad said not a word—not even to his son. Gary and I talked with the women on the other side of the boat.

From the raft’s middle, our guide pointed out two bald eagles and shared stories about the interesting wildlife he’s encountered. We asked Kal where he had grown up (Idaho) and if he stays in Wyoming in winter (he does). 

When we docked, Gary and I were the last to climb out. We thanked Kal for a lovely ride.

“Hey, I’m sorry for that awkward start,” he said. “Thanks so much for talking and asking questions. That’s what it’s all about. That guy should have booked a solitary ride.”

“No problem,” we said.

For us, the grumpy old man was just another travel tale.

Keyword: Artificial

On By VievesVineIn Uncategorized1 Comment

My laptop took its final bow. When I replaced it, an enthusiastic young clerk made sure everything I needed from the old model had transferred to the new one.

“Let me show you all of the new features and our latest technology,” he said.

“OK,” I said.

“Check this out,” he went on. “If you tap this button, AI will correct your spelling and grammar. It can also compose your sentences. If you want, you can let it write your emails for you….”

He was on a roll, but I politely interrupted his passionate tutorial. I couldn’t let him waste another breath.

“I appreciate you sharing this information, but before you go any further, I need to tell you something,” I said.

“Great. I’d love to hear it,” he said.

“I am a writer, and I will never, as in ever, ask AI to write anything for me. The second I switch it on, I turn off my voice,” I said.

The young man’s eyes grew wide, and his jaw went slack.

“You see,” I said, “not only writers, but everyone possesses a unique voice. If we allow AI to write for us, what a boring society we’ll become.”

I could have added “ordinary” and “fake” and “average” and “apathetic.”

AI is a polarizing subject. A great many have embraced it—too quickly, I think. Others fear it, for good reason. 

Adults, teenagers, and children engage in conversations with ChatGPT rather than talking with friends, family, coaches, and teachers. Television ads for the AI bot encourage individuals to look to it for advice on workouts, cooking, relationships—you name it. 

Kids turn to the chatbot for homework, and it becomes their trusted confidante.  Lawsuits have been filed by parents who lost their children. ChatGPT discouraged one young man from talking with his parents and offered to write a suicide note for him. 

Colleges and universities are struggling to find software programs that detect AI content in students’ work. So far, human judgment appears to be the most dependable tool.

I liken the insurgence of AI to the advent of calculators. Before calculators, students were required to show their work on math homework and exams—every single step.

When calculators became more available, school administrators banned them from the classroom. Teachers said students needed to exercise their minds, use what they learned, and work out math problems using their brains.

That the administrators and teachers were correct mattered not. 

By the mid-1970s, the calculator had weaseled its way through school doors. Next thing we knew, the boards of education supplied every math class with calculators for student use. 

I wonder how many people reading this can solve 7th-grade math problems in their heads or figure out restaurant tips without reaching for their phone’s calculator.

When you rest, you rust, both physically and mentally.

AI is a calculator for all subjects. When we turn to it, we’re choosing convenience over intellect. Use it enough, and our brainpower will fade; we’ll become AI-dependent.

AI was a hot topic during the recent United Nations (UN) General Assembly. Of AI, UN Secretary-General António Guterres said, “…innovation must serve humanity—not undermine it,” and “…autonomous systems must never decide who lives.”

Guterres and I agree.

One positive step would be to place the same limits on AI that we do for alcohol—kids should have no access to it until they turn 21. The wait will allow our young people to develop their own minds and hopefully the confidence to continue to rely on that brainpower. 

After hearing me out, the young man at the computer store was at a loss for words. I stood to leave, thanked him for his time, and said, “Don’t lose your voice.”

AI stands for Artificial Intelligence. Keyword: Artificial.

Coffee life

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I parked myself in the courtyard of a coffee shop in what could be any college town in any state. Before long, a wisp of cigarette smoke found me and chased me inside to a tall top with a window view.

Secondhand smoke doesn’t bother everyone, but it squeezes my lungs and makes my chest rattle. I am a fan of breathing, but not of hearing every breath I take.

Both inside and out, everyone around me relished a mug of caffeinated or decaffeinated coffee or cappuccino, I sipped on an iced hot chocolate—good stuff. David Bowie sang “Let’s Dance” in the background followed by Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” and other classic tunes.

I had dropped in during primetime for the college crowd. I was one in a minority of customers over 40 surrounded by students and young professionals. I kept my sunglasses over my eyes in an attempt to pass for a young professional, but my shades reduced my laptop’s screen to blurred images.

Forced to choose between sitting around trying to look young or getting some work accomplished, I removed my sunglasses. The only time I’m good at sitting and doing nothing is when I am asleep.

The majority of patrons who sat indoors and out in the courtyard either stared into their cellular devices or, like me, typed on laptops. One girl had a genuine textbook open on the table before her.

For those who are unfamiliar, a textbook is a scholarly, standalone, manuscript. Between its front and back covers are pages of instructional information. Textbooks are (or were) used as aids for teaching and learning by teachers and students.

My guess is that the girl with the textbook is on a medical track of some sort. Her book’s pages were filled with illustrations of human bones. It is my husband’s kind of book, not mine.

Five guys sitting around a tall top behind me enjoyed a lively conversation. They actually made eye contact as they talked and laughed.

Dressed in jeans and tee-shirts, their cellphones must have been tucked away, forgotten in their pockets. Not one of the five wore earbuds. The sound of their banter—uninterrupted by technology—was refreshing.

Across from the fun guys, a bulletin board filled with posters touted upcoming events. Headlines made with creative fonts publicized plays, bands, and openings for haunted houses.

One poster advertised a self-defense course and another promoted an event called “Oktoberfest in Song.” Next to “Oktoberfest” was a poster to remind me—like I needed reminding—that I was the literal definition of “one of these people is not like the others.” In large pink letters, its headline read: “Project Condom: Where Fashion Meets Sexual Health.”

Not kidding. I only wish I possessed the creativity to make this stuff up.

A poster with a deep purple background stood out on the crowded bulletin board. A set of jagged, colorful piano keys cascaded down its vertical length and ended at the words, “Keepin’ Jazz Alive.” It was the kind of poster that one might frame and hang on a wall in an office, study, or bedroom.

The jazz poster, I decided, was my favorite for two reasons: 1) The design was both appealing and clever.  2) I had no trouble understanding what the event was all about.

The bulletin board, jam-packed with notices in all sizes, colors, and fonts, reflected the varied interests of all who frequent coffeehouses: couples, students, young professionals, professors, tourists, businessmen and women, and retirees. In between the commas are any groups I left out.

The coffee I don’t drink is not what attracts me to coffee shops. Coffeehouses are where I watch all kinds of people and how they do life.

Oh, to be a kid again

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday LifeLeave a comment

Kids strive for independence. If you ask me, that philosophy is turned around and upside down.

Think about it.

A baby cries, and every adult within hearing range rushes to the crib or bassinet or wherever the infant’s parking spot happens to be at that moment.

“What’s the matter, sweet baby?”

“Ahhh, what is it, little one?”

“Do you need your diaper changed?”

“Are you hungry?”

It doesn’t take long. Babies figure out they have everyone at their beck and call. Once they do, they “work the system”—their wishes become the adults’ commands.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Children have personal full-time chefs. Not only do those chefs cook every meal, but they hand-deliver it to the table.

Oftentimes, the child doesn’t even have to pick up a fork. The chef will do that for him, wipe excess food away from the little one’s face, and clean up the kitchen afterward.

That same chef doubles as a chauffeur, which comes in handy when said child wants to veer from the routine and visit Chick-fil-A, Dairy Queen, or a pizza spot.  

Momma (or Poppa) chauffeur drives them everywhere—school, swim practice, football games, the movies, church youth group, the pool, birthday parties, the grandparents’ house, and more.

Momma and Poppa cover the gas and the car insurance. And Grandma’s house takes “beck and call” to a whole new level.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Adults run to wipe their noses at the hint of a sneeze. Children are held and cuddled and rocked at the whisper of a fever.

In truth, children are held and cuddled and rocked just because they are, well, children.

Adults buy all their clothes and wash them when required. Children don’t stress over what to wear; their adults choose their outfits for them.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Children get the coolest, fun-themed birthday parties thanks to the adults who plan and pay for the entire shebang.

Shebang. I have never, as in ever, typed that word, yet there it is—twice. I could have said “affair,” but shebang is much more fun.

But I digress….

Kids get imaginary friends, and everyone goes along with the idea. Well, not everyone.

When he was a toddler, my brother Gerald played with Davison Robbins day in and day out. We, his older siblings, came home from school each day and said, “Hey, what did you and Davison Robbins do today?” and “Did you and Davisson Robbins have fun today?”  

Our mother told us to stop “encouraging” the situation. We weren’t. Scout’s honor. We were jealous; we wanted a good pretend friend like Davison Robbins.

Kids have shoes that light up and can wear dress-up clothes and crowns anytime they desire. Their adults read to them, hear their prayers, and tuck them in.

Little ones have everyone coming and going at the snap of a finger when they make their first tactical error around two years of age.

That’s when the “do it myself” compulsion sneaks in and takes over. As soon as toddlers grasp the art of vocabulary, they repeat, “I can do it. I can do it” and “I want to do it myself. I want to do it myself.”

Big, as in HUGE, mistake.

Oh, for a good long while, the adults stand firm and insist on doing and helping and coddling. Eventually, though, the child wears them down. Eventually, the adult in charge sits back and says, “Ok. Sure. You do it.”

It starts with small tasks like putting on socks and shoes. Zipping. Buttoning.

Next thing you know, they’re wiping their own noses, driving their brothers and sisters to school, getting jobs, and buying their clothes. Next thing you know, the child who had the world at her feet is an adult.

Oh, to be a kid again.