Dear You,
I'm a news junkie, so I cannot dodge the Economic Bad News. Each day, NPR and the St. Petersburg newspaper remove the layers of my otherwise insulated life. Increasingly, I am led to care about the plight of the world's poor.
It's not that I do much about it. I cannot dodge my responsibity here - being an American means being part of the problem. And hasn't everyone heard that it's good for one's peace of mind to stop watching the six o'clock news? A head-in-the-sand approach, though, cannot make anyone's life better.
A statistic: the 500 richest people in the world a few years ago earned more than the 416 million poorest people (United Nations report). A story: A woman in Haiti once sold shoes on the street, but falling demand has meant that she used all her income to buy food for her child and none to replace her inventory . . . and now she has nothing but an emaciated, dying child (Nicholas Kristoff).
I ingest the daily news of bank bailouts and million dollar bonuses for those who will never be hungry, and I pause on Sundays to pray for the poor. And I hope the leaders of the world are listening, too.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Nickles and Dimes
Dear You,
Riding the casino boat out of Melbourne, Florida, you look in vain for the Pretty People, the sort you might see at your neighborhood pool or PTA meeting. Take my word for it - I traveled fore and aft on all levels of the SunCruz ship looking for an unweathered face.
By and large (and that can be taken in a literal sense) they seemed a hard lot. Those who weren't smoking appeared to have burned a few cartons in their past. The several bars were busy before we cast off at 11 that morning.
The boat and its passengers weren't going anywhere. The goal for the former was to make its way outside the three-mile limit, after that cruising north and south and north for the next few hours. As for the passengers, most would drive home that afternoon with less in their pockets and purses than they brought. And not because the ticket was dear - only $8! - or the drinks were overpriced. As long as you pressed the button or rolled the dice, the drinks were free.
For whatever reason, I managed to stay above it all. Literally, since I found a quiet chair up top where I could watch the gulls and finish reading "Glory in Death" before it was time to learn how much money my companions had lost.
Riding the casino boat out of Melbourne, Florida, you look in vain for the Pretty People, the sort you might see at your neighborhood pool or PTA meeting. Take my word for it - I traveled fore and aft on all levels of the SunCruz ship looking for an unweathered face.
By and large (and that can be taken in a literal sense) they seemed a hard lot. Those who weren't smoking appeared to have burned a few cartons in their past. The several bars were busy before we cast off at 11 that morning.
The boat and its passengers weren't going anywhere. The goal for the former was to make its way outside the three-mile limit, after that cruising north and south and north for the next few hours. As for the passengers, most would drive home that afternoon with less in their pockets and purses than they brought. And not because the ticket was dear - only $8! - or the drinks were overpriced. As long as you pressed the button or rolled the dice, the drinks were free.
For whatever reason, I managed to stay above it all. Literally, since I found a quiet chair up top where I could watch the gulls and finish reading "Glory in Death" before it was time to learn how much money my companions had lost.
Monday, March 16, 2009
But don't call 9-1-1 just yet!
Dear You,
Every time I wind up in the hospital, and despite any pain that otherwise confuses my thinking, I remember to ask for one of those little pressurized containers of shaving cream.
These come with the plastic razor, the thin washcloth, the little bar of soap and the breakable comb, in a pink plastic tub that fits into the rollaway tray-table that also holds the get-well-soon flowers and ice water with the bendable straw. I make nice with the nurse after I hide the first can - it's about the size of an inhaler, so it can go unnoticed even in a pajama pocket! - and I request another. They have hundreds of the things, I figure, so I don't consider this larceny.
With luck, I am released back into the world with at least two - sometimes more! - of them. Back at home, my shaving needs are met with the big red and black can of Gillette Foamy I keep under the sink. This is just not suitable when I am Away.
In my toilet kit, everything is small and travel-sized: comb, toothpaste, anti-perspirant . . . all available in the supermarket or drugstore. And thanks to Rochester General, so is my shaving cream.
Every time I wind up in the hospital, and despite any pain that otherwise confuses my thinking, I remember to ask for one of those little pressurized containers of shaving cream.
These come with the plastic razor, the thin washcloth, the little bar of soap and the breakable comb, in a pink plastic tub that fits into the rollaway tray-table that also holds the get-well-soon flowers and ice water with the bendable straw. I make nice with the nurse after I hide the first can - it's about the size of an inhaler, so it can go unnoticed even in a pajama pocket! - and I request another. They have hundreds of the things, I figure, so I don't consider this larceny.
With luck, I am released back into the world with at least two - sometimes more! - of them. Back at home, my shaving needs are met with the big red and black can of Gillette Foamy I keep under the sink. This is just not suitable when I am Away.
In my toilet kit, everything is small and travel-sized: comb, toothpaste, anti-perspirant . . . all available in the supermarket or drugstore. And thanks to Rochester General, so is my shaving cream.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Free, free! Trip to Mars . . .
Dear You,
Yes, some of the nicest things in life are free. On a walk with a grandchild the other day we spotted a poodle across the street and called out to its owner to admire it. Her response: "Would you like some grapefruit?"
Interesting how things happen -- you admire a dog and you wind up toting a plastic bag full of grapefruit back to your house. Set aside the idea that the fruit looked nothing like that pretty stuff you find in the supermarket. This came from the tree in the woman's side yard, it was of differing sizes, and it was dirty. I repeat: it was free. I didn't even ask the woman's name, and two days later I wouldn't be able to point out her house, even if I wanted to return the favor somehow. It was just one of those "random acts . . ."
Most of it is gone now -- I have a little machine that makes turning citrus into juice pretty easy. The haul became over a half-gallon of grapefruit juice, and the grandchildren made short work of it.
Years ago, my Uncle Paul had a little place in St. Petersburg, and on his daily walk past a Lutheran church cemetery, picked up some drops to carry back home. He'd received permission from the rector to do so, and he always had fresh-squeezed "Lutheran Grapfruit Juice" (as he called it) in the fridge. Now I know how much pleasure it gave him.
Yes, some of the nicest things in life are free. On a walk with a grandchild the other day we spotted a poodle across the street and called out to its owner to admire it. Her response: "Would you like some grapefruit?"
Interesting how things happen -- you admire a dog and you wind up toting a plastic bag full of grapefruit back to your house. Set aside the idea that the fruit looked nothing like that pretty stuff you find in the supermarket. This came from the tree in the woman's side yard, it was of differing sizes, and it was dirty. I repeat: it was free. I didn't even ask the woman's name, and two days later I wouldn't be able to point out her house, even if I wanted to return the favor somehow. It was just one of those "random acts . . ."
Most of it is gone now -- I have a little machine that makes turning citrus into juice pretty easy. The haul became over a half-gallon of grapefruit juice, and the grandchildren made short work of it.
Years ago, my Uncle Paul had a little place in St. Petersburg, and on his daily walk past a Lutheran church cemetery, picked up some drops to carry back home. He'd received permission from the rector to do so, and he always had fresh-squeezed "Lutheran Grapfruit Juice" (as he called it) in the fridge. Now I know how much pleasure it gave him.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Following the Sun
Dear You,
Most days, the sunrises and the sunsets here in Florida look remarkably the same. And on my street, when I step out to get the morning newspaper or when I sit on the driveway with my plastic chair and wineglass of an evening, I can watch the scene by looking either left or right. It doesn't last long -- very soon it's sunny or it's dark.
The sky is deep blue; the land is just dark. Silhouettes are palm trees, and the gray street wends toward the rising (or setting) sun. Pole lights winking off (or on) are like little exclamation points to add to the excitement of the moment.
In between, a slice of orange, with pinks and lavenders above. I think of Roy G. Biv (or, as my earth science teacher preferred, "vibgyor") and I watch for the arriving (or departing) flights of tropical birds.
I don't record this because it's particularly beautiful (it is) or at all unusual (as a part-time Floridian, I can't take it for granted), but because once again this demonstrates to me the importance of being "present," of "showing up." As I said, it doesn't last long.
But what does?
Most days, the sunrises and the sunsets here in Florida look remarkably the same. And on my street, when I step out to get the morning newspaper or when I sit on the driveway with my plastic chair and wineglass of an evening, I can watch the scene by looking either left or right. It doesn't last long -- very soon it's sunny or it's dark.
The sky is deep blue; the land is just dark. Silhouettes are palm trees, and the gray street wends toward the rising (or setting) sun. Pole lights winking off (or on) are like little exclamation points to add to the excitement of the moment.
In between, a slice of orange, with pinks and lavenders above. I think of Roy G. Biv (or, as my earth science teacher preferred, "vibgyor") and I watch for the arriving (or departing) flights of tropical birds.
I don't record this because it's particularly beautiful (it is) or at all unusual (as a part-time Floridian, I can't take it for granted), but because once again this demonstrates to me the importance of being "present," of "showing up." As I said, it doesn't last long.
But what does?
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Breakfast on the Beach
Dear You,
Even on a beautiful beach on Cape Cod, breakfast for the gulls is, at best, a beastly business.
The withdrawing waves leave a tide pool, in which silvery fish swim in circles, waiting for the next high tide to move them back to safer, deeper waters. This cycle has not escaped the notice of the gulls, however, and I watch as one hovers and swoops and lifts out a fish to deposit him on the sands, where he proceeds to hack the creature until finally it expires.
The gull is merciless. Great, bloody holes appear in the side of the fish, and with each slash the bird yanks out another hunk of sushi. He looks around for other gulls, meanwhile, knowing his prize could be snatched away if he isn’t ready to defend it. Now and then, another – stronger, perhaps older, certainly quicker – does just that. Screaming, the birds chase each other until the matter is settled.
No bird seems to finish the feast alone. At a point, the one is satisfied and leaves the carcass for the lesser birds to squabble over and finally finish. A bit of head and tail, some bones . . . little is left to represent that shining fish who a few minutes earlier was circling the shallows with his fellows.
Even on a beautiful beach on Cape Cod, breakfast for the gulls is, at best, a beastly business.
The withdrawing waves leave a tide pool, in which silvery fish swim in circles, waiting for the next high tide to move them back to safer, deeper waters. This cycle has not escaped the notice of the gulls, however, and I watch as one hovers and swoops and lifts out a fish to deposit him on the sands, where he proceeds to hack the creature until finally it expires.
The gull is merciless. Great, bloody holes appear in the side of the fish, and with each slash the bird yanks out another hunk of sushi. He looks around for other gulls, meanwhile, knowing his prize could be snatched away if he isn’t ready to defend it. Now and then, another – stronger, perhaps older, certainly quicker – does just that. Screaming, the birds chase each other until the matter is settled.
No bird seems to finish the feast alone. At a point, the one is satisfied and leaves the carcass for the lesser birds to squabble over and finally finish. A bit of head and tail, some bones . . . little is left to represent that shining fish who a few minutes earlier was circling the shallows with his fellows.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Book Crossings
Dear You,
You probably know that I buy my books more often than I ever get them from a library. When I have a couple of disposable dollars, I like to go to Borders or Barnes & Noble, and my favorite finds are on the remainders tables, where I can get a fat hardbound that cost $25 or more for only four or five or six bucks.
It makes it all the easier to give them away. http://www.bookcrossing.com/ has helped me in my enterprise, and I recommend it to you. For the record, if you'd care to look at the books I've read since joining, I'm "Manomet," a name I chose from the town where I owned a vacation home for 20 or so years.
The Random Acts of Kindness aspect particularly calls to me. I like the anonymity, the serendipity. But even I was surprised when my wife, traveling home recently and on a layover at JFK airport was handed a Dick Francis novel from a fellow sitting nearby. All I know is that he'd bought something in Dulles, Virginia that morning and a bottle of Guiness at JFK four hours later -- that from the two sales receipts he'd kept in the book for page markers. Instead of lugging the finished book onto the next airplane, he passed it along . . . and it got to me.
So, of course, I'm passing it along to you, in a sense. If you check my BookCrossing site for Dick Francis' Longshot, you can learn where I have left it.
Finder's Keepers . . . unless you, too, give it away.
You probably know that I buy my books more often than I ever get them from a library. When I have a couple of disposable dollars, I like to go to Borders or Barnes & Noble, and my favorite finds are on the remainders tables, where I can get a fat hardbound that cost $25 or more for only four or five or six bucks.
It makes it all the easier to give them away. http://www.bookcrossing.com/ has helped me in my enterprise, and I recommend it to you. For the record, if you'd care to look at the books I've read since joining, I'm "Manomet," a name I chose from the town where I owned a vacation home for 20 or so years.
The Random Acts of Kindness aspect particularly calls to me. I like the anonymity, the serendipity. But even I was surprised when my wife, traveling home recently and on a layover at JFK airport was handed a Dick Francis novel from a fellow sitting nearby. All I know is that he'd bought something in Dulles, Virginia that morning and a bottle of Guiness at JFK four hours later -- that from the two sales receipts he'd kept in the book for page markers. Instead of lugging the finished book onto the next airplane, he passed it along . . . and it got to me.
So, of course, I'm passing it along to you, in a sense. If you check my BookCrossing site for Dick Francis' Longshot, you can learn where I have left it.
Finder's Keepers . . . unless you, too, give it away.
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