Had to share this piece from yesterday’s Washington Post because it speaks to a romantic part of me that longs for the days of beautifully composed letters
Writer Kristin Henderson, who has written about how military spouses are coping with the war in Iraq, unlocks the secret of love letters from some of the most famous literary correspondents (such as Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald and Edith Wharton and Morton Fullerton), but she also writes of love letters to Civil War soldiers and modern-day e-mail romances that span the globe.
The love letter, whether it’s handwritten or electronic, represents the tangible. Lovingly written letters can cause a pheromonal reaction in its recipient and can be the closest thing to having your loved one near. It's why people throughout time have cherished them, dressing them in ribbons or tucking them safely into secret boxes.
She writes: “Walking hand in hand. Eating together. Lying together in each other's arms. Romantic love is so closely linked with physical contact that when we can't see or touch the ones we love, they can start to seem like figments of the imagination. Then we long to feel the reality of their skin beneath our hands, their breath against our cheek. Maybe that longing is what impels us to write, the longing to make the other person real again, because, unlike phone calls, which exist only in memory once we hang up, the written word lasts. It's real.”
Monday, February 14, 2005
This thing called love
Maybe it’s just me, but the papers have done an extraordinary amount of coverage devoted to a holiday that began as the Catholic Church’s check on sexual passion.
In this op-ed by Stephanie Coontz she writes: “For thousands of years, love, passion and marriage were considered a rare and usually undesirable combination,” adding that few young people, even centuries later, were expected to marry on the basis of such irrational emotions as love and sexual attraction.
“When the church declared Feb. 14 St. Valentine's feast day in 498 A.D., it was not trying to celebrate romance. Rather, the Church wanted to replace the existing holiday, a festival honoring Juno, the Roman goddess of love and marriage. Church fathers probably hoped as well that a Valentine holiday would undercut the Roman fertility festival of Lupercalia, which began each Feb. 15. According to Roman custom, on Feb. 14 - the night before Lupercalia - boys would draw names from a jar to find which girls would be their sexual partner for the rest of the year.”
Coontz, who is a history professor and author of the forthcoming book, “Marriage, a History: From Obedience to Intimacy, or How Love Conquered Marriage” (a rather convoluted title that would probably work well if shortened to read simply, “How Love Conquered Marriage), wrote about how high expectations and choice can increase chances for huge disappointments. Apparently, though, that’s also the silver lining.
“But today's high expectations are a monumental improvement over the past, when violence, adultery and day-to-day misery were considered normal in a marriage. So when couples look soulfully into each other's eyes tonight over a romantic Valentine's dinner, they might take a moment to remember that despite the risk of divorce today, never before in history have people had so many opportunities to make marriage fulfilling.”
When the fire and light of early romance evolves into a gentler, softer love of many years, it takes a little more effort to keep it burning brightly (or even slightly). Sadly one of the great detriments to loving marriages is modern parenthood.
In another op-ed in today’s New York Times by Judith Warner, author of “Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety," she writes of how our culture of playing Supermom and Superdad is killing our marriages.
Consider the opening of her column: “Your young child shows up at your bedside five minutes before the alarm clock is set to ring. She climbs in. She is warm, her hair is silken, and she nestles perfectly into the curve of your torso.
“You experience something like plenitude - until the alarm clock rings and your spouse's arm stretches out to shut it off and comes to rest upon the two of you. That arm is bristly and heavy, and feels, somehow, laden with demand. What demand the poor thing carries is not clear, but whatever it is, it feels like too much on this particular school morning when, after the usual rites of teeth brushing and sneakers and mittens are through, you've got to plan how, on this day of all days, you will most adequately express to your little loved ones just how deeply - and how festively and chocolate-drenchedly - you love them.”
I do feel confident that my boys know I love them infinitely, without my killing myself for them. But there's an unspoken parental pressure to go the extra mile for our kids. And so I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon getting Patrick and Michael ready for Valentine’s Day today, crafting containers for kindergarten Valentines and reminding Patrick to address his. At 12, Ryan has outgrown parties and cards and his basic attitude about the holiday is, “Who cares?” But I can remember with absolute sweetness and light the first hand-made Valentine he brought home from preschool. It had his chubby little handprint on the cover and the pride with which he bestowed this gift to me still brings tears to my eyes.
My good friend and fellow mother of three, Jill Miller Zimon, wrote about how this holiday has evolved from our younger romantic notions of fire and flowers to one that is wholly connected to our little darlings. In her debut column, Mommy Matters, for Cleveland/Akron Family Magazine she describes how slowly yet eventually, we become our children’s love slave. (She and I have often remarked that we must have spies in each other’s homes since our lives seem to exist on parallel planes.)
Though it’s something I continually work on, at times with more success than others, I want to share Valentine’s love with those I care most about — my family and friends. And to my hubby who patiently endures my neuroses and serves to remind me daily of the goodness in life. I feel blessed to have known incandescence…
“Nobody has ever measured, even poets, how much the heart can hold.” — Zelda Fitzgerald
In this op-ed by Stephanie Coontz she writes: “For thousands of years, love, passion and marriage were considered a rare and usually undesirable combination,” adding that few young people, even centuries later, were expected to marry on the basis of such irrational emotions as love and sexual attraction.
“When the church declared Feb. 14 St. Valentine's feast day in 498 A.D., it was not trying to celebrate romance. Rather, the Church wanted to replace the existing holiday, a festival honoring Juno, the Roman goddess of love and marriage. Church fathers probably hoped as well that a Valentine holiday would undercut the Roman fertility festival of Lupercalia, which began each Feb. 15. According to Roman custom, on Feb. 14 - the night before Lupercalia - boys would draw names from a jar to find which girls would be their sexual partner for the rest of the year.”
Coontz, who is a history professor and author of the forthcoming book, “Marriage, a History: From Obedience to Intimacy, or How Love Conquered Marriage” (a rather convoluted title that would probably work well if shortened to read simply, “How Love Conquered Marriage), wrote about how high expectations and choice can increase chances for huge disappointments. Apparently, though, that’s also the silver lining.
“But today's high expectations are a monumental improvement over the past, when violence, adultery and day-to-day misery were considered normal in a marriage. So when couples look soulfully into each other's eyes tonight over a romantic Valentine's dinner, they might take a moment to remember that despite the risk of divorce today, never before in history have people had so many opportunities to make marriage fulfilling.”
When the fire and light of early romance evolves into a gentler, softer love of many years, it takes a little more effort to keep it burning brightly (or even slightly). Sadly one of the great detriments to loving marriages is modern parenthood.
In another op-ed in today’s New York Times by Judith Warner, author of “Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety," she writes of how our culture of playing Supermom and Superdad is killing our marriages.
Consider the opening of her column: “Your young child shows up at your bedside five minutes before the alarm clock is set to ring. She climbs in. She is warm, her hair is silken, and she nestles perfectly into the curve of your torso.
“You experience something like plenitude - until the alarm clock rings and your spouse's arm stretches out to shut it off and comes to rest upon the two of you. That arm is bristly and heavy, and feels, somehow, laden with demand. What demand the poor thing carries is not clear, but whatever it is, it feels like too much on this particular school morning when, after the usual rites of teeth brushing and sneakers and mittens are through, you've got to plan how, on this day of all days, you will most adequately express to your little loved ones just how deeply - and how festively and chocolate-drenchedly - you love them.”
I do feel confident that my boys know I love them infinitely, without my killing myself for them. But there's an unspoken parental pressure to go the extra mile for our kids. And so I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon getting Patrick and Michael ready for Valentine’s Day today, crafting containers for kindergarten Valentines and reminding Patrick to address his. At 12, Ryan has outgrown parties and cards and his basic attitude about the holiday is, “Who cares?” But I can remember with absolute sweetness and light the first hand-made Valentine he brought home from preschool. It had his chubby little handprint on the cover and the pride with which he bestowed this gift to me still brings tears to my eyes.
My good friend and fellow mother of three, Jill Miller Zimon, wrote about how this holiday has evolved from our younger romantic notions of fire and flowers to one that is wholly connected to our little darlings. In her debut column, Mommy Matters, for Cleveland/Akron Family Magazine she describes how slowly yet eventually, we become our children’s love slave. (She and I have often remarked that we must have spies in each other’s homes since our lives seem to exist on parallel planes.)
Though it’s something I continually work on, at times with more success than others, I want to share Valentine’s love with those I care most about — my family and friends. And to my hubby who patiently endures my neuroses and serves to remind me daily of the goodness in life. I feel blessed to have known incandescence…
“Nobody has ever measured, even poets, how much the heart can hold.” — Zelda Fitzgerald
Friday, February 11, 2005
My love affair with magazines
I have a problem, a real sickness. I’m addicted to magazines. Can’t seem to stop saying, “yes,” to subscription notices. Until yet another weekly news or literary magazine arrives and my husband (and mailman) proclaim, “Enough!”
It’s ridiculous really because I have so little time to read them cover-to-cover. And so, painful as it was, I wrote, “cancel” across by subscription notice to “The Economist.” I want so badly to read it weekly, but just can’t find the time.
My copies of The New Yorker are neatly stacked next to my favorite reading chair. I feel guilty when I can’t get to them right away. But a friend of mine once said that The New Yorker isn’t offended if you get to it late. That’s good advice. Plus I’ve learned to be a more discriminating reader. There are certain writers whom I read regularly (for example, Caitlin Flanagan, Sy Hersch, Kate Boo and Malcolm Gladwell), but sometimes those marvelous fiction pieces are just screaming, “Read me!” And so the stack, which includes the winter Fiction Issue, grows ever taller.
Since I’m a fan of the back story, I enjoyed Jon Friedman’s interview with New Yorker editor, David Remnick, on MarketWatch today. I knew he was a young editor, but if he’s 45 now, that means he was named editor of one of the country’s leading magazines when he was 38! That’s enough to make one feel less than.
Friedman writes of Remnick’s noble vision—to explain our world, his commitment to truth in journalism and his loyalty to his writers: “Remnick's curiosity to understand how the world works hasn't dimmed a bit. It's as if he is able to use the pages of his magazine to give himself and his readers an idea about how we live and explain why we should care about Washington, popular culture, the media, fiction and criticism.”
"’This is a happy place,’ says Ken Auletta, the New Yorker's star media writer. ‘The people like and respect him.’
"’An editor has to hold the hands of often-neurotic, very needy people,’ Auletta says, referring to writers…. ‘David has a good bedside manner, and he'll read your piece four or five times before it goes into the magazine.’”
Remnick’s attention to the words and the writers of them is what makes The New Yorker part of my must-haves of magazines. And that’s why I’m wrapping up my week with this post and heading downstairs for a glass of cabernet, last week’s issue and my favorite chair.
I’ve been somewhat slower in warming to The Atlantic, though again, I’m finding certain sections and writers I enjoy more than others. The book reviews are always interesting, though rather loquacious. As a reviewer (guess I can call myself that now), I’ve often wondered what it would be like to write a 1,200-word review instead of a 300-word review. How would I go about thinking and preparing differently with that kind of space? Hmmm, would be an interesting exercise and perhaps one worth taking someday.
Writers, by their very nature, often retract at the notion of being pigeonholed into any one genre. However, if I were forced to choose one type of writing to pursue for the rest of my days it would be personality profiles. There’s so much to learn about life and living from poring into other people’s lives. And so I’m looking forward this evening to reading Paul Starobin’s profile of Vladimir Putin, “The Accidental Autocrat” in The Atlantic.
But back to my sickness. In the interest of appeasing my husband and mailman, I’ve made a conscious effort to pare down my subscriptions somewhat, (though the ability to write them off as business expenses is always a handy excuse for keeping them). "Time, Wendy," says Danny. "When do you have time to read all of these?"
Point well taken. Since I’ve not been doing as much business writing, I thought having subscriptions to four business magazines was excessive. First to go was The Economist, as previously mentioned.
Although I enjoy the sassy tone of Business 2.0, I’m also doing even less tech writing these days, so that one had to go. I like Fortune Small Business, but haven’t read it in at least six months so I let that sub lapse as well. And just when I was about to cancel my Inc. subscription, they went and pulled together an amazing March issue that I just read end to end.
It was filled with interesting (and concise!) articles related to some things I’m working on now so I guess that one is a keeper. Besides, I’ve been reading Inc. for four years and do feel somewhat loyal. (Jeez! I just realized I’m a marketing stereotype. Brand loyal white woman aged 37.)
And so I close this week wishing you all a pleasant weekend, happy reading and soulful writing…
“If you don't have the time to read, you don't have the time or the tools to write.” – Stephen King “On Writing”
It’s ridiculous really because I have so little time to read them cover-to-cover. And so, painful as it was, I wrote, “cancel” across by subscription notice to “The Economist.” I want so badly to read it weekly, but just can’t find the time.
My copies of The New Yorker are neatly stacked next to my favorite reading chair. I feel guilty when I can’t get to them right away. But a friend of mine once said that The New Yorker isn’t offended if you get to it late. That’s good advice. Plus I’ve learned to be a more discriminating reader. There are certain writers whom I read regularly (for example, Caitlin Flanagan, Sy Hersch, Kate Boo and Malcolm Gladwell), but sometimes those marvelous fiction pieces are just screaming, “Read me!” And so the stack, which includes the winter Fiction Issue, grows ever taller.
Since I’m a fan of the back story, I enjoyed Jon Friedman’s interview with New Yorker editor, David Remnick, on MarketWatch today. I knew he was a young editor, but if he’s 45 now, that means he was named editor of one of the country’s leading magazines when he was 38! That’s enough to make one feel less than.
Friedman writes of Remnick’s noble vision—to explain our world, his commitment to truth in journalism and his loyalty to his writers: “Remnick's curiosity to understand how the world works hasn't dimmed a bit. It's as if he is able to use the pages of his magazine to give himself and his readers an idea about how we live and explain why we should care about Washington, popular culture, the media, fiction and criticism.”
"’This is a happy place,’ says Ken Auletta, the New Yorker's star media writer. ‘The people like and respect him.’
"’An editor has to hold the hands of often-neurotic, very needy people,’ Auletta says, referring to writers…. ‘David has a good bedside manner, and he'll read your piece four or five times before it goes into the magazine.’”
Remnick’s attention to the words and the writers of them is what makes The New Yorker part of my must-haves of magazines. And that’s why I’m wrapping up my week with this post and heading downstairs for a glass of cabernet, last week’s issue and my favorite chair.
I’ve been somewhat slower in warming to The Atlantic, though again, I’m finding certain sections and writers I enjoy more than others. The book reviews are always interesting, though rather loquacious. As a reviewer (guess I can call myself that now), I’ve often wondered what it would be like to write a 1,200-word review instead of a 300-word review. How would I go about thinking and preparing differently with that kind of space? Hmmm, would be an interesting exercise and perhaps one worth taking someday.
Writers, by their very nature, often retract at the notion of being pigeonholed into any one genre. However, if I were forced to choose one type of writing to pursue for the rest of my days it would be personality profiles. There’s so much to learn about life and living from poring into other people’s lives. And so I’m looking forward this evening to reading Paul Starobin’s profile of Vladimir Putin, “The Accidental Autocrat” in The Atlantic.
But back to my sickness. In the interest of appeasing my husband and mailman, I’ve made a conscious effort to pare down my subscriptions somewhat, (though the ability to write them off as business expenses is always a handy excuse for keeping them). "Time, Wendy," says Danny. "When do you have time to read all of these?"
Point well taken. Since I’ve not been doing as much business writing, I thought having subscriptions to four business magazines was excessive. First to go was The Economist, as previously mentioned.
Although I enjoy the sassy tone of Business 2.0, I’m also doing even less tech writing these days, so that one had to go. I like Fortune Small Business, but haven’t read it in at least six months so I let that sub lapse as well. And just when I was about to cancel my Inc. subscription, they went and pulled together an amazing March issue that I just read end to end.
It was filled with interesting (and concise!) articles related to some things I’m working on now so I guess that one is a keeper. Besides, I’ve been reading Inc. for four years and do feel somewhat loyal. (Jeez! I just realized I’m a marketing stereotype. Brand loyal white woman aged 37.)
And so I close this week wishing you all a pleasant weekend, happy reading and soulful writing…
“If you don't have the time to read, you don't have the time or the tools to write.” – Stephen King “On Writing”
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Give 'em Hill
Do we really want to think about Election 2008? We may have no choice given the buzz around a new poll and the potential historical significance of its results. It seems Hillary Rodham Clinton’s 2008 campaign for president is unofficially underway.
According to very early numbers reported yesterday in aUSA Today/CNN/Gallup Poll she is a 40 percent favorite among Democrats, blowing well past John Kerry and John Edwards, and six percentage points ahead of the Republican frontrunner, former New York Mayor Rudolph Guiliani.
"Whether she runs or not, this is significant," according to Kathleen Casey, associate director of the Center for Women in Politics at Rutgers University, as reported in USA Today.
Significant indeed. Back in 1992, dubbed “The Year of the Woman,” I interviewed EMILY’s List President Ellen R. Malcolm at the Ritz-Carlton in Downtown Cleveland. EMILY is not a person it’s an acronym for “Early Money Is Like Yeast” (it helps the dough rise). There was so much excitement about women in poltics then. That year six Democratic female U.S. Senators and 20 new female congresswomen were elected. By all accounts, it was a good year for women in politics.
But women have failed to field strong national candidates despite the efforts of EMILY’s List (though admittedly it only serves one side of the electorate — Democrat and pro-choice). Elizabeth Dole was a Republican name bandied about for a while during the early days of the 2000 presidential election, but she essentially vanished from the national view until she was elected to represent North Carolina in the U.S. Senate in 2002. She could be planning something for the future. A Google search revealed the Friends of Elizabeth Dole site currently under construction.
USA Today reports: "In one respect, the results are not surprising: Clinton, the only former first lady ever to be elected to office in her own right, is one of the most prominent and controversial people in American political life.
"But her poll status also represents a historic breakthrough: No other female candidate has had such a serious chance of winning a major party's nomination for the presidency."
There are a few interesting dynamics at work. First, Clinton
“fired the shot heard 'round the campaign,” as New York Daily News columnist Michael Goodwin wrote on Jan. 30, when at a speech to an abortion-rights group in Albany, N.Y., on the 32nd anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision she appealed to both sides of this debate to find “common ground.”
Goodwin called it the “perfect two-fer. On one level, it was about Roe vs. Wade. At heart, it was about her.
“Come together over abortion, she seemed to say, and meanwhile, look at me. I'm not so bad, I'm really a moderate. Really.
“Testing. Testing. It's the new-and-improved Hillary, trying out some fresh material for 2008. And why not? Somebody has to be president.
“Coming at a time when Dems are sifting through the ashes trying to figure out who they want to be when they grow up, Clinton showed she already has her own answers,” Goodwin writes.
And it seems that she also has figured out a way to sincerely talk about religion, something John Kerry was unable to do (then again he’s a Catholic and a New Englander and neither are known for proselytizing faith).
But one op-ed columnist on Yahoo News says that Clinton’s ability to “talk convincingly about faith without sounding like a hypocrite or a panderer” is what distance her from her male Democratic colleagues. John Leo writes here “On church and state, she says, ‘There is no contradiction between support for faith-based initiatives and upholding our constitutional principles.’ Rather, she said, believers must be allowed ‘to live out their faith in the public square.’
“You don't have to be overwhelmed by Hillary Clinton's sincerity to conclude that she is making some smart moves now. She is beginning to distance herself from Democratic dogma.”
I’m not sure if she can go the distance. There’s no question that she’s a polarizing figure. But she’s worked hard in the Senate and has, until recently, quietly gone about serving her constituency.
Leo writes: “Once in the Senate, she made a beeline for the Armed Services Committee because she understood that the first female president will have to be a hawk, just as the first Catholic president (JFK) had to be adamant about not aiding Catholic schools.”
Would I love to see a woman leading this country? Absolutely! But so much is going to be riding on that pioneer to the presidency. There's plenty of time to plan, strategize, campaign, raise money, make strides. I'm hopeful that there are no guffaws along the way. Clinton strikes me as a very smart, savvy woman, but, more important, as one who knows herself well. So at the very least, she’ll give us something interesting to watch and, perhaps, inspire the next generation of women to serve.
In case you’re curious, visit the official “Draft Hillary Clinton for President”site.
According to very early numbers reported yesterday in aUSA Today/CNN/Gallup Poll she is a 40 percent favorite among Democrats, blowing well past John Kerry and John Edwards, and six percentage points ahead of the Republican frontrunner, former New York Mayor Rudolph Guiliani.
"Whether she runs or not, this is significant," according to Kathleen Casey, associate director of the Center for Women in Politics at Rutgers University, as reported in USA Today.
Significant indeed. Back in 1992, dubbed “The Year of the Woman,” I interviewed EMILY’s List President Ellen R. Malcolm at the Ritz-Carlton in Downtown Cleveland. EMILY is not a person it’s an acronym for “Early Money Is Like Yeast” (it helps the dough rise). There was so much excitement about women in poltics then. That year six Democratic female U.S. Senators and 20 new female congresswomen were elected. By all accounts, it was a good year for women in politics.
But women have failed to field strong national candidates despite the efforts of EMILY’s List (though admittedly it only serves one side of the electorate — Democrat and pro-choice). Elizabeth Dole was a Republican name bandied about for a while during the early days of the 2000 presidential election, but she essentially vanished from the national view until she was elected to represent North Carolina in the U.S. Senate in 2002. She could be planning something for the future. A Google search revealed the Friends of Elizabeth Dole site currently under construction.
USA Today reports: "In one respect, the results are not surprising: Clinton, the only former first lady ever to be elected to office in her own right, is one of the most prominent and controversial people in American political life.
"But her poll status also represents a historic breakthrough: No other female candidate has had such a serious chance of winning a major party's nomination for the presidency."
There are a few interesting dynamics at work. First, Clinton
“fired the shot heard 'round the campaign,” as New York Daily News columnist Michael Goodwin wrote on Jan. 30, when at a speech to an abortion-rights group in Albany, N.Y., on the 32nd anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision she appealed to both sides of this debate to find “common ground.”
Goodwin called it the “perfect two-fer. On one level, it was about Roe vs. Wade. At heart, it was about her.
“Come together over abortion, she seemed to say, and meanwhile, look at me. I'm not so bad, I'm really a moderate. Really.
“Testing. Testing. It's the new-and-improved Hillary, trying out some fresh material for 2008. And why not? Somebody has to be president.
“Coming at a time when Dems are sifting through the ashes trying to figure out who they want to be when they grow up, Clinton showed she already has her own answers,” Goodwin writes.
And it seems that she also has figured out a way to sincerely talk about religion, something John Kerry was unable to do (then again he’s a Catholic and a New Englander and neither are known for proselytizing faith).
But one op-ed columnist on Yahoo News says that Clinton’s ability to “talk convincingly about faith without sounding like a hypocrite or a panderer” is what distance her from her male Democratic colleagues. John Leo writes here “On church and state, she says, ‘There is no contradiction between support for faith-based initiatives and upholding our constitutional principles.’ Rather, she said, believers must be allowed ‘to live out their faith in the public square.’
“You don't have to be overwhelmed by Hillary Clinton's sincerity to conclude that she is making some smart moves now. She is beginning to distance herself from Democratic dogma.”
I’m not sure if she can go the distance. There’s no question that she’s a polarizing figure. But she’s worked hard in the Senate and has, until recently, quietly gone about serving her constituency.
Leo writes: “Once in the Senate, she made a beeline for the Armed Services Committee because she understood that the first female president will have to be a hawk, just as the first Catholic president (JFK) had to be adamant about not aiding Catholic schools.”
Would I love to see a woman leading this country? Absolutely! But so much is going to be riding on that pioneer to the presidency. There's plenty of time to plan, strategize, campaign, raise money, make strides. I'm hopeful that there are no guffaws along the way. Clinton strikes me as a very smart, savvy woman, but, more important, as one who knows herself well. So at the very least, she’ll give us something interesting to watch and, perhaps, inspire the next generation of women to serve.
In case you’re curious, visit the official “Draft Hillary Clinton for President”site.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Daydreaming
The boys and I had a chat recently about the value (and appropriateness) of daydreaming. I for one am one of those parents who wholeheartedly believes in the power of the imagination and letting it wander to the hinterlands (just not while getting ready for school in the morning). Time is of the essence.
Sadly, I've no time for daydreaming this week. But thought I'd share the lyrics of one of my favorite daydreaming tunes. Consider this my gift of a 10-second daydream. Who knows, these Duke Ellington/Billy Strayhorn lyrics could send you off into a hazy reverie...
Day dream why do you haunt me so?
Deep in a rosy glow
The face of my love you show
Day dream I walk along on air
Building a castle there
For me and my love to share
Don’t know the time
Buddy I’m in a daze
Sun in the sky
While I move around, feeling hazy
Day dream don’t break my reverie
Until I find that she
Is daydreaming just like me.
Sadly, I've no time for daydreaming this week. But thought I'd share the lyrics of one of my favorite daydreaming tunes. Consider this my gift of a 10-second daydream. Who knows, these Duke Ellington/Billy Strayhorn lyrics could send you off into a hazy reverie...
Day dream why do you haunt me so?
Deep in a rosy glow
The face of my love you show
Day dream I walk along on air
Building a castle there
For me and my love to share
Don’t know the time
Buddy I’m in a daze
Sun in the sky
While I move around, feeling hazy
Day dream don’t break my reverie
Until I find that she
Is daydreaming just like me.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Running on empty
VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22). The stars whisper to you -- pause to listen. They say things like "Be careful not to fall in love with someone's potential." You are observant and willing to see things how they are now instead of how they ought to be.
I’m not sure what to make of today’s horoscope, but I like the way it sounds. I like the idea of stars whispering to me. But maybe I need to be more attentive because I don’t hear anything right now and I know why. I’m treading on overload and can’t possibly handle much more without a significant rest.
I feel like the student whose Zen teacher illustrates his life by continuously pouring tea into a cup even as it flows over. When the student yells, “Stop, the cup is full,” the teacher replies: “And so it is with you.”
And so it is with me. Wise women (and men) say that when your life and mind become overwhelmed, you need to empty in order to take in new information. I don’t need to empty, but I could certainly use to refresh. I crave stillness, quiet and rest.
For a year, my sister has been inviting me to her brother-in-law’s cabin in southeast Ohio. It sounds and looks (at least in pictures) like a wonderful escape — big stone fireplace, modern bath and kitchen, lots of woods for long walks, no landline or TV reception. In fact, it sounds like just the place I need to unplug from my very plugged-in world.
With sudden urgency, I realized how much I need a break. It didn’t hit me until last night when my husband and I had a spirited discussion over how long we were going to stay at the cabin with my entire family on President’s Weekend. His fourth-grade basketball team has a game on Sunday afternoon and he thinks we should get up and leave Sunday morning in order to attend. My every weekend is filled with basketball games and carting kids here and there and running to the grocery store and getting to Mass and tackling painting projects and washing floors…. The last thing I do on the weekend is rest.
But I was near hysterical in my response to my husband, demanding to know why a CYO basketball game is more important than spending a relaxing long weekend with my family. He muttered something under his breath about me being a lunatic and not recalling that we had already discussed coming home early.
I wanted to scream, “I CHANGED MY MIND! I WANT TO STAY LONGER! I NEED TO STAY LONGER!” Instead, I walked into the living room (my room) and picked up my self-help review book: “Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much.” It would be funny, except that I’m too raw emotionally to see the humor.
I fought back tears of rage, exhaustion and frustration as I realized that a break, a change of scenery, a few days away from home and office (which are one in the same and can be hazardous to my mental health) are exactly what I need.
Though I contemplated saying that out loud, I hesitated. How can I say I need a break when I traveled alone so much last year? But the fact is, those were not restful trips. I was actively working. But there was that guilt, like my nearest and dearest friend. “How can you possibly say you need time alone when you were away so much in 2004?”
Next weekend will not be restful in the way that being alone would be. My entire extended family—10 adults, 7 kids and 3 dogs—will be there. But it represents a change in scenery. I can take Riley for a walk in the woods, run and laugh with Danny and the boys, sip tea with my sister. I won’t have to think about e-mail, deadlines, cell phone calls, the condition of kitchen floor or the unfinished painting project at least for a few days. And that’s all I need right now. Just a little break to refresh … at least until I can get my few days at the beach.
“The world is full of women blindsided by the unceasing demands of motherhood, still flabbergasted by how a job can be terrific and torturous.” — Anna Quindlen
I’m not sure what to make of today’s horoscope, but I like the way it sounds. I like the idea of stars whispering to me. But maybe I need to be more attentive because I don’t hear anything right now and I know why. I’m treading on overload and can’t possibly handle much more without a significant rest.
I feel like the student whose Zen teacher illustrates his life by continuously pouring tea into a cup even as it flows over. When the student yells, “Stop, the cup is full,” the teacher replies: “And so it is with you.”
And so it is with me. Wise women (and men) say that when your life and mind become overwhelmed, you need to empty in order to take in new information. I don’t need to empty, but I could certainly use to refresh. I crave stillness, quiet and rest.
For a year, my sister has been inviting me to her brother-in-law’s cabin in southeast Ohio. It sounds and looks (at least in pictures) like a wonderful escape — big stone fireplace, modern bath and kitchen, lots of woods for long walks, no landline or TV reception. In fact, it sounds like just the place I need to unplug from my very plugged-in world.
With sudden urgency, I realized how much I need a break. It didn’t hit me until last night when my husband and I had a spirited discussion over how long we were going to stay at the cabin with my entire family on President’s Weekend. His fourth-grade basketball team has a game on Sunday afternoon and he thinks we should get up and leave Sunday morning in order to attend. My every weekend is filled with basketball games and carting kids here and there and running to the grocery store and getting to Mass and tackling painting projects and washing floors…. The last thing I do on the weekend is rest.
But I was near hysterical in my response to my husband, demanding to know why a CYO basketball game is more important than spending a relaxing long weekend with my family. He muttered something under his breath about me being a lunatic and not recalling that we had already discussed coming home early.
I wanted to scream, “I CHANGED MY MIND! I WANT TO STAY LONGER! I NEED TO STAY LONGER!” Instead, I walked into the living room (my room) and picked up my self-help review book: “Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much.” It would be funny, except that I’m too raw emotionally to see the humor.
I fought back tears of rage, exhaustion and frustration as I realized that a break, a change of scenery, a few days away from home and office (which are one in the same and can be hazardous to my mental health) are exactly what I need.
Though I contemplated saying that out loud, I hesitated. How can I say I need a break when I traveled alone so much last year? But the fact is, those were not restful trips. I was actively working. But there was that guilt, like my nearest and dearest friend. “How can you possibly say you need time alone when you were away so much in 2004?”
Next weekend will not be restful in the way that being alone would be. My entire extended family—10 adults, 7 kids and 3 dogs—will be there. But it represents a change in scenery. I can take Riley for a walk in the woods, run and laugh with Danny and the boys, sip tea with my sister. I won’t have to think about e-mail, deadlines, cell phone calls, the condition of kitchen floor or the unfinished painting project at least for a few days. And that’s all I need right now. Just a little break to refresh … at least until I can get my few days at the beach.
“The world is full of women blindsided by the unceasing demands of motherhood, still flabbergasted by how a job can be terrific and torturous.” — Anna Quindlen
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Ten years gone, but not forgotten
Ten years ago today, my grandfather passed away. It was a major turning point in my life. He was the first person to die whom I was really close to. And aside from my dad, he was the greatest male role model in my life. I always fancied myself his favorite grandchild and I’m not sure why I felt that way. Perhaps he made us all feel like his favorite. That was simply his way.
As a child, he was larger than life to me. During his prime Emil Litvak was 6 feet tall and had wispy white hair. He had a perpetual tan whether or not he had just returned from Florida. (Must have been the Ukrainian olive skin.) Near the end of his life, people used to tell him how good he looked (and he did!), even the funeral director admired his skin tone. “Don’t they know I’m not well?” he used to ask. He did deteriorate quickly, but in my memory he remains virile and as vivid as if I saw him yesterday.
When my parents went away on vacation, he and my Gram would stay with us kids and I can still hear him singing in the bathroom while he shaved. I used to love to grab a seat and just watch him. He sang a lot. Every Easter, he used to strut from side to side and sing to us kids.
“The Easter time is the time to shine
And the time to shine is the Easter time.
The Easter time is the time for eggs
And the time for eggs is the Easter time.”
He loved old forties music and Spike Jones and Fred Waring and used to regale us kids with his music. But my favorite was a little ditty he (in his deep baritone) and my Gram (in her lilting soprano) would sing together.
Gram would sing:
“Mares eat oats
And does eat oats
and little lambs eat ivy.”
(only it sounds like mairzy dotes and dozy dotes)
And Grandpa would respond in his deep voice:
“A kid’ll eat ivy, too,
wouldn’t you?”
In their sprawling ranch on Engle Road, my grandparents would entertain constantly. It was a curious kid’s dream to be in that house with many wonderful places to hide and observe the many interesting people who came to celebrate anything and everything. Very early on, it was a place where I honed my observation skills just absorbing the atmosphere.
Grandpa had a friend named Kenny Bly, who looked as if he could be his brother. The two were out on the patio one evening with their caps and cigars and howling about something. I watched them from my little perch behind the bar in their great room. I smiled and thought they were two of the best friends I'd ever seen and I wanted to join in their fun (though I’m certain it wasn’t suitable for a 8-year-old little girl).
As I headed off to college freshman year, my grandparents were off on their own adventure—a Grand Tour of Europe. Grandpa always seemed so cultured and worldly to me. He served in the U.S. Coast Guard during World War II and was in the Reserves for many years after that. He was a Brook Park City Councilman in the 1960s.
He read constantly and was interested in everything. He was fluent in French and used to converse with my sister, causing me to be envious that I couldn’t participate. At Lincoln High School on the near West Side, he starred in a play, performed in French.
Although he was a plant engineer for PPG Industries by trade, he also was very creative. He was fascinated with flying and wrote a lovely little story in 10th grade about flying that was magnificent and captured the romantic he was until the end. When I find a copy, I'll post it here. He was a Scripps-Howard Junior Aviator and earned his student pilot's license at age 17.
He adored my husband and got on with him famously. And perhaps he even saw a little of himself in Danny. At my younger brother's wedding in 1996, Danny had imbibed just a little too much. He was a happy drunk and my Gram pulled me aside laughing and said, "Your grandfather is smiling down on your husband right now." And that made me smile. I remember my senior year in college Danny bought me a leather bomber jacket for Christmas. (They were all the rage in the late 80s.) We were at my grandparents on Christmas Eve and Grandpa hammed it up for the camera by donning my new jacket and pulling his cap on backwards. He looked simply wonderful and vibrant at age 70.
I always had the sense that Grandpa appreciated my mind, my energy and my passion. How fortunate I was to share this with him as an adult. I lived with my grandparents for six months when I first moved back to Cleveland. While he and Gram sipped their nightly highball, he would ask all about my day as a cub reporter. He was interested in politics and arts and culture and education. He even put up with me when I was a tad moody. “You were rotten!” he would say. And I was sometimes. But he could be, too. Living with him I saw how he would sometimes antagonize my Gram. But she was one tough cookie and could hold her own. No matter what they argued about, they were always outwardly affectionate toward one another.
On August 10, 1991, my wedding day, he was every bit the dashing gentlemen having shown up for Mass looking for all the world as if he'd just stepped off a yacht—crisp white linen pants and navy double-breasted blazer were a nice contrast to his white hair and tanned complexion. I later learned that it was Gram who dressed him. He was colorblind. Actually, I think she shared that with me as we were laying out his clothes for burial. My favorite photo from my wedding was a picture taken before the ceremony from behind him in which he’s pretending not to look at me (the bride) seated inside the car. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a more beautiful photo of myself and it’s because, in addition to being my wedding day, he made me smile all the way to my toes.
I was so oblivious in my wedding bliss that I didn’t realize that my wedding plans interfered with Gram and Grandpa’s 50th anniversary. I was still oblivious in October when they threw themselves a big party. Grandpa had the microphone and was introducing everyone table by table and sharing little stories about them. He came to our table last and said, “It’s because my granddaughter Wendy had to get married in August that we are having this party now.” I was so young and stupid, I didn’t even realize. But I danced with him that night and, as my mom later recalled, it was the last time he danced.
Grandpa’s health began a steady decline. He was diabetic and had high cholesterol. Eventually, his balance began to falter and he shuffled around hunched and unsteady on his feet. In January 1995, he was admitted to Fairview Hospital to have a stent put into his head to drain the excess fluid from his brain. I came to visit him one day and had Ryan who was 2 and Patrick, 5 months, with me in the waiting room. Gram told me he wanted to see the boys and me, so we went into his room. Ryan promptly climbed onto his bed.
“Grandpa, do you have a booboo?” Ryan asked, pointing to the band-aid on his head where the stent was inserted.
Grandpa laughed heartily. It was the last time I saw him alive. My dad called on a Friday morning while I was working at Sun Newspapers, telling me that in the early morning hours Grandpa’s heart gave out. I was stunned and yet not. Danny picked me up from work and the moment I saw him, I cried. He pulled into parking lot at Great Northern and just held me while I let out my grief. It was the only time I did so. Later I learned that Grandpa would likely have had to move to a nursing home. Gram couldn’t continue to care for him on her own. He wouldn’t have wanted to live like that. And so in the end, at age 76, his heart stopped.
At one point near the end of his life, he asked me to write his obituary. I joked with him at the time that it would be a long while before I’d have to think about that. When it was time I found it to be one of the most difficult and most rewarding things I’ve ever written. How do you condense an entire person’s life and impact into 250 words? Somehow, for him, I managed. Just as I somehow managed, as did my sister, a reading at his funeral Mass.
He’s with me still and I’m so delighted that he got to know two of his great-grandsons before he died. How he would marvel at them now. Mostly, I hope that the woman I was just beginning to become when he passed away would make him smile and make him proud.
As a child, he was larger than life to me. During his prime Emil Litvak was 6 feet tall and had wispy white hair. He had a perpetual tan whether or not he had just returned from Florida. (Must have been the Ukrainian olive skin.) Near the end of his life, people used to tell him how good he looked (and he did!), even the funeral director admired his skin tone. “Don’t they know I’m not well?” he used to ask. He did deteriorate quickly, but in my memory he remains virile and as vivid as if I saw him yesterday.
When my parents went away on vacation, he and my Gram would stay with us kids and I can still hear him singing in the bathroom while he shaved. I used to love to grab a seat and just watch him. He sang a lot. Every Easter, he used to strut from side to side and sing to us kids.
“The Easter time is the time to shine
And the time to shine is the Easter time.
The Easter time is the time for eggs
And the time for eggs is the Easter time.”
He loved old forties music and Spike Jones and Fred Waring and used to regale us kids with his music. But my favorite was a little ditty he (in his deep baritone) and my Gram (in her lilting soprano) would sing together.
Gram would sing:
“Mares eat oats
And does eat oats
and little lambs eat ivy.”
(only it sounds like mairzy dotes and dozy dotes)
And Grandpa would respond in his deep voice:
“A kid’ll eat ivy, too,
wouldn’t you?”
In their sprawling ranch on Engle Road, my grandparents would entertain constantly. It was a curious kid’s dream to be in that house with many wonderful places to hide and observe the many interesting people who came to celebrate anything and everything. Very early on, it was a place where I honed my observation skills just absorbing the atmosphere.
Grandpa had a friend named Kenny Bly, who looked as if he could be his brother. The two were out on the patio one evening with their caps and cigars and howling about something. I watched them from my little perch behind the bar in their great room. I smiled and thought they were two of the best friends I'd ever seen and I wanted to join in their fun (though I’m certain it wasn’t suitable for a 8-year-old little girl).
As I headed off to college freshman year, my grandparents were off on their own adventure—a Grand Tour of Europe. Grandpa always seemed so cultured and worldly to me. He served in the U.S. Coast Guard during World War II and was in the Reserves for many years after that. He was a Brook Park City Councilman in the 1960s.
He read constantly and was interested in everything. He was fluent in French and used to converse with my sister, causing me to be envious that I couldn’t participate. At Lincoln High School on the near West Side, he starred in a play, performed in French.
Although he was a plant engineer for PPG Industries by trade, he also was very creative. He was fascinated with flying and wrote a lovely little story in 10th grade about flying that was magnificent and captured the romantic he was until the end. When I find a copy, I'll post it here. He was a Scripps-Howard Junior Aviator and earned his student pilot's license at age 17.
He adored my husband and got on with him famously. And perhaps he even saw a little of himself in Danny. At my younger brother's wedding in 1996, Danny had imbibed just a little too much. He was a happy drunk and my Gram pulled me aside laughing and said, "Your grandfather is smiling down on your husband right now." And that made me smile. I remember my senior year in college Danny bought me a leather bomber jacket for Christmas. (They were all the rage in the late 80s.) We were at my grandparents on Christmas Eve and Grandpa hammed it up for the camera by donning my new jacket and pulling his cap on backwards. He looked simply wonderful and vibrant at age 70.
I always had the sense that Grandpa appreciated my mind, my energy and my passion. How fortunate I was to share this with him as an adult. I lived with my grandparents for six months when I first moved back to Cleveland. While he and Gram sipped their nightly highball, he would ask all about my day as a cub reporter. He was interested in politics and arts and culture and education. He even put up with me when I was a tad moody. “You were rotten!” he would say. And I was sometimes. But he could be, too. Living with him I saw how he would sometimes antagonize my Gram. But she was one tough cookie and could hold her own. No matter what they argued about, they were always outwardly affectionate toward one another.
On August 10, 1991, my wedding day, he was every bit the dashing gentlemen having shown up for Mass looking for all the world as if he'd just stepped off a yacht—crisp white linen pants and navy double-breasted blazer were a nice contrast to his white hair and tanned complexion. I later learned that it was Gram who dressed him. He was colorblind. Actually, I think she shared that with me as we were laying out his clothes for burial. My favorite photo from my wedding was a picture taken before the ceremony from behind him in which he’s pretending not to look at me (the bride) seated inside the car. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a more beautiful photo of myself and it’s because, in addition to being my wedding day, he made me smile all the way to my toes.
I was so oblivious in my wedding bliss that I didn’t realize that my wedding plans interfered with Gram and Grandpa’s 50th anniversary. I was still oblivious in October when they threw themselves a big party. Grandpa had the microphone and was introducing everyone table by table and sharing little stories about them. He came to our table last and said, “It’s because my granddaughter Wendy had to get married in August that we are having this party now.” I was so young and stupid, I didn’t even realize. But I danced with him that night and, as my mom later recalled, it was the last time he danced.
Grandpa’s health began a steady decline. He was diabetic and had high cholesterol. Eventually, his balance began to falter and he shuffled around hunched and unsteady on his feet. In January 1995, he was admitted to Fairview Hospital to have a stent put into his head to drain the excess fluid from his brain. I came to visit him one day and had Ryan who was 2 and Patrick, 5 months, with me in the waiting room. Gram told me he wanted to see the boys and me, so we went into his room. Ryan promptly climbed onto his bed.
“Grandpa, do you have a booboo?” Ryan asked, pointing to the band-aid on his head where the stent was inserted.
Grandpa laughed heartily. It was the last time I saw him alive. My dad called on a Friday morning while I was working at Sun Newspapers, telling me that in the early morning hours Grandpa’s heart gave out. I was stunned and yet not. Danny picked me up from work and the moment I saw him, I cried. He pulled into parking lot at Great Northern and just held me while I let out my grief. It was the only time I did so. Later I learned that Grandpa would likely have had to move to a nursing home. Gram couldn’t continue to care for him on her own. He wouldn’t have wanted to live like that. And so in the end, at age 76, his heart stopped.
At one point near the end of his life, he asked me to write his obituary. I joked with him at the time that it would be a long while before I’d have to think about that. When it was time I found it to be one of the most difficult and most rewarding things I’ve ever written. How do you condense an entire person’s life and impact into 250 words? Somehow, for him, I managed. Just as I somehow managed, as did my sister, a reading at his funeral Mass.
He’s with me still and I’m so delighted that he got to know two of his great-grandsons before he died. How he would marvel at them now. Mostly, I hope that the woman I was just beginning to become when he passed away would make him smile and make him proud.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Saying farewell to nigh-night
At 6:30 this morning I was baking a birthday cake. At 7:30, Danny and I went into Michael’s room and awakened him singing Happy Birthday. Hard to believe, but my baby is 6 years old today. As he reminded us, it now takes two hands to say how old he is.
As the youngest, we’ve been a little more indulgent with him than we were with his older brothers. He slept in his crib until he was 3, showing absolutely no signs of wanting to leave its confines. We were firm in having Ryan and Patrick give up their binkies when they were young. With Michael, who never had one, we’ve been more lenient.
Since he was about 6 months old, he would pull the crib sheet off his bed and cuddle with it. His favorite was a red crib sheet that he literally dragged around everywhere as he got older. (I can still hear my mom saying to my dad, “He drags that damn sheet around!”)
After Riley the dog arrived, the red crib sheet bit the dust. Michael loved to play tug-of-war with her and seemed to have no problem doing so with his “nigh-night.” Eventually, Riley began to think of the nigh-night as her own and promptly tore it to shreds. No problem for Mikey, who then chose to carry around blue nigh-night. (There also was a white nigh-night, but that never seemed to hold favor.)
Whenever I would broach the subject of giving up nigh-night, Michael would say, “But I’m affected.” Ryan would howl with laughter and correct him, “You mean addicted, Mikey.”
And he was addicted. Every morning before school I would remind him to say goodbye to nigh-night. He would grab it tightly to his face, inhale deeply and say (his voice muffled by the fabric), “Goodbye, nigh-night. I’ll miss you.”
In the beginning of the school year, he would race upstairs when he came home to get his nigh-night fix. But as the school year has worn on, he would go longer and longer periods without it. So in January I told him he had a month left with nigh-night. When he turned 6, he would have to give it up.
I think he’s ready. This morning as he was getting dressed I asked him what he needed to do. “Give you nigh-night.”
“But can I just say goodbye,” he asked.
And so I helped him put into words what nigh-night meant to him.
“Goodbye, nigh-night. I’m a big boy now and don’t need you anymore,” I said.
“Goodbye, nigh-night. I’m a big boy now and don’t need you anymore,” he repeated.
“Thank you for comforting me all these years,” I said.
“Thank you for comforting me all these years,” he said.
“I’ll always remember how much you meant to me,” I said.
“I’ll always remember how much you meant to me,” he said.
And with that, he handed over what remained of blue nigh-night. It’s actually two pieces, thanks once again to a tug-of-war session with Riley.
Last night on the phone my sister asked me if I was seriously going to pitch it.
“Are you crazy? I’ll hang on to it just in case." Plus, someday I’ll pull it out of his baby box and sniff it and remember how that damn sheet was part of our lives, more important, part of Mikey for six years.”
Happy Birthday, my little groundhog. Mommy loves you.
As the youngest, we’ve been a little more indulgent with him than we were with his older brothers. He slept in his crib until he was 3, showing absolutely no signs of wanting to leave its confines. We were firm in having Ryan and Patrick give up their binkies when they were young. With Michael, who never had one, we’ve been more lenient.
Since he was about 6 months old, he would pull the crib sheet off his bed and cuddle with it. His favorite was a red crib sheet that he literally dragged around everywhere as he got older. (I can still hear my mom saying to my dad, “He drags that damn sheet around!”)
After Riley the dog arrived, the red crib sheet bit the dust. Michael loved to play tug-of-war with her and seemed to have no problem doing so with his “nigh-night.” Eventually, Riley began to think of the nigh-night as her own and promptly tore it to shreds. No problem for Mikey, who then chose to carry around blue nigh-night. (There also was a white nigh-night, but that never seemed to hold favor.)
Whenever I would broach the subject of giving up nigh-night, Michael would say, “But I’m affected.” Ryan would howl with laughter and correct him, “You mean addicted, Mikey.”
And he was addicted. Every morning before school I would remind him to say goodbye to nigh-night. He would grab it tightly to his face, inhale deeply and say (his voice muffled by the fabric), “Goodbye, nigh-night. I’ll miss you.”
In the beginning of the school year, he would race upstairs when he came home to get his nigh-night fix. But as the school year has worn on, he would go longer and longer periods without it. So in January I told him he had a month left with nigh-night. When he turned 6, he would have to give it up.
I think he’s ready. This morning as he was getting dressed I asked him what he needed to do. “Give you nigh-night.”
“But can I just say goodbye,” he asked.
And so I helped him put into words what nigh-night meant to him.
“Goodbye, nigh-night. I’m a big boy now and don’t need you anymore,” I said.
“Goodbye, nigh-night. I’m a big boy now and don’t need you anymore,” he repeated.
“Thank you for comforting me all these years,” I said.
“Thank you for comforting me all these years,” he said.
“I’ll always remember how much you meant to me,” I said.
“I’ll always remember how much you meant to me,” he said.
And with that, he handed over what remained of blue nigh-night. It’s actually two pieces, thanks once again to a tug-of-war session with Riley.
Last night on the phone my sister asked me if I was seriously going to pitch it.
“Are you crazy? I’ll hang on to it just in case." Plus, someday I’ll pull it out of his baby box and sniff it and remember how that damn sheet was part of our lives, more important, part of Mikey for six years.”
Happy Birthday, my little groundhog. Mommy loves you.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Getting back to the arts
A few weeks ago I wrote about the demise of a dream called Avenues Magazine. What I neglected to share is that during my five years there, I received a crash course in art history, architecture, playwriting, dance, opera and classical music.
I’ve always been artistically inclined. I spent seven years playing flute and studying with teachers at the Baldwin-Wallace College Conservatory of Music. I’ve never shied away from theater, dance or classical music. In fact, those things speak directly to my soul and, when done well, can cause the hair to stand up on my arms and cause me to weep for their beauty and soulfulness.
When Avenues closed, I had begun work on a series of articles about arts outreach. Unfortunately, I couldn't turn all that work into something saleable elsewhere I think because I was too emotional to think clearly. But the idea of building audiences for the arts is something about which I feel very passionate. Stay tuned for more info on a new project that addresses just that.
On another artistic note: I found an ad in Amy Bracken Sparks’ Angle magazine announcing that CMA is reinstating what used to be called The May Show. This annual event used to be a great place for local artists to exhibit their work. While looking over my photos from my honeymoon in Aruba, a newspaper photographer I used to work with joked that I could enter them in the May Show. Not because they were good, but because I had put the same roll of film through my camera twice and the result was double images on the prints. Some were kind of cool. But I digress…
Now known as The NEO Show, (honestly, can we PLEASE get away from using NEO? Team Neo, NeoBio, blah, blah, blah) it is a juried exhibition of work in all media: painting, works on paper (prints and drawings), sculpture, metals, jewelry, ceramics, installation, film/video, performance (dance and musical), photography, textiles, web-based and interactive art by artists living in 15 counties throughout Northeast Ohio.
The exhibition will be on view, free of charge, July 10 through Sept. 4, 2005. Artists take note: The deadline for submission of the entry form, slides, video and DVDs is March 18.
I’ve always been artistically inclined. I spent seven years playing flute and studying with teachers at the Baldwin-Wallace College Conservatory of Music. I’ve never shied away from theater, dance or classical music. In fact, those things speak directly to my soul and, when done well, can cause the hair to stand up on my arms and cause me to weep for their beauty and soulfulness.
When Avenues closed, I had begun work on a series of articles about arts outreach. Unfortunately, I couldn't turn all that work into something saleable elsewhere I think because I was too emotional to think clearly. But the idea of building audiences for the arts is something about which I feel very passionate. Stay tuned for more info on a new project that addresses just that.
On another artistic note: I found an ad in Amy Bracken Sparks’ Angle magazine announcing that CMA is reinstating what used to be called The May Show. This annual event used to be a great place for local artists to exhibit their work. While looking over my photos from my honeymoon in Aruba, a newspaper photographer I used to work with joked that I could enter them in the May Show. Not because they were good, but because I had put the same roll of film through my camera twice and the result was double images on the prints. Some were kind of cool. But I digress…
Now known as The NEO Show, (honestly, can we PLEASE get away from using NEO? Team Neo, NeoBio, blah, blah, blah) it is a juried exhibition of work in all media: painting, works on paper (prints and drawings), sculpture, metals, jewelry, ceramics, installation, film/video, performance (dance and musical), photography, textiles, web-based and interactive art by artists living in 15 counties throughout Northeast Ohio.
The exhibition will be on view, free of charge, July 10 through Sept. 4, 2005. Artists take note: The deadline for submission of the entry form, slides, video and DVDs is March 18.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Working smarter
Humans are slow learners. At least I can speak for myself. Tomorrow marks one year since I started my solo venture. There isn’t a day that goes by that I haven’t learned something new about how to engage—and not engage—in business.
I learned last fall that some monthly retainers sound like a lot, until you realize the amount of hours that project will consume. And that it’s best to get it in writing no matter how loudly the client doth protest. If they insist on working on a handshake, I’m not doing business with them.
When my world is thrown into a professional/economic tailspin, it’s best not to panic. Reassessing for me means thinking clearly. In order to do that, I need to take extra care of myself — exercising daily, eating well and sleeping well. Once I stop panicking, good things just seem to fall into place.
I don’t want to have my entire business focus translate into working for someone else, though from the convenience of my home office. When faced with the prospect of a well-paying job managing special sections for national business magazine, I realized several things:
• I don’t want to give up the other fun projects I’m working on.
• While the money was substantial, it was not enough for me to give up my family life and become consumed by a frenetic corporate culture.
• On the ride back to the airport, while on the phone with my husband, I suddenly realized that I’ve already done that kind of work and I don’t want to go back to it.
From then on certain parts of my business focus became crystal clear. My journalistic endeavors are rapidly expanding. That was the whole purpose in my starting this gig. I’m getting back to writing about those things about which I care deeply—books, the arts, people and leadership.
But the place I struggle most is in time management. Ever so slowly, I’m learning that my time is exactly that—MY time. And in order to call myself a businesswoman, I need to do a better job of managing my time in a way that works best for my family, my business and me.
After a hectic month of meetings after meetings, I’ve learned a couple more things about my time:
• To fill in any and all school-related events on the calendar FIRST.
• Not to schedule meetings past 2 p.m. (with rare exceptions) since my middle son gets home from school at 2:30.
• To keep the early part of my week unscheduled in order to attend to the business of my business (whether it’s writing, researching, invoicing, etc.)
• To not be so quick to run to the east side, when it would be far more convenient for me to meet people closer to home.
• To limit my amount of extra-curriculars during the week.
• To do a better job of tracking the amount of time spent on a particular project.
Of course, these lessons didn’t hit home for me until I found myself articulating them during lunch on Friday in which a colleague was picking my brain about being self-employed. So I’m trying to work smarter in an effort to better manage my life. And I think better management will also lead to business growth.
When people ask me if I accomplished my 2004 goals, I have to say, "I guess." Those goals were fluid and they changed a bit as my desires and needs shifted. I'm feeling good about my first year in business and even better about the next year. In the end, even my husband (so reticent in the beginning) has realized that my being self-employed makes the most sense for our family.
And it has its perks. For the record, I was able to get excused from Jury Duty. (I served two years ago.) Good thing since I was to report on Feb. 7, which also is the 100th day of school at Normandy Elementary. And my presence is requested there by one Michael Hoke.
One of my compulsive habits is to check my horoscope daily. Here’s today’s from Washington Post. Fits rather well with the subject of this post.
VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22). Survey the landscape of your life. What hills do you need to climb? Where can you rest a bit and catch your breath? Is the climate right to plant new seeds for growth? Draw your own map, and then, forge ahead.
I learned last fall that some monthly retainers sound like a lot, until you realize the amount of hours that project will consume. And that it’s best to get it in writing no matter how loudly the client doth protest. If they insist on working on a handshake, I’m not doing business with them.
When my world is thrown into a professional/economic tailspin, it’s best not to panic. Reassessing for me means thinking clearly. In order to do that, I need to take extra care of myself — exercising daily, eating well and sleeping well. Once I stop panicking, good things just seem to fall into place.
I don’t want to have my entire business focus translate into working for someone else, though from the convenience of my home office. When faced with the prospect of a well-paying job managing special sections for national business magazine, I realized several things:
• I don’t want to give up the other fun projects I’m working on.
• While the money was substantial, it was not enough for me to give up my family life and become consumed by a frenetic corporate culture.
• On the ride back to the airport, while on the phone with my husband, I suddenly realized that I’ve already done that kind of work and I don’t want to go back to it.
From then on certain parts of my business focus became crystal clear. My journalistic endeavors are rapidly expanding. That was the whole purpose in my starting this gig. I’m getting back to writing about those things about which I care deeply—books, the arts, people and leadership.
But the place I struggle most is in time management. Ever so slowly, I’m learning that my time is exactly that—MY time. And in order to call myself a businesswoman, I need to do a better job of managing my time in a way that works best for my family, my business and me.
After a hectic month of meetings after meetings, I’ve learned a couple more things about my time:
• To fill in any and all school-related events on the calendar FIRST.
• Not to schedule meetings past 2 p.m. (with rare exceptions) since my middle son gets home from school at 2:30.
• To keep the early part of my week unscheduled in order to attend to the business of my business (whether it’s writing, researching, invoicing, etc.)
• To not be so quick to run to the east side, when it would be far more convenient for me to meet people closer to home.
• To limit my amount of extra-curriculars during the week.
• To do a better job of tracking the amount of time spent on a particular project.
Of course, these lessons didn’t hit home for me until I found myself articulating them during lunch on Friday in which a colleague was picking my brain about being self-employed. So I’m trying to work smarter in an effort to better manage my life. And I think better management will also lead to business growth.
When people ask me if I accomplished my 2004 goals, I have to say, "I guess." Those goals were fluid and they changed a bit as my desires and needs shifted. I'm feeling good about my first year in business and even better about the next year. In the end, even my husband (so reticent in the beginning) has realized that my being self-employed makes the most sense for our family.
And it has its perks. For the record, I was able to get excused from Jury Duty. (I served two years ago.) Good thing since I was to report on Feb. 7, which also is the 100th day of school at Normandy Elementary. And my presence is requested there by one Michael Hoke.
One of my compulsive habits is to check my horoscope daily. Here’s today’s from Washington Post. Fits rather well with the subject of this post.
VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22). Survey the landscape of your life. What hills do you need to climb? Where can you rest a bit and catch your breath? Is the climate right to plant new seeds for growth? Draw your own map, and then, forge ahead.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Friday round up
So many odds and ends today. Pardon the ADD nature of this entry.
First, I cracked up at this article by Washington Post style writer Robin Givhan. The photo of the Veep doing his best Nanook of the North impression is priceless. I picture Lynn Cheney looking at today’s Post over morning coffee and smacking him yelling, “Idiot! I told you to wear your top coat.”
Also from today’s Post was this horoscope:
VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22). Fighting for someone else's rights brings out the warrior in you. "No" is not an option, and you're willing to make a scene if that's what it takes. You're now the sign most likely to be called to jury duty.
As it happens, I have a jury summons sitting on my desk. Very freaky…
Heard a fascinating discussion on The Diane Rehm Show this morning. Steve Roberts, sitting in for Diane, was talking with Dr. Temple Grandin, professor of animal science at Colorado State University and author of “Animals in Translation.” The kicker is she has autism. Her book is a discussion of how her own experience as a person with autism helps her translate what goes on inside the minds of animals. It was one of those NPR gems you just stumble on from time to time, usually in the car in between meetings.
It seems Sy Hersh has drawn the ire (again!) of the Bush administration with this piece in the current issue of The New Yorker. He was the victim of government smear tactics, until the venerable Post and New York Times ran similar stories. Ari Berman’s blog “The Daily Outrage” in The Nation details the criticism and the non-denial denials.
And finally… I receive all manner of e-newsletters these days, many of which are geared toward writers. But this kind of stuff just cracks me up. I would advise writers to steer clear of ads that proclaim, as does this piece in today’s Absolute Markets Newsletter:
“If you ever dreamed about the romantic life of a travel writer, here's a very unusual opportunity to actually live it!” When you click on the link it takes you to a loquacious sales pitch that includes such gems as this:
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Steenie Harvey, and I'm not exaggerating when I say my passport pages are as well turned as a child's favorite story book. I really do travel the world... and get paid to do it.”
And it gets better:
“Right now, Passport to Romance: The Ultimate Travel Writer's Course, and AWAI's exclusive photojournalism course, Big Bucks for Snap Shots, is yours for only $287.
Get Started Today for Only $49!
All you have to pay to get started is $49. After that, you will be billed $34.00 a month for each of 7 installments that follow. That means you can begin this exclusive program for less than $50.”
What a racket!
First, I cracked up at this article by Washington Post style writer Robin Givhan. The photo of the Veep doing his best Nanook of the North impression is priceless. I picture Lynn Cheney looking at today’s Post over morning coffee and smacking him yelling, “Idiot! I told you to wear your top coat.”
Also from today’s Post was this horoscope:
VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22). Fighting for someone else's rights brings out the warrior in you. "No" is not an option, and you're willing to make a scene if that's what it takes. You're now the sign most likely to be called to jury duty.
As it happens, I have a jury summons sitting on my desk. Very freaky…
Heard a fascinating discussion on The Diane Rehm Show this morning. Steve Roberts, sitting in for Diane, was talking with Dr. Temple Grandin, professor of animal science at Colorado State University and author of “Animals in Translation.” The kicker is she has autism. Her book is a discussion of how her own experience as a person with autism helps her translate what goes on inside the minds of animals. It was one of those NPR gems you just stumble on from time to time, usually in the car in between meetings.
It seems Sy Hersh has drawn the ire (again!) of the Bush administration with this piece in the current issue of The New Yorker. He was the victim of government smear tactics, until the venerable Post and New York Times ran similar stories. Ari Berman’s blog “The Daily Outrage” in The Nation details the criticism and the non-denial denials.
And finally… I receive all manner of e-newsletters these days, many of which are geared toward writers. But this kind of stuff just cracks me up. I would advise writers to steer clear of ads that proclaim, as does this piece in today’s Absolute Markets Newsletter:
“If you ever dreamed about the romantic life of a travel writer, here's a very unusual opportunity to actually live it!” When you click on the link it takes you to a loquacious sales pitch that includes such gems as this:
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Steenie Harvey, and I'm not exaggerating when I say my passport pages are as well turned as a child's favorite story book. I really do travel the world... and get paid to do it.”
And it gets better:
“Right now, Passport to Romance: The Ultimate Travel Writer's Course, and AWAI's exclusive photojournalism course, Big Bucks for Snap Shots, is yours for only $287.
Get Started Today for Only $49!
All you have to pay to get started is $49. After that, you will be billed $34.00 a month for each of 7 installments that follow. That means you can begin this exclusive program for less than $50.”
What a racket!
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Dynamite Napoleon
Ever since Christmas my oldest son, Ryan, has been wandering through the house reciting lines from a movie called, "Napoleon Dynamite." And so we rented it one recent Friday night (in addition to a few others).
The joke in our house is that dad never stays awake past the first 10 minutes of a movie. He's just not a movie guy. But since we had picked up one of his all-time favorites ("Animal House"), he was motivated to keep the Diet Coke flowing and stay awake through Napoleon.
It's a quiet movie, full of pregnant pauses, limited dialogue and very little action. My first reaction was, "This is dumb!" But I have to say, upon subsequent watchings the movie and its bizarre characters (Napoleon, his 32-year-old weasly brother Kip and their '80s-throwback Uncle Rico) began to grow on me.
Napoleon is the ultimate loser, sporting moon boots, harvey high-zips and a red 'fro. He gets shoved into lockers, calls from the nurse's office for Chapstick ("My lips hurt real bad!"), plays tetherball and loves to dance. His unemployed brother, Kip, spends his day surfing Internet chat rooms for the love of his life until he meets LaFawnduh, who travels from Detroit and turns Kip into a bling king. ("LaFawnduh is THE best thing that's ever happened to me. I'm 100% sure she's my soulmate. Napoleon, I'm sure there's a hot babe out there somewhere for you.")
I was amazed to learn in today's PD that the movie was made by several film students at Brigham Young University. It never dawned on me, but the movie is free from profanity, drugs, drinking and sex. In fact, the harshest language is Napoleon yelling, "Flippin' ID-iot! Gosh!" That's pretty tame (sadly) compared to what my kids are used to seeing.
In fact, Danny and I were almost embarrassed by the raucus, beer-swilling, carousing antics of the members of the Delta House in Animal House. In the immortal words of Dean Wormer: "Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son."
So maybe this movie and it's popularity signifies a turn in filmmaking. That teens will watch (repeatedly!) a movie that doesn't contain violence (unless you count a locker slam and what amounts to a 10-second bitch-slapping session between Kip and Napoleon), drunken debauchery or sexually explicit scenes.
That gives me hope. And so I welcome Napoleon and all his lines into my house. Think we'll leave Belushi and friends at the video store for now.
— As Kip would say, "Peace out."
The joke in our house is that dad never stays awake past the first 10 minutes of a movie. He's just not a movie guy. But since we had picked up one of his all-time favorites ("Animal House"), he was motivated to keep the Diet Coke flowing and stay awake through Napoleon.
It's a quiet movie, full of pregnant pauses, limited dialogue and very little action. My first reaction was, "This is dumb!" But I have to say, upon subsequent watchings the movie and its bizarre characters (Napoleon, his 32-year-old weasly brother Kip and their '80s-throwback Uncle Rico) began to grow on me.
Napoleon is the ultimate loser, sporting moon boots, harvey high-zips and a red 'fro. He gets shoved into lockers, calls from the nurse's office for Chapstick ("My lips hurt real bad!"), plays tetherball and loves to dance. His unemployed brother, Kip, spends his day surfing Internet chat rooms for the love of his life until he meets LaFawnduh, who travels from Detroit and turns Kip into a bling king. ("LaFawnduh is THE best thing that's ever happened to me. I'm 100% sure she's my soulmate. Napoleon, I'm sure there's a hot babe out there somewhere for you.")
I was amazed to learn in today's PD that the movie was made by several film students at Brigham Young University. It never dawned on me, but the movie is free from profanity, drugs, drinking and sex. In fact, the harshest language is Napoleon yelling, "Flippin' ID-iot! Gosh!" That's pretty tame (sadly) compared to what my kids are used to seeing.
In fact, Danny and I were almost embarrassed by the raucus, beer-swilling, carousing antics of the members of the Delta House in Animal House. In the immortal words of Dean Wormer: "Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son."
So maybe this movie and it's popularity signifies a turn in filmmaking. That teens will watch (repeatedly!) a movie that doesn't contain violence (unless you count a locker slam and what amounts to a 10-second bitch-slapping session between Kip and Napoleon), drunken debauchery or sexually explicit scenes.
That gives me hope. And so I welcome Napoleon and all his lines into my house. Think we'll leave Belushi and friends at the video store for now.
— As Kip would say, "Peace out."
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Will catch up soon
Been very busy in the past week, nursing my family back to health after a bad bout of influenza and bringing many exciting new projects to fruition. Thanks for your patience. I'll fill you in shortly...
"It is never too late to be what you might have been." — George Eliot
"It is never too late to be what you might have been." — George Eliot
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Time is short, but make it anyway
Well hell's bells! The washingtonpost.com has a blog! And it's fun and witty and, at times, irreverent. And it's not at all about politics (at least not yet).
This is how newsblogs can function at their best. Achenblog by Joel Achenbach is going to be about "science, history, sports, journalism, and cool stuff that’s in the news."
Achenbach admits that it's not a place for screeds, acknowledging that there are many more questions than answers in this life. "Would that just once I knew the truth about anything," he posts.
Would that our fair city's paper could take a cue from the venerable Post and Guardian and create not only a clean site, but also a Newsblog that would engage readers in a dynamic conversation.
And here is today's self-help quote of the day from Alan Jones, an Episcopal priest and Dean of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco:
"We get imprisoned in what we take to be reality. Our world remains small and our allegiances petty when we refuse to use our imagination. To be fully human is to commit ourselves to what we do not fully know."
This is how newsblogs can function at their best. Achenblog by Joel Achenbach is going to be about "science, history, sports, journalism, and cool stuff that’s in the news."
Achenbach admits that it's not a place for screeds, acknowledging that there are many more questions than answers in this life. "Would that just once I knew the truth about anything," he posts.
Would that our fair city's paper could take a cue from the venerable Post and Guardian and create not only a clean site, but also a Newsblog that would engage readers in a dynamic conversation.
And here is today's self-help quote of the day from Alan Jones, an Episcopal priest and Dean of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco:
"We get imprisoned in what we take to be reality. Our world remains small and our allegiances petty when we refuse to use our imagination. To be fully human is to commit ourselves to what we do not fully know."
Friday, January 14, 2005
God and tsuanmis
Earlier this week while I was waiting in line to pick up Patrick at Westerly Elementary I was listening to Talk of the Nation and was stunned a little at the topic of conversation. Did God cause the tsunami in Asia? A caller from Florida, a Sunday school teacher no less, said that this was one more act of God as we head toward the apocalypse when only those who have accepted Jesus Christ as savior will live in His kingdom and the rest will burn in hell.
Of all my boys, Patrick seems to have an above-average grasp of the Catholic faith and its teachings. He looked up at me with his eyes bulging.
“Mom! Does that man think God caused the tsunami?” he asked.
“Yes, he does,” I said. “What do you think?”
“Duh! It was an earthquake on the ocean floor. Besides God loves everyone and wouldn’t hurt people like that." Enough said as far as I’m concerned.
But this notion has perpetuated in the media and I find it deeply disturbing and yet not surprising all at the same time. In the wake of such tragedies we all search for something or someone to blame. In this case, we cannot. Who do we blame? Plate tectonics?
A friend sent me this column by Mark Morford of the San Francisco Gate. He writes with such passion about the randomness of the act and I thought I'd share this segment with you.
He writes: “Maybe you see such horrors, as I tend to do, as a call to carpe diem, to cherish the day and enjoy the moment like never before and maybe make a change in your life and your perspective before it's too late and because you have nothing, really, to lose, and because life is frighteningly fleeting and it can all be literally washed away in the time it takes to walk your dog to the park and back.
“Primordial. Primeval. Prelapsarian. Many other polysyllabic words come to mind to describe the tragedy that only seems to point up the fact that we know far less than we think we know about How It All Works and even less about Why the Hell We Have to Be Here to Witness It.
“And what's worse, there's not a damn thing we can really do about it all, except get slapped, again, with the fact that life can be unspeakably violent and brutish right alongside stunning and beautiful, and there is not a single place on the planet that is absolutely free of potential catastrophe or epic disaster or slow and painful rebirth. Nowhere.”
Of all my boys, Patrick seems to have an above-average grasp of the Catholic faith and its teachings. He looked up at me with his eyes bulging.
“Mom! Does that man think God caused the tsunami?” he asked.
“Yes, he does,” I said. “What do you think?”
“Duh! It was an earthquake on the ocean floor. Besides God loves everyone and wouldn’t hurt people like that." Enough said as far as I’m concerned.
But this notion has perpetuated in the media and I find it deeply disturbing and yet not surprising all at the same time. In the wake of such tragedies we all search for something or someone to blame. In this case, we cannot. Who do we blame? Plate tectonics?
A friend sent me this column by Mark Morford of the San Francisco Gate. He writes with such passion about the randomness of the act and I thought I'd share this segment with you.
He writes: “Maybe you see such horrors, as I tend to do, as a call to carpe diem, to cherish the day and enjoy the moment like never before and maybe make a change in your life and your perspective before it's too late and because you have nothing, really, to lose, and because life is frighteningly fleeting and it can all be literally washed away in the time it takes to walk your dog to the park and back.
“Primordial. Primeval. Prelapsarian. Many other polysyllabic words come to mind to describe the tragedy that only seems to point up the fact that we know far less than we think we know about How It All Works and even less about Why the Hell We Have to Be Here to Witness It.
“And what's worse, there's not a damn thing we can really do about it all, except get slapped, again, with the fact that life can be unspeakably violent and brutish right alongside stunning and beautiful, and there is not a single place on the planet that is absolutely free of potential catastrophe or epic disaster or slow and painful rebirth. Nowhere.”
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
The end of one dream
It’s amazing to me how someone’s greed, arrogance and blatant disregard for others can have such a far-reaching, devastating effect on people’s lives.
Four years ago this month, the actions of Tom Durkin, president of Cashel Management, destroyed a dream that my husband and I had. I suppose there are those who can find solace in that Tom is currently residing in a federal penitentiary for his crimes. I’ve had to find solace in letting go of dream that wasn’t meant to be.
In February 1999, I was on maternity leave (sort of) as a contract employee and assistant editor of Avenues Magazine. It was one of three city magazines in Cleveland, focusing on arts, education and entertainment. The magazine was housed in dumpy offices in the Knights of Columbus building at the corner of E. 9th and Huron. To my knowledge, the suite remains empty (thought it has been remodeled). My guess is the Knights have yet to invest in an automatic elevator. Instead, you had to ring for Leo, Bill, Jim, Phil or Keith to take you to the third floor.
Certainly Cleveland did not need, nor could it really support three city magazines. But that’s what it had. Avenues had a broad circulation of about 55,000, more than Cleveland Magazine and more than Northern Ohio Live. That’s because our circulation comprised members of WVIZ/PBS.
Danny was working in advertising sales at Advanstar when I received a call from the publisher that February asking if he would be interested in selling advertising for Avenues. Danny followed up and talked about the possibility. We had many conversations with Bob Zack over the weeks and Danny felt good that, although we would be putting all our eggs in one basket, the opportunity also was there to buy into and take over the magazine within five to seven years.
And so we plunged into Avenues with both feet, both hearts and both minds.
People always asked how we could work together but you know—we were good together. For one thing, I worked from home most days and he was in the office. We would attend various community functions together and did a fine job representing the magazine and meeting many people. He and I have great chemistry working a room, making sure everyone feels welcome.
Danny didn’t interfere with editorial and I didn’t interfere with sales. But we both had a keen understanding of the importance of each other’s roles. We saw ourselves eventually as publisher and editor, making the magazine something truly unique in Cleveland, with solid editorial content, featuring strong writing and photography, and plenty of advertising to support the content.
It wasn’t a pipedream. We were on our way. In 2000, the magazine broke records in page-count and ad revenue. We were poised to rap on the doors of our nearest competitor, Northern Ohio Live.
But on a Monday in January, I heard the garage door open as Danny returned home. Something was wrong. He always had sales meetings on Monday mornings. When I came downstairs, he told me we needed to talk. Our jobs were in jeopardy.
Tom Durkin, who owned 50 percent of the magazine (Bob Zack owned the other 50 percent), had been investing his clients’ money, unbeknownst to them, into a failed dot-com known as Rx Remedy. Rx Remedy was owned by one of Tom’s pals, Karamjit Paul. Tom was hoping for a big payoff and invested and lost millions of his clients’ money month after month. The venture went bankrupt and Tom was left answering to his clients, friends and federal prosecutors about why he continued to invest without their permission into something that was clearly failing. To this day, I think he’s arrogant enough to believe that if they could have rode the wave a little longer, everyone would have made millions and been happy.
Instead Tom, who went to St. Ignatius High School with Bob Zack, lost all of his friend’s savings and any chance Bob had to buy out his share of the magazine. Bob, completely devastated by his friend’s betrayal and financial losses, tried his best to regroup and find other investors in the magazine. But it was early 2001 and the economy was tanking. WVIZ was concerned, but waiting to see if Bob could find other investors.
And then, on a Thursday morning, I received a call from one of my friends. She said that police cars were in the driveway of the Brennan’s home across the street. Word on the street was that Tim Brennan, a partner at Cashel and Tom’s roommate at Notre Dame, had killed himself. As it happens, Tim’s wife, Maureen, was Ryan’s first-grade teacher at St. Raphael. Shortly after that call, I received a call from school telling me the news. Tim, in his despondency over the allegations, had pulled his car over on the Hilliard Boulevard bridge in Rocky River and jumped to his death.
This work disaster had now entered our church and school life as well. Word of Tim’s death was too much for WVIZ and we learned they were going to find alternative means for communicating with members. It was the very beginning of ideastream and the possibilities of a multimedia company featuring radio, TV, Web and print vanished as quickly as they arrived, though radio, TV and Web exist.
Within two weeks, the magazine folded. The official news release sent to the media and advertisers was that this was a tough economy and a tough market and we weren’t able to compete. As if WE failed somehow. I was so angry and vowed to Danny that I would never accept the blame for the magazine’s demise. Our advertisers and supporters weren’t fooled. We fielded many calls from them saying that the magazine page count was way up, response to advertising was strong and they demanded to know the REAL reason it folded.
Danny and I lost our jobs that month. We also lost the dream we had of making an impact on the publishing world of Cleveland together. But at least we had each other, and our meager savings. Danny quickly rebounded with a job at Advanstar. And I gave up contract work for the security of a steady paycheck.
Maureen Brennan and her four daughters lost a husband and father. Tim Brennan would have welcomed his first grandchild this year. Bob Zack lost his livelihood, his retirement, his family’s savings and two very close friends. Families throughout Cleveland — both famous and not so famous — lost their savings. St. Ignatius and St. Joseph schools lost some of their endowment. Northeast Ohio readers lost what would have been a terrific publication under our stewardship. And the arts community lost a strong advocate, something it desperately needs today.
I recounted this story once to my counselor. She stopped me at one point and said, “This was the beginning of the snowball that led to your panic attacks.” She was right. I tried so hard, so quickly to just move on. That’s always been my way. But I couldn’t shake the loss and would sit in my home office and cry, wondering what to do next and how it could have all gone so wrong, so fast. It was a lesson in how little of our lives we actually control.
Ironically, Tom Durkin never met Danny and I. He prided himself on keeping a low profile and chose not to meet the people who were running his magazine. That’s his loss — and so was his low profile. Tom’s case made news only for a few weeks and at that never really garnered the coverage it deserved. Few grasped the extent of his destruction. And besides, within a few weeks, Tom’s antics would look like child’s play next to one Frank Gruttadaria. But not to those whose lives he damaged.
Four years ago this month, the actions of Tom Durkin, president of Cashel Management, destroyed a dream that my husband and I had. I suppose there are those who can find solace in that Tom is currently residing in a federal penitentiary for his crimes. I’ve had to find solace in letting go of dream that wasn’t meant to be.
In February 1999, I was on maternity leave (sort of) as a contract employee and assistant editor of Avenues Magazine. It was one of three city magazines in Cleveland, focusing on arts, education and entertainment. The magazine was housed in dumpy offices in the Knights of Columbus building at the corner of E. 9th and Huron. To my knowledge, the suite remains empty (thought it has been remodeled). My guess is the Knights have yet to invest in an automatic elevator. Instead, you had to ring for Leo, Bill, Jim, Phil or Keith to take you to the third floor.
Certainly Cleveland did not need, nor could it really support three city magazines. But that’s what it had. Avenues had a broad circulation of about 55,000, more than Cleveland Magazine and more than Northern Ohio Live. That’s because our circulation comprised members of WVIZ/PBS.
Danny was working in advertising sales at Advanstar when I received a call from the publisher that February asking if he would be interested in selling advertising for Avenues. Danny followed up and talked about the possibility. We had many conversations with Bob Zack over the weeks and Danny felt good that, although we would be putting all our eggs in one basket, the opportunity also was there to buy into and take over the magazine within five to seven years.
And so we plunged into Avenues with both feet, both hearts and both minds.
People always asked how we could work together but you know—we were good together. For one thing, I worked from home most days and he was in the office. We would attend various community functions together and did a fine job representing the magazine and meeting many people. He and I have great chemistry working a room, making sure everyone feels welcome.
Danny didn’t interfere with editorial and I didn’t interfere with sales. But we both had a keen understanding of the importance of each other’s roles. We saw ourselves eventually as publisher and editor, making the magazine something truly unique in Cleveland, with solid editorial content, featuring strong writing and photography, and plenty of advertising to support the content.
It wasn’t a pipedream. We were on our way. In 2000, the magazine broke records in page-count and ad revenue. We were poised to rap on the doors of our nearest competitor, Northern Ohio Live.
But on a Monday in January, I heard the garage door open as Danny returned home. Something was wrong. He always had sales meetings on Monday mornings. When I came downstairs, he told me we needed to talk. Our jobs were in jeopardy.
Tom Durkin, who owned 50 percent of the magazine (Bob Zack owned the other 50 percent), had been investing his clients’ money, unbeknownst to them, into a failed dot-com known as Rx Remedy. Rx Remedy was owned by one of Tom’s pals, Karamjit Paul. Tom was hoping for a big payoff and invested and lost millions of his clients’ money month after month. The venture went bankrupt and Tom was left answering to his clients, friends and federal prosecutors about why he continued to invest without their permission into something that was clearly failing. To this day, I think he’s arrogant enough to believe that if they could have rode the wave a little longer, everyone would have made millions and been happy.
Instead Tom, who went to St. Ignatius High School with Bob Zack, lost all of his friend’s savings and any chance Bob had to buy out his share of the magazine. Bob, completely devastated by his friend’s betrayal and financial losses, tried his best to regroup and find other investors in the magazine. But it was early 2001 and the economy was tanking. WVIZ was concerned, but waiting to see if Bob could find other investors.
And then, on a Thursday morning, I received a call from one of my friends. She said that police cars were in the driveway of the Brennan’s home across the street. Word on the street was that Tim Brennan, a partner at Cashel and Tom’s roommate at Notre Dame, had killed himself. As it happens, Tim’s wife, Maureen, was Ryan’s first-grade teacher at St. Raphael. Shortly after that call, I received a call from school telling me the news. Tim, in his despondency over the allegations, had pulled his car over on the Hilliard Boulevard bridge in Rocky River and jumped to his death.
This work disaster had now entered our church and school life as well. Word of Tim’s death was too much for WVIZ and we learned they were going to find alternative means for communicating with members. It was the very beginning of ideastream and the possibilities of a multimedia company featuring radio, TV, Web and print vanished as quickly as they arrived, though radio, TV and Web exist.
Within two weeks, the magazine folded. The official news release sent to the media and advertisers was that this was a tough economy and a tough market and we weren’t able to compete. As if WE failed somehow. I was so angry and vowed to Danny that I would never accept the blame for the magazine’s demise. Our advertisers and supporters weren’t fooled. We fielded many calls from them saying that the magazine page count was way up, response to advertising was strong and they demanded to know the REAL reason it folded.
Danny and I lost our jobs that month. We also lost the dream we had of making an impact on the publishing world of Cleveland together. But at least we had each other, and our meager savings. Danny quickly rebounded with a job at Advanstar. And I gave up contract work for the security of a steady paycheck.
Maureen Brennan and her four daughters lost a husband and father. Tim Brennan would have welcomed his first grandchild this year. Bob Zack lost his livelihood, his retirement, his family’s savings and two very close friends. Families throughout Cleveland — both famous and not so famous — lost their savings. St. Ignatius and St. Joseph schools lost some of their endowment. Northeast Ohio readers lost what would have been a terrific publication under our stewardship. And the arts community lost a strong advocate, something it desperately needs today.
I recounted this story once to my counselor. She stopped me at one point and said, “This was the beginning of the snowball that led to your panic attacks.” She was right. I tried so hard, so quickly to just move on. That’s always been my way. But I couldn’t shake the loss and would sit in my home office and cry, wondering what to do next and how it could have all gone so wrong, so fast. It was a lesson in how little of our lives we actually control.
Ironically, Tom Durkin never met Danny and I. He prided himself on keeping a low profile and chose not to meet the people who were running his magazine. That’s his loss — and so was his low profile. Tom’s case made news only for a few weeks and at that never really garnered the coverage it deserved. Few grasped the extent of his destruction. And besides, within a few weeks, Tom’s antics would look like child’s play next to one Frank Gruttadaria. But not to those whose lives he damaged.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
"Everybody just wants to bounce their ball"
Wanted to share this poignant little story from a book I reviewed this week called, "Awake at Work," by Michael Carroll. I couldn't work this story into a 275-word review, but it was too beautiful not to share in some way. The author describes how, as a senior in high school, a German priest taught he and his classmates how to think.
"For a year we studied Aristotelian logic, the Socratic method, John Stuart Mill's Utilitarianism, syllogistic reasoning, logical fallacies, deductive and inductive reasoning, a priori and a posteriori statements … We were trained well in analyzing life's situations logically, systematically, rationally.
"On our final class together with this wise and gentle man—a day I will always remember and cherish—he gave us a little speech that I recall to this very day.
'When we started off the year, many of you gentlemen felt that
learning to think was rather silly. Some said to me, 'We all think,
so what's there to learn?' But now, after a year, you see that
thinking properly is demanding. To think properly is to be disciplined
and to listen well. To think properly, in the end, is to be logical.
'Yet, gentlemen, I leave you with one last lesson—probably the most
important lesson I have to offer. Life, my dear fellows, is not
logical. While you may work hard throughout your lives to be fair
and reasonable, thorough and correct, your lives will not follow
such rules. And if you try to understand your fellow humans beings
by logic alone, you will be doing yourselves and others a great
disservice. There is actually something much more basic and impor-
tant that is at the heart of every human being.'
"Our teacher began to walk around the classroom, placing a single sheet of paper facedown on each of our desks."
'So I leave you today with one final puzzle that I hope you keep with
you for the rest of your lives. Contemplate it, remember it, let its
meaning unfold. I believe that what I am handing you will be helpful
to you in understanding what we all really want as human beings.'
"I turned the sheet of paper over to discover a rather unremarkable photograph from a local newspaper. It was a picture of a young boy standing alone outside an empty basketball court. The shot was taken from behind him. He had a basketball under one arm and gripped the tall chain-link fence with his free hand. Though it was a warm, sunny day, the court was empty and the gate was locked. The caption below read, 'Everybody just wants to bounce their ball.'"
It was years later before the author understood the riddle—"a deeply person lesson on how to conduct myself in business and in life. And though these are not my teacher's actual words, I can hear them in my heart today as if they were being spoken from his lips to my ears.
'Don't take yourselves so seriously, gentlemen, for if you do, you
will miss what it means to be human. Your logic and correctness, your
rationality and thoroughness, can actually blind you, lock you out of
the game, prevent you from becoming who you most deeply want to be.'
"'Everybody just wants to bounce their ball' reminds us to respect the gentle enthusiasm that everyone brings to life."
"For a year we studied Aristotelian logic, the Socratic method, John Stuart Mill's Utilitarianism, syllogistic reasoning, logical fallacies, deductive and inductive reasoning, a priori and a posteriori statements … We were trained well in analyzing life's situations logically, systematically, rationally.
"On our final class together with this wise and gentle man—a day I will always remember and cherish—he gave us a little speech that I recall to this very day.
'When we started off the year, many of you gentlemen felt that
learning to think was rather silly. Some said to me, 'We all think,
so what's there to learn?' But now, after a year, you see that
thinking properly is demanding. To think properly is to be disciplined
and to listen well. To think properly, in the end, is to be logical.
'Yet, gentlemen, I leave you with one last lesson—probably the most
important lesson I have to offer. Life, my dear fellows, is not
logical. While you may work hard throughout your lives to be fair
and reasonable, thorough and correct, your lives will not follow
such rules. And if you try to understand your fellow humans beings
by logic alone, you will be doing yourselves and others a great
disservice. There is actually something much more basic and impor-
tant that is at the heart of every human being.'
"Our teacher began to walk around the classroom, placing a single sheet of paper facedown on each of our desks."
'So I leave you today with one final puzzle that I hope you keep with
you for the rest of your lives. Contemplate it, remember it, let its
meaning unfold. I believe that what I am handing you will be helpful
to you in understanding what we all really want as human beings.'
"I turned the sheet of paper over to discover a rather unremarkable photograph from a local newspaper. It was a picture of a young boy standing alone outside an empty basketball court. The shot was taken from behind him. He had a basketball under one arm and gripped the tall chain-link fence with his free hand. Though it was a warm, sunny day, the court was empty and the gate was locked. The caption below read, 'Everybody just wants to bounce their ball.'"
It was years later before the author understood the riddle—"a deeply person lesson on how to conduct myself in business and in life. And though these are not my teacher's actual words, I can hear them in my heart today as if they were being spoken from his lips to my ears.
'Don't take yourselves so seriously, gentlemen, for if you do, you
will miss what it means to be human. Your logic and correctness, your
rationality and thoroughness, can actually blind you, lock you out of
the game, prevent you from becoming who you most deeply want to be.'
"'Everybody just wants to bounce their ball' reminds us to respect the gentle enthusiasm that everyone brings to life."
Monday, January 10, 2005
A call from Scottsdale
I spent five years working at Sun Newspapers as a general assignment reporter. It was both good and bad, as work experiences go. I learned a great many things about people, culture, writing, good government, bad government, the criminal justice system, firing weapons. But I also felt stifled there. It didn't really hit home until my basement flooded in 1997 and I was going through old clippings trying to find out what was salvageable. That's when I realized I was writing about the same core issues for five years. I was long gone by then and glad I made the leap when I did.
But I know others who have made the Sun experience their life. I heard from one today. Pete Gaughan (aka Petey, the Postman, Post) called me last November to tell me he was retiring and moving to Scottsdale, Ariz. Pete and I shared a computer for four of those five years and grew to know each other very well. He loved to tease me when I was pregnant, but would be the first to make a run to pick up my Szechwuan broccoli (which I absolutely CRAVED) from the Szechwuan House. To say he was rough around the edges would an understatement of the highest order.
He was colorful, both literally and figuratively. I suppose if I were his editor he would drive me nuts with his often-unpolished writing, unorthodox work habits and frequent absences. But there was something else that Petey possessed that I think often was overlooked by higher-ups at Sun. He had a genuine love for sports and for the kids and coaches he covered. And, when he was particularly revved about a subject, that love came through in his writing.
Of course, Pete wasn't always that engaged. In fact, he was known to apologize profusely to then-assistant editor Marsha Bragg for "power-slamming" cutlines and shorts. But for 25 years he showed up on Mondays (sports deadline), sometimes massively hungover, sometimes kicking creative booty, and did a job which mattered a great deal to those he covered.
Every year during the state track meet, he would jot down athlete's names from the program and pull together a clever column based on their names. (A particular noteworthy column was the year of the condiments.) And when Shaker Heights High School counted then-basketball star Malcolm Sims among its ranks, he put together a great feature (and even art directed photos) about the teammates behind Malcolm Sims.
Petey loves to party and that fact did not always sit well with his bosses. He was a free spirit and I suppose managing him would be akin to herding cats. But he was infinitely generous of spirit (and wallet) and loved to show people how to have fun.
Back in 1992 he invited me to spend a day as a sports reporter. We started with Thistledown's Media Day and proceeded from there. It was a great time. And it was when I met Junior O'Malley, the legend of the racetrack. I'm currently working on a piece about Thistledown and it was great to have known Junior as one of the track's legendary regulars. I reminded him of that excursion today and he said, "You know, that was a great day. You never knew if you were going to have a great day, you just had to go out and see."
Pete's true love is golf. And that's what he's doing these days, working for a fantasy golf club out in Scottsdale. He's organizing his first outing and already has the attention of The Golf Channel. I may have to tune in to see him. He won't be hard to spot — he's the guy in the flowered shirts and jams. Or wait, I think he left those behind in Cleveland. Good luck, Pete. Good to hear from ya.
But I know others who have made the Sun experience their life. I heard from one today. Pete Gaughan (aka Petey, the Postman, Post) called me last November to tell me he was retiring and moving to Scottsdale, Ariz. Pete and I shared a computer for four of those five years and grew to know each other very well. He loved to tease me when I was pregnant, but would be the first to make a run to pick up my Szechwuan broccoli (which I absolutely CRAVED) from the Szechwuan House. To say he was rough around the edges would an understatement of the highest order.
He was colorful, both literally and figuratively. I suppose if I were his editor he would drive me nuts with his often-unpolished writing, unorthodox work habits and frequent absences. But there was something else that Petey possessed that I think often was overlooked by higher-ups at Sun. He had a genuine love for sports and for the kids and coaches he covered. And, when he was particularly revved about a subject, that love came through in his writing.
Of course, Pete wasn't always that engaged. In fact, he was known to apologize profusely to then-assistant editor Marsha Bragg for "power-slamming" cutlines and shorts. But for 25 years he showed up on Mondays (sports deadline), sometimes massively hungover, sometimes kicking creative booty, and did a job which mattered a great deal to those he covered.
Every year during the state track meet, he would jot down athlete's names from the program and pull together a clever column based on their names. (A particular noteworthy column was the year of the condiments.) And when Shaker Heights High School counted then-basketball star Malcolm Sims among its ranks, he put together a great feature (and even art directed photos) about the teammates behind Malcolm Sims.
Petey loves to party and that fact did not always sit well with his bosses. He was a free spirit and I suppose managing him would be akin to herding cats. But he was infinitely generous of spirit (and wallet) and loved to show people how to have fun.
Back in 1992 he invited me to spend a day as a sports reporter. We started with Thistledown's Media Day and proceeded from there. It was a great time. And it was when I met Junior O'Malley, the legend of the racetrack. I'm currently working on a piece about Thistledown and it was great to have known Junior as one of the track's legendary regulars. I reminded him of that excursion today and he said, "You know, that was a great day. You never knew if you were going to have a great day, you just had to go out and see."
Pete's true love is golf. And that's what he's doing these days, working for a fantasy golf club out in Scottsdale. He's organizing his first outing and already has the attention of The Golf Channel. I may have to tune in to see him. He won't be hard to spot — he's the guy in the flowered shirts and jams. Or wait, I think he left those behind in Cleveland. Good luck, Pete. Good to hear from ya.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Discovering self-indulgence
Did something yesterday that I rarely do. I actually went shopping and bought myself some new clothes. To put this event into context, you need only hear the words of my Patrick who said:
"Mom, I've never seen you buy clothes for yourself."
He's right. I didn't mean for it to be that way, but it is. And there are a number of reasons. Of course the first is always financial. By that I mean there are always other things deemed of higher priority (by me, not anyone else). Second, and probably equally important, is that I'm NOT a shopper. I've never had the patience, and I get easily overwhelmed by it all.
And then there's the worst reason of all: That somehow I don't feel myself worthy of being able to buy myself clothes. It's stupid, but I am prone to buyer's remorse, wondering if I shouldn't have spent the money after all. This can set in even after spending a measly $30 on a ribbed turtleneck (my winter uniform).
There's hope for me, I believe. Yesterday I partook of guilt-free shopping. I knew it was a successful trip when, after having modeled my purchases for my hubby, I heard not one: "How much did you spend?" comment. He approved, and even seemed pleased that I had spent money on myself.
I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions, I believe in making incremental life changes as they become clear to me. Last March I set about on a weight-loss regimen. Really, it was about exercising regularly and eating a LOT less — more a lifestyle change than a diet. As a result, I lost 25 pounds.
But for the past year, I've not bothered to buy myself new clothes, particularly pants, because I've been enjoying the feeling of loose clothing. And maybe, deep down, I wanted to make sure I could maintain the weight loss.
While staying at my sister's at Thanksgiving, Jen, who's much better at shopping than I (and really the only person I care to shop with) looked at me and shook her head when I got dressed.
"You're not still wearing those Big Yank jeans are you?" she asked. I looked down and realized yes, they were awfully big (but REALLY comfy). "Come with me," she said, grabbing me by the arm and shuffling me off to her splendid walk-in closet, loaded with all the latest fashions. "Try these," she said, holding out a pair of hipster, bootcut jeans.
"I'll never be able to fit in those," I said. (That's always been my pat answer.)
"Try. Them. On."
"Okay, okay," I said. I put them on and couldn't believe they fit really well. Jen was ecstatic and ran back into closet, emerging with a very cool belt. The outfit was complete.
"You look FABU!" she said. (You've got to know Jen to understand her lingo.) The true test is what my guys would think. They were all very sweet in their approval. Jen gave the jeans and belt to me as a gift and inspired me to buy more. How sweet it all was yesterday finally spending guiltlessly. It improved the way I look but – more important – how I feel about myself.
"Mom, I've never seen you buy clothes for yourself."
He's right. I didn't mean for it to be that way, but it is. And there are a number of reasons. Of course the first is always financial. By that I mean there are always other things deemed of higher priority (by me, not anyone else). Second, and probably equally important, is that I'm NOT a shopper. I've never had the patience, and I get easily overwhelmed by it all.
And then there's the worst reason of all: That somehow I don't feel myself worthy of being able to buy myself clothes. It's stupid, but I am prone to buyer's remorse, wondering if I shouldn't have spent the money after all. This can set in even after spending a measly $30 on a ribbed turtleneck (my winter uniform).
There's hope for me, I believe. Yesterday I partook of guilt-free shopping. I knew it was a successful trip when, after having modeled my purchases for my hubby, I heard not one: "How much did you spend?" comment. He approved, and even seemed pleased that I had spent money on myself.
I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions, I believe in making incremental life changes as they become clear to me. Last March I set about on a weight-loss regimen. Really, it was about exercising regularly and eating a LOT less — more a lifestyle change than a diet. As a result, I lost 25 pounds.
But for the past year, I've not bothered to buy myself new clothes, particularly pants, because I've been enjoying the feeling of loose clothing. And maybe, deep down, I wanted to make sure I could maintain the weight loss.
While staying at my sister's at Thanksgiving, Jen, who's much better at shopping than I (and really the only person I care to shop with) looked at me and shook her head when I got dressed.
"You're not still wearing those Big Yank jeans are you?" she asked. I looked down and realized yes, they were awfully big (but REALLY comfy). "Come with me," she said, grabbing me by the arm and shuffling me off to her splendid walk-in closet, loaded with all the latest fashions. "Try these," she said, holding out a pair of hipster, bootcut jeans.
"I'll never be able to fit in those," I said. (That's always been my pat answer.)
"Try. Them. On."
"Okay, okay," I said. I put them on and couldn't believe they fit really well. Jen was ecstatic and ran back into closet, emerging with a very cool belt. The outfit was complete.
"You look FABU!" she said. (You've got to know Jen to understand her lingo.) The true test is what my guys would think. They were all very sweet in their approval. Jen gave the jeans and belt to me as a gift and inspired me to buy more. How sweet it all was yesterday finally spending guiltlessly. It improved the way I look but – more important – how I feel about myself.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Where are the Newsblogs?
Back in November, a panel of traditional media journalists and professors gathered to discuss ethics in the wake of the U.S. presidential election. It was a revealing discussion in that it displayed, with pinpoint accuracy, what is wrong with traditional media today.
The blame for all that’s bad with elections, America, media, etc., was laid at the feet of bloggers. One panelist described us as nut-jobs who spew venom in our windowless rooms in the middle of the night. Too bad the organizers of the event didn’t see fit to include a blogger (of which there are many notable contributors to the public discourse in the Cleveland area) to respond to such invective.
More than anything, the comments were an example of the fear that traditional media have about blogging, and how it will choose to remain stagnant, and risk becoming irrelevant, rather than embrace this tool. But since 2005 is the year of the blog, I’d like to offer up some contrary viewpoints.
Jesse Oxfeld in Editor & Publisher’s Newspaper 2.0 column writes that newspapers are trying to figure out how to make their sites more blog-friendly. But then he goes on to discuss the bevy of site redesigns taking place at major online newspapers. The bigger question — how a news organization incorporate blogs — has not been answered.
For proof of how they work well, I suggest you visit the Newsblog at The Guardian. It does a great job of giving some behind-the-scenes of the U.K. news operation, some original content that complements existing stories and some fun stuff that satisfies news junkies (and Anglophiles).
Just today, Neil McIntosh of The Guardian posted this
entry about how the U.S. still largely views blogs as the panelist described above.
McIntosh writes: “For all their impact in the US, however, you could still be forgiven for thinking of (blogs) mainly as tools only for political hacks or technology geeks – until last week. Bizarre stories such as this, published (Monday) in the New York Times (registration required), still suggest blogs did little more than twittering about wacky conspiracy theories in the wake of the (Asian tsunami) disaster. But that story, and the impression it leaves, is dead wrong. The truth is far more interesting than that."
He goes on to describe how this unorganized, decentralized mechanism moved through the story using words, photos, sound and video to tell the human aspect of the story and how anyone could engage with the relief effort.
McIntosh continues: “In short: this wasn’t a few political hacks talking to each other. For the first time, powerful coverage of a huge news event was not brought to you purely by established media. An army of ‘citizen journalists’ played a new role, perhaps all the more vital considering the effect vivid reportage, online and off, has had on the subsequent fundraising efforts.
“It would be obscene to remember this tsunami as anything other than a huge natural disaster, a human tragedy on an unimaginable scale. But for those watching this small, comparatively insignificant world of media, this may also be remembered as a time when citizen reporting, through the force of its huge army of volunteers and their simple type and publish weblog mechanisms, finally found its voice, and delivered in a way the established media simply could not.”
There are signs that some newspapers are becoming enlightened to the idea. Greensboro, North Carolina News-Record blogger Lex Alexander reported to his editor about the need to understand and incorporate blogging in order to survive.
On Jay Rosen’s PressThink, Alexander writes:
“If we are to survive as a business dedicated to producing quality local news, information and dialogue, we need to move, too-- with people and resources. It means understanding the culture of the Internet, and of blogging in particular, and understanding how we can work on and with the Internet (i.e., with users of that medium) to expand the quantity and quality of the local news, information and dialogue we provide.”
Why are Weblogs important? Because, as Jeff Jarvis says: “Weblogs are about human lives.”
And nowhere has that been more clearly seen than in coverage of the tsunami.
The blame for all that’s bad with elections, America, media, etc., was laid at the feet of bloggers. One panelist described us as nut-jobs who spew venom in our windowless rooms in the middle of the night. Too bad the organizers of the event didn’t see fit to include a blogger (of which there are many notable contributors to the public discourse in the Cleveland area) to respond to such invective.
More than anything, the comments were an example of the fear that traditional media have about blogging, and how it will choose to remain stagnant, and risk becoming irrelevant, rather than embrace this tool. But since 2005 is the year of the blog, I’d like to offer up some contrary viewpoints.
Jesse Oxfeld in Editor & Publisher’s Newspaper 2.0 column writes that newspapers are trying to figure out how to make their sites more blog-friendly. But then he goes on to discuss the bevy of site redesigns taking place at major online newspapers. The bigger question — how a news organization incorporate blogs — has not been answered.
For proof of how they work well, I suggest you visit the Newsblog at The Guardian. It does a great job of giving some behind-the-scenes of the U.K. news operation, some original content that complements existing stories and some fun stuff that satisfies news junkies (and Anglophiles).
Just today, Neil McIntosh of The Guardian posted this
entry about how the U.S. still largely views blogs as the panelist described above.
McIntosh writes: “For all their impact in the US, however, you could still be forgiven for thinking of (blogs) mainly as tools only for political hacks or technology geeks – until last week. Bizarre stories such as this, published (Monday) in the New York Times (registration required), still suggest blogs did little more than twittering about wacky conspiracy theories in the wake of the (Asian tsunami) disaster. But that story, and the impression it leaves, is dead wrong. The truth is far more interesting than that."
He goes on to describe how this unorganized, decentralized mechanism moved through the story using words, photos, sound and video to tell the human aspect of the story and how anyone could engage with the relief effort.
McIntosh continues: “In short: this wasn’t a few political hacks talking to each other. For the first time, powerful coverage of a huge news event was not brought to you purely by established media. An army of ‘citizen journalists’ played a new role, perhaps all the more vital considering the effect vivid reportage, online and off, has had on the subsequent fundraising efforts.
“It would be obscene to remember this tsunami as anything other than a huge natural disaster, a human tragedy on an unimaginable scale. But for those watching this small, comparatively insignificant world of media, this may also be remembered as a time when citizen reporting, through the force of its huge army of volunteers and their simple type and publish weblog mechanisms, finally found its voice, and delivered in a way the established media simply could not.”
There are signs that some newspapers are becoming enlightened to the idea. Greensboro, North Carolina News-Record blogger Lex Alexander reported to his editor about the need to understand and incorporate blogging in order to survive.
On Jay Rosen’s PressThink, Alexander writes:
“If we are to survive as a business dedicated to producing quality local news, information and dialogue, we need to move, too-- with people and resources. It means understanding the culture of the Internet, and of blogging in particular, and understanding how we can work on and with the Internet (i.e., with users of that medium) to expand the quantity and quality of the local news, information and dialogue we provide.”
Why are Weblogs important? Because, as Jeff Jarvis says: “Weblogs are about human lives.”
And nowhere has that been more clearly seen than in coverage of the tsunami.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
You can't get there from cleveland.com
Is it me or is Cleveland.com the most convoluted site in the history of the Web?(Wait, don't answer. I'm sure there's worse.) But I've had it with its abysmal navigation. Basically you can't get what you need within any level of simplicity. Were it not for The Plain Dealer, I would have no reason whatsoever to visit the site.
As it happens, I visit once every two weeks to copy links to my book reviews that appear in Wednesday's papers. I can only do it within 14 days because after that the content no longer appears in the archives. It would seem a simple enough task. But I wind up having to search under something different every time I log on.
Sometimes I have to look under arts, sometimes under life, sometimes using keywords from the books I reviewed, sometimes using keywords from the headline and sometimes entering (and this is what would seem logical) the column name: From the Self-Help Shelf.
I rarely find something in the PD worth linking to, but today I did. Or at least I thought I did. I was going to call your attenion to an op-ed piece by Simon Singh, author of the soon-to-be-released "Big Bang: The Origins of the Universe."
In a piece titled, "Einstein's tutorial on genius," Singh writes that one of Einstein's original theories on the origin of the universe, he later admitted to being wrong. This is news now because 2005 is the beginning of the Albert Einstein Year (marking the centennial of his annus mirabilis in 1905).
While my boys ate their waffles this morning I read them Einstein's quote: "It's not that I'm so smart; it's just that I stay with a problem longer." Ah yes, that wonderful quality known today as stick-to-it-iveness. Something I hope to pass on to my boys, even as I know they're not hearing my morning news ramblings.
Anyway, as it happens, scientists now believe that Einstein's flawed theory of an anti-gravity force may, in fact, turn out to be the best explanation for the acceleration of the universe.
Since I cannot locate the link on Cleveland.com, I'll share with you the end of this column, which I found most poignant:
"It seems that even when Einstein thought he was wrong, he turned out to be right.
"And, as we celebrate the Einstein Year, let's also bear in mind the fact that he was prepared to admit he was wrong.
"Perhaps humility, more than anything, is the mark of true genius."
As it happens, I visit once every two weeks to copy links to my book reviews that appear in Wednesday's papers. I can only do it within 14 days because after that the content no longer appears in the archives. It would seem a simple enough task. But I wind up having to search under something different every time I log on.
Sometimes I have to look under arts, sometimes under life, sometimes using keywords from the books I reviewed, sometimes using keywords from the headline and sometimes entering (and this is what would seem logical) the column name: From the Self-Help Shelf.
I rarely find something in the PD worth linking to, but today I did. Or at least I thought I did. I was going to call your attenion to an op-ed piece by Simon Singh, author of the soon-to-be-released "Big Bang: The Origins of the Universe."
In a piece titled, "Einstein's tutorial on genius," Singh writes that one of Einstein's original theories on the origin of the universe, he later admitted to being wrong. This is news now because 2005 is the beginning of the Albert Einstein Year (marking the centennial of his annus mirabilis in 1905).
While my boys ate their waffles this morning I read them Einstein's quote: "It's not that I'm so smart; it's just that I stay with a problem longer." Ah yes, that wonderful quality known today as stick-to-it-iveness. Something I hope to pass on to my boys, even as I know they're not hearing my morning news ramblings.
Anyway, as it happens, scientists now believe that Einstein's flawed theory of an anti-gravity force may, in fact, turn out to be the best explanation for the acceleration of the universe.
Since I cannot locate the link on Cleveland.com, I'll share with you the end of this column, which I found most poignant:
"It seems that even when Einstein thought he was wrong, he turned out to be right.
"And, as we celebrate the Einstein Year, let's also bear in mind the fact that he was prepared to admit he was wrong.
"Perhaps humility, more than anything, is the mark of true genius."
Monday, January 03, 2005
Happy New Year
I love the New Year. The optimist in me relishes the thought of a fresh start and the hope that this year will be better than the last. And, quite frankly, 2004 was a doozer for many reasons. But that's in the past and I'm all about renewal.
This year I've started with a greater sense of clarity about the kind of work I want to be doing. There are certain things I've done to make money that don't necessarily fulfill. There are others that don't make much money yet seem to fulfill immensely. Somehow, I'll have to find the balance between the two. That is the unending conundrum, no?
I've recently completed several pieces that have stretched my writing abilities. Just today my colleague Brian Willse from Newbomb Design and I sent our first book project to the printer. It's a wrap-up book on the 2004 International Children's Games that Brian and I worked on with the good folks at the Greater Cleveland Sports Commission. This was a pro bono project, but infinitely satisfying. The book will be announced in the next several weeks at a press conference. And Brian and I are hopeful that it will be the first of many projects on which we collaborate.
Creative Ink has really been a training ground of sorts for the kind of work I'd like to do – namely personal essays. I just completed my first thanks to the kind referral from Plain Dealer Book Editor Karen Sandstrom. And speaking of Karen, I also completed my first longer book review for the Sunday book pages.
This week finds my head bursting with ideas, a sometimes-frustrating state because it's impossible to pursue them all. But at least at this time of the year I'm better at writing them down (and getting them out of my head).
For some time, fellow bloggers have asked why I don't have comments on Creative Ink. Quite simply, I felt there weren't that many people reading who would be compelled to comment. And those who did, often emailed me directly. Between you, me and the fencepost, I was a little nervous about opening myself up for criticism. But that's another thing about the new year, I'm going to muster the courage that's been holding me back. I've only myself to blame for missed opportunities. So post your comments. I'm delighted to hear from supporters and critics alike.
I'd love to write about travel (in addition to books) and have the opportunity (as do you!) to meet the Boston Globe's Tom Haines, the 2003 Travel Writer of the Year, at a Writers Salon at 4 p.m. tomorrow at Talkies Film & Coffeebar, 2521 Market Ave. Thanks to my very good friend and prolific writer John Ettorre and his good pal, (whom I had the pleasure of meeting last week) Anton Zuiker, a group of writers will gather to discuss Words That Move.
John says, "Be prepared to talk about writing, journalism, weblogs and other topics. Bring a sample of your writing to share, or an article of interest you'd like others to know about. Theme is Words That Move, so the conversation may meander from travel writing to writing that moves a person to tears (good writing or, ahem, bad writing) to a memoir of relocating."
And I just learned that CSU's Department of English and Creative Writing Program is hosting Imagination2 2005 on five Saturdays from Feb. 19 to March 26. The cost is $69.95 for all sessions covering fiction, poetry, essay and memoir. You can email imagination2@csuohio.edu for more information.
Ah, yes, the start of the year raises the possibility of every good thing.
This is also a time when I take to reading more serious works (in between reading review books). Currently I'm reading "Lincoln's War" by Geoffrey Perret.
What is it about the winter that compels me to read Russian literature? It can't be as trite as the winter weather. No, methinks it has more to do with time more readily available for digesting these lengthy and complex works. In past winters, I've read Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and Chekhov and this year I think I'll read Boris Pasternak's "Dr. Zhivago." Saw the new Masterpiece Theater version on PBS in December and found it far more moving than the 1960's Julie Christie/Omar Sharif version.
So in the interest of feeding my passionate Cossack roots I leave you today with this marvelous quote about love from Anton Chekhov:
"Perhaps the feelings that we experience when we are in love represent a normal state. Being in love shows a person who he should be."
This year I've started with a greater sense of clarity about the kind of work I want to be doing. There are certain things I've done to make money that don't necessarily fulfill. There are others that don't make much money yet seem to fulfill immensely. Somehow, I'll have to find the balance between the two. That is the unending conundrum, no?
I've recently completed several pieces that have stretched my writing abilities. Just today my colleague Brian Willse from Newbomb Design and I sent our first book project to the printer. It's a wrap-up book on the 2004 International Children's Games that Brian and I worked on with the good folks at the Greater Cleveland Sports Commission. This was a pro bono project, but infinitely satisfying. The book will be announced in the next several weeks at a press conference. And Brian and I are hopeful that it will be the first of many projects on which we collaborate.
Creative Ink has really been a training ground of sorts for the kind of work I'd like to do – namely personal essays. I just completed my first thanks to the kind referral from Plain Dealer Book Editor Karen Sandstrom. And speaking of Karen, I also completed my first longer book review for the Sunday book pages.
This week finds my head bursting with ideas, a sometimes-frustrating state because it's impossible to pursue them all. But at least at this time of the year I'm better at writing them down (and getting them out of my head).
For some time, fellow bloggers have asked why I don't have comments on Creative Ink. Quite simply, I felt there weren't that many people reading who would be compelled to comment. And those who did, often emailed me directly. Between you, me and the fencepost, I was a little nervous about opening myself up for criticism. But that's another thing about the new year, I'm going to muster the courage that's been holding me back. I've only myself to blame for missed opportunities. So post your comments. I'm delighted to hear from supporters and critics alike.
I'd love to write about travel (in addition to books) and have the opportunity (as do you!) to meet the Boston Globe's Tom Haines, the 2003 Travel Writer of the Year, at a Writers Salon at 4 p.m. tomorrow at Talkies Film & Coffeebar, 2521 Market Ave. Thanks to my very good friend and prolific writer John Ettorre and his good pal, (whom I had the pleasure of meeting last week) Anton Zuiker, a group of writers will gather to discuss Words That Move.
John says, "Be prepared to talk about writing, journalism, weblogs and other topics. Bring a sample of your writing to share, or an article of interest you'd like others to know about. Theme is Words That Move, so the conversation may meander from travel writing to writing that moves a person to tears (good writing or, ahem, bad writing) to a memoir of relocating."
And I just learned that CSU's Department of English and Creative Writing Program is hosting Imagination2 2005 on five Saturdays from Feb. 19 to March 26. The cost is $69.95 for all sessions covering fiction, poetry, essay and memoir. You can email imagination2@csuohio.edu for more information.
Ah, yes, the start of the year raises the possibility of every good thing.
This is also a time when I take to reading more serious works (in between reading review books). Currently I'm reading "Lincoln's War" by Geoffrey Perret.
What is it about the winter that compels me to read Russian literature? It can't be as trite as the winter weather. No, methinks it has more to do with time more readily available for digesting these lengthy and complex works. In past winters, I've read Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and Chekhov and this year I think I'll read Boris Pasternak's "Dr. Zhivago." Saw the new Masterpiece Theater version on PBS in December and found it far more moving than the 1960's Julie Christie/Omar Sharif version.
So in the interest of feeding my passionate Cossack roots I leave you today with this marvelous quote about love from Anton Chekhov:
"Perhaps the feelings that we experience when we are in love represent a normal state. Being in love shows a person who he should be."
Thursday, December 30, 2004
A plea from Banda Aceh
The world seemed suddenly very small when I learned of the earthquake and tsunami in southeast Asia. My immediate thought was of my newfound friends living in the region. Although they are devastated by the losses, they are responding quickly to the need for relief and supplies. This urgent message asking for help arrived today from my colleague Eddy Suprapto, president of the Alliance of Independent Journalists in Jakarta, Indonesia.
He writes:
"The disaster, which occurred on December 26, 2004, also hit eight Asian countries and seven African countries, has been estimated of claiming more than 80.000 death. According to the Ministry of Health of the Republic of Indonesia, it has been estimated that at least 45.000 people were killed in Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam.
AJI, an organization of journalists in Indonesia affiliated to the
International Federation of Journalists (IFJ), has members in the affected areas, namely eleven (11) in Lhokseumawe and 25 in Banda Aceh and a security officer of the AJI office in Banda Aceh, excluding AJI members in Jakarta who have relatives in Aceh.
Currently, we are monitoring their existence and their families. From the latest report we received, all of AJI members in Lhokseumawe have been found safe, while in Banda Aceh, only nine (9) people have been found alive, and 17 went missing.
Therefore, we call on the community to participate and provide assistance for our colleagues who become the victims. Financial assistance can be sent to:
Account Number: 446-1479
Beneficiary Name: ALLIANCE OF INDEPENDENT JOURNALISTS
Name of Bank: BNI Senayan Branch
SWIFT Code: BNINIDJA
Address of Bank: Jl. Gatot Subroto Kav. 55
Central Jakarta 10210
Other assistance can be sent to:
Secretariat of AJI Indonesia
Jl. Danau Poso Blok D1 No. 29
Bendungan Hilir Jakarta
Indonesia 10210
Phone: +62-21-5790-0489 / Fax: +62-21-573-4581
Jakarta, December 30, 2004
The Alliance of Independent Journalists
Eddy Suprapto
President
For further information, you can contact us at:
The Jakarta Coordinating Post
Eddy Suprapto (62-818-774-724)
Ulin Niam Yusron (62-818-912-361)
Abdul Manan (62-818-948-316)
Lensi Mursida (62-815-943-5493)
Yulia Siswaningsih (62-815-1322-0269 or
62-815-1127-9559)
Lina (62-812-839-0035)
The Banda Aceh Coordinating Post
Nani Afrida (62-812-696-0395)
The Lhokseumawe Coordinating Post
Zaenal Bakri (62-811-671-971)
Ayi Jufridar (62-811-672-648)
The Medan Coordinating Post
Dedi Ardiansyah (62-815-3313-0251)
He writes:
"The disaster, which occurred on December 26, 2004, also hit eight Asian countries and seven African countries, has been estimated of claiming more than 80.000 death. According to the Ministry of Health of the Republic of Indonesia, it has been estimated that at least 45.000 people were killed in Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam.
AJI, an organization of journalists in Indonesia affiliated to the
International Federation of Journalists (IFJ), has members in the affected areas, namely eleven (11) in Lhokseumawe and 25 in Banda Aceh and a security officer of the AJI office in Banda Aceh, excluding AJI members in Jakarta who have relatives in Aceh.
Currently, we are monitoring their existence and their families. From the latest report we received, all of AJI members in Lhokseumawe have been found safe, while in Banda Aceh, only nine (9) people have been found alive, and 17 went missing.
Therefore, we call on the community to participate and provide assistance for our colleagues who become the victims. Financial assistance can be sent to:
Account Number: 446-1479
Beneficiary Name: ALLIANCE OF INDEPENDENT JOURNALISTS
Name of Bank: BNI Senayan Branch
SWIFT Code: BNINIDJA
Address of Bank: Jl. Gatot Subroto Kav. 55
Central Jakarta 10210
Other assistance can be sent to:
Secretariat of AJI Indonesia
Jl. Danau Poso Blok D1 No. 29
Bendungan Hilir Jakarta
Indonesia 10210
Phone: +62-21-5790-0489 / Fax: +62-21-573-4581
Jakarta, December 30, 2004
The Alliance of Independent Journalists
Eddy Suprapto
President
For further information, you can contact us at:
The Jakarta Coordinating Post
Eddy Suprapto (62-818-774-724)
Ulin Niam Yusron (62-818-912-361)
Abdul Manan (62-818-948-316)
Lensi Mursida (62-815-943-5493)
Yulia Siswaningsih (62-815-1322-0269 or
62-815-1127-9559)
Lina (62-812-839-0035)
The Banda Aceh Coordinating Post
Nani Afrida (62-812-696-0395)
The Lhokseumawe Coordinating Post
Zaenal Bakri (62-811-671-971)
Ayi Jufridar (62-811-672-648)
The Medan Coordinating Post
Dedi Ardiansyah (62-815-3313-0251)
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
My holiday wish for you
Hard to believe the year is coming to a close. At times it seems as if it were just yesterday that I left the comfort and security of regular employment to launch my own thing. Other times it feels as if I've been doing this forever.
Once again the start of the year finds me with some interesting opportunities. But before I make decisions about where my career takes me next, I'm going to take what remains of the year, unplug and spend time with my family and friends.
It's easy to get so close to and consumed by work that we can forget what's most important in our lives — in my case, the love of three little boys, my husband, my extended family and many friends and colleagues.
My wish for you this holiday season is that you take time to unplug from our electronic world and frolic in the snow, go ice skating, read something you enjoy, tell stories by the fire, take an afternoon nap, give extra firm hugs, and remember to tell the ones you love just how much they mean to you. Because the greatest gift we can give is our time. As the French playwright Jean Anouilh wrote: "Love is, above all, the gift of oneself."
I look forward to picking up our conversation in January, dear reader.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Once again the start of the year finds me with some interesting opportunities. But before I make decisions about where my career takes me next, I'm going to take what remains of the year, unplug and spend time with my family and friends.
It's easy to get so close to and consumed by work that we can forget what's most important in our lives — in my case, the love of three little boys, my husband, my extended family and many friends and colleagues.
My wish for you this holiday season is that you take time to unplug from our electronic world and frolic in the snow, go ice skating, read something you enjoy, tell stories by the fire, take an afternoon nap, give extra firm hugs, and remember to tell the ones you love just how much they mean to you. Because the greatest gift we can give is our time. As the French playwright Jean Anouilh wrote: "Love is, above all, the gift of oneself."
I look forward to picking up our conversation in January, dear reader.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Monday, December 20, 2004
Confessions of a Christmas snooper
They get it honestly. I was the best of the best when it came to snooping for Christmas gifts. I shouldn't really care. After all, it's their surprise they've blown, not mine. But I am a little bummed and I think the boys sense they've let me down a bit. (Although that's not likely to keep them from snooping in the future. I know it wouldn't have stopped me.)
No one ever tells you how short of duration is the whole Santa Claus magic for parents. It can be as short as 8 or 10 years. And the age drops with each successive kid. Ryan and Patrick are, of course, on to the whole mom-and-dad-as- Santa scene. But keeping it real for Michael is proving to be a greater challenge this year.
That's because my snoopers obviously did not inherent my finest snooping quality — stealth! I had the ability to sniff out the most bizarre hiding places. I grew up in an old house (built in the 1920s) that had a creepy old basement. For several years, my parents took to hiding our Christmas gifts in a back storage room for which you needed a skeleton key to enter. It was sort of a crawl space, reeking of mildew. My heart pounded wildly whenever I turned the key, my overactive imagination sure that the basement troll (or my older brother) would pop out and frighten me. Did that stop me from snooping? No, sir.
We had a pop-up Starcraft camper that my dad kept in our equally creepy (and dark!) detached garage. One year, I found the keys to the camper in the junk drawer and decided to check it out. I crawled inside (since it was kept in its lowered position) with flashlight in tow and there I found the treasure trove of Christmas gifts.
I'm not sure if my parents knew of my activities. I believed that my movements were so stealth-like, with everything put exactly back in its place, that they never knew. After my boys' activity this morning, I'm guessing maybe they knew all along and just didn't say anything.
I'm not sure why I was compelled to snoop. I know that I'm not proud of my activities. My mom and dad always did their best to make Christmas special for us, despite some lean years. And they always succeeded. Looking back, my snooping leads me to believe that I doubted their ability to know my heart's desire, which is silly because they always knew.
And that's a little what I'm feeling today, that my boys doubted my gift-giving prowess. So I'm left today trying to figure out why I did what I did. And here's what I've come up with: I think on some level I don't like to be surprised. I like to be the one doing the surprising and I like to have all the information (it's the know-it-all in me).
Of course, I'm also sure there's a very big part of me that proudly (and perhaps wrongly) believes my loved ones incapable of surprising me. I fancy myself quite gifted at picking up signals whenever plans are underway. And maybe that's why my loved ones don't bother. I ruin their pleasure or they're afraid of disappointing me.
It's been a long time since my husband and I have exchanged gifts at Christmas. It's pathetic, I know, but we always seem to have a good reason. We're saving for a new house, renovating the kitchen, buying new furniture, carpet, TV, computer, bedroom suite, fill in the blank…. But while we were out on our annual shopping excursion for the boys this weekend (actually while we were sitting at the bar at the new Hoggy's at Crocker Park), we came to realization that we've got to change our ways — in many ways — in 2005.
Maybe it's a little early, but here's to a better year in 2005! And here's to learning how to enjoy life's little (and big) surprises.
No one ever tells you how short of duration is the whole Santa Claus magic for parents. It can be as short as 8 or 10 years. And the age drops with each successive kid. Ryan and Patrick are, of course, on to the whole mom-and-dad-as- Santa scene. But keeping it real for Michael is proving to be a greater challenge this year.
That's because my snoopers obviously did not inherent my finest snooping quality — stealth! I had the ability to sniff out the most bizarre hiding places. I grew up in an old house (built in the 1920s) that had a creepy old basement. For several years, my parents took to hiding our Christmas gifts in a back storage room for which you needed a skeleton key to enter. It was sort of a crawl space, reeking of mildew. My heart pounded wildly whenever I turned the key, my overactive imagination sure that the basement troll (or my older brother) would pop out and frighten me. Did that stop me from snooping? No, sir.
We had a pop-up Starcraft camper that my dad kept in our equally creepy (and dark!) detached garage. One year, I found the keys to the camper in the junk drawer and decided to check it out. I crawled inside (since it was kept in its lowered position) with flashlight in tow and there I found the treasure trove of Christmas gifts.
I'm not sure if my parents knew of my activities. I believed that my movements were so stealth-like, with everything put exactly back in its place, that they never knew. After my boys' activity this morning, I'm guessing maybe they knew all along and just didn't say anything.
I'm not sure why I was compelled to snoop. I know that I'm not proud of my activities. My mom and dad always did their best to make Christmas special for us, despite some lean years. And they always succeeded. Looking back, my snooping leads me to believe that I doubted their ability to know my heart's desire, which is silly because they always knew.
And that's a little what I'm feeling today, that my boys doubted my gift-giving prowess. So I'm left today trying to figure out why I did what I did. And here's what I've come up with: I think on some level I don't like to be surprised. I like to be the one doing the surprising and I like to have all the information (it's the know-it-all in me).
Of course, I'm also sure there's a very big part of me that proudly (and perhaps wrongly) believes my loved ones incapable of surprising me. I fancy myself quite gifted at picking up signals whenever plans are underway. And maybe that's why my loved ones don't bother. I ruin their pleasure or they're afraid of disappointing me.
It's been a long time since my husband and I have exchanged gifts at Christmas. It's pathetic, I know, but we always seem to have a good reason. We're saving for a new house, renovating the kitchen, buying new furniture, carpet, TV, computer, bedroom suite, fill in the blank…. But while we were out on our annual shopping excursion for the boys this weekend (actually while we were sitting at the bar at the new Hoggy's at Crocker Park), we came to realization that we've got to change our ways — in many ways — in 2005.
Maybe it's a little early, but here's to a better year in 2005! And here's to learning how to enjoy life's little (and big) surprises.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Citizen journalists
A fellow panelist from the Trends in New Media panel in Korea was Oh Yeon ho, CEO and founder of OhmyNews,an online news organization driven by citizen journalists, or what he calls news guerillas. Launched in February 2000, it is, according to Mr. Oh, now the Internet's largest newspaper with 33,000 citizen reporters and more than 35 full-time reporters.
Mr. Oh founded OhmyNews in response to the massive media power wielded by big media in Korea. "Our weapon is the proposition that 'Every citizen is a reporter.'" And its working since the site has rapidly grown from its initial 10 reporters and 700 news guerillas in just four short years.
Here's how this two-way journalism works:
Anyone can register and contribute to OhmyNews, but must first agree to its code of ethics, agreeing to only write facts and not slander. Of the 150 to 200 posts received, about 80 percent will be accepted. Those whose work is accepted receive a small fee (20,000 won or $17), but Mr. Oh is very clear that these citizen journalists are not writing to make money: "They are writing articles to change the world. We give them something that money cannot. We make OhmyNews a public square and a playground for the citizen reporter and readers. Traditional papers say, 'I produce, you read' but we say 'we produce and we read and we change the world together.' That's the power of Ohmy News.
It certainly has clout. Right after the 2002 South Korean presidential election, Ohmy staff reporters got an exclusive interview with President Roh Moo Hyun. "This surprised not only the Korean media market, but also the whole nation," said Mr. Oh during his presentation. It was the first interview the president-elect granted to the domestic media after his election.
In March of this year, 200,000 people gathered for a candlelight ceremony in the center of Seoul to express support for President Roh (who was being threatened with impeachment), an event covered by 20 staff reporters and several citizens reporters. Using text, photo and video, Ohmy published a special edition of the weekly paper. "We broadcast the event live on OhmyTV and updated text articles every 30 minutes during the six-hour demonstration," said Mr. Oh. "About 400,000 OhmyNews readers participated in the demonstration online and more than 80,000 comments on the one issue were recorded on our site. With this kind of coverage, OhmyNews is challenging and changing the traditional media formula of how to write and how to edit." Oh showed footage of the demonstration, which clearly shows what real-time reporting should be.
But is this a successful venture? According to Mr. Oh, the Sisal Journal survey of media ranked OhmyNews the sixth most influential, up from 10th in 2000. And last year the site broke even financially.
Mr. Oh talked about why this concept took root in South Korea and noted several things:
• Korean readers have been disappointed by the mainstream conservative media and have sought alternative sources.
• Korea's Internet infrastructure is superior to most other countries — 75 percent-plus broadband penetration allows for easy use of multimedia.
• South Korea is small enough in size, allowing a team of staff reporters to reach news scenes in a few hours to verify citizen journalist articles. Yes, that's right they are edited and checked for accuracy.
• Korea is a "uni-polar society," meaning the entire country can be engulfed by a couple of issues, making the news guerilla approach particularly effective.
• Korean citizens were ready. They are young, many in their 20s and 30s, active and reform-minded.
And that young, smart, sophisticated and information-hungry population is now driving how news events are covered, in some cases actually participating in the coverage.
Now it seems there may be a citizen journalist site taking root here in the states by none other than Dan Gillmor, a veteran newspaper journalist and tech writer for the San Jose Mercury News. According to this piece on the recently launched OhmyNews International, Gillmor is leaving his post to start a citizen journalist venture. In his Dec. 9 blog he wrote: "I hate the idea of leaving (the newspaper). But I'd hate not trying this even more."
"I hope to pull together something useful that helps enable — and demonstrates — the emerging grassroots journalism that I wrote about in my recent book (We The Media, 2004). Something powerful is happening, it's in the early stages and I have a chance to help figure this out."
And we'll be watching closely.
Mr. Oh founded OhmyNews in response to the massive media power wielded by big media in Korea. "Our weapon is the proposition that 'Every citizen is a reporter.'" And its working since the site has rapidly grown from its initial 10 reporters and 700 news guerillas in just four short years.
Here's how this two-way journalism works:
Anyone can register and contribute to OhmyNews, but must first agree to its code of ethics, agreeing to only write facts and not slander. Of the 150 to 200 posts received, about 80 percent will be accepted. Those whose work is accepted receive a small fee (20,000 won or $17), but Mr. Oh is very clear that these citizen journalists are not writing to make money: "They are writing articles to change the world. We give them something that money cannot. We make OhmyNews a public square and a playground for the citizen reporter and readers. Traditional papers say, 'I produce, you read' but we say 'we produce and we read and we change the world together.' That's the power of Ohmy News.
It certainly has clout. Right after the 2002 South Korean presidential election, Ohmy staff reporters got an exclusive interview with President Roh Moo Hyun. "This surprised not only the Korean media market, but also the whole nation," said Mr. Oh during his presentation. It was the first interview the president-elect granted to the domestic media after his election.
In March of this year, 200,000 people gathered for a candlelight ceremony in the center of Seoul to express support for President Roh (who was being threatened with impeachment), an event covered by 20 staff reporters and several citizens reporters. Using text, photo and video, Ohmy published a special edition of the weekly paper. "We broadcast the event live on OhmyTV and updated text articles every 30 minutes during the six-hour demonstration," said Mr. Oh. "About 400,000 OhmyNews readers participated in the demonstration online and more than 80,000 comments on the one issue were recorded on our site. With this kind of coverage, OhmyNews is challenging and changing the traditional media formula of how to write and how to edit." Oh showed footage of the demonstration, which clearly shows what real-time reporting should be.
But is this a successful venture? According to Mr. Oh, the Sisal Journal survey of media ranked OhmyNews the sixth most influential, up from 10th in 2000. And last year the site broke even financially.
Mr. Oh talked about why this concept took root in South Korea and noted several things:
• Korean readers have been disappointed by the mainstream conservative media and have sought alternative sources.
• Korea's Internet infrastructure is superior to most other countries — 75 percent-plus broadband penetration allows for easy use of multimedia.
• South Korea is small enough in size, allowing a team of staff reporters to reach news scenes in a few hours to verify citizen journalist articles. Yes, that's right they are edited and checked for accuracy.
• Korea is a "uni-polar society," meaning the entire country can be engulfed by a couple of issues, making the news guerilla approach particularly effective.
• Korean citizens were ready. They are young, many in their 20s and 30s, active and reform-minded.
And that young, smart, sophisticated and information-hungry population is now driving how news events are covered, in some cases actually participating in the coverage.
Now it seems there may be a citizen journalist site taking root here in the states by none other than Dan Gillmor, a veteran newspaper journalist and tech writer for the San Jose Mercury News. According to this piece on the recently launched OhmyNews International, Gillmor is leaving his post to start a citizen journalist venture. In his Dec. 9 blog he wrote: "I hate the idea of leaving (the newspaper). But I'd hate not trying this even more."
"I hope to pull together something useful that helps enable — and demonstrates — the emerging grassroots journalism that I wrote about in my recent book (We The Media, 2004). Something powerful is happening, it's in the early stages and I have a chance to help figure this out."
And we'll be watching closely.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Creating a Christmas card
Every year I wonder if I'll have the time, energy and inclination to send Christmas cards. And every year after I've decided there's not enough of all of the above, I start to feel that familiar twinge of guilt. It usually begins right after Thanksgiving and persists as I open card after card with adorable kids' photos and news from friends and family afar.
And so I decided again that there are simply too many people scattered across the country that deserve at least to know that they are in our thoughts as the year draws to a close.
Since Ryan and Patrick were very small, I've always done a photo card. The many aunts and uncles, cousins and friends enjoy seeing how they've grown. But as the boys got older, I was running out of original ideas. I took to getting a group photo on our summer vacation, which worked well because we were usually at the beach, the boys were happy and I could snag them for a few moments without requiring a change in outfits.
But we didn't vacation this year. In fact, the sad truth is that we never once made it to a beach this summer — surely a Hoke family first (and something not to be repeated). While I still had my neighbors digital camera after Korea, I took to taking a few photos of the boys, very random, very unplanned. And the one I chose for this year's card is now on my desktop and makes me smile whenever I sit at my computer. I sent it to Danny at work and he said it makes him smile as well.
The boys aren't dressed in any holiday finery. Honestly, my guys don't do holiday finery. They will grace their grandparents' presence on Christmas Day with a pair of wind pants or jeans, though I'll insist on a pair without holes. In fact, they are in sweatshirts or T-shirts, but it's their faces that make this photo. All three are smiling naturally (as opposed to the typical teeth-clenched "are we done yet?" grin). Ryan is looking every bit the pre-teen he is. I see an older, teenage version of Patrick in his maturing face and little Mikey...well, he's kneeling behind his brothers but has him arms around their shoulders and a big grin, the same dimple as his dad revealed in his cheek. Around his mouth are remnants of the chocolate cake he had for dessert that night. And visible on his chubby little fingers are the marker stains leftover from school.
I know plenty of moms who would die of embarrassment or freak if they saw the photo. Not me. That's Mikey — messy face and all. And that's my boys when they are relaxed and enjoying each other's company.
Anyone who knows them will probably smile when they open their card … just like Danny and I do when we look at the photo.
And so I decided again that there are simply too many people scattered across the country that deserve at least to know that they are in our thoughts as the year draws to a close.
Since Ryan and Patrick were very small, I've always done a photo card. The many aunts and uncles, cousins and friends enjoy seeing how they've grown. But as the boys got older, I was running out of original ideas. I took to getting a group photo on our summer vacation, which worked well because we were usually at the beach, the boys were happy and I could snag them for a few moments without requiring a change in outfits.
But we didn't vacation this year. In fact, the sad truth is that we never once made it to a beach this summer — surely a Hoke family first (and something not to be repeated). While I still had my neighbors digital camera after Korea, I took to taking a few photos of the boys, very random, very unplanned. And the one I chose for this year's card is now on my desktop and makes me smile whenever I sit at my computer. I sent it to Danny at work and he said it makes him smile as well.
The boys aren't dressed in any holiday finery. Honestly, my guys don't do holiday finery. They will grace their grandparents' presence on Christmas Day with a pair of wind pants or jeans, though I'll insist on a pair without holes. In fact, they are in sweatshirts or T-shirts, but it's their faces that make this photo. All three are smiling naturally (as opposed to the typical teeth-clenched "are we done yet?" grin). Ryan is looking every bit the pre-teen he is. I see an older, teenage version of Patrick in his maturing face and little Mikey...well, he's kneeling behind his brothers but has him arms around their shoulders and a big grin, the same dimple as his dad revealed in his cheek. Around his mouth are remnants of the chocolate cake he had for dessert that night. And visible on his chubby little fingers are the marker stains leftover from school.
I know plenty of moms who would die of embarrassment or freak if they saw the photo. Not me. That's Mikey — messy face and all. And that's my boys when they are relaxed and enjoying each other's company.
Anyone who knows them will probably smile when they open their card … just like Danny and I do when we look at the photo.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Katie, Katie, Katie — pull-eeze!
I never turn the TV on the morning. It's too much of a distraction for the kids and since we're always pushing just this side of tardiness, I can't afford to have them distracted from the morning routine for nary a moment. But, since it was a snowy night, I thought I'd turn on the Today show and scan the crawl for any closings. No such luck — for the kids anyway.
But there was Katie Couric, about to interview Jim Carrey about his role in the new kids' flick, "Lemony Snicket." If you have a kid somewhere in the age range of 8-12, I'm guessing you know of what I speak. Patrick, at age 10, is very into those books right now and he's going to see the movie with our neighbor on Friday. Thought I'd see what Carrey, who has my newfound respect as an actor after watching him in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," has to say about the movie and his role.
Instead, I nearly gagged as Katie giggled her way through a waste of airtime. Carrey can be thoughtful in his remarks and, clearly, he had something to say about this role. But Katie either giggled over him or tried to inject her theories on child pyschology through literature and film instead of letting the poor guy respond. The interview was about Katie (who I think was actually flirting with Carrey), not the movie. It was embarrassing to watch, both as a woman and a journalist.
Now, I can't reveal anything else, but I will share this quote from the current spirituality book I'm reviewing. I think it cuts to the core of our humanity:
"If your life is not flowing, stop stepping on the hose."
But there was Katie Couric, about to interview Jim Carrey about his role in the new kids' flick, "Lemony Snicket." If you have a kid somewhere in the age range of 8-12, I'm guessing you know of what I speak. Patrick, at age 10, is very into those books right now and he's going to see the movie with our neighbor on Friday. Thought I'd see what Carrey, who has my newfound respect as an actor after watching him in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," has to say about the movie and his role.
Instead, I nearly gagged as Katie giggled her way through a waste of airtime. Carrey can be thoughtful in his remarks and, clearly, he had something to say about this role. But Katie either giggled over him or tried to inject her theories on child pyschology through literature and film instead of letting the poor guy respond. The interview was about Katie (who I think was actually flirting with Carrey), not the movie. It was embarrassing to watch, both as a woman and a journalist.
Now, I can't reveal anything else, but I will share this quote from the current spirituality book I'm reviewing. I think it cuts to the core of our humanity:
"If your life is not flowing, stop stepping on the hose."
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