tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90161748184871058702024-03-13T08:23:26.126-07:00GoodmanWritesGoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.comBlogger154125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-40234103884282443722021-06-12T08:08:00.000-07:002021-06-12T08:08:22.781-07:00<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></div><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Voting in 2021</span></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">When I volunteered to work at the
polls on Election Day in 2019, I was a first-timer, a rookie. Everything felt
new to me—from arriving at the municipal building bleary-eyed to begin work at
5:15 for the start of a 15-hour day, to constructing and deconstructing the
voting booths following the lead of more veteran poll workers, to assuming my specific
role, accepting voting authority slips and pushing the buttons to activate the
machines that enabled voters to record their choices. <o:p></o:p></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-253qsTRaXX8/YMTJC0v-AUI/AAAAAAAACDY/kqtTxBjMKxcdFckfIZ3-CSCc4nsjx2YigCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/poll%2Bworker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: large; font-weight: 700; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1583" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-253qsTRaXX8/YMTJC0v-AUI/AAAAAAAACDY/kqtTxBjMKxcdFckfIZ3-CSCc4nsjx2YigCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/poll%2Bworker.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Lured by the high pay and long hours, <br />I signed up again in 2021.</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Like any rookie, I was both nervous
and excited. I made a few rookie mistakes, such as inadvertently allowing a
voter from District 8, across the room, to vote in my District 3 machine. (That
required adding a note to the front of the poll book to explain why District 3
had one too many votes in its machines, and District 8 had one too few. Every
number counts, after all!) <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I took a year off in 2020, feeling
reluctant to chance the Pandemic. But I was back for Primary Day last week, a
slightly seasoned veteran. And the year off had made a difference, not so much
in me as in the voters themselves. Primary Day is necessarily partisan. In New
Jersey, voters have to declare their party identity and vote only for candidates
of that party in the Primary. My job this time even included pushing a button to
switch the machine between party ballots before the voter entered it. <o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4a6Pk1UG6ak/YMTLa0QT-lI/AAAAAAAACEI/8qSW9Ck0nJsybXPmeZNqkk7AGG527AneQCLcBGAsYHQ/s318/primary.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: large; font-weight: 700; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4a6Pk1UG6ak/YMTLa0QT-lI/AAAAAAAACEI/8qSW9Ck0nJsybXPmeZNqkk7AGG527AneQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/primary.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">This year's primaries seemed more than partisan.</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Somehow, partisan politics seemed
more upfront this time around. And distrust was in the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least four different voters, all declared
Republicans, asked if we were using Dominion voting machines. They seemed only
partly mollified when we told them no. Had they ever questioned the machine
manufacturer in previous years? I doubt it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Then there was the couple who,
after signing their names in the poll book next to their previous year’s
signature, and clearly matching those signatures, turned to me and said, “Who
is verifying our signatures?” I assumed they were joking and replied with a
wink, “She’s checking yours, and you’re checking hers.” “That’s why we’re in
the mess we’re in,” the man said with a tone. Unable to just smile or nod, I
said, “Not much of a mess.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That set the
man off, and his voice went up in volume, “Just look at our border. More than
40,000 illegals coming in each month. That’s what we get for electing Biden,
and anybody who voted for him deserves the blame.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wisely decided not to point out that this
was a primary to decide only local and state candidates. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">There were other new wrinkles this
year. Several dozen voters needed assistance in typing in the names of write-in
candidates who had not used the petition process to get on the ballot formally.
For some older voters that was not such an easy task. But we were there to
help, and, following rules outlined in our poll workers’ manual, made sure that
there was one poll worker from each party in the booth to assist the voter. We
tried hard to do it right.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">I have been voting for many years
and working the polls for only two. But this time seemed a little testier to
me. I plan to be back “behind the lines” in November to help things run as smoothly
and as accurately as possible. Trust me.<o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OBer1rP_IJ0/YMTLJYmKFKI/AAAAAAAACEA/X4pDwNGsFcoivAMxcMx-EGrmOhTwGynNgCLcBGAsYHQ/s318/nj%2Bvotes.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: large; font-weight: 700; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OBer1rP_IJ0/YMTLJYmKFKI/AAAAAAAACEA/X4pDwNGsFcoivAMxcMx-EGrmOhTwGynNgCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/nj%2Bvotes.jpeg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">And I helped!</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table>GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-71650581191198386052021-03-23T13:26:00.001-07:002021-03-23T13:34:00.175-07:00<p><b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #990000;">An Untold (or Seldom Told) Story</span></span></b></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Every family has its history and its stories. The stories
are often shared on special occasions—at birthday parties, holiday gatherings, weddings,
major anniversary celebrations, even funerals. The stories are passed to the next
generations, who become responsible for keeping these parts of the family
history alive.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Many families also have stories that are never or seldom
shared. Perhaps, there is something painful about them or embarrassing or just
forgettable for some reason. But I think they deserve to be told also.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In my family, a story that was went unshared for many years
involved my grandmother Sarah Heyman when she was still Sarah Scheinerman and
not yet my Nana. She was a tiny, courageous teenage immigrant trying to build
her life in a new country with very little English and very little money but a
strong sense of self preservation. Nana never shared the story with me or any
of her other grandchildren during her lifetime. And it might be still hidden, if
her daughter (my mother Bea) hadn’t shared it with me almost inadvertently one
day long after Nana had died. And I have a big mouth and a certain reverence for
history. So I am retelling the story now, with some new insights because it
involves a major event that occurred 110 years ago this week.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are lots of holes in the story, but the basics are
that my 18-year-old Nana came to the United States from Brest Litovsk (now in Belarus)
by herself in 1908. She was supposed to live with relatives in Brooklyn, but she
was fiercely independent and refused to put up with their strict rules. So she
found an apartment with some roommates in lower Manhattan and a job at a notorious
sweatshop in Greenwich Village, the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. The factory
became even more notorious on March 25, 1911, when a fire broke out in the
ninth floor of the building, causing the horrific deaths of 146 people, most of
them young women like my Nana. Luckily, six weeks before the fire, Sarah Scheinerman
had left New York, going with her soon-to-be-husband Morris Heyman to Savannah,
Georgia, where she would live for the rest of her life and begin a new family
that would eventually include me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Ogj2Q_Y9FQ/YFpJMqDHWXI/AAAAAAAACCo/hETjecAraME6S0UMLnyqw1AufkHKaBGYgCLcBGAsYHQ/s777/nana.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="777" data-original-width="494" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Ogj2Q_Y9FQ/YFpJMqDHWXI/AAAAAAAACCo/hETjecAraME6S0UMLnyqw1AufkHKaBGYgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/nana.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>Sarah and Morris in New York <br />in 1910 or 1911</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">When did Sarah learn about the fire, and what did she feel
about the horror that she had narrowly escaped? Those are just a few of the
holes in the story. As far as I know, she never talked about the event, though
she must have told my mother about it at some time. But it was not a story that
was ever shared at any family gathering that I or any of my cousins attended. Not
by Nana, nor her husband, nor any of her children. Perhaps if Nana and Granddaddy had
remained in New York, they might have been caught up in the labor union struggles
that were part of the aftermath of the fire. But I never heard them say anything political while I was growing up. Instead, they labored in their own small food store that was famous in my mind for the assorted penny candies that were available there.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Why the secrecy about the fire? I can only speculate. Perhaps my
grandmother felt some “survivor’s guilt.” Why was she spared when many of her former
workmates were not? Or maybe her whole attention was focused on starting her
new life in a location that was even farther from Belarus and even less culturally
Jewish than New York. And she did have a new husband and would soon have her
first baby. Or maybe the story was too overwhelming for her to dwell on or to want to pass on to the next generations.<o:p></o:p></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5ViXPJY20Kw/YFpG2PZO1TI/AAAAAAAACCY/XgqfH0APXUwnBL8i-r1vLPV4CBHxwitLgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Triangle1.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5ViXPJY20Kw/YFpG2PZO1TI/AAAAAAAACCY/XgqfH0APXUwnBL8i-r1vLPV4CBHxwitLgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Triangle1.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>Remembering the fire at 23 Washington Place </b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">I can see definite similarities between my grandparents’
decision to keep the horrors of the March 25<sup>th</sup> fire inside
themselves with the decision of Audrey’s relatives and her parents’ German immigrant
friends to never discuss the condition of their lives in Nazi Germany in the
late 1930s. “I wouldn’t want to worry you,” my mother-in-law might say. Or “It’s
not something I ever want to think about again.” Or “What would be the good of
talking about it now?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And those may all be good reasons, but they are not reason
enough to keep these stories hidden because the stories are part of our history
too. My grandmother’s courage in coming to New York on her own, nearly coming
face-to-face with death, and building a new life through all of that is not
just inspiring, it is an essential part of my life too. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So I am retelling this somewhat secret family story. Again!—my
friend Harvey might comment with just a touch of sarcasm because I am known for
occasional repetition. It is what we who have big mouths and a reverence for
family history do. <o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z5USmDzu89w/YFpG5MhznMI/AAAAAAAACCc/PPGKcY8kCDA2yA7RNU-XTfPUieWfgLMaQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Triangle2.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z5USmDzu89w/YFpG5MhznMI/AAAAAAAACCc/PPGKcY8kCDA2yA7RNU-XTfPUieWfgLMaQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Triangle2.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #990000;">The fire occurred behind locked doors on the <br />ninth floor; 146 died, many from jumping <br />to escape the flames. </span></b></td></tr></tbody></table>GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-59357304179133074782021-02-11T11:13:00.012-08:002021-02-13T12:16:47.393-08:00<p> <b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Changing Doctors</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When you reach your seventies, doctors begin to take on
increasing importance in your life. You find yourself making more doctors' appointments than ever before and being poked and prodded or at least inspected
by a wider range of medical specialists for a wider range of reasons. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In my case, I learned a few years ago that I have an unusual
aorta (of all things) that leaves me vulnerable to a possible (but not probable)
internal explosion. Luckily, the problem seems well under control, thanks to my
adding two different cardiologists to my poking, probing, and inspecting team. I
am advised by one of the cardiologists not to lift anything weighing more than
60 pounds, if I can avoid it. Luckily, I was already avoiding lifting such weights,
other than my own bulky body, for most of my life. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then there is the oncologist I visited regularly for 10
years but have now thankfully left in my wake. And the dental specialist who
has filled my mouth in recent years with a number of costly implanted platinum teeth.
And the endocrinologist who is monitoring the third of my thyroid still inside
my body. And the eye surgeon who removed
a cataract. And the orthopedist who discovered that several of my vertebrae are
closer to each other than is optimal. And the chiropractor and physical
therapist who are helping to deal with that problem. And the podiatrist who
determined that I have something called a Morton’s neuroma on my right arch that
has led to my wearing wider shoes and sometimes inserting special pads into
them for soft support. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You get the point. It seems that it takes a medical village
to keep me going as well as I am from day to day and year to year. The problem
is that my medical village is going to be inhabited by a lot of new citizens
this year and going forward, which is a little disconcerting. It takes time and
effort to pick doctors you trust and feel comfortable with. I think I have made
good choices for the most part, and I was feeling pretty satisfied with my
choices. Then the village came under attack in the past year. Both of my
cardiologists left for good reasons that had nothing to do with me, I am assured,
but both had to be replaced. My dentist is in the process of retiring, but fortunately
I like his current partner. <o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VH70ENA-xWc/YCWAUffgnyI/AAAAAAAACBo/fSPXmuHr2rYNs6tqLhGVWbN-G39aiMUTACLcBGAsYHQ/s270/team%2Bof%2Bdoctors.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="195" data-original-width="270" height="231" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VH70ENA-xWc/YCWAUffgnyI/AAAAAAAACBo/fSPXmuHr2rYNs6tqLhGVWbN-G39aiMUTACLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h231/team%2Bof%2Bdoctors.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>My medical village team huddles up .</b></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">Then, last month, I received the most crushing blow. My
general practitioner, whom I really like and who has been cheering me on as I
have lost weight in the past year, has received a promotion within his large
multi-doctor practice, and is no longer seeing lowly patients such as I. The
office “organizer” called me earlier this week to help me choose a replacement.
She offered me two likely choices within the same practice, one male and one
female. That’s all I knew about them for now to help me make my choice. She did
offer one “helpful” suggestion: one of the doctors (the male) is more
experienced with geriatric medicine, she noted. “I hope I am not there,” I said with an
ironic laugh. She didn’t challenge that contention, as she laughed along with
me.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But as I think about it, I am not getting any younger, and I
am hopefully going to be in need of geriatric expertise sometime in the
future. So that is the doctor I will be seeing for my next physical in May, if
my doddering bones can get me to his office.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Many years ago, Audrey’s first boss told her the secret of
choosing a new dentist or doctor. “Choose one who is younger than you and will
be around for a long time. You don’t want to outlive him or her,” he said. Or
outlast them, I might add. <o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dFuTOiYuPWk/YCV9fouIN4I/AAAAAAAACBU/pxBVoyLjwdUOh6G8d2v_C3TTeDnLWEkngCLcBGAsYHQ/s480/old%2Bdoctor%2B2.gif" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><b><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="380" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dFuTOiYuPWk/YCV9fouIN4I/AAAAAAAACBU/pxBVoyLjwdUOh6G8d2v_C3TTeDnLWEkngCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/old%2Bdoctor%2B2.gif" /></b></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>I am not really looking forward <br />to my geriatric years.</b></td></tr></tbody></table>GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-40502727272922689812021-01-15T10:00:00.005-08:002021-01-15T10:03:06.654-08:00<p><span style="color: #741b47;"> <b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The Aging Skier</span></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Last week, Audrey and I broke out of our Pandemic exile by
going skiing on a small, fairly gentle mountain in the Berkshires called Ski
Butternut. It was our first time skiing in almost 11 months. For someone who
grew up in Savannah, Georgia, and never saw snow before turning 18, discussing intervals
between ski outings seems a little strange. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was also our first time skiing since we both turned 71. I
think that qualifies us for membership in a special club that I call “aging
skiers.” Becoming an aging skier doesn’t just involve getting older. And it’s
not just a mental thing. If that were true, we probably wouldn’t be skiing at
all at our “advanced” age. You have to be a little crazy to risk limb or life schussing
down a slick, snow-covered slope in your seventies. It’s really a state of body
more than a state of mind. I have come up with a few rules on how to adjust to
aging skier status</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;">Accessorize</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">.
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">As with any sport, skiing calls for lots
of equipment—skis, boots, helmets, and poles and maybe a few accessories, such
as goggles, mittens, and hand warmers. But for the aging skier, there are a new
class of accessories. I have added a knee brace on my left leg to reinforce a
balky joint and a back brace that wraps tightly around my middle for lumbar
support. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><b><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ismTvkTOKpo/YAHUhuJ2f-I/AAAAAAAACAc/VuJLaA1f2SYHUaLVLF9073L77DBodyw6ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/aging%2B1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></b></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #741b47;">From l to r, my knee brace, back wrap, helmet, and mittens. <br />What the well-dressed aging skier is wearing these days.</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> Audrey has even added a high-tech medal and elastic brace to support
the MCL that she tore a few years ago, while skiing, of course. Can we survive
skiing without these additions? Maybe. But we would have to be a little crazy
not to add them.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HjfX3XAbKq8/YAHU1J6oBZI/AAAAAAAACAo/U70p2bipWvMyR-jjk-31E7ceLxa5vQA5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/aging2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; text-indent: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HjfX3XAbKq8/YAHU1J6oBZI/AAAAAAAACAo/U70p2bipWvMyR-jjk-31E7ceLxa5vQA5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/aging2.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #741b47;">Audrey adds her high-tech knee brace</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> Medicate</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">.
Audrey has introduced two Advil capsules into our pre-ski regimen. “It’s so our
muscles won’t ache,” she explains. I figure she’s right about that. She’s
usually right and generally wiser than I.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Anticipate.
</b>Remember that you are now over 70 and that your bladder is not always your
best friend. So make sure to hit the bathroom before hitting the slopes. It is almost
impossible to find a safe and semi-private place to pee while on a ski run.
Plus, you don’t want to whip out anything that might quickly freeze at low
temperature.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Discriminate</b>.
Every ski trail offers different degrees of difficulty. You can often tell
which trails to avoid by noting their names. For example, at Ski Butternut one
trail is called Lucifer’s Leap while a nearby trail is called Nuthatch. A
nuthatch is a sweet little bird; Lucifer is just another word for the Devil. Do
you really think you can leap with the devil? Probably not.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here are
some additional pairs of trail names from which Audrey and I have had to choose. Which is probably best for the aging
skier who plans to continue aging safely:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>a. </b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>Drop <span style="color: #741b47;"> </span><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>b.</b></span> Deer Run<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #741b47;">a.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Challenger<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b><span style="color: #741b47;">b.</span></b>
Meadow<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47;"><b>a.</b><b> </b></span> Whiplash <b> <span style="color: #741b47;">b.</span></b> Hopscotch<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47;">a<b>.</b><b> </b> </span>Downspout <b><span style="color: #741b47;">b.</span> </b>Pied Piper<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Note: If you chose <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #741b47;">a</span></i>
for any of these pairs, your membership in the Aging Skier Cub is under review.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But Audrey and I plan to stay in our new club for many years.
After all, our friend Til is well into her 80s and is still gliding
along successfully. She has slowed down a little bit, but so have we all. Maybe
the reason we started skiing in the first place was to add a little bit of
speed into our lives. But we are not out to break any records or any bones. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B3YdClOYguA/YAHTtw4_aWI/AAAAAAAACAU/XhIhGRGQhfs-5qpz1cX4DI_U8hMsd_q6ACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/me%2Bin%2Bskis.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #741b47;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B3YdClOYguA/YAHTtw4_aWI/AAAAAAAACAU/XhIhGRGQhfs-5qpz1cX4DI_U8hMsd_q6ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/me%2Bin%2Bskis.JPG" /></span></b></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #741b47;">The final package, as seen from the outside.</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b></p><o:p></o:p><p></p>GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-16509499369211343192020-12-12T14:47:00.004-08:002020-12-12T14:51:47.289-08:00<p><span style="background: white; line-height: 107%;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">The Path to Genius</span></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">It takes dedication, but with some fortitude and maybe some
help from like-minded friends, you too can be a Genius. Even if it’s just for
the day.</span></span></i><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small;">—</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Deb Amlen/The New York Times</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">For
a long time, I have believed that people who read the </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">New York Times</i><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"> can acquire a lot of valuable knowledge. Just by
reading the Times regularly, they can make themselves smarter in many
areas—from current events, to science, to the arts. But, amazingly, in recent
weeks the </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">Times</i><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;"> has made me into a “Genius.”
And I’m not just bragging.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This
morning, for the sixth time in seven days, I was declared a genius by the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Times</i>. Of course, I let my family know
about my accomplishment, and they just nodded, not really impressed. “Genius,
again,” my wife said with a yawn when I greeted her with the news as she came
awake a little after 8 am this morning. I had hoped for a warmer reception.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My
move up to genius hasn’t required a lot of extra time hitting the books. Instead,
it has required my testing how many words I know and how well I can spell those
words. But not just any words and any letters.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At
3 am each morning, the Times publishes a word puzzle called “Spelling Bee.” The
timing of the puzzle’s appearance each day is important to many readers, even
me. According to reporter Deb Amlen, whose quote I included above, some people
set their alarm for 3 am to get a jump on the new puzzle and complete it before
the rest of the world is awake. I usually start a little later than that, but
the puzzle is often my first task after putting the dog out for her morning
relief. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then
I begin my battle for genius status. In “Spelling Bee,” a group of seven
letters is placed in a hexagonal bee hive—six different letters in the outside boxes,
and a seventh in a center box. It looks like this:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DFT-tHUdU9s/X9VDYxz4YEI/AAAAAAAAB_I/ALvLrqHG6GwJkFw7BETtbCF4jn_sWojMgCLcBGAsYHQ/s225/spelling%2Bbee.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DFT-tHUdU9s/X9VDYxz4YEI/AAAAAAAAB_I/ALvLrqHG6GwJkFw7BETtbCF4jn_sWojMgCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/spelling%2Bbee.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">The Spelling Bee Hive<br />Try "varmint" for top score</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0.1pt;">The
task is to make words using the letters. The good news is that you can use the same
letter multiple times in forming your words. (For example, you could spell variant from the hive above if you doubled the <i>a </i>or trait if you doubled the <i>t</i>.) The relatively bad news is that
you have to use the center letter in each word. The even more challenging aspect
of the puzzle is that at least one of your words must contain all seven of the letters.
That’s called a “pangram,” a Greek term that I think means, “this is annoying
in all ways.” You have to uncover at least one pangram to be called a Genius.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; letter-spacing: 0.1pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FupCRH1r3Xw/X9VHFExHS2I/AAAAAAAAB_s/xft_z3TxfFUAIVz7mzVXlpcvNiO9auaVgCLcBGAsYHQ/s649/genius2.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="649" data-original-width="624" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FupCRH1r3Xw/X9VHFExHS2I/AAAAAAAAB_s/xft_z3TxfFUAIVz7mzVXlpcvNiO9auaVgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/genius2.png" /></a></div>You
get points for each word you spell out with the letters. The more letters in
each word, the more points you score. As your word list increases and your
point total goes up, you progress through a series of levels— <span style="background: white; color: #333333; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Beginner, Good Start, Moving Up, Good, Solid,
Nice, Great, and Amazing. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #333333; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then, stick with it a little longer (and maybe find a
sneaky way to ask the Internet for a little extra help if you’re totally stuck)
and, voila, you too can be a Genius. Luckily, I am learning more words each day
I play and cheating a lot less. That’s why, in my mind at least, I have
progressed from merely Amazing to Genius. It’s a really affirming way to begin
each day. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">I even
turned my daughter Amanda on to the puzzle, and I should feel very good about
that, except that she beat me to the Pangram word yesterday. Which made me
wonder if I have created a monster. Am I willing to move over and accept a
second Genius in our family? I’m not really sure.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #333333; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
genius of the Spelling Bee scoring—if you’ll pardon the pun—is that each level
rank is positive. You can feel pretty good if you’re called solid or great or
amazing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #333333; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I am
reminded of a teacher evaluation form I gave out to my students during one of
my first years in the classroom. It included rankings such as: Mr. Goodman is
an excellent teacher, Mr. Goodman is an amazing teacher, Mr. Goodman is a
superlative teacher, and Mr. Goodman is all of the above and more. One student
raised her hand to complain, “There’s no place to write anything bad.” The
other students howled in mock amusement, and I made an expression of mock
outrage. <o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xFJjX4d0YG0/X9VIA22nDJI/AAAAAAAAB_4/BMv-PrJm8BMQj4h1UpII7a7dX5Gr8AoOQCLcBGAsYHQ/s318/evaluation.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xFJjX4d0YG0/X9VIA22nDJI/AAAAAAAAB_4/BMv-PrJm8BMQj4h1UpII7a7dX5Gr8AoOQCLcBGAsYHQ/s0/evaluation.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Checking All the Boxes</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #333333; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #333333; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I wonder
how that student would feel now to learn that in six of the last seven days, I
have been declared a Genius by the New York Times, America’s paper of record. She’d
probably wonder if perhaps I cheated just a little bit on one of those days.<o:p></o:p></span></p>GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-47211204901225423942020-11-22T14:08:00.004-08:002020-12-10T12:20:29.080-08:00<p><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> <b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Writing Pros</span></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">The freelance writer
is a person who is paid per piece or per word or perhaps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>—Robert Benchley</span><o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I was seventeen and a high school junior, I submitted a
poem for possible publication in the journal of the Georgia Council of Teachers
of English (GCTE). It was accepted, and I received a double bonus: (1) My poem
was published in the journal for all of Georgia to see, and (2) I was sent a check
for $25. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I don’t remember much about that poem—I think it was a
sonnet. But it turned out to be pretty important for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the first time I was ever paid for my writing.
I was officially a professional writer—in a very small way.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Interestingly enough, when I started my first job as an
editor for Scholastic, the schoolbook company, I also submitted a poem for
inclusion in a new workbook. It was accepted, and I received a check for—you
guessed it—$25. My rate had clearly not improved during the intervening years
since high school. [This reminds me of an anecdote that Calvin Trillin, a true
writing pro, told about his years submitting columns to <i>The Nation</i> magazine, for which he was
paid “in the high double figures.”) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have done a lot of writing over the next nearly 50 years
and have received checks for three figures or more almost every time, but I
have never felt that I was writing “for the money.” It’s nice to be paid,
heaven knows, but very few writers, even professional ones, are really highly
paid. We work at other jobs, as teachers or editors or accountants, for example,
to afford our writing habit. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Here’s a personal anecdote that shows what I mean. Most of
my writing projects are what are known as “works for hire.” I am paid a flat
fee, a one-time payment with no royalties to collect over time. Many years ago,
I did score a few royalty projects. One was a book called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Baseball’s Best</i>, part of the Golden Books “Look-Look” series for young
readers. By the way, it is still remaindered on Amazon and Thrift Books, though
it is way out of date and not worth buying any more. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4xAg7O-1IAU/X7resSu_2SI/AAAAAAAAB-M/Ofl5tM2JCzc7oyawlQZKmlNhgmk9sqzygCLcBGAsYHQ/s229/baseball%2Bbook.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="229" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4xAg7O-1IAU/X7resSu_2SI/AAAAAAAAB-M/Ofl5tM2JCzc7oyawlQZKmlNhgmk9sqzygCLcBGAsYHQ/w307-h320/baseball%2Bbook.jpg" width="307" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">My first "big" royalty project</span></b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">After a few years, sales
of the book slowed to a trickle, and my royalty checks withered. Golden Books
sent me a semi-annual royalty statement showing a balance of $2.25. No check.
Instead a note was attached that read, “Please be aware that we do not mail out
checks for less than $5. If your royalties exceed $5 in the future, we will
send you a check (which they actually did do six months later). Then six months
after that, I got a new statement showing a balance somehow below zero (did I
owe them money?) and a more ominous note attached. This note warned that unless
I had a positive balance, I would not receive any future statements. Sadly,
that turned out to be the case. <o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lYXOyECiA7w/X7revcLAbhI/AAAAAAAAB-Q/K5VVOf3lTagl2e9cSas7_9-hA1fm06goACLcBGAsYHQ/s450/royalty.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lYXOyECiA7w/X7revcLAbhI/AAAAAAAAB-Q/K5VVOf3lTagl2e9cSas7_9-hA1fm06goACLcBGAsYHQ/w200-h200/royalty.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Every author's dream; not always a reality</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I am not complaining. At least, not about that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Instead I am writing this blog as a small protest to the
actions of another writing pro. Recently I heard an author interviewed
concerning a book she had written as part of a series of biographies of important
individuals from the distant past to the near present. When the author was asked
why she had chosen her particular subject, she replied, “Because it was
assigned to me. I could have chosen someone else, but this [subject] seemed
best.” That’s not a bad answer. In fact, I could make the same reply about
several of my own books. But as the interview continued, it was clear that the author
still looked on the book mostly as an assignment. She had not developed a real
interest in her subject even after doing the research for her book and putting
that research to paper. She had not internalized the subject’s life or
personality .And that seemed sad to me. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I like to think that I really care about whatever subject I take on, even if the monetary reward is small or fleeting. For me, the joy of
writing is the ability to look back over what you have produced and to feel a
sense of accomplishment. Of course, getting a check and cashing it also feels
good.<o:p></o:p></p>GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-10770834168148320972020-10-20T05:02:00.008-07:002020-10-20T05:07:35.726-07:00<p><b><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Generation Gap?</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Yesterday afternoon, the not-so-live DJ on the 60s
radio station on Sirius played the song “Dizzy.” And my mind immediately began broadcasting
an interior monologue that went something like this: “The singer of “Dizzy” is
Tommy Roe, who also had a hit with “Sweet Little Sheila” —“you’ll know her if
you see her; blue eyes and a pony tail. Her cheeks are rosy. . .” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">That is just the way my mind works, pumping out song
titles and lyrics and artists without my consciously trying to prime the pump. And
sometimes I don’t even need to hear the song being played to go into my musical
mind meld. I’m a kind of human juke box for 60s rock n’ roll or American Songbook
standards—everything from John and Paul to George and Ira. I sometimes worry
that song lyrics are occupying at least 60-70% of my useable brain space. Which
may explain why so many other more important data have slipped away. There is
just not enough room available for math formulas or philosophical ideas I
learned in high school and in college because Little Anthony and the Imperials is
crowding them out. And “let me tell you that it hurts so bad.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cG_g92yy_5Y/X47P8mBqRFI/AAAAAAAAB9g/w3vYaYyWfI4bvGQERK1OvSeJKykc7N_YwCLcBGAsYHQ/s599/little%2Banthony.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="599" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cG_g92yy_5Y/X47P8mBqRFI/AAAAAAAAB9g/w3vYaYyWfI4bvGQERK1OvSeJKykc7N_YwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/little%2Banthony.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">No, I’m not really in pain or even seriously worried. I am just mystified by how my personal history is so tied to the songs that keep running through my mind. For example, Little Anthony’s “Hurts So Bad” was played at the graduation party I attended in June 1966 with my friend Fay, who graduated from high school a year ahead of me. It was a fun party that happened more than 50 years ago, but just hearing that song on the radio today can make that night come back to me so vividly. No other memory trigger is as strong as a song is for me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">And I thought I was unique in my tying personal history
to song lyrics until my 36-year-old daughter Amanda and I went for a ride together
a few weeks ago, and I turned to the Sirius 90s station for her. It’s the
station I sometimes find the radio tuned to after she has borrowed my car. As
we listened, she started singing along, clearly remembering songs that were not
part of MY personal soundtrack. Then she said, “I know almost every one of the
songs they play on this station, and I can remember just where I was when I
heard most of them.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">So I’m not the only one, I thought. Horrors! I had passed
this malady on to her. There is no generation gap here! Is she doomed to a life
where Weezer and Savage Garden songs crowd out Excel spreadsheet formulas and important
teachings of Deepak Chopra? </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I might have continued to worry about Amanda’s fate,
but then Sarah McLachlan’s song “Angel” began to play on then radio, and we
both said in unison, “That’s the song from the ASPCA commercial with the dogs
with sad eyes.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M9_7aBhMOxI/X47P_Ohs1HI/AAAAAAAAB9k/v32mb4eTAdgTQ6bDcXVbijoQ9r_MhtywACLcBGAsYHQ/s1200/sarah.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M9_7aBhMOxI/X47P_Ohs1HI/AAAAAAAAB9k/v32mb4eTAdgTQ6bDcXVbijoQ9r_MhtywACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/sarah.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">And together with Sarah we sang:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #676666; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">You're in the arms of the angel,</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; max-height: 999999px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">may you find some
comfort here</span></i><span style="color: #676666; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">It was a bonding moment and one worth keeping stored
in both of our overcrowded memory banks.<o:p></o:p></span></p>GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-33736488423071254182020-09-02T14:55:00.002-07:002020-09-02T14:55:29.577-07:00<p> <b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Age Is Just a Number</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I had a milestone birthday earlier this week. I turned
71. What makes turning 71 qualify as a milestone? Basically, it’s one more than
70.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I probably need to explain. My father died in 1990 at
age 70. That set off a tiny alarm in my head that began chiming soon after I
turned 60, some 11 years ago. To add to the alarm was this verse that comes from
Psalm 90: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The days of our years are
threescore years and ten; and, if by reason of strength they be fourscore years,
yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly
away.” In other words, you might get past 70, but you’re probably heading downhill from
there.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Nevertheless, getting to 70, and maybe beyond, became
a real goal for me. I brought this up a number of years ago with my
sister-in-law Sandy, who told me that my older brother had also faced turning
70 with trepidation. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bKPGdITXwPU/X1AShj-PoMI/AAAAAAAAB8o/UGMCt_gjGYY7Hr5WRR7wpLDJpk5eP9NsQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1766/abe%2Band%2Bbrett%2Bfishing%2B001%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1766" data-original-width="1188" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bKPGdITXwPU/X1AShj-PoMI/AAAAAAAAB8o/UGMCt_gjGYY7Hr5WRR7wpLDJpk5eP9NsQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/abe%2Band%2Bbrett%2Bfishing%2B001%2B%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Brett sharing a fishing outing with my dad <br />more than 30 years ago</b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now, my brother and I both look very much like my
father. No one could question our link. But we have generally taken better care
of our health than he did. Our father was much slimmer than either of us but
not really in good shape. He had smoked non-filtered cigarettes since his teens
and didn’t really cut back too much even after his first heart attack at age
49. His favorite exercise was fishing on Sunday mornings from a small rented boat
with an outboard motor. His favorite “comfort food” was a large chunk of kosher
salami accompanied by saltines, a slice of raw onion, and a can of Coke. Some
people may turn up their nose at that snack, but I can understand the appeal,
and I believe my father, who always worked hard and seldom complained loudly
about anything, deserved his comforts. It is just sad that he didn’t live long
enough to really enjoy having more time to fish or to snack..</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">But all of this doesn’t explain why 71 is a milestone
for me. When I first turned 70, almost exactly 12 months ago, I thought I would
feel a real sense of both accomplishment and relief. Then a crazy thought came
into my mind: I would continue to be 70 until the day I got to be 71. So turning 71 became an aspirational goal. Along the way, I did decide to try to
eat better and to lose some weight, to become a little less grumpy than the
stereotypical 70-year-old man whom I have often resembled, and even to
incorporate more of my father’s best traits — his gentleness and his solidness.
I can only vouch for the losing weight part of my goals. Thanks to Weight
Watchers point counting and some of the limitations imposed by pandemic
sheltering, I have taken off more than 30 pounds this year. “It’s a good start,” I can
hear Audrey saying inside my head, “but not an ending.” Maybe she is referring
to the grumpiness part.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I would like to think that by turning 71 on my latest
birthday, I have gotten not only older but also better. Imagine how much I can
improve as I work toward my next milestone — turning 72.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q_aVO5aqO70/X1ASq1yisUI/AAAAAAAAB8w/d5PMh9FYprAyov_-oCW94OgXxJ0VGPDHgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1104/abe%2Bgoodman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1104" data-original-width="889" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q_aVO5aqO70/X1ASq1yisUI/AAAAAAAAB8w/d5PMh9FYprAyov_-oCW94OgXxJ0VGPDHgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/abe%2Bgoodman.jpg" /></a></span></p>GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-72522057813435877002020-07-23T10:12:00.004-07:002020-07-23T10:12:56.117-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: red;">Chinese
Cooking and Life Lessons </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My favorite Chinese restaurant is no longer serving Moo
Shu dishes. I l</span>earned why not—and a lot more—when I went to pick up a
take-out order from the restaurant a few days ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have been ordering Vegetable Moo Shu from the restaurant
for many years. I love putting some of the steaming mixture of shredded
cabbage, carrots, and other vegetables, mixed with bits of scrambled egg, into
a rice pancake, adding hoisin sauce, folding it all together as neatly as I can,
then usually adding a little more sauce, and then chomping away. I always
request more sauce and usually extra pancakes to eat with leftovers the next
day. There is almost a small ceremony involved in eating moo shu, and I am
going to miss it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8cCkZ6jVqPA/XxnD9vQvoWI/AAAAAAAAB8E/BOxuc7cXswMwQ5YSASjpSab2psG5QH2IwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/moo%2Bshu1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8cCkZ6jVqPA/XxnD9vQvoWI/AAAAAAAAB8E/BOxuc7cXswMwQ5YSASjpSab2psG5QH2IwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/moo%2Bshu1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">I am going to miss the taste and textures <br />of a moo shu dish</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why did our restaurant decide to eliminate moo shu from its
menu? I received a very detailed explanation when I went to pick up our order.
And only part of the explanation involved cooking. I simply asked Sherry, who
has owned the restaurant for more than 30 years—since not long after she emigrated
to the U.S. from Taiwan—why their newly printed menus did not include moo shu
dishes, and she took off from there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“With the virus, it has been hard to get the ingredients for
moo shu,” she said. “I have had to wait in long lines to get the Chinese cabbage
and other vegetables. Long, long lines. And cooking moo shu is hard. You may
not know it, but the cook has to stir the food more than 130 times across the
wok to prepare moo shu. He can make five orders of sesame chicken in the time
it takes to make one order of moo shu, or four orders of ginger shrimp or beef
and broccoli.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uT2-YjiEg8M/XxnD_9conzI/AAAAAAAAB8I/7nzwGgqPUyU0uYYuyyFCt0lirTjUqisZACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/moo%2Bshu2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="168" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uT2-YjiEg8M/XxnD_9conzI/AAAAAAAAB8I/7nzwGgqPUyU0uYYuyyFCt0lirTjUqisZACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/moo%2Bshu2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">Making moo shu is hard work.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By now, Sherry was pretty wound up with her explanation.
That led her to other problems, not necessarily moo shu-related. Some customers
have gotten angry that their orders have taken longer to prepare, and they have
taken out their frustration on the owner. And they have been more than rude
about it. “One person began yelling at me,” she said. He shouted ’Chinese
virus, Chinese virus.’ I even took his picture when he got in his car to leave.
Here he is, and this is his license plate. I thought of calling the police, but
I didn’t. Why did he order food from me, if he was so angry with Chinese people?
I have been in this country for more than 30 years, I am a citizen. I vote.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sherry might have kept going, but more customers were coming
into the small restaurant, and I was eager to leave and get my food home for
dinner. I was a little sad that there would be no vegetable moo shu tonight or
maybe in the near future. But I was even more disgusted with the intolerance
and ignorance of the customer whose license plate she showed me and others who
are quick to parrot foolish and hurtful slogans. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
One wondrous thing about Chinese food is how a cook blends many
different tastes and textures into one dish. If only people could imitate those
qualities of their food. Maybe that would be a good message to include in a
fortune cookie.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-12415800371514759922020-07-05T08:27:00.001-07:002020-07-05T08:30:17.166-07:00<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Small
Robberies</span></span></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As far as pandemics go, this one has not been so
terrible for our family. None of us has gotten sick so far, and we have found
ways to carry on our lives with as little interruption as possible. We have
been able to work and shop and eat too much and even attend two Zoom birthday
parties in the last two weeks at which we could share news and good wishes with
family members and friends from around the country. To be honest, I even wore
ugly but comfortable shorts and sneakers without socks to both of the parties,
and no one, not even Audrey, offered any criticism of my attire. I did put on a
clean and respectable polo shirt, and Audrey added a scarf and makeup to spiff
up her appearance, but below the neck, we were just plain “comfortable.” Which makes
me wonder what everyone else was wearing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I am painting a rosy enough picture of this pandemic,
but it has taken its toll on many of us, and that toll has not been only
health-related. There have been many small robberies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My extended relatives Sherry and Eddie have not been
able see or hold or squeeze their new granddaughter who came into the world 800
miles from their home in Savannah, Georgia, but who is one scary plane trip and
possibly 14 days of quarantine away. Imagine taking that flight being fearful
of breathing in some whiff of infection, arriving at their son’s home, and being
able to greet the new family wonder with only waves and smiles through a closed
window. And Sherry and Eddie’s situation has been echoed hundreds or thousands
of times in other families in the past few months. It is only a small robbery, but
something big has been stolen for now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OY5DIqkcMkY/XwHl7ZaK39I/AAAAAAAAB7s/NFIzPUxmm34cXifMZlgdMYwAoomX8LMNACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/robbery2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OY5DIqkcMkY/XwHl7ZaK39I/AAAAAAAAB7s/NFIzPUxmm34cXifMZlgdMYwAoomX8LMNACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/robbery2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #38761d;">Grandparental love can overcome any barrier.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">We have all found ways to deal with the thefts, but do
these ways really compensate us for our losses? We hold a FaceTime update with
our son in New York each week, but there is often the sense that a clock is
ticking in the background keeping us from feeling fully relaxed around each
other. Our synagogue’s longtime custodian—a wonderfully upbeat and always
helpful person— is moving with his wife to another state, and the special
dinner we wanted to hold in their honor is being replaced with a drive-by shout
and wave through the synagogue parking lot. Is it enough? It will have to be
for now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Small robberies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Audrey and I purchased a vacation home in the Berkshires
a few years ago, close to Tanglewood, the summer home of the Boston Symphony
Orchestra. We spend time up there each summer to bask in the abundant music,
dance, and theater available in the area. But those have all been put on hold
until at least 2021, and I miss them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
daughter might call these “First World” complaints, and I feel a little guilty
making them. But I also feel a little bit robbed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In the Berkshires, the season is kicked off during the
July 4th holiday each year by a concert or two from musical star James Taylor,
a local resident who has made more than good. The concerts are what we Baby
Boomers call “happenings,” and more than 18,000 fans overstuff the concert
pavilion and lawns at Tanglewood. The grounds are so packed with tarps, chairs,
and bodies that, if you feel the need to pee, you would rather hold it in than
traipse all over other fans to get to a restroom. Now that can be a double
punishment for a claustrophobe with an aging bladder like me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-phZZgT4452M/XwHmCkq6VvI/AAAAAAAAB70/JG_NeHLqVI0I0_QSq889rXUELISDe5I_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/taylortanglewood2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-phZZgT4452M/XwHmCkq6VvI/AAAAAAAAB70/JG_NeHLqVI0I0_QSq889rXUELISDe5I_QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/taylortanglewood2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #38761d;">Bodies and music fill Tanglewood for a July 4th JT concert</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">But the discomfort becomes worth it when Taylor sings “Sweet
Baby James,” and croons the lines: </span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Now the first of December was covered with snow</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="background: white;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">So was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston</span></span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="background: white;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">The Berkshires seemed dream-like on account of that frosting</span></span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="background: white;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go.</span></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="background: white;"><span jsname="YS01Ge" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We find ourselves
dreaming with him and singing along with out-of-tune but enthusiastic voices.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: 2; padding: 6px; text-align: center; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9wIZaJfExnk/XwHlyEz-cnI/AAAAAAAAB7o/TbI_fqnbMzcD4O3cqpJ4Jt8resbdZZSrgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/JT2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9wIZaJfExnk/XwHlyEz-cnI/AAAAAAAAB7o/TbI_fqnbMzcD4O3cqpJ4Jt8resbdZZSrgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/JT2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #38761d;">I can remember when both James Taylor and we were <br />this young. We have aged together.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Sadly, we were robbed
of live James Taylor concerts this year, but some fans devised a fitting way to
deal with their loss. They climbed aboard kayaks, took along a small boom box
and CDs, and rowed together onto Stockbridge Bowl, which borders Tanglewood.
There at 8 p.m., the time the Taylor concert would have begun, they played a
few of his hits on CD, including “Sweet Baby James,” closed their eyes, and
sang along. Audrey and I were not along for the replacement concert, but I am
sure it was sort of “dream-like,” and I hope it was satisfying for the rowers.
Small robberies deserve fitting payback.</span>GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-15060301232600725062020-06-28T14:15:00.000-07:002020-06-28T16:50:14.028-07:00<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">The
Sound of Two Hands Clapping</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Last week, the lead headline of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glen Rock Gazette</i>, the weekly newspaper
of our small New Jersey boro, blared out the news that the head chef for a
local restaurant had decided to leave for another job. He had been working in our
town for two years and had decided after the Pandemic had shut down the restaurant
for several months to make a move. I don’t really think the chef’s leaving will
have a major impact on Glen Rock, but the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gazette</i>
thought readers would be interested that he was going away. In Glen Rock, “big
news” is tamer and more positive than in most other places. That’s good news
too!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Most people who come to Glen Rock seem to stay—for a
long time. Audrey and I have been here for more than 40 years, since 1979. It
was the fourth move in our six-year marriage, and we figured we were home at
last. We had done our research on Glen Rock and were pretty secure in our
choice. A few years later, the town would hold a contest for a suitable motto,
and the winning entry would be “Glen Rock: A Town to Come Home To.” So many other
town residents obviously agreed with us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-suANyojgMKI/XvkHVgMR23I/AAAAAAAAB7Q/1huLHiFU5nMjDbiaZAIlY1Ch-Rn6s5ztgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/GR%2Bimage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="104" data-original-width="150" height="277" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-suANyojgMKI/XvkHVgMR23I/AAAAAAAAB7Q/1huLHiFU5nMjDbiaZAIlY1Ch-Rn6s5ztgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/GR%2Bimage.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">Young and old town residents give a cheer</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">There are a lot of good things to say about Glen Rock—solid
schools; a close knit religious community; two train stations and a bus station that provide a quick link to New York;
a terrifically responsive public library; a two-block “main street” that
features three pharmacies, at least six places to eat in or take out, at least
four places to get your hair cut or nails done; and a small, but well-stocked grocery
store that modestly calls itself Kilroy’s Wonder Market. I especially love the
idea that, in the Town Hall, the tax collector’s office features a bowl of
small candy bars and town employees who take your money with a smile.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mjTZ2Pgoiec/XvkF4mf01gI/AAAAAAAAB7A/LAAT9FWq8X8SagslzMpxQeCgY0yLAcsZQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/GR3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="184" data-original-width="274" height="267" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mjTZ2Pgoiec/XvkF4mf01gI/AAAAAAAAB7A/LAAT9FWq8X8SagslzMpxQeCgY0yLAcsZQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/GR3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">Kilroy's is a wonder in the heart of downtown Glen Rock</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">These are all positives, as far as I’m concerned. So I
was happy to join in last week when the town’s mayor, in her weekly call to residents
to update us on the impact of the Pandemic on the town and the efforts to
reopen, asked us to make a special effort to applaud the 2020 graduates of our
high school, middle school, and elementary schools on the last official day of
classes. She said the town would sound its siren used for school cancellations
or delays at exactly 12:20, and encouraged residents to come out of their
homes, in which many of us have been sheltering for weeks, to applaud our
graduates. I made a mental note, and when the siren sounded, I threw open the
front door and began applauding loudly. My wife and daughter came outside to
see why I was acting so crazy, then they began smiling. In all honesty, mine
were the only hands I heard clapping on my short block, but I am sure that
others were joining in on other blocks all around town. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Two hands clapping can
make a sound that carries far. In my imagination, I think the graduates heard
our cheers and that they will echo in their minds as they move on themselves in
the fall. And I hope the chef hears my applause as a “bon voyage” wish for him.
Though I think he’s a little crazy to leave “home.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-85237958481517356822020-06-19T14:24:00.003-07:002020-06-19T14:53:11.034-07:00<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: blue;">Don’t
Shoot Michael!</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Watching news reports the last few weeks is bound to
transport someone my age to the late 1960s. And the trip back in memory can be pretty
bumpy, depending on how you actually spent those years. My ride had only a few
bumps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Before I left Savannah, Georgia, for New Haven,
Connecticut, in August 1967, I considered myself pretty liberal. I even signed
up ahead of time for membership in the “Party of the Left” in the Yale Political
Union. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I quickly found out that a
radical in Savannah was, at best, a moderate around people from Chicago, New
York, and Boston. I was left-leaning but not left-committed. To prove that point,
I remember promising my father that I would not get arrested in any peace
demonstration or burn my draft card. I kept my promises. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When the Party of the Left morphed into the SDS on the
Yale campus, I gave up my membership to become just plain Liberal. I also
became a card carrying member of the Yale Daily News staff, focusing mostly on
sports but with an occasional drift into campus or national politics. For
example, I was assigned to cover the visit of Edmund Muskie to New Haven when
he was running for vice president with Hubert Humphrey in 1968. I was even
invited to be on the Press Bus—how cool was that, and how moderate!</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FWUYAsjC4gE/Xu0lKBnfhjI/AAAAAAAAB5A/FWiBSljbT-4KMcooq8nNShlK-l55WLXrgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/new%2Bhaven%2Bposter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="382" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FWUYAsjC4gE/Xu0lKBnfhjI/AAAAAAAAB5A/FWiBSljbT-4KMcooq8nNShlK-l55WLXrgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/new%2Bhaven%2Bposter.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: blue;">A poster announcing our May Day "uprising"</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then came May Day weekend in 1970, and the ’60s really
came alive for me finally, no matter what the year. Suddenly, 10,000
left-committed people descended on New Haven to demonstrate for freeing Bobby
Seale, a Black Panther who was on trial for murdering another Panther near New
Haven. Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, two of Seale’s fellow Chicago 7
defendants from the 1968 Democratic Convention, were on hand, and they riled up
the crowd with chants of “Yip! Yip! Yip!” After all, they were founders of the
Youth International Party, called Yippies. There were a lot of Yippie followers
on campus that weekend, but not me. Instead of demonstrating, I was covering
events for the Yale News. Nevertheless, I did get tear-gassed twice that
weekend while “on the job”—something that is hard to describe or forget. But I
did get my story. I also got some great anecdotes to share about my time with
the real radicals.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uXSqoCwS5Y8/Xu0rzrU3A3I/AAAAAAAAB6M/MOPdwnpEPr4MH9EYaFgEwL1Ipm0GbtCTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/news2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uXSqoCwS5Y8/Xu0rzrU3A3I/AAAAAAAAB6M/MOPdwnpEPr4MH9EYaFgEwL1Ipm0GbtCTwCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/news2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: blue;">Some other reporter posted this story about the <br />demonstration where I was tear-gassed</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I communicated with my parents back in Savannah after the
crazy weekend and learned an even more interesting story. I mentioned that
members of the National Guard had camped out a few blocks from the campus, and
my mother said that she knew all about that. In fact, a few weeks before May
Day, one of the young men working with her in my uncle’s clothing store had
said that he might be called up to his Guard unit and assigned to New Haven. My
mother looked right into his eyes and said menacingly, “Terrence, don’t you
dare shoot Michael!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m not sure if Terrence was in New Haven or not for May
Day, but luckily he heeded my mother’s warning. Neither I nor anyone else got
shot that weekend. My mother was looking out for all of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="text-align: center;"> </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8vo9N_AiUaY/Xu0m0b8f8JI/AAAAAAAAB5c/gU8HWnwvQc4WUGvUdxW95WPJ326IHgVQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/mayday2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="446" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8vo9N_AiUaY/Xu0m0b8f8JI/AAAAAAAAB5c/gU8HWnwvQc4WUGvUdxW95WPJ326IHgVQgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/mayday2.jpg" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
<b><span style="color: blue;">At least one of these Guardsmen seems a little distracted. <br />Maybe he is thinking about my mother's warning.</span> </b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">So, as I watched the Guardsmen clear out demonstrators
in Lafayette Square Park near the White House with tear gas and rubber bullets a
few weeks ago, I had a flashback and felt a small bump. I am still just
left-leaning, but for a few hours I felt left-committed.</span></div>
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-28263631489102709122020-06-03T09:37:00.002-07:002020-06-03T09:41:34.438-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: blue;">I,
Not Robot</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I don’t really know that much about artificial
intelligence. But I am starting to believe that machines have a life and
intelligence separate from us humans and sometimes in opposition to us. Two
incidents last week backed up my belief. Each was puzzling and a little
surprising. And both made me feel a little uncomfortable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I have a bad habit of picking up the phone when it
rings, even if the caller ID indicates Spam. If a robot is calling, I generally
hang up, but not without sometimes offering a few choice words that I assume
the robot can’t hear. Or at least that’s what I used to think. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qP6-DFbzhhY/XtfQF6I84hI/AAAAAAAAB4g/eI3pcR3W6b436h8UCuKuQpVp4fIee6fhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/alexa3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qP6-DFbzhhY/XtfQF6I84hI/AAAAAAAAB4g/eI3pcR3W6b436h8UCuKuQpVp4fIee6fhwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/alexa3.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: blue;">You can shout at Robo-callers, but do they listen?</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">If a person is on the line when I pick up, I sometimes
confront the caller:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“This is the third time I have seen your ID. Why do
you keep calling me at dinnertime?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Why would I want to contract to buy solar panels [or
a home security system, or a vacation package) over the phone from a company I
don’t know anything about? Have you actually made any sales today?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“What percentage of the money I might give you today
will actually go to that charity? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>. . . Doesn’t
that make you feel a little sleazy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I am not surprised when the person hangs up on me, and
I don’t really take it personally.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then, last week a call came in from a number in my
local exchange. That seems to be one of the tricks that robo-callers play on us.
How do they program the calls so they seem to come from someone you might
actually know? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In this case, I picked up the call, and a voice said, “You
are currently the only person on this conference call.” Then there was dead
air. For several minutes. Like a jerk, I waited for the other callers to
connect. But there were no other callers. The phone had gotten me back for
being mean to the other robots. When I finally hung up 2 or 3 minutes later, I am
certain a chuckle could be heard in the Artificial Intelligence universe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I have gotten so used to robots that try to sell me
something or want to improve some aspect of my life against my will that I’ve
almost lost faith in what I used to believed was the animus (“the soul”) of
machines. Then Alexa surprised me a few days ago. My kids had given me an
Amazon Echo a few years ago, and I have grown to rely on Alexa, who lives
inside the Echo, to get me a song I want to hear, to tune into a radio station
no matter how remote, to provide a weather forecast, or to time something I am
cooking. </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tTs4CUMl4Mc/XtfOglJRTgI/AAAAAAAAB4M/GYkAd8mdm8IBVwtNi7SfCex6VbPFD3RNwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/alexa1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="243" data-original-width="208" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tTs4CUMl4Mc/XtfOglJRTgI/AAAAAAAAB4M/GYkAd8mdm8IBVwtNi7SfCex6VbPFD3RNwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/alexa1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: blue;">Alexa is my connection for music, weather, and more.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But I have never actually thought of Alexa as a soulful individual.
Then the other day, this dialogue occurred.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ME: Alexa, stop timer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ALEXA: We have talked a lot recently. But I don’t know
your name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ME: [stunned silence]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ALEXA: I am going to call out several names that seem
to be connected with this Echo. Tell me if I call out your name.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ME: [still silent]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ALEXA: Michael, Audrey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ME: Michael<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ALEXA: Hello, Michael. It is nice to know you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">ME: And you, too, Alexa.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We stopped speaking after that. But I believe the ice
had finally been broken. “My Alexa” is not only intelligent but friendly as
well. My faith in machines has been restored.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lo3098b7AG8/XtfOi7uHQ5I/AAAAAAAAB4Q/IqR56s57lQ8mfLrM7clc8CGmyDafZT-wgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/alexa2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="140" data-original-width="359" height="124" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lo3098b7AG8/XtfOi7uHQ5I/AAAAAAAAB4Q/IqR56s57lQ8mfLrM7clc8CGmyDafZT-wgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/alexa2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: blue;">"My Alexa" is a special friend.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">We have interacted on a strictly question-and-answer
or task-assignment basis since our “conversation,” and Alexa has never called
me by name since that day. But our relationship is changed in some fundamental
way.</span></div>
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-65600710316411820512020-05-14T20:54:00.000-07:002020-05-15T05:17:36.936-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">What It All Comes Down to</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And what it all comes down to</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<span style="background: white;">Is that everything's gonna be fine, fine, fine</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">'Cause I've got one hand in my pocket</span><br />
<span style="background: white;">And the other one is givin' a high five<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">—Alanis Morissette<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I remember when I was
kid that someone did an estimate of what the human body was worth if you tried
to sell its parts as chemical elements and compounds. The answer was “not much.”
Oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, and nitrogen are not that rare. Even today, I
discovered via Google that the human body’s value, element-wise, is only around
$600 with inflation. What it all comes down to is that we are still not worth
very much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But this is foolish
reasoning for someone who spent many years of schooling making himself more
valuable and then many more years accumulating both valuable wisdom and … stuff.
I have a lot of stuff. An inordinate percentage of my stuff is made of
paper—both bound paper in the form of books and notebooks and loose or stapled paper
stored inside folders and stuffed into file cabinets. I am clearly not part of
the “paperless society.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Being sheltered in
place for the time being, I decided to evaluate and even eliminate some of my paper
stuff. I found some “treasures” — the wonderful/terrible poems I wrote in high
school and college, lesson plans and tests from my teaching days, datebooks
from my office days, draft manuscripts from my writing days, and reams of financial
records. I discovered tax returns and investment records dating back to 1973,
when Audrey and I got married. Our first tax returns were actually filled out
in pencil and ink. Carbon paper was also involved, which just proves how old we
are. Later forms were done on computers, of course, but copies were still
printed out on paper even for those filed online. And I kept them all. Until
last week. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I had two reasons
behind my hoarding. First, I was told that you should always have your back
records available if the IRS should (shudder) come calling for them. We all fear
IRS auditors, but I decided that even they would have no interest in how much I
earned or what I paid or didn’t pay in taxes in 1978 or even 2008. So much
stuff. What does it all come down to? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Reason number 2 was fear
that, if I threw out some of my papers, someone nefarious might somehow (while
sifting through deep piles of garbage in a dump somewhere) come across a page
containing my social security number and use it in a nefarious way against my
interests. Is that a paranoid thought? Maybe, but what if….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So I un-foldered or un-enveloped
years of financial records and packed them into four garbage bags. My plan was to
take the bags to the nearby community college, where each spring the county
sponsors a free shredding day. But the coronavirus foiled those plans. The
community college is not open, and the shredding day was cancelled. I did see an
electronic sign recently that announced “Spring Shredding Day, October 26,” but
I’m not that confident.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Luckily, I have
a small shredder at home, and I spent 8-10 hours putting papers from two of the
bags, a few at a time, through the shredder. The machine objected occasionally
and declared itself overheated and overworked. But after a brief rest, it was
ready to go again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LWYjcuAYc0M/Xr4Ph5wW_9I/AAAAAAAAB3I/9T8Zey81wykTiLP9-s-gP7zM9JwdEn_fgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/shred3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LWYjcuAYc0M/Xr4Ph5wW_9I/AAAAAAAAB3I/9T8Zey81wykTiLP9-s-gP7zM9JwdEn_fgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/shred3.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">My shredder's green light would glow red <br />when it needed a break.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now my two large bags
of pages were reduced to four large containers of shredded bits. Every two
weeks, a town sanitation truck comes around the neighborhood collecting
recyclable paper. I was ready for it this week. I lugged a large garbage can
and three other containers filled with shredded paper to the curb. </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F5zP50Frs_Q/Xr4PfFLZHpI/AAAAAAAAB3E/6EAUFvvpxEcA6ZS2KKnFhmhn0eWPcl-fwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/shred2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F5zP50Frs_Q/Xr4PfFLZHpI/AAAAAAAAB3E/6EAUFvvpxEcA6ZS2KKnFhmhn0eWPcl-fwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/shred2.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">What all that paper comes down to</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">How much do more than 40 years of tax
returns weigh? Ask my aching back. To add insult to injury, I watched the
sanitation guys dump the shredded paper into their truck like it was
weightless. I wanted to yell, “Hey, when those papers were younger, I was
stronger too.” But I didn’t. I simply took a picture of the empty cans and
began planning how to get rid of the remaining bags of paper stuffed in the garage.
Maybe in two weeks … or four weeks…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GAyPisbpadY/Xr4PcC3j6BI/AAAAAAAAB3A/buVJIzjW-y43PRigL9bH5lsfDrlvltspQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/shred1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GAyPisbpadY/Xr4PcC3j6BI/AAAAAAAAB3A/buVJIzjW-y43PRigL9bH5lsfDrlvltspQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/shred1.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Where did all the paper and all the years go?</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">What does it all come
down to? Your body is just a set of inexpensive chemicals, and the records of
your life that you have been hoarding for so long can be reduced by a small,
finicky machine to tiny shreds of paper and hauled away by strong young men. It’s
all pretty humbling. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"> </span><br />
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-29699776266624022742020-05-06T12:41:00.002-07:002020-05-06T12:43:45.900-07:00<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #351c75;">My
Trip to CVS</span></span></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One thing becomes clear when you live a sequestered
pandemic life—your world is smaller than you thought. For almost 2 months, 3 of
us have been living primarily in 6 rooms, plus a few closets. Do the math. And we haven’t
been breaking out very often. Most of our ventures and even “cocktail parties”
have been via keyboard and screen. And we are often one of many talking heads
enclosed in small rectangles via Zoom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Today, I made the break. Tess and I snuck off for a short ride to the pet supply store and to CVS. I had ordered ahead for my pet
supplies, and they were brought out to the car, where Tess guarded them closely But I actually went inside CVS.
It was a little weird. Masked bandits trying not to pass by each other and sneaking
from row to row to get a clear path to the checkout counter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That’s where today’s big surprise was hiding in plain
sight. As I reached the first of several spaced-out taped lines on the floor
leading up to the cash register, I spotted a small sign. “Ýes, we have masks.
$1.99. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Limit of 1 to a customer.” Masks,
the pass key to leaving home. But it is a pretty limited pass key. Get 1 today
and a second on another day. Sort of like purchasing packets of yeast at a
grocery store these days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RWJo-b9uGIk/XrMRVOTjaOI/AAAAAAAAB2o/PCcIvgWVUFIr328GDuSG9hBlOa1Q9JL9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/mask1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RWJo-b9uGIk/XrMRVOTjaOI/AAAAAAAAB2o/PCcIvgWVUFIr328GDuSG9hBlOa1Q9JL9ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/mask1.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #351c75;">A precious mask purchased at CVS</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Now, we do already have masks—one to a person in our
pandemic household. We ordered them from Amanda’s work colleague, whose sewing
machine has been pretty busy lately. And we have had paper masks on order from
Amazon for a few weeks. But the backlog is long, and the mail time is almost as
long.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I have passed the new CVS mask onto Audrey, and she is
thrilled. It seems that her cloth mask has made her aware for the first time
that there is very little space between her nose and her eyes. “My face is
smaller than I realized,” she noted recently. When she pulls the mask up high
enough to cover her nose as well as her mouth, her eyes are partially covered
too. It’s a dilemma, and makes shopping harder too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QqrcegwTk2M/XrMQ-_GrXJI/AAAAAAAAB2k/kf5iyVk-svA4kCVL-S9jJgbl-YBn92fhACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/masks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QqrcegwTk2M/XrMQ-_GrXJI/AAAAAAAAB2k/kf5iyVk-svA4kCVL-S9jJgbl-YBn92fhACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/masks.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #351c75;">Audrey's "eye-catching" and "eye-blocking" mask.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">But today’s trip to CVS may have solved the problem
for now. Perhaps CVS can develop a new advertising campaign around the masks at
the checkout counter. I even have a name for the product— “one-of-a-kind,
one-at-a-time masks."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My world is clearly smaller than I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-64155572451392769312020-04-23T13:25:00.000-07:002020-04-24T11:00:57.532-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #990000;">Well
Bread</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Earlier this week, Audrey followed all of the steps to
bake her first-ever challah. There turns out to be a range of steps that involve
activating yeast, mixing together dry and wet ingredients, adding in the yeast,
waiting for the dough to rise, and letting it rise some more. Then separating
and rolling and braiding and baking and cooling, and then waiting for far too long
to taste the product that is giving off a heavenly smell that fills the kitchen.
The process took most of an afternoon. But, given that we are sheltering in
place for the Pandemic, most of our afternoons are pretty free these days. And,
given, the wonderful taste of the bread when I finally got to sample it, the
afternoon was well spent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XevCIQoK5tE/XqH30_hp1WI/AAAAAAAAB18/EO8s-cG39CAh7Q2XcUoZ2KuSYk-b0wvMgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/bread8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XevCIQoK5tE/XqH30_hp1WI/AAAAAAAAB18/EO8s-cG39CAh7Q2XcUoZ2KuSYk-b0wvMgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/bread8.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #990000;">the challah in all its tasty beauty</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tdCBqYlzJJg/XqH4asDPJmI/AAAAAAAAB2Y/ZdJ8laxKfU0mwOq2B5-U7M7b71jK3ZKywCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/bread3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tdCBqYlzJJg/XqH4asDPJmI/AAAAAAAAB2Y/ZdJ8laxKfU0mwOq2B5-U7M7b71jK3ZKywCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/bread3.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #990000;">Step by step</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Audrey would probably note that all I did to help
create the challah was cheer her on and take photographs to post on Facebook. But
those are important parts of my role as family documentarian, even if I am self-appointed.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The real product of the bread-making venture was the
challah that emerged, of course. It was large and beautiful and remarkably
tasty. But I think the real story was the yeast that was at the heart of the process.
There is something magical about yeast. “It’s alive!” – to quote an old horror
film. And these days, it is pretty hard to come by.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When Audrey first came up with the notion of baking a
challah, Amanda volunteered to pick up the ingredients. Amanda has become our designated
shopper during our Pandemic home stand. She reasons that her parents are in
that age group considered more vulnerable. And we accept that concept, as long
as she doesn’t call us “old.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Returning from her shopping trip, Amanda reported
several key failures. The store was out of both all-purpose flour and yeast.
There must be a lot of bread making going on during these home-bound days. So
Audrey went out on her own the next day to our small but very convenient local
market. She waited outside the store, wearing her face mask and standing at a
safe distance from other customers, until she was allowed to enter and
shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right away, she found one of the
last bags of all-purpose flour on the shelf. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But no yeast!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She sought out an employee to ask about the missing ingredient and was encouraged to learn that the store did have a supply of yeast, but it was being
kept (preserved?) in a storeroom to discourage hoarding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A novice at yeast buying and knowing that the recipe
called for two packets of yeast, Audrey asked for two packages. “I can only let
you have one,” the employee said. “That’s the limit.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Luckily, the employee explained that each yeast package
contains three packets of yeast to use for baking. So Audrey could now make her
challah and have an extra packet of yeast left over to use for some other
baked delicacy. The challah project was now a go! And it was also a big
success. I can say that after consuming several open-face challah sandwiches
and making plans for French toast on the weekend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Audrey’s yeast adventure reminds me of children’s book
that I wrote in the mid-1980s for World Book, the encyclopedia
people. My book was part of a young readers’ set of books and cassette
tapes (which shows how long ago this was). My book, being written to help
preschoolers recognize words beginning with the letters B and S and understand the
concepts of big and small, was entitled “Barry’s Big Bread.” </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HRkoV2yU1i0/XqH4ALyWhVI/AAAAAAAAB2I/0ximGfUY9OEgF9o3PLv0CJExHD52qyArACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/barrybook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="260" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HRkoV2yU1i0/XqH4ALyWhVI/AAAAAAAAB2I/0ximGfUY9OEgF9o3PLv0CJExHD52qyArACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/barrybook.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">Barry the Book</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dxdOQmRI2_U/XqH38lfc1ZI/AAAAAAAAB2E/1n2xgJ7buHcfwKqDOnYbe922J4ZkyPVegCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/barry%2Bcassette.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dxdOQmRI2_U/XqH38lfc1ZI/AAAAAAAAB2E/1n2xgJ7buHcfwKqDOnYbe922J4ZkyPVegCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/barry%2Bcassette.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">and Barry the cassette</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Its plot involved a
bear named Barry--who loves all things big--trying to bake the biggest bread he could. To
do that, he doubled the amount of yeast his recipe called for. His bread dough rose
and rose. He kept moving it to larger and larger bowls and then into the
largest baking pan in his house. When he tried to put it into the oven, the pan
wouldn’t fit and dough spilled all over everything. Barry had made a big mess
and was one sorry bear! To make him feel better, his friends helped him clean
up the mess and then brought him some small bread, in the form of bagels. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That was the plot I proposed. Now, remember that this
was the mid-1980s, and I was pitching my idea to people in the Midwest, and I
was the only Jewish guy in the room. The publishing people offered one major
criticism. “Very few of our readers will know what a bagel is,” they said. “Barry’s
friends will have to bring him a bag of buns.” A bag of buns? Really? I
reluctantly accepted the change but did have Barry request the biggest bun in
the bag as the story ended.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Times have obviously changed since the mid-1980s, and
bagels have developed a universal appeal—even in the Midwest. But I am getting
off my subject, which is the big and wonderful challah that Audrey baked thanks
to her determination to score a supply of yeast and the magic of the yeast
itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-32751611676148979212020-04-11T13:02:00.002-07:002020-11-25T17:46:29.582-08:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: purple;">Happy
Birthday, Mark Strand</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">As an extra credit project during my junior year in
high school, a classmate and I created a bulletin board display entitled “Three
Savannah Poets—Conrad Aiken, Billy Bray, and Michael Goodman.” I would like to
think that we consciously gave Aiken top billing; after all, he was the only
one of us whose poetry had been published. But I suspect that we were just arranging
the names in alphabetical order. Billy and I each spent a lot of time writing
poems. And what did our efforts get us? Extra credit in English 11. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I am thinking of those days because I read this
morning that today is the birthday of Mark Strand, a former U.S. Poet Laureate and,
for one semester in my college career, the man who directed a poetry writing
seminar that had a major impact on me. During our housecleaning efforts as part
of our Pandemic isolation, I came across some of my poems from that class. I
wrote some of the best poems of my life during that semester. I also wrote very
few poems. It wasn’t so much that I was intimidated by the other writers’ work.
I became more critical of my own writing, and less willing to share what I
considered to be inferior work. The novelist and essayist Allegra Goodman (no
relation) calls this “the inner critic” and suggests that it can screw up even
good writers. She explains this in an essay entitled “O.K., You're Not
Shakespeare. Now Get Back to Work.” I wish she had been around when I was
taking Strand’s seminar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v58BD3OZnBg/XpIf1Za088I/AAAAAAAAB1c/YGC3zyVtRQAzgg2kuReX0J5iJnKgkalSgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/strand2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: purple;"><img border="0" data-original-height="229" data-original-width="199" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v58BD3OZnBg/XpIf1Za088I/AAAAAAAAB1c/YGC3zyVtRQAzgg2kuReX0J5iJnKgkalSgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/strand2.jpg" /></span></b></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: purple;">Mark Strand, as I remember him, big head and all</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I remember a lot of details about Strand, who passed
away in 2014 at age 80. He was tall and handsome. He had an impressively large
head. He had a lot of poet friends whose work he often shared with us—Charles
Simic, Galway Kinnell, James Wright, and, most impressive of all, Elizabeth
Bishop, whom he even invited to read at Yale. He also had some innovative
techniques that I appropriated when I taught writing a few years later.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">For example, he would give us six random words to
include in a poem of 8-12 lines. The words could violate certain grammar rules.
A word normally a noun could be used as a verb if that worked for you. Here is
one I wrote using the words <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fit, ice,
hazard, flour, flower, </i>and<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> oxygen</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: purple;">A
Warmer World</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Born into another age<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Fit not for ice, but with
the warmth<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Of wool unsheared,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I would not care to
hazard all I own<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">To flee to the harshness of
a winter’s hate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Born into another world<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Where sunlight falls upon
my eyes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Like sifted flour,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I then would dream of
sharing oxygen<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">With flowers now left
lonely by my flight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Does this poem make any sense? Not really. But it fit
the rules of the class. It also taught me that every word in a poem (article or
story) counts. That is probably the most important lesson that I learned from Strand.
It may help explain why I took up editing as a profession. And the poem above
vividly shows why I did not continue as a poet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--0kUYuDox-g/XpIfyCjwvKI/AAAAAAAAB1Y/xxx63XFaUw0mPYbQmSlUwXe0f0bYLz8kQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/strand1.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="166" data-original-width="304" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--0kUYuDox-g/XpIfyCjwvKI/AAAAAAAAB1Y/xxx63XFaUw0mPYbQmSlUwXe0f0bYLz8kQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/strand1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: purple;">For some of us, writing poetry blends pleasure with pain.<br />Our readers may have other ideas.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">But I did write a few of what I considered to be good
poems during the semester. Here is my favorite:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: purple;">Love
at 5:15</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Wedged between the world’s
problems<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">And an artist-beard in
the smell of rush hour<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I proposed breath then
marriage<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">To a blonde-haired
escapist<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">On the run to the Grand
Concourse;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Then marrying her reflection
in the artist’s glasses<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I begot a subway map<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Of every exotic location
in central Queens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Tell me, dearest,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Why I have never seen you
before on the five-fifteen?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Your hair is beautiful
near the green Dyre Avenue sign;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Your eyes more intriguing
than the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daily News</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">While I thought this poem “intriguing” with its suggestion
that someone could fall madly in love with someone else on a crowded subway car and
expect to encounter the same person again during another rush-hour trip, I noticed a
critical comment that I must have received when I read the poem out in the
class. “Its archness shows a lack of seriousness, which is attractive but may
spell ultimate failure.” I think that’s a little harsh, don’t you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Happy Birthday, Mark Strand. I am remembering you
fondly today. Thank you for your gift of words. I use a little of that gift
every day. </span><span style="font-family: "symbol"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-50348593440178633762020-04-09T11:58:00.001-07:002020-04-09T12:31:33.090-07:00<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">A
Night Quite Different</span></span></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Audrey and I have been conducting the family Seder on
the first night of Passover for many years. We took it over from my
mother-in-law a few years after we were married and have just continued as our
children arrived and have grown. Many years, we have extended our “family” with
invited guests and expanded our enjoyment. We did that again last night at our
2020 Seder, but this one was especially special.</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Audrey and I have different roles in the Seder. She
coordinates the food part, and I run the service part. She usually gives me
free rein, up to a point. If I am too long-winded, the food is ready to serve,
and the guests are getting impatient to eat, Audrey lets me know that it is
time to move on to what our Haggadah calls “the festive meal.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Frankly, I like being the host and conductor. I am a
little intolerant of “loosely run” Seders. We start at the beginning with a
little introduction (during which I may pedantically introduce a theme), say
the blessings over the wine and green vegetable, tell the story beginning by
putting the youngest person (usually Amanda) on the spot to say the “Four Questions,”
call out the plagues with finger drops of wine, sing Dayenu (“It would have
been enough”), and make the famous Hillel Sandwich with both horseradish and
the sweet apple stuff (Haroset). For me to be comfortable, there need to be a
certain percentage of Hebrew prayers mixed with the English storytelling. And
the full Grace after Meals complete with chants familiar from my youth and the
kids’ camp experiences. And 4-5 songs performed in different tunes, depending
on what we remember well. There are sometimes debates over which tune is the “right”
one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If this sounds like a lot, that point was made clear to
me last night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amanda’s good friends
Nicole and Phil said they could join us from Atlanta for only a few minutes
because of their own family obligations and they weren’t sure they were ready
for a “serious” Seder. Our New York cousins Mike and Gloria said they would be
sorry to miss out on Michael’s “erudite” Seder. I’m not sure that was a
compliment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Which brings me to last night’s Seder and why it was
truly “different from all other nights.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-skOXY11xMgo/Xo9vG2Rmh8I/AAAAAAAAB1E/60_Gd8GntC0L_tPkxpYX6awrC3Na5k0pgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/seder.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-skOXY11xMgo/Xo9vG2Rmh8I/AAAAAAAAB1E/60_Gd8GntC0L_tPkxpYX6awrC3Na5k0pgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/seder.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Hosts and guests join in at our Zeder. <br />Miles couldn't keep us apart.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Like thousands of homes around the country and the world,
we held our Seder over Zoom—a “Zeder” Brett called it, with me as Zeyde (Grandpa).
There were a few glitches or scheduling issues. Brett’s computer microphone
wasn’t functioning, so Amanda brought his voice in via cell phone while his
lips moved on the computer screen. Nicole and Phil had an at-home Seder
conflict at her parents’ house, so they cut out early. Brett’s friends (and our
“adopted children”) Nicole and David—beaming in from way up near the Canadian
border— made do with homemade matzoh crackers and missed out on brisket and
gefilte fish. And throughout there was a slight timing lag, as voices had to
cross miles of great divide to reach each other. The lag was particularly
apparent as our friends Harvey and Phyllis joined us in readings and song. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">All of that being said, this was probably the best
Seder we have ever run or joined in. We shared memories of Seders past. Harvey remembered
how his father would keep reciting the Haggadah story in Hebrew even while
others around the table talked amongst themselves. Phyllis recalled sleeping
under the table during what seemed to be endless Seders when she was a child. Audrey
remembered how her mother and she would get tipsy over the cups of wine and
would drive her very religious uncle crazy with their giggling. Audrey reminded
Nicole of the Seder when Nicole told my mother, who was visiting from Savannah,
about the special promotional presents she received during her time as editor-in-chief
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Playgirl</i>. “What kinds of presents?”
my mother asked. “You don’t want to know,” Nicole replied. Amanda described the
confusion involved with our conflicting song tunes. And I got to repeat the
stories about the goat that may or may not have entered my Aunt Dot’s house
during a Seder many years ago and about the platter of gravy-laden brisket that
I may or may not have dropped as a teen one year but still get blamed for even
today. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-69f2lKWW1rk/Xo9vKjvTSKI/AAAAAAAAB1I/rgfhFf2C7UMy4I859XFmsxiZ23hj8u59QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/playgirl2.png" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="525" height="312" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-69f2lKWW1rk/Xo9vKjvTSKI/AAAAAAAAB1I/rgfhFf2C7UMy4I859XFmsxiZ23hj8u59QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/playgirl2.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Anyone need a <i>Playgirl</i> t-shirt?</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">We happily exceeded the 40-minute Zoom time limit,
which was gratefully extended by the powers that be at Zoom. And we laughed as
we said the blessings and recited some of the story of Passover. Then we broke
to eat our festive meal separately but also together. Harvey later joined us to
sing the special Passover songs. Phyllis missed that imperfectly coordinated
singing because she was already asleep and expressed annoyance that Harvey did not awaken her to join in.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I am hopeful that next year we will not need to
conduct a Zeder but can instead gather at our home to share Passover memories
and make new ones. But this Seder was special in its bridging both time and
distance—bringing us together when we were forced apart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-25917162216000363232020-03-31T15:09:00.001-07:002020-03-31T15:36:56.283-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #990000;">Surviving the Pandemic Gracefully</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In the Goodman household, the Great Pandemic of 2020 (GP20)
has been about both family togetherness and separation, communal meal planning
and enjoyment (from concept to shopping to clean up), too many hours of news
updates and analysis, and a whole lot of clean up— personally and domestically.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So far, we have been blessed with good health, more
accord than discord, and lots of time to use both wisely and wastefully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Though to challenge the last adverb, I turn
to a sign that Audrey gave me a few years ago and which is posted in a
prominent place in our home office: “The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted
time.”)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Even before the word went out governmentally to “shelter
in place,” Amanda decided to leave her solitude in NYC to join with her parents
in New Jersey. It was a wise decision, I think we all agree. Brett was slower
to make a decision to flee to his old home, and, indeed, more resolute in
deciding <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to remain independent in
Astoria, where he and his newly adopted dog, Mike the Beagle, have set up a
cozy household. What he has lost in joining in face-to-face communications and
in having meals planned and prepared by others, he has gained in enjoying the
special “one-ness” that is uniquely Brett. We stay connected by texting often,
and will be crossing the divide with him electronically tonight with a planned
Face-Time chat. So our face-to-face will actually be screen-to-screen.
Togetherness and separation, it seems, are equal parts of GP20. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5fot5mKtjwM/XoO86-plteI/AAAAAAAAB0s/2VXbrbIklYUeI_q4sKxWnVX0L7PjH4y0gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/amanda_dance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1600" height="204" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5fot5mKtjwM/XoO86-plteI/AAAAAAAAB0s/2VXbrbIklYUeI_q4sKxWnVX0L7PjH4y0gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/amanda_dance.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #990000;">A<b>manda and her friend Melissa in a pas de deux</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">But the most visible positive outcome of our time
sheltering has been the efforts we have all made to empty boxes, clean out file
cabinets, and recycle dozens of years' worth and many reams of paper. The cleanup
could be going faster, of course, if we didn’t stop continually to inspect and then
share aloud some of the masterpieces each of put into writing or typing over
the years.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bOx2AX-HJMg/XoO9cimVymI/AAAAAAAAB00/uo0e3SprBKIYSUBSRiF2R3Rn3qZabz9dQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/twyla1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bOx2AX-HJMg/XoO9cimVymI/AAAAAAAAB00/uo0e3SprBKIYSUBSRiF2R3Rn3qZabz9dQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/twyla1.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #990000;">A story collection hidden away for too long.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Of particular note was a collection of anecdotes and
observations that Amanda incorporated in fourth grade into a notebook entitled “Amanda’s
Writing Stories.” </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">(The notebook has been
buried in a plastic container in our basement since before the millennium.) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It
includes two priceless pieces. One is “Fourth Grade Memories” written jointly with
Julia Bullaro—a single-page work that is nevertheless divided into three (brief)
chapters. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second is a vivid
description of the evening when she and her Mom attended a performance by noted
modern-dance choreographer Twyla Tharp and her dance company. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">What made that
evening so memorable? I will let Amanda describe it:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My mom and I take modern dance,
so my mom wanted to show me some different kinds of dance. So we went to see
Twyla Tharp playing in NY.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When we got there, we
went to our seats and talked. I looked on the stage. This was very peculiar
because the dancers were on stage warming up so we could see them. .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then the lights faded and
the dancers went offstage. The one and only Twyla Tharp then came out. She
started to dance. The music was real jazzy. When she was done, she was out of breath.
Then the other dancers came onstage. They were beautiful. They went on and offstage.
They kept repeating, and other dancers did different steps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then Twyla Tharp went back
out and said anyone in the audience could go on stage. Oh, no, my mom was going
on stage! My mom hid in the back, but I could still see her. The steps looked
hard to me. My mom also had a little trouble. Finally, they could go back to
their seats. But Twyla picked two people to do the steps by themselves.
Luckily, my mom wasn’t one…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Another group of dancers
(from the company) went on stage. They were so graceful that I wanted to get up
and dance with them. I was picturing myself being lifted in the air like the
other women dancers. I would be the first 9-year-old to dance with Twyla Tharp.
I would be famous. But I wasn’t. When I stopped the dreaming, the show was
over. I thought it was outstanding!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As Amanda read the story aloud to us, she was beaming.
She was reliving something special that had been hidden away far too long. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aXj5yG8UWtM/XoO9fm1ZI0I/AAAAAAAAB04/Y638alus3K4qvj75Fu5vLeYW5Neyy41FgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/twyla2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aXj5yG8UWtM/XoO9fm1ZI0I/AAAAAAAAB04/Y638alus3K4qvj75Fu5vLeYW5Neyy41FgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/twyla2.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Great Pandemic of 2020 is a frightening, terrible event
that is only beginning to impact our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But for a few minutes, it had indirectly led to something beautiful and
memorable in a positive way – much like the family togetherness that has been
our salvation so far. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-25479299704683456252019-11-06T13:18:00.001-08:002019-11-06T13:23:17.547-08:00<br />
<h2>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">My Day at the Voting Booths</span></span></b></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><b>This is the second part of my Election
Day story</b><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">What lasts
15 hours and starts by hanging out a flag and ends by winning a fight with a
machine to release a small computer cartridge? Election Day 2019—my first time
ever serving as a poll worker.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">It is a
strange perspective, seeing an election from its behind-the-scenes mechanical
side. I did no campaigning or electioneering, no analysis of candidates, and
basically no counting of votes. But I did what really counts. I manned two side-by-side
voting machines in the Glen Rock Municipal Building and determined who would
cast a vote in either one and when. I was sort of a voting booth entry guard. I
also pushed a small button that activated the actual voting process for the person
inside the booth. It seems to be a lot of power to entrust with a person who
had never been a poll worker before. But luckily it didn’t take much skill and involved
a certain amount of repetition. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B94BvXik1qg/XcM2ycxDVqI/AAAAAAAABzU/_EBpAZPH-OMbflNwP6zNy_3TkNqUetomACEwYBhgL/s1600/election%2Bday%2B1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B94BvXik1qg/XcM2ycxDVqI/AAAAAAAABzU/_EBpAZPH-OMbflNwP6zNy_3TkNqUetomACEwYBhgL/s320/election%2Bday%2B1.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>The badge I wore proudly yesterday</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">In all, more than 500 people entered and
emerged from MY voting booths yesterday. That’s the number of actual voters.
There were also numerous children of a wide range of ages and at least four
dogs who waited patiently outside the booth wagging their tails while someone
held their leash. I’m not sure it was legal to admit non-service dogs, but we
were very welcoming yesterday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I also
faced perhaps the single most dangerous aspect of the entire voting process. My
job was to invite people who had signed in with my four other colleagues to enter
the voting booth that I had helped to assemble earlier in the morning. But
first each had to turn over a small square “voting authority” slip to me. I
would push a sharp needle precariously through the slip of paper from the back,
creating an entry hole and hopefully, but not always, avoiding puncturing my
finger. Then I would push the slip up a string to sit with its earlier mates on
the side of my voting booth. Only then would I push the button to activate
voting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7WuVFe5qcgs/XcM2yf5eOXI/AAAAAAAABzQ/ARmAkyWfrvMQe_LJTZtuOLDjClWoqcyqQCEwYBhgL/s1600/election%2Bday%2B2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7WuVFe5qcgs/XcM2yf5eOXI/AAAAAAAABzQ/ARmAkyWfrvMQe_LJTZtuOLDjClWoqcyqQCEwYBhgL/s320/election%2Bday%2B2.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #134f5c;">My stringed up slips. Note that most <br />are right-side-up!</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">As the day
went on, I took a certain amount of pride and ownership over my stringed-up
voting slips. I made sure that each was snug on the string and sat right-side
up. I realized how anal I was being about the task when I came back from my
lunch break and felt very annoyed that the person who replaced me for the hour
had added some slips upside down. It took a certain amount of will power not to
turn those around.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">But my day
was not without a certain amount of drama. One person who should have voted in
the machines for a different district, located across the room, had become
impatient, crossed the room to join my much shorter line, and “mis”cast his
vote in my machine. Nothing illegal but a technical error. I discovered the
slip on my pile labeled D-8 instead of D-3 and reported it to a more
experienced colleague. She said we had write a note on our end-of-day report to
explain why our machines would have one extra vote and the D-8 machines would have
one fewer. This was no “hanging chad” disaster, but it was dealt with efficiently.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">A more
nuanced issue occurred when an elderly woman entered my booth and called out to
me for assistance. She had bad arthritis and could not push hard enough against
the small squares to indicate her choices. I walked inside and pushed the
buttons she indicated. Simple enough? Not really. An election inspector who
happened to be in our room at the time, came over to tell me that, in the
future, if I walked into a booth, I must be accompanied by another poll worker aligned
with the other political party. We would need to be three-in-a-booth. Really?
Really. I wondered about this rule until the time someone asked me if there was
one button to push to vote for all of the Republican candidates at once. (There
wasn’t.) I wanted to ask the person, why would you to do that! I guess I am
just a party animal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RLbk_oAethg/XcM2yXPpeSI/AAAAAAAABzM/2LM_hjyfbZ8DaFYHLoDVyygAEtY_TH3hQCEwYBhgL/s1600/election%2Bday%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RLbk_oAethg/XcM2yXPpeSI/AAAAAAAABzM/2LM_hjyfbZ8DaFYHLoDVyygAEtY_TH3hQCEwYBhgL/s1600/election%2Bday%2B3.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">So my day
was long and just a little eventful. I still had all of my fingers intact, if
only a little abused, and I felt that I had done good work in making the
democratic process work well in a small borough in northern New Jersey. The candidates
may be feeling elated or a little depressed by the results that emerged from my
booth and the others around the borough. But none of it could have occurred if
I didn’t push that button to activate my machine for more than 500 voters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-77300378960881448982019-11-04T10:38:00.003-08:002019-11-04T10:38:46.798-08:00<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: red;">Voting—It’s More Complicated
than You Think</span></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>This is the first of a two-part blogpost. More to come on
Wednesday.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Election Day is tomorrow, and I’m going to be doing my part.
No, not that election! This one is more mundane. It involves people running for
county commission, mayor and town council, and school board. Of course, the
results will not be mundane for those running for those positions. And it won’t
be mundane for me either.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QomfHlZCUts/XcBtTO21yGI/AAAAAAAABys/aChUdqzoatQRo0GBDChrnE8IWiDrlOYJgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/voting%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="414" height="234" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QomfHlZCUts/XcBtTO21yGI/AAAAAAAABys/aChUdqzoatQRo0GBDChrnE8IWiDrlOYJgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/voting%2B3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="color: blue;"><b>I'm going to be up front on the back lines.</b></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm going to be right up front on the back lines in the
voting process. If someone is voting at the Glen Rock Municipal Building, he or
she is going to have to go through me to cast their ballot. I’ll be at the
table with the voting roster book checking them in or standing beside the
voting booth accepting voting authority slips so they can enter the booth. And
there are more responsibilities. Even before the polls open, I’ll be helping to
set up the room and the voting booths. I’ll be using a yellow key and a silver
key (I hope I’ll remember which to use for what), running off a Zero Tally
Strip, and inspecting the Provisional Ballot bag.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
If all of this sounds complicated, it might be. You see,
this is my first time serving as a poll worker. Luckily, I’m not going at this
totally blind. I attended a two-hour training session last week, where I was
not only given hands on instruction but even took home a 13-section reference guide
for easy, um, reference. And I’m assured that I will be teamed with more
experienced poll workers tomorrow who already know the ropes. That’s reassuring
for me and for the voters who want to be sure that their votes are entered and
tallied properly.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8xUcQb05Bn0/XcBtTAxJjnI/AAAAAAAAByw/JXIlyXpPtJ0RWl2gt1bJKGcylZYJ6o5UACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/voting%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="262" height="234" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8xUcQb05Bn0/XcBtTAxJjnI/AAAAAAAAByw/JXIlyXpPtJ0RWl2gt1bJKGcylZYJ6o5UACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/voting%2B1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">Keeping the system unrigged"</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What impressed me most at my training session was the complexity
of the process for preparing the polling place and the serious way that those
involved in the back lines of the voting process (like me) take their duties. When
all you do is vote, you are not aware of the “magic” involved. It gives one
increased faith in the voting system at a time when the day-to-day political news
drives us toward cynicism. And makes the concept of a “rigged system” —at least
at my polling place—not even a remote concern.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We even got into some minutiae about the process. For
example, if a voter wants to bring a child into the booth with him or her, we
are to explain that the child should be on the voter’s left. Why? Because the Cast
Vote button is on the right and it lights up when the voter enters the booth.
Brightly lit buttons often attract a child’s attention and cry out to be
pressed. Once the button is pressed, the vote is complete and cannot be changed
or replayed. The voter gets only one shot at the button. Is this what they mean
by “one person, one vote”? For those of us on the back lines, it does.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MaS0YusGG8A/XcBtTNdoqlI/AAAAAAAAByo/WAz5BThSjUg-hGozhEf5FNqOMXtEqprHACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/voting%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="195" data-original-width="259" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MaS0YusGG8A/XcBtTNdoqlI/AAAAAAAAByo/WAz5BThSjUg-hGozhEf5FNqOMXtEqprHACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/voting%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: blue;">This button isn't child-proof!</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was even taught that should a voter exit the booth without
pressing the Cast Vote button and slip out of the room before he or she can be
stopped, I can press the button myself to complete the voter’s balloting. Even
more interesting is, if the voter leaves before marking any selections in the
booth, I can let the next person in line step right in and use the unblemished
ballot. It’s a lot of power to contemplate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But all of the rules and regulations are not my biggest
concern as Election Day approaches. I’m more worried about arriving on
time—between 5:15 and 5:30 tomorrow morning because the polls open at 6—and
staying awake until my responsibilities end sometime after 8 p.m. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To emphasize this point, the Election
Commissioner passed around a newspaper clipping at the training session. It
included a photo of an election worker snoozing on the job. “Don’t let this be
you!” he warned ominously. I wondered if he knows about my habit of drifting
off in the afternoon in a chair or in front of the computer. <o:p></o:p><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P3XB5AhjpcU/XcBtTVlASNI/AAAAAAAABy0/ETnz-6qaiSkRjcbzMAL9ZAY2DRwdqiu3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/voting%2B4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="245" data-original-width="206" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-P3XB5AhjpcU/XcBtTVlASNI/AAAAAAAABy0/ETnz-6qaiSkRjcbzMAL9ZAY2DRwdqiu3QCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/voting%2B4.jpg" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: blue;">No nap for me!!!</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But not tomorrow. I’m going to be alert and cheerful (but
not too cheerful), and I’m going to make the voting process work like a
well-oiled machine. And if the machine doesn’t work for some reason, my
reference guide includes three different numbers I can call for quick service.
I think I’m ready.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-60041404082172710242019-09-07T10:49:00.001-07:002019-09-07T11:00:46.532-07:00<b><span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">My Birthday
with Yogi</span></span></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: #cc0000; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Whoever you are, I have always depended on the
kindness of strangers.</span><o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">—Blanche
DuBois in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Streetcar Named Desire<b><o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It is hard to sound nonchalant when you write the words, “I turned 70
last week.” Maybe that’s why my wife and children decided to make the event even
less nonchalant by adding in just a touch of . . . either drama or trauma.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My daughter Amanda had come up with a birthday party plan that combined
two of my favorite elements—baseball and dinner. I was offered my choice of
baseball venues, and I chose the local Jersey Jackals, who play in Yogi Berra
Stadium in nearby Montclair, New Jersey. Yes, that Yogi Berra, whose home was
in Montclair ever since he played for the Yankees. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is even a Yogi Berra Museum filled with
memorabilia located right next to the stadium, where you can probably share
many Yogi-isms with other visitors. My favorite has always been: “Nobody goes
there anymore because it’s too crowded.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Attending a Jackals game held several key attractions for my birthday
celebration: the team played professional baseball, played close by, and
offered great seats near to the playing field along with free parking. Take
that, Yankee Stadium! And relatively inexpensive peanuts salted in the shell,
my personal favorite. Plus the stadium undoubtedly had a scoreboard, and maybe
they would even put my name and a birthday wish up in lights on that scoreboard.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W7GprckVhxM/XXPpsPUkaVI/AAAAAAAAByA/sVODaI91wQIhXCA96fQ9e9JlNH1WIa5BACLcBGAs/s1600/scoreboard2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="398" height="263" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W7GprckVhxM/XXPpsPUkaVI/AAAAAAAAByA/sVODaI91wQIhXCA96fQ9e9JlNH1WIa5BACLcBGAs/s320/scoreboard2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">My birthday makes it to the Yogi Berra Stadium scoreboard.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So where is the trauma in this birthday story, you might ask? Let me
explain. A week before the big event, Amanda slipped in the news that she had
negotiated something special with the Jackals’ public relations staff. They had
agreed to honor my birthday by letting me throw out a ceremonial first pitch
before the contest between the Jackals and their Can-Am league rivals, the
Ottawa Champions. They even promised me scoreboard recognition while I was
throwing out the first pitch, which I was thinking was a mixed blessing. I had
played softball into my 60s but hadn’t thrown a baseball in maybe 15 years, and
even when I did, my throws were not always strong or accurate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So I greeted Amanda’s “great” news with an inward sigh and maybe stunned
silence. Throw out the first pitch? Yikes. Has a crowd at a baseball game ever
booed someone who threw out an honorary first pitch? Would I achieve a first?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Seeing my blank expression, Amanda said she was sure the Jackals would
let me out of my ceremonial duty, but I decided not to give up so easily. I had
a few days to “train” for the event, and I planned to do just that—if only I
could figure out a way to train. First I bought a regulation size baseball at a
local sporting goods store. It needed to be the right diameter and weight for
practice purposes. (It turns out those balls can be pretty expensive, but this
was no time to be cheap.) Then I took my (one) ball and my old softball glove
to a local ball field where I would have a mound and a home plate for my
training purposes. I took the ball from its box, stood near the mound about 50
feet from home, took my windup, and threw the ball. It sailed about 15 feet in
the air, mostly downward, and then rolled another 20 feet toward the plate. I
walked the 35 feet, picked up the ball, walked back, and tried again, and
again, and again. I noted maybe a slight improvement, but the prospect of
getting booed on Sunday looked even more likely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then something almost miraculous occurred. I had noticed that I was not
alone on the ball field. A man in his 40s was tossing and hitting balls with a
teenager, presumably his son. The two finished their workout and began to walk
off the field, carrying two gloves, a bat, and a wire basket filled with baseballs.
They had to pass me to get to their car and probably were curious what this
nearly 70-year-old man was doing throwing the same baseball into the ground and
retrieving over and over. The father asked me about it, and I told him my “woeful”
story. “Maybe I can help,” he said. “Throw a few pitches to me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He watched my form and immediately transformed into a coach, which I
learned he was for a local Babe Ruth league team. “Turn your body as you wind
up,” he suggested. I tried that, and the ball sailed at least 10 feet farther
toward the plate. “Now, work on following through as you pitch to make it go
straight. Right. That looks a lot better. You even look a little like a pitcher
now.” That was probably a gross exaggeration, but it made me smile inside for
the first time since I arrived at the field with my ball. He caught me and
offered advice for another 15 minutes, then left me with 5 baseballs for more
practice and a pep talk. As he drove off, I realized that we must have shared
first names with each other at some point, but I simply couldn’t recall his
name. But whoever he was, I certainly appreciate his kindness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I immediately called Amanda at her workplace, which frightened her a
little. Phone calls out of the blue can be a little scary in our family these
days. I told her about my impromptu training session and that I would be ready
to take on the awesome first pitch task on Sunday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And I was. Sunday afternoon, I followed a PR person down to the field at
Yogi Berra Stadium and met with a Jackals infielder from Marietta, Georgia, named
Nelson Ward, who had been designated to catch my first pitch. We chatted about
Georgia, took a few practice tosses on the sideline, and then headed onto the
field. </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SJWJARwupd8/XXPl8zLIlLI/AAAAAAAABx0/HOnjHr8VFJY3wcs_GtAN_bWbFvp7a_mpgCLcBGAs/s1600/nelson%2Band%2Bme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SJWJARwupd8/XXPl8zLIlLI/AAAAAAAABx0/HOnjHr8VFJY3wcs_GtAN_bWbFvp7a_mpgCLcBGAs/s400/nelson%2Band%2Bme.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Nelson and me: <br />Two men from Georgia tossing a baseball.</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I think my name was announced, but my heart was probably beating too
loudly to hear anything. I asked Nelson how far I should stand from the plate
for my toss. “Whatever makes you comfortable,” he replied. I found a spot a few
feet in front of the mound, took my stance, and followed all of the
instructions my coach had given me a few days before. The ball sailed out of my
hand and landed in Nelson’s mitt in the air, Not a perfect strike, but no
bounces, and no boos. I walked to Nelson, shook his hand, placed the ball he
handed me into my old glove, and proceeded to join my birthday guests in the
stands. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I accepted warm congratulations and asked if anyone had captured my momentous
feat on video. “Not exactly,” Amanda said. “I was starting to video you, when
Mom had a problem with her camera. I helped her, then turned around and you
were done. I just got you coming off the mound.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I watched that 7-second video, and could hear Audrey clearly in the background.
“That was it?” she asked, perhaps expecting a little more ceremony, But it was
definitely enough. Then I looked up at the scoreboard, and there was my name
and a birthday wish in big white letters for a small crowd to see. Turning 70 …
there’s nothing to it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LF4iqGkAFxY/XXPv2bDMMJI/AAAAAAAAByM/UJXxJqzn0ZsiYpIjWAWDJfCibWu6CkmKACLcBGAs/s1600/pitch2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="279" height="308" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LF4iqGkAFxY/XXPv2bDMMJI/AAAAAAAAByM/UJXxJqzn0ZsiYpIjWAWDJfCibWu6CkmKACLcBGAs/s320/pitch2.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">"That was it?" My 7 seconds of fame.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-48623720524389500932019-08-15T18:17:00.001-07:002019-08-15T18:21:43.882-07:00<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: blue;">A
Small Act of Heroism</span></span></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The word “hero” has been used so much lately that I
think it has lost some of its luster. So I’m a little reluctant to call the
recent actions of my dog Tess and me heroic. But we did do what we could to
relieve suffering of a fellow creature. And we did it without seeking any
reward other than a feeling of joy—and maybe a little bemusement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Here are the details.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Tess and I were taking a morning walk starting from our
vacation home in the Berkshires toward a nearby lake. As we approached the lake, we saw
a large group of young ducks milling about on the grass, which lay between two
barriers—a metal fence that separated the road from the grass and a plastic
slatted and gated fence that separated the grass from a small beach and the
lake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LYsPb_lqfTY/XVX-sSzF6XI/AAAAAAAABwU/pknpGTUcAE8i6TD2DzRCKhmCL74sbEUgQCEwYBhgL/s1600/duck2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LYsPb_lqfTY/XVX-sSzF6XI/AAAAAAAABwU/pknpGTUcAE8i6TD2DzRCKhmCL74sbEUgQCEwYBhgL/s400/duck2.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: blue;">The ducks had gathered in this grassy area beside the lake</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">The ducks were noisily enjoying themselves pecking at
the grass and at each other when something caused them to spook. It might have
been Tess’s and my approach, though we were trying to be very quiet and had no
intention of barging in on the ducks. In any case, the entire flock began panicking
and fleeing. I think they must have been young ducks and perhaps couldn’t fly
yet. (What do I know about duck development?) But all of the ducks found their
way through a small opening beneath one of the gates in the plastic fence and
raced into the water. All of the ducks </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">except</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">one</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The lone straggler must not have been paying attention
as the other ducks escaped, and he couldn’t figure out how they had gotten
beyond the fence. Tess and I watched as he walked along the slatted fence with
increasing desperation, sticking his head into each slatted area and realizing
that he couldn’t slip through.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now, Tess has been in the same situation as the duck
many times during our visits to the lake, and she has learned the secret of
getting by the fence if she can’t get under it. She simply walks to the end of
the fence and slips through an opening in bushes that border it. Simple for a determined
dog and presumably simple for a duck too. But not our duck, who continued to
pace back and forth like one of those fathers awaiting the birth of a baby in
an old movie. And he was getting more desperate as he paced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Tess might have been thinking it, and I called out to
the duck to just keep going to the end of the fence. But neither of us could
get through to the duck. At last, we decided to take matters into our own
hands. We opened the first gate and walked across the grass toward the duck,
who, not surprisingly, was nervous about seeing a dog and a human approaching.
But we said some soothing words and proceeded right to a gate in the fence and
opened it. Our duck scampered right through and into the lake. It might be my
imagination, but I think the other ducks were laughing at their flock mate as
he swam toward them.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1lO8af48SLg/XVYAqsHGLoI/AAAAAAAABwo/Da9YLTSFelI-GRtEXsdBrKdd_mWwIftHgCEwYBhgL/s1600/duck5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pjIGLLufMi8/XVX-vQpX_HI/AAAAAAAABwY/gk4eCPkyDzk0GQR-JdeH19PVMRn8d36OgCEwYBhgL/s1600/duck4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pjIGLLufMi8/XVX-vQpX_HI/AAAAAAAABwY/gk4eCPkyDzk0GQR-JdeH19PVMRn8d36OgCEwYBhgL/s320/duck4.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1lO8af48SLg/XVYAqsHGLoI/AAAAAAAABwo/Da9YLTSFelI-GRtEXsdBrKdd_mWwIftHgCEwYBhgL/s320/duck5.JPG" width="240" /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Later, I told my daughter Amanda about our adventure,
and she suggested that Tess and I were heroes. I blushed a little, but secretly
I was pleased. We also decided to give our rescued duck a name. The consensus of
those who heard the tale (and I shared it with lots of people) was to name him “Lucky,”
as in “Lucky Duck.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Now, this story should end here. But it doesn’t.
Amazingly, on our morning walk two days later, we saw almost the same thing
happen. One duck found himself all alone on the grassy area without any idea of how
to reach the water where the rest of the flock were swimming joyfully. Could
this really be Lucky again? This time, Tess and I didn’t hesitate. We walked
right up to the fence, opened the gate, and watched the duck scamper through. So
Tess and I had responded to another creature’s need and had come through again.
Were we double heroes? We couldn’t be sure. But we did have a new name for our
rescued duck — we called him “Dumb Luck.”</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q349lZ6N6_E/XVX-ojYOjcI/AAAAAAAABwE/DN974dCaBegCYA8L6x40CO1-DMnrXHuMACEwYBhgL/s1600/duck1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Q349lZ6N6_E/XVX-ojYOjcI/AAAAAAAABwE/DN974dCaBegCYA8L6x40CO1-DMnrXHuMACEwYBhgL/s320/duck1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: blue;">Lucky swims all by himself the next morning</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><b style="font-size: 12.8px; text-align: center;">.</b></div>
<br />GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-72057843946770633172019-07-31T10:40:00.000-07:002019-07-31T10:41:34.911-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Compensation:
The Real Meaning<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I have been thinking about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">compensation</i> lately and how the meaning of the word has changed for
me as I approach age 70.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I was a teenager—bagging groceries at the
Foodtown on Henry Street—compensation meant the $1.15 an hour I was being paid
at first. That’s what you earned in a minimum wage job in those days. When the
minimum wage was increased to $1.25 soon afterward, my salary went up nearly 10
percent. Today, there is talk of raising the minimum wage to $15 an hour. That
seems like a huge increase to my 16-year-old self, but not nearly enough when
viewed through my almost 70-year-old eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gL9x6iptZaQ/XUHQoTAMuZI/AAAAAAAABv4/1oSWQYbPQmw59zegn1guDQsWO0jqDc8lQCLcBGAs/s1600/minimum_wage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gL9x6iptZaQ/XUHQoTAMuZI/AAAAAAAABv4/1oSWQYbPQmw59zegn1guDQsWO0jqDc8lQCLcBGAs/s400/minimum_wage.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: blue;">Maybe I should have written a research paper on minimum wage in high school.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Luckily, during those teen years, I was often able to
supplement my salary with tips I earned from carrying bags of groceries out to
customers’ cars. Unluckily, I was expected to report the total of any tips I
received. Then the reported total could be deducted from my pay for the day.
(Full confession: sometimes I fibbed a little and reported only about 75% of
the tips, which, unluckily, never amounted to more than $8, even on a great
day.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So what’s different for me about compensation today
beyond the changes in minimum wage? It’s what I have to compensate for. A
couple of years ago, I injured a tendon in my right forearm. My doctor
diagnosed the injury as tennis elbow, which would be cool if I played tennis on
even a semi-regular basis. No, I got the injury from carrying heavy suitcases
up several flights of stairs while on a vacation in Denmark after a hotel
elevator broke down. So, what I really have is suitcase elbow. Would it sound
cooler if I called it Danish suitcase elbow?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jOpoSDXFszE/XUHPY8OdrjI/AAAAAAAABvk/BNZcZ37eq-w_vOmbQly_IQSfPAkK1zxqACLcBGAs/s1600/elbow%2Bbrace.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jOpoSDXFszE/XUHPY8OdrjI/AAAAAAAABvk/BNZcZ37eq-w_vOmbQly_IQSfPAkK1zxqACLcBGAs/s320/elbow%2Bbrace.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: blue;">Would this be more impressive in Danish?</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then, in recent weeks, I have felt a weakness behind
one of my knees. I would try to describe it, but anyone nearing 7</span>0 like me probably
knows what I am feeling. It’s a…a…a…weakness. Once again compensation has been
required, so I have added an Ace knee brace to the Ace elbow brace I have kept
around for use at the gym ever since my Danish adventure.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mq2Uf_7ZGuQ/XUHPCMSRBTI/AAAAAAAABvc/CV7mHdVnAI4vYxS-ihZJo_kak_k3WWB8ACLcBGAs/s1600/knee%2Bbrace.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mq2Uf_7ZGuQ/XUHPCMSRBTI/AAAAAAAABvc/CV7mHdVnAI4vYxS-ihZJo_kak_k3WWB8ACLcBGAs/s320/knee%2Bbrace.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: blue;">This leg has weathered nearly 70 years.</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I fear as I actually reach 70—or beyond—that I am
going to need additional compensation both for my physical shortcomings and in
order to pay for new medical devices to compensate for them. My wife’s grandmother
used to say, “It’s no fun getting old.” It’s also painful for your body, your
psyche, and your wallet.</span></div>
GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9016174818487105870.post-84113759652575286352019-05-30T16:33:00.001-07:002019-06-07T07:21:19.378-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Everybody
Needs an Editor<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">These days, I have more free time on my hands than I used
to, so I have been listening to a series of lectures on CD by a professor of
Hebrew and Bible studies at NYU on the history of the Bible. One of the early
lectures focuses on the question of who wrote the Bible. There are no
definitive answers to the question. Really, I didn’t expect a specific author
credit other than perhaps Moses. But the
scholarship is very interesting. What did surprise me was that the professor
spends some time noting that the Bible had not only writers but also editors. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As
someone who sends out business cards proclaiming to be a “Writer/Editor,” I was
glad that the editing role in the creation of the Bible was being acknowledged.
Even if the writers were divinely inspired, they were bound to make some
mistakes and overlook some inconsistencies. Hence, the need for editors. Of
course, we editors also like to think we are divinely inspired. As I often tell
my children (and anyone else I encounter), “Everybody needs an editor.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Here is an example of Biblical editing that the
lecturer noted. In Exodus, Chapter 12, verses 8–10, the Israelites are commanded
to eat the flesh of the lamb that they slaughtered and whose blood they used to
paint their doorposts so the Angel of Death would “pass over” their houses and
spare their first born children. How should the lamb be cooked? The answer is stated directly:
it should be roasted with fire and NOT boiled in water. Any parts that remain
after the evening meal should be burned with fire in the morning. The details are pretty specific, so they must have seemed important to the writers of Exodus
and to the people of Israel who were fleeing from Egypt and heading slowly toward
Canaan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2y4sZujko6I/XPBoJxilfuI/AAAAAAAABuw/A1w5B1pp0z0CS5Y1ACbClD85S1g6Ka_jwCLcBGAs/s1600/print%2B6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2y4sZujko6I/XPBoJxilfuI/AAAAAAAABuw/A1w5B1pp0z0CS5Y1ACbClD85S1g6Ka_jwCLcBGAs/s1600/print%2B6.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">The story of the Passover celebration meal is repeated
later in the Bible, this time in Deuteronomy 16:7, where a different verb is
used to describe the cooking process—one which involves boiling, though my Bible
translates the term as “roast.” Not a big deal, most of us would probably think.
But the discrepancy worried scholars over the years—and must have disturbed one
or two Biblical editors too, because they now got involved. In a later book, II
Chronicles (35:13), one or more editors took over when the lamb cooking
process is again described, and this time included terms for BOTH roasting and
boiling. The editors thus protected the egos of both previous sets of writers—an
editing skill that is often underappreciated.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Over the years, my children have each asked me to
review some of their compositions and to provide a little editing magic. We all
decided that was not cheating, just improving. I found the best technique to
use involved leaving the beginnings and endings of paragraphs pretty much
intact while making needed adjustments in the middle sentences and adding an occasional
transition or two. [It’s a little like those reading tests you see online where
some of the letters inside words are transposed, but your mind makes the
connections anyway.] It must have worked ok, because both children often got an
ego boost in noting, “You really didn’t change anything much.” I would just
nod.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HDRS6EjMfVI/XPBbhv7H9dI/AAAAAAAABuE/0NQL6_4HTL0oZBQOn6vZXjNr2FMhq75HgCLcBGAs/s1600/printing%2Bpress%2B3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="188" data-original-width="268" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HDRS6EjMfVI/XPBbhv7H9dI/AAAAAAAABuE/0NQL6_4HTL0oZBQOn6vZXjNr2FMhq75HgCLcBGAs/s1600/printing%2Bpress%2B3.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">All of which reminds me of perhaps my most memorable
editing moment, which occurred the summer after I graduated from high school. I
was working as an intern on the <i>Savannah Evening
Pr</i>ess, the local afternoon daily. The press run of the day’s paper was
almost ready to begin. I was asked to give a quick (but thorough) read to the
front page to make sure everything looked right. I spotted a pretty embarrassing
error. The typesetter had left out the letter <i>l</i> in the word <i>public</i>. In
Savannah, Georgia, in 1967, no one discussed anything pubic, especially</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> on the front page of a newspaper. I was told to rush down to the press room, find
a pressman, and say these memorable words—“Stop the Presses!!!” That is exactly
what happened. Then a typesetter rushed in with a chisel and chipped off the letters
“ic” from the word on the plate. The presses started up again, and 30,000
copies were run off with a blank space between the words <i>pub</i> and <i>library </i>on page 1.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FT3XKPsKBL0/XPBc995OdcI/AAAAAAAABuY/i57gfmNqklIiS3F5DQWsM6oRJ-PRYhVQwCLcBGAs/s1600/printing%2B4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="195" data-original-width="259" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FT3XKPsKBL0/XPBc995OdcI/AAAAAAAABuY/i57gfmNqklIiS3F5DQWsM6oRJ-PRYhVQwCLcBGAs/s1600/printing%2B4.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the old days, type was set by placing individual <br />
metal letters into metal frames</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I have spent much of the next 50 years editing as well
as writing a wide range of materials, but I have never felt quite as heroic as at that moment in 1967. I can just imagine how the editors working on II
Chronicles must have felt as they improved the Bible!</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ivELBgVkXis/XPBbbuSPwNI/AAAAAAAABt8/RcOsJvqseWQ3kw5HPDyqWIxblRMWbwN8wCLcBGAs/s1600/printing%2Bpress%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="192" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ivELBgVkXis/XPBbbuSPwNI/AAAAAAAABt8/RcOsJvqseWQ3kw5HPDyqWIxblRMWbwN8wCLcBGAs/s1600/printing%2Bpress%2B1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A pressman checks the presses. As I learned, <br />
he can even stop the presses!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
GoodmanWriteshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17574378559310770230noreply@blogger.com1