Tag Family

Cymbaling Rivalry

Michael Leave a comment

Often enough we find ourselves reading articles in the paper about the death of a well-to-doer who leaves his or her fortune to the children.  Most of the time the children are well into adulthood but never outgrew the petulance of spoiled rich kids.  All too often among the often enough, the children left behind are unhappy with what they inherited.  They may not have been around for earning it but that doesn’t stop them from expecting it.  Battle lines are drawn, bad manners invoked, lawyers called, and siblings who had little to do with each other begin to publicly denounce each other claiming that Daddy planned on changing the will but just didn’t get around to it.

So it was refreshing that we read about a pair of siblings who didn’t resort to the courtroom to solve their issues and in the process created double the good stuff that the family was known for.  Refreshing, but sad for we learned of the story of these siblings on the death of the younger.

If you have ever been on the instrument side of a band – concert, jazz, marching, or garage – you have probably grabbed a stick and started tapping on a drum.  As your boldness grew, you aimed that maple rod and patted out a beat or two on the shiny disk delicately balanced on its stand.  And the tone was nothing like what you expected.  Chances are you just experienced your first Zildjian, or perhaps Sabian. Certainly one of the two which are the two biggest players in cymbal-dom.  In fact, Zildjian is so synonymous with cymbals that the name means “Son of a Cymbal Maker” and was bestowed on the family by the royals of 17th century Constantinople when the first of the cymbal makers discovered a metal mix that resulted in unequaled musical tone.  And for 260 years the Zildjians were the best at making what they made.

For almost all of those years the mantle of maintaining the family’s place in philharmonic peerage, and the family secret to make the alloy from what those shiny disks are cast, was passed each generation to the oldest son.  That was until Avedis Zildjian passed in 1979. He had two sons, Armand the oldest, and Robert who had been running the company.  It may have been because of Robert’s heavy involvement with the family business that Avedis did not leave the business, and the family secret, to Armand; rather he left them to both.  In keeping a bit of the tradition, he left controlling interest of the company to the elder brother.

Here is where in soap operas and the real reality of the 21st century that lawyers would be summoned.  Brother would stand against brother and destroy the work of generations and the joy of the masses.   But in the coolness that goes to show that brothers can still be brotherly, the two decided to split the company, Armond maintaining control of the Zildjian name and the company that bears it and Robert getting the family secret but not permission to use the family name to work his mastery at a new company.  That company would become Sabian. (Robert was still a strong family man and gave his new company his family name.  Sort of.  He came up with the name by taking the first two letters of his three children, Sally, Bill, and Andy.)     

And it went that instead of one brilliant cymbal maker, the world got two.  And instead of a divisive family battle with no one a winner, the world gets a lesson that rivalry, even the sibling kind, isn’t always a bad thing, it’s just a thing.  It’s just a shame someone had to die for that lesson to be learned.   

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

Too Much of a Good Thing

Michael Leave a comment

Don’t you just love it when one of life’s questions finally gets answered?  When that thing that has never been at the forefront of thought but always hovering around the subconscious is finally resolved? When you can finally say, “Oh, yeah.”

Both of We have three children.  All three of the Little We’s are in their 20’s, gainfully if not ideally employed, with their own cars, clothes, gym memberships, monthly bills, and spending money.  Three children, two families, one burning life’s question.  Do we do too much for our children?  Sit back and let us tell you She of We’s story.

Number Two Son of She was at the airport.  Just a matter of days ago he was flying west to embark on a weekend away as young ones are now so inclined to do to visit strange cities where the strange inhabitants have a curious habit of dying their river a strange green.  But that’s a tale for a different day.  This one begins and ends at the airport.  Our airport.  The departing city.

This story began several trips ago that Number Two Son of She takes with some regularity.  They are almost always by plane and almost always end up with him missing the last leg of his journey leaving whoever (three guesses) was assigned to collect him at the local airport stranded at the airport.  But it was a habit and one that that seemed would forever end with whomever (three guesses) stranded at the airport or waiting for the call that he is finally about to board a plane home and would be there sometime within the hour or two.  So it wasn’t that He of We would not have expected Son of She to be calling She of We, but not so soon.

But sooner rather than later the call did come and with it came our life’s question, do we do too much for our children. A call that began sort of innocently with a seeming innocent question.  Did She of We have Son of She’s spare car key?  No, but why?

It seemed that after years of explaining, rationalizing, cajoling, complaining, and persuading, She of We convinced Son of She to drive himself to the airport and deposit his car in one of the long term parking lots ($8.00 per day, no hourly rate).  So convinced was Son of She that he actually discovered another traveler among his friends to the very same destination for the very same duration and offered him a ride to and from the airport.  Presumably for the low price of $4.00 per day.  No hour rate.  And off for the airport they set, their sights set on the gate labeled Extended Parking.  They must have not set their sights so high as to see the overhead sign not reading Extended Parking, rather they entered the parking mecca at the gate labeled Short Term Parking ($2.50 per hour, maximum daily rate $25.00).

Yes, he finally was convinced.  Son of She, finally convinced that he could drive himself to the airport did just so, and shortly after his arrival there made the call to She of We.  It was the call from the airport relating this very tale.  But the tale was not told just for its entertainment value.  It concluded with a request for her to drive 20-some miles to the airport with his spare key so that she could move his car into one of the long term lots that she had so often spoke of. And shortly thereafter was the call from She of We to He of We with that question, do we do too much for our children?

Do we?  Daughter of He still lives at home in the very room she shared with her childhood stuffed animals.  And is still sharing.  Number One Son of She resides in a second house of hers that could be rental income but is serving much better as Son Cave as he manages his own growing contracting company.  Number Two Son of She recently purchased his own house, able to convince the mortgager that he was good for it because he is one of the gainfully employed, his gainful employment at the favor calling of She of We who realized long before he what kind of job he would otherwise land with an undergraduate political science degree.

And still they ask.  And still do we.  Do we do too much for our children?  For the record, She of We did not make that journey yet we still wonder.  And we wonder that it is a wonder that someone thought it was quite reasonable even just to ask.  And there probably is the answer.  Maybe.  Possibly. Sort of.

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Calling Mrs. Petrie

Michael Leave a comment

The Robert Petries did it.  The Darren Stevenses did it.  Even the Major Nelsons did it.  And so did our parents and probably yours.  The classic American house party.  Where has it gone?  We’ve seen some modern versions of it, a backyard fish fry, a deck party, a holiday open house.  They all have most of the elements of the landmark shindig just missing Rob and Laura pushing back the furniture and dancing to the three piece combo invited just for the occasion.  Then we got involved!

Our merry band of friends and relatives attempted a revival of it last fall.  Now some three months later people still talk of it.  Twenty or so revelers all came over within 15 minutes or so of all the others and all left within 15 minutes or so of all the others and while they were here there was mingling and snacking and drinking in celebration of absolutely nothing in particular.  There was live music just for the occasion and attempts at impromptu dancing.  (And promises of real dancing at the next one.  See, they were already planning on us having another before this one spun it last.)  We had no magician but we had sing-a-longs.  We had no charades.  Please, no charades.  And when the last of the party-goers got up and went it was such a quick clean-up that, looking back on it, the prop guys must have helped.  We’re certain Laura, though a little jealous, would have been quite proud.

We’re both of an age that we remember our parents having friends over and someone playing some instrument and someone else singing along.  Food was plentiful but trying to recall specific menus gets us not much farther than cheese and crackers.  There were games.  Cards and dice seemed to play starring roles in these efforts though maybe someone tried to talk others into at least one round of charades.  Men ended up in one room; women in another.  Somehow, probably by magic, everyone knew when to go home.  And they all talked about it until the next gala.  These were most likely the models for those television version house parties that had to be just a bit more extravagant than our folks could have managed.  Those television versions were not at all the planned model for our merrymaking but in retrospect might have subconsciously been.  And we managed to be just a bit more extravagant than they.

So, with a tip of our hat (worn at a jaunty angle) to Mrs. Petrie, we’re going to continue our revival of a grand American tradition.  Next time we’ll push the furniture back and roll up the rug.  Maybe Rob and Laura will do a soft shoe in celebration of nothing in particular.  They’ll ask us just how we do it time and again.  And the band will play on. 

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Welcome to 2013. Now Go Away

Michael Leave a comment

Just because we don’t make resolutions until Spring is upon us (See Resolving to Keep it Real, Dec. 31, 2012) doesn’t mean we can’t be urged into encouraging others to change their behavior post haste.  We’ve gotten to experience some horrible behavior that could fill an entire year in only the first week.  And that behavior must stop.

We encountered the one that put us over the edge while we were coming out of the store and walking to our car, some 150 feet from the entrance.  As we approached it, the anything but a gentleman sitting in the car parked next to ours, started beeping his horn.  And then again.  Longer.  And then we saw why.  His certainly long-suffering wife was behind us trudging through the cold and the slush with their packages.  Apparently he felt it more prudent that he stay in the warm car while she goes into the store and buys his wares.  He also felt it more prudent that he sit in the warm car rather than picking her up at the entrance.  He knew she was done with their shopping.  He was honking the horn at her.  There was the extent of his chivalry.  He honked the horn so she didn’t have to wander throughout the lot looking for him.  Then to top things off, he let that car continue to sit in the parking space.  The one that had a snow bank just outside the passenger door.  When She of We said a bit too out loud, “He won’t even back out for her so she doesn’t have to climb through the snow,” the long-suffering wife said, “It’s ok. I’m used to it.”  She shouldn’t have to ever become used to such rude behavior.  So for 2013 he should resolve to figure out how to get along without her because eventually she’ll realize that also.

Other behavior we’d like to see not continued in 2013 is the media fascination with having to title all the news.  No longer are they happy reporting it.  Now they have to make up catch phrases to go along with it.  So please, take your fiscal cliff and go jump off of it.  Otherwise let’s at least have a little fun with it.  Since we’ve either avoided it or fallen off of it depending on what analyst is babbling, it should no longer be part of the evening news’ scripts.  But just in case it should sneak back into common parlance we propose the Fiscal Cliff Drinking Game.  Every time you hear that phrase you must drink a shot then call your congressman. 

Speaking of, and to, Congress, we’d like to see you go away.  You’re not doing anybody any good.  Make you’re next point of business for this session abandonment.  If you don’t have the decency to put yourself out of work, have the decency not to lie to the American people about the work you’re doing.  The “heroic” first vote to avoid the “fiscal cliff” saved the American worker about 20 cents for every $1,000 he or she makes in salary in what was supposed to be the temporary income tax increase.  It did not address the $2 per $1,000 increase in social security and other federal taxes and fees that will be withheld per month in 2013.  That means about $50 less per paycheck if your one of the average Americans getting paid every other week and if all those paychecks up add to $50,000 by the end of the year.

Finally for the fine men, women, and undecided in Washington please do not use 2013 to tell us how many jobs you’ve created.  Unless you also own a company that employs legal American workers you can’t create any.  Leave creating jobs to the business that actually hire, and pay, employees.  Intern and housekeeper positions don’t count.

Something else we’d like to see go away are all those special parking spaces around stores and restaurants.  We love our elder friends and neighbors.  We’ve often said that anybody over 80 can do whatever they feel like.  By then, they’ve earned it.  (See Entitlement Program, March 29, 2012.)  We’d like to see some of those parking spaces reserved for “Mothers to be and mothers of young children,” and for those picking up dinner to go, and even for those with Handicapped placards, turned into spaces for our Older Friends and Neighbors.  The eighty-somethings who are still driving do it well, and they aren’t the ones cajoling their doctors into signing HP applications for their high blood pressure.  Why should they have to walk 300 feet from the lot to the lobby?   Let’s face it, if you’re just running in for dinner, you can afford to run from a few yards away, or bring one of the kids to run inside while you circle the block.  So you’re a mother of young children.  Being parents of former young children from the days when there were no such preferred spots we can tell you our best shopping trips were those with the kids left at home.  Leave them at home.

Now that we are well into the 21st century, a time of unprecedented public protection against ourselves, we want to see the sale of sleds that cannot be steered or stopped stopped.  You can’t by an extra-large, sugary soft drink in New York City but you can put four 7-year-olds on a plastic sleeve, push them down a hill, and wish them luck knowing at the bottom is a 4 lane roadway separated from the top by a dozen 45 year old oak trees.  You can’t buy a lighter that takes at least three steps to ignite to start your grill for the safety of a child who may not understand that it isn’t a candy stick but you can buy an oversized Frisbee that sets the same child spinning uncontrollably on its downhill voyage over the same tree lined hillside.  We love winter sports.  Sledding, skiing, and skating make January and February bearable.  But let’s do it safely.  Nobody would ever put children on bicycles without brakes or a wheel that steers in April.  Let’s say goodbye to the winter version and stop making children headlines on the evening news.

Do we seem a little cranky today?  We’re sorry.  Usually we are quite upbeat and make the most of what we have.   Sometimes you have to take away to have better.  These are some things we like to see taken away.  Do you have others?  Would you like to see Black Friday not start on Thursday?  Is it time to make the baggage, premium seating, and boarding priority fees go away even if it does mean airfares go up?  Can we stop with gas prices that end in tenths of a cent per gallon?  Let us know.  We can be cranky together.  And then, that can go away too.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

The Gift of Music

Michael Leave a comment

What do pumpkin cakes, ceramic penguins, dip dishes (with dip mixes in 2 flavors!), and holiday CDs have in common?  After tonight they will have all been party favors at our Christmas Eve dinner.

Christmas Eve is a special time for us.  It was the first holiday that we combined families at a formal gathering.  It was the first holiday that we lightened up a formal gathering.  And it’s probably the holiday that almost everybody most looks forward to.

Christmas Eve has also become a holiday that we never know exactly how many people will be with us.  Our core families will be there.  But there always is at least one extra couple and never invited by Either of We.  We don’t care.  There’s always room at the table.  But it makes those favors a bit interesting.  This year we decided on holiday music CDs.  You can’t beat a good Christmas Carol.  We have the gamut from Carol of the Bells to Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.  We’re planning on 10 at the table but we got 14 CDs because we’re never really sure.

A formal dinner for 14 might seem a bit extravagant to begin with.  Neither of We hit the rich mark in the ‘how well off are you’ scale.  We still manage to put together a traditional Italian feast of the seven fishes (for He of We’s side) and a traditional seafood themed American Christmas Eve (at She of We’s urging and to the great relief of many on He or We’s side).  With all that seafood, how do we manage to put together a dozen unique favors especially when they are favoring our guests with the gift of music, usually not an inexpensive offering.  He of We will take credit for that one.

We were out shopping and not even thinking of favors for Christmas Eve.  We had just finished up with Thanksgiving and were trying to shift ourselves from one holiday to another.  We ended up in one of our favorite, but not routinely visited stores.  It has literally everything.  Water heaters, garden flags, canned goods and canning goods.  Local sports teams doo-dads and needlework craft sets.  Hoses and hooks.  Books and — CDs.  While checking out the holiday themed flashlights He of We spotted a pair of spinner racks at the end of an aisle.  Thereupon sat hundreds of CDs.  All Christmas music, all the time.  And every one of them priced at one dollar.  One hundred cents, ten thin dimes, a buck a piece.  They had “favor” written all over them.

But (isn’t there always a but in a perfectly good favor find?), but, who gets what?  Who likes what?  We have a most eclectic Christmas Eve group.  We run the gamut from refined, retired ladies to a couple who met on an oil drilling rig.  Not to say that a well driller isn’t refined.  But there are probably differences in musical taste.  Do they get the CD with Mariah Carey, or the one with the studio group singing “Good King What’s His Name?”  And not only is the group eclectic.  So are the CDs.  Let’s face it, these are dollar CDs.  You aren’t getting the Mormon Tabernacle Choir for a dollar.  Well, actually, now, there were two of them that had selections sung by just that choir.  And some had Glen Campbell.  There were those with the London Symphony and there were those while listening you could Swing and Sway with Sammy Kaye.  Every case we turned we saw names we’d not imagine would see on a dollar CD.  Every couple of cases would actually bring out a little vocalization.  Yes, people did turn when She of We waved one she found with Liberace!  Most probably because she shouted, “Liberace!”

So we stood there, Each of We stationed at a spinner, sorting through the jewel cases like little kids picking out candy in the corner store.  Would this one work for She of We’s 28 year old son.  What about He of We’s cousin who grew up at the symphony.  Does anybody like country?  Does anybody like operatic?  Which semi-regular couple friend of a relative will show up this year?  Plan for both, we’ll never get another chance.  How could we resist?  It’s hard enough to be creative but to be creative on a budget is a million times harder.  To be creative for over a dozen people for less than a 20 dollar bill was a Christmas miracle.

Almost an hour later we were done.  Fourteen individual CDs plus a couple for our cars.  If you were to show up at our table this evening we’d probably have something to fit your taste.  You’d get something.  Everybody gets something.  It’s a rule.  And if you bring a lot of friends with you everybody will still get something.  We might run out of CDs but there are always the holiday crackers.  Maybe you’ll be the lucky one to sit through dinner wearing the paper hat.

Remember, everybody gets something.  It’s the rule!

Now, that’s what we think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Thank You, Again

Michael 1 Comment

This year there will be a group of WalMart stores that when the others open after Thanksgiving dinner, they probably will not.  It was big news in our area that workers in these stores will be the representatives protesting having to work Thanksgiving Day.  It filled part of the front page and some minutes of on air news time on the days leading to Thanksgiving. 

We were in a your basic average retail discount department store the night before Thanksgiving picking up some last minute items to make our feast festive when we found out that chain will open at 7am on Thanksgiving morning.  It got us to thinking about how many people work on the holidays now.  It wasn’t always and probably never really has to be.  But even if you closed all of the stores and malls and outlets there would still be many at work.  Last year we paid them our thanks.  We can’t say it any better this year so we’re going to say it again.

Think way back, back to the day when all of those stores were closed on holidays, Sundays and most other days after 5.  But even then there was a corps of people who knew that when the holidays came around they were just as likely to be at work as they were on any Tuesday afternoon.  To these people we say, “Thank You!!!”

Thank you to…   Firemen, policemen, paramedics, and ambulance drivers.  First responders of every kind.  The members of our armed forces.  Hospital workers.  Priests, ministers, rabbis, and other men and women “of the cloth.”  Newspaper production and delivery people, reporters, television and radio engineers, producers, directors, and on-air personalities.  Toll collectors, train engineers, pilots, co-pilots, flight attendants.  Bus drivers and taxi drivers.  Air traffic controllers, airport security, baggage handlers, and airplane maintenance.  Train station and bus depot ticket sellers and collectors.  Hotel receptionists and housekeepers.  Restaurant cooks, servers, bus-people and hosts/hostesses.  Bartenders.  Electric company, gas company, telephone company, water company, sewage company, alarm company, and cable company repair and emergency service employees.   Tow truck drivers, snow plow drivers, and street repair people on a moment’s notice.  Commercial truck drivers and freight handlers.  Couriers.  Nursing home, personal care home, retirement home and home health care workers.  Security guards.  Heating and air-conditioning technicians, plumbers, and electricians when they least expect it.  Gas station attendants and clerks at convenience stores with convenient hours (yes, retail stores but they have always been open).

Did we miss anybody?  We’re sorry if we did.  Please feel free to add them in a comment, extend the list, and keep the thanks going.  We’re also sorry if we couldn’t come up with the official job title or this week’s most politically correct reference.  In our experience, most of these people care more about the service they are providing than the name they are called.  That’s why most of these people are in jobs that risk being scheduled or holidays, weekends, evenings, and nights.  They are the ones likely to do something for you and then say thank you more than they expect to be told thank you. 

Please, don’t forget these folks.  Someday you’ll want to thank them.  Now would be a good time.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

 

Baseball, Hotdogs, Apple Pie, and “Batter Up!”

Michael Leave a comment

It’s almost our birthday, that’s our country’s birthday, and we’re still trying to figure out what makes us Americans – the good things, the bad things, and the things no other country wants to admit to doing.

Last weekend we were in a restaurant for a late dinner when a family of Mom, Dad, and four children ages 8 months to 11 years old take the table next to us.  We said it was a late dinner.  For us, 9:00 qualifies as late and that’s what time we were seated.  These folks came about ten minutes after us.  What could these six people ranging in age from “not yet a year” to “should know better” be doing on a Saturday that they hadn’t yet had dinner at that hour?  What else?  Baseball. 

Baseball?  At 9:00.  At night.  Really?  Yep, the oldest child just finished up his weekly baseball game.  We recall when we and ours were of little league age that we had one game at 1:00 and one at 2:00.  It didn’t take long to play Little League baseball then.  Three outs often came on 3 pitches assuming somebody could manage to get the ball anywhere near first base where 3 other defenders had rushed in to back up the first baseman ready for him to miss the throw to first.  The longest play in Little League then was the high pop up when everybody, including the batter, turned to look at the umpire (often somebody from the American Legion league who played on the same field at 4:00) to tell them fair, foul, safe, or out.  And then to explain what to do next.

But today, in the spirit of every one’s a hero, games take hours to play.  There are no outs, you just keep getting up to bat until everybody has had a turn.  There are no runs, you just keep going around the bases to make room for whomever is up next.  There are no strikes, or balls, or foul balls, you just keep throwing until the little snot finally connects with the ball and remembers to run to first base instead of to the bathroom like last week.

This isn’t our first post about the insanity of trying to build a world with no losers.  (See “Your Turn to Keep Score,” Jan. 16, 2012 and “There Is No Crying,” April 26, 2012.)  Somewhere along the course of trying to take the pressure of winning off our children we’ve also taken the joy of winning from them.  We’re also taking the discipline they will need to be productive adults from them. 

When the authors of the Declaration of Independence wrote that “all men are created equal” and that we are endowed by our Creator with those famous unalienable rights of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness, they didn’t mean there will never be any losers.  If they did, they would have let King George take one more at-bat.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Game On!

Michael Leave a comment

Many people who are just acquainted with us are often shocked to ultimately find out that He and She of We are not married, or at the very least for the 21st century, not even living together.  We spend a lot of time together but we each have our own houses and spend more time in our own houses than we do at either’s others’ houses.  Of course there are evenings we’ll be found on one or another’s sofas usually in the glow of a televised sporting event or a demanded, if not on-demanded movie. 

Last weekend we were on He of We’s furniture, about 4 feet apart, rapturously engaged in a game of words.  No, not the grand-daddy of all games of words Scrabble, not the second cousin of word games without words, Charades.  No, we were sitting next to each other, letting our fingers do the walking through Words with Friends on our cell phones.  In the same house.  In the same room.  On the same couch.

Although both of our children are either young enough, or old enough depending on your point of view, to have discovered and to have played with PlayStation, Nintendo, and Wii, none of them became one of the electronic game junkies who walk around with fingers flailing over tiny controllers of hand-held versions of the gaming consoles that hold so many in mental hostage situations.   And all of them are familiar with games that involve fold-out boards, dice, tiles, poppers, timers, and a pad and pencil to keep score.  We’re pretty proud parents that our children made it into adulthood with having hand-held electronic games listed as dependents on their income tax forms.

So where did we go wrong for ourselves?  How did we manage to find ourselves phoning in our own recreation?  Don’t tell the children this but it is darned convenient having a game at your fingertips.  No boards to pull off shelves, no tables to clear.  No looking for the pieces that fall under the chairs, no pencil sharpeners to wonder if we even still have to look for.  No shaking up bags of tiles to pick from randomly, no wondering if that really is a word and will I look foolish if I challenge it.

So yes, we’ve succumbed to the dark side.  This time.  We’re willing to let a microprocessor randomly select letters and accurately add up scores.  We still get to use the best game piece – our minds.  Yep, of all the things we’ve lost – tile holders, letters, box tops, score cards – we’ve not yet lost our minds.  We’re pretty sure of that.  Yeah, pretty sure.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Till Death Do Us Part

Michael Leave a comment

She of We asked He of We if he saw the story about the feuding children who were posting competing obituaries.  Oddly enough, He of We who seems invariably to come across only the most bizarre news while trying to find the local weather, sports scores, or lottery numbers, hadn’t.  Since he can’t let much get by him he went in search and found not only that which She of We had referenced, but several other articles decrying bad behavior in the world of remembrances.  Let’s catch you up on what we found.

That which started it all started in of all places, Florida.  The Sunshine State wasn’t sporting very bright people when a seemingly doting son decided he was going to vent his resentments with his siblings in mom’s printed 15 Minutes.  His paid tribute billed himself as the loving son and the other two children as the daughter who betrayed her and the son who broke her heart.  Such a close family.  Word is that the daughter wrote a second obituary but that one seems to be unavailable for viewing to the Internet world.  There was one article that said it contained basically the same information as that of the first without the colorful descriptions of the siblings.  And mom’s age was different.  Maybe they weren’t so close.

It got us to thinking about the etiquette behind obituaries.  We’ve written about workplace etiquette (Fire Them All), shopping etiquette (Clean Up on Aisle Ten), restaurant etiquette (Terms of Appreciation, You want fries with that?), even parking lot etiquette (Parking Wars).  We didn’t think we’d have to ever discuss death etiquette.  Apparently we do.  Not only have we now seen how people can’t keep their pettinesses out of the paper, we’re also aware of viewings, wakes, and services which have been interrupted by arguments, fights, and visits by the police who weren’t there visiting the deceased.

Clearly the best way to approach this issue is proactively.  We plan to write our own obituaries.  And while we’re at it, plan the rest of the party as well.  Who knows us better?   We’ve all read obituaries that just aren’t quite right.  Is the surviving son in Sonoma Sam or Sid?  Didn’t daughter Debbie divorce Dick the dolt?  Since when did he belong to the Loyal Order of the Goose?  It’s understandable.  Obituaries get written in times of extreme stress and grief.  And apparently nobody is checking them too closely for content.  We’ll get the details right.

Some other details about our last hurrah need to be worked out also.  It’s not that we want to celebrate death but we both are of a faith that looks forward to an afterlife with our God and those who have already gone.  You guys left behind have to learn to suck it up and wait your turn.  So no mournful music, no dreary dress, no dull visitations.  We prefer lots of light, pictures, upbeat music, and something spiffy to wear.  We don’t want to look like we’re going to a funeral at our funerals.   We think perhaps a bright blouse, tropical print shirt, and maybe a straw hat at a jaunty angle is a good tone to set for the rest of the crowd.   

Speaking of tone, no organ music at the funeral home.  There are stacks of jazz CDs in both of our cars.  Pick out a couple of handfuls and hustle them over to the mortuary.  If they can’t figure out how to work a CD, find someone under the age of 30.  He or she will be able to download them all onto an MP3 player to make it go on through 2 or 3 visitation sessions without having to change it.  At the church we’d like to hear some upbeat scripture readings.  David chatted about topics plenty more upbeat than “the valley of the shadow of death.”  Fast forward a couple of psalms to “remember your love and kindness…not my sins from when I was younger” for something more chipper and probably a little more accurate where we’re concerned.

Now, getting us around on that last day.  Do we really have to use a hearse?  Dull, dull, dull.  There’s a perfectly good red convertible in He of We’s garage.  Prop up Whichever of We in the passenger seat and let’s go out for a spin.  That just leaves the closing music.  Everybody has passed on by, said “see you later,” and now we need some final travelling music.  She of We thought perhaps, “And now, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain” sung by nobody other than Frank.  It is a terrific send-off for her with the living a full life, tasting it all, and doing it her way.  He of We is leaning more toward keeping the party going and is calling on Irving Berlin to pave the way with Alexander’s Ragtime Band.  We have to wait until halfway through the chorus but there the lyrics say it all, “Come on along, come on along, let me take you by the hand. Up to the man, up to the man, who’s the leader of the band.”  

We know it’s not a terribly original idea.  People have been making their own final arrangements for some time.  You take away a lot of stress at an already stressful time for stressed out people who aren’t always thinking their best.  We figure we’ll pick the mid-price packages all the way around preserving as much of the inheritance as we can and nobody has to feel guilty about taking the cheap way out.  Between the cool clothes, upbeat music, optimistic readings, and cheery bon voyage, nobody will notice we’re going in little more than a high class pine box.  And if they do, nobody can blame anybody but us.  And frankly, we really won’t care.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

Star Polisher

Michael 1 Comment

January 5, Twelfth Night, the Eve of the Epiphany, the last evening that precedes the Twelfth Day of Christmas.  Ok, that can be a little confusing but think like most businesses that are open 24 hours think, such as a hospital or a large supermarket.  At most places where a day takes up 24 hours, shifts for any given day don’t begin at midnight.  They start the evening before the following day.  Ok, that’s still confusing.  Trust us, tonight is Twelfth Night, tomorrow is the Twelfth Day of Christmas, aka the Epiphany.  Remember?  Those three kings bearing gifts following yonder star.  Star of wonder.  Star of light.  Ok, now hold that thought.

We were talking the other day about things like New Year’s Resolutions (which if you read our post from January 2 you know we’re holding until March), needy friends, and end of the year burn out.  We don’t have so many friends that we can afford to alienate any of them by not responding to their needs.  On the other hand, we don’t have so many free hours in any day that we can constantly be serving their neediness.  That was when we had our own epiphany.  That’s epiphany with a little “e” – a sudden intuitive leap of understanding.  We have become Star Polishers.

She of We coined the phrase “Star Polisher” to describe those people that one turns to when one needs his or her self-esteem or star, brightened or polished.  Like most couples, we are each other’s star polisher.  It really only takes a little maintenance to keep our stars shiny and bright.  Most of the time we do it without even noticing that we are doing it.  A comment about looking nice today, a thank you for dinner, or an unexpected gift.

The ability to polish somebody’s star is an awesome responsibility. Friends and loved ones seek you out because they know that no matter what, you will make them feel warm and worthwhile and connected to this thing we call life.  Seeing and finding the best part of people when they want to give up or give in is a gift.  It’s the listening, the smile, or even the tears that keep us connected to each other.  And as we begin a new year it’s time to reconnect with each other.

She of We is such a good polisher that many of her stars have found their own twinkle.  A professional in the hard sciences who really would rather be an artist becoming that artist and seeing his work hung in a gallery.  A musician once literally travelling from gig to gig now filling rooms at request with each person called by name, each thanked personally.  A manager once questioning if his ascent was only because he was around the longest now confident that even if a new Day One should ever come he’ll still be “top of the heap.”  They are enough to make a Star Polisher beam.  

But Star Polishers must be wary of the Star who never gets bright enough.  These stars know who they are.  They call or text about every problem in life no matter how inconvenient it may be.  They know exactly when they are becoming tarnished – the bad relationship, the lousy job, nobody understands them.  They claim so many blemishes all at once that even an extra strength polishing isn’t going to satisfy them.  They hover in your doorway at work, they are on your voicemail at home, and they are in your e-mail at both.  They never ask if you have time to spend on them.  It never occurs to them to ask how you are.  They barge right in and are taken aback if you have to delay the polishing until a better time, even if it means only a few minutes delay. 

Star Polishers need to take special care not to have their own stars burned out.  Sometimes the Polishers have to admit that they have given all the shine that they have.  They love you and wish you nothing but the best but it’s time to look inside yourself and shine on your own for a while.  There are times when even She of We uses so much energy polishing other stars that she loses some of her shine.  Your job if you find yourself polished up by one of her kind is to say “thank you” and acknowledge the unexpected gift that you’ve been given.  Take a moment to become the Polisher’s Polisher.  That’s the number one way to make sure your own Star Polisher will always have some sparkle handy for you.

So it’s only one gift.  It was only one star.  And it’s still pretty bright.

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?