There isn’t a corner of Ann Arbor, Michigan that isn’t touched by the University of Michigan. From the big block “M” on the Diag, the campus weaves through town like tangled yarn.  

When I started college there, my dorm held more residents than a lot of small towns. I learned a lot in those first few years. I made my first Jewish friends. I learned to use public transportation, and ate shrimp for the first time. I hunted out the best places to study, in the dental school library or small classrooms that weren’t used much at night. I fell in love. I learned to be a little careful, too, and to follow the cardinal rule of dorm life: Don’t scream unless you really mean it.

I didn’t know, though, that I would live for a few  years without what I considered “regular” lettuce.  I guess what they served in the cafeterias at Bursley Hall was romaine, or maybe endive. I was never sure. It was most often served at room temperature and felt dry when it rested on my tongue. It left a slight bitter aftertaste.

In those years, I learned, the University, major religious groups, and  national political figures boycotted iceberg lettuce to show support for the United Farmworkers Union. Those who sought to improve conditions for farm workers were organized with a capital “O.” They had passionate leadership in Cesar Chavez, who founded the AFWU. During the lettuce boycott, and later during the grape strike, Chavez followed the example of nonviolent protest exemplified by Gandhi and Martin Luther King. He endured multiple hunger strikes that lasted over 25 days at a stretch. Senator Bobby Kennedy joined him in his fast shortly before his assassination.

Over the last few months, the “Occupy” movement has stirred memories of the lettuce and grape boycotts of the 1970’s.  I have wondered whether (and how) the Occupiers would achieve their goals. But that’s part of the problem. Depending on who you talk to, the goals of Occupy might have to do with protesting corrupt financial practices by American banks. Or the widening gap between the earning power of the 1% and the 99% (of which I am clearly a member). Or maybe it is about corporations. Corporate greed, selling out to corporations, and all that stuff. Or forgiving student debt, or maybe forgiving all debt. Or the housing crisis: everyone is entitled to the American dream. (No, wait. That’s what caused the mortgage collapse.)  Or Congress and their role in it all. Or George Bush, or Ronald Reagan, or maybe both of them. Trickle down….didn’t. Or if it did, someone turned off the economic faucet sometime in the last 30 years. Not sure. Or maybe, as I saw on one Occupier’s sign, it’s about “One Love, One World.”

I don’t know anyone personally who resided at an Occupy site, but I have seen those sites in five different cities. In December, my cab driver in Washington, DC told me that at night, the DC Occupiers went home. The tents were turned over to the homeless. On that night, Washington was awash in cold torrential rain. I quietly bet that every one of those tents was filled with at least 3 inches of standing water . It’s not likely that many of the homeless found much comfort there that night. In Detroit, Occupy set up space in a park area often frequented by the homeless, and just blocks from the bustling theater district and sports fields; I am not sure if the homeless got to use the tents on cold nights or not. In Lancaster, PA, Occupy took on the tone of a street fair, especially on busy “First Friday” nights. I never saw it in the paper, but I wondered if they went home too, the first night temperatures dipped to 17 degrees.

Now, I certainly don’t want to leave my readers with the notion that I support corrupt banking practices, or that I have somehow escaped the economic crunch that plagues our nation.

But I have been thinking about the differences between the Occupiers and those of us who ate a lot of bad lettuce back in the 70s, and who skipped grapes altogether for a good long while.

From the get go, as I watched news footage of OWS, I wondered about the clarity of the movement. The Occupiers are certainly as entitled as anyone to exercise their first amendment rights. But I saw mixed messages right from the start. It didn’t make sense to launch an anti- corporate movement and document the cause on a MacBook via an AT&T or Verizon data plan. Ditto to doing so with a Starbucks latte in hand, or even a McCafe coffee.

Just an observation.

And then…a question:

 Could a nationwide boycott – like the one against lettuce and grapes – happen in America today? Would a systemically planned boycott of certain targeted corporations (or banks, or  products, or whatever) work in the 21st century the way it did in the 1970′s?

 Would we, as a country or as individuals, be willing to do without lettuce or grapes or anything at all for an extended period of time?

 Are we willing to take a stand in a way that touches our personal lives and lifestyles? To change the clothing we wear, or bypass our favorite stores, or do without some of our favorite products?

 Or is that sort of thing passé?

 After all, Occupy supported a nationwide boycott of Black Friday shopping to let the wealthy magnates of corporate America know where the rest of us stand. But you know what happened.

We didn’t stand on principle. We stood in line at Target and Toys R Us and Best Buy and WalMart to get great deals on HDTV and  XBox.

 Americans might be struggling, but the bottom line is this:

• We want what we want.
• We want a great deal on it.
• And we want it. now.

 The first time I saw the Rocky Mountains, I knew I couldn’t have been a pioneer. I certainly couldn’t have done what my husband’s ancestors did, walking west as part of the Mormon handcart companies.  But as he often says, those people didn’t consider themselves “pioneers” at the time. They were everyday people, doing what they had to do. They did it a step at a time, even in winter. They bore children and buried loved ones along the way, without stopping. They sang every night.

Could I have done that?

Could have risked my life with the Freedom Riders in the 1960′s?

Could have endured being taken a prisoner of war in Japan, or Germany,  Korea or North Vietnam?

 Could I have been as brave as Rosa Parks was the day she sat firmly in her seat on that bus in Montgomery, Alabama? (Which, by the way, launched another boycott.)

 Could I have done that? Could I do it now?

 How willing am I – or any of us – to change my habits and step out of my comfort zone for a principle I claim to believe in, or for the well-being of others? Will we still buy those nice underpants at Victoria’s Secret, even knowing that the cotton is harvested by slave labor? In these days of counting our cash a bit more carefully, are we willing to spend more for slave-free chocolate bars, or would we rather just grab what’s closest at the checkout counter when we want a treat?  Genetically modified produce sounds rather like “Brave New World” – but can I afford to buy heirloom tomatoes every single time I want a sandwich? I mean, it’s January. If I want a tomato, I have to take what I can get.

 Cuts a little close to the bone, you know?

 No easy answers.

But oh, so very important to ask the questions.

A while back, I tried to make a list of my “favorite things.” I mean, Oprah Winfrey came up with a fantastic list every year, right? But for me, the task was harder than I thought. A few things came to mind, of course….but then the ideas just stopped.

So when my friend Amy Oscar posted this invitation on her website, I wasn’t sure what would happen but took it as a writing challenge. Exactly 400 words, huh?

Here’s my list….I am curious about what would be on yours. Please share in a comment! (And no, you don’t have to use 400 words unless you want to!)

 A cashmere turtleneck.

Wigwam socks.

A workout with loud music and good sweat.

Savasana.

Summer solstice.

Sliding under a down comforter on a winter night.

Live music.

The melody of words read aloud.  

Books. I cannot be without books.

The fleeting moment when spring trees blossom.

Cowboy boots.

Remembering the details of a dream.

Lanz flannel gowns.

An uncrowded beach.

The steady breath of sleep. 

Throwing a tennis ball and watching my dog run for it in delight.

Neatly trimmed nails.

My writer friends.

Contented quiet.

Being amazed by my children as adults…the ways they are better than me.

Holding hands with my grandchildren.

Little Violet deep in sleep on my chest.

Fresh snow on evergreens. 

Lake Michigan

Buttery leather.

A flat-ish belly.

Eating well.

Beautiful cookware.

Reading poetry out loud, slowly.

A clean house. Organization. Space.

Days when the air is so clear it sparkles.

Dancing to Motown.

Patsy Cline. Cat Stevens The Beatles.

Theatre, more than the movies.

Radio, more than TV.

Early morning, more than late night.

The breeze off the Gulf of Mexico.

Learning.

Writing.

Careful listening before speaking.

An open mind and heart.

A conversation where I learn something from my mom.

Someone who calls me “friend.”

Friendships that go way back. Friendship that is new, growing.

The smell of a campfire.

Tulips.

 The North Star.

Fireworks.

Thanksgiving.

 Art in unexpected places.

Ann Arbor.

Christmas carols sung in German.

Good tears.

Being asked, “What do you think?”

Real calligraphy, with ink from a bottle.

Wading in the Gulf holding my husband’s hand.

Road trips. Good music on the radio.

The iPad.

Christmas cards.

Moisturizer.

Sunday nap.

Simplicity.

Words flowing from a fast pen.

The deep satisfaction of seeing our children’s children living in joy.

Singing the Hallelujah Chorus and realizing I know all the words. 

The moments when life feels just about perfect.

Stars in the Vermont winter sky.

Time to write, and really writing. 

Cinnamon.

Cilantro.

Fresh bread.

Watermelon.

The Continental Divide.

Full moons.

Pitching in, and knowing that even a small service bears great gifts.

Following through.

Being invited.

 Truth.

New understanding.

Winnie the Pooh.

Feeling strong and healthy, confident and capable.

No cavities.

Giving a gift that hits the mark.

Good memories.

Old photographs.

The words, “You’ve done a good job.”

Traditions that live.

Faith that runs deep.

Optimism.

Knowing when I have done the right thing.

Staying calm.

Counting my blessings.

I used to drink a lot of coffee, and if there’s one thing that a coffee drinker knows, it’s that you never buy a cup late in the day from the counter at a 7-11, Circle K , or any other gas station/convenience store type place. Once the early rush passes, those pots sit on the burners too long. The stuff inside gets so hot it scorches. The color shifts to a brackish burnt brown  and a bitter taste takes over. A real coffee drinker can smell it from a distance.

So even at the height of my coffee-holic days, I wouldn’t have considered getting in line for a cup the other night when my husband Mike stopped in at Turkey Hill for a Coke. He had worked a long day without lunch. The night air carried a chill and he pulled his leather jacket around him, slammed the car door and stepped up to the curb. He was eager to get back in the car and head home; the drive would take at least an hour, and even a fast food drive through would slow him down. Just a Coke would have to do the trick for now.

It was then he noticed the woman approaching from his left.

“Excuse me,” she called out. “Do you know how much a regular coffee costs in there?”

“Sorry, no,” he replied. Mike isn’t a coffee drinker either. “But they’ll tell you inside.”

He noticed then that she didn’t carry a purse, and her hands were bare. She didn’t look homeless, really, but he sensed her tension and knew she must be cold.

“Probably down and out” was how he described her later on. “Normal, really. In her 40’s.”

He held the door open for her.

Once inside, Mike rounded the corner toward the soft drinks. As he reached for his Coke, he glanced briefly toward the coffee counter.

The woman looked pale under the fluorescent lights. She studied the overhead menu of coffees, fountain drinks, and slushees. The red and green display touted gingerbread cappuccino as the flavor of the month for December.

She opened her hand, and Mike saw that she clutched a handful of coins. He watched as she counted them, and counted them again.

He watched her shoulders sag slightly. He watched her head drop forward, and her eyes close. He almost heard her sigh. He saw her fingers curl around the coins until the knuckles turned white. He knew without a doubt what she had just discovered – she didn’t have enough.

The counter clerk sat on a stool and leafed through People magazine. Mike approached to pay for his Coke.

The woman, meanwhile, had drifted to the candy aisle. She stood back from the display of Kit Kats and Butterfingers, deep in thought. Mike wondered if she had decided to opt for candy instead of the coffee, but his instincts told him otherwise. He noticed her posture, her position in the aisle, her hand still gripping the precious coins.

Then he knew.

She wasn’t looking at candy bars.

Her eyes scanned the floor.  She was looking for a dime, a quarter, or a few pennies someone may have dropped.

He knew that she hoped against hope that she might still be able to buy a cup of coffee before the night got much colder.

He took two steps toward her. “Did you get your coffee?”

“Nah. It’s a dollar thirty five.” She didn’t have to say she didn’t have enough.

 Mike reached out and placed two dollar bills in her hand. “Here you go,” he said.

The woman handed a single dollar back. “I only need one. I have the rest. I was just looking to see if someone had dropped some change. Sometimes people drop their change along here.”

“I know. We’ve all been there. But you can get your coffee now. It’s cold out. Maybe you can even get two.”

She hesitated, then accepted the second dollar. She placed her hand on Mike’s arm.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I won’t get two. I think I’ll just get the large.”

Mike shrugs off this story, assuring me that I would have done the same thing. And I like to think I would extend kindness to a stranger on a cold night. But as I listened to him talk about the woman at Turkey Hill, I had to admit that in the same situation, I would likely have just gotten my Coke and rushed back to the car. 

I’m not proud to say that I wouldn’t have noticed her standing at the counter, or clutching her coins, or studying the floor near the candy bars.

I’m not proud to say that for all the cliches I know about “being present,” for all I know about the value of giving, for all I know about paying attention….the moment – and the opportunity – would very likely have passed me by.

When I was a teenager, my best Christmas gifts didn’t always arrive on Santa’s sleigh. Most years, they came the day after Christmas. That’s when Mitzelfeld’s Department Store on Main Street launched its year end sale. The pile of gifts under the tree grew considerably on December 26th, with the addition of a plaid Garland kilt (an annual tradition through junior high and high school), a coordinating sweater or two, and a pale blue ski jacket in 11th grade. If I got lucky, there might be a pair of button fly hip huggers or tall boots, too, all packed in Mitzelfeld’s signature black and white striped shopping bags.

My bigger Christmas gifts in those days were often a collaboration. The year I wanted stereo components, my mom let me pick out the receiver, turntable (yes, you read that right), and speakers that would fit best in the dorm when I went off to college. It was perfect, even though the gift wasn’t a total surprise. She learned what my priorities were, and we hit it right on the button.

But at 19, I married (yes, you read that right too) into a family whose Christmas shopping was guided – no, dominated- by elaborate Christmas lists. Suddenly, I was expected to make a list of my own without any allowance for my favorite sales or the benefit of advance conversation.

The whole process was like setting up a bridal registry, with careful notations of the item desired, the store at which it was available, and the preferred color and size. The in- laws were big on catalog shopping, and encouraged me to add items from the pages of Eddie Bauer and LL Bean holiday gift guides, including page numbers.

And sure enough, I received some nice items from those lists. A fair isle sweater. A down jacket that got me through college. Camping gear.

In my husband’s family, nobody  shopped for much of anything for themselves after Labor Day, so their lists included an odd array of functional items like a spatula, flashlight batteries and even Sears Cling-alon thigh high nylons for my mother-in-law. It struck me as odd that the family flashlights would burn dim, or not at all, so that another gift could be added to the pile under the tree, or that Roger’s mother would scrape her mixing bowls with an inferior spatula for months. My own mom would have simply picked up batteries and a spatula (not to mention the stockings) on the next shopping trip. But in Roger’s  family – now mine – the lists took precedence over practicality. So each year around Thanksgiving I  headed out to find the “right” Pendleton plaid shirt or Monet butterfly broach or set of burnt orange towels. (Trust me, finding those towels was a challenge in the years that the entire world was bathed in mauve and country blue. But Roger’s mom never changed her color scheme.)

By the time my own children came along, the Christmas list had worked its way into our annual traditions. Creating a list for each child became a part of holiday preparations as Santa and I conspired about what would be under the tree on Christmas morning. I provided grandparents with gift suggestions, sorted according to recipient and approximate cost . Now, this approach did carry a level of functionality. It minimized the chance of duplicate gifts and gave family members an idea of what would work out best as we rolled into a new year. What could the kids share? Were they into art projects or playing dress up or Strawberry Shortcakes? Still, the very best gifts over the years had nothing to do with those lists. We never asked for hand knit sweaters from Aunt Marie, but we kept them all as treasures for the next generation. 

Like most children, mine eventually started creating Christmas lists of their own. Mostly, those lists included just the top priorities to be delivered from the North Pole.  A Barbie house. The USS Enterprise. American Girl accessories. Nintendo. Today, Mike and I laugh over his favorite Christmas list story from his own children’s early years; his #2 son Matt submitted a letter to Santa asking for only two things: a pair of jeans that nobody had ever worn before, and a picture of Jesus. Needless to say, Matt’s wishes came true that year.

These days I love to go for the surprise when it comes to Christmas giving. In the role of grandma, my shopping isn’t as elaborate as it was in the days of those whispered conversations with Santa, but it covers a lot more people between our flock of grandchildren and grown up kids.

I pay attention all year and notice the remarks (even Facebook posts)  that give clues to what gift may be just right. I like to keep track of who likes dark chocolate or Mexican food. Most of the time I know which sports occupy the boys’  time, and what favorite colors the granddaughters are wearing. I keep my eyes open for terrific books, for those “little somethings” that can be tucked into a package and shipped across the country. Once or twice I have even made a gift myself that turned out well enough to actually give. 

I am the first to admit that I probably don’t always get it right.

But really? deep down?

I hope that the real gift lies in the paying attention part.

It’s that time of year…we have turned back the clocks  and dusk settles in well before dinner time. Shoppers circle the mall in search of the ideal parking spot. The 24/7 Christmas music channels are up and running.

And so, as John Lennon sang, this is Christmas. And with the season comes the delicate state of mind and heart that we call the “Christmas spirit.”

For Ebenezer Scrooge, the Christmas spirit arrived literally in the form of ghosts that haunted his sleep one Christmas Eve. But when I think of Christmas Past, it’s not with haunted memories. I remember shopping at the local five-and-dime, caroling on cold Michigan nights with Girl Scouts, and poring over the annual Sears Wish Book I remember the breathtaking red and green lights strung across Main Street in my hometown; it looked a lot like Bedford Falls in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” I remember the Christmas Eve when we anticipated  my daughter’s birth; she stubbornly arrived ten days later.

I love the traditions that take over the weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day. We move furniture to accommodate a tree that is probably a lot bigger than it looked outside. The brave among us mount ladders to trim the eaves and shrubbery with lights. We pull out special recipes, and the rules about counting calories and not eating after dinner are suspended for a while. We hum along with our favorite Christmas songs.  For years, I was a bit obsessed with the goal that my children would learn all the words to all the verses of all the carols, and to that end played only Christmas music after Halloween. (They did indeed learn all the words.)

A few of us still send Christmas cards and letters the old fashioned way.

It all adds up, somehow, to create the spirit of Christmas. It is, according to my wise husband Mike, the spirit we wish we could maintain all year long. It is the spirit of love, of contentment, of generosity, of faith. In the end, Ebeneezer Scrooge agreed, and vowed to “honor Christmas in my heart and keep it all the year.”

We pray that you are able to nurture the Spirit of Christmas Present this year, and to realize that the most generous gifts of the season have nothing to do with material extravagance.

We wish you the gifts of health and happiness, and remind you that your next breath is a little miracle all its own.

We wish you the gift of contentment, and pray for peace in a troubled world.

We wish you the gifts of giving and receiving love from those around you. We remind you of the special blessings that come from reaching out to a friend from days past, or a family member that you haven’t seen or heard from in too long.

We wish you the gift of recognizing the blessings that grace everyday life. Indeed, those who are unable to count their blessings are more handicapped than those who have no legs.

And finally, we wish you the gift of faith. Faith for a brighter tomorrow. Faith that propels you to action. Faith that keeps a  bit of the spirit of this Christmas alive in your heart all year long.

Merry Christmas to all….

It’s been a while since I thought about Barbie dolls, but today’s trivia question on our local radio station got my attention. It turns out that 2 Barbie dolls are sold every second, worldwide. That’s 1.5 million Barbies each week. Fully half of all dolls sold on earth are Barbies.

 My own Barbie would now be considered a “vintage” model, with her black and white striped maillot and bouffant hairdo. I spent hours zipping Barbie into her tiny outfits and arranging the furniture in her cardboard dream house. Back then, Barbie’s plastic legs didn’t bend at the knees and she had only two players in her supporting cast: BFF Midge and best beau Ken.

But Barbie was the star, and it was Barbie who would teach my generation exactly what it meant to be the kind of girl who turned heads and lived life at center stage. Those girls were tall. Lean. They had long necks and flat bellies. Their breasts tapered into narrow waists and trim hips. They had flawless skin and manicured nails. They knew how to walk in stilettos, drove sports cars, and, yes, lived in a dream house.

We know now that if Barbie were an actual person, she would be in real trouble. Conservative estimates put her at 5’9, and 110 pounds; others claim she would actually be close to seven feet tall and weigh in at 125. Either way, her BMI falls into the anorexic range; her body fat percentage would be so low she would not menstruate. Estimates of her measurements vary a bit, but fall into the general range of 38 – 18 – 33. Some speculate that with Barbie’s proportions, she wouldn’t be able to stand up, or that her neck would be unable to support the weight of her head. I remember something about this from high school physics, when we learned about strength-to-weight ratios. It’s the same reason those gigantic spiders from old horror movies couldn’t possibly walk.

I imagine my vintage Barbie trying to crawl from room to room in the dream house, starting out in an awkward downward dog pose. “Damn knees!” she would mutter as her unbending legs and arms inched forward with a gait more suited to an aardvark than a beauty queen. Give it a try. It’s almost impossible to make any forward progress from that position.

Her delicate feet – actually the same size as her hands – were permanently molded to the shape of her signature Barbie high heels. Each outfit came with at least one pair – sometimes two. I was lucky enough to have Barbie’s ballerina outfit, and her satin toe shoes slid into perfect position for pirouettes. But with those feet, Barbie wouldn’t have done well on the tennis court, and if she took a morning jog her legs would ache with the pressure of running on tiptoe. No trainer would allow Barbie to do her squats and lunges until her feet were flat on the floor. But Barbie couldn’t do squats and lunges anyway, could she?

Who knows what Barbie did to maintain that figure. Maybe she was like my neighbor Debbie from freshman year of college. Debbie had a definite Barbie look: long blonde hair, lean build, chiseled features. Debbie was generous too. If you had a guest at dinner time, she would gladly lend you her meal ticket for the cafeteria. She had to study, she always said. And I assumed it was the pressure of being pre-med that made her throw up so often.

When the time came, I gave my own daughter an updated Barbie and Santa brought the new generation of dream house as well as a pink Corvette. My rule – established only partly in jest – was that Barbie couldn’t have nicer underwear than mine. It’s somewhat disconcerting to realize that as an adult, I was comparing my real life working mom wardrobe with that of a Barbie doll. And probably at some absurd level, comparing my post-childbirth body with hers too.

For me, for my daughter, and now for her daughters, Barbie inhabits her dream house for only a few years of childhood play.  I never imagined that the statuesque Barbie image would define the way generations of girls look at our bodies, our wardrobes, our homes, our relationships, and our lives.  

You can’t blame Barbie.

There is no Barbie. We all know that.  But Barbie continues to hold court at center stage for 120 girls every minute around the world.

This summer, I immersed myself in a community of writers at a place called Star Island.

I learned a lot during those seven days. I learned to figure out what’s at stake. To recognize words that say nothing. To write lean.  To move my readers  forward with every sentence.  That writing is a lot like diving into the Atlantic Ocean at 6:30 a.m.  

I made lifetime friends, and studied with a writer who has mentored me for thirty years – even though we had never met in person until I saw her walking toward the dock.

I’d like to share an assignment we were asked to do in preparation for our week on Star Island. It’s called “Great First Lines.”

Below are a few first lines from my most beloved books. Maybe you’ll nod in agreement, and recognize one of your own. Maybe you’ll be curious and add a book to your reading list. Maybe you’ll learn a bit more about me through the words of writers whose thoughts shaped me.

The house where I grew up, in Durham, New Hampshire, is the only one on the street with a fence surrounding it. That fit. – Joyce Maynard, At Home in the World

My father and mother should have stayed in New York where they met and married and where I was born.  – Frank McCourt, Angela’s Ashes

He told them he loved them. Each and every one of them. – Frank Cullen, Columbine

Our car boiled over again just after my mother and I crossed the Continental Divide. – Tobias Wolff, This Boy’s Life

The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. – Janet Fitch, White Oleander  

I was on fire. – Jeanette Walls, The Glass Castle

 And two that are not first lines, but great lines nonetheless:

On our first real date, we had drinks at his house, talking nonstop until dawn – and I stayed for forty years. – Diane Ackerman, One Hundred Names for Love  (the book I am reading right now)

“My dear fellow, who will let you?”  “That’s not the point. The point is, who will stop me?” – Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead  (a book I have read at least once a decade since age 18)

And now, an invitation: Would anyone like to share one of their own favorite first lines?

Hi, how are you?

It’s the cookie cutter, socially appropriate greeting. I say it every time I answer the phone…greet a friend….an acquaintance at work….a waitress at the local diner.

And it has a cookie cutter, socially appropriate answer.

Fine. 

In fact, the person we are addressing could have just lost her job or had a fretful night worrying about a wayward child – but the answer will be the same.

Until lately, that is. We still greet others with, “Hi, how are you?” But as often as not these days, the single word answer isn’t “Fine,” it’s “Busy.” or, “Just busy!” accompanied by a deep sigh, and sometimes a roll of the eyes.

And “busy” doesn’t do much to pave the way for conversation to follow.

“Busy” says, “I’m exhausted.” 

“I’m burdened.”

“I don’t have time to talk to you.”

“My life is so full of important commitments I can’t begin to list them all.”

“You just wouldn’t relate.”

“Busy” stops conversation dead in its tracks.

Indeed, we are busy these days, although it makes no logical sense. My appliances are labeled “high efficiency.” I pay bills automatically and do the banking online. The dry cleaning gets picked up at the door. Communication with friends is accomplished en masse via Facebook. I can watch an hour of TV in 42 minutes, thanks to DVR.

So….why so busy?

Well, I have a theory or two.

Keeping busy is a family value where I come from. To this day, my mom proclaims, “I can’t stand idleness!” as she folds towels, catches up on politics, examines her latest painting, or heads outside to tend her flowers.

At a dinner meeting in Philadelphia last spring, I sat next to an eighty year old named Dan who worked for years as a comedy writer. (Writing for Cheers was one of his better known projects.) Today, he is active – busy – in the national campaign for autism awareness. Dustin Hoffman turned to Dan for help as he prepared for his role in Rainman. Dan shared that keeping busy keeps him relevant, even in his ninth decade of life. And he is convinced that being irrelevant is what makes a person old. Dan’s calendar is fully booked.

Dan would say,and my mom would agree, that keeping busy is like taking a good swim in the fountain of youth.

There is a dangerous edge to all this busy-ness. Being busy for its own sake can signal a preoccupation with the unimportant stuff of life. We keep busy shuffling clutter from one countertop to the next, but the house is never clean. We tend imaginary farms as if our very lives depended on it, but can’t remember the last time we cooked a great dinner from fresh ingredients. We check Facebook hourly, in case somebody had something to say, but are too busy to catch a movie or plan lunch with a  co-worker  who just might become a new friend. We’d rather watch The Biggest Loser than spend an hour working out.

Life clutter crowds out life quality before we know it.

Not intentionally, of course. It’s just that…well, we’re busy!

For me it’s a slippery slope from keeping busy in a healthy way to being overcommitted and overwhelmed. My friend Amy Oscar writes, “Your overwhelm is your teacher,”  but the lessons of my “overwhelm” are the lessons learn slowly. Indeed, I forget them entirely, from time to time.

Yes I can credit (or blame) family values for those overwhelmed moments, but I grew up in the days when the message to women was empowering and clear: You can do it. You can do it all. You can do it all at once. You can do it all at once and do it all well.

And, in fact, I did it all, very well, all at once. My house was clean. My children well dressed and active in dance, scouts, ski club, volleyball, horseback riding, music lessons. My professional evaluations were stellar and colleagues respected my views. I chaired committees at church, served as a scout leader, led a professional organization, picked up a couple of graduate degrees, and regularly donated blood.

I like to think that today I am wiser than the younger version of myself. That I set worthwhile goals and meaningful priorities instead of just trying to do it all. That I have figured out how to live my life in balance. That I recognize my “overwhelm” is, more often than not,  the result of my own choices.

Some days I do okay.

But then I get busy.

It is hard to say that anything is certain in life, but I’m quite sure a few things can be crossed off my shopping list for good.

Film.

Carbon paper.

A watch you have to wind every day. Or ever.

This morning I talked with some friends about obsolescence. Even the 20-something in the group was able to remember items from her childhood that have gone the way of answering machines and slide rules. (Although she wasn’t exactly sure what a slide rule was.)

Before long, we realized our list might extend beyond everyday objects. We wondered whether certain skills or topics we learned in school might go on the list. What had we learned that is no longer relevant, or even accurate?

It was easy at first. I learned about nine planets in our solar system. That’s certainly not true anymore, since Pluto’s demotion to a mere dwarf planet.

Today’s Periodic Table of the Elements has 118 neatly organized squares. Back in the 70s, I learned only 103 or so.

In typing class, Mrs. Smith taught us to hit the space bar twice after each sentence.  No more, according to the Chicago Manual of Style. Computers give us proportional fonts, and a single space will do just fine.

Today, most high school students cannot form the entire alphabet in cursive. They only need the letters used to sign their own names. The demise of cursive writing is not a big deal; these kids have been required to use word processing for their assignments since third grade.

I bet business majors don’t spend much time mastering Gregg shorthand these days.

And thanks to graphing calculators, trig classes can delve into sines, cosines, and tangents without plotting tedious points by hand on quadrille paper. 

Which brings us to long division.

With a basic calculator running three bucks or so, and every child over age eight carrying a smart phone, does anybody need to crank out problems like 25,476 divided by 181 the old fashioned way? Does the “upside down L” division sign mean anything nowadays? We are much more familiar with the simple forward slash on our phone or computer screen. And when was the last time you used (or even thought about) the words “quotient” or “remainder”?

In this morning’s conversation, opinions were mixed.

The truth is, even top flight physics students of the 21st century have little notion of the mechanics of long division. They don’t have the time or patience for the trial and error methods that I learned, and probably don’t have to show their work the way I did. Division is simply a step on the path to solving a larger problem.

But despite the long-standing controversy over the “new math” of the last generation, or integration of math skills into “spiraled” curriculum today, I believe there is  something to be said for plain old long division.

Division is a foundation skill, much like writing a basic sentence. The neat pattern of mathematics isn’t complete without an understanding that division is the opposite of multiplication – sort of a repeated subtraction process. As we learned to handle more complex problems, we applied estimation skills. Those remainders we learned about early in the game propelled us to an understanding of decimals and fractions, and how they relate to each other.

And the orderly language of mathematics is, indeed, one representation of the world around us. It’s what those kids are learning in physics class. It is important, I think, to frame those scientific concepts around deep understanding of the basics that underlie them, and help students understand “why.”

There is more to it than hitting the slash key.

My husband Mike takes a different stance. He is convinced that the full bore electronic route to solving time consuming math problems will win out in the end, if it hasn’t already. He went so far as to say that if you handed a traditional long division problem to a passerby  on the street (with that “little tent thing” over the numbers), you would be met with a blank stare, or the remark, “What the hell is this?”

Maybe I am a traditionalist. Maybe it’s idealism. Maybe a bit of naiveté  But some things, I believe, should never go out of style.

In college, all education majors studied the teaching of reading Learning to read is a process, we were taught, so teaching reading was to be undertaken systematically. Phonics, consonant blends and diphthongs were to be introduced according to the assigned methodology before the real business of reading could begin. Then we were to deal with contextual clues and what was called “meaning.”

But it wasn’t that way for me at all. I carried around a stack of soft cover readers all summer as my fourth birthday approached. The books came from Mom’s classroom, from the back cabinet with the tall glass paned doors.

 To me, her classroom was a treasure chest filled with stacks of books, construction paper in every color, new black pencils. The room smelled of crayons and harsh liquid hand soap. I didn’t like the smell much, but mom always said her classroom was beautiful. It anchored the original two-story wing of Stiles Elementary School and had a huge bay window, and a real fireplace built in. I never saw anyone make a fire, but she often gathered her students (she called them her “special children”) there during story time or to recite poems and finger plays.

 That summer, I turned the pages of those books over and over again and carefully studied the pictures on each page.

 The girls on these pages always looked happy. They wore dresses and leather shoes, even for playing outside.

 I wore elastic waist corduroy pants that mom sewed for me; most of the time I put them on backwards. Mom reminded me every day that “the darts go in the back,” but I didn’t know what the darts were. I wore red tennis shoes with rubber caps over the toes, to make them last longer.

 The girls in the books lived where there were sidewalks and other children to play with.

 Our house sat back from a busy road where the speed limit was 50 miles per hour. No sidewalks, just a gravel shoulder between our mailbox and the speeding traffic. No other children lived nearby, at least that I knew of. I preferred to play inside anyway.

  The girls in the books weren’t chubby, and they weren’t afraid of dogs either. I bet they didn’t cry when their hair tangled after washing. Their mothers always smiled and didn’t seem to get tired at all. Their fathers wore ties and white shirts just like the fathers on TV.

One day, as I examined the orderly world on the pages of those books, it occurred to me that I knew what the words said about each picture. I didn’t have to sound them out, or worry about consonant blends or diphthongs. They just made sense. I sat cross legged on the dining room floor and began to pronounce each word out loud.

 Nobody noticed for a while, but then my brother Mike barreled through the back door and raced toward the living room to turn on the TV. He stopped. He listened, without my knowing. He yelled toward the kitchen, “Hey Mom, do you know what she’s doing?”

 After two or three urgings, my mother broke free from her canning jars to come to the doorway. “She can read!” Mike announced. They stood silent for a moment. I continued to say each word, aware now that this must be something important.