Life Without Newspapers

  

Every morning of my life arrived with a newspaper. My grand parents read the paper, my parents read the paper, my husband and I always read the daily paper. Then I started to notice that every once in a while, a journalist who was supposed to be presenting objective information, oh so subtly, with a little word choice here and there, slipped in what appeared to be a biased point of view. I noticed it, because these little slips of viewpoint steadily increased and made a big pile that left me feeling manipulated.

Of course, print media has been doing that for years, going back to the 18^th century with “broadsides” and pamphlets. And, to be fair, I can find print media that leans equally to the right or left. So I took my paper with a large dose of salt.

Everything came to a head when I, and other newspaper reporters, covered the same press conference. Now this was the 3^rd such press conference I had attended for this one agency, and it was usually pretty pleasant but bland. Not this time. I didn’t expect someone to actually pose a question, for Pete’s sake! Soon the speakers were off into a rather pointed dialogue about a political hot potato issue. WOW! Here’s news, I thought as I scribbled notes for all I was worth.

The next day, I voraciously read the local newspaper reporter’s article on the press conference and there was – nothing, except that the topic “was discussed.” Really, she could have phoned the thing in – it was that blah.

I was furious. How dare “they” withhold information from their readers? Who is it who decides what I will and will not know about my community? I couldn’t wait to write my article. It would swim in facts, nothing but the facts, so help me Hannah! And it did.

When we got the bill for the following month’s paper subscription (with a $4 increase) you bet we cancelled the thing.

“Why?” asked the nice lady in the paper’s subscription office.

“You’re biased,” I said “and report only what suits your agenda.  You weren’t worth the money even before you raised your rate. Nothing but ads, anyway.”

My husband said I was too nice.

We stuck to our guns even when they offered 3 months for less than half the rate, and later when they offered the paper for one dollar a month for 3 months.

By now, we were discovering of joys of life without the morning paper. Such as: I have time to read my magazines; the recycle bin is light as a feather without a weeks worth of old papers that blow around the neighborhood; I’m saving $360 a year to get the same  (subjective) information I can get on line.

Saa..weet!

Home Sweet Home

Well,maybe not THIS bad

I’ve decided writers’ homes reflect how well their writing projects are going at any one time. Except for cleaning the house because company is coming, my every day Martha Stewart barometer is more related to deadlines and writers’ block than to a mythical cleaning standard.

Our first home was a tidy little ranch on a street with identical ranches and split levels. It seemed my neighbors’ homes were always spotless. The ladies cleaned constantly, I noticed, to prevent dirt. I mean, if you vacuum and dust every day, how can you experience the “before” and “after” joy of homemaking? Since I never ascribed to prophylactic cleaning, my home is always a surprise – spotless one day, a disaster another. (Why is it no one drops by unexpectedly when the house is clean?)

After staring at the blank page on my monitor for five minutes, I decide I really should clean the fridge instead. One clean fridge later, the thought of drafting that article makes me decide to dust and remove my dog’s nose art from the lower part of the patio door. Perhaps I’ll figure out how to write that scene in my novel while I do the laundry. Anything but write. Result: spotless house but nothing written.

However, when the Muse parks herself in my brain, the house could fall apart and I wouldn’t notice. I’m in the zone. Words are flying. My character is off and doing stuff I never thought of. I’m going to make that deadline for sure.  

So what if I can write my first chapter in the dust on my dresser?  Why vacuum today and pick up a few specks here and there when I can vacuum up so much more tomorrow – after I’ve edited my article.

My advice to anyone considering marrying a writer: learn to ignore your environment or DIY.

No One Ever Mentions...

            In the health care debate, no one ever mentions needlessly inflated prices. Yes, people talk about the high  “cost of health care,” usually in relation to expensive hospitalizations, specialized tests and procedures and the growing number of people now being covered by insurance. We do make mention of the need for tort reform so doctors aren’t sued for bad outcomes rather than poor practice. We acknowledge the cost of malpractice insurance and maintaining an office that requires staff for nursing, reception, record keeping and accounting. Truly, it’s a far cry from “Doc” in Mayberry, making house calls for ten dollars or a chicken.

            My pet peeve is the inflated price of simple objects that require no research and development, that are simple in purpose and construction. But because these objects are used in a “medical” setting, they suddenly cost a fortune.

            Years ago when I was working in a hospital unit, the nurse manager presented us with a medical supply catalog. She wanted us to select a sort of carry-all that would hold all we needed to start IVs at the patient’s bedside.  The prices were outrageous! Instead, we went to the local DYI store and purchased a tackle box for a song. It worked great.

            I was in a drug/medical supply store and noticed that the price of a disposable male urinal was almost $6. Good heavens! I checked the price on Amazon and found I could order a case of 48 for $19.98 plus shipping. A little math showed I would be purchasing each urinal for 58 cents each instead of almost $6.

            Make no mistake. These costs are passed along to the insurance companies, who should know better than to cover such outlandish expenses buried in hospital bills. We consumers should wise up when we must pay out of pocket for simple items that require no medical expertise. A minute of market research around those urinals would save a consumer $260. Caveat emptor.

Fragile Culture

             

            I once thought I’d like to become a musicologist. It’s a fascinating field that studies music, how music came to be, and how it interacts within culture over time. I think you have to be part musician, part historian and part anthropologist to be a good musicologist.

I remember reading an account of the adventures of a 20^th century musicologist that astounded me. Before World War I, this musicologist (I want to say his name was Green, but I’m really not sure) traveled to America’s Appalachian region to write down the songs that had been passed down among the Scotch Irish that had lived for  generations secluded in the region’s mountains and hollers. The music was not written down. People learned by listening and repeating - pretty much how freshmen learn their college songs and can still belt them out 50 years later at reunions.

Much of the music particular to Appalachia is based on the Dorian mode, an antique “scale” known to the early settlers hundreds of years ago. (Our major and minor scales are two of those antique modes.)  Because those tunes, sung for years in the Appalachian Mountains, have a sad or minor key sound, the Dorian mode is often called “mountain minor.”

            Enter the war and the young men of Appalachia exited their hills to become soldiers. When they returned home, they shared what they had seen, heard and experienced from the rest of America and the world.  After several years, “Mr. Green” returned and discovered people had forgotten those hand- me- down songs in that quaint mountain minor. He had to re-teach them their own songs.

            How fragile traditions are within a culture! Our Native American code talkers in World War II couldn’t have contributed as significantly as they did unless the generations preceding them had not valued and passed on their tribal languages. It’s a mistake to think that songs, dances, philosophies, customs, and language of the past are less valuable then what is currently popular in our melting pot American culture. I think it behooves all of us to value and pass on what went before us, even as we recreate culture for our own times.   

It's the Bees' Knees

            Bluebird Acres Farm in Friendship NY just acquired a bee hive. I guess my son and daughter in law decided their free range chickens needed company. “Biodiversity and pollination,” my son replied when his citified, garden-phobic mom asked him why they needed to expose themselves to multiple stingers. I was told they happily buzz around people in their search for nectar and really don’t pose a hazard. Deb said they were very polite as they kept her company when she harvested in one of their raised beds.

          Well, I’ll take their word for it since I really don’t need more to worry about.

But speaking of bees, I was reminded of the colony collapse disorder that’s been recently in the news, where bees are abandoning their hives in huge numbers. According to one resource, NRDC Natural Resources Defense Council, “nearly one-third of all honey bee colonies in the country have vanished.”  That means, without pollination compliments of bees, we can say good-bye to apples, cucumbers, broccoli, onions, carrots and more – about three fourths of our current vegetable diet. 

          One bee keeper quoted in our local newspaper said he would breathe easy when the dandelions come into bloom because then he knows the bees will have a good source of nectar.

          Last year I wrote about why I believed the lowly dandelion should acquire flower status. I pointed out they make a tasty salad as well as wine and the University of Rochester has claimed the dandelion as its own with such events as “Dandelion Days.” Now I have another reason to let my lawn run wild with that little yellow flower. I’m feeding bees which cross pollinate plants so we can enjoy a bountiful harvest of veggies. 

          Now Good Neighbor Dave has a fine garden and I’m sure he will appreciate  all that cross pollination compliments of bees dining on dandelions next door.

          I can’t wait to tell him the good news.

Birth of a Bookworm

            I admit it. I’m a bookworm. I like the feel of books, the way pages turn, even the smell of the paper and glue; and that’s not to mention the joy I get from reading anything – fiction or nonfiction.

            It must have been before I was three because we were living in the city at the time when the first library I entered was in an old, dark building with a side entrance.  Many of the books on the lower two shelves (that I could reach) had little gold stars stuck on their binders. I have no idea why those stars were there or why I decided to remove as many as I could while my mother browsed.  I recall we made a fast exit.

            Shortly after that we migrated with the other post war families to the ‘burbs and it soon became apparent a local library was needed.  As an interim measure, the town set up a “library” of sorts in the back room of a department store anchored in one of those new fangled shopping centers. B.Forman Company was an upscale store that specialized in more fashionable clothing lines and right past the shoe department was that magical room.

            It was large enough to house only 5 rows of books, one small table with chairs and one checkout desk. But to me, it was a room full of reading adventures. It was small, cozy and the library lady was very nice as she used a pencil to check out my books. I could stop in any time because it was on the route I walked daily to my school. (Which may I point out, was about a mile away from my home and we were NOT bussed – not even when I was in kindergarten. We walked in bunches and there was one crossing lady. Period.)

            Anyway, now I live in a much larger town and our huge library is one of my favorite places BUT it can’t give the sense of anticipation the back room of the B.Forman Company gave the littlest bookworm.  

Sinkhole Buries Corvettes

Images of Corvettes, looking like a bratty kid had tossed them into a big hole, filled my mailbox. Indeed, the sinkhole in Bowling Green, Kentucky ate the floor of the National Corvette Museum and digested 8 of those classic American cars. Here’s a link to photos and video. http://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/massive-sinkhole-swallows-vintage-corvettes-n28416

       Hubby was especially shocked because over 50 years ago he and his friend Al Frederick founded the Rochester Corvette Club. I wasn’t married to him at the time, but I’ve heard stories about those grand old days when a handful of die-hard ‘Vette enthusiasts put on rallys, car shows, and rode in parades for the first time.

    Fast forward to today and the once fledgling club now has over 400 members who race, rally, judge, run car shows, picnic and otherwise know how to have a great time with their Corvettes. Most are hard working middle class folks who enjoy each other’s company as much as the low growl of their engines. They work hard, get their hands dirty and know how to celebrate life too.

 

Above all, I find their generosity endearing. They annually select a charity that will get a 4 figure check after all the fun has been had for the year. Additionally, every Christmas party brings members bearing gifts for battered and abused women and their children. 

 

This is a club with a heart as big as their collective engine displacements. They may treasure their hard earned cars but these people value people as well. A big sinkhole can destroy metal and leather, but that’s not what’s really precious – Corvette owners who treasure others while they enjoy their iconic slices of Americana.