Schmaltz

Why I love my husband:

Because when I'm weeding with my iPod blasting in my ears and I see a shadow and look up and see him standing over me and I remove my earphones and he says, "Did you hear anything that I just said?" and I say "No"..... he says, "I was just talking all about our relationship and my deepest, innermost emotions and all the things I want for our future and how much I adore you... but alas, you missed it," and then he walks away.

(He most assuredly was NOT talking about any such thing. He was probably talking about the square footage coverage of the Weed n Feed he was spreading, or sumpin' like that... but that's so not the point.)

The Peculiarities of Being a First-Generation American

Although I've visited Germany quite a few times, I have never actually lived there. And although my heritage is 100% German, with parents who immigrated to America after they married and after my oldest brother was born, I am pretty much an American girl through-and-through.

Except.

Except that I never had a taco (or any Mexican food) until I was in college. My parents didn't hold to the immerse-yourself-in-your-new-culture-and-try-new-things philosophy. Instead they were somewhat skeptical of all things American and didn't expose us to traditions and experiences that felt particularly foreign to them.

Except that we never celebrated Christmas on Christmas Day. By the time all my friends were opening presents, I already had all mine. Although I loved this because I got presents early, I also hated it because I was different. We never listened to or learned American Christmas carols at home, but rather we listened only to German Christmas carols and Bavarian Christmas music. Although this was embarrassing to me as a child, I fully appreciate it now, as German Christmas music is much more beautiful! (I have a very scratchy cassette tape of Bavarian canons and church choirs recorded live near Ruhpolding that Mom made me years ago, and it -- like quite a few other pieces, as you've surely come to realize by now -- always brings me to tears.)

Except that I never learned some words in English because my parents only used the German words for them. I never learned "trivet"; it was always an "untersetzer." I never learned "backpack"; it was always a "rucksack." I never even learned "dammit" (or worse), since my mother's preferred word of exasperation and anger was "scheibenkleister." I could only imagine what it meant -- considering the way it was uttered, it must be something horrible! Only as a teenager did I learn that it meant "window putty." Oh, window putty! (And when my mother didn't know the English word for something, she'd just make up a word: the sleeve-like potholder that slips over the long handle of a pot was, according to Mom, a "penis warmer"!)

Except that there was no context, understanding, memory, or appreciation of American pop culture or American traditional events. The only music in our household was classical music, primarily by German composers (which, actually, I loved). My parents would have never taken us to a country fair or a football game (which were deemed "too military). And, hardest on me as I approached adolescence, my parents had no clue what it was like to be an American high schooler. Football, cheerleading, homecoming, and prom? They held absolutely no meaning for my parents, and because of that they were ignored (at best), trivialized, or even ridiculed. Is it any wonder that, as an act of teen rebellion, I became a varsity cheerleader and went out with the captain of the football team? (And still today I react to this by being very involved in my kids' high school experiences, often talking about and comparing them to my own.)

Except that some American holidays -- the most American of the holidays -- held little importance in our household. Independence Day, for example, was simply the holiday in July, and Thanksgiving was celebrated with family as a day to have a great meal (but no football... heaven forbid!), but with no historical or personal significance.

Except that I couldn't boast my father's heroic military dedication as my friends could boast theirs'. Their fathers flew the planes that bombed Germany, while my parents lost parents to those bombs. In their ignorance, my friends called my parents Nazis; if only they understood that my parents came to America precisely because of my father's experience as a half-Jew in Germany.

Except that organizations which my friends' parents respected and aspired to for their children were virtually shunned by my parents. Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, and even the school crossing guards were regarded by my parents as too much like the Hitler Youth, too militaristic, and too assimilating. Although they didn't forbid us to join these organizations, they were decidedly unenthusiastic about them, certainly never offering to be any part of them themselves. (Again, my response in adulthood was to volunteer to be my daughters' Brownie leader and my sons' Tiger Cubs leader.)

Except that American network TV held no importance to my parents. Where other families watched Gunsmoke or Bonanza or Bewitched together, my parents had no clue what these shows were. When we did have a TV it wasn't placed in the living room or family room, but was instead in some out-of-the-way corner of the house (like next to the laundry chute). Oddly enough, there was one show that my parents did like and watched religiously: Laugh-In! To this day, I can't figure that one out, as that show was intentionally inane, very American, and downright silly, without any of the "redeeming value" that my parents insisted on!

Except that while my friends spoke of their trips to Maine or Nebraska or Florida to visit aunts and uncles and cousins, I could only speak of extended family (most of whom I'd never met) who lived far away across the ocean in a different country. And once I was old enough to travel, my parents sent me to Germany to meet those relatives and explore the land of my heritage. Thus, even to this day, I haven't really explored America. My next trip really should be to Washington DC, to New England , or to the southwest. I'm 50 and an American; I really should know more about my own country's history and geography.

I'm an all-American girl, never having lived in any other country. But another country lives in me, still influencing me in so many ways. And now, as a first-generation American with kids who know nothing but being American, I'm finding that I'm attempting to instill in them exactly what I rejected in my own youth -- an appreciation for and familiarity with their heritage. By the time my kids have their own children, the German influence will probably be only in stories passed on through the generations instead of in personal experiences and memories.

And actually, there's something kind of sad about that.

Peter Jaffe Never Kissed Me (Even if I Told My Diary That He Did)

Scribbled in my tattered diary in bright pink glittery ink, in my very 7th grade handwriting on the day labeled (in gold letters) March 7, 1970, are the words "Peter Jaffe kissed me."

Peter Jaffe, in his forest green turtleneck sweater and his straight, smooth hair combed low over his right eye, was not only the very best looking 8th grade boy at Berkeley's Willard Junior High School, he was also the extremely talented concertmaster violinist of the school orchestra. As a lowly 7th grade flautist, I dared not speak to Peter -- but I knew everything about him, from his class schedule, to his favorite lunch food in the school cafeteria, to his home address and bus route number.

I adored and idolized Peter and would run from my third period science class to fourth period orchestra, just so I could hear him warm up, playing lively scales and excerpts from really difficult pieces that he practiced for his roll as concertmaster to the regional youth symphony. Sometimes Peter was asked by our conductor and teacher, Mr. Weyerhauser, to be a guest conductor and on those days I could barely contain my adoration for him, as he would smile (oh, if only it were at me!) as he raised his baton, his entire head of hair flowing, almost in slow motion, from side to side.

Yes, Peter Jaffe was just about as close to perfection as one could be, and even when the end of the year approached and I knew he'd be going on to high school, my crush had not waned. But the next year we moved an hour away and my thoughts slowly moved on to other boys -- boys who I did talk to, and a few of whom eventually did kiss me.

Years later, between college and graduate school, when I worked at a bank near the Stanford campus, I came across the name Peter Jaffe while filing checks, and my heart immediately skipped a beat. Could it be the same Peter? That night I flipped through a friend's Stanford Student Directory and there it was: Peter was a student in the school's music department! The next day, as I was preparing to send monthly statements (which we did by hand then), I scribbled a note to Peter. It began with "You probably don't remember me..." I slipped it into his statement, along with his checks and hoped that he'd read it and come into the bank to finally (finally!) speak to me, if only to say hello.

He never did.

Years passed. I married, had four children and watched them grow up. One day, just two years ago while I was visiting my father, he asked, "Didn't you know a violinist in junior high school named Peter Jaffe?"

"Well, I knew of him. And I had a massive crush on him. But I don't think I ever actually even spoke to him," I finally admitted. "Why?"

"He's coming to town next week, conducting a chamber group," said my father, who volunteers with his town's symphony and music programs. "Would you like me to say hello for you?" he asked as he handed me a long bio on Peter Jaffe who, it turns out, is now the conductor of a city orchestra in California. ("He lives with his wife and twin sons...")

"Yes!" I replied. "And give him this!" I scribbled another note, 20-some years after the first one. "You probably don't remember me..." it began.

My father handed Peter the note during intermission, but I never heard from him.

I have a feeling that as he read both notes, he was thinking, 'Whhhhoooooo? Who is this Carol person?'

Which is just so deeply insulting, considering that, according to my faithful and trustworthy (and fantasy and imagination-laden) diary, he kissed me on March 7, 1970.

Random Tidbits

I spent almost 12 (lazy) hours today cleaning the dang house, alone with my iPod and my chemicals.

Loved the iPod, hated the chemicals.

But on days like this I do a lot of thinking. The thoughts come and go easily, some of them lingering for a while and others fleeting before I can even grasp on to them.

Here are some of the thoughts that lingered long enough to actually ponder:

• I've been acutely aware that my blog is probably read by prospective and past employers, prospective and past co-workers, long-lost friends, immediate and extended family, and total strangers. And that awareness has driven the contents of my posts (and kept me from posting some content) far too much. I never began this blog for anyone but myself and I shouldn't start tiptoeing now. I started a post yesterday about how we've been relaxing in our parenting, allowing Aleks and Kat to stay out much later, and sometimes even all night (as long as we know where they are and who they're with), and how we've come to really trust their good judgment and maturity... but then I decided not to post it since it alluded to "drinking responsibly" and I wondered how that might come across to, say, a prospective employer. But you know, I should have posted it and not worried what anyone thinks. So no more tiptoeing. I yam who I yam and I write what I write. Deal.
• Hearing Bach's Tocata and Fugue in D on my iPod today (mid-floor-mopping) elicited the same emotions I had when I unexpectedly heard it played live in the church in Heidelberg last month. Instant lump in my throat followed by tears streaming down my face. Why does some music (most of it, but not all of it, classical) have such an intensely powerful effect on me? (Geoffry? Why?!) "To the core" is always what comes to mind when I have this reaction. And actually, as the music played today I was reminded of something that happened on our second evening in Heidelberg, as the organ player treated us to yet another "concert." (God, it was great!) Elisabeth and I were outside the church when a cat ran by us, headed very deliberately toward the church. Elisabeth tried to pick up the cat, "needing" to cuddle it, but he wanted nothing to do with us. He jumped out of her arms and ran to the huge, heavy church door. There he was greeted by a woman who seemed to be expecting him! She opened the door for him (and us), and we watched as the cat made his way, amid the very loud and powerful organ music, to the organ player's bench. He settled under the bench, sat perfectly still, and enjoyed the concert with the rest of us!
  
• Maybe I should go back to school and get a teaching credential (I already have a masters in education; how long could it take?) and teach 3rd grade. So what if I'd cut my salary in half or more?! (Yes, it's taken a while to get to this approach, but here I am finally.) I know I'd love it and maybe it's true what they say about doing what you love and the money following.
• Can I make money by writing? Given the choice, it's how I prefer to spend my time. But only when I write what I want to write, not when I'm told what to write. I'm stubborn that way.
• I love it when my daughters French braid my hair. I also used to love it when my students and "camp kids" used to fuss with my hair. They used to line up for a turn! Ah, bliss!
  
• I hate my new, expensive front-loader washing machine and I want to return it. Tomorrow I'll attempt to exchange it for a normal ol' washer AND dryer.
• Books I'm reading: Blink! (about the science of intuition... I just knew it!), Evening (because I thought the movie had potential), Good Grief, A Map of the World (not started yet).
• I adore our new German bedding (thanks again, Christiane and family!), but it's made me realized how much I used to shop for bedding, buying a set of sheets here, an "alternate" (pffft!) duvet cover there. I can't buy covers or sheets for our new bedding here (I stocked up in Germany, fortunately, but didn't buy the European square pillows, dang it, and they're crazy expensive here!), so it's an odd feeling indeed to walk around Bed, Bath & Beyond and Linens & Things, knowing that I can't and won't succumb to my shopping weakness!
• My Google Reader (and blog comments, come to think of it) seems to be much quieter these days. Has the blogosphere gone dormant or something?!
  

A Walk Around the Block

A walk around our block is just over 9/10 of a mile long. Keeping track of 9/10th of a mile (not that I do... or would, but let's just say) can get mentally messy over time, so just to keep things tidy and fraction-free, I walk up and down our driveway once before my daily walk and once when I return.

I'm trying to walk the mile daily because... well, because it's healthy for the body and spirit and all that good stuff. Plus, I promised.

Here are a few visual snippets from my walk.

What do you see when you walk around your neighborhood/block?

I tag everyone who wants to play, but especially Geoffrey (Koeln), Jennifer (the gorgeous Colorado mountains), Holly (San Francisco), Metro Dad (NYC), Jennifer (Italy), and Goofball (Belgium).

Varied Voluble Vociferous Verbosities

So yesterday, as I drifted off to sleep at my laptop, I promised to write about my favorite words. I think I vowed to keep my list to ten.

Sorry, no can do.

I dreamed words all night. (By the way, since this post is about words, is it "dreamed" or dreamt"? Mr. Spellchecker insists that it's not "dreamt," but "dreamed" sounds wrong. Which brings up the "dived/dove" dilemma...) No twisted plots, no poignant (oooh, good word!) themes, no fascinating and romantic (or clandestine... there's a good word!) love stories. Just words.

So, in no particular order, here are just a few of my favorite words:

OINTMENT. Poignant is OK, but ointment is better. It almost borders on onomatopoeia (another good word), doesn't it? I mean, really -- applying ointment is so much more fascinating than applying (yawn) lotion, mostly because it's ointment and it goes on exactly like it sounds like it should. It's somewhat gooey (ooh -- good word!), somewhat slimey, and really goopey. Right? Come to think about it, all words associated with ointment are good words!

EMBOUCHURE. When I played flute way back in junior high school, we joked about this word all the time. "Your embouchure is showing!" "She has the best embouchure in the whole school!" It actually refers to the adjustment of the player's mouth to the instrument's mouthpiece (one's embouchure could change the pitch of the resulting note) , but we just thought it sounded cool -- and of course, a little nasty.

CHORTLE. I tend to do this and my family always makes fun of me for it. It's another word that sounds like what it describes (onomatopoeia). A chortle is "a snorting, joyful laugh or chuckle" -- with "snorting" being the operative word. Actually, I think chortle can be used as both a noun ("what an obnoxious chortle!") and a verb ("boy, can you chortle!"), so that makes it doubly-cool.

BEHOOVE: It just sounds so high-falootin (OK, fine -- hifalutin... which is pompous; bombastic; haughty; pretentious). And it's a great parenting word! Throws kids off every time, making things seem ominous (heeeey!) enough to instill just a bit of trepidation (oooh, another good word!): "It would behoove you to tell the truth, buster..."

PLETHORA: I don't know why I like it; I just do. I think it's the way it rolls off the tongue, with the "th" so unabashedly (ooooh, another!) articulated. I especially like it to describe a Petri dish full of little creatures: A plethora of omoeba. Run for the hills!

EXTEMPORANEOUS: I just think it's funny that a word meaning spur-of-the-moment, imprompu, improvised could be so complicated and arduous (good word!) to say and spell.

PHLEGM and SMEGMA: These have to go together to have their full effect. What is it about the letters "gm" that just kinda makes you go, "Ewwwww, groooossssss!"?

ANTIDISESTABLISHMENTARIANISM: Didn't we all learn this word in about 4th grade as the longest word in the English language? (Hey, by the way, what IS the longest word in the German language anyway? IS there one? Can't you just putting words together and deleting spaces forever?!) In my Berkeley-is-the-center-of-the-universe upbringing, I assumed that it was a Berkeley-spawned political word. I was wrong; even kids in Kansas city knew and loved the word!

QUAGMIRE: Any word describing confusion that begins with "QUA" has to be a great word!

CADDYWHOMPUS and JOLLIFICATION: This ARE a real word, aren't they? Caddywhompus means skewed, crooked, oddly-positioned and jollification means merry-making. I just love the way they sound like what they mean. Kinda like "ointment."

(And I did keep my list to around ten after all because I have to get ready for an interview -- which, by the way, I AM really excited about. The more I read the job description, the more it sounds like something I'd like -- bringing new products to online library communities. I've already had phone interviews, so I'm already immersed in the process somewhat. I just hope they don't now tell me that I'm not qualified because I don't have library experience...)

Answer Me This

As a very young child, I loved to go shopping with my mother at the Co-op store in Berkeley. Besides the Kiddie-Coral, which was my first nursery school-like experience, the Co-op had fluffy jelly donuts that reminded me of clouds, and raw green beans that I munched on while Mom made her way purposefully up and down the isles, filling our cart with the week's groceries.

As I got older, I still loved to accompany my mother to the Co-op, but instead of shopping with her, I'd head right to the next-door bookstore, where there was an entire shelf of creative writing books for kids. I can't remember the name of the series, but each book consisted of writing prompts, with space to write a story right there on the page!

"Your favorite food comes alive while you're eating dinner. Describe the evening."

"You can blink yourself to anywhere in the world. Where are you and what do you do?"

"Describe, in detail, how to peel an orange."

It never occurred to me to ask Mom to buy one of these books, though I'm sure she would have. Instead, I settled onto the floor in front of the bookshelf and mentally filled every page. Then I'd go home and write my story on simple lined paper, remembering every word and every detail of the story I'd created earlier in my mind.

A few years ago I found a book at Barnes & Noble called The Book of Questions. Thumbing through it, I was immediately reminded of the story-prompt workbooks at the Co-op bookstore years earlier, and of course I bought the book.

The Book of Questions is not a children's book, so the questions are more complex and require deeper, more analytical thought:

"Would you rather die peacefully among friends at 50, or painfully and alone at 80? Assume that most of the last 30 years would be good ones." (I'm sure not ready to die now, peacefully or otherwise... so that's a 'DUH!')

"Which of the following restrictions could you best tolerate: leaving the country permanently or never leaving the state in which you now live?" (Tough one. I think I could leave... but I'd be very homesick for the state in which I now live!)

"If you could spend one year in perfect happiness, but remember nothing of the experience afterward, would you do it? Why or why not?" (Nope. So much of what makes happiness, for me, IS the memory. Take that away and it's all fleeting and meaningless to me.)

"If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living?" (Yes, I'd immediately stop looking for a job and start seeing the world, meeting new people, and learning at least three new things per day.)

Today I found a website that's like the digital equivalent to the Co-op bookstore and to The Book of Questions. It's called Daydreaming on Paper and it poses a never-ending list of questions and writing prompts, one per click on the "Inspire Me!" button.

The first random question I got was, "Do you prefer print media or digital media? Why?" (Interesting that I should get that question, since I've produced both kinds of media! And really, I couldn't choose just one. I prefer any media well-produced and impactful!)

"List 10 moments or events that took your breath away." (Well, the organ "concert" at the Heidelberg cathedral in Germany last month is certainly the most recent!)

"Write your own manifesto or creed." (I don't have a clue...)

"List 10 words that you like." (I think I'll address that one in tomorrow's post... because you know, it's 8:47 and I'm... zzzzzzzzzz!)

Now YOU try it!

An Open Letter to My Internal Clock and Biorhythm

Dear Biorhythm,

What the...?

We were like one, you and I. We were connected, cohesive, and cooperative. We functioned like a well-oiled machine for years on end, waking briskly at sunrise, whirring along efficiently all day, and then fading gently together at bedtime, re-charging for the next busy day.

But you have abandoned me, oh biorhythm, leaving me to navigate long, dark lonely nights alone and to fade away into oblivion when people around me are wide awake and lively.

At first I thought it was because you felt abandoned when I traveled half-way across the world, leaving you to recalibrate yourself in a strange land. But we worked that out beautifully, didn't we? Within a few days we were a smoothly functioning team again, ready to take on the world -- literally.

You and me... buds forever. Right?

Wrong, apparently.

Now, my friend, you're playing with me, teasing me, and -- quite frankly -- pissing me off. Do you think I like waking up suddenly at 1:30 AM (after drifting off far too early, at 8:47), in a dripping sweat, grasping onto a fading, disturbing dream, and then not being able to fall asleep (or cool down) again for hours? Is that fun for you? Because really, it's no fun at all for me.

Loading dishes and doing laundry at 4:30 in the morning isn't really my idea of accomplishment. Hell, if I had real cerebral (paid) stuff to do, maybe I could work with you on this new craze of yours and we could stomp around together in the wee hours, being productive. I'd be down with that. But until that happens could you please, please (please) allow me to function like a normal human being, sleeping and waking at reasonable hours?

Two can play this game, my friend, and I'm not nice when I'm grouchy and tired. Do you really want to go there, or do you think maybe we can reach an understanding... like right now, when it's light outside and my cup of coffee has induced rational and logical thought (at least temporarily).

It's your move, buddy. Tread lightly... but please, do something!

Warmly (sweating, in fact),

Carol