Past Blogs

I’ve run into hundreds of turkeys this past week. Fortunately for the turkeys and me, these birds are made out of construction paper, glue, paint, and in wealthier schools, dyed chicken feathers. Parading up and down school halls, the Toms remind the kids of our unique American Thanksgiving holiday.

Writings on thankfulness often accompany these artistic creations. Prompted by their teachers, the kids usually start with parents and siblings at the top of their lists, although some family members get usurped by dogs and cats. A new twist this year was turkeys with red, white and blue tail feathers with writing about America.

A radical idea popped into my head the other day. What if the upper grades were all asked to write a second essay on greediness? Being greedy is the opposite of being thankful, and a spirited discussion on greed and its consequences could begin the assignment. This exercise would certainly fulfill the current educational mania to get kids to “think critically”.

Unfortunately, my idea is not politically correct in our consumer society. Every cultural guidepost tells young people (and us) to consume as much as we can as quickly as possible. Black Friday shopping has morphed into Black Thursday and eclipsed the day set aside for thanks. Many sleepy children will be in those frenzied crowds on Thursday  night and the wee small hours of Friday morning. Other children will be home in their beds, but their parents will be jostling each other to buy piles of the newest Chinese made toys whose longevity and play value are nil.

I always get a small ray of  hope when I see a car with a bumper sticker proclaiming “Hate is not a family value”. Perhaps we need a companion sticker declaring, “Greed isn’t either.” And a cautionary note to those shoppers who applaud stores who purport to think of their employees and close on Thanksgiving. Coming in to work at 11 or midnight on Thanksgiving night and then working until dawn or later often counts as “closed on Thanksgiving”. Any woman who cooks a feast, cleans up the mess and works through the night at a big box store may not consider this as a day off.

Almost all of us probably harbor some mild phobias…..fear of snakes, spiders, bats, large crowds, enclosed spaces, heights. The renowned biologist, Edward O. Wilson, notes that these phobias are shared by all cultures and can be traced back to times when prehumans lived outside in tribes. Encounters with wild animals and enemy tribes were frequent and “it was safest to learn fast, remember the event long and vividly, and act decisively without involving any rational thought.”

We are still hard wired to do exactly that, even though we no longer spend all our waking hours in the woods hunting and gathering. Consider this ironic example. Dr. Wilson is one of the world’s leading entomologists, the Honorary Curator of Entomology at Harvard, yet this bug guy admits to being “a mild arachnophobe.” He confesses that he will not touch large spiders in their webs.

I am an arachnophile. These creatures amazing ability to create seven different types of silk and weave intricate webs fascinates me. When a spider in our house needs relocating, I willingly volunteer for the task. And handling spiders and snakes when I taught children’s classes at the zoo presented no problems.

But I do have a phobia. Chickens. The zoo once asked me to feature a chicken in one of my classes. I immediately asked to be instructed in chicken wrangling techniques. I was given a fifteen minute lesson which left me pitifully unprepared. Fortunately, my volunteer helper for the class was a no nonsense retired schoolteacher and former farm girl from the U.P. I explained my plight to her. She had no chicken phobias whatsoever and happily volunteered.

The chicken was brought to the classroom from the zoo farm in a cat carrier. My wonderful helper opened the carrier and pulled out one extremely angry bird who started pecking, clawing and flapping simultaneously. With one miraculous maneuver, this expert let that chicken know who was boss.

Someday, I would like to overcome my chicken phobia. But for the moment, I’m content to buy my eggs from the grocery store.

November is a challenging month. For starters, its name means “nine” which comes from the Latin “novem”. But calendars change, and November, number eleven in the current arrangement, has become an anachronism. September, October and December share a similar fate, while the other months can gloat about being named for gods, goddesses and emperors.

Only hard core lovers of big, roasted birds name November as their favorite month. Thanksgiving is a genuine American holiday, but it is loaded with pitfalls. How can an extended family sit around a dinner table and meet the needs of its clan’s vegetarians, gluten frees, libertarians, dieters, Democrats, Republicans, teetotalers, evangelicals, football fanatics and vegans? The carving knife must be kept in the hands of a mature adult at all times. Nowadays, mature adults are at a premium.

For those of us up here on the tundra, hope dies in November. The  trees have shed their last leaves, the fog hovers around our knees at dawn and dusk, and the sun’s appearance is a rare event.

Our beautiful Lake Michigan presents an additional threat…..it wants to kill us. November is the month with the deadliest storms on the Great Lakes, and Lake Michigan and Huron (which are scientifically one lake) hold the record for most shipwrecks. The gales of November are legendary.

The storms may rage and the temperatures plunge, but here is a way to combat the November doldrums: celebrate National Split Pea Soup Week, the second week in November. A steaming bowl of pea soup loaded with carrots, celery and bay leaves is sure to provide delicious fortification for the days ahead.

Sometimes it is necessary to take a stand. Last week was one of those times.

My husband and I were getting ready to visit our family in California for four days when we discovered that Frontier Airlines now charges for all carry on bags. The airline’s explanation for this new fee is “you get to choose the extra services you want.” Our view of the change is that we get to pay $100 to take a few clothes, clean underwear and two toothbrushes round trip. We were outraged.

We are both minimalists. One small carry on bag each has seen us through Japan, Central America, Alaska and Europe. A new plan of action was clearly needed.

The goddess of travel smiled down on me. I found a new, commodious eighty dollar handbag at Goodwill for $3.99. Two days later, St. Vincent’s provided a mint condition Samsonite briefcase for $1.99. Both items fit the 18 x 14 x 8 inch airline size limit for a “personal item”.

Choosing  clothes, toiletries and books that would fit in our personal items did require thought and planning. In addition, we had to find space for a small pumpkin. We have spent many previous Halloweens out west and know that finding a pumpkin in a desert state isn’t guaranteed. Neither one of us wanted to be jack-o-lantern less on Halloween.

My husband’s bag got yanked off the belt at the airport for a security check. The TSA man fished through my guy’s meager belongings, held the pumpkin aloft and wryly said, “you’re my first pumpkin of the day.”

When we arrived at the Frontier gate, nobody was smiling. About one hundred angry customers were in a long line waiting to jam their carry on bags and personal items into the wooden sizers. A flight attendant kept announcing in a prison warden’s voice that if your bag didn’t fit, you would not be allowed on the plane. Her information did not match the info on Frontier’s computer site which said that each bag that flunked its test would cost $50.

Our personal items fit: we had measured them three times before we left home. But in case Frontier used their own rulers, I was prepared. I would have simply given them my bag. After all, San Diego has plenty of thrift stores, and I could have replaced my bag and its contents for under twenty-five dollars.

We share our home with two black cats who frequently cross our paths. I have no qualms about walking under ladders or staying on the thirteenth floor of a hotel. Nor do I dread Friday the Thirteenth; a Friday of any date is my favorite day of the week.

I am a believer in reason, logic and the scientific method. Superstition is scary stuff. Down through the ages it has been used to spawn death, cruelty and injustice. Witches were burned at the stake, people with deformities were made outcasts and entire groups of people shunned.

Animals fared no better. Bats and snakes were killed as evil while other creatures were sacrificed to various gods.

Amazingly, superstition still thrives in the 21st century. In our modern times, it frequently comes disguised as tradition and involves invocations to luck. I consider myself rational, but will happily tug on a wishbone hoping for the longer piece. Finding a four leaf clover or a lucky penny brings a small surge of joy as well as seeing the first star of night. I will grab for a wishing seed or empty my coin purse to throw coins in a fountain.

I would love to live in a world free from the suffocating grip of superstitions. Would it be paradoxical to wish for a new age of reason while blowing out the candles on a birthday cake?