Column: A time when interaction was a highlight of the hiolidays

I was listening to the show “Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me!” on Maine Public the other day when the topic of “FaceTiming with Santa” came up. This involves apps that allow children to interact with jolly old St. Nick through the marvels of modern technology, i.e., online.

Sigh.

It’s bad enough when parents are glued to their phones while they’re out and about with their children. Now the phone is going to be the kids’ Santa experience?

Not that all in-person, face-to-face meetings between youngsters and the big guy are memories worth their tinsel. My own “First Santa” photograph shows me in tears.

Who can forget the department store Santa scene in “A Christmas Story,” in which a malevolent elf drags the children to the bearded one, who terrifies them? Then a second malevolent elf shoves the screaming kiddos down a slide. 

Still, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

I was brought up in a time when children ran around the neighborhood until dark, playing physical games that sometimes ended up causing bloody noses and scraped knees. My parents’ generation was even tougher.

We tackled Christmas in the real world. We had no choice.

Now we are increasingly virtual. I’m as bad as everyone else. Most of my gifts were ordered online, although a number of them were from Maine companies. It’s easier and less time-consuming. Plus, I don’t like crowds.

Then I found myself smack-dab in the middle of one. I’d gone to Target to pick up stuff like paper towels, then decided I needed holiday candy. This was stocked in the Christmas area, which, of course, was wall-to-wall people. Several times I found myself unable to turn my carriage in any direction. Though I wasn’t in a huge hurry, I was annoyed.

Really, Liz, I said to myself. Can’t you be peaceful and joyful for five minutes?

As I stood waiting for somebody to move so I could pass, I tried to practice patience.

Ah. That’s one of the virtues we don’t get to hone if we FaceTime with Santa or order online.

I think being pleasant to others when you want to scream with frustration is a beneficial skill.

It’s also important to know how to interact with strangers in a public setting. If I hadn’t said, “excuse me,” several times during my time in the Christmas area, I’d still be there right now.

The art of living in the real, bricks-and-mortar world is not coming naturally to our young people. As an educator, I am hearing this (and seeing it) all the time. It’s not healthy.

I understand the urge to remove oneself from the world all too well. I’m an introvert. If I don’t have regular quiet, alone time, I wither. Technology gives me a way to communicate without disrupting my solitude too much. Texting, e-mailing, Facebook messaging—it’s all good.

But I have a solid core of real-world skills. Though I was a shy child, I wasn’t allowed to use that as an excuse to hide in my room. My father owned an Arnold Bread franchise, and when I went to work with him I was expected to be sociable with the people we met on his route. Luckily, Dad was such an extrovert that what I had to do, mostly, was just laugh at his jokes.

It’s different today. Some parents enable their children, to try to shelter them from the “slings and arrows” of life. And there are now so many ways to do just that.

But our interactions with others are a huge part of what it means to be human. I am nostalgic for the way Christmas used to be.

My father would wait until the last minute to buy presents for Mom. (She bought the gifts for everyone else.) We lived in a suburb of Fall River, Mass., and I’d go with him into the city to shop downtown. He would buy an article of clothing, a piece of jewelry and something decorative, like a candy dish. The streets, all lit and decorated for Christmas, would be filled with other shoppers hurrying to finish their holiday errands. There would be lines of people waiting to check out. It was one of my favorite holiday traditions.

Malls started to spring up when I was a teenager in the 1970s. I thought they were cool at first, but as an adult found them tiresome. I turned to catalogs, and, finally, the Internet.

But as I stood surrounded by other shoppers at Target, I thought, “This isn’t so bad, after all.” Oh, yes, Christmas is fully commercialized, and isn’t that horrible? But, let’s admit it, shopping is one of our holiday traditions. 

Jostling in a narrow candy aisle with ten other people is not only a good way to practice your civility skills, it is 100 percent in the spirit of the season.

Nobody was rude. No fisticuffs broke out. Sing “Joy to the World”!

Column: Paint chip poetry . . . it's a thing (and a good one)

As a school librarian, I’m always looking for ways to get students excited about literature. When a colleague mentioned paint chip poetry, I thought it was a great idea.

By paint chips, I mean the cards you pick up at the paint or hardware store. You bring them home and hold them against a wall and try to imagine how the colors would look in your room. Sometimes these chips are all one color; sometimes they are striped with several hues. At other times, they contain a color scheme the paint manufacturer has concocted.

The colors come with amusing or evocative or mysterious names. Sometimes they are downright silly. Pickle. Rachel Pink. Irresistible. Pinch of Pearl.

Linked by original writing, they can be turned into poetry.

Over the course of a few weeks, we had more than 200 middle-school students visit the library to make paint chip poetry. They were instructed to look through the piles of chips on the table in front of them, to find names that “spoke” to them. Then they would write their poems on scrap paper. When they were satisfied with their work, they would write the poems on the paint chips, then glue them together.

My colleagues and I wrote poems to use as examples. This is mine (the paint color name is within quotes):

The “Paper Dolls” were “Bewitched” by the “Lyrical Poetry” they heard at the “Spice Market.” Even the “Warrior” was inspired to write a “Letter to Juliet.” I arranged my chips horizontally, while my co-workers took a vertical approach. We did this without consulting one another, but it was good to be able to show the students there was no one right way to present their work.

Paint chip poetry has a strong visual element. The “Spice Market” card was the deep orange-brown of turmeric, for example, while “Warrior” was pale gray. Some students were drawn to the colors more than the names, but still ended up with interesting poetry.

When I try a new lesson, I am eager to see how it will work. In this case, the students understood the power of the words on the cards. It wasn’t all serious, though. A surprising number of paints have food names, and hunger-inducing poems were written.

Read these names and drool: Maple Glaze. Fresh Guacamole. Spinach Dip. Fruit Salad.

here were some that seemed just perfect for teenagers, like “No More Drama.”

Others just begged to be turned into reveries: “Moongaze,” and “Stolen Kiss” and Enchanted Meadow.”

One student wrote, “My dad told me a “Bedtime Story” about an “Upbeat” song that was heard from the “Cotton Clouds.”

Some students creatively arranged their chips in circles, or in off-kilter horizontal or vertical rows. Some decorated them with small drawings of flowers, hearts or clouds.

There was romantic poetry. “And for a moment I thought I saw the silhouette of a girl standing in the “Tidewater.” Her hair cascading down her back in an “Amber Wave.” Laying across layers of “Elegant Lace” and silk. But in a flash, she was gone, echoing the thoughts of “Something Borrowed.”

It was a time for education, as sometimes students didn’t know what a word meant. One card referred to “Amalfi,” confusing a student. “I think that’s a beautiful coastline in Italy,” I said. “But let’s look it up.” Ah, a teachable moment.

I found a chip called “Blue Azores,” and was delighted. Most of my ancestors came from that archipelago in the Atlantic, an autonomous region of Portugal. A student learning the English language was excited to find “Turkish Coffee,” and worked it into a whimsical poem involving an otter and an alpaca.

After the students finished, they read their work. Some were shy but others were excited to share what they wrote.

Later, our high school library assistants put the poems on a bulletin board, and when that was full, on two tri-fold display boards.

That’s a lot of poetry.

I was interested to see how the process works. The paint color names prompt images, thoughts, stories. But creating the poems is also a tactile experience. Students can move the chips around. Sometimes the order is obvious, such as the student who found chips featuring “morning” and “twilight” and “night.” Who would want to paint a wall black?” a student wondered.Good question, although I think it was actually a very dark blue.

Rachel Pink could be a person. Where is she going? What is she doing? Is she going to get a “Goodnight Kiss?”

I have done book spine poetry (piling books so their titles make a poem) with middle school and high school students and adults. I am always amazed by the creativity that pours forth.

It was the same with paint chip poetry. We are all poets, and given the time, the tools and the inspiration, we can all make the world a little more beautiful with our words.

Column: "Maine nice" . . . it's a real thing

When my sister, Maggie, and brother-in-law, Gary, came up to Maine from Rhode Island recently, they noticed something. “People are nice” here, they said.

A couple of weeks ago I described Mainers’ deteriorating driving habits in this very space. Just two hours before I sat down to write this column, my husband, Paul, was honked at—by the car behind us— as he stopped briefly at an intersection before turning right. We recalled that there was no such impatience when we moved here in 1986 from our native Massachusetts, that rich breeding ground for rabid drivers. Times have definitely changed.

Yet, I readily agreed with Maggie and Gary in their assessment. In the car, Mainers may be turning meaner. But on foot, we are still nice.

There is a thing called “Midwestern Nice.” An article in “The Economist” attempts to define it, and who better than the Brits to analyze us? Midwestern Nice is “apologising involuntarily when scooting past someone, both to warn of your presence and to express regret for any inconvenience your mere existence may have caused. It is greeting people as they step into a lift and wishing them well as they leave.”

So, I was in a crowded venue the other day and suddenly realized I was standing right in front of another woman. I moved and apologized. “That’s OK,” she said. “I’m just looking for my kids.”

“I’m looking for my husband.”

“Same thing,” she said. We laughed.

Yeah. Maine nice.

It took me years to recover from the snooty atmosphere of my high school. I was never sure whether a schoolmate—outside my circle of friends— would say hello to me, even if we were the only two people passing in a corridor. Now it is routine for me to nod or say “good morning” to strangers encountered while I’m out walking on the rail trail.

Maggie, Gary, Paul and I talked about Maine Nice for a bit. I said I’d noticed it when I’d first moved up here, in the demeanor of supermarket cashiers. They might actually engage you in small talk. Comment favorably on an item you were purchasing. “I haven’t tried that flavor yet!”

“Well, you should. It’s terrific!”

What accounts for it? Maine is a small state…but so is Rhode Island. The population is about the same. But the Ocean Staters are squished into a much smaller area. Maybe they get on each other’s nerves. They might have a stronger need to be insulated while out in public.

Maybe it’s the predominately rural nature of Maine that contributes to our niceness. It is common, for example, for people living in small towns to wave at each other as they pass on lonely roads, even if they don’t recognize the other vehicle.

Maybe it’s because we have a low crime rate as compared to the rest of the country. Are we more prone to think it’s safe to talk to strangers than people are if they live in more crime-ridden states?

Whatever the reason, Maine Nice is a real thing. I even see it in young people.

I’m an educator, and I can tell you that it can be dangerous to try to move through groups of teenagers who are trying to get to their next class. Earbuds are in place, their mental GPS is set for their destination, and a five-foot-one librarian is not on their radar. Yet, these same students—when not in a rush—will hold doors open for me. When I thank them, the reply often is, “Of course.”

One day I was trying to maneuver a cart of books from my car to the school. A high school student was walking ahead of me with his girlfriend. As he opened the door, he turned and saw me. He came down the sidewalk, commandeered the cart and got it through the doors and into the lobby for me.

Of course.

Maine Nice includes a level of trust. This is seen at unstaffed roadside stands, where customers can leave their money and take away fresh eggs, or a pint of blueberries. Paul and I were at an indoor farmers market recently. As we waited for our pizza, we noticed there were several piles of money on the counter. When our pie was done and I got out my wallet, the proprietor, pointing to the countertop, said, “Just make your own change. It’s $12.” He was on to making another pizza.

I blinked, then put down a $20 and counted out my change. Twice. That was a lot of responsibility.

Of course, I would never say that life in Maine is all rainbows and unicorns. I keep track of interesting interactions I have at the grocery market, and many of them are negative. But the one I like best, the story I tell the most, is of the man who paid for my order.

I think it was because he and I had engaged in a little repartee at the checkout. I had laughed at a joke he made.

Take it from this Massachusetts gal. Tthat’s how Maine Nice rolls.

Column: Enduring the holiday season

In Season Three of the Netflix drama “The Crown,” Queen Elizabeth reflects on what she thinks makes the royal family “normal.” What they share with the commoners, that is. “Christmas is to endure,” she says.

Of course, the Windsors’ lifestyles are nothing like those of their subjects, but maybe she does have a point about the holidays.

Maybe no amount of money and prestige can allay the periods of stress, tedium and aggravation that punctuate our lives between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. 

I do envy those who enjoy the holiday season. I do not. Like the queen, I endure it.

Once, I loved Christmas. As a child, my family would spend Christmas Eve with my father’s sister and her family. The next day, after opening presents, we’d go over the line from Massachusetts to Rhode Island to the house where my mother grew up.

She came from a family of nine, and at least half of her siblings, and their children, would show up for dinner. It was always grand to see my cousins, who lived in different towns. (Dad’s sister, Beatrice, lived in the same town as us, so I saw her children more often.) 

Then it would be over to Aunt Bea’s house for turkey sandwiches and whatever goodies she had prepared, and to see my cousins’ presents.

My parents were generous but not extravagant in the their gift giving, so my sister and I were never overwhelmed by too many presents. One of my father’s brothers was a bachelor physicist. He always gave me books, which pleased me. Dad’s other brother and his family lived in Manhattan. They always sent me interesting things, like the decorated cloth purse I thought of as my “hippie bag.”

But after I married Paul and moved to Maine, Christmas became more difficult. I had more people to buy presents for. All the gifts had to be wrapped and then packed for travel. We would journey first to my mother’s house for Christmas Eve (usually with two dogs in tow) and then to Paul’s parents’ home, about an hour and a half away, on Christmas Day.

Paul’s brother had two children, and eventually they began having their own kids. I always enjoyed the little ones, but after all the preparation and travel (not to mention the sleep-inducing turkey), I’d be exhausted by mid-afternoon.

I found the holidays difficult during that period, which went from 1986 to 2005.Yet, there were bright spots. We were able to catch up with friends the day after the holiday. My mother always came home with us to Maine. As an educator, I’d have at least a week off to spend with her. Hitting the after-Christmas sales was one of our favorite activities.

Then Paul’s mother fell ill and things changed. She and my mother had both passed away by 2010, and Paul and I were on our own. Some years we had Christmas dinner with a friend, but she too, has since passed.

I think the holiday spirit was drummed out of me by 20 years of frenetic shopping and traveling. But, of course, I miss the people who have gone. I miss the family togetherness, even if sometimes it was tense or exhausting.

At the same time, it’s comforting to have no expectations for a spectacular holiday. Paul and I have a tall, old ficus tree that dominates the living room. There’s no room for another tree, so we decorate the fig, with lights and all. I keep up the tradition of sending Christmas cards. I enjoy holiday music (but strictly after Thanksgiving). I will put a wreath on the front porch, and well-loved decorations around the house.

I will make a tourtière (meat pie, although I use ground turkey) for Paul on Christmas Eve. That’s a French-Canadian tradition he grew up with. We’ll open our presents to each other on Christmas morning, and watch a holiday movie in the afternoon. We usually give each other at least one book, so we’ll spend some time reading. Hopefully the weather is good enough to go for a walk.

The past few years I’ve bought a digital Advent calendar created by a British company. Each day features an animated vignette or project, such as wreath decorating. Last year’s calendar was set in Edinburgh; this year it’s the Cotswolds. I can’t wait to begin. Once dinner is done, it’s my treat to sit in my reading chair and open up the calendar.

I always give a calendar to a friend, and sometimes we will e-mail each other if we’ve particularly enjoyed that day’s offering.

My hope is to make Christmas more about experiences than presents. I find, as I grow older, that I want less. For example, I’m a librarian, so though I’m a voracious reader, I have access  to a lot of books. I don’t need to own them all.

It seems I’ve reached a point in my life when I feel I should be getting rid of things, rather than accumulating new ones. (This does not apply to shoes.)

I think I am at peace with my simple holiday. But it’s hard to ignore the message that Christmas is supposed to be something more…spectacular. Come to think of it, that is what I must endure, for the next three and a half weeks.

Column: The "new normal" is new, but far from normal

When my husband Paul and I, Massachusetts natives, moved to Maine in 1986, we noticed that people drove more courteously here. Now, it might be said that drivers anywhere are better behaved than those notorious Bay State rascals. However, we’d been living in Rhode Island for a few years by then, and hadn’t noticed a discernible difference.

Over time, Mainers have grown as reckless as their neighbors to the south. It was a gradual process, but eventually, like doomed lobsters, we realized the water was getting hotter.

Now I barely remember the days, so long ago, when the driver behind you didn’t honk if you were slow to get going when the light turned green. It’s a hazy memory, like when Ofglen in the television version of “The Handmaid’s Tale” passes a shop selling puritanical dresses and recalls it once served fantastic ice cream.

It’s the new normal.

I hate that phrase. It suggests that we should give up and accept that an unfortunate situation is here to stay. That we are powerless to change things.

This attitude is neither healthy nor safe. And yet, I see it everywhere. We are in danger of becoming numb to climate change, mass shootings, and our president’s inappropriate behavior. The news can be overwhelming, but if we give up, things are just going to get worse.

There’s a phenomenon known as “climate change fatigue.” Climate change is a huge issue and we can't seem to make a difference as individuals. I might have felt smug about my contributions to environmental protection a decade ago; I drove my hybrid car and brought my own bags to the supermarket. But so what? The glaciers are still melting.

But if I throw my hands in the air and and say, "What's the point?” I become part of the problem. I’ll do what I can. Support candidates who want us to be part of the Paris Agreement on climate. Write about the issue. Continue to pay attention, no matter how depressed I get.

Climate change seems like a slow death. News of mass shootings is a staccato drumbeat that makes my head ache. Of course we are in danger of becoming numb to them, of not caring anymore. They seem to happen every week. How much can we take?

As an educator, there's no way I can turn my back on this issue. I don't want my students to live in fear. Fortunately, I have hope that this horrific trend can be stopped, or at least slowed. I think we can change the culture of our country. We can do it with moderate gun control. Experts are learning more about how to identify possible shooters. And after three years of President Trump leading us in the wrong direction, toward hate, I am convince that, with new leadership, we can swing all the way around toward love.

I am disturbed and disheartened when I hear excuses for Trump’s behavior. There are times when what is right and what is wrong are clear and undeniable.

It is wrong for a president to try to get a foreign government to interfere with an American election. Wrong for a president to tweet disparagingly about a State Department employee as she is testifying before Congress. Wrong for a president to tell members of Congress, to “go back” where they came from. It is wrong for a president to allude to white nationalists as “very fine people.”

Another new normal. We have to live with it, because, well, we have to get on with our lives. I would love to tune the president out. Completely. But I can’t. I have to let myself get upset. I have to keep saying, “This is not OK.” 

I can’t give up and go numb. I have to do my part to help others keep thinking, feeling and responding. Even if I don’t agree with them.

I, and my colleagues in public education, work daily to encourage young people to hone their critical thinking skills. They will make their own decisions and form their own opinions which, again, I may not agree with. That’s as it should be. I just don’t want them to be indifferent about their world.

The other day I was doing a library lesson I call “Research 101” with sophomores. Afterwards, I found a handout that a student had left behind. The first question on the sheet asked students to identify the “essential question” of their project. He had written: “Why is Trump being tried at impeachment?”

Wow. I’d used World War Two topics as examples, but this student was thinking for himself. I took it as a message from the universe, and smiled. Hope is a beautiful thing.

Column: Preventative medicine, whether you have two legs or four

Our chocolate labrador retriever, Aquinnah, is 13 years and 11 months old. That’s a good old age for a lab, especially a chocolate. They tend to have shorter lifespans than their yellow and black counterparts.

Every morning after breakfast, Quinn, as my husband, Paul, and I call him, comes over to me to be praised and petted. He’s not the sort of dog who will curl up next to you on the couch, like his sister dog, Martha. But he does enjoy a good “love session.”

I’ve always noted his broad shoulders. But lately, I’ve also been thinking to myself that it’s amazing he still has them at his advanced age. He’s not skinny and wizened at all.

I attribute this to preventative medicine. It works for humans, and for dogs.

There’s no doubt that Quinn has declined over the past two years. He is mostly deaf. Quinn has a a condition called laryngeal paralysis, which causes not only a hoarse voice, but also weakened hindquarters. He doesn’t walk as far as he used to and he has some trouble getting up stairs.

But Paul walks him several times a day, and Quinn does well. He can still climb those stairs. He’s got an excellent appetite, and enjoys playing “school” every night after supper. This is when I take him and Martha through their paces, practicing commands like sit, hold, paw, with each task rewarded with a small treat.

Quinn still has a good quality of life.

Since he came into our lives at the age of 16 months, Quinn has enjoyed healthy food, ample exercise and regular medical attention.  I know this has made a difference for him, and Martha. At age 11, she has much more energy than most “senior” dogs.

Quinn and Martha are the fourth and fifth dogs Paul and I have had since we were married in 1986. Our first dog, Nellie, suffered with bad skin. In the last few years of her life, we had to have her professionally groomed each summer, her fur cut extremely short, so she could be comfortable.

Nellie and her sister dog, Baxter, also frequently had ear infections. I smartened up toward the end of their lives, and began feeding them more natural, higher quality foods.

Quinn and Martha have never had any skin problems. Aquinnah’s ears need frequent cleaning, but I don’t believe he’s ever had an infection. I really think the food makes a difference.

As it does for people. I just finished a battery of diagnostic procedures (simply because I was due for them), and—hallelujah—I appear to be in good health. I have put my hope, in the last 30 years or so, in preventative medicine. 

First, I gave up meat. I haven’t had beef, pork or lamb since 1984. I occasionally eat chicken and turkey, as well as fish and shellfish.

I eat a lot of vegetables and beans, as well as berries at breakfast and citrus at lunch. I’m not averse to gluten, but I don’t eat much bread or any pastries anymore. I do love pizza and pasta. My vices are Dunkin’s flavored iced coffees and potato chips (all natural, though). I also like to make Via Mocha Lattes from Starbucks as a mid-morning snack at work.

After reading Dr. Andrew Weil’s books a decade ago, I began cooking strictly with olive oil, and I follow much of his other advice. I take a daily walk; sometimes it’s only 15 minutes, but I get it in.

I’d like to do more yoga, more meditation, more strength training. All I can do at this point is keep trying to work it in.

I have no doubt that a certain level of good health is within our grasp, for both ourselves and our pets. The “standard American diet,” as it’s known, is heavy on red meat, white flour, sugar, and highly processed foods. A reliance on these foods can lead to obesity, which then leads to other health problems.

I have observed people who lived to an advanced age despite their unhealthy diets and lack of exercise. But their quality of life at the end was not good.

People who take the best care of themselves can also develop serious health problems, of course. Environmental and genetic factors also play roles in our health.

I don’t see my lifestyle choices as a guarantee. They are more of an investment. I want to stay healthy as long as possible. If I’m blessed to make it into my 70s and beyond, I want to be out there having fun!

Once when I was having a medical test, I commented to the technician, “It seems like once you hit 50, things start going wrong.” She said, “I’m in my 40s and things are going wrong.”

I was being pessimistic. The test was negative, and I made it through that decade without any major health issues. You can bet, though, that I kept cooking with olive oil and eating berries. I may have done it with more enthusiasm than ever.

Quinn had a health scare recently. We thought we were going to lose him. But an enthusiastic young veterinarian was determined to get him back on his feet. Quinn may have had a seizure; we may never know. But now he is taking pills to help with arthritic pain, and he has a new lease on life. He’s a trooper.

I treasure every day with him—every day that he heads enthusiastically to his food bowl to devour his healthy food.