Worth & Value

For What It's Worth #1

Even though we seldom realize it before adulthood, many of our parents’ more benign ways of moving through the world leave an impact on us.

Until this most recent musing, I would have said my mother’s daily routines and beliefs influenced me much more than those of my father.

It’s certain I inherited (or absorbed) my mom’s good housekeeping practices (although not the strict regimen),  her skill at organizing, her tenaciousness when there’s a job to be done and her usually sunny outlook.

While writing the 2009 memoir for my sons, I delved deep into my father’s psyche, outlook and mannerisms. In doing so I came across many more ways than I previously realized in which I mirror my father (in addition to the love of spirited debate and arcane knowledge).

My father was not a businessman … in career or in thought processes. He worked with engines, electricity and cables. He understood machinery, knew how to rewind and rebuild motors, manage recalcitrant and balky drive trains and coax old, worn-out elevators back to life.

Dad was the epitome of “honest to a fault.” For instance, when he was on call for customers’ after-hours machinery breakdowns he chose to charge his hours beginning with the time he arrived at the client’s business and he did not charge mileage. He could have—all the other repairmen did. He felt that practice simply wasn't right or fair to the customer.

The creases in his palms were permanently darkened from the oily grime he encountered every day as he worked to provide for our family of four.

When Dad arrived home in the evening he immediately went through the back door and down to the basement. He took a cleansing shower and changed into clean clothes. Up from the make-shift basement shower, refreshed and ready for the evening, he met Mom at the kitchen doorway, where they always exchanged a welcome home hug and kiss.

In some of his free time, Dad enjoyed checking out thrift stores and garage sales (although “garage sales,” per se, weren’t as common as now). He enjoyed finding small pieces of broken, non-working equipment which he tried to bring back to life or repurpose.

Once in a while he’d cart home some piece of furniture, dish or appliance for Mother’s approval. She seldom thought his finds were all that great. I remember Dad telling her the seller “… only wanted [this or that price], but I said that was way too low," which caused my mother further chagrin.

I recall more than a few times when my dad sold an item he no longer needed or things he owned more than enough of -- maybe a set of tires, or some firewood he’d cut from one of the many trees on our property, or that “too good to pass up” second-hand whatsis he bought for Mom. It never failed, when the prospective buyer came around, my father downplayed the value, and invariably reduced his already low asking price.

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For What It’s Worth #2

When I see something I would truly enjoy having, something I maybe looked a long time to find, I’m often surprised to see the item isn’t as expensive as I would have thought. No, I don’t request that Target, Cost Plus or the local consignment store mark the price UP for me (with an income lower than “middle,” I usually don’t buy the item anyway). However, I have been known to offer a non-profit thrift store more money than asked for an item.

When selling (a piece of furniture, for instance), I often minimize the value and end up practically giving the item away—while profusely thanking the buyer.

I also tend to dismiss the intrinsic worth of my artistic talents in, for example, poetry, essay, or decorating. Over the years I’ve been hired to give advice on decor and gardening and I’ve been hired to help edit essays for submission and books of poetry for publication. In every instance, I demur when it comes to my fee. I essentially undersell myself.

I began working at 16-1/2 and have continued to work through the years. I’ve been employed by good companies and in friendly environments and always felt grateful for the jobs.

Never once in all this time have I asked any of my managers for a raise in salary. I’ve received bonuses, as well as salary increases, but not because I’ve verbally promoted myself. I simply do not know how to do that. I await the largess of my employer, hoping my performance warrants an increase.

Oh, yes: thanks to both my parents, I know how to clean up pretty darn good. 

There is no such thing as absolute value in this world.

You can only estimate what a thing is worth to you.

Charles Dudley Warner 1829-1900, American writer

Weaving Words

Words and their nuances have always intrigued me. An early interest in words and phrases is obvious in the following examples.

The arrival of my brother 2 ½ years after my birth gave me “big sister” status. My parents told me they named the baby “Warren.” When I heard that word, my mother said I vehemently commented “He not WORN, he NEW!” Mom and Dad helped me pronounce his name correctly and showed me the differing letters.

Several years later, at about eight years old, I discovered the word “warren” in the dictionary. Of course, I teased my little brother mercilessly about being a “rabbit hutch.”

The landscapes in the small rural community of my childhood were not yet scarred with innumerable billboards. For this reason when a billboard—actually an extra large, sturdy sign—was installed, it garnered more than passing attention. One of these signs advertised a local furniture store. It depicted a pelican balancing a cotton ball on its beak and the statement “A Little Down on a Big Bill.” I didn’t yet know the term “double entendre” but I did know I loved the dual meaning.

This passion for the taste of words and flavor of ideas has not abated throughout all the facets of my life; through marriages, births, raising children, work outside the home and all the mental and physical energies expended in those areas.

Love of words, their spelling and usage has been a lifelong passion of mine. This is not to imply that I know the etymologies of words or that I am always accurate in my usage. The simple fact is I am fascinated by words—their sounds, meanings, spelling, and quirks. The four dictionaries I have in various spots throughout my small home are testament to my interest. Of course, now that we have access to the various dictionary sites on the Internet, word-checking is a breeze.

A few years ago a person who definitely knows me well, gifted me with The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester. This is a book about the making of the Oxford English Dictionary. However, don’t for a moment discount the book as dry and boring reading.

The Mother Tongue by Bill Bryson is also on my bookshelf and it, too, was a gift from a dear friend and a seeker of knowledge; another person who not only knows my unflagging enthusiasm for words and their etymology but also knows I have a quirky sense of humor. This Bryson book is a fun read.

A Little Squeeze of Blue

The title of this post comes from a comment Claude Monet made when speaking of how visual artists should view their world.

“…whenever you go out…think: here is a little squeeze of blue, here an oblong of pink, here a streak of yellow…”

I believe the statement could apply in multiple areas. It speaks to the value of being aware of our surroundings—conscious of and alert to the natural world’s color and beauty, even when life seems off kilter.

Of course, putting ourselves into this awareness mindset, noticing the bright streaks of golden yellow randomly piercing through clouds on dark days or seeing the tender, rosy pink blush on a soon-to-open rosebud (when the only reason you are among the flowers this morning is because you’re sitting in the hospital’s “Garden of Peace” with a seriously ill friend) or trying to appreciate the achingly, beautiful azure blue sky when you have the worst head cold of your life...well, it’s not easy, not at all.

When we make plans for the coming days, we assume everything will be sunny and bright, full of good health and love; when thinking of the ensuing years we may believe we are taking into consideration the toll aging will have on our bodies, and yet we have absolutely no idea. 

For the most part Homines sapientes wear their rose-colored glasses when looking to the future. Most of us move through our days as though in a haze, going through the motions, counting the hours and minutes until we come to whatever it is we’re planning on to make us happy … or happier.

In my part of the country, we're on the cusp of springtime. Mainly now, mainly because spring is my favorite season, I like to think I’m living in the moment; however, each time I marvel at the newly sprouting tomato seeds, every time I smile at the tender bright green growth on the Jasmine, as much as I’d like to think I’m relishing the “now,” the fact is, I’m looking forward: to red, ripe tomatoes (without blight), to the sweet smell of the Jasmine flower (with no aphids), to the next blooming and the next day when there’s sure to be “a squeeze of blue” sky replacing the gloom of mid-April. 

Color fuses with memories, expectations, 

associations and desires to make a world of 

resonance and meaning for each of us. 
~Oliver Sacks - An Anthropologist on Mars

Contemplating Communication - Part 2

A silence on the line.

Have you ever been talking on the phone with a friend when you realize there is profound quiet on the other end of the line and the person with whom you were speaking is mentally far away, not really listening to you? 

Most likely the person is in the throes of what they may call “multitasking.” True, it could be you are simply boring them. But the kind thing to do in that instance is for them to make some excuse to just end the phone call.

This hasn’t happened to me very often but when it does it’s disconcerting—and rude! When I sense this “vacancy” on the other end of the line I usually ask if the person would like to hang up and “…we can talk later.” The quick, almost panicked comment is “Oh no! Sorry I was just…” checking my instant messages/writing a grocery list/looking at the calendar, etc.

Pam  is all ears and energetic asides when I am talking about or commenting on events in her world, her life. The silence happens when I veer into my world, away from something pertaining specifically to her. 

Pam only thinks she is having a conversation with me; thinks she can combine listening to her friend speak while also doing any number of other visual or mental tasks.

Then again, maybe I'm boring her!

I recently read of a Stanford University study which shows multitasking (media multi-tasking in particular) takes a toll on the brain. The study concluded that "...people who juggle multiple forms of electronic media have trouble controlling their memory, paying attention or switching from one task to another as effectively as those who complete one task at a time."

Adam Gazzaley, a professor of neurology and psychiatry calls multitasking a myth. Task switching is more accurate, he says. “Our brains don’t excel at doing too many things at once.”

Contemplating Communication - Part 1

A friend recently used the term “ambient intimacy” to describe the use of the ubiquitous “social media,” such as FaceBook, MySpace, Flickr and Twitter. The two-word term was new to me. Of course, I knew what “ambient” meant as well “intimacy,” but had never heard the two used together.

I’m way too literal, I suppose. In the case of social media, I’d more likely use the term “ambiguous interaction.”  

This friend and I communicate at least weekly with e-mail and phone calls—keeping in touch, keeping tabs on one another. Four or five times a year, when she comes through my town on business, we carve out time to visit face-to-face.

The term, “ambient intimacy” arose on one of these face-to-face occasions. We were in a local bistro, enjoying, among other topics, a lively conversation about the importance of clear, attentive and sincere communication—whether with family, friends or in business.

Lila was sitting across from me, her eyes bright and expressive. I listened to her words, intent on what she was saying. I watched her face and her body language and added a comment now and then.

When our conversation died down a bit, Lila laughed and said “…now this is truly what I’d call ‘ambient intimacy.' ” My questioning expression gave rise to her explanation that the term had been coined to describe social media; not the type of conversation we were having. However, it surely seemed more apt in our case.

We were experiencing the joy of being good, “intimate” friends. Even though the café seemed noisy when we first arrived, our total concentration on each other and what was being said filled our senses; the noise level became simply an “ambient” hum in the background, not at all disturbing.

Communicating in this manner, with a dear friend, is life-enhancing for me. I’ve been truly “heard” by another and as she spoke to me she had my full attention.  

Butterfly Effect?

Maybe I should have realized April Fool’s day 2010 wasn't the wisest or most propitious of days to attempt crossing off some “nagging necessaries" on my errand list. The main things were an oil change, DEQ test and new license for the car, a much-needed haircut, then grocery shopping for the upcoming family dinner on Sunday. So, April 1st or not, I set out with high expectations that I would accomplish all seven errands, safely and timely.

Thankfully, the lethargy of a few days ago seemed to be gone and my energy level had bounced back.

As I left home that morning, the sun winked on and off through some puffy white clouds and the air smelled fresh and new (not like a wet dog, which is how it smelled after the previous several days of cold wind and pounding rain).

Car servicing and DEQ testing along with new license tags…those things went very well. As I pulled away from the DEQ station some of the blackest and most ominous clouds I’ve ever seen began scudding by and in a few moments, pea-sized hail rained down. 

I’d just gotten onto the freeway heading east when I heard and then saw two police cars, sirens blaring, coming up from behind. They scooted around, in and through traffic, taking an off ramp about a mile down the road. The same ramp I planned to take as I continued my errand-filled day.

I decided to take an alternate route; but that would most likely make me late for the hair appointment. Due to our state’s new law against talking on a cell phone while driving, I had to pull off the road while I called to say I’d be a bit late to the haircut appointment. How late? Oh, 10 minutes, or so. Okay, that’ll be fine.

Alternate route #1: Road crews were holding up traffic while jackhammers tore away at the asphalt. Not knowing how long the wait would be, I decided to follow the lead of the car in front of me and turn off that road, down to the next parallel one. That road had a sign “Road Closed” and a detour arrow. Twisting and turning along narrow side streets, the detour dumped out onto a four-lane highway.

Oops, another siren in the distance. Rear view mirror shows an ambulance fast approaching. All traffic pulls to the side of the road. The ambulance turns left—at the same intersection I’d planned to take. Okay.

Alternate route #2: And that will be? I’m in the outskirts of my town and not totally familiar with every road. Just then, I see a sign pointing to the North-South freeway entrance, two miles down the road.  A different freeway would skew my route about four miles but if the flow was steady, I could still make the appointment.

There’s no turning back once I decide to enter this freeway. I’m committed. Bad decision. From my position at the rise of the on-ramp, it’s obvious this freeway is at a total standstill. Taillights blink on and off, semi-trucks’ Jake brakes chatter and shudder as the behemoths stop and go, stop and go.  I can see several miles down the freeway—the only discernable movement is literally just inches forward and then a halt. My choice has been made; I must enter this veritable slog of traffic.

And then I see it—the flashing highway sign advising motorists there’s been an accident on the top deck of one of our bridges. Two lanes closed. Even though this bridge wasn’t one I would be taking, the result of the accident meant that most arterials had been affected.