Bold-face names
not enough to
keep up with the kids
Kids are just like people — only newer.
Being among younger persons is refreshing, even if I sometimes have no idea what they’re talking about.
If they don’t mind being around someone two or three times their age, they can be amusing.
(They also can fix my computer and my cell phone, which makes them invaluable.)
Yes, I know it’s traditional to lament that “kids today” have it too easy. After all, we had to walk to school, our bare feet bleeding in the snow, remember?
That was because:
1. We couldn’t afford shoes
2. No school buses picked us up
3. It used to snow more
4. All of the above
Shocked (or jealous)
A sure way to watch their eyes glaze is to start off: “When I was your age…” Usually unspoken is disapproval — of their lifestyle, perhaps, or how they dress or how they interject “like” in every sentence.
We are shocked (or jealous) at what seems to be their freer lifestyle and openness about matters we used to be only vaguely aware of. Kids are much more sophisticated today than we were — in some ways.
I don’t see the same shows or listen to the same music, but I have some idea who they’re talking about, because I read the bold-face-name columns.
Surrounded as I am by much younger people, I’ve tried to be au courant, without much success.
Topless and not
I’ve become conversant with the exploits of Paris and Lindsay and Britney, and the gossip columns keep me on top of all the major issues of the day, such as Janet’s momentary toplessness and Miley’s lack of same, but even if I watched Lost and could discuss American Idol with them, the generation gap is really a chasm. To “kids today,” I’m — like — quaint.
Letter to Milestones
My brother and his wife, Henry and Bobbie Shaffner, sent me The Editor’s Column (Milestones, April) they had inspired.
Editor Don Harrison confessed that he liked Whittier’s “Barbara Frietchie” as a kid, despite his understandable aversion to the schools’ force-feeding of poems.
What interested me about his lament that kids don’t read anymore and his conclusion that required reading lists may not be the solution, was that force-fed poetry he memorized as a kid has remained with him.
So, there’s hope for the force-fed too! Ironically, a descendant of the general who inspired Whittier’s poem once stated your argument in reverse.
Stonewall’s only granddaughter, Julia Jackson Preston, lived to be 104, but sadly, the books she loved, she could no longer see to read, and the operas she so enjoyed listening to on tape, she could no longer hear. So I asked her how she survived, without books and music to inspire her.
She replied that, as a child, she had been required to memorize poems that, once she lost her sight and hearing, she revisited in her mind.
It’s what kept her vibrantly alive.
But she confessed one regret. She said kids today, unlike when she was a kid, aren’t required to memorize poetry, which, when they grow old, they’ll thank their lucky stars they were forced to learn.
How great it would be if memorizing poetry were universally fun, but force-feeding as a viable alternative was what Jackson’s granddaughter not only appreciated, but wished were still the norm.
She would very much have enjoyed knowing Don Harrison, who memorized poetry, whatever the reason, as a child!
RANDOLPH P. SHAFFNER,
Archivist Highlands Historical Society Inc. Highlands, N.C.
By Henry Klein
I just passed yet another birthday. Along the way, I’ve learned a few things that worked for me. Perhaps they can help you along.
• Don’t sweat the small stuff. Some of it will die on the vine; the rest may grow and wither. Wait until it’s really too big to ignore.
• Choose your battles. Small problems can be a lot of time and resources (strength, ideals, thought). Decide which are most important to tackle — and when.
• Perfection is not worth the trouble. Even God made some mistakes and had to do things over. Life is not perfect, so settle for 98 percent.
• Don’t be greedy. Set goals for yourself (money, mansion, Mercedes) and quit when you’re ahead. A rich tycoon is said to have told a writer, “I make more money in a day than you make in a year,” and the writer replied, “Yes, but I have something you don’t have — enough.”
• Don’t be afraid to ask your children to do things for you that you used to do for them. If not out of love, let them consider it as interest payment on their credit card.
• Don’t make the same mistakes with your grandchildren that you made with your children. Don’t worry — you may not be here to see how they work out.
• Do something nice for somebody today. It’ll make you feel good.
• Do something nice for yourself today. It’ll make you feel even better.
• There really is a “second childhood.” When you were an infant, someone made sure you didn’t fall. You’re again taking “baby steps,” and someone is always making sure you don’t fall. What goes around, comes around. Just live long enough.
• Most big problems can be broken into smaller pieces that can be solved separately.
• Savor God’s natural gifts slowly. Eat that apple or pear or even grape, one-half at a time; it may be your last one. Watch the sun come up and watch it set on the same day. Count the variety of colors and shapes of flowers. It may be your last chance.
• Marry the right wife. She’ll take care of all of the above while you’re taking your nap.
Note: It took me only two hours to write and polish this, but a lifetime to do the research.
By Kitty Baker
Let’s not get maudlin about this. It happens all the time. To each of us, eventually, only once.
I’ll agree that talking about dying is not a favorite topic while sipping a tall non-fat latte, especially since it’s I who may be slated to go into that dark night.
Long before contemplating the possibility of my demise, I knew through a career in travel journalism how to grab a stopper for a feature article. Well, OK, that was a different time. Hale and hardy, I searched for spectacular experiences in Siberia, Antarctica, on the Sahara and the Gobi.
Recently, I’ve traveled no farther than 11th and Sansom Sts. — to Jefferson Hospital.
Being robust and optimistic, I had no thought of writing about dying until that mild Tuesday in March when I heard, on my cell phone, “Kitty, your tests show cervical cancer. You are a special person. We are going to take good care of you.” I knew the “special person” was a doctor’s way of preventing hysterics on the phone.
So what else is new?
I thanked him for arranging treatments, and hung up and before I could absorb the news the phone rang again.
“Hi, Kitty, Sam here. How are you?”
“Just heard I have cervical cancer.”
“Oh, gee. I’m calling to tell you about an IPC program.”
“What’s IPC?”
“A political group that’s meeting in Willingboro.”
“I won’t be going.”
“The program is about…,” Sam went on, until I said, “Call you later.”
I soon discovered the phone can be a source of torture as well as a conveyer of love. Concerned friends called to know how I was, but were eager to tell about other cases of cancer and how a neighbor down the street did not survive.
Cakes and cheer
They brought cakes and cheerfulness. In spite of cramps, grouchiness and exhaustion, I learned that family and friends help to increase my survival rate to the point I’m willing to eat raw broccoli to assist my good cells in the fight against the protein-tough cancer cells.
Incidental acquaintances became warm, caring friends. My radiation techs pamper me, sharing warm soft pretzels when no other food will go down. My name is mentioned in churches, synagogues and at Reiki meditations.
Who can die with all that attention? Not me. Not for five, six, seven years.
It will take that long to eat all the frozen cakes.
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