by Ralph Maltese | May 28, 2017 | Uncategorized
The Triangle Part 2
If truth be told, it was the fault of Joe Croce and his brother Stephen for initiating our attempts to upgrade the Triangle (see previous blog, The Triangle Part 1). Joe and Stephen’s older cousins played semi-professional baseball, and they donated their old uniforms to their kin. When Joe and his younger brother showed up at the Triangle sporting blue-striped cotton uniforms with logos and laces and attached belts, we were all envious. Suddenly our dungarees with worn spots or even holes in the knees seemed rather shabby. There was not much we could do to improve our personal appearance, but we decided to spruce up the Triangle, our playing field.
Paint was not available, so we thought we could more clearly define the baselines by running string between bases. A few nails hammered into the ground and wrapped with twine seemed to do the trick. The actual bases, which were nothing more than bare spots in the grass, needed upgrading. Over the following week parents of the Triangle Gang began missing patches of extra carpet and one or two small throw rugs. Behind home plate was the heavily trafficked Edgewater Avenue, and, as our pitching (and catching) had a tendency to miss the fine corners of the strike zone, catchers were constantly dodging cars to retrieve errant pitches. Over the succeeding week, parents of the Triangle Gang noticed the disappearance of hammers, nails, and planks of wood. We built a rather large wooden backstop, not particularly symmetrical, but hopefully wide enough to prevent wild pitches (which, for some players, were all pitches) from bouncing off Chevy’s and Ford’s and the occasional Mack truck.
After two weeks of after school stringing, and nailing and hammering fingers blue, the Triangle Gang was ready to play its first game on the renovated Triangle. With some difficulty, we dragged the five foot by six foot high (some of us, acutely aware of Gundy’s propensity to make Ryne Duren look like a pin point pitcher in comparison, wanted the backstop even wider and higher) down the sidewalk along Shaler Boulevard. Pulling and tugging, we finally had the backstop in place, and we gathered in a circle around it, marveling at the massive structure that loomed over us much like the chimpanzees in awe of the monolith in the movie, 2001 A Space Odyssey.
The Triangle seemed to gleam with newness, the taut strings of twine connecting the bases, the bases themselves testimonies to our parents’ taste in carpeting and throw rugs, and the sentinel over all of it our wooden backstop, like the billboard eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleberg from The Great Gatsby looking over the entire expanse of the Triangle and seeing all. No township officials seemed to mind what we were doing—after all, the only value the triangle of green grass spotted with brown patches possessed was its importance to the Triangle Gang. The township officials also did not express any appreciation of our enhancements.
We also dressed appropriately for the occasion, sporting our best baseball caps and dungarees. The Croce brothers showed up in their cousin’s semi-pro uniforms of course. The night before I had worked some linseed oil into my Mickey Mantle Glove. The lettering identifying the glove as America’s Choice was beginning to fade, but the manufacturer’s tag, Made in Japan, was still legible. I was ready.
We spent the usual two hours choosing sides, this particular occasion adding a wrinkle to decide which team captain had first choice of players. Whoever won the hand over hand contest with the Louisville slugger now had to hold the bat with the tips of his fingers while the opposing captain had three chances to kick it out of the first captain’s frail grip. That settled, sides chosen after much deliberation about fairness (“if you pick Don then I get two picks”), and positions determined in the field, who was going to play where, it was time to play ball.
Gundy struck out the first batter, Bernie, which was to be expected since Bernie swung at any pitch this side of the Hudson River. Next, Sal Grasso got the meat of the bat on a Gundy changeup and hammered it to left field. We were all cheering as we encouraged Sal to keep going after he rounded first. Sal obliged and picked up speed rounding second. We watched his brother Joey have trouble picking up the ball from Mr. Arnuff’s front yard, and so we screamed at Sal to keep going. Sal put it into fourth gear and had just passed third when it happened. He tripped over the string delineating the baseline between third and home and staggered like a wounded and drunken sailor trying to regain his balance into Englehardt Terrace, a street that usually accommodated light traffic, but, at this moment, looked more like the New Jersey Turnpike. There was much honking of horns and some adult language issued from anonymous drivers, but Sal avoided getting run over, although when he slid on the macadam he tore his dungarees and his knees needed massive doses of mercurochrome that evening.
Of course, since all the strings between bases were connected, Sal’s dragging of the third base to home line meant all the strings between all the bases were now fettered to the sneaker of his right foot. Identifying the baseline by stringing twine had been a colossal mistake. In a half hour or so, we were able to free Sal’s entanglement with the twine and he endured our taunts referring to his appearance as a piece of prey wrapped in silk by a giant spider.
The problem was, of course, what to do with the play. While Sal struggled furiously to extricate himself like a fly in a spider’s web, Joey retrieved the ball, tossed it to Stephen who tagged Sal out. What ensued was one of the thousands of arguments involving fairness. To kids, fairness is a perpetual ethic that permeates every deed, every action, every observation. Kids are obsessed with fairness. Adults not so much. Was it fair that Sal was called out because he tripped over a field enhancement that, for him, became an impediment? We argued and deliberated and shouted our opinions on universal justice without either side convincing the other. Later on in college, the Augustinians taught me to examine the morality of every action, especially as a causality of future events. But even as a youthful member of the Triangle Gang, I pondered the fairness of the call. Was Sal an operative of his own free will, and thus responsible for being tagged out, or was he a victim of predestination, his destiny determined by the community stringing the bases together? The arguments, heated as they were, settled nothing. Fortunately for us kids, we had a fall back stratagem, a tactic of last resort, if you will. It was called the “Do Over.” The Do Over was anchored in fairness, the history of previous events totally forgotten, life beginning anew for both sides. Sal got to bat again….and struck out, but no one questioned the fairness of the Do Over. In my more naïve moments of fantasy, I imagine the adult world, married couples, political parties, even nations, employing the Do Over. “Okay, let’s settle this argument by a Do Over. Let’s go back to the beginning of the conversation involving loaning money to your brother.” “Maybe we were too hasty in voting to eliminate that health care bill. Do Over.” “Invading your country may have been a mistake. Do Over.” But the adult world will never adopt the Do Over. We attach our egos to historical decisions and can’t start anew from the moment. Pity.
Despite Sal’s destruction of our baseline guidelines, our inaugural game went smoothly until the third inning when two things happened. Ernie was a short, muscular boy who approached every sport with a snarl. If sneakers could be sharpened so that sliding into the second baseman would result in a hospital visit, Ernie would carry a rasp. On the first pitch of the third inning, Ernie grounded to short, and, with Kevin bungling the ball, Ernie had a chance to be safe at first. Ernie decided to slide into first which resulted in the base (which was Bernie’s mother’s laundry room throw rug) zipping out into Shaler Boulevard and plopping down on the windshield of a Ford, blinding the driver. There was much honking of horns and adult language and Bernie begging the driver to give him back his mother’s laundry room rug. Our “bases” obviously had their shortcomings.
In the same inning came the third disaster. Dennis, the largest member of the Triangle Gang, was perched on third, thanks to a series of errant throws. Dennis tagged up on Joe’s fly ball to shallow centerfield and raced home to beat the throw. Bernie, the catcher, reached far to his right to catch the wild throw as Dennis barreled to the plate, his mass and his momentum propelling him past Bernie, past home, past the throw and into the backstop smashing the planks of wood into, essentially, kindling sticks which sprayed Edgewater Avenue. We gathered around Dennis as he lay there, studying cloud formations and trying to recover from the collision with two hundred pounds of wood. We surveyed the ruins. Baseline strings gone, bases themselves disappearing in the muck of mud, backstop shattered. We could have continued the game, but our hearts were not in it. Our collective dream of playing on a world class venue had evaporation in the vicissitudes of reality.
The world changes with time. All four of our children played organized sports—baseball and basketball and soccer and field hockey. I assistant coached on a variety of township and travel teams, and Polley was a basketball league commissioner. Our kids seemed to have fun, we met a number of nice parents, and we enjoyed our children’s participation. I cannot recall, however, any of my four playing in a pick-up game. And I regret that. Ted Williams, noted slugger and baseball manager, was asked why the quality of hitting in the major leagues seemed to be in decline. Williams laid the problem at the feet of organized sports. His rationale was that in organized baseball, each kid comes to bat maybe four times a game. At the Triangle, we got to bat four times an inning, depending on the quality of fielding, and we would play two or three games a day…..at least.
But I also wonder about the larger picture, about more than developing good baseball hitters. Someone once said, “The business of children is play.” Working out the fairness of things, not only abiding by the rules but negotiating and collaborating on establishing the rules in the first place (with no adult as overseer) is a huge part of growing up. We made the rules, and from them evolved certain ethics which formed the core of our adult consciences. We tried and failed and tried again thus attaining a definite stick-to-it mentality, a skill now identified in educational circles as perseverance. Our parents did not have the need or desire to organize every activity. Our choices were left to us, intelligent decision making another important attribute of the healthy ego and learned through practice, through trial and error. And, when mistakes were made (and they were made in abundance) we peacefully strategized our way out of them with the Do Over. Many adults would profit from learning how the Triangle Gang got along, and I hope the youths of today form their own Triangle Gangs and enjoy the opportunities to make the rules and struggle with fairness.
by Ralph Maltese | May 7, 2017 | Uncategorized
The Triangle Part 1
Tis the season. A spring breeze wafts through my body, bringing futuristic images of standing in a green valleyed mountain stream casting a fly to anxious trout. And with the imagined future comes remembrances of things past, of searching the bottom of my boyhood closet for my baseball mitt and Louisville slugger. Once I gathered my equipment and checked with my father to see if any chores needed to be completed, I let the screen door slam behind me as I joined the other aspiring heroes of the baseball diamond at the Triangle…..except our baseball diamond was not a diamond at all.
The Triangle (a scalene triangle for you geometry majors) was a patch of grass with a couple of trees near the edge of the hypotenuse, and a bus stop bench snuggled between those trees, an oddity since no bus stopped anywhere near the wooden seat anchored in concrete.
Our playing field was bordered by the heavily trafficked Shaler Boulevard along one side, Edgewater Avenue at the base, and Englehardt Terrace on the third side. As the Triangle Gang gathered, we jostled for seating positions on the bus stop bench. Our town had a large and well equipped park with several basketball courts and two baseball fields, but those were the playing grounds of the big kids, those older guys who were just entering ninth grade, and who guarded their recreational domains with great fervor. Sometimes one of the scouts for the Triangle Gang would alert us to the fact that Memorial Park was void of big kids and thus available, but, as often happened, halfway through the first inning the big kids would show up and shoo us away. Once in a while, needing someone to play deep, deep right field, they would allow the tallest of us to participate. But this was rare. The Triangle was our recreational home.
On the bus stop bench we waited for more screen doors to slam as our friends, dragging baseball bats girdled with baseball gloves, showed up. Our first order of business was to choose sides, a dynamic that followed a rigid etiquette, was of supreme importance in our dedication to fairness, and which usually took about two hours. Once we settled on the rival captains, usually the two best players in the gang, we watched as they alternatively grasped the bat, working their hands up the Louisville slugger to the end of the bat handle for the right of first choice of player. All of us gathered around to see whose finger got the very tiniest tip of the handle, thus winning. Once that was settled, the choosing of sides began. We all knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Bernie was skinny and fast around the bases, but his ability to get on base was limited since he could not hit a ball the size of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon. Gundy was a good pitcher, but a hothead and threw wild when agitated….which was often. All of us sported ribs dotted with black and blue bruises raised from Gundy’s frustration. The Grasso brothers were even in their mediocrity. Don, my best friend, could hit and field, and was always one of the first to be chosen. As we waited to be picked, the nervousness grew. As the captains deliberated, the unchosen begin to look down and dig holes in the grass with their big toes, embarrassed by not yet being picked. I was often chosen somewhere in the middle, my ability to hit with power a big asset, but my fielding incompetence a well-known, even legendary, liability. Teams constantly worked to find positions in the field where I was least likely to field a ball. My father taught me to fish with the bait you brought, so I hunkered down at home plate and tried to make my teammates overlook my poor fielding by hitting the ball hard and far.
Once the sides were chosen and judged to be fair, the captains needed to make some rules: if we were short players we had to shorten the playing field–“no hitting between first and second base;” “no sliding with cleats;” (this rule originated when Dennis, one of our larger players, wearing his cleats, slid into skinny Bernie sending him to the hospital for stitches and causing Bernie’s mom to complain, “He can’t take out the garbage no more!” This rule was easily observed since most of us wore sneakers. “no tagging any base.” This rule heightened the challenge of tagging someone out since it meant we actually had to throw to the base the runner was heading.
Usually my team assigned me deep, deep, deep centerfield so I was standing at the intersection of the heavily trafficked Shaler Boulevard and the not-so-heavily-trafficked-but-still-dangerous Englehardt Terrace. Playing in the outfield, it was necessary to keep up appearances and the chatter. “No player!!! No player!!!” “Easy batter! C’mon Gundy! Easy batter!” “Let’s go guys! Easy out! Easy out!”
I am chattering all this encouragement, but what I was really thinking was, “Oh, God, please Merciful God in Heaven, don’t let him hit a fly ball to me! Please, God!” Far too often God was in the stands in Memorial Park watching the big kids play. There would be the crack of the bat, and the ball would begin its long, high arc toward my position. My eyes would pick it up, and eons would pass as I imagined the embarrassed heckling I would endure as I fluffed this catch. Circling, looking up, circling, looking up, glove raised, I would dance in the intersection of Shaler Boulevard and Englehardt Terrace, trying to avoid tire tracks suddenly being impressed on my body and praying that the ball would find my mitt because my mitt was sure as hell not going to find the ball.
Most times the ball bounced somewhere in the general area I was circling, and a collective moan would rise from my team as I chased down the ball. Not to equate playing baseball with World War II, but my father, a navy veteran of that conflict, shared his experience by recalling a common G.I. refrain: “War is long periods of extreme boredom punctuated by moments of extreme terror.” My moments of terror tracking a fly ball were interspersed with stretches of time staring deep into my glove which had Mickey Mantle’s signature (Mickey was my baseball hero—along with Yogi and Elston Howard). Across the back of my glove was the lettering “America’s Choice,” and on the tiny tag that protruded from the base of the glove was the manufacturer’s identification: “Made in Japan.” As I stared into America’s Choice and lost concentration on the game I was playing, my mind ran through a hundred fantasies involving school, fishing in the Adirondacks, and becoming a world famous writer. Occasionally I would be rattled out of my reverie by a honking horn from a car whose driver thought a boy standing in the middle of the street with a baseball glove to be an imposition.
There were other dangers. Englehardt Terrace is a nice sounding street name that befits a nineteen fifties suburb. Just the word “terrace’ evokes images of a villa in a Venetian olive grove. But Englehardt Terrace was the residence of one of the most fearful adults that terrified the Triangle Gang. Mr. Arnuff, was a burly, thick armed man who always wore a sleeveless undershirt which revealed the jungle of bushy hair that hid his skin. Mr. Arnuff employed a German shepherd to patrol his cyclone fence.
I owned a Lionel Train set, and one of my prize accessories was a flag man who popped out of his station swinging a lantern whenever the train rumbled past. When a baseball came within twenty feet of Mr. Arnuff’s yard, he would pop out of his house and, waving a fist (or a can of Schlitz) he would yell at us and scream for us to go play somewhere else. We called him Adolph, but never within his earshot. Considering the post World War II mindset that shadowed all us kids, this was an apt moniker. One of us had to go retrieve the ball, and this was done on tiptoe, head down, never daring to meet Adolph’s gaze. Once, slowly inching up to the cyclone fence to pick up the errant baseball, I glanced up to see Mr. Arnuff’s head eclipsing the sun and his German shepherd baring its teeth as it watched me bend down and reach for the red stitched orb. “Sorry, Mr. Adolph.” I mistakenly used our code name. His mouth opened wide in anger and his body grew and grew until it seemed to fill the universe. Horrified by my faux pas, I turned and ran only to see that the rest of the Triangle Gang was way way way ahead of me dashing madly down Shaler Boulevard. We did not play ball at the Triangle for a week after that debacle.
What was worse than Adolph, popping out of his house to yell and threaten us, were the times when the ball landed in his yard, and he did not appear. We would gather at a discreet distance to decide who would undertake the almost suicidal mission of retrieving the ball. This argument over who had the most to live for took about three hours. Whoever owned the ball, before we began playing, called “Chipsies on the ball!” meaning whoever was responsible for losing it would have to recompense the owner. Despite the fact that I had not hit the ball, amongst the outfielders it was my turn. Besides, I had to atone somehow for dropping the last five fly balls that had come my way. I crawled up the slight slope to Mr. Adolph’s cyclone fence. His house loomed above me, the Alcatraz of Englehardt Terrace, from whom no youthful outfielder ever escaped. I climbed by jamming my sneaker toes into the chain link fence and lifting myself over. To me the waving of the metal fence sounded as loud as Morley’s Ghost rattling his chains. I crept on all fours into the Dwarf English Yews and Blue Hollies where I thought the ball had landed. My knees became moist from kneeling in the wet grass and earth. I found a Spalding, a rubber ball that looked like the one I had homered into Adolph’s yard two years before. In a short time I discovered three more fully functional Spaldings and stuffed them into my pants pockets. No baseball. Still on all fours, I crossed a cobblestone path and, as I did so, I saw to my right the German Shepherd. He was facing away from me, nosing through a square of peat moss. I froze, then quickly hid in a patch of Rhododendrons beneath a window. I could feel my heart beating in my face. I waited until I could breathe again, and then I heard a familiar noise. “One on, one out, Kubek on deck.” It was the Yankee game on radio! Adolph listened to the Yankees! Everything stopped, and I mean everything. “Red sox are up by two, and Yankees hope to at least tie it up in the bottom of the ninth.”
“Where is Buttercup?” A female voice asked. There was a Mrs. Adolph? Eh, Mrs. Arnuff? None of us had ever seen her.
“Buttercup is out back sniffing through the peat moss,” Adolph responded. The ferocious and frightening German Shepherd’s name was Buttercup?
“Well, make sure he doesn’t mess up the bale. I need it for my tea roses.” I wished they would keep quiet. I couldn’t hear the game. Suddenly I became aware of a presence behind me. It was Don….my best friend.
“What’s taking you so long?”
“Can’t find the baseball.”
“Let’s get out of here. Didn’t you see the dog?”
“Buttercup?”
“Buttercup?”
“That is its name.”
“What its teeth named? Let’s go.”
“Swing and a miss. Strike two.”
“Ssssh.”
“If Adolph or Buttercup find us here, we are dead men.”
“Ssssh. Bottom of ninth, Yankees down by two.”
Don was a Giants fan….before they moved to San Francisco. “Come on! Forget the ball. I hit it. I’ll pay Bernie for it.”
“You go.”
“Richardson bounces one to second base. Petrocelli up with the scoop and fires it to first. Two out. Kubek up.”
I turned around underneath Adolph’s window and sat down leaning against the stucco wall. I felt a bulge in my butt. It was the baseball!! I whispered to Don, “Hey, here it is!” and flipped it to him.
I watched Don climb the fence, noisily.
“Come on, Tony. Get on.” Adolph was rooting for the Yankees, my team.
“Kubek slams one to the opposite field, Howard advancing to third. Two on, two out. The Mick up next.”
“Okay, Mickey, you can hit this bum. Come on, Mickey.” Adolph was really into this.
I echoed his sentiment….softly, like a prayer. “Come on Mickey.”
“Swing and a miss. Strike one.”
I leaned tighter against the wall.
“The pitch…. Call strike two.”
I heard Adolph erupt from his chair. “That pitch was this side of Jersey!!! Lousy call.”
“Mantle steps out of the box, rubs his bat and steps back into the box.”
I probably just imagined this, but I thought Adolph and I were breathing in sync.
“The pitch…Mantle swings……LONG FLY BALL TO RIGHT FIELD….GOING GOING GONE!!! Three run homer for the Mick, Yankees win, five four.”
I almost jumped up, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Adolph wouldn’t have heard me for all his jumping and whooping. I leaned around the corner to make certain Buttercup was still scrutinizing the peat moss, and I calmly re-climbed the fence and escaped from Alcatraz.
After that adventure, whenever I saw Adolph I tipped my baseball cap. One Saturday I strolled over to retrieve a ball that landed at the base of his fence. He was standing on the cobblestone, watching my every move. As I picked up the ball, I said, “Mr. Arnuff, the Mick went four for four yesterday.”
A flash of surprise crossed his face, either because he was shocked that I had the audacity to address him or that I knew Mantle’s numbers. He recovered in seconds, nodded his head, pointed to the bottom of the fence. “Watch my wife’s petunias.”
Next blog post: The Triangle Part 2 Learn how we tried to upgrade the Triangle.
by Ralph Maltese | Apr 23, 2017 | Uncategorized
Of Kumquats and Pineapples
Polley shared with me a newspaper article describing how stores like Sears and Macy’s were moving out of malls. Replacing them were supermarkets. One of my failings is that I see every event as an indicator of cultural change. I have to catch myself and remember Freud’s comment that a cigar is just a cigar…..but that is no fun. So…..an obvious reason for the abandonment of malls by clothing department stores is the rise of online shopping. Hence the mall vacuum being filled by food stores. Not too many people order kumquats online. Not yet.
My earliest memories of shopping contain mental movie reels of my mother, pulling a vertical cart behind her down the sidewalks of Burnside Avenue in the Bronx.
We passed up some stores and entered others based on a rationale I was too young to understand. We would visit the butcher or fish monger or both, then the store that sold fruit, maybe the dairy store (we were not big milk drinkers in my family), and finally the grocer for canned goods, vegetables and staples like sugar and salt. My mother paid all the proprietors in cash. By the time we got back to the apartment building, the vertical cart was quite heavy, and we struggled to get it up the five flights of stairs.
My Uncle Ray and my Aunt Marge lived in the apartment above us. He and his brother owned a grocery store in Harlem, New York, and on Friday nights Uncle Ray would bring home leftover fruits and vegetables that were in season….pineapples, pomegranates, persimmons; whatever he shared was fresh and luscious, and we could identify the seasons by the produce Uncle Ray brought home.
Once a month my father drove us to Arthur Avenue and the Italian market. My mother would haggle with the owner over the price of the leg of lamb or beef ribs, asking him to throw in some end pieces for free. My father always asked the owner if his son could pluck an olive from the big wooden barrel, and the answer was always yes. Then the cheese store and the bakery for cannolis or sfogliatelle. It was an all-day affair, but I was happy, using one hand to hold my father’s hand and using the other to cradle an Italian lemon ice with real bits of lemon.
When we moved to the suburbs of northern New Jersey, my mother endured a shopping cultural shock. There was a local bakery, but no butcher, fishmonger, dairy, or grocer…at least there were no such stores within walking distance. And my mother did not have a driver’s license. No need for one in the Bronx. But, our town did have the Coop, a supermarket. My mother developed new habits.
Our family’s shopping trends followed the pattern of most Americans. At the turn of the twentieth century, most people shopped at grocery stores, waiting at the counter while the grocery clerk filled the orders. So much for impulse buying, except for the items displayed by the cash register. “Then, in 1916 Clarence Saunders opened the Piggly Wiggly store in Memphis, Tennessee. ‘Astonished customers,’ write the Sterns in their Encyclopedia of Pop Culture, ‘were given baskets (shopping carts weren’t invented) and sent through the store to pick what they needed-a job formerly reserved for clerks.’” http://www.neatorama.com/2010/08/02/the-origin-of-the-supermarket/
At first, “supermarkets” were disparagingly referred to as “cheapies,” and the media and grocer associations ridiculed their existence. A factor that changed American minds about these new stores was the invention of the ignition switch for automobiles. Women found it too hard to crank the engines, but with the ignition switch women could expand their shopping radius from “walking distance” to area supermarkets. This innovation led to the parking lot—no more cruising the street searching for a parking space. My mother got her driving license, and shopping in our family became an all-day affair as my mother comparative shopped at two or three supermarkets within five miles of our home. Another innovation that spurred the popularity of supermarkets was cellophane. Customers could now see the meat they were buying, bolstering their perception that they were in charge of making the buying decision. Suddenly, supermarkets became very democratic and very American. When Polley and I were in Paris many years ago, we noticed the extremely linguistical-protectionist French had to yield to Americanese and identify their stores as “Le Supermarket.” There was no other term in French.
I thought back in the eighties that supermarkets as they existed would soon become extinct. What led me to this erroneous conclusion was a visit to my sister-in-law in Missouri who could go online and see the comparative prices of items on her shopping list at local supermarkets. She then could call each supermarket, order her items, and drive around to the pickup window of each one and collect her groceries….all without leaving her car. The problem with this convenience (from the store’s perspective) is that it severely curtailed impulse buying.
There is a wonderful scene in the movie Moscow on the Hudson, starring Robin Williams as a Russian musician who defects from the barren shelves of the Soviet Union’s stores to the American supermarket and its shelves filled from floor to ceiling with buying options. He enters the store to purchase coffee and looks up from his shopping list to see the cans of coffee stacked as far as he can see. Dizzied from the choices, he faints.
Robin Williams was awed by the options he could exercise, but we take it for granted. What I find interesting is the idea that we are in charge of making the decisions. Maybe.
“When you see items on a supermarket shelf, you are actually looking at a planogram. A planogram is defined as a “diagram or model that indicates the placement of retail products on shelves in order to maximise sales”. Within these planograms, one phrase commonly used is “eye level is buy level”, indicating that products positioned at eye level are likely to sell better. You may find that the more expensive options are at eye level or just below, while the store’s own brands are placed higher or lower on the shelves. Next time you are in a supermarket, just keep note of how many times you need to bend down, or stretch, to reach something you need. You might be surprised.” http://theconversation.com/the-science-that-makes-us-spend-more-in-supermarkets-and-feel-good-while-we-do-it-23857
I am not surprised. My personal code of shopping etiquette forbids my choosing an item from a shelf below knee level. One reason for this is my indelicate balance caused by my Parkinson’s. I don’t want the “Cleanup in Aisle 8” to be me.
When I shop, I am aware that I am deliberately being manipulated. “The ‘number of facings’, that is how many items of a product you can see, also has an effect on sales. The more visible a product, the higher the sales are likely to be. The location of goods in an aisle is also important. There is a school of thought that goods placed at the start of an aisle do not sell as well. A customer needs time to adjust to being in the aisle, so it takes a little time before they can decide what to buy.”
And supermarket marketing science takes into account the type of shopper. My mother-in-law did all the shopping in her household until she fell sick and sent my father-in-law, sans grocery list, to the supermarket to procure the week’s vittles. He came back with two steaks and a bag of Snickers. Given the power to choose, he opted to enact his fantasy meal. I understood his choices perfectly.
For a time, when our four children were young and Polley was nursing our twins and our schedules were a chaotic mosaic of overlapping responsibilities, I did the weekly food shopping on Saturdays, dropping off our oldest Christie at Jazz and Tap lessons. I had only an hour to fill the cart from the list Polley provided and drive back to pick Christie up. No impulse buying here.
Now, my shopping is more of a saunter than a mad dash up and down aisles. I notice things. I notice the lighting, some stores more dingy than others. I notice the labeling of aisles and think about the marketing logic. Some stores have aisles identified as “Mediterranean” or “International.” This is where one finds tomato sauce for pasta. Other stores carry the same item in the “Pasta” aisle. Eventually shoppers develop a map for each supermarket. Personally I like to view what stores advertise outside. Barbeque pits, fireplace logs, even outdoor patio sets are sometimes on display. Now, if I was in the market for a patio set, my first thought would not be a visit to Piggily Wiggily. But that is my mindset.
One area that tests my sense of justice and fairness is the express lane. I used to be more judgmental as I scrutinized the carts of the people ahead of me in the “15 Items or Less” lane, making certain they adhered to the quota. It annoyed me when someone cheated, basically because I felt helpless. There is no Express Lane Police. Then, one day, I got caught with 16 items. Who knew that two bags of baby spinach counted as two items?
A section I totally avoid no matter the store is the Self-Checkout line. I am in the regular checkout lane, a guy in a red and tan plaid coat pushing a cart with some steaks and a couple of bags of Snickers behind me, when I decide to drop out of this queue and line up in the Self-Checkout line. My first problem with this dynamic is that I haven’t quite got the swipe down. I often have to swipe an item three or four times before the scanner recognizes it. My second issue is that I tend to get into arguments with the metallic mechanical scanner voice.
“Please swipe the next item.”
I swipe. The scanner does not recognize my swipe.
“Please swipe the item again.”
I swipe the item again.
“Please swipe the item again.”
This is supposed to save me time?
My dialogue with the scanner continues.
“Please place the item in the bag.”
I place the item in the bag.
“Please place the item in the bag.”
“Hey! I placed the item in the bag!”
“Please place the item in the bag.”
So I retrieve the item from the bag, wait two seconds and replace the item in the bag.
“Please place the item in the bag.”
“Dammit!!! I just placed the %$%#@ item in the bag!! Thrice!!”
Finally, when the scanner is satisfied I have placed the item in the bag, I press the image of the filled cart signifying I am finished buying. I press the credit card icon.
“Thank you for your purchases. Please swipe your card.”
I swipe the card.
Whirling and humming. I can see the machine thinking.
“Please swipe your card again.”
I swipe the card again.
“Please see the attendant.”
Self-Checkout always has a helpful attendant who helps me with my card swiping. Personally, I believe the Self-Checkout Helpful Attendant would be better used behind a regular cash register in a regular lane or commissioned as an officer of the Express Lane Police.
Yes. I agree with you. I understand that navigating the waters of supermarket shopping is a first world problem. The very fact that marketing is such a big deal in the industry is because the marketers know that shoppers have options….and the seasons are blurred at the supermarket. Pineapples, pomegranates, persimmons, though of varying quality, available at all times of the year from all over the world. At times I think it is wise to be reflective and revel in the choices we have.
by Ralph Maltese | Apr 9, 2017 | Uncategorized
Robo Calling
“Hello. Is This the Party to Whom I Am Speaking?”
Lily Tomlin
I am one day home from my hospital stay sitting in my family room surfing afternoon television for something, anything, to watch, my eyes getting bleary from the two hours of reading about James Garfield and his assassination. Ah, Star Trek, The Next Generation, the episode in which Dr. Beverly Crusher keeps losing shipmates as her world keeps closing in. Boy, could I empathize. My chest is sore from the dialysis port they inserted, my legs are weak, and every movement of my body is an effort. My world and what I can do in it seems to have shrunk. Will I ever be able to get up and refill the bird feeder? Will I ever feel again the gentle force of a Pocono stream against my flyfishing waders? Heck…will I be able to reach over from my chair and munch on the Granny Smith apple perched on my end table without any pain?
Brringoong!……. Brringoong!….. Brringoong! Our landline ringtone sounds like a drunken hog burping. The damn phone is off its holder and on the kitchen table. Might be the doctors. Okay legs, Up! Up! Up!, let’s go spine, straighten out.
Brringoong!……. Brringoong!….. Brringoong! Out of the family room chair finally, I shuffle to the phone. Do not recognize the caller id.
“Hello?”
A cheery metallic voice begins its routine. “Hello, you have been chosen to win a two week vacation to the Florida Keys…”
A robo call.
Is it my imagination or are robo calls on the increase?
Dinner time seems to be a prime target of robo calls, I guess because the company issuing the calls supposes that most people are home at that time and don’t mind their dinners being interrupted.
We are eating our linguine Bolognese, a few delicious strands wrapped around my fork as we listen to the evening national news. I wait for the reports of the latest Trump-tropisms before I stick the fork in my mouth.
Brringoong!……. Brringoong!….. Brringoong! Mouthful of pasta, I answer the phone. “Hello, we have heard that someone in your household has been suffering from diabetes.”
I did not know that my type 2 diabetes was the subject of local gossip. “I have diabetes.” The recording continues, ignoring my response. “We will send you a brand new meter and blood strips as an introductory offer free of charge.”
“That is sweet of you.” I hang up because toying with robo calls is not satisfying. They don’t listen.
Robo calling is big business. Here is what one company offers to sellers of products who want to reach millions of potential customers relatively cheaply.
- Termination capabilities added for offshore agents eliminating the need for a US based phone number. [So U.S. law enforcement has a more difficult time prosecuting.]
- Calling capacity has been expanded to allow over 16 million calls daily for large political broadcasts. . [Sixteen million! Do the math—300 million Americans. In less than nineteen days the entire population of the United States can receive the same political message—or unfact.]
- Proprietary new voice recognition technology added to more accurately identify Live Callers vs. Answering Machines. . [Because reaching those “Dead Callers” as opposed to Live Callers is a complete waste of money.]
The charge by this particular RoboCall company is (for the minimum program), $150 which buys the advertiser 6,000 minutes or 2.5 cents a minute. At these rates I am surprised my phone is not Brringoong! continuously.
And robocallers are becoming increasingly sneaky. Polley and I always check Caller ID. No help. From the Federal Trade Commission:
“Robocallers fake the caller ID information that you see on your phone. That’s called caller ID spoofing — and new technology makes it very easy to do. In some cases, the fraudulent telemarketer may want you to think the call is from your bank, or another entity you’ve done business with. Sometimes, the telephone number may show up as “unknown” or “123456789.” Other times, the number is a real one belonging to someone who has no idea his or her number is being misused.”
So what to do?
- Hang up the phone. Don’t press 1 to speak to a live operator and don’t press any other number to get your number off the list. If you respond by pressing any number, it will probably just lead to more robocalls.
- Consider contacting your phone provider and asking them to block the number, and whether they charge for that service. Remember that telemarketers change Caller ID information easily and often, so it might not be worth paying a fee to block a number that will change.
- Report your experience to the FTC onlineat or by calling 1-888-382-1222.
https://www.consumer.ftc.gov/articles/0259-robocalls
The other day I was dozing in the blissful world of napdom when Brringoong!……. Brringoong!….. Brringoong!
“This is Microsoft support. We have learned that your computer is under attack by viruses.” I have heard this scam before and reported it to a state enforcement agency (the scammers were operating from a foreign country). I did not press 1 or any other keyboard number. What was interesting about this call was that it was a robo call, but when I responded by voice it alerted a real live scammer. Technology…amazing. Of course I gave the live scammer an earful (I might have said something that impugned his parentage), and he responded with a few choice counter responses which did not result in a sale.
My problem with robocalls, aside from the nuisance (to the infirm and elderly it is more than a nuisance) is that they are no fun.
Like the live caller the other day. (I can tell I am recovering and my world has stopped shrinking but is actually expanding. Toying with telemarketing is part of the expansion.)
Brringoong!……. Brringoong!….. Brringoong!
“Hello?”
“Hello. This is Jason. Here at Aural America we have learned that someone in your household is having hearing issues.”
Damn local community gossip again!
“What’s that?”
“Hi, this is Jason. Does someone in your home have hearing issues?”
“Do I want earrings? No. Never worn them.”
“No,[slower and louder] I am sorry. Is someone in your home suffering from hearing loss? We manufacture the best hearing aides in the world.”
“Sorry you have aids. I can’t hear you. Wait. I will get my wife….[pause] She must have gone shopping. I didn’t hear the garage door open and close.”
“I’’ll call back.”
You do that, Jason, and you will be conversing with Morris the Mumbler.
But robocalls do not offer that opportunity for fun.
“If you receive a robocall trying to sell you something (and you haven’t given the caller your written permission), it’s an illegal call. You should hang up. Then, file a complaint with the FTC and the National Do Not Call Registry.” https://www.consumer.ftc.gov/media/video-0028-what-do-if-you-get-robocall
See, it is the “illegal” part that prevents me (along with a lack of finance) to enacting my own revenge—shelling out $150 to robocall my tormentors….targeting those who robocall me.
Brringoong!……. Brringoong!….. Brringoong!
by Ralph Maltese | Apr 2, 2017 | Uncategorized
The Textbooks Tablets Debate
As my brain continues to forget the details of life (see my blog post, Recoiling at the Lack of Recalling) it worked hard the other day to recall the name of the black cat in Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, “The Black Cat.” This was bothering me because Poe’s second Principle of Composition cites “every word must contribute to the emotional effect” the author is attempting to create. The name of the cat was significant and it was on the tip of my tongue. We have several bookcases and our attic is stuffed with texts (including my college textbooks—want to borrow “Engineering Calculus?” Drop an email.) Somewhere in the house were at least three collections of Poe’s short stories and poetry, and the search became a quest—a frustrating one.
I went online. There I found the complete short story and the name of the cat. I was even able to do a search routine on how many times the name is used in the story. Now, I love books. I love the smell and the feel of them, and I appreciate the weight of a good text when it rests on my chest as I lie in bed, ending my day by reading a few enlightening words.
I bring up my love of books because Polley (the most avid reader I know) showed me a newspaper article about school districts abandoning textbooks in favor of online texts. I am in favor of this, and here are the reasons why:
I taught high school language arts for almost four decades. Every year we assigned anthologies, large textbooks with short stories, poetry, and one or two plays. Ninety percent of the selections in these books were not used by teachers, simply because what the publishers thought were the best selections by certain authors and what former English majors, now teachers, thought were the most teachable and valuable literary works was not congruent. There was also the “censor factor.” Believe it or not, a very small group of extremely narrow-minded people had an irrational but powerful influence on what textbook publishers should include in their anthologies. Their thinking prevented excellent literature from being included in the textbooks.
I followed an online debate between supporters of textbooks and supporters of textbook replacement, namely tablets. One consistency seemed to be the supporters of textbooks claim that textbooks were much cheaper than tablets ($25 instead of $100). These textbook advocates might be citing prices from the 1950’s. When I left teaching our anthology ran close to $70, and that was just for the English textbook.
And publishing companies began doing what I consider to be not nice things. Kids lose books. No matter how much a teacher emphasizes that a lost book will cost the parents $70, students still lose books (someone has to pay for it—either the parent or the other taxpayers). So imagine the English department is minus 100 American Lit Rejuvenated textbooks, $70 a crack or $700. In an ideal world, all owners of lost books pay up, and the English department chairperson orders from the publisher, Textbooks Are Us, 100 replacement anthologies. But wait! Textbooks Are Us no longer print that edition of American Lit Rejuvenated. The department chairperson will have to order the second edition of American Lit Rejuvenated at $90 a book. What choice does the department chairperson have? So she orders 100 copies of American Lit Rejuvenated Second Edition and her budget is down an extra $200 she did not count on.
Nor are the English teachers happy. In the first edition of American Lit Rejuvenated the Poe selection was “The Black Cat.” In the second edition, the selection is “The Fall of the House of Usher.” So half my class might have one story and the other half the second story. The students would spend considerable time arguing who had the more difficult reading assignment. In other courses, the science problems in one textbook edition might differ from the problems in another edition. As the years go by and the school has multiple editions of the textbook, congruency in planning and assessment becomes a casualty. My point is that this tendency by publishers to not replace the editions educators need is costly in both money and wasted energy.
As a teacher I argued against textbooks for two reasons: 1) for $70 we could purchase a collection of short stories, several plays and a couple of novels. If a student loses a paperback then he is more likely to shell out $7 than $70. 2) Textbooks should not drive instruction. Two of my daughters graduated from Mount Holyoke College. As a parent and as an educator, I was enamored of that institution. Mount Holyoke, noted for its science instruction, decided that textbooks should not drive teaching, so they banned them. Professors would have to develop their own resources and lessons, resulting in better teaching. I agree. I had many conversations with teachers, unhappy with student progress who asked me for advice. I would suggest a few projects, and the response was often, “That sounds good. I would like to try that, but I do not have the time—I have to get through the thirty two chapters of the math textbook.” And the teacher, by the end of the year, would “get through” those thirty two chapters even if their students were still mired in chapter one. Too often textbooks become a crutch and excuse for less-than-stellar teaching.
So why don’t school boards, primarily motivated by their campaign promises to keep school taxes down (good school boards make decisions based on what’s best for their taxpayers; great school boards make decisions based on what’s best for their students), give up the purchase of textbooks in favor of online sources?
Einstein said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” Early in my teaching career, I was frustrated because every week many, too many, were failing my vocabulary tests. I did what every other teacher was doing: introduce a new lesson from the vocabulary textbook, review the words with students, require them to complete the exercises in the vocabulary textbook as well as some generated by me, and tested them at the end of the week. Not only did they not score well on the tests, but they promptly forgot the definitions in a short time. I remember a student passing me in the hall shortly after he took the SAT’s.
“Hey, Mr. Maltese, three of the vocabulary words from our textbook were on the SAT’s. Saturday.”
“Great. So you got at least three questions right.”
“No. I recognized the words, but forgot the definitions.”
So I researched “teaching vocabulary,” and in the pounds of data I studied, the research showed that no one was successful in teaching vocabulary words from a textbook, simply because they were out of context. I tried to remedy the problem by constructing a computer database of vocabulary words that appeared in the literature that my high school listed in the curriculum. Any English teacher could add words from the literary works they taught and generate exercises and tests at a few clicks of the mouse. Goodbye vocabulary textbook. Wait! My superiors nixed the English department database I constructed and continued to buy vocabulary textbooks. Why?
This was the reason given to me: “If the kids don’t walk around with a vocabulary textbook, the parents will think we are not teaching vocabulary.” In discussions with groups of parents this turned out to be a myth, but, as I learned working in Harrisburg, “Given the choice between deciding what was politically expedient and what was best for education, the former always won out.” As Kurt Vonnegut writes in Slaughterhouse Five, “So it goes.”
Teaching is challenging whether we use textbooks or tablets. One problem with tablets involves the equity issue. One of my student teachers assigned the class a visit to a website for background material. I told her, “You cannot assume that every student at home has access to the Internet.” Never occurred to her.
If the school issues the tablets, then we have the same replacement issue as textbooks. One teacher, fighting the use of electronic devices in the classroom argued, “How do we know that the student is visiting the assigned website and not viewing a porn site—or texting?” Fair enough. There are ways to deal with that, however, namely by “crunching assignments,” and critical deadlines. I shared with this teacher the experience of reading aloud a Shakespeare play in class and discovering that one of my students was perusing a copy of Playboy neatly folded in the textbook.
There are advantages to books over tablets. When I drop a book, it is less likely to break, and a book needs no batteries or recharging. But the greatest drawback to online resources is the mistaken belief that students will more likely read something online than in print. Not necessarily true. I helped a student find a critical piece of research for his term paper. His search routine skills needed drastic improvement, but I helped him locate a great resource that supported his thesis. He stared at the page of text on the computer monitor and looked up at me.
“Now what?”
I looked at him, back at the screen and back at him. “What do you mean ‘now what’?”
“What do I do now?”
“You read the article.”
I heard him mumble an expletive under his breath. Some students are so visual that unless they see a screen full of graphics they won’t read a resource no matter how good it is, and this concerns me. Whether we use textbooks or tablets, the emphasis should still be on rigorous, and I mean rigorous, stimulation of high level thinking skills. “Bambi Visits Hawaii” doesn’t cut it. And if the student is to succeed in a good academic collegiate environment, we do him/her a disservice by dumbing down his preparation.
Students have to develop the skills of not only locating good online resources but the skills of summarizing and interpreting the data they find. In future years they can quickly locate the name of Poe’s black cat—-Pluto (no, not the Disney character…the Roman god of the Underworld)
by Ralph Maltese | Mar 26, 2017 | Uncategorized
Cold Storage
My father and I were camping on a remote pond, one with ice-blue water, and I had just unpacked a six pack of beer.
I looked over at my dad putting together his spinning rod. “How are we going to keep this beer cold?”
“Who says it has to be cold?” My father served in the Pacific in World War II, an area where I imagine a cold beer was not the norm.
“I am not a big fan of warm beer.” I pouted.
“So, Idgit (my father’s usual appellation for me when, in his opinion, I flashed my ignorance), think!”
I thought. Then I sought and found the inlet stream to the pond and stashed the six pack in the middle of the bubbling brook that showed my breath when I leaned down next to it, it was so so cold. Problem solved.
That is part of the fun of living in the outdoors, making do without all the amenities of suburban home life. But sometimes the “conveniences” of suburban home life provide challenges that are greater than trying to find a location to chill your beer.
Consider that household item, the refrigerator. The earliest one I remember was the rather short, white Kelvin refrigerator that stood guard in a corner of our Bronx apartment kitchen. There was a round cylinder on top which whirred at some moments. The storage was small by today’s standards, but my mother managed to fill every nook and cranny.
Polley once shared with me the premise of an article which postulated that people are more stressed out in our society because of the multiple decisions we have to make in everyday life. The first cavepeople killed a goat—they ate goat. We enter a fast food chain and the decision-making process begins with forty options of hamburger and sides. Buying a refrigerator runs the same stressful risks.
Our first refrigerator as a married couple in a small apartment had three shelves, two ice trays, and a freezer that could barely accommodate a filet of flounder. My mother was appalled, especially when she visited with two hundred pounds of roasts, chickens, sirloins, pork loins, and gallons of gravy (tomato sauce for you non-Italians). The problem was eased slightly in winter when we used the small porch of the apartment to store my mother’s supply train. In warmer weather we had to do a great deal of eating.
When Polley and I moved to our suburban home, a refrigerator was, of course, on our appliance list. My father-in-law wisely cautioned us to not purchase a fridge with an ice maker. “One more damn thing to break!” Our budget allowed us to buy a five shelf refrigerator with a freezer on top, the Polar Ice 5400. It served us well for a number of years until it suffered from Freon blockages or bad circulation and worked only sporadically. So we parked our Polar Ice 5400 in the garage to serve as our second cold storage device.
We did our research and settled on an Arctic Explorer 9000, and oh what decisions we had to make. Door device which dispensed water, crushed ice or ice cubes or four rather mundane ice cube trays, color choice: ivory white, silver gray, seaweed olive, six or eight shelves, freezer top or bottom, left hand or right hand door, vegetable keeper, extra bright refrigerator light, multiple freezer settings—cold, colder, coldest, etc.
Our budget and my father-in-law’s advice made the decision—the no frills seaweed olive Arctic Explorer 9000. And the seaweed olive Arctic Explorer served us well for several decades, but even though my family dwindled to just Polley and me as the kids went off to get learned, it seemed our refrigerator requirements expanded. For one thing, the door on the seaweed olive Arctic Explorer 9000 was on the wrong side and frequently collided with an open oven door. The freezer was on top, and consequently most of the things we wanted to obtain were in the refrigerator proper which meant more stooping over to get the Genoa salami. So we did our research again and headed to the appliance store while the Arctic Explorer 9000 found a new home in the garage replacing the Polar Ice 5400 which retired to a junkyard pasture. Emptying the Arctic Explorer was an adventure unto itself. We discovered foodstuffs that had fallen into inventory oblivion.
The freezer had freezer bags of meat which were unidentifiable, the labels unreadable, and unless the label read “Use before the end of this century” the contents were disposed of. So was the container of macaroni with a green crust which I hoped was pesto sauce, but I knew better, and I was unwilling to absorb a hit of penicillin….so into the trash it went. As did the mysterious inhabitants of Polly-O containers and remnants of exotic cheeses whose expiration dates were in previous centuries. The garbage can was ultimately filled with leftovers that in days/months/years past were placed in the refrigerator with promises of future usage. Alas, the price of short memories.
If emptying the old refrigerator was a challenge, purchasing the new one presented a host of decisions. In the store the wide and tall refrigerators dominated the appliance landscape. We debated color—whalebone white, martini olive, Lone Ranger silver. We told the salesman that so many modern fridges seemed to be silver. We were corrected. “The up and coming trend in refrigerator color is white.” [this blog prides itself on keeping subscribers hip to the modern trends in appliance coloring] Again, heeding my father-in-law’s wisdom we chose not to purchase the updated fridge door which dispensed water, shaved ice, ice cubes, and refreshing Mai Tais (an optional feature was a dispenser of garnish: gardenia and umbrella.)
We were shown the newest model, an Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000. The Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000 had enough room inside to fit a sixties Volkswagen. Its shelves were interchangeable just in case we decided the Cranberry juice belonged on the left side of the fridge and the Tiramisu Greek Yogurt belonged on the right side of the Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000. There are compartments: one for keeping vegetables fresh and crisp (could I put my potato chips there?); a fruit compartment (pears and apples and kumquats apparently do not like to rub stems with celery, carrots, and turnips); a Glide and Serve drawer (so would my salami and mustard sandwich emerge fully concocted from this drawer?). The freezer of the Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000 has two huge compartments including a sliding drawer for small items like that leftover barbequed hot dog. And the refrigerator light, when set on the highest setting, could serve as a beacon for the entire Eastern seaboard.
The Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000 was entered by two massive doors, probably inspired by a scene in The Lord of the Rings, and, in order to open them, we had to increase our stretching repetitions for our biceps at the gym. There were thermostats for different sections of the Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000, total control over the temperature of every radish and half-eaten chicken leg. The manual for the Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000 was heavier than the instructions for the Apollo Missions, and I would need to spend several decades studying and mastering the operations of this behemoth of cold storage.
The salesperson at the appliance store assured us that the Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000 was the pinnacle of refrigeration evolution. I guess this meant that over time the bugs were weeded out from Admiral Perry Sled Dog models 1 through 3,999. We believed him.
Now the Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000 looms like a sentinel over our kitchen vista. Every time I look up from my coffee cup and see it in all its immenseness, I am reminded of the Monolith in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. On its first day in our abode, we could not imagine filling the Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000 with foodstuffs. After the first week we were pushing past bottles of fruit juices and cans of gravy and jars of items attempting to find the mustard.
The Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000 seems content doing its job minute after minute, second after second. Occasionally when we are sitting in our family room reading or watching television, the Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000 will erupt into a belching of mechanical whirring sounds that would lead us to wonder if a 747 Passenger Jet mistakenly landed on our lawn. At first we thought it was the fridge’s ice maker until we realized…..we had not chosen that option. The machine is probably just recycling through its four million sensors and making certain that every leaf of lettuce is the right temperature.
The sounds that the Admiral Perry Sled Dog 4000 make are often annoying and always fearful. Personally I prefer the sounds of a chilling, babbling brook rushing over my beer, but it is the price we pay for having the latest evolutionary device in cold storage.
by Ralph Maltese | Mar 19, 2017 | Uncategorized
Plan On It
I read this online the other day: “Cleveland police say an 18-year-old serial carjacker was arrested after his accomplice couldn’t drive a stick shift — even with some coaching from the victim.” This was a “serial carjacker,” an experienced hand at such nefarious activities, I suppose. I also suppose that nowhere in his crime plan was the possibility that the chosen car would be a stick shift. I also suppose that there was no “plan.” Scientists have supported what I suspected while teaching high school for nearly four decades and raising four children. Most young people do not like to plan. Planning is a learned activity. Something about the “area within the mid-dorsolateral frontal cortex located in the frontal lobe has been implicated as playing an intrinsic role in both cognitive planning and associated executive traits such as working memory.” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Planning Apparently this part of the brain is not fully developed in adolescents. I believe it. Friday nights, my own kids decide they want to “do something” with their high school friends. Of course I can only hear one side of the phone conversation, but, in those days it was easy to fill in the blanks, sort of like those old Mad Lib games.
“Hi, Jean, whatcha doing tonight?”…..
“Yeah, I was thinking of going to the movies, too. We should do something.”….
“I’ll call Matt and see if he wants to go. He can drive.”
An hour later.
“Matt can’t drive. He’s grounded. But Mary can.”….
“Which movie?”….
“Saw that one. How about that vampire flick? I’ll call Mary and see if she’s seen it.”
An hour later.
“Mary saw the vampire movie. She wants her sister and boyfriend to join us.”….
“Yeah, too late for the movies. Mary’s sister doesn’t like movies anyway.”…
“So what do you wanna do? Go bowling?”….
“Oh. Why doesn’t Mary’s boyfriend like bowling?”….
“Well, call Mary and see what she wants to do.”
Thirty minutes later.
“Why don’t you all come over here and we’ll watch some stupid thing on tv? My parents will make popcorn.”
And that was fine with us. Of all the panoramic possibilities of what they could be doing, sitting in our family room munching popcorn and complaining about how stupid the world is was certainly an acceptable, even cherished, choice. Come to think of it, when we gather with friends now, we do the same thing, only with alcohol present.
The high school cinema course I taught included a project for making a documentary–student choice of what to make a documentary about. I required a storyboard and shooting script….a plan. I showed them Alfred Hitchcock’s detailed storyboard for the bi-plane scene in North by Northwest. Didn’t matter. I still got a great deal of pushback.
“Aw, Mr. Maltese, can’t we just take the camera and shoot the documentary?!!! We know what we want to do!” Some groups would turn in a sloppy, careless script (which I evaluated as part of their grades), and I would give them a time limit to actually shoot the film. I watched as, invariably, they would spend the allotted time arguing over camera angles and movement. “Time’s up gang.”
“Aw, Mr. Maltese, we didn’t have time. We wanted it to be like the Blair Witch Project. You see that movie? They just went out and shot the movie.”
Yes, I had seen the Blair Witch Project. The movie looked like a camera was given to some young people who, planless, went out to shoot a movie. It was no Hitchcock.
I am probably being unfair in depicting only young people as non-planners. John Cassavetes, the actor, commented, “I’m a great believer in spontaneity because I think planning is the most destructive thing in the world.” Mr. Cassavetes was nominated for three Oscars. Maybe if he had planned a little….Just saying. And whole bodies of adults seem to have difficulty planning. For eight years one party railed against a particular health care plan, and, in those eight years, the alternative plan they came up with does not demonstrate careful planning…just saying.
Apparently differently cultures approach planning and execution differently. The Japanese will spend an incredible amount of time planning, but then run through the project staying on schedule and not deviating from the plan. Americans plan less and, during the execution of the project, are more inclined to deviate from the plan and explore possibilities. These two tactics apparently cause some consternation when both cultures collaborate.
People have debated the merits of planning for ages. Here are some thoughts on the topic:
- You can do irrefutably impossible things with the right amount of planning and support from intelligent and hardworking people and pizza. Scott M. Gimple
- Without leaps of imagination, or dreaming, we lose the excitement of possibilities. Dreaming, after all, is a form of planning. Gloria Steinem
- In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable. Dwight D. Eisenhower
- Planning to write is not writing. Outlining, researching, talking to people about what you’re doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing. E. L. Doctorow
- Planning is bringing the future into the present so that you can do something about it now. Alan Lakein
https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/keywords/planning.html
I liked the last quote by Mr. Lakein, but then I read another quote by him. “People don’t plan to fail. They fail to plan.” With all due respect to Mr. Lakein, I think this witticism does not hold water. Of course people do not plan to fail. Who does? Napoleon: “Okay, men, we are going to invade Russia and try to take Moscow at the worst time of year. Most of you will die on the retreat home. We won’t take Moscow. Ready? Get your gear. Merde.” Or Custer: “We’re going to attack the village with over three thousand warriors who will be hopping mad. Most of us, perhaps all of us, will be wiped out. That’s the plan. Bugler, blow the charge command. Giddyap!” Even King Arthur in Monty Python and the Holy Grail did not plan to fail with the ruse of the Trojan Rabbit. Sir Bevedere simply forgot an important element of the strategy. “Well, now, uh, Lancelot, Galahad and I wait until nightfall and then leap out of the rabbit taking the French by surprise. Not only by surprise but totally unarmed!”
In order to teach the way I taught, intense planning was necessary. Despite the summers and weekends spent developing learning units, I had to learn to adapt and adjust on the fly. One of my favorite maxims which I totally embrace, is the one by Allen Saunders: “Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.” I do not have the space to enumerate the number of times I thought I was in control, planning like crazy, only to have nature/life intervene and cause me to rethink and redirect my efforts. My class is humming along, according to plan, when the monthly fire drill goes off and we spend the next ten minutes outside standing in the snow. While the students are flapping their arms trying to stay warm, I am re-planning and adjusting on the fly. Unexpectedness happens in our daily lives as well. We have prepared a grocery list to shop in our favorite supermarket. Items on the list are arranged by the order of the aisles they will be found in. The supermarket doors swing open electronically, and we confidently march in only to realize that the store has rearranged the aisles. Cereals are now in what was the soup aisle, and dill pickles now reside in the cat food section. Talk about adjusting on the fly! Times like these test our flexibility and adaptiveness to change.
Ultimately the difficulty with planning and plans is that human beings are usually the ones executing them. That truth comes with a vast collection of complex factors. As one of my favorite soothsayers observed, “If you don’t know where you are going,
you’ll end up someplace else.” Yogi Berra
by Ralph Maltese | Mar 12, 2017 | Uncategorized
It’s Taxing
It is that time of year again. Polley and I gather scraps of paper, unopened envelopes with documents inside, and receipts from a variety of health care providers. Manila packages crammed with papers in our laps, we drive the slow, apprehensive-filled car ride to our tax accountant. It is a pilgrimage that is as old as time…or as least as old as civilizations that realized that some way had to be devised to pay for roads, water, and armies. Joseph and Mary were in Bethlehem for the census which was, in part, for the collection of you-know-what.
The Romans taxed their populace 1% (in times of war as high as 3%), but, as the Republic grew and expanded its influence, Rome taxed only its provinces. To perform this odious duty, it hired “tax farmers” known as Publicani, rather like an ancient IRS. Shockingly, the Publicani became notorious for graft and corruption, and Rome had to resume its own tax collection.
Governments have figured out extraordinary ways to finance their functions.
To wit:
- “Pecunia non olet or Money doesn’t stink!is a Latin saying. During the 1st century AD, Roman emperor Vaspasian placed a tax on urine. The buyer(s) of the urine paid the tax. The urine from public urinals was sold as an essential ingredient for several chemical processes e.g. it was used in tanning (not exactly sure how), and also by launderers as a source of ammonia to clean and whiten woolen togas etc.
- During the Middle Ages, European governments placed a tax on soap. It remained in effect for a very long time.[perhaps explaining the need for perfume to cover the body odor] Great Britain didn’t repeal its soap tax until 1835.
- In 1705, Russian Emperor Peter the Great placed a tax on beards, hoping to force men to adopt the clean-shaven look that was common in Western Europe.
- In 1696, England implemented a window tax, taxing houses based on the number of windows they had. That led to many houses having very few windows in order to avoid paying the tax. Eventually this became a health problem and ultimately led to the tax’s repeal in 1851.
- In 1795, England put a tax on the aromatic powders that men and women put on their wigs. This led to a dramatic decline in the popularity of wigs….[Phil Spector obviously does not mind a little wig tax]
Closer to home and in time:
- New York City places a special tax on prepared foods, so sliced bagels are taxed once as food and again as prepared food, thus creating a sliced bagel tax.
- Pennsylvania has a tax on coin-operated vacuum machines at gas stations.
- Pittsburgh has a 5% amusement tax on anything that offers entertainment or allows people to engage in entertainment. [does that include blogs? Spoil sports!!!]
- States like Iowa, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey exempt pumpkins from a sales tax but only if they will be eaten and not carved.
- In 2005, Tennessee began requiring drug dealers to anonymously pay taxes on any illegal substances they sold.[“I was caught and sent to prison for selling drugs, but at least I paid my taxes…”]
- In New Mexico, people over 100 years old are tax-exempt, but only if they are not dependents. [“Mom, dad, we are moving to New Mexico. You can come, too, but…”]
- In Tennessee, there is a tax on all litigation. The amount varies case-by-case but it can be as low as $1 for a parking violation case. The tax tends to discourage frivolous lawsuits.
- In Minnesota, there is a special tax on fur.[fur as clothing or fur on people? I knew a kid in gym class we all called “Sasquatch.”]
- In 2014, the hit Netflix show, House of Cards, halted filming in the State of Maryland as film tax credits were expected to run out. The show received $11.6 million for its first season and $15 million for its second season. Filming resumed in June 2014. The production team placed House of Cards on hold while waiting for the outcome of two separate bills in the Maryland Legislature. According to the Maryland Film Industry Coalition, film production in the state has a “$400 million impact” on the economy.
- In Wisconsin, cloth diapers are not subject to sales tax, but disposable diapers are.
- In Texas, cowboy boots are exempt from the sales tax, but hiking boots are not.[ yippee kai o kai ay]
- In Ohio, a corpse in a mortuary gets makeup applied on it without getting taxed, but a living person is taxed for the makeup that gets applied in a beauty salon.[I guess the IRS calculates it is not as difficult getting money from a live person than it is a corpse.]
https://www.efile.com/unusual-strange-funny-taxes-throughout-the-world-and-history/
As our car pulls into our accountant’s parking lot, I bemoan the fact that I cannot take advantage of any of the above deductions (except for the non-tax on corpse makeup—I am a sensible man). As a relatively young man, teacher, father of four with a home mortgage, I had many more deductions. I could complete my own tax form. Then things got complicated. Our children attended college, and figuring out the tax code became more problematic for me. So, based on several recommendations, we hired our current accountant. One day in April, while I watched him pecking away on three keyboards in front of what seemed like twenty computer monitors, and rifling through our piles of crumpled receipts from pharmacies and home improvements like Sinks Are Us, I confessed that as an English major I was embarrassed that I could not interpret or even read the tax filing. After all, as a college student I read engineering texts that would have bored and put to sleep a raging bull in heat and on amphetamines. He turned in his swivel chair and said, “The tax codes are not designed for you to understand.” We like our accountant.
Many years ago I watched a representative from the IRS being interviewed on a talk show. Steely faced and fitting the stereotypical cold image of an IRS agent, he freely admitted that it was easier to intimidate the “average Joe” for a few hundred bucks than to go after major corporations who owed millions in taxes. “Companies like GM can afford more lawyers than the Federal government can,” explained the agent. “So we focus on John Q.” Oh.
And I really can’t complain about paying what I should pay. Despite all our bellyaching about taxes, we are taxed at much lower rates than many other countries—“No, the U.S. is not a high-tax country. But saying exactly how not-high-tax we are gets a little tricky. It[a graph] shows personal tax rates on $100,000 around the world. The U.S. comes in at 55th out of 114.” 55th! https://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2013/01/how-low-are-us-taxes-compared-to-other-countries/267148/
For those who are curious, here are the nations with the highest taxes:
- United Kingdom. …
- Japan
- Austria
- Belgium
- Netherlands
- Denmark
- Sweden
Aruba? Really?
So I do not mind paying my fair share. That does not mean I do not have complaints. I do. My two gripes that really get under my skin are related. The first peeve involves people who complain the most about paying taxes and who also complain the most about the lack of services. “There should be more TSA inspectors so the security lines at airports are shorter.” “Why didn’t the FDA discover the contaminated yogurt I just ate?” “That bridge collapsed right under me. Somebody should be fired!” All the agencies we depend on for our safety and protection are paid for by taxes. We want the services without paying for them…..like education. I expect that when I drive over a bridge on an interstate highway that I will reach the other side, and, if I have an accident, there will be a state trooper in the area to assist. I am comforted by the fact that if one of my grandchildren swallows something he/she shouldn’t, the National Center for Poison Control is a phone call away. I feel more secure knowing that enforcement agencies, though underfunded, do exist. And I am grateful that when I need to recharge my psychic batteries, I can inhale the fresh, pure air of a National Park. All these things cost money, so I pay my taxes.
My second complaint involves displaced outrage. Many of my fellow Americans rant and rave when abuses of the system are committed—but only if they are committed by the poor and defenseless. The welfare recipient who squeezes fifty bucks from a Section 8 benefit, or the immigrant who does not kick in twenty tax dollars from his or her slave wages (by the way, most immigrants pay taxes) are the targets of venom spit by taxpayers who exhibit a moral outrage at these offenses. These red-faced countrymen cannot stand the fact that “these people cheat.” But they are not offended by the fact that some of the richest Americans pay fewer, if any, taxes than they do. Or that General Motors pays less than they do. I don’t get it. It is like throwing a fit that a poor person who robs a candy store of ten bucks escapes jail, but not getting upset when the banking industry swipes billions from hard working Americans and gets away with it. Apparently there is another set of standards of morality that applies to the wealthy who pay no taxes. Or maybe it is not economic distinctions that are at the root of this discrepancy, but something else……
Even high ranking American officials in government who don’t pay their fair share of taxes are not rankling my fellow citizens. “They’re just taking advantage of the tax laws.” But what they don’t pay has to be made up by John Q’s like me…..and you. And they enjoy the same services without shelling out a dime. Where’s the outrage? So how do the excessively wealthy freeloaders get away with it?
As ancient Rome self-imploded due to corruption, internal squabbling and civic apathy, Roman emperors diverted the people’s attention away from the important stuff by holding “circuses.” Nothing like forgetting about the collapse of roads and the “barbarians” at the gate by spending an afternoon at the coliseum watching gladiatorial combat or the sacrifice of Christians. The tactic hasn’t changed. The modern media gobbles up and highlights political blusters and accusations and we all follow along the next juicy if irrelevant story. The real issues that affect our lives are lost in the hype. It’s taxing, people….it really is.
by Ralph Maltese | Mar 5, 2017 | Uncategorized
Recoiling At The Lack of Recalling
Memory is a funny thing. When I was teaching I would marvel at what my students would remember—-and not remember. “Hey, Mr. Maltese, you wore that same tie the last three Tuesdays in a row.” This from Freddy who could not answer my question, “What novel did we finish yesterday?” or “Who wrote Mark Twain’s book, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?” I usually let the students off the hook…they were kids, and they were in school to learn. I was harder on myself. I would be walking down a school corridor amidst all the hubbub and chaos of student traffic during the changing of classes, when Tiffany would run up to me. “Hey, Mr. Maltese, remember to change my Brave New World test score from a “78” to an “80.”
“Okay, Tiffany. I got it.”
I would continue my stride to my next class when Alfred approached me. “Hey, Mr. Maltese, can you write me a library pass so I can work on my research paper?” I get out my pad of passes and issue Alfred a library pass. In the process I would completely forget Tiffany’s change of grade request. I hadn’t “got it.”
Remembering names was a challenge. As a teacher I had to work hard in the beginning of the school year to memorize all 140 student names. It was important to them. And I did memorize them, but I think my own family suffered as a result. I was insulted when my mother called me by my brother’s name. I forgave her when, as a father, addressing my daughter Meredith, I would call out,“Christie….uh….Becky….uh….Jim…..uh….Nyssa (Nyssa was our cat)…..uh….Meredith.
I explained these memory failures on my brain’s having to juggle hundreds of student requests, lesson plans, administrative duties, and thousands of other responsibilities.
Now that I am retired, what is my excuse?
As a kid, I actually liked memorizing things. The times table, lines from Shakespeare, the lineup and batting averages of the New York Yankees. I can still recall lines from movies I last saw when I was ten, (“Klaatu barada nikto” the phrase Michael Rennie tells Patricia Neal to say to the robot Gort in The Day the Earth Stood Still) but I have to work hard to remember what I had for breakfast this morning. In college biology I had the genera and species for all the fungi we studied down pat. Now, when Polley and I watch a movie, this is a typical occurrence.
“Hey, hey, hey…there’s that guy…what did we just see him in? That Law and Order…..what was it? You know…the guy who it turns out, you know, turns out he was the serial killer…oh come on, you know….”
As it turns out we just saw the episode yesterday. Or we’ll watch a movie and the identity is in the brain but it is composed of cloud matter that is dispersed throughout my entire cerebral cortex and it takes time for the specks to coalesce into a name. I was watching Bullitt with Steve McQueen. Every guy I know watches that entire movie just for the chase scene. Steve McQueen pops into a taxi, and for two seconds the taxi driver is shown…could not think of his name….tip of my tongue, but the name would not materialize in my brain. Two hours later, the cloud forms and rains the answer—Robert Duval. And this brain freeze is with famous people. Not so famous is worse.
Meeting several people simultaneously at a social function is an intellectual challenge to the memory bank…..the vault usually empties after the first two introductions.
“This is Margaret, her husband Tom, Margaret was with me in shoulder therapy, this is Alice, her husband taught elementary school at Briar Beech, and you know Harry from book club (I did not remember Harry from book club), and Betty from the gym, she also has twins and her daughter almost went to Mount Holyoke like Christie and Becky.”
So later on, when I am nursing my Pinot Noir and trying to discreetly fish my Frito out of the spinach dip, I ask Polley for a refresher. “So the guy I am partnering with in bridge is the guy who taught at Briar Beech and was with you in therapy and his kid went to Mount Holyoke.” Polley just shakes her head.
The memory lapses seem to increase exponentially as I grow older. I will be sitting in my study when I realize I need something from our bedroom. I get up, walk into the bedroom while thinking about the next sentence I am going to write. Suddenly I find myself in the bedroom asking myself, “Why am I here? What is it I wanted?”
Lists have become very important. If Polley and I don’t compose lists, we find ourselves in stores aimlessly wandering and wondering what it was we needed to buy. And we have to write these lists the second we think of the items to purchase….lest we forget. Sometimes we forget what we remembered. While shopping for a dinner we will host, it is not uncommon for this dialogue to take place.
“One of the sides is twice baked potatoes, right?”
“Right.”
“Do we have to get potatoes?”
“No, I got them the other day…..maybe I thought about getting them the other day.”
“We better buy some just to be certain.”
We added the newly purchased potatoes to the pile of potatoes in the pantry (also known as our “garage”) at home.
Remember Texas Governor Rick Perry’s presidential campaign? During one of the debates, he argued that there were three government agencies that could be eliminated. As he began identifying these agencies, a bubble of tar or some other highly viscous material invaded his neural pathway, causing him to list only two agencies. He mentally grasped for the third, but the bubble won. I am not a big fan of the governor’s policies or thinking, not by a long shot, but I empathize with his embarrassing bout of forgetfulness. “There are three movies we want to see….La La Land, Hacksaw Ridge………”
We do spend time devising strategies to counteract our failures of memory. We promise ourselves that we would put important documents—-tax statements, gift certificates, doctors’ prescriptions, etc.—-in a “safe place.” We simply can’t remember where those safe places are, having succeeded only in keeping those important items safe indeed—safe from us.
I kept a journal of my fly fishing experiences, streams I fished, number of fish caught, flies used, weather and water conditions, all the information I would need to be successful on my next fishing excursion. I put the journal in a space which would provide easy access and an unforgettable location. I am still searching for that journal. My mistake was putting it where I could not possibly lose it.
In researching this topic, I found some cause for optimism. Memory loss is not the same as dementia.
“ Memory loss is not an inevitable part of the aging process
The brain is capable of producing new brain cells at any age, so significant memory loss is not an inevitable result of aging. But just as it is with muscle strength, you have to use it or lose it. Your lifestyle, health habits, and daily activities have a huge impact on the health of your brain. Whatever your age, there are many ways you can improve your cognitive skills, prevent memory loss, and protect your grey matter.
- Walk whenever possible
- Get plenty of sleep
- Avoid smoking
- Learn about omega-3 fats and their role in brain health
- Stay social by prioritizing face-to-face connections
- Learn something new
Furthermore, many mental abilities are largely unaffected by normal aging, such as:
- Your ability to do the things you’ve always done and continue to do often
- The wisdom and knowledge you’ve acquired from life experience
- Your innate common sense and your ability to form reasonable arguments and judgments” https://www.helpguide.org/articles/memory/age-related-memory-loss.htm
That is encouraging.
There is a nice little movie, Memento, in which the protagonist suffers from acute short term memory loss. In trying to fulfill his mission, since he cannot trust his memory, he writes notes to himself on his skin. Frustrated at my forgetfulness, I have considered this option, but then reality set in. I would have to gain five hundred pounds to increase my skin surface in order to write down what I need to remember.
So I am currently employing a strategy to justify my declining power of memory. It is all bogus, of course, but sometimes we need to lie to ourselves. One of my favorite movies is Charade, starring Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn. They meet in a skiing chalet, and he asks if they have met before, and suggests that they might become friends.
“Oh, no!” Audrey replies. “I already have too many friends, and until one leaves, I can’t possibly have another one.”
“Oh. Well, if one gets on the critical list, let me know.”
I argue that so it is with information. I have stuffed so much info into my gray matter over my tenure on this earth that I cannot possibly retain another fact or statistic or idea until one piece of information leaves my brain. Ten minutes into writing this blog a fantastic idea for a thought-provoking conclusion popped into my brain but, alas, I should have written it down the second I experienced the revelation. The great ending has evaporated into the ether. Sorry.
by Ralph Maltese | Feb 26, 2017 | Uncategorized
Apostrophe to Punctuation
I was intrigued by this headline in a well-respected, big city paper. “Parents’ Object to School Board.” What object, I wondered, did parents send to the school board? A petition for less homework? A number 2 pencil symbolizing their frustration with the testing mania? A dead fish wrapped in newspaper a la mob style signal? Reading the article did not provide an explanation of the object. Finally, I realized it was a misuse of apostrophes that caused the confusion on my part. “Object” was not a noun, but a verb. The misused apostrophe was the culprit. There was no object belonging to parents. Figuring that out was five minutes of my life I will not get back.
I don’t get it. I taught for almost four decades, and I understand why my students made punctuation mistakes. That was why they were in school—to learn. But what is the excuse for newspaper editors and television news? Don’t the editors get paid to edit? The apostrophe is only used in English for two situations—-to show possession or to signify a contraction (missing letters). English majors know that “apostrophe” as a word –not as a symbol of punctuation can be a figure of speech in which a poet addresses an absent person or abstract idea, such as Lord Byron’s “Apostrophe to the Ocean.” [see title of this blog] There is a third use, but more on that later. When using a pronoun, an apostrophe is never used for possession: my, your, their, ITS (most often confused). An apostrophe and a pronoun is always a contraction: I’m (I am), You’re (you are), We’re (we are), IT’S (it is).
Here are some examples of the incorrect use of the apostrophe (or lack of) in signs: NO DOG’S ALLOWED, CHILDRENS’ GARDEN, PERFECTION HAS IT’S PRICE, KIDS KIOSK, ST. PAULS SQUARE, PARKING: RESIDENTS AND VISITOR’S ONLY.
One of my linguist professors in grad school predicted the demise of the apostrophe. “In forty years, the apostrophe will disappear from usage. People will simply get the appropriate meaning from context.” He was a terrific teacher, but not so good a prognosticator (or perhaps his prediction needed more time to come true). He would have a big argument from the “The Apostrophe Protection Society.” http://www.apostrophe.org.uk/page8.html It warms my heart to know that there are groups of people dedicated to preserving the correct use of a symbol of punctuation. I discovered websites devoted to exposing apostrophe misusers. On this one http://www.apostrophecatastrophes.com/ the following errors are highlighted: CUBAN CIGAR’S, PRINCESS TIARA’S FOR ONLY $4.50, LETS GO CELTICS.
The misuse of apostrophes seems omnipresent. On a blackboard: DEAR PARENT’S DON’T FORGET THE COOKIES. Inscription on a cake: THERE’S IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME. Sign on a fast food store: DEEP FRIED OREO’S. http://mashable.com/2012/09/24/misuses-punctuation/#c3E1I5I8oGqH
Not that the misuse of an apostrophe is a crime against humanity. Unless the confusion from the misuse alters an order which ends up as a crime against humanity. As a co-editor of my college paper, I was raked over the coals if I let slip a grammatical error. I wonder if the editors of papers and television news suffer embarrassment from a faux pas. “Gee, Harold, why the apostrophe in ‘Parents’ object’?” [Did I put the question mark in the right place in the last sentence? Probably not.]
I referred to a third use of apostrophes aside from showing possession and contraction. An apostrophe appears in names, and this seems to be occurring more often. “Thomas Re’nard,” “Ap’ril Olsen,” “Jona’than James.” Apostrophes in names is nothing new—think French and Italian and Irish and Native American. “Le’clerc,” “De’Angelo,” “O’Malley,” and the famous “Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.”
Some theorists speculate that using apostrophes in names is a result of not having diacritical marks on the keyboard (like the umlaut—-hello Elizabeth Rohm from Law and Order) In other languages, the apostrophe has other uses. As in:
“Use in transliteration
In transliterated foreign words, an apostrophe may be used to separate letters or syllables that otherwise would likely be interpreted incorrectly. For example:
- in theArabic word mus’haf, a transliteration of مصحف, the syllables are as in mus·haf, not mu·shaf
- in the Japanese nameShin’ichi, the apostrophe shows that the pronunciation is shi·n·i·chi (hiragana しんいち), where the letters n (ん) and i (い) are separate morae, rather than shi·ni·chi (しにち).
- in the ChinesePinyin romanization, when two hanzi are combined to form one word, if the resulting Pinyin representation can be misinterpreted they should be separated by an apostrophe. For example, 先 (xiān) 西安 (xī’ān).
Furthermore, an apostrophe may be used to indicate a glottal stop in transliterations. For example:
- in the Arabic wordQur’an, a common transliteration of (part of) القرآن al-qur’ān, the apostrophe corresponds to the diacritic Maddah over the ‘alif, one of the letters in the Arabic alphabet
Rather than ʿ the apostrophe is sometimes used to indicate a voiced pharyngeal fricative as it sounds and looks like the glottal stop to most English speakers. For example:
Did you follow all those explanations? Really? Fricative that! And we have difficulty remembering the two correct uses of apostrophes in English!
I understand the current trend to de-Anglicize names, and I wish I had thought of it. I could have distinguished my own children by inserting some apostrophes. “Mere’dith” comes to mind. But, as it fortunately turned out, all my children distinguished themselves by their deeds….without my help naming them in distinctive ways. Besides, having to live up to an apostrophe in one’s name might put too much pressure on the kid.
I wonder if the use of apostrophes in names will spread to other forms of punctuation. Consider the exclamation point. Ralph! Maltese sort of grabs one’s attention. Imagine a future populated with George Washing!tons, Abraham Lin!colns, Fred!erick Douglass’(for those government officials who don’t know who the social reformer Frederick Douglass is, it would be worth your while reading his book Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, but I would not spend time trying to find his email address). And why limit our futuristic scenario to just the apostrophe and exclamation point? A common name in the 24th century might be John Smi)th, or Tom Jo*nes, or Ronald Mc;Donald. Punctuation combinations could evolve in names. James Feni%$)more Coo*!per, Alec Bald&^$win, Amy A)($dams, Donald Tr#$@&%*!ump.
This I believe to be true: Language is an organic entity. It evolves depending on its usage. Perhaps my professor was correct in predicting the disappearance of the apostrophe, but that is sad. Punctuation spices up language and clarifies meaning—as long it is used correctly….ay, there’s-theirs the rub.
