by Ralph Maltese | Dec 11, 2016 | Uncategorized
One Man’s Guide for Men Shopping for Women’s Gifts
Okay, Men. You have decided to man up and shop for your wife’s holiday gift. This is a daunting task—no doubt about it. But with this guide, the mission will be easier and, hopefully, successful. First of all, congratulations! You have eschewed our fathers’ cowardly tactic of giving their daughters some cash and commanding them to purchase their mother some clothes which our fathers claimed credit for choosing. That strategy was strictly a monetary exchange, no thought involved. It seems to me that women like things involving thoughtfulness. Men I don’t know. I never heard the male recipient of a good deed, say having a buddy bait a hook or pop open his beer (rare events, admittedly) say to the gift giver, “My, that was thoughtful.” You have also avoided the pitfall of choosing a practical gift like my father who thought an electric can opener was my mother’s heart’s desire.
Let’s be clear. You WILL fail. Many holidays past, I decided to shop for my fiancé Polley. I entered a posh boutique (that’s a store with flowery wallpaper and requires a credit card because no matter how much cash you have on you, it won’t be enough) and the rather short lady cracking gum approached me. “Dearie, can I help you?” The “dearie” is a tell. Salesladies see a man in a women’s clothing store or women’s clothing department and immediately think the guy has gotten lost returning from Best Buy or Pep Boys. If I answered, “Thanks, babe.” The “babe” would have landed me in jail or a lawsuit, but she gets away with “dearie.” There are two strategies to choose from. The first is to dig your toe into the carpet and “Aw shucks” the salesperson telling her you want to buy something nice for your spouse but you “justs don’t know nothing about buying no woman’s clothes.”. This gives the saleslady power, not always the best course of action. On my first mission I pleaded Gomer Pyle style for help. “Okay, dearie. Maud is going to fix you up.”
Maud showed me several outfits. I had no idea what Polley liked or didn’t like. I would have to learn this over the years, and you, too, can do this. Like anything else if you want to learn because the objective is worthwhile, you will learn. When you are both shopping pay attention when she stops in front of a window and says something like, “That dress is cute.” “Cute” is usually a ringing endorsement, so your ears should perk up, and that part of your brain not devoted to NFL football stats should retain this image of clothing. Watch what she chooses to wear and what clothes/jewelry worn by her friends she praises. The latter can be tricky—they always praise their friends’ wear, so you have to discern levels of praise…..praise can be a flower or a dagger. If she repeats the praise to her other friends out of earshot of the recipient, it is legit.
Finally Maud shows me a flowing, frilly, purple dress, something I envisioned Polley sporting while she sashayed around the Hotel Taft Ballroom floor. It never occurred to me that Polley would not have numerous opportunities to sashay around the Hotel Taft Ballroom floor. Maud got out the box and tissue paper and started to pack the purple dress. “Honey, trust me. She’s gonna love it.”
Polley didn’t love it. With great tact she explained to me that the only occasion on which she could wear the purple dress was if she landed a dancing role in the cast of the Broadway musical West Side Story. We went back to the store and she picked out something else. So, you WILL fail, especially at the beginning, but if you learn from the disaster, it will pay off.
The second strategy is to demonstrate to the saleslady that you actually know something about what you want and more importantly, what your wife would want. You walk in the store, and there is the salesperson summing you up, judging that in terms of shopping you are dumber than the mannequin poised next to her. You say something like, “It is that time of year. I would like to purchase for my wife an outfit appropriate for a rehearsal dinner that we will attend in May. She likes pastels, especially yellow, and she does not like clothing that is ostentatious or ornate. I have her sizes here on a card in my wallet.” I mentally measure how far her jaw drops.
To accomplish this, men, you have to tighten your belt, straighten your epaulettes, and do your homework. Stroll through the women’s section of a department store. You will see signs like “Young Misses,” “Active Wear,” “Maturity,” “Encore,” “Special Occasion,” “Collectors,” “Point of View.” Yeah, the labels don’t mean anything to me either. There will always be one label you can avoid…..unless…..”Maternity.”
Sometimes the sections of the store are categorized according to type of clothing:; Dresses, Jackets, Blazers, Leggings, Jumpsuits and Rompers (does your spouse “romp?), Jackets, Coats, Jeans, Pants, Pants and Capris(short white pants that are perfect to pack on your next trip to Italy), Resort Wear, Shorts, Skirts, Suits and Suit Separates[?], Sweaters, Tights, Socks and Hosiery, Vests, Tops (not to be confused with Sweaters, Blouses or Vests), Wear to Work (so all of the stuff above is for lounging around the house?), Shrugs (I guess a “shrug” is supposed to send the message “I don’t give a damn.”) One “trendy” garment mill labels their sections Cocktail, Day, Night Out, Work, Cozy Comfort (as opposed to the Harsh Comfort). Other stores label their sections by the name of the designer. I walk into a store, see Maurice A La Font Bleu, and I wonder what Canadian hockey team he played for. The Feldman Collection, Olaf’s Scandinavian Treasures, Martin’s Trendy Stuff, Hugo’s Piece de Resistance mean nothing to me. Don’t be intimidated. These guys probably couldn’t hit a whiffle ball.
Once you choose an item, say a sweater, now you have more decisions to make. First is size. A man wants a blue shirt, he marches to the shirt aisle, finds a blue dress shirt, 16 neck, 32 sleeve, he’s at the cashier’s desk, eight minutes tops. Women’s sizes are more complex—and mystifying. Some stores label their sections by sizes: Petite, Plus Sizes, Trendy Plus Sizes, .Petite Plus. OR there are these designations: X, XXS, XS, M. OR there are these sizes: 1,0,4,6,8,10,12 OR there are these sizes: 1,1.5,2,2.5,3,3.5,4. Finally there is Small, Medium, Large. I find that carrying a small card in my wallet with my wife’s measurements and presenting it to the saleslady helps a great deal. This way I don’t have to remember that a Macy’s 10 is equivalent to a Chico’s 2 or whatever. Want to impress the saleslady and demonstrate you know your stuff, that your savoir faire in the area of women’s clothing is boundless? Ask her if Calvin de la Bouche’s dress sizes “run small.” That’s right. A size 10 blouse by Calvin de la Bouche might actually be smaller in size than a size 10 by Jed Clampett’s Lifestyles. It is all part of the feminine mystique.
If you are thinking about a “top,” you might also have to consider the kind of hole in the top of the top: Neckline, Boatneck, Cardigan, Cowlneck, Crewneck, Henley, Mockneck, Scoopneck, Turtleneck, Vneck, Zipneck. Men usually do not worry about how much of their neck is showing, especially when they are sporting a “top” from Bazooka’s Bowling Alley, but apparently this is important. Watch what your loved one chooses from her wardrobe, try to remember it, and make the choice.
The next decision you will have to make is color. You might have as your favorite color “olive green camouflage” which, admittedly, looks great when you hunt turkey. You must consider your loved one’s best colors, especially taking into consideration her hair hue. Again, on this mission you will encounter experiences you have never imagined. You will enter a forest of colors that you never knew existed and which do not exist in nature, even though the names include features from the natural world. For example, here are some colors advertised in a catalog from a well-known store: Chili Red, Ink Spill, Rainforest Teal, Party Pink, Passion, Shadow, Waterfall, Coral Tile, Smoke Grey Heather, Intrepid Blue, Heather Buff (that is not Heather In The Buff, guys), Sphynx (??….exactly), Dark Prune (why does this not sound appealing?), New Red Amore, Pearl Blush, Venetian Moss (as differentiated from Albanian Moss) , Eggplant, Ballet Pink. Do not be daunted, Men, by the nomenclature. Remember when you opened your first box of Crayola Crayons (64) and encountered for the first time Cerise, and Cerulean and Fuchsia? Think prime colors and you will be fine. You can even anticipate the amount of the bill by the colors the store uses to identify its clothes. If a shop uses the following colors: Xanadu (grey green), Mikado (yellow), Glaucous (blue—powder blue), Wenge (dark brown), Fulvous (gold), Falu (deep red), Eburnean (ivory white), Amaranth (rose red), Smaragdine (emerald green) then expect to take out a second mortgage.
Warning. Two departments I carefully avoid when shopping for Polley. The first is a shoe department. Imelda Marcos, wife of Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos, admitted to owning one thousand, sixty pairs of shoes. We guys don’t understand this, but some of the female species do. Me, if I find a comfortable pair of work boots, I would wear them to every event, including weddings. Apparently in the opposite sex’s universe, there are more events than I could dream up, and each event requires a different pair of shoes. I leave shoe purchases to Polley’s vision of the future.
The second department I strongly urge you to bypass is the lingerie area. I once was rifling through a rack of slips and other undergarments (which Polley had hinted at in her Santa letter). I suddenly looked up and saw the stern face of the woman watching me from the opposite side of the rack. She wasn’t thinking that “this guy is buying a Christmas gift for his wife.” If I must purchase one of these accoutrements, I simply tell the clerk what I want and let her fetch the item. At the front desk, in line with female shoppers, avoid watching the cashier package the items unless you arouse some dagger eyes.
Of course, you could take the tact to avoid clothing purchases altogether and go for buying perfume. I am not good at that ever since Frank and Stan, two college buddies, convinced me in one of those dormitory bull sessions that the perfume industry got it all wrong. If girls wanted to attract boys through smell, they should put on smells that guys like. For example, Eau de Freshly Oiled Baseball Glove, or Magnifique New Car Smell. And guys should wear the floral odors that ladies enjoy. I think Frank and Stan were on to something.
Men, that is about all I know about shopping for women’s apparel. Not much, I admit, but it is a continual learning process. My best advice is to march into the fray unafraid and prepared. On several shopping attempts salesladies completely ignored me. As some later confessed, they thought I was standing in the middle of the store while my wife shopped (again, a male shopping in “Women’s Clothing” was to them an anomaly). Others eyed me as a homeless person who staggered in from a gin mill to oogle women as they exited the dressing room. You might have to approach them….the salesladies, not the women exiting the dressing rooms.
Is it worth it? My experience tells me it is. Your loved one will at least appreciate the fact that you walked miles in the mall to find the perfect gift; that you challenged the windmills of style and size denomination and color to pick for your lovely one something that would make her even more lovely. The gift, if she is smart, is in the effort you made, and that effort is much more valuable than money. At least I hope so. I admit I like shopping for Polley. And even failing in this mission has a silver lining. Hey, guys, at the very least she can always return the item and use the credit to shop for something she really wants. This is good. Many women like to shop…or so I am told.
by Ralph Maltese | Dec 4, 2016 | Uncategorized
The Parkinson’s Whack-a-Mole
So I turned 70 years old. In social gatherings, when an old timer announces his advanced age, people applaud. I really don’t know why people do that. I mean, I really haven’t done anything to help me orbit the sun seventy times.
When I was teaching, I tried to emphasize the dangers of illiteracy and innumeracy. In one class I was aware of the unhealthful habits of some students, so I pointed out stats on drinking and smoking. As usual most did not buy it, citing the legends rather than facts.
“Mr. Maltese, I got an uncle who smokes three packs a day and drinks hard liquor every night and he is 82.”
I reply, “Out of a hundred people who follow your uncle’s regimen, how many do you think will make it to 82?” It usually does not work. Like the rest of us, the young would rather embrace hope than reality. I cannot blame them. When I was sixteen I felt I could drink a gallon of arsenic, smoke a stogie every five minutes, and stand in front of a speeding locomotive and survive. The young always believe that they are immortal. Time is also different for the young and the old. I was eight when I ordered from Battle Creek, Michigan a toy frogman (advertised in a cereal box) which, after loading his foot with baking soda, rose and fell in the bathtub. Hours of fun. “You will receive your Farina Frogman in four to six weeks.” Of course, the latter amount of time was always the reality. Oh how long six weeks was to an eight year old! Same was true when I had to wait a year to get a bicycle for Christmas. Simple math: one year over eight years is 1/8th of my life time. Now, when my cardiologist schedules my next visit a year from now, it seems I walk out of his office, get in my car, drive around the block, the year has passed, and I am back lying on the table and he is taking my blood pressure. One eighth of a lifetime is a great deal longer than one seventieth of a lifetime. Hence youthful impatience.
It seemed like it took me ten millennia to go from eight years old to double digits. I went from my sixties to my seventies in the blink of an eye. In fact, it seems like yesterday I turned fifty. What also seems to speed up are ailments associated with Parkinson’s. As Polley has observed, having Parkinson’s is a Whack-A-Mole experience. It seems that once one symptom reaches a plateau and I cope with it, another pops up. I woke up one morning and my left foot was shaking almost uncontrollably. After my diagnosis of Parkinson’s, my neurologist prescribes The Patch. Next Whack-A-Mole Parkinson’s Problem pops up. The Patch helps a great deal with the shaking, but pulling it off every morning reminds me of Steve Carell in The 40 Year Old Virgin as a spa technician rips a piece of tape off his hairy chest, and he yells “Kelly Clarkson!” When I first applied The Patch, it burned and itched (the adhesive, not the medication, is responsible). After removal, The Patch leaves a scar that looks as if a cat o nine tails had slashed the skin. The other guys in the locker room at workout marvel at my scarred back. I tell them the flogging was my punishment for not wiping off the treadmill after use. The burning has decreased (as the scar tissue hardens), but it still itches.
I tolerate the shaky foot and the itching Patch when another Whack-A-Mole Parkinson’s Problem rises. My eyes begin to burn. Parkinson’s people do not blink very often, so the eyes dry out and burn. Eye drops only make it worse. And the blindness (when the eye begins to burn, my eyelid closes, severely impairing my vision—often it happens in both eyes and I enter Stevie Wonder’s world without the talent) happens at the most inopportune times—carving a turkey, watching a touchdown pass, tying my sneakers.
I was coping fairly well with these afflictions when yet another Whack-A-Mole Parkinson’s Problem seeps from the depths of hell. My vocal chords go on strike. I lose not only my teaching voice, but my conversational voice. People bend toward me to hear me whisper, “You are stepping on my foot.” As fast as the moles pop up, I whack at them.
The latest Whack-A-Mole Parkinson’s Problem has developed over the last four months. I have recurring bouts of nausea, total loss of appetite (which has resulted in weight loss—a good thing, but I can’t see any way to market this diet). When we visit my gastrointestinal specialist, he says, with some pride, “With Parkinson’s the digestive system is the second system to be affected.” I increase my number of meals to six from the customary three trough feedings and decrease the amount of food at each repast to slivers of meat and spoonfuls of carbs and veggies.
There are days when each Whack-A-Mole Parkinson’s Problem barely peeps out of its hole, and then there are days like Thanksgiving when I was slinging my Whack-A-Mole hammer like crazy. My wonderful, beautiful family is assembled, Wife, Children and their Spouses, and Grandchildren. I lift my wine glass to make a toast, twisting slightly to scratch the maddening itch on my back with the chair back, and my vocal chords project my prepared speech about four inches from my mouth. I notice everyone is straining hard to hear and smiling, pretending they heard. Much louder is my thumping left foot which seemingly could drown out a New York City jackhammer. It is accompanied by a rumbling of my stomach as if a thunderstorm sprung up and is signaling caution about devouring anything on my plate. Simultaneously both eyes blink out, and I finish my toast begging for a cloth to wipe them.
You might find this hard to believe after listing my ailments, but I had a wonderful Thanksgiving—one of the best ever. Satchel Paige once said, “How old would you be if you didn’t know your age?” Tis true. Some days I feel like that child in the Bronx with his face up against the Macy’s Christmas window watching the toy Lionel trains. I think young. I am that teenager who can leap tall buildings in a single bound.And there are those Parkinson’s Whack-A-Mole days when I feel like a man who has made too many revolutions around the sun. What my seventy years have taught me is to be a stubborn cuss. All those birthdays (and all of the history and art and music and literature I have studied—and most of all my parents) have taught me is that you make the most of the cards you are dealt. Life does not promise that every hand will be a winning one. And I know that there are other players who have much better hands to play than I do. I hope they appreciate their luck. And I also know there are players holding cards much worse than mine. I pray for them. And I admire their courage. It is up to me to see the possibilities with the cards I am holding. At least, at the very least, I am still playing. I am still holding the hammer and whacking away at those damn moles and playing my cards the best I know how.
by Ralph Maltese | Nov 27, 2016 | Uncategorized
Most Memorable Meals
Polley and I were driving home the other day, when one of our favorite DJ’s shared some trivia involving fast food. His claim was that a fast food chain featuring Mexican food produced the first crisp taco. Polley’s reaction was swift and forceful. “I know that is not true. In the early sixties my family stopped in a small café in Colorado Springs which served free nachos and cheese, and we ordered tacos and they were crisp tacos. The walls were decorated with paintings of tall cactus, and the pork filling of the tacos was delicious.” I never argue with her about restaurants and meals we shared. Her memory in this regard is far superior to mine. On the other hand, when it comes to memories, I usually wrap them in failures and successes in fly fishing. I have a hard time recalling what I had for breakfast this morning, but I can tell you that in early July 2004 at the Big Bend underneath an overhanging aspen tree 300 yards below Hamilton, Montana, I caught an 18 inch brown trout on an olive streamer. Or in 2006 3 miles above Milner Pass on the Cache La Poudre River in Colorado in a Lodge Pole Pine tree I lost one of my favorite flies, a Missing Link Caddisfly pattern. I bet it is still there, and I know that if I return I can find the tree and attempt, again, to retrieve the fly. Polley is not nearly as good at remembering this important stuff.
Funny how memory works. Years ago I read an article about anthropology and the way females and males give directions. The author was suggesting that in early humankind, women were basically gatherers, their directions were placed-oriented. “To get to the stream go down to the berry patch look for the big cactus. At the big cactus go downhill to the big black rock–there is the stream.” I do not know if this is true or not, but I have heard women say, “Drive to the first gas station on your left, across from the mall, make a right, and by the Schultz bakery make another right, and next to the police station is the body shop you want.” According to the article, men, searching for and following herds of game, give directions differently. My personal opinion is that early males not only hunted for food, but went on these trips to escape child rearing responsibilities. “Me no can watch little Fred. Must join other men to hunt mastodon. Be back maybe seven moons.” If one asked Big Fred how to locate a herd of wildebeest, he might say, “Go north for two days, follow canyon wall till feet tire. Go south along river till you see herd.” I tend to give directions this way. “Drive about five miles north on highway 95, get off at the Barclay exit, make a right, go down a half mile, and on your left is the peanut factory.” I don’t know if the premise of the article is accurate, but it is fun to consider.
What I do know is that Polley and I have our memories peppered with culinary high points and low points. “When did we last see Aunt Marge?” I might ask. “It was the time we stopped for lunch at that small Italian restaurant and had that delicious Caprese salad with the smoked mozzarella.”
Our earliest recalls of our relationship are notched by famous…..and infamous…..meals. When we were graduate students at Indiana U. (Go Hoosiers!) driving back from a visit to a friend in Kentucky, we stopped at a roadside eatery. We were both very hungry. Scanning the menu, Polley decided, “I am going to get the fried chicken platter. I love fried chicken.” That sounded good to me. “Me, too. I’ll order that as well.”
Polley peered over her menu. “Sweetie, that might not be enough for you. Get the chicken dinner. Peas, mashed potatoes and chicken. I know you are hungry. Get that.” There was a three dollar difference, and we were surviving on a student’s tight budget. “No, I’ll get the fried chicken platter.” “Honey,” the voice of Eve insisted, “the platter only has maybe two or three pieces. Get the dinner.” The picture of the fried chicken platter made my mouth water, but I was hungry. “Okay. I’ll spring for the dinner.”
When our orders arrived, Polley’s plate was piled high with engaging aromatic fried chicken—wings, drumsticks and thighs. My dish had a mound of mashed potatoes, a pile of green peas, and two skinny slivers of boiled chicken, barely a forkful which I ate in one bite. Polley laughed as she apologized. “Sorry I talked you into that one.”
A few years later on our honeymoon in Montreal, we discovered that French Onion Soup could be delicious and dangerous. I wanted to treat my new bride to a classy and memorable meal. I could sense that she was getting tired of the A&W menu. I was successful. St. La Mere Michel was an upscale, richly decorated (and richly priced!) classical French restaurant where the waiters spoke only French and the interior was decorated in rococo or late Baroque ornamentation and the clientele dressed in suits and evening gowns. We ordered French Onion soup. In a few minutes the sounds of clinking crystal goblets and Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, and the hushed patter of French was accompanying by my new bride’s gagging on a glob of melted cheese that withstood slithering down her esophagus. The sounds of St. La Mere Michel stopped as Polley finally gained control of that blob. Ever since I consider the danger factor when ordering any dish.
One non-dangerous but curious eating engagement occurred on a trip back from St. Louis visiting inlaws. The ride back in the hot July sun was especially tiring, the sun glare wearing down the eyesight which is pretty important to driving. Zanesville, Ohio had four motels, all of which were full. Exhausted we pushed on into West Virginia and found a room. The establishment also had a restaurant, and, far more importantly to me, a bar. At that moment of my life history all I wanted was a drink, a little something to munch on, and a pillow…in that order. The hostess guided Polley and me to a nice table in the air conditioned dining room, and Polley ordered her usual glass of Sauvignon Blanc. I knew what I wanted five hundred miles earlier.
“A Gibson, please.”
Our waitress’ face twisted into a visage of puzzlement. “I’ll go ask the bartender.” For those of you who still have a shrine to Carrie Nation on your front porch, a Gibson is a dry martini (six to one) with a cocktail onion instead of an olive.
Our waitress returned. “Sir, the bartender says he does not know what a Gibson is…but he heard of it in bartending school.”
I was hoping he graduated. “Sure, a Gibson is a dry martini, six parts gin to one part dry vermouth with an onion instead of an olive.’
Our young waitress’ face broke into a very pretty smile. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Several minutes later, she walked toward us holding a martini cocktail glass. Behind her in the partially opened doorway to the kitchen, were three heads, one atop the other, like a Mo, Larry and Curly movie. The bartender and his associates were awaiting my reaction to their concoction.
The waitress placed in front of me my drink. Floating like seaweed among the incoming tide was a slice of onion, skin still on. I looked at my cocktail, at the suspense-filled heads, and at the waitress. Hell, when you get the opportunity to make someone happy, you should jump at it. I lifted the cocktail, watching the quarter-of-an-onion slosh back and forth, and extended my arm in salute toward the stacked heads. I took a sip. I smiled and nodded. Four faces broke into huge smiles. It had been a long day.
There are good memories as well. We might return to Carbondale, Colorado and the Red Rock Diner just so we can enjoy the double decker hamburger which included a soft taco and its filling. That would be fine with me, because nearby is the Frying Pan River where I caught a twenty inch rainbow trout just two miles east of Basalt on an Elk Hair Caddis fly.
This habit of recording our common history is basically a good thing, but sometimes we are trapped by our historical habits. For example, Polley possesses an almost religious avoidance of having any food delivered to our door—whether the door is at home or on the road. We could be in the middle of a blinding blizzard where the drive to the restaurant for a pickup meal is fraught with hazards, and she will insist on making the drive instead of having it delivered. I do not know why this is, but I am working on it. I figure she still owes me for that chicken “dinner” she talked me into. But rethinking the whole memory thing, it is not so much the experience, the meal or the fish caught that frames the memory. It is the person I shared it with. And that fact makes it memorable.
by Ralph Maltese | Nov 20, 2016 | Uncategorized
My Body of Thanks
I was feeling rather sad the other day. No, not because of him. We survived Harding and Coolidge. We will survive him as well. We probably will not thrive, but we will survive. Thanksgiving is around the corner, and I am really looking forward to it because all my children and grandchildren will convene at my oldest daughter Christie’s home, and that is enough to make me extremely happy and thankful. But there is also a twinge of apprehension. Would my Parkinson’s symptoms slow the holiday down? Can my vocal chords hold up to a conversation? I am planning a small magic show for my grandchildren. Will my digits fumble the playing cards? Will my shaking bungle the tricks? When we sit down at the dinner table, will the pain in my back allow me to last the meal?
There were other contributors to my melancholy. As a youngster in suburban northern New Jersey, I would rise early Thanksgiving morning and join my father in a small game hunting trip for pheasant or rabbits. Walking the leaf strewn floor of the deep woods and the fields of a crisp November morning, breathing in the cool, fresh air, and sharing the experience with my dad was, simply, pure happiness. We would return home around noon, and our senses would embrace the warmth of the kitchen, the smells of roasting turkey and pies baking in the oven, and my mother’s smile as we shed our hunting clothes, donned our best clothes and our best behavior and enjoyed the day together.
I miss the feelings of those Thanksgivings. I can no longer walk the woods as I once did. I miss my parents and my brothers. I was deep into this woefulness which is not a good thing because sadness is very contagious. I began to take stock of my ills. Shaky left hand (making it difficult to write), shaky left foot which thumps at every keyboard entry, eyes which burn because my brain forgets to blink, nausea that comes and goes, legs which won’t obey my commands, loss of smell….no scent of roasting turkey. What usually comes to my rescue at these moments is my metacognition—my ability to step away and form perspective, to see the Big Picture. So I began a hunt, not for small game, but for facts about the human body….the amazing structure we utilize every second of every day. For example, my opposable thumb—useful for sticking in a pie, hitching a ride, signaling everything is good, or grasping a drumstick. So allow me to share:
With the 60,000 miles of blood vessels inside the average human body, you could circumnavigate Earth two and a half times. That’s a lot of plumbing.
Considering all the tissues and cells in your body, 25 million new cells are being produced each second. That’s a little less than the population of Canada—every second! So I am a mass producer of cells, eh? Once again, Canada’s population is used as a reference, eh?
We exercise at least 36 muscles when we smile. For some people I know, that is too much exercise for them to exert.
We are about 70% water. I keep on telling my family doctor not to worry about my weight gain. “It’s just water, doc.”
A person can expect to breathe in about 45 pounds of dust over his/her lifetime. Triple that if you look under my bed.
When you blush, the lining of your stomach blushes too. I thought it was gas. How did scientists discover this? Shudder……
Nerve impulses travel to and from the brain at speeds of up to 250 miles per hour, faster than a Formula 1 racecar. A few of my students drove a ‘64 Volkswagon with a faulty clutch.
When in love, the human brain releases the same cocktail of neurotransmitters and hormones that are released by amphetamines. This leads to increased heart rate, loss of appetite and sleep, and intense feelings of excitement. I am still crazy in love with Polley, so that explains the above symptoms.
A full head of human hair is strong enough to support 12 tons. Oops! My head of hair cannot support a feather.
The atoms that make up your human body today are the same atoms that formed during the Big Bang 13.7 billion years ago. No wonder I feel old.
In 30 minutes, the human body gives off enough heat to bring a gallon of water to the boil. If I could harness this my natural gas bill would decrease. “Tea, my dear?”
We make around 1 to 1.6 litres of saliva a day. Quadruple that figure if you are a Parkinson’s person. I could be a rich man if I could locate a saliva market.
I felt better. The failures of my body became lost in the incredible things my body still does. I can think, I can smile, and I can laugh. I can love and be loved. Like everyone else on this planet, I am a miracle, and that is something to be thankful for. Some people discredit Thanksgiving, decrying the abuses the pilgrims inflicted on the local natives, the treaties broken, (and, in truth, the treaties the Native Americans also abrogated).. But I think they are missing the point. I am grateful for my current family, but I am also thankful for the commonness shared by all humanity, besides the shared miracle of our amazing bodies…our ability to exhibit compassion and empathy and to recognize that we are all adrift on a small planet, and all of us are working hard to simply make it through the night. To me, the pilgrims and the people they asked to share their dinner table demonstrated the best of humanity. To me, that is what Thanksgiving is really all about—that special moment when different cultures rise above their differences and embrace their human commonalities. Ultimately holidays are symbols, and we invest in those symbols what we choose to invest. I choose to invest gratitude and hope. I am thankful. I hope you have the time to reflect and be thankful as well. Start with your opposable thumb. Happy Happy Thanksgiving.
Facts from medicaldaily.com
by Ralph Maltese | Nov 13, 2016 | Uncategorized
Ignorance is Bliss…..And Dangerous
In ninth grade I learned that Washington Irving was the Father of American Fiction. Classrooms are fond of making kids memorize fathers of things—Father of Modern Astronomy (Nicholas Copernicus), Father of Quantum Mechanics (Max Planck), Father of the French Sailing Navy (Jean-Baptiste Colbert—-remember, you learned it here). I think it is gender-ironic that with all these Fathers of Things we use the phrase “Necessity is the Mother of Invention.” But I digress. Irving received this accolade because, at a time when the United States, struggling for independence and recognition on the world stage, Irving gave the new nation a “cultural past.” He did this by “borrowing” the plots of old Germanic folk tales and setting them in the Catskills and other New York environs. The Knickerbocker Tales, Rip Van Winkle, and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow are examples. So early Americans could say “Yippee! We gots a cultural past. Some American guy wrote a book I can’t read!” In graduate school, I learned something else. Washington Irving contributed to our nation’s legacy of anti-intellectualism. Take The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. The schoolteacher, Ichabod Crane, is bested by Bones Brummel, a bare chested frontiersman whose SAT scores would have kept him out of Jed Clampett’s Finishing School. The theme is apparent in the story (and in Irving’s other works). If the nation is to survive we don’t need smart, educated people. We need to produce the Bones Brummels to fell the forests, to explore the wilderness, and to fell the local natives so the nation could grow.
It would be understandable, ethics aside, if the wave of anti-intellectualism ended on the sands of our country’s origins. But the history of the United States is replete with the ridicule of educated minds, of “egg heads,” of nerds who actually read books. Candidates for high office worked hard during campaigns to insure the voters that they were not “one of them,” that they were not book learners—that they were not college schooled but emerged wholly ignorant from Hicksville.. Even into modern times, office seekers distance themselves from any supposition of intellectualism, non-referencing their Ivy League backgrounds and posing for the cameras while chain sawing twigs, and strolling through factories, hard hats on heads and sleeves rolled up, and pretending to drive tanks.
Our education system is still predicated on a post-World War II factory model. During the war we massed produced tanks and ships and planes and GI’s. Why not mass produce students, most of whom did not need to learn a great deal (or possess high level thinking skills) to work on assembly lines? A few students would have to learn more to run the factories and an even smaller group would have to fill their brains with additional skills to own those institutions.
I was raised on science fiction movies in which the subtle (and not-so-subtle) anti-smart motifs surfaced. The hero of the movie was always a well-built lad who faced the monster, the gigantic ant or gila monster or radiated newt, with courage and persistence. He saved the world and the pretty young thing (best known for holding the back of her hand up to her mouth as the monster came closer). Her uncle or father or grandfather was always an aged scientist sporting an Albert Einstein hairdo. This character could build a complex nuclear device that would eventually destroy the monster, but he could not find his shoes or the glasses atop his head without the aid of his niece/daughter/granddaughter. Message sent: you can be smart OR practical…..as if both adjectives are mutually exclusive.
The truth is that, in the United States, we celebrate, even idolize, the know nothings, the blissfully ignorant, and we treat with disdain, distrust, and scorn those who are actually book smart. This reality was reinforced during my tenure as high school teacher. “Cool kids” did not open books or study history or ask great questions (they were aspiring Fonzies without the moral compass), while those who did were forced to spend too much time avoiding the bullying of their small-minded classmates. Too many parents were more concerned about their child’s social status than their academic status. These would also be the first parents who would want the federal government to “do something” about the fact that the best jobs would go to the deserving and hardworking non-Americans rather than their lazier cherubs.
On a few occasions a student would say something like, “Literature is stupid. History is stupid.” I would ask the student to explain this belief. The answer was usually, “It is just my opinion.” This became a lead-in to one of my favorite explorations—the difference between an opinion and an educated opinion. An educated opinion is a belief bolstered by facts, facts garnered from history or science or math—from reality. All opinions, at the risk of sounding undemocratic, are not equal. One can have the opinion that the sun revolves around the earth or that drinking arsenic is a good thing or that the Sixers are the best team in the NBA, but an educated opinion might beg to differ on those beliefs. Our Founding Fathers (and their wives!), were products of the Age of Enlightenment, the Age of Reason. They understood the perils inherent in a democratic system. If the nation were to progress, and the right people chosen to govern, if would have to occur by the populace using educated opinions, leaning on truth rather than emotion. There are also educated choices.
Last week Polley gave me a synopsis of a newspaper article which equated the coal industry with the defunct whaling industry. The out-of-a-job whalers were probably serenaded by politicians who promised to bring back the whaling business. I imagine the candidate promised, “I’m gonna bring the whaling business back to your town. I’m gonna bring back the whales, and, if they don’t come back, I’m gonna make artificial whales so you can hunt them.” An educated person would debunk that assertion from a scientific, historical, and mathematical set of truths. The uneducated would vote for the politician. Our modern Bones Brummels, frustrated at being out of work, do not point to their own lack of learning or inability to adapt. Instead they blame those who work hard and who have the least power to defend themselves.
Futurists believe that the students who graduate high school now will probably have five or six jobs in the course of a lifetime. Alvin Toffler, noted author of Future Shock 1970, stated that people adapting to changing economic climates will have to “learn, unlearn, and learn again.” Modern schools should be all about teaching students learning skills, particularly high level thinking skills so they can adapt and make educated opinions. The former whalers would have to learn a new profession. This might require reading.
Today our factories are gone for the most part. Our nation’s niche in the current geopolitical climate is our ability to creatively problem solve. I was fortunate to be awarded a Fulbright to study schools in Japan. I was also lucky to discuss those schools with a Minister of Education. I asked him the difference between the education of the Japanese and the education of Americans. His answer:
“Well, we built our system based on your system just after the war, like baseball. But here is the essential difference. In the United States you create a problem, you solve the problem, and you market the solution. In Japan we can make a better solution, and we can market it more efficiently…..what we cannot do is create the problem.”
Creating the problem takes smarts, and, yes, a fair amount of “book learning.” How are we going to compete in the world market if we continue to celebrate and applaud ignorance while scoffing intellect? The jobs we want our children and grandchildren to have high level thinking skills learned not on the streets, but the kind of intelligence gleaned from libraries and classrooms. How long can our nation excel on the world stage if we choose to prepare out offspring for the past rather than prepare them for the future?
Of all the possible scary realizations that arose from this past presidential election, one of the most frightening is that the tide of anti-intellectualism has gained momentum and will wash over our nation like a giant tsunami of ignorance. My book learning has taught me that empires come and go. We wear uneasily (and that is a good thing) the mantle of “American Empire.” But the demise of empires is usually rooted in laziness, lack of foresight, and ignorance. Mark Twain, in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, has Huck’s father, Pap, rant against Huck’s learning in school, and boasting of his own narrowmindedness predicated on bigotry and specious reasoning. Arthur Miller debunked the myth of the self-made man in Death of a Salesman. Bernard, the next door neighbor’s “nerdy” son is the only one who succeeds while Willy Loman, self-made failure, purposely drives his car into a tree. Washington Irving may have given us a cultural past, but he also contributed to a legacy of self-serving ignorance which haunts us today. And though his tales celebrate the victories of the thick headed, well, they are just stories. Don’t believe me. Make an educated opinion. Look it up.
by Ralph Maltese | Nov 6, 2016 | Uncategorized
Where There Is a Smoke Alarm, There is Battery Replacement
The Chirping, of course, begins around 2 AM. My head, commanded by strings connected to some unknown force, lifts from the pillow. I mumble, “Didja hear that?” Polley murmurs, “Can I hear a gasoline truck exploding in a dynamite factory? What am I? Deaf? Yeah, what is that?” The fog of dreams slowly evaporates from our brains. We are not fully conscious.
“Sounds like a bird got in.” I sit up and remember that, while barbequing, I left the screen door open for about five seconds. Some bird must have spent most of her adult life just waiting for that moment to sneak inside our home. Why any critter would make that choice was beyond rhyme or reason, but my brain was still extracting itself from some nether world and Parkinson’s brains can take some time in restoring full awareness. Besides, for almost forty years I taught Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, and I was pondering “weak and weary.” It must be some big bird like Rodan because the Chirping was hurting my ears.
Polley sat up. “It’s the smoke alarm.”
Right. It was the smoke alarm. I admit to being a little disappointed. My hunting skills would not be needed. I got out of bed and stood beneath the antique white plastic oval screwed into the ceiling at the top of our stairs. I looked up and waited. In a few seconds, “Chirp!!!” I looked down the stairs. No smoke. Besides, the smoke alarm was chirping and not wailing like a modern ambulance siren. I yelled to Polley, “It needs a battery!”
I went back into the bedroom and initiated a conference with Polley. We could go downstairs, choose a kitchen chair, bring it upstairs, position it below the smoke alarm, stand on the chair, open the cover and replace the battery—-providing we had a nine volt battery. Standing on a chair perched over the stairs and performing any activity while my body and brain was mostly in dreamland did not seem to be a wise option. OR, we could put up with the Chirping and wait until the morrow.
We went back to bed and fell into a Chirp filled sleep….mostly. The next day we placed a chair at the top of the stairs. I gingerly stood on it, looked down the stairs and considered the possibility of a bouncing death to the bottom. I reached up, unlatched the casing of the smoke alarm, and, with some difficulty, and with the chair vibrating from my efforts, pulled out the battery. Polley handed me another battery. I inserted it, carefully stepped off the chair, and expressed relief. We replaced the chair downstairs and sat down to our morning coffee. “Chirp!!!” We looked at each other. Polley shrugged her shoulders. “The replacement battery must be old.”
Some explanation of battery accruement is in order here. It started when our kids were small, and Santa’s gifts required a rather large investment in batteries of all shapes and voltages. Then came our own electronic devices which demanded an assortment of AAA’s and AA’s. When a device is not working properly, my first troubleshooting strategy is to replace the battery. When this tactic did not solve the problem, I saved the batteries I replaced, figuring they were still good. In short, we have an accumulation of energy providers in various states of health. Polley volunteered to go to the store and buy a brand new battery.
Thirty minutes later, the chair was back at the top of the stairs, I on top of the chair which creaked and wobbled as I once again removed the battery, inserted the spanking brand new one, returned the chair and sat down once again to our second cup of coffee.
“Chirp!!!” Can’t be!
Polley suggested the only possible answer—the smoke alarm had protected us for some time, maybe decades, and had given up the ghost. Another trip to the store.
We were getting pretty skilled at positioning the chair at the top of the stairs, and I even began to stare a potential fall down them in the face. Yes, I began to scoff at danger. Removing the old smoke alarm took a few decades to accomplish. Reaching up to unscrew the old smoke alarm from its anchored screws is difficult under any circumstances, but the Parkinson’s handy man has to struggle with a hand shakily trying to insert the screwdriver in the screw slot. It is like watching a lie detector’s needles producing a graph when a notorious liar is giving testimony. The needles zig and zag wildly. Likewise, the screwdriver is all over the place. It takes my total concentration, staring and reaching up over my head to place the tip of the screwdriver in the screw slot. I remove the battery from the old smoke alarm, am prepared to screw in the new smoke alarm when “Chirp!!!” Can’t be. Then Polley notices that the Carbon Monoxide Alarm anchored to the wall on the stairs may be responsible for our plastic noisy “aviary.”
Oh.
We replace the battery in that alarm. No more Chirping. Polley has the exceptionally bright idea of installing the new smoke alarm just above the Carbon Monoxide Alarm for easier access. Of course, this means drilling and anchoring new holes in the wallboard for Parkinson’s Handy Man. Hours go by, but it is done. No more chair at the top of the stairs. I have come to terms with the irony that I risked life and limb several times in order to install a device to keep us safe.
by Ralph Maltese | Oct 30, 2016 | Uncategorized
Twick or Tweat
It is that time of year….of course every time is a specific time of year, but, in this case, I am referring to that season of orange—-of orange leaves drifting down and draping the lawns, orange ovals cut into jack-o-lanterns, and orange-and-black caped mini-goblins going door-to-door on the last day of this month. Of course, stores started preparing for this time of year back in August, showcasing monster masks and costumes of the latest super heroes or tv personalities or political caricatures. The child in all of us comes out at various times and in various seasons.
Growing up in the Bronx, Halloween for me consisted of trick or treating all six floors of our small apartment building on Burnside Avenue, perhaps seventeen apartments in all. Half the apartments did not answer my knock. I trudged up and down the darkened stairs, a small hobgoblin trick-or-treating in cold shadows that haunted the hallways. In the city, a parent does not send a trick-or-treater up and down urban blocks soliciting goodies. The whole event took me maybe twenty minutes.
When we moved to suburban New Jersey, my parents sent me out the door on Halloween and were surprised if I came back within three hours. The town of Ridgefield was open to hundreds of costumed devils and witches and ghosts and zombies of all mishapes and sizes. Houses were festooned with orange lights and cobwebs and lawn witches and pumpkins. And the haul! Clark bars and Musketeers and Fifth Avenues and Good and Plenty and Mars bars and Almond Joys. The tonnage of sweet stuff took at least a week to devour. Sure, there was the occasional health food giver who tossed in an apple, and there were those home owners who chimed in with some pennies which we disdained—until, like Homer Simpson, we realized that currency could be exchanged for candy. My younger brother Jimmy and I divvied up the loot, his favorites Chuckles and Hershey’s Kisses and mine, Bonomo’s Turkish Taffy. As the older and wiser brother, I calculated that one Chuckles was worth two Turkish Taffies were. The negotiation process took several hours.
My fond memories of Halloween were added to when I became a parent of a trick-or-treater. For her first Halloween, Christie, my oldest, dressed up as a witch. We practiced her approach. “Knock on the door.” She rapped the kitchen table twice. “Say ‘Trick or Treat.’” “Twick or tweat.” “And if they ask you what you are, say, ‘Cackle, Cackle, I’m a witch.’” “Cackle, cackle, I’m a witch.”
So we tried it out on our next door neighbor. Christie knocked on the door, our neighbor opened the door, Christie sang out, “Twick or Tweat,” our neighbor asked what she was (it was obvious, but adults always have difficulty initiating conversations with toddlers), and Christie responded, “Cackle! Cackle! I’m a witch!” Our neighbor plopped a handful of Jolly Ranchers into Christie’s plastic pumpkin basket. Christie looked at the candy in the bottom of her orange bucket, looked back at our neighbor and back at the candy. I took her by the hand to the next house where the routine was repeated and she studied the growing mound of candy in her pumpkin basket. Connections were being made. Somehow this witch behavior was wielding rewards.
At the third house Christie walked up to the door, knocked loudly, the door opened, and she said, “Twick or Tweat, I’m a witch, Cackle Cackle, where’s the candy?” I had to remind her of the proper trick-or-treating protocol. Kids learn fast when they have an investment in the learning…..so do we all.
One of my favorite Halloweens as a parental escort occurred on an unusually bitter cold night, the wind blowing hard and an occasional spit of rain slashing at the faces of me and my two oldest, Christie and Becky. They were so bundled up by their mother that the costumes hardly showed, but they seemed warm and eager. The alternative to having our kids stay warm was to have them go as ghosts, spreading a sheet over the fifty pounds of sweaters and overcoats they were wearing. I had on a light jacket, and after the first block of houses I was hoping that the trick-or-treating would be a short affair. By the second block, my nose was running, and I was imagining that I might become the first parental hypothermia victim. As we turned the second corner and I took in with dread the number of houses we were going to visit, I met the father of two trick-or-treaters who were friends of my daughters. The trick-or-treaters joined forces, and we became a team. At the end of one side of the block, with the wind picking up, my parental compatriot voiced the same emotion I had.
“Boy, tonight is brutal. Worse Halloween for weather ever!” The spitting rain was becoming freezing rain and it stung our faces.
I nodded. I think my lips were frozen together.
A few freezing seconds went by. He reached in his pocket.
“Glad I brought this.”
It was a gun-metal flask.
“Brandy. Want a hit?”
I nodded and forced my lips apart.
The liquid went down smoothly.
We trick or treated the other side of the street when my daughters stopped and examined their father who had frost on his eyebrows. “Want to go home, daddy?” I shook my head and we continued. And my adult mon ami and I continued our ritual….which repeated itself at more frequent intervals. By the end of the fifth block, our trick-or-treaters’ little legs were giving out. “Maybe we should go home now,” Christie said.
“No, no. Look at all those houses on the next block,” I advised. The flask was almost—almost– empty, and the cold was not so cold and the rain may or may not have stopped. It was a very small flask, not enough to fog the brain of one grown man, let alone two. The sips just provided a glow, making the weather seem more like a stroll through a Virginian garden in May rather than a staggering through ice floes in January.
When we did finally return home, Polley studied my face for some reason. “I didn’t think you guys would stay out so long.”
I just smiled. “They were having such a good time.” I will forever remember and be in perpetual debt to that fellow father of trick-or-treaters who got me through that Halloween. Christie and Becky certainly seemed ecstatic with their cache.
Halloween has changed. Apparently, kids can’t dress as “evil beings.” No more witches, devils, skeletons, zombies, or Putins. We have now kids sporting tv personalities and celebrities. In my day that would have meant masks of Wally Cox and Dorothy Kilgallen or anyone else occupying the center square in Hollywood Squares or on What’s My Line? And candy has been replaced with gift cards and donations to charitable enterprises, and boo-bubbles and monster bracelets. Is one boo-bubble equal to two monster bracelets? We also have the Teal Pumpkin Project which raises food allergies awareness for children (like my grandchildren) who have to be careful about what they digest.
Old Fogey Alert: It just seems to me that like most things Halloween has become more complicated. More fear about what might happen and less joy in what is happening. Perhaps that has always been the reality. Rose colored glasses and all that. When the dust clears from my brain I realize my foolishness. In reality the children of today will know (and hopefully enjoy) Halloween as it is…..boo-bubbles, teal pumpkins and all.
I do believe that for many children, Halloween is their favorite holiday…even more than Hanukah or Christmas or Kwanza. And that is because kids can wear masks, meaning they do not have to behave like the goodie-two shoes adults are expecting them to be all the time. For a few hours they can stagger like zombies or display their muscles for truth and justice as superheroes or they can cackle like witches, or become a walking mailbox. We all wear masks at times (another future blog entry), but on Halloween young ones can pretend to be someone else…and this pretense is licensed. At this one time of year we are allowed to be scary and scared at the same time. Boo!!
by Ralph Maltese | Oct 23, 2016 | Uncategorized
“What We Have Here Is a Failure to Communicate”
Captain, Cool Hand Luke
On this blog I never recommend activities or medications to ease Parkinson’s. There is a reason for this. I am NOT a doctor—-nor do I play one on tv. ASIDE ALERT! Growing up the only doctor I fantasized becoming was Dr. Kildare, played by Richard Chamberlain, 1961 to 1965. Somewhere in the bowels of my vinyl record collection is a forty-five, “Three Stars Will Shine Tonight,” the theme song of Dr. Kildare sung by Richard Chamberlain….not particularly sung well, but eat your hearts out you seventy somethings….
However, I have discovered one tactic that makes doing everyday things like dressing and getting in and out of a chair/car/bed a little easier. Parkinson’s affects the nerves and thus the muscles are not receiving the messages they should. It is as if the evil sign of the brain orders the muscles, “You move one inch and I’ll deprive you of dopamine.” “You pick up that shoelace with two fingers and you are in big trouble!” In the movie Cool Hand Luke, the Prison Warden, the Captain, frustrated by Luke’s frequent escape attempts, beats him and shouts out, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.” That is the Parkinson’s scenario exactly. So, to improve communication, I talk to my limbs. The good side of my brain ignores the evil side’s threats and tells the muscle, “Do this!” I discovered this when, my left foot shaking seemingly uncontrollably, would stop when I commanded it to. “Stop left foot!” And, as if realizing that my brain was not fooling around, my left foot would stop shaking. Like a young child who shirks off the first warning in short time, my left foot is back at it again in a little while, but I need those respites at times. So I summon my best teaching voice and order my foot to cease and desist.
But, after years of learning from teaching, I offer the carrot as well as wield the stick. I go out on a limb to order my limbs, and I am in a constant conversation with my extensions when I dress. “Come on leg, you can do it, just lift up and slide down into that Fruit of the Loom brief.” “Okay fingers, let’s go! Wrap those shoelaces around each other and tie those sneakers down.” “Okay right hand, you can do it boy, slip that sock over your toes and pull it down over the foot. Foot, you stay still!” “Finger, good fellow, you pressed the right button on the tv remote on the third try!” We all have gradually grown as a team, even bringing in the non limbs. “Back, you listening? Straighten up and pull yourself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Soon I will be telling Feet to stand you up.”
I have tried the same strategy on my vocal chords, but that is more challenging. Part of it is the Parkinson’s, but most of it is my conversational style. In discussions, especially with friends, I think about statements already made, and when I finally decide to make a pithy contribution, the group has moved on to other topics. My slowness to interject means I am ten minutes and twenty topics behind other people. The “relevant” factor is usually long gone. I have tried communicating with my vocal chords, “Come on, guys, say it now!,” but the lines of communication are not always operative, those particular neural pathways clogged or disrupted or something.
Gone are the days of jumping into a pair of shorts and pulling over a sweatshirt to go out on the basketball court to shoot hoops, without ever thinking the process or talking to my body. Then again, gone are the days of jumping.
One truism I have learned from the Parkinson’s. This day, this very moment, might be the best I feel for the rest of my life. And if I need to develop better communication skills between my brain and my body, then I am “all in.” “Come on, finger, hit that “.” keyboard key.”
by Ralph Maltese | Oct 16, 2016 | Uncategorized
The Low Talker
I was leading an eleventh grade class discussion (which usually involved a conversation among five people in the room—yours truly and six students.) This was before I read the research that confirmed that most “class” discussions involved only five or six people with the teacher doing most of the talking. I think it was B.F. Skinner, the behaviorist, who queried, “Who needs the most practice in talking, in expressing oneself?” Skinner’s next question was, “In the conventional classroom who does the most talking?” But this was before I learned how to engage more than six students.
So I was working hard to inspire my students to think, in this case to think about Stephen Crane and naturalism in literature and whether or not our lives were dictated by forces beyond our control. There was a pause, and I studied their faces for what we now call “formative assessments,” to ascertain whether they were getting it or not. Most faces I read were in Happy Valley, belying their thinking which drifted to where to take Mary Lou on Saturday night or what jumper Trixie would wear tomorrow or whether the Eagles would beat the hated Cowboys on Sunday. A few, a very few, were knocking off brain cells considering the question I posed: “Were their lives predetermined or did they have freedom of choice?”
Like comedy, teaching often depends heavily on a sense of timing. I wanted my query to work its way along their neural pathways, and, for some students, this journey is arduous. So I waited. Suddenly, abruptly shattering the thoughtful silence, Jerry, a rather heavyset lad with a perpetual red face practically jumps out of his desk.
“Hey, Mr. Maltese!! Hey, Mr. Maltese!! I just had a great idea!! A great idea!!” Jerry was half out of his desk, hand raised to the ceiling.
“Go, Jerry.”
“Mr. Maltese!! I was thinking!!! (a huge breakthrough). Suppose, just suppose, we are not real? Suppose all of us, everything, is just somebody’s imagination? Suppose some great being is dreaming and we are just part of his dream? How about that?!”
“Jerry, that is fantastic thinking.” Okay, I did not have the heart to tell Jerry that Descartes and other philosophers had developed that same supposition centuries before. One of the lessons I learned early on about teaching was that what may be old to us is new to someone else. The idea was new to Jerry, and to squash his “discovery” is to commit the cardinal sin of eradicating wonder. Besides his revelation proved he was thinking.
Iago shouted to Jerry, “You a…….e, I ain’t no part of someone else’s dream. I’m real and, if you come over here, I’ll break your nose and show you how real I am.”
I raised my voice so that it boomed across the room and blasted Iago in his face. “How dare you call anyone names and insult their thinking! How dare you!” And I went on dressing down Iago for a few minutes.
In the beginning of the school year my foremost goal is to develop a classroom climate conducive to learning. It is hard to develop but necessary. Part of that effort involves sending the message that I, the teacher, would not allow bullies to intimidate the class. At the commencement of the school term, students are more fearful of their classmates than they are of the teacher. In sizing up the instructor, students want to know if I would protect them from the predators, if I was in charge. I have seen too many novice teachers begin the year with something like, “Hi, I am your teacher, Bob. Bob is easy to remember because it is the same spelled backwards. More than your teacher, I am your friend, and we are going to have lots of fun this year.” The good students are thinking “This guy couldn’t save me from a falling leaf.” And the sharks start swimming around the tank. So, the first time a student makes even the slightest insult I would be all over that pupil as the adage says, “like a cheap suit,” usually out of all proportion to the actual offense. Message sent.
So when Iago slunk down in his seat, appropriately chastised, I noticed this “Whooooaaa!” rising as a chorus from the rest of the class.
“Mr. Maltese, we never heard you raise your voice before.”
That was true. I never was a shouter. There were teachers down the hall who were shouters, and the shouting never seemed to alter the behavior of the students since the shouting never seemed to stop. Einstein’s quote: “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” When I tried to share Einstein’s witticism with my students, I realized that for some of them, especially those in Jerry’s class, it was a little too abstract. So I changed it. “You turn the key over in the ignition 99 times, and the car still doesn’t start, you don’t do it again. You try something else.” I once received the reply, “Mr. Maltese, what else am I gonna do? Especially if I got no tools in the trunk? Call my old man and piss him off because I forgot to get gas? I try kicking it over again and pray.”
But with the Parkinson’s I have become a shouter. My vocal chords have apparently shrunk to vibrating reeds that could fit in a microchip or something. In Seinfeld, nodding in response to a low talker’s request without hearing a word leads to disaster. No such disaster has yet befallen me, but the potential is there. People have to make a greater effort to hear me. Their eyes narrow, they lean in as close as social norms allow, their lips try to follow mine, and their entire face scrunches up. To me, who hears me perfectly, the listener seems deaf. But I know the problem is with me, with the Parkinson’s, so I usually summon all my strength and channel into those tiny vocal chords and repeat what I said. My “shout,” like a small breeze dissipating in the woods, fades to a whisper.
All those years of teaching and I shouted maybe twice, once when I received a really nasty paper cut from a manila envelope. My teaching mind is still here, but the teaching voice is gone, and that saddens me. Almost all speech now is a strain.
There is a difference between hearing and listening. What is really frustrating is knowing someone heard me but did not listen, so I have to repeat myself which, depending on how the Parkinson’s is that day, can be really exhausting.
Ultimately I have become quieter. More and more conversations are between me and me. After all, what is thinking but having a conversation with oneself? And I don’t have to shout.
by Ralph Maltese | Oct 9, 2016 | Uncategorized
Driving Me Crazy
Driving my automobile has changed dramatically for me. I started driving over fifty-four years ago, so some of that change is simply because of the passing years. Parkinson’s also has a great deal to do with it. Let’s just say that the fun of tooling around town with no particular purpose is gone. My shaky left foot, even though it thumps repeatedly on long trips, and my occasional twitching left hand, are not the problem. Since my limbs no longer jump immediately to my brain’s commands, working myself into the seat requires lots of positioning. The minute I get settled behind the wheel, I feel the need to concentrate more.
When I was sixteen I don’t think I concentrated on anything. There was too much going on all around me to stop and focus on any one thing…..which is why studying was so hard. While learning how to factor polynomials, I also had to learn how to fix the family car, especially if I needed it for Saturday night. My father had a theory about buying cars. He thought it was a virtual crime against the Supreme Beings of the Universe to pay any more than $1,000 for a vehicle that simply got one from one place to another. This severely limited his purchasing options. Ah, but he had tools, and he had a son that he appreciated even more when his offspring had bits of car rust in his hair, grease on his eyebrows, and scrape sores on his knuckles.
Despite the various states of disrepair, we took the Nash Ambassador or Desoto Powermaster or Packard Clipper for a ride out to the calm and countrified wilderness that was western New Jersey, and we invited my Aunt Marge and Uncle Ray along. We all expected breakdowns, and we were not disappointed. Flat tire? My father would ease the apprehensions. “Got two spares in the trunk [which were balder than the one needing replacement]. Ralph will change the tire, and we will still make Paterson by lunch.” Carburetor meltdown? “Butterfly valve is stuck. Ralph, pry the valve open with a stick and leave it there while I kick it over.” Nash dies on a hill in the Catskills? “Everybody out. We’ll push it up and over the hill and when it gets rolling I’ll jump start it.” And he did. “Simply getting from one place to another” was never simple and always an adventure with my father’s cars.
My family enjoyed crabbing at Point Pleasant or Tom’s River in New Jersey. The one and a half hour drive usually took three hours because my father eschewed paying the quarter toll every so many miles on the Garden State Parkway (another offense to the workingman’s gods). After all, he was already shelling out 20 cents a gallon for gas. So we took Route 9, a stop and go traffic route, made beastly if we got behind a slow moving tractor trailer. The heat would beat down on the Hudson Hornet, the sun bouncing off the hood and the glare alone exhausted us. Not many cars priced under $1,000 are fitted with air-conditioning, so we manually rolled down the windows, stuck our heads out and let the hot wind pound our faces. When we finally got to our destination, we took some time peeling our sweaty skins off the seats. The ride home was worse since we were all tired from crabbing in the salty air and under the summer sun.
The first car I used on a date was my father’s brand new Buick. That car, covered with Villanova Stickers inconveniently gave up the ghost in the St. Joseph’s parking lot following a Nova basketball victory. My next vehicle for getting me from here to there was a Rambler which had a tendency to cough when anyone, including a coed, was in the passenger seat. It was embarrassing, really, but the car was good on gas and I could work on it. Loaded with college classmates, we drove up the Jersey turnpike to New York City for a Madison Square Garden game. Somewhere around Newark I noticed the speedometer needle spinning wildly around until it burned itself to a nub. My father took me to one of his favorite junkyards (the owners of which he knew on a name-to-name basis) to locate a speedometer to replace the one that had self-immolated in my car. We found at least twenty 1958 Ramblers all of which had their speedometers removed. Hmmmmm. I never did replace it. “Officer, I did not know I was going that fast. Look, my speedometer burned out.”
At least back then I could work on my car. No longer. A year ago I lost my car Silver (I name my “steeds’), a Subaru Forester, when, while stopped at a light, the gentleman behind us decided not to stop at the light. We christened our new car, an Outback, the Enterprise because of all the safety features. Drifting out of my lane? BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Too close to the car in front of me? BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Car approaching when I am backing up? BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The car in front of me has moved while I am taking a snooze? BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Price of oil rising in Outer Mongolia? BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! It even notifies me when The Enterprise needs an oil change. During the Vietnam War, the military was puzzled because despite all the safety features in the fighter jets, so many of them were being shot down. There were alarm systems to warn the pilot that he was being tracked by ground radar. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! There was the alarm that an actual missile was launched from the ground. BEEP! BEEP! BOOP! There was the warning that an enemy aircraft had spotted the jet. DING! DING! DING! And the warning that the enemy aircraft had launched a missile at the American plane. DING! DING! DONG! And a few more bells and rings. So with all these warning systems, why were a disproportionate number of planes brought down? Eventually a pilot sheepishly confessed, “Sir, with all these alarms ringing in the cockpit, we couldn’t concentrate on the mission so we turned the alarms off.”
I never turn the Enterprises systems off. But there is a trade off. I cannot work on my car anymore. I do not even recognize the parts of my automobile. Sometimes I do not even recognize the icon of the warming light that suddenly lists up. When I have a problem, I just have to trust the mechanic.
“Hi. One of my warning lights came on. The icon looks like an exclamation point surrounded by stars and a symbol from the Rosetta Stone.”
“I’ll check it out.”
Several hours later. “I figured out why your warning light came on. You need a five digit semi-automatic, fire proof Monongahela widget. Cost you five hundred Jackson’s.”
That is a lot of moolah. “Can I have a four digit?”
“No. They don’t make four digit semi-automatic Monongahela widgets.”
“Can I have a cheaper one that is not semi-automatic?”
“Nope. They don’t make non semi-automatics for this model.”
I did not want to give up the fire proof feature. “Okay, do what you have to do. By the way, what does the five digit semi-automatic, fire proof Monongahela widget do?
“It makes sure the cigarette lighter’s night light in the back seat works.”
Oh.
As comfortable as the Enterprise is, my Parkinson’s still makes every road trip an effort. The effort begins with getting seated. I have to shimmy my right leg just so to squeeze it under the steering wheel and into position on the accelerator. Once we get going, my legs and arms and eyesight are fine. My shaky left foot is annoying, but if I get the right radio station and the right music it thumps to a congruent rhythm. Sometimes an NPR interview with a goat herder from the Himalaya’s even slows it down. But oh do I concentrate. Not because I cannot see or hear or hit the brake. It is that, because of the Parkinson’s, I do not trust my brain. So I focus the entire trip. Of course, like other people my age, every time we exit the car at a gas station or rest area, I have to perform triage, checking which body parts are still functioning, and it takes a few steps to shake out the kinks in the legs and back. Lots of stretching and twisting and turning. Instead of, as in days of yore, always trying to make time, we now stop so our bodies do not permanently remain in the driving position, and my brain seems to appreciate the time out.
Especially after a long trip, my exiting the car resembles a drunken sailor staggering until he gets his land legs. But there are arrivals at certain destinations that make the long ride and intense concentration worth it….specifically the grandchildren who run out to meet us and jump into our arms. “Okay, Sweetpea. It is so good to see you. Just wait a second until granddaddy’s spine straightens out.”
My father was right. A car is simply a device to get one from here to there, but what gives the vehicle value is the delight and joy of the “there’s” and the comfort and security of the return to the “here.”
