Head garbage. That's what's going on in my head, here in my solitude. Sitting here alone, week after week, with not much seeming to change, I've discovered that all kinds of oddball trash bits have dribbled into my brain, triggered by the most useless and trivial bits of outside influence.
None of it vital, none of it earth-shaking. It just pops into my head. Garbage.
This past Memorial Day. Suddenly remembered that, when I was a kid, and before WWII, it was called Decoration Day. In the little mill town where we lived, there would be a small procession to the town park, where people would lay bunches of flowers. Can still see them in my mind's eye, though I don't remember what they were placed on. Maybe nothing but just a spot of ground, since there were only a few swings and seesaws in the little park.
But of course the holiday was to remember the men who had fought in WWI. I was born just 15 years after the war ended. I'm old enough to remember legless men on the street, on little wheeled platforms, begging for money. And dazed men wandering the streets, seeming slightly out of their minds. "Shell-shocked", my mother would tell us.
And everybody wore poppies to commemorate the day. Where did that come from? Check out the poem, "In Flanders Fields" by John McCrae, written during the war. "In Flanders fields the poppies blow. Between the crosses, row on row."
What other garbage? Listening to the news programs and the talking heads and pundits, though it sometimes gets to be depressing. But that's not what I notice. I 'm a writer. So I listen and cringe. Trivial garbage again.
Check out those talk shows and interviews.
"Where did you go?"
"SO I went to the store."
"Who was there?"
"SO I saw a few men."
"How many were there?"
"SO I counted four."
Caught that? Almost every answer today starts with the unnecessary SO. Check it out the next time you're watching TV news shows. I suspect that the SOs will start to drive you crazy too!
And don't get me started on the Latin phrase et cetera. Most pundits don't even really know its literal translation. ("et" means "and" and "cetera" means "the rest.") They almost always say "Ek cetera." I gnash my teeth, since I have too much time to spare! Have been noticing for weeks, and maybe ONE person in all that time on TV has pronounced it correctly.
And what about "en route"? The correct pronunciation from the French is "on root". But everyone always pronounces it "enn rowt." Grr! (A route is NOT a rout!)
And another thing on TV that always rings my bells---when a guest's interview is over, and the host thanks him/her, the guest almost always says "Thank you for having me."
But my nutty mother (check out an early blog, JUST FOR FUN) would have answered thus if someone said, "Thank you for having me."
"Thank you for being had."
Another forgotten memory: From the time I was a young woman, I've always sent greeting cards---birthdays, baby births, weddings, anniversaries. Kept a card list that I would check before every upcoming month, then bought all the cards and marked them when to send. Can't do that anymore. I don't go out. But I have a subscription to an online card company, which sends out lovely sound cards.
My ex-brother-in-law's birthday came up recently. Knew he was a bird-watcher, as was my middle son. Sent him a card with birds on it.
He thanked me for remembering that he was a bird-watcher. That triggered a delicious memory. (I have his Okay to tell this story!)
It was in '71, he has reminded me. He was in his mid to late 20's and his mother (my then mother-in-law) was getting impatient about him finding a girl and getting married. We were all at her apartment for dinner one night. He had just come back from a summer trip to the Grand Canyon and a visit to the Audubon Sanctuary in Wyoming. So he was, of course, sharing his adventures, especially with my son.
In exasperation, my mother-in-law said, "Birds. birds, birds! Is that all you can talk about?"
His reply (with a straight face): "Well, not all the birds are in trees. For example, there is the Double-breasted Bed Thrasher."
My teenage sons nearly collapsed in embarrassed laughter, but she never got it!
What other garbage? A dear friend who lives in San Diego sent me a link to a place called "Sylvia's Bookshop." She was tickled to find it.
But it triggered a very old memory.
1955/56. Husband drafted into the Army, sent to Germany. I followed him.
We traveled quite a bit with a dear couple we had met. Traveled cheaply, of course, because we didn't really have that much to spend with Army pay. But this was Europe and we were very excited to be travelling. In that era, only rich Americans had begun to travel abroad. (I was an Art Major. Had packed all my Art notes, so I knew what I wanted to see!)
We were in Florence, April 1956. Feeling very classy. Had eaten at a posh Italian restaurant.(Customers dipped the tips of their knives---not their fingers---into the salt bowl and delicately sprinkled the salt onto their food!) Of course we simply ordered the antipasto and then dessert and coffee, to save money. But we still felt very elegant!
Step out onto the Piazza. Across the way, outdoor cafe. Man singing opera. Divine! Sat and ordered (cheapest) wine, listened to the music. Felt so fricking "Continental" we were ready to burst! Europe, the heart of Florence, fashionable cafe. (We were only in our early '20s---this was a big adventure for our age group at the time.)
I was pregnant. (We drank and smoked in those days, even pregnant.) But I have to go to the Ladies' Room. Go inside the cafe. Find the loo. Clean, beautiful, elegant, modern. Inside the toilet bowl is stamped the name of the manufacturer of this magnificent porcelain piece.
SYLVIA
Another oddball memory. Another friend in San Diego. Wrote that she had an infection and had to take antibiotics. Not serious, but she found it a nuisance. Reminded me of when infections were far more serious and deadly.
Fall, 1948 or '49. Not sure. I had probably banged my shin at some point. Since I was skinny, there wasn't much fat on my leg to cushion the blow and it probably didn't get enough blood to drain the bruise. (It actually didn't really turn red, as I recall, though it was a long time ago,)
My father was, as I'm sure I've mentioned, in the textile business. He took me on a day-long trip to several of the mills in Eastern Massachusetts. Fabulous trip. Saw block printing, screen printing, weaving, brocading, dying, etc. Was on my feet all day, walking around.
By the next day, the spot on my shin was swollen, with red streaks darting out from it. Blood poisoning. In those days, it was often fatal. The doctor immediately had me in bed for two weeks, leg elevated, ice pack on the bruise constantly. Definitely a scary time. I could have died, and we all were aware of the danger.
But penicillin had just been invented. Doctor had no faith in the brand new drug, but visited me every two days to administer it with an uncomfortable shot in the ass---quite new for a generation that mostly was used to arm shots. if any shots at all! (I had mumps, scarlet fever, measles, whooping cough! And had friends who had had polio and limped.)
The doctor really didn't trust the new drug, so I still had to be immobile for the next two weeks. He would come with the shot, then mark on my leg with an X the spots that were no longer sore or red. (With the penicillin, I probably could have gotten up in a few days, but who knew?)
When I sent this story to my friend, I told her to be grateful for antibiotics!
So what is the Life Lesson here?
With nowhere to go, we all have time for a change. Time to dredge up silly bits of trivia, to search our memories and revel in past experiences,
Enjoy the memories. Share them.
It helps to pass the time and it reminds us that we are still vital, thinking human beings, with lives that are worth living and remembering.
