Hard Times for All

Apostrophes WANT to work, but they’re underemployed these days. It seems they’re either inserted as an indicator of a plural (see poster at right) or they’re omitted altogether. Contractions? Forgeddaboutem. Apostrophes just waste space and energy when texting.

Please help apostrophes if you can. Let’s not stand idly by as they fade into oblivion.

[Pic from Twitter feed of Waterstones Oxford Street.]

Homage to a Dinosaur

Surprise! I’m not talking about animals today. Instead, I’m highlighting a communication tool from yesteryear.

My mother and I were chatting on the phone the other day and she mentioned meeting the former typing teacher from my high school. I never knew the woman for I had not taken any typing classes. In fact, I distinctly remember staying as far away from that classroom as I could.

I did not type, much to my father’s chagrin (after all, he owned a typewriter repair business, as did his father before him). He made many attempts over the years to stoke my interest in becoming a typist—thinking, I suppose, it would assure me an income as an adult. The only keyboard I had an affinity for was the kind that produced music. I had great penmanship: Why would I need to learn how to type?

Truth be told, the sound of typewriters unsettled me back then. But the aesthetics of the machines have never lost their appeal to me.

Imagine my delight when a Lull reader sent me an example of a typewriter as music—the unusual and agreeable blend of machine clickety-clacking with symphony orchestra. Here, for your pleasure, is a concerto by Leroy Anderson, performed by Alasdair Malloy:

[Thanks to the Lull reader who sent the video.]

Applying Musical Restraint

This morning’s air is cool and it seems every bird has answered the weather’s invitation to open in song. No cars, no joggers. Nothing stirs in this still dawn but the surround sound of feathered notes.

Later today I will practice my own music-making—a bit of Bach and Gounod on the piano. My keyboard is electric, so I take care to practice silently with the aid of some headphones. This is partially because I don’t want neighbors to hear me, but mostly it’s for the birds’ sake.

Oh, I confess: A few times when birds have perched at our feeders, I’ve played the piano out loud and enjoyed hearing birds respond to it. Major keys inspire them more than minor ones; the same for simple melodies over complex arrangements.

But I worry: What has my music communicated to the birds? Who do they think I am? I don’t wish to confuse them or frighten them or get their hopes up about a potential mate. And I absolutely don’t want to repeat the unfortunate Robin incident of my youth.

I can’t recall which sonata I was learning at the time, but it attracted a crazed fan. I played the family’s console piano then, so headphones weren’t an option.

One Spring day as I practiced this particular sonata, a THUD startled me. I quit playing and cautiously approached the window to investigate the noise. A Robin sat dazed in the pussywillow bush just beneath the window. Once I was certain he’d recovered, I returned to the piano and resumed practice.

THUD! This time, I ran to the window. There was the Robin again, only this time he lay sprawled and limp across the bush—dead for all I knew. “MOM!!” I needed assistance with this turn of events.

My parents came to my aid, but by the time my father had stepped outside and arrived at the pussywillow bush, the bird had resurrected himself and flown out to the ash tree in our yard. My mother convinced me all was fine and left me to my sonata.

This time as I played, my father watched. Turns out, the Robin would listen from the ash tree then fly pell-mell toward the source of the music. His window nemesis, of course, broke his path on each attempt. Well, on the first two attempts anyway. This third time the Robin simply perched on the bush and continued listening.

As you probably guessed, once I understood that this sonata, or my rendition of it, was causing the potentially fatal behavior of the bird, I stopped practicing it. I only hoped my music teacher would understand.

Mercifully, we’ve had no window collisions here since erecting our bird feeders, and I don’t expect any. But I still worry about giving birds the wrong impression with my music. I would hate to mislead them in any way. So as much as I’d like to join the avian chorus that sings here, I try to be the better human and refrain from participation. Sigh.

Conversing with Books

Typically, reading is a fairly solitary activity—a one-way communication from writer to reader. Our eyes take in an author’s message and direct it to our brains, where it mingles with our memories, convictions, and emotions and finds a comfy place to take up residence—having either supported what we already believed/felt or given us a new perspective.

Lately this one-way communication has fallen short for me. Post-it Notes mark page after page of my books where an author has written something that: 1) I disagree with and want to debate; 2) I wish to share my own thoughts and experiences about; or 3) I believe demands an extended conversation between the writer and me.

In The Nine Emotional Lives of Cats: A Journey Into the Feline Heart, author Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson generalizes countless pronouncements based on his experiences with his own cats as being true for all cats. Yet time after time, the cats of my experience don’t fit neatly into his theories. I feel as if I’m in a boxing match and not allowed to box back.

The Philosopher’s Dog: Friendships with Animals is a small book bursting with big ideas. I want to delve further into the mind of author Raimond Gaita, discuss the evolution of compassion in humans he describes and how we might nurture that now.

I want to ask Erik Larson, author of The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and the Madness at the Fair that Changed America, what fascinated people about Chicago’s Union Stockyards. How did a slaughterhouse become a main attraction, and when and why did it lose its appeal?

You might be thinking, “Get thee to a book club. You just need to talk about these things with someone.” And you’d be right—up to that last word.

You see, not just anyone will do. I need to speak with the very authors who stoked my ire, my defenses, my support, and my admiration. I need to alter the passive nature of these books, redirect their monologues to dialogues. Sometimes I just want to tell the writers they’re not alone in their perspective. Or maybe I really want to say thank you for letting me know I’m not alone in my perspective.

In The Light in High Places: A Naturalist Looks at Wyoming Wilderness, Rocky Mountain Bighorn Sheep, Cowboys, and Other Rare Species, author Joe Hutto challenges readers with this question:

“Who has stopped to admire the spectacular male starling in the last one hundred years?”

I cried aloud to the page, “I have! I have!”

[Typewriter art by Jeremy Mayer.]

My Big Fat Momentous Decision

I feel GREAT today! Better than I’ve felt for days. Not physically, but emotionally. Want to know why?

Today I’ve vowed to keep my big mouth shut.

I’ve been struggling this week with the number of people who have recently solicited my advice yet haven’t taken it. I realize people aren’t obligated to take my advice, so I can’t fault them. However, I CAN change my response to these requests. And I’ve made the liberating decision to decline such requests—no more advice, solicited and otherwise.

If someone wants my input, I’ll come up with something. Input is easier to dispense than advice. It can be as simple as one thought that, when added to the clamor of all the other input the person has reeled in from friends and family, may or may not get used. When people ask for input, they’re comparing options. One person’s input may carry no more weight than anyone else’s.

But advice is altogether different. There is an implied trust between the asker and the giver—an implied respect—that compels me to honor the request with supreme thoughtfulness, seriousness, and compassion. It requires consideration of many scenarios and their outcomes. Guiding the person through these possibilities to make the best decision takes time and energy. And I believe the advice should be regarded by the receiver in the same light.

I’m not alone in this. I know other folks who are bothered when people—especially family members—ask for their advice and then subsequently find that it’s been ignored. Often, people who ask for advice have no idea why the people they ask get upset. I believe advice-dispensers must view this as a communication problem—a language glitch and not a personal snub. It’s up to us to ascertain whether individuals want our advice or our input. If we have to explain the difference, fine. It may be the only way to prevent future hurt feelings, which can jeopardize relationships.

Anyway, today I’ve decided that mum’s the word. And mum feels fine.

[Art: Three Wise Sock Monkeys—See No Evil, Speak No Evil, Hear No Evil by PeeWee's ClayHouse.]

11 Words for 11.11.11

Today is 11.11.11. To add some flare to the rare numerical element of the day, some writers are constructing ministories with just 11 words. Here’s mine (and it’s true—at least, it’s how it happened in my dreams):

The Proposal, Part 1

After cohabiting for 60 years, he asked me to marry him.


What would a story be without a sequel?

The Proposal, Part 2

I smiled. “We should wait to see if we’re really compatible.”

[Art by Marc Chagall.]

Who Knew?

“You may say a cat uses good grammar. Well, a cat does—but you let a cat get excited, once; you let a cat get to pulling fur with another cat on a shed, nights, and you’ll hear grammar that will give you the lockjaw. Ignorant people think it’s the noise which fighting cats make that is so aggravating, but it ain’t so; it’s the sickening grammar they use.”
—from “Jim Baker’s Blue-Jay Yarn” in A Tramp Abroad, by Mark Twain

The Blue Jay Chronicles: A Tête-à-Tête

Blue Jays have been curiously absent from our feeders since Spring. Now they’re back. Our days are frequently interrupted by their piercing calls, and they appear to be juveniles—more gray and brown than blue, feathers sticking out in weird directions.

One afternoon as I hung laundry on the line outside, a Jay perched on the telephone wire above me, squawking. I watched and listened for a bit, then tried to mimic his call.

After a moment of silence between us, he bleated a distinctly new and louder call, over and over and over again. There was a panic in it, and the Jay took off—flying from tree to tree, crying out his message.

But what was he saying? More to the point, what had I said to incite his communiqués? I vowed to keep my mouth shut during future bird-watching.

[Art by Matte Stephens.]

Weather Watch

“Don’t knock the weather; nine-tenths of the people couldn’t start a conversation if it didn’t change once in a while.”
—Kin Hubbard

Frankly, I don’t mind the silence. But I know half the world is pleading for a shift right now—from brutally hot to less hot, from deadly dry to watered. May you get what you need wherever you are.

[Art courtesy of Jules Bastien-Lepage.]

Where Dark Arts and Job-Hunting Converge

ome time ago I read a job ad that was unusually well written (you knew exactly what they wanted) and even clever. It made me want to work for the hiring company. It tempted me to write to them just to express my gratitude for the standout ad. The hook was:

“Do you ___________, ___________, and know the Dark Art of pickling eggs?”

I was fairly skilled in the first ___________, would have liked to learn how to do the second ___________, but the third? I never knew pickling eggs to be a Dark Art—only a family tradition.

Next I considered applying for the position I wasn’t qualified for just to be able to write, “Indeed, I am steeped in the Dark Art of pickling eggs. My family has practiced this Rite of Spring for generations.”

In fact, I was pickling eggs just this week. ’Tis the season, after all. But it didn’t go as smoothly as I anticipated.

First, I couldn’t find my grandmother’s recipe—one of the many hazards of moving. So I placed a call to my mother.

Then, it took forever to free the eggs from their blasted shells. Once I got them into the secret rosy juice, one of them floated to the top. What did that mean?

For me, it meant calling my cuisine-expert sister for an explanation, and for advice about the shells. Why go to the Internet when you can go to family?

Sometimes, a simple task can take a village…

[The pic is from Jules Food…, where you will find a recipe for pickled eggs so that you, too, may practice a Dark Art. The drop cap is from Jessica Hische.]

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 12

“Whaddaya think of the Cubs?”

That’s a typical opener for small talk in the Windy City. Translation: “Do you think the Cubs will make it to the World Series this year?”

Here in the Horse Capital of the World, polite conversation opens with “Have you been to Keeneland yet?” I hear it at the pharmacy, the grocery store, the salon, the p.o. As the Cubs and Wrigley Field are in Chicago, Keeneland and its horses are icons in Lexington. It’s a coveted social scene for which young and old dress to the nines and attract attention with exquisite headwear. The 75-year-old track is located within the city and is also the site of several tony equine sales each year.

If you’re a regular Lull reader, you know I’m not a fan of racing horses. During the few races I’ve watched or attended, horses have been injured in falls. However, I still plan to go to Keeneland. I hear they serve a pretty decent breakfast buffet there, after which I can watch horses get groomed and walked.

Just food and (equine) poetry. To me, it sounds like a perfect day at the races.

My Newest Space-Saving Idea

Several shelves of a cabinet in my dining nook are stacked with boxes of postcards, note cards, holiday cards, and stationery—some dating back to 1982. Heck, some dating back to 1973. Half of it, maybe more than that, is no longer the type of card I would choose today to send to someone. But all of it tells a story or opens a memory about a time and place in my life. The cache has been hauled from apartment to apartment, state to state.

But no longer. Space has become more valuable than memory touchstones. And so begins my “Write-and-Release Program.”

Similar to my Read-and-Release Program, this one has more benefits:

1. I use the cards to correspond with friends and family, increasing the frequency of my communications. (This is usually a good thing, right? It may shock some recipients because I wrote so rarely before.)

2. Recipients may use the cards as bookmarks or coasters if they find the cards appealing; if not, I hope recipients recycle them.

3. The poor old U.S. Post Office gets some much-needed business.

4. I open up some prime real estate in a cabinet.

I started the Write-and-Release Program last week and already realize that I need to keep track of to whom I’ve written and when. Other than that, there are no downsides (for me).

Let me know if you’re low on stationery or bookmarks. I’ll send you some blanks.

Now it’s time to sharpen the nibs…

[Art by Vermeer.]

I Scream, Therefore I…

Two months ago I yelled at someone over the phone. I can’t remember exactly what I said—something along the lines of “Stop talking and listen to me.” Only in all caps, full volume: “STOP TALKING AND LISTEN TO ME!”

It was one of those moments you’ve probably experienced yourself at work with a boss or colleague. You’re discussing the schedule for some huge project and the boss makes a statement that’s unfounded and untrue about one of your deadlines. You interject to set the record straight, but the boss keeps speaking, extrapolating out the consequences of the “problem” you’ve caused and he’s condescending and righteous in tone and won’t let you get a word in because he never once pauses in his diatribe—just continues talking AT you and OVER you and THROUGH you.

So I screamed. I did the thing most of us want to do in such circumstances (sans the strangling—I was on a phone, after all) and yet it didn’t make me feel any better. Just different.

I’ve never screamed at anyone before. I’ve raised my voice in passionate discourse, but never aimed it AT someone. I’ve always attempted civility and control in my communications.

Now it feels as if some part of me escaped with that scream. Some important piece of my identity flew into the ether, never to return.

I don’t know what I lost, but without it, I’m not who I was.

[Art from Maxamania.]

WordGazing: Today’s a Holiday for Word Nerds

A friend brought my attention this morning to the significance of March 4: It’s National Grammar Day! And even if you’re a grammarphobe, you can still celebrate the moment by watching this video of the late Great Dane Victor Borge expound on punctuation.

If you ever need help with your writing, here are a couple of the many sites available:
Grammarphobia—where you’ll find an engaging series of books on the subject written by Patricia O’Conner
Grammar Girl—a Web celebrity in some circles

If you fall more toward the grammarphile end of the spectrum, here are a couple of blogs you might enjoy:
You Don’t Say—Editor and professor John McIntyre’s continuing commentary on everything editorial
Talk Wordy to Me—Editor Brian White’s observations about the English language from an admittedly youthful and inexperienced position

Now raise a glass to Mistress Grammar, the foundation of all communication.

Ouch! The IDES of February Are Hurting Me

IDES is the acronym for the inappropriately named Illinois Department of Employment Security, which has recently caused me more pain than my mouthguard can handle.

"I like nonsense; it wakes up the brain cells."
—Theodor Geisel (aka Dr. Seuss)

The kind of nonsense IDES has been sending to me wakes up my brain cells, all right—the ones connected to anger. Let me explain.

Back in December, I received notice that my unemployment benefits would continue without any action on my part. And so they did. Until I made my claim for benefits covering the last week of January and the first week of February. In Illinois, the "Statement of Certification" IDES sends spells out exactly which weeks you're answering questions about. And when I called, I was told my benefits ended in January. I could call a particular number to find out more.

Of course I called the number. But there was no further information other than that I could leave a message and they'd get back to me.

The mailbox was full.

Then I received a new statement on February 11 saying that I was deemed ineligible because I didn't make enough money during My Year of Unenjoyment to qualify. Well, no sh_ _, Sherlock! as a college acquaintance of mine used to mutter. But I thought continued benefits were based on the same numbers used to determine my original benefit amount—that is, my earnings prior to being laid off.

I tried not to get too worked up over this confusion because on the top of the VERY SAME STATEMENT were instructions on calling in my next claim for benefits. Top or bottom? Which would you choose to believe?

I went for the top and, on my assigned day this past week, called in my claim. The Teleserve voice told me my claim was accepted.

Two days later I received a thick envelope from IDES containing three notices:
1. An explanation of my rights.
2. Another statement saying I'm ineligible; only this time, it refers me to the "adjudicator's determination," which was not enclosed. My "interview" (read: hearing) is scheduled for seven days from the date of the statement, which was forward-dated to the day it actually arrived in my mailbox (the other notes in the envelope had earlier dates, so that was nice of them, I guess).
3. The regular "Statement of Certification" telling me when to call Teleserve next (as if all's well).

I knew before Christmas that IDES was having trouble keeping up with the Federal extensions granted to the jobless. In fact, state employees were having to override the computerized system and enter information manually. A friend of mine was told this by an IDES staffer. But I assumed they'd be caught up by now. (Or maybe they ARE caught up and my ineligibility is a bigger problem than I thought.)

How much extra work do these communication snafus cause the IDES staffers? How many times a day do they have to explain what these notices mean to people like me? IDES staffers deserve to know who wrote this tangle of the English language—or better, who approved it—and then mete out some justice.

I wrote to IDES. Volunteered to look over their communications with the outside world and edit the content for easier comprehension. On the other hand, if IDES was trying to be trying—if this was a strategy to exasperate the jobless to the point that we'd give up making claims and the government would keep the money—then they're doing a fine job.

[Portrait of Anger by Patricia Lange.]

Ripples from an Egg-straordinary Conversation

he pooch and I headed out for our usual stroll the other morning, but suddenly the sidewalk morphed into a slalom. Every few feet we had to dodge the splatter of a raw egg.

Strange. I expected to see smashed eggs and pumpkins the day after Halloween—not several days afterward.

I smiled. Memories stirred of the bus ride I’d taken the afternoon before Halloween. I was traveling downtown to make my COBRA payment and visit with a few former colleagues. It was pouring rain so I took the first bus that stopped. Unfortunately, it was the least desirable route: seven miles of stop-and-go at every other corner.

Halfway through, as I was wondering whether I would fall asleep or heave first, a man sat next to me. Then he asked if it was okay to sit next to me, but he didn’t wait for my reply. He kept talking.

He’d been seated a few rows ahead of me earlier, until he had to move to let the person next to him exit the bus. I had sensed some discomfort of the people around him. Some distrust. So I braced myself for whatever was about to unfold.

The man seemed young but looked old. He was thin, not tall, well equipped for the rain with umbrella, raincoat, and hat. He talked incessantly.

This, I think, was the source of discomfort for others. He spoke as if word spaces didn’t exist. He quietly mumbled most of what he said and periodically enunciated some phrases at normal volume. His phrases came out in question form.

He was seeking conversation, or connection, and I did my best to oblige. He wanted to know why I didn’t have an umbrella or rain hat, whether children came trick-or-treating to my door, if I would be going to a Halloween party and what people did at those parties (he’d never been to one), but over and over again he wanted to know why people threw eggs on Halloween.

He stumped me there. I never did it myself, never saw a reason for doing it.

We continued chatting until the bus arrived at my stop. I wondered if anyone would take my place as his conversation partner.

In the Before Time, when I had a job, I usually had a bus story to tell my work family. Now that my work family has been disbanded, I told my tiny tale to my former boss. I said I didn’t know why encounters like that didn’t bother me yet I can get tongue-tied in every other human exchange. (I was worried there was some kind of hidden superiority-inferiority element to it and I would soon have to confront the revelation that I’m a jerk with confidence issues.)

My boss surprised me with a quick answer to my question: “Lill, love,” he said, “innocence. You talk to people like that because they exude innocence.”

I’ve thought more about this since then, and especially after seeing the smashed eggs on the sidewalk. I might have an answer for that fellow bus-rider about why people smash eggs.

It’s a display of power. There’s a certain thrill for some people to destroy a fragile thing. It provides immediate gratification and, because it’s so easy to do, it can be done well. Houses of cards, sandcastles, small animals, children, people who are “other”—all are at the mercy of those seeking power. And since Halloween is admittedly a night of mischief, these thrill-seekers get a free pass for one night.

This is also the answer to my question about why that bus conversation didn’t bother me. When I encounter a fragile thing, my immediate reaction is to protect it. Help it. Engage it.

The world is made up of two kinds of people: the powerful, and the fragile. And I am neither.

Talk is NOT Cheap

Healthcare reform won't be complete unless attention gets paid to communication skills. My father is a case in point.

He's been in and out of hospitals for a number of years, but his latest visit to the ER reveals a number of fault lines in the system.

First, he has problems with numerous organs—kidneys, colon, bladder, lungs. And each of these organs is overseen by a different specialist. But there's no point person for these doctors, no one providing oversight, no one getting this brain trust together to make decisions based on ALL the variables. So if my father goes in for a test ordered by one doctor and finds that it requires contrast, my father has to speak up about it—the contrast is enough to decimate his kidney function. And then my father has to return to the doctor who ordered the test so a new plan can be hatched. This not only wastes the time of all the players involved, but it robs my father of precious time on a clock that ticks too quickly for cancer victims.

Second, he's been with some of his doctors long enough for them to know that he's a man of understatement with a high tolerance for pain and a tendency to let time heal things before asking a doctor to intervene. So when my father calls a doctor's office repeatedly saying he's concerned about the blood in his urine, I would expect the staff to recognize that there may be a problem. I at least expect someone on the staff to return his call and talk to him.

But nothing happened. Had the staff asked the right question, they would have learned that my father was seeing more than a hint of red. And he was scared. Surely this combination deserves a return phone call?

Instead, my father's energy continued to wane until finally, he fainted. At home, thankfully, and a friend took him to the ER—where he learned over the next 24 hours that he had lost half his blood supply!

The next day, when an associate of the doctor-who-doesn't-return-phone-calls stopped in at the request of the hospital doc, he was pleasant enough but never once said, "So sorry to see you in the hospital" or "We're going to do everything we can to figure this out." He didn't need to apologize for anything—just show a little sensitivity and empathy. That would have gone a long way.

Yet this doctor ruffled more feathers than mine. He ticked off the hospital doctor by writing a full page of illegible information on my father's charts . No one could read it. It revealed a lack of respect for the hospital's medical staff and a flagrant show of indifference to my father's health.

These communication lapses happen in all businesses. Before The Lull, I created a newsletter for middle managers on the subject—giving them advice on communicating with employees and upper management, providing scripts for some situations and templates for others, and offering insights about the psychology behind dealing with people. It's not rocket science but it does require you to slow down and THINK before engaging.

Author Malcolm Gladwell mentioned something related to this in Tipping Point. I believe he wrote that many malpractice suits could have been avoided if the doctors had simply conveyed their sympathy or apologies to patients. Such a small effort that goes largely ignored—not just by doctors but by many of us.

Here are some pointers for the preventive care of personal and business relationships:

1. What you say and do doesn't matter nearly as much as how other people perceive your intent and your results. (For instance, that doctor with the bad penmanship was probably just in a hurry and never intended to ignite the ire of the hospital staff or endanger my father's health.)

2. When people make vague statements, don't assume you understand; ask questions that uncover details. (In the case of the blood, questions of hue, frequency, viscosity, etc., should have been raised to gauge how serious the problem was.)

3. Take time to validate how the other person feels—regardless of what side of a dispute you're on, what position of power you're in, what you feel about the situation.

4. Return the call no matter how unimportant you believe it to be. (Again, what's unimportant to you may be extremely urgent to your caller.)

5. Make informed decisions. This means understanding the concerns of all the parties involved before implementing a plan.

Take time to communicate with care. It always makes a difference to someone.