Safety Second

Safety Second

I recently had an experience so frustrating that I was left frozen in disbelief. I didn’t even have the energy to scream, curse or bang my head against the wall. All I can do is write about it, so others can learn from my experience and not suffer the same fate. This is what happened:

I ordered a copy of a death certificate for my mother, who died more than a decade ago.After duly filling out all the information online, I was directed by the city’s website to a private company, which would obtain the document for me (and charge a hefty fee to do so).  Since I’d moved away in the years after her death, I agreed to the charge. Just before my transaction was completed, the website suggested I use a private delivery service, rather than the U.S. Postal Service, so my document wouldn’t get lost in the mail.  Well, I figured if the first unreasonable fee was worth it to get the document, a second one was, too. After all, I told myself, we’re talking safety and security here, right? And I really wanted the package to get to me. So, rather than use the U.S. Postal Service free of charge, I paid a second fee and waited for the package to arrive.

Not many days later, it did. Sort of.  By chance, I happened to be home when it arrived but slow of foot. So off the package went with a note left behind saying it had to be signed for.  I called the Philippines or South Korea or perhaps Belarus.

Someone explained to me in long, numbing detail and poor English exactly why the package had to be signed for, no exceptions (sender request) and that the alternative was to pick up the package at a distribution center, which they said was 15 miles from my home.

I explained that I would be away at work during future delivery hours, but agreed to pick up the package at the delivery center. I figured I could go there on the weekend, since it was open only 9:30 a.m. to 6 p.m.

After I had received two nice notes informing me that the package had passed by my house again twice, I assumed it was now resting safely in the delivery center ready for weekend pick-up.  I called the company back to confirm this and discovered the delivery center didn’t allow pick-ups on weekends.  Oh, well.

The person on the other end of the phone then suggested, in a tone indicating great kindness, that I have the package delivered to and signed for by a neighbor.  I explained to her that I don’t live in 1948 and that all my neighbors work.  She made one final gesture of great good will: When sending the package back to its source, she offered, they can put a note on it stating I would prefer the package to be delivered with no signature required.  But she couldn’t guarantee that will happen.

So when I make my next request for the same certificate and pay the same excessive fee again, I am going to make one change to my order.  I will demand it be sent by the U.S. Postal Service.  It may not be safe, but at least there’s a chance I’ll get it.

To find out more about the United States Postal Service go here.

Adventures in 3D At The Fayetteville Free Library

There’s a lot going on at the Fayetteville Free Library
I recently discovered some incredible things in 3D at the Fayetteville Free Library, starting with a bunch of fully dressed, animated 3D people talking away at the 7:30 am Social Media Breakfast Syracuse monthly meeting, which was held there last month.

The library even provided breakfast (and more importantly to me at least, coffee). The meetings, open to the public, are frequently held in a lecture format, but this month there were discussion groups led by subject experts at different tables.  Groups on subjects including Pinterest, blogging, LinkedIn and social media basics formed and reformed over the course of an hour and a half. I learned a lot at the blogging group facilitated by Renee Benda and the LinkedIn group led by Anne Messenger and met some interesting, new people.

After the meeting, the library staff encouraged us to visit the “Fab Lab.” I did. It’s a “fab” place with a 3D printer, where children and adults are encouraged to use the 3D printer to create the object of their dreams.  Classes are free.



One young child created his own cellphone case. And the lab does more than print 3D objects.  Another child learned how to insert himself into the Minecraft game. There are also kits and classes for creating all kinds of things, including working with fabric, computer circuits, knitting and baking kits to borrow, and many other wonders.  And you can schedule a 45-minute private session with a librarian to learn all about the “Fab Lab” or anything else the library has to offer.

If you want a change from the “Fab Lab,” you can go to the “Digital Lab,” to use the digital equipment to make other kinds of creations, then pick up a book and stop for a coffee or even lunch at the Café 300.  There’s a lot going on at the Fayetteville Free Library.  If you stop by, you can discover it.

Why I love Chopsticks

NEGOTIATING REALITY

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I love chopsticks. Not the tune a lot of us learned to play on the piano when we were very young, but the eating instruments.  Not the plastic kind with ridges seen in budget Chinese restaurants that have red characters imprinted on them at one end, not the ornately carved ivory ones found in souvenir shops and at the backs of cavernous Chinese grocery stores and not even the high-style modernist ones found in hip stores selling food accessories for the high-end minimalist consumer. No, I love the plain, wooden, rectangular chopsticks that come in a snug paper wrapper that I learned to use about the same time I learned to bang out "chopsticks" on the piano.

Some wrappers have Chinese symbols or Japanese ones and colorful designs, and some don't.  When you slide them out of the wrapper and pull them apart, you're ready to go.

I use them for stirring vegetables on the stove (but not scrambled eggs), to eat cottage cheese and to stir fried meat and vegetables and bits of chicken both shredded and chunked, rice, frozen entrees and almost anything that does not need cutting or spooning to be consumed.  I use them to poke food to see if it's ready,  and I use them to eat pasta.  

And I don't know why.  How do you explain love?

I know it’s not because I learned to use them when I was little, when Sunday lunch was spent with my grandmother at Chinese restaurants.  We went to old style "Cantonese" restaurants before people became sophisticated about Chinese food and discovered Szechuan and Hunan and all kinds of other stuff and learned to order what they saw people of Asian descent ordering.

My grandmother always ordered "shrimp with lobster sauce" which is probably as close to what people eat in China as pizza is. My parents and I ordered all sorts of things. The chopsticks were one of the high points of the meal, but I left them alone the rest of the week.

I started to using them a lot in my 20s, when I first started cooking regularly, and some of it was Asian. But that's not why I love using them for everything I can.  It has something more to do with the taste of wooden chopsticks and their feel in my hand and against my teeth.  And it has something to do with their rectangular shape and unpretentious nature.  No one ever chose wooden chopsticks for a wedding registry. No one cares about how heavy they are, or if they're sterling silver.  I just use them and throw them out and get new ones. I know I should care more about wasting trees by using them, but I love them anyway.  And when I see them, I want to smile.

What Drives Me Crazy: Style Matters

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.Living in Paris for nine years made me very aware of style. When I first got back, I used to sit in the subway and edit people’s look (shorter hair, no bangs and a green blouse and lose the purple scarf … that kind of thing).

To be honest, I still do it sometimes. But how people dressed never drove me nuts.  It was just the occasion for a private, internal makeover game that the prospective beneficiary (or victim, depending on your point of view) never knew about.

Other pretty insignificant things really do make me crazy though: someone tap tap tapping with a pen or keys on a table when I’m trying to read or have a conversation nearby; an unsolicited robocall on my cellphone; being sent a chain email which says I must send it on to 10 other people to receive incredible blessings (or dire misfortune will befall me).

 But one thing that makes me crazier than the rest are the small, written grammatical errors in documents I see that are intended for public, or at least semi-public consumption.

You know the ones I mean: 

“He was there best man,” 

“John, whom had the highest sales this month excepted our congratulations,” 

“I have went to Bermuda many times.”

Sometimes I make this kind of mistake myself, and that makes me nuts, too. A lot of people probably think this is pretty trivial and maybe find me snobbish for cringing at it. But I think it matters.

I believe writing using a common standard is what lets us all understand one another. I know that English evolves and that there are some pretty arbitrary rules for standard English.  But knowing them and using them correctly is what enables us to communicate effectively, clearly and in a nuanced way across regional, cultural and national boundaries.

What got me started on this today was something I saw in a LinkedIn management group forum this morning. Someone in the group commented in a discussion about “going their.”  I mean, dude, really!! Do u think ur on Twitter? And yes, I know his browser might have finished his word for him, or maybe he forgot to review what he’d written, but just the same, it bothers me.

If you’re commenting on a discussion in some big-shot expert forum on LinkedIn, at least use correct English. You wouldn’t attend a business meeting in a crumpled suit with your fly unzipped, would you? To me, writing this way shows a similar lack of respect for the people you’re communicating with and for the English language.

English is a rich, subtle and flexible language, with a great ability to show things visually. To take just one tiny example, think about the difference between “go in” and “come in” and what your use of one or the other says about who’s where and whether one person is about to approach another. Not every language has that dexterity. And while other languages have their own glories, we should savor those of English.

But to do that we need to know how to use it.

Some people think writing in incorrect language just reflects the glory of the English language in all its diversity or folksiness. I think that’s absurd. If you’re writing prose for general consumption, especially for a business or professional audience, having people understand you trumps everything. Fiction is another story. (See for example, James Joyce and Vladimir Nabokov).

Willful ignorance of grammatical and stylistic rules weakens our ability to express our ideas with clarity, vigor and nuance. Writers who know the rules and bend or break them to their story-telling purposes are the exception that proves it. We all make mistakes with grammar at times, me included, but we can all use style guides (I like Elements of Style, by Strunk and White, but there are alternatives) and other on and offline tools that are available so we can use English more correctly and expressively.

And, of course, the best tool of all is a good book.

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NEGOTIATING REALITY: OR WHY I DON’T FOLD THE LAUNDRY

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By Nina Housman

When I first started to write this blog post, I thought the subject was too provocative. I think I still feel a little guilty that I don’t do it. After all, part of what I do is encourage people to practice self-discipline to achieve goals.

But, since choosing which goals we want to achieve is part of the joy of being a grown up, I decided to reveal my “dirty little secret”: I don’t fold the laundry. I just don’t like doing it.

If it needs to be hung so it doesn’t wrinkle, I do it (reluctantly, without joy and as slowly as possible). The rest of the stuff gets stuffed in drawers. Does it wrinkle? Not the sweaters, and I never really notice if my undergarments are slightly creased, although I have heard tales of people who (shudder) iron them.

Recently, I got this great idea, I’ll buy a set of large, attractive hampers with lids that can line my bedroom walls instead of dressers, and I’ll drop the laundry in there, nothing crumpled, everything gained. No fuss, no muss and attractive (to me) bedroom furniture at the same time!

So, why am I writing about this? No, it’s not because I want to share my deepest self or start a not-folding movement. And it’s not because I want to eliminate those prospective clients/employers/friends or suitors who would be horrified by my lack of laundry etiquette, although I might have done so.

But I did want to share something I’ve learned about reality: Sometimes, it can be negotiated. Examine your assumptions, and you might discover some ideas you take for granted that you don’t really believe anymore, just like I did. (Not folding  = being spoiled or lazy). Some of them might even be more important than how you treat newly washed clothes.

While there are some things I have to do even though I don’t like to because of the consequences in terms of health, housing, morality or legal problems (cleaning the house, paying the bills, etc.) and there are some I love doing (writing, cooking, traveling, etc.) there are a lot of things that I don’t like doing that are negotiable.

They’re the things I might be able to get out of, if I examine my preconceptions about what I should do or should want to do.

In this vein, I remember when my son was tiny and he lectured me because, according to Barney, the purple dinosaur on TV, I’d left the faucet turned on too long. I didn’t like his doing that.

I’m all for water conservation, but I didn’t want my behavior at home legislated by some imaginary being on television. And, similarly, we don’t need the things we do in our lives legislated by some imaginary rulebook that we’ve incorporated internally but which was originally written by our parents, neighbors, friends or employers. Even if the rulebook comes from ourselves, it’s a good idea to re-examine it from time to time. We change and so do our ideas and circumstances.

If you hate doing something or don’t do it well, maybe you don’t have to do it at all. Or maybe you can get away with doing it well enough to get by, and focus on spending time on the things that are important to you.

An ex-boyfriend used to say he wanted to do everything he did the best he could. He was shocked that I didn't feel the same way. Well, I don’t. I want to do what I love and care about the best I can. As for the things I don’t like doing, I’ll do them the best I have to or not at all, if possible.

Life is short. I don’t know about you, but if I don’t focus on doing the things I care about, I never seem to get around to doing them.

So go ahead, don’t fold the laundry, or vacuum twice a week, or read the right newspaper, or keep up-to-date, or shave or jog – or whatever else it is you don’t really want to do. As long as you’re willing to put up with the consequences, it’s OK. Go ahead and spend the time doing something you really enjoy, or doing nothing at all.

Now that’s a really revolutionary idea!

What Has Candy Dots, a Red Velvet Chair, Homemade Doughnuts, and a Plate Decorated with Loony Tunes Characters?

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By Nina Housman 

What has candy dots, a red velvet chair, homemade doughnuts and a plate decorated with Loony Tunes characters? Anna’s Country Store, in Fabius.

I landed there by accident while searching for the farm that provides my CSA share.  After turning around twice on a two-lane, 55 mile per hour twisting road, with fear in my heart and a cramp in my neck, I needed directions, so I went into Anna’s looking for help.

Joan is the proprietor.  She opened the place 15 years ago and added a back room full of antiques and collectibles on consignment five years later. (Anna was her grandmother, and photos of Anna hang on one wall).

Joan installed wood furniture as display cases, put personal mementos on the walls and provides many kinds of penny candy, grocery items,a deli, homemade cookies, cupcakes and doughnuts (fresh doughnuts are available weekends only). Joan says the people who work with her add a lot, like Marge, who does bakes homemade cupcakes, mops floors and more.

Prices are reasonable, with a daily lunch special, usually a hot sandwich, for about $3, which she explained to me is especially for the farm boys who don’t have much money. The subs and sandwiches are generous, reasonably priced: $5.25 or $6.50 for a half or whole sandwich/sub with veggie toppings among the freshest I’ve tasted. The dark chocolate truffles are melt-in-your-mouth good.

Joan says she keeps the store going because she’s found her place. If you drop by, you might find it’s one of your places, too. And by the time I left, Joan had asked someone for directions for me who turned out to be the owner of the farm I was looking for. So in addition to everything else, I even got what I’d come in for.

Anna’s Country Store, 7849 Main St., Fabius. Open seven days a week.

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An Act of Faith

AN ACT OF FAITH: POSITIVELY WESTCOTT STREET

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After waiting 38 minutes about two weeks ago to speak to someone at the IRS, on my third attempt I reached a Ms. Anderson, who actually seemed to listen to me and promised to send me the one page document I needed. I believed her and realized how much of our daily life is made up of such small acts of faith.

I was reminded of those thoughts when, on Sept. 15, I attended the Westcott Street Fair. After saying hello to my friend Roseanne Olszewski, at the Metamorphosis booth across from the Petit Library, I turned onto Westcott Street and saw it transformed.

There were tables squeezed together up and down the street as far as I could see, crowds sauntering in the middle of the road, food and drink in hand. I heard country fiddlers and rock musicians, saw jewelry creators, henna tattoos, neighborhood associations, clothing of many styles and origins, purple striped handbags from Ghana, ceramic bowls in celadon green and brown, political parties of various shades, churches, a freethinkers booth, and food, lots and lots of food.

I struck up a conversation with someone on line at Picasso’s table, who advised me on their pastries (it was his second trip),  bought a brioche with dark chocolate that was delicious, chatted with people hosting several of the booths, almost bought a holder for my cell phone  and enjoyed myself immensely.

And I thought about the mammoth effort involved in setting up the fair, including organizers, volunteers, vendors and visitors. And how much faith was involved … faith that the organizers knew what they were doing in organizing the day, that the volunteers would show up and do their work, that vendors would bring their wares and non-profits their information, that the food, music and all the rest would be worth showing up for and that people would come.

And all these acts of faith by so many people not just for one day, but year after year, is what builds a community.

SCARIER THAN THE NEWS

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By Nina Housman

Even more depressing than watching the news on TV is watching the ads that go with it.

Hawkers of hemorrhoid remedies, ED cures, adult diapers, affordable funeral homes, drugs to slow memory loss, false teeth cleaners and home nursing services march through my living room promoting their wares and a vision of present or future misery.  They promise all their remedies will help to make these things more bearable—or at least less expensive when it comes to the funeral home.

Hale and hearty as most of my ancestors have been, I'm less likely than most of my friends to need most of these services, but they still cast a sad shadow over my evening, as I think of friends less genetically blessed and the sad fate awaiting them … and maybe even me, to be totally honest.

It also makes me wonder who is watching, or who the networks think is watching, the nightly news.

Have the networks simply determined that those watching the news are people over a certain age consisting of those who are deaf, incontinent, lack memory, have no money and are planning their imminent departure from this vale of tears?  Although I'm no expert, with ads like these, I can't believe their target group is any younger than 50 (even 100 might be too young).

If I'm right, what an insult. Whatever the age range they're targeting, the networks' prejudices are certainly showing.  With an aunt who, at 90, quizzed me about the developmental stages my young son was going through, I know what dangerous garbage age stereotyping is.

Even scarier is what this scenario, if the age assumptions are true, says about the U.S. TV news audience as a whole.  Young people and those in early middle age aren't watching. And given the state of the newspaper industry, that would mean they’re probably not reading the news, either.

And that is scarier than both the ads and the news, because informed citizens are essential for a healthy democracy.  So I can only hope the networks and advertisers are wrong.

Thanksgiving in September

By Nina Housman

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays, along with Passover, and it is definitely my favorite American one.  Because I’m Jewish, I don’t celebrate Christmas, although I love decorating Christian friends’ trees and going to their celebrations.  July 4th is very patriotic, and you can do a lot of grilling and march in a parade. But it doesn’t have that same homey feel about it as Thanksgiving.

One Thanksgiving dinner I was too young to remember has become famous in my family. When I was about 3 or 4, my grandmother, who was hosting the meal, slipped in the kitchen and broke her leg while the rest of us were sitting at the dining table.  Apparently, she insisted we stay and eat, even though an ambulance took her to the hospital. I think my mother went with her. But the rest of us, so the story goes, enjoyed the holiday and ate very well. (My grandmother was a phenomenal cook).

And then there were the two Thanksgivings I cooked for my parents and favorite aunt just before I left New York City for nine years.  I’ve never been prouder than I was on those two occasions.  It felt as if they marked my loving entry into the family as a full-fledged adult.

The next year, I was in France. I called my parents and I called Hinda (my aunt),  and I missed everybody.  So the year after that, on Thanksgiving I made a feast.  I cooked everything myself and invited my good friends and my roommates.  I had to explain Thanksgiving to most of them.  The hard part wasn’t explaining the story of Thanksgiving and its origins, it was explaining the emotion behind the event and what a special time it was to be with people you love.

One of my two closest American friends (both came) had a friend with no place to go, so of course I invited him.  It turned out he knew a couple of my French friends because their kids had gone to the same school.  What are the odds of that in a city of 2 million?  It just made the day feel more like Thanksgiving back home. I improvised a stuffing recipe using both chestnuts (French tradition) and bread (American tradition) because it looked like there wasn’t enough without the bread. I hoped it would work out, and thank goodness it did.  The turkey came out OK too, not too dry. I seem to remember basting it about every 2 minutes, but that must just be what it felt like.

A few years later, I married a Frenchman (in New York City, but that’s another story), and the next year, I decided we’d celebrate Thanksgiving at home in Paris.  Since turkeys are pretty big for two people and not so common there in November, I bought a goose the day before and got excited about preparing it and making my first Thanksgiving with my new husband.

Very early the next morning, the phone rang.  My father had died.  I flew home immediately.  Because of the time difference, I arrived in New York before dinner time that same day to be with my mother.  Stunned and heartbroken as we were, it was good to be together.

A few years later, I moved back to the United States, and there were many Thanksgivings with family and friends.

Now I’m in Central New York, and my son is in college in France. Sometimes I get back to New York City for Thanksgiving. I stay with one of my oldest friends and celebrate the holiday with her and her extended family, all of whom I’ve known for decades.

But even then, my son isn’t there.  And that makes me sad. So last year, I did something about it.  He was here in July, so I made Thanksgiving then. I bought turkey parts and made stuffing and side dishes, and we had pumpkin pie and, of course, cranberry sauce.  It was fun.  And we ate leftovers long enough to get sick of them, just the way you’re supposed to.

This year, he arrived in late August, since his school doesn’t start again until October. That’s why Thanksgiving is in September. So I’d better stop writing and start looking for cranberry sauce. I don’t know how much there is around this time of year.

I’ve got what?

I like rom coms, the older the better. Put me in front of The African Queen and I practically stop breathing. So it’s no surprise that I was watching the movie “You’ve Got Mail” the other day.

But what did surprise me with “You’ve Got Mail” was how old stuff seemed.  Not the story or the dialogue or even the clothes.  But the technology seemed ancient.  There was that old AOL dial-tone sound I’d forgotten all about.  People were talking about waiting (waiting???!!!) to be connected— And chat rooms! Who even remembers online chat rooms? And suddenly it struck me: in a few years we’ll be talking to a new generation of children who will need to be told not only that a record was something like a CD only bigger and that books used to be made of paper, but that, in the old days your phone, which you had to leave at home, didn’t connect you to the internet and wasn’t also a radio and a dozen other things.

Thomas Wolfe (the older one, not the New Journalism guy) wrote a novel with the title You Can’t Go Home Again.  When I was in my 20’s, I used to believe he was right about that because you outgrew home.  Now I still think he’s right, but for a different reason. I now believe you can’t go home again because it isn’t there anymore.  Home isn’t a place, it’s a place at a particular time with particular people. And over a certain period of time, 5, 10, 20 years, all of that is transformed. And it keeps happening faster.  Or at least that’s what it feels like for me.

Think about it. And try to imagine what someone who’s a child today will be saying about the “old days” to their own kids in 15 or 20 years. I think they’ll be saying something like this: “When I was a young girl life was a lot harder.  People even had to drive their cars themselves.  That’s right, believe it or not, cars weren’t driverless. No, you couldn’t nap and drive, not even for a few minutes. And that’s not all. To send a message we used email. It was so slow! What’s email? Well, I’ll try to explain.  We wrote them on a machine called a computer…”

Pine Trees

Pine Trees

The odor of pine pungent, comforting, distant sachets carry peace

Walking the Walk

If you are passionately committed to a goal, it really focuses your efforts.  My infant son so desperately wanted to walk that even when he crawled it looked like he was impatient to walk--and he managed to at 10 months.  But he didn't do it alone.  He had the very active and vocal support of those around him, especially his family.
Businesses and organizations also require support, both external and internal, to achieve their goals.
I've been doing some reading lately about different organizational models of how to make businesses and other organizations more effective and efficient.  Here too commitment and passion--in this case coming from the leadership-- really count, but so too do mobilizing all levels of the organization involved in achieving that goal.
Doing so effectively depends in large measure on the quality of the relationships within an organization.
Trust, individual accountability and respect are all key components and I believe they depend on the little, everyday things: knowing that the agenda presented to the group is for real and not a pretense: trusting that the communication requested by leadership to accomplish a mission will in fact be welcome, even if some of the content doesn't paint a rosy picture of the current situation; feeling that cross-departmental work groups really exist to provide feedback, not just to comply with some external consultant's recommendations.  Leadership, communication and training can all help ensure the kind of quality I'm talking about.  And while no organization can ever achieve perfection in this regard, this kind of functioning is itself an organizational goal worth striving for.  We can always do better, but that's a reason to try harder, not to give up.