When it's gone-gone-gone . . .Whoa-ohh-ooo?
I was chatting with my friend Shona the other Monday and something she said touch a nerve. Let me set the scene so you’ll know where this is coming from: Shona and I used to be part a creativity group in Jakarta, called the “GGs,” that met every Monday. Our weekly meeting began with creativity recovery study and morphed into everything chats a la “The View.”
Sending Wind Wishes for GG Joy upon leaving Jakarta
Reflexology is Grand for Creative Recovery!
Anyway, now the GGs have scattered, we are all recreating our lives in various places. Consequently, Monday groups have morphed into occasional social media meetings.
Shona and hold GG Skype-a-thons—Shona from South Africa, me from WHB or Trinidad—by carting our devices around we make the most of our face time. We chat, show each other recent remodel progress—or not . . . make coffee & tea, take occasional potty breaks (blank screen), holler at each other from various parts of the room, commiserate, rejoice, problem solve, inspire, motivate . . . It’s not ideal, but it keeps us in touch.
So, during our last chat, I asked Shona if she was getting out, making friends. (Yes, it’s the same “Mom Question” regardless of age.) I asked because I’m worried I’m destined for Hermitville. I am not someone who needs anybody to keep me busy. Curtis is the same way. We can put-put-putter way days and still have room for more. So, making friends doesn't come easy, it's work. I’m afraid once we retire to this new village where, as the children like to tease, “the only people we talk to are those we pay—our contractor, George, the Barista, Counter Girl at the cleaners, Recycle Center guy, Hedge Clipper guy . . . We have actually gone to local restaurants where, mid-way through the meal, I've leaned forward and whispered “Once we live here, will any of these people be our friends?”
Shona, however, is much more extroverted. No matter where she is, she seems to find new people. So, I was taken aback when she said, she wasn’t looking for friends. That she “didn’t need anybody” new. She went onto explain: “If I want to talk, I can call you or (she named off several other friends), then concluded with, “So why bother trying to find new people I have anything in common with when all I need to do is skype one of you?”
About the same time, if not the same day, another friend, Jayme, emailed* a New York Times Op Ed piece entitled “Losing our Touch” which began:
“Are we losing our senses? In our increasingly virtual world, are we losing touch with the sense of touch itself? And if so, so what?””
The article went on to note how the term “touched me” as in “A song touched me” or “Wasn’t her speech touching” stems from the way words or a scene trigger an emotional response so visceral we literally feel it. “Touch is the most universal of the senses,” as Aristotle noted.
“Even when we are asleep we are susceptible to changes in temperature and noise. Our bodies are always ‘on.”
Not to dis Aristotle--or more probably, that translation--I think saying touch is the “most universal sense” is incorrect. Touch isn’t one sense, it’s all 5 senses—taste, sight, sound, smell, tactile—engaged at the same time. Aristotle’s “universal” touch is the full-orchestral performance—including the smell of the crowd and the crush of hot shoulder against shoulder.
The article is not about keeping friends connected or about making new friends. It’s about not dating or needing to date. It’s about hooking up via social media to hook up. Which made me think how, conversely—or not—our increasing reliance on social media to keep us in touch is making it easier and easier to be out of touch, literally.
What’s wrong with touching, keeping in touch, staying in touch, touching, connecting via social media? Not a thing! It’s fabulous for keeping friends and family “In Touch,” as we have already amassed memories and can in essence fill-in the sensory blanks. It might even be, a much needed answer to how people can find each other in these busy times. But it’s not the real thing, baby!
Play it again, Sam . . . this time with feeling!
In touch via social media is the “record player” version of touch. At best two of the five senses:, sound & sight, are engaged in the experience, in essence reducing “touchy-feely” to touchy.
(Obviously, for me, a touchy subject.)
Be warned, if you have any sensory memories, it will engage them all!
I recently read Meg Rosoff’s debut novel How I Live Now. (If you haven’t read it, do.) As read, I kept thinking to myself: What must they smell like?
And then when the girls come upon evidence of recent carnage, the scene Rosoff described was uncomfortably visceral, too vivid. Why?
Because I know what rot smells like. I have amassed a trove of sensory images to call upon. I've exchanged molecules with gore.
But what of younger readers?
They may well have the visual memory--in itself disturbing--but what of the visceral?
For me as a person, and as a writer, I’m worried.
“How long has it been since they’ve had a bath?”
Growing up in our disinfected, anti-bacterial, perfumed, connected world, are people amassing the visceral memories needed to be "touched" the trove? Are we making time for face-to-face time needed to create memories--sensory and other?
If we don’t make an effort to keep in touch, how long before we lose touch with touch?
How long before “touch” really does grow cold? And does it matter?
The “In Touch” Playlist:
- Touch Me in the Morning, sung by Diana Ross
- The Way Things are Going by The Beatles
- Out of Touch, Out of Time, by Hall & Oats
- See Me, Feel Me from Tommy
- I’m Losing You by the Temptations
- With a Little Help from My Friends by The Beatles
- Touch-A Touch-A Touch-A from Rocky Horror Picture Show—rrrrrrrrrrr scratch that… totally inappropriate, but now it’s stuck on replay. Listen at your own risk:
On a lighter note: When I searched for the utube of Out of Touch I came upon a couple of lists of misheard lyrics: “Banana touch, banana time . . . “??? Cracks me up!
Thanks for reading!
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Fang Challenged? Don't Let Fang Envy Stop You
Grow Your Own Pair . . .
. . . of Fangs, I mean.
It’s come to my attention that the term “Fang up!” is causing consternation.
i'M TOO SHY TO SHOW MY FANGS! And I've never been to a neighborhood library...
LOTS OF FOLKS, it seems, are all excited about the Vampire Baby Free Books Giveaway. They are thrilled to share it, tweet it, like it on Facebook, but they can’t bring themselves to ENTER IT . . .
Seems, along with all the other issues plaguing us, we’re having major FANG Trouble.
The trouble with Fangs is:
Some don’t have fangs, as in there seems to be a flat out fang shortage.
Others have fangs, but . . . not Fangs long or sharp enough to mention.
Others are worried about what folks might say if they do flash their fangs and Vampire Up!
Phooey I say! There are FREE books waiting to be scooped up! 40 hardback, full-color picture books, retail price about $16.95 + + including, Dance, Y’all, Dance, One Day I Went Rambling, Your Daddy Was Just Like You!, Your Mommy Was Just Like You!, Dad & Pop. & Not Norman.
And, of course, Vampire Baby!
illustrated by Paul Meisel (Candlewick Press)
Don’t let Fang issues keep you from playing.
Or, as Will Shakespeare so would have said, had he written 13th Night as planned:
“Some are born fanged, some achieve fangs, and some have fangs thrust upon them.”
In the interest of fairness I’d like to level the contest-playing field by offering several solutions to this FANG Trouble. Facts first, Joe Friday:
SOME ARE BORN FANGED:
I have it on GOOD AUTHORITY: Baby teeth appear in any order (so don't be scared . . . ). Most times a baby’s bottom two front teeth appear first. Sometimes, it’s the top two incisors. Rarely, molars break through first. And occasionally, a baby sprouts FANGS!
Tootie used to be a cuddly ga-ga-goo-goo I want my bah-bah baby. Then one night . . .
Image borrowed from Internet (click photo for link)
That’s human babies! Other species are a whole different, er . . . animal.
Hedgehog Vampires are rare but creapy!
SOME ACHIEVE FANGS:
“If you can find a dentist who'll do it, you can have your front teeth shortened and your canines filed.”
"File incisors to a point and file down your other front teeth so the fangs will be more prominent."
“Yank Your Incisors: Definitely NOT recommended but…”
Vampire Bat's native to South American Rainforest
You'll find all types and prices of Fangs to buy.
Vampire Fangs come in many styles and price ranges, from long lasting to edible. And for all things Vampire, click over to WWW.VAMPIRE.COM
Buying Fangs is one thing, Putting them on might be a tad bit harder. Here's a How-to Video
DYI: Make Your Own Fangs:
- Got Apples? DYI Apple Vampire Fangs—and so much more!—directions are in the Vampire Baby Teaching Guide created by Deb Gonzales (Click on page 21). What better way to get your “apple a day”?
- Got Fake Plastic Fingernails? Braces Wax? A White Straw? Then you can make Vampire Fangs: How to Make Quick Easy Vampire Fangs:
- Got A Plastic Fork? Cotton Balls? White Drinking Bottle? Then you can make Vampire Fangs: How to Make Vampire Fangs.
and more often than one might suppose . . . or not . . .
SOME HAVE FANGS THRUST UPON THEM:
What is it? You too shy, too cool, too whatever to Fang up. I totally get it. That needn't stop you from entering the Vampire Baby Free Books Giveaway.
Laugh now....If you Dare. But just wait until I win all those groovy picture books. We'll see who's laughing then . . .
Nobody ever said it had to be you.
Grab all the babies, pets, and the old ladies, and make--let--help them Fang Up!
What are you waiting for? Click on this picture and use the Vampire Baby DYi Fangs--There are a variety of styles to choose
Time's Running Out!
Only 10 more days to enter the Vampire Baby Book Give-Away. Winners will be announced at Midnight November 1st, Just after the last stoke of Halloween.
Enter Now!
Enter Later!
There's not limit to how many times you can enter. Need not be present to win.
Don't let Lack-o-Fangs Stop You: Vampire Up!
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Back to A Future
I was my mom’s date at the Class of '54 Reunion recently. Any of you who dip into My Fishbowl regularly know being able to write that is INCREDIBLE! (This time last year, we were ready to call in Hospice—yes, that scary bad.) So of course, when Mom called to tell me she’d received the reunion invitation, I said “Yes!” If she could go, I would take her.
Not only did she/we go, but Mom, who not long ago couldn't walk 3 steps without resting—or falling—walked herself into the luncheon. Her girlhood friends, a table full who’d grown up together—friends from 4 years old—were waiting to greet “Mary Ellen!!!”
Truth is, I was looking forward to the weekend—for Mom. It was her 60 years since High School graduation? Six-O??
The movie Cocoon sprang instantly to mind. You know, the opening scene? With all the oldsters from the nursing home fading like milky mashed potatoes?
I didn't enjoy Cocoon the first time, I definitely didn’t want to spend a weekend living it.
I know that sounds unkind, but . . . Truth is, my mom is one of the most vibrant people at her assisted living and she doesn't interact much. I'm sure others living there have fascinating stories to tell—if they could/would tell them. But many can't hear and beyond "hello," don't seem to have much to say. This one's for you Mom, I told myself.
As soon as we arrived, my mom’s BFF, June, pulled me over to introduce a “former beau” of my mother's, Tommy. “Your Grandfather scared the hell out of me once,” Tommy blurted out.
Poppy must not have scared him too badly, Tommy still has his hair . . .
Tommy recalled how he brought mom home a few minutes late from a date one night and my grandfather charged out of the house hollering at the top of his lungs.
I knew—everyone knew—how strict my grandfather had been.
I asked Tommy. "So, what did you do when you saw Poppy charging the car?
“What do you think . . . Put it in reverse and got the hell out of there!”
That, and other stories like it, were for me, Class of '54 reunion highlights—who doesn't love imagining their parents as naughty kids? But this wasn't about me. This was an occasion for Mom and her classmates to play a game of “Remember when?” and "What ever happened to?" Great fun for them trying to remember. For me? Come now . . . (Insert huge sigh.)
I tried sneaking out my phone so I could disappear into Facebook, but Mom caught me and gave me “THE LOOK” (How old must we be before we can ignore “THE LOOK”?)
What saved me from diving headfirst was a photo display and Class of ‘54 memorabilia. As luck had it, one of mom’s classmates volunteered at the Pajaro Valley Historical Association. The display included the beloved Coach’s bronzed hat, one student’s class notes, sports uniforms, etc. Leather football helmets. Personal aside: while I was reading the notes, one of my mom's classmates came up to me, peered intently at my chest-badge, then said, "You look familiar, who were you?" Just what I needed to hear. (Note: more wrinkle cream...facelift?)
During introductions, someone mentioned how for him watching Happy Days was like reliving high school.
(I wondered which character he fancied himself: the Fonz? Richie Cunningham? (Mom, & her friends: June, Marcia, Betty, Carolyn, Gracie were way too cool to be LaVern or Shirley, weren't they?)
The memorabilia display better than visiting the Happy Days set.
Was I looking forward to Sunday brunch? For Mom, sure. For me, ah . . . yes and No.
If I ask mom a question. About anything, anytime. She claims not to remember and snaps: "Don't ask me!" I couldn’t see how, after the long Saturday lunch, she, or anyone really, would find more to talk about.
Then it happened.
Maybe it was the rare Watsonville drizzle, Dana, the brunch hostess's zen backyard, the carrot cake, or some elixir in the mimosas and coffee. . . .
Before my eyes, in the same way Jessica Tandy, Hume Cronyn and the rest of the oldsters in Cocoon were youth-enized, Mom and her classmates came back to the present and gave me hope for the future in a League of Their Own way.
Rosie O'Donnell told Alec Baldwin she got the part because she knew how to play baseball.
Joyce Hill Westerman, one of the real Ballplayers. Read more on her!
You know the part at the end of League of Their Own where the former members of the Woman’s Professional Baseball League gather at the Baseball Hall of Fame to celebrate the opening of their exhibit?
How as the women begin recognizing each other, swapping stories, rediscovering their younger selves, the years seem to roll back until, by the end they’re hollering “Play Ball!”
That same magic happened at the Sunday Class of '54 Reunion brunch as “way back when” morphed into “present day."
Having reminded themselves and each other who they’d been, Mom’s friends began sharing their who we are NOW selves: Vibrant, interested, active in the community, volunteering at food banks and shelters, rabid football fans, jokesters, gardeners, grandmothers, greats. . .
“As much as they were Mom’s friends, they could have been mine. I wanted them to be mine.”
While I listened, and laughed, I thought of myself and my friends, my classmates, my writing buds: Some of them young—young enough to be my daughter, young; Some my age; Others of them old—old enough to have played, smoked straws on the roof, ogled boys, gone to grammar-high school-this reunion with Mom, old. Future me, old.
Rather than making me feel sad, it gave me hope. OLD ISN’T MANDATORY!
I could become like them. This is my time. But, tomorrow can be—will be—my time too, with all the possibilities!
At the end of the weekend, everyone bid farewell, calling “See you next time!” Me as loudly as the rest.
Back to the Future Playlist :
- Middle Age Boogie Blues by Saphire
- Young at Heart sung by Frank Sinatra
Thanks for reading!
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Ban It. Pan It. But Don’t Ignore It.
As we wave farewell to Banned Book Week 2014, and move into October--the season of the most widely banned holiday of them all, HALLOWEEN,
I’d like to share what sounds like the start of a joke: I was sitting in the Candlewick Press booth one day when 2 librarians walked up . . .
Not These Two--Children's Librarians! (Who Knew there was a TV Series?)
I smiled cheerily, and Vanna White-ish-ly motioned toward the picture book on display.
“This is my newest book,” I gushed, “Isn’t it adorable!”
"Would you like to take a look at it?"
“Feel free to take a few NO BITE pins,” I offered.
“A bookmark? Maybe a NO BITE sticker?”
The two librarians leaned in for a peek at the cover, then jumped back, shaking their heads.
“No, no,” They told me.
“I’m sure it’s very nice,” one offered. “But . . .
“We don’t buy that kind of book.”
The book was Vampire Baby, a picture book illustrated by Paul Meisel. The event TLA: Texas Library Association 2013 Annual Conference.
These weren't the only librarians who hurried past and/or tisk-tisked disapprovingly at Vampire Baby. (I think a few may actually have made a special trip past the booth just so they could cast dispersion.)
What were they afraid of? That adorable Tootie-Wootie was going to jump off the cover and bite them? That Vampirism was contagious? That children exposed to it might suddenly sprout fangs? Or maybe, horror of horrors, they might actually . . . like it???
While it sounds like a joke, it’s not a laughing matter.
Later, at the Texas Blue Bonnet Award Luncheon, after one table-mate actually squealed with delight when she learned Vampire Baby was mine!—my Rock Star Moment—I learned why Vampire Baby was shunned. That same librarian who had squealed, later apologized because while she would happily be buying copies for herself, her children, and her friends, she could not buy it for her school library. Why?
Turns out the word “Vampire” is taboo in many libraries—school and otherwise. And in school book fairs and clubs, such as Scholastic. So, rather than buying Vampire Baby, rather than reading it, rather than even looking inside, librarians at those institutions ignore it, pretend it doesn’t exist. Sound familiar?
It took me back to a long ago Fourth of July Weekend when after sharing a jolly holiday with friends at a cabin they had rented on Oklahoma’s Grand Lake, we decided to book ourselves a cabin for the upcoming Labor Day weekend. The proprietress happily passed me a registration for to fill out, read as far as my name, then smiled politely as she declined my booking, saying “I’m sure you are very nice people, but you are not our kind of people.”
Ironic, isn't it, that time of “Inclusivity” and “Celebrating Diversity” Vampire Baby, a teething story, a sibling story, a story of a brother learning to accept his sister’s “differences” and ultimately embrace and defend her, fangs and all, rather than being embraced or challenged, is ignored.
Frankly, I don’t blame them. If I were a children’s librarian, I’d probably do the same thing. (Although I’d like to think I wouldn't.) As delightful as Vampire Baby is—and it sooooo is—if I knew adding it to my library’s picture book collection guaranteed me having to defend it, fill out more paperwork, perhaps pull it from the shelves anyway, I probably wouldn't buy it either. (The tots won’t know the difference. . . ) So much easier to ignore it and hope it goes away…
I wouldn’t be alone in this thinking, it seems. In a Google search of “Banned Picture Books,” the last picture book listed is And Tango Makes Three, published in 2005!
Does this mean the last offensive to some faction picture book published was 9 years ago????
Of course you can't compare Vampire Baby to And Tango Makes Three . . .
. . . Not until you've read IT!
Here’s to Banned Books! And Banning Books!. Being banned is so much better than being ignored.
Do me a favor: Ban it if you must. Pan it if you will. But, first, READ IT! (Or at least listen.)
I’ll make it easy for you. Here’s the Link to VAMPIRE BABY Author Read-Aloud
If you decide it's offensive, go ahead, BAN IT! (I double-dog dare you...)
If you decide it’s worthwhile, and you’d like a chance to WIN FREE BOOKS FOR YOURSELF AND YOUR LIBRARY, enter the I Vant My Vampire Baby Contest. HERE’S HOW!
“The views expressed here are strictly mine. The do not reflect those of Candlewick Press, Paul Meisel, Scholastic Bookfairs or Vampires other than Tootie.”