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In the spring of 2019 my husband said, “We really should do this before we get too old to move.” We apparently missed the mark: every part of my body is loudly protesting a solid month of abuse. We downsized (but not enough), cleaned and spruced up our home. When it sold in one day we went into emergency mode to pack and ready the new house.
“We have too much stuff,” my husband said. Perhaps, but we didn’t have the time to do anything about it. We had planned to donate, but Covid-19 put a stop to that. So many people were staying at home cleaning in isolation that trips to the dump were discouraged. Everything, including the trash would have come with us to be dealt with at the end of the pandemic.
Despite our best efforts, we didn’t finish in time. On moving day, our house was emptied of everything but the kitchen and master bath. By midnight only the dishes were packed.
The next day we took our aching bodies and our discombobulated dog back home. It may not have looked like home, but we couldn’t help calling it that anyway. The dog wandered around like a lost sheep. She still had food and water, but no bed, no comfy chair to sit in and her people were making her nervous by cleaning like fiends.
To leave the house in less than pristine condition was unthinkable. So, we packed the rest of the cupboards, cleaned the bathrooms, shined all the wood and tile floors, dusted shelves, wiped out cupboards, and ran the self-cleaning oven. At lunch time the pandemic line at Wendy’s was an hour long. We ate our cold hamburger and old-looking fries on the foot-wide stone hearth while the dog stared at us. Then, back to work. My husband climbed into the attic for the last time and brought down the unused boxes we had saved for packing. He flattened them and vacuumed the rugs. The dog expressed her displeasure on the carpet: one more thing to clean. My body gave out at 6pm. The remainder would have to wait.
After cleaning the refrigerator and packing both cars with the final load today, the dog and I said goodbye to the yard. She declined to leave her mark. The sun beamed brightly and spring flowers waved goodbye in the breeze. The rabbits offered a parting gift, leaving the heads on a few tulips. Back in the house, the dog began to shake. I picked her up and we walked around for a last goodbye. I took my key off the ring and put it in the closet with a welcome letter and manuals we prepared for the new owners. The rooms were empty, but I could still see the memories: birthday cakes in the dining room; Christmas trees and piano lessons in the living room; cozy nights in the family room with Friday pizza and a movie; the grandkids playing on the porch.
The rush of memories opened like a floodgate. “Do you remember the day we stood on the front walk to take a Christmas photo with the kids in Santa hats?” I asked my husband as the tears began to flow.
“I do,” he said as his voice cracked. We held each other on the front porch. “Lots of good memories,” he said. One of the tulips rested its head on the ground in sympathy with our feelings.
“I’d better get going with the frozen food,” I said. I took a wet mop to the remainder of the kitchen floor, backing out the garage door. “Will you lock it?” I asked.
“Yes, I’ll sweep out the garage and be right along,” he said.
The dog and I got in the car and headed out. She gave a deep sigh and flopped on the seat with her chin on the console. “Everything will be okay. We’re going home now,” I told her.
The Tall Book of Mother Goose
When I woke up this morning I found a portion of a rhyme rolling around in my head. I could hear the cadence – or at least I imagined it — perfectly well, but the only words I could summon were tattered and torn.
“I think my brain was weeding out old information last night,” I told my husband. I beat the cadence for him and inserted “tattered and torn” at the right spot. It wasn’t enough information for either of us. “I guess that memory is gone forever,” I said, shaking my head. At my age, I don’t like losing old memories – or any memories for that matter. If they are going to go, they should go completely and not tease me by leaving a stub.
I was still thinking about the rhyme as I got in the shower. I need a shower in the morning to loosen the synovial fluid in my joints and tame my unruly hair. Until I’ve had a shower I not only walk like Frankenstein’s monster my curls stand about like I was awakened by an electric shock. I believe I do my very best thinking in the shower too. If I’m going to get a big idea, it will be in the shower, so I wasn’t surprised when I suddenly remembered another piece of the rhyme. “All forlorn! Tattered and torn and all forlorn!” The cadence grew stronger.
Before my shower was finished, I’d remembered, “crumpled horn, tossed the dog and killed the rat.” What’s more, I knew I’d been thinking of a nursery rhyme from my childhood. I have no clue why my brain decided to review “The House That Jack Built” while I slept, but I knew I’d find it in my copy of The Tall Book of Mother Goose, published by Western Publishing in 1942.
Take that sixth decade!
Here’s the last verse:
This is the farmer sowing the corn,
That kept the cock that crowed in the morn,
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog
That worried the cat
That killed the rat
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
The House That Jack Built
Morning Sun
I remember that summer as one of the happiest of my life. Gloomy days, if they occurred, have long been forgotten, leaving the impression of one glorious morning after another. As the summer unfolded my needs and desires seemed to coincide precisely with my circumstances requiring nothing of me but the capacity to enjoy each day as it came. With second grade behind me, I whole-heartedly embraced the prospect of a season away from school.
My anticipation of the weeks to come was heightened by some other changes following close on the heels of summer: my baby sister, who had bunked with me since shortly after her birth, was moved elsewhere giving me a room to myself; a play area with very fine white sand was added to our backyard; and new metallic-pink glasses brought a fresh perspective to my blurry world, rendering nearly everything I viewed clearly, incredibly, breathtakingly beautiful.
My bedroom measured the smallest in the house, just a few feet wider than the length of my twin bed. The sturdy light maple frame boasted short cannonball posts which provided excellent overnight parking for a wad of chewed gum. The bed fit nicely
Dewy Morning Grass
under the large rectangular window overlooking the backyard. Although a vinyl shade covered the window during the heat of the day, it was lifted at night to allow for the possibility of a cool breeze. My summer bedspread of white hobnail fabric covered crisp white cotton sheets which smelled of summer from drying on the line. My pillow squished softly, just the way I liked it. A small matching dresser, my mother’s old drop-leaf desk and chair, a white and gold tole floor lamp, a small bookshelf and a green braided rug completed the furnishings. Everything suited me perfectly.
Dad rose early most days. The smell of brewing coffee and the early morning sunlight roused me quickly as well. Our suburban neighborhood had sprung into being in 1957 and continued to expand each year. The distant drone of earthmoving equipment merged with the coo of the mourning dove inspiring an urgency to get up and get going. I remember dressing hurriedly with one thought in mind: sand! The dew of early morning and the shade of the neighbor’s garage created the perfect building material. Mansions, castles and highways waited to be built in solitary bliss.
White cotton underpants and a sun suit comprised the uniform of summer. My mother’s sewing machine cranked out countless legless, sleeveless, light cotton, one-piece outfits to clothe her three daughters. White bias tape provided the shoulder ties and edgings. Despite mom’s best efforts, I preferred the mass-produced variety made of striped seersucker fabric with light elastic smocking at the waist. The ties were nearly impossible to manage by myself when dressed, so I joined them first and wiggled through the smaller opening on my own.
Clothespin Folk
I brushed my teeth with a mix of salt and baking soda, but wasted no time eating breakfast or brushing my tousled hair. Later I would deal with the knots, part my unruly mop in the middle and my mother would gather the hair over each ear with rubber bands, forming a pony tail on both sides of my head. I wore shoes as seldom as possible even though I did not like to gather wet grass clippings as I crossed the lawn.
With my legs splayed in the cool sand I constructed cross-sectioned palaces and cottages on the sides of sand hills. Clothespin townsfolk and plastic horses populated the neighborhoods. Soon, Rose of Sharon princesses were added to grace the ballrooms. Stick-like princes with green flower-bud heads twirled among the white and purple gowns. Smaller sticks supported leafy table tops laden with seed and berry banquets. Sometimes genuine doll-house furniture (forgotten by our neighbor the day before) added a sense of elegance and good fortune to the proceedings. As the shade began to retreat, warm dry air weakened and crumbled my villages signaling that it was time to join my sisters for breakfast.
I recall the remainder of those summer days as a happy blur: running through the sprinkler, swimming at the pool, jumping rope, riding my bike, stringing crowns of clover, catching lightning bugs or answering the enticing call of the ice cream truck. More than fifty years later the sweetness of those mornings remains as fresh and clear as the summer sky and each time I hear a mourning dove call the cherished memory rises to delight me once again.
Plastic Horses
Card Catalog
I spent the eighties in a public library as the head of a technical services department. Technology had not yet advanced beyond book pockets and hand-typed cards in smaller public libraries. As the chief, only and original cataloger, I wrote basic information on a blank card and gave it to Mary Alice who, with the help of perforated card stock in her typewriter, accurately and efficiently reproduced sets at warp speed. I clocked her once at more than 96 perfect words per minute, a truly remarkable feat considering the number of carriage returns in a catalog card! Her Royal electric had a special attachment to hold the card stock and help move it through the rollers. In the event of error (mine not hers) she had to rely on an electric eraser which gave me a very strong incentive to check my work twice.
Our Sears list of subject headings was dated in the 1920s. I replaced this venerable work and the Dewey Decimal Guide which came with my desk to ones that included numbers for computers and other marvels of the 20th century. When I attempted to use some of these “new” numbers and headings, however, I learned first-hand about the traditional animosity between technical and public services librarians. The reference librarians thought the designations currently in use were just fine and did not want them changed. If I started a new string of numbers, the subjects would be divided on the shelves. If I added new subjects the librarians would need to look in more places in the catalog. “But the numbers are wrong!” I told them. (And some of the subject headings were just plain embarrassing.) I knew the problem would only get worse with time, but in the end my only option – short of starting WWIII — was to re-categorize the older material. My age and tenure proved inadequate to the combined forces of the public services librarians.
Catalog Drawer With Rod Pulled Out
On Fridays, my entire department went to the card catalog to file new cards. Each person had a stack in a different section of the catalog. Each card filed was placed “above the rod.” The bottom center of each card had a hole for the rod to go through which held it in place. My job was double-check that the cards had been filed in the correct spot and pull the rod to drop them down into the drawer. A card in the wrong spot might never be seen again — at least not by someone who was looking for it! To ensure that I didn’t miss any of the new cards, the filers used a red filing “flag” intended to catch my attention.
I have to admit that I would have happily rusticated in that era for a very long time. I loved the independent in-house operation. We ordered, processed, cataloged and repaired our own books. We had to be frugal, creative and productive to stay within budget and keep materials flowing out our doors. Every new book passed through my hands. I looked forward to the shelves of pristine new arrivals waiting for me to describe and categorize each morning. The work suited me completely.
A wealthy donor brought us to modern times with the unexpected gift of an OCLC startup. We all moved into the new world with surprisingly little grief. Archaic Sears and Dewey fell to the power of the machine. As it turned out, the amazing Mary Alice had a talent for the terminal and was just as good at producing OCLC records as she was at typing card sets. In short order we joined a consortium and began purchasing pre-prepped McNaughton books. By the end of the decade, the card catalog was slated for demolition.
A Card Above the Rod
Although I can hardly believe it myself, I can count more than 40 years of library service as either a volunteer or paid employee. No wonder my memories are just chock-full of old library paraphernalia and processes. In commemoration of National Library Week, I share some reflections of earlier times.
An Accession Stamp
The 1970s
During this era, I glued pockets and date due slips inside the back covers of books for my high school librarian. Borrowers signed and gave us a card from the pocket and we used a rubber stamp to mark the date due on the slip. We kept the cards in
order by the date due. You can still buy those card pockets from Demco (a library supply vendor) today. Now, of course they are all peel-and-press /self-adhesive. The “technology” may be old, but the concept still works pretty well when lending a small collection.
Databases were made of paper in those days. We called them card catalogs. Each entry point (Call number, Author, Title, Subject, etc.) had a card containing information about the book. At the top of each card was added the unique entry point under which it would be filed. The group of cards was a “set.” Some of the cards in my high school library were hand written, but most had been typed. A separate file was kept in order by the call number – the order of the books on the shelves. This was called the “shelf-list.”
I earned $1.60/hour working in my college library. I accessioned new books and their corresponding shelf-list and acquisition cards all with the same number. My supervisor expected the number to be perfectly horizontal. She kept a watchful eye on my productivity by standing me next to her desk to work. I’d pull a book from the cart and lay it on the top of the other books. Then I’d lay the purchase order card on top of that, smacking the handle of the accession stamp with a firm steady motion, followed by a smack on the title page, a smack on page 100 and a smack on the shelf list card. A lever on the handle advanced the stamp to the next number. On rare occasions my mind wandered and I either forgot to advance the stamp or advanced it too soon. When that happened, the electric eraser came out of my supervisor’s drawer. I wouldn’t have lasted long, if that happened very often. Electric erasers worked by sanding away part of the paper, resulting in a sub-standard appearance. My supervisor took a very dim view of substandard stamping. After the books were accessioned, I used a property stamp to mark the edges, the title page and another random page.
In the summers, I worked full time. When I wasn’t stamping, I might be using a bayonet to theft-strip spines or perusing the National Union Catalog to find a miniature catalog record matching a newly received but older book. I remember the NUC as huge, heavy and fatigue green. Each page held reprints of catalog records from other libraries which could be used in lieu of starting from scratch. This was called “copy cataloging.” I hoisted these behemoths on the Xerox machine and copied the needed entries.
The library subscribed to “proof” cards from the Library of Congress which could also be used to create catalog cards. The boxes arrived weekly. They were long – somewhere between 14 to 16 inches, I think, and were filled with paper slips. The slips in each box were ordered by the author’s last name. My job was to integrate all the boxes from the previous year into one alphabetical run and file them in small drawers. I used a card sorter for this task. Some residual effects of those summers persist to this day: I am a whiz at Spider Solitaire.
I was among the spectators on the day the first OCLC computer terminal arrived. This wonder foretold the demise of the card catalog, proof slips, NUC and shelf lists. Librarians would one day celebrate as they disposed of pounds of paper and relegated their filing drawers to a new niche of antique furniture. At the time, of course I had no idea how it would affect my life. Card catalogs would last at least into the 1980s or 1990s for many libraries. We had one terminal which was ensconced in a place of honor in the center of the cataloging area. As a student assistant I could look, but not touch. It had green blinking lights and provided access to the equivalent of more proof slips than I could ever hope to file. The catalogers used it to make one card which was then copied to make the set. Sometimes I helped copy the set. Special perforated card stock was loaded in a copier. My task was to lay out cards on the copier glass in such a way that the correct number of cards needed for additional entry points could be produced without wasting any of the card stock. Since each set contained a different number of entries arithmetic was required. Arithmetic has never been my strong suit, so I volunteered for other duties whenever possible.
By 1976 I had enrolled in library school. My job in the library required me to spend much of my day sitting in front of an OCLC terminal. The terminals were expensive and access to use them was precious. My job was twofold 1) to use my scheduled time to look for copy catalog records for government documents and 2) to hold my supervisor’s scheduled place at the machine if it went offline or she had to leave it unattended for even a minute, I had to glue myself to the chair. I remember spending an entire 3 hour slot staring at the blinking green light while waiting fruitlessly for it to reconnect.
Next: the 1980s
Dad in His Business Suit (copyright reserved)
My dad, like his father before him, worked as a salesman. I had long imagined that he entered the sales force as a last resort when he lost his position as a purchasing agent during the recession of 1960-61. A yellowing personality test, found among his belongings contained evidence that he actually wanted to pursue a career in sales. The test was conducted by an employment counselor who noted his surprise at Dad’s resolve and recorded his doubt that an obvious introvert would prosper on such an unsuitable career path. He suggested that the attraction to sales was most likely based on a desire to please his typically absent father.
Dad believed that his father had been an outstanding salesman. His father once told him that his prowess was so exceptional that after firing him for flinging anti-Semitic slurs at his boss, the company came crawling back to him and begged him to return. Not only did he get his job back, but he negotiated an increase in salary and a cut of the profits. Dad was simultaneously appalled and impressed. He didn’t repeat this story to any of his children until the last year of his life. More than 50 years after the conversation he remained bewildered by his father’s success despite such tactless behavior. He shook his head in wonder and declared, “Now, that would take a heck of a salesman…a heck of a salesman all right!”
During his first few months of unemployment, Dad tried his hand at selling door-to-door. He was enthusiastic about becoming a Fuller Brush man, but quickly discovered that in a recession, potential customers prefer to make do with their old equipment. Other door-to-door efforts were also fruitless: door-to-door sales were just not steady enough to support a growing family. Selling life insurance seemed a better prospect. My dad was a big believer in life insurance. “Everybody dies,” he said. Each time we drove past a cemetery, he could be counted on to ask, “Hey! How many people do you think are dead in that cemetery?” His offspring would chorus in response, “All of them, Daddy!” as our long-suffering mother rolled her eyes.
Dad was assigned a sales route called a “debit.” His job was to collect insurance premiums and sell those clients more insurance. The company imagined that a regular route would reveal changes in circumstance that could signal the need for another policy. A marriage, birth, divorce, a change in job all offered an opportunity to sell.
Dad believed in insurance, but he didn’t believe in pressuring someone to buy it. He worried about what could happen if his clients died without enough insurance, but he didn’t want any of them to buy something they really couldn’t afford. He regarded most of them as friends. They made him coffee and offered him food. They told him their problems. He listened. He knew their children by name. He rejoiced in their successes and grieved at their losses. He told them about his own family and shared jokes that were so bad they were funny. When they needed another day or two to come up with their premium, he’d volunteer to come back again later.
After a few extremely tight years, Dad’s sales “technique” resulted in sufficient referrals and commissions to keep him above water and in the good graces of his employer. One year he did so well that the won a vacation, but as an unimposing and honest salesman he would never earn more than enough to support his family. Still, he was happy with his work and wanted to excel, so he took additional training to become a CLU, a certified life underwriter. The courses were difficult and made him a little irritable, but he persevered and passed the test — adding the initials after his name on his business card. The future looked rosy.
Change came unexpectedly when the company announced the imminent abolishment of debit routes. It had become apparent that the return in sales was not worth the investment of neighborhood collections. Henceforth, they declared, salesmen would search for prospects throughout the region. A minimum commission must be achieved to earn a base salary. This was bad news indeed for an insurance man who didn’t want his clients to spend any more than they should. Things got tough and then tougher still. The monthly quota put a damper on Dad’s spirits until a further restructuring forced him into early retirement. Once again he was unemployed.
Dad maintained that everything would be okay, and it was. He formed a partnership with some co-workers and set up a short-lived independent insurance agency, he delivered newspapers in the wee hours of the morning, he worked as a security guard at night, he drove a school bus and somehow all of his kids went to college.
At my 40th high school reunion, I ran into a former classmate who told me that his mother had noticed my dad’s obituary in the newspaper. They reminisced about my dad and how they had looked forward to his visits. His mother remembered one particularly hot day when Dad arrived with his windows rolled up. “It must be nice to have air-conditioning in your car on a day like this!” she said. “Oh, no,” my dad replied, “I don’t have air-conditioning… I just rolled up the windows to make you think I did!” I didn’t expect to ever hear another one of dad’s jokes. I couldn’t believe one of his clients remembered it all those years. That’s when I knew: Dad was a heck of a salesman all right.
Three Generations: Nancy, Helen and May
I have no doubt that my great-grandmother May would have preferred to live in a home of her own rather than her daughter’s, but I never saw any sign of resentment. Her room was on the second floor of the house on Woodview –away from my grandparents on the first floor. The robin’s egg blue paint on the walls looked cheerful when the blinds were raised but somber in dim light. The second floor bathroom was all hers except when guests stayed over or during the period my mother and I lived in the home as well.
May’s Clock
May’s furniture was old and contrasted sharply with the mid-century modern furniture of my youth. She had a large oak “hope chest” lined with cedar at the foot of her bed. Her mahogany marble-topped dresser and bookcases with glass doors filled the available wall space. In the chest was a black silk umbrella for special occasions. It had an ivory handle carved from elephant tusks. She kept a china doll in the chest too. It had blond hair and eyes that closed. Only the head and hands were made of bisque china, but she didn’t let little girls touch any part of it. I know that the doll was made in Germany around the turn of the century, so she could not have received it as a child, but I don’t know who gave it to her or why. My grandmother always referred to it as “May’s doll,” so I think she probably wasn’t allowed to touch it either!
When we were each quite young, May taught my grandmother, mother and me the following little ditty I thought it was cooler than supercalifragilisticexpialidocious and made her say it over and over until I could repeat it as quickly as she could:
As I was going down Humble Jumble,
Humble Jumble Jarney,
I spied a rig-a-ma-jig, eatin’ my kaparney.
If I’d a had my hit-ma-tit,
My hit-ma-tit a tarney,
I’d a smuggled that rig-a-ma-jig
For eatin’ my kaparney.
(To be continued)
Great Grandparents May and Edgar
An Introduction
Even as a child I understood that grandparents enjoy the benefits of children without suffering the drawbacks. To grandmas and grandpas belong the bright holiday smiles; the special outings; the charming behavior that results from being the absolute center of attention. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t look forward to joining their ranks. Since our eldest daughter announced her impending motherhood, I’ve been thinking about my own grandparents frequently.
My mother’s mother and grandmother in particular, still live in the corners of my mind. I’ve lost the sound of their voices (except for a few phrases and the way they said my name), but I can close my eyes and see their faces. I know the feel of their hair and the touch of their hands. I can mentally stroll around my grandparent’s house. I can see the color and pattern of the carpet and the paint on the upstairs bedroom walls. I can smell the second floor cedar closet where my grandmother kept her treasures and see the look on her face when I begged her to take me up to investigate.
As the oldest, I had the opportunity to spend more time with these two women than the other grandchildren. I have more memories and more of their family history rattling around in my brain. Unfortunately, memories (like hard drives) are easily corrupted. To be honest, I don’t completely trust my own mind. I must confess that I have suffered the indignity of having my even less distant memories corrected on several occasions. Perhaps accuracy doesn’t really matter. If I believe in my memories are they any less real? So, with that long caveat, I begin sharing some family stories.
Part I: May and Edgar
My great-grandmother was born in or near New Haven, Connecticut in 1880. She was a younger daughter in a large family named Baldwin. When she was old enough to know and remember her origins, her family fell on hard times. They simply couldn’t afford to support all their children so they gave their daughter to a neighboring family named Stevenson who had only sons. I was 16 when she told me this story and I remember being shocked beyond words. “Times were different then,” she said. “You did what you had to do.” She never said another word about the Stevenson family or any Baldwin brothers or sisters. I don’t recall that she ever went back to Connecticut to visit family.
She told me very little about those early years: she was smart; she studied hard; she had a high school diploma; she put on her long underwear in the fall and didn’t take it off until spring; in the winter she brushed her hair with cornmeal; she used rags to catch her menstrual flow. I’m sure that she would have told me more stories if I had seemed more interested. If I could tell her that I wished I had asked more questions about her life, she’d probably say “if wishes were horses… (beggars would ride).”
Edgar
I don’t know how she met her husband, Edgar P. Corbett. I know about Edgar only through the memories of my mother who was just nine when he died in 1939. I suspect that he was something of a dreamer. At one point he started his own business, but things didn’t work out. I think they must have met in Connecticut and moved to Dayton together where he worked for the “Cash,” the National Cash Register Company as a secretary for John Patterson, the founder. I say “a” because Patterson had a pool of secretaries. He gave my mother some railroad conductor watches belonging to his father and a large ball of tin collected from his pipe tobacco. Both were very precious to her. My mother called him Papa.
Everyone except her children called my great-grandmother May. Her children called her Mama. I think that one or more of her children may have died young. “In my day,” she told me, “most people didn’t name children until they were about a year old. That way, your favorite names didn’t go to waste.” Her oldest child was named Jane. My grandmother, Helen was next in line and son Phillip was the baby of the family. I have a photo which, based on my grandmother’s apparent age shows the family around 1906. The group included Edgar’s mother, Namina. My grandmother always referred to her grandmother by her first name too. That tradition apparently ended with my generation.
The family lived near the river across from Island Park during the great Dayton Flood of 1913. They were rescued from the top floor of the house in one of Patterson’s flat bottomed boats. From there forward, John Patterson’s name was always spoken with reverence and the flood as a defining moment in family history. No trip to downtown Dayton was complete without a review of just how high the water had reached. No visit to Hills and Dales Park missed the opportunity to pay homage to the statue of the Great John Patterson astride his horse.
A Replica of a Flat-bottomed NCR Boat in an Exhibit at Carillon Park
I don’t know whether Edgar lost his job due to the economic depression, poor health or some other reason. My mother only knew that he didn’t work. May and Edgar lived with my grandparents in their home, on Oxford Avenue. May would have been 59 when her husband died – my own age today. By the time I could sit and talk to her, she had put the tragedy behind her and rarely spoke of him.
(To be continued)
note: the watch shown in the Water Softener post (March 2, 2013) belonged to Edgar. According to the census of 1900, he also worked for the railways.
My trusty alarm clock radio ensures that I arise promptly on weekday mornings. This particular clock radio has been on my bedside table since digital displays were first made with little red bars of light. The radio has been set to the same station, 107.7 FM for the last 22 years and 9 months. Although it isn’t especially easy to tune, the real reason I haven’t touched the dial is that I am pretty much set in my ways. I routinely wake up before the alarm but remain in bed until I hear the morning “wake up song” and proceed to the shower.
My Clock Radio
The radio automatically plays for about 2 hours before turning itself off, so it’s still running when I get out of the shower and while I dress. During most of the last 22 years, radio personality “Kristi Leigh” has been a consistent part of my morning routine. The radio in my car is also set to this station, so the morning disk jockeys can follow me all the way to work. (Disclosure: Normally, however, due to the driver’s prerogative, I carpool to work with NPR). I first chose the station in 1990 because I liked the mix of music. From time to time, programming changes prompted me to experiment with other stations on the car radio, but I always went back to WMMX. I felt like I was missing something without the familiar voices and lighthearted patter of “my” morning team.
One recent Monday morning as the radio came to life I was overwhelmed by the certainty that something was not right with my world. “Hey,” I shouted to my husband, “Where’s Kristi Leigh? Shouldn’t she have come back from vacation by now? Oh, and did you notice that the guys haven’t mentioned her name at all?” He agreed that the situation was decidedly suspicious, so I went to the computer and pulled up the show’s webpage, followed by the station’s webpage, followed by a Google search for Kristi’s name. I came up empty.
I’d seen this sort of thing before: when a D.J. and a station part company, a conspiracy of silence descends. The remaining employees offer no explanations. The name of the departed is not mentioned. All references to the on-air pseudonym are expunged. It is as if the D.J. entered a witness protection program or the listener crossed into an alternate reality in which the D. J. had never existed. I can’t help but wonder how often this ploy has been successful in keeping the listening public unaware that a change has occurred. I guess station owners must suffer grave concerns that a popular host might draw listeners with them to their next gig. Still, how disheartening it must feel to work with the knowledge that you and your alter-ego D. J. name could evaporate into thin air with no acknowledgement or recognition — even after years of service. The practice reveals how little respect the CEO must have for his customers and employees.
Some additional trolling with a search engine uncovered a blog which mentioned Kristi’s termination and her recent 20-year anniversary. The writer also revealed that unhappy fans had plastered the Facebook page of the station with fruitless entreaties to return Kristi to the fold. Paradigms are shifting in the communication industry, however, making that an unlikely prospect. Odds are my morning radio program will one day originate in another town or state and I’ll read all about it while cursing the annoyances of my digital newspaper. I’ll get used to these things, of course. I like to squawk about change – but I always manage to adapt. Before that happens, however my mornings will feel the lack of the D.J. formerly known as Kristi. I can’t imagine how she managed to sound so consistently cheerful at the crack of dawn for more than 20 years, but I, for one appreciated it. She deserved better.
The cap says “Live and Let Learn”
A dozen years ago this week, my younger daughter’s homeroom teacher gave me an assignment: write a Valentine’s Day letter to your daughter; tell her about the qualities you see in her now and the career path you think she might choose when she finishes high school. The teacher saved the letters for 4 years and gave them back at graduation. I found the letter in a closet the day before Valentine’s Day:
February 14, 2001
Dear [daughter],
Your teachers have asked that I write a letter to you that will not be opened until 2005. How amazing to think that that as you read this you are getting ready to graduate from high school, but as I write you have not yet finished 8th grade.
I think you are looking forward to high school, but with a little trepidation. You don’t really like the atmosphere at middle school, but high school seems like it will be tough. I hope you can look back on those four years with a great deal of pleasure, and that it wasn’t really as hard as you thought.
In the 8th grade you are still a little girl in many ways. (Not that you won’t always be my little girl of course!) You still get a wake-up snuggle every morning. Your major interests are Kettering Children’s Theater, friends, shopping and instant messaging. By now, instant messaging has probably been replaced by something else, but I imagine you and your friends still stay in touch electronically. Reading a letter written on paper may even seem a little strange. I was a little concerned that you were spending too much time in front of the computer: that you might develop carpal tunnel syndrome or become distant because you spent so much time alone in your room. On the bright side, you are becoming a super typist and growing increasingly skilled with the computer, which will come in handy whatever you do later in life.
You are also taking lyrical dance, piano and cello lessons. You don’t seem to be enjoying the latter two as much as you used to. You told me that you aren’t sure if you want to go on with music lessons. I talked you into staying with cello in 9th grade. I hope you didn’t grow to hate it – but regardless, I planned not to give you a hard time if you decided to drop out in 10th grade. You looked forward each week to dance lessons, however, and wished you didn’t have to give them up if you are accepted in the guard after tryouts in the spring.
I am impressed that you have so much social grace. You have lots of friends and get along well with everyone. I have also seen you demonstrate skill in the arts of diplomacy, negotiation and compromise when you interact with your friends and siblings.
I don’t think you are ready to plan a future career in the 8th grade. I don’t know if you will really be ready to decide before college. At the moment, you do not seem strongly attracted to any particular career, although you have mentioned interior design, “something with computers,” secretarial work and teaching. I think you could do well in any of those careers, and I also think that you have the qualities of a good librarian. (Not that I’m trying to get you to follow in my footsteps!) If you still aren’t sure what you want to do when you graduate, don’t worry – you still have time to think about it some more. I’m certain that when you find something you really want to do your strong will and determination will get you there. I have seen you display a number of strengths and “talents” (no matter what your counselor said) in addition to those I’ve already mentioned which will serve you well in the job market, including:
- A phenomenal memory
- Amazing powers of observation
- Strong intuition
- Wonderful color/ design sense
- Excellent organizational ability
- Strong empathy for others
- Tenacity
- Ability to motivate others
- Strong problem solving skills
One goal you have always had for your future was to be happy. That’s really all I want for you too. Because you are comfortable with taking “life as it comes, “ I don’t think your happiness will come from the work you do, or where you live, what others think of you or what you have or don’t have. You will find your happiness inside yourself – just look and see!
Love,
Mom
2013 update: A master’s in education wasn’t very useful during the height of the recession, but her creativity, tenacity and other strengths led her to a job she loves!
Glimpses From the Curve 