Job Desperation

Caroline was fresh out of college and sitting in front of the man who she hoped would give her her first teaching job. To her astonishment, he asked her if she was using birth control. “I was so stunned I didn't know what to say. If I said no, I probably would not have gotten the job, if I said yes, it was revealing too much. I finally caved in and said yes. I often think how I should have stood up and told him off, but I needed a job. Thank goodness times have changed.”

Interestingly enough, I was asked the same question as Caroline in the 70’s by a female interviewer. She owned a large business and had made it in a man’s world, so I suppose she had learned to think like one.

Caroline is a boomer, and her incident also happened many years ago, but still haunts her in a way. She wrote to tell me about this after my last column in which I championed the womens’ movement and reflected on the gratitude I feel for how far we have come.

Conversations I’ve had, and letters I’ve read in the last two weeks have me troubled though. The term sexual harassment didn’t even exist when we were coming of age, but it was rampant. Every single woman I’ve asked about this has experienced it in some form. I’m sorry to say that despite changes in laws and consciousness, it still exists. It has simply taken on some new characteristics.

I’ve long been haunted by the 2006 movie Sherrybaby starring Maggie Gyllenhall. Her character is a 22 year-old who is fresh out of prison, fighting to get custody of her young daughter. In one scene she is desperate to get help from a paunchy middle-aged bureaucrat who tells her his hands are tied. When she offers to perform a sex act, then and there, his hands are no longer tied.

Then there’s the scene from the movie The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. The man in charge of her trust fund won’t release money she desperately needs unless she performs the same act. And she does.

Both of these movies are set in current times, and reveal similar circumstances going on behind closed doors. Women in desperate situations, with no one to turn to, looking for help from men in power. Are these movies reflective of real life? I strongly suspect so.

As I reflect on my 40+ years in the working world, there are men who helped me enormously, asking for nothing in return. There are also men who attempted the same types of coercion that happened to my movie counterparts.

I told a friend recently that one of the things I liked about getting older was that I was no longer subject to street harassment. You know, the hooting out of car windows that some males think they are entitled to. Anyway, what worries me is the world in which young women seeking employment now find themselves.

Not in my lifetime have jobs been so scarce. When there is intense competition for an existing job, the stage is set for these types of abuses. Who would you tell now if this happened to you in an interview for a job you badly needed?

I’ll end this with a story that happened to me when I was 27, and a brand new flight attendant graduate. It was the night before I would fly to my new home base and begin my dream job. There was a knock on my hotel room door. It was the new chief of flight attendant operations who we had trained with for a month. I smiled as I opened my door, wondering why he was there so late in the evening. He pushed his way into the room and grabbed my shoulders and kissed me full on the lips, telling me how beautiful I was. Unbenown to him, one of my classmates was in the bathroom, and I called out to her loudly. He let go of me and made some limp excuse about seeing us all off and wishing us well, and quickly left. I told no one.

Boomers and birth control

When I was 18 years old and in a committed relationship with the man I would eventually marry, I made an appointment with my family doctor to discuss birth control options. He had been in charge of my care since I was a little girl and I felt I could trust him with anything. To my astonishment, he began to lecture me about my choices and said that if I did go on birth control, I should not tell my boyfriend. I left his office, never to return.

A few weeks later, I had an appointment with a gynecologist in a neighboring community. This time, I was more savvy. I told the doctor that I was engaged to be married that summer and wanted to discuss birth control. Again, to my astonishment, this doctor commented that since it was wintertime, that I had come to him rather early to handle such matters.

If there are any young women reading this, perhaps you are as astonished now as I was then. We now have multitudes of female physicians, and male physicians who understand the realities of life in a way that I suppose didn’t exist in small town America in the 70’s.

A few girls in my high school had become pregnant before and shortly after graduation, and I would guess that to this day, anyone from my class could name who they were. It was a scourge on your reputation and your family’s and it never went away back then. If you didn’t marry the child’s father, the baby was forever labeled illegitimate. If you did marry him, no one ever forgot to use the phrase, “well, they had to get married you know.”

This was just a few years before Roe vs. Wade allowed elective abortion to become legal. As I typed that sentence I thought of something that hadn’t crossed my mind in years. One of my classmates who was from a highly regarded family was humiliated when her father was arrested for performing illegal abortions. This girl was a friend of mine, and I don’t know any of the details except that he went to prison, and I suppose it is still talked about in my hometown. He was a professional man who did this after hours of course. I have no idea if it was for the money or to help women without other options.

As the years have passed since all of these incidents and abortion has become such a divisive issue, I have had many conversations with people, and read much about arguments on both sides. I have tried to keep an open mind and really hear the opinions for and against legal abortion. One thing that has remained solid in my mind is what a personal, individual decision it is for the woman who is carrying the fetus.

All of this has been on my mind lately for many reasons. I recall my mother refusing to go to a baby shower for a neighbor who was having an “illegitimate” baby. From the old, deep South, my mother found the entire idea shocking and wanted no part of it. As she got older, and times changed, she befriended more than one young woman who was unmarried and had a small child. She faced the realities of the changing times, and the lessening of the stigma on unmarried mothers. As I spent time with her as she was dying, she expressed how proud of me she was that I had done many interesting things with my life, and had never gotten pregnant. “It would have ruined your life and caused such sorrow.” She told me. Old Beliefs don’t fade easily.

That was in the early 90’s. We all now know that many women are choosing to have babies on their own, and that the term “baby daddy” has become a part of our lexicon. Showers for these women abound, and few – not even the grandmothers – sees it as a blight on the family name.

So, how do I feel now, reflecting on all of this? I feel gratitude. Gratitude that women now have choices that were unavailable to me and my peers. Gratitude that there is less societal judgment. Gratitude that  in our country, babies are coming into a world that wants them and treasures them whatever the circumstances of their birth may be.

Random Kindness Amid Scandals

By now we’ve shifted from the stories of misery at the voting polls and Hurricane Sandy to the juicy Washington sex scandal. I will admit to being mesmerized by the bizarre details that come to light daily that have apparently caused the downfall of General Petraeus.

Meanwhile, very little airtime is being given to the sex scandal of a Brig. General in Ft. Bragg who is accused of sexual misconduct with the women under his command. I can’t help but wonder why this has seen so little news coverage. I could find nothing on the internet past 11/6, but hear little blurbs now and then on NPR news.

But back to the voting polls. When I arrived at 3:30 PM on voting day, there were hundreds of people in line facing a 3+ hour wait.

It so happened I was reading Rod Stewart’s biography, so that kept me entertained until the sun went down. Darn, and I was just at the point where Rod and Jeff Beck were parting company and Rod was going out on his own. Then there was just standing….moving five feet at a time ever half hour or so.

We privileged Americans don’t often relish standing in lines, and will usually just leave, but I was heartened to see at least 100 people behind me as I neared the entrance to the place where I would mark my ballot.

The main reason I am writing about this old news is that about 45 minutes before it was my turn, suddenly a woman appeared with stacks of pepperoni pizzas. She was a worker, but said she didn’t know who had purchased them. She just said a lady showed up with all the pizzas and asked that they be given out to those of us in line. There was plenty for everybody. I’m here to tell you that that piece of pizza was one of the best I have ever tasted. The mood in the crowd was lifted immeasurably by this random act of kindness.

Whoever you are, I would like to thank you for that marvelous respite for we voters who hadn’t thought to bring a bag lunch. (Some had the foresight to bring a chair – not me).

After the sun went down and the line was moving glacially slow, the only thing that kept me there was the memory of a TV movie called “Iron Jawed Angels” about the suffragettes who fought for the right of women to vote so many decades ago. They suffered unspeakable indignities so that we could move along a line with our neighbors and be a part of what color our state would end up.
Now, back to the sex scandals. You boomers and above who are reading this will probably remember the first one that dominated our newspapers and airwaves. In 1974, Wilbur Mills, (D-Ark.) the powerful head of the House Ways and Means Committee saw his power eroded when, according to the New York Times, he was involved in an  incident in which a striptease dancer who performed under the stage name Fanne Foxe, the Argentine Firecracker, jumped out of his car and waded into the Tidal Basin beside the Jefferson Memorial.
Mr. Mills blamed his struggle with alcoholism for the incident. Foxe later changed her stage name to “The Tidal Basin Bombshell.”
Two years later, Wayne Hays, (D-Ohio) was involved in a very juicy sex scandal with a woman named Elizabeth Ray. The Washington Post broke the story quoting Elizabeth Ray, Hays's former secretary, saying that Hays hired her on his staff, and later gave her a raise as staff of the House Administration Committee for two years to serve as his mistress. Ostensibly a secretary, Ray admitted: "I can't type. I can't file. I can't even answer the phone." She even "let a reporter listen in as the Ohio congressman told her on the phone that his recent marriage (to another former secretary) would not affect their arrangement."
So, all this scandal is nothing we boomers haven’t grown up around. When this current dust settles, we’ll go back to our regular concerns about paying the mortgage and health insurance premiums. But, mixed among all our concerns, I’m confident there will be random acts of kindness to remind us of the good that is the American way.

Stop saying basically!

An amazing thing happened to me this week. I was having a conversation 
with my friend Jim when he told me that he had just purchased an 
Oriental rug. After telling me what its dimensions were and where he 
planned to place it, I had to ask about the colors.

“It’s basically black, with a few pink and gold rosettes and a few pink 
and gold borders,” was his answer. I was dumbfounded. It was the first 
time in many years that I had actually heard a person use the word 
basically in a meaningful context. I could picture the rug. It made 
sense. I cared about the decoration of his den.

This may seem a small thing to you, but I have been keeping track of 
how misused the word basically has become in our lexicon for a long, 
long time. I have no idea where it started, but I think people insert 
it into sentences to sound more intelligent, or perhaps the way we 
would use, “you know,” “um,” and “and uh.” Let’s face it, it’s a filler 
and nothing more in the way it is currently used.

I have been riveted to the coverage of Hurricane Sandy, constantly 
thanking my stars that somehow it missed us, while grieving for those 
who like us have borne the ravages of fall weather fury. In the dark 
hours before the worst hit, I was watching CNN and listening to NPR as 
I went about getting ready for work. A reporter in East Manhattan 
pointed behind her and said, “Well, the power is out here, and 
everything is basically black.” I looked behind her, and everything was 
truly black. Why did she need the word basically? Moments later on NPR, 
a reporter on the same scene, described this part of Manhattan as 
basically black. “Not a light in sight.” he marveled.

The next morning a lady who had walked down 15 flights of stairs to let 
her dog out and plug her cell phone in at the CNN mobile unit told a 
reporter, “It’s basically been a nightmare.”

Each hour as I watch the coverage and see more deaths and destruction, 
I sometimes feel tears welling, remembering Charley and even Andrew. I 
don’t meant o make light of any of this despair. I would just like to 
point out that whenever someone is interviewed or somehow in front of a 
microphone, basically just creeps out there, and I have no idea why.

I’ve revealed here before that one of my guilty pleasures is watching 
Judge Judy every afternoon at 5 PM. I just marvel at how people really 
think that she will believe that someone gifted them money with no 
expectation of repayment. Judy cuts right to the chase and gets them to 
tell her word for word how the money exchange happened. Inevitably, the 
defendant will use the word “borrow”, and the case will be over. But 
not before they try to whittle it down to “basically, what happened 
was….” Judy will erupt with “NOT BASICALLY!!!, I want to hear word for 
word what the exchange was.” I sit there alone in my living room 
applauding. (Give me a break here, last week’s column was about my 
addiction to public broadcasting.)

No column on this subject would be complete without mentioning 
professional athletes. Just notice, the next time you’re watching an 
interview with some poor sportscaster who has to interview the 
quarterback of a losing team. “What do you think went wrong out there 
today Bubba?” she asks. “Well, basically we just lost our momentum; 
didn’t accomplish what we set out to do tonight.” Would someone please 
tell these athletes that inserting basically doesn’t make them sound 
more intelligent or informed? My significant other has 3 televisions on 
during these exchanges and I can’t escape it, or I wouldn’t be 
complaining so fervently here, I promise you.

Alright, that’s it for now for my complaining, except for a few things 
that wouldn’t make an entire column:

•Could mothers please think of a few new names other than Emma, 
Kathryn, Kathleen and Caitlain for their babies: I am so sick of Katies 
of all ages everywhere, and the Emmas will soon be invading middle 
schools. Keep in mind that in my generation, it was Cathy and Kathy 
with some Debbies thrown in.

•Would people please stop honking at me to make a right turn on a red 
arrow? We can only do this when it is blinking. I know this from 
numerous trips to traffic school.

•It started with “Pardon the Interruption, and “The View”, but now, 
every station has panels of 5 or more people discussing a topic – ALL 
TALKING AT ONCE. I used to love these shows, but now everyone must 
insert a witty comment whether it’s needed or not.

DISCLAIMER: I know I have been incessantly complaining in the above, so 
if there is something you would like to complain about , please e-mail 
me, or comment at my blog at bellingonboomers.com.

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Since writing that column about Public television and radio, I have thought of so many other things that I have learned from them. I was a devotee of Wayne Dyer when he wrote his first book, Your Erroneous Zones in the 70's. He has touched so many lives with his works and always reminds me of who I am, and what I know for sure. I would love to hear comments from other readers about your experiences in this regard.

NPR & PBS -Couldn't Live Without Them

When she learned that I was a tour guide in a former life, my new friend immediately had to know what was the most amazing sight I had ever seen in my travels. What a great question! I had an impossible time narrowing it down, so I chose a few. My first two words were Crater Lake. It is a national Park in South Central Oregon containing a lake that is a collapsed volcano. Rather than try to describe it, I pulled out a quote that I have kept with me since my trip there. It is by author Jack London – best known for his Alaskan tales and book, “Call of the Wild.” Here’s the quote: ”I thought that I had gazed upon everything beautiful in nature as I have spent many years traveling thousands of miles to view the beauty spots of the earth, but I have reached the climax. Never again can I gaze upon the beauty spots of the earth and enjoy them as being the finest thing I have ever seen. Crater Lake is far above them all.

How can you read that and not decide that you have to see it? That’s what happened to me a while back while watching Ken Burns PBS series “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea.” Of all his wonderful American stories, this is my favorite, because there is so much more happiness than sadness in this history.

There is no way to describe the shades of blue in Crater Lake or the feeling of absolute awe and bliss upon seeing it for the first time. I expected it to be beautiful, but it belied all of my preconceived notions. It is truly a wonder to behold and creates an aura of serenity I have only felt once before. That being standing on a glacier in Alaska with not a single sound to be heard and turquoise ice all around me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Ken Burns PBS series I’ve enjoyed: “the Civil War”, “Baseball”, “The Second World War”, “Prohibition”….. largely because I have such a fear that funding for public television and radio will be eliminated if the Republicans win this election.

I try in this space not to be partisan, but today, I can’t help myself. My greatest salvation for driving 45 minutes (and 33 traffic lights) each way to and from work is listening to NPR ( National Public Radio). I have come to know the commentators as though they were my friends. Unlike television news shows where panelists talk over each other trying to be witty, the NPR commentators ask the questions I want answered. And they make the show about the topic and the guest, and not about themselves.

On my way home from work is a program from the BBC called “World Have Your Say.” People from all over the globe call in with their experience and insights about a particular world event. Since listening to this for a few months, I now feel as much like a citizen of the world as I do an American. It is a daily crash course on world events as told by the people who are living them.

One of my mother’s greatest joys as she grew old was watching programs on PBS. I think Masterpiece Theater and Antiques Roadshow were her favorites, as they are now mine. She had so little discretionary income, and yet she gave as much as she could possibly afford to the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. Many people and foundations are generous, but it won’t be enough to keep this special kind of programming on the air if the government ops out.

One of my most memorable movies is called “The Magdalene Sisters.” Just a small independent movie no one heard much about, but is as gripping as any I have ever seen. I think about it often. The other morning while I was getting ready for work, I dropped my eyeliner when they began an interview with one of the women who worked in and survived the Irish slave laundry. It was wrenching to hear her story, but made the movie and the events so real to me. A citizen of the world.

•By the Way: By Wednesday morning, more than 1,000 participants had responded on Facebook, saying they would attend a march on the National Mall in Washington three days before the election. The so-called Million Puppet March being planned online is scheduled for Nov. 3. It comes after Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney's remarks during a presidential debate calling for the elimination of funding for PBS, which airs the popular children's show "Sesame Street."

•Over the course of a year, 91% of all US television households, tune into their PBS member station.

•Federal funding accounts for about 15% of the money necessary to make public broadcasting possible. This is approximately 1/100ty of 1% of the federal budget.

Eating Confessions

This is a time for confession and ….. your non-judgment. The purpose of this column is to bring out of the closet, the episodes in our lives when we have eaten ourselves into oblivion on something, in a way, that is – to most people – totally disgusting.

Baby boomers, those older, and the economically challenged will understand this. If you aren’t one of these, please read on and tell me if you can identify. My parents were the most cost-conscious, economically conservative – that is to say cheapest people I have ever met. It’s how they fed, housed and clothed us I now realize, but when you’re watching all the good food available on television and it’s not in your house, well, you wish it was.

My first big foray happened when I was about 9 or 10. My parents were having a card party and my dad was sent off to the grocery store to get provisions. Without my mother’s knowledge, I added some things to her list, and then cheerfully offered to unpack the groceries upon my dad’s return. Mother was busy cleaning the house for the party, and my dad had had a few beers, so I was golden. The extra large bag of Fritos, 2 glass bottles of Pepsi and a dozen glazed donuts found their way under my bed.

Once the party was in full swing, I grabbed a glass of ice and broke into the Fritos like a starving desert island shipwreck survivor. The only breaks I took were to grab a donut now and then. It was heaven! I loved Fritos and donuts and could never – until that night- get enough of either. Fast forward to 4AM. I am so sick and miserable trying to keep all of this down that I am softly groaning. I know that if I get up to vomit, my parents will hear me and be onto my theft. Somehow I kept it all down, but didn’t sleep a wink that night. The next day was Sunday, and I feigned a strange stomach ache that required staying in bed for most of the day. To this day, just the thought of the orange and red of the Fritos bag turns my stomach. If I smell them on someone’s breath, it’s all over.

So, there’s confession #1. My next endeavor was at an unsupervised slumber party which had unlimited junk food of every kind. It was nirvana. Luckily, nobody paid much attention to my focus on all the food, and this time I ate myself sick on cream stick donuts. Can’t look one in the eye to this day.

I’ve polled my usual group of baby boomer consultants about similar indulgences and haven’t been really successful. My former co-worker Debbie M. once came home from school and devoured 2 lemon meringue pies in one sitting without so much as a glass of milk to wash it down. She’s not proud of it, but it has become family folklore since she is so slim.

My friend Phyllis K. recalls that there weren’t treats in her house much as she was growing up, but on Saturday mornings they had a dessert called Swedish flop (I am not making this up) for breakfast. Then, on Saturday night, they each were allowed a bowl of ice cream from the quart that was emptied that night. Her husband Wayne has fond memories of the Three Musketeers and Butterfinger candy bars he would buy with the nickels he got for his allowance.

Did your parents by any chance have friends without children who you would visit occasionally? Well, mine did, and they always had beautiful ornate dishes filled to the top with candy. My mother was onto me. “Do not ask Marion if you can have any of her candy,” she would admonish me. This was torture. I would sneak just enough to insure that the level didn’t decrease significantly.

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Oh, to be on American Bandstand!

The grey linoleum floor in front of our little black and white TV was my dance floor every afternoon after school from the time I was 6 years old. I loved to dance and sing and longed to be a teenager so that some day I could be on American Bandstand.

The first national TV show aimed strictly at teenagers, they worshiped it as did all of us who aspired to be like them. Rock and roll was heard around our house on my older brother’s 45’s, and his girlfriend looked just like the dancers on Bandstand. She wore her cardigan sweater backwards with pearls, had a charm bracelet and a bucket bag and lots of crinoline petticoats under her very full skirts. Oh, yes, and t-strap flats. Wow, I couldn’t wait to be among those ranks. Some day I would go to Philadelphia.

I learned all the dances, begged for the clothes the older girls on the school bus wore and idolized the regular dancers on Bandstand. If you’re still with me, you’re remembering Bob and Justine, Kenny and Arlene, the Jimenez sisters – Ivette and Carmen (who had the white streaks in their hair), and my favorite – tight-skirt wearing blonde Frani Giordano who won a convertible in the pony contest. Man, could I do the pony! And the Chalapyso, the stroll, and anything else that popped up on my TV. At Pajama parties we rehearsed and practiced for the days when we would actually be able to go to dances and maybe even have boys as partners.

But the regulars….they were just normal high school kids (some in their school uniforms), and they became national celebrities who received gifts and 45,000 letters a week from the adoring kids across America who wanted to know them. I can even remember buying some of the teen magazines which featured them on the cover along with the likes of Annette, Bobby Darin and Duane Eddy.

Bandstand was a daily inspiration for my generation and the one just above us. In one of his books, Dick Clark explained it this way: “I helped give rock’n’ roll a credibility it didn’t get by being played on the radio. If a large corporation like ABC Television could devote two-and-a-half hours of its afternoon schedule to this music, then parents could reason that it must be worthwhile. These tactics helped keep rock ‘n’ roll alive.”

And speaking of the radio. How about when transistor radios came out? Man, we could carry our music with us and listen to it outside and on our bicycles – it was a little miracle. The DJ’s of the time were our heros and of course Dick Clark was at the top of the pack. He was so clean cut and made his dancers so non-threatening in their dresses and sports coats that parents had a hard time convincing us it was “devil music.”

I am so jealous of my friend Carol. She lives here now, but is from Philadelphia and went to Bandstand and danced on 5 occasions. I have interrogated her for any small detail. She tells of being allowed in for 15 minutes at a time often so that more kids could have the experience. The line was always very, very long to get in she says, but nobody really minded, because you were surrounded by teenagers who liked to dance and were just like you. She did tell me that she spoke with Dick Clark on a few occasions and that he never showed any favoritism to the regulars, but was kind and friendly to everybody. Didn’t you just know that?

If I have a favorite memory of the show, it was the time that the Four Seasons were guests and sang “Sherry.” The kids went so crazy when it was over that Dick had them sing it a second time while I sat spellbound.

I watched Bandstand into the 80’s when it went off the air. I loved the disco era and had a partner and all the slinky dresses. It was an interesting time with the Bee Gees in the background. I never got into the hard rock or heavy metal. When I lived in blue collar Michigan I felt that I would remain youthful as long as I knew what the kids (now in California) were wearing, how they were dancing and how they wore their hair.

I can’t think of any television program that made a bigger, longer impact on my life and gosh I miss it. My moment in the sun was in the 80’s when Dick Clark was the host of the $100,000 Pyramid. I was a contestant and got to meet him. What a gentleman! I was surprised though that the bigger than life guy was shorter than my 5’5”.

By the way:

•When Dick took over the show in 1957, he added black dancers.

•In 1957, 45’s cost sixty-nine cents in Philadelphia, and in many places, if you bought six, you got one free.

•Dick Clark named the song “At The Hop”  from “Do The Bop” and it became an overnight number one hit.

•On the show kids couldn’t say they were “going steady.” The code words used were “going together.”

•My 3 favorite songs from this era are “Dream Lover” by Bobby Darin; “Step By Step” by the Crests and “Special Angel” by Bobby Bare

Starved for Conversation

Did you ever notice that no matter how you pronounce the word Caribbean that there’s someone nearby who will correct you? Same deal with the designer Ralph Lauren. This has bugged me for a long time – not the pronunciation, the need some humans have to demonstrate superiority to others.

I will grossly illustrate this with a tale my friend Jerry told me recently in response to my complaint that my significant other often feels the need to have a tad more information on a topic than I.

As Jerry tells it, his friend Wayne (a college Political Science professor) was the world’s worst offender in this regard. If you said it was a nice day, Wayne would inform you that the forecast was foreboding and in fact, some clouds were just then forming on the horizon.

One day on a road trip from Milwaukee to Madison, Jerry decided he had had enough. Wayne was driving, and Jerry had his reporter’s note pad in hand. Jerry began a discussion about what a great mayor Milwaukee had. Every example he cited, Wayne refuted. So, Jerry gave it about a half hour and a few more topics, then casually mentioned that he was quite disillusioned with the mayor. Wayne immediately began a discourse on what a fine leader he was indeed.

Enter the notebook. Unbeknownst to Wayne, Jerry had recorded his previous comments word for word and then read them back to Wayne verbatim. The good professor was astonished. He questioned why someone of Jerry’s caliber would waste his time with such a jejune exercise in proving himself right. Precisely.

The story does have a somewhat happy ending. Jerry seized the opportunity to enlighten Wayne on some possible explanations for his (Wayne’s) dismal love life. Apparently there was an endless stream of coeds who were attracted to the professor, but each lasted about as long as the rinse cycle. While they liked his commanding presence in the classroom, it didn’t translate well to the living quarters. Everybody needs to be right sometimes Wayne.

I run into Waynes everywhere. Why do some people think that playing devil’s advocate is an entertaining form of conversation? Do most of us have enough Church Lady in us that we are itching to do the superior dance?

Which brings me to another conundrum. How is it that those abrasive baby boomers, James Carville and Mary Matalin are still married? All they ever do is contradict each other. Imagine trying to enjoy your Rice Krispies while watching yourselves argue on “Face the Nation.”

I’m remembering a quote I read in The Utne Reader 13 years ago: “Our culture is saturated with information and starved for conversation.” I believe this is even truer today. Remember the verb forms “neighboring” and “visiting?” They used to be valid pastimes.

What if you called up a friend and said, “Why don’t you come over Tuesday for conversation?” Can you imagine the pregnant pause on the other end of the line? It might be followed by, “Well, are we going to have lunch?”

See what’s happened to us. We’re so productivity-focused that even talking to each other has to involve multitasking.

One notable exception might be a book discussion group. No, wait, I guess it isn’t because to have read a book and be knowledgeable about its content is rather task oriented isn’t it?

Which reminds me of a story that you will find hard to believe, but is absolutely factual. I am poised to lead a novel discussion group at Barnes & Noble. Sitting in a circle with me are about 15 women. It soon becomes obvious that I am in a discussion by myself – no one is contributing. A little probing on my part reveals that NO ONE in the circle but me has actually read the book! Turns out they were hungering for in-person intellectual discourse, and simply wanted to be somewhere where people were conversing.

This was not an isolated incident. In talking with my counterparts around the state I discovered that this happens all the time. I would tell the Utne Reader that we are more than starved for conversation. We are desperate to be heard. My mother always maintained that there were only about 5 good listeners on the planet. A good listener is the rarest conversationalist of all. If you doubt this, tune in Monday to “The View,” or to the popular ESPN show “Pardon The Interruption,” and I will rest my case.


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Jane Story

I've read that if you have a friend that you've known your whole life it is a great blessing. It's an interesting thought...all the places we move and how we change, can a friendship endure for a lifetime? We boomers have all lived long enough to know by now if that’s true. I have 3 friends from way back in my Michigan childhood who still keep in touch and care about my life, so I know that I am very fortunate.

Today, when I think about being fortunate, it is because of a friend I met in 1991 when I first moved to Cape Coral. Her name is Jane Story and she sold us our dream house and became our close friend in the process. We lived just 7 doors away, and she and I would take power walks in the morning and talk about everything from real estate to the men in our lives to deep secrets. It was a glorious and sacred time for me. Getting to know someone who was so successful at what she did, yet made the people in her life her highest priority.

Jane was consistently the most successful realtor in the area with way more listings than any human should be able to handle. Yet she made every owner and prospective buyer feel special in a way that only she could. She always gave her undivided attention. If she didn't think the house was right for you, she would say so. Her great joy was in putting people in the houses where they belonged and would live out their dreams. That is why she loved what she did and worked 7 days a week to the chagrin of those of us who wanted more time with her.

Although she had a huge family with 8 brothers and sisters, many of us were made honorary family and were included in the fold of their special celebrations and gatherings. We were warmly enfolded and fed fabulous Italian food and lively conversation. Love and hospitality reign in her big extended family.

My significant other and I didn't have family near, and realizing this, Jane and her husband Jim would visit us on Christmas eve every year with special treats and - most importantly - a big chunk of their evening. We knew that we were special to them and it made our distance from family much easier to bear.

It was clear to see that Jane had begun her college career as an art major. Hand-made cards with pictures she had taken throughout the year are treasured mementos to many. Somewhere along the line she switched to marketing and began buying and selling real estate - coming to Cape Coral when interest rates were 18%, and the market was almost impenetrable. Undaunted, she told me once that somehow she just always had confidence that she would succeed.

Watching how she lived her life and ran her business taught me many lessons that I carry with me today. No matter how difficult the client, she never lost her temper and always took the high road, even in the most untenable situations. I would marvel at her patience and always sound judgment. If I ever found myself in a bind I knew that if I called Jane she would have a solution in mind. Most importantly, I knew that she cared.

Through the years that we were friends, I made some serious life errors, yet Jane never judged me. She would sympathize while offering sound advice – but only if I asked for it.

When Jane told me a bit over a year ago that she had cancer, I asked her about fear of death. In true Jane fashion, she threw up her hands and said, “Elaine, that’s the last thing I’m worried about. So many clients and people are dependent on me right now that I just hope to have the strength to get everything done.”

As I type this on the eve of Jane’s funeral, I take comfort in knowing that she didn’t have fear, and that family, friends and co-workers rallied like crazy to insure that indeed everything did get done.

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Love those '57 Chevys

To this day there is nothing that will stop me in my tracks like the sight of a 1957 Chevy. No question, it is my favorite car of all time, and my recent research tells me that this is a common phenomenon among us baby boomers. One article I read said “It reminds us of when the auto industry was entering its golden age, when styling was of high importance, and America still had a lot of its core values and ideals intact.”

As a 6-year-old, I would stand up in the bench seat between my mother and dad in their Ford, and point out every single ’57 Chevy Bel Air that we encountered. I was in love with them –maybe because my older brothers were. Al, 12 and Bill, 18 were car fanatics, and to them there was nothing ever manufactured that could hold a piston to the new Chevy Bel Air.

If the whole family was in the car, we would ooh and ahh over the color combinations and which ones we liked the best. My mother loved the yellow and white one, for me it was turquoise, my brothers and dad were very divided, but the black and red combination wowed all of us – make no mistake.

I decided this week that I had to talk to some owners of my dream car and learn their stories. A little research led me to the home of Ted Deily, proud owner of a spotless red and white hardtop. Ted  who is a bit older than boomer status, says that something came over him in 2001 when he spotted the car in a trader magazine. After one look at it he was a man obsessed. After the owner accepted his offer of $25,000, he had to figure out where the money would come from. He did, and has never regretted it. He drives it every week and enjoys the rallies and cruises and solid friendships he’s forged with others who love the cars of our youth.

One fast friendship is just 2 doors away on Ted’s Cape Coral street. Milt Jones always wanted a 4-door hardtop ’57. Then one day in 2006 while driving down Country Club, he spotted the car of his dreams…..with a ‘for sale” sign. So now a beautiful tropical turquoise high performance hardtop sits 2 driveways away from Ted’s. Milt spent more than a year teaching himself how to rewire everything, and says his baby now runs like a top. Although it came along 50 years later than he planned, he says he doesn’t think he could possibly enjoy it any more than he does.

The men lived and worked for the same power company in the North and were in the Navy the same years, but never met until they spotted each other’s cars. Now the two who actually look like brothers have a strong bond of friendship. They and their wives enjoy the camaraderie with other owners and relish the thumbs up they receive constantly when they’re just out for a ride.

Wanting more insight about the iconic status of the ’57, I called Rick Treworgy, owner of the Muscle Car City Museum in Punta Gorda. Rick who has assembled 260 of the hottest cars of our youth in his museum, calls the ’57 Bel Air the “classic of all classics.” There are 6 in his collection including 2 very rare convertibles. It was the V8 motor, positive traction, fuel injection, and the “look at me” fins and chrome that captivated the teens and young adults as he sees it. He remembers the law being more tolerant with street racing and roaring performance engines.

Rick also pointed out that when baby boomers got their first car, it was usually a few years old, and there was no cooler older car than a ’57 Chevy.

I remember a road trip I took through the South with my parents in 1968, and I was awed by how many beautiful ’57 Chevys there were that weren’t victims of Michigan winters and rust. I begged my dad to buy me one, and I remember him actually looking at a few. Look was all he did.

According to autoshopper blogger Sherry Christiansen, “There were only 47,566 1957 Bel Airs manufactured. It was described in advertisements as “sweet, smooth and sassy.” This Chevy was part of The American Dream; it was viewed in homes around the world as it appeared in quite a few different TV programs. Today the ’57 Bel Air is called ‘the most popular car in history’; it even outsold the Ford Thunderbird during the first year it was launched. The 57 Chevy Bel Air was not the number one selling automobile in its time, but if you ask any car enthusiast who remembers, it was the automobile that won the hearts of the masses, and continues to do so even today.”

Greatest Generation Hero

Without heroic men like Fred Rosenstrauch, there would have been no baby boom generation. A long fascination with the men and women who fought WWII, took me to Shell Point Retirement Community today to meet a remarkable couple who exemplify what made the Greatest Generation great.

As a teenager in Nazi Germany, Fred watched as his peers disappeared, knowing that as Jews, they were not going into the military. He and his dad worked in a box ammunition factory while hoping to find a way out of the inevitable end for their family. Thanks to a friendly teacher who was a top Nazi in the town, Fred and his father were met at the train as they arrived home one night, and given passage out of the country. They had no time to think it over or what it meant to leave other family members behind. Thankfully, Fred’s mother and her parents escaped a year later, and they all eventually settled in St. Louis.

When America entered the war, young Fred tried to enlist in all of the branches of the service, but he was not yet a citizen. Finally after much pleading, the Army accepted him into the infantry, and along with a few others in his basic training, was made an American citizen in a courthouse in San Luis Obispo.

As a member of the Second Infantry Division, Fred fought in 5 major battles including the D-Day invasion of Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge in which he was wounded. All the time, Fred was working on losing his German accent of which there is not a trace today.

I ask him about the movie Saving Private Ryan which so vividly depicts the invasion of Normandy from the sea. He tells me that it was so realistic that it was very difficult to watch even after all these years, and that he would not watch it again.

Fred’s lively speech and expressive face turn to deep sadness also, when I ask him about one of his Division’s assignments – to liberate the concentration camp at Dachau. Realizing how close his family had come to this fate was so shocking to this young man that he can barely talk of it today.

Fred assumed that he would soon be going home to his sweetheart Lore, but he was called up to go to the Allied HQ and assigned to Officer Training School. With his knowledge of Germany, and the German language, he was trained as an interpreter and interrogator. Soon, he found himself in Nuremberg interrogating Nazis and interpreting during the trials. It would seem that this young man’s life had come full circle.

Fred and Lore have a light moment when they tell me that his intense interrogation training served him well throughout life. He has no trouble knowing the signs in a person’s face and demeanor when they are not telling the truth. This, they tell me came in handy in raising their two children.

Within four months of Fred’s return to the states, he and Lore were married. She had faithfully written him and waited and worried like most young women of the time. I asked her about what life with rationing was like, and she smiles and says it wasn’t so bad except for the lack of nylon stockings. She mentions that just about everywhere you went, women were knitting socks and helmet liners for the soldiers from a pattern put out by the Army.

There is not a bit of bitterness in Fred’s still handsome, expressive face when he tells me that he was fired from his first job at a sheet metal company when the owner learned he was Jewish. It says it was a blessing because he was then hired for a much better job in the experimental division of McDonnell aircraft. Later he started his own heating business which is now operated by his son in St. Louis. He and Lore smile when they recall that the business really picked up when air conditioning came into vogue.

After years as snowbirds, Fred and Lore made Florida their permanent home a few years ago, and now reside in a beautiful condo overlooking the Caloosahatchee in Shell Point Retirement Community. They laugh as they remember buying their first home for $7,500 with the help of low interest and a down payment through the GI Bill.

As I leave their home, I stop to look at pictures on their walls, and notice one of Fred in full uniform for a recent veterans parade. He smiles proudly and says, “It still fits.”

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Malt Shop

As I walked into the malt shop, the 1959 instrumental song “Sleepwalk” by Santo and Johnny was playing and all the stainless steel sparkled as the red vinyl stools called out to me.  I ordered a chocolate malt and took in all the nostalgic sights as I waited for my delicious concoction. Round Coke signs, little table-side juke boxes……

I wish I could tell you that this was a real, preserved, original malt shop, but of course it was the commercial reproduction known as “Johnny Rockets” in the Coconut Point mall in Estero. I was there to begin my research on the possibility of the true existence of real malts. Not to be confused with shakes, malts must contain malt powder and have that distinctive taste that gave rise to the places that baby boomers came of age as they ate, danced, listened to rock ‘n roll and flirted, largely away from adult scrutiny.

I’ve been thinking about malts ever since Walgreen’s began running that commercial claiming that they invented the malted milkshake in 1922. I consider myself a connoisseur, as I have sought them out wherever I have traveled in my baby boomer life. I even once found an original preserved soda fountain still operating in Hot Springs, Arkansas when I was a tour guide.

Last week I set out to find out how many ice cream places nearby still served this delectable concoction, and I must say I enjoyed the research to the last noisy sip. Shakes have no place here – nor does anything that isn’t mixed on an authentic stainless steel mixer.

I know I probably missed places that I hope you will tell me about, but here is what I found:

•Johnny Rockets makes a great malt using real Carnation malt powder, and the music is wonderful of course.

•The Ice Cream Club with 2 locations in Cape Coral turns out an excellent malt using TR Toppers malt powder.

•Ice Sssscreamin on Cape Coral Parkway makes a killer malt with the same powder as above.

•Steak ‘N Shake makes a beautiful malt, but it really doesn’t taste malty enough for me. They use a malt syrup that is made with molasses.

Wondering if I was all alone in this peculiar affection, I asked some of my boomer consultants to tell me their stories.

From Joann C. : In the late 1950's and 1960's, I remember a place called "Hermie Hoffmans".  It was a soda shop around the corner from my house in Newburgh, N.Y.  You could get real malt shakes made with hard ice cream.   Hermie Hoffman and his wife owned and ran the soda shop.   It had a long counter with red bar stools and soda fountains so you could sit and watch them make whatever you wanted.  In the back room was a pool table. It was a safe haven for us teenagers and we could hang out in the back pool room, in the soda shop or outside.  

From Gary H:  I grew up in a very small town (pop. 2400) in southern Illinois (Hartford) which had a true malt shop on the corner of the main drag. They served real, hard ice cream with malt powder served at soda shop style tables and you could ask for fresh strawberries in the summer... the best strawberry malts ever! It was a hang out for the local high school and junior high kids, who all knew each other, each others’ families & each others secrets.

From Dave K: It just so happens, when I was a junior in high school (1965) I worked weekends at the local dairy store. It was called Guernsey Dairy. I believe it's still there in Northville, MI. On Saturdays we made ice cream and on Sundays I worked behind the counter dipping cones, making sundaes, shakes and malts. I remember they had a specific recipe for each item on the menu. The owner was very fussy about this and every once in a while he would come to the counter and ask me to make something, then he would watch and coach me to make it just so.....then he would eat it himself.

From Wayne K: Every summer of my young life was spent in the town of Williams Bay, WI.  In the center of this tiny town was the Malt Shop (wish I could remember what it was called.) I think it was also a drugstore.  They made the very best chocolate malts which consisted of 3 scoops of ice cream, some milk and a big scoop of real, powdered malt.  They would put the big aluminum cup onto the light green appliance that whirled that ice cream to the consistency of what I considered heaven. Not only did you get a big glass full but they gave you the aluminum cup to refill your glass with.  I think we paid about 50 cents for this delight back in 1954 and more often than not couldn't finish it all.  My brothers, cousins and I saved every penny, nickel and dime we could get our hands on and headed out on the 5-6 block walk at least once a week.  The shop is long gone now, but the wonderful memories remain just the same.

You see, a whole culture surrounded the malt. Please join me in keeping that fabulous concoction alive. Most menus list shakes, but not malts even though they have the makings. Ask, ask, ask. They can make a comeback, I know it as well as I know what’s coming up tonight on Turner Classic Movies.

By the way:

•My small town of Mt. Morris, MI had 3 pharmacies, all of which had soda fountains as the centerpiece.

•I am the proud owner of an authentic pale green Hamilton Beach maltmaker which still works like a charm.

• Malted milk is a powdered gruel made from a mixture of malted barley, wheat flour, and whole milk, which is evaporated until it forms a powder. It was originally called diastatic.

A soda jerk throws a scoop of ice cream into the mixing cup for a malted milkshake, on the counter behind him a pot of "Borden's Malted Milk" is visible

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Remember 'Pay it Forward?'

I turned the key in my ignition, and instead of the familiar sound of my engine there was just a pathetic little groan. I’ve lived long enough to know the sound of a dead battery and the heart-sinking feeling that goes with it. I was 10 miles from home on a Sunday and without my cell phone.

I had such a fun day planned – out doing research for my chocolate malt column, and I was just getting started. As I sadly slid out of my car to go find a phone, a black mustang pulled in and parked. A young guy jumped out and I ran up to him before he could even close his door and asked, “Do you by any chance have jumper cables?” A broad smile crossed his face and he said, “Sure.” Out came the longest most nuclear-powered set of cables I had even seen. With great expertise he connected them to his battery and something under my hood. I don’t know what you call it, but my battery is under the rear seat. This guy obviously knew what he was doing.

“We’d better give it some time to charge.” He told me, and we began to talk. Turns out he was just on his way to order a pizza and assured me he was in no hurry at all. I told him about my malt research and I learned that he was an Iraq veteran with a closed head injury among other things as the result of a roadside bomb. This young, adorable guy had been through hell, but you’d never know it to look at him or to see the positive energy that he exuded.

After a few minutes we tried my ignition, and it started right up. I was cautioned to go straight to the battery store with no stops in between. It felt good to be so cared for by this stranger. We gave each other a hug, and he said he had something for me as he opened his trunk. Out came a second set of jumper cables that he had never used. “I’d just feel better if you kept these with you.” He said. “”You just never know…..”

We talked about how good it feels to help someone in need, and I assured him that I would pay it forward. If you’ve never seen the 2000 movie with Kevin Spaeey, Helen Hunt and Haley Joel Osment, get it from Netflix, or better yet, buy it. It is one of those movies that stays with you forever.

Osment plays an 11-year-old boy who comes up with the concept of making the world a better place by doing a kindness for someone and asking that in return, they do a kindness for someone else – hence, the “pay it forward.” Spacey, his social studies teacher remarks that this is an extreme act of faith in the goodness of people.

Have you ever noticed that often when you do something kind for someone – like an unexpected gift, they will say, “You didn’t have to do this.”  I’ve always wondered why we use that phrase. Of course no one has to do anything nice for anyone. Thankfully, my mother always taught us to be gracious receivers of gifts and kindnesses.

My story could end here, but it has a much more interesting conclusion. Three days after my battery incident, I was working at my day job when the driver of an airport van came rushing in wild eyed, and frantically asked if I knew anyone who had jumper cables. I calmly reached into my purse and pulled out my keys and handed them to him. “There’s a set on my front seat.” I said, as I pointed out the window to my car which was only about 50 feet away. He couldn’t believe it. I wish I could describe the look on his face.

About 10 minutes later, he came in and handed me my keys and said, “That was a miracle!” I couldn’t imagine anyone in here would have cables.” “You really saved my life!” “Thanks, I’ve got to run.”

I’ve lived a fairly long life, and I don’t remember anyone ever asking me for jumper cables before that day. As I’ve said before in this space, miracles come in all shapes and sizes, and there are exponentially more good people in the world than there are nasty ones. I’m reminded of a Sanskrit greeting I learned many years ago in a yoga class. The greeting is Namaste, and is used widely in India. When loosely translated, it means, “the good in me recognizes the good in you.”

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Drive-ins making a comeback - maybe

USA Today reports this week that drive ins are making a comeback. It seems that land prices aren't what they were a while back when these venues were disappearing, and now entrepreneurs are bringing back an element of our childhood and teen years that are indelibly imprinted on our memories. Remember the big, ugly speakers and the people who would accidentally drive off with them still in the window? How about the mosquitoes/ Remember PIC the little burning paper thing that was supposed to keep them away. You could purchase it at the concession stand. Do you think it actually worked?

Anyway, I think it would be fun to introduce this cocept to a generation that never had these experiences. I loved the movies as a kid, but also loved playing on all the playround equipment before it got dark enough to watch the movie. It was inexpensive entertainment for the whole family. As I recall, we didn't really care what was showing. It was just the thrill of planning it, packing up the popcorn and Kool-Aid, pilows and my dad's beer and heading off.

Hope one comes to a town near me - and you.