100 Day Challenge #93: Judgment and the Joy of Letting It Go

I find, very consistently, that the less judgment I carry around, the happier I am. Judgment of others and judgment of myself, both. I’ve found that one breeds more of the other. 

In terms of self-judgment, I’ve always been pretty tough on myself. I’ve mentioned my “not enough” syndrome in other posts. My brother and I had a running joke when I was just a little girl. He would say, “Lindy, you have a guilt complex.”

And I’d reply, “I’m sorry.”

It was a pretty horrible joke.

I found this on eBay. It made me a little nauseous seeing it again.

I got in the habit of saying “I’m sorry” at a very young age. A lot. I said it so often that a boyfriend in high school gave me as a birthday gift one year a little award-statue of Snoopy—who I loved—with a tear in his eyes and the words on the base, “I’m Sorry.” He told me he thought it was cute how I said it all the time. That certainly was a red flag, although I had a hard time recognizing them back then. And for a long time to come.

I realize I started this blog talking about judgment, and now I’ve segued to guilt and shame. They’re all related. They all live in the same house, along with fear and other things like insecurity and self-doubt and hate, lots of annoying visitors and cruel cousins. 

I guess the opposite of judgment is acceptance. But with boundaries and self-care, a.k.a. LOVE. That’s important! 

We’re not talking just blind acceptance.

When it comes to self-judgment, I have come a long way with acceptance and love when it comes to body image. I had a very poor body image for a long time. I was termed a “big girl” by my mother when I was little. She is blonde, blue-eyed and small-boned. I always thought of her as petite. I have brown hair and thicker limbs, a bit like my Russian grandmother. I bought into the image. Other terms I heard were “a little overweight,” “pleasantly plump,” “a little chubby.” 

Also, she never called me pretty or beautiful. I was told I had a cute face and smile, but felt my body and coloring to her were a disappointment. 

And what happens when you frequently hear such labels is self-fulfilling prophecy. I was often 10 or 20 pounds “overweight.” I developed my own personal eating disorder, emotional snacking and grazing. And I smiled compulsively until I was 41 years old. If she said anything more flattering to me in my youth or adulthood, which she might have, I wasn’t able to hear it. My inner voice and judgment were too loud and mean and stubborn.

I’ll never forget when I shed pounds in early adulthood, and my mother was going through her closet getting rid of clothes she never wore. Among them were these awesome, authentic early 1970s mini-skirts. She gave them to me, and they all fit. I couldn’t believe it! It was like an awakening. I thought of myself as so much bigger than her, but we were the same size. Exactly the same size. And I was an inch taller than her. 

It was crazy what I did to myself as a result of that early labeling! I loved to dance. I still do. I dance every day, usually to hip hop dance videos on YouTube. My favorite is Hip Hop Fit with Mike Peele. A shout out to Mike! A great instructor. So much fun. My first dance recital was at five or six years old. I had taken a hula dance class and performed to Tiny Bubbles by Don Ho in a grass skirt and what I remember as a coconut bikini top. I was thankfully too little to feel any shame. I loved it!

Photo by Bernard on Unsplash

But by the time I was eight years old, body shame had squarely set in. I was taking tap dancing and modern jazz classes. The dancing was great, and I was pretty good at it. We had a culminating recital, however, and I still feel the utter shame of being the “biggest girl” in leotards and tights. I may not have been, but that was my self-perception.

I may expound on the poor body image theme in another blog. So many people suffer from it. These days—thanks to over a decade of therapy and self-work—I feel beautiful a lot of the time, consistently for the first time in my life. 

We can grow and change, which gives me hope for humanity. 

The problem, of course, is that fear makes us resistant to change. Which contradicts reality, if you think about it. Because life is constantly changing (a wonderful oxymoron, but true!). We get older, situations change, the earth around us shifts and grows and decays and sprouts. People are born and die. Nothing stays the same. You can count on change. I actually find that comforting.

But back to judgment…

When it comes to the judgment of others, I have found it very freeing to stop judging and expecting so much of others, which I’ve been able to free myself from only by freeing myself from self-judgment and self-expectations.

Think about driving without judgment of others. It’s great! It’s much more peaceful on the road when you don’t get mad at other people’s minor errors, at their irritated honking and road rage, tailgating, line-skipping or hazardous driving. The boundaries and self-care come into play in this scenario with lots of awareness of what’s around you, communication of your own actions (I’m big on turn signals!), not having to be the fastest car on the road, and giving yourself extra time to get somewhere so you can wait patiently for slow pedestrians and older drivers.

As I’ve learned to shed judgment, I discovered I was expecting too much of my husband without knowing I was. It was like I wanted him to make up for my shortfalls, like I expected him to be this knight in shining armor or something. I was easily irritated by small errors he made. When I realized this and was able to let it go, our relationship immediately improved. Of course, there was more work to it than that on both our parts, but letting go of the knight was a definite factor. And I love him being human and being himself. It’s much, much better than having this ideal he could never live up to. Just like I had an ideal for myself that I could never live up to.

I’m sure I can come up with a dozen more examples of judgment turned to self-acceptance, forgiveness and love, and of shedding the judgment of others. But suffice it to say, I’m not completely without judgment. It rears its head. I imagine—without researching it for once (though it makes me nervous not to) that being completely free of judgment is approaching Nirvana. 

I just know it takes ongoing practice to let go of judgment. It’s the work of awareness that doesn’t stop. Of reminding one’s self that there’s a lot to love. Every day. Even on the worst days. 

And, boy, it’s worth the work!

Worthy of Love, Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash copy

100 Day Challenge #92: The Attraction of the Small and Cute

My imagination as always been sparked by real life stuff in miniature: realistic dollhouse furniture, small porcelain or plastic animals, and miniature trains, for example. 

Whenever we took our kids to see miniature train exhibits I couldn’t tell who enjoyed them more, me or the kids. I love the recreations of entire worlds, scenes from life in a scale where you can see it all, shape the scene. I love the idea that you can build a world. It has a feeling of magic for me.

A Scene from the Golden State Model Railroad Museum

The best one near me is the Golden State Model Railroad Museum in Richmond, California. 

As a child, I had an attraction to children’s books that featured miniature worlds: Horton Hears a Who, The Mouse and the Motorcycle, Miss Suzy (which I recently rediscovered and realized it is terribly sexist), Fantastic Voyage, Andrew Henry’s Meadow (one of my very favorites), the Lilliputians in Gulliver’s Travels. I love hobbits too!

I absolutely loved my stuffed animal collection as a child and still love stuffed animals, to be honest.

I’m just drawn to the idea of small. 

I used to imagine what it would be like to shrink and walk among grasses that suddenly looked as tall as trees, take shelter under a mushroom, ride a ladybug.

Pixar’s Toy Story has an element of the miniature come to life. A Bug’s Life zooms in on a world of small creatures.

When I practiced different kinds of handwriting as a kid, which I did a lot, I tried to write legibly as small as I could. 

Little Leather Library Books

I treasure my Little Leather Library Books, passed down to me from my grandmother. 

What’s this all about? Control over small worlds? What makes miniature so darn cute? Why does Tiny Hamster Eating Tiny Burritos have almost 13 million views on YouTube? Why is there an entire cute culture in Japan: Kawaii?

One theory by Nobel laureate Austrian ethologist Konrad Lorenz is that we are natural nurturers. When animals and things are small, we instinctively want to protect and take care of them, like our human babies. He calls it “Baby Schema.” He says this hard-wired response helps our species survive. It’s why we like puppies with big eyes too. It makes sense to me. I’ve always had a strong nurturing streak.

There’s actually evidence that cute things help us concentrate and perform tasks better. Because cuteness motivates us to protect the object of our affection, it turns us into focused, gentle caretakers. 

Another theory is that we like things that can’t hurt us, and little, cute things don’t tend to threaten us. Anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss suggests in The Savage Mind that “we derive satisfaction from minuscule objects because we can see and comprehend them in their entirety, which makes them less threatening.” (Popsci.com)

It has also been suggested that we connect tiny, cute things with toys and play. They trigger a childlike response that encourages fun. As children, we socialized and learned through play. And we’re never too old to want to play. We remember that feeling of play.

In miniature houses and trains chugging through miniature mountains and trees, we can escape into worlds vastly different than our own.

They also provide us with a feeling of control. Miniature scenes can make us feel powerful.

Finally, when things are made in miniature, it usually takes great skill. It’s clever. And we are drawn to all the fine details. They attract our sensory-seeking brains, provide satisfying stimulation.

It turns out that the origin of the word cute means shrewd, keen or clever. It was a shortened form of acute (First appearing in English in 1731).

I would add that the feeling of play, the cleverness of miniature construction, and the otherworldliness of miniatures inspire the imagination. That’s exciting to me.

So, it’s no wonder I’m drawn to miniatures! They evidently make me feel powerful, nurturing, protective, safe, satisfied, playful, focused, fascinated, imaginative, childlike and happy. That’s all good stuff in my book.

That’s the power of the small and cute!

Photo by Gary Bendig on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #91: Recurring Childhood Dreams & Nightmares

I thought it might be fun to talk dreams. I suspect others like me had one or two recurring dreams when they were a child. And recurring nightmares. 

In my favorite childhood dream, I was Super Girl. When I pounded two wide bracelets on my wrists together, I could whirl around in a circle Tasmanian Devil-like and when I stopped, be dressed in cowboy gear from head to foot, including lots of fringe and even leather chaps. There were two variations of the Super Girl dream. In one, I could fly. 

That was another amazing recurring dream I had as a child, of flying, soaring through the sky as just me, dressed in regular clothes doing loops around freeway overpasses. 

In the more common Super Girl dreams, I summoned a beautiful white horse with wings. It always arrived with its companion black horse with wings. Someday, the love of my life would appear and ride that black horse. 

But in the meantime, it was just me and the two horses rising up into the sky until we reached headquarters, a camp up in the clouds that had a line of different sized Army tents. Out of each came a different animal. A goofy brown horse was the comic relief character. 

I had the ability to talk to all the various animals, who were my helpers, my sidekicks and partners in fighting crime. Together, we could fly around and save the day. 

The recurring nightmare I had as a kid terrified me, with the same frightening scenario happening in two different settings. One happened on the elementary school grounds. Fellow students and friends entered the cafeteria on one end. Unsuspectingly. When they emerged out the other end, their personalities were removed. They marched single-file, stepping in unison with empty looks in their eyes, like zombies. Each held the fingers of his or her right hand against his temples, arm bent at the elbow. The other hand held the elbow, forming an open triangle with their arms. As the kids walked past in a slow, unified shuffle, they repeated only one word rhythmically, “Two. Two. Two. Two.”

I made the mistake of telling my older brother about the dream and, of course, he would imitate the zombies I described, marching towards me with a vacant face and his arms just so saying, “Two. Two. Two,” while I yelled, “Stop it, Davey!”

My husband even teased me about it at first when I told him. But he stopped when I told him it actually still freaked me out.

The other version of the dream took place at a birthday party in which kids were petting ponies and horses over a fence in front of a picturesque red barn. Then all the birthday attendees went into the barn and came out as that single-file line of mindless, collective zombies. 

By the way, I don’t think I’d ever seen a zombie movie when I started having this dream, back in something like 1972. I can’t watch horror movies. I avoid them. One horrific scene can flash in my mind for years after. I can still see a particularly grotesque Hannibal scene from Red Dragon almost 20 years later and the self-inflicted abortion scene from The Other Side of Midnight that my parents took me and a friend to see when it was in the theatres in 1977. I was twelve. (I don’t know what they were thinking!)  

In interpreting my nightmare, I figured when I was younger that I was just scared of conformity, scared of losing my individuality. Now looking back, it seems even more complex, more than symbolism. It was actually happening to me in a way. In my family, I tempered my personality, hid and minimized who I was and my emotions in order to be accepted and loved. It’s what I thought I had to do. And looking back, that is terrifying. It caused me to lack full autonomy until I was much, much older.

On the flipside, I remember how free and light I felt in my flying dreams and how great it felt to be in charge of my own life as Super Girl—except for that damn black horse awaiting a male counterpart. I remember wishing that horse wasn’t there in my older youth.

This “Prince Charming” never materialized in my dreams, and after looking longingly at the bare back of the stallion, I didn’t give it much more thought once I reached headquarters and all the wonderful animals there and I had a job to do. 

I don’t know how old I was when I stopped having those recurring dreams and nightmares. But I can still imagine them. Vividly. 

Photo by Olesya Yemets on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #90: Mistletoe: Why a Parasite Makes Us Smooch

We bought a sprig of mistletoe from a fundraising boy scout this holiday season and hung it in the kitchen doorway. This morning, wiped out from Christmas cooking and socializing, I was staring at it wondering how in the heck did this parasitic plant turn into a kissing apparatus?

First off, you probably know that mistletoe is a parasite. There are several varieties, the most common being the European, which likes to feast on apple trees, poplars, willows, lindens, and hawthorns. In the U.S., we mostly see the Eastern or oak mistletoe (Phoradendron serotinum), which parasitizes many deciduous trees, including oaks. (By the way, I didn’t know “parasitizes” was a verb and I’m very excited about that!)

So basically, this romanticized plant is considered a pest by most arborists. 

Oak-oak-tree-mistletoe-plants-Eastern (Britannica.com)

If you’ve looked up into the branches of an oak tree and seen a big cluster of mistletoe that resembles a wind-tangled rat’s nest of hair, you’re looking at what’s called a “witches’ broom.” Perhaps mistletoe would be better symbolic of a different and more sinister holiday. Witches’ brooms deform branches and decrease the reproductive ability of the host. While that mistletoe may be sexy for us, it’s a total buzzkill for the trees.

Mistletoes are slow-growing but persistent and the only way they die is if the host tree dies. The only other solution is the complete removal of the parasite from the host. So, that fundraising boy scout was actually helping his environment while selling a parasite for $5 a baggie.

It gets even better!

Those pretty white berries you see in your friendly mistletoe, when ripe they are filled with a sticky semitransparent pulp that contains toxic compounds poisonous to many animals and to humans. 

However, we as humans have a long tradition of taking controlled amounts of poisons for medicine or pleasure (like alcohol). The Ancient Greeks used mistletoe as a cure for everything from menstrual cramps to spleen disorders. The Roman naturalist Pliny the Elder (Great name! Do you think the other kids called him Pliny the whiney on the playground?), he noted it could be used as a balm against epilepsy, ulcers and poisons. Poison against poison. Cool.

However, it appears that the kiss under the mistletoe has fuzzy origins with the Druids around the first century B.C. Love those Druids! They saw green leaves and berries blooming in the frozen winter on otherwise barren trees and said, “Holy moly, that stuff is magic!”

So, they fed this sacred symbol of vivacity to humans and animals alike in hope of restoring fertility. There are no records of the results of this ancient Viagra. And it certainly wasn’t administered with the surgeon general’s warning.

But, nonetheless, this myth (or belief) persisted. In Norse mythology, when the god Odin’s son Baldur—god of peace and love—was prophesied to die, his mother Frigga (or Frigg), the goddess of motherhood, fertility and LOVE—now we’re getting somewhere!—was beside herself worried and spoke to all the animals and plants on the earth making them promise that they would not harm her precious baby boy. 

“Okay, okay, geez,” they all said, “you have our word. Don’t be a helicopter mom!”

Frigg was overjoyed. Her son would be safe after all. But it was a prophesy, and you know how pesky and persistent those are in stories. Frigga overlooked one very unassuming little plant. You guessed it. Mistletoe. I guess it just didn’t make it onto her spreadsheet. 

The scheming god Loki saw this as a golden opportunity. He made an arrow from mistletoe and let it fly at the otherwise invincible Baldur and killed him. 

I’m not sure I’ve seen the mistletoe plotline in a Marvel movie, but it would make a great Christmas special! Could work on Valentine’s Day too.

This story was passed down and, I don’t know, maybe it scared a whole bunch of Viking kids way too much. A sunnier version of the myth emerged in which the gods were able to resurrect Baldur from the dead. His mother was so thrilled she declared mistletoe a symbol of love and vowed to plant a kiss on anyone who passed beneath it.

People like a happy ending.

Photo by Clement BB on Unsplash

In yet another rendition, Baldur died and Frigga's tears of grief fell onto the mistletoe and that’s what formed the white berries. She declared that forever after everyone would have to make peace and have a kiss when under the mistletoe, even if it is with your enemies. I like the peace-making element of that.

Into the Middle Ages, mistletoe was still associated with fertility and vitality. 

Rene Rousseau as Frigga in the Marvel Thor and Endgame movies

How it ended up being incorporated into Christmas celebrations by the 18th century is a hotly debated parasitic mystery. But according to History.com, the kissing tradition first caught on among servants. Then it spread into the middle classes. At that time the custom was that men were allowed to “steal a kiss” from any woman standing under the mistletoe, and if she refused, it was bad luck. #MeToo! I think mistletoe should be for consensual kisses only, thank you very much.

Besides kisses, it turns out that European mistletoe is still used as a medicine. It is one of the most widely studied complementary and alternative medicine therapies for people with cancer. In Europe, mistletoe extracts are among the most prescribed drugs for cancer patients, and few side effects are reported. Austrian philosopher Rudolph Steiner first recommended mistletoe extract as a potential cancer treatment in 1920. Dutch physician Ita Wegman was the first to use it in a person with cancer shortly after.

Ita Wegman, 1899

You can even purchase mistletoe extract on Amazon! 

It is not approved by the U.S. FDA, but we’ll see what future research reveals. I hate to say it, but we may only see it approved in the U.S. if it also has a good pharmaceutical profit margin. Pessimistic or realistic?

On the other hand, who knows, maybe those Druids knew what they were doing after all! A kiss with a loved one might be just one of the health benefits of mistletoe, parasite or not. 

Kiss kiss! And happy new year!

Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #89: Reflecting on Childhood Holiday Traditions

I love the wonder and magic of Christmas. And the traditions. Some are passed down. Some derive from necessity. Or imagination. Or in the combining of cultures in marriage. For me as a child, it was a season of stories and giving, of songs and warmth, of lights and cookies and toys and colorful decorations, nothing like the rest of the year.

The house and tree were decorated ahead of time. We got to help a little. And go together to pick out a Christmas tree. It was always a better tree when the attendant selling it was nice.

The manger my grandfather built, as it appeared in 1960 in my parents’ first house, five years before I was born.

Once the tree was up, I had my favorite ornaments that sometimes I snuck off the tree and played with like dolls. Too fragile to handle were the little diorama worlds my grandmother created out of eggshells with realistic glass animals inside on snow, in front of wintery Christmas scenes. 

We had this giant picture window poster of Santa that went up in the living room every year. I donned the felt holiday dress my grandmother had made for me. 

Among the decorations was a wooden manger that my granddaddy had built. I always got to put the characters inside to create the scene. I like the donkey the best. 

I loved all the Christmas decorations, especially the fat, clear-bellied Santa jar full of chocolate kisses and the metal carousel of angels that was powered by candles, turning in circles and ringing little bells. And it was fun to make the Nutcracker talk.

I stopped crying after the first two years.

My brother and I were always required to take our picture with Santa in some department store or in the mall in the week or so before Christmas. I didn’t care for that, waiting in line and sitting on this stranger’s lap, except that I liked the big gingerbread man cookie we each received when it was done.

During December, my mother baked a lot. It was the only time of year she baked generally, except for birthday cakes. She made sugar cookies, Russian teacakes, peanut blossoms, fudge, caramel and penuche nuts. To this day, I like to bake. 

Our tradition was to open our gifts on Christmas eve. My grandfather worked for the phone company his entire working life and often had to report for duty on Christmas Day, so it became a tradition for my mother while she grew up, and she continued that ritual, even though it was no longer a necessity. My father didn’t have any Christmas traditions to pass along, being Jewish.

On the afternoon of the 24th, my mother cooked away in her holiday apron, usually a little harried and anxious. The grandparents came over, bearing bags of gifts that we helped distribute under the tree, looking for our names on the labels as we did, pondering what could be inside the boxes. I believe the Christmas Eve dinner menu varied year-to-year. It was usually a casserole of some sort and my mother’s cranberry jello salad on the side. 

Along with Grandma and Grandpa’s gifts, there were perhaps one or two wrapped presents under the tree. The rest would come from Santa. Of course, I became an excellent spy and could always find the hidden presents once I was old enough to know they were somewhere in the house. The key was to look but leave them undisturbed and feign surprise when unwrapping them.

Dinner always seemed unbearably long, especially the clearing up afterwards. Then we had to wait for my mom to put together a cookie plate and prepare the fixings to go with our traditional chocolate fondue. I have no idea how that became a tradition!

This was probably a Christmas Day dinner. For several years, my grandma, aunt and mom rotated hosting the various holidays.

Once I read the book Christmas Mouse, I always placed a glass of milk, a plate of cookies and a chunk of cheese by the fireplace.

Finally, it would be time to go for a walk around the neighborhood. My father, brother and I put on our winter coats and headed out. I always scoured the night sky looking for Rudolph’s nose leading Santa’s sleigh and reindeers. I always saw it. (Thank goodness we had sight of the flight path of commercial jets on their way to the Oakland and San Francisco airports!)

We chatted and walked, sometimes sang carols, looked at the neighbor’s Christmas lights, and made our way around the block and back home. We could only go inside if the front light was on, Dad’s signal of the all clear.

Inside, the presents poured out from under the tree. Looking back, it was a bit over the top, but I treasured the abundance as a child. There was a lot to unwrap. Every year in our stockings, along with other goodies and small items, was a Lifesaver Storybook. 

We tore open our gifts, passed out ones to the rest of the family, and dipped apple slices and Pepperidge Farm pound cake cubes into the chocolate fondue while Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters crooned on the stereo  Santa Claus Is Coming to Town and Mele Kalikimaka. At some point, my mother would sit down at the upright piano and play Christmas carols, and we sang along to Deck the Halls, Oh Come All Ye Faithful, Silver Bells and Silent Night.  

Christmas Day wasn’t nearly as exciting. We usually had to dress up again and drive two hours to my Uncle’s house in Rough n’ Ready. My cousins were all older, all boys, except for one girl who didn’t really give me the time of day. Football was on the TV. My parents were often running late to get us there, making my aunt grumpy. We had a traditional turkey dinner, and afterwards my uncle and oldest cousin always got into a fight over politics. 

Boxing day was great though! That was the day to play with all the new toys and games and eat candy from the stockings.

I remember being so excited around the holidays that I jumped up and down involuntarily. For days. Most of the time, our household seemed to revolve around my parents more than us children. That may not be entirely true, but it’s how it felt, and so Christmas was extra special. We checked the TV Guide so we could watch the Christmas specials, usually as a family, the Peanuts, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the Drummer Boy. I sat in my dad’s lap while he read me the Twelve Days of Christmas pop-up book. Much of the attention during the season and especially on the 24th—when not focused on meal prep—was on us. Looking back, I think that was the best part of the holiday for me.

I loved the Christmas season. And still do!

100 Day Challenge #88: Something to Chew On: A Snappy Little History of Gum!

I love invention, and the month of December celebrates many unique innovations over time. This blog will focus on one, that teeth-smackin’ and bubble makin’ non-food—chewing gum! 

William Finely Semple filed a patent for chewing gum in December 1869.

That doesn’t mean there wasn’t gum chewing prior to 1869. As long as humans have been masticating, we’ve looked for something to gnaw on between meals. Chewing gum in some form or other has existed since the Neolithic period. Scientists found 5,000-year-old chewing gum made from birch bark tar, WITH TOOTH IMPRINTS, in Kierikki, Finland. Think about that fossilization next time you stick gum under a desk or bus stop! (Just say no.)

The Mayans and Aztecs chewed chicle, a natural tree gum, and, adding some practicality, used it to stick objects together. The word chicle comes from the Aztec Nahuatl word "chictli/tzictli," meaning "sticky stuff"

A chiclero bleeding a tree for chicle, Belize 1917 - Wikipedia

When you hear “chicle” you might think of good old Chicklet gum, the candy-coated rounded squares of gum. The brand was introduced in 1900 by the American Chicle Company, a company founded by Thomas Adams. Edward Beeman (Beeman gum) was one of his partners. 

By the way, the American Chicle Company was acquired by a pharmaceutical company in 1962, which was acquired by a larger pharmaceutical company in 2000 that you might have heard of lately. Pfizer. But Pfizer didn’t stay in the candy business for long, selling all their candy brands to Cadbury in 2003. 

Anyway, back to chicle. 

Wrigley used chicle in its gum until land reform law passed in Guatemala in 1952 which ended feudal work relations and expropriated unused lands and sold them to the indigenous and peasants.

By the 1960s, most chewing gum companies had switched from using chicle to butadiene-based synthetic rubber. Sounds yummy, huh? It was definitely cheaper. 

Today, Glee Gum, Simply Gum, and Tree Hugger Gum still use chicle.

What else has been the main ingredient of gum over the years?

In ancient Greece, the gum of choice was mastic, also known as Tears of Chios, which sounds like a gum of mythology, a food of the gods, doesn’t it? It is a resin obtained from the mastic tree (Pistacia lentiscus) produced on the island Chios. It’s somewhat hard and bitter at first, but when softened in the mouth releases a refreshing pine and cedar-like flavor. Mmmmm.

Lots of other substances were used to exercise the old jaws around the world:

The Chinese chewed Ginseng plant roots. 

Eskimos chewed on blubber. 

Native Americans enjoyed sugar pine and spruce sap. 

South Americans masticate on the old Coca leaves (which also help with altitude sickness when climbing in the Andes and the highest part of the Inca Trail). 

In India, the chewing substance of choice was Betel nuts. 

In Tropical West Africa it was Kola nuts. 

And early settlers in the US chewed on Tobacco leaves. This of course is still the case for some Americans, only nicotine has been added to tins of chewing Tobacco like Copenhagen to make it highly addictive.

Also found in today’s chewing tobacco are 

• Polonium 210 (nuclear waste)

• Formaldehyde (embalming fluid)

• Cadmium (used in car batteries)

• Lead (nerve poison)

• Nitrosamines (cancer causing substances)

• Arsenic

• Cyanide

Most brands contain some 3,000 chemicals, including 28 that are known to cause cancer. Much better to stick to gum, if you ask me!

Get it? Stick to…

One of the first commercial gums was developed and sold starting in 1848 by John B. Curtis, a businessman from Maine. He called it The State of Maine Pure Spruce Gum. It used natural products and flavorings. He got the idea when he saw loggers chew spruce resin. When he changed it to flavored paraffin wax gum, it picked up in popularity. Paraffin is a petroleum product. Chewers sometimes dipped it repeatedly in a plate of powdered sugar to maintain its sweetness.

Curtis eventually built a factory in Maine that employed some 200 employees and produced several brands of chewing gum. He became very wealthy.

Dr. William Semple, a dentist, created his 1869 gum (patent # 98,304) by dissolving vegetable gums in naphtha and alcohol until they reached the consistency of jelly. Then he mixed in powdered chalk, powdered licorice root, and other materials to provide texture and flavor. Those included sugar, orris root, and myrrh. Finally, he evaporated the solvents until the material dried and hardened. 

Semple thought that people would buy the gum not just to chew for fun, but to help keep their teeth clean and breath fresh. The chalk would have a scouring effect in rubbing away food particles and dental plaque, the sticky film that forms on teeth and causes tooth decay and gum disease. Dentistry wasn’t what it is today in the late 1800s. Folks needed all the help they could get.

Dr. Semple created a selling point for gum that lives on to this day!

Mr. Edward E. Beeman took the health benefits of gum to another level by adding pepsin powder to improve digestion. Pepsin is an enzyme found naturally in the stomach that breaks down proteins. He originally sold the gum in a wrapper that showed the picture of a pig and carried the slogan, "With Pepsin, You Can Eat Like A Pig." 

But perhaps the most well known name in the world associated with gum is Wrigley.

William Wrigley Jr., born in 1862 Philadelphia, was the son of a soap manufacturer. A prankster, he was expelled from school. At 13, he began selling Wrigley’s Scouring Soap on the streets. He dreamed of running his own business though. First, he sold soap, offering a free can of baking powder with every sale. Trouble was, baking powder outstripped demand for soap, so Wrigley went into the baking powder business. To spur sales, he again offered an incentive — chewing gum. The chewing gum proved more popular than the product he was selling. Wrigley saw an opportunity. In 1893, he introduced two now-iconic brands — Wrigley’s Spearmint® and Juicy Fruit®. 

What set him apart from other gum makers at the time was his use of advertising. He branded his gum before branding was a verb for anything but cattle. He put pictures of his gum everywhere, in newspaper and magazine ads, and on highway billboards. Wrigley became a household name, equivalent with gum.

By 1908, sales of Wrigley’s Spearmint topped $1 million a year and profits just grew from there. In 1921, Wrigley became the majority owner of the Chicago Cubs. When he retired in 1925, Wrigley’s was the top chewing gum manufacturer in the world. 

One of Wrigley’s first advertising icons was “Spearman,” introduced in 1915

“Anyone can make gum,” he once said. “The trick is to sell it.”

Wrigley is still the largest manufacturer and marketer of chewing gum in the world today.

This is a trip. In 2006, Wrigley helped establish the Wrigley Science Institute (WSI) to study the oral health benefits of gum chewing. The WSI investigates the effects of gum chewing on weight management, stress relief, concentration, and oral health. That seems pretty self-serving to me. 

In 2009, scientists working for WSI found that Chewing gum could have a positive effect on the academic performance of teenagers. They are only the number one consumer group of gum chewers in America. Hmmm…

So, what is your favorite type of gum—if you chew it? Hubba Bubba? Bubblicious? Big League Chew? Mine as a kid was those 1970s footlong sticks of Bub’s Daddy green apple-flavored gum that we’d buy at little league snack shacks. Nowadays, it’s Ice Breakers Arctic Grape Ice Cubes. But I don’t chew it as much as I used to. AND when I do, I don’t want to look too carefully at the list of unpronounceable ingredients, starting with Xylitol—the most common gum ingredient today—a chemical compound sugar substitute. I don’t know, maybe tree resin would be better!

Photo by Piero Regnante on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #87: On the Track on an Iron Horse

The most focused I’ve ever been in my entire life was on a motorcycle racing on Sears Point Raceway (now called Sonoma Raceway). 

As a mother of two and a woman in her 50s, it’s pretty fun to tell people when it comes up that I used to race motorcycles. Actually, I only raced for one full season, though I rode for a number of years. Still, it’s a point of pride that I did it. And I had a great experience.

My first official AFM (American Federation of Motorcyclists) race, I was near the back of the pack awaiting the green flag, where rookies go, revving the motorcycle along with the riders around me, staring ahead intently. I was the only woman in a sea of some 50 motorcycles in the 600 production class. 

I looked the part in my one-piece black and white custom-made leathers that cost me an entire month’s teaching paycheck. Who needs to eat? Yeah, it was a little irresponsible. But it was also an experience of a lifetime.

I got a good deal on my race bike, buying it from a guy who was getting a divorce. After the purchase, I had two Kawasaki EX500s, one for the street and this one for the track. Friends, who were into motorcycles and racing supervised me (and did most of the work!) as we changed the fork oil, added discs to the exhaust, changed out the tires for some sticky race tires, and generally prepped the bike for the track. I learned just enough about engines that today I can ask my son questions about his cars. I don’t know what I’m talking about half the time, but it opens up great conversations, and I get to see his enthusiasm and hear about the newest modification he’s making to his Miata.

Prior to the race, I had passed New Racer School, paid my fee, and…

It was really happening.

With the wave of the flag, the bikes all took off up the hill into turn one. Sonoma Raceway is mostly right-hand turns, with some memorable features. Looking back, I especially remember turn eight and nine that created a sweet S-curve. Turn ten behind the grand stand was fast as hell, throttle wide open. Following that was turn eleven, a gnarly hairpin that took you into the straightaway that was slowed down by a chicane made of hay bales.

I had always loved motorcycles, probably originating from reading the children’s book The Mouse and the Motorcycle by Beverly Cleary, which I loved. Once, when I was still a kid, an uncle of mine took me for a ride on his Goldwing. It was thrilling. And then when I was seventeen, I had a summer romance in the mountains with a nineteen-year old named Mikey who had a motorcycle. One evening, I rode on the back with him to Tahoe from our cabin at Kit Carson Lodge and didn’t tell my parents. It was terribly romantic with my arms around his waist riding through the pines. 

Before racing, I had recently moved back to the East Bay after college to start a high school teaching job. Some friends from high school had gotten into motorcycles and racing, and hanging out with them, I bought my first bike, a little Honda 450. I soon replaced it with a brand new EX, the first brand new vehicle I ever owned. On both bikes, I joined my friends for Sunday morning rides on Grizzly Peak Road and up Mount Hamilton and riding other curvy roads in the area. I had to “keep up with the big dogs,” so I learned to ride pretty quickly.

But the experience on the track was magical. I’m a dreamer by nature, easily distracted, in my head a lot. But riding on the track, I was absolutely focused on the race, on seeing my break markers before the turns and taking a good line through them, leaning as hard as I could. Physically, mentally, emotionally, I was absolutely present. I’ve never been that focused before or since. 

The race was going well. I was riding okay for a rookie. I wasn’t the slowest bike out there. Then on one of the last laps, I took a slightly off line through the chicane, and a much faster bike clipped my front tire as he passed me. My bike went into a wobble and low-sided, sliding onto the pavement and into the hay. I went flying off the bike, landing near it on the track. Thank goodness for helmets, back protectors and leather!

Stunned, I stood up and looked around for a moment. 

“Get off the track!” yelled a turn worker. That’s when I realized I was ON the track!

I righted my bike, rolled it off and got outside the hay bales. Then I started rolling my bike to the pits. My friend Erik came and met me. My body was so pumped full of adrenaline that I didn’t feel my bruised ribs until nearly four hours later.

I had to prove to AFM officials that the accident wasn’t my fault. Luckily, Erik videotaped it. For years, I showed that crash video to my students at the high school. I thought they’d get a kick out of seeing their teacher flying in the air off of a motorcycle. Especially after I gave them a test or a long project to complete. It’s still on VHS, and I look forward to having it transferred to digital, so I can show it to my kids.

AFM accepted my defense. I was allowed back on the track for the next race. It was better than the first time. I improved my lap time and even passed a couple guys in the corners. Seeing that checkered flag—even though most of the racers crossed the finish line in front of me—was elating as hell. You feel like a hero during a cool-down lap with all the volunteer turn-workers waving at you. 

It was so intoxicating and intense that I started dreaming the track at night, seeing each corner, where to break on the approach, the best line through the curves. I rode the entire circuit in my sleep. It was freakin’ cool!

But back on the street after the track, I became more aware than ever of all the dangers and obstacles while street riding, patches of gravel, slick oil, animals, cars. It was much more fun to be on the track in that controlled situation going super fast.

I gave up riding a few years later when I was dating my husband-to-be, and it was clear that we were headed for a long-term relationship, which included starting a family. My mortality loomed large when thinking about having kids. As the saying goes: “There are only two kinds of riders: those who have gone down, and those that will.”

But I did love riding.

I have more stories about my “motorcycle days.” But for now, I have to say I’m so grateful to have experienced the absolute focus of racing on the track, the feeling of the lean through the turns, the exhilaration of the speed, the satisfaction of the cool-down lap at the end, the thrill and adventure of it all. It reminds me to this day that just about anything is possible, of how much I treasure new experiences and learning, and that at moments when I might be feeling fearful, damn girl, you raced motorcycles! Just remember that!

On the track at Sonoma Raceway

Just bought a race bike!

100 Day Challenge #86: Sexy Spock!

If you watch Star Trek, what character(s) do you relate to the most? What character attracts you the most? 

I’d have to say Mr. Data on Star Trek Next Generation. On the original series, it’s a toss-up between Scotty (the Scottish dialect) and Spock. 

That Spock…

When it comes to Spock, I guess I’m attracted to “the strong silent type.” 

This expression was used by Leslie Charteris in the movie The Saint and Templar  in 1978: “I’ve always fancied myself as the strong silent type.” Although Gary Cooper is often seen as the original strong silent type. And he’s dreamy.

The idiom “strong silent type” is defined as “A man of few words but effective action; one who masks his feelings.”

This phrase was extremely popular with women novelists of the early 1900s who used it to depict a very romantic figure.

Yeah, I fell hard for Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice.

Mike Nesmith, guitarist for the Monkees

My favorite Monkee: Wool Hat or Mike, played by Michael Nesmith, who sadly just passed away. Definitely strong and silent, a little brooding, the intellectual of the musical group, appearing thoughtful and observant, like Spock.

My teenage idol, Pete Townsend, also shares these qualities. Roger Daltry is like Pete Townsend’s Captain Kirk.

Mr. Spock and Mr. Data are both curious about the world. They are scientists, which I love. And they are different, trying to fit in, something I can relate to. And though both are non-human on the surface—a Vulcan and an AI creation—they are utterly human. They are loyal and loving. And though logical, both are sensitive and sensuous at times.

What’s not to love?!

I think part of my attraction to Spock and Data is also in wanting to be like them. Sometimes I feel like almost the polar opposite of “strong and silent,” being emotional, vocal and sometimes shying away from big, direct action and conflict, the last being a trait I’m constantly trying to override.

I was watching For the Love of Spock on Netflix, a documentary about Leonard Nimoy directed by his son, Adam Nimoy. In it, women and men talk about the attractiveness of his character. Apparently I am not alone!

“Leonard Nimoy was…an unlikely sex symbol,” says reporter  Asawin Suebsaeng on thedailybeast.com in an article entitled “Spock Was the Sexiest Being in the Universe.”

In a 1977 article by the Pittsburgh Press ( “Women Spaced Out Over Leonard Nimoy”), Nimoy explains the attraction himself:

“Down the road comes a stranger—tall, dark, thoughtful, alien, and exotic,” he said. “Somewhat devilish in appearance. He has a brilliant mind, the wisdom of a patriarch and is oh, so cool. With one raised eyebrow, he suggests he is above game-playing and role-playing—which are just hangovers from Earth’s Victorian age—that he and he alone understands the deepest needs and longings of the Earth female.”

Oh yeah, Baby!

People magazine reported that same year that “the sacks of Spock mail reached 10,000 letters a month, mostly from women, much of it torridly erotic.”

Many Trekkie fantasies were realized in the 2009 Star Trek movie remake with Spock and Uhuru having a very hot love affair.

I’d say the only blemish in sexy Spock for me is a YouTube video a friend recently sent us of a performance on a short-lived television show called Malibu U of Leonard Nimoy singing The Ballad of Bilboa Baggins. It’s the campiest thing you’ve ever seen with Nimoy lip-synching the song from his second album, Two Sides of Leonard Nimoy. It seems like a gag, but it isn’t. The song was written by Charles Randolph Grean who most notably was arranger of Nat King Cole’s The Christmas Song (“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire; Jack Frost nipping at your nose…”). The song’s got to be seen to be believed! Keep in mind that it was the late 1960s. 

But that’s Leonard Nimoy. He was a creative through and through, an actor on screen and stage, a director, writer, producer, talented photographer, and he put out several musical albums.

But it’s the characters of Spock—and Data too—whom I loved, both now icons and archetypes in popular culture that will continue to resonate in our society, I imagine, for some time to come.

Strong and quiet-natured, even keeled, thoughtful, loving and human. 

Live long and prosper!

Leonard Nimoy demonstrating the Vulcan salutation at the Las Vegas Star Trek Convention in 2011

100 Day Challenge #85: On Being a Vessel for Another Human

The greatest moment for me as a first-time expectant mother was when I was sick. Yeah, sounds strange, I know. It may have been a stomach bug or nasty cold symptoms, I can’t remember, but I do remember aches and pain. 

With concern, I went to see my Obgyn. “Though I think I know the answer,” I asked her, kneading my hands, “Does the fetus feel what I’m feeling?”

“No,” she smiled, “He gets your blood and your nutrients. He does not feel anything you’re feeling.”

I relaxed. But more than that. As I left the office, I felt elated as well as relieved. That declaration made it crystal clear that the person growing inside of me, that I had become a mere vessel for, was NOT me. Sure, he might share some random bits of my genetic code, but he was a separate individual with separate feelings and desires and personality and interests. I loved it and couldn’t wait to meet him. 

That was the first of many great lessons I’ve learned about parenting—which ain’t for sissies!—and remains one of the greatest. It meant that I knew nothing about this child I was soon to meet. That I just needed to pay attention and get to know him so I could help facilitate him into becoming a confident version of himself. 

There were many other related lessons along the way to remind me not to assume and pigeonhole my children as being this way or that, being good or bad at this or that. For example, my older son was naturally a little quiet. He didn’t like being in controlled group settings. During story time at the local library, we had to stand in the adjacent room and not sit among the other kids and parents. And yet when we got home, he could recite the story to me in detail. At Music Together class, he wanted no part of that circle of kids. However, at home, he could sing every lyric of every song. I called him my little Lert, because he was so alert, taking in experiences like a sponge. But I started to think of him as shy. 

Then one day, I was on the school campus with him. Every kid that passed us in the hallway said hi to him. And I realized quiet isn’t the same as shy. AND don’t pigeonhole your kids, Linda! Don’t assume.

Part of paying attention to kids is to listen to them. And children are smart. They may not have experience, but they’re observant and imaginative. 

The first day of kindergarten for your eldest child is a day of tears…for the parent. It’s a big deal, that separation, that pull on the invisible but ever-present umbilical cord. We got through day one okay. 

Day two was hell.

My son ran to the other side of the playground yelling, refusing to go inside. I tried soothing, stern and direct, asking questions, bribing, waiting, all the usual tactics. The bell rang, and all the other kids followed the teacher into the building. Parents were still clustered around chatting on the blacktop. I recognized another mom from orientation and knew she had older kids. 

“Excuse me,” I said to her in desperation, “I can’t get my son to go inside. Could you just talk to him?”

She asked him about his backpack. He told her about it and as he did, he calmed down. I’ve been grateful to that mom ever since, and she’s still a friend. 

Finally, I just asked my son. (Duh!) 

“What would help you to be able to go inside?”

His answer was sheer brilliance. He suggested we go to the main office to check out a stuffed otter. That was the school mascot, and there were at least a half a dozen different plush otters on the bench in the office for kids needing some soothing. 

He picked one out that he liked. When I asked the administrative assistant if we could check it out, she paused and looked at my son and me.

“Nobody’s ever asked that before.”

Nonetheless, she took out a piece of paper, and I told her his teacher’s name and his name. 

Hugging the Otter to his chest, we made our way to his classroom where his teacher ushered him in gently with a smile. 

My son had come up with such a clever solution, one I would never have thought of.

It’s so important to listen to our children. And for so many reasons. To better understand them and their needs (and to avoid pigeonholing), to let them know they are heard, to help them become accustom to sharing their opinions and talking about their lives, to validate their feelings. Because feelings are never wrong. They might just make us uncomfortable. We might feel differently. But they’re just feelings.

The best parenting book I ever bought was How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk by Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish. It helps parents do just that, listen and validate kids’ feelings. 

I’m still learning about my children. That same son will be going off to college next year. He has several interests but isn’t sure what he’s going to do yet, what profession or vocation he might work towards. And that’s okay with me. He’ll find his way. And I can’t wait to see what his choices are.

100 Day Challenge #84: Loving Fredrik Backman Books!

People read in different ways and for different reasons. I tend to fall in love with author styles and their stories and go on a tear reading everything by that author. 

My latest literary love affair is with Swedish writer Fredrik Backman. 

You might be familiar with the bestseller that put him in many homes and book clubs, A Man Called Ove (2012). It started to take hold in the US a couple years after it was a blockbuster in Sweden.

From Fredrik Backman’s website

Along with that novel, I thoroughly enjoyed Britt-Marie Was Here (2014), My Grandma Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry (2013), and Anxious People (2021). I’m currently reading Bear Town (2016) and am waiting to see if I like it as much as the others. It has a bit more tension and foreboding, but, as always, has intriguing, flawed, big-hearted characters that you fall in love with. Us Against You (2017) is the sequel to Bear Town. (ADDED—Bear Town is well-written, as always—but much darker. Many people will like it. It’s not my current cup of tea. I can read about bad things happening to kids because of irresponsible adults. It makes me too sad and angry.)

Backman also has several novellas on the market and the non-fiction book Things My Son Needs to Know About the World (2012). Backman told the publisher who wanted A Man Called Ove that they couldn’t represent the book unless they published his non-fiction book, “the personal dispatches from the front lines of one of the most daunting experiences any man can experience: fatherhood.” It meant that much to him. Of course, after the success of his debut novel, there was no question.

I’ll admit here that the only way I get through books in my current life is by listening to them as Audible books during breaks, while making meals, in the car, while exercising the dog sometimes. So the narrator can be a factor in my experience and enjoyment of a book. But I love my audio books!

When it comes to the type of fiction that draws me as a reader, I go for character-driven books all the way. Any kind of character can attract me as a reader, as long as there is compassion in the presentation and preferably if the character learns and grows as a person. In literary criticism, this plot arc is called a Bildungsroman. It’s often a coming of age story, but not always. It can be any tale that depicts and explores the manner in which the protagonist develops morally and psychologically. They make me feel good, and sometimes I learn right along with the characters. I definitely join them on the ride.

I remember receiving a copy of A Man Called Ove years ago, soon after it came out in paperback. I started reading about this grumpy old man and couldn’t stay with it. I didn’t delve in. 

Now, I love that gumpy old man. Sometimes Backman’s characters aren’t terribly likeable at the start of the journey. But as a reader, you learn more and more about them, grow to understand them, wish the world for them, and love them. Reading these books feels a bit like falling in love. That’s sure a nice feeling!

The delightful Swedish film of the book.

100 Day Challenge #83: Please Don't Bring Me Flowers (continued from #74)

Flora had to wipe the steam off the window as she peered down into the street. She checked her watch again, curled her hair around her fingers and patted the backpack on the window seat beside her that contained the books she planned to return to the town library. They weren’t really due yet, but he wouldn’t know that. She had taken her meds, causing terrible dry mouth, which she did her best not to fixate on. In the deep pockets of her down jacket she fingered an epi-pen and her N95 masks. Any minute now the caregiver would drive his little beat-up car into the driveway across the street, giving her just enough time to get out of the house and onto the sidewalk before Jake came out the front door for his walk to school. 

Eight o’clock rolled around, but the little car had not arrived. Ten minutes later, the driveway was still empty, and no one had come out of the house. Flora started pacing.

After five more minutes, she crossed her arms angrily, her head leaned against the window. She took three deep breaths counting to seven on the exhales to calm herself, because she had to decide what to do. And no good decisions were made in anger. 

“Okay, what’s it going to be, Flora?” 

She resumed her march across the room. Thinking out loud had always helped her make choice. She could focus on problems better when they weren’t jammed in with other thoughts and competing for space in her head. 

“I could wait ‘til tomorrow. But I took all those meds. I worked up the courage, and it might not come back tomorrow. Maybe I can get it back. But what if I can’t? I could knock on his door. Why? Why am I knocking? Um, to make sure everything’s okay. I didn’t see him come out. But that might imply I’m spying on him. That’s kinda creepy. I could bring him something. Yeah. But what? Why? What does he need? Again, it implies I know he’s home. Maybe that’s not so bad. But maybe it is.” 

She sat down heavily on the bench.

“You’re overthinking this.” 

After a few more breaths, she rose quickly.

“No more thinking. Just do it, Flora. Carpe Diem.”

With that, she made her way to the kitchen. From the cupboard, she removed boxes of Girl Scout cookies her mother bought from the neighborhood girls at a stand the day before. She spilled out a few from each box, arranging them on a paper plate as quickly as she could, careful not to inhale when she added the Thin Mints. 

With plastic wrap over the top, her backpack on, double-N-95s on her face, she headed out the front door. 

Nobody answered when she rang the doorbell. Her hands shook as she made herself ring it a second time. Fast footsteps approached inside. She waved at the peephole before multiple locks clicked open, and Jake appeared.

“Flora?”

“Hey, I, um, brought you cookies. Girl Scout. Not homemade. Obviously. I was on my way to the library, and I didn’t see the caretaker’s car, so I thought, well, maybe you were home and um, hungry? I mean I didn’t know for sure. Just a hunch.”

She wanted to crawl into a hole. Could she have sounded lamer? But Jake smiled. 

“Thanks.” 

He stepped outside, closing the door.

“She’s sleeping.” 

“Oh, sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. It was kind of a rough morning, but she took her meds. It’s good now.”

“Your mom?”

He nodded, looking away.

“Does it, does it happen often that the caretaker doesn’t show?” 

He shrugged. “Depends. Eugene’s been pretty reliable. He called this morning sick. We’ve had some in the past though that, well, I missed a lot of school.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, like I said, you didn’t wake her.”

“No, I’m sorry that your mom is sick. I’m sorry you have to deal with this.”

He looked her in the eyes this time. His were so blue, almost translucent like water. 

“Thanks. I’m sorry that you have to deal with smells and allergies and stuff. It seems really, really hard.”

“Yeah, it is. I won’t lie. Your situation seems really, really hard too.”

“Yeah,” he said.

There was an awkward moment before he took a deep breath as if deciding something. 

“My mom.” He looked into the trees again. “She has schizophrenia. The onset came when I was born.”

Flora wanted to hug him. Badly. Just fling the cookies onto the neatly mowed lawn and hold him. It was an entirely new feeling. Hugging wasn’t exactly her thing, closeness to others revealing body odor and perfumed deodorants and smelly earwax.

There was another moment of silence before Flora said, “It’s not fair, Jake.”

Their eyes met again, and Flora experienced a melting sensation as if her entire body was made of chocolate warming under sunlight. She held out the plate. And taking them, Jake DiMeola smiled. She’d rarely seen him smile, she realized, another reason he’d always been such a sought-after mystery by the girls. His cheeks turned pink. His eyes brightened.

“You okay to walk to the library?”

It was her turn to shrug. “I’m currently under the influence of almost every allergy medicine, prescribed and over-the-counter, known to man. I can get to the library. I just might fall asleep over my books. And it’s like a parking meter. My time will run out.”

“And you’ll be like Cinderella finding a pumpkin instead of a carriage.”

“And sneezing at it.”

Jake laughed, and it was one of the best things Flora had ever heard. She barely remembered saying good-bye as she dashed down the sidewalk, heart floating, towards the library thinking how it could become an addiction, trying to bring on that laughter. 

Photo by Inga Shcheglova on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #82: Don't Mind the Gap

One of the tricky things about writing, or about any art form, is that in order for it to mean the most, to be the most genuine, you have to create it for yourself. And then you share this personal thing with others. 

It’s a place of vulnerability. 

This can be challenging if you’ve been brought up to please others, used to living a life in which it feels crucial to appear a certain nebulous “right” way rather than as yourself. You can lose track of what “yourself” means, who “yourself” is. 

That’s me, I’m afraid. Much less so than in the past. But evidently still me, now and then. I just went through an intense week of Not Enough, of loss of self. And thus, the gap since my last post in my 100 Day Challenge. 

And the only way I could find my way back was to write about it. As honestly as I can.

I’ve worked hard for many years to identify, name and let go of unexamined beliefs and habits of thought from childhood that have gotten in my way of knowing and loving myself. There’s been a lot to unravel. I use the term “worked hard” purposefully. I sometimes oppose this idiom (“He’s such a hard worker” “The rewards of hard work”), since working diligently at something doesn’t always have to feel hard, and sometimes I think we need it to feel hard in order to give it value. Why can’t work be pleasurable? 

But in the case of making internal changes through therapy and self-examination and developing new practices, well that is often hard. Rewarding and great and difficult and uncomfortable all at once.

So, what was this “right” way of being for me? Well, it depended on the context and who I was with. But in general, it meant being cheerful, friendly and agreeable. 

The only way I was accepted as a child—I came to believe—was to appear cheerful, friendly and agreeable ALL of the time, and of course nobody is cheerful, friendly and agreeable all of the time. But I tried, so much so that I internalized that cheerfulness. It became my story. Look at me; I’m a cheerful, bubbly person worth loving! 

I wore a smile. ALL the time. My cheekbones often hurt at the end of the day. Once when I was teaching high school at 25 years old, a student said to me, “Ms. Parker, we can’t tell when you’re angry. You’re always smiling.”

Anytime I felt sad, angry, disappointed, anxious, frustrated—anything but happy and cheerful—I thought something was wrong with me. I couldn’t name the emotion. I had no practice in identifying those “other” feelings while I had a lot of practice in denying them, mentally blacking them out with felt-tipped markers. 

As a result, during my youth through early adulthood—okay honesty, into my 40s—I felt crazy. I came to understand that this came mostly from not being able to feel truthfully and to feel without judgment. It was fascinating, once I became aware of it, how at times I would get “fuzzy-headed” in order to not think or feel. My brain looked like a Peanuts comic strip teacher voice, just a cloud of scribbles. Once I became aware of this habit, however, it became an important cue. Aha! What am I actually feeling right now?

It’s difficult to trust yourself when you can’t even be honest with yourself about your feelings and when you’re living in constant judgment of those feelings. Cheerfulness=good. Anger=bad. Agree=good. Disagree with loved ones=bad. Thus, you’re bad a great deal of the time. What horrible requirements to put upon oneself! Those expectations may have originally come from family when I was a kid, but most likely, they don’t even expect quite that much of me! Maybe they never did. But I was a child, egoistical by nature, as you’re supposed to be for survival at that age, and that’s how I interpreted my situation. I received positive feedback from acting on these beliefs. And then I just kept them going, assuming everyone else in my life would have similar expectations. Not consciously, of course. Synapsis that fire together wire together. 

Because I had to be agreeable, I had to be careful not to be contrary. I couldn’t want different things, or rather, I could want all kinds of things—that I couldn’t have. And I had to accept and adjust to all kinds of things I didn’t want. I had a difficult time—and still do sometimes—saying no. It sucks to admit that this is still an issue.

There’s incredible self-power in the word NO. Please don’t ever shame a three-year old for saying it. And they will probably say it a lot! It’s just a healthy early step into autonomy, into setting boundaries, into feeling a sense of control over one’s life. Sure, they might still need to go to bed or get dressed or clean up. Just find another way than shaming them or telling them—through actions or words—that they are bad, that saying no is wrong. Maybe say, “Okay, you don’t have to clean up. Let’s play a game. Who can get the most toys in that bin in the shortest amount of time. Ready? Go!” I’m sure there’s great strategies online.

I’m not entirely sure of the trigger for my recent loss of self. I am juggling too many projects for work. And because my work is with older people looking mortality in the face, there’s a real time pressure, and I feel unprofessional elongating timeframes. That goes right to shame. Maybe this is just too abundant right now. My father-in-law, who accepted me and supported me unconditionally, died. There are unexpectedly a lot of parenting duties with teenagers. It makes sense now, but not while looking ahead. They are applying for colleges, have to do service hours, have bus passes and lunch accounts that need refilling and payments that must be made and school projects of their own that could use some proofreading. They need new shoes. They have their own struggles. There are family logistics galore. 

It’s also the holidays. And when I can fully step into holiday traditions, gift giving and buying and decorating and cookie making and the lot, I absolutely love it. I always just want to be more domestic this time of year, clean house while playing Christmas songs on Alexa. 

And I put this weird constant pressure on myself about earning money. Yes, it is an actual need for the family, but there’s this annoying psychological aspect of it for me as well. Money-making is tied to self-worth and manipulation and all kinds of things. It’s tricky. And though I’ve worked on putting this puzzle together over the years, there are a few missing pieces still. More to be examined. What is success? For me, not others? Does money have to be a part of it? Am I feeling unworthy of the kind of earnings I want and feel capable of?

And when it comes to my 100 Day Challenge, I became aware of an audience. That’s what I want. It’s great! But I started thinking more about the audience than me when looking at what to write next. Most of my blogs have taken hours to write instead of the 20 to 30 minutes I intended. And I want to make room for that, but didn’t think I had “the right,” not in my “busy schedule.” Yeah, a few questions to answer!

But whatever! I’ll work on answering them. In the meantime, It feels good to be writing again!

Brene Brown—bless her!—says that “Perfectionism is a form of shame.” So, I’m putting my imperfect self out there. I didn’t do my 100 Day Challenge in 100 days. I’m not sure I’ll make it in 120 days. But I will write 100 posts. And hopefully care about all of them. I know it’s “about the process.” It’s just that the process is also fraught with imperfection and questions and emotions. But maybe that’s what it’s all about.

It does feel awfully good to be kind to myself again. I recommend it.

Photo by Dayne Topkin on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #81: The Killer Smog of London, 1952

It was on this day in history, December 4, 1952, the pea soup fog over the city of London turned deadly. 

I listen to This Day in History almost every day on my Echo (Alexa) and often find an event that I wish to know more about. A killer fog 69 years ago definitely caught my imagination. Here’s the story:

Smog in London was nothing new in 1952. London had suffered from poor air quality since the 13th century, shortening a lot of lives. It was often called fog, but almost always had involved particles in the air from centuries of coal-burning combined with weather conditions common to the British Isles.

From The Illustrated London News. Copyright, The British Library Board

Dickens wrote about it eloquently in his novel Bleak House.

A London Fog. From The Illustrated London News, Saturday 22nd December 1849. Copyright, The British Library Board

“….Fog everywhere…Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.”

The Foggy River

Jack the Ripper was said to have stocked his victims shrouded in thick fog. This however is a myth. It actually wasn’t that foggy on the nights of his murders in August through November 1888.

It was very foggy (smoggy) earlier in the year. On Thursday January 12, 1888, according to the Daily News, the intense smog-fog in London caused “…Several serious accidents, some of them resulting in loss of life…”

But that Thursday in 1952 began the worst air pollution event in the history of the United Kingdom. 

A high-pressure air mass stalled over the Thames River Valley. Then exceedingly cold air arrived suddenly from the west. This combination trapped the air over London in place. And what was that air like?

Battersea_Power_Station,_1934_with_only_two_chimneys_(Our_Generation,_1938), Wikipedia

Because it was so bleeding cold, people were burning extra coal in their furnaces. This wasn’t quality coal either. The better-quality "hard" coals (such as anthracite) mined and collected in the UK were being exported to pay off World War II debts. The citizens of London were stuck with post-war domestic coal, which tended to be a low-grade, sulphurous variety (similar to lignite). It increased the amount of sulphur dioxide in the smoke. 

The same stuff was being pumped out of smokestacks at numerous coal-fired power stations in the Greater London area, including Fulham, Battersea, Bankside, Greenwich and Kingston upon Thames. The Battersea factory was known to be the worst.

You had the smoke, soot and sulfur dioxide from the power stations, along with other industries, along with car fumes (Car ownership was on the rise), along with increased consumer usage. And that heavy smog couldn’t go anywhere, held in place as if a giant dome was cupped over the city.

It was a perfect smog storm.

London fog, 1952 (Britannica.com)

By the morning of December 5, there was a visible pall cast over hundreds of square miles.

The Great Smog of 1952, as it became known, was so thick and dense by December 7 that there was virtually no sunlight. Visibility was reduced to one meter (just over three feet) in the daytime. Pedestrians had to shuffle forward feeling for obstacles and curbs. 

Still, there was no panic. London was infamous for its “fog.” And post-war Brits, in general, were used to surviving tough times and minimizing complaints. The old “Keep Calm and Carry On” mentality.

But conditions only got worse.

Eventually, all transportation in the region came to a halt, but not before several rail accidents, including a collision between two trains near London Bridge. 

A couple walks the streets of London in November 1953; nearly a year after the Great Smog, masks were still necessary (Credit- Monty Fresco/Topical Press Agency/Getty Images)

Visibility was even worse at night. Street lamps at the time were fitted with incandescent light bulbs, which gave no penetrating light onto the pavement for pedestrians to see their feet or even a lamp post. Fog-penetrating fluorescent lamps did not become widely available until later in the 1950s.

Then the worst effect of the smog started to become apparent: respiratory distress. That smog had nowhere to go except into the lungs of Londoners. Reports came in of humans and animals having difficulty breathing. Some vomited phlegm. One of the first noted victims was a prize cow that suffocated on December 5. 

Those who had the means and insight purchased "Smog masks" from chemists until supplies ran out. But most people didn’t have them. 

That weekend, thousands of people died in their sleep.

It is estimated that between December 4 and December 8, the smog killed anywhere from 4,000 to as many as 12,000 people. Most of the victims were very young or elderly or folks with pre-existing respiratory problems. Some 25,000 more people claimed sickness benefits in London during that period.

Finally on December 9, the smog blew away. 

In the aftermath, the British government gave more attention to environmental research, government regulation around pollution, and public awareness of the relationship between air quality and health. Parliament passed the Clean Air Act 1956, which tried to move the country towards “smokeless fuels.” 

Despite these measures, a similar smog ten years later killed approximately 100 Londoners.

There was another Clean Air Act passed in 1968. Both were consolidated into a new Clean Air Act in 1993. But air quality continued to be an issue in the highly populated island city. Reports estimate that up through 2015, more than 9,000 people in the British capital were dying prematurely each year due to dirty air. 

Air pollution obscures the City of London skyline, as seen from Primrose Hill in the north of the capital. Photograph- Toby Melville/Reuters2020

Since then, however, there is good news for air-breathers in London. Pollution has plunged with a 94% reduction in the number of people living in areas with illegal levels of nitrogen dioxide. The number of schools in such areas has fallen by 97%, from 455 in 2016 to 14 in 2019.

Many credit London’s Mayor Sadiq Khan. His administration instigated restrictions on “dirty vehicles,” not allowing them to enter the city center. The old diesel double-deckers were replaced with low-emission buses on the most-polluted routes. They stopped licensing diesel taxis and extended the amount of protected space for cycling, among other new initiatives. 

It appears to still be a work in progress, but you can breathe a little easier in London these days—if you don’t count the global pandemic, that is. -Sigh- 

A fog blanketed London in December 1952, killing as many as 12,000 people and puzzling researchers for decades. Texas A&M researchers believe they have solved the mystery. Photo credit- © Bikeworldtravel / Fotolia

 ***

By the way, if you are a fan of Netflix’s show The Crown, you know that the Great Smog is a major event in season 1, episode 4. “Careful out there. It’s a real pea-souper!”

If you are a Dr. Who fan, the Great Smog is the setting for the audio play The Creeping Death (2019) starting David Tennant as the tenth Doctor.

The Great Smog of 1952 was creepy, alright! (And not the only one like it on our planet.)

What if that happened now, to you, where you live? Hmmm. Good fodder for a story!

Photo by Visuals Of Theodor on Unsplash

100 Day Challenge #80: Challenging Some Ethnocentricity (With a Little Sunshine)

I always appreciate experiences that test my judgment of others, unravel stereotypes, and check my unexamined biases. Such an opportunity came in the week before Thanksgiving during a business trip to Miami Beach.

It was an unusual and special trip for my husband and me in several ways. For one, it was the longest we had ever been away from our kids, at least when we were the ones going away. They’d been to weeklong sleepaway camps while we stayed home and worked. But this time, we were on the beach while they were in school. Very new! Also, our teenagers were old enough and responsible enough to stay home alone. Though it pulled at my invisible but always present umbilical cord, it was kind of cool for all of us. 

In Little Havana

It also turned out that with my husband the client and guest speaker at the conference, we were wined and dined in pretty high style. Our hosts had reserved for us a junior suite with a balcony and an ocean view. They took us to remarkable dinners at iconic restaurants with white tablecloths. At Joe’s Stone Crab, all the waiters wore tuxedos. Breakfasts buffets at the hotel were included, as was a fabulous culinary tour of Little Havana. I fell in love with that neighborhood!

The host group at the conference were from just about every state in the United States, and we met many smart, down-to-earth, fun, caring people.

The experience shed light and perspective on my own ethnocentricity.

The Greek word ethnos means "nation" or "people." 

The term ethnocentricity originated by William Sumner (October 30, 1840 – April 12, 1910), a classical liberal American social scientist, refers to a belief that your culture or ethnic group is superior to another's.

Ethnocentric individuals are biased in that they draw conclusions about other cultural groups based on their own cultural values, norms, and traditions. Your own nation or group is the cultural center of the world. Ethnocentric individuals use their own ethnic groups as the standard by which they judge other cultures.

All cultural groups have some degree of ethnocentricity, as it is necessary for the group to exist. This is because ethnocentricity promotes cohesion in groups, community pride, and group identification. 

In the Art Deco area of Miami Beach. This is where the scenes from the movie Birdcage were filmed.

On the other hand, ethnocentricity can prevent individuals from truly understanding other cultures. We make incorrect assumptions about others. Ethnocentricity can contribute to racism, stereotypes, and prejudice. 

Especially in recent times with the divide of our nation, there has been a more than normal amount of viewing particular types or groups of people as “other.” 

It was thus refreshing, humbling and, quite frankly, a great relief to meet people I really liked from Alabama, Montana, Indiana, Ohio, Tennessee, Texas, Nevada, Florida and other states as well. And every once in a while, someone would reveal their ethnocentric view of Californians and particularly our wonderful little city with the bad reputation, Oakland. 

We found a wide variety of local cultures in Miami too, from Little Havana to the Art Deco area of Miami Beach to Edgewater and Brickell neighborhoods.

View from Edgewater Neighborhood of Miami

Our host group represented law firms, and it was equally refreshing when, over one dinner, the conversation turned to politics, and though there were different allegiances and points-of-view, nobody got mean or interrupted each other. Our tablemates listened to each other and spoke with some passion and persuasion about their beliefs, but no one was belittled. It was disagreement with respect. It was awesome! And we all continued to have a good time together even afterwards. 

I came home jubilant about all this, reminded that there are good people everywhere. And a heck of a lot more well-meaning people than mean people in this world. It was, as I said, refreshing.

And the hot tubbing and beach time weren’t bad either!