LET'S TALK

The art of conversation has become a technological hodgepodge of texting, twittering and tweets that can all be organized with a hash tag. No eye contact is required. It’s communicating with your mouth shut starting with e-mails. Looking at the bright side, this is technologies revenge on those who never wrote a letter home. For people who are really into developing their thumbs, there is even a U.S. National Texting Competition.

For those of us who enjoy talking, there are still telephones that, for the time being, still include this capability. However, I recently found out that a person has to be very careful when actually speaking aloud.

A few weeks ago, I was chatting on my (land line GASP!) telephone with a friend.
Suddenly, her voice sounded as if she had her head in a bucket. I probably should have asked her if she was washing her floor, but instead, I said, “I can’t believe your brother-in-law has stayed with you for a month. Why don’t you tell him to go home?” After a moment of silence, my friend said, “Because you just did.” Unbeknownst to me, she had switched to speakerphone to clean up his spilled Cheerios. Speakerphone. Whoever came up with that miserable invention? It is just a distant relative to the old fashioned party line which was much more fun anyway.

When I was a kid, we shared a phone line with a bunch of other people, and I could listen in on all of their conversations. When mother said, “Get off the phone,” it didn’t necessarily mean I was talking to anyone, but it honed my listening skills.

Call waiting is another annoying invention. The same person, who complains about being put on hold while waiting for a computer geek to answer, doesn’t hesitate to put me on hold when receiving another call. Admittedly, the new caller might be more interesting than I am, but when put on “Hold” I hang up.

And, what’s up with the friend who calls me on her cell phone to tell me that she can’t talk because she’s out of range and then everything goes silent. Why did she call me?

Smart computer innovators have now made it possible to see the person you are talking to on your computer screen. That is a nice feature, if you haven’t just stepped out of the shower.  One day, my son called and said, “Hey, Mom, what are you doing?” I held up the toilet brush and replied, “Guess!”

Esther Blumenfeld (call me sometime)

NOT A WHOLE LOT OF SOWING GOING ON

Most children have a favorite book. Mine was The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. What enchanted me was the beautiful garden hidden inside a stone wall. It reminded me of the Garden of Eden--- without the snake or naked people.

I romanticized the idea of gardening, not realizing that it involves sore muscles and dirt under the fingernails. Some people have a gift for enhancing nature. I can look at a plant and it will wilt. My mother planted a garden of miniature vegetables, but they weren’t supposed to be that way. Maybe it’s genetic---me not the vegetables. I have a friend, who has such a green thumb, that she told me, “I couldn’t get to the tomatoes. It was like a jungle out there.”

When my husband and I moved into our first home in Atlanta, we discovered that the previous owners were horticulturists. They had labeled all of the plants and trees in Latin and English, and our 4-year-old son ran through the yard, filled his little bucket with the labels, and presented them to us as a housewarming gift.

I was not totally ignorant. I knew the difference between a dogwood and a pine, and recognized magnolias. However, some of the plants closer to the ground were puzzlement. I called in a professional gardener to help with my education, but first I pulled some weeds around a beautiful plant with shiny leaves. When the man arrived, he looked at me and said, “Lady, do you feel okay?” “Yes,” I replied. “Why do you ask?” “Well,” he said. “Maybe you should go inside and take a Benadryl. You’ve been nurturing a patch of poison ivy.”

Now that I live in the desert Southwest, I have learned that planting a garden involves a jackhammer to break up caliche (sedimentary rock). Journalist, Clay Thompson says, “God put this hard deposit of calcium carbonate under the surface of arid soils to keep overly ambitious do-it-yourself types from digging post holes when they should be indoors out of the sun.”

My Secret Garden now consists of strange plants and trees that have thorns to keep me from picking their flowers and fruits.  And what of that little boy who pulled the labels off of those trees and plants in Atlanta? Well, I never asked him what he did with his little bucket, but years later he wrote a thesis at the University of Wisconsin. It was titled, “The Development of Vegetation Theory in the United States.” I guess that those Latin and English labels came in handy after all.

Esther Blumenfeld (“A weed is a flower in disguise”--- James Russell Lowell)

SAY WHAT?

SAY WHAT?

The day my son said to me, “Mom, no one uses that word anymore,” and I replied, “I just did!was the day I decided that the art of conversation has gone the way of callused thumbs.

Tapping a text message requires no colorful language, nuance and certainly no eye contact— except with your cell phone. So, before all is lost, here are some helpful hints for the conversationally challenged:

 It takes more than one person to have a conversation, and
 It helps if one has something worthwhile to say.  “I just flossed my teeth” is not stimulating chitchat.
Some people drone on and on  because they find the sound of their own voice extremely entertaining. A drone is a pilotless missile.
Silence does not always require sound. Pregnant pause does not necessarily require delivery.

It seems as if everyone likes to talk, but few people listen. Maybe it’s because if you are the only one speaking, you don’t have to hear what the other person wants to say. Sometimes that can be a lifesaver, but on the other hand, listening can be illuminating.

I often go to restaurants by myself, and have decided that eavesdropping is okay if the speakers at the next table have turned up their volume. However, out of compassion, I did tune out one couple after the woman exclaimed, “It’s not the egg roll Harold, it’s out whole life!” Not sure I wanted to hear the rest of that.

Some people talk very fast. They are from New York. The rest of the world is not. Some people mumble. That is a great cover for being a teenager, not knowing the answer to a question or having a mouthful of pasta.

My last two hints for the conversationally challenged are:

5. Do not say, “Get to the point,” because you can’t assume that there is one.
6. Don’t start a conversation with, “How are you?” You just might find out.

Esther Blumenfeld (say what?)

BOO! A CAUTIONARY TALE

When I was  a teenager, the annual Halloween party was held in the spooky basement at my home.  We ate lots of scary food I had purchased at the grocery store. My Mom wasn’t that much into snack food unless you wanted Sauerbraten for Halloween. Then we bobbed for apples, and later roamed the neighborhood for treats—not many tricks but lots of treats. Then everyone came back to the house to find out which team had won first prize in our yearly  scavenger hunt. And then, every year,  we would sing, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” to my Dad, because it was his birthday. He wasn’t invited to the party, but he always enjoyed the song.

My costume was always home-made and simple. I am still into simple, and it’s easy to pick out my costume among the crowd at a Halloween party. When asked, “Who is that masked woman?” My answer usually is, “I am the Masked Stranger.” Yes, I am the “Lone Masked Stranger,” wearing a mask which has obviously slipped from my eyes to cover my nose and mouth. A crowd of people in a small area still makes me want to avoid a Covid hangover in the next few days, and I don’t care if I’m the only one who hasn’t gotten sick.

Recently, a group of women went to a friend’s house to play Bridge. Happily I wasn’t invited because: 1. I did not know the hostess. 2. I don’t play Bridge and 3. It hurt’s my hand to hold a fan of cards.

 It turns out that the hostess’s husband had Covid, and although he wasn’t in the vicinity, his germs obviously joined the game, and, unfortunately six of the guests, including the hostess,
got the prize.  Sadly they had gone a bridge too far.

Happily this tale does have a happy ending, because, as far as I know, everyone recuperated.  However, the next time, when you are in a crowd, and see a lone woman wearing a mask over her nose and mouth…just greet  me  with a hearty…”HI, HO, SILVER!”

Esther Blumenfeld

TRUTH, BEAUTY AND THE YUCK FACTOR

When I was in 4th grade, the art teacher instructed us to draw a dragon. It didn’t take me a long time to finish the assignment, so I handed it in, took a book out of my desk and proceeded to read until the school bell rang. As I gathered my supplies, the teacher asked me to stay. I stood at her desk. She held up my dragon and said, “This is the worst piece of art I have ever seen.” She was probably right, but I thought it was beautiful.

Art is a value judgment. As a matter of fact, good art is not always aesthetically appealing to viewers. Obviously, mine was neither good nor appealing. However, I wonder what my art teacher would have thought of Tracey Emin’s exhibit,
My Bed (1998).  It was the actual messy bed where she slept and engaged in various activities that involved the secretion of body fluids. The bloody and semen soiled bed was exhibited in the Tate Gallery in 1999, won a prize, and was later purchased for a great deal of money. It brought fame and fortune to Emin, but I don’t know if she used the money to buy new sheets. A work of art exists in the mind of the creator, but sometimes it is okay to ask, “What in the world were you thinking?”

I have been privileged to befriend several artists over the years, and recognize that they see the world with unique vision---different from the rest of us. Artists see lights and shadows, color and forms, shapes, textures, line patterns and various materials which, combined with a wide range of ideas and feeling, contributes to the overall meaning of their finished work. I have visited art galleries all over the world, and maybe because I don’t have the gift, I have a keen appreciation of the remarkable talent of truly great artists, whose work can bring tears to my eyes. Sometimes, I enjoy just sitting on a bench admiring an inspired creation.

Recently, a friend invited me to join her to view a special museum exhibit of “Modern Work.”  When I entered the first gallery, I saw some scaffolding with paint cans on top, and asked the attendant, “Are you remodeling this gallery?”
“No,” he replied. “That’s a work of art, but you can walk under it.” “Is the hole in the wall and the plaster on the floor part of his exhibit?” I asked. “No,” replied the attendant, “That’s the work of a different artist.” I couldn’t say, “My kindergartener could do better than that,” but I could have said, “ A demolition crew-----!

The next artist gave us 6 framed bottle caps accompanied by 6 matching framed bottle openers. He didn’t paint them. He framed them. I’m not sure his was a quest for knowledge as much as a quenching of thirst, and I got the message that he prefers imported beer. I don’t think that bottle caps and openers will stand the test of time, but then famous works are also often misunderstood.

Martin Kippenberger’s $1.1 million “When it Starts Dripping from the Ceiling” in the Ostwall Museum in Germany was damaged when a cleaning woman scrubbed away a painted rain puddle beneath a rubber trough placed under a stacked tower of wooden slats. Obviously, his work made an impression on her.
The final exhibit in my tour of the “Modern Works” was indeed bizarre. Some people say that “Art is in the eye of the beholder,” but not in this case. Five plaster casts of a man’s male organ were placed on five books. I have heard of thumbing your way through the pages, but not in this case.  I don’t know if the artist used his own anatomy for the plaster casts, but if he did, I do know--- he wasn’t Jewish!

Esther Blumenfeld (My dragon wasn’t that bad after all)