This is a story of two little girls who were trying to look like they were 15, huddled on the floor of an outdoor elevator at an upstate, N. Y. train station on December 26. They were dressed alike wearing goth attire that didn’t look sufficiently ...
This is a story of two little girls who were trying to look like they were 15, huddled on the floor of an outdoor elevator at an upstate, N.Y. train station on December 26. They were dressed alike wearing goth attire that didn’t look sufficiently warm for the windy 20-degree day. Nothing but black tights covered their legs that were sticking out from under short black skirts. Their distinctive makeup was in keeping with their clothes. They were focused on their phones, squatting on black canvas bags.
I entered the elevator with an overnight suitcase and two giant TJ Maxx shopping bags that made me clumsy. I wondered at first about the safety of doing so but had committed to the ride and the thought of stairs with my encumbrances didn’t appeal. Had I been in Manhattan, seeing others in the elevator when the door opened who weren’t getting out, I’d have backed away.
As the elevator landed at the train’s platform level I fished into my handbag and pulled out a $10 that I handed to one of them and suggested they get themselves some hot chocolate. At Beacon station there is a small operation that I’m sure offers warm refreshment during this season.
They were surprised at first and when they smiled and thanked me, they looked close to 12 in spite of their dramatic makeup. “Be careful,” one said as I turned around my suitcase to exit and adjusted the bags on each shoulder. They weren’t poor waifs and they had exemplary manners. They seemed happy, even comfortable and content. They reminded me of the child actors in “The World of Henry Orient,” [1964].
I wish they’d have found a warmer place to roost but there wasn’t an alternative. The tiny, enclosed waiting area on the platform was jammed with passengers protected from the wind. It was a breeding ground for germs. As I waited for the southbound train a northbound one arrived. I don’t know which one would take them to their destination. They’d found an original place to wait nearly as creative as their costumes.
Do you imagine what people you meet along the way might be up to?
I was describing to a friend a heart wrenching 2009 movie, “Everybody’s Fine,” that I just watched on Netflix. Robert De Niro was a new widower trying to gather his four adult children who lived around the country. They balked for a variety of reasons, so he traveled to visit them unannounced in spite of his doctor’s warning not to travel. Their receptions to his surprise appearances were sad.
My friend reacted to my description, “Please stop!” It isn’t a very Christmassy film. She and her family had just watched “Elf.” She suggested the Hallmark Christmas Rom Coms. I find most poorly written and acted–bromides. But I found a series made in Norway, “Home for Christmas.” It’s well acted and engaging.
Once a year my apartment is filled with the fragrance of baking thumbprint cookies that I was told my grandmother made and my mother and I made at Christmas for as long as I can remember. Currant jelly is almost impossible to find. Bonne Maman makes one but the wrong color. My mother also used mint jelly in the day for the traditional red and green combo, but I don’t care for the taste. She also made some in crescent shape, but I prefer the ones with jelly.
I no longer have a real tree but bring out a tiny Charlie Brown style faux one on which I hang a few favorite ornaments. Last year I bought a wreath for my door at a farmer’s market. I was still sweeping up the needles in July. That’s why I don’t buy even a tiny real tree. I also have a bunch of stuffed animals and friends who visit once a year.
Some buy annual tickets to the Rockettes, the Nutcracker or for free, plan a visit to the iconic Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. Maybe they gather a bunch of friends for a lunch. Others go to the yearly Lincoln Center Chamber Music Society’s Brandenburg Concertos, light Hanukkah candles and hand out chocolate covered coins.
What family holiday traditions do you enjoy? Have you tweaked any?
I had to test taste one which explains the missing cookie
I love texts and emails. I’m so easily and quickly in touch with folks– it’s a blessing. I can share thoughts and events in an instant at any time of day. It’s a miracle.
But when I found two letters this week tucked in an old envelope, I was hit by an obvious repercussion of this convenience: Others aren’t going to enjoy coming across tidbits from the past that might make them smile about themselves and others.
One letter was from my mother to her brother Robert in 1932. Both of them were in Europe. She wrote: “I suppose mom and pop told you all about their visit in Paris. They seemed to like Bernard & he most certainly likes them. We had loads of fun with his majesty Martin L, junior. He stayed with me; and Madame Pissot and the maid made a great fuss about him—which he ate up like nobody’s business.” Martin junior was my mother’s youngest brother by 14 years. Bernard was to be my father. There was more, and all would have been lost had she dashed off a text.
The other letter was from me to my mother dated December 28, with no year. Grumble. It made me laugh because it illustrated why my mother used to say, “anything else?” when I’d confront her with a lineup of complaints. And by the way, nothing changes. I still do.
It started:
“Dear Mommy,
The train trip up was not too bad only there were some beer drunk men behind me (not right behind) that made a lot of noise and they didn’t get off the train until Great Barrington.”
It described the miserable time I was having at a friend’s grandmother’s house and ends, “Don’t forget about me now.” [I was probably there for the week between Christmas and New Years.] I broke away from the complaints to ask if my sister had fun at the cocktail party and wondered if her dress received any compliments.
Today I still correspond by mail with two friends, send birthday and Christmas cards and some Halloween cards. But I don’t write much in the cards.
When comparing the benefits of convenience and keepsake, do you think we come out even?
Mom, her brother Robert [whom she wrote to years later in the letter I found] and her mom/grandma.
I’ve written about such scams a few times before, covering a hairstyling operation that pulled back on a discount offered a friend; a museum that greatly exaggerated a garden remodeling to generate publicity to attract visitors and discount practices that fool such as the promise of 50 and 75 percent off which, on investigation, only kick in if you purchase three of an expensive item.
I end the post with a risk that worked out when I bought a new part made recently in China for a 50-year-old small appliance. I’m rejoicing.
In Vino Veritas
Why do I bring up the sit and switch topic now? I buy wine from a neighborhood store. They have an incentive program that kicks in if you buy $X amount. Reach it and you get $10 off a bottle of wine. Months ago I was told I had “earned” the $10. I was waiting to use it for when I bought a gift so as to reduce the sting of spending more than usual which I did for Thanksgiving. The cashier was a temp or new and couldn’t get the system to work. Last week I was told I don’t have enough points. Is it a deal breaker? I wasn’t going to argue but it irritated me.
Ink it In
I complained about the wine situation to Deb Wright. In response she texted that she’d bought on Amazon ink that was described as compatible with her Brother printer.
It not only didn’t fit, it spilled all over her. The black didn’t come off her hands, and she tried all the tricks and hacks. That night she was going to a party with the hands of a mechanic straight from work. Adding insult to injury a local store didn’t have the right cartridges. She said that in future she’d only buy cartridges from Brother. She returned the bad ones to Amazon and gave the product “a very bad review and told them it was false advertising to say that it worked on a Brothers printer when it didn’t.”
Taking a Chance on Compatibility
I took a chance that miraculously worked out. My 50-year-old Cuisinart food processor bit the dust. The motor is still strong. I diagnosed the problem and guessed that the blade was the culprit. It shot in the air rather than stay in place to chop and churn. I ordered a new blade that was promoted as compatible with a five decades old appliance and it is! It came in just in time to chop the almonds for my Christmas cookies. It cost under $20. A new top-of-the-line food processor costs over $300 and I suspect would last only a few years.
Have you heard of any bait and switch cons lately? Have you taken a chance with a purchase that surprised you when it worked?
Blade, made in China this year, is happily compatible with a 50-year-old Cuisinart food processor.
If this sounds familiar it’s because you have an amazing memory. I wrote the following four paragraphs on this blog in July, 2009.
“I have an unsubstantiated theory: Adults who blame others for what they’ve done were severely punished as children for owning up to a broken dish or stained carpet or the dog’s missing eyelashes or other bad move. So they’re programmed not to admit to any wrongdoing.
“Or their parents have told them, and the world, that nothing is ever their fault. ‘He’s really great at X, but not when it’s raining or on a Tuesday.’ ‘She’s usually very friendly, but not when surrounded by the likes of these children.’ ‘What did that nasty teacher do to you?’ Sound familiar?
“I admit to making excuses for others so as to divert blame for inappropriate outbursts: ‘is there a full moon?’ or ‘did he forget to take his meds?’ or ‘she must have had a bad day at work.’
“We see the game of hot potato played out in some corporate cultures where it appears to be deadly to admit to making a mistake. Hot potato is a version of musical chairs. When the music stops, if you’re holding the potato-or left standing–you are out of the game.”
I bring it up now because the popular default these days isn’t to solve the problems of the economy or migration or the Epstein files or tariffs. The deal seems to be to hold someone else responsible.
Pointing fingers fixes nothing.
I learned this when I ran large events. Inevitably something would go wrong. We’d fix the issue and move on. Even in the postmortem meeting I discouraged finger-pointing. The idea was to figure out how to avoid a similar glitch in future. What does it matter who made the mistake?
Didn’t your mother tell you about tattletales? If you were in a restaurant where the service went south, would you be satisfied to hear that the maître d’ retired in January? So why are we hearing that Biden did this or Obama caused that?
Michael Crowley and Hamed Aleaziz in The New York Times reported “At State Dept., a Typeface Falls Victim in the War Against Woke.” The subhead, “Secretary of State Marco Rubio called the Biden-era move to the sans serif typeface ‘wasteful,’ casting the return to Times New Roman as part of a push to stamp out diversity efforts.” Please. The reason the change was made had nothing to do with diversity unless disabled people are on the administration’s black list. “The change was meant to improve accessibility for readers with disabilities, such as low vision and dyslexia, and people who use assistive technologies, such as screen readers.”
The reporters wrote: “Mr. Rubio’s directive to all diplomatic posts around the world blamed ‘radical’ diversity, equity, inclusion and accessibility programs for what he said was a misguided and ineffective switch from the serif typeface Times New Roman to sans serif Calibri in official department paperwork.”
Oh, I get it. The typeface is the reason for international disagreements.
