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“We Are Neighbors”

Tuesday, December 4th, 2007

For my eighth birthday, our former neighbor, a family friend who was also an elementary school teacher, presented me with a textbook full of short stories and poems, in other words, a “reader.” The title of it is, We Are Neighbors. In scanning the book, which I have kept all these years, I can see that it presents the same kind of thinking that was entrenched in the popular culture of the 1950s, when everything was, as far as we knew, rosy.

There are verses about answering the door when the doorbell rings. The short poem says that it might be the postman bringing letters from far away, it might be the bread man with pies and cakes to sell, or it might be a workman, with “new things to do.” Thinking of a recent time when someone answered their door, at night, only to be stabbed, robbed, and held hostage, it seems that times certainly have changed.

A certain air of innocence pervaded our thoughts, in the mid-twentieth century. Amid the television shows of “Father Knows Best,” and “Leave it to Beaver,” we were all led to believe that if we just “tried in school,” if we “just worked a little harder,” all would be well. It was a time of stay at home moms, delivery of fresh milk, and wearing a hat to church on Sunday.

Our awareness of the greater world was much more limited. How things have changed, helped by mass media and the Internet! While it is good to know “about” other people, we have lost something in the neighborly attitude that was captured to some extent in the 1970s show for children, “Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood.” I mourn the fact Mr. Rogers, that sweet, gentle minister, has passed on, and that my grandson will probably never see his show.

In Mr. Rogers world, there was acceptance of those who are different than “us.” In his realm, it was important to be “dressed for the occasion.” In his part of the universe, there was friendliness and peace and a cooperative spirit, in sharp contrast to what happens today.

In 2007, if it is convenient to a political agenda, lies are told, whether they be about an individual, or about another country. Moral sensibility and moral responsibility appear to be unknown concepts. That’s why it is apparently acceptable to portray another country as having the intent to make nuclear weapons when that country’s plan to do so has long been abandoned. Sometimes, I wish that I didn’t know a thing about the shenanigans of elected officials. Usually what I find out is a disappointment.

The statement, “We are neighbors,” is becoming more and more a subject for debate. The first question is, “Do we even know our neighbors?” If you live in a city, chances are good that you do not know them. You may wave at them, but your friendliness, at that point, has reached an apex. We are “busy.” At least that is our excuse.

How did we get to this point? If we can’t be friendly with our actual neighbors, how can we have a cooperative spirit toward other nations? I am just wondering which events have changed us into fearful people. I suppose that is a question for sociologists to try to figure out. Are we afraid that there won’t be a piece of pie left for us? I leave it to you to ponder. As for me, I think I’ll take a little detour and revisit the world of “Mr. Green Jeans,”" Nibbles the Squirrel,” and “Tabby the Cat,” just for old time’s sake.

Patricia Cummings

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What Did the Cavemen Do?

Thursday, November 15th, 2007

America is a country of pills. Just watch television for even an hour and you will see many ads for new medications. After being told that a certain new pill might keep you from wetting the bed, but can also have the side effects of making you go blind, permanently crippling all of your fingers, and rendering you unable to walk again, the final sentence of the ad is always: “Ask your doctor if “such and such a drug name” is right for you! Right! I think I’ll call the clinic right now to inquire! “Not.”

Not? Yes, “not.” Whenever I call “my” clinic, the phone is customarily answered with, “I’m with another patient. Can you hold?” Usually, thinking that it would be seen as an act of aggression to just hang up, I dutifully wait on the line, wondering 1) why they think I need to hear the same message about diabetes no less than fifteen times, or 2) why they think that I might be remotely interested in the number of foreign-trained physicians that have been added to the staff, and their difficult-to-remember names.

Then, there are the “questionable” treatments. I wonder just how long cavemen did live, without the intervention of anti-cholesterol medicine, hormone replacement therapy, thyroid treatment pills, and all the rest of the pills that some of us take on a daily basis.

There is no end to the number of pills that are prescribed, and they are usually the newest, and the most expensive. Every time I see anyone in the medical field, yet another pill is prescribed. During one of the last jolly jaunts to see a “healer,” I had to suffer through the silly man telling me that I am overweight. Yes, any woman who tops 200 lbs. is definitely a little chubby. Pardon me, I meant to say, “Rubenesque.” The term “morbidly obese” was never applied directly to me … until now. I guess he subscribes to the theory of the “She’s Too Fat For Me” Polka. “Hey!”

I had the delusion that I was somewhat “cute” before I was subjected to tubes being shoved up my nose and down my throat, to discover “nothing.” I recoiled at the suggestion that I should come back again in six weeks to repeat the procedure, either because 1) I am totally crazy, after all, or 2) his son wants a new Porsche … bad, or 3) his wife is waiting for that vacation to Aruba. Then he prescribed an expensive pill, but admonished me to see two other doctors before taking any of them because with a pre-existing heart condition, this pill might have detrimental side effects, as in possibly causing my demise (??). The fat woman held onto her wallet … tight!

I bet that cavemen did not live as long as we do, given the woolly mammoth’s predisposition toward eating humans. Sorry. I’m kidding! I really don’t know what that beast ate, nor if men even inhabited the same time zone.

All I can safely say is that many of the “medical interventions” to which I, or other people I know, have been subjected, were detrimental either mentally or physically, and often involved some kind of legal chemical use.

For example, someone I know had developed a problem with gout after his physician told him to drink one glass of red wine per day, and to take an aspirin to lower his cholesterol and thin his blood. Come to find out, both of those items can cause the painful form of arthritis that usually shows up in the extremities (toes are often the target area where the pain and swelling occurs). Since giving up the use of both wine and aspirin, he has since been gout-free.

Another woman was prescribed cholesterol medication. She developed knee pain. Within two days of going off the pills, she was completely pain-free, but reports being left with lingering knee damage.

Don’t let “them” fool you! Medicine is a guessing game and not an exact science. The doctors try this and try that, usually by way of a pill, and if the treatment doesn’t cause the end of your life, then your life might improve.

Sounds like I’m disenchanted with doctors, pills, and their chances for failure. Actually, for the most part, doctors are doing the best they can, with all of their human and staffing limitations. They actually do some good, at times. Other times, they do harm. Their inaccessibility (forget house calls!), their hurried schedules, and the fact that they jump to conclusions, on first sight, do nothing to enhance the patient/doctor relationship.

All of this drug use in America really scares me. Might it not be better for all of us to take more responsibility toward our own health? To become more informed is the first step. The man with the gout solved his problem by reading about his condition online. Doctors can’t know everything. The health care system in this country needs fixing, but maybe the issue is not how to make it “more affordable.” Perhaps we need to make health care virtually unnecessary, by living healthier lives.

Patricia Cummings

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“Nothing to Fear but Fear Itself?” A Look at Iraq

Tuesday, August 28th, 2007

When FDR stated that we have nothing to fear but fear itself, reportedly he was referring to the need for Americans to develop more faith in the economy and increase spending. The oft quoted phrase is most often used to refer to war situations, or alternatively to the essence of the qualities of fear. If we are fearful, we are non-productive; we are non-creative. Fear is paralyzing and zaps our very strength and all of our energy.

The idea behind fear, in time of war, is “to get them before they get us,” a common mindset. The trouble is that the enemy is often an unknown entity. Fighting a ghost, we try to sidestep him, in our dreams. However, then he brings his friends along for support, and we are surrounded by leering, jeering, nebulous, almost-but-not-quite-there, images in our brains. The exercise is somewhat like shadow boxing.

I woke up from a similar nightmare this morning. In this dream sequence, I was surrounded by thugs in black leather jackets with metal studs. They wanted something of me. I knew not what. Jolting awake, I had the awareness of anger and the solid feeling that I would not go down without a fight.

Threatening behavior of others, whether in words or actions, is something I might have more easily walked away from in the past, and “let it go,” in the interest of peace. Now, I don’t encourage the bullies who would try to run roughshod over my psyche, like a roller attempting to mash down hot pavement and mold it into whatever shape they desire for their own USE.

I realize that my very own psychic reaction to threats is something I have in common with those who start wars. It is predictable that anyone would want to defend oneself, in the face of a despot, or a group of unsavory criminals.

While thinking all of these thoughts, I am also intensely aware of the fact that I dislike violence, and I REALLY DESPISE the current war, with its broken bodies, grieving loved ones, and blood spilled onto the earth, all for the fleeting ideologies of old men, who really can’t make up their minds about much of anything, except that they are “right.” Better to be right, I guess, than to be sensible.

We desperately need to get out of Iraq, and not think about invading yet a third country in the region, Pakistan, as Obama has suggested. We just keep becoming more and more enmeshed in the Middle East, and were it not for oil and business interests in the area, I doubt that we would pay much attention there.

As the death count rises, who can even keep track of how many soldiers or civilians have died? The number of disabled veterans is another sad story altogether. They, too, have given their “lives” for a cause that seemed like the right thing to do, at the time.

Yes, I am patriotic. Yes, I love this country. Yes, I support the troops. That is WHY, my friend, I would like to see our friends, our brothers, our sons and daughters, our husbands, our nephews, our nieces, our grandchildren, and our neighbors come home, where they belong.

The Home of the Brave Quilt Program is way behind in providing quilts for families of the deceased soldiers. While initially it was a nice idea, the thought of providing a quilt to each of the families of a fallen soldier was probably conceived at a time when the “war” was thought to be one of less duration.

With 2,300 quilts made, so far, the program is short of its goals. Clouding the issue is the demand of divorced parents to have their own personal “remembrance” by way of a tribute quilt, and the demand also of a twin, or other family member, to also have one. It has been difficult to keep up with giving one quilt to a family, let alone providing multiples. If you’ve ever made a quilt, you certainly would better understand the amount of work involved. ‘Taint easy, or quick!

While it is a wonderful thing to acknowledge the sacrifices of the military, it would be a far GREATER accomplishment to bring the troops home. I do not see this happening soon. Armaments and personnel have been increased over there for a long period of time. Logistically, we cannot exit quickly. We are caught in a “Catch 22″ situation that has ripped this country apart, politically, emotionally, and financially. There has to be an end-point to this insanity of WAR.

We should be making war on “war.” Only then, can we make quilts to celebrate a victory, when this enemy of children, the arts, and living things, is conquered.

Patricia Cummings

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New Hampshire “Rocks”

Saturday, July 14th, 2007

I feel so lucky to be living in New Hampshire. We are a small state filled with big hearts and giant minds and lots of creativity. From the so-called “Granite Hills” which are really not “hills” at all but very adequately-sized mountains, to the pebbles on the sands of Hampton Beach, Rye Beach, or Salisbury Beach, we “rock” and we are a people with which to be reckoned.

New Englanders, in general, are known for their independent spirit, their entrepreneurial skills, and their depth of creative perception. After all, such hearty souls as Daniel Webster, William Loeb, and Robert Frost, all lived here. They all spoke their minds, and I am sure that kind of attitude has rubbed off on a lot of us, including me! Sculptors, painters, novelists and many other creative souls have called this state, “home.”

Having been “invaded” many times before, by the quebecois who came to work in the mills from the Canadian countryside, and the Irishmen who made their way north, from the port of Boston, seeking freedom from discrimination, other ethnic groups have also molded New Hampshire into a proverbial “melting pot.”

In the capitol city of Concord, alone, one can choose to eat at a dozen or more Chinese restaurants, or perhaps go to an Australian one, or to a Japanese Sushi Bar, or to the many Greek and/or Italian restaurants in the city, not to mention several Mexican ones. Yes, the Capitol is not short of eateries, of all descriptions. Some serve “real” NH maple syrup!

You know, growing up in a small town, (where I was not born), I learned that the definition of a “newcomer” is someone whose family has not lived in town for a span of several generations. I found out that my family was accepted, but only marginally so. We were, after all, city people. The men in the family did not spit into a spitoon, nor smoke cigars, whether Cuban or not. They had to learn to plow a field but used a tractor, not a team of horses.

The most amazing story I ever heard, as a teenager, was that of Ozra “Ozzie” Dutton. He lived alone on a farm and he kept animals, including steers (or were they bulls?). At any rate, one day, Ozra was gored by one of these animals and the horn ripped up his stomach in a bad way. He hitched up his horses to a wagon, after having tied a towel around his waist, and he drove to the nearest hospital, which, at that time, was Exeter Hospital, a 45 minute drive by car, today.

The doctors fixed him up, and he got back in his wagon, drove his horses  home, and lived to be in his nineties. That is the kind of country character that is to me quintessentially New England.

Truth be known, the natives of New Hampshire are tough as nails. The climate makes us that way, and the example that our neighbors set only solidifies our resolve to conquer the elements, tame the beasts, and put the world (or your teeth?) on edge with our far-reaching thoughts.

I knew there was a reason why politicians and their advocates come knocking on our “doors” so often, come election time. They are waiting and hoping for an endorsement. The theory seems to be the same one from a TV cereal commercial: “If Mikey likes it, it has to be good!” If New Hampshire approves, the politician just might be a “shoo-in” for the next president!

I simply reiterate: New Hampshire “rocks!”

Patricia Cummings

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