Archive for the ‘Relationships’ Category

Facebook – An Idea Whose Time Had Come

Wednesday, May 5th, 2010

Facebook is a surprising success and an idea that makes a sometimes impersonal world of technology very personal once again. The fact of the matter is, we all have an innate curiosity about our fellow beings. We want to know what others are doing, and it is a treat to tune in to the latest small pleasures of their day and to see that we all have problems, obligations, and wishes. It is fun to see what inspires others, what kind of flowers they like, and whether they prefer miniature horses, dogs, cats, parrots or other animals as pets. We follow along as our friends show photos of their children and grandchildren. We listen with pride while others whom we like relate their latest accomplishments. We are given reports of the birds in their yards, and of the blooming desert plants during a good Spring, such as this last one.

We meet people from other countries and cultures, and those in our own country who have lived a very different life than our own due to their unique “position” in life, their educational experiences, or lessons learned along the way. If we have had any homophobic tendencies, we learn to accept as human beings those who are in non-traditional relationships, and consider them worthy of our friendship. We learn about the business interests of others and how they are making things click for themselves through their business associations. Daily life is composed of many details and on Facebook, those little clues are sometimes provided. We are told where one enjoys eating lunch, what the latest “hot” book is, and which old songs someone likes to remember.

In looking at Facebook pages, every day, we realize that we, as humans, are more alike than we are different. We are inspired by the creative joy of others. We feel sad when a “friend” is having some kind of new challenge, and we rejoice at every new book that is written by our friends and every bit of recognition that they are given, as a result of their hard work or scholarship.

Thinking about Facebook reminds me of a piece of fabric I bought a few years ago that features children from around the world: Caucasian children, Oriental children, Black children, and others. Facebook also makes me think of an exhibit I saw at Disneyland in California in 1993 called, “It’s A Small World (After All).” Remember the song? If there is hope for the world, then that hope probably lies in the small pleasantries and interactions of people in everyday life. Humans seem to need constant reassurance and validation that they are ok and doing alright. Facebook gives us a daily dose of friendship, sometimes from very unexpected sources. So, who have you “friended” today? See you on Facebook!

Pat

Growing Up in the 1950s – “Fear” the Watchword

Thursday, February 25th, 2010

A video posted on Facebook has brought a lot of memories about the 1950s and 1960s flooding back to me. I would have to say that I grew up in a repressive environment that featured fear of punishment. There was an emphasis on what the children did wrong, rather than what they did right. My father burned an entire collection of comic books, enjoyed by my two brothers who were 18 months apart in age. The reason? Their grades were slipping in school. There was always a fear of retribution for any little thing.

My mother was often ailing with a headache, and took to her bed. She seemed very happy to get out of the house and go to work after I, her youngest, started school. It wasn’t the money that was the lure, as she was paid diddly-squat. No, she enjoyed not having to be blamed for the house being full of dust bunnies, etc. She was never known to be the greatest housekeeper in the world. She said that she was used to living in the south where her family had maids. She left there at age five, so she couldn’t have been TOO used to maid service. Hard to imagine it, as her 13 member family of origin was dirt poor, understandably, for all of their pretenses, or so it appears.

I remember being subjected to a lot of fear while growing up. My mother always dragged her children to the doctor, incessantly, and for every little thing. You can imagine her state of completely falling apart when she came home with my Dad from a Sunday afternoon event only to find that my brother, Steve, had tripped over a root in the ice, while attempting to ice skate on a nearby pond, and had split his head open. Being seven years younger than him, I had no idea what to do, so he was just standing over the commode, with blood gushing out. They arrived home right after this had happened, and a quick call to the doctor brought him to the door on a house-call. He told my mother to watch for signs of concussion, after he bandaged him up. This was long before over-use of the emergency room became the standard treatment course.

Fear is the perfect word for growing up in the 1950s. Fear kept us all in line, particularly fear that we would go to hell, if we were not constantly in a state of “grace.” However, fear was present in society, as a whole, as people were still remembering World War II. We had just finished the Korean War, and then, were dealing with the Cold War and fight against Communism. Those were dark days, a time of non-enlightenment and ignorance it seems, as I look back.

The Internet has done a lot to provide a forum in which ideas of all kinds can be shared freely, and experiences, as well. We get to know each other and we find out that sometimes, life has not been as it has seemed. A lot of us have had a rough time; some of us continue to struggle because of this or that.

There is a saying that I really like: “It is never too late to have a happy childhood!” I am a much happier “child” now that I am also my own parent, if that can possibly make any sense to anyone else. One has to nurture their own talents and find their way in the world, and when you find something you like to do, stick with it, as it will be a constant joy!

Patricia Cummings
Quilter’s Muse Publications

Mediocrity v. Genius in America: Take Care In What You Tell Your Children

Saturday, September 19th, 2009

In society today, mediocrity rules, and conventions of conformity reign. We need to tell our children to be the best they can be, and to cast off all those who would put them down for their excellent abilities and try to browbeat them into the unconscious crowd mentality.

In my day, the expected standard was that boys were simply better at math. The idea was a given. As a kid, I “bought” this idea and did not even strive to get straight A’s- far from it – yet, I excelled at language applications of all kinds. Today, I find that I have excellent practical math skills, as a quilter. What we tell children is important as they will live up to our expectations.

image from Pat's book

A happy line drawing depicts carefree children fishing, their dog helping. From Just for Fun: 98 Olde Redwork Designs by Patricia Lynne Grace Cummings (2003).

When someone is young, he or she is exposed to the world, little by little, although if you watch the news, your understanding of the experience of childhood may be altered considerably. Dancing contests for girls, complete with adult makeup and beyond-their-years attire, may have contributed to at least one death.

Adults seem to want their children to grow up too fast these days. Juxtaposed against the extant embroidered depictions, designs for outline stitch embroidery, and paintings of children in other centuries, that show children at play, it seems that America is dead-set on not letting children have a childhood.

Patrick playing at the beach

My grandson, Patrick, playing at the beach. “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the Days of Our Lives.”

Today, the expectations of parents and society for children are high. They must excel at everything they do, from soccer to academic grades to music. If a child is “smart,” it is felt that they need no extra help or encouragement as they will be able to fend for themselves. Most schools have special classes for “special needs” children, yet many schools do not address adequately the situation of a kid being “gifted.” Emotionally, the “gifted child” may need even more support than you might think.

One teacher’s assistant once told me that she felt “intimidated” by my son because he was so “smart.” A professional assessed him as being able to comprehend written materials at a 7th or 8th grade level, when he was only four years old. At the same time, he could discuss what was on the news, including the Carter/Iranian Crisis. Yes, what does a school do with such a precocious child?

Sometimes, a devised answer seems to be just to place the child in a class ahead of his, thereby positioning the individual with children who are larger physically, and sometimes, more wised up. At other times, as in my son’s (second) school, he participated in a “pull out” program, once a week, where a spectacle was made of him physically leaving the class, along with a few other select kids, when he was in the sixth grade. This is when “being gifted” begins to feel like a disability, and school like a curse.

As one progresses through school, it often becomes apparent who are the most well-liked children. Usually, at least in my experience, those kids seemed to be the cheerleaders and young men who went out for sports, or the children of affluent people who wear the nicest clothes and have the best family vacations.

The looming question for children is what they want to “be” when they grow up. Who knows the answer to that question, even at age 18? There are no active directives in place, as one goes through school. At least I never received much help in that direction.

HS pic

Pat as a senior in high school

I remember visiting the office of the high school Guidance Counselor in the 1960s. Instead of opening up possibilities of career choices, she told me that I could be 1) a nurse (no, thanks!), or 2) a teacher. However, she admonished, I could not consider being an airline stewardess because I am not pretty enough. (I never even mentioned that hope.) The remark still strikes me as odd.

Not being pretty, in her eyes, consisted of the fact that I am almost 5’8″ – tall for a girl, at the time. Ultimately, I opted to become a teacher, a characteristic I’ve carried with me through life, formally and informally. Ironically, the skill I have used the most is typing, learned in a one credit class at the University, on an old Royal typewriter.

We give all kinds of strange messages to our children. “Clean your plate” is one of them. Of course, in addition to that demand, I was constantly reminded of the starving Armenians and made to feel guilty if I did not absolutely eat everything served on my plate.

In fact, repulsed by the sight of hamburger, knowing it was ground cow, I refused to eat it one night, and was made to sit at the table until I feel asleep in my plate, after midnight. I could be stubborn. I wonder if the weight problems of America are the result of people having been forced to be members of the Clean Plate Club.

It is important to speak with children about physical changes they will undergo, and about having relationships within the greater context of love. Encourage them to avoid casual encounters that carry no real commitment on the part of either party. Discussing long term goals is a good thing to do, but events in the present should be addressed, as well. All too soon, children grow up and have their own children. No doubt they will take the best and the worst of our parenting skills with them. As with any skill, parenting can be improved (even as that role changes).

My one child is grown now and has two children of his own. Like himself, he has an extremely intelligent wife who is a loving and responsible parent. I feel blessed to know that the family is striving hard to meet their goals, personally and professionally.

Due to distance, I see them infrequently, but it is always a joy to realize how much my grandchildren have grown in the meantime. Photos calls, and the Internet keep us up to date.

“Take joy,” as Tasha Tudor often said. Take joy in every day. Each is a gift.

Patrick and Hannah

Patrick loves his little sister who was born in July 2009. To quote the Bible: “… and the greatest of these is love.”

Photos courtesy of Rebecca Gorham’s site.

P.S. My son, James Gorham, is a doctoral candidate in the English Department at the University of Rhode Island. Rebecca Gorham earned a degree in Economics from Smith College and works for a pharmaceutical company as a financial analyst.

Grandma Pat

Grandma Pat – 2009 – who sometimes reverts to the role of a clown, whenever it pleases her.

Patricia Cummings
Quilter’s Muse Publications

When You Can’t Go Home Again

Thursday, July 12th, 2007

Occasionally, when I am in a nostalgic mood, and we are in the area, we ride past the farm where I grew up and where my mother continued to live, until she could live there no longer. Now, in the field where I once rode my horses, there is an elaborate mini-mansion with a four car garage. In the house where I once lived, another family resides.

The barns where I kept Bantam chickens, a rabbit, and my horses, and sometimes a few heifers, have been completely torn down. I have memories of tossing and stacking 100 lb. bales of hay into the hayloft, summers, when I barely weighed that myself. Now, that IS a distant memory.

While I was in Jr. High, I held hands with my boyfriend, in same hayloft, both of us way too shy to do anything but that. I remember my big brother, being nervous about the “situation” as if it were a federal crime to hold hands, and shooing my would-be suitor home. As I recall, he never came back.

A vivid recollection are the berries on the farm, among them the high bush blueberries that grew along a stonewall. If I collected enough of them, Mum would make blueberry muffins. Blackberry bushes grew wild along same stone wall, and she would make a pie, all the while complaining about the large seeds in the berries. I remember the low-growing, wild strawberry plants that produced the sweetest berries known to man. I recall the huge “tire” that I stepped on while picking those berries. It turned out to be a six foot long, black snake that slithered off into the field, in search of field mice.

Summer days were carefree…mostly…until the day that my parents were both at work in the city, and my brother threw a bomb down a woodchuck hole, and that started a fire. In my mind’s eye, I can see the local firetrucks skittering across the field to the other side of it, but being able to quickly dowse the fire. I believed I called them on the phone in our country kitchen.

Early in the morning, my brother and I would get up to go watch the deer that would gather, “just over the knoll,” lending new meaning to the name of the town, “Deerfield.”

After I was married to Jim, my mother often would call and say that she had baked or cooked something luscious, such as her Chicken Casserole or an Apple Pie, or a cake, and she’d invite us down. She was a very good cook and baker, so it was hard to refuse.

It’s funny how the mind works. No matter what situation we find ourselves in, bad or good, we think that it will last forever. Perhaps we don’t realize that the bad times could end, as well as the good times. We prefer not to think about our days being numbered, but they are, whether or not we acknowledge the fact.

My mother’s problems, that led to her eventual demise, began early one morning with a stranger’s voice, (an EMT) calling me on the phone to say that she had experienced a heart attack. She was taken to the hospital, and was in and out of other hospitals and nursing facilities until she finally died several years ago. She never had the chance to go “home again.” The undone dishes and laundry, the housecleaning that needed care, the unpaid bills, and all of her worldly concerns were left to others to administer.

Today, I am thinking about people whose homes have been blown away in tornadoes, or washed out to sea, or lost in a fire. Those people cannot go home, any more than I can. You see them on television, sifting through rubble, trying to recover a photo or some momento from the past, something, anything that is representative of their past lives.

The fact of the matter is that none of us can “go home again” when our loved ones are no longer there, even when the physical structure is, indeed, in place. Home is wherever we are surrounded by love. “Home is where we hang our hat,” as they say. Sometimes, the love we have experienced in LIFE can only be re-visited, in memory.

Patricia Cummings

Editorial Comments of 1879

Sunday, February 25th, 2007

In Godey’s Lady’s Book, November 1879, the “editorial chit-chat” column featured these words:

… (preceding text and then a quote) “Our mothers used to pride themselves on their housekeeping and fine needlework. Why should not we?”

The editor answers: “To all which we say, “Why not?” Many a husband goes to ruin because his home is slovenly, his food badly cooked, his wife out of temper because out of health. Yet all these, even the last, could be avoided, as a rule; for work, when not too great, is healthy; and “nerves” are very often but the result of idleness and imagination. Feed a man on bad food, and ten to one he takes to drinking: first, to digest the trash he has been forced to eat; and finally, because alcohol has become a habit with him. On the other hand, the wife and children, because of the same wretchedly-cooked food, have to be physicked constantly. And generally the wife ends by getting “nerves.”

“Of course, there are some households in which the opposite to all this prevails: households in which the husband is a tyrant and brute, and the wife an overworked slave. It is not of such that we speak now. Of them we may have something to say on a future occasion.”

I don’t know about you, but I found this bit of writing to be highly amusing. I do believe that columns of this kind must have been forerunners to “Dear Abby.”

Yours,

Patricia