Sunday, December 18, 2016

Contented Re-gifting



One thing is for sure in this great country of ours....if you live a long time you accumulate a lot of stuff.  Hence the explosion of places where you can rent a space, store your junk, then lock it up and forget  about it.   Then, after paying some ridiculous monthly fee for a couple of years you can revisit your junk...now mildewed, melted and unrecognizable...and arrange for the dumpster you should have ordered two years ago.    It's the American way.

When we moved last year I was forced to take a look at my own accumulation of stuff.  It also gave my husband a chance to view my previously hidden stash of scented candles, paper napkins and other things I had squirreled away.   It was not quite ready for an episode of Hoarders, but moving in that direction.  Being the good Mother that  I am I filled the cars of my children, giving them the chance to stash more stuff in their own bulging storage rooms.  It's Moms way.....

It was during this soul-searching purge that I discovered two items that needed to be "re-gifted" to people who didn't know the items existed.   Neither was worth much in the way of money, but both had sentimental value that I wanted to share.

The first item is a small table that belonged to my Mother.   Her brother, my uncle, made the table in a shop class at school before I was born.  It was one of only a few things mom held onto her whole life.  When she died two years ago it was one of only a few things that survived when her house  burned after her death.

My uncle preceded Mom in death by a year or so; eventually his oldest daughter purchased and settled his house.   I thought about her often as her financially and emotionally draining work on the house progressed.  By that time I was going thru my own painful process with mom's belongings, and the little table stared at me from the corner of the basement.

My cousin seemed pleased when I told her about the table; it seemed things had come full circle to have it find a place in my uncle's former home. It took a while to get it to her because we live in different states, but I happily delivered it to her last fall.  I know she will enjoy having it for years to come...the little table is really home now and my mom would be happy about that.

My second re-gifting was just this week.  As a little girl I was always bugging mom's girlfriends for their "old jewelry".   Broken earrings, beads and anything that sparkled filled a little jewelry box I carried around constantly.   It's likely because I badgered her relentlessly, but one of mom's friends, Dorothy,  gave me a bangle bracelet with her "D" initial engraved on it.  It fired a love of monogrammed things I've carried all my life!   I must have been about seven when the stainless steel bracelet joined the treasures in my little jewelry box.

Mom and Dorothy remained friends for the remainder of their lives.  When both could no longer drive they talked on the phone, finally their failing hearing made that impossible, too.  I took Mom to her friends 90th birthday party...Mom being the younger gal by a couple of years.

Suddenly both of these good women are gone, with the two remaining daughters becoming friends on Face Book.  Now, looking through things I rediscovered the bracelet Dorothy had given me over sixty years ago, and I knew it also needed to go home.  This week we got together and I passed the monogrammed bracelet on to Dorothy's daughter, Denise.

To my way of thinking this is the best kind of re-gifting.  These items have gone thru many hands, but they are tied right back to the original gift giver by a ribbon of love.  They will rest happily in their new homes, the memories they have accumulated passed on to their new owners.

                            Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays....Life is Good






Thursday, August 18, 2016

They don't make 'em like that any more....


 
 
 
 
 
Today I attended the celebration of life service for a long time friend and mentor...the city of Mansfield said goodbye to Virginia Imhoff, who had just turned 90 in January.

When I was a teenager Mrs. Imhoff was my guidance counselor. To my teenage eyes she was elegant, educated and intimidating. So intimidating, in fact, that when I told her I wanted to drop out of school she verbally wrestled me to the ground and scared that thought right out of my head. It's something I've never forgotten and for which I've always been grateful.

Working in radio over the years I wrote commercials and did voice work for some of Ginny's campaigns as she moved through the chairs at city council, eventually becoming president. She was involved in so many things, always working tirelessly in the community.

This summer it was not unusual to drive along Marion Avenue and see Ginny walking her dog...always a boxer. From time to time I'd stop in and visit, only being allowed to enter the house after a good snuffle inspection from the dog. There were hundreds of former students that she referred to as “my kids”....I was lucky enough to be one of them.

Just a few months earlier our community lost yet another role model when Marilou Schwan died. She was 99, and until Swan Cleaners closed the year before her death she was behind the counter every day with her hair done, her heels on and dressed to kill. It was a pleasure to drop off dry cleaning just to get to talk to her.

Our community lost two amazing women when these two passed away. In a world where role models are in such short supply Ginny Imhoff and Marilou Schwan were examples of lives well lived.

A few years back Ginny was walking her dog along Marion Avenue when a mugger grabbed her. When she realized she couldn't out-muscle the guy, Ginny faked a heart attack and dropped to the sidewalk like a cement block. When the guy let go of her and took off Ginny ran into the street and flagged down a car for help. She simply out foxed the guy; I'm sure he never knew what happened. In any event he sure didn't have any bragging rights after that episode.
 
Years ago, on a work day just like any other day, a guy came into Swan Cleaners with a gun and took everyone hostage. Marilou, at the counter as usual, was forced to round up all of the employees and bring them to the front counter. Without any thought to herself she talked the guy into releasing the whole staff while she stayed as his hostage.  After several hours she talked him into surrendering to police. No one was hurt because she took control...but if a fight had broken out my money would have been on her.

Working in what was really a man's world back in the day didn't cost these women their femininity. Both gals were always perfectly coiffed and stylishly dressed as they spent day after day in the work force. Their humor and intellect was always evident, and they were both admired by so many of us. I feel lucky to have known them, and in their passing they've left some really big high heels to fill.
 
Today's memorial service has made me think about the quality of the memories I want to leave behind;  there's no doubt these two long time friends are a tough act to follow. How fortunate we are to be left with the memory of two strong and capable women who were always young at heart, always ahead of their time....and gone too soon.
 

Sunday, August 7, 2016

The Birthday Card






One year after moving in we are finally making some headway in our new home. It is, for the most part, just about the way we want it. The only remaining work to be done is in the basement, and that's all on me.

Everything we moved that didn't fit upstairs is now lurking in the corners of our huge basement. Finally I'm at the point where I need an organized space to work in. I need a place to write, a place to work on crafts and a spot to sort, scan and maybe scrapbook some of the thousands of pictures I've saved over the years. It's a tall order for one space but I've made some progress.

If there is one thing I've come to understand about myself it is that I have an abstract mind. Give me a concrete function and I'm bored in an hour...which also describes my reaction to getting organized. I'm a creative person who resents wasting time putting things on shelves, in drawers and wrestling stuff to the dumpster, but that is the task at hand.


Today, working toward some of that much-needed organization, I popped the tape on a big box that lurked under a table and, when opened, was found to be chocked full of things I've kept over the years. I dug through pictures and napkins and matchbooks and news paper clippings.  A thick stack of greeting cards was held together by a rubber band that broke as I clumsily worked it over the edge of the big bundle. I discovered dozens of cards from my (first) retirement, their handwritten notes made me smile and remember how much I enjoyed working with this terrific staff of broadcasters.  Out tumbled  Valentines Day cards from my husband, anniversary cards, thank you notes, Mothers Day cards from the children and hand made cards from our grand kids. Goodness! I realized I must never have thrown anything away in my whole life!

Digging deeper into the box I found a large manila envelope that I really didn't remember, but then I hardly remembered keeping any of this stuff. I dumped the envelope into my lap and out tumbled a bunch of birthday cards from my mother. Each envelope, some to me and some to my husband, was addressed in my mother's elegant handwriting. Inside each card was a personal note; I read each and every one, hearing them in my mother's voice. I remembered chiding mom for being so particular about the cards she chose. No “grab any card under $3.00 and run” for my mother. Oh no...she would spend hours, sometimes in several stores, until she found just the right verse. Mom didn't keep a diary, but each carefully chosen card spoke for her just as plainly. I sat really reading the cards, likely for the first time, and I knew she had carefully chosen this just for me or for her much loved son in law. After penning her own message to the inside of the card she would always tuck a crisp dollar bill, fresh from a special trip to the bank, inside. When our children were little mom always gave them a gift, but she also tucked a dollar into their birthday cards. My husband jokingly said he wanted his dollar, too! It became our joke and forever after every one of us got a dollar in our birthday cards.

 Mom never handed us our birthday cards; she always mailed them as if handing one over diminished it's worth. She took such pains with cards, and I now realized these really were my mom's expression of how much she loved us. After reading each one I carefully put them back into their envelopes, the dollar bills still tucked inside each card, and tied them with a red ribbon before I slipped them back into the larger manila envelope.

Greeting cards have always seemed to me to be a product trumped up by the card companies.  I've always sent cards out of obligation, almost never because I truly wanted to.  Now it occurred to me in the hurry of my younger day to day life I had missed the beautiful verses, had not thought about my mom making a trip to the bank for a crisp new dollar,  and over looked the carefully addressed envelope when it arrived in the mail. Of course I was busy with work, with children, with a house and the myriad of other things that kept me occupied. And there was always next year, the next birthday, the next card....wasn't there?

In spite of the fact that it is completely against my nature I will continue to try to organize my house, my space, my life.  I learned something today that might make it a bit more palatable:  I learned that we do not know how many tomorrows we have, but if we do the little things today with great love they can speak for us long after we are gone.             

Thank you mom...it was great being with you today.

Life is Good

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Hip, hip hooray!!!

  


Life is full of anniversaries, the yard sticks against which we measure the advancement of the years. This week is a special anniversary for me, the one year mark for my hip replacement.

It seems just yesterday I was sitting in the office of a very nice young doctor who makes his more-than-adequate living from replacing the worn out hips and knees of people in my age group. Since most professionals now look like “kids” to me, I found it reassuring that this young man wore a suit and put forth some effort to look like a grown up. I'm pretty sure I have handbags older than he is...so I really appreciated the effort.

After a perfectly dreadful summer I got my nifty new hip on July 27, 2015. I came home determined to be back on my feet in record time, only to discover that you can't “out stubborn” a joint replacement. Subscribing to the “I'll bring this body to its knees if I have to” school of thought I pushed my exercises to the limit as I forced myself to do more, more, more. Five weeks into my recovery my new hip came out of its shiny new socket, necessitating an unbelievably painful return trip to the hospital to have it put back where it belonged. My well dressed surgeon then sent me to have a brace fitted. This uncomfortable monkey suit was to be worn 24/7 for a couple of months.  I hobbled around in my white plastic shell looking for all the world like an injured Star Wars Storm Trooper. I found it to be a great conversation starter...

While my original plan was to be a shining example of joint replacement success, I turned out to be a cautionary tale. My healing process was slow and tedious, but with the exception of the joint displacement there was surprisingly little pain. Cussed impatience was my worst enemy, but as is always the case time marches on. I marked the three month, the six month and now the twelve month anniversary with something akin to happiness. It took nine months to be able to walk any distance comfortably; now at the one year mark I sometimes forget, if only for a moment, that I've had anything done. There is no feeling of having a foreign object in my body, and my movement isn't restricted by anything; I hope to be back in yoga class this fall and I've already returned to kayaking.

When I visited my surgeon for my final visit this week I was walking without a cane or a limp; on my first visit I arrived as a sullen mess in a wheel chair. The doctor originally told me I'd be feeling pretty well in six weeks, but that it would take a year to a year and a half to be fully healed. Although I was in a cast by the six week mark, he was right about the year to a year and a half healing period. He thought therapy was a good idea, but I stubbornly put it off because I thought I could do this on my own.  When I finally realized I was wrong the therapy helped enormously.

My husband and I celebrated my “anniversary” by going to the Y for our regular work outs, a routine that helps both of us keep moving. I am so thankful to live in a day when joint replacement is so routine as to be boring. Like replacing the tires on a car, I feel as if I'm good for a lot more miles now.

Since my surgery I've talked to so many people who have had or are facing joint replacement and I always give them the same advice:

Be patient...it's going to take a year of your life to feel better so get on with it.

Be careful...don't push your body beyond its limits; you'll pay for it if you do.

And finally, listen to your doctor. Chances are he's actually been to school for this and knows what he is talking about. You may think he looks like a sixteen years old who just passed his driver's test, but my bet is the hours he just recently spent playing video games is now paying off in terrific eye/hand coordination that serves him well in the surgical suite. 

My nattily dressed young doctor and I now have an anniversary that won't make either of us misty-eyed with remembrance, but it's likely one I will never forget.

                                                     Life is Good

Thursday, July 7, 2016

On a Wing and a Prayer









We stood on the tarmac, probably two to three hundred people watching the sky as the rain and two C-130s advanced on the airfield. Finally an airplane broke through the cloud cover; a cheer went up as it flew over our heads. As the happy crowd watched the impossibly big plane dipped it's wing in a salute to its own homecoming. The last of the deployed 179th was home after four long months in the war torn middle east.

Looking around the crowd I watched wives and children and parents and friends of all ages waving signs and cheering as the planes taxied to their final positions. Flags flapped, children danced with impatience and relatives carried home made “welcome home” signs. I looked around me and thought about the sacrifices some these families had made over these long months; the babies that had been born and the problems that had been solved while these young men and women were in a foreign country doing jobs I don't understand, for reasons I cannot begin to fathom. I imagined I could hear a collective sigh of relief as the plane's precious cargo came down the steps and finally into the arms of their loved ones.

My son in law was one of those returning young men who was met by a thankful family. The look of relief and love on the faces of our family and the faces of so many others was beautiful to see. The young people strode across the tarmac to calls of “daddy....daddy!!”....and “over here!” My eyes welled with tears and feelings of patriotism and pride filled me to the brim while words like honor, duty, sacrifice, bravery, and devotion ran through my head. I was unashamedly proud of these young people and America.

Later that evening I turned on the evening news and was assaulted by the now constant stream of murder, mayhem and ugliness. The never ending political coverage, the shooting and killing and threat of terrorism poured out of the flat black screen until I switched it off. I returned to thoughts of the plane breaking out of the clouds and the happy faces and cheers that had surrounded me. We can argue later about whether we are the greatest nation or just a war machine, about gun control and politics and the psychology of killing that seems to grip these times in which we live. For this one day I chose to be a proud American and celebrate the return of the fine young men and women who give so much to this country.

Looking back on that amazing afternoon I have a suggestion for the next president of the United States. I only ask that you stand on the tarmac on any military base in the country and watch our young people return from their assignments. Look around you, Mr. or Mrs. President, and hold on to those words that will undoubtedly run through your head as you watch the planes land and the flags wave. Honor, duty, sacrifice, bravery...the words that describe what our country should always be about. Look at the faces of the waiting loved ones, they don't care if you are a Republican or a Democrat, but not one of them wants to hear what pours out of our televisions any longer! We are the people you are elected to serve, and we expect you to do your job with the same dedication our military shows as they serve this country.  That is your mission.  It's been a long time...and we all want to come home again.

                                                                Life is Good







Sunday, May 1, 2016

Change is in The Air

It doesn't seem possible a year has passed, but it was last spring I took a walk down memory lane....on Radio Lane.  It was Ron Colman's, (Colman in the Morning)  last week on the air on WNCO FM.   For many years he had been the voice country listeners in mid Ohio woke to every Monday through Friday; now he was hanging up his head set and retiring.   It would be a big change for the long-time listeners, and for Ron.

I parked in the familiar parking lot at the station and thought about the hundreds of times I had passed through these doors over the years.  I was the first receptionist in this new building on Radio Lane when WMAN moved from atop the Ohio Theatre building on Park Avenue West in Mansfield, Ohio in the late 70's.  It looked palatial after the shabby offices and studios in the old place.

As the years flew by I would try my hand at copy writing and do some on air work.  The beauty of small market radio in those days was that you got the chance to do anything you wanted to try and were willing to do for free.  We called it experience.   Eventually I left to do other things; when I finally returned to that building in the early 90's it would be as the sales manager. Eventually I'd become the fourth manager since the station signed on, and the first female general manager.

Things had changed, but it didn't seem all that strange walking into the WMAN building to wish a WNCO employee well.  The Mansfield and Ashland stations had melded into a Clear Channel ownership in the early 2000's. After the acquisition the market group would consist of Mansfield, Ashland, Mt. Vernon, Shelby, Galion, and later Marion, boasting fourteen sets of call letters in all.   The challenge would be to create one cohesive group from individual staffs of former competitors....all under the flag of "radio".  My challenge was to travel between these markets to accomplish that, and it was an experience I relished.

Although I divided my time between three or four buildings at any given time, my home base was Mansfield.  Walking into the building that day I couldn't help but think  of the people who had passed through these doors over the years.  They were men I looked up to at WMAN in the early days, like Bob James and Chuck Carson.   There are many voices I remember today as well as the day they opened a microphone:  Mark Hellinger, Bill Friend, Marvin Cade, John Foster and Gene White.  I can still hear the much later  Y-105 air talent like Jeff Schendel, Michael Hayes, Matt Anthony, Tony and Chelly, Mr. Ed, Brian Moore and Eric Hansen.  News reporters like Ron Allen (who celebrated his 50th year in radio just before retiring last year)  Phil Linne, Dave Pennell, Jeff Swank and Greg Heindel kept the news stories coming.  Behind the scenes a dedicated staff of business managers, sales staffs and managers, traffic directors, program directors, engineers and  copy writers kept pace with the on air staff.  Theirs were names you might not recognize, but they made the machine that is a radio station run just the same.  These talented and capable people did their "real" jobs and still managed to turn up in commercials when they were pulled into the recording studio on a moments notice.

We were an odd breed in those days, we radio folk.  In every small market the staff would fight through blizzards and storms and floods to keep the station on the air.  Before the backup generators were sufficient to support the lights in the building we read commercial copy, weather reports and cancellations by candle and flashlight.  Telephones clanged constantly as staff members answered and typed stacks of cancellations for announcers to read.  The public could count on this group to be there because we were radio.

 I smiled to myself as I stood in the lobby,  my mind conjuring the vision of well remembered former co-workers moving through the studios, up and down the steps, and out the back door.  I would not have been shocked to see a nattily dressed Chuck Carson, or Gene White with his ever present huge mug of coffee, or Mark Hellinger with his infectious grin and a big bag of Jones Potato Chips clutched in one hand, walking down the hall.

Finally I walked into the control room to wish Ron Colman all the best in his retirement.  Somehow over the years the Mansfield and Ashland staffs had managed to navigate the road from competitors to comrades, and I wanted him to know I had enjoyed the trip.

If I counted all the people I've worked with in radio in the four markets I managed I'm sure the number would be in the hundreds; many I still consider good friends. I honestly think I was blessed to work with the best and most dedicated broadcasters anyone could ask for.  Some, sadly, are gone now.  Some of them have moved on to other radio jobs or other careers, but some are still there.  On the rare occasions I stop in I see lots of new faces, employees likely as dedicated and capable as their predecessors. I know they're busy making their own memories of  a different version of a business so many of us embraced and enjoyed.

Time marches on....enjoy the stroll.

                                                         
                                                   Life is Good






Saturday, March 26, 2016

Technology Pain

It seems no matter how little or big the price tag my laptops always come fully equipped with problems.  The new, sexy model I purchased in September will be boxed and on its way to HP repair next Tuesday if the polite man I spent so much time on the phone with yesterday knows what he is talking about.  Computers, like doctor visits, are a necessary evil that only lead to pain and frustration.

It was only after three and a half hours of listening to the lilting accent and the intermittently repeated eight bars of "on hold" music that I was instructed to take the laptop to Best Buy.  There they could replace the magical part that had developed some lightening storm of misfires.

At the store I was greeted by a very nice guy with an English accent who informed me that : 1.) They couldn't work on my computer because I didn't have a Geek Squad contract and 2.) they would have to run the same diagnostics I had just spent 3 1/2 hours on the phone having done.  After they personally verified the problem they would send it on to HP repair, and why did they send you here any how? The time is five to six weeks to get it back and, by the way, your hard drive will likely be empty.  Hope you didn't want any of that stuff in your folders.  Fortunately they can help me out by doing a back up for the neat sum of about a hundred fifty to a hundred seventy five dollars.  Of course I could do the back up myself with a handy-dandy external hard drive for just sixty bucks.  Just plug it in, click twice on the yellow box and all will be well.  The device is idiot proof (my term, not his) and the savings will just roll in.

I paid the price for the external drive, bundled up my computer and trundled out to my car.  My thought was I could do the back up there and still make this trip count by leaving the computer for repair.  Opening the box for the idiot proof back up device I realized that I had been fooled for the second time today by a man with an accent.  Opening the box required all my expertise....I had nothing left when the warranty guide in fourteen languages (I never did see any in English) fell out accompanied by a two inch square with the picture of a computer with the device attached to it.  Now completely depressed I headed home.

At the end of my earlier call the tech told me he would call me back in two hours time to make certain Best Buy would accommodate my repairs under the warranty.
Yeah right....like that's going to happen.  But surprise, he called as I was valiantly trying to decipher the on screen manual for the back up device.  I explained all of my developing problems.  He assured me he would send a return box to my house by Tuesday; after I drop the laptop in the mail I'm looking at seven to ten working days for return.   And the back up device was not a problem...he installed it by VPN and backed up all my folders.  Good humored through all my ignorant questions and my total lack of ability, he stayed on line doing the back up as my computer continued to shut down time after time.   By the time we got off the phone I was sure this technician super hero should be added to my Christmas card list at the very least!

Like many of you I've complained about "calling India" and laboring to understand the tech.  I've railed about sending jobs out of the country and wondered why we can't find enough geeks on our own soil to staff the repair desk phones.  Now I think I understand.....

Sending the calls to phone banks in India has nothing to do with the lack of brain power in our country.  We have enough 23 year old geeks eating Cheetos in their parents basements to more than fill the jobs.   I imagine it has something to do with what it costs per hour, although I am not certain about that.   What it's all about is customer service and attitude.

As I spoke with this young man yesterday it was just like every other plea for help I've made to one of these call centers....and believe me there have been many hours of my life I won't get back spent on the phone with these guys.  Imagine multiplying the calls from a sixty something woman with the most basic of computer skills,and a complete lack of estrogen,by a gazillion.  Throw in thousands of ill tempered males of all ages who demand the service they deserve RIGHT NOW!!  Still, after dealing with all those crazy people these techs are polite, calming and well trained.   Send those same calls to a phone bank in New York and think how the level of service, not to mention the tone, might change dramatically.  It isn't the level of expertise we are lacking, but the level of customer service. We are not a patient people, let alone a polite bunch any more.

I think it speaks volumes that a man in India was more polite, more concerned about my problem, and more informed than the face to face clerk in the store from which I purchased this computer.   While he wasn't rude, the store clerk made it quite clear my problem was not his to solve.  Happy to sell me another piece of technology, there was no offer of assistance to make sure I could actually use it.  It was obvious he wasn't trained to consider I might possibly be in the market for another computer, or a TV or appliances...the future sales that keep any company afloat.

Could it be that one of the biggest problems we face in job creation in this country has to do with attitude?   No matter which side of the counter you are on, or which end of the telephone, any situation starts with your attitude.   Maybe if we were better customers we'd have better service...and better service might just bolster sales and create more customers.   Something to think about.

                                                           Life is Good