Carol

When people aren’t deriding television as a “boob tube” and complaining about its deleterious effects on society, humanity, the environment, etc., they are standing around the water cooler discussing the most recent episode of Homeland or Orange is the New Black. Network executives seem to be of two minds (schizophremic?) as they veer in their program offerings from the sublime (House of Cards, Breaking Bad) to the ridiculous (Big Brother, Wipe Out), with America’s Got Talent and Shark Tank falling somewhere in between.

Recently, however, I discovered a secret. Somewhere, hidden deep in a Hollywood office, a language geek is surreptitiously laboring to teach us the correct way to speak English. In a recent episode of Blue Bloods, the Donnie Wahlberg character, hot-blooded Danny Reagan, gets into a dispute with his partner about the correct pronunciation of the word “forte.” She says “for-tay” and he demurs. They argue a bit, until Danny pulls out a Merriam-Webster to prove that the word is pronounced “fort.”

Now, this incident may have been an anomaly, a blip in the otherwise greatest-common-factor language of TV land, but it has got me thinking. What an idea! For those of us who have aged out of Sesame Street, learning can still be fun. Under-the-radar lessons could be just the ticket to raise the level of national conversation. Just think: A newscaster who actually knows when to use “me” and not “I” or “myself” as the object of a preposition would provide a terrific service. A meteorologist who knows when to use “less” and when “fewer.” A sports reporter who never, ever uses the word “hopefully” when (s)he is hopeful. The possibilities are endless.

Language lessons embedded into our favorite TV shows could be a remedial boost to those whose efforts in school may not have been as concerted as they could have been, or whose schools were below par. And for new immigrants who need to learn the language of their adopted country, this tool would be an invaluable gift to those who, like every greenhorn before them, come with the desire to achieve the American dream.

Hopefully,  with the help of TV, less people will talk bad in the future.

At sunset tonight, Jews around the world begin the commemoration of Tisha B’Av, the ninth day of the month of Av. Observed as a fast, the ninth is the date on which the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem were destroyed in 586 BCE and 70 CE, respectively. Other cataclysmic events have shaken the Jews on the ninth. King Edward I banished the Jews from England in 1290 CE, an act that remained in effect for for 350 years. And, the Spanish Expulsion Edict took effect that day in 1492, forcing 200,000 Jews into exile from the only home they had ever known.

While most Jews no longer observe the holiday, nor are probably even aware that it begins tonight, Tisha B’Av teaches an important lesson. Tradition holds that the Second Temple was destroyed due to “causeless hatred.” That hatred was manifested behaviorally by violence and property destruction.

That phrase –”causeless hatred” — came back to me when my book group recently discussed Comedy in a Minor Key, by Hans Keilson. Translated into English over sixty years after its original publication in 1947, Comedy tells the story of Wim and Marie, a young Dutch couple who shelter the Jewish Nico from the Nazis. The courage these two people show in the face of certain severe punishment is stunning, and stands out against the mundane details of their daily lives. At one point, Nico dies from pneumonia, and Wim and Marie realize that they have to dispose of the body without drawing attention to themselves. In the dark of night Wim and the local doctor carry the body from the house and place it under a park bench. Unfortunately, Marie has neglected to remove an identifying laundry mark from the pajamas in which Nico is clad. This error causes Wim and Marie to flee their home and go into hiding. As if their situation hadn’t been fraught with danger enough before, they now learn just what it feels like to be pursued by Nazis and their sympathizers. They understand only too well just how out of control hatred can become.

The book group discussion revived a memory of another conversation. Many years ago, soon after Joel and I moved to Worcester, our next-door neighbor, Jane, invited us to attend the annual book and author dinner at Clark University, where she served on the library’s board of trustees. She was convinced that I needed some intellectual stimulation, given that I had two children under the age of two. (She was probably correct on that score.) We went to the dinner program, most of which I don’t remember except that three of the four speakers were dull enough to put an insomniac to sleep, and the fourth was Stephen Birmingham, author of Our Crowd, The Right People, and Certain People – and many more books since.

At one point during the evening, Jane’s husband Harry turned to me and said, “I hope that if another Holocaust were to happen, that Jane and I would have the courage to hide you.” (For the life of me, I can’t remember how the topic came up. Had the speaker been talking about the Holocaust?),

His statement took my breath away. I mumbled a reply that I did, indeed, hope that they would find it in their hearts to shelter us if, God forbid, it should happen again. On one hand, I was horrified to think that society could devolve to the point of genocide after the lessons of the Holocaust. Hadn’t we learned enough from the past? (I have since grown much more cynical.) I was also shocked to know that my neighbors had been thinking about this subject — upon our moving next door?

On the other hand, I was impressed that this very WASP gentleman and his wife had actually thought about a situation that most people probably don’t think about.

I learned many years later that Harry had served at the Battle of the Bulge and had been awarded the Bronze Star. He had been in Europe and seen with his own eyes what causeless hatred can do.

Today we are seeing all over the globe the effects of virulent hatred, fueled by prejudice, racism, self-righteous religiosity, xenophobia, and general intolerance.

Perhaps a day of fasting and reflection might be in order.

I cannot tell a lie. No, I did not chop down a cherry tree; I planted one. Four years ago I placed a tiny sapling in the backyard to replace our long-suffering crabapple, with the idea to provide not only beauty and shade, but something good to eat. The tree grew steadily every year but produced nothing, not even a flower. So, last year I called Gurney’s out of concern that we had a dud of a tree. The woman in customer service instructed me to be patient (not my strongest quality), and that on the fourth year fruit would come.

She was right!  Last week, while tending the garden, I walked over to the tree full of hope and expectation. There I found bunches of small, hard green fruits on several of the branches. Not a lot, but enough to get me excited. Then, three days ago I spied a single bright red globe hanging among the green leaves (see photo).

That lone cherry dangled tantalizingly ten feet in the air. Now I know why those elevated work platforms telephone workers use are called cherry pickers. The tree has grown so tall in four short years that we will need a ladder to harvest the fruit.

How would I get to that crimson beauty? I grabbed a rake and tried to pluck it.  The tines were too widely spaced, so I found another one, with narrower tines. After about ten minutes I finally managed to knock that single cherry off the tree.

A lot of work for one little cherry, but it was delicious. Not as richly colored as it appeared against the green leaves, but red nonetheless.

A couple nights ago, Joel and I (mostly Joel) covered the tree with netting to prevent birds and squirrels from devouring the bounty. (BTW, another one of those tasks that falls under the “do not attempt this with husband” rules)

In a few weeks we should have a full harvest unless the critters figure out a way to get under the netting.

 

 

I think I may have a gambling problem. No, not the traditional casino poker, blackjack type of gambling. Not the Powerball ticket that I buy even though I have taught statistics and know that my chances are slim to none.

No, my gambling has to do with the weather. Three weeks ago the sun was shining, the sky was blue, the temperatures for several days had been warm, and that little patch of earth in my backyard was calling my name. I know, after many years of gardening, that one should never plant before Memorial Day or, as the seed packages all state, “after last danger of frost.” But it was so beautiful out and our growing season in New England is so darn short. And, isn’t our globe warming?

To plant or not to plant: That is the question.

I planted. I gambled with Mother Nature and put my herbs into the nicely turned earth.

I did run out of time that day and never did get the zucchini, eggplant, or tomatoes into the ground. Probably a fortuitous turn of events.

The next Sunday morning, I went out walking with my friend Sheila. It was sort of humid in the cool morning air, but definitely comfortable. When we had finished our hour-long trek, I headed home. After lunch – not 45 minutes later — Joel and I went outside to do some yard work. Lo and behold, the day had turned nasty.  The temperature had dropped about fifteen degrees, the wind was howling, and rain bordering on hail was pelting us in the face. Mother Nature had decided to punish her rebellious child.

I groaned. What had I done to my garden?

Surprisingly, the herbs withstood the onslaught and are still standing.

But, for the other vegetables, I will wait until Memorial Day to plant the veggies.

But today is so nice …