Carol Goodman Kaufman

Musings

Snow Job

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growing_orange_on_tree_187928It’s snowing again. Rather, still. Here in Central Mass we will be at, or pretty close to, the seven-foot mark by the time this latest in a series of winter storms ends. And, while trees and shrubs dripping with glistening white frosting are pretty enough to illustrate a book of fairy tales, the glossy, gleaming ice dams building up on my roof are big enough to sink an ocean liner.

Thank goodness for my little sunroom, where I keep houseplants and fruit trees, along with a tray of herbs and vegetables I am attempting to grow from seed. If only the sun would shine.

Today is watering day. Normally, I might just look at that chore as another in a long list of tedious items on my to-do list, but today it is a pleasure. Why? Because within seconds of the water hitting the soil, the aroma of the rain forest begins to waft up and cause body and soul to rejoice.

This hint of Mother Nature’s perfume lasts only a moment, but for as long as it does, I can forget the swirling snow, the howling wind, and the sub-zero wind-chill factor. I can enter my little fantasy world in which I pick my breakfast orange from my own tree,
and enjoy it with a cup of coffee and the morning paper in the open-to-the-sky courtyard of my hacienda.

At least until the phone rings.

The Wish Book

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My kitchen table sits next to a big bay window that looks out onto my backyard. I love to sip my morning coffee gazing out at the expanse of green surrounded by all manner of trees and shrubs. Crab apple, wisteria, potentilla, hydrangea, spirea, climbing roses. Their vivid colors against the lush greens fill my mornings with cheer. Isn’t it great to be alive? And, isn’t it amazing how many shades of green there are?

As the frigid cold descends upon Central Massachusetts, thank goodness for the evergreens. Rhododendrum, azalea, spruce, and arbor vitae provide a warming counterpoint to the bare gray branches that make shiver. Even when it snows, the branches of these backyard stalwarts provide a sculptural framework for sparkling white frosting.

Round about January I start to fantasize about palm trees. Tall and gangly, with a Dr. Seuss-like mop of foliage on their heads, they sway in balmy tropical breezes in time to the rhythm of steel drums while I lounge in a hot sun drinking fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them.

But I am not in the tropics. I am in New England. So, I sit with baited breath awaiting the arrival of the postman. In his bag should be the annual onslaught of seed catalogues. These books filled with fruits, berries, vegetables, and flowers entice me and, even though I know that my plans are bigger than my acreage, I devour their pages with hungry eyes. Vibrant reds, sunny yellows, rich purples – they compete for my attention. And I want them all.

Astronomical spring will be here in about 59 days, and perhaps the path to the backyard will be clear enough to be able to plant some peas, even if I have to start them in the cold frame. In the meantime, I am poised like a Pavlovian dog waiting for the postman to ring twice and set me to salivating.

Forced Labor?

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So the Supreme Court has already told us that corporations are people. This week the nine justices, in their next “logical” step in anthropomorphizing businesses, has ruled that a company’s owners’ religious beliefs can entitle them to deny birth control coverage to their female employees.
While I would never deny the right of anybody to have religious beliefs, I am appalled that the Court says these companies are allowed to impinge their own on the beliefs and health care of others who happen to draw paychecks from them.
I had a dream last night. All the employed people in this country who believe in the right to choose their own health care quit their jobs at Hobby Lobby and Conestoga, et al. en masse, leaving these companies and the rest of their ilk with nobody to staff their stores and warehouses.
Of course, my dream is indeed just a flight of fancy. The women – and men – who work at these shops don’t have the luxury of turning away a paycheck and important benefits. But, wouldn’t it be amazing if other businesses with more progressive – more humane – views would pledge to hire all these good workers so that there would be no downside for those who quit?
Wouldn’t a massive, nationwide action make a statement that would be heard all across the corporate world’s ledger books?

The Cane Mutiny

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I was determined to find the silver lining through the drug-induced post-surgical cloud. But, it turns out that there’s not just silver. We opened every drape in the bedroom, and through the wall of windows, I could see a veritable Joseph’s coat of colors: red and yellow and blue and pink and gold. Skies are either robin’s egg blue or black with threatening rain clouds. Sheets of water flowed in straight lines from the sky to the grass three stories below me.

And the sounds! Monday morning the garbage and recycling trucks rumbled through the neighborhood. Birds chirped their various songs. The growl of lawnmowers filled the air, accompanied by the buzz saws cutting wood.

In the evening, the rhythmic thrumming of a basketball on a driveway, was accompanied by the joyful shouts of kids enjoying the summer. The roar of motorcycles on distant streets brought back vivid memories of lying in my childhood bed, longing to participate in the summer night’s activities, while a mournful whistle carried through the humid night air ignited a desire to hop a train.

And, the smells of summer. The fragrance of freshly mown grass, the heady aroma of lilies of the valley my neighbors brought. A whiff of gasoline from the cacophonous lawnmowers and weed whackers and edge trimmers. The earthy tang of soil dampened by rain.

Then! When the weather cooperated I was able to hobble along on my cane outdoors. Up and down the street a few times a day.

How much I now appreciate that few minutes of freedom, drenched in the soothing sun. Confinement has definitely made me appreciate so much of what I have taken for granted.

I can’t wait to throw the darn cane out.

Top-Shelf Treatment

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Last Thursday I underwent a total hip replacement, and since then any sense of modesty I might have had has disappeared. Doctors and RNs and LPNs and nurses aides and physicians assistants and personal care assistants  and physical therapists and occupational therapists and … all looking at me in my most naked and vulnerable state. Poking and prodding, asking intimate questions about my bodily functions, and helping me accomplish them.

Except that the one thing I would gladly have let any of these wonderful health professionals do — injecting blood thinners into my body – was up to me. Every morning for a month, I am expected to stick a needle into myself. In the past week I have designed a nice half-moon of red-turning-purple bruises around my navel, but just today I began to wonder if I should work at transforming them into a work of art, a kind of dichromatic tattoo. A bouquet of roses, perhaps? A cascade of wisteria?

But it was yesterday’s visit by the OT that made me realize just how weak and exposed I have become. Marna was a perfectly lovely young professional who, I know, only had the best of intentions as she asked her list of questions and suggested a number of tricks and tools that would help me with such tasks as picking up stuff from the floor (did I always drop so much?) and putting on my socks.

Then she handed me a roll of shelf paper. Shelf paper? Now, I know that the purpose of occupational therapy is to help me negotiate the daily activities of life, but did she also expect me to line the kitchen shelves and drawers in my weakened condition? Was spring cleaning among the exercises for the newly cut?

No. What Marna wanted me to do was to place shelf paper on the shower chair every time I bathe — to ensure that my ample rear end doesn’t slide off the seat as might a sweating glass of lemonade on a patio table. What a practical idea, if embarrassing.

On the other hand, if I get better fast, maybe I can use the remaining paper on the roll to finish up my spring cleaning.

Pimping Barbie

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I’m not proud of having used the television as a babysitter, but necessity is the mother, yada, yada, yada. Every afternoon when my kids were little, I would turn the TV to Channel 2, Boston’s PBS station, scheduling laundry folding and supper preparation around The Electric Company, Mr. Rogers, and Sesame Street. I rationalized that it was, after all, public television. How much harm could it do? It was both educational and commercial free.

Fast forward a few years. The kids are grown and gone, but the TV is still on. I’m not a rabid sports fan, but I do sit in the room with a book or my needlework when Joel watches games on TV – golf, baseball, football, whatever. When it comes to the Super Bowl, however, I do look up regularly to watch the commercials. This year, two Budweiser ads, one featuring horses and a puppy, the other a surprise parade for a returning soldier, pulled at my heartstrings. The Foot Locker commercial in which heavyweight fighter Mike Tyson returns Evander Holyfield’s ear and asks for forgiveness was a riot.

But I was somewhat taken aback to look up to see the Muppets advertising the Toyota Highlander, singing their “Ain’t no Room for Boring” routine. While I can certainly understand Toyota’s desire to use the cloth creatures to attract buyers, most of whom probably grew up with Sesame Street, I am disheartened that the beloved characters should have been drafted into this enterprise. Sure, Disney owns the Muppets now, and nobody could be more commercial than the company that spawned Mickey Mouse, but I am still disappointed. I guess I had hoped that the Muppets could have remained pristine and commercial-free, in one last frontier devoid of hucksterism.

And then, what should arrive in our mailbox recently? This year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. And, who is featured in it? Barbie! The favorite toy of millions of American girls for generations.

I am uncomfortable with these two scenarios and am trying to explain the discomfort to myself, so I put this out to you readers.

I’m certainly not against the great capitalist enterprise that supports the American economy. I understand that Barbie is a toy. Toy manufacturers have to make a living — as do we all — and they have many employees depending on them for their own security. And Mattel, Barbie’s maker, saw sales slide 13% in its most recent quarter – the all-important holiday season. So, it is understandable that they would want to explore all avenues to reignite interest in their famous/infamous plastic doll. And, as with the Muppets, Barbie was an important part of SI’s readers’ growing up years, so would trigger positive memories among them.

Yet, what was Mattel thinking when they decided that the SI swimsuit edition, the issue that exists to objectify near-naked women, would be an appropriate venue in which to display their signature product? My gut reaction was that Barbie’s appearance in this magazine smacks of child pornography. But then, she doesn’t look like a child.

Which then brings us to the argument that has raged over the doll for decades: Barbie is not a realistic model of an adult human female body, and she represents an unattainable “ideal” that warps little girls.

So, what am I so uncomfortable about? If Barbie had appeared as an athlete in an issue devoted to the Olympics, dressed in ski or luge wear, would I have felt the same? I don’t think so. Modeling positive social behavior – in this case, pursuit of the dream of excellence in sports – I can get behind, even if I personally have the athletic ability of a doorknob.

I’m curious as to how many young girls’ parents “reading” the magazine (“I only buy it for the articles”) saw any problem with this scenario.

Dear readers, please respond!