Monday, July 24, 2006

Real Winners Claim a Prize Called Character

Real Winners Claim a Prize Called Character

Have you ever won anything from the code inside a cereal box? Has yours ever been the winning selection from a million paper slip entries? Do you know of anyone who has scored a major prize from a soda cap, candy bar wrapper, Web site or telemarketer’s survey? Yeah, neither have I.

Believe it or not, there are people who have won large sums of money in lotteries and never claimed the cash. A quick Internet search of unclaimed prizes shows that awards in excess of $200,000 still wait on the winners for pay out. Sometimes lottery companies hold the money for a few months, sometimes for a year. Then, the funds go back into state coffers or to special accounts, like the Court Appointed Special Advocate Program, which provides assistance to abused, abandoned and neglected children.

Somehow, I am pretty sure that if I were the official winner of major bucks, I would go to the trouble to claim the prize. In fact, if I were to win so much as a pair of movie tickets, I would likely celebrate like a showboating running back with both feet in the end zone. The only contest I have ever won on luck alone was at a shoe store. You had to name the company mascot. I came up with “Chauncey.” I received one pair of running shoes that made a deeply disturbing noise when I walked. My one and only time to win, I was still a loser.

Winning on luck and winning on skill are two different things, of course. I have entered writing contests. The few times I have done well, it felt great. When I have lost, which is often, it felt like someone dropped a ton of bricks on my ego and crushed the remnants of my self-esteem into the ground with their evil, dream-killing boots. At least when all you have at stake is a box top and a postage stamp, losing isn’t such a big deal.

As a parent, I try to help my kids understand that winning isn’t really what life is all about, even though it sure can feel that way much of the time. The world loves a winner, a grand prize, a trophy engraved with “First Place.” We hail our champions and forget second place, even if only a millisecond or a hundredth of a point separates them. Those are the winners hailed on TV and in the press. I like to think about the ones I see in less conspicuous places. They are the ones I hope my children remember, too.

Every day, someone you know will cross an unseen finish line. They will complete chemotherapy. They will read their first book. They will learn to walk again. They will claim 30 days, clean and sober. They will get up, every day, and tend to a dying loved one. They will serve their country. They will smile at a stranger simply because they recall how good it felt when someone smiled at them. They will win, again and again, in the silent obscurity of everyday heroes.

I know plenty of people who reach lofty places through deception and less than honorable means. Lots of folks see them as winners. This is one of the hardest lessons to teach my children, that just because you claim the prize doesn’t necessarily make you top notch. In the contests that truly matter, character always wins. Contrary to what society often promotes, it isn’t where you finish, but how you run the race.

“You can’t win if you don’t buy a ticket,” they say. I’ll buy that. I have never known a cereal box winner, never ridden in a car with the magic key, and never claimed so much as a consolation prize from a scratch-and-win card. But I have known real winners. They purchase their tickets with hearts of gold and never fail to claim a prize called honor. No matter what the scoreboard says, they always come out on top.

Old Rock Rolls Nicely on iPod

Old Rock Rolls Nicely on iPod

My son bought an iPod several months ago. Since that time, we have revisited some of the greatest songs to rock, crank, schmooze and snooze the music scene of the last four decades. On his current playlist are artists as diverse as Louis Armstrong and Lenny Kravitz, Steve Perry and Brad Arnold. If you don’t know who Brad Arnold is, just ask the folks in Escatawpa, MS about 3 Doors Down.

Lots of things happen when middle-aged mamas and daddies listen to the music of their youth. One of the more remarkable results is that their children are forced to endure lots of air guitar solos and sad attempts at dancing. The look on their faces resembles a mixture of pain and unmitigated mortification, which is not far removed from the expression on our faces when we try to bust a move.

Sam’s iPod has brought about another phenomenon. His dad introduced him to Led Zeppelin. The kid took to it like Jimmy Page on a Gibson guitar. Now the two of them bob their heads in unison to tracks like “Whole Lotta Love” and “Living Loving Maid,” oblivious to the fact that they’re cruising in Mom’s seriously uncool minivan. Recently at their parents’ place in Virginia, my husband and his brother faced off in a round of “Name that Tune” of nothing but Zep. Most of the time, all they needed was a single note to rattle off the song and album title. It’s a skill that my son is developing with amazing alacrity.

The more we download, the more I realize what a huge influence music has on what we remember and why. I hear “Desperado” by Don Henley and recall dancing with my dad on my wedding day. “Groovy Kind of Love” by Phil Collins reminds me of college weekends on the Coast, hanging out at Gorenflo’s. Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” brings back memories of high school and days spent wondering what the future would hold.

And now each time “When the Levee Breaks” pulses from the iPod, I always think of how Katrina rocked our world here in the Gulf South and how Led Zeppelin brought a new level of understanding between a dad and his son. Leather Lungs can still work his magic.

Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis bridged the gap of two generations, one steeped in the conventional and the latter charged with the rebellious roar of rock and roll. My parents loved the music, and so did we. And now with online downloads of music made before they were born, today’s kids are finding out that those about to rock have been doing so for a very long time.

Sam has observed that some artists produce “one hit wonders” then simply fade away. One of our favorite songs is “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum. Curiosity had me look him up. At www.spiritinthesky.com, Norm is still creating and reports that he continues to write songs, another lesson in how the joy of music is in the making, not necessarily the fame and fortune.

Several years ago, my daughter and husband created a CD mix of songs by artists like Roger Miller and Patsy Cline. They sang loudly and passionately about trailers for sale or rent and walking after midnight. There is no doubt that when that girl of ours marries, somebody will request a Roger Miller tune at the reception, no matter what the in-laws think.

Thanks to computer technology and music lovers online, we can compile the soundtrack of our lives. When my son sings along with an old Kansas hit or jams to a little ZZ Topp, it’s like time travel. I remember how that music set the tone for my youth, how the lyrics sometimes felt written just for me. I am glad to see that the rockers of my generation hold their own with today’s hottest musicians.

So, as Mr. Bob Seger suggests, just take those old records off the shelf. But don’t sit and listen to them by yourself. Today’s music may not have the same soul. Give your kids that old time rock and roll along with some memorable riffs on the air guitar.

Monday, July 10, 2006

People Get Ready

People Get Ready

One of the sad things about going on vacation is that it ends. My husband and two children visited family in Virginia last week while I tackled an extensive painting project in the kitchen. In the resulting quiet, I had a lot of time to think while I scraped and scrubbed and painted. I recalled the times when I was glad to see the end of things, when it felt good to know closure had come.

We tend to dread endings, especially things like birthday celebrations, Christmas, summer vacation. I’m the sort that will see a great expanse of time before me and arrive at a million ways to use it. Before I know it, it’s all done, and I can see that my expectations were far greater than circumstances would allow.

Such was the case in the kitchen. You’ve seen the home makeover shows. Here’s a word to the wise: things do not happen in real life like they do on TV. In between that shot of a tired, dirty kitchen and the panoramic view of the glistening, remodeled one is a long stretch of hard work, failed attempts and probably a lot of cussing. Not that I would know about that.

What got me glad about endings was the wallpaper border that encircled the five million miles of wall space above our cabinets. Apparently the man who hung it had a death wish for whoever had to remove it. Lucky me. It was applied with Gorilla Glue, I am certain, with a splash of Elmer’s, just for good measure. After two hours of hard labor, I had removed exactly one foot of wallpaper and half my hair.

So, it’s 2 a.m. and I’m bruised and sticky and three days into my project that has been severely handicapped by the super glued nature of that cursed wallpaper border. As I sat on the countertop in my crippled stupor, some abstract song faded on Music Choice and then one of my favorites broke out like a brave reminder. “People get ready, there’s a train a-comin’. You don’t need no baggage, you just get on board.”

"People Get Ready,” a 60’s gospel tune recorded by the Impressions, is the ultimate regenerator. If you haven’t heard the song, then you don’t know what you’re missing. It is a soulful and energetic piece that always makes me fall front and center when I feel like there is no end in sight. I recommend Eva Cassidy’s version on her CD “Songbird.” If you listen to that without something stirring deep, I don’t care to know about it.

“All you need is faith to hear the diesels hummin’. You don’t need no ticket, you just thank the Lord.” The lyrics talk about the end of life, when we leave this Earth and meet our maker. Far from a dirge, the rhythm, rhyme and searing melody had me considering how endings can be pure bliss. When you’re tired and weary, this song about death is a real picker upper. I know because after I listened to it, I made some serious headway on wallpaper removal.

Let’s just say that when the last of that begrudging border was scraped from the surface of my kitchen, I was beat up, exhausted, and still mad as the dickens that so much time had been spent doing nothing but taking care of the bad stuff. I had such grand plans! But now I can look at those chiseled walls and see that the end is in sight. My freshly painted cabinets look new again. My “Rain Lily” paint will cast the bright hue of sunshine in a big room where a somber, lifeless color has bothered me for years.

Things didn’t go as I had planned, but they went. And now I am off to the airport to join my family that I am aching to see. Don’t ever doubt it’s good to see some things come to an end. It’s just life’s way of delivering new beginnings, a chance to see that what’s a-comin’ could be simply glorious.

Friday, July 07, 2006

Politically Correct Leaves You Lonely, Hon

Politically Correct Leaves You Lonely, Hon

Something troubles me about the way we communicate with each other these days. I have been trying to put my finger on it. When I was growing up, the people I encountered on a daily basis used terms of endearment without flinching.

“Here you go, sugar,” said the librarian.

“Honey, you’ll find the syrup on aisle nine,” said the cashier.

“Sure, sweetie,” said just about anybody’s mom. “Have another cookie. I’ll make more.”

Today’s American way is to eliminate the friendly proclivity to share terms like these. They have been called offensive, trite and deemed as a form of sexual harassment. I once sat through a miserably dry presentation on how not to address coworkers.

The PowerPoint narrator said something to the effect of “Using terms like ‘babe,’ ‘honey’ and ‘doll’ when addressing a fellow employee is not acceptable and grounds for written reprimand and even dismissal.” Kind of makes you wonder what it would cost you to call your boss “dogbreath” or “backstabber,” doesn’t it?

Don’t get me wrong. I fully understand the potential for abuse of these terms. Sexual harassment in the form of a “babe” or a “sugar” to elicit intimate responses is surely as vile as tossing out expletives or physical groping. Delivered with salacious or vindictive intent, most words can be deemed inappropriate in any setting. It is the effective and solely harmless use of a “hon” now and then that seems to be in order for a country where we consider ourselves more than civilized and kind. I confess to grieving the fading custom of sharing a momentary but sincere concern for the comfort and disposition of others.

Maybe you are the sort who chafes at a waitress who calls you “sugar.” Maybe you are the kind of gal who insists you are nobody’s “sistah.” You might be a grown man who squirms when the VIP refers to you as “son.” But personally, I like it when the waiter asks, “What can I get for you, babe?”

I realize how politically incorrect that is. But I also realize how very distant and self-absorbed and sensitive we all have become thanks to the fear of appearing, well, insensitive. We greet each other with stone faces and respond with handshakes, never hugs.

Surely everyone should bear the right to say, “Please don’t call me ‘honey’” and have the request honored. I am the first to defend the protection of personal space and freedom of speech. Yet, I like to think that there remain people in this country who find pleasure in a pat on the back and a heartfelt, “Way to go, darlin’!”

Once while working as a second grade teacher’s assistant, I overheard two of our students in covert conversation.

“Yeah, I like Ms. Twedt pretty good,” one reported. “But for some reason, she thinks my name is ‘Hon.’”

After that, I dropped the “hon” and used their names consistently, until one of the more timid children nudged rocks on the playground with her toes and asked, “Why don’t you call me ‘Hon’ anymore?”

Recent studies by the National Science Foundation as well as Duke University and the University of Arizona indicate that loneliness is a rampant problem in our nation, an unhealthy condition that contributes to heart disease and depression. We are cultivating a culture of people who are intensely aware of what not to say and deeply alone because of what needs to be said.

So maybe there is a balance that we need to achieve, somewhere between the all or nothing. Perhaps there is room in our daily interaction to extend a greeting for the “babes” and “sweethearts” in our lives. Chances are, you know the people who will not take kindly to such and will avoid rocking their world.

For the rest of us, a “Thanks, hon,” is music and medicine for lonely hearts and ears.

Send an email to kristentwedt-subscribe@yahoogroups.com and receive a weekly reminder to visit this blog. Columns appear every Friday in The Hattiesburg American. Write to Kristen at krinzgal@yahoo.com.