On a Clear Night

by Marnie O. Mamminga

  My most gratifying discovery was that high school students continually defy their negative stereotypes. I found them sensitive, articulate, and playful. Despite the existence of cliques, I observed many instances of students including someone who was left out or voluntarily helping someone struggling with an assignment. On a daily basis, I witnessed gentle acts of kindness, riveting gestures of loyalty, and comic punch lines that would put the whole cast of Saturday Night Live to shame.

  Just like Old Rip, I was a little dazed and confused upon re-entry, but, unlike Rip, I didn’t have the luxury of sitting around. There was too much to learn. By the time the last school bell rang at the end of the year, I’d made the transition.

  “You taught us good,” wrote one student before heading out the doors to summer’s freedom.

  Now, about those parts of speech.

  Technology Aversion

  I am unplugged and I like it that way.

  Do not call me on my cell phone. It’s never on.

  Email me only if you’re in no hurry for a response.

  Forget telling me to go online. It’s like sending me to Siberia. And frankly, I just don’t want to go there.

  I’m a techno dropout and I hope to stay that way. It’s not that I couldn’t learn to use all that technology out there, I just choose not to try.

  This is heresy for those who always carry their cell phones, people who are bonded to their email accounts like spiders to their webs and surf the internet for the latest news flash all the livelong day.

  I’ll take a pass, thank you very much.

  Although most people seem to feel this technology is a convenience, I believe just the opposite. Too much time, too much trouble. Cell phones need recharging, emails need returning, and computers need repairing. For me, depending on these gadgets can turn my day into a maze of madness.

  Being disconnected does have its disadvantages, however. Watching all those people walking and driving around with cell phones makes me feel friendless. I thought I had a social life, but I guess not.

  Not using email can also keep me out of the loop. Yet emails can eat up my day faster than a woodpecker on a rotten tree. So, to all those sentimental stories, sex ads, jokes, scams, and spams, I say, “No thank you, ma’am.”

  I admit, computers are necessary for many kinds of work, including my own. But when computers go awry, as mine often seems to do, it can just about drive me over the edge. Out of the blue (as at this very moment!), it will start to make a strange humming noise and, more often than not, freeze up as dead as Marley’s ghost. Suddenly I resemble a frantic character in a 1920s silent movie running around mouthing screams of Help! Save me!

  Alas, there is no rescuer in sight, and I must do what I am loath to do. I dial the mysterious help line. Here I am greeted by a customer service associate on the other side of the earth who walks me through backward-slash, forward-slash maneuvers as if we’re learning the intricate steps of a tango. Before long, I am on my hands and knees crawling under my desk and around the room as I unplug and replug a series of tangled cords, I know not why.

  Fortunately, after about two hours of these puzzling field exercises, the customer service associate not only has my computer back up and running, but is my new best friend and hero.

  Nevertheless, I hope not to have to call him anytime soon.

  Friends and family have enthusiastically espoused the digital world and tried to connect me, but I just yawn and look the other way.

  “Send me an attachment,” my son says.

  “I don’t do attachments,” I answer.

  “You’d love an iPod because you can create your own tune list,” a friend advises.

  “I’d rather hum,” I say.

  “Go online to this website and download the information,” suggests my sister.

  “Can’t you just tell me about it?” I ask.

  Add to my list that I rarely watch TV or go to movies, and you can just about hear a pin drop out there in my corner of cyberspace.

  My family has tried to nudge me along in the world of technology by giving me a cell phone. Yet on our annual Thanksgiving trip to Chicago, when we decided to split up for an hour and regroup, I was a dismal failure.

  “Everyone got their cell phones on?” asked one son. “Mom?”

  “I didn’t bring mine,” I sheepishly replied. “I unloaded it to make my purse lighter.”

  Sighs all around.

  They also gave me a digital camera for Christmas, yet the first time I went to the store to print the photos, the store’s computer crashed and my hour’s worth of work was gone.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” the clerk said with a shrug.

  See what I mean?!

  I am delighted when I discover others who share my aversion to high-tech stuff. Recently, a doctor told me he prefers to jot his notes on sticky pads than to scribble them on a Palm Pilot. It’s easier and faster. You the man, Doc.

  A college professor I know refuses to own a cell phone. He’d rather discuss the details of the Ottoman Empire in person with his students. It’s no wonder he’s a Cambridge scholar.

  And my lifelong friend from kindergarten says don’t even bother to email her. She’d rather hear my voice. Amen, sister.

  Yet, being a technological holdout is becoming more and more difficult. Refusing to participate is like swimming against the strong current of progress. Often, I feel how the last of the horseback riders must have felt at the turn of the twentieth century as those newfangled cars whizzed by, scaring the daylights out of horses and riders, (Just think of the problems we would have avoided if we’d kept to horses!)

  To be fair, I do use and need a small amount of this technology. And I acknowledge that much of it is extremely convenient and helpful to many people’s lives, families, and businesses.

  But it can also be a trap that fills one’s day with obligations. Not being drawn into that black hole provides a satisfying sense of freedom.

  So, give me an old-fashioned wall calendar to pencil in my appointments, a pad of paper for my notes, a newspaper for news, a book for entertainment, and the sound of the birds for music, and I’m a happy camper.

  “But how will you get by without using technology?” friends ask in disbelief.

  In the simplest possible way, I intend to find out.

  Washed-Up Dishwasher

  I’m giving up my dishwasher. That cranky, noisy, unreliable machine is out the door. Our current apparatus is well over ten years old and although it still runs, it does a lousy job.

  It’s time to either buy a new one or give it up. And since my New Year’s resolution is to take greener steps for our environmentally troubled earth, my dishwasher could be the first appliance to go.

  Because there is conflicting research out there about whether using a dishwasher or washing by hand is more environmentally friendly, I decide to check in with a dishwashing expert: my husband. For all thirty-seven years of our marriage, this gem of a guy has done the majority of our dinner dishes. Scrubbing the pots and pans and loading the dishwasher have been his tasks. I cook and he cleans up.

  This includes all the meals while our three hungry boys were growing up, birthday parties, Thanksgiving dinners for twenty-seven years in a row, and a huge variety of other gatherings with friends and family.

  Even he admits that he has had it with the dishwasher. By the time he’s done all the scraping and rinsing, the dishes look clean enough to go back on the shelves. Instead, they are loaded into that endlessly droning contraption that sounds like a dinosaur munching gravel for hours on end.

  Granted, there is the satisfaction of hiding the dirty dishes in the dishwasher in order to have an instantly clean counter, but the tedious task of unloading and putting away (my job) negates that benefit in the snap of a soap bubble.

  Proponents of environmentally friendly dishwashers say the machines are all right as long as you eliminate scraping and rinsing and turn off the dry featu
re. Now who does that?

  In addition to the energy required to manufacture and then to run them, the machines reportedly use between seven and fifteen gallons of water per cycle. Hand-washing proponents will tell you they don’t come close to using that much water, even though some dishwashing machine research suggests otherwise. (Hmm, I wonder who wrote those reports?)

  At our house there are only the two of us now, and on our test drive without the dishwasher for the past several weeks, we have discovered some pleasant surprises.

  First of all, the dinner dishes get done a lot faster without all that loading and unloading. My husband still washes, but I dry and put them away. It’s a great time to continue our dinnertime conversation.

  We also no longer hunt for that utensil that has been in the dishwasher for three days, waiting for a full load to run. It’s already back in its drawer.

  Recently, we entertained sixteen longtime friends for dinner, and even the dishwashing became a part of the evening’s entertainment. When the ladies insisted on helping with the dishes, my husband graciously accepted and bowed out. We had a blast visiting and laughing in the kitchen as I washed and they dried and put away. The counters were empty by the time everyone headed out the door after midnight.

  Now, that’s a nice way to end a party.

  There’s something comforting about washing dishes in warm, soapy water, and it also provides a great time to think and reflect. I’m often reminded of my growing-up years when my sister and I were required to wash and dry the dinner dishes for our family of seven. We thought this a great injustice, so to counter our complaining, our mother insisted that we sing through our repertoire of Girl Scouts songs.

  You never heard a more dismal display of melodies in your life. “I’m Happy When I’m Hiking” sounded like a funeral dirge. Our soulless singing eventually made even our grumpy selves start to laugh. We not only got the dishes done, but in the process added a treasured memory to our collection.

  When my sons were young, they learned about dishwashing at our family’s log cabin in Wisconsin. For over half a century, the dishes have been washed in a large, round enamel pan. Despite the number of dirty dishes, someone gladly volunteers to wash and another to dry. It’s almost like a competition for who gets to do it. From the happy chatter that echoes out of that tiny kitchen, you would think it was fun instead of work.

  And actually, it is.

  Opportunities to visit, reflect, and help others are all part of the dishwashing game. Obviously, giving up the dishwasher is not for everyone. But for me, it is.

  And, happily, I’ve got a song to sing.

  Cubby Bear Bliss

  I know next to nothing about baseball, but that doesn’t stop me from being a die-hard Cubs fan. Just buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack and, as the song says, I don’t care if I ever get back.

  As the “Lovable Losers” run the bases into what appears to be another dismal season, I can’t wait to head out to the ballpark. Wrigley Field tops my summer to-do list.

  I won’t know who’s playing until I remember to ask on the way to the game. It’s doubtful I can name a single player. Okay, maybe. Is Kerry Wood still on the roster? I do know the manager is Dusty Baker. Oh wait, that was a season or two ago. And that Sammy Sosa just hit his 600th home run for, oh, I mean against the Cubs.

  I also know the Cubs’ catcher got tossed for swinging at his own player instead of the ball and that the sacred ivy wall has ads on its outfield doors, which in my view is a travesty. And that’s about it.

  Nevertheless, donning my blue Cubby Bear hat and a red shirt is one of my finest fashionista moments. Luckily, I get to do this two or three times a year.

  Given my lack of statistical knowledge, some might say I am not a true fan. But that is like saying there’s no backside to the moon just because you can’t see it. Of course I am a Cubs fan! Wouldn’t a fan go to years of Cubs conventions and stand in line for hours to get what’s-his-name’s autograph for her kids? And wouldn’t a true fan give up lollygagging on the white sands of a Maui beach to haul those same kids out to Mesa, Arizona, for Cubs spring training? And wouldn’t a true blue fan interview the awesome gentleman Ron Santo (who even I know should be in the Hall of Fame) and chat with Harry Caray, given the chance?

  Been there, done that. I rest my case.

  So, if I’m not paying attention to the logistics of the game, how the heck can I love it? Let me count the ways.

  First is my version of the pregame show: driving Lake Shore Drive, no matter how heavy the traffic, so I can see Buckingham Fountain, Lake Michigan, and the sailboats; finding a street parking spot, which is like squeezing our car into a shoe two sizes too small; and walking along quiet streets lined with charming gardens and burly brownstones and wondering why the heck I didn’t live here in my youth like the savvy young folks of today.

  Like a switch hitter, the atmosphere changes gear as we near the park with the crowds exiting the L, the barking ticket scalpers, and the boisterous bar browsers. Purchasing bags of peanuts from a street vendor, we head to the Harry Caray statue and tap our toes to the lively Cubby combo as we wait to meet family or friends.

  The game hasn’t even started and I’m having a ball.

  Heading into the park early, as true Cubs fans do, of course, we take time to scope out the easy-going batting practice where each crack of the bat reminds us of past Cubs dreams come true. Greeting the friendly ushers (could there be a better job?), we head to our seats climbing steep steps and winding up ramps that make me feel like I’m in a Salvador Dali painting.

  And it’s a must to stop and enjoy the view of the city skyline stretching out to the lakefront, with its ancient church steeples rising up like flowers in a field. Grabbing some hot dogs, we finally settle into our seats.

  In our high perches, we’re in baseball heaven as we munch on our lunch and watch the field crew sweep, chalk, tap, and sprinkle the playing field. The excitement mounts. The organ plays. Men remove their hats. “The Star-Spangled Banner” surges forth. And in humbling awe, thirty-nine thousand fans grant the stadium silence for a moment of honor.

  Play ball!

  As the game begins, there’s no better time to people-watch. Babies and babes, old folks and handsome hipsters, young kids and whole families are all talking and smiling and watching the game and filling out score cards and eating and drinking and having a delightful time, no matter what the score.

  Because it’s never about the game.

  It’s always about being with my family, sitting side by side, laughing, visiting, relishing the lake breeze, the blue bowl of the sky, the wispy white clouds, the flapping flags, and the diverse mix of voices raised in gleeful song for the seventh-inning stretch. And yes, despite all the cheering, yelling, clapping, and booing, and whatever the final score, a contented, happy peace surrounds me.

  It all adds up to a win. A true fan has spoken. Now pass me the peanuts. I see Ryne Sandberg’s flag flying. He must be up to bat.

  Sailing Away

  I broke the law.

  Of course, I did not do it on purpose. But as any law officer will attest, ignorance of the law is no excuse.

  I was not speeding. I was not illegally parked. I did not run a toll. I was simply sailing. Sailing? Who gets a ticket while sailing? As luck would have it, I do.

  As the old song goes, “I was sailing along on Moonlight Bay.” Well, not exactly.

  It was a beautiful afternoon on the Fourth of July in northern Wisconsin as I awaited my family’s arrival at our cabin. All was ready for our expected crew of twelve: fishing boat in the water, food in the fridge, beds made.

  “Why don’t you relax and go for a sail?” my husband suggested. (See, it is really his fault.)

  I hadn’t been sailing yet that summer. Gazing out at the blue lake and a blowing wind, I thought, Why not?

  My sailboat is small, perfect for one or an occasional passenger perched near the bow. I have been a sailor since I was twelve years old, a
nd few things give me more pleasure than heading out onto the water in my little boat to test my wits against the wind. There is only the soft sound of water rushing against the hull and the beautiful backdrop of the forested lake offering peaceful solitude. Unless, of course, you’re about to be stopped by a warden.

  I had just accomplished a hard tack against the wind to get out of our bay and into more open water when I noticed a powerful fishing boat approaching at a slow speed. Sometimes other sailors on the lake will approach to compare sailing notes. So I offered a friendly wave and a smile.

  The man at the wheel waved back. It seemed odd that he was tailing me so closely, but I assumed that he was interested in my boat.

  He was. And as the boat pulled up, I realized that he was a she: a steely, short-haired woman packing a pistol and wearing a bulletproof vest. I was in trouble.

  “Hello!” she shouted over the wind.

  “Hello!” I shouted back, wondering what was up.

  “Do you have a valid sailboat registration with you?” she asked.

  “No,” I answered honestly. “Sailboats don’t need registrations, only motorized boats do.”

  “Sailboats do if they are over twelve feet,” she replied.

  “Mine’s not over twelve feet,” I countered.

  “It says fourteen hundred right on the side” she answered.

  “That must be the model number,” I blustered.

  “No, it means you have a fourteen-foot boat, so I’ll need to write you a citation.”

  “Can’t you just give me a warning?” I pleaded.

  “No,” she answered. “I must be consistent.”