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11/20/2008
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
Winter is coming in Minnesota. In the life of an NCFR staff member, our annual conference seems to form a demarcation point between Fall and Winter. When we leave for the conference in early November, the weather is still above freezing, and a mid-weight jacket will do. After the conference? The onslaught is “any day now.” We all know we’re living on borrowed time. My long, down coat is back from the cleaners and ready to go. The snowblower is tuned-up. The Prestone in the radiator is fresh. We have jumper cables in the trunk—and this Family Life Educator has checked the internet for a refresher on how to use them. http://www.ehow.com/video_112636_start-car-with.html .
Whenever I wallow in self-pity about Minneapolis winters, I remind myself of how cold my childhood was. I spent most of my childhood on the Minnesota-Canadian border. Minnesota has a “notch” at the top of the state that juts into Ontario. It’s there, in Baudette MN, where I spent adolescence. Cold? The temperature was 40 below or lower a lot. Add the windchill, and it’s paralyzing. The skin on one’s face actually hurts within two minutes. Winds of 35 mph were not unusual, which means a windchill of -76. In high school, I used to have long, straight hair. As teenagers often do, I left the house with wet hair and ran for the bus. When I got to school, my long hair was frozen in place. Even the bus was cold; I always sat in the backseat with my friend, Brad, which was well out of reach of the heater. I recall that once the handle of my leather purse, which was about 16 inches long, stood up straight on my desk for about a minute after I got to school. Frozen solid.
In thinking about my teenage years in Baudette, there was also a summer, albeit short. There was one beautiful benefit that most people never get to experience—the Northern lights. Here’s an internet photo of the aurora borealis. http://science-education.pppl.gov/SummerInst/aurora%20borealis.jpg . I remember sitting out in our rural yard on summer nights and watching this breathtaking moving miracle—lights in greens, yellows, and reds would dance across the horizon. In northern Minnesota, away from city lights and traffic, the night is darker than most people can imagine—when it’s overcast, without the moon or starlight, it’s hard to see the hand in front of your face. Then there’s the silence. You can hear your heartbeat.
Being emotionally moved by heavenly lightshows and silence has been the inspiration for two of my favorite poems; one in English by Robert Frost http://www.readprint.com/work-701/Robert-Frost and one in German by Joseph von Eichendorff. http://plagiarist.com/poetry/9010 . There’s an English translation of the latter but, as usual, it just isn’t the same. Speaking German is a bit like continually clearing one’s throat. But this poem sounds like music. That may be why Robert Schumann wrote a tune for the “lyrics.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0VladsXtTcs&feature=related .
I can’t think about Baudette or cold bus rides without thinking of my friend, Brad. We sat together in Band class, too; he was first French horn. I was a poor second. He was such a scamp. Every now and then, while practicing with the whole band, Brad would pretend he made a mistake and rip off a strong blast of what sounded like the bawl of an injured moose. The band director would look-up, ostensibly believing it was my goof—because I was the miserable French horn player. I would “lose it” and convulse with laughter. (In northern Minnesota, one has to make one’s own fun.)
Brad was uproariously funny, with a cerebral, acerbic wit that sounded like an apprentice Oscar Wilde. There was never one single drop of romance between us, so it was pure, uncomplicated fun. I never thought about it until this moment, but between our twice-daily bus rides, and Band class, I sat next to Brad over an hour each day.
Brad died a couple years after high school graduation, tragically. We had drifted apart, as friends do, which I regret. When I heard the news, I was heartsick. He could play this Mozart horn solo every bit as well as this YouTube kid can. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26a7lcopH-w .
All the developmental research I read now attests to how crucial supportive peers are to kids. Now as I’m connecting with old high school pals on Facebook, it’s just a dreadful thought that he will never be one of them.
Brad—thanks for the precious memories of band and bus fun. The aurora of adolescence would have been much less colorful without you. It would've been colder, darker and distressingly silent.
This requiem is for you, Brad.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=swkT07TP-mo 11/13/2008
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
The annual NCFR conference was fabulous, as they all are. However, Little Rock 2008 will stand out in my memory forever. This was the conference at which I earned my double cheese doctorate.
Through fortunate happenstance, I was part of a group of NCFR members that went out for pizza Friday night. This group wasn’t just any random assortment of people; these were some of my professional heroes. My friend, Paul Amato, got the group together. We had a rollicking good time, particularly after the wine arrived. Now here’s the part about the Ph.D.
Paul isn’t just my friend, but my mentor. As I’ve developed professionally and continued to define what I can offer NCFR, Paul has been the one who’s adopted this poor intellectual waif, sharing his wisdom and occasional “atta girl's” at crucial moments. He knows that I’ve struggled with a bit of scholar phobia. He knows that I’ve been too busy as a working wife and mom to ever turn my Master’s into a Ph.D. He also knows that I am and always will be a dedicated student of the field, nevertheless.
Sitting around the table was a veritable NCFR Who’s Who… and me. Sensing my anxiety, he pulled out a paper napkin and wrote out a diploma for me for an honorary Ph.D. in Family Studies from the “Amato, Barber, Fincham, Fine and Pryor University.” He signed it and passed it around the table for signatures from the rest of my “committee.” Paul’s lovely wife Lu Kaiser, ersatz Notary Public, made it official by signing as witness. Here is a photo of my “committee,” from left to right, Frank “the Provost” Fincham, Jan Pryor, Mark Fine, Bonnie Barber, Lu, and my "adviser," Paul. I'm the one hugging Bonnie and Lu.
My diploma is framed and on display in my office at NCFR. It’s also now my most treasured earthly possession.
My dear husband was so proud. He told me that if I ever want to go for a real one, he’s behind me.
As a part of NCFR’s institutional identity project, members were asked to identify what the organization provides for them professionally—the consensus was that NCFR makes us feel “enlightened, affirmed and energized.” Friday night, I got a huge dollop of affirmation. On the flight home, I took my new diploma out of my purse at least five times. I looked at it again and again, in disbelief. The guy next to me must have thought I was completely off my rocker; imagine sitting next to a teary-eyed woman who's staring at a cocktail napkin.
The take-home message from today’s blog for NCFR members is keep your membership current! Where else on earth could a scholar-lite, non-profit administrator like me feel the embrace of the field’s finest? Most important is the message for non-members: Join NCFR. We offer CEUs… and the occasional pizza parlor Ph.D.
Membership information is at: http://www.ncfr.org/member/info.asp
11/2/2008
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
The NCFR Annual Conference in Little Rock starts Tuesday! Blog entries will be infrequent or non-existent, because….
We’re going to be communicating by twitter this week!!! NCFR is moving into Web 2.0 social networking in a big way.
Go to www.twitter.com and set up your own free account. Include ncfr08 in your updates and they will automatically post into the conference twitter feed. You can also follow other conference goers to keep tabs on their latest updates, including the official NCFR account. See all of the ncfr08 “tweets” for up-to-the-minute conference updates at http://www.ncfr.org/conf/socialmedia .
C U in Little Rock! 10/30/2008
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
I’m told that in Massachusetts, there’s a phrase—a regionalism—that’s a bit of philosophy, but that it’s based in geography. There’s a picturesque seashore town—Marblehead—that’s its inspiration. I’ve been there—it’s lovely. But the phrase “Dawn Breaks on Marblehead” illustrates something not so lovely. It’s an expression that describes something that’s outrageously obvious —such as daybreak, that everyone else can see every day—that finally dawns on someone with a thick skull: a marble head.
Everyone sees their first sunrise at some point. There’s no shame in seeing something for the first time and not being able to expect approaching broad daylight nor predict the inevitable outcome—sundown—that’s due at the end of the day. Usually a few experimental trials and most people get it. New insights can be life’s most precious joys.
Perhaps for all of us, there are some things that take a very long time to see before they dawn on us. Back in 4th grade, I vividly recall a Marblehead moment in math. It was the miraculous flash of insight that I had when the teacher pointed out that integers not only progressed in the positive: (1, 2, 3, etc.) There were numbers that started at zero and worked backwards, too! (-1, -2, -3, etc.) I was astonished—and delighted. It’s been almost 40 years, and I remember it as if it were yesterday. This is a beautiful thing for a 4th grader. Watching the lightbulb come on for a student is probably why many teachers pursue their profession.
About 6th grade, another lightbulb went on. But for this one, however, I was two years older, at another developmental stage, and I was becoming self-conscious about looking stupid. Instead of feeling my 4th grade thrill of learning something new, I felt ashamed that I found out about something that I should have known already. This story is embarrassing to tell, but I will anyway.
When I was about 11, my family moved from rural Minnesota to the Minneapolis / St. Paul area—a 300 mile displacement. The small town experience that comprised all of my childhood memory up to that point was like something out of TV’s Green Acres. Phones had party lines, cash registers weren’t electric, and everything was at least 20 years behind the times. I’d never been in a movie theatre nor seen an escalator.
If I recall correctly, several times a week a train came through the town that carried passengers and cargo. We lived about a block away from the tracks. Sometimes the train would stop, and sometimes it didn’t. We could hear the distant whistle and my little brother and I ran to the window to watch it go by. Until he was about 3, he wasn’t tall enough to reach the window so I, at age 5 1/5, would hoist him up until his little hands could grip the window sill and support some of his own weight. In the summer, we would run outside and watch from a point close enough so that we could wave at the drivers, who were called “engineers.” They would always toot their whistles in acknowledgement. I always wondered, for the non-stop trains, why the engineers’ whistles changed pitch as they rumbled by. Why did they emit a single tone when they stopped and blow the two-tone whistle when they kept going?
In 6th grade, I went through culture shock in a large elementary school in a major city. There were freeways and stoplights. “Elevators” didn’t hold grain—they moved people! I met some new friends, and as is often the custom, we talked about what our parents did for a living. Several of the new girls I met said that their dads were “engineers.” This was very confusing to me. There was no railroad near our suburb—and I never heard any whistles. I couldn’t understand how all of these guys worked on the railroad when, as far as I could tell, trains were almost non-existent in that community.
You guessed it. I finally found out what the other type of engineer is. Ironically, I married one. This is one of the first “most embarrassing moment” stories I told my new husband as a newlywed—which he found endearing and he still loves to repeat. I was just beginning adolescence when I found out that trains didn’t have a two-tone whistle greeting in their repertoire. The engineers didn’t have a special “hello, we’re not stopping this time” message for my brother and me. I learned in science class that the two-tone whistle was due, of course, to the cold, impersonal Doppler Effect. I was crestfallen. We, in our naiveté, were hearing something that wasn’t there.
Throughout the lifespan, everyone has humbling moments of realization. These, mercifully, become less frequent as we age. Sometimes someone’s definition of an “engineer” isn’t the one I understand. And sometimes I find out that a two-tone whistle I’ve been hearing is, in fact, just one toot after all. Worse yet, it’s the same one everyone else can hear.
I keep waving anyway, even though that means I’m disappointed much of the time. But every now and then, I get a “Shave and a Haircut-Two Bits” toot–and then I know it’s meant just for me. When you hear it, you know it, and it’s pure joy. Listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oZGLuHRnfQ
Allegory is wonderful, isn’t it? Everyone can read the same words. But each hears a different whistle.
10/27/2008
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
Today’s topic is about having dreams. And by this I’m not talking about aspirations, hopes or ambitions. I’m talking about the mental dramas available only via mattress theatre.
Recurrent dreams are especially fascinating. My husband and I each have two recurring dreams. For him, one of his REM reruns is of having parked his car at the University of Minnesota and not being able to find it. The other one is set at the University as well; he is due to take a final exam and he can’t find the classroom. It’s interesting that both of his dreams involve the University, our Alma Mater, and both entail being lost.
My recurrent dreams are 1) living through a violent tornado, and 2) being in horrifying danger and not being able to call 911. In the tornado dream, I’m always a teenager. I see it coming, I make it to a basement and then I’m always protecting something—my little brother or a pet—and we survive. In my second dream, I’m always an adult. In this petrifying nightmare, I pick up the phone and suddenly it’s as if I’m wearing boxing gloves. With no dexterity whatsoever, I dial 999, 191, 111—every possible combination of numbers except the one I need. But last night was a first. I had a brand new recurring nightmare 5 or 6 times in the same night.
About 45 minutes from Minneapolis, on the St. Croix River—the waterway that separates Minnesota from Wisconsin—there’s a beautiful town called Taylors Falls. In early October, there is no better fall color in the world. Here’s what the Wisconsin side looks like from Taylors Falls. On the Minnesota side, Taylors Falls is located on a gorge-like ledge that drops straight down to the River. Here’s a picture.
Last night, for 5 or 6 times in a row, this dream began blissfully each time and then ended in horror. I walked to the very edge of one of these cliffs to look out over the stunning autumn view. Then the rock gave way under my feet and I started to fall. I awoke each time with that “falling feeling” startle and a heckava adrenaline rush. After a few rounds of that, I was ready to call it a day—um, a night. After 3 a.m., I didn’t go back to sleep… enough is enough.
This is an especially ridiculous dream, because I’m dreadfully afraid of heights. When I visit Taylors Falls, I stay a safe 30 feet or more from the edge, and even that gives me the creeps. The fear of falling has to be hard-wired into us—one of the most famous experiments with infants is the “visual cliff” test.
As a psych major, I studied basic dream interpretation a bit. I lean toward empiricism, so much of this seems like a silly party game. However, Jungian thought resounds with me—Jung believed that dreams had individual meaning, depending on the symbolic significance for that specific dreamer.
In my husband’s recurrent dreams, he is always lost for awhile but eventually he finds his car or arrives at his final exam. He noodles-out his problem, always in an educational backdrop. The meaning seems obvious to me—he’s a meticulous, scholarly problem-solver.
For me, the edge of a cliff represents the worst possible danger. But maybe it could mean finding opportunity and courage? Could standing at a precipice mean facing my fears and trusting in my own ability to catch myself? Am I finally waking up on the edge of some kind of realization? Am I about to reach a different developmental stage? Am I worried about the Dow? Or maybe I just had a bad eggroll?
I have no idea. Maybe I’ll find out tonight. After last night’s adventures, I’m not looking forward to turning out the light. I’ll tell myself that I’m perfectly safe; my husband will be right beside me, roaming his mental parking lots. My little brother and I will survive the tornado, and I’ll call for help.
What was that number again? 919, 119, 991…
10/24/2008
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
Today is a dark Minneapolis day with a cold rain—as dark as it can get before the street lights come on... with as cold a rain as it can be before it turns to snow.
It’s also National Writer’s Block Day, and I’m observing it. I can’t produce the 1000 word essay that wants to come out; but lyricist Johnny Mercer can. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bEpj68Qf5jQ 10/22/2008
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
There is a custom in Minnesota—and I’m not sure to what extent it exists elsewhere—but here and there, roadside memorials materialize that obviously mark the spot of a fatal accident. Sometimes they are in the form of a cross, or sometimes they consist of a small collection of artificial flowers. Occasionally there is a small sign with a name.
While I have no trouble understanding the motivation of loved ones in honoring their deceased, I’ve often wondered whether this ritual is a good idea. When I’m driving along, my eyes are distracted to the highway memorial, and immediately I think of loss and tragedy. In actual practice, what this means is that to look at the display, my emotions are captured. Most troubling, though, is that I take my eyes off the road momentarily.
One argument in favor of these memorials may be that they remind drivers of dangers that exist and encourage them to slow down. But I believe it’s more likely that they introduce a hazard and an “unintended consequence.” If the survivor were asked, “would you still memorialize your loved one here if you knew that it produced a distracted driver for a few moments.” I suspect that given that question to contemplate, the survivor might make another choice.
There is some new legislation in Nebraska that seems to be producing an unintended consequence. Recently, the Nebraska Legislature passed and enacted a new rule called a “Safe Haven” law. Safe Haven refers to a policy whereby a parent can relinquish a child lawfully—no questions asked—if the child is surrendered to legally-specified officials. Most often, the acceptable drop-off point is at a hospital. If the child is given-up in this manner, the parent is protected from criminal prosecution.
Nebraska is one of the last states to establish a Safe Haven law, meaning that this policy exists in some form throughout the U.S. The primary goal of this law is to provide a route for new parents—unable or unwilling to act in a parenting role—to give up a newborn to the state. Legislators are hoping that Safe Haven laws will serve as a preventive measure to infanticide.
When Nebraska instituted this legislation, however, it provided permission for a parent to surrender a child of any age up to adulthood. What is happening is that older children and even teenagers are being dropped off. In one case, a sibling group of nine children was handed over. See this article for more information:
According to the following article from CBS, the Nebraska legislature will consider amending the policy in an upcoming session. It has become clear, in legislators’ eyes, that this law is producing an unintended consequence. They want newborns, not older children.
I have no knowledge of this issue beyond that of a family professional observing this development from another state. I suggest, however, that in debating an amendment to this legislation, lawmakers across the nation (not just Nebraska) consider a few questions: Why do we just want newborns? What about a toddler? What about a 4th grader? If the law is changed to accept only infants, I wonder if there may be another unintended consequence—might older children and teenagers otherwise be confined to an injurious childhood in a home where they are not wanted? Will a teenager be turned-out to the streets as the only alternative? Admittedly, for children who are old enough to understand that they are being dropped-off for good, it would be a devastating event. However, might their current lives be just as devastating or worse in the custody of an unwilling or abusive parent?
Nebraska—there may have been a lot of wisdom in your first decision. I hope policymakers think through any potential changes carefully. Infants are easy to place. But what is the intent? Satisfying the demand for easily-adoptable children? The convenience of the human services system? Or is it child well-being?
The road of childhood, as defined in the U.S., is an 18 year trip. I hope policymakers work hard to ensure that no “roadside memorials” appear for kids of any age.
Update: According to a November 11, 2008 article in the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, the Nebraska legislature has amended their Safe Haven legislation 10/14/2008
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
Very early yesterday morning, as I was walking my dog, I fell. I hit the pavement with a thud that probably set-off the seismographs at the U.S. Geological Survey. If you heard about a Richter 3.1 reading in Minneapolis, it was me. It was largely my own fault, because I wanted to see an area that has a brand new sidewalk. There has been road construction on that street all summer, and I wanted to see how far the project had come.
It was pitch dark at 5:15 a.m. I stepped off the curb onto the road—only the road wasn’t really there. Down I went. I hit the street with both knees and my left side. I could tell my ankle twisted on the way down and was swelling. I wondered if I had broken it. I laid on the side of the road for 10 minutes, trying to decide what to do. My poor Border Collie—my beautiful black dog—was bereft.
There was one bit of luck. I was about 100 feet from a neighbor’s house. There was a light on, and I could see the familiar blue flickers from a TV. I essentially slid my way to this neighbor’s house and, through the open window, cried “Jeremy!” He ran to the door, “Nancy—what happened?!” He got me into his car and drove me and my dog the ¼ mile home where I iced my ankle, loaded ibuprofen, wrapped my leg in an ace bandage and left for work. I couldn’t miss work yesterday. We were finalizing the results of our year-long institutional identity project, and we had about 4 or 5 conference calls. I have been waiting for this exciting day for over a year, and nothing was going to keep me away.
All day, I hobbled and limped and ached my way through an important day at NCFR, which ended beautifully. I went home happy, but sore. This morning, I have several bright purple bruises on my legs and my left shoulder. My ankle bears weight, but it’s as wide as a stovepipe. I look as if I’ve gone several rounds with Sugar Ray Leonard.
Someone close to me has fallen recently, too. A couple times per year—a couple weeks per year—she “falls.” It’s a flare of her chronic illness—clinical depression. Winston Churchill fell into depression regularly as well and, coincidentally, called it his “Black Dog.”
Let’s call my friend “Felicia,” which means “happy,” as this describes her most of the year. For those around her, it’s agonizing to watch Felicia suffer. Chronic depression is an illness, which of course is not her fault, but as is consistent with the symptoms, she doesn’t have the insight to see it during one of her flares. The nature of the infirmity makes it very difficult for her to see beyond her situation. For reference, here are the criteria for Major Depression from the DSM IV-TR™:
http://depression.about.com/cs/diagnosis/a/mdd.htm
For Felicia, this list fits pretty well. I'll try my best to paraphrase what she's told me. The symptoms often appear as the days shorten, so there may be a seasonal influence. The ones that torment her the most are insomnia and “feelings of worthlessness or excessive or inappropriate guilt.” She hides it really well and masks her flare-ups with her considerable acting skills and ready sense of humor. But her husband and close friends see through the act. I have her permission to write this blog; I don’t have to worry about “outing” her in any case. To acquaintances and those she is not close to, she keeps on smiling… most people would be shocked to learn that this fun and funny gal struggles with depression.
She manages her illness very well, and her breakthrough symptoms appear predictably at times of stress or fear or biological cycle. Her doctor and those closest to her have come to expect these recurrences, which are always brief, although heartbreaking to watch.
Our problem—and anguish—as the circle of people around her, is watching her fall and then watching the familiar bruises appear. Fortunately, she is never far from the house of one of us who cares about her. She crawls her way over. One of us drives her and her Black Dog home. She is sure that she is wasting our gas—in fact, she worries about carburetor failure because she’s breathing more than her share of oxygen. (We don’t dare tell her that carburetors are becoming obsolete now that cars have fuel-injection: she would feel stupid because she should have known that!)
Between her flare-ups, she is able to describe what it’s like, and it’s scary. It’s days of feeling as if the world is in turmoil only because she’s here. She is sure that she is inconvenient at best—and disgusting at worst. Felicia’s worried that she is hurting us and she apologizes for living. She is sure that this time, we will throw her away because she’s too much bother. She wonders if this time, she will lose her grip on the leash and let go of her Black Dog forever.
We’ve all learned what to do. We drive her to the doctor and then give her a lift home—the drive isn’t far, even though she’s worried about the wear and tear on our struts. What Felicia doesn’t see is that we’re all happy to help. We all tell her that she gives so much more than she takes. She just needs a few days of reassurance that this time will be exactly like the other times—within 10 days, the fog will lift and our loveable Felicia will be back. She doesn’t need heavy-duty counseling—we just help her hold onto the leash. For just a few days, she needs us to just be there, acting just as we do the rest of the year. Right on schedule, she comes around. For 49 - 50 weeks a year she supports us and brings joy to our lives. We don’t know where we’d be without her. Once she's feeling better, she believes us. I always remind her that if it weren’t for Winston Churchill, we may all be speaking German right now and living under the ultimate despair. Schade!
Felicia—this time, like every other time, you’re going to be back on your feet soon. In fact, just about the time my bruises heal from yesterday’s pavement pratfall, you’ll be up and running again. Then let’s take a walk together. All that will be falling are the leaves.
10/7/2008
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
For the first time in my life, I just found out that I’ve been way out on the leading-edge of a trend! Long before it became fashionable! CNN is reporting that shopping at thrift stores is catching on—in the middle class.
The Salvation Army, Goodwill and Savers are my department stores. I buy almost all of my clothes there, with the exception of underthings and shoes. I find bargains that are almost new—some are! And some still have the tags attached. We even get our furniture there. I found our leather sofa for our family room at the Salvation Army—it still had the tags. I’ve got over two decades of thrifting experience, so I’ll share some of my secrets.
Thrift Store Tips
Go early and often. I find the best deals during the week, before the Saturday rush. Good merchandise doesn’t stay around long.
For clothing
Here’s a big secret—look at the garments in your size—but also check the ones not in your size. Example: I’m an XL. But I always check the petite section. Every now and then I find a designer piece in my size tucked in there. My theory is that some hesitant big gal is thinking about buying it, and she stashed it in the Gwyneth Paltrow section to hide it until she makes a decision. I found two heirloom Norwegian ski sweaters this way! They cost over $200 bucks a pop on Ebay.
Another clothing tip for larger or taller women—check the men’s department. Everything looks unisex nowadays anyway.
Shop “off season.“ In the summer, look at the sweater rack. In the winter, check out the linen. Nobody else is looking here—so you will get the fabulous finds.
Whatever you purchase, make sure it goes right from the bag into the washer when you get home. I’ve never had a problem with any bring-home grunge in over 20 years of thrifting, but I’ve always been careful.
Household items
Kitchenware and dishes—thrift stores are brimming with bounty. I will probably never buy a brand new cookie sheet. Thrift stores have good-as-new Pyrex® casseroles, Corelle® --you name it. Big confession: Shhh! I’ve bought gifts here. Some household items are still in the original box! However, before you “regift” it, make sure you check the inside of the box thoroughly to avoid embarrassment—you don’t want a new bride opening your gift and finding a birthday card tucked inside that says “Many happy returns, Marion.”
My favorite department is the books. There is a whole library in every store. If you don’t need a title that’s currently on the New York Times Bestseller list, knock yourself out. Were it not for a thrift store, I may have never read “The Education of Henry Adams,” by Henry Brooks Adams. Henry was the grandson of John Quincy Adams and therefore the great-grandson of John Adams. This book is his lifelong journal—it’s also the only autobiography I’ve ever read that’s written in the third person. It’s a bit ponderous, but I hung in there with ol’ Hank and I learned a lot about political history.
Many years ago, I found a book at Goodwill that changed my life in a meaningful way. It’s called The Luck Factor by Max Gunther, and it’s currently available used on Amazon for 48 cents. Very thrifty! I’d never seen this book before, and I haven’t seen another copy since. The first half of the book covers concepts such as superstition (which didn’t speak to me) and intuition (which was kind of useful). However, the last half of the book was remarkable. It covered the notion that we can make our own luck by staying alert, keeping up one’s skills and maintaining professional networks.
This book has an idea that has stuck with me all these years and that’s something Gunther calls “the Ratchet Effect.” As he explains, a ratchet is a tool that preserves gains. It turns something ahead, and then holds it in place until you can make another turn and move ahead some more.
Gunther likens this process to the art of moving through life successfully. Half the battle is not falling behind. Sometimes success is measured by just staying in place. In times like these—during a drastic economic downturn—just maintaining a holding pattern is a triumph. Business and career booms and busts are always cyclical. The point is to keep your hand on the ratchet and be ready to give it another turn when you get the chance.
This is a book—and a valuable life concept—that I found only because I picked it up at Goodwill. Gunther will have you believing in serendipity… like the “luck” of finding an obscure book at a thrift store that gives you a principle that guides your life—or seeing it recommended on a blog. Hmmm.
Things NOT to buy at thrift stores
Small household appliances
I always buy new ones; it’s a safety thing. The reason that the toaster was donated to a thrift store may have been because it has the annoying tendency of not turning off. I tested a blow dryer once and it shot out sparks and then a small flame! I asked the clerk to throw it away.
Child items
Toys, carseats, cribs, etc. These items at thrift stores are beyond the Consumer Product Safety Commission (CPSC) recall system. Many were manufactured before state-of-the-art safety standards. It’s hard enough for parents to keep up with the new warnings. This would be a good place to provide the link to the CPSC’s latest recall information.
Getting Past the Shame
Many new thrifters may feel embarrassed to be shopping in second hand stores. Get past it. Thrifting makes sense environmentally—reduce, reuse, recycle. I occasionally find antiques and collectibles that I’ve sold on Ebay. Get a good antique book with lots of pictures and study it. If you know who Homer Laughlin is or if you can spot hobnail Fenton art glass at 10 paces, you’ve got a little pin money. I found a gorgeous Millefiori nightlight that sold “Buy it Now” on Ebay in 10 minutes. And I have found quite a few tone-y accessories over the years, such as Coach purses.
The best find I know of personally is one nabbed by a girlfriend. She found a strand of pearls—real ones. There was a clue… the clasp was 14K; nobody puts a gold clasp on fake pearls. She took them to a jeweler; the appraisal? Eight hundred clams, if you’ll pardon the expression.
Pass it on
Just one final thought, and that’s “give back.” Most of us likely have clothes and household items we’re not using that someone else needs. I went through my cupboards about a year ago and realized that I had accumulated four Bundt pans. I’ve never made a Bundt cake in my life. Sometimes I have an outfit that I’ve (ahem) outgrown or one that is perfectly good—I’m just tired of it. Do you? Donate them to one of these thrift stores. Many of them are charitable organizations, and they are now in great need. According to the CNN article cited above, donations are dropping off, so to speak. Happy thrifting!
10/2/2008
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
It’s been 79 years since the Stock Market crash of 1929. These past couple of weeks, we have all watched as the market dropped 777 points on September 29—the biggest one day drop for the Dow in history—and it’s been a rollercoaster since. We have seen stalwart companies go bankrupt. Credit is starting to seize up. No more movie star interviews for now—the media darlings are financial experts and economic scholars.
Those who have living memory of the Great Depression are approaching age 90 and becoming fewer and fewer. Most of us weren’t there, so it’s hard to imagine what it was like. Economists and other experts are not predicting another Depression necessarily, but there seems to be broad agreement that we are entering terra incognita—that’s Latin for deep doo-doo. Direct parallels to the Great Depression aren’t possible in many cases; the FDIC didn’t exist for one thing. As a result, most of us haven’t a clue as to what a “bank run” is. Here’s director Frank Capra’s depiction of financial panic in the classic film It’s a Wonderful Life.
The biggest frustration for me is that trying to figure out recent events in any detail is just about impossible. Even the experts are admitting that they can’t grasp the whole picture. The best summary I’ve read about our September surprise is a Time magazine article, by financial experts Andy Serwer and Allan Sloan. It provides a quick overview of the situation that is understandable by a lay audience. It’s mercifully anxiety-reducing, too, as they write with some engaging humor such as “Every day brings another financial horror show, as if Stephen King were channeling Alan Greenspan…”
Historians, journalists and pundits are now talking about the Great Depression a lot. Those of us who work with families know that discussions in the media often result in questions from those we serve. Many are asking—could it happen again? The good news is that since 1929, we now have an impressive body of research on family stressors and resource management that was unavailable to families coping with that crisis. And, since the 1930s, we have seen the USDA Cooperative Extension programs grow from supporting families with Victory Gardens to today’s rich resources at www.extension.org . Just yesterday, they posted a paper on Surviving and Thriving in Difficult Economic Times.
To get myself up-to-speed on this national conversation, I have been reading a few historical works about the Great Depression. Today’s family practitioners do not have first-hand experience on this topic and may find a history refresher useful. While reading about this era is sobering, what is uplifting and hopeful are these accounts of how individuals and families coped and survived this calamity. People were resourceful then—and would be again. As the U.S. President from those years, Franklin D. Roosevelt said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”
For a synopsis of the onset and causes of the Depression, award-winning economist John Kenneth Galbraith’s book, The Great Crash, 1929 is a classic work on the topic; it was published in 1954. It’s a bit technical, but this family life educator got through it.
The Crash of 1929 was just the opening act that ushered in the Depression; but the next 10 or so years were the Big Event. Not only were the times economically grim, an environmental disaster, the Dust Bowl and the drought on the Great Plains, compounded the problems. A recent book, The Worst Hard Time, by Timothy Egan, winner of the National Book Award, is a non-fiction account of the Dust Bowl days. I couldn’t put it down. Then I handed it to my husband, and he flew right through it too. We usually don’t like the same books, so that’s high praise.
A relatively unknown 1989 work, The Dirty Thirties, edited by William Hull, is a compilation of short essays that are first person accounts of that time from the Midwest. The essays are informal but heartfelt reminiscences of many who lived through the Depression as children and young adults. Published almost 20 years ago, Hull was able to collect many stories and tap this wisdom while eyewitnesses were still alive.
For a charming and hopeful account by a woman who lived through the Depression as a child, I recommend Little Heathens. In this brand new memoir, Mildred Armstrong Kalish recounts the joy and courage that her family had as they lived through that era. This book faces the Great Depression seriously, but the focus is on how her family made it with their strong relationships and a little humor.
Arguably the most famous fiction work about the Depression era is John Steinbeck’s 1939 masterpiece, The Grapes of Wrath. This book also became a 1940 film classic, starring Henry Fonda. It’s now available on DVD.
PBS has a documentary about the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl Years in its “The American Experience Series.” It’s available for purchase, as is a Teacher’s Guide to the program.
Finally, seeing is believing. Pictures are worth 1000 words, which is the wordcount I’m approaching now. Here are a couple of famous photos associated with the Great Depression. Here is a picture of a Dust Storm on the Great Plains. Another famous picture, taken by Dorothy Lange, captures the despair of a “Migrant Mother.” Find it in the Library of Congress collection.
A word of caution: any of the aforementioned resources may not be appropriate for youth or even some adults. There’s a reason they called it the Depression.
Finally, I would like to channel a thought from my late beloved Auntie Ethel who had the “reduce, reuse, and recycle” idea down-pat long before we had the term “green” living. She knew that resourcefulness saved the day during the Depression. Today it makes both economic and environmental sense.
Here's an oft-repeated aphorism, and just the sort of thing she'd say:
"Use it up,
wear it out,
make it do...
or do without.”
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