Not long ago I got a cryptic email from a friend. She wrote: “My day was a solid B-.”
Well, I try to be a nice person and I don’t like to see another soul in distress, so I immediately replied to her message: “I’m so sorry. What happened to bring down your day?”
And that’s when I realized a basic truth: How the world looks depends entirely on how you’re looking at it. It’s a matter of perspective.
Turns out, she’d intended to let me know she’d had a pretty darned good day. What I read, however, was that her day had hit the skids. For her a B- is, to quote that other Martha, a good thing. It’s above average. For me, a B- means you got some ‘splainin’ to do.
Why the big difference? It got me wondering.
Back in my world, a B- meant you’d slid by. You hadn’t really broken a sweat to get the job done and whoever issued the grade was on to you. That teacher looked at your work, sighed, took one of those big red grease pencils and slathered an ugly B- minus across the top, then handed it back to you with one eyebrow raised. You slunk home hoping nobody asked you how it went.
Apparently, my friend went to better schools than I did.
The kind of haphazard work that got me a B- would have landed her a D, tops. She had to work to get a B- and was proud when she landed it. In my school, you could nail a C just for showing up on time.
The folks in my school probably meant well. I’m sure they must have. But when the high school offers only one foreign language, and that one only periodically when they can find a teacher willing to take it on . . . when algebra is an elective, not to mention plane geometry (which was a one semester course) . . . when memorizing and regurgitating the last stanza of Thanatopsis is enough to get you an A in English all by itself . . . and when chemistry and physics are offered as electives only to seniors and only for one semester each . . . well, the bar is pretty low. (We won’t discuss their approach to punctuation and the rules governing the use of ellipses, now will we?)
If you go to a school like that you figure out early on that you’d better deliver some A’s. With so little to be had, you have to grab all you can.
In retrospect, going to that school has served me surprisingly well. By the time I graduated it had lost its state accreditation -- it took an intervention by our Congressman to get any of us into the state university. But I came out all right.
For one thing, I learned that “ok” is not good enough. And I learned that you can’t live your life to someone else’s standards. You have to set your own – not because other people’s standards are too high, but because they might not be high enough.
What little college prep I got came from the high school English teacher.
This is not one of those hymns to the English teacher who opened my eyes to Shakespeare and poetry and the joy of well-punctuated prose. Those teachers came later in my life. This is the woman whose most valuable gift to me may have been assuring me that I was both stupid and lazy.
She knew, you see, that I wasn’t prepared to enter the hallowed halls of learning our Congressman had opened for me. None of us were. And she made sure we knew that. In addition to being stupid, she assured us, we were lazy. She went on to allow as how that combination was a guarantee we’d all be home on academic probation by Christmas.
She ticked us off. Big time. I suspect it was her ulterior motive all along (although she really did believe what she was saying – that we were both dumb and slothful). She made us mad. And we were a stubborn lot, full of Scotch-Irish indignation. When we got mad, we got even. We succeeded in spite of her.
That small class produced a couple of outstanding engineers, several acclaimed civic leaders, more than a handful of very successful business entrepreneurs, at least one doctor, and some respected public servants. And I still have my Phi Beta Kappa key tucked away in my jewelry box. We sure showed her, huh?
(To be fair, I want to pause here and give credit where credit is due – to those teachers who knew what they were up against, both in a poor excuse for a school system and a lazy bum of a student like me who had a brain, but was frequently loath to use it. They deserve medals. The power of their sardonically raised eyebrows is what kept me on the straight and narrow. Not just in school, either. My first editor was especially skillful with her right eyebrow. When she applied it to my copy she didn’t even need her blue pencil. The look alone produced an instant rewrite.)
I’d left that town with my degree tucked under my arm and gone through several successful professional experiences, not to mention the rigors of parenthood, before I understood just how much those grades didn’t count. The ones in college were a little bit harder to get, of course, but there was still a formula to it. Figure out what they want, give it to them, and get the A. The grades were the easy part – the hard part was, and still is, gaining real knowledge.
To explore an idea, to grasp a concept, to understand a principle – to make those things a part of who you are and how you think – that’s the important stuff. And most important by far is to question what you’re being taught – not to take it all at face value just because someone else insists it’s true. You can rack up a whole semester full of A’s without getting there. I know you can. I’ve done it.
So I keep trying. Even though Shakespeare’s King Lear makes me weep for the sheer beauty of it, I still haven’t read James Joyce’s Ulysses enough times to make sense out of it. And even though I’m pretty proficient with Excel pivot tables, say “algebra” to me and my pulse starts to race.
It’s all just a matter of perspective.
So here’s to a new day – hope it is a solid B- for you.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Family Traditions, or, Whatever Happened to the TripleNickleStickleDoublePopper?
About this time every year, my blood starts to rise. Like a dog shredding a newspaper and turning in circles, I nest. Maybe it’s the haunting of my ancient Celtic roots, stocking the cellar with cabbages and filling the beds with fresh hay. Or maybe it’s the knowledge that I’m going to be rained into this nest for the next few months so I’d better make it comfortable. Or perhaps it’s just the quality of the autumn light that stirs my spirit.
Whatever it is, the most important things in my life seem to happen in autumn. We just celebrated (another) wedding anniversary – of course we knew two such stubborn people would stick that one. And, as I write, I’m messing around with my husband’s birthday dinner (we like to cram as much celebration into a single week as possible).
So once again, here we are. It’s October and I’m thinking about long-standing traditions, the kind families polish with sentimentality and pass down across generations. Where do we always take the first day of school picture? (On the front steps because I forgot the camera on the first first day and he had to wait there until I rushed back to get it. Thus are traditions born.) When can we play the first game of Hide in the Dark? (Third week of September, after the solstice, before the time change.) When will we come home and smell the first pumpkin pie? (Mid-October, around Dad’s birthday. Today, in fact.) When do we finally turn the heat on? (October 15th, come hell or high water. Even if I’m wrapped in a blanket on the 10th.)
This year, as I hunt down the furniture polish and change the bag in the vacuum cleaner, I realize that some of my own family’s traditions – the ones I grew up with, not the ones my husband and I created together – are now endangered species. My sisters and I buried our mother in 2007 and, with her departure, we became the keepers of memories. Because we live far apart, I’m afraid we haven’t stewarded the memories as well as we could have.
That’s why I’m worried about the TripleNickelStickleDoublePopper.
If my sister is reading this, she’ll know what I’m talking about . Nobody else will have a clue. I know this is true because I Google’d it.
The TripleNickelStickleDoublePopper (aka the TNSDP) was an autumn classic in our north Georgia bungalow. All my father had to do was say the word and the three of us would line up like well-tuned robots, ready to go.
The TNSDP was a special kind of ice cream bar, found only in amusement parks and county fairs. It was a cross between a square and an oblong, creamy vanilla ice cream coated in thick chocolate and rolled in salty chopped peanuts. The whole thing was skewered on a wooden popsicle stick. If you go to a fair or carnival today (see my September 25 post), you’ll find something that’s a little bit like it, but it’s only a ghost of the real thing, a teasing whisper of what once was.
An honest-to-goodness TNSDP is made on the spot – they don’t come out of a box, frozen so hard you could demolish a brick wall with them. They emerged from a little ice cream parlor on wheels that graced the Hamilton County Fair in Chattanooga every autumn.
And, no, that wasn’t their real name. That was their name only in our family. I have no idea what the real name of these heavenly concoctions was. Anything I’ve seen since childhood has been a weak imitation. There are things at the grocery store now, ice cream in a cone with chocolate and peanuts (http://www.icecreamplanet.com/bigkidstuff.html -- don’t go there if you’re hungry) – Drumsticks I think they’re called, but they’re not the real thing. And they still sell something called a Nutty Buddy at the fair, but it, too, is a weak second.
Why my family knew them as TripleNickelStickleDoublePoppers, I can’t tell you. The name probably came from some wry encounter my dad had at some time in his life, but it’s lost to us now.
That’s what I mean about being stewards of the traditions.
I’d give anything on earth for another hour with my father so I could ask him where he got that name, along with a million other questions . . . How did he come up with our nicknames: Rabbit, Skiels, and The Calf. Why were summer trousers known as ice cream britches. And why was it that we never lived in a house that didn’t have a basement or wasn’t on a bus line. I might need more than an hour.
I would definitely want enough time to hear a few more of his Spoonerisms (http://www.fun-with-words.com/spoonerisms.html). The man was a master at worning a turd.
No matter how much time I could bargain with my father, it wouldn’t be enough. There never is. And no matter how many of those lost family traditions I tried to recapture, I’d leave some out. So maybe that’s why, every fall, I start reliving them – the ones I brought with me, and the ones I’ve helped build.
Family traditions may be silly, limiting, short-sighted, and, quite often, embarrassing. But I believe they’re precious. After all, if I don’t tell you about the TripleNickelStickleDoublePopper, who will?
And, now, in honor of the late (and much loved) Herman Wilson, I will get back to my nesting, dig out the pumpkin pie recipe, and wish you a fond farewell as I say, “Yie Ball.”*
* If you’re from the South, you’ve figured it out. If you’re “not from around here,” it’s Spoonerism for “Bye, y’all.” Rest in peace, Daddy. Or, if you must, pest in reach.
Whatever it is, the most important things in my life seem to happen in autumn. We just celebrated (another) wedding anniversary – of course we knew two such stubborn people would stick that one. And, as I write, I’m messing around with my husband’s birthday dinner (we like to cram as much celebration into a single week as possible).
So once again, here we are. It’s October and I’m thinking about long-standing traditions, the kind families polish with sentimentality and pass down across generations. Where do we always take the first day of school picture? (On the front steps because I forgot the camera on the first first day and he had to wait there until I rushed back to get it. Thus are traditions born.) When can we play the first game of Hide in the Dark? (Third week of September, after the solstice, before the time change.) When will we come home and smell the first pumpkin pie? (Mid-October, around Dad’s birthday. Today, in fact.) When do we finally turn the heat on? (October 15th, come hell or high water. Even if I’m wrapped in a blanket on the 10th.)
This year, as I hunt down the furniture polish and change the bag in the vacuum cleaner, I realize that some of my own family’s traditions – the ones I grew up with, not the ones my husband and I created together – are now endangered species. My sisters and I buried our mother in 2007 and, with her departure, we became the keepers of memories. Because we live far apart, I’m afraid we haven’t stewarded the memories as well as we could have.
That’s why I’m worried about the TripleNickelStickleDoublePopper.
If my sister is reading this, she’ll know what I’m talking about . Nobody else will have a clue. I know this is true because I Google’d it.
The TripleNickelStickleDoublePopper (aka the TNSDP) was an autumn classic in our north Georgia bungalow. All my father had to do was say the word and the three of us would line up like well-tuned robots, ready to go.
The TNSDP was a special kind of ice cream bar, found only in amusement parks and county fairs. It was a cross between a square and an oblong, creamy vanilla ice cream coated in thick chocolate and rolled in salty chopped peanuts. The whole thing was skewered on a wooden popsicle stick. If you go to a fair or carnival today (see my September 25 post), you’ll find something that’s a little bit like it, but it’s only a ghost of the real thing, a teasing whisper of what once was.
An honest-to-goodness TNSDP is made on the spot – they don’t come out of a box, frozen so hard you could demolish a brick wall with them. They emerged from a little ice cream parlor on wheels that graced the Hamilton County Fair in Chattanooga every autumn.
And, no, that wasn’t their real name. That was their name only in our family. I have no idea what the real name of these heavenly concoctions was. Anything I’ve seen since childhood has been a weak imitation. There are things at the grocery store now, ice cream in a cone with chocolate and peanuts (http://www.icecreamplanet.com/bigkidstuff.html -- don’t go there if you’re hungry) – Drumsticks I think they’re called, but they’re not the real thing. And they still sell something called a Nutty Buddy at the fair, but it, too, is a weak second.
Why my family knew them as TripleNickelStickleDoublePoppers, I can’t tell you. The name probably came from some wry encounter my dad had at some time in his life, but it’s lost to us now.
That’s what I mean about being stewards of the traditions.
I’d give anything on earth for another hour with my father so I could ask him where he got that name, along with a million other questions . . . How did he come up with our nicknames: Rabbit, Skiels, and The Calf. Why were summer trousers known as ice cream britches. And why was it that we never lived in a house that didn’t have a basement or wasn’t on a bus line. I might need more than an hour.
I would definitely want enough time to hear a few more of his Spoonerisms (http://www.fun-with-words.com/spoonerisms.html). The man was a master at worning a turd.
No matter how much time I could bargain with my father, it wouldn’t be enough. There never is. And no matter how many of those lost family traditions I tried to recapture, I’d leave some out. So maybe that’s why, every fall, I start reliving them – the ones I brought with me, and the ones I’ve helped build.
Family traditions may be silly, limiting, short-sighted, and, quite often, embarrassing. But I believe they’re precious. After all, if I don’t tell you about the TripleNickelStickleDoublePopper, who will?
And, now, in honor of the late (and much loved) Herman Wilson, I will get back to my nesting, dig out the pumpkin pie recipe, and wish you a fond farewell as I say, “Yie Ball.”*
* If you’re from the South, you’ve figured it out. If you’re “not from around here,” it’s Spoonerism for “Bye, y’all.” Rest in peace, Daddy. Or, if you must, pest in reach.
Monday, September 28, 2009
What's on your list?
Playing around with words is one of my personal indulgences. Right up there with bright red toenail polish and strong drinks with cherries in them.
So this morning, while I was playing around, I ran across an online article by a writing teacher with a list of words she has vowed to stop using. I’m not sure why she feels so strongly about them. Perhaps because she felt she was overusing them – always a good reason. Perhaps because she doesn’t like the way they look or sound – justifiable, but somewhat capricious.
Topping her list is “shard.” Now, in my opinion, that’s a perfectly good word. If you’ve ever stepped quickly aside while a crystal goblet heads for a tile floor, you know there are shards in your future. You immediately understand that the word has an important place in the lexicon – you’re going to need it to tell the doctor what needs to be picked out of your foot. Next on the writer’s list is “smirk.” One of my favorite words. She thinks it’s cartoonish. Maybe it is. But hanging over my desk is a brightly colored drawing of the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz. He was drawn by my favorite six‒year-old and on his face is a very delicious smirk. He makes my day. Without his smirk he’d simply be a lopsided conglomeration of parts. His smirk reveals his soul – and cheers up mine.
The writing teacher has also forsaken writing about any heroine who was “visibly shaken” or who has ever “gathered up her skirts.” I can only say that she never saw the look on my husband’s face when he realized I’d thrown out the last brownie to see “visibly shaken” take life. Or watched my mother bustle out to the car on her way to a formal meeting of the Eastern Star to recognize a true “gathering up of skirts.” When a group of words does the job, you need to be able to use them.
As I considered this teacher’s list, I wondered about my own. Are there words I want to eliminate from my keyboard, words I never again want to type, utter, or hear? Possibly.
First, I’d consider taking “should” out of commission. How much guilt, regret, and shame have those six letters produced? And I might put “can’t” on probation for awhile. I’m not one of those motivational speakers who believe anyone can do anything. I know, for example, that I “can’t” climb K2. It is not possible for me (or anyone I’ve ever known) to do so. As it is apparently not possible for me to stay upright on a pair of roller skates or wear size seven and a half shoes. These are things I legitimately “can’t” do. But it is a word I tend to use as a hiding place. "I can’t put up with this" is a different statement from "I won’t put up with this." So “can’t” gets a time out.
While I’m at it, I might give “that” a rest. David Ogilvie advised writers to try deleting every “that” and see how much their writing is strengthened. Not that I want to do that, but that might just be the thing that makes me a better writer. Ya think?
A few more might hit the bin, just because I don’t need them anymore. After a decade of writing copy for direct marketing campaigns, I’m probably through with “free” – more accurately “FREE!” And since I don’t sell cruises to Alaska anymore, I’m content to let eagles fly without “soaring effortlessly” and snow-clad mountains impress us without “stretching on endlessly.” And just for the record, I’ll never again promise anyone the “trip of your lifetime,” no matter how good it is.
But while we’re on the subject, there are some words I want to keep, wonderful words I’d like to hear-speak-write more often. “Happy” is one. Genuinely, honestly, I-can’t-stop-smiling happy. Along with “good,” as in good man, good job, good dog. And what about “true”? There’s a word we tend to be a little bit afraid of. We prefer to settle for things that are simply true enough; otherwise, we feel obliged to disclaim possible truth with pages of small print. But fact is, some things are true, some aren’t. I’d like to hear more true things – and more people willing to declare them so.
I’d also like to be able to say “I’m sorry” without having it sound trite or canned. I’d like to hear “How are you?” and think someone really wanted to know. And I’d like to be able to say “get well soon” and have my friend know how deeply I want her to be rich with health and energy.
So while I think it’s okay to have a words to avoid list, as this morning’s writing instructor so urgently recommends, I also think it’s important to have a words to embrace list. And at the top of mine is “content.” Content with what is in front of me instead of remorse for what is behind. Content with what I have rather than angry over what I’ve lost. Content with who I am, how I look, where I’ve wound up. And to understand the critical difference between being content and being complacent.
So this morning, while I was playing around, I ran across an online article by a writing teacher with a list of words she has vowed to stop using. I’m not sure why she feels so strongly about them. Perhaps because she felt she was overusing them – always a good reason. Perhaps because she doesn’t like the way they look or sound – justifiable, but somewhat capricious.
Topping her list is “shard.” Now, in my opinion, that’s a perfectly good word. If you’ve ever stepped quickly aside while a crystal goblet heads for a tile floor, you know there are shards in your future. You immediately understand that the word has an important place in the lexicon – you’re going to need it to tell the doctor what needs to be picked out of your foot. Next on the writer’s list is “smirk.” One of my favorite words. She thinks it’s cartoonish. Maybe it is. But hanging over my desk is a brightly colored drawing of the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz. He was drawn by my favorite six‒year-old and on his face is a very delicious smirk. He makes my day. Without his smirk he’d simply be a lopsided conglomeration of parts. His smirk reveals his soul – and cheers up mine.
The writing teacher has also forsaken writing about any heroine who was “visibly shaken” or who has ever “gathered up her skirts.” I can only say that she never saw the look on my husband’s face when he realized I’d thrown out the last brownie to see “visibly shaken” take life. Or watched my mother bustle out to the car on her way to a formal meeting of the Eastern Star to recognize a true “gathering up of skirts.” When a group of words does the job, you need to be able to use them.
As I considered this teacher’s list, I wondered about my own. Are there words I want to eliminate from my keyboard, words I never again want to type, utter, or hear? Possibly.
First, I’d consider taking “should” out of commission. How much guilt, regret, and shame have those six letters produced? And I might put “can’t” on probation for awhile. I’m not one of those motivational speakers who believe anyone can do anything. I know, for example, that I “can’t” climb K2. It is not possible for me (or anyone I’ve ever known) to do so. As it is apparently not possible for me to stay upright on a pair of roller skates or wear size seven and a half shoes. These are things I legitimately “can’t” do. But it is a word I tend to use as a hiding place. "I can’t put up with this" is a different statement from "I won’t put up with this." So “can’t” gets a time out.
While I’m at it, I might give “that” a rest. David Ogilvie advised writers to try deleting every “that” and see how much their writing is strengthened. Not that I want to do that, but that might just be the thing that makes me a better writer. Ya think?
A few more might hit the bin, just because I don’t need them anymore. After a decade of writing copy for direct marketing campaigns, I’m probably through with “free” – more accurately “FREE!” And since I don’t sell cruises to Alaska anymore, I’m content to let eagles fly without “soaring effortlessly” and snow-clad mountains impress us without “stretching on endlessly.” And just for the record, I’ll never again promise anyone the “trip of your lifetime,” no matter how good it is.
But while we’re on the subject, there are some words I want to keep, wonderful words I’d like to hear-speak-write more often. “Happy” is one. Genuinely, honestly, I-can’t-stop-smiling happy. Along with “good,” as in good man, good job, good dog. And what about “true”? There’s a word we tend to be a little bit afraid of. We prefer to settle for things that are simply true enough; otherwise, we feel obliged to disclaim possible truth with pages of small print. But fact is, some things are true, some aren’t. I’d like to hear more true things – and more people willing to declare them so.
I’d also like to be able to say “I’m sorry” without having it sound trite or canned. I’d like to hear “How are you?” and think someone really wanted to know. And I’d like to be able to say “get well soon” and have my friend know how deeply I want her to be rich with health and energy.
So while I think it’s okay to have a words to avoid list, as this morning’s writing instructor so urgently recommends, I also think it’s important to have a words to embrace list. And at the top of mine is “content.” Content with what is in front of me instead of remorse for what is behind. Content with what I have rather than angry over what I’ve lost. Content with who I am, how I look, where I’ve wound up. And to understand the critical difference between being content and being complacent.
Friday, September 25, 2009
These Truths Should be Self-Evident (After a Day at the Fair)
If you’ve ever spent a September on my side of the Cascade Mountains (west of the snow and east of the water), you know the song . . .
You can do it at a trot,
You can do it at a gallop,
You can do it real slow
So your heart don’t pal-pi-TATE.
And a true western Washingtonian will automatically finish . . . Now don’t be LAAATE. DOOO the Puyallup!
Although the ad agencies don’t use it every year, the Puyallup Fair jingle is a northwest icon. You see the sign, you sing the song. And, if you’re a closet redneck like me, you also get out there and DOOO the Puyallup. You go to The Fair!
Let’s pause here in case someone doesn’t know (or care?) how to pronounce this garbled group of letters. P-U-Y-A-L-L-U-P Pronouncing it is the bane of rookie newscasters and AMTRAK conductors everywhere. Get it right and you earn your place as an erudite local: pew ▪ AHL ▪ uhp. Like most things in our neck of the woods, the name is from a native totem tribe. (See also: Snoqualmie, Snohomish, Skykomish, Suquamish, Swinomish, and Stillaguamish.) The town now famous for The Fair is named for the Puyallup tribe, meaning “generous people.” (They apparently weren’t thinking about the price of admission.)
The Fair is about an hour southeast of Seattle. It’s big. It’s blustery. It’s bawdy. And I never miss it. In fact, that’s where I headed on September 16, 2001, the first day of a vacation I’d hoped to spend in New York City. I wasn’t looking for normalcy in that eerie September. I was looking for consistency, reassurance that life goes on. And there it was – slicing and dicing, bumping and grinding, winking and whirring. Just like always.
And this year it’s back, although this year I didn’t DOOO the Puyallup so much as watch it being done. Don’t get me wrong, I still swept down the giant slide on my burlap mat. I’m drawn to that thing like a bug to a windshield, dreading it, but unable to resist it. And once again, I sat through the whole waterless cookware demonstration, waiting for my toothpickful of surprisingly juicy chicken and a nibble of almost cooked carrot. I ate Barbeque and real Washington Dairy Farmers’ Association’s (say that three times fast) ice cream, but passed up the scones and shortcake this year in homage to my husband’s newly minted gluten-free lifestyle. (Surprisingly easy to stay gluten free on fair food. Who knew?)
And this year, because I spent more time observing, I decided to catalog some of the truths that the Puyallup Fair and its cousins across our great nation prove to be self-evident:
Truth #1: Just because you can get into it doesn’t mean you should wear it, at least not in public.
If the amount of belly fat hanging over your waistband is greater than the amount of cotton candy hanging out of the sides of your mouth, change clothes. Please.
Truth #2: Just because you can fry it doesn’t mean you should eat it.
The line was long at the “Everything Fried” booth this year, as they hit a new high, or low, in food innovation. Featured on this dubious menu were the ubiquitous Fried Twinkies and Fried Pickles, along with Chocolate Covered Bacon and something called Redneck Sushi, which I never did figure out. I was mildly tempted by the Alligator on a Stick, but having once snacked on a Gator Bite at a fish camp in Ocala, Florida, I took a pass.
Truth #3: Just because it gets magical results for the guy with the microphone in the booth doesn’t mean it will work for you after you pay twenty bucks and take it home.
My cleaning closet is littered with gadgets a variety of dudes swore would take the film off the white vinyl floor in my kitchen (who thought putting a cheap white floor in a kitchen at the beach was a good idea in the first place?). I’m significantly poorer, and the floor still has a gray film. (Perhaps because it’s twenty years old and needs to be replaced?) And let’s not even mention the ShamWow. That being said, I admit that I did pause overly long at some stuff the dude swore would dissolve soap scum off a shower door.
Truth #4: Just because you have a lot of it doesn’t mean other people want to see it.
Although I’m not a collector myself, I hail from a long line of them. For my mother it was birds. All things birds. Books, porcelain figurines, fine china plates. And pitchers (the kind you pour out of, not the MLB variety). Tall ones, short ones, silver ones, crystal ones. All lovely. But even she never lined up all those things in a showcase and trotted them out for display among the livestock. Collector’s Hall at the Puyallup Fair is proof that the world has enough bottle caps, Star Wars figures, Barbie dresses, and crocheted doll house furniture. You don’t need to gather up any more.
Truth #5: Just because it seems like a good idea after your second beer doesn’t mean you should go for it. (Maybe especially because it seems so smart after your second beer . . . )
The Big Bungie, for example. What may look like a hoot from the ground may not be all that enticing as you hang suspended in midair, upside down, and barfing. Same for any ride that spins in horizontal circles. Alcohol does not enhance equilibrium, or so I’ve been told. The world has enough drunks draped over fences yakking. Like the crocheted doll house furniture, we don’t need more.
Truth #6: Just because you won it doesn’t mean you have to take it home and find a place for it.
The tall feathered bird that keeps bobbing its head into a jar of water? Let it go. The stuffed tiger that’s four times bigger than the nearest toddler? Leave it there. The ash tray that used to be a CocaCola bottle before the train ran over it . . . the neon velvet painting . . . the baseball cap with LED lights in the brim . . . move on without them and avoid being the middle man on their path to Goodwill.
To these Basic Truths I would add just a few more simple Rules of Engagement:
1) Don’t eat blue food. Nothing in nature is that color.
2) Try not to inhale in the cow barn.
3) Remember that the 5 Second Rule does NOT apply at The Fair. If you drop it, do NOT pick it up and put it in your mouth.
4) Do not purchase articles of clothing at The Fair. Nothing you purchase in a booth was meant to be worn in a civil society.
5) If you miss the Seattle Seahawk’s cheerleaders shaking their beautiful booty to “Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Sexy Like Me,” try to catch Billy Hill and the Hillbillies’ rendition of “Rocky Top.” It’s not an exact match, but it’ll get you through a rough patch.
6) No matter where you park, don’t expect to find the route to the freeway on your first try.
7) Leave your credit card at home and carry only as much cash as you’re willing to admit you ate.
8) Wear shoes that are a) comfortable and b) can be washed out in the shower.
9) Don’t miss the Clydesdales. Also, don’t step in front of them. And, finally . . .
10) . . . at every opportunity, every hand sanitizer, every soap station, every rest room you pass . . . WASH YOUR HANDS!
The Fair ends Sunday, so get out there and do it at a trot. Now don’t be late . . .
You can do it at a trot,
You can do it at a gallop,
You can do it real slow
So your heart don’t pal-pi-TATE.
And a true western Washingtonian will automatically finish . . . Now don’t be LAAATE. DOOO the Puyallup!
Although the ad agencies don’t use it every year, the Puyallup Fair jingle is a northwest icon. You see the sign, you sing the song. And, if you’re a closet redneck like me, you also get out there and DOOO the Puyallup. You go to The Fair!
Let’s pause here in case someone doesn’t know (or care?) how to pronounce this garbled group of letters. P-U-Y-A-L-L-U-P Pronouncing it is the bane of rookie newscasters and AMTRAK conductors everywhere. Get it right and you earn your place as an erudite local: pew ▪ AHL ▪ uhp. Like most things in our neck of the woods, the name is from a native totem tribe. (See also: Snoqualmie, Snohomish, Skykomish, Suquamish, Swinomish, and Stillaguamish.) The town now famous for The Fair is named for the Puyallup tribe, meaning “generous people.” (They apparently weren’t thinking about the price of admission.)
The Fair is about an hour southeast of Seattle. It’s big. It’s blustery. It’s bawdy. And I never miss it. In fact, that’s where I headed on September 16, 2001, the first day of a vacation I’d hoped to spend in New York City. I wasn’t looking for normalcy in that eerie September. I was looking for consistency, reassurance that life goes on. And there it was – slicing and dicing, bumping and grinding, winking and whirring. Just like always.
And this year it’s back, although this year I didn’t DOOO the Puyallup so much as watch it being done. Don’t get me wrong, I still swept down the giant slide on my burlap mat. I’m drawn to that thing like a bug to a windshield, dreading it, but unable to resist it. And once again, I sat through the whole waterless cookware demonstration, waiting for my toothpickful of surprisingly juicy chicken and a nibble of almost cooked carrot. I ate Barbeque and real Washington Dairy Farmers’ Association’s (say that three times fast) ice cream, but passed up the scones and shortcake this year in homage to my husband’s newly minted gluten-free lifestyle. (Surprisingly easy to stay gluten free on fair food. Who knew?)
And this year, because I spent more time observing, I decided to catalog some of the truths that the Puyallup Fair and its cousins across our great nation prove to be self-evident:
Truth #1: Just because you can get into it doesn’t mean you should wear it, at least not in public.
If the amount of belly fat hanging over your waistband is greater than the amount of cotton candy hanging out of the sides of your mouth, change clothes. Please.
Truth #2: Just because you can fry it doesn’t mean you should eat it.
The line was long at the “Everything Fried” booth this year, as they hit a new high, or low, in food innovation. Featured on this dubious menu were the ubiquitous Fried Twinkies and Fried Pickles, along with Chocolate Covered Bacon and something called Redneck Sushi, which I never did figure out. I was mildly tempted by the Alligator on a Stick, but having once snacked on a Gator Bite at a fish camp in Ocala, Florida, I took a pass.
Truth #3: Just because it gets magical results for the guy with the microphone in the booth doesn’t mean it will work for you after you pay twenty bucks and take it home.
My cleaning closet is littered with gadgets a variety of dudes swore would take the film off the white vinyl floor in my kitchen (who thought putting a cheap white floor in a kitchen at the beach was a good idea in the first place?). I’m significantly poorer, and the floor still has a gray film. (Perhaps because it’s twenty years old and needs to be replaced?) And let’s not even mention the ShamWow. That being said, I admit that I did pause overly long at some stuff the dude swore would dissolve soap scum off a shower door.
Truth #4: Just because you have a lot of it doesn’t mean other people want to see it.
Although I’m not a collector myself, I hail from a long line of them. For my mother it was birds. All things birds. Books, porcelain figurines, fine china plates. And pitchers (the kind you pour out of, not the MLB variety). Tall ones, short ones, silver ones, crystal ones. All lovely. But even she never lined up all those things in a showcase and trotted them out for display among the livestock. Collector’s Hall at the Puyallup Fair is proof that the world has enough bottle caps, Star Wars figures, Barbie dresses, and crocheted doll house furniture. You don’t need to gather up any more.
Truth #5: Just because it seems like a good idea after your second beer doesn’t mean you should go for it. (Maybe especially because it seems so smart after your second beer . . . )
The Big Bungie, for example. What may look like a hoot from the ground may not be all that enticing as you hang suspended in midair, upside down, and barfing. Same for any ride that spins in horizontal circles. Alcohol does not enhance equilibrium, or so I’ve been told. The world has enough drunks draped over fences yakking. Like the crocheted doll house furniture, we don’t need more.
Truth #6: Just because you won it doesn’t mean you have to take it home and find a place for it.
The tall feathered bird that keeps bobbing its head into a jar of water? Let it go. The stuffed tiger that’s four times bigger than the nearest toddler? Leave it there. The ash tray that used to be a CocaCola bottle before the train ran over it . . . the neon velvet painting . . . the baseball cap with LED lights in the brim . . . move on without them and avoid being the middle man on their path to Goodwill.
To these Basic Truths I would add just a few more simple Rules of Engagement:
1) Don’t eat blue food. Nothing in nature is that color.
2) Try not to inhale in the cow barn.
3) Remember that the 5 Second Rule does NOT apply at The Fair. If you drop it, do NOT pick it up and put it in your mouth.
4) Do not purchase articles of clothing at The Fair. Nothing you purchase in a booth was meant to be worn in a civil society.
5) If you miss the Seattle Seahawk’s cheerleaders shaking their beautiful booty to “Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Sexy Like Me,” try to catch Billy Hill and the Hillbillies’ rendition of “Rocky Top.” It’s not an exact match, but it’ll get you through a rough patch.
6) No matter where you park, don’t expect to find the route to the freeway on your first try.
7) Leave your credit card at home and carry only as much cash as you’re willing to admit you ate.
8) Wear shoes that are a) comfortable and b) can be washed out in the shower.
9) Don’t miss the Clydesdales. Also, don’t step in front of them. And, finally . . .
10) . . . at every opportunity, every hand sanitizer, every soap station, every rest room you pass . . . WASH YOUR HANDS!
The Fair ends Sunday, so get out there and do it at a trot. Now don’t be late . . .
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