My 80s?

            I thought when I hit my 80s I would settle into a more or less comfortable routine. Yes, there would be health concerns, and perhaps some mobility and memory issues, but Kim and I would have a home, maybe a condo, perhaps with help available from family and friends, or perhaps with some hired help. But we would be settled.

 

            Well, it’s not been that kind of year! We have made offers on ten different homes, but nothing has led to a purchase. In some cases it was because of the contractor’s inspection. Sometimes it was our inspection. Sometimes we were outbid. I’ve written before about how our pulling out of a planned purchase of a co-op in Ann Arbor, when we discovered some serious problems that had been hidden from us, cost us $15,000 in earnest money. But we were feeling pretty good these last few weeks because we had a firm offer to purchase our Bark House, and we were due to close on October 11, and with that in mind we made an offer on a condo in Traverse City. But our buyers pulled out three days before closing. And they hired an attorney to say they would not relinquish their earnest money – a substantial amount. Fortunately, our realtor’s company had an attorney to argue why we should get that all that earnest money. We have three times had to forfeit some or all of our earnest money deposit, and it’s time we got some back. We also had to pull out of our deal to purchase the Traverse City condo.

 

            What makes this especially difficult, in addition to the financial burden (forfeited earnest money, costly contractor’s inspections, some legal fees), is our emotional investment. With each of the houses there is an investment in imagining how we will live, and what we need to do to make it happen. Kim, especially, decorates these future homes during her insomnia hours – choosing paint colors, selecting furniture, deciding what we will take, what we will try to sell, what needs replacing, etc. She also has spent a lot of her late nights packing stuff that we were going to move to the condo. We had contacted a mover and reserved a storage unit. After the cancellation we spent a few wonderful days looking (online) at a spectacular condo in Atlanta, converted from an old cotton mill. (The development is called the Stacks, if you want to look it up.) It’s where our daughter lives, and that is very appealing, but we finally concluded that its 1 bedroom, 1 bathroom size would not work for us, despite the 71 foot ceiling, and we are too old for the snowbird drive. We made an offer, pulled out, then remade it, then pulled out again. We are a realtor’s nightmare.

 

            So now we are right where we were a year ago: in a home we love but is a lot of work. No prospects for selling it – and we can’t sell it while our failed buyer is contesting the forfeiture of the earnest money. We have gone back to our morning search of listings in Traverse City, Ann Arbor, and now, Atlanta.

 

            It’s exhausting. Fortunately, we are each pretty good at helping each other with stress – an affliction that hits me harder than it does my practical wife. I’m fond of my comfortable routines. It was Kim who suggested, in response to intense encouragement from our daughter, to make this last chapter of our life an adventure. Let’s really have fun and do some cool stuff! Let’s move to that awesome condo in the Stacks in Atlanta! I made an offer and felt a rush of excitement – or was it anxiety? I figured that I can probably make the transition to excitement if I can find the Fast Forward button to get me through the real estate transactions and the move. But then my practical but dull brain kicked in, and I withdrew my offer – fortunately, before earnest money was involved.

 

            Now, what? Is the universe telling us to stay in our beloved Bark House, in spite of the isolation and the amount of work involved?

 

            But wait! We found another condo on the Stacks, and it cost less than the Tower unit, is a bit bigger, and is on the first floor, not the fifth. We are making an offer . . ..

 

            Stay tuned!

 

                        “If you are not in transition, you are in denial.”

Break

 Friends –

 

I am taking a break from blogging. It’s been every week for over ten years. If you miss reading my stuff on Thursdays, go to dhstringer.com and hit the Blog Archive tab, and you can read the old ones.

 

--David

Claro

            Every once in a while a word just seems to radiate for me. Several years ago that word was “grace,” and I wrote about grace in a blog entry (If you are curious, look into the Archives of dhstringer.com and scroll down to July 2, 2020.). The word that glows for me today is “claro.”

 

            I know – it’s a Spanish word. And my association with Spanish is shaky at best. When I was in high school the recommended foreign language course of study to prepare for college was two years of Latin followed by two years of a modern language. I needed another semester in my freshman year at Amherst so I could complete my Foreign Language Requirement (since dropped as a graduation requirement), and after that I had very little to do with Spanish. The exception was a trip to Italy, where I spoke Spanish so badly they thought I was speaking bad Italian and understood me. Fortunately, we have a good friend who teaches Spanish. And fortunately, I’m not explaining what the word “claro” means, but what it means to me.

 

            The simple meaning of “claro” is something like “sure” or “of course.” It’s like saying “yes,” but with an explanation point. I read that you hear claro “very, very often” in conversation, maybe like the way we use “like” or “y’know.” I’m told that people might inject “claro” into a conversation as a way of saying, “I’m listening” or “I understand” or “I’m with you.” It’s a word that connects people.

 

            But there’s more. For me, the word “claro” is somehow connected to the English word, “clear,” and that is part of the word’s appeal. It’s great to have, in a conversation, an affirmation that is free from argument, free from ambiguity and misinterpretation. I’m not sure whether “claro” and “clear” share a common Latin ancestor (I only took Latin for two years), but the openness, the sense of acceptance, is very welcome in today’s world of political language and the suspicion and mistrust that so much current language engenders. Someone says something to you, and you interject “claro,” and both the conversation and the connection are enriched.

 

            By this point our friend Beth, a Spanish teacher, must be bursting with things to say – mainly corrections and elaborations on my rambling thoughts. Have at it, Beth!

 

            Beth wrote: “It's perfect! One of my favorite words. It made me realize just how much I use 'claro' with my Spanish friends – exactly as you describe. One Spanish friend uses ‘claro’ with the intonation  'CLAroooooo' that communicates – ‘Yes, don't you already know that, though? And if not, where have you been?’" 

 

            I will try to use the word at least once a day. Claro!

 

            I wonder what the word means if followed by a question mark . . ..

 

  

Hand Signals

            I enjoy words, but I also believe that a lot of communication takes place using hand gestures, and I think it would be helpful – or at least interesting – the provide you with a sort of dictionary of these signals. (I am, by choice, not including those used by referees in noting fouls.)

 

·      The most obvious is the raised middle finger, an act universally known as “giving the finger.” The origins probably go back to the digit used in providing digital sex, but how it came to have the tone of contempt now associated with the finger is not clear to me. Maybe the suggestion that digital sex is the only kind the recipient of the gesture can provide?

 

·      The Italians, I believe, have a version of the finger called, I believe, “the figs.” You insert your thumb between the index and middle finger so the tip is sticking out. I have no idea where this comes from, but the Italians have so many hand gestures . . ..

 

·      A raised index finger has an altogether different meaning – usually something like, “Wait a second, please.” I picture someone speaking on the cell phone gesturing to a live person that the phone call is more important. You can probably picture the facial expression that goes with this gesture.

 

·      On a lighter note, there is the pantomime of writing on a pad which tells a waiter that you would like the check. This dates back to the days when checks were actually written and not typed on a small screen.

 

·      “Shhhhh!” The index finger across the mouth shows that sound should be blocked. The sound may be the end of the word “hush,” but that’s just a guess.

 

·      One of my favorites is the gesture you often see young people make: Behind the back of the unknowing person, raise two fingers in the approximate shape of horns. Kids do this to declare a kind of superiority over the victim. Little do they know that, historically, these are the horns of the cuckold – the man whose wife is sleeping with someone other than her husband, who knows about it and either enjoys it or is too weak to stop her.

 

·      Some hand gestures are entirely sarcastic. Think of wiping tears away or maybe the sad violin pantomime: “Boo-hoo! Poor me!”

 

·      On the other hand, the tapping of the chest over the heart shows the loving thought is received, and that’s entirely sincere. Also, largely if not entirely sincere, is pointing at your eyes and then strongly pointing at another person, to say, “I’m watching you!” A serious hard stare drives this one home.

 

·      One of my favorites is pointing two fingers at your eyes, then firmly pointing the index finger at the other person to let him or her know that you will be watching and judging, so better do what you said.

 

·      And finally, there’s the slit throat gesture. Depending on how it is delivered, it can mean either Time to end the scene or event, or "You’re Done!"

 

 

  

CTA

 

            You are probably aware that people use all sorts of clever abbreviations when texting. You may not be aware of how important it is to know what the letters represent. True story: a woman was responding by text to the news of the death of her good friend’s husband. After expressing her condolences, she meant to sign off saying “Lots of Love”: LOL. Unfortunately, she did not know that it means, to everyone but her, “Laugh Out Loud.”

 

            So, as a public service, I will share some of them. These are the first 20 of the hundred listed online at a site called SlickText.

 

Common Text Abbreviations (from SlickText)

 

1.     ROFL: Rolling on the floor laughing

2.     STFU: Shut the f*** up

3.     ICYMI: In case you missed it

4.     TLDR: Too long, didn’t read

5.     TMI: Too much information

6.     AFAIK: As far as I know

7.     LMK: Let me know

8.     NVM: Never mind

9.     FTW: For the win

10.  BYOB: Bring your own beer

11.  BOGO: Buy one, get one

12.  JK: Just kidding

13.  JW: Just wondering

14.  TGIF: Thank goodness it’s Friday

15.  TBH: To be honest

16.  TBF: To be frank

17.  RN: Right now

18.  FUBAR: F***ed up beyond all repair

19.  BRB: Be right back

20.  ISO: In search of

 

How many of these did you know before the turn of the century? For me, #10 and #18.   

 

            It occurs to me that if I’m going to use these, I might need to add a few more to cover things I might want to say if I ever care to text:

 

1.     WRU: Who are you? (Best said in the voice of the Caterpillar in Disney’s Alice)

2.     WAI: Where am I?

3.     PU: Please unsubscribe (can be applied numerous ways)

4.     WMW?: Where’s my whatever? (can’t remember what I was looking for)

5.     SNT: Sorry, it’s nap time

6.     BDN: Busy doing nothing

7.     CIG: Change is good

8.     KTC: Keep the change

9.     TWT: That was a typo

10.  PRB: Pushed the wrong button

11.  DKDT: Don’t know how to do that

12.  BRN: Battery recharge needed

13.  OD: Off duty

14.  WFD: What’s for dinner?

15.  TYA: Thank you, again (Best said, in my case, after WFD)

16.  WDT: What day is this?

17.  GT: It’s a guy thing. (Usually said by a woman about a shortcoming)

18.  MPB: Male Pattern Blindness

19.  SMB: Sorry, my bad

20.  HDTTO: How do I turn this off?

 

            These, of course, are or will be Common Text Abbreviations (thus the title of this post). Now, imagine a world where our actual conversations use these and other abbreviations. On the other hand (SMB), in the future we may not ever have actual conversations, for all communication will all be done using our phones. Imagine if texting were achieved before the invention of the telephone. What would texters say when they actually heard a human voice on their device?

 

Pump House

            We’ve been examining a lot of real estate listings as we continue to look for a new home, and I’ve noticed a certain writing style used in the descriptions – though I confess that the photographs are much more important. With that in mind, I decided to write one – not about our Bark House, for our realtor team did a good job with that with only minimal suggestions from us.

 

            No, I decided to write one about a small building on our property, a building known as The Pump House.

            The Pump House is a delight. It features lakeside living (about 5 feet from the door, depending on wind direction) with an open floor plan, a new concrete floor where the old pump was removed, and an economical and planet-friendly lack of heating and cooling, though electricity is available with a little work. The property is pet-friendly as well – in fact, some may be living there already. The Pump house also offers plenty of storage – in fact, it’s pretty much all storage. And if you don’t like to cook, you will be pleased to see that the Pump House does not have a kitchen, dining room or breakfast nook, and there is a restaurant about a mile away. And it features a window, though sometimes it’s hard to tell because of the elaborate cobweb decorations. Running water is available, depending on the weather.

            The exterior is vintage stone – very low maintenance. The Pump House follows the trendy commitment to “bringing the outside in,” as the Pump House is pretty much outdoors already. The one door to the place locks – if you can find the key. But you don’t really need to worry about anyone stealing your stuff, as there isn’t room for much stuff – currently a couple of rakes, a shovel, and some kayak paddles.

            If you have pretty much had it with family and friends, the Pump House is the place for you, because only one person fits comfortably inside – two if you don’t try to move. But there are great neighbors – currently, an older couple.

Finding Peace

             For several years I volunteered as a writer for TransWeb, which posted articles and photographs for the Transplant Games – a sort of mini-Olympics for people who had received organ donations. The event also brought together families of people who had donated organs. I remember waiting for a bus going back to the hotel, watching a woman listen to her daughter’s heart beating in another woman’s chest.

            The article below is one I wrote for the 2002 games. When I reread it last week, I was surprised by the writing. Not, unfortunately perhaps, who I am now.

 

Finding Peace

 

            As a TransWeb writer new to the Transplant Games, I had been told in advance about the power of the Donor Recognition Ceremony. But I was not prepared to be moved so deeply.

 

            When I entered the stunning white basilica that is Mary, Queen of the Universe Shrine, I quickly spotted the tissue boxes distributed along the pews. I was ready for that. I was not ready for the beauty of the space. I thought of another magical moment: when the field lights were first turned on just before Wednesday's Opening Ceremony and the entire stadium was transformed into a glowing world roofed by pinkish clouds. Here in the shrine the immaculate white walls, the orderly rows of oak and the stained-glass windows above all said to me that here the everyday world was being set aside. Life was going to become more intense and beautiful. 

            The large statue of the Crucifixion above the front of the aisle and to the triumphant Ascension at the rear, with Christ springing from his shroud, were perfect images to frame the Donor Recognition Ceremony. Yes, there was painful death, but it led to a rebirth-not necessarily in terms of the Christian soul in the case of transplantation, but in terms of giving another person a chance for new life. 

            Soon people filed into the shrine-very real people in such a magical world. Some were wrinkled, the suffering in their lives evident on their faces. Some were slender and athletic, but others were overweight and did not walk easily. I saw a baby sleeping in her father's arms and a middle-aged couple being photographed as the husband made the universal two-fingered hand signal behind his smiling wife's head. One man wore Walter Payton's old Chicago Bears jersey. Some wore team shirts, but not very many. Groups were talking and laughing together, but many sat quietly, singly or in couples, reflecting on their own thoughts and memories. Organ music murmured in the background. 

            These ordinary people were extraordinary, and their presence in this beautiful building acknowledged that fact. They belonged in this beauty. 

            The ceremony began with rituals that added emotional power. The Processional of the Donor Heart Memorial was dignified and moving, and the Presentation of Colors by the Cypress Creek High School Naval Jr. ROTC in effect broadened that impact, reminding us of the political world outside these walls. Rituals, like the songs, prayers, and poems we participated in, all served to elevate our experience beyond the everyday. And yet these were and are everyday people -- like me, I thought -- but they had done extraordinary things as donor families. When we got to the 4th verse of "America the Beautiful" I choked up and could not continue singing. 

            Ellen Kulik and Barbara Musto, both donor moms, introduced another theme to the ceremony and helped to clarify what we were feeling: We are, they said, a family -- a family of grieving families -- so expect to see hugs and kisses. Much of the grieving was private, natural, and a healthy sign of the value of what you love. We share feelings with our fellow human beings, as fellow sufferers – even someone like me, who is not part of a donor family and has not received a transplant. By being part of the ceremony, I became part of the community, and I found myself surprisingly vulnerable to tears. A song like "Take These Wings" might have struck me as sentimental in another situation, but here, so beautifully sung among people who had experienced its truth, it seemed rich, moving, and meaningful. We understood the force behind "and learn to fly." 

            And then the slow progression of names-the Honor Roll of Donors. A long list, but not nearly long enough. I looked at the people listening to the names. Many were quietly weeping. Some were holding hands. A few husbands had their arms around their wives' shoulders. Hugs. How must it feel to hear the name of your child? I thought of my own children, alive and well. 

            The Responsive Reading reinforced the sense of family. As we repeated "We are connected by love," I thought of how intensely those of us in the room felt the truth of these words and how intermittently we felt it in the world outside this room: the West Bank, Pakistan, or my home town in Michigan. The families here, through personal loss, have gained a sense of connection. Organ donation is for the donor families more than a practical gift to individuals: It is a sign of love and connection to humanity. 

            The Medal Ceremony returned me to an appreciation of the ordinariness of these extraordinary people, made clear to me by the contrast with the Olympic handsomeness of Chris Klug and the star power of Larry Hagman, who presented the medals. I saw people who were shy, proud, overwhelmed, still stunned, radiant, embarrassed, and humble. They could be Chaucer's pilgrims, except they share a generosity in real life that for his travelers was only an ideal. And yes, some are as beautiful as the star presenters. Not some: many. And more beautiful. 

            Chris Klug charmed us with his remarks, but I thought most often of his waiting for a donor and how difficult that must be for anyone used to taking action. And I thought of the man I interviewed at the Opening Ceremony describing how he was awakened in the night by false alarms on his pager. Until finally it called him to a liver transplant for his daughter, Alissa. 

            The Video Tribute: Honoring Our Loved Ones was overwhelming. All those beautiful faces, presented in such a steady rhythm, each image zooming in closer as we imagined our way into their lives. And so many of them so young-children, teenagers, young adults. What losses -- and what must it be like to see the picture of your child, alive and well?

            The untitled poem read by Larry Hagman was eloquent in ways the author could not have intended. The concluding sentence, "I did not die," had to refer to the ongoing life of the soul, but I doubt the poet had in mind the much more tangible life-after-death for the organ donors and their families. The concluding words of the Benediction spoke more directly to the donor families: 

Guide us into the future, as our grief

is transformed into compassion

and our hurt into help and hope for others

that in the dawn of memory

we will find peace.