Barbie Turns 50.

My father recently sent me a newspaper clipping celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Barbie doll. It brought back some memories.

My first Barbie doll was a gift from my father’s aunt, Mae. I was going to spend a school break at Aunt Mae’s. She lived in the city, where, unlike my small town, they had toy stores. I had decided I would get her to buy me a Barbie. I had been saving my allowance and planned to contribute it toward the purchase.

In my father’s desk drawer, he always kept a little box labelled “My Two Cents.” It contained two pennies. At the age of six, I didn’t fully understand the meaning of this, but Dad always got a chuckle out of it.

So, when the time came, instead of packing my savings, I packed two pennies. My aunt did not get my joke and was not amused. But she took me to the toy store anyway. She refused to buy me Barbie, though, insisting instead on Barbie’s cousin, Midge. She was more “wholesome,” my aunt explained.

I’m not sure why I even wanted the doll. I was really not a “doll” person. I can only think I must have felt left out when my cousins played with their Barbies--of course they had “real” ones, and Kens, too. There was a decided difference between “baby” dolls and adult dolls, though.

With adult dolls, one could make up stories and dress them in the latest fashions. We would make them zoom around in hot cars and do fun things. They could go on vacations, or to the beach, or just lie around the pool. The possibilities were endless.

With two brothers still in diapers, I found baby dolls much too close to real life. The only story lines available were “mommy” ones--and they came with a lot of work! I have since come to see baby dolls as a societal ruse to train little girls to be mothers. I could maybe forgive this if they were also used to teach little boys to be fathers. But I digress.

The small town I lived in was a rather conservative town, with a decidedly religious population. When I returned from the city with my “Barbie,” folks were wary. Might this be some evil influence in disguise? And none of my friends had one (which should have made me the object of envy, right? But, no . . . . ). And so, Midge, and later, my favorite, Skipper, only got to live in my little dream world, or when we went to the city.

This all changed when one of the teachers at my school created a series of instructional skits. One was designed to show the proper way to brush one’s teeth. It involved a huge set of choppers and an equally large toothbrush. For some reason--maybe to play the germs and bacteria?--they decided small dolls would be the perfect thing. But the only dolls anyone had were baby dolls. And then someone remembered my Barbies. The teacher called my mother, and Midge and Skipper finally got their moment in the spotlight. The ice was broken. My Barbies were no longer contraband.

In the end, my Aunt Mae gave me quite the gift. Now, forty-five years later, Midge dolls are rather rare--and that makes them worth a fairly pretty penny. Not a bad purchase--for my two cents!

The art of procrastination

For at least a week now, I have managed to put off vacuuming the kitchen floor. I’ve used legitimate excuses--appointments, writing deadlines, the piles of sorted laundry that cover it--and just plain flimsy ones--don’t want to disturb the sleeping cat, can’t put down the crossword puzzle.

I have even scrubbed the showers, sinks, and toilets to get out of doing that floor!

And yet, this morning, faced with writing this column, I vacuumed the kitchen floor--despite the piles of laundry, despite the sleeping cat, despite the crossword puzzle (in truth, there’s a fair stack of them). I’m not sure what it says about me, or about any of us, but clearly, when given choices, we have certain preferences that defy even our own logic.

To an avowed efficiency maven, like myself, it would have made more sense to do the laundry first, and I have a separate list of excuses for procrastinating on that. (I don’t like leaving wet laundry n the machine, and don’t want to dry it until I have time to fold it, and I won’t have time to fold it until I get this column off to the editor . . . .)

In terms of real life priorities, with no emergencies on the front--no illness, no flood, no fire--work, hence this column, should be pretty high on the list. So why am I stalling? Could it be a lack of inspiration? Perhaps. I didn’t really wake up with something I just had to get off my chest.

But inspiration is such a fickle thing. It comes and goes on its own whim. If I were to always await inspiration, I would write less often, and in different genres, more for myself, less for publication--not conducive to making a living.

Maybe I was inspired to vacuum the floor! No, that wasn’t it. While I do find occasionally find myself bitten by the cleaning bug--that isn’t so much inspiration as it is nesting impulse, or repulsion to mess, or a way to work out frustration.

I suppose I could be rebelling--against obligation, against the authority that demands I produce something, even when I’m not totally inspired.

Maybe I’m peeved at inspiration itself for abandoning me, leaving me to my own devices.

It’s ironic to me though that procrastination in one area breaks the procrastination in another. I suppose the best I can do is try to harvest that energy--and come up with a list of truly loathsome chores to help me buckle down to the ones I’m putting off while writing this column.

Holiday Hurry.

'Tis the Season for turkeys. I’m not talking about the steaming basted birds served with dressing and sweet potatoes. I’m talking about the ones you find in the car that just cut you off in the turn lane, or the ones you encounter blocking the aisles in the grocery store, and in long lines at banks and post offices.

It never ceases to amaze me how the season devoted to gratitude and good will toward men instead brings out the baser side of humanity.

Just today, in an hour’s worth of errands, I witnessed two near accidents--caused by people in a hurry. One man just had to be first in line when the road narrowed to one lane and zipped around the car he was tailing, passing on the left and then cutting back in front of the car he passed. The accident almost happened when he nearly collided with a car turning into the lane from the other side.

The second near accident happened when a woman made a turn into traffic, causing another driver to slam on their brakes because there had not been enough room for the first woman to enter the lane in the first place. Undaunted, the first woman then pulled into the next lane, again causing the sudden breaking of, in fact, three cars, so that she could make a left-hand turn into the grocery store. Halfway through the turn, she finally signaled.

What kills me about such moves is these people who are in such a hurry surely can’t be saving themselves any amount of time that would make it worth the accident if it were to happen. Or even a ticket. And that’s just accounting for the time involved, not the money it could cost, or the potential injury and pain. The adage “haste makes waste” springs to mind.

I am not immune to the pitfalls of holiday rush syndrome, but I find that when I rush, I get distracted, I forget things and I’m more apt to make mistakes. I also find myself yelling and cursing at the other turkeys on the road, or in my way, and by the time I get to where I’m going, my mood is foul.

If I encounter a bothersome person in a store, or at the post office, I can turn a bit nasty and rude myself. This does not make me happy. When I return to a calmer “place,” I usually regret my behavior. I feel bad about myself, and I’ve vented on a stranger who’s probably just as frustrated as I am, maybe more. And this is the time of year we are supposed to spread cheer!

To combat the "syndrome," I have instated a “house rule.” When I am in a hurry, I actually make myself slow down. It’s the old count to ten, take a deep breath thing.

And so, my wish for the holiday season is that people will join me in deliberately fighting the urge to rush. No shopping, no party, no anything is worth the stress and grief and anxiety.

Remember the reason for the season, and do unto others as you would have done unto you. Give others the benefit of the doubt. Let them into the stream of traffic if it’s busy, or you can see they’re having trouble. Smile and hold the door for the folks behind you--even if it means they’ll end up in front of you in a line somewhere. Stop and help the person struggling through the post office door with a load of boxes.
Above all, keep your head as you drive. Use your signals, and check your road rage.

Courtesy can be its own reward. Use the slower pace to take in the sights and sounds of the holidays. Take a moment to observe the people around you, to connect with them, and truly share in the reason for the season--promotion of holiday cheer and good will toward others. And who knows, the life you save may be your own!

By the people, and for the people.

In his acceptance speech, Barack Obama called his election a victory for the people. I think he hit the nail on the head.

As television broadcasts began to show people lining up across the country, waiting for their chance to vote, I couldn’t help feeling exhilarated--not for the impending change of political party, but for the fact that people were getting off their apathies and claiming their power. This government is of the people, after all, and they finally stepped up to the plate and carried out their responsibility.

As throngs filed into Grant Park in support of Obama, something I can only call pride welled up inside me. It was a truly moving sight seeing so many people come together--and peacefully. It was an historic moment, and these people knew it.

I was impressed by John McCain's speech also. I felt I was seeing the real McCain for the first time in this campaign. He was humble. He was honest. It was as if even he was moved by the change that had come over America--a change he too wants, but could not bring about. As I watched him deliver his concession speech, I couldn’t help wonder what might have happened if he had just been himself.

Pundits opined that McCain’s age was his undoing. I suppose it was, but not in the way they mean. I think 72 is young enough to govern--my grandfather at 95 could have done the job. But the country changed the game on McCain--and his old guard methods couldn’t cut the muster. People have tired of pithy sound bites, and the smear tactics that kept him from his dream eight years ago worked against him in the new game. He was left baffled and unable to adapt.

McCain told his supporters that his loss was not their failure, but his. I do not agree with him. I think, in the final analysis, the failure was George Bush’s. A sign held up in Times Square said as much: BUSH YOU'RE FIRED.

Personally, I do not agree with all of Barack Obama’s ideas, but I am impressed at the thoroughness of his thought, by his sincerity, and by his overall aplomb. I am tired of living under fear. If he can change that, he has my support. Oprah wore a tee shirt reading “HOPE WON.” I can’t say it any better myself.

It’s the Berries!

It never ceases to amaze me how inspiring it can be to get out of one’s own little world--and how little it takes to do so. The lesson was driven home once again as I attended Cranberry Harvest Days at DeGrandchamp Farms, in South Haven.

I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day. It was sunny and clear, not too warm, not too cold. The sky was the color that gives meaning to the term “blue sky”--and it was dotted with white fluffy clouds.

I had a nice easy drive north from Berrien County. Interstate 96 is a smooth highway, and scenic (Red Arrow Highway isn’t so smooth, but it too is scenic, and I took it all the way through St. Joseph to Hagar Shores Road before cutting over to the freeway.). There wasn’t a ton of traffic, so the trip was not stressful. In fact, it was relaxing. A good start.

Once I arrived at the farm. I fell right in line and started to learn about the growing, harvesting, and processing of the berries. Fascinating! And all those red berries!

I admire the way the family--four siblings--has divided the labor, working together, yet separately, with a common purpose, but not in each others’ way.

I especially enjoyed going out to the cranberry beds to watch the harvest. In talking to the DeGrandchamps, I was reminded of histories I already knew--about the cranberries harvested in Grand Mere, and of the cranberries that grow wild still in Mud Lake Bog, alongside their cousins, wild blueberries.

I was reminded, again, how special this area is--geologically, and geographically, and climatically.

I learned that Wisconsin was able to surpass Massachusetts in cranberry production for one reason, and one reason only: it had not developed its farmland. It is a lesson I hope this region learns--and before it’s too late, before it sacrifices its geologically, geographically, and climatically uniqueness for real estate's promises.

DeGrandchamp Farms is proving there are other ways to be profitable. They have a thriving business that fills a necessary role in providing food, and they are creating a destination, and an event, where people can enjoy learning about something new, where they can get some fresh air, and let go their daily grind.

I, of course, also took the opportunity to stock up on (locally produced!) cranberries--dried to put in my oatmeal and cookies, and fresh for making sauce. I also discovered dark chocolate covered cranberries, sure to become a new habit.

All in all, the experience was invigorating. It’s not too late for folks to visit the store (where they have blueberry stuffs too), but I highly recommend Harvest Days--the first Saturday in October--and have already put it on my 2009 calendar.

Bicycling Safely.

People are hitting the streets in droves--on bicycles!

And bikes aren’t only for recreation anymore. With rising gasoline prices, more and more people are turning to bicycles as an alternative form of transportation. More and more cities and towns are creating recreational bike paths, and many have incorporated bike lanes into their infrastructures.

With this increased bike traffic, there seems to be some confusion over rules and safe riding habits. I’ve witnessed some near misses lately, many of them involving cars--situations that rarely affect bicyclists positively. I thought a refresher might be useful.

First and foremost, bicycles are wheeled vehicles. They are to travel with traffic, not against it as pedestrians do. The same rules that govern other wheeled vehicles apply to bikes. Cyclists are to stop at stop signs and traffic lights, they are to yield to pedestrians, and they are to signal, using their left hands, when slowing down, stopping, or changing direction.

Bicycles belong in the road, in the right lane. Many places restrict bicycle use of sidewalks. Some ban it altogether, others regulate by bicycle size (usually allowing for smaller children to ride on the sidewalk).

Groups of cyclists may ride two-abreast, when there is room, but should ride single-file when traffic is thick, and never more than two-abreast.

Helmets, contrary to popular belief, are not required by law, though are undoubtedly a good idea.

Safety is another matter, the aim of laws, but not always achieved by laws, a point made by the website BicycleSafe.com. It offers some very specific tips to combat specific scenarios, and warrants a visit. It also offers some basic common sense suggestions for safe bicycle riding.

Visibility is paramount to staying safe on a bicycle. BicycleSafe.com recommends wearing bright clothing and using a headlight--even in the daytime. Night riders need taillights too and lots of reflectors, including reflective clothing. (Some of these things are, in fact, law for nighttime riding.)

BicycleSafe also suggests people have mirrors, horns or bells, and that they avoid other vehicles’ blind spots.

Bicycling is a good thing--good for the environment, good for the pocketbook, and good for the waistline--but only if it’s done safely! I’m hoping these tips and reminders help bring that about.

Locavore-ing.

I learned last week that I am a “locavore,” a person who buys and eats food grown, or produced, as close to home as possible. While I have been doing this for some time, I did not know my practice had a name--or that there were others!

The first conscious choice I made in buying locally was with wine. I reasoned that a ten dollar bottle of Michigan wine was more truly a ten dollar bottle of wine, while a ten dollar wine from California was a ten dollar bottle of wine--less shipping. And I saved the pollution caused by the shipping. I suppose I may be costing someone their job, but hopefully, if I drink enough local wine, I will create those jobs, well, locally.

As I discovered the local farms and farmers’ markets, I became more and more a “locavore,” not only buying local fruits and vegetables instead of transported ones, but learning the types of things grown locally, and their seasons, so I could be ready for them. I learned what I could freeze and stocked as many and as much as I could.

Buying locally grown produce not only has the same benefits as with the wine, but I can “quiz” the growers about how the food is grown. I can buy riper, fresher, better quality produce. I can support better growing practices, and can, in general, support the agricultural heritage of the region.

I am lucky to have so much quality local fare at hand. In addition to the farm fresh produce, there is the international-award-winning Bit of Swiss bakery, in Stevensville, Old Europe Cheese, out of Benton Harbor, that produces cheese under the Reny Picot label, and family-owned Drier’s Meat Market, in Three Oaks, that offers smoked meats and other delicacies, and have for over 100 years!. There are the wineries, of course, and there are even locally made beers. Why go anywhere else?!

As the dangers of industrial farming increasingly come to light, local food sources become more important, and as the economy stalls, supporting local economies becomes more important too--as does saving the fuel required to ship staples from abroad.

I will admit, I don’t buy all my food locally. I still love avocados and artichokes and fresh figs. I haven’t found anyone who grows those here, but if I do, and the quality is there, I will surely buy from them.

Now all this writing has me waiting on pins and needles for the farm markets to open and for the growing season to begin. Raspberries and apricots are right around the corner, and I can hardly wait! Yup, I’m a bona fide locavore--and I’m happy to know I’m not alone.