y the time that I had gotten to the attic, I was far past dwelling on every single memento removed from my parents’ emptying house. A steady parade of dumpsters had hauled away umpteen boxes, and I had bequeathed the local library and rummage with untold books, cookware, and just plain gradoux (a most apt word of my mother’s). But when boxes of old correspondence veiled in decades of dust and mung (my mother’s synonym for gradoux) started to emerge from the attic, my husband Nick stood guard in front of the dumpster as the arbiter of what should be saved or tossed.
He discovered several boxes that appeared to have been moved from attic to attic over the past 200 years. One box included a numbered photograph of a very homely President Lincoln, another a whole sheaf of correspondence from some long ago ancestor named Charles Forseth, whose letters from the early 1800s detailed the appalling but routine deaths of children from such old fashioned diseases as the croup, quinsy or the dwindles. But the biggest find was the box filled with every single letter that my father had ever written his parents – and he was a faithful correspondent throughout WWII and his married life. And then with a gasp I saw that this box also contained every single thank you note that I had ever written my grandmother.
Granny Brown’s identity was solidly based on her role as a family matriarch to her five children and 23 grandchildren and many other nieces and nephews. She was a consistent gift giver, for Christmas and birthdays for sure, and then I routinely got a Valentine’s day gift. Giving gifts must have been a near full time job, and I remember a special room in her home that she used for flower arranging in the summer, but then was converted to a wrapping room around Christmas time. For the 25 years that our lives overlapped, she used the same exact diagonally striped red and white wrapping paper with green velvetoid ribbon. And then my parents would give gifts to all of their nieces and nephews and vice versa. Since we did not routinely see these folks, Christmas could consist of a bizarre collection of somewhat anonymous gifts.
Moments after Christmas, my mother’s pestering would begin,
“How are you coming on those thank you notes? It would be more manageable if you wrote at least one per day. Here I have gotten some special stationary for you, and I have a list here of all the gifts that you received. If you put a thank you note on the counter, I will make sure to get in the mail today. Okay?”
The thank you note harangue could suck the life out of a holiday, so for several years I wrote a note the very minute I opened the gift on Christmas morning. Some were particularly challenging. Aunt Lootie used to give all 5 of us the same gift and sometimes no one could figure what it was. One year we all got a different type of plastic vegetable that had a secret compartment – mine was a cabbage. We were collectively stumped, but then several months later I realized that these were intended to be clever hiding places for jewelry or other valuables that you could put in your fridge to fake out a burglar. On occasion I would try to write a generic pre-emptive note before I even opened the present:
“Dear Aunt Lootie, Many thanks for the intriguing item. I am sure that I will use it frequently. I have never seen anything like it. I hope that you are enjoying a happy Christmas with all your family. We sure are. Hope to see you soon. Love, Bobbie.
As I stood in my parent’s driveway with the musty box, I realized that the thank you notes that seemed an odious chore were meticulously saved and appreciated by my grandmother. She must have received several a day and her attic probably contained boxes and boxes of thank you notes. I pictured her saying, “Wow that David certainly writes a lovely note. I’m so glad to hear from Bobbie, but it sure sounds like she is writing this under duress.” How would I measure up?
The first one I opened must have been from my college days since it was written in the fine brown ink that I favored. I also used some sort of very fine tip pen – I think that it was called a Montblanc pen - which included the ritual of sucking up the ink from a bottle of ink, leading to spillages and smudges. The note began:
“Dear Granny, I am sorry that I have not written to you in such a long time, but I have been very busy at school. But I wanted to thank you for the Indian bird mirror and the collapsible purse…”
The rest of the note was basically illegible, but I was impressed at its length, so hopefully quantity balanced tardiness. Then I spotted a bit of misfiling by my grandmother; the box contained a thank you note from my cousin David, the epitome of thoughtfulness. I thought that for sure he would blow my feeble efforts out of the water.
David from college: “Dear Granny, I am sorry that I have not written sooner, but I have been busy at school. I want to thank you for the ten shiny dimes you sent me for Valentine’s day. I am sure that I will put them to good use.”
And then I spotted a thank you note from my cousin Ralph.
Ralph from college: “Dear Granny, I can’t believe that Christmas was already a month ago, so sorry that I am so late in getting back to you. But I just wanted to thank you for the Christmas check, and to also let you know that you are the best grandmother in this whole wide, ever-expanding universal infinity.”
Okay, so Ralph gets points for creative hyperbole, but absolutely every thank you note I read, all of mine and all of my siblings, uniformly apologized for tardiness. All in all, I think that I more than held my own. My notes would quickly dispense with the actual thank you and provide updates on my life – what courses I was taking at college, plans for a summer job. Probably just what my grandmother was eager to learn, particularly since she had probably long since forgotten the collapsible purse.
Now I find that I have turned into my mother as I cajole my kids into writing thank you notes, although to my credit I generally hold off until January 1st. I even got them small embossed note cards so that they would not be overwhelmed by the expanse of a large blank page. But I nix the email thank you or the phone call and firmly insist on the traditional hand written thank you note sent through the US Postal Service. I also realized that no other form of communication requires penmanship, which is fast becoming a lost art. I know that I could recognize the handwriting of all my grandparents – Granny Brown’s hurried scrawl, Granny Farwell’s more upright loopy writing, and Grampy’s which looked oddly feminine. All had distinctive styles that meshed with their personalities. I spent many hours as a child creating the perfect handwriting, experimenting with slanting it backwards and then forwards, and then finally deciding that the spidery forward slanted looped style and ink (the color of my last name) was going to be my personal style. All of that is now gone - I don’t think that my kids could recognize my handwriting, and sometimes I forget what I think that it should look like. And I don’t think that my kids think that their handwriting is a distinctive personal trait. But all of that can by rectified in the thank you note.
However, it is hard to explain the importance of a thank you note if you never receive one. I realized that unlike my grandmother, as an adult I have rarely received a thank you note. Gift giving in general has dwindled on both sides of my family, so I have received very few thank notes from siblings, nieces and nephews. And then I am more vindictive than my grandmother - if I don't get a thank you note, then there is one less gift to give the following year. Certainly my paltry collection would only require a binder clip and not a box. But then out of the blue I received a thank you note from a cousin, not for a gift, but for a small favor, and in fact I would not have elevated it to a favored status. I am sure she had shown her verbal appreciation at the time, but there it was in the mail, with deliberation and perspective and in her own handwriting. I was almost moved to tears at this simple act of gratitude.
Recently my husband and I joyously celebrated 25th years of wedded bliss and I realized that many of our wedding gifts (which I had dutifully written a thank you note for) had become part an integral part of our everyday lives – the white bowl with the blue flowers where I had mixed hundreds of batches of cookies, the large casserole dish that housed the jumbo turkey tetrazzini every Christmas eve, and the card table that saw any number of failed craft projects. This got me thinking again about the lost art of the thank you note. So I sat down and rethanked my parent’s friends for my most memorable wedding gifts, but this time with the perspective of 25 years. This was a huge success; I received very emotional thank you notes for my re-thank you notes. As my husband and I often say to each other, “it doesn’t take much and it’s so easy.” My faith in the thank you note has been reborn, and even if my dear grandmother couldn’t read my illegible notes, I am newly proud of what I had casually dismissed as a dreary chore for a dutiful granddaughter. My new commitment is to write at least one thank you note a week. It’s so easy.
Note: This fanagram contains two sets of anagrams, one with five letters marked with dashes (- - - - -) and one with six letters marked with asterisks (* * * * * *)
Christmas is now clearly over, and it’s the - - - - - of the New Year,
So I know my thank you note * * * * * * are both near, dear and clear,
My mother harangues my with her increasing “I mean it” - - - - -,
And I find paper and pen midst sighs, moans and groans.
“Dear Granny, the item you gave me is perfect and so well * * * * * *
And my tardiness in response does not mean that my thanks are diluted.
I have * * * * * * constantly so I think of you almost every day,
And if I really knew what this thing was, I’d have much more to say.”
But now, as a recipient, I realize that the - - - - - that were such a chore to send,
Can pack an appreciative wallop when you’re on the receiving end.
Click here for answers
Drawers
recent fanagram considered the cultural significance of visible bra apparati, so it should not be a total surprise that my mind wandered south and started to ruminate on underdrawers, and specifically consider the social messages sent by either conventional underwear, the thong or a visible crack. This was prompted by my daughter, home from college, who bent over to retrieve the lettuce from the bottom shelf of the fridge, revealing 0.5 inches of visible crack emerging from her snug fitting jeans. I thought that she would be grateful that I would be saving her from social embarrassment, but when I pointed this out, she nonchalantly said, “What is the big deal, it’s just a crack.”
Once again in unfamiliar territory. Certainly when I was growing up, the crack was certainly underwraps, as was any direct visibility of underpants. Hip huggers were the style in the 1960s and I remember cutting off the waistband of blue jeans and trimming the jeans to a lower daring “waist” line. We would take the waistband, soak it in warm water and drape it over a ceiling pipe in the basement. Then we would hang from the pipe, hoping to stretch the waistband so that we could sew it back on to the new low cut jeans. I had some pants where the zipper probably measured less than 3 inches. The outfit was then topped off with a wide and thick leather belt with a huge brass buckle. But no matter how diminutive the zipper, I would have never tolerated visible underwear extending above the pants. The only thing worse would be public pubic hair peeking out of a bathing suit. In the 1980s there was a short lived solution to this problem – the body suit, where the front and back of the shirt were snapped together under the crotch like a toddler’s onesie, eliminating any possibility of delamination when you bent over.
So based on my daughter’s comment, the visible crack (more scientifically known as the intergluteal cleft) was now considered no more significant than, say, an elbow. The visible crack probably achieved its greatest publicity in an early Saturday Night Live skit, where Lisa Loobner and her boyfriend Todd could barely contain themselves when Dan Ackroyd, as the plumber, bent over to reveal a good 2-3 inches of crack, in fact “plumber’s crack” became part of the vernacular. However, I suspect that concepts of gluteal quality – i.e. color, consistency and contour – determined the social acceptability of the visible crack. There is certainly a difference between a taut teenage body and a big ole’ flabby, mottled pale white and slightly hairy cleft.
What was the social message of a visible crack, was it really no big deal, or was it sending a flirty and naughty message? And if flirtation was part of the message, why was I receiving this message at breakfast on a weekday morning? It made me ponder whether I would rather see a crack or a protruding thong, and I think that I am voting for the crack. The crack is an error of omission – I could imagine my daughter testing out jeans in the dressing room, bending over in several ways and then craning her neck over her should to see if her cleft showed, but there was no way that she could anticipate every circumstance and a simulated bend and reach into the salad drawer was not part of the repertoire. Now you might test thongs in the same way, but the thong seems riskier since it is not snugged in under the gluteal fold (distinguished from the cleft by its shallower depth and the fact that it runs horizontally compared to the “where the sun don’t shine” vertical cleft.) Furthermore, there are times when the visible thong seems entirely intentional, i.e. a high rise thong combined with low rise jeans. You might don a thong for a date night when you want to send out a sexual message, but for routine activities, the visible thong straddles that fine line between sexy confidence and skanky trampiness. I once saw a mother changing her child’s diaper on the carpet at the airport gate, and as she bent over, out popped the thong. Was she trying to send the message that even though she was a mother she still “had it” and was going to flaunt it? Well if so, good for her. Here is my personal preference list from bad to better on the visual scale (all other things being equal): intentional thong, unintentional thong, granny pannies, inadvertent crack.
Internet commentary describes thongs as the solution to a visible panty line, apparently a situation so horrifying that it is known simply as VPL. So based on this logic, the thong becomes a risk benefit decision regarding the consequence of seeing the underwear outline vs. the thong itself. Taking a page for Law and Order, I would say, “that’s bootstrapping your honor,” i.e. creating a contrived nonsexual rationale for a basically sexual agenda, and of course there is the issue of visible thong line, VTL, or “vittle.” However, I will say that I have seen women in white pants who have made disastrous underwear choices. When I was working at the hospital, there was a certain nurse who had no clue that her patterned underwear were clearly visible through her tight polyester pants. One day, I noticed that she was wearing underwear that clearly said “Thursday” across the back, but since it was Friday, I wondered if she had forgotten to change up. Another day, she was wearing underwear that depicted the Chicago skyline, where the tall erect Sears tower was perfectly aligned with her cleft.
Now if you are truly concerned about VPL, I would think that the best solution would be to go commando. Marilyn Monroe did this with great success as she was sewn into a gold sequined gown she wore to serenade President Kennedy on his birthday. The commando option does beg the question why we are wearing underwear in the first place. I can imagine a variety of reasons: protection, reshaping the contour of the anatomy, modesty, basic mopping up action, habit and sexuality. Now protection is more of a male issue where there appears to be no clear winner in the boxers vs. tidy whiteys vs. the banana hammock debate. Reshaping the contour refers more to bras, which typically try to enhance and showcase a modest endowment. In contrast, reshaping the buttocks is the exact opposite – an attempt to discretely compress over-endowments using something along the lines of a girdle or stout “granny pannies.” Clearly the thong does not fit this role. Modesty applies to skirts where there is a possibility of a peek-a-boo. Commando-loving Marilyn apparently wore two pairs of underwear to keep the crowds at bay when she famously stood over the subway grate and coyly tried to control her billowing skirt. I can identify. In kindergarten I always had to wear a skirt, and I was grateful for my underwear since my classmate Eddie Friedlander always stood under the jungle gym to sneek a peek.
The mop up requires some absorbing action. Now the female anatomy has three outlets down there, two have sphincters, one does not, and thus its contents are more subject to the effects of gravity, if you catch my drift. In fact there is a whole industry around the panty liner, as a sort of belt and suspenders approach to the mop up. In my mind this is the clearest function of underwear and a role that cannot be achieved by the slender thong, even with a panty liner. Thong aficionados claim that they are comfortable once you get used to them, but that is an attribute only if there is some other function. That leaves habit and sexuality as the only rationales for thongs; neither of these roles is hostage to practicality or logic, and both of which are fueled by an entire industry devoted to decorating the derriere. Looks like my plan for a nation wide commando action is doomed to failure.
Thoughts on Drawers
Underwear has an important role that is sanitary
It - - - - - stuff that succumbs to forces that are gravitary
But the thong is only equipped with a tiny little - - - - -
That might not be up to the task in case of mishap.
And then the thong - - - - - the gluteal cleft both dark and deep,
Frankly, I would prefer panties that occasionally creep.
Click here for answers
My Brother Charlie
y parents were married in 1950 and three and a half years later they had three children, my older brother Ralph, me, and my younger brother Charlie. When Charlie was around two years old he developed a very high fever and was rushed off to the hospital. The doctor told my parents he had polio. Sometime around that time it also became apparent that he was not learning to talk and everyone seemed to assume that even though he no had no other physical problems, his inability to talk was related to polio. Throughout my childhood and into adulthood when asked about my family I would say “my brother Charlie had polio and that’s why he doesn’t talk.” I remember my mother saying in retrospect that she was always so grateful that Charlie was undemanding as an infant, and could sit in his own world for hours in his playpen. Although it seems so obvious in retrospect, I never heard my parents mention the word autistic. I had been so ingrained in the polio/doesn’t talk scenario that I didn’t realize that he was autistic until several years after I had completed medical school. The sad truth was I never really thought about it.
Part of the reason that I never questioned Charlie’s polio is that when I was about 8 or 9 Charlie moved to Lochland, a residential facility in Rochester, New York, and there was probably a good 20 year period when I never saw him. I have very hazy memories of Charlie before he moved out; I don’t recall wondering why he didn’t go to school with me, why he didn’t have friends over, or what he did all day. Recently we got our old family movies turned into DVDs and I was surprised to see Charlie totally mixing in with the rest of us. (Of course the movies had no audio). There was Charlie looking for Easter eggs wearing shorts pants, a sport coat and a bow tie, Charlie riding a tricycle, and blowing out candles on a birthday cake. I cannot even imagine the growing anguish of my parents as they realized that even though Charlie was so normal in many ways, he would require life long care.
For several years when Charlie was first at Lochland he would come home for summer vacation. This was great because my mother always rented a trampoline for the summer that we could all use. I remember Charlie jumping by himself for hours, sometimes suddenly yelling the syllable Geee (with a hard G)!! and then laughing at some secret joke. He was also a good singer and could wordlessly sing various show tunes my mother would send him. This was also the time when we would watch the Ed Sullivan show on TV, which often seemed to feature odd circus acts from Eastern Europe. One that I remember was a bunch of guys wearing white stirrup pants with suspenders, who balanced spinning plates on the tops of long poles. Well, Charlie seemed to have the same skills. He could jump on the trampoline while twirling a wet washcloth on his index finger. No one else in the family could do it. He could also do the same thing with a Frisbee, and I think that he was pretty good at a hula hoop. Charlie was also an enthusiastic eater. I remember that he would grab a canister of Redi-Whip from the icebox, squirt it directly into his mouth and then laugh. It was obvious that he had a pretty good sense of humor.
One of the great mysteries of Charlie’s mind was that although he could not communicate he understood everything and was perfectly capable of doing household chores, such as emptying and loading the dishwasher. One day my mother asked Charlie to take out the garbage. We had two garbage cans outside; one was an incinerator at the edge of the driveway and the other one was a regular garbage can right out the back door. Charlie seemed to mistake the incinerator for the garbage can and lit the garbage can on fire. I remember the day distinctly. I was getting dressed for school, and in fact was wearing a pink and yellow candy-striped pair of culottes that I had made myself that perfectly matched my pink sweater. I looked out the bathroom window to see the fireman raising an axe as the flames licked up the side of the house. There were pools of water in the driveway. My father was wearing his going to work clothes which included his felt hat and my mother was standing in the bathrobe she used to wear while she made us all breakfast. Although they were standing with their backs to me, I could see their body language of deep sorrow.
After this incident, my parents decided that coming home to visit was too disruptive for Charlie. While they visited him four times a year, I don’t think any of my siblings saw him for decades. Now I wonder why my parents did not take one of us on each of their visits to Charlie, but on the other hand I am also ashamed to say that I never asked to go. Charlie moved to different residential facilities along the way and spent some time in Florida. When that facility collapsed, my parents even tried to set up their own facility in Florida, called “Great Days.” I noticed these efforts with only passing interest, and I am even more ashamed that I did not pitch in to help on a daily basis. It was very clear that my parents loved Charlie and that he was part of our family, but I think that my parents were trying not to burden us with his care. Perhaps they knew deep in their hearts that it would be our turn soon enough. Ultimately Charlie ended up back at Lochland. Finally one August about four years ago I made my first visit to see Charlie at Lochland. It was the last visit for my mother, whose heroic efforts to compensate for her eroding mind were beginning to show cracks. Shortly after this visit, Alzheimer’s disease overwhelmed her and she never saw Charlie again.
Lochland is housed in a magnificent estate overlooking Seneca Lake, one of New York’s Finger Lakes. As we walked up the steps, I began to hear odd noises - some yelling, inappropriate laughing and then Charlie’s characteristic Gee! Charlie came up and hugged my mother briefly saying, “Muma, muma, muma.” I said, “Hi Charlie, I’m your sister Bobbie,” and gave him an awkward hug, in part because I was startled to notice that Charlie and I are virtually identical twins. This was something that I did not appreciate in all the photos that we had of Charlie, and it was eerie looking into his faraway eyes to see a sort of warped version of myself. Charlie was clearly pleased to see my mother since he knew that he would get some treats, but he soon he wandered off, retreating into his own world. We were left standing in the huge living room of this old mansion surrounded by other residents and staff of the house.
I took a deep breath. Glancing at my watch, I realized that our visit was less than 15 minutes old and it was already clear that we had to start killing time. I turned to the woman next to me and struck up a conversation. I had a such pleasant chat with Cameron that I assumed that she was one of the staff people. All of a sudden she leaned over to me and said, “Wait right here, I want to give you a present.” She rushed back and presented me with a load of hangers that she had decorated (sort of) with different colored yarn. Oops, first mistake, turns out that she was a resident. There was another sloppily dressed man standing awkwardly in the corner who looked like a resident. Later on I realized I was making dangerous assumptions when I saw him driving the Lochland van.
That morning I met with Charlie’s psychiatrist and for the first time I formally heard that Charlie was autistic. Later that day we met Charlie’s “advocate” a woman named Charlene who was supposed to be especially attentive to Charlie’s needs. My parents had been singing the praises of Charlene for several years since she would frequently take Charlie to her home for dinner or even on vacation with her family. Now that I belatedly knew that Charlie was autistic, it didn’t make complete sense to me to change his routine and environment. Sure enough, Charlene would report that they had a great outing, but that Charlie had broken something, like her computer, and then Charlene would send my parents a bill. Charlene suggested that we take Charlie out for dinner to the Sizzler steakhouse. This seemed equally crazy – why would you take someone with virtually no impulse control and an infinite appetite to an all-you-can-eat buffet? This was my first initiation into the sandwich generation and it was the most stressful meal of my life. Charlie would continually try to slip out of the booth and hit the dessert line again and again, and then yell when I tried to stop him. My mother wasn’t sure where she was either; she would get up but then not remember where we were sitting and I would lead her back to our booth. At one point I was retrieving Charlie when he startled another diner by grabbing his lemon meringue pie off his plate and then laughing mischievously. Charlene was trying to show off how well she controlled Charlie by continually jabbing her index finger into her forehead to get his attention but this strategy clearly wasn't working. It was merely incidental that the food was predictably wretched.
The next day was Charlie’s birthday - I think that it was his 50th birthday. Charlene had arranged a birthday party at her house, inviting all the residents of Lochland plus a variety of other disabled adults. Charlene’s husband was one of these enviable guys who could fix anything, but the consequence of this great talent was that his yard was strewn with appliances – there were dishwashers, lawn mowers, cars and an RV all in various stages of repair or disrepair. Charlene had really gone all out and made many different casseroles, all of which seemed to have mayonnaise as the principle ingredient. She had laid them all outside and as the bright sun relentlessly beat down I began to see oil pooling everywhere and the mayonnaise getting that nasty gelatinous look. The yard was now filled with people either in wheelchairs or staggering around, Charlie had no clue that this party was for him and just wanted to eat the dripping and drooping cake that was on display, I had lost track of my mother and I didn’t want to make the same blunder of mistaking a staff person for a resident.
I was utterly exhausted when we finally reached the soothing, relaxed atmosphere of the airport. We happened to fly over Buffalo and I got my first glimpse of Niagara falls. I leaned over to point this out to my mother, who only noticed the fluffy clouds and commented that she thought it was odd that there would be so many snow drifts this time of year. I also saw that when she tried to do the crossword puzzle she just added extra boxes if her word didn’t fit. I thought about all the times that she had made this trip by herself and how she had somehow assimilated all this sadness into her life, and how she had spared the rest of her children from this burden. I vowed that I would not view my care of Charlie as burden, but consider it an opportunity to spend time with my brother in a beautiful part of the country.
I have had some missteps in the past five years, but by and large I would have to say that I am learning visiting Charlie, if you don't mind having your heart broken from time to time. I have discovered a National Wildlife Refuge some 20 minutes away that has fabulous birdwatching. I took Charlie on a walk there on my last visit, and even though he peed in the middle of the trail, I was actually happy to realize that he was smart enough to know that was acceptable in the woods. There is a great yarn store in downtown Geneva that I always stop by. We no longer take Charlie out for dinner, but go to the grocery store and let him pick out something special to have back in his apartment. One time we made a cake together and he did a masterful job of licking the bowl, then washing it and putting it back on the shelf. Charlie loves watching the movie “Sound of Music,” and occasionally when he sings you can catch snippets of “Edelweiss.” One night as we were watching he curled up on the couch and put his head in my lap. I gave my 55 year old look alike brother a head rub just the way our mother did so many years ago.
What's in a Sandwich
When someone says sandwich, I used to think of peanut butter and jelly,
Or maybe pastrami on rye from the corner - - - -.
Or the Earl of Sandwich who spent - - - - days in luxury’s comfortable lap.
His friend Captain Cook made him famous by putting his islands on the map.
But now mostly I think that sandwich is the generation that I'm currently in.
And I - - - - if I told you that sometimes this doesn't stretch me a bit thin.
