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In a Word . . .

Finding new life in language

By Deborah Salomon

In 1914, George Bernard Shaw captivated London playgoers with Pygmalion, the story of a highfalutin’ professor of linguistics who transforms a grubby Cockney flower girl into a lady.

How?

By scrubbing her down and dressing her up, of course. Even more important, dressing up her diction and her vocabulary.

“Words, words, words!” Eliza complains, this time to music, in My Fair Lady, the musical adaptation that opened on Broadway in 1956, then on film in 1964, sweeping awards for eons.

Words (and accents, to a lesser degree) are a force, a knife that cuts both ways. The right word (le bon mot, a useful French expression) makes a favorable impression, while a pale one falls flat and an incorrect one can be an embarrassment.

Worst are overused words, like “eclectic,” a favorite of speakers trying hard.

Ideally, an unfamiliar word will be defined by its sentence, therefore appreciated, even celebrated.

Example: Every year, The Pilot enters state and national newspaper competitions. Reporters select their best work for consideration. Last year, I didn’t have much, so just for fun, I entered a food column about using my grandmother’s bent and stained aluminum pot lid, the only extant artifact from her kitchen. The narrative mentioned a friend who buried her burned, worn-out pots in the garden. No, I commented, I’m not that anthropomorphic.

The column was ordinary, bordering maudlin. The recognition it received, I’m sure, was for the quirky placement of that perfect word — a favorite, second only to onomatopoeia, whose definition mimics its sound. Think “meow.” Or “rustle.”

I get teased about using “big” words, mostly for variety. Nobody with a full closet wears the same old shirt every day, so why use the same old words?

One culprit is shrinkage. These days, communications must be concise. Get to the point. Speak clearly. Detailed emails — a pain. Is there an app? Just text, uh, txt me.

Enriching one’s vocabulary, however, has a bright side. You don’t need a university degree or online class, just some intelligent reading material where the writer uses words to paint a landscape, or a portrait, in nuanced shades. Find a thesaurus (a dictionary of words with their synonyms), online or on paper, and pick a word a week, something ordinary, like “quotient” for “amount.” “Unearth” for discover. Slip it into conversation. My favorite orphan word is “provenance,” which sounds not at all like its definition, but which I’ve used to investigate a beaded cashmere sweater found at Goodwill.

Don’t get too hoity-toity. Go literal rather than vague and obscure.

Or not. Better, maybe, go with whatever AI composes, since term papers, dissertations, business letters and short stories will soon flow from its omnipotence, sufficient but lacking moxie.

Great word, moxie.

In the end, words are like clothes; they reveal much about personality, mood, life, taste, experience. The right word livens a conversation like the maraschino cherry saves canned fruit cocktail from dessert oblivion. The study thereof is called etymology and can be achieved sans Henry Higgins, whose motive for upgrading Eliza became more, uh, ulterior than academic . . . if you get my drift.

As for Eliza’s “Words, words, words, I’m so sick of words!” rage, that’s what I call moxie. 

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A Snowball for All Seasons

Another cat finds a comfy home

By Deborah Salomon

For the past 14 years, I have devoted this January column to my kitty companions, the last in a long line of adopted foundlings. Or so I thought. I am an animal person, happiest when in a relationship with a warm furball. But when coal-black, super-intelligent Lucky and fussbudget Missy died within six months of each other, I had a good cry, penned eulogies and announced my retirement, vowing not to weaken unless a hungry, sad kitty showed up at my door one frigid night. Which is exactly what happened. I opened the door. She walked in . . . and that was that.

In March I devoted a column to her, prematurely as it happens, since multiple feline traits have emerged since then. So you cat deniers will have to dread January a bit longer.

I named her Snowball for eponymous reasons: She is covered in fine, wispy, pure white fur — a striking contrast to her pink mouth, nose and ears and, especially, her baby blue eyes. I could have bestowed Farrah since her beauty/coloring reminds me of Ms. Fawcett. Names aside, Snowball is the most gorgeous cat I have ever seen. Maybe the most beautiful in the world. Simply staring at her makes me feel better. Even when she has just removed each kitty-food “shred” from the bowl and strewn them around the mat, a bugle blast attracting an ant army.

But that’s OK because she’s so beautiful, especially after loving a lifetime of tabbies, marmalades, tigers and calicos. I am mesmerized, watching her groom out a hundred tufts of milk-white fur which stick to the carpet like Krazy Glue.

After Snowball’s grand entrance I kept things low-key for a while, to let the newcomer adjust before our first visit to the vet. He declared her female, 2-3 years old, in good health. He was reasonably sure she had been spayed.

Hmmm. Then why the restless week when, more talkative than usual, she showed interest in getting out? No neighborhood toms showed up to serenade the damsel. It passed, as did any desire to explore beyond four window perches where she chatters at the birds and squirrels — a kitty version of The View.

Since I work from home, Snowball and I are best buddies. She quickly established a routine: eat, play, nap, window-gaze, snack, play, nap, eat, get under my feet. She takes wicked pleasure in coming between me and the computer. When I coax her off the desk, out come the claws, morphing Farrah Fawcett into Jane Fonda. When I sit down to watch TV she nips at my legs. Some nerve, she hisses, to prefer CNN’s Wolf Blitzer over my pulchritude.

Maybe Snowball needs a playmate, although I’m not sure her ego (or my shins or debit card) would allow. I Googled cat toys, finding one that promised “hours of invigorating and satisfying play for only $10.” Her reaction: a disdainful glance, not even a swat. Turns out she’s more into aluminum foil balls, easily swatted under the sofa. She does adore chasing the disgusting black water bugs that creep in the back door. Being brushed . . . heaven, the equivalent of the full monty at a Pinehurst salon.

Don’t get me wrong. Snowball is affectionate without being mushy. I’ve yet to hear a purr. She sleeps quietly beside me all night, demanding nothing. Early on I was able to get across that the kitchen counter is not her happy place. But Snowball’s attitude indicates that, beauty being in the eye of the beholder, she is an eyeful.

And doesn’t she know it.

Look, I can’t deny missing Pumpkin, Max, Sophie, Sam, Sadie, Shim, Oreo, Lucky and Missy. Each had a distinct personality, as well as long, healthy lives filled with love and chicken livers, as I hope Snowball will.

Because a thing of such beauty should be a joy almost forever.

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Holiday Trifecta

The lighted candle endures

By Deborah Salomon

Happy Holidays!

This innocuous, one-size-fits-all phrase took hold in 1942, when Bing Crosby recorded “Happy Holiday” (singular), hopeful of raising spirits stateside during the early days of World War II. As time passed, the phrase became a convenient designation, from the first turkey slice on Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day’s final bowl game. Those two words covered Baby Jesus, Judah Maccabi, Santa Claus and a plethora of secular images: chestnuts roasting on an open fire to — horrors — Mommy kissing the fat man in a red suit.

Beginning in the 1960s, Hanukkah, which usually falls in December, was promoted partly for its historical significance but also so Jewish children could light candles and receive small gifts for eight nights. Its message of religious freedom, plus a tiny vial of oil which burned, miraculously, for eight days, still resonates, although crispy fried potato pancakes have become the modern symbol. Kwanzaa, an apolitical, non-religious observance created in 1966, affirms the cultural component of the Black community. All three employ candles in their observances.

This year, since Hanukkah begins at sundown on Christmas Day and Kwanzaa runs from Dec. 26 to Jan. 1, the “holidays” present a trifecta.

My father grew up European ultra-orthodox Jewish — and revolted. My mother’s family: Southern Baptist to the core. So we celebrated the secular Christmas, which flourished in New York City in the 1940s: the stage show at Radio City Music Hall had live donkeys; ice skating in Rockefeller Center concluded with the world’s best hot chocolate; animated windows in department stores lined Fifth Avenue; and, yes, chestnuts roasted on an open fire, sold by street vendors. It was magical. In the final days of WWII and its aftermath, Americans needed all the magic they could get. 

Now, so do we.

What difficult years we have endured. A pandemic killed an estimated 5 million world-wide. Hurricanes, floods, droughts, earthquakes, wildfires. Famine in Africa. Wars and massacres in Ukraine and the Middle East. A bitterly fought political campaign. Inflation. Humanitarian crises.

“Happy” sounds a bit naïve.

Yet the phrase endures. Butterballs went on sale before Halloween. Ditto Christmas tchotchkes — a Yiddish word meaning bric-a-brac. Black Friday spawned pre-dawn bargain-hunters lined up outside Walmart — and now Target, too — for everything from electronics to tube socks.

Through it all we continue to separate the lighted candle from the burning rubble and rushing waters. It’s what inspires people to deliver Thanksgiving baskets to families who can afford neither turkey nor the means to roast one. It helps organizations collect and wrap new toys. It keeps Project Santa’s Earl Wright distributing a thousand shiny new bikes to children on Christmas morning . . . for nearly 20 years.

Somehow, through war and famine, secularization and commercialization, “the holidays” have endured because we need them.

Acclaimed (Jewish) songwriter Jerry Herman, of Hello, Dolly! fame, said it best in the Broadway production Mame about the December following the 1929 stock market crash:

For we need a little Christmas

Right this very minute

Candles in the window

Carols at the spinet

Amen to that. And Happy Holidays, whatever one you choose, to this kind, generous community.

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Chill Pill

The lost art of relaxation

By Deborah Salomon

“Relax!”

How droll.

I was reading a piece about the lost art of relaxation that found italics and an exclamation mark necessary to emphasize their point. Seems to me relaxed folk don’t require italicized commands. Then I remembered the TV commercials for inducing sleep, the ultimate relaxation, with appropriate background sounds: rain falling, birds chirping, leaves rustling.

“Ah . . . !”

So it’s come to this: A pleasant, restful state of mind has become just another download. Sitting and staring into space a no-no. Every nanosecond must be filled with thought, problem-solving, Beyoncé, something. Then, when the brain wears out, we are ordered to Relax!

A similar fate awaits the napper. Back in the day short power naps were in fashion. Some employee-friendly offices provided napping chairs. No time anymore for refreshing 20-minute snoozes. Gotta check the stock market, the weather, NFL scores. Did I miss Aunt Hattie’s birthday? Soon, restaurants posted “Turn off cell phones” signs, not necessary with vibrate and text. There they sit, next to the cutlery.

Technology has become the enemy of relaxation. An entire generation has progressed from pacifiers to GameBoys to iPhones to Siri and AI functions I can’t even name. Just pondering it creates tension.

The really scary part is how this relaxation wasteland has spread from Generation Whatever to their grandparents who, instead of a relaxing daydream, struggle over Sudoku and Wordle.

I notice this in waiting rooms which, devoid of magazines since COVID, have become mailrooms, newsrooms, download parlors. In my files covering 30-plus years, there remain three columns about air travel, especially the decline of people-watching in departure lounges. This pastime requires keen observation, imagination. Relationships play out over whether to spend $5 for a cup of coffee, or who packed the earbuds. Outfits go from gym-chic to military fatigues to beachy flip-flops. From business suits to pre-stressed jeans. On long layovers I entertained myself by concocting stories about couples and how they met, sometimes laughing out loud, all without clutching a slippery little electronic device.

Then, the crazy lady with no visible cellphone would don big sunglasses, yawn, stretch out and relax.

I suspect relaxation has a chemical element that creeps up slowly, silently, largely unnoticed. It is the transitional state between hectic brain activity and sleep, a twilight zone visible on no screen, whether set to airplane mode or not.

It is delicious, refreshing, blissfully unproductive.

Of course relaxation can be achieved by other methods — a walk in the woods on a chilly afternoon; watching a toddler build a skyscraper from alphabet blocks; staring into a fireplace as pine logs sputter and burn; petting a kitten; feeling the spray of a waterfall — all in person, not online.

Like the time I strolled by a house where an elderly gentleman sat alone on the porch, head leaned back, hands idle, smiling.

“Hi there,” I said and waved. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Nothin’.” He waved back.

Right answer.

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The Perfect Month

Farewell to heat; bon voyage to humidity

By Deborah Salomon

October. Not a mellifluous word. Unlike April, May and June, not a name for a baby girl, either. But oh-so-welcome.

Looking through hundreds of columns from a dozen publications, I see a pattern: In my life, seasons call the shots, index the memories. Subjects range from Cape Cod Julys with three kids and a cranky basset hound to skiing in March, when a warm sun turns powder to slush. May means dreaded hay fever. Gray, raw November finds Tom turkey thawing on the screened porch. August is when denim blue ring binders and black and white-splattered composition books fill the stores.

But for me, the most beautiful, the only perfect month, is October — even though here, the feel of October may not arrive until the calendar says it’s the early days of November. I’ll know it’s October because one morning I’ll wake up to air squeezed dry of humidity and temps beginning with a 5, not a 7. The afternoon sun may fall low on the horizon but our pines don’t respond by turning a New England red, yellow and orange.

Years ago, I found one scrawny maple bordering Dollar Tree on Brucewood Drive. Its few leaves were bright red. I make a pilgrimage to it every October.

These autumn allusions result from living most of my life in New York, Vermont and Canada — also Asheville, which puts forth a decent October although nothing as pungent as MacIntosh apples being pressed into cider. The finest French pastry cannot compete with October’s first cider doughnut. But watch out. Every rose has a thorn. This process attracts yellow jackets eager for a last sting before the first frost.

Without October, hooded sweatshirts would be superfluous: too hot for September, not warm enough for November. All summer I daydream about fleece against bare skin. That and football, from the days my son was the high-scoring running back on his high school team. Otherwise I’m cool on football — a brutal sport, difficult to understand, painted in mud, blood and sweat on the evergreen turf.

Corduroy and flannel appear on autumn’s fashion runway. Nobody rakes leaves in Yves Saint Laurent.

October, I’ve noticed, reverses summer’s deleterious effect on appetites. Soup and stew reappear with chewy sourdough for dunking. Oatmeal regains its stature, in bowls and cookies. Beer is celebrated, as though it needs a fest. After months of grilling, cooks fire up the oven for a meatloaf to create thick sandwiches on rye for Saturday’s tailgate with real football folks.

I looked up holidays assigned to October; most are silly and commercial except for National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, when pink rivals Halloween orange and black. One year KitchenAid marketed a bright pink stand mixer.

In colder climates October stands as the bittersweet portal to winter. Not here, where golf is played on Christmas Day and nobody buys snow tires. But to me, month number 10 will forever remain the glorious conclusion, the reward for surviving June, July and August when the electric bill is more dreaded, even, than the bugs.

So, once again, welcome, October. I am so ready.

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A Case of the Whys

But without the wherefores

By Deborah Salomon

Several conundrums pertaining to recent events are driving me bats. Help me reconcile.

The Constitution stipulates an age requirement to run for president. I’m assuming an upper number wasn’t necessary because back then, life expectancy hovered in the 60s. Teddy Roosevelt and Calvin Coolidge died at 60, George Washington at 67, James Garfield at 49. Time to revise?

Why are cars built to achieve 80-plus mph in a few seconds when that speed could cost the driver dollars, points, license revocation? It’s like advertising burglary kits or frozen obesity entrees.

Why have the arbiters of women’s hairstyles decided to uglify their groupies with an oeuvre I call The Weedwacker, which starts with a severe middle part and devolves into angles that frame the face like a barbed wire fence? On purpose. But there they sit, six little TV anchorites in a row, fingers plugged into electric outlets to refresh the coif. To my knowledge, the last gal to get away with this austere look was Mona Lisa.

Looming large: the flight plight. Hopefully, the IT crash in mid-July was a one-time deal that shut down American, Delta and others, leaving passengers to sleep on terminal floors. I’m talking about frequent reports of tires falling off, fires breaking out, windows cracking, near mid-air collisions, turbulence injuries, spoiled food. Holy Biscoff! We’re way past recalling bygone days when meals were hot, booze free, “stewardesses” young and friendly, passengers dressed up and on their best behavior. Not even a double Bloody Mary would allay fears when an aircraft packed with 200 sardines drops 10,000 feet in 20 seconds. Maybe calamities were hushed up in the past. But c’mon: On a chilly flight, I was told blankets were only available in business class. So I wrote a letter to the airline’s “customer service” department. They replied with an apology and, of all things, two drink vouchers.

Inflation comes in many sizes. Tucked in the back of my linen closet was a small box of tissues. Must have been there quite a while because the label read 115 tissues. The box I usually buy lists 85 but felt a bit light recently. Sure enough, only 70. The price, however, had crept up. Reduction in contents without shrinking packaging is an old trick now evident in dozens of items, like cookies. Caveat emptor and read the fine print, not that knowing makes a difference.

Thou shalt not drag politics into an “art and soul” magazine. Agreed, but fashion isn’t electioneering. Ever wonder why the vice president prefers pant suits? Hillary Clinton’s situation doesn’t apply. One theory has her being taken more seriously in male attire. Poppycock. European potentates alternate skirts and pants, no problem.

Say it isn’t so. The mighty Charlotte Observer will reduce print editions to three days a week starting in September. Some eras end with a bang, others with a whimper, others with the sad rustle of newsprint.

“Elocution” or “diction” training should be a given for cable TV’s talking heads. Once off teleprompter they wallow in “well . . . uh . . . ah.” At that salary level I expect not only fabulous ties and interesting earrings but complete sentences.

Whew! Feels good with those pesky conundrums off my chest.

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The Brain Game

Digesting dinner for $1,000, Ken

By Deborah Salomon

When Jeopardy! starts appearing in obits you know it has become part of Americana without being slapstick or offensive. Instead, the 30-minute TV show elevates erudition to entertainment on several levels. This isn’t just another quiz show. This one has heft.

Recently, a deceased fan was memorialized for shouting out loud when he scored an answer. Because it owns the 7 p.m. time slot, family members are still gathered for dinner, so competition gets keen. I’ve visited homes where a kitchen TV enables simultaneous eating and watching, normally forbidden but here allowed as “educational.”

I am a long-term addict as were my kitties Lucky and Missy, who — I kid you not — would appear for their nightly tussle to the opening music.

I’m convinced the mystique began and ended with Alex Trebek, the Canadian-born host, somewhat professorial, yet friendly, in impeccably tailored suits and clipped mustache. No rowdiness or slapstick screech as on Wheel of Fortune or (ugh) Family Feud, which I call “Family Lewd.”

Trebek died in 2020, at 80, having hosted his last show a few days before his death. In July the U.S. Postal Service issued a stamp in his honor. Fittingly, the stamp bears not a likeness, but a question. The answer: Alex Trebek.

Settling on a replacement was a rigorous task undertaken by producers who paraded out a series of pretty and not-so-pretty faces, including the NFL’s Aaron Rodgers. In my book they were all chocolate syrup on chopped liver, but none as bad as Mayim Bialik, of zero charisma, a wardrobe from hell and embarrassing flubs. Bialik proved so painful I stopped watching for a while.

Then came Ken Jennings, the $2.5 million-winning contestant with no hosting experience, only a sweet smile and endearing lisp. OMG, I thought, they’ve got Doogie Howser subbing for Sir Laurence Olivier.

But the little Munchkin in Ivy League uniform has grown on me, although I get the occasional vibe that he’d rather be answering the questions than asking them.

However, other changes — some during Trebek’s reign — don’t fare as well. Categories are esoteric, more specialized. Science, for example, demands professional credentials. I’m not bad at opera, art, food, lit, famous people, politics and vocabulary, but pre-Victorian English kings are just a bunch of Roman numerals. As for geography, I’m lost beyond the Balkans, especially Asia and the Middle East. Africa? Not a clue. But this backfires, comically — upping the difficulty causes contestants to bypass obvious but often correct answers. The result? More players are professionals with photographic memories, sharpening their skills at trivia contests.

I wasn’t familiar with trivia contests. How would you study given the breadth of material? What criteria, I wondered, do the question-writers employ?

Next detraction: spin-offs, almost as prolific as Oreo flavors. Several levels of “masters” tournaments are OK. But daytime Jeopardy!, college Jeopardy!, celebrity Jeopardy!, teen Jeopardy! the “second chance” tournament et al. dilute the appeal.

I learned that how you operate the buzzer is almost as important as knowing the answer. I’ve also observed that, generally speaking, men do better than women, and that a notable number of contestants are attorneys.

Other emotions color my enjoyment. A few champions have been obnoxious, even poor sports when faced with defeat. My heart goes out to those so nervous or under-prepared that they flame out before “Final Jeopardy.”

But Jennings’ ties never disappoint, even if my acuity does.

Whatever . . . watching Jeopardy! is like eating a healthy fudge sundae, even when my critiques hit closer to home than my answers.

Now, here’s one for ya: Whither the name? And why the exclamation mark? Jeopardy is a horse-racing term but the punctuation, forever an enigmatic Daily Double.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

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Dream House

Home, sweet imaginary home

By Deborah Salomon

These days, what with high interest rates and low inventory, house-shoppers are lucky to find anything, let alone a dream house. This shouldn’t keep wannabees from daydreaming.

I do, although unlikely I will ever own another house, let alone anything dreamy.

In the past 16 years, I have written about more than 200 houses for PineStraw, sporting every possible feature, learning along the way that living space often defines a person. I’ve seen a classic mansion built during Pinehurst’s Gilded Age with a walk-in closet retrofitted as a control room for systems — temperature, lights, alarm, locks, music. I’ve seen Alice’s topsy-turvy down-the-rabbit-hole abodes, and kitchens with gadgetry so fantastical it defies explanation. So, it’s only natural that, price notwithstanding, I would daydream my perfect home — and hope that you’ll do the same.

Heading the list: an ultra-powerful generator. I’m not satisfied with juicing up the fridge and the AC. For the duration of any outage I want lights, ice cream, a hot shower and CNN. Sure, I could endure a tepid shower, but without a hair dryer I’d be forced to hide under the bed.

I’d want at least two bay windows, with low window seats so the resident pet(s) could watch the world go by. No blinds, no shrubs to obstruct their view. However, a lilac bush should rise up below the bedroom window so that on cool summer nights I might open it a crack and drink in the perfume. I’ve actually experienced this one and believe me, it’s divine.

The kitchen must have a pot rack low enough for me to reach. This could be a headache for tall folk — I’m 5 feet, 2 inches tall. As for burners and/or sink in the island — also used as a breakfast bar — no thanks. Too much going on, too messy, potentially dangerous. But my island needs an electric outlet for the mixer/blender/processor so I can spread out while baking.

Heated bathroom floors and towel racks don’t make the list, nor does a warm toilet seat. But a heat lamp over the shower exit would be lovely.

With a nod to yesteryear I’d appreciate a cold pantry: a shelved closet with a secure-fitting door and a window that could be opened on winter days to thaw the turkey or cool cauldrons of soup and prevent potatoes from sprouting. Even with two refrigerators and a screened Carolina room a cold pantry is useful, at least during the winter.

I’m a basics gal but might indulge in soft lighting glowing from trench ceiling moldings in living and dining rooms, perhaps upstairs hallways, which I’d leave on all night.

Swimming pools require major maintenance. No thanks. Lap pools, too specialized. But I just discovered plunge pools — long and narrow, 3- to 5-feet deep with submerged benches along the side, perfect for jumping in to cool off, or water walking, which is excellent exercise. A lot less expensive, too.

Now, the kicker: My dream house has only two TVs, neither jumbo. One would have a built-in DVD player for the stacks of perfectly good discs I have saved. They would be linked to a service provider that removes all ads for prescription drugs whose possible side effects include nausea, diarrhea, shingles, cancer, blindness, stroke and death.

Dream on, Deb. Ain’t gonna happen.

But wouldn’t it be nice?  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

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Generation Gaps

You are who they say you are

By Deborah Salomon

Napoleon Bonaparte is credited, perhaps apocryphally, with calling England “a nation of shopkeepers.” One thing is certain: Whoever said it first did not intend it as a compliment. The USA might answer to a nation of classifiers: We lump entire populations/decades under letters of the alphabet (Gen Z) or cryptic headings like “The Lost Generation,” then memorialize them in novels like The Sun Also Rises or The Great Gatsby.

Some categories lump generations together. Does the women’s liberation movement mean suffragettes marching down Main Street or female corporate vice presidents banging their heads on the glass ceiling?

Why do we need these groupings, anyway? The Roaring Twenties and Fabulous Fifties sound good enough. For answers I trolled, what else, the internet.

Ernest Hemingway attributed the term “Lost Generation” to Gertrude Stein in an epigraph to his novel The Sun Also Rises. Tom Brokaw lauded “The Greatest Generation” in his 1998 classic book.

Generational groupings are listed by the Pew Research Center, a non-partisan, self-described “fact” tank that informs the public about “trends shaping the world.”

Golly. Quite the responsibility.

They publish a list which places me, by birth, in the Silent Generation, 1928-1945, then integrates me with the baby boomers, whom I babysat through high school. The boomers, of course, acquired their title after GIs returning from WWII caused the birthrate to explode. Boys will be boys.

Reading on, I learned that Gen X was the first to grow up with widespread cable TV which, I gather, made a difference in their consumption of news, entertainment and prescription drugs.

According to Pew, Gen Z, immersed in social media since toddlerhood, seems nervous when forced to spend time away from their electronic devices. What is lost? Conversation. Books with pages that turn. Department stores. Daydreaming. Doodling. Moving around. Helping out. Folding a map. Playing a board game . . . on a board. 

True, we borderline Silent Generationists are known for glorifying the recent past while bellyaching about electronics. We love residential AC and microwave ovens but won’t buy the idea that just because you can do something, you should. That applies to omnipresent, omnipotent cellphones. Which means I’m wary of hand-held electrocardiogram widgets and self-propelling vehicles. I think all drivers should master a stick shift, just in case. Vinyl records are back, so you never know.

And what is air-fried chicken besides an oxymoron?

Too bad advances in AI aren’t enough for Gen Now astrophysicists who float the idea that readying another planet for colonization makes more sense than fixing what’s happening to this one.

There. This Borderline Boomer has had her say. Beam me up, Scotty.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She can be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

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In My Time Capsule

What would Indiana Jones say?

By Deborah Salomon

Old folks are guardians of the past . . . now, especially, when life moves at the speed of Google. I don’t mean important things like electric cars and ticket stubs from a Taylor Swift concert. Rather, everyday stuff that after surviving tag sales emerges valuable. Just read about a first edition Corning casserole with cornflower design bringing $1,000 at auction. Not all icons are tangible, however. Some are behaviors, norms, happenings that unless relegated to the cloud, risk extinction.

When archeologists/social historians sifted through Pompeian ruins they weren’t looking for fine art. Rather a pot, a chair, coins. Just as valuable, however, are ancient clay scrolls containing lists, recipes and correspondence. Yale University’s Sterling Memorial Library keeps a collection.

Clay is more durable than thumb drives. The human brain is a likely repository but with an expiration date. Mine, approaching that date, has lately dredged up stuff from a life lived half “up North,” as New York and New England were once called, the rest in North Carolina.

Surely, if the Smithsonian Institution enshrines a Swanson turkey TV dinner I can have a go at . . .

  • “Y’all want coffee?” Only in the mid-20th century South would a waitress holding a coffee pot descend upon a just-seated table at breakfast, lunch, dinner and in-betweens. I can’t remember if it was free. Probably, since coffee was all one flavor and cost about 25 cents. Folks with “Mr. Coffee Nerves” ordered Sanka or Postum, not “decaf.”
  • Comic strips: Bankers, senators and surgeons read them, sans ridicule. Whether Blondie or the more cerebral Doonesbury, which still runs in The Washington Post, nobody chided followers. Then, on Sunday, New York newspapers put the funnies section on the outside, so readers could pre-empt the bad news with Penny and The Katzenjammer Kids. Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia read the K-Kids on the radio to children during a 1945 newspaper delivery strike. Why else would the Big Apple name an airport after him? Oh, Charlie Brown, we need your wisdom.
  • Cafeterias, another Southern delight pre-fast food drive-thrus, are now fewer, fancier, much more expensive. S&W, K&W, J&S once dominated the state. Some are making a comeback with seniors and lonelyhearts with their still-satisfying experience, especially the mashed potatoes, country-fried steak, biscuits, cornbread and pie. Get on it, Smithsonian.
  • Green Stamps have become collectors’ items: We got them at the supermarket check-out, then pasted them in books to be exchanged for housewares (like that thousand-dollar Corning dish) at Green Stamp redemption stores.
  • What could be more worth remembering than gas at 25 cents a gallon with a complimentary windshield wipe?
  • How I long for Saturday curb markets held in dusty vacant lots, where sun-wizened farmers in overalls sold produce from pickup trucks. The non-organic tomatoes! The corn! The runner beans! These days, too many farmers markets resemble foodie boutiques displaying herbs, baby zucchini, purple lettuce, white eggplant to fill shoppers’ French string shopping bags. Anybody for a grilled goat cheese sandwich?
  • I can no longer reconcile “personal” seedless watermelon, too often pale and flavorless. Mother Nature intended watermelon to be sized for a crowd, with sweet, deep red flesh and slippery black seeds. Nothing tops off a fried chicken picnic better.
  • Cash: Greenbacks. Two bits. Folding money. A fin. Modern shoppers can go weeks, maybe months, without “breaking” a crisp $20. Just swipe a card, read a chip.
  • We pride ourselves on time-saving inventions that make life “easier.” Long live the ones that cure disease, feed the hungry. As for the rest, thanks for the memories.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She can be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.