Out of the Blue

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Beach Days

Turning down the volume

By Deborah Salomon

About this time of year I long for the beach. Not the honky-tonk kind, its teeming boardwalks lined with high-rise hotels. When my children were small, we caravanned with three other families to Cape Cod for two weeks, sometimes longer. We rented simple cottages several miles from a quiet crescent beach in Dennis, on the bay side of the Cape. A few houses sat high on the bluff near a tiny snack stand. Nothing commercial within sight — not even the parking lot, where you needed a sticker issued by the town.

Just fine white sand, calm water.

I rose at dawn to pack the cooler with lunch, sometimes creative given seafood possibilities and leftovers from the nightly charcoal grill.

Does anything taste better than a wedge of drippy-ripe watermelon by the sea? Or a soggy sandwich filled with garden-ripe tomatoes?

But mostly I loved settling in a low folding chair while water lapped my feet as the tide crept in.

Heaven.

My parents weren’t big on vacations. We spent most summers at my grandparents’ house, in Greensboro. Fear of polio prevented excursions. I remember one jaunt to Jones Beach, a long subway ride from Manhattan, where we lived. I made up for it as an adult, when my husband and I found off-season package deals to St. Thomas, Jamaica, Barbados, Puerto Rico, Antigua — homes to blinding white sand and impossibly turquoise water.

For me, staring out across the sea has a hypnotic effect. The diorama of that Cape Cod cove was enough to wash away — or at least put on hold — fatigue, problems. The children needed nothing more than pails, shovels and beach balls to keep them occupied, while the daddies played touch football and the mommies traded ideas for communal suppers.

Despite ideas, supper was almost always burgers, drumsticks, a big bowl of salad, fruit and Popsicles. One rainy evening I made a splash with spaghetti, a welcome change. S’mores hadn’t been invented but toasted marshmallows worked, as did frozen chocolate-dipped bananas.

By sunset the little ones had faded into bed and the grown-ups opened a bottle of wine.

This was the early ’70s. TVs were black and white. Central AC? Mobile phones? Please, except in James Bond flicks.

I miss the simplicity of those days, on that beach. I miss the soft, steady breeze and warm, rarely hot sun that produced a glorious tan to set off pastel dresses. The beach owned an elemental feel, rightly so, since this cove had probably existed for eons.

When the children were older we spent time at another beach, in Maine, where the expanse of sand was packed hard as concrete and the water, even in August, was cold enough to anesthetize toes. Here, not many people braved the waves. Walking or riding bikes was the primary exercise. Lobster at Barnacle Billy’s, an annual treat. A few locally-owned motels faced the beach, no neon, nothing glamorous. Their decks — perfect for watching the sunrise with coffee and fresh doughnuts from a nearby take-out.

Ahhh . . .

These beach experiences differ from crowded, scorching Southern seashores. They satisfy a need: to turn down the volume, create distance from worrisome headlines.

They allow for naps under the umbrella, for staring at the horizon, for burying toes in the sand and enjoying the sun. For fried clams at a roadside stand. For feeding the gulls, whose raucous rhetoric reminds me of political conventions.

My daughter Wendy felt the same. While at Duke, she and friends would run away to the Outer Banks or Ocracoke. They camped out around a bonfire, probably illegal, but nobody bothered them in November.

Yes, the seashore conveys something basic, timeless, affirming, poetic.

I want to go back.

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Mothers of Invention

A machine for every task

By Deborah Salomon

The happy truth is Americans have invented and popularized an appliance to perform almost any heretofore manual or mental task, from baby monitors to heart surgery and self-driving cars. The most ubiquitous: cellphones. I love how businesses assume every American owns and uses a cellphone to the fullest extent of its capabilities.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m certainly not knocking them. That would be like knocking Taylor Swift. Or penicillin. Cellphones save lives. But their presence, especially the apps, precludes down time, a blissful indulgence fading fast. There’s proof aplenty in any airport departure lounge, where I slouch in a corner seat, eyes closed, waiting out the delay, while fellow passengers watch Martha Stewart dunk biscotti or Cooper Flagg dunk a basketball.

How about gas fireplaces? A wood-burning fireplace is meant to warm a room. Its beauty and aroma are added attractions. The sight of a glowing log turning to ash doesn’t result from a flipped switch. Why not just put a crackling fire from Netflix on the flatscreen, take the money you saved and buy a cord of dry wood and a bundle of kindling?

Air fryer ovens are huge. Maybe Emeril Lagasse has a mile-long counter, but most kitchens barely accommodate a blender, toaster, food processor and coffeemaker. Yet the ads are so tempting. Let’s build an addition on the house.

Tankless hot water heaters? Sure, you won’t need a clumsy tank in the basement or utility closet. But a power failure shuts off hot water immediately.

I rise long before the sun — and turn on the TV, rich in ads for snake oil, love potions and gadgets like a pedal exerciser where, it seems, electricity pushes the pedals and feet/legs go along for the ride. “So quiet your co-workers won’t know you’re using it.” Personally, I prefer a side of noise and a splash of sweat with my exercise.

But I’d have a hard time living without residential AC.

I don’t hear much about “smart” homes anymore — the kind where you can turn up the heat, switch on the lights and sound system while you’re driving home on the Interstate. That always sounded creepy to me, maybe even dangerous.

Talk about creepy . . . computer-generated personal assistants like Siri, who provide information and answer questions. Most are female, perhaps some kind of 21st century continuation of the cute little secretary image?

And, when your self-driving, self-navigating, self-parking car suffers a fender-bender, how do police or insurance adjusters determine blame, aka, human error?

Occasionally, an improvement backfires. When digital clocks replaced analog, a generation of children had trouble telling time. Same thing, when Velcro replaced shoelaces and the overhand knot became an endangered species.

Of course these are exceptions leading up to the bogeyman called AI, which not even its formulators can explain.

No thanks. I have enough trouble with the real stuff.

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Cookie Monstrosity

Do crumbs make the man?

By Deborah Salomon

Now, in the sunset of my baking career, I realize that cookies, like clothes, define who we are. That definition is made possible by the plethora of commercial cookies in every shape, flavor and permutation, the poster child being Oreos. Yet questions remain: “How do you like your chocolate chip cookies? Crisp or mushy? Mini, regular or jumbo chips? Bittersweet or a sugar high? Homemade, bakery or commercial?”

For a baseline I offer this personal experience:

My mother adored sweets but never baked, unless you count brownies for the bridge luncheon and slice-and-bake icebox cookies in December, for people who “drop by.” Milano describes her prototype — two tongue-shaped wafers glued together with chocolate. So when push came to shove, she would spread a thin layer of simple chocolate frosting between two vanilla wafers. Back in the days of real vanilla, they were good. Now, the same ploy tastes like Styrofoam.

Milanos themselves have shriveled to nothing, but I love ’em anyway.

Back to matching cookie to personality.

Oreos: Do you twist and lick, or dunk whole? Each camp is battle-ready. Are you a classicist, who rails at Oreo yogurt, Oreo Cakesters?

Fig Newtons retain an almost biblical earthiness; their aficionados recall a time when Birkenstock meant more than a sandal, when only the co-op carried organic veggies. Strawberry Newtons miss the point, although dates might tempt the figgy crowd.

Lorna Doones? A favorite with proper Brits, who prefer a shortbread biscuit with their afternoon tea. Named after the central character in an 1869 British novel, LDs were introduced to the Colonies in 1912. Unpopularity/unfamiliarity now relegates them to an unreachable top shelf.

Garibaldi, the proper name for flat raisin cookies long gone from the monster roster, suited pranksters who insisted the raisins were squished bugs.

Biscotti, despite an Italian aura, belong to intelligentsia wearing plaid and cashmere for weekends at the cottage — a 14-room country manor in the highlands. Either that, or frequenters of the Seattle coffee scene, who know that “Starbuck” is a character lifted from Moby-Dick.

A person’s age may be determined by asking whether he/she remembers Social Teas, so plain and non-sweet I call them punishment cookies. However, they might rightly tempt dunksters with a texture that holds up to cocoa.

The emotionally stunted CEO whose mother denied him cookies because he wouldn’t finish his green beans now, to the ants’ delight, compensates by keeping a box of Nutter Butters in his desk drawer. After all, peanut butter is protein.

Graham crackers, for generations baby’s first treat (since they dissolve in drool), recaptured campfire folks’ attention as s’mores. Recognize s’mores-lovers by their burnt fingers, chocolate-stained T-shirts and faces. At least this mess is worth it.

Is lemon the new chocolate? Observe the interest in Oreo Lemon Thins and Sunkist Thin Shortbread with Lemon Crème Filling. They are cheerful cookies for the smiley-faced set. But watch out, you citrus-seekers. Not all that lemon zing comes from real lemons.

I was terribly upset when Biscoff jumped from passenger flights to supermarket shelves. Aloft, they cause crumbs and greasy fingers. The very mention dredges up memories of long delays, bumpy rides. They make me miss the cute little meal dispensed by flight attendants who weren’t Social Security eligible. When baggage flew free in the underbelly instead of a jammed-up overhead compartment.

A pox on Biscoff!

Picture a svelte 50-something Manhattan career gal, wearing a little black dress and real pearls, slicing a real chocolate wafer icebox cake made with real whipped cream. Alas, Nabisco has discontinued the cookie that made a million reputations. So far, urbanites have found no replacement. Don’t give up. If Voortmans can field an oxymoronic Zero Sugar Fudge Brownie Chocolate Chip cookie, anything’s possible.

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Strangers on a Plane

To talk or not to talk, that is the question

By Deborah Salomon

From what I’ve noticed, the only remaining conundrum pertaining to air travel is whether a passenger should strike up a conversation with his or her seatmate. If yes, then when? And how? Are there age guidelines? What are the clues that the passenger wedged next to you will be receptive? Notice any body language? I’m assuming the punk rocker with tattoos and wild hair would leave a sweet old lady alone, but who knows? Odd couples happen.

I fly to see my grandsons in Canada three or four times a year. Because I’m old and have a bum knee I get to board first, then watch passengers head down the aisle. Will I get Sumo with T-shirt exposing bellybutton? Mother and fussy baby? Techie toting cellphone, tablet, Kindle, earbuds? Business guy pining for first class? Whatever — I nod, smile, then assume nap mode.

Last trip I encountered someone and something bordering surreal.

I had the window seat — hardly glanced at the woman who stopped to check her boarding pass. I smiled and fished out her safety belt buckle, which had fallen between the seats. I’m not sure how she started the conversation . . . probably, “Are you going home to Montreal?”

“No,” I explained, then shared the reason as I turned to look at her face, full-on. The woman, whose name I learned was Suzanne, was about 60 and uncommonly beautiful, the result of the very best skin, hair, nutrition, exercise and dental care. She lived in Philadelphia, was divorced, a retired RN with two grown daughters.

She asked what I (as a newspaper reporter) call smart questions. Decades ago, this woman would be labeled “well-bred.” Certainly “highly educated.’’

When the beverage cart stopped at our row, Suzanne asked for club soda, which the flight attendant didn’t have.

I asked the purpose of her trip, which proved to be an unusual relationship with a French engineer who worked in northern Quebec. They see each other for a month or two, several times a year, his place or hers.

Interesting. I saw how this arrangement could work for a mature couple, played by Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr. For a title I purloined Alfred Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train, from the 1950s, when plot and character development mattered.

We spoke of family, travel, technology, aging, health, climate and, of course, politics. Suzanne (not her real name) brought up the subject, gingerly. I broke a self-imposed ban and took the bait.

I told her, a perfect stranger, about losing two children to bipolar disorder, something I rarely discuss. Of course I bragged about my grandsons. I don’t remember if she has any.

The flight from Philly to Montreal lasted an hour-and-a-half. We talked the whole way, connected on many points. I gave her my business card, said she was welcome to email. She offered no identification, not even her surname, which I hardly noticed at the time.

When I got home a friend chided me for revealing personal information to a perfect stranger. “Just wait,” my friend said. “And watch your financial statements. This sounds like a shakedown.”

I was appalled. Has the world become so cynical that random chit-chat becomes suspect? Must we apply “see something, say something” indiscriminately?

Sadly, yes, because these days trust has become a luxury if not a danger. These days children are gunned down at school and pedestrians run over on the sidewalk. And stealing an identity (which I’ve experienced) isn’t much harder than stealing an apple off a pushcart.

I’m beginning to sound like a Twilight Zone episode. However, if my cynical friend is right about the shakedown, then stop the world, I’m outta here.

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Pet Peeves

There’s always something cringeworthy

By Deborah Salomon

Back in the day when columnists led off with “Back in the day . . . ” or “Webster’s Dictionary defines . . . ” people had “pet peeves,” with peeve defined by Webster as an annoyance or irritation. No explanation on how pet — a warm, fuzzy adjective — got hooked up.

Call them what you will, I’m sure peeves surfaced in the Bible, certainly Shakespeare. By any other name the irritations haven’t gone out of date. Perhaps owning them outright lessens the sting.

Mine include:

Prime-time TV ads for generic versions of remedies that treat sexual dysfunction, both male and female. Ditto “all-body” deodorants hawked on prime time cable. Imagine the questions posed by 8-year-olds.

People who give away puppies in the Walmart parking lot enrage me. Some pups go to good homes, I assume. But for others I fear the worst.

Silly yogurt. Like confetti and birthday cake flavors. The silliest is Oui brand, 5 ounces in a tiny glass cup that, unlike jam and mayo jars, has no reusable lid. My favorite yogurt is lowfat Greek vanilla, with a drizzle of real maple syrup.

“Pancake” syrup . . . yuck. Living and working in Vermont for 21 years taught me that real maple syrup — still gathered and boiled down the old-fashioned way by winter-idled farmers — is true nectar of the gods, priced accordingly but worth the splurge. Mix with mustard and use sparingly on broiled salmon and roasted chicken, plain on cooked carrots, oatmeal. Dilute with cider vinegar for salad greens. March was syrup month long before it was basketball madness.

Talking to a machine. Bank, power and cable companies leave me foaming at the mouth. I finally cracked the code: Say “representative” over and over until you get one, who is usually polite and helpful from six time zones away.

TV anchor-and-weather women wearing cocktail or mini-dresses and strappy sandals at 7 a.m. Cleavage and knees don’t go with bacon and eggs.

Event ticket prices. Moore County boasts an inordinately large roster of lectures, plays, concerts and other entertainments both low- and highbrow. But with ticket prices starting at about $25, how can a couple have a reasonable dinner out and attend for less than $100? Student prices are some help but the upshot keeps Gen Now shackled to streaming. I spent college summers working in New York City. We starving students spread sleeping bags outside Broadway theaters at midnight, to cop SROs available at dawn for $5. What fun! But not new. At Shakespeare’s Globe Theater, common folk stood in the “pit” just below the stage for a penny. This practice inspired the Bard to include characters and situations familiar to mosh-pitters.

Remember Johnny Depp as Edward Scissorhands? Current version: Cecelia cellphone hand. She walks through life, cellphone Krazy Glued to her palm, as though awaiting a call from the ghost of Elvis.

Too many burger joints. I’ve heard tell there’s a spot on U.S. 15-501 that is equidistant from six, maybe seven burger emporia. Enough already!

Climate change deniers. If they have a better answer to the hurricanes, blizzards, floods, tornadoes, heat and cold waves I haven’t heard it. Abandon Mother Earth? For Mars?

Southerners running around on the coldest day sans coats. “I’ll only be out for a minute,” they protest. Get a grip — and a puffy jacket or double-breasted tweed. The trick to staying warm is to not get cold in the first place.

Supermarkets that don’t offer rain checks. “Loss leaders” aim to get shoppers through the door. But unless rain checks are offered for specials not in stock I feel cheated.

Politicians who spit out rambling non-answers to pointed questions. “Yes” and “no” aren’t in their vocabularies. I say, throw ’em into the mosh pit!

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It’s in the Bag

The clutch that says it all

By Deborah Salomon

Back in the 1940s, radio personality Art Linkletter would go through women’s purses, creating profiles based on what he found.

He was usually spot-on. Sometimes embarrassing, always hilarious.

Not sure if the Smithsonian has a nook devoted to purse profiles. If not, maybe it oughta make room for this revealing artifact. But instead of a dive into contents, I’ll extrapolate information from the purse itself, notably what sets it apart from ancestors.

In a word . . . compartments.

Some ladies like ’em inside, others prefer the exterior. Notice that both interior and exterior may or may not have zipper, snap or Velcro closures. Some side compartments are narrow with no closure, designed to stash eyeglasses but prone to losing them. Others, square and flat, accommodate a tablet.

No, not the kind with lined yellow pages.

Most women designate one compartment for lipstick and a comb. “Compacts” are so Art Deco, along with bright red lipstick and loose powder. Nothing dates a purse more than a skinny flip-phone compartment . . . except maybe the material it’s made from.

Back in the day, ladies’ winter handbags were hand-held leather of various grades, from coarse cowhide to fine calfskin. Queen Elizabeth II set the style. Call it grandmotherly. Spring meant shiny black patent leather. Come summer, you switched to straw or quilted cotton. The advent of vinyl/plastics resulted in stiff imitation leather adorned with brassy bling. They were big and heavy, even empty. A worse affront: designer knockoffs, an insult to YSL, Louis Vuitton and Chanel, sold on Manhattan street corners. But they did establish one rule: A brown YSL goes with any color outfit.

As for shape/size, shoulder bags took over when women ditched the bridge club for a business forum, a court hearing, surgery schedule or middle-school soccer game. Princess Diana put clutches on the map, primarily to hide her cleavage when emerging from a Rolls. A shoulder bag that left hands free to text Chinese take-out became roomy enough to stash leotards for a workout on the way home from the office. 

Contents, or the lack thereof, offer another readout. Here’s what you won’t find in the modern woman’s handbag: a checkbook; cigarettes and lighter; a wad of “emergency” cash; Chiclets; a single-function car key; an address book; a rain bonnet; movie ticket stubs; a Neil Diamond CD; a map; a pencil; bobby pins; stamps; a tiny metal aspirin container; a handkerchief; a safety pin for the dreaded bra strap malfunction.

How come only men carry handkerchiefs?

Speaking of men . . . remember the man bag, which made a splash in the 1990s? Before the invention of pockets, Renaissance noblemen carried coins in “girdle pouches” without incurring ridicule. And a 5,000-year-old mummy named Ötzi the Iceman was found in the Alps beside his purse. No such luck for 20th century gents when, as I recall, even a plain leather crossbody drew giggles.

These days, the most coveted clutch might be a little thing hardly big enough for an iPhone, designed by Judith Leiber, who isn’t above wrapping a snake around black sequins and charging a few thousand for it at Bergdorf’s.

Now if only I didn’t need four new tires . . .

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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.