Alexis Rankin Popik's Blog, page 7

THE FRIENDLIEST POSSIBLE INSULTS EVER

Last month I experienced and observed some of the friendliest possible insults ever.  I spent a month on Ambergris Caye, Belize—an island that is a short hop from the county’s mainland. Belize is home to these ethnic groups:  Mestizo, Creole, Maya, Garifuna, East Indian, Mennonite, White and Asian.  With so much diversity, one might imagine that the people who live there would be of the “woke” persuasion.  [Hint:  “woke” is a dumb term used to describe “being alert to injustice in society, especially racism.”]  While Belizeans are quite likely be alert to many injustices and racism, it is not obvious in the spoken word.

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In the course of the two hours spent getting my Covid hair fixed by a local hairdresser, we chatted about life on the island where she was born. She covered a wide range of topics from childcare to the best restaurants and the availability of medical care, all the time referring to the “gringos” on the island.  This gave me–a Gringa–pause, but it was impossible to feel insulted because she obviously enjoyed our conversation showed no malice whatsoever. 

Later that day, I had a problem shifting gears in my rented golf cart (no cars allowed) and crashed into the cart parked behind me.  A local guy drove by, waved, smiled, and yelled, “No problem, Mama!”  I don’t mind being called “mama” (in fact, I like it) but I was startled and reminded (once more) that I feel younger than I look.

Another time I needed to find a store to buy whipping cream and was directed to “The Arabs.”  It turns out that “The Arabs” grocery store was the same one on my last visit the locals called “The Taliban.”  Obviously, the more recent name is an improvement and is not considered an insult. Still, I wonder how the very kind Lebanese owners feel about it.  Lebanese have lived and worked in Belize for five generations—since the early 1900’s.

I gave the local vocabulary a lot of thought while waiting for our little grandson’s birth and concluded that in this small country with numerous languages spoken—English, Spanish, Kriol at a minimum on the island—the easiest way to identify people is by their most obvious “otherness,” which may be why my son once got a restaurant tab in Belize City that identified him as “White Guy.”

HAVE A GOOD WEEK!

Photo of San Pedro Town street by me. Undersea squid photo by Ben Popik.

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TWO GREAT NEW BABY-HOLDING BOOKS

Photo by gaelle marcel via Unsplash.comI have been reading quite a lot of excellent books lately.  There’s nothing like holding a sleeping baby to keep a person sitting as still as possible with lots of time to concentrate on reading.

Historical Fiction is not a genre I have explored much but I plan to read more because it is (for me) much easier to remember details from a period if they are connected to a heartfelt story.  The Vietnam War (1955-1975) is hardly ancient history.  I was a student at UC Berkeley in the late 1960’s and simultaneously marched against the war and kept up a steady correspondence with my cousin who was in combat there.  Nevertheless, when I traveled to Vietnam two years ago, the details of the war were hazy and the museums and war memorials in both the north and the south were obviously biased. 

I was delighted to come across a recommendation for The Mountains Sing  by Nguyen Phan Que Mai.  It is a fictional story of three generations of a Vietnamese family covering decades of the country’s history and insights into the differences among the north, south and central areas of the country.  You can read more about it here.

On a lighter note, I am at a point in Hallie Ephron’s Be Careful What You Wish For where I can hardly wait for my next NanaTime to get to the heart of this entertaining mystery.

For these and other recommendations for excellent reading, check out BuzzFeed Books and Goodreads.

And finally: a newsletter from Real Simple appears in my email every week and often its titles are so tantalizing that I can’t resist reading on.  This week’s edition, “33 Hostess Gifts That Actually Feel Special,” is a classic.  When I get together with friends for a meal, one of us usually brings a small “hostess gift” like a bottle of wine, a few flowers from the garden, or an interesting gadget.  I thought perhaps I would get some unusual hostess gift ideas and Real Simple didn’t let me down. Among the gifts recommended to “show how much you appreciate [your hostess’s] graciousness, generosity, and hosting know-how” are:  A Google Nest Audio Smart Speaker ($100); A KitchenAid 3-Piece Pasta Roller & Cutter Set ($200) and my personal favorite:  A Tineco Pure ONE S12 Stick Vacuum Cleaner ($570).  I can only imagine the expression on my friend Judy’s face if I showed up for dinner with a stick vacuum cleaner as a hostess gift.

HAVE A GOOD WEEK!

WOO HOO!

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MEMORIES AND MAKING MEMORIES

May 16, 2021— San Pedro Town, Ambergris Caye, Belize   

This little building sticks in my memory because it hasn’t changed for the 12 years I have passed by it.

We are in Belize for a month, hanging out with our son, daughter-in-law and their soon-to-be-born baby boy.  Waiting for a birth is kind of like waiting out the pandemic—a little peaceful, a little boring and (for me) full of the sense that maybe I should be doing more with this special time—or maybe not.

There is something about being around my adult children that prompts me to start every other sentence with, “I remember…”.  My repetition of old stories is so unnecessary it bores even me.  Sometimes my “kids” nod their heads knowingly because they have heard it before.  Sometimes they head me off with an “oh yeah.”  I can occasionally stop myself with the reminder that I am retelling this memory because it makes me happy and not because anyone else really cares.

[image error]THIS IGUANA IS ONE OF THE LOCAL POOL BOYS. HE’S A LITTLE AGGRESSIVE
IF YOU DON’T SHARE FOOD WITH HIM.

I once had a conversation with a guy who told me about something he and his wife had done to “make memories.”  That struck me as a really dumb concept.  People have memories or they don’t.  Why would you set out to “make” some?  I have thought about that conversation for years and last week came upon an article in my e-mail about that very subject.  It seemed from its title that it was going to be a lengthy essay that was probably a little too intellectual for my taste, but I kept it around because I thought it would be a useful reference for today’s blog.  And now I can’t remember where I saved it.  Perhaps it might be a good idea to try to “make” at least a few memories.

HAVE A GOOD WEEK!

MOTHER’S DAY IN BELIZE

MOTHER’S DAY IN BELIZE[image error]Nothing like a beautiful rainbow to celebrate– Photo by Ben Popik for his mother.

I’ve celebrated many Mother’s Days but none quite so interesting as this one, on Ambergris Caye, Belize. My husband and I are here awaiting the birth of our third grandchild, a baby boy. We plan to be here a month, so we hope the little guy gives us another ten days or so to shake off our city jitters and get used to relaxing.

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This is the only small bit of Belize I have visited over the past ten years. San Pedro town is a bustling place–nothing fancy but stocked well enough to satisfy the Canadian and U.S. expats who call this small island home for at least part of the year. I had hoped to be able to practice my Intermediate Spanish but, as usual, the different accents and the speed at which the locals talk is challenging. I can catch a word or two but seldom enough to get the sense of what people are talking about. I think it must be similar to what one of my long-gone dogs experienced when he listened to hours of conversation and could pick out only “squirrel” and “walk” for his efforts.

And then there is the challenge of Belizean Creole. I can’t begin to understand the spoken words and even the written ones are difficult enough. For example, a popular slogan for a commercially sold poultry brand is “Dis da wi fi chikin!” It is produced by a Mennonite chicken company. (The Mennonites have a long history in this country, which was formerly a British colony, British Honduras.) In case you haven’t deciphered the slogan, it means “This is our chicken.” Not what I’d call catchy, but you see the slogan everywhere.

But as different as this place is, Mother’s Day is just as big a deal as it is in the U.S.–possibly more so. I am sitting on the patio of our hotel/condo, drinking the strongest “Mother’s Day” rum punch I’ve ever tasted and feeling affection for mothers everywhere. I have never been big on celebrating Mother’s day–except for my own Mom–but that sentiment isn’t shared by many women I know. When I lived in New England, Monday morning exercise class was filled with women who compared notes on what grateful children had done for them the day before–brunches, flowers, surprise visits–and all I had to offer (which I kept to myself) was my boys’ handmade card: “Happy Mother’s Day to Mom and her Good Friend, Jack Daniels.” I love those guys!

HAVE A GOOD WEEK

“LIKE” ME!

NOTE: This post is “from the archive” for a couple of reasons. First, I am pressed for time because we are heading to Belize to await the arrival of a new grandson, and Second–if you haven’t already, I’d appreciate it if you like “Like” me on Facebook. I don’t like asking this and wouldn’t if it didn’t help me to reach more readers.

Please “Like” Me!

In the wonderful world of webiness, the number of “Likes” on Facebook, Twitter, blogs and advertising pages of all sorts, is what counts—and possibly all that counts. Every vendor page I’ve ever encountered asks me to “Like” it on Facebook; some claim I actually do “like” them, though I have no memory (or feelings) of doing so.

Being liked is on my mind because of a recent trip my husband and I took to Antarctica. The only way to see Antarctica as a tourist is by water. We chose a National Geographic Expedition, which is designed for scientifically inclined travelers: a small-by-cruise-standards group of 150 in a comfortable but not luxurious ship. There were no dress-up dinners, midnight buffets or assigned seating. The only ice sculptures floated outside the portholes. Twenty days on a ship in a relatively small group presents many opportunities to make new friends. Or not.

Every now and then (not often—thank god!) feelings well up within me that are so clearly unreasonable yet difficult to shake that, though technically not primal, they might as well be. Choosing the first two seats at an empty table for six and then watching dozens of people stream past and choose other, apparently more desirable, dinner partners is a stomach-clenching experience that could theoretically occur three times a day (3 meals x 20 days = 60 opportunities to feel unlikable) for the entire trip. This, in turn, leads to unhappy early memories of Mr. Sawyer, the sadistic male square-dance teacher at my Catholic elementary school, who every Tuesday lined 24 boys and 26 girls on opposite sides of the gym and, one-by-one, sent each boy to pick a girl partner. We girls outnumbered the boys, so there were always two of us left at the end of choosing who were forced to do-si-do together. Every week I prayed fevently that I not be left dancing with another girl, but sometimes I had to because none of the boys wanted to dance with me. Even now, my stomach aches just thinking about it.

At the end of the Antarctica trip in the airport departure lounge and in e-mail exchanges since, many fellow travelers have expressed their pleasure in our company, their delight in our new friendships and in sharing the special experience of visiting a magical place together. In other words, they “Liked” us. How did I miss that? One fellow traveler mentioned how much she wanted to spend more time with us but we were “so popular.” Huh? Another told me how she feared that she would be left sitting alone at a table for four. Facebook, which has wormed its way into our lives in too many ways, has zeroed in on our very human need to be “liked.” So go ahead and pester me with requests to “Like” you, your latest novel, your barber, or your pet charity. I’ll “Like” anything or anyone who needs to be “Liked”—except Mark Zuckerberg and Mr. Sawyer.

KNITTING FOR THE IMPRECISE

My latest effort – for the future mama/chicken raiser’s baby. Cat (18 lb) is for perspective.

I have been knitting a lot lately, what with the arrival of a new granddaughter nine months ago and the anticipated birth of a grandson (our first!) next month. I have never been very good at knitting articles of clothing but I figured I could knit up some appropriate toys. Babies don’t see that well anyway, and their parents are likely to be too distracted to analyze my knits and purls. I certainly hope so.

As I sit on the couch, trying to follow these simple patterns, I have plenty of time to consider just how imprecise my knitting is. I am trying to get comfortable with imprecision because, as mentioned above, neither the babies nor the adults in their circle give a hoot. My own lax standards are more the problem. Readers of this blog may remember my fondness for the Japanese concept of Wabi-Sabi (here and here). Wabi-Sabi–the acceptance of transcience and imperfection–is one thing and impatience is another.

I often think of my mother, a sometimes impatient person, who despite that was a perfectionist when it came to sewing. For years I could look at someone’s store-bought clothing and pick out all the mistakes my mother never would have made. Now I wonder if careful knitters look at my knitting and just shake their heads. Still, when I stifle the self-recrimination, I realize I enjoy the process of knitting, no matter how imperfect my technique may be.

And a toy dachshund quieter than Baby Granddaughter’s real one.

Or it may be that it is just fun to think of another sweet new life on this fractious planet of ours.

HAVE A GOOD WEEK!

WOMEN AND SHOES

   Three generations of shoes

Shoes changed Cinderella’s life but will they change yours?  Probably not, but they might change your attitude and that can be a good thing. 

There is a surprising amount of literature on the connection between women and their footwear. And then there are the books—one by Susan Reynolds named Change Your Shoes, Change Your Life.  An article about “Shoe Obsession” from Psychology Tomorrow claims that “Shoes are as much a part of everyday fantasies as sex might be, though they are more Cinderella than erotic. That’s because buying them taps into our most primitive instincts akin to what our earliest ancestors felt; the hunt, the chase, the kill. By simply even thinking about shoe shopping, adrenaline starts to course through my body.”

Uh, I wouldn’t go quite that far.  However, for whatever reason, I have liked shoes for as long as I can remember.  My husband is mystified by the number of pairs in my closet.  Fortunately, he doesn’t know about the storage boxes of shoes under the guest room bed.  

“You really can accurately judge a person by their shoes.”  Another author claims that “agreeable people tend to wear practical and functional shoes,” while “ankle boots are more the choice of more aggressive folks.”  I happen to own three pairs of ankle boots, and that slur really ticks me off.

When the pandemic lockdown began in California, I wore street clothes and my flat but stylish footwear every day, as if I had somewhere to go. It wasn’t much of a drop in standards to switch to soft, black wool “house shoes” with a wide but somewhat elevated heel.  Then around the sixth or seventh month of being home, I succumbed to backless “slides,” a charitable word for slippers.  My mood was so low that I would even wear that same depressing footwear to the grocery store, along with jeans and a baggy, long shirt topped by short down vest.  This is a “look” I would have ridiculed pre-COVID but at that point, I didn’t care. 

Now, with the arrival of spring and armed with two vaccinations and a score of vaccinated friends, it is time for a change.  To date I have replaced only the depressing slides for glittery “house shoes” but my daughter and granddaughter have made some bolder choices (see above).  

A change in attitude deserves a change of shoes.  And now, if only we could get to a change in latitude.

HAVE A GOOD WEEK! 

THE CIRCLE GAME – from the archive

Spring Dogwood,
Yosemite

One recent morning as I walked 26 blocks through New York City, Joni Mitchell’s song, The Circle Game, played around and around in my brain. I felt sad because now that my mother is dead, there’s no one to be impressed with how good I am at navigating Manhattan. And she would have admired me despite the fact that while I was walking, I got confused and, after walking in what seemed like circles, had to call my son in Belize to give me directions (He is very patient about this task because, as he declared early on, “Mom is dismaptional.”)

When I got married many years ago, I didn’t much think about how lives overlap, how what lies ahead circles back to what went before. I had some vague ideas–mostly scenes of happy children, cozy houses and tropical vacations—and I wonder now how I could have been so clueless. My fantasy of family life didn’t take into account our kids’ teenage years or our own mortality, not to mention losing old friends and making new ones, multiple moves, and death of a parent—in other words, the gains and losses of normal life.

My favorite lyric of The Circle Game is the chorus: “We’re captive on the carousel of time. We can’t return, we can only look behind from where we came and go round and round in the circle game.” On the jazz album, Sitting in Limbo, Jessica Molaskey sings that song in a duet with her husband, John Pizzarelli who blends it with Antonio Carlos Jobim’s “The Waters of March.” Jobim’s song is a chronicle of sensations, objects and events that comprise a life: “The plan of the house, the body in bed, and the car that got stuck—it’s the mud, it’s the mud.”

The two songs in combination summarize my view of life these days. It IS a circle. The children we led around help us with directions while we help our aging parents as if they were our children. At its end, Jobim’s song circles around to a hopeful conclusion, fitting after this long winter: “and the riverbank talks of the Waters of March, it’s the promise of spring, it’s the joy in your heart.”

Credits:
The Circle Game, Copyright 1970, Warner Brothers Records
The Waters of March,Copyright 1972, Antonio Carlos Jobim
Photo by William C. Popik, MD

AGING IS GETTING OLD

Grave at Mt. View Cemetery by ARP

I am sick and tired of thinking about aging.  I have spent far too much of this homebound year of wondering if I am going to be too old to travel to far places when the pandemic ends. After all, at 75 I am technically “old.”  I hadn’t thought about myself in that way until the CDC put me and many of my friends in a very special vaccination category because of age.  

With winter weather, shuttered gyms, and a cat who sits in front of the screen whenever I try to stream exercise videos, I feel pretty creaky (and cranky).  Somehow, I got this far in life thinking that if ate a healthy diet, watched my alcohol intake and did no harm, I wouldn’t have the aches and pains of aging.  That notion has gone the way of my original hair color, bikinis and tap dancing lessons.  Often stuck inside, it is all I can do to sit down without groaning.  Where did this pain come from?  Surely not aging!

Books on aging are all over the place—hundreds of them. I have several unopened volumes in my bookcase.  One I have partially read because I like its title and respect the author is So Far So Good by Ursula LeGuin.  It is a collection of poems— some funny, some poignant—written between 2014-2018.  Lastly, of the many quotations about aging I have read in the course of writing this little piece, I think the best ones were by (of all people) George Burns.  My favorite is this:  “You can’t help getting older, but you don’t have to get old.”

HAVE A GOOD WEEK!