I used to think of myself as fairly competent with my computer skills. I have, through the years, worked in various offices and positions which required heavy dependence on computers. I would start the job and, quite easily and confidently, learn a variety of software programs to a fairly high level of functionality. I worked myself through college as a medical transcriptionist and prided myself on my 75 words-per-minute typing speed and my proficiency in WordPerfect and Microsoft Word. That was then.
Is it just me or have computers in general and software programs in particular become more difficult? Or is it just that my brain cells have packed up and taken residence elsewhere, rendering me cereberally challenged? I seem to encounter more issues with breakdowns and meltdowns than I used to. (Computer-wise, and otherwise.) When I have computer issues, I can no longer find the answers I need. In days of old, I'd open up the handy-dandy manual and find the instructions I needed right at my fingertips. Now with these Advanced and Wonderful online manuals I can find squat, and never when I need it most.
I am fortunate to have my very own help-desk line, connected by telephone directly to my sister. She patiently answers my questions and comes to assist me in my distress. She frequently shakes her head at my ignorance ("Um, turn on the power strip and you'll be all set"). She is always happy to help in my crises, yet the gleam of superiority clearly radiates in her eyes. As well it should- she went to a geek college, majored in information systems, and has been employed for the past ten years for a software company. She bears the title Geek Girl with pride and confidence.
Unfortunately other technical equipment poses the same challenge for me. My cell phone, for instance, still isn't being used to its full potential because a) I don't know what its full potential is, and b) I wouldn't be able to figure out how to use that potential if I knew. I was happy to find that I am not the only one in this position. In Ohio recently, my sister-in-law, Diane, seemed to experience this. Our thirteen year old niece, who does not have a cell phone herself, took possession of Diane's and in the span of about two minutes and twenty-five seconds, had it reprogrammed with a new ringtone, had figured out how to take photos, placed one on the display as a screensaver - complete with a cutesy caption- and had taken a short movie of herself. Diane and I seemed to be thinking the same thing: remember when phones were just phones? And when the heck did kids become so techno-saavy, leaving us to feel like complete and utter idiots?
My digital camera is mostly a mystery to me. Sure, I can open the lens and snap photos. But I still don't know how to transfer those images to the computer. I could read the manual, of course, but haven't gotten around to it. It just hasn't seemed that pressing to me. Besides, why take the time when I can have Bryan download them (or upload them or whatever type of loading needs to be done). And after the aforementioned images are on the computer, I don't know how to resize, manipulate, or otherwise edit them. And, I wonder, what's the point of all that effort anyway? I feel like a techno-idiot. But the thing is, it just seems easier and quicker and more tangible to take the film to Target and have them process it into nice, glossy photos that I can hold in my hands.
Clearly I need to learn these things. The twenty-first century is already passing me by and leaving me in the technological dust. The world has become so advanced, so digitally-minded, so....complicated. I'll get over it and adapt. I will, I tell myself. But then I see these gadgets and gizmos and think, "WHY?" I don't seem to truly see the need. Bryan is more perceptive of the necessity to stay current. But then he also kept referring to a Blackberry as a "blueberry thingy," so I don't know if either of us will ever really "get with it".
I am trying, though. I have lots of old photos I want to utilize so I'm actually looking at scanners, and this increases my desire to learn photo editing software. And I have resolved to stop referring to those wretched online help programs as "crapware support". And, I am quite proud of the fact that I haven't had to utilize the sisterly help-desk in well over a month.
Yes, I'm coming along. Look out, twenty-first century, I'm on the loose! There just may be no stoppin' me now. I'm sure my sister isn't holding her breath, though.
copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Pain, Pain Go Away!
Ever have one of those weeks that starts out calmly enough, like a sunny country drive, then suddenly and unexpectedly hauls butt around the bend, roars downhill and comes to a screeching halt in the parking lot of crapola?
That's what the past week has been like for me.
The "normal" aches and pains I experience have turned evil and inflicted upon me a wretched and roaring pain in my neck and shoulders. Not content to stay localized, though, it then spread to my low back and hips, rendering me pretty much useless and rather immobile for most of the week. It started, ironically, after a massage which was supposed to, of course, relax the muscles. Oddly the adverse occurred as she had somehow managed to jam and prod so much that the muscles reacted by cramping up and clamping down.
This is very disgruntling for me. For goodness sake, I have things to do! People to see! A garden to tend! I haven't been able to get out and get my much-needed errands done since, until two days ago, I could barely turn my head, not a real asset when you're trying to drive. And sitting at the computer, well, forget more than five minutes at any one stretch. So I get up, check email, write one in reply, walk around the house, lay down. Get up, read a little, go back to bed. This has been the pitiful rhythm of my days. I tried reading, but holding the book aloft exacerbated the shoulder pain. I tried to sit up and read, but sitting for very long caused screaming response from my back and hip muscles. Ditto with watching TV. All tendons seem in mutiny and I'm caught in the crossfire. I resorted to listening to the radio while lying in bed. I discovered that the music of my era, the tunes we so loved in high school and college, are now being played on the "oldies" station. (Just when, praytell, was eighties music relegated to the classification of "oldies"? I prefer to think of them as "rock classics", thankyouverymuch. And if I am going to listen to "oldies", it darn well better be older than I can remember.) That further depressed me. I switched over to talk radio, but about ten minutes of that had my muscles more tense, and the cat running scared, as I yelled at the radio and the half-witted drivel streaming out of my speakers. I popped in jazz CDs.
I tried Tylenol. Nada. Bumped it up to Motrin. Dulled it a bit, not much. On to Aleve. Nary a blip. I slathered on cooling gels and muscle rub creams. I'm now contemplating the possible efficacy of using Limoncello medicinally.
I have learned from experience not to share these instances with too many people. In the past if I mentioned health issues, I received responses that ranged from "OH, I've got just the thing for you. I know it will help. I sell this line of vitamins and for only $139.95 I will get you a starter pack, okay?"; to "Suck it up, kid, pain is a part of life"; and, the glazed-over eyes accompanied by an expression that clearly communicates, "Ummm, when I asked 'how are you' it was part of a greeting, not because I really wanted a response." Thankfully, there are also those blessed ones who respond sympathetically and genuinely, who will lift my spirits by making me laugh or being helpful, or who just exhibit concern. My sister, for example, has become a little 'meals on wheels', bringing me lunches. My uncle Dean can commiserate since he is in pain with sciatica and he never, ever fails to make me laugh. Bryan, of course, wants to jump into action and fix it all, and he picks up all the slack when I'm out of commission. Miss Underestimator, a fellow blogette, offered a muscular relaxation technique she garnered through her shoulder rehab experience. My mom -God bless mothers!- voiced her "oh no's" with a concerned voice, then got livid and said, "You should call that quack massage therapist and tell her....".
I started feeling a little better yesterday, so, foolishly, I went to Italian class. At last week's class I had had my confidence bolstered as I had understood - get this! - nearly every word spoken in conversation. I was so proud, I wanted to repeat the experience. Instead, the pain resumed due to the uncomfortable classroom chairs. It distracted me; I understood nary a thing. Sad, frustrated, I limped home and crawled back into bed.
Today I'm still going through the up-and-down cycle. I've been writing this in five minutes increments. And now, again, my time online is up; back to a prone position with a heating pad. Now where did I put that Beach Boys CD?
copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider
That's what the past week has been like for me.
The "normal" aches and pains I experience have turned evil and inflicted upon me a wretched and roaring pain in my neck and shoulders. Not content to stay localized, though, it then spread to my low back and hips, rendering me pretty much useless and rather immobile for most of the week. It started, ironically, after a massage which was supposed to, of course, relax the muscles. Oddly the adverse occurred as she had somehow managed to jam and prod so much that the muscles reacted by cramping up and clamping down.
This is very disgruntling for me. For goodness sake, I have things to do! People to see! A garden to tend! I haven't been able to get out and get my much-needed errands done since, until two days ago, I could barely turn my head, not a real asset when you're trying to drive. And sitting at the computer, well, forget more than five minutes at any one stretch. So I get up, check email, write one in reply, walk around the house, lay down. Get up, read a little, go back to bed. This has been the pitiful rhythm of my days. I tried reading, but holding the book aloft exacerbated the shoulder pain. I tried to sit up and read, but sitting for very long caused screaming response from my back and hip muscles. Ditto with watching TV. All tendons seem in mutiny and I'm caught in the crossfire. I resorted to listening to the radio while lying in bed. I discovered that the music of my era, the tunes we so loved in high school and college, are now being played on the "oldies" station. (Just when, praytell, was eighties music relegated to the classification of "oldies"? I prefer to think of them as "rock classics", thankyouverymuch. And if I am going to listen to "oldies", it darn well better be older than I can remember.) That further depressed me. I switched over to talk radio, but about ten minutes of that had my muscles more tense, and the cat running scared, as I yelled at the radio and the half-witted drivel streaming out of my speakers. I popped in jazz CDs.
I tried Tylenol. Nada. Bumped it up to Motrin. Dulled it a bit, not much. On to Aleve. Nary a blip. I slathered on cooling gels and muscle rub creams. I'm now contemplating the possible efficacy of using Limoncello medicinally.
I have learned from experience not to share these instances with too many people. In the past if I mentioned health issues, I received responses that ranged from "OH, I've got just the thing for you. I know it will help. I sell this line of vitamins and for only $139.95 I will get you a starter pack, okay?"; to "Suck it up, kid, pain is a part of life"; and, the glazed-over eyes accompanied by an expression that clearly communicates, "Ummm, when I asked 'how are you' it was part of a greeting, not because I really wanted a response." Thankfully, there are also those blessed ones who respond sympathetically and genuinely, who will lift my spirits by making me laugh or being helpful, or who just exhibit concern. My sister, for example, has become a little 'meals on wheels', bringing me lunches. My uncle Dean can commiserate since he is in pain with sciatica and he never, ever fails to make me laugh. Bryan, of course, wants to jump into action and fix it all, and he picks up all the slack when I'm out of commission. Miss Underestimator, a fellow blogette, offered a muscular relaxation technique she garnered through her shoulder rehab experience. My mom -God bless mothers!- voiced her "oh no's" with a concerned voice, then got livid and said, "You should call that quack massage therapist and tell her....".
I started feeling a little better yesterday, so, foolishly, I went to Italian class. At last week's class I had had my confidence bolstered as I had understood - get this! - nearly every word spoken in conversation. I was so proud, I wanted to repeat the experience. Instead, the pain resumed due to the uncomfortable classroom chairs. It distracted me; I understood nary a thing. Sad, frustrated, I limped home and crawled back into bed.
Today I'm still going through the up-and-down cycle. I've been writing this in five minutes increments. And now, again, my time online is up; back to a prone position with a heating pad. Now where did I put that Beach Boys CD?
copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider
Thursday, April 14, 2005
An Addiction in Living Color
I have recently come to realize that I have to face reality, to see the hard, cold fact that I am an addict. It has been difficult to admit. I've found that I have sought solace and comfort in this addiction. And now I can no longer stay in a state of denial. The substance of choice is the Sorrento Web Cam.
I log on to this site and look upon the image it beams to me as my very own street scene, the neighborhood in which I dwell with a view onto the little dramas and activities played out below. I pretend that, instead of a prospect out my window over wind-swept sagebrush, this is my vista. I have an apartment in a stone building (at least 300 years old), it was formerly a palazzo that has now been subdivided into about twenty apartments with a private central courtyard. I have old foot-worn stone steps leading up to my hand-hewn wood door with a heavy iron knocker. I gaze out my window periodically to see what is going on in the piazza below. I see my neighbors and fellow townspeople going about their daily lives, shopping - perhaps for a bouquet of flowers to take to dinner tonight at friends, or maybe for a new blouse in the latest spring style, or maybe they're just out for their ritual afternoon tiny cup of espresso. I watch as they pass in their tiny cars or zip through the street on their vespas.
I always enjoy watching the Sorrento passeggiata as everyone is out for their regular evening stroll, arm in arm, calling out to one another, stopping in the street to chat. I am, I imagine, out on my little balcony watering the colorful cascades of flowers, their containers an assortment of sizes and hues, along with my requisite pots of culinary herbs and I call out, "Ciao Angelo," and "Buona sera, Signora Verde. Come sta oggi?," leaning on my wrought iron balcony railing and chatting (in Italian and effortlessly, of course) with my neighbors below.
The scene on this webcam updates every few seconds, so it's almost like real-time viewing. I put the site on my screen and leave it up and active while I'm writing or reading email or surfing the web, and then I flip it back up for a gander every once in a while. Through my voyeuristic escapades I get to see what is currently la moda in Italy this season. I get to guess who the tourists are and where they are from ("Oh that guy is definitely from Nebraska"). I get to see what the weather is like there. And of course I get to wish that I was there.
This "window gazing" has led me to two conclusions: I really am hopelessly fanatical about Italy; and I definitely need to get a life.
I log on to this site and look upon the image it beams to me as my very own street scene, the neighborhood in which I dwell with a view onto the little dramas and activities played out below. I pretend that, instead of a prospect out my window over wind-swept sagebrush, this is my vista. I have an apartment in a stone building (at least 300 years old), it was formerly a palazzo that has now been subdivided into about twenty apartments with a private central courtyard. I have old foot-worn stone steps leading up to my hand-hewn wood door with a heavy iron knocker. I gaze out my window periodically to see what is going on in the piazza below. I see my neighbors and fellow townspeople going about their daily lives, shopping - perhaps for a bouquet of flowers to take to dinner tonight at friends, or maybe for a new blouse in the latest spring style, or maybe they're just out for their ritual afternoon tiny cup of espresso. I watch as they pass in their tiny cars or zip through the street on their vespas.
I always enjoy watching the Sorrento passeggiata as everyone is out for their regular evening stroll, arm in arm, calling out to one another, stopping in the street to chat. I am, I imagine, out on my little balcony watering the colorful cascades of flowers, their containers an assortment of sizes and hues, along with my requisite pots of culinary herbs and I call out, "Ciao Angelo," and "Buona sera, Signora Verde. Come sta oggi?," leaning on my wrought iron balcony railing and chatting (in Italian and effortlessly, of course) with my neighbors below.
The scene on this webcam updates every few seconds, so it's almost like real-time viewing. I put the site on my screen and leave it up and active while I'm writing or reading email or surfing the web, and then I flip it back up for a gander every once in a while. Through my voyeuristic escapades I get to see what is currently la moda in Italy this season. I get to guess who the tourists are and where they are from ("Oh that guy is definitely from Nebraska"). I get to see what the weather is like there. And of course I get to wish that I was there.
This "window gazing" has led me to two conclusions: I really am hopelessly fanatical about Italy; and I definitely need to get a life.
copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Land of the Cleves, Home of the Browns
Following the two weeks in my hometown for my grandpa's funeral - which included roller-coaster emotions, coming down with a nasty cold, helping my grandma move into a new apartment, and cooking Easter dinner - I was in need of a couple days' recuperation to regather my senses and reconnect with my husband before we again entered the bosom of family, this time his family, as we were attending the previously scheduled surprise party for his dad's 75th birthday. While we had already planned on being in Ohio when the news came of my grandpaI had gone earlier than expected and thus had a much lengthier stay than I'd originally anticipated, which was topped with lots of emotion...and, in short, I needed a break!
We headed to Cleveland for a couple days' interlude, and while most people wouldn't think of Cleveland as a vacation destination, we thoroughly enjoyed our stay. I was able to show Bryan some of the places from my childhood memories and we ate some fantastic meals.
We chose the Hyatt at The Arcade for our respite. I had always thought that The Arcade was a beautiful building, insisting on walking into its grand space on every trip to downtown when I was a kid. I was so glad to hear that it had been salvaged and restored. The gleaming brass and immense glass ceiling are now back to their original splendor, and our guest room was placed inside what had once been office space. Standing along the railing outside our room looking into the building gave me a sense of nostalgia, and gave Bryan the feeling of being on a cruise ship. Kudos to Hyatt for their restoration, their hospitality and their very attentive service. (My one gripe? The tacky Hyatt flags marring the scope and view of the glass ceiling.) Everything else exceeded my expectations.
The Arcade stretches between Superior and Euclid Aves. in downtown Cleveland
Another photo:
Another vantage point of The Arcade interior
We walked around downtown and saw that Cleveland has done some cleaning up since her ultra-industrial, river-burning days. She still has some growing up to do, though. Disappointed, I saw the empty display windows and gaping darkness beyond where the grand department stores of my youth provided fond shopping trips and elegant-feeling lunches with my mom and grandma. Higbees, Halle's and May Co. are hollow shells on their street corners, like down-on-their-luck panhandlers sitting there, waiting for someone to show them some generosity, to see their goodness behind their now-gritty exteriors, to help them along. It's a crying shame. Just blocks away, the warehouse district has underdone a major revival with high-end lofts and loads of new restaurants placed inside newly-renovated and sand-blasted brick buildings. I truly hope the momentum and enthusiam from that project will carry over the few short blocks to Public Square and downtown.
We had some welcome sunny weather while we were there so we went up to the lakeshore and paid homage to the new Browns Stadium. We could only gaze in from the locked gates, but we saw what we could, glad they had rebuilt on the lake, glad that it was still an open stadium (no wussy domes for Cleveland fans!) and wishing we could be here for a game. Bryan's dream is to be back during football season for a home Browns game and the OSU-Michigan game. Someday.
We headed to Cleveland for a couple days' interlude, and while most people wouldn't think of Cleveland as a vacation destination, we thoroughly enjoyed our stay. I was able to show Bryan some of the places from my childhood memories and we ate some fantastic meals.
We chose the Hyatt at The Arcade for our respite. I had always thought that The Arcade was a beautiful building, insisting on walking into its grand space on every trip to downtown when I was a kid. I was so glad to hear that it had been salvaged and restored. The gleaming brass and immense glass ceiling are now back to their original splendor, and our guest room was placed inside what had once been office space. Standing along the railing outside our room looking into the building gave me a sense of nostalgia, and gave Bryan the feeling of being on a cruise ship. Kudos to Hyatt for their restoration, their hospitality and their very attentive service. (My one gripe? The tacky Hyatt flags marring the scope and view of the glass ceiling.) Everything else exceeded my expectations.
The Arcade stretches between Superior and Euclid Aves. in downtown Cleveland
Another photo:
Another vantage point of The Arcade interior
We walked around downtown and saw that Cleveland has done some cleaning up since her ultra-industrial, river-burning days. She still has some growing up to do, though. Disappointed, I saw the empty display windows and gaping darkness beyond where the grand department stores of my youth provided fond shopping trips and elegant-feeling lunches with my mom and grandma. Higbees, Halle's and May Co. are hollow shells on their street corners, like down-on-their-luck panhandlers sitting there, waiting for someone to show them some generosity, to see their goodness behind their now-gritty exteriors, to help them along. It's a crying shame. Just blocks away, the warehouse district has underdone a major revival with high-end lofts and loads of new restaurants placed inside newly-renovated and sand-blasted brick buildings. I truly hope the momentum and enthusiam from that project will carry over the few short blocks to Public Square and downtown.
We had some welcome sunny weather while we were there so we went up to the lakeshore and paid homage to the new Browns Stadium. We could only gaze in from the locked gates, but we saw what we could, glad they had rebuilt on the lake, glad that it was still an open stadium (no wussy domes for Cleveland fans!) and wishing we could be here for a game. Bryan's dream is to be back during football season for a home Browns game and the OSU-Michigan game. Someday.
Other activities:
*The Church of the Holy Oil Can, known officially as the Euclid-Epworth Methodist Church, but more widely recognized locally by its moniker due to the exterior dome and spire, the interior surprised us with a beautiful soaring ceiling, a higher dome than I had expected and gorgeous stained (and other) glass work, including two rose windows. We were greeted warmly and given a personal tour. I'd always wondered what it looked like inside.
Church of the Holy Oil Can, officially known as Euclid-Epworth Methodist Church, located in Cleveland's University Circle area.
*Cleveland Art Museum, we wandered around a bit, ignoring the main attraction that all the crowds were streaming in for, the Phillips Collection. I'd seen the Phillips Gallery on a trip to DC, and we went in to the museum but didn't feel in the right minds for it. After about an hour we wondered why we were inside on a warm and sunny day, so we retreated and wandered around the grassy areas nearby.
*West Side Market and Gallucci's. Together these spots are a food-lover's paradise. We gawked at the fresh produce and the meats and pastries at the market, then stocked up on lots of Italian cheeses and salami at Gallucci's. We're incurable food tourists!
*Valerio's on Mayfield. This was our highlight, stand-out meal. Located in "Little Italy", I had been wanting to try it for about 3 years, but being closed for lunch - the time-frame I have usually been able to be in Cleveland on my trips back - I was out of luck...until now. Valerio's exceeded my hopes and we "oohed" and "aahed" our way through three courses. We enjoyed a relaxed and flavorful meal, much needed time lingering over our meal, talking and catching up after two weeks apart. I thought Bryan was going to swoon when he encountered the gnocchi with gorgonzola sauce; it was that good.
We visited other restaurants in Little Italy and on Coventry...Cleveland is a pretty good dining town. We certainly didn't go hungry and the only dilemma was narrowing down the field.
It was an enjoyable time. During the previous two weeks, my mom and sister and I had spent a lot of time going through old photos of my grandparents, of the family, of our childhood, so capping off that time by reconnecting with some of my favorite childhood memories seemed apropos.
Cleveland, thanks for the great times, then and now.
copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Farewell, Old Fart
The call came on Tuesday. My mother's voice, usually bubbling forth a cheery "hello", sounded hollow as she delivered the news that my grandfather had passed away. Since that time, my emotions have been on a twisting and hilly course similar to Cedar Point's Corkscrew roller coaster. The assurance that he was no longer suffering would be, in another moment, overwhelmed by deep sadness that one I loved so much was gone forever. I'm now back in Ohio...for the funeral, for the comfort of the family, to be with my grandma...to somehow bid him farewell.
Gramps was a huge part of my life, always. He was always there, always strong, always quietly present. When my father walked out, my grandparents stepped in. We saw them weekly, sometimes more often. Together they made sure we knew we were loved, that we still had a strong family bond, that we were not really abandoned. How do I say goodbye to one so important, one so gentle, one so intensely and deeply caring?
He was always a strong man, both mentally as well as physically, strangely belying his slight stature and small build, as he topped out at about 125 at his heaviest. Yet he could do back-breaking work and endured many physical and emotional hardships as a child. Called the runt, he took the blame - and the beatings - for all the wrongs of his brothers and the whims of his father. And yet he took his father in and provided a home and hospitality and care for him when he became infirm.
My grandpa could fix anything, from a broken lamp to a skinned knee. When he purchased a small one-level home and needed more room as his family grew, he dug a basement below it and added a floor above it. He made us skateboards and mended fences and painted our house and helped others with their lawn-work. My grandpa could do anything!
Gramps was always a quiet, soft-spoken man with a heart as deep as the ocean. Anyone in need was cared for, along with my grandma's help. Together, throughout their 65 years of marriage, they helped the underdogs and the underpriviledged and the under-loved.
Though his name was Herman, he had many nicknames and monikers: Gramps, Stubborn Dutchman, Cracker. But the one that was most enduring - and which never failed to elicit his infamous grin - was Old Fart. He graciously accepted this name on his 80th birthday, and it labeled him since. He enjoyed that we enjoyed it; he liked having the inside joke with us, right up to his most recent 96th birthday.
The word that comes to mind as I think of him is "simple". He was a simple man with a simple faith. He had that child-like faith that Jesus asks us to have, and he lived it out daily in his actions as he loved his family, and saw - then met - the needs of others. I believe that when he entered heaven, the Lord ran to greet him and say, "Welcome Herman. You have been a good and faithful servant. You have served faithfully and joyfully and patiently. Enter in the joy of your Lord."
Gramps was a simple and humble and wonderful man who simply served God and loved his family intensely. And in the end, no greater thing can be said about a man's life than that.
Copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider
Gramps was a huge part of my life, always. He was always there, always strong, always quietly present. When my father walked out, my grandparents stepped in. We saw them weekly, sometimes more often. Together they made sure we knew we were loved, that we still had a strong family bond, that we were not really abandoned. How do I say goodbye to one so important, one so gentle, one so intensely and deeply caring?
He was always a strong man, both mentally as well as physically, strangely belying his slight stature and small build, as he topped out at about 125 at his heaviest. Yet he could do back-breaking work and endured many physical and emotional hardships as a child. Called the runt, he took the blame - and the beatings - for all the wrongs of his brothers and the whims of his father. And yet he took his father in and provided a home and hospitality and care for him when he became infirm.
My grandpa could fix anything, from a broken lamp to a skinned knee. When he purchased a small one-level home and needed more room as his family grew, he dug a basement below it and added a floor above it. He made us skateboards and mended fences and painted our house and helped others with their lawn-work. My grandpa could do anything!
Gramps was always a quiet, soft-spoken man with a heart as deep as the ocean. Anyone in need was cared for, along with my grandma's help. Together, throughout their 65 years of marriage, they helped the underdogs and the underpriviledged and the under-loved.
Though his name was Herman, he had many nicknames and monikers: Gramps, Stubborn Dutchman, Cracker. But the one that was most enduring - and which never failed to elicit his infamous grin - was Old Fart. He graciously accepted this name on his 80th birthday, and it labeled him since. He enjoyed that we enjoyed it; he liked having the inside joke with us, right up to his most recent 96th birthday.
The word that comes to mind as I think of him is "simple". He was a simple man with a simple faith. He had that child-like faith that Jesus asks us to have, and he lived it out daily in his actions as he loved his family, and saw - then met - the needs of others. I believe that when he entered heaven, the Lord ran to greet him and say, "Welcome Herman. You have been a good and faithful servant. You have served faithfully and joyfully and patiently. Enter in the joy of your Lord."
Gramps was a simple and humble and wonderful man who simply served God and loved his family intensely. And in the end, no greater thing can be said about a man's life than that.
Copyright 2005 Valerie Schneider
Sunday, March 13, 2005
A Taste of Il Bel Paese
Bryan was pleased to receive a bonus from work recently and decided to celebrate by taking me to Santa Fe for lunch at our favorite Italian restaurant in the area, Osteria d'Assisi. Our mouths watered ceaselessly during the hour-long drive to the City Different.
We arrived to the sight of a large tent in the parking lot next to the restaurant and another smaller one over the entrance courtyard. We worried. We hadn't called first to ensure that they were open. We had previous experiences with encountering locked doors here. They are, truly, Italian here; sometimes they are just closed...just because. We arrived for a Valentine's Day lunch last year (or the year before, I can't remember which), a Saturday, to find the doors bolted and no one around. Bryan had called and made reservations no less, but they had apparently decided not to open for lunch that day. The sign said "Open for lunch except Sunday". Okay. We proceeded to plan B and then decided we would have to call first on all subsequent visits. Another day they were open on a Sunday for lunch, despite never usually being so, and we had already eaten elsewhere. It's one of those quirks that we encounter frequently in Italy so we chalk it up to having a true, authentic experience.
So the white tent brought fear to our hearts as we realized that in our anticipation and haste, we had not called prior to our departure. Turned out that they were having a large party for the "Santa Fe elite" that evening; "We are very pleased," deadpanned one of the waiters. We were gratefully ushered into the dining room where we sat and enjoyed an unhurried pranzo. A glass of Barbera d'Asti, insalata mista, involtini di vitello, my favorite - a tender piece of veal stuffed with greens and served in a mushroom cream sauce, and Bryan's salsiccia e pepperoni on a thick slice of polenta all satisfied our tastebuds. The leisure and atmosphere satisfied - as much as it can in New Mexico - our longing for Italy. And the conversation with Nicola, our favorite waiter, allowed me to practice a little bit of Italian and feel the camraderie that Italians bestow. Even though Nicola isn't actually Italian, he's Greek. But he studied in Italy, lived in Miami, lives part of the year in Peru...well, that is one of those international experiences that we frequently encounter in America. He brought us a plate of tiramisu, gratis, along with our coffees.
We leaned back in our chairs and plotted our dreams and loved the fact that we were able to experience a long lunch just like in Italy. Unfortunately, we had the hour drive home instead of a siesta, but we escaped to our "Italian world" for a couple of hours, and came home full, as well as full of future dreams. Not bad for one afternoon's outing.
We arrived to the sight of a large tent in the parking lot next to the restaurant and another smaller one over the entrance courtyard. We worried. We hadn't called first to ensure that they were open. We had previous experiences with encountering locked doors here. They are, truly, Italian here; sometimes they are just closed...just because. We arrived for a Valentine's Day lunch last year (or the year before, I can't remember which), a Saturday, to find the doors bolted and no one around. Bryan had called and made reservations no less, but they had apparently decided not to open for lunch that day. The sign said "Open for lunch except Sunday". Okay. We proceeded to plan B and then decided we would have to call first on all subsequent visits. Another day they were open on a Sunday for lunch, despite never usually being so, and we had already eaten elsewhere. It's one of those quirks that we encounter frequently in Italy so we chalk it up to having a true, authentic experience.
So the white tent brought fear to our hearts as we realized that in our anticipation and haste, we had not called prior to our departure. Turned out that they were having a large party for the "Santa Fe elite" that evening; "We are very pleased," deadpanned one of the waiters. We were gratefully ushered into the dining room where we sat and enjoyed an unhurried pranzo. A glass of Barbera d'Asti, insalata mista, involtini di vitello, my favorite - a tender piece of veal stuffed with greens and served in a mushroom cream sauce, and Bryan's salsiccia e pepperoni on a thick slice of polenta all satisfied our tastebuds. The leisure and atmosphere satisfied - as much as it can in New Mexico - our longing for Italy. And the conversation with Nicola, our favorite waiter, allowed me to practice a little bit of Italian and feel the camraderie that Italians bestow. Even though Nicola isn't actually Italian, he's Greek. But he studied in Italy, lived in Miami, lives part of the year in Peru...well, that is one of those international experiences that we frequently encounter in America. He brought us a plate of tiramisu, gratis, along with our coffees.
We leaned back in our chairs and plotted our dreams and loved the fact that we were able to experience a long lunch just like in Italy. Unfortunately, we had the hour drive home instead of a siesta, but we escaped to our "Italian world" for a couple of hours, and came home full, as well as full of future dreams. Not bad for one afternoon's outing.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Toxic Tables and Open Spaces
My living room has a wide, gaping hole in it. Well, it's more like a vast void, the space in which previously rested my coffee table. This was a rustic-looking table hewn from pine with wrought iron drawer pulls, a tad on the large side but it had fit well with the southwestern decor of our home. Notice I say "was".
We had this table for several years. It had no finish on it; Bryan had contemplated putting one on, but the rustic character of it appealed to us. Unfortunately, the large surface area of it appealed to the cats and they used it as their play space, nap space, and took it upon themselves to add additional character by knocking over various liquid-filled glasses, spilling the contents all over, and using it as a hairball depository. (Lovely animals!) Over time, the rustic turned to more of a grungy look. We tried to clean it up, but to no avail. Bryan took it outside and sanded the top. It got rid of the grunge, but rendered the top, of course, a different and lighter color than the rest of the table. I didn't think it so bad, but he was unhappy with the result.
Off we went to the hardware store to find some kind of natural oil which might even out the tone. We came home with a Danish Oil, said to be a natural oil. It was applied liberally, to beautiful effect. Unfortunately within ten minutes of bringing the table back inside after several days' drying time, I got a headache and my throat began to hurt. Outside it went, and onto the internet I trolled to discover that danish oil, rather than being "natural" as we were led to believe, is instead highly toxic, containing such lovely and healthful ingredients as formaldehyde and asphultum. Wonderful! Bryan became indignant, partly because I became sick and partly because all his efforts were fruitless. Said coffee table now rests prettily in the garage.
Why such ingredients are even used is beyond my comprehension. In Prescriptions for a Healthy House, the authors cite a study that there are about 80,000 synthetic organic compounds (VOCs, volatile organic compounds) commercially available and thousands more are produced annual by the chemical industry. Most of these are petrochemicals, derived from oil, gas and coal (furthering dependence on the petroleum industry and increasing use of non-renewable resources). Environmental sensitivies are on the rise and it is no wonder when we are being exposed to these kinds of substances. Sick building syndrome is attributed to exposure to chemicals used in construction materials, cleaning products , adhesives and particle board-based furnishings. I am convinced that exposure to these kinds of chemical plays no small part in my chronic fatigue issues. (Or is it merely a coincidence that the onset of many of my symptoms began after moving into a new home?)
So my coffee table is relegated to life outside, and our living room has an empty space needing to be filled. All is not lost, though. Winston the cat loves the openness of the room. He can run unimpeded and likes to burrow himself under the area rug. And it's providing a nice space to do our morning stretches. I've been forced to get things more organized; no longer having the wide shelf to store the many coffee table books and photo albums, I've had to actually clean out and make better use of the closet in the guest bedroom. We've also learned that we need to be more diligent in our purchases; that all ingredients are not truthfully labeled, so we need to be more aware and conduct more research for ourselves. We need to be more environmentally conscious, for our own health, but also with the realization that if these products are unhealthy for us, they are ecologically toxic as well.
But I need to get the large table out of the garage, so if you know anyone who is in the market for a used slightly toxic table, let me know.
We had this table for several years. It had no finish on it; Bryan had contemplated putting one on, but the rustic character of it appealed to us. Unfortunately, the large surface area of it appealed to the cats and they used it as their play space, nap space, and took it upon themselves to add additional character by knocking over various liquid-filled glasses, spilling the contents all over, and using it as a hairball depository. (Lovely animals!) Over time, the rustic turned to more of a grungy look. We tried to clean it up, but to no avail. Bryan took it outside and sanded the top. It got rid of the grunge, but rendered the top, of course, a different and lighter color than the rest of the table. I didn't think it so bad, but he was unhappy with the result.
Off we went to the hardware store to find some kind of natural oil which might even out the tone. We came home with a Danish Oil, said to be a natural oil. It was applied liberally, to beautiful effect. Unfortunately within ten minutes of bringing the table back inside after several days' drying time, I got a headache and my throat began to hurt. Outside it went, and onto the internet I trolled to discover that danish oil, rather than being "natural" as we were led to believe, is instead highly toxic, containing such lovely and healthful ingredients as formaldehyde and asphultum. Wonderful! Bryan became indignant, partly because I became sick and partly because all his efforts were fruitless. Said coffee table now rests prettily in the garage.
Why such ingredients are even used is beyond my comprehension. In Prescriptions for a Healthy House, the authors cite a study that there are about 80,000 synthetic organic compounds (VOCs, volatile organic compounds) commercially available and thousands more are produced annual by the chemical industry. Most of these are petrochemicals, derived from oil, gas and coal (furthering dependence on the petroleum industry and increasing use of non-renewable resources). Environmental sensitivies are on the rise and it is no wonder when we are being exposed to these kinds of substances. Sick building syndrome is attributed to exposure to chemicals used in construction materials, cleaning products , adhesives and particle board-based furnishings. I am convinced that exposure to these kinds of chemical plays no small part in my chronic fatigue issues. (Or is it merely a coincidence that the onset of many of my symptoms began after moving into a new home?)
So my coffee table is relegated to life outside, and our living room has an empty space needing to be filled. All is not lost, though. Winston the cat loves the openness of the room. He can run unimpeded and likes to burrow himself under the area rug. And it's providing a nice space to do our morning stretches. I've been forced to get things more organized; no longer having the wide shelf to store the many coffee table books and photo albums, I've had to actually clean out and make better use of the closet in the guest bedroom. We've also learned that we need to be more diligent in our purchases; that all ingredients are not truthfully labeled, so we need to be more aware and conduct more research for ourselves. We need to be more environmentally conscious, for our own health, but also with the realization that if these products are unhealthy for us, they are ecologically toxic as well.
But I need to get the large table out of the garage, so if you know anyone who is in the market for a used slightly toxic table, let me know.
EPA Facts on Sick Building Syndrome
Ohio State University Fact Sheet on Sick Building Syndrome
Fact Sheet on Multiple Chemical Disorders
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