I had such a good response from my recent Facebook post about my grandfather, that I thought I would write a little something about my paternal grandfather, James G. Coleman, Sr.
Unfortunately, I had precious little time with him. When I was about 3 1/2 years old, we received a call that he had died of a heart attack. This was before any of my 5 siblings or 3 cousins on my father's side of the family had even been born.
So I am the only one of my generation to have memories of "Pawpaw" Coleman.
There are three that stand out. One direct, the others by means of photographs.
First, the direct memory. I remember my grandfather liked to play on the floor with me. After a certain amount of roughhousing, he would order some warm milk for me, presumably to help me get to sleep. Because I really have a memory of playing on the floor with him, it must have happened shortly before his death.
Second, there is a great picture that one of my parents must have taken. It would seem that Pawpaw Coleman was given the task of putting me down for a nap. The picture shows us both on a bed and guess which one was sleeping. I was bright eyed and Pawpaw was in dreamland.
Finally, I know there are pictures of me with my grandfather's golf driver (or whatever it was called in those days) in my hands addressing a golf ball. The club was taller than I was and I have no idea whether I ever hit the ball.
As it turns out, a decade later, I came across my grandfather's golf clubs in a closet or some other storage space. They were in an old fashioned golf bag. I asked my grandmother if I could have them and she, of course, agreed.
I would play golf with friends on the 9 hole municipal golf course close to our home. I remember riding a bicycle to the course with my golf bag over my shoulder.
The woods were still in reasonable shape. I had to buy a set of irons from a discount department store. I could only afford one-half of the irons, so I bought the odd numbers (3,5,7, and 9). The woods were really made of wood and, if I knew where they were, they would be priceless (at least to me). I gave up on golf around the time I was 15 or so and I don't know what happened to the clubs after that.
But that leads me to another story told by my father, James G. Coleman, Jr. My dad would comment from time to time that he hated golf. When I would ask him why, he told this story. My grandfather would play golf every Saturday and my father would caddy for him. Now, it seems that my grandfather was a no better golfer than I am (still waiting to break 100). He also had quite a temper. So, if he had a bad shot (and there must have been quite a few of them) he would hurl the offending club into the nearest water hazard. My father would have to retrieve it for him so the round could continue.
Sad to say, that temper must have been genetically passed on the Y chromosome to both my father and subsequently to me. For dad, unruly children would send him over the edge. For me, errant golf shots and hitting my head in the attic proved to be my undoing.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
Good Manners
My fellow boomers and I have reached the age when we look at the world and find a lot that we don't like. My daughters will tell you that one example in my own life is that the grammar their generation should have learned in school has been forgotten. Others see an apparent decline in ACT and SAT scores as proof that education generally "isn't what it used to be." Most recently, another of my generation has observed that good manners seem to be a thing of the past. Or at least something is falling through the cracks as one generation trains the next to be civil.
And civility is the point to manners, isn't it? Good manners don't exist in a vacuum, as though somebody once said, "This is how you're supposed to do things, just because." I think it's a little like agreeing (usually implicitly) to all speak a given language in a social situation. Communications would be extremely difficult without that agreement.
No, politeness and good manners are ways we oil our relationships with other people. It shows that we respect them. If we are confronted with someone who exercises bad manners, we are pretty sure they don't respect us. (Sidebar: I refuse to use the new word "disrespect".) In the same way that good grammar (apparently another lost art) is an indicator that you know how to communicate properly, good manners in a young person show that he or she is learning one of the requirements to live in an adult world. Good manners in an adult show that he or she has learned those same requirements. If nothing else, people are more likely to like you if you exhibit good manners than if you don't.
Here are some examples of seemingly forgotten etiquette. My source is the web site www.emilypost.com. Pretty original, yes?
Party Manners 101
Most of these may feel like news to some of my adult friends as well. At any rate, these are my personal favorites (that is, pet peeves).
From ehow.com. All about meeting new people. Note especially the part about eye contact. In our culture, this is very important. In other cultures, not so much. But if you can't look someone in the eye, you come across as evasive.
Finally, a personal pet peeve that arose when receiving "thank you" notes from recent graduates and newly weds.
Write a real thank you. Something more than just the words "thank you". (Yes, we did receive one of those.) Tell the person why you're grateful, what you plan to do with the gift. If you're going to the formality of writing a thank you note, use appropriate titles (Mr., Mrs., Miss).
I think that's enough for now, at least until I have my next encounter where my instinctive response is "How rude!"
And civility is the point to manners, isn't it? Good manners don't exist in a vacuum, as though somebody once said, "This is how you're supposed to do things, just because." I think it's a little like agreeing (usually implicitly) to all speak a given language in a social situation. Communications would be extremely difficult without that agreement.
No, politeness and good manners are ways we oil our relationships with other people. It shows that we respect them. If we are confronted with someone who exercises bad manners, we are pretty sure they don't respect us. (Sidebar: I refuse to use the new word "disrespect".) In the same way that good grammar (apparently another lost art) is an indicator that you know how to communicate properly, good manners in a young person show that he or she is learning one of the requirements to live in an adult world. Good manners in an adult show that he or she has learned those same requirements. If nothing else, people are more likely to like you if you exhibit good manners than if you don't.
Here are some examples of seemingly forgotten etiquette. My source is the web site www.emilypost.com. Pretty original, yes?
Party Manners 101
Most of these may feel like news to some of my adult friends as well. At any rate, these are my personal favorites (that is, pet peeves).
- Always arrive on time, never early.
- Turn off your blinkety-blank cell phone.
- Unless invited in, keep clear of the kitchen.
- Thank your hosts on the way out.
From ehow.com. All about meeting new people. Note especially the part about eye contact. In our culture, this is very important. In other cultures, not so much. But if you can't look someone in the eye, you come across as evasive.
Finally, a personal pet peeve that arose when receiving "thank you" notes from recent graduates and newly weds.
Write a real thank you. Something more than just the words "thank you". (Yes, we did receive one of those.) Tell the person why you're grateful, what you plan to do with the gift. If you're going to the formality of writing a thank you note, use appropriate titles (Mr., Mrs., Miss).
I think that's enough for now, at least until I have my next encounter where my instinctive response is "How rude!"
Good News, Bad News
I've heard friends recently lamenting how poor the next generation's handwriting is. We get thank you cards that are hand lettered and badly. When those in my children's generation write cards or letters to us, their penmanship is pretty bad. Penmanship--that's what we called it in my elementary school when we started learning to write "cursive". Some call it a lost art.
I have thought about this and have resisted chiming in on the "old farts" brigade.
Perhaps it's because I never had particularly good penmanship myself. Mine was so bad that I would try to copy others' handwriting styles. Penmanship and art were the only subjects that I hope to get a C in.
Of course, most in my generation eventually got to the point where they could write fairly legibly (except, of course, those who became doctors). In my case, we started learning penmanship in the third grade and continued through the eighth grade. Even I could learn to put something legible on a piece of paper after six years.
Like many of my contemporaries, I was introduced to the typewriter in high school. In my school, it was pretty much expected of you to submit work in either typewritten or double spaced handwritten form. By the time I made it to college, everything in the liberal arts arena was typed. In fact, I preferred typing. I had a background in piano, had been taught typing in high school, and had helped in my father's office during the summer's for the secretary who took off to be with her children. Typing was just natural to me.
Now, let's consider the next generation, the boomers' children. They have been exposed to computers since elementary school. My daughters were taught something called "keyboarding" early in their education. I'm not sure how it differed from my typing lessons, but I do know that they can keyboard faster than I can type.
So, if it's a good thing that they have learned to use computers and, further, that both our and their generations communicate electronically more than any other way, why lament the decline of handwriting? Electronic communications are fast, legible, and you don't have to go out to the post office and get stamps. I think our generation should let go of the standard that says proper (or, if you will, formal) communications be handwritten.
Further, I think Emily Post should update her book to allow electronic communications (and here I mean nothing lower on the technological ladder than email) for all kinds of things that heretofore were expected to be handwritten and snail-mailed. Thank you messages, birthday greetings, holiday greetings, and so forth.
At some point, lamenting the loss of good penmanship will be like lamenting the loss of our distant ancestors' tails. They both are vestiges whose time has passed.
Now, having said that, I do think that anything written on a computer should adhere to the rules of grammar. (Of course, so should the old fashioned handwritten communications.) Talk about a lost art!
As a post script, I'd like to talk about that electronic messaging form commonly called "texting". I don't like it, although I will use it infrequently out of necessity. I don't like it, primarily because its shorthand standards (lol, btw, omg, etc) are starting to creep up the communications ladder into email and, God forbid, handwritten notes. And never mind the threat to life and limb texting presents to those who try to text and drive at the same time.
So, do not be surprised if my next "Thank you" card arrives electronically.
I have thought about this and have resisted chiming in on the "old farts" brigade.
Perhaps it's because I never had particularly good penmanship myself. Mine was so bad that I would try to copy others' handwriting styles. Penmanship and art were the only subjects that I hope to get a C in.
Of course, most in my generation eventually got to the point where they could write fairly legibly (except, of course, those who became doctors). In my case, we started learning penmanship in the third grade and continued through the eighth grade. Even I could learn to put something legible on a piece of paper after six years.
Like many of my contemporaries, I was introduced to the typewriter in high school. In my school, it was pretty much expected of you to submit work in either typewritten or double spaced handwritten form. By the time I made it to college, everything in the liberal arts arena was typed. In fact, I preferred typing. I had a background in piano, had been taught typing in high school, and had helped in my father's office during the summer's for the secretary who took off to be with her children. Typing was just natural to me.
Now, let's consider the next generation, the boomers' children. They have been exposed to computers since elementary school. My daughters were taught something called "keyboarding" early in their education. I'm not sure how it differed from my typing lessons, but I do know that they can keyboard faster than I can type.
So, if it's a good thing that they have learned to use computers and, further, that both our and their generations communicate electronically more than any other way, why lament the decline of handwriting? Electronic communications are fast, legible, and you don't have to go out to the post office and get stamps. I think our generation should let go of the standard that says proper (or, if you will, formal) communications be handwritten.
Further, I think Emily Post should update her book to allow electronic communications (and here I mean nothing lower on the technological ladder than email) for all kinds of things that heretofore were expected to be handwritten and snail-mailed. Thank you messages, birthday greetings, holiday greetings, and so forth.
At some point, lamenting the loss of good penmanship will be like lamenting the loss of our distant ancestors' tails. They both are vestiges whose time has passed.
Now, having said that, I do think that anything written on a computer should adhere to the rules of grammar. (Of course, so should the old fashioned handwritten communications.) Talk about a lost art!
As a post script, I'd like to talk about that electronic messaging form commonly called "texting". I don't like it, although I will use it infrequently out of necessity. I don't like it, primarily because its shorthand standards (lol, btw, omg, etc) are starting to creep up the communications ladder into email and, God forbid, handwritten notes. And never mind the threat to life and limb texting presents to those who try to text and drive at the same time.
So, do not be surprised if my next "Thank you" card arrives electronically.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Remembrance
It has been just over a month since my sister died from complications due to breast cancer.
She was four years younger than I was. There was a time when I borrowed lines from an old Bill Cosby routine, "I was an only child for four years. Then my sister came. I went to my parents, asking 'Why is she here? Haven't I been doing a good job?'"
That four year separation actually didn't start to bother me until Barbara was about six. A ten year old boy and a six year old girl do not make a good combination. Sparks flew constantly. For the life of me, I can only remember a couple of causes for our conflicts, but I do remember my parents "correcting" us often for fighting. I remember my mother trying to explain that we were closer to each other than even she was to us. (This was before we knew anything about genetics. The insight of mothers!)
My entire family has heard this first story. We were about 12 and 8 and responsible for drying the dishes after dinner. Mom would wash and hand the dishes over to us. Barbara, infuriatingly, would announce about two minutes into the chore "I have to go to the bathroom!" I was okay with it (I mean when you've gotta go you've gotta go, right?) at first, but then it would happen over and over and over again. I would complain and she would get this look on her face that was pure innocence. Not much later, she found a new distraction from the dishes. She would announce that she had to practice piano. Eventually, I lost what little patience I had. When she returned to the practically empty dish rack, I spun my sopping wet towel and popped her with it. It was perfect. It didn't leave a welt, it drew blood, and it also drew the most blood curdling scream from my sister. My parents, after seeing that Barbara wasn't dying, turned on me and said "Do that again and no allowance for a month!"
The second story is also familiar to my family. In 1962, we took our great western vacation. By that time, we had a three year old brother. Barbara turned 9 and I turned 13 on the trip. We were still not the best combination.
A year earlier, my parents had purchased a Pontiac Catalina convertible, which my father explained with "Everyone has to do something silly once in their life." Prior to the great western vacation, he had an "air conditioning" unit installed (this before a/c was a foregone conclusion in a car). Off we went to the west. (I might add, that about the time we hit Phoenix at 115 degrees, the air conditioning was beyond useless.)
It was a trip of about 5,000 miles, I guess, and while Disneyland, Royal Gorge, the Painted Desert, and Dodgers baseball were highlights that I remember, there was only one "low-light" that sticks with me even today. In school, Barbara had learned a charming little ditty called Little Red Caboose. It was a circular song that could go on even longer than 98 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, which has a self-limiting title. Barbara's song went like this:
Little red caboose
Little red caboose
Little red caboose behind the train
The train.
Now, you have to understand, at age 9 Barbara, like most girls, had a really high voice. For those musically inclined, she could reach double high c with no trouble. Truth be told, it sounded more like a cat fight than a musical note.
To complicate matters, she had then and always did have what we in the family referred to as the "piercing voice" or PV for short.
So put all of that together and listen to Little Red Caboose for, oh say, 5,000 miles and see what that does to your patience. I would complain which, of course, only encouraged her to sing more. When it reached the stage of all out argument, my parents relented and let me ride in the front, which carried with it only the tiniest bit of prestige and did nothing to dissuade Barbara from continuing the torture.
So, those are my two biggest childhood memories of my sister except for one. And I told you those two, so I could tell this one.
In the spring of 1962, Barbara was completing her first year of piano lessons, and I was completing my fifth year. Two events took place at the end of each "piano" year. A recital where all of the teacher's students played one piece before a capacity crowd of parents. It was pretty excruciating for the audience, who waited until their child played before getting out of Dodge. The pieces were played in order of years of experience, so that Barbara played earlier in the program and I played somewhat later, attrition having its effect on those continuing lessons. Need I say, we both played splendidly.
The other event at the end of the piano/school year was something called the Audition. In it, the student played, by him/her-self before a "judge"--someone uniquely qualified to endure something like the Bataan death march.
Now, each of my previous auditions resulted in a score of Superior--loosely translated "I got an A." The same held true for 1962.
Then Barbara walked in for her first ever audition and scored a Superior Plus. She did the same for the next three years that I continued to take piano lessons.
I was jealous. Not only did she not have my experience, never mind the dish-drying dodging that piano practice provided, but she did better than I did.
Given our relationship as described earlier, you might expect her to hold her performances over me. Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah. "I'm better than you!"
Didn't happen. She never compared the two of us.
As she grew older, her gift became more pronounced. She took lessons through high school, then obtained a music degree in college. She taught music in elementary school, she taught private lessons, she went on to know more about Catholic liturgy than just about anyone I know, she wrote music for worship, she was the principal organist at our diocesan cathedral, learned hand bells and led multiple hand bell choirs over the years.
She was the mother of two bright, talented children who have gone on to successful careers in business and youth services.
On the somber side, she and her husband buried their oldest child, a girl, who died at 20 months. They maintained an enviable amount of grace throughout the period. They were an inspiration to the rest of us who mourned with them.
She was married for 36 years to a man who brought out her funny side. She, her husband, and her children found so many ways to make the rest of the family and others laugh. At her funeral service, the sermon included a description of the entire family doing an imitation of bacon frying.
We also remember her ice skating across a hard wooden floor. She would remove her shoes and "skate" in her stockinged feet all around, pirouette a couple of times, then come to a perfectly posed end.
Since she was a little girl, she liked to mug for a camera. Barbara was just about as extroverted as a person can be.
It is difficult to capture a person's life in a few short paragraphs, especially one who has lived as Barbara lived, with vitality, good cheer, and an incredible desire to survive the illness which eventually claimed her.
God speed you on your way, Barbara. Have you taught the angels to play hand bells yet?
Written with love by your big brother.
My entire family has heard this first story. We were about 12 and 8 and responsible for drying the dishes after dinner. Mom would wash and hand the dishes over to us. Barbara, infuriatingly, would announce about two minutes into the chore "I have to go to the bathroom!" I was okay with it (I mean when you've gotta go you've gotta go, right?) at first, but then it would happen over and over and over again. I would complain and she would get this look on her face that was pure innocence. Not much later, she found a new distraction from the dishes. She would announce that she had to practice piano. Eventually, I lost what little patience I had. When she returned to the practically empty dish rack, I spun my sopping wet towel and popped her with it. It was perfect. It didn't leave a welt, it drew blood, and it also drew the most blood curdling scream from my sister. My parents, after seeing that Barbara wasn't dying, turned on me and said "Do that again and no allowance for a month!"
The second story is also familiar to my family. In 1962, we took our great western vacation. By that time, we had a three year old brother. Barbara turned 9 and I turned 13 on the trip. We were still not the best combination.
A year earlier, my parents had purchased a Pontiac Catalina convertible, which my father explained with "Everyone has to do something silly once in their life." Prior to the great western vacation, he had an "air conditioning" unit installed (this before a/c was a foregone conclusion in a car). Off we went to the west. (I might add, that about the time we hit Phoenix at 115 degrees, the air conditioning was beyond useless.)
It was a trip of about 5,000 miles, I guess, and while Disneyland, Royal Gorge, the Painted Desert, and Dodgers baseball were highlights that I remember, there was only one "low-light" that sticks with me even today. In school, Barbara had learned a charming little ditty called Little Red Caboose. It was a circular song that could go on even longer than 98 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, which has a self-limiting title. Barbara's song went like this:
Little red caboose
Little red caboose
Little red caboose behind the train
The train.
Now, you have to understand, at age 9 Barbara, like most girls, had a really high voice. For those musically inclined, she could reach double high c with no trouble. Truth be told, it sounded more like a cat fight than a musical note.
To complicate matters, she had then and always did have what we in the family referred to as the "piercing voice" or PV for short.
So put all of that together and listen to Little Red Caboose for, oh say, 5,000 miles and see what that does to your patience. I would complain which, of course, only encouraged her to sing more. When it reached the stage of all out argument, my parents relented and let me ride in the front, which carried with it only the tiniest bit of prestige and did nothing to dissuade Barbara from continuing the torture.
So, those are my two biggest childhood memories of my sister except for one. And I told you those two, so I could tell this one.
In the spring of 1962, Barbara was completing her first year of piano lessons, and I was completing my fifth year. Two events took place at the end of each "piano" year. A recital where all of the teacher's students played one piece before a capacity crowd of parents. It was pretty excruciating for the audience, who waited until their child played before getting out of Dodge. The pieces were played in order of years of experience, so that Barbara played earlier in the program and I played somewhat later, attrition having its effect on those continuing lessons. Need I say, we both played splendidly.
The other event at the end of the piano/school year was something called the Audition. In it, the student played, by him/her-self before a "judge"--someone uniquely qualified to endure something like the Bataan death march.
Now, each of my previous auditions resulted in a score of Superior--loosely translated "I got an A." The same held true for 1962.
Then Barbara walked in for her first ever audition and scored a Superior Plus. She did the same for the next three years that I continued to take piano lessons.
I was jealous. Not only did she not have my experience, never mind the dish-drying dodging that piano practice provided, but she did better than I did.
Given our relationship as described earlier, you might expect her to hold her performances over me. Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah. "I'm better than you!"
Didn't happen. She never compared the two of us.
As she grew older, her gift became more pronounced. She took lessons through high school, then obtained a music degree in college. She taught music in elementary school, she taught private lessons, she went on to know more about Catholic liturgy than just about anyone I know, she wrote music for worship, she was the principal organist at our diocesan cathedral, learned hand bells and led multiple hand bell choirs over the years.
She was the mother of two bright, talented children who have gone on to successful careers in business and youth services.
On the somber side, she and her husband buried their oldest child, a girl, who died at 20 months. They maintained an enviable amount of grace throughout the period. They were an inspiration to the rest of us who mourned with them.
She was married for 36 years to a man who brought out her funny side. She, her husband, and her children found so many ways to make the rest of the family and others laugh. At her funeral service, the sermon included a description of the entire family doing an imitation of bacon frying.
We also remember her ice skating across a hard wooden floor. She would remove her shoes and "skate" in her stockinged feet all around, pirouette a couple of times, then come to a perfectly posed end.
Since she was a little girl, she liked to mug for a camera. Barbara was just about as extroverted as a person can be.
It is difficult to capture a person's life in a few short paragraphs, especially one who has lived as Barbara lived, with vitality, good cheer, and an incredible desire to survive the illness which eventually claimed her.
God speed you on your way, Barbara. Have you taught the angels to play hand bells yet?
Written with love by your big brother.
Monday, March 11, 2013
The Demise of the Compassionate Conservative
In researching the term "compassionate conservative", it appears it was first coined in 1979 by historian and presidential adviser Doug Wead. Wead contended that the policies of Republican conservatives should be motivated by compassion, not protecting the status quo. And Wead declared himself to be “a bleeding heart conservative,” meaning that he cared for people and sincerely believed that a free marketplace was better for the poor. (Don't you just love that phrase "bleeding heart conservative"?)
It entered the public's (or at least my) awareness during George W. Bush's presidential campaign of 2000.
It has also been used by Democrats. In 1984, Democratic representative from Oklahoma Robert W. Jones offered his take on the term: "I think we should adopt the slogan of compassionate conservatism...We can be fiscally conservative without losing our commitment to the needy and we must redirect our policy in that direction."
I liked the term then and still do. It resets the image of conservative to be caring as opposed to the cold blooded "slash spending no matter what" image. It introduces a gray area into the left versus right argument.
Perhaps that is what disturbs me so to announce its demise. We seem to live in an era where gray areas are not allowed. You are either this or that, left or right, Democratic or Republican, saint or sinner.
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