THE SCREAMING IN MY HEAD

I’m listening to someone explain or complain, lecture or pontificate, or just ask
stupid questions. “Fool, fool, fool,” I mutter under my breath. Then, the screaming
inside my head starts. I obviously do not suffer fools gladly. I do suffer from the
screaming inside my head.

Other people cannot hear the screaming. I usually do not look like I’m hearing screaming either. I usually look like a somewhat grumpy senior citizen – a fairly quiet, somewhat grumpy, senior citizen. I think the screamer has always been there, sitting in judgment on my fellow man. It’s automatic. I don’t remember turning it on, so I don’t know how to turn it off. Personally, I’m used to it by now, but knowing about it might help others understand why I tend to avoid social gatherings and people in general

In high school I often zinged fellow classmates with stinging remarks. I thought I was just being clever until a friend warned me: “If you don’t stop being so sarcastic you’ll end up with no friends at all.” At home both my mother and grandmother would say, “If you can’t say something nice, then don’t say anything at all.” So, I didn’t. I didn’t say anything at all much of the time. Ultimately I developed a reputation in the family for being “silent and sullen.”

I’ve been wondering why I have the screamer in my head, and think I’ve pretty
well figured it out. It comes from too many years of not complaining in situations where
complaint was called for -- too many years making the best of unacceptable things -- too
many times where I made excuses for bad behavior both my own and that of others. Too
many times when I was trying to be nice, and stifled myself (and my true feelings), lest I be rude to family, friend or stranger.

I once made the mistake of mentioning the screaming in my head to a table of
cousins at a family reunion. Louise, who has a mean streak, made wisecracks at my
expense. Harriet was curious and kept asking me if it was happening “right now?” Her no-win question was really annoying. If I said “no” she might assume she wasn’t a fool. If I said “yes” she might assume I thought she was a fool. I finally learned to deflect that kind of question by saying “not yet” with a hint of warning in my voice.

Ruth, who tends to be compassionate, asked, “Does it hurt?”

“Only when I laugh,” I said trying to turn it into a joke.

I keep wondering if I had told Louise she was rude and offensive, and told Harriett her question was insensitive at best, and told Ruth, “yes, it hurts,” if those expressed truths might have diminished the screaming in my head.

But here I am years later still afflicted by a grudging niceness in the presence of others. And still afflicted by screaming in my head.

GREETINGS FROM GUATEMALA

Am settled in for the next 8 weeks. Trying not to fall down in the cobblestone streets and uneven sidewalks. It's been colder here than usual, but there are more hours of daylight and plenty of sunshine each day. The nylon windbreaker I brought for wearing to and from the airport in Seattle is now a 24/7 garment. I even wear it to bed over my nitegown! Guatemala not only has no central heating, it has no heating at all (except in the fancier hotels).

Fortunately I packed a small space heater down here some years ago and my friend Sarah stores it for me when I'm gone. It's been chugging its little heart out every night. My days are busy with important things like Scrabble with John, and lunch out with other friends.

Hope you all are warm and happy for the new year Love Jean

THE DICTIONARY CHRISTMAS


In September 1944 a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman had stopped by to show our family his treasures none of which we could afford. But there had been this library-sized dictionary weighing at least ten pounds that I coveted in a silent and intense way. Even though we were poor, I may have mentioned something about how useful it would be for the whole family.

That family consisted of my mother, my younger brother and me. We lived at 355 Hillside Avenue in Santa Fe, New Mexico just beyond where the pavement ended. We were poorer than most of the kids in the private religious school I attended, but not poorer than many others in the area. I had just turned nine and Christmas was mostly the lackluster school pageant and gift exchange.

At home a pinyon tree sat in a corner of the living room flanked by two small painted wooded Mexican chairs with rattan seats. The previous Christmas the chairs had held a doll for me that I neglected and may have lost, and a bear for my brother that he still slept with. We had decorated the tree one evening, stringing white popcorn together with a large needle and thread to drape back and forth across the branches; we also pasted construction paper strips in bargain-table colors (no red and odd shades of green) into loops to make chains. As the twenty-fifth approached a few tiny packages and Christmas cards clustered around the white sheet at the base of the tree.

Then one day I saw that my little chair held a huge rectangular gift, wrapped in shiny pink paper. My mother loved anything pink. I knew the gift was for me and I hoped I knew what it was. Maybe, just maybe…

So, for the first time I could remember, I eagerly anticipated Christmas morning.

Two days before Christmas, my mother of gypsy habits and rampant impulsivity had heard that the geometry teacher from school was driving to Los Angeles for Christmas. Suddenly she decided we just had to visit her sister Ruth who lived there with her family. Mr.Chidester was a hapless soul who never had a chance once my charming mother set her sights on his transporting us to California.

In a scant hour we were packed up and picked up and off on another of her last-minute adventures. Neither my brother nor I had even met Auntie Ruth; we didn’t know our cousins or uncle; we did not want to leave home. “It’ll be such fun,” my mother kept saying.

I remember us driving straight through, stopping only once for several tedious hours for Mr. Chidester to take a nap. .

On Christmas Eve day we arrived on my aunt’s big fancy house doorstep. Of course Mother had not bothered to inform Auntie Ruth that we were coming. I felt the terrible awkwardness of it all as Auntie Ruth said and did all the right things, but her lack of sincerity was palpable to my sensitivities.

At least my cousin Joanie, six months older than me, was honest in her impatience with her mother’s “poor relations.” I suffered through the fuss to get us settled for the two nights we would be there and the patronizing small talk of the dinner table. The following morning as they opened their lavish display of presents, my mother, my brother and I received hastily wrapped gifts. We had brought nothing for them, of course. All I could think about was my big shiny pink package waiting at home.

My present from Joanie was a copy of Heidi. Although a book was normally the best sort of present for me, as I opened it up I saw a bookplate on the inside front cover declaring, “This book belongs to Joanie Stanton.” My humiliation was complete when I saw her smirking face. I said the obligatory thank-you, but couldn’t wait to leave the next morning.

Mr.Chidester’s car finally liberated me from the horror of family obligations. The drive home was still tedious but made bearable by putting distance between Joanie and I. It seemed as if we had been gone weeks instead of just four days

Home at last, the first thing I did was to tear into the shiny pink paper despite my mother’s entreaty to be more careful and save the paper for next year Of course I got my much beloved Webster’s Unabridged dictionary. Pure joy! And I’ve been wallowing in words ever since.

At the time I couldn’t understand how come my worst Christmas ever had produced the best gift of my whole life. Later I realized that it was a perfect real life mixed bag-- bittersweet and satisfying all glopped together.

THREE MINUTES A DAY


In wintertime I am sad, so SAD. My life is complicated by SAD – Seasonal Affective Disorder – where the lack of daylight pushes me inward towards hibernation. The lack of daylight conspires with the lack of sunlight to increase depressive tendencies. So I’m at the mercy of both the rotation of the earth, and the weather.

The rotation of the earth is totally reliable and predictable; the weather is capricious and fickle. However, once the winter solstice occurs around December twenty-first, there begins a slow creeping towards spring, and hope begins to bloom in my heart.

According to the weatherman, we get three more minutes of daylight every day no matter what the weather. Not much to begin with, but it adds up. Three more minutes of daylight every day means over twenty minutes a week that becomes an hour and a half per month. So eight hours of thin dreary daylight in early January turns into a full-bodied extravaganza of DAYLIGHT for over sixteen hours daily by the summer solstice around June twenty-first.

I comfort myself with those three minutes through January and February. I also appreciate every scrap of anemic sunshine over the winter months; the sun comes out and I scream, “YES!” If I’m driving, I pump my fist, yes; otherwise I do a little sun dance. If the sun stays out long enough for me to bask, I bask blissfully.

I usually don’t really begin to feel better until near the spring equinox in mid-March when I stop counting the minutes. By April, sunshine and daylight pull me from bed earlier and earlier each day. I have more energy. Suddenly, I’m an optimist.

But in January I count the minutes like pennies in a piggybank. One of the ways I have dealt with SAD in past winters is to go to Guatemala for two or three months where sunshine and good friends who play Scrabble help to pass the time. When I must stay here I do have a lamp that simulates daylight; I increase my vitamin intake; I see my therapist more frequently. All these things help, but I never stop pining away for true spring.

Some winter days seem interminable, but, paradoxically, I never have enough time to do everything I want. On the other hand, the weeks and months and even seasons often seem to speed by. All except for winter with its three-minutes, three-minutes, three minutes of daylight rationing. Hang on! Here comes another three! Can spring be far behind?

CHANNELING CAT


I’m not much of an animal person, but I sometimes exhibit a cat persona.

In the late afternoon or early evening, depending on the time of year, when the sun streams through my bedroom window and pools on my bed I seldom pass up the chance to curl up and float -- basking like a cat on a windowsill.

And although I could stand to lose a pound or fifty, I, as my long-suffering friends can attest, am a finicky eater. I’m allergic to garlic and fish; I hate onions and have become expert at picking onion fragments out of otherwise acceptable meals – an Asbergerish obsession. I also find the texture of some foods can be a deal-breaker. Yogurt, for example, is just plain icky; I’m creeped out by slimy things.

At a potluck if I can’t easily identify the ingredients in a dish I will ask others to sample it for me. When I can I bring my own food taster; Morris, the cat, would expect no less. Those friends who are cooks often volunteer to prepare a separate batch for me sans garlic, sans onions. I do try to be properly appreciative, but I do miss the onion-sorting-out process. Nobody seems to understand that I like to play with my food.

Like many cats, I can be civil, but it would be a mistake to call me civilized. I usually have soft paws, but have not been declawed. You cross me at your peril.

I’ve been told I have an aloof manner and an abrupt style. In any social situation there comes a point where I’m simply done. When that happens there are no niceties in my leave taking. I just turn my back and. cat-like, slip away

Like most cats I have my idiosyncrasies. I’m fond of water and I love swimming. Perhaps I more resemble an otter in that regard.

People have often suggested I get an animal, a cat perhaps, as a companion in my old age. Two reasons it never was a viable idea: One: I was responsible for raising four kids; I no longer want that kind of responsibility -- or any kind of responsibility. Two: I don’t want to share the rest of my life with a feline scene stealer. I have enough trouble getting the proper sort of attention for myself as it is.

I once saw a reader board that announced, “Dogs have masters. Cats have staff.” I’m currently interviewing for staff positions.

MARKING TIME


Mark came to visit me a few days ago. Mark is the second oldest of my seven grandchildren, and the one person these days who really has time for me.

He’s someone I can comfortably be myself with. No walking on eggs. No fear that he might feel embarrassed by me -- just a sense of mutual okayness and a willingness to tell each other the truth.

Mark is twenty-three and kind. He never mentions it when I doze off for a minute or two in the middle of a Scrabble game; he accommodates himself to my slow pace as we walk; he answers my stupid computer questions without making me feel stupid.

Mark had a hard time of it growing up, but when Mark is unhappy he doesn’t whine about it. What I desperately want for Mark, of course, is the same thing any halfway decent parent or grandparent wants for their children or grandchildren. I want Mark to be happy.

And I can no more tell him how to do that than my mother could do so for me. I was near forty when I learned how to make myself happy. And, accepted that it was my job to do so.

I remember Mark as a reasonably happy toddler some twenty years ago. At that time I was living in what Mark’s mother called “the mother-in-law driveway” outside their home. Mark would come out to visit me and I’d sit him on my lap where I introduced him to the brightly colored DOS computer games that I enjoyed – Cosmo, Duke Nukem, Word Rescue.

Mark’s parents, my oldest son and daughter-in-law, were less than happy with me about turning him on to the seductive world of computer games. My own mother never did get over the idea that the comic books I feasted on every Saturday morning in Dickie Pitman’s garage would corrupt me in some sinister way. Perhaps they did.

Anyway, as it turned out, Mark makes his living these days working in computer gaming systems. And he has become my go-to guy for computer problems. I probably take advantage of him for that.

But when we’re together we talk about books and politics and the difficulty of finding the right sort of friends. Not just someone to play Scrabble or Warcraft with, but someone worthy of sharing our honest feelings with.

After Mark left I was wondering if he knew how much I appreciated him in my life.

So I wrote this piece to tell him.

A HALLOWEENIE ROAST


I hate Halloween! If I had a porch light I’d keep it dark on All Hallow’s Eve. I’d outlaw candy during the whole month of October. I might even ban pumpkins.

I know it’s un-American to have a “Boo Humbug” attitude. Even Christmas has its “Bah Humbug” champions in Scrooge and the Grinch. But Halloween, which started out as a perfectly respectable pagan harvest festival, was first co-opted by The Church into All Saints Day and All Hallows Eve. Here in America Halloween has been further co-opted by Hallmark and Disney into the orgy of materialism we have today. Halloween is now big business, second only to Christmas for compulsory holiday spending.

Halloween’s “trick-or-treat” rituals teach our children to be extortionists or petty terrorists. Greed is encouraged as some parents drive their children to affluent neighborhoods to acquire better loot. We lament childhood obesity yet feel obliged to spend money we can’t afford on empty calories for our youngsters. We costume our children in store-bought images of Dracula, Frankenstein, and the devil, yet are horrified and bewildered when our teenagers identify themselves as Goths and venerate vampires.

I’m not against childhood fun and “Let’s Pretend” and dressing up. I’ll even admit to having a soft spot in my heart for a really good pirate, as well as enjoying Disneyland’s Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Years ago when my children were young I usually went along with their Halloween plans. I helped create costumes and carve pumpkins; I walked or drove around on trick-or-treat excursions. I grudgingly bought candy to hand out to strangers.

Back when I was a child myself our family didn’t do Halloween; we had a harvest fest at our church school instead. This anemic get-together was eclipsed by Santa Fe’s weeklong fiestas that have been celebrated since 1712. The best part for me was the giant marionette effigy called Zozobra, known as “Old Man Gloom”. Zozobra was burned the second week of September to conclude the celebrations, and, as he writhed in the great bonfire with spooky shrieks and moans, all the gloomy worries and troubles of the previous year were symbolically burned up in the flames.

The burning of Zozobra is a tradition both exciting and practical, unlike our North American Halloweens. After I began traveling in Latin America I discovered other autumn traditional events equally interesting and integral to their culture.

In Mexico November 1st is known as El Dia de Todos los Santos (All Saints Day) and November 2nd is El Dia de los Muertos (All Souls Day). El Dia de los Muertos is more commonly known as The Day of the Dead and it is believed that the souls of the dead return each year to visit with their living relatives to eat and drink and be merry as they did when they were alive. The whole family treks to the graveyard with favorite treats of their departed family members and they have a picnic together in loving memory.
In Guatemala The Day of the Dead is celebrated similarly, but with the addition of plenty of firecrackers. As a matter of fact any day in Guatemala is an occasion for much noise and firecrackers. Perhaps it’s a reflection of the fact that Guatemala has known civil war much of the last hundred years, and shooting off guns was common.

Most autumn celebrations are full of noise and light – firecrackers to scare away evil spirits; bonfires to warm living souls before the cold and dark of winter settles in our bones. I have no trouble with these rationales for Halloween.

Jack-o-lanterns are fun and pretty harmless; I appreciate the creativity and whimsy. The rest of Halloween I find disturbing without reason. Halloween encourages the worship of materialistic false idols.

Give me Zozobra who still suffers for our sins every September in Santa Fe, or a cheerful Day of the Dead family picnic in the candle-lit graveyard.

I’ve recently become intrigued with a weeklong Labor Day event in Black Rock, Nevada. It’s called Burning Man and each year over 40,000 people come together in the desert to create a temporary community that bans commercial transactions and encourages barter. Burning Man sounds like a merger between Woodstock and Zozobra. My kind of hedonistic and artistic expression.

I’ve just added, “attend Burning Man” to my bucket list.