Northern Ohio Live - June 2008
Confessions of a “Bookie”
Deanna R. Adams
It began innocently enough, as most
addictions do. I was a toddler when I discovered the wooden bookcase in the
corner of our family room.
The bottom shelf held simple tales of kittens
who lost their mittens, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and adventures of Dick and
Jane. But as I grew taller and my vocabulary larger, I’d reach for the top shelf
that held a row of furrowed paperbacks with yellowed dog-eared pages (like the
copy of “Peyton Place” a notorious story of small town sinners in the 1950s
which became the first novel I read all the way through—unbeknown to Mom, who
must have forgotten it was there).
Back
then, I had all the time in the world to read.
As an adult, not so much. So I take a book wherever I go. I always carried one
to my children’s school recitals (but only to read
before the show, honest). When the
doctor is running late, I rejoice knowing I can probably get a whole chapter
read before my name is called. And I may be the only person on Planet Earth who
is delighted when stopped by a slow train. “Great! Now where was I?”
To me, books are the greatest of
companions, a blissful indulgence, a way to leave home without the expense of a
plane ticket. Forget technology, with its audio books, its e-books (though I
admit the new invention of The Kindle is tempting). Part of the great pleasure
of reading is holding the book in your hands, flipping the pages in anticipation
of what will happen next. And oh, that familiar, comforting scent! Ahh, the
smell alone is intoxicating to a true book lover. The older, mustier, and more
rare the book, the better.
When I go to the mall to buy a
simple gift, I always end up at the nearest bookstore. I confess, too, to
spending a rude amount of time at a house party perusing the host’s bookshelves
rather than socializing. And it’s weird how my car has this nasty habit of
swerving across the highway whenever I spot a Book Sale! sign while passing a
library.
But after the latest discussion
my husband and I recently had about my books, I’m forced to own up to the harsh
reality.
I am a bona fide Bookie. Not the
gambling kind. The, well, book kind. While I may be a bibliophile, I am not
(though my longtime spouse would beg to differ) a bibliomaniac, which is
described as “a compulsive hoarder of books, most of which go unread. Extreme
bibliophilia may amount to a diagnosed psychological condition.”
Psychological condition?
Let’s not get crazy here. I, do, in fact, read all of my books. Every last one
of them. Eventually. But just having them in my house—patiently awaiting my
attention—gives me comfort, makes me happy.
My
husband, a mere newspaper reader, doesn’t understand my need to be surrounded by
books. “Honey, don’t you think you have enough
books?” he’ll say, looking at the rising pile of tomes that no longer fit in any
of the floor-to-ceiling cases in nearly every room of our house. Of course he
already knows the answer to that. When these conversations became more frequent
(and excluded the “Honey” preamble), I was forced to get a little sneaky, I
admit. I began hoarding my beloveds, not in my house, but in my car trunk.
Brilliant, I thought. I now had my own personal bookmobile.
But soon, my trunk ranneth over,
and I realized I’d have to bring some of them into the house (in the middle of
the night, of course). And hope that my other beloved would not notice. For a
long time.
Jeff didn’t know
how they’d gotten there, but one day
he detected that somehow more books had invaded our home, like wedding crashers.
Who brought friends.
“There is just no more room in
this house for one more book!” He said in an exasperated (and in my opinion,
thoroughly exaggerated) tone. He’d had enough and finally went the “tough love”
route.
“It’s me or the books!” He
demanded.
This was serious. Seems a bookie
can tax even the strongest of marriages. So, in deference to our twenty-five
years of wedded bliss, I gave in.
“Okay, dear,” I sighed. “I’ll get
rid of some.”
So began my mission. I decided
that yes, I can live without the 1970 Thesaurus I used in high school. And okay,
I guess I can toss out the Writers
Handbook from 1994, and even relinquish the John Jakes novel I’ve
read three times.
I must say, I enjoyed seeing
Jeff’s look of amazement as I casually tossed books into the Goodwill box. To
keep this momentum going, I then, and in dramatic fashion, right in front of his
astonished face, smiled as I grabbed my cherished, worn paperback copy of
Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast,” and promptly tossed that in, too.
I believe I saw mist in my
husband’s eyes. That alone gave me a wonderful sense of accomplishment.
And truth be told, the loss
didn’t affect me in the least. Really.
After all, I have the latest hardbound edition in my trunk.
Today's Family August 2006
It Really Does Take a Village
Are we parents forgetting we’re all in this together?
Deanna Adams
My husband, Jeff, often jokes that whenever he did something wrong, his mom knew about it before he got home. That was because the mothers in the neighborhood looked out for each others’ kids – and if one of them was getting into mischief, someone’s mom was the first to make a phone call and alert the other. Jeff’s mom had six children—so that parenting network served her well. And because she only had two eyes, this certainly helped in the raising of so many children, and all their friends.
Back then, moms stuck together. Even if they weren’t the best of friends, they all felt a kinship, bonded by their parenting role. As a result, they didn’t feel so alone by the overwhelming task of raising children. And some did become good friends, accumulating lots of amusing stories they now share.
Times have changed, of course. Unlike our parents’ generation, we rarely stop to chat over the fence with our neighbors (if we even know who they are), or feel free enough to borrow a cup of sugar, or heaven forbid, call another mother to discuss, and/or commiserate, about our teenagers’ activities.
Case in point. A few years ago, one of my daughters’ friends came to spend the night. I had never met the parents, so anticipated meeting the mom to assure her we’d make sure things went well during her teen’s first night’s stay at our house. But I didn’t get the chance. Soon as the car pulled up the drive, the girl got out, and Mom promptly drove away. I didn’t even have a chance to walk out and catch her before she was already out of view. No “Nice to meet you.” No “Thank you for having her.” No “Do you plan on being home all night?”
Sadly, that scenario has happened more than once and each time it does, I’m left baffled. Wouldn’t these parents want to know what kind of people we are? Do they ever wonder exactly what situation they have just placed their child in? How many other kids are in the house and what the sleeping arrangements are? Does the child have a computer in his or her room and thus allowed unsupervised time to access anything—and I mean anything—from it?
Have any of these questions even occurred to them?
Is it me, or does it seem like today’s parents are becoming disconnected with one another—and that many seem to prefer it that way? After nearly 20 years as a parent, I’ve noticed that, unlike previous generations where mothers kept in contact with one another concerning their kids, we hardly know the parents of the kids our children socialize with. Or even get a phone call from them with any kind of query concerning their child’s welfare. Or even a polite hello-and-goodbye upon dropping off them off before venturing onto their now kid-free activity? In fact, it sometimes seems parents make efforts to avoid talking to other parents. And I don’t believe it’s because they’re all too shy.
To be perfectly honest, I am uncomfortable doing so myself. I feel as if I’m bothering a parent by calling them to ask if they will be indeed picking up our children from an event, or that they’ll be no alcohol available at a party, or that one of the parents will be home while my daughter is there. And the awkward feeling has only intensified through the years because more than once I was made to feel embarrassed. When I’ve gotten a less than favorable or not-so-friendly response to my phone call or because I’d like to greet them when I drop my child off. While I view this behavior as just being courteous, they act like it’s an invasion.
Granted, there are a few—though now fewer than ever—parents who over-stay their welcome by chatting too long in the doorway, or attempting to become best friends. While there certainly are those who ruin it for the others, they are generally the exception, rather than the rule.
I recently brought up this issue at a party and most of the parents—several with now grown children—knew exactly what I meant. I had only to mention a couple of my own experiences to tweak their memories. They all had similar stories.
“Don’t parents care what’s going on with their children, or are they just too busy, or dare I say, too lazy to take the time to touch base with one another?” I asked one father of a 15-year-old son.
“I think they do care,” he said, “but being the one always asking the questions [tell me about it, I add] seems too much of a hassle, so they just avoid it. And yeah, sometimes they’re just too lazy to bother.”
Although lazy sounds a bit harsh, I believe it’s at least partly to blame. It echoes today’s culture. We’re already doing so much. Working a lot of hours, as well as a host of other pressing responsibilities. Taking time to follow up with other parents, many who we don’t even know, is hard and just another duty we have to perform.
One mother at this party said it best: “It’s so much easier to just let them (teens) go. They don’t even have to ask anymore. They say ‘Hey, Mom I’m going to so-and-so’s house, and I’m staying overnight there.’ And off they go and the parents don’t even make a call to check if that’s true. It’s takes time, effort, even assertiveness, to communicate with the parents – and to have to tell your kids ‘no’ sometimes, and precisely why it’s really hard work being a responsible parent.”
I agreed, adding that my daughter, when the subject comes up, says it’s because “their parents trusts their kids”—in a slightly accusing tone. Hearing that from my daughter (who I do in fact trust, though I’m not blind to the reality that 16-year-olds will at least, on occasion, try to get one over on their parents) is painful. Not just because I don’t want her thinking that I don’t trust her, but because trust is actually the bigger issue.
It appears that today’s parents are too trusting. Yet we don’t seem to trust, or believe, that we should all be working together. If we did, we might not feel so alone with the overwhelming task of raising children. And we might actually make a few lasting friendships along the way—while accumulating lots of amusing stories once our kids are grownup.
I may not agree on every issue Hilary Clinton supports, but I do know this. She is absolutely right about this one: It does take a village to raise children. I think we owe it to our children to take that time to stay in touch with one another. To band together for support and camaraderie. And in our doing so, can keep our kids safer, maybe even prevent them from getting themselves into mischief.
Deanna Adams realizes there’ll be some parents who won’t agree with this article. She looks forward to greeting them at the door when her daughter comes over. But she promises to keep her visit under five minutes, and won’t even make them sign a release form.
April 22, 2006
Rock ‘n’ Roll Heaven
About the only thing I don’t like about getting older (besides physical changes, of course) is losing people I care about. This includes parents--mine and my friends’--as well as other people who have graced my life with their presence, if only for a short time.
This week alone, I’ve heard of the all-too-sudden passing of two guys whose friendship I enjoyed. The first one was Ron Thomas, who I never knew well but who was an entertaining character I’d run into fairly often and who always had a lot of energy and excitement whenever the subject of music came up, which it always did when Ron was around. I always got a kick out of how thrilled he was that I had mentioned the bar he once owned in Eastlake (Ryno’s) in my book. He was currently booking entertainment for Cabana’s in Mentor, and when I last saw him there a few months ago we chatted a bit, then he was off again, doing his thing. His car accident last week ended his life all too abruptly, and he will be missed by not only his family and family but also acquaintances, like me, who at least got to know him enough to appreciate his love of music and musicians, and the pleasure in seeing his smiling face and lively personality.
As sad I was to hear about Ron, I was struck numb by the absolute, unexpected death of my good friend, Jim Girard, who would expect nothing less than for me to write a bit about him at this time. He, too, passed away quickly, although I understand he’d been ill for a couple of weeks. I learned of his illness at 4 p.m. today, and learned of his subsequent passing not much more than an hour later. No time to call him and say a few words. No time to send a card. No time to say something to make him laugh, which I always seemed to do without even trying. That credit is more to him than to me. For although Jim certainly had his life struggles, he laughed easily and often saw the humorous side of things, which was one of the traits I found most endearing about him.
I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell him how I so enjoyed our many, many phone conversations and meetings at coffee shops over the years, and of working with him as my editor for Citi-Music Magazine a few years back. The magazine has been in hiatus for sometime now, but you can still check out his terrific articles at www.citi-music.com
I first talked to Jim over the phone when I was knee-deep in research and somehow found my way to him, who throughout much of the ’70s, was the editor/general manager of the wonderfully eclectic Scene magazine. We then met at a local Denny’s and sat over coffee for more than 2 hours (the server must have loved us!) where he related these very interesting, entertaining, and some absolutely-not-fit-for-print stories of his days at the Scene. He was also a member of the Euclid Beach Band, which had an unexpected and highly promoted run from 1978-1980.
There is probably much I didn’t know about Jim as we’d mostly talked about music and of the people involved in the industry. But through the years I worked and talked with him, I grew to learn a few great truths about Jim Girard. He was well-read, he loved music, he loved his family and his kids, and he loved his friends. And he was absolutely loyal to those he cared about. If someone was in trouble, he’d round up the troupes to gain support. And when a friend--or his son--was working on a CD, he was out there getting the word out before it was even finished.
As we baby boomers all get older, a lot changes as time rushes by. Some of those changes inevitably include losing people who have touched our lives in some way, and who we don’t think much about how we’d miss them if they were suddenly no longer around.
The last time I saw my friend Jim, a few months ago, we had lunch at Yours Truly restaurant and on the way out, we hugged and I said, “See ya later.” One of us--I can’t recall which one now--said we’d call. Then we went on our way and got busy with other pressing matters.
And neither one of us called. Even though I had thought of doing just that a week or so ago. Now, I’m left beating myself up for ignoring the little voice that had told me to give him a call, see how he was doing.
Regret is a terrible thing. But then, I’m thinking that Jim understands and would tell me to not to think of it that way. To focus on the friendship we had developed, the fun conversations we had, and I hear him say, “And though it’s good to stay busy, don’t forget to enjoy life - and music, of course. And do what you love, and spend as much time as you can with the people you love.”
Yep. Sounds just like him. So in his honor this week, I’d like you all to remember that. And to keep those thoughts with you in whatever you do in your life.
I’m reminded of the article Jim wrote in Citi-Music about Warren Zevon when he was dying with terminal cancer. He wrote:
“Well, Warren, if your ride's here and it's time to turn the digital tapes off, remember it's just because we all gotta go and you're in good company UP there. You will NOT be forgotten...”
And neither will you, Jim.
We’ll all be seeing you down the road, and in the meantime, say hi to our fellow music lovers who are already enjoying the music in rock ‘n’ roll heaven.
I hear they have a helluva band.
God Bless You.
First Published in the Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine May 2005
What We Keep
My Mother Saved Everything and I Am Grateful
By Deanna R. Adams
I’m standing in the middle of my mother’s living room, just staring at the “stuff” that surrounds me. Where do I begin? I say this aloud, despite the fact there is no one here. My mother left this place abruptly, rushed to a hospital she would never return from. And now I’m left to clear out the condo she loved so much and I can’t seem to move. What do I keep? Throw away? What would she want me to do? It all seems too overwhelming when I haven’t even accepted the fact that I, at 50, am now an orphan.
For days, weeks and months, I sort through my mother’s life. I can’t believe the things she saved. Everything is kept, or rather, preserved, in plastic bags, or wrapped in newspapers, and placed in boxes or dresser drawers. For larger items, there are stacks of huge green (her favorite color) plastic containers she bought at the discount store. Getting rid of her furniture and clothes is the easy part. She wouldn’t care what I do with those things. And her cat? My daughter reminds me, and my husband, of when Grandma said she wanted Smokey to be hers. What could Dad say to that? And so we take her home with us, despite the fact our spoiled feline is less accepting to the family addition.
But what about the rest of Mom’s things? The old pictures in old frames of old relatives I couldn’t identify in a lineup? Letters and cards from people I never met? How can I simply toss it out knowing they meant something to Mom?
And so I don’t. They find a place, somehow, in my house. More months go by before I feel strong enough to discard more items. And that’s when my mother begins talking to me. Opening an old jewelry box, I find old women’s watches, clasp earrings, and a ring with a note attached. “This was your grandmother’s,” it reads. I smile as I hold yet another cherished piece of a woman I still miss after 20 years. Another item, another note. “My necklace given to me by Uncle Ruth when I was six months old.” My mother is telling me this as I hold a keepsake with her faded baby picture in it. There are antique brooches and bracelets and more notes telling me about items I didn’t know she had. And copies of poems. The ones she wrote for my brother and me marking important events in our growing lives. And dozens of black-and-white snapshots. One shows my mother, who always warned me of the dangers of motorcycles, sitting on a two-wheeler before she became a mom. My Harley-riding husband and I get a kick out of that one, wondering if she ever actually rode on it. Then there are the stacks of saved greeting cards and letters from family and friends that span decades.
The wastebasket half empty, I put these things in a special place. And realize why we, known as packrats, “save.” So much of my mom still lives through these items that I know I’ll never discard them. They keep her close to me. Sorting through these many mementos, I also realize how much I’ve learned in the year since Mom’s been gone.
I’ve learned that costume jewelry can be worth more than a pile of diamonds. And from where I inherited my innate love of words. And that I come from strong stock of colorful women. And that there is nothing more valuable in our lives than the people we share it with.
I’ve also learned that it’s not such a bad thing to be a “packrat.”
And that mothers teach us from the time we are born.
And even when they’re gone, they teach us still. ~~
Just a Matter of Class
By
Deanna R. Adams
“Mom, how old do I have to be to say the S-word, or the D-word?”
First published in Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine
Two-Wheel Tuesdays
By Deanna R. Adams
Tuesdays with Morrie, it’s not.
A few years ago, my husband began spending Tuesday nights with the boys and their bikes. Actually, the “boys” are grown men in their 40s and 50s, but on this occasion, they revel in their boy-ness.
These boys have one thing in common: They are all HOG Club members. That acronym stands for Harley Owners Group, an international organization whose members meet monthly at their local dealership. But that’s another story.
On Tuesdays, a select few are at Bob’s house – or rather, his garage. Every week at 6 p.m. or so, ten to twenty strappin’ guys, all clad in black leather, roar up the long driveway on their shiny motorcycles. For several hours, they stand around and talk about their gleam machines. Or so my husband says. God knows what they really do, but it keeps them off the streets.
Mind you, I get no gossip from this party. When I ask about the wives or girlfriends, or who so-and-so is dating, the answer is always precise, as if rehearsed.
“I don’t know,” Jeff says. “We drink beer and talk motorcycles. That’s it. That’s why it’s called ‘Two-wheel Tuesday.’”
Well, I do know they plan annual road trips to Daytona, Sandusky, and events like “Al’s Fun Run.” But I get the message. This is definitely a guy thing – No girls allowed. Rumor has it one guy brought his girlfriend once. The stern looks and steady doses of bike talk ensured she’d find other things to do on Tuesdays.
Clearly, we women would be bored stiff. No discussions on the meaning of life. No debates on world events. No talk about our kids. No gossip?
We’re not missing a thing.
After a while the inevitable happened. My hubby wanted to buy a new Harley.
Was I upset? Did I complain?
Are you kidding? I upped the ante.
“Sure, honey, you can get a new bike,” I told him. “After I get new carpeting, kitchen tiles, and a better car.”
Voila! My three wishes were granted faster than you can say “Hog.” I even got a bigger, cushier seat for when I ride on the back. Who am I to look a gift horse, err, Harley, in the mouth?
This night out with the boys has its perks. For him, weekly male bonding keeps his testosterone level up (and that’s a good thing!) while relieving everyday stresses. And, apparently, he learns more about motorcycles each week.
For me, it gets him out of the house. I know where he is. And he returns relaxed and happy.
Best of all, I get to lounge on “his” couch – wine glass in one hand, “his” remote control in the other. Life is good. May Two-Wheel Tuesdays last forever*
A personal essay on parenting, written in 2001
Let’s Face It - Sooner or Later We All Become Our Parents
I’m walking out of my 14-year-old daughter’s bedroom, her CD player and earplugs clasped in my hands. It’s 11 p.m. on a school night, and I’ve just scolded her for listening to her music when she’s supposed to be asleep.
I’m still upset with her when I approach the living room and my husband asks me what Danielle did to create such wrath. As I’m telling him, a swift wave of nostalgia floods through my psyche. And it’s not good. Suddenly--horrifyingly--I am jettisoned back to my own teen days as I recall that little transistor radio I’d listen to every night under my bedcovers. I did that for years, never got caught, and did it hurt me in the least? Well, perhaps it did my grades, as I wasn’t exactly an honor student. But that was probably more due to a teen-angst attitude than late nights with “Wild Child,” the radio deejay I tuned into every night.
Listening to myself as I rattled this latest “issue” to my husband (who seemed to be just humoring me), I suddenly saw myself as old-fashioned, out-of-touch, and, God forbid, an old fogie. Even worse, I heard my mother’s voice somehow creep into my brain like a song that plays over and over in your head--and it’s always one of your least favorites. Phrases like: “Because I said so!” “Two wrongs don’t make a right.” “Now, you sit and think about what you did.” And, “If so-and-so jumped in the lake, would you do it, too?” That one was favored by all parents living near the Great Lakes.
Sitting down, staring at the radio in my hands, I realize the humility I’m feeling is becoming a frequent companion these days as my children enter adolescence. I can no longer deny that I am indeed “middle-aged,” and my thoughts and actions reflect it.
As any parent can attest, it isn’t easy raising a teenager. The experience can wreak havoc on the self-esteem you’ve worked on your whole life. You begin to question every decision you make, knowing those choices may come back to haunt you. When you have a teenager in the house, your world often mimics situations from your past. Only this time, you’re on the other end of the scene. And you better be on top of the game. So when you’re not sure of the right answer, and all else fails, you refer to what you know.
What you’re already familiar with. What you’ve heard a thousand times, from a higher power…
Simply put, I have now become my mother.
Not that, dare I say, there’s anything wrong with my mother. I just never imagined certain phrases spewing out of my mouth, such as, “Go to your room this minute and take off that makeup.” “School’s for studying, not socializing.” “There is NO way, you’re wearing a skirt THAT short to school…or anywhere else for that matter!” “Life is unfair, get used to it.” And finally, “You can’t go to sleep listening to that ‘crap.’ ”
Funny thing is, the music my mother thought was “crap,” I still listen to today and my daughter, in turn, will most likely follow suit. Oh, it was so much easier when my kids were little. The lines were clearly drawn. It was right or wrong, black or white. No gray areas. It was simple common sense: “Don’t run out in the street.” “Don’t talk to strangers.” “Eat your vegetables.” “Be polite.” And we parents had to make sure to “watch our language.” My husband found this out early when this same daughter, then an adorable three-year-old, used the worst word a child could ever utter (begins with an f, and it’s not fantastic), because she’d heard it from her father (who then got a stern lecture from her mother).
Now, it’s become more challenging. My daughter wants me to explain why I don’t like a particular friend (having “a feeling” isn’t a good enough reason). And although I constantly emphasize the importance of math, she and I both know her mother has gotten along just fine without it. And finally, there are the times I have to admit to her, contrary to what she strongly believed as a child, that her father and I aren’t perfect, after all.
So whenever I use those time-worn euphemisms, I make a mental note never to repeat them again. But, of course, I do.
It’s one of life’s great mysteries, or perhaps ironies. For although I’m well into my 40s, I consider myself young…even hip. Despite the fact I am much older than my mother was when I was 14, I consider myself more “with-it” than she was then. When I was a teen, my mom didn’t have a clue who Jim Morrison of the Doors was or about the underlining messages in the music I listened to. I, on the other hand, make a point to keep current with today’s music. I know of Erykah Badu, Blink-182, and Aaron Carter (though only because of the poster my 11-year-old has hanging on her wall). And I am all too aware of Eminen’s lyrics.
But none of that matters to our kids. We can be as hip as Ricky Martin and Madonna …they’ll still see us as Fred and Ethel Mertz.
The cold, hard truth is, no matter how “cool” we perceive ourselves, how well we keep up with pop culture, or how we try to hang on to our youth, we eventually become like our parents - people who are expected to act civilized, are all too often “unfair,” and yell at our children because we clearly “don’t understand.”
But considering that most of us rebels turned out okay, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
Still, when it comes to rules like “no music at bedtime” (particularly rap music), Danielle will have to live with the fact that some rules are handed down and she’ll most likely inherit them herself.
Though she’ll never believe me.
Until she turns out to be just like her mother….
Deanna Adams’ mother will get tremendous joy out of reading this – but she’ll never say “I Told You So.”
2007 © website by mike miheli