For 24 years, I have been running variations of the same Thanksgiving column, listing the things for which I am thankful. During the years when I had stopped posting regular blog entries, I started writing regular entries in a gratitude journal, which got me to thinking of the difference between thankful and grateful. Google isn't much help:
Grateful: feeling or showing an appreciation of kindness; thankful.
Thankful: pleased and relieved, grateful
So, basically, it treats the words as synonymous. I do still give thanks for my health and my family. I am also grateful to have them in my life. I am grateful to be of use, to my family and others. [Turns out service is a Love Language] I am grateful for the love I get and the loving kindness I am now obliged to give everyone, since my heart Chakra opened.
I am grateful that my medical problems are all treatable. Every day, I am grateful to be here, because every minute I have had since January 2007 has been a gift. I cherish that gift. I don't need Clarence the Angel to show me that this is a wonderful life; unlike George Bailey, I have never for a moment doubted that the world is a better place for my being in it. I give thanks for my blessings every morning, and expect to do so for the rest of my life. And, yes, especially on Thanksgiving Day.
Finally, if you feel life has been dealing to you from the bottom of the deck, I recommend the practice of keeping a gratitude journal. Write down one or two things each day for which you are grateful. Big or small, serious or silly. You may find it helps you keep things in perspective; I know it has had that effect on me. Going back and rereading it sometimes can be an interesting and rewarding activity.
(length warning) You are probably aware that song lyrics stay with us much longer than text. The only reason I know the gender of the German word Hut is because of the song Mr. Knopf taught us: “Mein hut, der hat drei ecken.”
I learned a great deal of popular music and a few folk songs from my mother. When I was around six years old she went to college. She taught me a song popular at Portland State in the 50s. There are a few Internet citations, but not many.
There are multiple verses, but the ones I remember are:
For it’s beer, beer, beer that makes us want to cheer,
On the farm, on the farm,
For it’s beer, beer, beer that makes us want to cheer,
On the Leland Stanford Junior Varsity Farm.
For it’s gin, gin, gin that makes us want to sin,
On the farm…
For it’s vodka, vodka, vodka, that makes us feel we oughta
For it’s Whiskey, Whiskey, Whiskey that makes us feel so frisky
And of course what’s a college drinking song without a risqué ending:
For it’s split-pea soup that makes us want a… crumpet.
This was usually combined with
We never stagger, we never fall,
We sober up on wood alcohol.
Send that freshman out for gin,
And don’t let a sober sophomore in.
And finally, from a different source
Let’s all drink to our misspent youth,
Three parts gin, one part vermouth.
She decided not to check her watch. That trivial decision instantly changed her life and mine for the better.
The column to the right on this blog contains permanent content, most of which has appeared at one time or another in the main body. I’ve decided to include a reminder.
Valerie Bertinelli had some fun at the expense of Elon Musk.
The Golden Globe winner, 62, changed her name on Twitter to Elon Musk, to prove that the platform's new verification system is flawed.
Christiane Amanpour defined good journalism: “There are some situations one simply cannot be neutral about, because when you are neutral you are an accomplice. Objectivity doesn't mean treating all sides equally. It means giving each side a hearing.”
The results are in; this blog is now going to use a design appropriate for the 21st century. Problems? You hate it? Tell me at firstname.lastname@example.org
(length warning) I was just saying “six of one, half a dozen of the other” (that is, these two things are one and the same) when I realized I belong to the last generation that will ever say that. I am not even sure the generations behind us know what a dozen is.
“A pint’s a pound the world around” will be useless to a generation raised on liters and kilograms. Almost as useless as cursive handwriting, which my daughters can read but don’t regularly write. My grandchildren probably won’t even be able to read it. I decided to type up all my journals from 1970-1977, on the grounds that otherwise, in a few years, they will be as indecipherable as hieroglyphics.
My daughters learned to read an analog clock (there’s a retronym for you), but they have never used the language of that form of time-telling. “It’s a quarter till,” I used to say to my girls, or “It’s half past.” “A quarter till what?” they asked. Neither owns a wristwatch (well OK, one has an IWatch).
They’ve seen dial telephones but never used one to make a call. Neither has a land line or subscribes to a newspaper.
Mental arithmetic? Dying out.
My own family has often accused me of having a great century-old vocabulary. I fear that’s true, but in for a penny, in for a pound. This is what happens when you make it to 70. Well, hubba-hubba. I was 13 before my dad taught me the rest of that: “Hubba-Hubba, ring-a-ding, baby you’ve got everything, woo-woo.”
Not to mention another phrase I learned from Dad: “You’re a swell flapper. What have you got under the flap?” Google comes up with no citations… except from now on, this sentence.
My mother used to say, “See you later alligator,” and I was an adult before I heard the other half, “In a while, crocodile.”
The column to the right of this blog contains permanent content, most of which has appeared at one time or another in the main body. I’ve decided to include a reminder.
The best description of Paul Schindler, Journalist
Thank you to my former editor Joe Brancatelli for reminding me of what I told all my editors. A.J. Liebling said it first,.. but it’s also true of me: "I write faster than anyone who writes better, and I write better than anyone who writes faster."
My Mother Was A Chemist
A half century ago, I was taught this doggerel. I can’t find a good Internet citation of this version, but one thing’s for sure: I’ve never forgotten the chemical formula for sulfuric acid.
My mother she was a chemist,
A chemist she is no more.
For what she thought was H₂O was H₂SO₄
Amazing Turtle Video
Animals helping each other continues to amaze me.