Changing Times

The changes in our cultural practices are so different from those of my childhood. Many actions, considered ‘modern’ and the ‘norm’ today would have been frowned upon in the ‘good ole days’.

Society has a way of dropping and adding changes that sweeps one along with the new practices, like it or not. Some of the better changes indicate we may be moving in the direction of achieving equal opportunities for pursuing happiness. This, of course, may mean different things to different people.

The French are being faced with the possibility of giving up their traditional month long August vacations to compete with year round work practices of other countries. International travel plays a part in the changing mores of countries too. When I first visited Mexico; women were rarely seen on the street without being accompanied by a male escort, (a small boy would suffice), or in the company of other women. Neither did they wear pants or slacks. Daughters were always chaperoned when they went on a date with a boy.

In the years prior to WWII American women were in the habit of wearing hats and gloves as a fashion statement. When my family lived on the San Francisco peninsula, our dress was casual, but when we went into San Francisco we ‘dressed’ for the city wearing hats and gloves. When we shopped for gloves at the department stores, we sat on high stools at a counter and placed our elbows on a pad while a clerk carefully massaged the kid gloves onto each finger until the glove was on our hand then the process was repeated on the other hand.

Buildings with elevators had operators whose job was ride the elevator and push the buttons for people getting on and off. The operators also announced the list of goods sold on each department store floor as passengers got on and off.

When I moved to Texas and started building my little house, I discovered that blue laws prevented shopping for materials on the weekend. Having moved from California where one could shop 24/7 for anything, I was amazed that such limitations still existed. The recession during Regan’s term of office caused the decline of the oil patch and caused southeast Texas economic hardship. The business men and shop keepers demanded a change in the laws and it wasn’t long before one could buy a hammer on Sunday if you needed one.

The internet, television and globalization are fast changing the lives of people everywhere. Homogenizations discard traditional customs in language, food and dress. People are less formal and often use first names instead of the more formal Mr. or Mrs. Even President Obama is often called Barack as a matter of affection. Vocabulary is diminished when a few words of slang serves as communication. The art of conversation is lost when abbreviated texting replaces the give and take of communication.

We have adopted foreign foods like Tacos, Burritos and Pizza and turned them into ‘fast food’ ignoring regional dishes unique to a place.







The migration of people also plays a role in changing cultural patterns when sifting and blending gives way to adoption. Traditional costumes identifying nationalities, now seen in pageants and museums, are replaced with garments duplicated in factories the world over.










National security has drastically changed the ease of air travel. The days of arriving at the airport with tons of luggage just in time for a scheduled flight are gone forever. We have all seen the horror stories on television when passengers have been captive for hours before disembarking. Metal detectors and X-ray machines verify that weapons are not being carried on board.

Variations

Variation is the embellishment, modification, alteration, deviation or mutation of the original so that it doesn’t lose its identity.

There are variations in ‘rate of’ or ‘magnitude of’ change or as a ‘departure from’ a position or state in language, music, math, dance, astronomy etc.

Our culture is riddled with variations. I googled for something the other day and came across variations for Deviled Eggs. I was astonished at the number recipes for creating and serving deviled eggs!

Take water faucets for example:
Years ago the faucets I knew as a child were simple handles one turned to start the flow of water, and turned in the reverse direction to stop the flow.

This variation changed from two handles to four knobs.

This variation just rounded the knob ends.

A variation with elegance

Some call this progress, but sometimes the originals are better than the variations. I hate the one large ball handle you have to pull out from the wall and turn left and right as if opening a number padlock just to get water for a shower that’s not too hot or too cold!

Amateur Radio

Dad was a licensed amateur radio operator with a call sign during the 1930s and ‘40s until amateurs were suspended from broadcasting during the duration of WII. I was in the third grade when Dad began building his station in one of the upstairs bedrooms of the house on Bliss Blvd in Iowa Falls, Ia. He was able to indulge his hobby during the depression years although Mom often complained that he was spending too much money on radio tubes.

The corner of the room was gradually filled with unpainted shelves of soldered wires and radio tubes. The room was always kept locked unless dad was in the room but he allowed us children to come in and watch as he soldered or tuned his transmitter. At that time he sent and received messages in Morse code. He received cards in the mail from his contacts with their call sign and in turn he mailed them his card. His accumulation included cards from around the world.

When we moved from Bliss Blvd to the house on Woodland Ave Dad set up his station in a corner of the dining room which allowed the family to be part of Dad’s activity. If Mom was in the kitchen she could see Dad as he tapped out the dots and dashes on the transmitting key, and if any of us children wanted to sit next to Dad and read the messages as they came in, we could. Dad also added a microphone and occasionally he allowed us children to say hello to the other operator when it was Dad’s turn to speak. I have a memory of talking to a Dr from Japan and was impressed that Dad was able to talk to someone so far away. Some years later when the war started, I often thought of that chat.

One night when Mom and Dad were out for the evening, Uncle H.O. was left in charge. H.O. was only a few years older than I was and we loved it when he came to visit. On this particular night we had a storm with heavy rain, thunder and lightening. Suddenly a lightening strike hit the radio station and jagged streaks of electricity bounced around the room. We all knew how dangerous it was, but didn’t know what to do except scream at each other not to touch anything!!!!! We had been taught never to touch the radio, but something had to be done or the house might catch on fire. H.O. finally got his wits about him and pulled some plugs from the wall which turned off switches and stopped the electrical show. H.O. became our hero, and I think Dad’s too.

When my sister Esther’s husband Vern retired, they moved to Toledo Bend Lake. La. Vern had his fishing hole and Esther became a licensed amateur radio operator and enjoyed being a member of a ladies radio league. She upgraded her radio station equipment after passing the FCC exam for Extra, (the highest an amateur can achieve).

When I moved to Texas, I was influenced by Esther to take the Code exam. As children, Adeline and I had learned Morse code as girl scouts, but I had forgotten most of it and had to study it again. I got my FCC Novice license, then upgraded to Technician, but did not set up a station. Esther told me that she would give me her old radio if I would study and pass the exam for General. I ignored the challenge until the year 2000 when I finally decided to try. I studied day and night for 6 weeks. The members of the Orange Radio club were encouraging and extremely helpful. I took the exam and passed with 100 percent. Esther did give me her old radio and members of the radio club strung the antennae for me, but I rarely chatted on the radio, preferring the contact with other amateurs on the computer thru EchoLink, a program that only licensed radio amateurs from countries around the globe are allowed to use.

My First Trip to Mexico

My first visit to Mexico was a mix of positive impressions and culture shock. Bright colors and flowers met the eye in every direction. The city vibrated with movement and noise. Colonial buildings and huge plazas were awesome. Black glass windows in beautiful modern buildings were duplicated in automobiles. Street vendors selling everything from grilled chicken, balloons, lottery tickets, fruit drinks and hand woven rugs were prevalent everywhere. Indigenous Indian women sat on busy sidewalks constantly arranging and re-arranging pyramids of oranges for sale. Views of the snow capped volcanoes, Popocatepetl, spewing smoke, and Iztaccihuatl, called the sleeping woman, dominated the far distance sky line.

Some months before I made the trip, an invitation to a private showing of paintings by an artist from Mexico City was fortuitous. Aside from my oil painting, I was also working with lithographs, and meeting an artist from Mexico City gave me a chance to ask about the work being done by artists at Taller de Grafica. I, along with several other painters, volunteered to show him some of the tourist sites and take him to various studios to meet other painters during his short visit.

When I told him I planned a visit to Mexico City, he made reservations at Casa Del Maestro for me. He and his wife graciously met me at the airport even though it was near midnight when my plane landed. They helped me register at the hotel and said they had arranged for a young woman to act as an interpreter for me the next day.

The next morning a very pretty young woman, who only spoke Spanish, met me in the lobby. What little Spanish I attempted to use got corrupted with French words and I found myself speaking gibberish of pidgin Spanish, English, and French, punctuated with lots of hand gestures, none of it intelligible to my new friend. I finally understood that she was taking me with her to a friend’s wedding.










We were joined by several other girls. As a group, we rushed to pick up dresses from cleaners, and then rushed to their home so they could change clothes. Constantly keeping an eye on the clock while a lost button was replaced, the girls were finally ready. We had to run to catch a taxi, but made it to the church in time.

The reception was held at a private home. The family had hired an elderly woman from Guadalajara to prepare a traditional Barbacoa. As the party got underway, she told me the food had been cooking for several days. Goat or lamb is wrapped in maguey or banana leaves. A cauldron of hot water is placed over hot coals in a pit 3 feet deep. Beans, vegetables and spices are added to the cauldron; a grill is placed on the cauldron and meat placed on it. More maguey and banana leaves are added, a few sticks of burning mesquite are placed on the leaves and all is sealed and covered with damp earth. The meat is ‘falling off bone’ tender when served and has a smoke flavor not achieved in any other way. Barbacoa is served at weddings and other festive occasions. If anyone has an opportunity, I hope they can experience an authentic Barbacoa!

The next day a young man, a friend of the artist, volunteered to take me sight seeing. He told me he was a dancer. About mid morning, we went to a small café where he ordered Atole, a common beverage in Mexico, made with cornmeal and served hot or at room temperature. It’s delicious with a consistency of thin pudding.

I was invited to watch his dance group practice ancient Aztec dances. They danced in a circle around incense smoke coming from burning copal. Wearing elaborate headdresses, they shook gourd rattles as they chanted in Nahuatl.

Before I returned to the states, I was invited to my friend’s studio to meet other artists. The studio was small but the group helped push easels and paints out of the way and stacked paintings against the walls. Makeshift seating was created with a crate and a pillow for me but everyone else sat on the floor. A board placed on a stool made a table for the potluck snacks and bottles of wine people brought. Small tins were opened and someone prepared a small plate of crackers with mounds of something white on them and handed it to me. The white mounds were tiny little white things with black eyes. I did not want to eat them. They said it was fish, but I had never seen fish like those on the crackers. I used every excuse imaginable, but no one would taste anything until I had taken a bite. It was obviously a delicacy and served in my honor, so I closed my eyes and took a bite. Big surprise! It did taste like fish and was exquisitely delicious! That was my introduction to Angoullas/Anguilas/Angulas a delicacy not often seen by tourists.

Click here for a recipe on how to make Angulas

Chess

I enjoy playing chess. Win or lose, I enjoy the game which surprises me since I avoided the game for years. My first experience was many years ago. My husband showed me how each chess piece moved and suggested we have a game. After the first couple of moves, my husband began to spend what I thought was an exceptionally long time studying the board before he would make a move. I became impatient and urged him to play more quickly, but the wait between moves got so long it was exasperating. I would leave the game, do something else until he said it was my turn, then return to the game, quickly glance at the board and make a move. The game became so in terminally long that I lost what little incentive I had at the beginning. I vowed never to play again. After all, chess is just a game; the fate of mankind doesn’t rest on the outcome.

A great number of years later, my brother, Mickey and his son, Jimmy, aged 12, started a chess game during a family barbeque. As the afternoon went on, challenges were issued and accepted and before long I was the only one not playing. I watched and rooted for the underdog and had as much fun as those playing. The games didn’t last very long, but it soon became obvious that Jimmy was the one who was forced to defend his title as best player of the day.

During the next few days Chess mania took over the house. Mickey and Dad went into Dad’s workshop and made several chess sets. Mom and Dad learned to play and began little tournaments between themselves. My daughter Kim gave Jimmy a run for his money at the board, but I did not play.

Another great number of years passed, when one day, while at the annual book sale of the public library, I found a black book without a cover, in fair condition, at least 3 inches thick, priced $1. Hopping for a saga similar to Shogun, I looked inside but it only had diagrams of chess games. I bought the book anyway.

When news of Bobby Fischer, Big Blue and Kasparov made daily headlines, I began to think maybe playing chess could be fun and started playing online as a way to keep my brain active building neurons. As I played, I began to see the logic of making certain moves and realized that chess was more than merely capturing a pawn or knight. I play unrated games to avoid the double stress of winning the game and losing points in a rating. Over the years I treated chess like any ‘ole’ game, but now in my old age, I realize it’s an art, and I enjoy the brilliancies of master chess players, past and present. The nicest thing of all about chess is that anyone, at any age, can play and take from the game as much pleasure as they choose. Come join me at http://playchess.com/ it’s free if you play as a guest.

A poem by Chuang Tzu

When an archer is shooting for nothing, he has all his skill.
If he shoots for a brass buckle, he is already nervous.
If he shoots for a prize of gold, he goes blind or sees two targets.
He is out of his mind!
His skill has not changed, but the prize divides him.
He cares. He thinks more of winning than shooting---
And the need to win drains him of power.