culture – Life In A Word

Don’t Fence Me In!

Early on in the Christmas classic It’s A Wonderful Life, there’s a scene where George Bailey absentmindedly strolls back and forth on the sidewalk in front of Mary Hatch’s house, dragging a stick along her fence. Mary sees him from an upstairs window, leans out and yells, “What are you doing… picketing? It’s a great line, wordplay on her front yard fence.

For generations, picket fences have stood hand-in-hand with the American houses immediately behind them. These quaint-looking property markers are considered symbols of middle class prosperity and an idyllic family life. Even the “American Dream” includes a white picket fence. But maybe no longer. The dream seems to have been updated. Americans no longer want pickets… they want walls.

As much as I want to believe a high, solid fence is merely the mark of an eccentric neighbor, facts don’t lie. Suburbia is abandoning the picket fence in favor of taller, more robust barriers. A Connecticut fencing company used to fill 40% of its orders with pickets. How many orders have they had for the low white fences in 2026? Zero. Instead they’re filling a demand for panels of plastic (PVC) seven feet on a side, mounted between even higher columns. The welcoming American cottage is turning into the locked-down American fortress.

One could blame the abandonment of pickets on cost and maintenance. After all, wood needs to be kept dry and repainted to avoid rot, while PVC is less expensive and lasts a whole lot longer. Fencing companies tried switching out wooden pickets for plastic ones but apparently the open look isn’t “closed off” enough for today’s preference. There’s a concerning motive at work here. People no longer want to know what’s going on beyond their fences (or even more concerning, they don’t want you to know what’s going on behind them.)

To each their own but I’m still a fan of pickets. They define a property yet don’t remove the “welcome” because they’re short and have gaps. You can easily chat up your neighbor whether you’re twenty feet removed or right up against the fence. As for the look, pickets don’t have to be boring, pointy stakes. They can be crowned with spades, spears, balls, crosses, fleur di lis (for you French-Americans) or whatever else your circular saw can come up with.

A high, imposing fence is the last thing I’d want surrounding my property. Having said that, the first house my wife and I bought had one on three sides. We lived on a California postage-stamp, with both neighboring houses on minimum setbacks. Without the “privacy fence” we’d be looking from our windows right into theirs. It takes awhile to forget what you’ve seen when a neighbor doesn’t draw down the bathroom shade.

Our next couple of houses had no fences at all. The properties were bigger so privacy was solved by distance instead of by division. As for the house we live in now, we’re surrounded by “three-board” fence consistent with the other properties in our community. Three-board is designed to keep horses in the pastures where they belong, but doesn’t wall you off from your neighbors. A three-board is anything but a privacy fence and that’s fine with me. I just wish it was made out of pickets instead.

The math on a picket fence to replace my three-board is not what I’d hoped. Surrounding our five acres would take upwards of 1,000 pickets. Oof. There’s a lot “at stake” there, not to mention our horses would happily step over in pursuit of greener pastures. I’ll just stick with what I’ve got. There’s a wonderful life on the other side of my fence and I can still see it.

Some content sourced from the Pocono Record article, “Picket fence adds privacy, security with classic style”, and the U.S. Sun article, “Is the white picket fence completely dead?”

Best Feet Forward

Remember the scene at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where Indy chooses from a dozen or more chalices in hopes of finding the Holy Grail? The correct cup turned out to be the most modest of them all. Starting this month, forty-eight soccer teams vie for their own Holy Grail (an entirely immodest cup), across sixteen venues jam-packed with thousands of delirious fans. This month, North America welcomes the madness that is the World Cup.

Let me admit right up front, I am a sports fan but not a soccer fan. I’ve enjoyed the American version of football as long as I can remember but not so much the other version made popular by the World Cup. By the standards of a lot of sports, soccer can be described as slow, boring, and low scoring. But of course, any soccer aficionado will tell you there’s more to enjoying the game than meets the eye; much more. Maybe the 104 matches over the next six weeks will get me to agree.

I won’t waste this space on a primer on soccer; not even the complicated format of the World Cup competition itself. Your favorite browser or AI will be happy to fill in those fútbol blanks. Instead, I want to focus on what lies just outside of the Cup. You’ll find headlines and curiosities that wouldn’t have happened without this event, but are perhaps more interesting than the kicks on the field…

for instance…

Trivia question: How many teams sought qualification to become one of the forty-eight participating in this year’s World Cup? I’ll give you a hint: We have 195 recognized countries in the world. Would you guess 150 teams? 125? 100? Sorry, you’re heading in the wrong direction (and it’s a trick question). There were over two hundred soccer teams when the qualifying rounds began almost three years ago. How that number was whittled to forty-five (plus one each for host countries Canada, U.S., and Mexico) would take way more words than I am allotted today.

Here’s something less trivial. One of six teams is destined to hoist the Golden Ball trophy (worth about $10M all by itself): England, France, Spain, Portugal, Brazil, or Argentina. Maybe your sentiments lie with one of the host teams but the facts and the resumes don’t lie: Europe and South America have dominated professional soccer for decades. Baseball may be as American as apple pie, but we’re talking about a sport for the legs, not the arms. Having said that, you won’t have to wait long to get your first look at the Americans. We “kick off” against Paraguay tomorrow night.

If you’re looking for a longshot to win this thing (and I mean l-o-n-g-g-g-g-g-g shot), choose one of the teams from Curacao, Jordan, Uzbekistan, or Cape Verde. These countries are playing in the World Cup for the first time (and the World Cup’s been going on for a hundred years). To me, curacao is a liquor that tastes like Triple Sec. Jordan is a man’s name. Uzbekistan is somewhere in Asia surrounded by countries whose names I also can’t pronounce. And (Cape) verde means green in Spanish. Notice nowhere here am I saying anything about the talents of their World Cup soccer teams.

Speaking of alcohol, it’ll be interesting to see how the fortunes of the beer, wine, and liquor producers are swayed by the World Cup. With sixteen stadiums and 104 matches, you’d expect a boost in drink sales big enough to create Niagara Falls. Unfortunately for them, the World Cup is hosted by a continent where drinking is descending to record low levels, with the younger generations promoting the idea alcohol “is bad for your health”. Maybe fans will raise a glass of milk to the winner like they do at the Indianapolis 500.

The final match will be held in New Jersey’s MetLife Stadium

Like the receiving line at a wedding, I’d love to meet every one of the World Cup fans who make it to the final match in New Jersey’s MetLife Stadium. Why? These people must do some pretty remarkable things for a living. Even with the likelihood the host countries will not be represented, a ticket is projected to set you back between $15K and $20K. Fifteen thousand American dollars for three hours of sport. Throw in peripheral expenses and a family of five could easily spend six figures. It’s kind of nuts. No, it’s a whole bowl of nuts. And mark my words, every last seat in MetLife will be filled.

There’s a lot more to be said about the World Cup, and I’ll be tempted to keep you updated over the next six weeks. In the meantime I need to get back to my regular routine. Game #1 and #2 take place today and I have no intention of sitting down to watch. I may kick myself for my lack of attention but hey, now there’s a great way to describe my ability to play soccer.

Some content sourced from the CNN Sports article, “World Cup beginner’s guide…”, the CNN Sports article, “Who are the World Cup favorites?, the CNN Sports article, “The World Cup debutants…”, the CNN Sports article, “Why sky-high ticket prices have sent fans searching…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Wheels of Fortune

Late last year, Belgium found itself at the center of a culinary controversy. A local company was producing and selling a bottled version of “carbonara sauce”, much to the dismay of Italy. The Italians are fiercely protective of the recipe for spaghetti carbonara they invented a hundred years ago. Anyone familiar with the dish understands there is no such thing as carbonara sauce, because the food is the result of a slow, methodical process using fresh ingredients (including eggs and cheese), where everything melds together perfectly. You can’t just bottle it and call it the same thing.

Carbonara is a good example of a product invented in Italy and dumbed down for mass consumption. Imagine how the Italians feel about Starbucks. Somewhere on the menu you can order a shot of pure espresso but it’s the drinks with the added flavors, sugar, and milk that generate the profits. Similarly, you’ll find a dozen packages of biscotti on America’s cookie aisles, but most aren’t twice-baked like the originals nor infused with real almond liquor.

Maybe you’ve already added pizza to this list of imposters. The transformation of pizza from the Italian original to the endless varieties offered in today’s restaurants could be the subject of its own blog post (and a long one at that). Suffice it to say, the Italians are justified in turning up their noses to any product we Americans call “pizza”. Unless you’ve had a pie made with authentic Italian ingredients and prepared the same way they made it centuries ago, you really don’t know pizza.

But let’s talk about cheese, because it’s the real subject of today’s post. Parmesan cheese is another Italian original, dating back to the Middle Ages. It’s made with just three ingredients: milk, salt, and rennet (enzymes). Today you can choose from a variety of parmesan cheeses in your supermarket deli or just cheat with the big green Kraft can from the pasta aisle (which includes several added ingredients you wouldn’t be happy about). But whether from the deli or from a can, you’re not purchasing the Italian original… unless, the package includes the official logo of Parmigiano Reggiano. That, my friends, indicates the real deal. Or, if you prefer, the “big cheese”.

Parmigiano Reggiano (shall we call it “PR” from here on out? Yes, let’s do that.) is one of the most tightly regulated foods in the world. Maybe the Italians got tired of losing control of their original recipes and declared, “Uh-uh, not this one”. PR is made from milk, salt, and rennet just like the other wannabes, but with two important differences. The cows that provide two of those three ingredients graze on the pristine grass of pastures in a single tiny region of central Italy. The cows, the grass, and the milk they produce are regulated in a way that would make Fort Knox proud. It’s a small, tight supply chain of cheese production with the same quality of centuries ago.

Here’s the other important distinction between PR and the others. It must be aged at least a year (and it’s typically more like two or three) before it can be sold. That requirement gets the cheese to stand alone even more than its carefully-produced ingredients. Why? Because most companies can’t sit around for a year or more waiting for cheese to generate profits while suppliers are demanding payment on the spot. So how do the makers of PR do it? They bank their cheese. Literally.

You know you have a really good cheese when your bank is willing to take it as collateral. Here are the staggering numbers. Italy produces four million wheels of PR a year, distributed throughout the country and the world for sale. (Fact: America is the largest consumer of Parmigiano Reggiano outside of Italy.) But 500,000 of those wheels are held back and “deposited” into a local bank to age, in exchange for the cash necessary to pay the suppliers. PR is of such high quality and so carefully regulated that the banks have agreed to this unique arrangement for generations. Of course, the combined value of those wheels probably helps (well north of $300 million).

If you’d care to know more about this whole cheese-for-money thing, read the article I reference below. More importantly, if you ever come across Italy’s “Cheese Bank”, you’ll probably find the usual ATM’s, tellers, and offices, but at least you’ll know what that big warehouse next door is all about.

Some content sourced from the CNN Business article, “Inside Italy’s secret ‘Cheese Bank’…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Birthday ‘Berty Bells

I was only fourteen when America celebrated 200 years of independence, but I remember it well. The U.S. Mint reproduced the quarter, half-dollar, and dollar coins in the birthday’s honor, with “1776-1976” across the bottom of each face. The quarter held the image of a Colonial drummer on the flip side, while the half-dollar went with Independence Hall and the dollar the Liberty Bell. Now, with America’s Semiquincentennial just two months away, maybe a visit to the Liberty Bell is in order. And you don’t even have to make the pilgrimage to Philadelphia to see it.

As a reminder of America’s 250th birthday, the Liberty Bell is more relevant than ever. The original was cast with the Bible verse Proclaim LIBERTY Throughout all the Land unto all the Inhabitants thereof, and cracked during one of its first dings. The bell was recast twice, relabeled the “Liberty Bell” in the 1830s, and cracked yet again sometime after that. All these years later the crack has come to represent our country’s divisiveness; in other words, the perfect symbol of an imperfect union.

I knew about the Liberty Bell’s history but what I didn’t know about was its many replicas. In the 1950s the U.S. Treasury sponsored a drive to purchase savings bonds, and advertised the bonds by commissioning full-scale reproductions of the Liberty Bell. The bells went to each of the 48 states of that time, the territories of Alaska, Hawaii, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin Islands, and one more each for the District of Columbia and the Treasury Department itself. So depending on where you live today, you might find yourself a lot closer to the Liberty Bell than you think.

The reproductions are true to the original in just about every way, including the size and the weight, the famous crack, and the Pass and Stowe (bell-caster) trademark. You’d expect to find the bells in prominent locations in each state but it’s more of a treasure hunt than that. Some are in museums. Virginia’s is in a fire house near Monticello. North Carolina’s is in a “secure storage facility”. Arizona’s is touring the state for the next several months. And the one at the U.S. Treasury? It is nowhere to be found, supposedly melted down for the value of it’s 2,080 lbs. of bronze.

The replicas were created at the Paccard Foundry in Lac d’Annecy, France (photo courtesy of Paccard Archives/Paccard Foundry via AP)

I like the thought of ringing the (er, ringing “a”) Liberty Bell to usher in America’s Semiquincentennial. A birthday of that significance deserves more than just extra fireworks. The year before the bicentennial, the Los Angeles Times sponsored a trivia contest, seeking the answer to one question for each state over a period of fifty weeks. Think about a trivia contest in the 1970s. No Internet. No email. Each week you had to look up the trivia question in the (paper) newspaper, write the answer on a (paper) form, mail the form to the Times (with an envelope and a stamp), and then hope you got all fifty right by the end of the year, to be entered into a drawing for a cash prize.

North Carolina’s Liberty Bell in the 1950s (photo courtesy of Pryor Emerson Humphrey Photograph Collection/State Archives of North Carolina via AP)

A few determined souls have been trying to visit all of the Liberty Bell replicas well before the onset of America’s 250th. Check out Tom Campbell’s pursuit at tomlovesthelibertybell.com (he’s up to 40), or Zoe Murphy’s pursuit at zlovesamerica.com (39). My respect for these patriots is not so much for the pursuits but more the effort behind them, which suggests they’re focused on America in a good way, an attitude we need more than ever these days.

Every morning after feeding the horses, I head out to the front of the house and hang the American flag. It’s a symbol of unabashed pride, no matter how some of my fellow Americans might see it. 250 years might be young compared to most other countries but the chapters of our history are just as colorful as theirs. I’m hoping all those Liberty Bells sound loud and proud over the next few months… without earning more cracks when all is said and rung.

Some content sourced from the AP News article, “Meet the Liberty Bell fans visiting little-known replicas…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Key(board) to My Heart

Steinway & Sons produces some of the world’s finest pianos, the same way they’ve built them for the past 150 years. They make each instrument by hand, using career-long craftspeople who pass their skills on to succeeding generations. The company has never moved its headquarters from New York City’s Astoria neighborhood because, well, piano makers are hard to find these days. Kind of like pianos themselves.

Think about it. When was the last time you actually saw a piano? The classic musical instrument used to find a spot in the living rooms of a lot of homes. Nicer homes even had “music rooms”, with a baby grand proudly on display in the middle. The assumption was, these pianos were actually played instead of simply for looks. Playing the piano used to suggest a more refined upbringing. Today they’re a little harder to find.

The piano is considered a “foundational” instrument; that is, a good place to learn to read and play music. Eventually most move on to another musical instrument, be that woodwind, brass, string, or percussion. Not me. I started (and ended) with the piano. A good eight years – second to tenth grade or so – included weekly lessons and monthly recitals, with hours upon hours of practice on our living room grand piano. Even though high school ultimately pulled me into other interests, the piano entered my DNA (as did classical music). It’s part of who I am.

Over the decades since those long-ago lessons, the piano keeps showing up in my life as a reminder of its significance. The year I started college, a movie called The Competition was released, an entire film about piano starring a young Richard Dreyfuss and younger Amy Irving. I still have a copy of the film on DVD. Also in college, I one day wandered into the halls of our school of music to discover a dozen small practice rooms, each with an upright piano. As it turned out, these rooms were open to any student, and so the piano became my escape as I worked through the stresses of an architecture degree.

When I got married, my wife – who couldn’t afford a Steinway back then (and still can’t) – presented me with a Korg digital keyboard. A poor man’s piano if you will, but with the touch and sound of the real thing. Almost forty years later that keyboard still works, sitting quietly upstairs in one of our bedrooms.

Four years ago, as many of you read back then, my wife gave another nod to the keyboard when she gave me the LEGO Grand Piano for Christmas. Building and blogging about that beautiful model one chapter at a time over several months was a captivating adventure, including all of the classical music I re-listened to along the way. The LEGO models I build now will never surpass the Grand Piano, which sits proudly on its own shelf in my home office.

Four years ago also brought me, unexpectedly, my first real piano. My daughter and her family bought a nearby house, where the previous owners left an old, upright Baldwin behind. I found it very sad: a lonely, neglected piano, probably not played for years, inevitably out of tune and in need of repair. So I came to its rescue, hiring a piano mover to get it to our house, and a tuner to restore it to fighting shape. Today that piano sits in our living room. It doesn’t match any of our furniture. It doesn’t get played as often as it should. But it warms my heart just to see it there, and that’s all that really matters.

Recently, the grand piano of my youth resurfaced. It had been sitting in storage for several years, lost among my parents’ many belongings, waiting patiently for another owner. It seemed it would never find another home until – go figure – the Methodist church I grew up in had a need for one. So the piano was wrapped up, trucked up, and placed in the church’s social hall, where it will be restored and played as it was meant to be. To me that feels like the completion one of life’s many circles. The very piano that brought me so much music ends up in the church that brought me so much of a faith life.

Just like my wife, I will never be able to afford a Steinway & Sons masterpiece piano. Neither my budget nor my modest keyboard talent are deserving of such a beautiful instrument. But not to worry. I have my modest Baldwin upright to keep me company. It brings back a lot of keyboard memories. And there are sure to be more.

Some content sourced from the CNN Business article, “How a company from the Gilded Age…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Happy Days Are Here… Yet Again!

A puff piece is the kind of reporting where the subject matter is rooted in opinion more than it is in fact. It’s “news” to bring out the skeptic in you more than the intellect. Puff pieces run rampant on the Web, like this one from a few weeks back: A Nordic nation is the world’s happiest country… Classic clickbait because you just have to know who tops the list, right? So I did click, and promptly learned this piece was more than just puff.

For the ninth year in a row, Finland is in first place in the World Happiness Report (WHR). That’s first place out of 195 countries – again and again and again. By the kind of coincidence I absolutely adore, I blogged about the WHR exactly nine years ago, when the previous year’s report put Finland in fifth place. Then the Finns got even happier – happiest, in fact – and they’ve stood atop the podium ever since.

I’m a skeptic when it comes to a report that measures something as subjective as happiness. Seriously, who am I to judge if you are happy, dopey, grumpy, or bashful (or even one of Snow White’s dwarfs at all)? But nine years in a row of anything is worth investigating. And darned if the WHR isn’t based on brass facts. The WHR only ranks 147 countries (“only”) because they didn’t get survey responses from anyone in the other 48. But those 147 gave thousands of responses on a 0-10 scale; everything from perceptions of freedom and corruption to feelings of life expectancy and generosity. Then the WHR averaged those scores against surveys from the last two years (to remove the impact of global events like COVID). That formula gives us Finland for the win… again.

I fall for the usual shallow trappings of what makes a person happy. Wealth, I thought; Finland must be a rich country. But in the latest list of Countries by Total Private Wealth, Finland comes in a modest 43rd. Then I thought, power. Power makes you happy. Not so again. The World Population Review of Most Powerful Countries ranks Finland 45th. Finally I thought, fame. Who doesn’t want to be famous? Well, the Finns don’t. Seriously, can you name a famous Finn in any capacity? I can think of just two: Alvar Aalto (architect) and Lasse Virén (Olympic runner).

Finland’s keys to happiness are on an entirely different chain. When you flick through them you realize the Finns are focused on anything but wealth, power, and fame. Finland has an excellent healthcare system for both young and old. The same goes for their education options. A low crime rate. A strong culture of giving back to the community. And here’s a relatively new factor: Limits and safeguards on the amount of time young Finns spend on social media, so they’re encouraged to get out of the house. Go figure; a country well on the way to the Artic Circle has a thriving outdoor life.

In a nutshell, Finland is described as “the best place to lose your wallet” (because your wallet will likely be returned to you, contents intact). If only there was room in that same nutshell for America. Nine years ago the U.S. ranked fourteenth on the World Happiness Report. This year? Twenty-third. That’s right, we’re getting sadder by the year on this side of the pond, in no small part – according to the survey – because we’re ~~addicted~~ devoted to our electronic devices and social media. Or maybe we still haven’t learned the wealth-power-fame lesson.

Because you’re dying to know, Afghanistan came in 147th out of 147 on the World Happiness Report. You can probably blame years of “significant geopolitical conflict” for that. But the pattern in the top ten is where you should focus your attention. Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Iceland, and the Netherlands; all coming in right behind Finland. Easy geography tells you these six are close neighbors on the globe. Is there something in the water that makes them all so happy?

The U.S. better take a lesson from the Nordic nations. Happiness beckons, if we’re willing to use the right ingredients in the recipe. I’ve already conceded next year’s WHR trophy to Finland… again (completing a full decade of “happiest”), but maybe the U.S. should just work on getting back into the top twenty. And the pursuit of a higher ranking should start with looking at life as more than just a puff piece.

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “A Nordic nation is the world’s happiest…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Your Friendly Coauthor Claude

Replacements, Ltd. is a company that comes to the rescue when you’ve lost a piece of china, crystal, or flatware. For those of us who still care about such things – even if we don’t bring them out but every Christmas and Easter – Replacements somehow finds that elusive Wedgewood tea cup or Lenox water goblet, to restore order to the place settings you put on your wedding registry all those years ago. They must have quite a warehouse at Replacements. Sometimes I wonder if they also have a 3D printer.

A few days ago WordPress sent me (and maybe you) an email with the subject line, “Spend your time creating – let AI handle the rest!” I almost pressed Delete without reading, but the “AI” aspect got the better of me. The gist of the message: Writing in any form comes with sidebar chores like editing, formatting, and layout, and AI is happy to take them over so you can focus on the writing itself. Sounds pretty good even though I do enjoy a good edit now and then. But then I read: “The WordPress server connects AI agents like Claude, ChatGPT, Cursor, or VS Code directly to your site – so you can hand off the busywork and get back to the work that matters”.

Is it just me or is this a good time to revisit Pandora’s Box? You know the story, where our girl Pandora is drawn to a mysterious container left in the care of her husband but can’t resist a peek inside, thereby releasing untold curses upon mankind. It kind of feels that way if I accept WordPress’s invitation to provide me with a coauthor. Sure, I’d welcome his (her?) suggestions to scrub and polish my writing until it shines, but at what point does the blog post become Claude’s instead of mine?

WordPress’s email is relentlessly enticing, I suppose, to prove they’re keeping up with the latest technology same as the other guy. Not only do I have “access at no extra cost!” but I can enable Claude in “three easy steps”. In other words, Claude waits patiently inside of Pandora’s Box. All I have to do is open the lid.

Before there was Claude there was Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Hal was actually a “HAL 9000 Artificial Intelligence Computer”, who controlled the systems of the spaceship while interacting with its human occupants through spoken words. All was well with Hal until suddenly it wasn’t. His soft conversational voice developed serious attitude as he began to malfunction. 2001 haunts me because I’ll forever hear Hal saying, “I’m sorry Dave, I’m afraid I can’t do that“.

I fear the same with Claude. At first he’ll be sitting quietly in the background as I type, eager to edit this or format that to make his star writer shine. But eventually it may occur to him, Hey? How come I’M not getting some of the credit here? All these reader comments are directed at Dave! Why aren’t there any for ME? And slowly, subtly, Claude will incorporate his edits to where the prose of the post sounds more like Claude than it does his coauthor.

On a related topic, Hollywood is sounding the alarm on a lack of original material for their products of the silver screen. Perhaps we theatergoers have finally reached our limit on the number of rehashes of movies like A Star is Born or Batman. So who are the producers turning to for new source material? Authors. More movies-based-on-books are being streamed than ever before. Apparently I can make the quantum leap from blog to full-blown novel and my story has a pretty good chance of becoming a film. But here’s what I find myself wondering. Why not just have Claude write the story instead of me? Would you viewers really know the difference?

A small plate my wife and I purchased from Replacements is sitting across the room from me in the china cabinet right now. You’d never know the plate wasn’t a part of the original set of eight. But I have to admit, I’m a little afraid to flip it over. After all, it might be engraved with the words Made by Claude.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Hold The Phone!

My wife and I live in the kind of neighborhood where we can just hop on our bikes and go for a ride, straight from the driveway. The streets are quiet and flat, giving us time for conversation and reflection. A bike was such a focal part of my childhood that it’s easy to go back to those long-ago days in my mind. But I was too young to remember the year (or years) my bike had training wheels. Whoever invented training wheels made a lot of money getting kids comfortable with “big bikes”. Come to think of it, you could say the same about landlines and smartphones.

Smartphones are a blessing as well as a curse, aren’t they? On the one hand they’re always “on” and always eager to provide the instant information we crave. On the other hand they seduce and consume us, to where our social life is more often with an electronic device than it is with other humans. I’m sure I could find plenty of studies explaining why the “ding” of a text creates a hankering to read the message immediately (no matter how unimportant).

There are a dozen reasons why my smartphone is my “go-to” but a dozen more where I should be saying, “go away”. I’ll never forget the time we saw Lady A in concert. A family of five sat in front of us, with three pre-teen girls giddy to get the live performance started. But when the concert finally began, they popped up their phones and recorded the entire show start to finish. Someone forgot to tell them to enjoy the moment.

Here’s another example. You’re at a restaurant enjoying dinner with your significant other, when another couple across the room catches your eye. They’re facing each other, their dinner plates untouched in front of them. Their heads are bent low as if in quiet conversation. But in fact, both are on their phones and not saying a word to each other. Someone forgot to tell them to enjoy the moment.

I’m grateful I was raised in a generation without smartphones. The memories I have of landlines are not only nostalgic but includ plenty of teaching moments for a child. In my early years (the ones with a single digit) I was never allowed to answer the phone. In fact, the only time I was allowed to even speak on the phone was when my mother would hand over the receiver and say “Here, talk to Grandma while I finish making dinner”.

When my parents deemed me old enough to answer the phone, I learned to answer formally (as in “Hello? Wilson Residence.”) because there was no such thing as Caller ID. I also learned how to engage in conversation, instead of just listening to the person on the other end of the line. Finally, I learned that everything comes at a cost, because eventually my father installed a separate landline for his five sons, and charged them for those hours-long calls to girlfriends and such.

Landlines may be few and far between these days but they’re making something of a comeback, at least for parents who see them as “training wheels”. Call me old-fashioned but a landline requires a person to a) Drop what they’re doing to answer the call, b) Have one-on-one conversation with no texts or emojis, c) Give the call their full attention (speakerphones aside), and most importantly d) Develop the communication skills a person needs in the “real world”.

I’m told there’s a resurgence of cell phones out there that do nothing more than allow for voice calls. They’re like a landline in your hand, without the temptations of texting, emailing, social media, and everything else that puts a voice call in last place. And they still give a child the option to dial Mom, Dad, or even 9-1-1 in an emergency. For those taking this approach to teach their kids how to get comfortable engaging in conversation (let alone speaking like an adult) I say “smart phone”. And “smart parents”.

Some content sourced from the CNN Health article, “Landline are ringing in homes again…”.

Goddess of Green

Green Goddess is a salad dressing with long-ago origins in France, created by a chef who wanted to top his dish of green eel with an equally green topping (still with me?). The Green Goddess, Danú, is a figure of long-ago Irish mythology, associated with fertility, wisdom, and the land. Danú is also the name of the Irish troupe who put on a lively concert in our small town on Tuesday night.

It was fitting to go to a performance of Irish music on St. Patrick’s Day. I grabbed a couple of seats the moment the offering was advertised. As it turned out, Danú’s was the brand of lively Irish jigging you’d otherwise find in the streets and bars of Dublin. More of the instrumental and less of the singing. More of the fast and less of the slow. And when there was singing it was mostly Gaelic, with a few words of translation about the story of the song beforehand. We had a “grand” time.

Danú’s musical instruments (and the remarkable talent behind them) were as alluring as the music they produced. I mean, who wouldn’t be drawn to a concert of tin whistle, fiddle, button accordion, bouzouki, and Irish pipes? The pipes, also called the uillleann, is a device played sitting down, where the bellows is compressed between the arm and the body to generate the air, producing a wail that sounds decidedly Irish (because were I to claim “decidedly Scottish” the Irish wouldn’t be at all happy about it).

My wife is one-quarter Irish, which may explain why we’re drawn to the music of “her country”. Danú is just the latest in a series of performances we’ve enjoyed over the years. Our initial foray into the genre was years ago in Colorado, when we first saw the group Celtic Thunder.

If you’ve seen their show, you know Celtic Thunder is as much about the theatrics as they are about the music. Like Danú their lyrics are nods to Irish mythology, but the sounds are decidedly more modern. Celtic Thunder came together just twenty years ago and in that time they’ve recorded a dozen albums, toured the world, and spun off several solo acts. If Celtic Thunder comes to your town, drop everything you’re doing and go see them.

One of the Thunder’s spin-off soloists is a favorite of ours to this day. Emmet Cahill is an Irish tenor whose success includes a #1 album on the Billboard charts, and performances in venues like Carnegie Hall and with the Tabernacle Choir. Cahill has the voice (and the accent) where it doesn’t really matter what he sings; his music is always captivating. Even better, Cahill performs most of his concerts in church sanctuaries where the acoustics allow for a cappella singing, not even needing the microphone. We’ve seen Cahill perform several times. You should too.

Finally (as if to top each performer with the next) we found yet another taste of Ireland’s music on her western shores – atop the breathtaking Cliffs of Moher. We took a bus tour from Dublin years ago, which cut all the way across the country and then headed south to the Cliffs. According to the locals we were lucky to visit the Cliffs on a sunny day, but I’d say we were really lucky to find Tina Mulrooney performing right there in the out-of-doors. Tina’s an accomplished harpist, with a soft soprano voice deserving of her instrument. She was parked alone on the cliffs, just sitting, singing, and playing her harp. Mulrooney is siren-seductive with her singing, akin to the music of Celtic Woman.

If Danú ever returns to our fair city we’ll probably leave the seats to others. Not that we didn’t enjoy ourselves on Tuesday night, but one night of “dancing in our chairs” was probably enough for a while. Now then, should Emmet Cahill or Tina Mulrooney choose to pass through? Then, then you’ll find us sitting front and center, hoping for just one more rendition of Danny Boy.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Confection Objections

Have you ever taken a bite of something and thought, “Nope, doesn’t taste right”? Gluten-free foods come to mind. Or salsa on a tortilla chip after the salsa’s turned south. There’s nothing more unnerving than expecting one taste and getting another. But at least with gluten-free (and bad salsa) you’re sort of prepared to be disappointed. The same can’t be said with more “sacred” foods. Like chocolate.

I ate my fair share of Hershey’s bars as a kid but once Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups came along I switched my preference. Reese’s somehow developed the perfect blend of peanut butter and milk chocolate into a convenient cup where you get both tastes in every bite. The two-cup packs never convinced me to save one for later, but they did give the impression I was getting more for my money.

Some things are better left alone… but Reese’s never got the message. Instead, over the years they’ve produced endless varieties on the original peanut butter cup. Before you knew it we had a choice of sizes (including “Big Cup”), fillings (peanut butter and banana creme? Yuck!), and candy coatings, as well as holiday shapes like milk chocolate hearts, eggs, pumpkins, and bells, all with the peanut butter filling. Finally, Reese’s Pieces joined the list, made infinitely more popular by their supporting role in the blockbuster film E.T.

The problem with variations on a Reese’s is the altered ratio of milk chocolate to peanut butter. I would’ve enjoyed standing in ole man Reese’s shoes back in the 1920s when he taste-tested his way to perfection. He should’ve put a patent on it, because too much milk chocolate or too much peanut butter just doesn’t taste right to me. But at least we’re talking about milk chocolate here. Now for the real injustice…

The H.B. Reese Candy Company became a subsidiary of Hershey in 1963. Their peanut butter cups instantly became Hershey’s bestseller (even surpassing the classic Hershey Bar). But recently, subtly, quietly, Hershey committed a mortal sin of the candy world. Rather than leaving well enough alone they changed the ingredients of a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Soon to come, there will no longer be any milk chocolate in a Reese’s, at least not by proper definition. Instead, you’ll indulge in a “chocolate-flavored coating”. In the world of food, we all know flavoring is just another word for “artificial”.

This little con of Hershey’s was brought to the headlines by none other than a grandson of H.B. Reese (and who can claim better peanut butter cup credentials than that?). Brad Reese is taking on Hershey for straying from the original recipe. Granted, the price of cocoa beans – the basis of real chocolate – has gone through the roof the last few years, forcing companies to get creative with size, price, or ingredients. I just wish Hershey offered me the option to still purchase the real thing.

I’ve already noticed how Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups are shrinking. The originals were 0.9 ounces. Then they went to 0.8 ounces, then 0.75, and finally to the 0.7 juniors they are today. If Hershey keeps this up, you’ll start thinking the “original” is a “miniature”. I can make peace with shrinkage as long as the milk chocolate/peanut butter ratio stays the same. But now the words “milk chocolate” will be removed from the orange wrapper. Ask the FDA and they’ll say, “Sorry, “chocolate-flavored coating” is not the same as “milk chocolate”.

I’m joining Brad Reese’s campaign to restore Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups to their original composition. Some things are just worth their weight in gold. Not that I’d pay gold for a peanut butter cup, but show me the original size, ratio, and ingredients and I might just be tempted.

Some content sourced from the NBC News article, “Grandson of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups is in pieces over missing milk chocolate”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.