Let’s Pretend

A couple of years I bought I bought a new, three-story doll house for my play therapy room. My old one was posh and well-appointed, but it had no stairs that led from one floor to the next. This was a real problem for many of the children I see in therapy, as they couldn’t figure out how to get the dolls from one floor to the next, and it got in the way of their play. They couldn’t suspend reality and pretend that there were stairs, or just have the dolls jump up and down. I notice that children who pretend do much better in life and in play therapy than those who can’t or who have limited pretend skills.

The new doll house has two sets of stairs, and the dolls can run up and down at will, and so do, and therapeutic play can go on impeded.  I haven’t read any recent research about the capacity of modern children to pretend in their play. I hope my clients represent a special group not representative of our children as a group.

My nine month old kitten has better pretend skills than may of my young clients. I know Luna doesn’t pretend using words. I suppose she pretends in images or actions, but I know she pretends. She hides from, and then pounces on, unsuspecting foil balls. She knows that the balls only move if she bats them or she carries them to us to throw. She walks away from them when she is finished playing, and doesn’t act as though they will move if she turns her back. It is as if she assigns some temporary identity to them when she hides and pounces, and then thinks about them differently when she walks away and goes on to new activities.  You can see her on top of a cabinet in our living room. She loves to jump up there and pounce on the Tomten figures and attack the Finnish straw goats. They are all in a closet now until she slows down and loses interest in them. I wish I knew what she was thinking about them.

How do you pretend? How do you think your animals pretend?

 

 

 

Michigan or Bust!

Today’s post comes to us from Steve.

I have always had a strong sense of place. Born in Iowa, I grew up regarding Minnesota as my natural home. I left Iowa in 1960, and for 54 years I was proud to call myself a Minnesotan. Then in 2014 I sold my pink bungalow and moved to Portland, Oregon, driving 1,745 miles in two ferocious days. The main reason for changing my life so dramatically was a desire to be closer to my daughter and grandson. On Trail Baboon “Saint Paul Steve” became “Happy Valley Steve.” I settled into an apartment near the top of a small mountain. In view of my age, I was sure I’d never set foot outside of Oregon. Indeed, because of my physical limitations, I have not often set foot outside my apartment in three years.

Guess what? In June I will travel 2,400 miles to set up a new home in Michigan. “Happy Valley Steve” will become “Port Huron Steve,” or something like that. I’ll get a Michigan driving license and slap Michigan plates on my old Subaru.

Why make such a dramatic move when I only got to Oregon three summers ago? My son-in-law has accepted a job in Port Huron, the town he grew up in and where his mother and brother still reside. He, my daughter and my grandson returned to his childhood home for Christmas a few weeks ago. That home, built in the 19th century, is parked right on the edge of the Saint Clair River. The photos with this article were taken of that on their visit. My son-in-law came back to Portland convinced he really belonged in the Midwest, and that he should do something to make a return to Port Huron possible.

And me? How is it that I’m moving back to the Midwest? I’m like a gimpy old dog that my family rescued from a canine shelter. Having adopted me, they cannot abandon me now. I should start rooting for Michigan athletic teams, for they routinely kick the butts of Minnesota teams. In any fight between a gopher and a wolverine, my money is on the wolverine! But my heart still hopes the gopher will prevail. Hey, you Gophers, Ski-U-Mah! Whatever the hell that means.

I hope the upcoming move will be less wrenching than the one I’ve done. It would be even nicer if I feel more at home in Port Huron than I have in Portland. Oregon is astonishingly beautiful, at least in places, and Portland is a fascinating city. It is only slightly less quirky than “Portlandia” suggests. I expected to feel at home with Portland’s progressive politics, but each day I spend here offers fresh proof that I am a Minnesotan and always will be. I have found Portland to be like a gorgeous girlfriend who chain smokes and makes a toxic mess of her personal finances. She’s irresistible, yet it is hard to believe things will end well for her. And whenever I drive through Portland a little voice whispers, “This isn’t home, is it? We don’t belong here.”

My daughter knew it would not be easy to tell my grandson, Liam, about the move. Ever since he was a toddler, Liam (now seven) has struggled with “transitions.” Now he faces losing all his friends and leaving his wonderful Montessori school to start up life again in a strange land where nobody knows him. Liam raised some concerns, which his mother attempted to address. Then Liam said, “But Grampy, Mom . . . what about him? I can’t leave Grampy behind!” My daughter said, “Oh, no Liam! We’d never leave Grampy. When we move, he comes with us.” Liam reflected and finally smiled. “Well, then I guess we’re good. We can do this.”

When have you taken a leap of faith and moved?

Grandpa’s Wallet

Today’s post comes to us from Jacque.

Recently I have felt a rush of appreciation from family and a newly found old friend.   The most recent appreciation episode is from someone long ago, my Grandpa who died in 1964.  As I have mentioned, I have been sorting through family pictures and papers, slowly making tedious progress.  Last week I took apart my old picture albums, and threw away duplicates (did I really need four copies of the many pictures taken at my first wedding, the ensuing marriage which ended in divorce?  I think not.)  This reduced the picture collection by 75%, to a mere 5 picture boxes to organize and cull more.  I will set this aside for a while.

Now I am starting to pick through the three overflowing plastic bins of papers, letters, deeds, cattle pedigrees and, yes, more pictures that are not mine, but my parents’, grandparents’, and great grandparents’ memorabilia. There in one bin I found Grandpa Stratton’s wallet, which my mother must have kept after he no longer lived with us in 1963.   His wallet contained a 1960 paper driver’s license, hand-typed and signed with no identifying picture, his fishing license much the same as the driver’s license, and my kindergarten picture with a four leaf clover pressed into it.  He and I spent a lot of time seeking four leaf clovers.

Looking at this gives me a poignant moment, remembering a loving Grandpa. My kindergarten forehead is stained with the patina created by a copper snap in the wallet, which ate through the picture sleeve.  The four-leaf clover is flat and fragile and dear.  It brings tears to my eyes.  I cannot throw away the old wallet because of the picture and the shamrock.  It now lies in my desk drawer where I can sneak a peak at it on a bad day(s) in which nobody else loves me enough.

My wallet is remarkably utilitarian compared to Grandpa’s wallet. I carry all my pictures of the Grandchildren on my phone, leaving the wallet to house plastic cards, coins, receipts,  and disorganized bills of various denominations.  No sentiment there at all.

What is in your wallet?

Are You Positive?

Today’s post compliment of tim.

mr ehlers was the badass teacher who taught drivers training at my high school

he hated hippies

he gave hell to everyone I knew except me. he was never nice but never gave me trouble. i think my friends noticed and asked but i didn’t have any idea what was going on.

years later my mom who was the art teacher in the school said mr ehlers had come up and told her “ that’s some son you have”

“why” she asked

he told her that some mean kids had been in the lunchroom and run into mike kennedy on purpose and knocked the books out of his hands.

mike was a big guy who was a special needs kid that was so good natured he had no enemies but he would notice that some people acted mean or stupid or do things to be funny just showing off for their friends. He was very philosophical about life. He had been that way when I was in first grade and met him at swimming lessons. He always had a smile and a story and told me how his sister karey was (i had a severe crush on her) so when the kids knocked the books out of his hands I went over to him and told him that i saw the kids acting stupid and helped him pick up his books. a pat on the back and a see ya later was all that went on that day but mr ehlers caught me doing something right and he was never able to see me as a hated hippy after that.

i try to remember that all the people who are driving me crazy in everyday life are not doing anything mean or intentionally trying to drive me nuts. they are just doing there little moment of life in front of me and that is how I get to base my conclusion as to if i would like to have coffee with them or not.

sometimes I try to remember that I am acting in a way that other people get to respond to too. am I really who I want to be?

i like getting caught being the right person

the one minute manager was a popular book in the early stages of my business life. it was a simple idea. if you are a manager try to catch people doing something right and praise the heck out of them. every time you catch them praise the heck out of them.

have you gotten positive feedback for being yourself?

Teasing Temps

It’s really quite a tease, these couple of days of near 60˚weather. Because of this unusually warm winter we’ve been having, I was able to ride my bike on Sunday to our friend Walken’s house. Last warm spell I rode to t’ai chi class at the Friendship (Senior) Center, and to pick up a few items at Midtown Foods. I am also in either walking or biking distance from:

– Paperbacks and Pieces, a book exchange that also sells some new books and other items

– Nia (aerobics class) at the WMCA

– the Winona Public Library and Post Office

– two coffee shops and the Acoustic Café  (plus innumerable fast food or pizza joints)

– Chapter Two Books (more used books)

– Bluff Country Food Co-op, and the downtown Farmers Market (in season)

– Winona State University, incl. theaters and auditoriums

– several large churches that host musical events and ad hoc groups like our Wellspring Singers

– Winona History and Winona Art Centers, which have classes, art show openings, political events, and films

– my chiropractor, dentist, and doctor

three thrift shops

It- a couple of pubs, and Ed’s No Name Bar (where artsy types gather every Friday eve)

This is the advantage of living in the “inner city”, here on this nice flat piece of land stretched along the Mississippi. I consider “walking or biking distance” to be anything I can get to within ten minutes. Several other things are not prohibitively far – for an outing, we have biked the 4 or 5 miles to my mom’s residence in the west end, and even out the Marine Art Museum.

Where would you like to walk to or bike to, once spring is really here?

Fancy a Game?

I discovered Tom Stoppard when I was in junior high. I was involved in a youth theater program and one of my pals showed up with a copy of “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.” I was immediately hooked. I was giddy with the word play Mr. Stoppard employs. She and I would spend hours sitting on the steps between rehearsals or during breaks reading that script – she as Guildenstern, me as Rosencrantz. (Decades on, we still address each other with those names and can recite parts of the play from memory.)

The best part of the whole script is the scant few pages that encompass the Questions Game. Rules are simple: keep asking questions. A point is scored if the opponent returns with a statement, repeats a question, hesitates, or uses rhetoric. Check out how Gary Oldman and Tim Roth play the game in the movie version here:

I was reminded of this when my buddy Guildenstern posted a video from the Old Vic with Daniel Radcliffe and Joshua McGuire playing a non-scripted version of the game as a promo for their upcoming production. Check out their version here:

An online game of questions quickly ensued with friends from different parts of my life chiming in. A portion of the exchange:

Was it your intent to score?
Did you start the game?
Ooo, can I play?
Is it good if I am already down one point?
Would you prefer it to be good?
Would I be a fool to prefer it so?
Are fools the only ones who can play?
Are you foolish?
Could any answer truly stop us from playing?

I couldn’t help but think to our conversations here that always start with a question.

A brief recap of the rules: only speak in questions. Statements, pauses, repeats or rhetoric will give a point to…someone. How much of the day can we spend only speaking to each other using only the interrogatory?

Would you like to play at Questions?

 

No Shirt, No Shoes – No Cash

We got an announcement at work today that British Airways will no longer take cash at any airport. All fees, upgrades and luggage fees must be paid by credit card.  It struck me that I had not expected cash to be banned during my lifetime.

What change has surprised you?

Garage Nemesis

I hate my garage door. And the garage door opener.  The opener is 26 years old; I had it installed (unfortunately not by a professional) when I bought the house.  I haven’t the vaguest idea how old the door itself is.  Of all the things that I’ve had to mess with over the decades, this is my nemesis.  I’ve spent more time putting in my screws, new washers, re-adjusting the various sensors and fixing the lightbulb than I care to think about.  And now it’s broken again, although it’s broken in a way I’ve never seen before.  So, one more trip to the hardware store!

Do you have a household nemesis?

A One-derful Year

Today’s post comes to us from Occasional Caroline.

I believe I’ve created a thing. At least I think it deserves to be “a thing” and to the best of my knowledge I thought it up.

Once per decade, beginning at age 21, we each have a full year of being “one-derful.” Twenty-onderful, thirty-onderful, etc.

Whenever anyone I know achieves a one-derful age, I urge them to invoke, acknowledge, and bask in it throughout the year. Many look at me oddly, but I think it should be a thing, celebrated by all. The “Golden Birthday” is a thing but I like my invention better. For one thing, Golden is really only celebrated on the actual birthday; if you were born early in a month, you’re too young to appreciate it when it happens to you. Never an issue with one-derful birthdays. Anticipation of a one-derful birthday can help take the sting out of entering a new decade; when you have a “significant” birthday, you’re only a year away from a one-derful one.

I rest my case.

What have you invented?

A Head Full Of Connections

Often when I am alone and my mind is free to wander, I am drawn to make connections between things I observe and things I know. Hisstarstorical things. Cultural things. Sometimes something I see or hear will trigger a question of etymology. I see a word or name in a new light and wonder, what’s the association there? Why are cantaloupes named for the call of the wolf? What does porcelain have to do with pigs? How does lactation fit into galactic? (It all goes back to the Milky Way) Is there any link between taxicabs and taxidermy? (There isn’t. Different root.)

I was out walking and happened to see an advertisement that used the word POSH. A widely held and completely unsubstantiated explanation of its etymology is that it originated with British sea voyage to India and that the most desirable staterooms were, on a round trip, “Port Out, Starboard Home”, and that this acronym was stamped on tickets of passage in purple ink. The problem is thaposht, though many souvenir tickets still exist in scrapbooks and museums, not a single one is so stamped, not in purple or otherwise. And who would such a stamp inform? The passenger would know what they had reserved. The crew would surely know the stateroom’s orientation by its number.

Like many etymological theories, the real origins of posh are speculative but a late nineteenth century dictionary of Romany (gypsy) terms lists “pash” as describing a dandy. By the early twentieth century, P. G. Wodehouse used it in its currently understood sense in a story, suggesting that by then it had entered into common parlance.

So, that’s a glimpse at what goes on inside my head when I am by myself.

What goes on in your head? Any favorite etymology?