Look up ‘genealogy’ in the dictionary and you’ll read something along the lines of “an account of the descent of a person, family or group from an ancestor” or “the study of family pedigrees.” Sounds a little ho-hum, doesn’t it?
But Google the phrase ‘genealogy research’ and you’ll get more than 1,600,000 hits. That’s an awful lot of listings; maybe genealogy isn’t so ho-hum after all.
My high school Civics teacher, who taught a genealogy class at night at El Centro College, gave the class an extra credit assignment to draw up our family trees. I discovered that I knew little about my father’s family. That wasn’t unusual, since my parents divorced when I was very young and my dad lived in another city, but what surprised me was that neither he nor his father could tell me much about their ancestors. I started researching to see what I could discover.
I began at the Dallas Public Library’s genealogical division downtown. It was a tremendous resource, and I spent countless hours scrolling through microfilmed census records. Until it happens to you, you might not understand the thrill of seeing the name of an ancestor written in the spidery handwriting of a census taker. Even when you can’t find a name you’re looking for, it’s still interesting to look at those old records. Once I found an address where numerous women shared the same residence, and the occupation of each was shown as “Bawd.”
Genealogy can increase your vocabulary.
Before the advent of the Internet, unless one could afford to travel, research was often limited to the local library, court, cemetery or church records, correspondence, and stories from relatives for information.
For many years the LDS (Latter Day Saints) church has shared its vast collection of genealogy records through inter-library loans and now on the Internet. These days literally millions of records are online and available with a keystroke. Unfortunately, there are lots of those resources that are full of errors and careless assumptions made by those who are less than diligent in their research, and it’s important to be cautious in what you take as true.
There are legitimate professionals who will research for a fee, but there are also some who, for a price, are miraculously always able to discover that you are related to British royalty, or the Kennedys, or President Barack Obama.
Let’s face it, most of us are descended from just plain folks. But those folks might have had interesting lives. I was astonished when I learned that my family lore held that a great-great-grandfather had killed a man over a poker game, and that another ancestor was a sharpshooter in the Civil War.
My favorite story was of my own great-grandfather John Tomlinson, whose wife died at age 35 (probably of exhaustion) after bearing him nine children. With five of those children being under the age of ten, that practical gentleman headed off to Tennessee to “court an old maid” he knew about.
On the way he stopped off in Arkansas to visit a cousin. Lou Ella Shofner, age 24, was in Arkansas visiting her sister, who introduced her to the rich widower. John embarked on a whirlwind courtship, married Lou Ella and brought her home to Texas.
And then he told her about the nine children.
I’ve tried to picture the moment of the great revelation, without much success. “Oh, Lou Ella, I KNEW there was something I forgot to tell you…”
But I got the story straight from her daughter’s mouth. Aunt Birdie told me “If Mama had known what she was getting into, she wouldn’t have done it.” In 1890, a woman couldn’t easily divorce her husband, so Lou Ella, only seven years older than her oldest stepdaughter, stayed with it and gave her husband seven more children, the youngest being my grandfather.
Who needs celebrity ancestors? There’s enough excitement and intrigue in some ordinary-folks' stories to rival any current reality TV show. But the only way you’ll ever know that is if you start looking into your own family history, asking questions and seeking out the stories. Your local genealogical society or Public Library will be glad to help you get started.
(Dallas Morning News online 4-08-09)
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Who are you?
The class period was nearly over.
“Pop quiz,” announced the teacher. The entire class groaned in unison. It was ten minutes until the bell on a Friday afternoon!
“The test has only three questions.” Three questions? Miss one question and you’ve failed! This is crazy!
“I won’t be collecting the test. It is for your own information only. Take out a sheet of paper and a pencil.” I looked at a classmate in puzzlement. What was going on?
“Question 1: Who are you?”
I wrote my name, assuming that my classmates did the same.
“Question 2: Who are you?”
I heard someone snicker behind me. I wasn’t sure anything was funny, I just thought it was weird. “I am a high school student,” I wrote.
After another pause:
“Question 3: Who are you?”
We all looked at each other in confusion. I think I wrote that I was a daughter, sister, and granddaughter. I was very glad that the papers weren’t to be turned in.
We put down our pencils. The teacher rose from his chair and moved in front of his desk. “I know you’re confused by these questions,” he said. “But I’ve asked them for an important reason. In a couple of years you will leave this building for the last time to make your way in the world. Some of you will go to college, some will go to work. Your lives may go in very different directions. The one thing you all have in common, the one way in which you are all alike, is the need to discover who you are.”
Every eye was on him.
“Is your name who you are? Is it your athletic ability? Your grades? Your popularity? Is it your occupation? If you are a Christian, did you say so?
“Only you can answer the question, ‘Who are you?’ But it’s a question that you must answer. If you don’t know who you are, you run the risk that someone else will define you, and wrongly. It’s not too soon to figure it out. Who are you?”
As if on cue, the bell rang. “Dismissed,” the teacher said.
We walked out of the room into the crowded hallway. I didn’t talk to any of my classmates about what had happened. I was embarrassed that, although I had been a Christian for several years, I hadn’t written that down.
A teacher in the public school system today would probably be fired for mentioning Christ in the context of such a quiz. But the question, “If you’re a Christian, did you say so?’” haunted me for years. At the time, I had made a profession of faith in Christ, but had not even thought of that when asked “Who are you?”
We spend years developing external identifiers. I am now a daughter, wife, mother, friend, volunteer, musician, employee, organization member, citizen, and more. Those are all important aspects of who I am. But external identifiers can change or even disappear. If my self-definition is completely linked to those, I am on shaky ground. The world is a fickle place. Families evolve, jobs end, friendships fizzle, glory days fade into the distant past. But my connection to God, and to his Son Jesus, is unbreakable. So I want my identity to be grounded in that.
During the season of Lent, Christians are encouraged to engage in a time of meditation, reminding ourselves of our need of God’s grace as we move toward the Easter celebration of Jesus’ resurrection. In my meditating, I think about that long-ago teacher and his pop quiz. That question set me on the journey to discovering just who I really was.
So ask me ‘Who are you?’ and I’ll tell you: I’m a child of God, and a follower of Christ. You won’t have to ask me three times.
(Dallas Morning News 3-08-09)
“Pop quiz,” announced the teacher. The entire class groaned in unison. It was ten minutes until the bell on a Friday afternoon!
“The test has only three questions.” Three questions? Miss one question and you’ve failed! This is crazy!
“I won’t be collecting the test. It is for your own information only. Take out a sheet of paper and a pencil.” I looked at a classmate in puzzlement. What was going on?
“Question 1: Who are you?”
I wrote my name, assuming that my classmates did the same.
“Question 2: Who are you?”
I heard someone snicker behind me. I wasn’t sure anything was funny, I just thought it was weird. “I am a high school student,” I wrote.
After another pause:
“Question 3: Who are you?”
We all looked at each other in confusion. I think I wrote that I was a daughter, sister, and granddaughter. I was very glad that the papers weren’t to be turned in.
We put down our pencils. The teacher rose from his chair and moved in front of his desk. “I know you’re confused by these questions,” he said. “But I’ve asked them for an important reason. In a couple of years you will leave this building for the last time to make your way in the world. Some of you will go to college, some will go to work. Your lives may go in very different directions. The one thing you all have in common, the one way in which you are all alike, is the need to discover who you are.”
Every eye was on him.
“Is your name who you are? Is it your athletic ability? Your grades? Your popularity? Is it your occupation? If you are a Christian, did you say so?
“Only you can answer the question, ‘Who are you?’ But it’s a question that you must answer. If you don’t know who you are, you run the risk that someone else will define you, and wrongly. It’s not too soon to figure it out. Who are you?”
As if on cue, the bell rang. “Dismissed,” the teacher said.
We walked out of the room into the crowded hallway. I didn’t talk to any of my classmates about what had happened. I was embarrassed that, although I had been a Christian for several years, I hadn’t written that down.
A teacher in the public school system today would probably be fired for mentioning Christ in the context of such a quiz. But the question, “If you’re a Christian, did you say so?’” haunted me for years. At the time, I had made a profession of faith in Christ, but had not even thought of that when asked “Who are you?”
We spend years developing external identifiers. I am now a daughter, wife, mother, friend, volunteer, musician, employee, organization member, citizen, and more. Those are all important aspects of who I am. But external identifiers can change or even disappear. If my self-definition is completely linked to those, I am on shaky ground. The world is a fickle place. Families evolve, jobs end, friendships fizzle, glory days fade into the distant past. But my connection to God, and to his Son Jesus, is unbreakable. So I want my identity to be grounded in that.
During the season of Lent, Christians are encouraged to engage in a time of meditation, reminding ourselves of our need of God’s grace as we move toward the Easter celebration of Jesus’ resurrection. In my meditating, I think about that long-ago teacher and his pop quiz. That question set me on the journey to discovering just who I really was.
So ask me ‘Who are you?’ and I’ll tell you: I’m a child of God, and a follower of Christ. You won’t have to ask me three times.
(Dallas Morning News 3-08-09)
First, take care of yourself
Recently while surfing the Internet, I learned about Ambush Makeover, wherein selected fans of the Today Show receive new hairdos, makeup and updated outfits. As I scrolled online through the photos of women who have received makeovers, I was delighted to see the transformations from "before" to "after." But one thing struck me: a lot of the "before" pictures were of women who looked tired. Really tired.
It was easy to guess why. A common denominator in the descriptions of many of the makeover subjects is that they are women who are so busy caring for the others in their lives that they neglect themselves.
Most mothers can relate to that. During the years that I was a stay-at-home mom, my focus was on my family’s physical, spiritual, and emotional care, often to the detriment of my own needs. In addition, I volunteered in schools, at church, and in the community. When you’re reaching out in so many directions, taking time for yourself is often the last thing on your mind. It is much easier to throw on any old clothes, apply minimal makeup and run a brush through your hair so that you can get busy doing things for others.
Similarly, though they probably spend more time on makeup and wardrobe, moms who work outside the home and then come home to care for their families and handle other obligations are often so exhausted that they don’t take the time to nurture themselves emotionally, much less worry about updating their appearance. Those of us who are caregivers for aging parents are often in the same boat.
We don’t want to let others down. There are so many people and endeavors that clamor for our time and talents. We usually don’t devote much time to thinking about how we look.
So how do we look? We look tired.
Remember that perfume commercial from the 1970s where the business-suited woman sang that she could "bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never ever let you forget you’re a man"? Wow! If the song had gone on, it might have described how she helped the kids with their homework, got them fed, bathed and into bed, organized their supplies for the next school day, did a couple of loads of laundry, cleaned the kitchen, and paid some bills. By the time that woman did all that, I guarantee she had no energy left for herself.
Not to provoke argument, but I think there’s a good chance that women really are wired as caregivers, that it is in our very nature to want — perhaps even to need — to nurture and care for those around us. Humans need nurturing, so the desire to nurture is a good thing, a necessary behavior. But we women sometimes feel selfish if we stop to re-charge, to take care of ourselves. And that’s a bad thing. Because while we’re so busy taking care of others, we often find, to our dismay, that there’s no one taking care of us.
Maybe that’s why I like makeover shows on TV. It’s OK to stop for a makeover, even if it’s just a psychological one. That may mean going to bed earlier at night in order to get more rest, asking a family member to take on extra responsibilities (even if the results are not quite up to our standards!), and learning to say no (and mean it!) to burdensome requests. It could mean regularly taking time to exercise, to read a book, to walk through the park, or hang out with a friend.
Or maybe even spending a little extra on a haircut without feeling guilty.
A lot of us seem to be afraid that the world will stop spinning if we don’t always do everything that everybody wants us to do. It won’t. Letting go of that burden might be a makeover in itself.
(Dallas Morning News online 1-30-09)
It was easy to guess why. A common denominator in the descriptions of many of the makeover subjects is that they are women who are so busy caring for the others in their lives that they neglect themselves.
Most mothers can relate to that. During the years that I was a stay-at-home mom, my focus was on my family’s physical, spiritual, and emotional care, often to the detriment of my own needs. In addition, I volunteered in schools, at church, and in the community. When you’re reaching out in so many directions, taking time for yourself is often the last thing on your mind. It is much easier to throw on any old clothes, apply minimal makeup and run a brush through your hair so that you can get busy doing things for others.
Similarly, though they probably spend more time on makeup and wardrobe, moms who work outside the home and then come home to care for their families and handle other obligations are often so exhausted that they don’t take the time to nurture themselves emotionally, much less worry about updating their appearance. Those of us who are caregivers for aging parents are often in the same boat.
We don’t want to let others down. There are so many people and endeavors that clamor for our time and talents. We usually don’t devote much time to thinking about how we look.
So how do we look? We look tired.
Remember that perfume commercial from the 1970s where the business-suited woman sang that she could "bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, and never ever let you forget you’re a man"? Wow! If the song had gone on, it might have described how she helped the kids with their homework, got them fed, bathed and into bed, organized their supplies for the next school day, did a couple of loads of laundry, cleaned the kitchen, and paid some bills. By the time that woman did all that, I guarantee she had no energy left for herself.
Not to provoke argument, but I think there’s a good chance that women really are wired as caregivers, that it is in our very nature to want — perhaps even to need — to nurture and care for those around us. Humans need nurturing, so the desire to nurture is a good thing, a necessary behavior. But we women sometimes feel selfish if we stop to re-charge, to take care of ourselves. And that’s a bad thing. Because while we’re so busy taking care of others, we often find, to our dismay, that there’s no one taking care of us.
Maybe that’s why I like makeover shows on TV. It’s OK to stop for a makeover, even if it’s just a psychological one. That may mean going to bed earlier at night in order to get more rest, asking a family member to take on extra responsibilities (even if the results are not quite up to our standards!), and learning to say no (and mean it!) to burdensome requests. It could mean regularly taking time to exercise, to read a book, to walk through the park, or hang out with a friend.
Or maybe even spending a little extra on a haircut without feeling guilty.
A lot of us seem to be afraid that the world will stop spinning if we don’t always do everything that everybody wants us to do. It won’t. Letting go of that burden might be a makeover in itself.
(Dallas Morning News online 1-30-09)
Fighting the ironing wars
When I was about 14 my grandmother hired me to do her ironing. I was thrilled, for at that age there are few ways to earn money. The price was the same, no matter the garment, so I was happy when there were lots of Granddaddy’s handkerchiefs to press.
I really did enjoy ironing. There’s something very satisfying about taking something all wrinkly and making it smooth and crisp. Using a big glass bottle with a spray head on a cork stopper, I would sprinkle the clothes and then roll them up and set them aside. If there wasn’t time to finish them all, we’d sometimes put the rolled-up garments in the freezer until the next time. I can still remember the delightful shock of holding a stiff frozen shirt, straight from the freezer, to my cheek.
Grandmother’s iron was a monster. With a shiny chrome finish, it was huge and very heavy. Once when I complained about its weight, Grandmother described what a chore it was when she was my age, having to use a flat iron heated on the stove. She considered the electric iron a great invention, and told me to count my blessings.
When I moved into an apartment, I was excited to buy my very own iron. (yes, I realize how pitiful that sounds). I don’t remember what brand it was, but I know this for a certainty: that iron was the standard bearer for a battle that I’ve waged ever since. It’s a battle I’ve yet to win.
It’s me vs. the irons.
Irons. Plural. Many irons. My grandmother had the same iron for as long as I can remember. (Back then, there was no such thing as planned obsolescence). In my 37 years of marriage I’ve probably owned 15 irons. Cheap irons, expensive irons, stainless steel irons, Teflon and plastic irons, it doesn’t matter: they’re all out to get me, and I hate them all.
I’ve had bare-bones irons that were basically Steam-No Steam. I’ve had fancy irons with multiple buttons that allowed choices between Cotton/Wool/Silk/Poly/Steam/Burst of Steam/Power Spray/Wash and Wax Your Car. I’ve followed the manufacturer’s instructions precisely. Irons used to require distilled water. Tap water might be okay for us to drink, but it wasn’t good enough for the iron. So I bought distilled water (is that even bottled anymore?) and was careful never to overfill the reservoir.
The iron’s instructions would mandate “Pour out all water when you are done - DO NOT LEAVE WATER SITTING IN IRON!” Not certain that the Minor Appliance Police weren’t peeping in my window to evaluate my trustworthiness, I dutifully poured out the water after each ironing session. If it said never to wrap the cord around the iron, I never did. If it said to leave the iron standing up until cool, I stood it up. I bought iron rests to make the irons’ lives easier. I bought a wall mount receptacle so that the iron wouldn’t have to rest on the laundry room shelf.
And none of it mattered. Because no matter what I do, or which iron I buy, they always defeat me. They quit working, they quit steaming, they leave water spots on my rayon or silk clothes, they refuse to heat up.
Once my iron died on me halfway through my husband’s dress shirt. Nicely-pressed collar, front and back, wrinkled sleeves. I had to go out and buy a new iron. Then I bought a back-up iron, in case the first one quit to spite me. Now the newer one -less than a year old- has quit steaming. The mister button still works, so I can spray the clothes as I iron them, but the steam feature has disappeared. And it occasionally spits out something brown (always when I’m ironing a white dress shirt) even though I use the self-clean feature and empty the water as directed.
So it’s back to the no-tech days of my grandmother’s youth. Next time I’m at an antique mall, I’ll be searching for an old flatiron. No steam, no electric cord, just a hot stove top and a pot holder, and I’m good to go.
(Dallas Morning News 1-11-09)
I really did enjoy ironing. There’s something very satisfying about taking something all wrinkly and making it smooth and crisp. Using a big glass bottle with a spray head on a cork stopper, I would sprinkle the clothes and then roll them up and set them aside. If there wasn’t time to finish them all, we’d sometimes put the rolled-up garments in the freezer until the next time. I can still remember the delightful shock of holding a stiff frozen shirt, straight from the freezer, to my cheek.
Grandmother’s iron was a monster. With a shiny chrome finish, it was huge and very heavy. Once when I complained about its weight, Grandmother described what a chore it was when she was my age, having to use a flat iron heated on the stove. She considered the electric iron a great invention, and told me to count my blessings.
When I moved into an apartment, I was excited to buy my very own iron. (yes, I realize how pitiful that sounds). I don’t remember what brand it was, but I know this for a certainty: that iron was the standard bearer for a battle that I’ve waged ever since. It’s a battle I’ve yet to win.
It’s me vs. the irons.
Irons. Plural. Many irons. My grandmother had the same iron for as long as I can remember. (Back then, there was no such thing as planned obsolescence). In my 37 years of marriage I’ve probably owned 15 irons. Cheap irons, expensive irons, stainless steel irons, Teflon and plastic irons, it doesn’t matter: they’re all out to get me, and I hate them all.
I’ve had bare-bones irons that were basically Steam-No Steam. I’ve had fancy irons with multiple buttons that allowed choices between Cotton/Wool/Silk/Poly/Steam/Burst of Steam/Power Spray/Wash and Wax Your Car. I’ve followed the manufacturer’s instructions precisely. Irons used to require distilled water. Tap water might be okay for us to drink, but it wasn’t good enough for the iron. So I bought distilled water (is that even bottled anymore?) and was careful never to overfill the reservoir.
The iron’s instructions would mandate “Pour out all water when you are done - DO NOT LEAVE WATER SITTING IN IRON!” Not certain that the Minor Appliance Police weren’t peeping in my window to evaluate my trustworthiness, I dutifully poured out the water after each ironing session. If it said never to wrap the cord around the iron, I never did. If it said to leave the iron standing up until cool, I stood it up. I bought iron rests to make the irons’ lives easier. I bought a wall mount receptacle so that the iron wouldn’t have to rest on the laundry room shelf.
And none of it mattered. Because no matter what I do, or which iron I buy, they always defeat me. They quit working, they quit steaming, they leave water spots on my rayon or silk clothes, they refuse to heat up.
Once my iron died on me halfway through my husband’s dress shirt. Nicely-pressed collar, front and back, wrinkled sleeves. I had to go out and buy a new iron. Then I bought a back-up iron, in case the first one quit to spite me. Now the newer one -less than a year old- has quit steaming. The mister button still works, so I can spray the clothes as I iron them, but the steam feature has disappeared. And it occasionally spits out something brown (always when I’m ironing a white dress shirt) even though I use the self-clean feature and empty the water as directed.
So it’s back to the no-tech days of my grandmother’s youth. Next time I’m at an antique mall, I’ll be searching for an old flatiron. No steam, no electric cord, just a hot stove top and a pot holder, and I’m good to go.
(Dallas Morning News 1-11-09)
Being a Christmas baby puts it all in perspective
Before the days of debit cards, when I carried my checkbook for retail transactions, there were four words I could be absolutely certain of hearing as I handed over my driver’s license and the cashier saw the birth date: “Oh! A Christmas baby!”
The next words would nearly always be something along the lines of either “How wonderful!” or, more often, “You poor thing!”
Both of those sentiments were correct.
As a first-born child, and the first grandchild on both sides of the family, my birth was already eagerly anticipated. When I arrived on Christmas Day, there was jubilation. My granddaddy joked that I came in a Christmas stocking, and always told me I was the best present he ever got. My Uncle Larry told me that when he saw the nurse carrying me, he thought I was the prettiest baby he’d ever seen.
I later realized that he was 12 at the time. I was the only baby he’d ever seen.
When I was young I thought being born on December 25 was terrific. By elementary school days, I realized that a Christmas birthday is definitely a mixed blessing. My friends got birthday cakes on their birthdays. If I ever had one when I was young, I sure can’t remember it. Milk and cookies were set out on Christmas Eve, but they were gone by the time I awoke on Christmas morning (no matter how early), so I don’t think they were for me.
And how many parents want to take their kids to a classmate’s birthday party on Christmas Day? (Answer: none).
Many cashiers over the years asked me, “Wasn’t it tough only getting one present a year?” What kind of stingy relatives did they have? I was always quick to defend my family. They were never so chinchy as to give one combination birthday-Christmas gift. There was always a separate present for my birthday. It was just that it was often wrapped in holiday paper.
There were definitely pluses to being a Christmas baby. I never once had to go to school on my birthday. In fact, I didn’t have to go back to school until the new year! When I was old enough to have a job, I never once had to work on my birthday. For weeks before, houses and stores were gaily decorated, folks were generally happy, there was lots of good food, and there was beautiful music at church.
But the Christmas that I turned 16, the only person who told me happy birthday was the boy down the street. Not a single person in my family remembered to say it. I did feel rather sorry for myself that year.
When Kyle Rote, Jr. played for the Dallas Tornado soccer team, a news article about him mentioned that his birthday was Christmas Day. A revelation! There were other people who were Christmas babies! I had never met another person born on December 25. And, wonder of wonders, he was born in the same year that I was. Kyle might never know me, but we were connected.
I wondered if he got birthday cakes.
I considered organizing a support group. “Born on Christmas Day? Tired of being overlooked in the hustle and bustle of the season? Join Christmas Babies Anonymous (since we might as well be…)”
Kyle and I could be charter members.
Over the years my perspective has changed, and I appreciate my Christmas birthday more than ever. I feel blessed to have been born on the day that Christians everywhere celebrate the birth of Jesus. I can’t imagine a more wonderful way to begin my birthday than to be in church, singing “Joy to the World” with people I love.
I recently asked Uncle Larry if he could remember anything else about the day of my birth. “I do remember that it was a great Christmas,” he responded. “I got a catcher’s mitt (YEEE-HAAA).” I asked my mom the same question. “I don’t really remember much about it. After all, it was nearly 60 years ago.”
Birthday or not, you can always count on your family to keep you grounded.
(Dallas Morning News online 1-05-09)
(Dallas Morning News online 1-05-09)
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Nice skirt, nice blouse...but oh, those shoes!
When my daughter Joanna, at age 9, was getting ready for church one day, she put on a white denim skirt and a print blouse. To complete the casual look, she got out her tennis shoes but discovered that they looked a little dingy.
She grabbed the sneaker polish and brightened one shoe, then the polish ran out. She had one bright white shoe and one that looked pretty drab in comparison. Completely frustrated, she muttered to herself, "I can hear the compliments now: 'Nice skirt, nice blouse - dreadful shoes!'"
Poor Jo. I sympathized completely. Because I love shoes. For the first half of my marriage, as a stay-at-home mom trying to be a good steward of one income, I focused more on my daughters and didn't buy many pairs of shoes for myself. When the girls grew up and left home, I looked at my feet and thought, "Your time has come."
On the shelves in my closet now are clear plastic boxes neatly labeled as Loafers, Patent Heels, Patent Sandals, Mary Janes, Pumps, Slides, Stretch Denim, Criss-Cross Strap Heels, Oxfords and Flower-trim Sandals.
And those are just the black shoes.
My husband Jack can't comprehend how I can have so many shoes. But my black patent heels that are killer with a suit would look silly with a cotton summer skirt. The pale blue slide that looks great with jeans doesn't work with business wear. Is this so hard to understand?
I have so many shoes and purses that I have to rotate them by season, because I can't fit them all on the shelves at the same time.
OK, maybe that's a little crazy. But I'm certainly not alone.
I took an informal survey of some women family and friends to find out how they feel about shoes and how many shoes they own, and the results were interesting.
Janet said that she can put on an ordinary outfit, then add a gorgeous pair of shoes to make her feel like a million bucks. Sarah is petite and sometimes has trouble finding stylish clothes to fit, so she makes up for it with adorable shoes that make her feel beautiful - and she'll wear them even if they kill her feet.
Donna confesses to owning many dozens of shoes, even though she only wears a few of them regularly. Julia feels that the right shoe is essential to an outfit.
The women who responded to my survey own an average 28 pairs of shoes. Most said that they generally buy shoes only when they need them - but, of course, 'need' is pretty subjective, isn't it?
Only three respondents said that they seldom think about what they wear on their feet. Joanna wasn't among that group - she doesn't allow herself to be seen in 'dreadful' shoes anymore.
Spying her in a new pair recently, I exclaimed, "How cute! Are they comfortable?"
She grinned and replied, "Let's just leave it at 'they're cute.' "
She has company. The majority of the gals I surveyed said that they'd suffer in uncomfortable shoes for a good reason - to complete an outfit or for a special occasion.
Judging by the number of stores selling women's shoes, my respondents and I are not alone in our love of footwear.
I can't explain why women are generally so much fonder of shoes than men are, but I know one thing for sure: There are a lot of sole sisters out there.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 02-16-08)
She grabbed the sneaker polish and brightened one shoe, then the polish ran out. She had one bright white shoe and one that looked pretty drab in comparison. Completely frustrated, she muttered to herself, "I can hear the compliments now: 'Nice skirt, nice blouse - dreadful shoes!'"
Poor Jo. I sympathized completely. Because I love shoes. For the first half of my marriage, as a stay-at-home mom trying to be a good steward of one income, I focused more on my daughters and didn't buy many pairs of shoes for myself. When the girls grew up and left home, I looked at my feet and thought, "Your time has come."
On the shelves in my closet now are clear plastic boxes neatly labeled as Loafers, Patent Heels, Patent Sandals, Mary Janes, Pumps, Slides, Stretch Denim, Criss-Cross Strap Heels, Oxfords and Flower-trim Sandals.
And those are just the black shoes.
My husband Jack can't comprehend how I can have so many shoes. But my black patent heels that are killer with a suit would look silly with a cotton summer skirt. The pale blue slide that looks great with jeans doesn't work with business wear. Is this so hard to understand?
I have so many shoes and purses that I have to rotate them by season, because I can't fit them all on the shelves at the same time.
OK, maybe that's a little crazy. But I'm certainly not alone.
I took an informal survey of some women family and friends to find out how they feel about shoes and how many shoes they own, and the results were interesting.
Janet said that she can put on an ordinary outfit, then add a gorgeous pair of shoes to make her feel like a million bucks. Sarah is petite and sometimes has trouble finding stylish clothes to fit, so she makes up for it with adorable shoes that make her feel beautiful - and she'll wear them even if they kill her feet.
Donna confesses to owning many dozens of shoes, even though she only wears a few of them regularly. Julia feels that the right shoe is essential to an outfit.
The women who responded to my survey own an average 28 pairs of shoes. Most said that they generally buy shoes only when they need them - but, of course, 'need' is pretty subjective, isn't it?
Only three respondents said that they seldom think about what they wear on their feet. Joanna wasn't among that group - she doesn't allow herself to be seen in 'dreadful' shoes anymore.
Spying her in a new pair recently, I exclaimed, "How cute! Are they comfortable?"
She grinned and replied, "Let's just leave it at 'they're cute.' "
She has company. The majority of the gals I surveyed said that they'd suffer in uncomfortable shoes for a good reason - to complete an outfit or for a special occasion.
Judging by the number of stores selling women's shoes, my respondents and I are not alone in our love of footwear.
I can't explain why women are generally so much fonder of shoes than men are, but I know one thing for sure: There are a lot of sole sisters out there.
(Dallas Morning News Neighbors 02-16-08)
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Churches aren't exempt from customer service
In a previous employment, one of the tasks of my job was to visit churches in order to convey information about area services to senior citizens.
In that capacity, the first thing I noticed is that, with regard to signage, many churches aren’t very welcoming to strangers. It’s surprising how many churches don’t identify the location of the church office, or post signs showing the office hours. Many churches built in recent years aren’t of traditional architecture, and don’t have “typical” Sanctuaries. You can’t always tell which part of the building is the Sanctuary, and its entrance may not be much different from the entrance to the office. Why don’t churches make it easier on visitors who don’t know where to go? On Sunday morning, do visitors just have to follow the flow in order to find anything?
But the more serious concern is how many churches just aren’t welcoming to strangers. In each case I was visiting in order to provide information, not to solicit a handout, and yet too many times the secretary or other person of first contact treated me as if I were begging for something.
A few days before Easter this year I visited a church in DeSoto. The secretary’s office was right off the entrance, and I stepped towards her door only to observe that she was on the telephone. She glanced at me but didn’t otherwise acknowledge my presence, so I stepped away to give her some privacy. And I waited. After I’d stood there about five minutes, a man planting flowers right outside the building stuck his head in and asked me “Does she know you’re here?” “Yes, thank you, “I replied. He went back outside, and I waited some more. Although I was several feet away from the secretary’s office door, I couldn’t avoid overhearing the conversation, and it was obvious that it was a personal one, all chatty and friendly. After about six more minutes, the gentleman outside who had been keeping an eye on me through the front door stuck his head back inside. “Hasn’t she helped you yet?” “No,” I answered, “she’s still on the phone.” He came into the building, walked into her office and said something to the secretary. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I heard her brusque response very clearly: “Find out what she wants.”
The man came out into the hallway. He was very obviously embarrassed, and said, “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can help you with?” I thanked him and left some literature.
On my drive back to the office I thought about the experience. Suppose I had been looking for a church home? Or wanting to inquire about the Easter service? Or needing to talk to a pastor? I was neatly dressed, polite, and undemanding. But in the twelve minutes that I stood there, the secretary couldn’t find it in her heart to put her caller on hold for even a moment and ask if she could help me.
Every job I’ve had has been in some sort of service field, where it was important to acknowledge visitors or clients and extend them courtesy. At a church, which is supposed to be the visible presence of Christ in the world, I was treated with absolute indifference by the guardian of the gate. If I am ever looking for another church home, it’s a certainty that I won’t look there.
So I urge pastors and members of congregations to look with a critical eye at what their building, signage, and office personnel are saying to those outside the walls. Is a person welcome only if he’s already a member of the club?
(DeSoto Today 9-22-05)
In that capacity, the first thing I noticed is that, with regard to signage, many churches aren’t very welcoming to strangers. It’s surprising how many churches don’t identify the location of the church office, or post signs showing the office hours. Many churches built in recent years aren’t of traditional architecture, and don’t have “typical” Sanctuaries. You can’t always tell which part of the building is the Sanctuary, and its entrance may not be much different from the entrance to the office. Why don’t churches make it easier on visitors who don’t know where to go? On Sunday morning, do visitors just have to follow the flow in order to find anything?
But the more serious concern is how many churches just aren’t welcoming to strangers. In each case I was visiting in order to provide information, not to solicit a handout, and yet too many times the secretary or other person of first contact treated me as if I were begging for something.
A few days before Easter this year I visited a church in DeSoto. The secretary’s office was right off the entrance, and I stepped towards her door only to observe that she was on the telephone. She glanced at me but didn’t otherwise acknowledge my presence, so I stepped away to give her some privacy. And I waited. After I’d stood there about five minutes, a man planting flowers right outside the building stuck his head in and asked me “Does she know you’re here?” “Yes, thank you, “I replied. He went back outside, and I waited some more. Although I was several feet away from the secretary’s office door, I couldn’t avoid overhearing the conversation, and it was obvious that it was a personal one, all chatty and friendly. After about six more minutes, the gentleman outside who had been keeping an eye on me through the front door stuck his head back inside. “Hasn’t she helped you yet?” “No,” I answered, “she’s still on the phone.” He came into the building, walked into her office and said something to the secretary. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I heard her brusque response very clearly: “Find out what she wants.”
The man came out into the hallway. He was very obviously embarrassed, and said, “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can help you with?” I thanked him and left some literature.
On my drive back to the office I thought about the experience. Suppose I had been looking for a church home? Or wanting to inquire about the Easter service? Or needing to talk to a pastor? I was neatly dressed, polite, and undemanding. But in the twelve minutes that I stood there, the secretary couldn’t find it in her heart to put her caller on hold for even a moment and ask if she could help me.
Every job I’ve had has been in some sort of service field, where it was important to acknowledge visitors or clients and extend them courtesy. At a church, which is supposed to be the visible presence of Christ in the world, I was treated with absolute indifference by the guardian of the gate. If I am ever looking for another church home, it’s a certainty that I won’t look there.
So I urge pastors and members of congregations to look with a critical eye at what their building, signage, and office personnel are saying to those outside the walls. Is a person welcome only if he’s already a member of the club?
(DeSoto Today 9-22-05)
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