...
Another great convenience that has been a part of my life for some years now is the car, or rather a succession of cars. They are always old, and they always act up in ways befitting their age, but they are cars and they get me from here to there most of the time. We never had a car when I grew up, and I am still the only person in my immediate family to be a car owner. The trip to an uncle's funeral in a town thirty miles away, while wearing my Sunday best and riding on the back of a borrowed, temperamental moped driven by my father, is a memory that's guaranteed to last forever.
I remember the years that brought progress to my home as other people recall the dates of great, world-changing events. 1967-the refrigerator. 1972-the washing machine. A much-needed and long-overdue telephone-1978. How did we manage? We did what people everywhere have been doing since the beginning of time-we made do. Mother shopped almost daily for fresh food in neighborhood stores; leftovers and the few perishables on hand were kept on our hallway stairs where it was always cold, even in the middle of summer. And if some major event necessitated that one of my parents make a phone call, we took a walk to the post office where all four of us squeezed into one of three cubicles equipped with a telephone. A nod from the operator seated behind her desk signaled that we were connected.
Progress finally arrived in the form of a phone booth on our street, but somehow calling other people never really caught on in our family. It always remained a novelty, reserved for transmitting only the direst news. For everything else we had letters and postcards.
Times have changed, perhaps more so for me than for most others of my generation. I grew up at a time and in a place where farmers cut the grass with sickles and turned the resultant hay with wood-tined rakes; where people went to threshing parties and butchered their own pigs in the barnyard; where fields were planted with no-nonsense food like turnips, cabbage and potatoes, and fun for us kids was stealing fruit off other people's trees. It seems like ten lifetimes ago.
So long ago. Today my life is filled with gadgets large and small, and their existence has allowed me to focus on things other than keeping myself fed, bathed and in clean clothes. But always at the back of my mind are the uneasy memories of what it was like without, and I wouldn't dream of taking any of my gadgets for granted.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Thankful---part1
Late last night, after cleaning up a pet's accident, I found myself grateful once again for the miracle of running hot water. This sentiment may seem odd to most people in this country, but becomes more understandable when I reveal that I spent my first twelve years without this marvelous convenience.
Our domestic shortcoming affected my hardworking parents much more than me. They were the ones who had to deal with all its implications on a daily basis while I, a child and not knowing any better, wasn't bothered all that much. At least that's how I remember it, suspecting that time has erased some of the more gruesome details of growing up in a poor, post-war, cold-water-only household.
One thing I do remember vividly is the weekly bath my brother and I got to enjoy on Saturday nights. My father would haul the huge, galvanized metal tub from the basement where it resided next to our annual allotment of coal, a large wooden bin filled with potatoes and a stash of home-canned goods unrivaled in our village.
The tub was set up in the middle of the kitchen, while on the stove water was boiling merrily in mother's large canning kettle. Combined with enough cold water to keep it from scalding us, it filled the tub just slightly less than half full. To make the bath more interesting, my mother added a round pine-scented bath cake which, upon dissolving in a burst of fizzy bubbles, filled the room with an intensely foresty fragrance and turned the water that special shade of green known as "hazardous chemical spill".
The scrubbing my brother and I received was intense, making up on that one occasion for all the previous nights we went increasingly unwashed. It's hard to keep a body clean when all you have to work with is a cold-water faucet at the kitchen sink, the bathroom a luxury that didn't become a part of my life until I was almost a teenager. Since we spent all our free time playing outside, we must have been two remarkably dirty children.
The above-mentioned tub was also an essential part of my mother's weekly washday. For this she would go to another of the basement and fire up the small wood burning stove squatting there. With much water hauling and water boiling, engulfed in steam, suds and sweat, with the aid of a washboard, a stiff brush and a slippery hunk of yellow soap, she somehow managed to clean the entire laundry created by a family of four.
Anyone guessing that there was no electric dryer to cope with all this wet wash is guessing correctly. Outside to the clotheslines it went, piled high in basket after heavy basket, in weather of every description. It was on winter washdays I became acquainted with the expression "freeze-dried". It was something that happened to our laundry, its usefulness in food preservation still largely unknown. I remember many a half-dark, foggy winter afternoon when, walking home from school, I was greeted by those ghostly frozen forms hanging motionless in our yard like empty shells abandoned by their departed souls.
to be continued...
Our domestic shortcoming affected my hardworking parents much more than me. They were the ones who had to deal with all its implications on a daily basis while I, a child and not knowing any better, wasn't bothered all that much. At least that's how I remember it, suspecting that time has erased some of the more gruesome details of growing up in a poor, post-war, cold-water-only household.
One thing I do remember vividly is the weekly bath my brother and I got to enjoy on Saturday nights. My father would haul the huge, galvanized metal tub from the basement where it resided next to our annual allotment of coal, a large wooden bin filled with potatoes and a stash of home-canned goods unrivaled in our village.
The tub was set up in the middle of the kitchen, while on the stove water was boiling merrily in mother's large canning kettle. Combined with enough cold water to keep it from scalding us, it filled the tub just slightly less than half full. To make the bath more interesting, my mother added a round pine-scented bath cake which, upon dissolving in a burst of fizzy bubbles, filled the room with an intensely foresty fragrance and turned the water that special shade of green known as "hazardous chemical spill".
The scrubbing my brother and I received was intense, making up on that one occasion for all the previous nights we went increasingly unwashed. It's hard to keep a body clean when all you have to work with is a cold-water faucet at the kitchen sink, the bathroom a luxury that didn't become a part of my life until I was almost a teenager. Since we spent all our free time playing outside, we must have been two remarkably dirty children.
The above-mentioned tub was also an essential part of my mother's weekly washday. For this she would go to another of the basement and fire up the small wood burning stove squatting there. With much water hauling and water boiling, engulfed in steam, suds and sweat, with the aid of a washboard, a stiff brush and a slippery hunk of yellow soap, she somehow managed to clean the entire laundry created by a family of four.
Anyone guessing that there was no electric dryer to cope with all this wet wash is guessing correctly. Outside to the clotheslines it went, piled high in basket after heavy basket, in weather of every description. It was on winter washdays I became acquainted with the expression "freeze-dried". It was something that happened to our laundry, its usefulness in food preservation still largely unknown. I remember many a half-dark, foggy winter afternoon when, walking home from school, I was greeted by those ghostly frozen forms hanging motionless in our yard like empty shells abandoned by their departed souls.
to be continued...
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
What sold me on this country-a tribute to the American people
Having come here from somewhere else people often ask me what I think about their country, these United States. I usually answer that I really like it here; that despite some shortcomings it's the greatest country on earth, for a lot of reasons. But what I like most about it is its people. The kindness I meet everywhere I go; the generosity toward those in need that I see all around me; the boundless optimism and the "we'll take care of that" attitude that just can't be stopped.
And then, sometimes, I tell them this story.
I am sitting in the courtyard of the apartment building where I live. I am five years old. With me is my best friend Lottie who is six. She's trying to teach me how to tie my shoelaces. I'm thinking that I've just about got it when a sudden grumbling sound distracts us-forgotten are the shoelaces.
Our curiosity on fire, we run out to the street. The distant rumbling has turned into the tortured clanging and clattering of many iron treads on pavement, as a long line of American tanks winds its way up the street. One by one they roll past our apartment block.
This is a novel sight! We cheer and wave at the green-clad soldiers leaning out of the tops of these awesome machines, and they smile and wave back at us. Then, a total surprise. Reaching into the depths of their clamorous, cannon-studded monsters, a few of the men come up with handfuls of something that they throw toward us. It takes us just seconds to identify the wrapped objects as chocolate bars. By then every child in the neighborhood has joined us, but after many tanks and many generous soldiers there is plenty for all.
It is five years later, an evening in early summer. Thanks to a government program several of my friends and I are en route to spend our six weeks of summer holiday on an island in the North Sea. Right now we are still in a train station, waiting to switch lines to get us from our little local onto the big one that will take us all the way up north, all the way to our ship.
A rowdy bunch of American soldiers spills from another train and tumbles toward us noisily. They say something to the woman in charge of us who, with helpless shrugs and polite smiles, indicates her non-comprehension.Giving up, they move toward the snack bar and out of sight.
We are still waiting for our connecting train when the soldiers reappear, even more boisterous and happy than before. Smiling all the while and saying things we have no way of understanding, they pull chocolates, obviously just bought, from their pockets, and hand one to each of us, even our chaperone. I guess we must have been a sorry-looking lot, a dozen or so scrawny, underfed ten-year-olds late at night in an ill-lit train station.
Fast forward to winter 1965. I am now thirteen and unfortunately, due to my parents' poor life choices, I am spending Christmas in a state orphanage. No one is feeling very festive when suddenly all of us children are invited to join in holiday celebrations at the local American Army base.
Ants must have been in our pants or in those bus seats because there was no keeping us still on the ride across town. As we pulled up, a crowd of people stood waiting, and as the doors of the bus hissed open, each child was greeted by a friendly, smiling family and led toward unknown adventures. The first of these turned out to be a dinner so sumptuous it seemed like a meal in heaven to us. Some of the dishes were strange but never mind, it was delicious and I ate it all, including a tiny box of ice cream.
Later on, we watched some cartoons and I know we all had a great time. I was in my first year of studying English during that winter and I'm sure that, despite my shyness, I must have tried to use a dozen words or so in our not-so-successful attempts at a conversation. There was no difficulty, however, when it came to understanding our expressions of gratitude, especially after we all received a beautifully wrapped Christmas gift.
I was too young then to realize all the implications of a foreign military entrenched in my country, and all the upheavals that had brought things to this point. After many years I understood that not all of my fellow citizens had the opportunity to form such a positive view of the situation. But, speaking for myself, I will always be grateful to the people who, through a few acts of kindness and generosity, made such a long-lasting impression on me, a little girl in another country.
And then, sometimes, I tell them this story.
I am sitting in the courtyard of the apartment building where I live. I am five years old. With me is my best friend Lottie who is six. She's trying to teach me how to tie my shoelaces. I'm thinking that I've just about got it when a sudden grumbling sound distracts us-forgotten are the shoelaces.
Our curiosity on fire, we run out to the street. The distant rumbling has turned into the tortured clanging and clattering of many iron treads on pavement, as a long line of American tanks winds its way up the street. One by one they roll past our apartment block.
This is a novel sight! We cheer and wave at the green-clad soldiers leaning out of the tops of these awesome machines, and they smile and wave back at us. Then, a total surprise. Reaching into the depths of their clamorous, cannon-studded monsters, a few of the men come up with handfuls of something that they throw toward us. It takes us just seconds to identify the wrapped objects as chocolate bars. By then every child in the neighborhood has joined us, but after many tanks and many generous soldiers there is plenty for all.
It is five years later, an evening in early summer. Thanks to a government program several of my friends and I are en route to spend our six weeks of summer holiday on an island in the North Sea. Right now we are still in a train station, waiting to switch lines to get us from our little local onto the big one that will take us all the way up north, all the way to our ship.
A rowdy bunch of American soldiers spills from another train and tumbles toward us noisily. They say something to the woman in charge of us who, with helpless shrugs and polite smiles, indicates her non-comprehension.Giving up, they move toward the snack bar and out of sight.
We are still waiting for our connecting train when the soldiers reappear, even more boisterous and happy than before. Smiling all the while and saying things we have no way of understanding, they pull chocolates, obviously just bought, from their pockets, and hand one to each of us, even our chaperone. I guess we must have been a sorry-looking lot, a dozen or so scrawny, underfed ten-year-olds late at night in an ill-lit train station.
Fast forward to winter 1965. I am now thirteen and unfortunately, due to my parents' poor life choices, I am spending Christmas in a state orphanage. No one is feeling very festive when suddenly all of us children are invited to join in holiday celebrations at the local American Army base.
Ants must have been in our pants or in those bus seats because there was no keeping us still on the ride across town. As we pulled up, a crowd of people stood waiting, and as the doors of the bus hissed open, each child was greeted by a friendly, smiling family and led toward unknown adventures. The first of these turned out to be a dinner so sumptuous it seemed like a meal in heaven to us. Some of the dishes were strange but never mind, it was delicious and I ate it all, including a tiny box of ice cream.
Later on, we watched some cartoons and I know we all had a great time. I was in my first year of studying English during that winter and I'm sure that, despite my shyness, I must have tried to use a dozen words or so in our not-so-successful attempts at a conversation. There was no difficulty, however, when it came to understanding our expressions of gratitude, especially after we all received a beautifully wrapped Christmas gift.
I was too young then to realize all the implications of a foreign military entrenched in my country, and all the upheavals that had brought things to this point. After many years I understood that not all of my fellow citizens had the opportunity to form such a positive view of the situation. But, speaking for myself, I will always be grateful to the people who, through a few acts of kindness and generosity, made such a long-lasting impression on me, a little girl in another country.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
On Independence
Just in time for Independence Day my wristwatch has developed an independent streak of its own. I noticed this yesterday morning while getting myself ready to tackle another day at Seams to You, the place where your sewing dreams come true.
I had a feeling I was running a little late, but a quick glance at my watch showed that it was actually a lot earlier than I had thought. In fact, I had gobs of time! Not investigating this apparent discrepancy any further, I poured another cup of coffee, watered the houseplants and applied a few extra layers of mascara. I tried on and discarded three outfits and even attempted to torture my hair into something resembling young and hip.
Things went well until I happened to look at the tiny alarm clock by my bedside and said WTF? The time display on my cell phone confirmed what had happened. All on its own, without my permission, written or otherwise, the watch had lost more than half an hour (who knows where and why), turning me from a get-ready-at-a-leisurely-pace kind of person into the sort of crazy woman who, because she is now late, rushes out of the house with only half her hair done.
Normally I'm all for independence. I'm an independent person myself, having chosen to make a living by running my own business. I earn a fraction of my former income, but, by golly, I do what I want. I am in charge! No one can fire me, write me up for insubordination or lay me off. Each one of these is worth every penny I don't have anymore.
I like it when countries gain their independence from oppressive forces that would keep them down and exploit their resources, human and otherwise. I like it when people venture forth in search of something that no corporation, no matter how with-it and progressive, can ever provide. I've never been a blind follower myself, nor do I want to see this trait in others, right down to the pets I've had the honor of living with.
My last pet, a very smart little wiener dog, was quick to adapt to this unusual concept. Often I'd call her and she would just sit there, weighing her options. The look in her eyes was easy to read: now why would I want to do that? So sometimes she would come, and other times she wouldn't. I loved that dog for a hundred wonderful reasons, but most of all I loved her for what I can only call her independent thinking. Besides, I knew, had I called her for a vitally important reason, she would have come.
Where I don't value independence all that much is in machinery and other stuff that I rely on to keep my life running as smoothly as possible. I don't like it when my car decides that the topmost flyover of the Big I is a good place for the clutch to go out. Or that a flashflood-causing downpour is the appropriate moment to make the driver side window plummet into the depths of the car door. That kind of independence shouldn't be encouraged, and I'm sure many would agree with me here.
A memo, then, to cars, watches, laptops and coffee makers: I'm happier when you don't decide to suddenly go rogue on me, messing up my day; everyone else, feel free to exercise your independence muscle whenever and however you choose. You live only once; make the most of it and don't be a mindless follower.
I'll end by saying Happy Birthday, America! Your independent spirit hasn't aged a bit, and while you do look a little time-worn, I'm confident you'll be celebrating your special day until the end of time.
I had a feeling I was running a little late, but a quick glance at my watch showed that it was actually a lot earlier than I had thought. In fact, I had gobs of time! Not investigating this apparent discrepancy any further, I poured another cup of coffee, watered the houseplants and applied a few extra layers of mascara. I tried on and discarded three outfits and even attempted to torture my hair into something resembling young and hip.
Things went well until I happened to look at the tiny alarm clock by my bedside and said WTF? The time display on my cell phone confirmed what had happened. All on its own, without my permission, written or otherwise, the watch had lost more than half an hour (who knows where and why), turning me from a get-ready-at-a-leisurely-pace kind of person into the sort of crazy woman who, because she is now late, rushes out of the house with only half her hair done.
Normally I'm all for independence. I'm an independent person myself, having chosen to make a living by running my own business. I earn a fraction of my former income, but, by golly, I do what I want. I am in charge! No one can fire me, write me up for insubordination or lay me off. Each one of these is worth every penny I don't have anymore.
I like it when countries gain their independence from oppressive forces that would keep them down and exploit their resources, human and otherwise. I like it when people venture forth in search of something that no corporation, no matter how with-it and progressive, can ever provide. I've never been a blind follower myself, nor do I want to see this trait in others, right down to the pets I've had the honor of living with.
My last pet, a very smart little wiener dog, was quick to adapt to this unusual concept. Often I'd call her and she would just sit there, weighing her options. The look in her eyes was easy to read: now why would I want to do that? So sometimes she would come, and other times she wouldn't. I loved that dog for a hundred wonderful reasons, but most of all I loved her for what I can only call her independent thinking. Besides, I knew, had I called her for a vitally important reason, she would have come.
Where I don't value independence all that much is in machinery and other stuff that I rely on to keep my life running as smoothly as possible. I don't like it when my car decides that the topmost flyover of the Big I is a good place for the clutch to go out. Or that a flashflood-causing downpour is the appropriate moment to make the driver side window plummet into the depths of the car door. That kind of independence shouldn't be encouraged, and I'm sure many would agree with me here.
A memo, then, to cars, watches, laptops and coffee makers: I'm happier when you don't decide to suddenly go rogue on me, messing up my day; everyone else, feel free to exercise your independence muscle whenever and however you choose. You live only once; make the most of it and don't be a mindless follower.
I'll end by saying Happy Birthday, America! Your independent spirit hasn't aged a bit, and while you do look a little time-worn, I'm confident you'll be celebrating your special day until the end of time.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Did you really just say this?
Most of us are familiar with the old list of things one isn't allowed to say on the air. It served a purpose, protecting tender ears and minds against language not suitable for everyone.
But now a new threat is coming at us via the airwaves, and that is the threat of language mutilated by people who don't seem to care that they sound like idiots. This includes news desk personnel, talk show hosts, ad designers and pretty much everyone else bold enough to speak to the public.To aid in combating this epidemic, I have put together a new list of things that shouldn't be said on the air.
I COULD CARE LESS
Nothing says "I'm putting on a good act but deep down inside I'm an illiterate moron" like this sentence does. If you use this statement you have absolutely no idea what it is you're trying to say, and you are only repeating something you heard from some other dimwit . What you should be saying is "I couldn't care less". There isn't enough time or space here to explain to you why this is so; you just have to trust me.
WE ALSO REPORTED ON THIS AS WELL....
Please don't use "also" and "as well" in the same sentence. They mean the same thing, and what you're saying here is "we also reported on this also...."
THEY ARE BASED OUT OF...
Where did that one come from? Who was the first person to think this sounded right? Things or persons are based IN, not OUT OF. The correct phrase is "they are based in..."
WE ARE HONING IN ON THIS STORY....
This just gets worse and worse. Whoever started that one clearly had to idea what honing means. One can hone a tool, a razor, or one's skills, as "to hone" means "to sharpen." "We're sharpening in on this story" sounds idiotic, so please stop using it!
WE'RE ROOTING YOU ON.....
Is there no end to it? We can either root for someone, or we can cheer them on, but to root them on is not a third option.
WE OPENED OFF THIS SHOW...
Another unhappy mix of two statements. We can either open up a show or start it off, but never can we open it off.
EXETERA
This one has become a biggie and needs to be stamped out right now! Another example of people mindlessly repeating rubbish without knowing what they're saying. The correct phrase is, of course, "et cetera", which is Latin and means "and so on", or "and so forth". I don't expect any better from the undereducated masses, but people I used to respect use this phrase all the time, and I say "Enough!"
ANXIENT
There is no such word, really. There is "anxious" and there is "ancient", the former meaning distressed or troubled, the latter meaning very old. They have nothing to do with each other and cannot be combined to make a new word.
HEIGHTH
Last but not least, this one is a fairly recent but rapidly spreading addition to my list of most annoying language blunders. It's just HEIGHT, no H added at the end. I know we have WIDTH, but HEIGHTH is not its correct companion.
I could go on for a good bit longer, but I'm done for today. It's sad that there are folks whose profession consists of speaking to us on a daily basis and yet no one makes them speak correctly. Are we really being overrun by idiots? And worse, idiots who just don't care?
But now a new threat is coming at us via the airwaves, and that is the threat of language mutilated by people who don't seem to care that they sound like idiots. This includes news desk personnel, talk show hosts, ad designers and pretty much everyone else bold enough to speak to the public.To aid in combating this epidemic, I have put together a new list of things that shouldn't be said on the air.
I COULD CARE LESS
Nothing says "I'm putting on a good act but deep down inside I'm an illiterate moron" like this sentence does. If you use this statement you have absolutely no idea what it is you're trying to say, and you are only repeating something you heard from some other dimwit . What you should be saying is "I couldn't care less". There isn't enough time or space here to explain to you why this is so; you just have to trust me.
WE ALSO REPORTED ON THIS AS WELL....
Please don't use "also" and "as well" in the same sentence. They mean the same thing, and what you're saying here is "we also reported on this also...."
THEY ARE BASED OUT OF...
Where did that one come from? Who was the first person to think this sounded right? Things or persons are based IN, not OUT OF. The correct phrase is "they are based in..."
WE ARE HONING IN ON THIS STORY....
This just gets worse and worse. Whoever started that one clearly had to idea what honing means. One can hone a tool, a razor, or one's skills, as "to hone" means "to sharpen." "We're sharpening in on this story" sounds idiotic, so please stop using it!
WE'RE ROOTING YOU ON.....
Is there no end to it? We can either root for someone, or we can cheer them on, but to root them on is not a third option.
WE OPENED OFF THIS SHOW...
Another unhappy mix of two statements. We can either open up a show or start it off, but never can we open it off.
EXETERA
This one has become a biggie and needs to be stamped out right now! Another example of people mindlessly repeating rubbish without knowing what they're saying. The correct phrase is, of course, "et cetera", which is Latin and means "and so on", or "and so forth". I don't expect any better from the undereducated masses, but people I used to respect use this phrase all the time, and I say "Enough!"
ANXIENT
There is no such word, really. There is "anxious" and there is "ancient", the former meaning distressed or troubled, the latter meaning very old. They have nothing to do with each other and cannot be combined to make a new word.
HEIGHTH
Last but not least, this one is a fairly recent but rapidly spreading addition to my list of most annoying language blunders. It's just HEIGHT, no H added at the end. I know we have WIDTH, but HEIGHTH is not its correct companion.
I could go on for a good bit longer, but I'm done for today. It's sad that there are folks whose profession consists of speaking to us on a daily basis and yet no one makes them speak correctly. Are we really being overrun by idiots? And worse, idiots who just don't care?
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Why learn how to sew?
When I entered first grade, my lesson plan included sewing skills, or, as it was known then, needle work. Two hours every week, for every year of my school career. And I hated it.
At that time I seemed to possess none of my mother's talent for everything involving any kind of needle and thread or yarn, nor any of my father's ability to turn a raw substance into a lovely piece of art. I was, as they say, all thumbs and had no patience for stuff like that.
Although they never said so, I know that my teachers despaired when they saw my poor efforts involving fabric or yarns. My projects often ended up in the "incomplete" box in our attic, or were turned in as horrible failures for which I received the dreaded "6", the German equivalent of an "F".
All this changed when I was 15 years young. I saw the film "Bonnie and Clyde" and was captivated by her retro-look costumes. I wanted to wear a skirt like that, and the blouse, too! Suddenly I realized that I was in a position to make these wishes come true, because I KNEW HOW TO SEW! And to my surprise, and despite my former shortcomings, the lessons had stuck. It didn't take much to refresh what I had learned, and I was on my way.
To everyone's amazement I soon became an apprentice in a ladies' garment factory where I learned a lot in my three years of apprenticeship, all of it knowledge I am using every day as a professional tailor/seamstress/clothes designer.
So, why learn how to sew? As it turns out, despite my initial struggles it was something I eventually adopted as a means of earning a living. And even if I hadn't chosen to go that way, I think I would still be happy to know that I can sew on a button, hem a pair of pants for myself or sew some great piece of home decor.
I think everyone should be able to do at least one or two of those.
At that time I seemed to possess none of my mother's talent for everything involving any kind of needle and thread or yarn, nor any of my father's ability to turn a raw substance into a lovely piece of art. I was, as they say, all thumbs and had no patience for stuff like that.
Although they never said so, I know that my teachers despaired when they saw my poor efforts involving fabric or yarns. My projects often ended up in the "incomplete" box in our attic, or were turned in as horrible failures for which I received the dreaded "6", the German equivalent of an "F".
All this changed when I was 15 years young. I saw the film "Bonnie and Clyde" and was captivated by her retro-look costumes. I wanted to wear a skirt like that, and the blouse, too! Suddenly I realized that I was in a position to make these wishes come true, because I KNEW HOW TO SEW! And to my surprise, and despite my former shortcomings, the lessons had stuck. It didn't take much to refresh what I had learned, and I was on my way.
To everyone's amazement I soon became an apprentice in a ladies' garment factory where I learned a lot in my three years of apprenticeship, all of it knowledge I am using every day as a professional tailor/seamstress/clothes designer.
So, why learn how to sew? As it turns out, despite my initial struggles it was something I eventually adopted as a means of earning a living. And even if I hadn't chosen to go that way, I think I would still be happy to know that I can sew on a button, hem a pair of pants for myself or sew some great piece of home decor.
I think everyone should be able to do at least one or two of those.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
The high cost of buying cheap
Another Christmas shopping frenzy is behind us and once again I ask myself how much of the money spent on all those gifts is staying in this country. I'm guessing not very much.
I suspect that the stores selling this stuff didn't end up with a lot of the money because in order to draw shoppers they had to sell their wares at dirt-cheap prices. Which means they had to cut their profit margins so much, one wonders how they manage to stay in business.
And I know that few American workers profited from it because most of the gifts sold were made in other countries. There is much panic in this land over the high unemployment rate, yet I'm willing to bet that the people doing the loudest shouting about this are the ones who did all their shopping at (insert name of your favorite discount store here) where you'd be hard pressed to find something made in the USA. Can you imagine the jobs that would be created if the manufacturers of these products decided to bring the jobs making them back to this country?
But that's not likely to happen. As usual, greed and the dollar win this contest. Greed of the companies because the people at the top don't want to lose their very cushy lifestyles which they would have to modify if they had to pay American labor to make their goods. Greed of the stock market where the desired direction is "up", no matter who gets trampled on. And of course greed of the American consumer who wants to buy as many items as possible, preferably at prices that exist only because some person in another country gets paid ten cents an hour to produce that sweater, or toy, or whatever.
Do we really need hundreds of items in our closets? Instead of buying all that stuff that's made somewhere else, why not take the money and buy just a few items made here?
Remember, every time you buy something that's made in another country, you are providing employment for a foreign worker. When are you going to wake up and take an interest in the American worker? How bad does it have to get before you demand that your favorite stores carry USA-made product? Would you be willing to live with less stuff if it meant that some of your fellow Americans might have a job again?
Buying more and more things will not save this economy. Making wise choices that bring back American jobs will. This won't happen right away, and perhaps it's too late already. But does anyone really want the children of 2109 to read in school that their country was brought down by greed and mindless consumerism?
I didn't think so.
Happy New Year!
I suspect that the stores selling this stuff didn't end up with a lot of the money because in order to draw shoppers they had to sell their wares at dirt-cheap prices. Which means they had to cut their profit margins so much, one wonders how they manage to stay in business.
And I know that few American workers profited from it because most of the gifts sold were made in other countries. There is much panic in this land over the high unemployment rate, yet I'm willing to bet that the people doing the loudest shouting about this are the ones who did all their shopping at (insert name of your favorite discount store here) where you'd be hard pressed to find something made in the USA. Can you imagine the jobs that would be created if the manufacturers of these products decided to bring the jobs making them back to this country?
But that's not likely to happen. As usual, greed and the dollar win this contest. Greed of the companies because the people at the top don't want to lose their very cushy lifestyles which they would have to modify if they had to pay American labor to make their goods. Greed of the stock market where the desired direction is "up", no matter who gets trampled on. And of course greed of the American consumer who wants to buy as many items as possible, preferably at prices that exist only because some person in another country gets paid ten cents an hour to produce that sweater, or toy, or whatever.
Do we really need hundreds of items in our closets? Instead of buying all that stuff that's made somewhere else, why not take the money and buy just a few items made here?
Remember, every time you buy something that's made in another country, you are providing employment for a foreign worker. When are you going to wake up and take an interest in the American worker? How bad does it have to get before you demand that your favorite stores carry USA-made product? Would you be willing to live with less stuff if it meant that some of your fellow Americans might have a job again?
Buying more and more things will not save this economy. Making wise choices that bring back American jobs will. This won't happen right away, and perhaps it's too late already. But does anyone really want the children of 2109 to read in school that their country was brought down by greed and mindless consumerism?
I didn't think so.
Happy New Year!
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