Passing on Words of Wisdom
By Gloria MacKay
Children take to clichés the way a dog grabs on to a bone. I first heard these tried-and-true expressions from my grandmother who kept them under her apron, as handy for to pull out as cookies out of the oven. I thought she made them up.
The early bird gets the worm, she cautioned, but birds of a feather flock together. Two heads are better than one, she nodded, but too many cooks spoil the broth she would shriek as my aunts converged on her kitchen. Don't count your chickens before they hatch but April showers bring May flowers.
Despite the obvious contradictions, part of me wants these borrowed words of wisdom to carry on, unchanged. They are the comfort food of language, warm and familiar, plain and simple. But it is time for a change.
Some sayings, of course, will stand on their own, for all times. Shakespeare, for instance, says:
Brevity is the soul of wit.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Condemn the fault and not the actor of it.
Shiny words like this will never rust.
But for the most part, instead of parroting the old sayings I would rather listen to a child, the child who said, If at first you don't succeed get new batteries.
This is an old saw with sharp new teeth.
Children have bullseye vision, straight and to the point. They are of the moment: as current as the six o¹clock news; as fresh as morning coffee; as practical as peanut butter; as piercing as an earring.
Who better to energize a few of our time-worn proverbs than five and six year olds. I wish I could have met the kid who warns, When the blind leadeth the blind get out of the way.
Or the little girl who told her teacher, A miss is as good as a mister. (Right on, sister).
Usually we don't realize how trite our sayings can become until we talk to a child, such as the little girl who admits, There's no fool like Aunt Edie.
The proverbs we hand down from generation to generation are not only boring, some are dead wrong. You can't teach an old dog new tricks? I believed this to be true until I became an old dog, myself, and now I know this is nonsense. It took a little boy to get it right when he sighed, You can't teach an old dog new math.
Who said children should be seen and not heard?
Kids can be as loose as cannons but they don't waste words
Strike, they say, while the bug is close.
Never underestimate the power of termites.
The pen is mightier than the pigs.
Who needs the old sayings we learned from our grandmothers?
A stitch in time saves nine.
Don't put the cart before the horse.
The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.
We've heard these so often they are boring, especially when compared to the opinions of children.
A penny saved is not much.
Two's company, three's the musketeers.
Don't bite the hand that looks dirty.
Don't put off tomorrow what you put on to go to bed.
An idle mind is the best way to relax.
The best advice my grandmother, on the other hand, could come up with was, Don't cry over spilt milk.
But her platitudes weren't much help to me when I was a harried young mother. I can actually remember crying when the third glass of milk at a single meal ran loose all over the table.
If I had only known then what I know now. It's always darkest before daylight savings time.
A little kid said that.
It would be wise to listen to children and take notes, before they grow up and start to talk like grown ups.
It is better to be safe than punch a fifth grader.
Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you have to blow your nose.
As you shall make your bed so shall you mess it up.
It could have been Shakespeare who said, If you lie down with the dogs you'll stink in the morning.
It sounds like something out of Richard III, but this is just another bit of practical advice from a kid.
Perhaps this was the same child, still full of wonder, still willing to try, who mused, You can lead a horse to water but how?
*************************************
Copyright 2004 Gloria MacKay
Gloria MacKay is an essayist and humorist from the Pacific Northwest. Her work, Throwing Sticks and Skipping Stones and The Insomniac Tales by Chaucer's Women is available at dlsijpress.com. She appears in two anthologies, Forget Me Knots from the Front Porch published by Obadiah Press and The Don't Sweat Stories: Inspirational Anecdotes from Those Who've Learned How Not to Sweat It from Hyperion. On her weekly radio program (KSER FM) she is encouraged to read what she writes about whatever she thinks. (She thinks, among other things, about women and children and men and food and fog and death and taxes.
Showing posts with label Gloria MacKay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gloria MacKay. Show all posts
Moms and Their Manners
By Gloria MacKay
I can't speak for fathers (I've never been one), nor daughters (I've never had one). All I know is by the time our sons are grown, a mother must start minding her manners. A young man does not take kindly to being bossed by a middle-aged woman -- especially if she is his mom. Some things change, and some things stay the same. And a mother needs to be aware of the difference.
A son at any age is a son, but a boy is as different from a man as a Matchbox car is to a Mack Truck. They shouldn't be on the same highway. Consequently, those little infractions of good manners a mom gets by with as she's shaping her boy, turns into crimes and misdemeanors when she sticks them into a grown man, like a thumbtack into the heart.
Not that moms are not good to little boy. We bake them brownies, patch holes in their jeans, run their bathwater and set out warm towels, drive them to and drive them from, and even when we're running on empty, we love them with a passion.
We're good, all right, but not as perfect as the cards we get every second Sunday in May, slick with loopy verses, twining around scratch-and-sniff flowers. We are human. Mothers have shortcomings like everyone else, and we work on them -- like everyone else. But one of our failings I don't often hear mentioned is how often we forget our manners when we talk to our children.
Since we live in a culture where the feelings of a child are easily stepped on as a crocus in a crack of concrete, this is not surprising. But then again, manners is a game we like to play with grownups. We mince our words as fine as fresh basil, and bite our tongues without choking. The same mother who stands passively in the quick checkout line, behind a woman with two extra items in her cart, will elbow her way in front of a child. Or at least think about it. Ladies first. Age before beauty.
Mothers do not have to prove how much we love our sons. We go without sleep for them, fight for them, and would kill for them, and die for them. But this has nothing to do with our deportment. "Manners" is a habit, not a passion, and "bad manners" is a bad habit, one so built up into our pecking order that a mother might not notice when her little peckee has grown up and deserves "company manners."
The other evening, I was sitting in the kitchen of a Boss Mom friend of mine, when her son dropped by. He is an ordinary man, married with children, employed, and presumably with feelings as close to the edge of his awarness as most people's feelings.
He said to his mom, "Did you know Patrick lives only five miles away from here?"
Mother shifted in her chair, and narrowed her eyes. "Three miles," she said with a knee-jerk smile.
Son leaned forward on his elbows. "Actually, Mom, not that it matters, but it's closer to five."
"Three," she said, as her cheeks started to simmer.
Son sighed, but persisted. "From the highway to the first left is three. From there to the stop sign is one. From the stop sign to his hous is two. That's five miles. I know because we go jogging sometimes."
Mother's face took on the flushed look of victory. "Not as the crow flies, Dear. I'm talking about how the crow flies. You're wrong!"
Son rolled his eyes at me while his mom tapped one fingernail on the formica tabletop. Should he catch the ball and throw it back like a man, or drop it like a little boy?
I stumbled into the pause. "Speaking of jogging," I said, "there's no place that is too far to walk if you have the time." This is a line from Steven Wright, my favorite comedian. They looked at me as though I were crazy (it must have been my delivery), but it shut them up. Sure, it wouldn't have hurt to let his mom have her way, but I think it's time she starts minding her manners.
I relinquished my role of Boss Mom with more ease than some only because I never fit the job description in the first place. The hardest part of raising four sons was bossing them around. "Structure," I called it, and Lord knows they needed it. But once in a while, often at lunch, I would play the manners game with them, laying on the "pleases" and "thank yous" thicker than cold country gravy. And then I might make a mistake and have to apologize to them.
"I'm sorry I forgot to pour the milk."
"I beg your pardon. I think I interrupted when you were talking."
After they escaped outside, I would chuckle over their quirky little smiles, and round, solemn eyes. And I'd award myself an Oscar, a supporting player, of course.
I don't have much occasion for games like this anymore. Mothers and sons end up pretty much as equals (give or take a mile or two). But I like to think that I will always maintain a bit of my edge. I just have to keep minding my manners.
I can't speak for fathers (I've never been one), nor daughters (I've never had one). All I know is by the time our sons are grown, a mother must start minding her manners. A young man does not take kindly to being bossed by a middle-aged woman -- especially if she is his mom. Some things change, and some things stay the same. And a mother needs to be aware of the difference.
A son at any age is a son, but a boy is as different from a man as a Matchbox car is to a Mack Truck. They shouldn't be on the same highway. Consequently, those little infractions of good manners a mom gets by with as she's shaping her boy, turns into crimes and misdemeanors when she sticks them into a grown man, like a thumbtack into the heart.
Not that moms are not good to little boy. We bake them brownies, patch holes in their jeans, run their bathwater and set out warm towels, drive them to and drive them from, and even when we're running on empty, we love them with a passion.
We're good, all right, but not as perfect as the cards we get every second Sunday in May, slick with loopy verses, twining around scratch-and-sniff flowers. We are human. Mothers have shortcomings like everyone else, and we work on them -- like everyone else. But one of our failings I don't often hear mentioned is how often we forget our manners when we talk to our children.
Since we live in a culture where the feelings of a child are easily stepped on as a crocus in a crack of concrete, this is not surprising. But then again, manners is a game we like to play with grownups. We mince our words as fine as fresh basil, and bite our tongues without choking. The same mother who stands passively in the quick checkout line, behind a woman with two extra items in her cart, will elbow her way in front of a child. Or at least think about it. Ladies first. Age before beauty.
Mothers do not have to prove how much we love our sons. We go without sleep for them, fight for them, and would kill for them, and die for them. But this has nothing to do with our deportment. "Manners" is a habit, not a passion, and "bad manners" is a bad habit, one so built up into our pecking order that a mother might not notice when her little peckee has grown up and deserves "company manners."
The other evening, I was sitting in the kitchen of a Boss Mom friend of mine, when her son dropped by. He is an ordinary man, married with children, employed, and presumably with feelings as close to the edge of his awarness as most people's feelings.
He said to his mom, "Did you know Patrick lives only five miles away from here?"
Mother shifted in her chair, and narrowed her eyes. "Three miles," she said with a knee-jerk smile.
Son leaned forward on his elbows. "Actually, Mom, not that it matters, but it's closer to five."
"Three," she said, as her cheeks started to simmer.
Son sighed, but persisted. "From the highway to the first left is three. From there to the stop sign is one. From the stop sign to his hous is two. That's five miles. I know because we go jogging sometimes."
Mother's face took on the flushed look of victory. "Not as the crow flies, Dear. I'm talking about how the crow flies. You're wrong!"
Son rolled his eyes at me while his mom tapped one fingernail on the formica tabletop. Should he catch the ball and throw it back like a man, or drop it like a little boy?
I stumbled into the pause. "Speaking of jogging," I said, "there's no place that is too far to walk if you have the time." This is a line from Steven Wright, my favorite comedian. They looked at me as though I were crazy (it must have been my delivery), but it shut them up. Sure, it wouldn't have hurt to let his mom have her way, but I think it's time she starts minding her manners.
I relinquished my role of Boss Mom with more ease than some only because I never fit the job description in the first place. The hardest part of raising four sons was bossing them around. "Structure," I called it, and Lord knows they needed it. But once in a while, often at lunch, I would play the manners game with them, laying on the "pleases" and "thank yous" thicker than cold country gravy. And then I might make a mistake and have to apologize to them.
"I'm sorry I forgot to pour the milk."
"I beg your pardon. I think I interrupted when you were talking."
After they escaped outside, I would chuckle over their quirky little smiles, and round, solemn eyes. And I'd award myself an Oscar, a supporting player, of course.
I don't have much occasion for games like this anymore. Mothers and sons end up pretty much as equals (give or take a mile or two). But I like to think that I will always maintain a bit of my edge. I just have to keep minding my manners.
Running Through Fields of Yellow Tulips
By Gloria MacKay
He hopped backwards in front of me, his black boot making prints on the clay path like a one-legged animal in reverse. At that moment I saw he was wearing his pleaful look, his "This is serious, you have to listen to me NOW," expression.
"Andy, do you have to go to the bathroom, again?" I sighed, I'm sorry to say in the most condescending manner.
"I want to run through those yellow tulips, Grandma. There they are right over there."
He spun around, slipped, left a hand print in the mud, wiped his fingers on his pants. I saw splatters of wet mud on the back of his head. He'll have to have a hair wash tonight, I thought.
"See, you can't be running around like that, Andy. I told you it was muddy."
"But I have to, Grandma. This is my only chance to run through the tulips."
I shook my head. Negative, Andy. I take him to the tulip fields and all he cares about is yellow. All he wants to do is run. Why yellow? Why run? Why can't he just look and enjoy?
"Please, Grandma?"
I had seen that look on his face somewhere else. As expectant as a cocoon; as still as the eye of a tornado; as set as a fence post; as flushed as a peach. Where had I seen that look before? I remembered how he had looked a year ago, last summer, running with the neighbor kids. He wore a different expression then -- his dreamy, lazy, breezy, 'I can do anything I want to do without even trying' look.
One of the children had a brand new stopwatch in his pocket that day, and the neighborhood children made a course around the old stump. One at a time. Poised. Crouched. Get Ready. Get Set. They took turns, each one trying to go faster and faster. Except for Andy. He missed his first turn, because he was petting a cat. But he crouched and poised in fine style his second time around. Get Ready. Get Set. Go.
I watched in amazement as Andy spun around and around the stump. He was in a dream, as though he were chasing windmills. NO, he was a windmill. White bony arms straight out, blue tank top moving with the breeze, eyes closed, but just barely.
"Run, Andy. You're supposed to run," yelled Katie. His big sister always wants him to do what the other kids did. She was six last summer, and cared a lot for what the neighbor kids thought.
"Grandma, can I? Can I?"
So here we are in the county in the spring, in a drizzle. Now he wants to run. Through tulips. In the mud. How can I say "no" to that upturned, ardent little face?
How does it feel to run? I try to remember. Was the wind cold this time of year? Would breezes swirl around his ears and move on or would they clutch at him and slide under his collar, and down his back? I couldn't remember what it feels like to run in the wind. I couldn't even imagine how it would be to run through tulips that were as yellow as butter, sparkling with rain dust, as endless as an ocean.
"I'll tell you what, Andy," I negotiated, "you can walk into the tulip fields all by yourself. That way you won't get dirty. I'll stay here and wave at you."
He didn't move. His face didn't change one bit, just as a flower looks the same whether it is in sunshine or shadow. He didn't say a word. He just stood there.
What would possess a child to like yellow so much? If I were ever to put on my rubbers and run it would be into that blanket of magenta and blood red and sunset orange floating over the sea of green just across the road. There is no red hanging in my closet. I like to put on outfits of sea foam and barely blue and plain old beige. But when it comes to tulips, it is the crimsons that stick in my throat.
"Please, Grandma, can I go now? I'm going to run. You can come too."
"I suppose so, you won't be happy until you do." He is a quick little thing. He was half way down the row already. A drab little sight in his sweats, navy blue jacket unzipped, almost blowing off his body. I couldn't see his face. I wished I could.
I watched, thinking he would turn around and wave, and I would wave back to let him know that I wasn't upset that he was running amok through yellow tulips. But he just kept on getting smaller, and smaller, until he was almost as short as the flowers which marked his path.
I stuck the toe of my sandal into the mud. I felt like I was at the beach testing the water. Behind me, far across the road, were those dots of red, pink, and magenta flowing together like painting by Seurat. If he doesn't get too wet, we'll drive over there next, I thought. But the yellow is cheery enough, and the yellow is handy now. I hear Andy calling, "Come on, Grandma. I'll wait for you. You can run through the yellow tulips with me."
At least it sounded like this is what he said.
Well, perhaps, I should walk out there a little way, I thought. My jacket dragged in the mud, and I felt the wind curling on my collar.
Andy raced toward me. He looked as though his face had burst open. He was a butterfly, a hurricane, a gate swinging in the wind. His cheeks were flushed like peaches, and his clothes had taken on the glow of the tulips.
Where had I seen that look before? It would come to me, I figured. Things usually did if I wait long enough,
"I'm coming, Andy, I'm coming," I hollered. And I did. All the way. Fast.
He hopped backwards in front of me, his black boot making prints on the clay path like a one-legged animal in reverse. At that moment I saw he was wearing his pleaful look, his "This is serious, you have to listen to me NOW," expression.
"Andy, do you have to go to the bathroom, again?" I sighed, I'm sorry to say in the most condescending manner.
"I want to run through those yellow tulips, Grandma. There they are right over there."
He spun around, slipped, left a hand print in the mud, wiped his fingers on his pants. I saw splatters of wet mud on the back of his head. He'll have to have a hair wash tonight, I thought.
"See, you can't be running around like that, Andy. I told you it was muddy."
"But I have to, Grandma. This is my only chance to run through the tulips."
I shook my head. Negative, Andy. I take him to the tulip fields and all he cares about is yellow. All he wants to do is run. Why yellow? Why run? Why can't he just look and enjoy?
"Please, Grandma?"
I had seen that look on his face somewhere else. As expectant as a cocoon; as still as the eye of a tornado; as set as a fence post; as flushed as a peach. Where had I seen that look before? I remembered how he had looked a year ago, last summer, running with the neighbor kids. He wore a different expression then -- his dreamy, lazy, breezy, 'I can do anything I want to do without even trying' look.
One of the children had a brand new stopwatch in his pocket that day, and the neighborhood children made a course around the old stump. One at a time. Poised. Crouched. Get Ready. Get Set. They took turns, each one trying to go faster and faster. Except for Andy. He missed his first turn, because he was petting a cat. But he crouched and poised in fine style his second time around. Get Ready. Get Set. Go.
I watched in amazement as Andy spun around and around the stump. He was in a dream, as though he were chasing windmills. NO, he was a windmill. White bony arms straight out, blue tank top moving with the breeze, eyes closed, but just barely.
"Run, Andy. You're supposed to run," yelled Katie. His big sister always wants him to do what the other kids did. She was six last summer, and cared a lot for what the neighbor kids thought.
"Grandma, can I? Can I?"
So here we are in the county in the spring, in a drizzle. Now he wants to run. Through tulips. In the mud. How can I say "no" to that upturned, ardent little face?
How does it feel to run? I try to remember. Was the wind cold this time of year? Would breezes swirl around his ears and move on or would they clutch at him and slide under his collar, and down his back? I couldn't remember what it feels like to run in the wind. I couldn't even imagine how it would be to run through tulips that were as yellow as butter, sparkling with rain dust, as endless as an ocean.
"I'll tell you what, Andy," I negotiated, "you can walk into the tulip fields all by yourself. That way you won't get dirty. I'll stay here and wave at you."
He didn't move. His face didn't change one bit, just as a flower looks the same whether it is in sunshine or shadow. He didn't say a word. He just stood there.
What would possess a child to like yellow so much? If I were ever to put on my rubbers and run it would be into that blanket of magenta and blood red and sunset orange floating over the sea of green just across the road. There is no red hanging in my closet. I like to put on outfits of sea foam and barely blue and plain old beige. But when it comes to tulips, it is the crimsons that stick in my throat.
"Please, Grandma, can I go now? I'm going to run. You can come too."
"I suppose so, you won't be happy until you do." He is a quick little thing. He was half way down the row already. A drab little sight in his sweats, navy blue jacket unzipped, almost blowing off his body. I couldn't see his face. I wished I could.
I watched, thinking he would turn around and wave, and I would wave back to let him know that I wasn't upset that he was running amok through yellow tulips. But he just kept on getting smaller, and smaller, until he was almost as short as the flowers which marked his path.
I stuck the toe of my sandal into the mud. I felt like I was at the beach testing the water. Behind me, far across the road, were those dots of red, pink, and magenta flowing together like painting by Seurat. If he doesn't get too wet, we'll drive over there next, I thought. But the yellow is cheery enough, and the yellow is handy now. I hear Andy calling, "Come on, Grandma. I'll wait for you. You can run through the yellow tulips with me."
At least it sounded like this is what he said.
Well, perhaps, I should walk out there a little way, I thought. My jacket dragged in the mud, and I felt the wind curling on my collar.
Andy raced toward me. He looked as though his face had burst open. He was a butterfly, a hurricane, a gate swinging in the wind. His cheeks were flushed like peaches, and his clothes had taken on the glow of the tulips.
Where had I seen that look before? It would come to me, I figured. Things usually did if I wait long enough,
"I'm coming, Andy, I'm coming," I hollered. And I did. All the way. Fast.
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