Image of a heart in an open book.

 What is hate reading about? 

Hate reading: Reading with the intent to criticize, mock, or feel  smarter than the writer. 

 My theory, and I’ll call it resentful reading, results from the  reader feeling betrayed, misled, or annoyed by how the author presents the content. Not enough action, unrealistic characters, or gratuitous violence. 

Too much of this, too little of that.                

Maybe the reader is having an awful day and a close reading to     find fault makes them feel better?

 I imagine the worst case is when the writer offends or insults the reader. For example, a glaring spelling error, albeit a street name, city, or beloved person.  A hate reading experience differs from analyzing an academic paper, where finding flaws and inconsistencies is expected. And valuable. 

Still, the question remains: Why choose to read something whose entertainment is derived not from pleasure but from hate? Reading with this attitude can’t be healthy, can it?

Hate-readers express their views with the same enthusiasm I do when I love the book.        

“I couldn’t help myself, now I was hate-reading it with vengeance,” a writer friend said, sounding gleefully satisfied.

“I kept hate-reading this book and was hoping I wasn’t the only one,” said a book club member. Why? Well, he wants everyone to “hate on it.”

 In my view, that particular book does not deserve the hate-reading treatment. Just because the author blends many genres, creating a book as unsatisfying a potluck lunch where the dishes all miserably mix together, leaving the diner with a tummy ache. Stick to one or two serving.   

My reading recipe is simple: Subtract one’s age from 100 for how many pages to read before committing to finishing the book. I will change my standard recipe if:

•  A trusted friend presses this book into my hands.

•  The book is by a family member, dear friend, or colleague.

•  It’s a book club pick.

• Open or closed, the book gives off scary spine-tingling vibes. I am a sensitive reader, friends.

 In the end, I want my relationship with books and people to enrich me.

I will spend time, money, and energy to find, finish and enjoy reading. Love, not hate keeps me reading. 

           

Footnote: Hate reading is not yet in the Merriam Webster’s dictionary.

 

 

Why are car wash fundraisers popular?

Enthusiastic elementary kids jump up and down with handwritten signs, waving their arms and shouting at passing cars: Car Wash! High school students sway silently with their signs with arrows, beckoning drivers to pull in for a car wash. I appreciate the work invested in a car wash with a cause. These are a few of my favorite things about this kind of old-fashioned fundraiser. 

    Car washes appeal to all ages because there’s a role for everyone from making the signs, waving at drivers, rinsing, soaping, and toweling off the dirt. And of course, taking and counting the money. Could we consider this a team sport without a few star players getting all the glory?

    The outside activity is a feel-good deal—a donation in exchange for a wash. An extra tip pressed into the hands of the hard worker earns a smile. (Unlike bake sales, the buyer isn’t worried about breaking their diet, or hurting anyone’s feelings by choosing Tiffany’s cookies over Tom’s brownies.)

    Gas, diesel, or electric vehicles, all get dirty. Drive up in a beater, a handed down jalopy, or the latest model everyone envies—every ride deserves to shine. (I’ve seen bicyclists offer their two-wheels for a wash too.) Everyone’s welcome.

    It’s a promise made to show up for someone you care about to support their cause. Or it’s a spontaneous act of generosity. Whatever the case, charity car washes are here to stay. 

   

 

I loved Uncle John. 

He was my favorite uncle, and I knew that if anything bad ever happened to my parents, he and Aunt Ann would take care of my brother and me. My mom assured me if, God forbid, that day ever came, her brother John would become our legal guardian. She had made it clear in her Last Will and Testament. I don’t remember when she told me, but as a young girl, I remembered feeling relieved because I wouldn’t have to live with strangers, or relatives I didn’t know.  

1.      I can’t picture John riding a motorcycle, but I have photos of him, and his wife Ann on their Kawasaki bikes side by side—helmets on and rearing to ride. The two logged many miles together. John looked like a biker with his bushy beard, aviator glasses, and his beaming contagious smile.    

2.      I wish I could recall all his advice on life, marriage, and work. Although some of his words left me, his voice stayed with me—a deep, smoothing bass. “This is your Uncle John,” he’d say when he phoned, as if I wouldn’t recognize his distinct voice. He didn’t call often. Once he called because we were both celebrating “double digit” birthdays. He turned 77, and I had my 44th birthday. He spoke slowly and listened carefully. That’s why he excelled in his work.

3.      John earned recognition as a “Pioneer in the Field of Social Work” by the National Association of Social Workers. He advocated for social workers being listing in the yellow pages when this practice wasn’t common or deemed acceptable. His achievements as a psychiatric social worker were many, and he continued practicing past the traditional retirement age. He counseled patients and helped family, too.

4.      Every time we talked, he inquired about visiting his sister, my mother. “Would she be up for it?” he asked. He asked because he knew travel would be a hardship for his sister, who lived 575 miles away. Our families vacationed together for years and provide a collection of wonderful memories.

5.      We also discussed books. Yet, I couldn’t tell you, his favorite book, only that he was a voracious reader. My cousin reported he read four or five books a week. He could summarize a plot and quote with ease excerpts from his favorite books. Mom told me John taught himself to read when he was four years old.

6.      Politics and policies. He made me feel comfortable expressing my political opinions, yet I I am not sure when we started discussing candidates. We agreed on the policy mistakes, political missteps, and protracted misery of our citizens. I can tell you who he voted for, but I won’t.

7.      A month before John died, I remembered he called worried because his doctor saw a scary spot on his liver. We were relieved after finding out that the spot turned out to be nothing. Benign. Yet, I don’t recall how many days we waited and were worried.  

8.       I also remembered the deep empty feeling, which washed over me after learning my favorite uncle had died of Covid on Sept. 30, 2021. My father had died August 14th and losing them both with little warning so close together felt wrong and unfair. My mother felt angry about how unfair and unjust her brother’s death was because he took every precaution during the pandemic. He ended up in the hospital because he fell at home. His two sons were unable to be with him and say goodbye because of the hospital’s pandemic protocol. I don’t dwell on the end of his life but on how well he lived his life.

9.      How old was John during the Great Depression? I remember he recorded his experience for the New York Times about how his family helped hobos who knocked on their door. He experienced the Depression as a young boy, the middle brother with a younger sister and an older brother.

 

Image based on Rosie the Riveter. 

Remembering Pat

Pat knew things before anyone else in our office did. She knew who was getting promoted, moving to another department, and leaving the company by choice or not. Our boss nicknamed her Radar after the character in the sit-com M*A*S*H who possessed an uncanny sense of incoming wounded before hearing the drone of helicopters.

Last week, I found out Pat had died at age 71. 

I admired Pat because she said what she thought, and she cared deeply about the work and the people with whom she worked. During her more than 30-year career, she mentored countless colleagues from the students who worked for her as exhibit tour guides to her bosses over the years. She was also my mentor and friend.

Pat knew how to get things done through the back channels. Often, she’d shake her head at any signs of my naivety about the way things really worked.    

One day, she saw a copy of “The Titleless Leader: How to get things done when you’re not in charge” on my table. She harrumphed as if she could have written this book. Of course, she had real-life experience and didn’t need this book.

Pat worked hard and underplayed her contributions. Unfortunately, I other colleagues take her for granted, robbing her of the respect she had earned, rising through the ranks. She explained some co-workers didn’t acknowledge her current position because they still saw her in her first role. She deserved better treatment.  

As I recalled, she earned a degree from Wharton, along with street-smarts too. She had endless ideas that she gave away, a jaded sense of humor, and a profound work ethic.     

She arrived at work early before most of her coworkers. Even on that icy winter day when her Toyota Tercel slid and crossed the median facing oncoming traffic, she wasn’t late.

Another thing, she dressed in style. This woman’s wardrobe was the envy of any professional businesswoman – a vast collection of suits, dresses, jewelry, scarves and shoes. Pat wore pumps, while I sported sneakers most days because they were comfortable, and I was lazy.  

Nearly every day, she popped into my office to discuss an unusual speaker bureau request or the odd behavior she witnessed in the museum. Besides our museum we had temporary exhibits highlighting historical artifacts like railroad bonds. Usually, we held an opening event, which brought the media, the public, and the regulars. One such regular was a woman who came prepared with plastic baggies to take home her share of leftovers from our events.  

Pat made our public events successful, memorable, and fun. Our first big event together involved buying a ham at Reading Terminal market to introduce the public to the newly redesigned currency. Every several years, U.S. currency was redesigned to fight counterfeiters who have become more sophisticated. She helped roll out all the dominations with facelifts including the $100, $50, $5 and $10 bills. Her knowledge of both bills and coins was remarkable.

             Now, I didn’t know much about Pat’s hobbies beyond work. She liked the shore, enjoyed gardening, and baking at Christmas. Her homemade festive peppermint white bark chocolate was popular in the office. In fact, the candy was so popular that a co-worker asked Pat to make it for his friends. She did of course. Her kindness wasn't a weakness at work, it was her strength. 

           Surely, Pat had a spot reserved in heaven. I hope she understands how much I respected  and admired her during her time here. 

 

Did you invent imaginary friends as a kid? 

    My two best fictional friends were Chip 'N Dale. These celebrity chipmunks became my playmates.  

    “Don’t sit on them,” I’d yell, warning any unsuspecting adult.  

    I only pretended to see the characters running around my room. The adults in my life played along. Now, I’m not sure how or when I was introduced to these cartoon characters. They first appeared in television shows in the 1940s-1950s, before I was even born.

    But these two furry, smart siblings charmed their way into my circle of pretend friends.

    It’s common for young children to have had pretend friends, according to Web MD. The reasons are varied but often kids need a special person to listen and support.

    For me, the two mates appeared before I attended kindergarten. (As best I recall.) Maybe I conjured them up because I was lonely. My brother didn’t come alone until I was six years old.

    One of my favorite films was “Harvey” featuring Jimmy Stewart, who befriended a giant pink rabbit named Harvey who followed him around. In this 1950 film, Stewart’s character enjoyed Harvey’s company more than that of his own family.  

    That wasn’t my experience.

    Chip 'N Dale were friendly, quiet, and weren’t troublemakers.

    Today, my many imaginary friends in digital form have been obnoxious, loud, and troublesome. Pinging, ringing, dinging. Everywhere. All the time.

    But have they enriched my life with their constant cheers, reminders?

    I received a clapping hand emoji each time I logged my meals. An exercise coach texted commands like stand up, move, do the hokey- pokey (just kidding about that last one.)  If I’ve had a great exercise day, I’m treated to my skinny super hero avatar lifting off the screen.

    Woo-hoo!

        Another constant companion has adopted a habit of embarrassing me. She transcribed dictation in a way that has made me question her grasp of the English language. I’ve learned to proofread better before hitting send. More importantly, I have learned to laugh at her bungled messages but sometimes her racy interpretations often made me blush.  

    Now, a real live friend would apologize, right? Instead, she showed up for work without any apology. 

    I appreciate the confident voices of travel apps who have saved me from getting lost. Though when ignored, these voices take a testy tone with me. It’s their way, which is usually the highway. Over time, I realized they don’t know the short-cuts or the roads where a left turn is impossible. Still, I have continued to employ them for my safety and security.

    Speaking of security, we have a full roster of employed apps to monitor the inside and outside of our house. All the recordings starring foxes, racoons, deer, and birds captured around our home have been entertaining and solved the mystery of whose been chomping on the flowers, nibbling on the bushes, and prowling around our perimeter.  

    Could I sever a relationship with my fake friends? Of course, but I have grown accustomed to artificial company, however, they won’t ever replace real friends.

 

 

Are you having a brat summer?

I’ve devised this brief unscientific quiz, which is clear as slime, I mean lime green for you.

1.      What does having a brat summer mean to you?

a.      Self-reflection

b.      Trying new trendy experiences

c.       Self-destruction

d.      Brat isn’t just a seasonal attitude for me.

2.      Who is your favorite green fictional character?

a.      Kermit the frog

b.      Philly Phanatic 

c.       Oscar the Grouch

d.      Really?

3.      If you had an Olympic brat team, who would you recruit?

            a. All the athletes

            b. Breaking (break dancing)

            c. Sharp shooting

            d. Artistic swimming or any water sport

4.      What’s your summer drink?

a.      Spinach smoothie

b.      Lemon-lime Gatorade (an original)

c.       Sparkling water with a slice of lime

d.      Whatever the bar tender comps me.

5.      Did you read any of the following books?

a.       James by Percival Everett

b.      Come and Get It by Kiley Reid

c.       The Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese (Picked it up and added it to your weight-lifting routine.)

d.      Do audio books count?  

6.      What does brat really stand for?

a.      Did the definition change? I’ll look it up and get back to you.

b.      Winning

c.       Being. Right. All the Time.

d.      It’s a secret.

7.      Word up: Whisper the word of the summer.

a.      Hot and humid (Two words that meld together)

b.      Demure

c.       Fierce

d.      “I might say something stupid.” Therefore, I refuse to answer.

Disclaimer: The results were an exercise in humor rather than defining your status as a bonified brat.

If your answered mostly “a” then you aren’t fully embracing the brat trend. Those who have marked more “b” answers are trending upward.  Anyone who tallied more “c” responses aligns with brats. Finally, those quiz takers who dominated the page with “d” are embracing a brat attitude.

If you made it to the end of this post, you are the best brat friend I could ask for.

 

Are you superstitious?

Yesterday morning, I threw salt over my left shoulder after knocking over the salt shaker while wiping down the table. It’s an automatic response, but I’m not the only one who does this odd ritual, to ward off evil spirits, am I?     

I became smitten with superstitions at an early age thanks to reading Greek mythology. Books with magical twists, characters, and worlds fostered my imagination. Many rituals were rooted in keeping people safe, like hand washing and not talking to strangers. Some stories that made people afraid had merit. If you spoke to strangers who (fill in the blank) you would suffer (fill in the blank again). The choice was yours.

Superstitions also prevented people from challenging authority, belief systems, and sacred ways. Consider those fables filled with falsehoods in order to explain the unexplainable.

Stevie Wonder warned us that superstition 'ain’t the way' in one of my favorite songs of his titled “Superstition” released in 1972.

My fun-loving, superstitious father, known for pranks, encouraged me to follow superstitions. Let me assure you, he wasn’t serious. Emphasis on the word “fun.”

Dad insisted visitors use the same door to enter and exit our house. Otherwise, it’d bring bad luck upon us. Thankfully, we only had three options: front, back, and garage doors. Two Buicks hogged the garage. Anyone with a wide girth would need to scoot sideways between the car and wall. Garden rakes, hoes, tools, three bikes, garage bucket, and forgotten junk filled the perimeter. The space smelled like fresh dirt spiked with oil.  

Only family, close friends and neighborhood kids knocked on the garage door. The way in through the kitchen. We had woods and a winding creek in the backyard where all the neighborhood kids would tromp and play. We came in through the garage, that absorbed our outdoor grime.    

Our front entrance greeted acquaintances, neighbor kids selling fundraiser candy, and evangelist strangers. Strangers who my dad on a whim would invite in to discuss and debate their beliefs. Dad enjoyed engaging them and wasn’t mocking them. Perhaps he felt sorry for the dark clothed folks in suits and ties walking around in the summer sun.    

Today, a few strangers stopped by inviting us to worship. However, we received our share of clipboard salespeople pitching us window installation, lawn mowing services or driveway paving.   

Last week, the bell rang on a weekday afternoon. I opened the door. A girl wearing a bicycle helmet gave me a tentative smile. She looked about eight or nine with messy hair.

Her hands were empty—no candy bars, raffle tickets or boxes. Was she looking for a lost dog?   

“Would you like to buy some lemonade or cotton candy?” she asked with a confident soft voice. She didn’t waste time introducing herself.

She told me both the blue or pink cotton candy and lemonade were a dollar. I watched as she made her way around the neighborhood. Her friends, not at all shy, yelled instructions and questions at her from the street. "Go to the next house!" 

Yes, I visited the entrepreneurs’ stand an hour later, bought a drink, and left a tip. The cotton candy machine was a smaller version than those found at fairs. Just seeing the pink sugary cylinder made me long for the sweet melt in my mouth funnel cake with powdered sugar.

**

Our current house has three doors and a gate to the backyard. Usually, I ushered friends in and out of the same door. Old habits were hard to break, I supposed.

Now, I don’t recall why we, or Dad, started this same-door superstition, but I know it applied to everyone — family, friends, neighbors. People accepted this odd custom because they understood that if they wanted to leave, they must comply. Friends who cared about leaving on good terms laughed and went along. It was our house, our rules.  

When I forgot the ritual, which I often did, I’d shrug it off. I didn’t really believe or take responsibility for exposing my family to bad luck. Bad luck was always on the prowl. Walking under a ladder, a black cat crossing your path, and breaking a mirror, all brought bad luck if you believed. And breaking a mirror caused a spell of seven years of bad luck. Linking some unexpected event to superstition wasn’t logical.

Yet, I haven’t abandoned those ingrained superstitions.  

Why risk it? Over the years, I have followed basic behaviors to ward off evil and cheat misfortune. I pocketed coins facing the right side up for good luck.

When traveling far, I wore a St. Christopher necklace and took my self-blessed penny. As a Methodist, I figured I was not guaranteed the same saintly protection as good Catholics. I lost the necklace and carried coins, and lucky pieces from my collection.  

Have you ever adopted a superstition after something magical happened to you? For example, you hit a home run with bases loaded and your team won the championship.

How do you recreate or repeat your fortune? Do you rely on what you were wearing, doing, or thinking at the time? Did your crazy socks get credit for the soccer goal? Did you whisper a chant three times, or do a dance after your team won? Were you thinking positive thoughts?  

Just for fun, I even adopted some zany superstitions of my own. I touched the car’s ceiling and made a wish if I ran a yellow traffic light. My wish was: Please don’t let me get a ticket. Does it work? Yes, a clean driving record stands as proof. What other wishes had I made? Probably meeting my deadline, or stumbling into a substantial sum of money. I can’t claim it always worked.

Superstition ain’t the way, but it’s been fun.