Category Archives: Human Nature

Human nature and Newburyport, MA, the psychological and social interactions and the character of human conduct.

Single Mothers

Single mothers may not be “in,” but to the mildly self-aware, they are not getting the “kick in the head” that they are normally used to.

I’ve never met a single mother who said that being a single mother was their first choice. As choices go, it always seems to be fairly down on the list.

I’ve also never met a single mother who said that single motherhood was “easy.” In fact, in my experience, single mothers usually rate single motherhood as one of the hardest, if not the hardest thing that they have ever done.

And add to that, from one to ten, a walloping dose of guilt and shame (yes, even in the year 2009). A “ten” coming from the most conservative folks in our society, and “one” often unconsciously from even the most enlightened of progressives.

Single mothers often tell me that in general, it is very hard to hold their heads up in society with a complete sense of pride and dignity.

So, in the “what do we make of this now” category, here we have folks giving tons of credit to the mother of the President of the United State. The mother who was not only divorced once, but twice–a single mom.

So yes, our president appears to be a loving father and husband (a wonderful example). But so many people give credit to whatever “it” is that our new president has, not only to him, but also to enigma of the single mother that raised him (in much more less than receptive to single mother times).

Humble is In

“Humble” is now “in.”

Humility being a foreign entity, at least often in places like New York City and Washington, D.C., and probably LA as well. Although in places like Newburyport, MA, humility is very common (thankfully).

Noticing how the new president, President Obama stands while he’s waiting for whatever. His hands are clasped in front of his waist. In power, how to succeed in being powerful, hands clasped in front of your waist, a big fat “no, no,” and a big waste of time, in the how to succeed in the being powerful body language thing.

Either President Obama is very comfortable in his own skin, or has never been to a how to succeed in business, power coach, or both. But here he is President of the United States of America.

It’s not apparent to me if the major power folks, who have assisted in causing our major financial meltdown, which is now very much trickling down to our small New England city of Newburyport, MA, have gotten the message yet, or in fact ever want to get the message.

I asked a Newburyport friend, who is in finance, what is happening to some of these powerful financial folks. And I was told that their life styles have been dramatically “cut back,” as in one of their many houses may be on the chopping block.

I inquired if “they” could have any clue that maybe they, along with lots and lots of other folks, might feel responsible for what has happened to the United States, the world, as well as our own little spot in the world, Newburyport, MA.

And I was told, no way would it ever occur to them to own up to their role in all of this mess. It’s, “Give me my two extra houses back, now,” as far as I can make out.

We obviously have a long way to go in coming to terms with the whole concept of the “humility” thing. The frogs (see previous post) get it, they want to be selfish and narcissistic (their words, not mine). Maybe we could all begin to acclimate ourselves to this new “in” concept of humble, by practicing standing, while waiting for whatever, with our hands clasped in front of our waists, just like one of the most powerful men on earth, President Obama,

Website Design Outrage

The frogs are outraged.

The frogs are outraged because they think the new “look” of The Newburyport Blog makes them look awful. In fact they think it makes them look “tacky.” (What can I say, they’ve always looked somewhat “tacky,” but believe me, I’m not going to go there.)

I tell the frogs (I haven’t put a photo of the frogs, just incase the new “look” does in fact make them look less than their amphibian sparkling best, just a previous link to their entire frog page, “About George”) that the color scheme is actually pretty close to the old “look.” They are not placated. They tell me that the maroon headlines brought out their eyes (I of course am rolling mine). I tell them they have beady black eyes and the maroon headlines did nothing of the sort.

I also tell them, if I’m going to experiment with designing websites, for goodness sakes, why not start experimenting on one of my own sites, for crying out loud. And that there is always tweaking that can be done, and worstcase scenario I can always change back to the old look. Good grief.

I also tell them that they should pay attention to their new president, who said that it was “time to put away childish things,” and that they are definitely being very childish. That there is a big difference between silly and whiney, and they are definitely being stupid wildly whiney.

And they say, they don’t care, that they would like to be selfish, narcissistic (pretty big word for a frog, have they been studying psych?) frogs and they don’t give a rip what the new president said. And I say, “Guys, depending how you look at it, you are in “good” company, because there appear to be plenty of Wall Street folks who feel exactly the same way.”

The Newburyport Library’s Hidden Treasure

I find at the Newburyport Library, which is one of my favorite places in all of Newburyport, and somehow makes paying my property taxes less painful, a small, and what looks like a treasure chest of a section. I decide to keep the “call number” of this treasure chest of a section, a big fat secret, and not to share it with anyone, not even any of the librarians that work at the Newburyport Library in Newburyport, MA.

I impulsively dub this section the, “Everything is going to be all right, really and truly, at least I hope so, ” section of the Newburyport Library, in Newburyport, MA. I spot a book by Stephen Colbert, so I know this finite area contains humorous stuff. Humor being something that I could use a heaping dose of in these scary and uncertain economic times.

And I spot an old friend (my mother used to say, semi rolling her eyes, “Books are our friends”), “Lost in the Cosmos, the Last Self-Help Book,” by Walker Percy, which I snatch from the shelf, as if it might be snatched from my hands, and usher it downstairs to the beautiful granite topped checkout center, before scurrying home with my new found treasure.

And that night I sit down in the comfiest chair possible and start to read, once again, Walker Percy’s “Lost in the Cosmos.”

By page two I no longer smile in anticipation, but begin to frown. By page four I turn back to the copyright page to find out when this book had actually been written–1983, a while ago. By page eight I call it quits.

The book no longer seems like a witty commentary on the society in which we live. It seems bitter, angry and confused about the direction that society is taking. I am beginning to understand a) why “irony” has been getting such a bad name lately and b) why this book has been sitting on the shelf and does not have a long waiting list instead.

I wonder out loud to myself if it could be possible that we as a culture could have actually outgrown an angry 1980’s ironic phase?

And I think about our almost president to be Obama. Over and over again the one thing people seem to agree on, and still seem to agree on, is that here is a man that does not appear to be angry, when in fact, many think he should be.

And last night as I flip through the channels looking for the latest inaugural news, on one of the cable channels I come across someone who says that they think that it is “ironic” that our new president will be inaugurated the day after Martin Luther King Day.

I think to myself that I in fact I do not think that this is “ironic” at all, now that I am coming to the conclusion that it may be possible that “irony” may indeed be going out of fashion.

Instead I think of it as what a wise friend of mine calls “God’s pinky.” Possibly that this “coincidence” could be the god of my understanding indicating that electing the first African American president is a very good thing.

The Early to Mid Twenties Thing

Having talked to various young men and women in their early to mid twenties, in Newburyport and elsewhere, I am beginning to think that the early to mid twenties thing may be as difficult in its own way as the teenage years thing.

I have two wonderful Newburyport neighbors who are somewhere in their late thirties and early forties, closer to, and therefore with better memories of, the age of the twenty age thing than moi.

They tell me that it is a teetering transition time between adulthood and childhood (I naively thought this took place at 18) and it’s best to throw them to the wolves.

My son seems to agree with the throwing to the wolves thing, at least when it comes to the female member of the parenting part. I am all in agreement, with the great hope that the journey to adulthood thing, not only has been set into motion, but is chugging down the adulthood path at some sort of consistent regularity.

However, it is not necessarily easy to have gone intensely down the parenting highway at a good clip for a good couple of decades, get off at a 30 mile an hour thoroughfare, Newburyport or elsewhere, and be able to actually slow down. The brakes get quite a workout. I am, however, more than ready to enjoy the scenery.

Others who are older than my Newburyport neighbors, with children who are in their 30’s and 40’s tell me a different story. They look at me with either a smile or a frown, and tell me, “They never really leave home.”

And at least for me, while my parents were alive, that was indeed true. I might not have actually been present at their actual dwelling or in contact at that actual moment, but there was always a sense of “home,” one that, yes, might have evolved over the years, but still, in whatever shape it took, existed in a very tangible way. And I didn’t comprehend that I had stood on that foundation, with both obliviousness and confidence, until that foundation was no longer there.

Turning Heads in New York City

I was in New York (City) visiting my Dad and had lunch with him at his favorite eating lunch haunt in Mid-Manhattan.

It was one of those gorgeous New York spring days, and I walked back to where my Dad lived. And, as usual, when visiting my father, I was dressed in my “New York best.”

And I found as I walked North, I turned heads.

When my father got home that evening from work (yes, in his eighties, almost to ninety, my father worked, and loved to work), I told him that walking home I had “turned heads.”

He looked at me with that beady, quizzical look of his as if to say “Beany (he used to call me “Beany”), you are a woman of a “certain age,” and women of a certain age simply don’t’ turn heads.”

But I’d say to him, “No, Dad, really.”

When I was down visiting in New York one Christmas, when it was one of those blessed Christmases when it was actually warm outside, my son and I took a cab to his quintessential New York walk-up apartment near 42nd street, to bring back some of the Christmas presents that he had received. And we walked back to where my Dad lived, winding our way though a ridiculously packed Rockefeller Center.

Bakers don’t walk in New York, they stride. And yes, I was dressed up in my New York finest. And my son, who was also striding along side me, would say things like, “Mom, did you see that guy, he was trying to pick you up, and he was half your age!”

He recounted this amazing occurrence to my father when we arrived back at my father’s dwelling. My Dad gave him the same beady, quizzical look. And my son said to him, “No, Poppy, it’s true, really, the guy was half her age.”

When my Dad was ill and dying, I didn’t do any striding around New York City. It was more sort of stumbling blindly. And I noticed something–I sure as hell didn’t turn any heads.

It was as if in my grief, I had become invisible, or if not invisible, then sending out a grief aura, that folks in New York would like to avoid.

I thought of the old saying that goes something like, “When you smile the world smiles with you, when you cry, you cry alone.” (Of course this is not true everywhere, people in other parts of the country actually do respond with empathy to grief.)

And I came up with my own version of the old saying. It goes like this: “When you stride confidently in New York City, no matter how old you are, you turn heads. When you stumble in grief, you become as invisible as the ghost of the loved one that you mourn.”

Newburyport Walking

I walk. That’s what I do. Some people ski. I walk.

I have my Newburyport route, so when it’s time to take a break, I don’t even have to think about it. Set myself on Newburyport walking-autopilot, and off I go.

People ask me, “You walk everyday, how much?”

And I say, “Two miles.”

And invariably they say, “That’s not enough.”

And then I think to myself (I never, ever say it out loud, I’m far, far too polite), “Look at me and look at you. Who’s in better shape. I don’t even have midriff-bulge (yet).”

When I was pregnant, my father announced to me one day, that after my pregnancy, I would get the dreaded midriff-bulge, and that it would never, ever go away.

It’s been a few decades since I last gave birth, and I look into the mirror and go, “Do you have mid-drift-bulge yet? Is this mid-drift bulge?” And after all these years, I’ve decided that my father was wrong. I only have, decades later, a very mild case of the midriff-bulge thing.

Actually, as an entire family, we never got the dreaded obesity gene thing. No, we all eat like birds, and when something goes wrong, we end up not having any appetite, and lose tons of weight, as well as any mild midriff-bulge thing that we might have actually acquired along the way, instead of the other way around.

People, who don’t have this very fortunate gene, always look at us and say things like, “You look so gaunt.”

And I want to say something like (but I never, ever do, I’m far, far too polite), “Don’t you wish sister.” or “Don’t you wish you dope. You have the midriff-bulge gene, and you’re just jealous as all get-out. You’re dying to look gaunt.” (No pun intended.)

But instead, I just smile, and say what a friend of mine calls the “Cheerio prayer.” I say “Oh.”

And then I sometimes, if it’s me that’s been told I look, “So gaunt,” I add, “I guess it’s from those two miles of Newburyport walking.”

Newburyport’s Guardian Angels

I’ve just come back from seeing my son perform a “solo performance” that he wrote–an independent study for college. My son graduates from college this May.

Sitting in the dark theater surrounded by his adorable, wonderful and boisterous fellow travelers, I forgot that the amazing versatile and gifted young man on stage, performing this remarkable, poetic piece, was the child that I gave birth to.

In the audience were two people from Newburyport, Massachusetts.

The first was Greg Moss, who cast my son in a play that he wrote and directed called “Yoohoo and Hank Williams.” An incredibly poignant play, performed at the Black Box at the Tannery, a play I’ve always wanted to see not only at the Fire House, but always thought it was worthy off-Broadway.

Greg Moss’ mother is Maureen Daly, who was my son’s kindergarten teacher. Mr. Moss’ father is yes, “Mr. Moss”, Myron Moss, my son’s poetry teacher his senior year at Newburyport High School. A family that so lovingly has book-ended my son’s earlier education.

Suzanne Bryan, my son’s high school theatre teacher, was also in the audience. “Mrs. Bryan” was one of his first high school “guardian angels.” Without Suzanne Bryan, there would have been no college “solo performance” this April.

When my son was going through the Newburyport school system, I would hear parents complain and complain. But I was always amazed at the men and women who showed up everyday, who had a gift that I could never imagine having, and cajoled, inspired, were exasperated and proud of my child. I always tried to thank them.

And there were many “guardian angles.” One always worth mentioning, Bernadette Darnell. There would have been no college experience, period, with out “Mrs. Darnell.”

I hear parents say to me today, “Ah, but your son’s experience was so different from our child’s experience.” I just say “Oh.” But, what I would like to say is, “Hush, be still, listen. If you open your eyes you will find your child’s guardian angels. No one has taken them away. They are most definitely there. There is a treasure hunt ready to happen.”

The guardian angles all through the Newburyport school system, made my son’s college experience possible. It is in part because of their dedication, warmth and caring that he will graduate from college this May. And for that I can never thank them enough. I know I am proud. And I am sure that they are proud too.

Mary Eaton, Newburyport

Newburyport, Peter Miller and the High Street Email List

I first met Peter Miller in early January 1999. We both went to a meeting about High Street, held in the Newburyport City Council chambers. Peter Miller and Maria Nortz had just moved to town.

At that meeting, as I was making the decision to create Citizens to Save High Street, Peter Miller was taking down everyone’s email address. Now you have to remember, email was really new in 1999 ( yes, hard to fathom) and we all really wondered what the heck Peter Miller was up to.

Peter Miller was ( and still is, sadly, he and Maria Nortz have moved out of town) one smart cookie.

Peter Miller started the High Street email list, and I learned an awful lot from Mr. Miller. Peter Miller and the High Street email list were one of the very big inspirations for the Newburyport Political Blog.

From Peter Miller, I learned about how to make the tone of a “email posting” civil by using the words “could, would, might, may.” I was just amazed at how an email posting changed when those few verbs were applied.

Peter Miller also tried to make everyone look good, whether he agreed with them or not. He would make sure that the grammar was correct and that everything was spelled right. If he had questions about an email someone sent in, he would send it back and ask if they were sure that they would like it posted. If the answer came back “yes” that email was sent on to the High Street email list. And sometimes, after they had time to think about it, they often decided that maybe sending the email out to the High Street email list just wasn’t a good idea.

After the fight to save High Street had settled down, I was amazed at how many people had read the High Street email list. People printed it, passed it around, saved it, even archived it as a part of the history of how High Street was saved.

And the High Street email list also turned out to be an incredibly powerful political tool.

So if the Newburyport Political Blog survives, it will be due in great part to what I learned from Peter Miller. And I sure wish Peter Miller and Maria Nortz would move back to town. I sure could use their wisdom, their expertise and help. And a lot of other people miss them too.

Mary Eaton, Newburyport