Archive for December, 2011
Thank-you Tom Russell
I believe that each of us in this life is granted a few special messengers outside of our biological family, who cross our path to teach us something important, to provide vital guidance if we’re paying attention.
In the early 80s, I was in college and, thank heaven, paying attention in my Intro to Journalism class.
I had every intention of being a schoolteacher when I grew up. But, in my Sophomore year of college, I took a Journalism class “just for fun” and wandered into Professor Tom Russell’s classroom with a new notebook, a couple of pens, and nary a clue.
He was a retired newspaper reporter and an Air Force veteran who served in World War II. He dressed a bit like Mr. Rogers. He commanded, never demanded, respect. He did not tolerate laziness, bad grammar, or cliche. Sharp witted. Friendly. Un-sugar-coated. Brilliant. He was tough – but tough in a good way, in a way that challenges and inspires.
I can recall, with vivid clarity, The Moment—as I walked out of Biddle Hall after one of his classes—when I made the decision to be a writer, to do what I loved instead of what was safe and expected. It was one of the first big things I fought for, one of the only decisions I’ve been 100% sure of, one of the few things I got right in my life.
I truly don’t know if I would have discovered my place in the world or found the courage to pursue it if not for Tom Russell.
Now, I may not have attained exactly what I dreamed of that day, but I use the things he taught me every single day of my life.
We’ve exchanged cards and catch-up letters for more than 25 years at Christmastime. His hand-writing on an envelope is one of my Favorite Things. I sent off my card and letter to him last week, with a promise to print out and send a couple of blog posts in a separate envelope. This morning, at the office, I used the internet (instead of my address book at home) to check his address to get those into the mail. As I scanned the white pages’ search results, I saw one with a notation: “Passed in 2011.” Oh no, no, no. But, yeah. I found the online obituary next.
He left this earth in May, so this paper is late. He’ll deduct points for that. And he’ll roll his eyes at this “armchair fluff.” But I owe him a good-bye. And a stronger word choice than Thank-you. And a novel.
Fare thee well, Mr. Russell.
# # #
Um, Hi?
So, this morning, I’m sitting still in rush hour traffic. I’m in the left lane.
The right lane is (of course) moving. However, a guy in the right lane just stops next to me and honks. I look over, he’s waving and smiling. He is stopped in rush hour traffic to smile and wave. The following thoughts went through my head, in this order:
1. I bet it’s one of my cousins! (There are a bunch of them in the neighborhood.)
It’s not a cousin.
2. Must be . . . some-bo-dy I know?
It’s no one I know.
3. Is there a pie on my roof?
Long-time-ago funny family story, my Dad once drove home from my gramma’s with a pie on the roof of the station wagon.
4. Do I have my purse?
Ah heredity. I once drove quite a ways with my purse on the trunk until a kind, honking, waving person pulled up next to me at a light.
5. Is there a fake bumper sticker on my car that says, “I [heart] cross-dressing”?
Practical joke once played on a co-worker.
6. Is there something wrong with my car?
Blessed Mary Mother of God, please don’t let me be the disabled vehicle in rush hour. Not here at this intersection. Not again.
7. Too old to be hitting on me. Too young to be senile.
I may have had a good day here and there, but let’s all be honest, men aren’t hitting the brakes in rush hour to meet me.
As all of the above finishes going through my head, I realize that my hand is in the process of rising up to wave back. In slow motion, halting, but it’s involuntary. Another human being is smiling and waving; I’m telling you, the wave-back is reflexive. (Your fingers just wiggled a bit right now, didn’t they?)
So I wave back. And the person gives me a great big thumbs up, nodding like a bobble head, smiling, thumbs up again, and drives away.
All of the above took place in about 5-10 seconds. No time to roll down a window, ask a question. Barely time to pull my hand down, glance around a bit sheepishly, and chuckle.
And now, dangit, for the rest of this day at least, my brain will be doing Rewind Play Rewind Play, my already faulty synapses trying to put a name to a face or a rational explanation to an odd and random moment. Who was he? What exactly about the situation warranted a thumbs-up? What was the dealio?
Am I absolutely certain there’s not a pie on my roof?
Life Preservers 
The Strange Goings-on on 34th Street
Email from my bank: You have a new bill from Macy’s.
Odd. I haven’t used my Macy’s card in about a year. But I check. And, yep, instead of my beautiful zero balance, there’s a charge for 50 bucks with the description “Hotline.” The bill also includes a “Have a question about your bill? Call Macy’s Customer Service!” So I do.
I’m on hold being bombarded with two-second snippets of songs followed by minute-long advertisements. Then, I’m arguing with an automated voice.
Hi. I’m a machine pretending to be a person with bad hearing who, golly gee, didn’t quite hear what you just said. Could you please try again to tell me your social security number?
And I say (again), I’m not going to give you my social security number. Let me talk to a person.
It feigns confusion. I repeat. It repeats. I repeat. And, then (machine pretending to be a human with a prefrontal lobotomy) it suggests I speak with a person.
I’m on hold a while longer.
Finally, a How can I help! and my explanation and Oh, you have to call the hotline company for that. Right. And so I call the hotline and a machine asks me to say my ZIP code and my house number, which I do. And then a person gets on and asks me to say my ZIP code and my house number. (123 Deja Vu Lane?)
She asks me many questions. They have no record of me. I am put on hold. I am transferred to The Analyst. She asks me the same questions and more questions including, “Does 2009 Main Street ring a bell.”
[An aside to the Piker Family: Does it ring a bell?! HA!]
Uh yes; I used to live there. And, suddenly, The Analyst is done with me and getting off the call and I’m sputtering like Ralphie on the Santa slide as the boot comes down.
Me: Wait. Wait. I didn’t have a Macy’s card when I lived there.
Analyst: The charge is for a card protection service that was initiated through Kaufman’s.
Me: I cancelled my Kaufmann’s card years ago.
Analyst: Kaufmann’s bought Macy’s.
And I want to say I know that you stinking smarmy dipwad; my point is, Why the heck am I suddenly being charged for a FREE service that I had on a different card from over 20 years ago? but, The Analyst, she is gone. And I am left with original tele-person who desperately wants to update my address in their system. I inquire why she would bother. I don’t want this service; I’m not paying this charge; Why do you need my current address; And why am I suddenly being charged for a free service that I had on a different card over 20 years ago?
She can’t answer me that so I say, Okay, let’s just cancel this then. And she begins a sales spiel about how this service can protect me from fraudulent charges.
She. Has. Absolutely. No. Idea. How. Funny. That. Is.
She explains that I’ll get a refund and I inquire how that will occur. Do I pay and get a check? Do I not pay and get a credit? I do NOT want to end up paying any finance charges on this.
Her patronizing response? Oh, you’ll have to discuss that with Macy’s.
I will indeed have a chat with Macy’s. Or, at least, I will have a chat with a machine pretending to be a person who is bummed out about me canceling my credit card.
It’s a busy time of year folks, but keep an eye on those bills this month.
Motto/Sign from 1960s Macy's Campaign
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December 21, 2011 at 11:38 am 4 comments