Vacation, Expectation, Anticipation

Anticipation.  I like to think of it as Expectation's much better self. 

When we have expectation, our already cemented idea about someone or something is in control. We wrangle with our internal steering wheel so certain events should unfurl or particular people should behave in a ways that have been predetermined because, well, we expect them to do so. 

I googled the phrase "What Did You Expect?" expecting to see the famed parenting best seller "What To Expect When You Are Expecting" to pop into first position.  Because the intrepid search engine is more precise than I, a book titled "What Did You Expect?" came up repeatedly on the results page.  Not surprisingly the author is a longtime pastor and speaker who provides insight and guidance for married or to-be married couples.  It is an appropriate question to pose to any couple wondering why their relationship is not or possibly will not meet expectations.

Expectation has a tomfoolery component that grates me.  Alarms go off at the intersection of 'What I Thought Would Occur' Street and 'What Really Happened' Avenue.  Red lights flash danger when I think someone will behave one way, and shows up another way.  The jester jumps in joy as I fail another lesson in managing this hardy emotion.

Anticipation, however, sidesteps this silliness.  It is the eager pup scratching at the door of what will happen.  Anticipation has wonder coursing through it, knowing the results are unknown.  It is one of the finest ways we can feel potential energy of something before we actually experience it.  I am a fan of the big A.

Michelle Higgins' article in tomorrow's NYTimes Travel section sparked my thoughts about anticipation.  Writing about planning the perfect vacation (a fool's errand in many cases), Ms. Higgins supplies ideas for reaching the sometimes impossible dream of a dream vacation. I read her first suggestion to 'Relish the Anticipation" and agreed with a verbal "Amen!"  Part of vacation pleasure is the anticipation.  It can be a constant companion, always whispering whimsy about how it feels to await wherever you will be headed.   It is, in my opinion,  having dessert first.  http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/24/travel/planning-the-perfect-vacation.html

I can pinpoint the exact moment when Anticipation and Realization became equal partners in my psyche. Ironically, a 19th century poem hit me like a sledgehammer  I was a college student in a British Literature class and we read and analyzed Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn."  The narrator's observations about images of lovers in pursuit while frozen in place perfectly describes the ethereal moment just before concrete action takes place.  The chase. The heightened state of wonder. The luscious looming of what may come.  This romance speaks directly to my core. 

Vacations come with their baggage - the planning, finishing up work items,  and the logistics of putting things in order before you leave is also most concrete.  The days and weeks before a vacation can seem like punishment because of the multitude of drudgery details that need attention.  But the anticipation of a new experience physically away from our everyday world awaits us and tempers some of the pre-vacation toil.

The Times article cites a study of travelers published in a 1997 issue of the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology noting that, "regardless of the type of trip, vacationers were happier in the period leading up to their time off than during the vacation itself."  Sure, there is room for a counter point here, but I repeat that part of the fun of vacationing is the anticipation!  On the other hand, I bet when it comes to vacation expectations, many are dashed because they are too idealized to be realized.   The study identifies this as the 'rosy view' citing, the "phenomenon is associated with an increase in the number of negative thoughts during the event which seem to be caused by distractions, disappointment, and a less positive view of the self. These effects are short-lived; within days after the event, people have much more positive evaluations of the event."  Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, Vol 33(4), Jul, 1997. pp. 421-448.

So let's be careful about our expectations, knowing when we don our rose colored glasses that the shade is deliberately skewed against what is real.  Let's bask in anticipation because what awaits us remains a mystery but the entire journey is honest.  As Keats teases us in the final stanza,

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty -

that is all ye know on earth,  and all ye need to know."

To view the entire poem (or to hear an audio version): http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173742        

Juror Furor

The recent tonnage of air time and print space blasted by media outlets regarding the Casey Anthony trial in Florida offers fuel for thought on so many levels.  An abundance of pathos, drama, anger, distrust and sanctimony spilled over in the flotsam and jetsam of opinions surrounding the result.  The decision jurors made to delay speaking out after outrage over the verdict reverberated around and beyond the Orlando courthouse held my attention.  These citizens served and suddenly, and I imagine unexpectedly, were afraid for their safety. 

I started thinking about about jury duty.  Especially about the word 'duty.'

Voting is a duty and privilege. According to  the US Census Bureau, of the 71 percent of registered voters in 2008, 64 percent actually voted.  Not stellar. "In November 2008, of the 225 million people who were 18 and older (in the US), 206 million were citizens, and 146 million were registered. In the November election, 131 million people voted," cites an agency report.  (It does make me wince to see that 30 percent of those who are eligible to vote are not registered.) 

http://www.census.gov/prod/2010pubs/p20-562.pdf

Serving on a jury is also a duty and privilege, yet I think it is safe to suggest that many voters see it as a major inconvenience.  I admit, each time I have seen that letter in the mail for jury duty, my first thought was neither duty nor privilege.  I did serve. More importantly, I learned.

My first jury experience consisted of a day-long sit fest with one or two interruptions for questioning.  I was a 'juror in waiting' and have two specific memories: the courteous government workers and the diverse, random pool of potential jurors.  

It is my second encounter that rankled me while opening my jaded eyes. The case was in federal court, specifically the US District Court, Eastern District of PA and it was compelling.  A 40 year old woman lost her eye in an accident involving an orange, heavy duty extension cord.  She was suing the cord manufacturer claiming a lack of safety devices on the product.  The woman had her hedge clipper plugged into the 50 ft. cord which was attached to an outlet by her home.  While trimming her hedge, she tugged hard on the cord to untangle it while it was still connected to the outlet. The extension cord plug became detached from the clipper and flew into the air landing on her face.  One of the cord prongs hit her eye causing severe injury, resulting in her losing the eye.

Listening to both sides present their case, we were always aware of the victim's loss. In the end, after a few hours of deliberation, we did not find the cord manufacturer at fault. I was the jury foreman and recall that not only did every juror agree with the decision, but each one equally agreed to writing a group statement describing how we felt about the woman's awful accident. We drafted a brief statement which I read before the verdict was given. In it we explained that the verdict did not in any way dilute our understanding of or sympathy for the woman's life changing loss.  However, the accident, while horrific, was not the fault of the manufacturer. 

The jury met its human duty by empathizing with and acknowledging recognition of the pain and suffering felt by the victim; however, it was only the civic duty that we were charged to deliver and we met that sole responsibility.  I think of that woman every winter when I connect outdoor holiday lights using  some orange extension cords and feel sad for her but satisfied with our decision. 

A few more 'juror in waiting' experiences have come my way but there was one other time I was selected to be a jury member.  I am embarrassed to say I forget the details of the civil case in the county courthouse but vividly remember how much the judge valued jury service.  My oldest daughter was a toddler and had a bad cold that unexpectedly evolved into her spiking a high fever while I was in court.  I received a message to call my sitter. The judge stopped the case, graciously invited me into his chamber to make the call. He was indulgent as he assured me to take all the time I needed.   I witnessed this same judge eviscerate both attorneys during jury selection and pound them relentlessly when they often veered from proper use of court time. He was bloodthirsty when either attorney slipped up.  But when it came to the jury, he was cordial to the point of saccharine and consistently reminded the court how highly he valued the jury's role in the process.

He played a dual feline role with such finesse i.e. he was simultaneously a legal tiger and parental pussycat.  He was a show unto himself and I was pleased to be on the receiving end of the pussycat's attention.  

Upon returning to the jury box after talking with the sitter, I felt a bit sheepish, but grateful for the time to handle the pressing issue at home.  The judge decided to take frequent recesses that day insisting that I call home each time so I could have piece of mind. He used this circumstance each time to remind everyone in court how seriously he saw the jury's role.  While our duty was to the entire case, he confirmed that his duty was to us. 

I remember one discussion in the jury room. The topic was the judge's demeanor and deference to the jury.  In our eyes, he was a legal lion and had our unified respect. He made us all feel special for serving.   We were glad to do our duty.

The Oxford Dictionary defines duty as: a moral or legal obligation. This suggests one is differentiated from the other. Once the or is replaced with and, the meaning is expanded and I feel this is where the Orlando jurors became unwitting targets in a horrible and disturbing murder case.  Amid the furor, I believe the jury members met their legal obligation as described by the court. 

Case closed.     

It All Ends Here

I was uncharacteristically patient. I did some deep breathing, checked on my sleeping four-and-a-half-year-old daughter curled up in the seat to my left, flipped thoughtlessly through a magazine, and bided my time until the young male reader to my right closed his book, a copy of the third installment of the Harry Potter series - "Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban."  Then, I pounced! (metaphorically of course.)

This grade school boy paused long enough from reading for me to ask what he thought about the book so far. As our plane pierced the evening skies at 30,000 feet we discussed the turbulent, creepy, mystifying world of the neophyte wizard for two hours.  During that flight home from Florida, we paused only long enough to let the other speak as we swapped opinions, favorite characters, themes, and questions about the future of Harry's world in and out of Hogwarts.  My fellow passenger (we never did exchange names) and I relayed our mutual enthusiasm for J.K. Rowling's works with what has become expected fervor.

This conversation took place twelve years ago and I savor its memory as we enter this Friday's momentous opening of the closing Potter movie, "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2." How can it be?  All the books have been read and, in no time at all, the movies will have been viewed.  As the movie poster eerily claims - it all ends here. Sigh.

As my seatmate and I spoke in animated bursts about events in books one through three, I noticed a woman seated in the middle spot across the aisle. She leaned forward and stared, frequently. She stayed in my sight line. I grew concerned that we, ensconced in Potter World, may have been talking too loudly, however, the woman never shushed us.  I learned upon exiting the plane that she was this young man's mother. It turns out she was afraid that he was monopolizing my time.  Ha!

This is Jo Rowling's gift.  She wrote something so timeless, ageless, and universally appealing that a fifth-grade boy and a forty-something mother, muggle strangers on a plane, could maintain an animated, breathless, continuous conversation about three books for 120 minutes.  I mused over the unlikely pair we made.  I mentally thanked the author.

Months later I got to say 'Thanks' in person.  Jo Rowling toured the country visiting small bookstores that supported her first book when it was a fledgling entry into the increasingly competitive publishing world. This was her way of thanking them. Amazingly, one such store was in The Olde Ridge Shopping Village in nearby Chadds Ford, PA.  This was a moment.  While gracious with each one of the devoted fans who passed before her in a breezily paced greeting, the author consistently stopped the line to engage the children who stood before her.  She sincerely connected with her core readers. This is one of her finest skills. I delight in this memory because the author stayed true, even as her celebrity jettisoned.

We all have our Potter memories.  My youngest daughter's ninth birthday fell on the opening day of the "Prisoner of Azkaban" movie.  Aside from her and her friends feeling uber cool by being dismissed from school early to attend an afternoon screening, the picture that is frozen in my memory is seeing these third graders each wearing the young wizard's signature round, black eyeglass frames as they entered the theater. 

Years later, my oldest daughter and her friend straddled their mutual Potter passion with musical mania in one night. They drew lightning bolts on their foreheads and donned the signature black glasses upon leaving a John Mayer concert in Camden NJ.  On that simmering July evening, bookstores stayed open past midnight to release the seventh book "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows."  I witnessed these sixteen-year-olds ardently embrace both events with equal fervor.  It was never a question of whether or not there was enough room for a musical heartthrob and a literary hero.  Both held proper sway.

A brief article in the NY Times noting the impact of this final installment of the Potter movies on the craftspeople who worked on the films struck me.  Making these vivid novels come alive in visual truth has been a stunning feat by these "backstage wizards."  Who could have seen this coming in June 1997 when "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" crept into bookstores?  No one.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/10/magazine/harry-potters-sorcerers-of-stagecraft.html?ref=movies

Last summer my family toured Warner Brothers Studio in Los Angeles.  It included a visit to the studio museum, the second floor of which houses movie props, costumes, and memorabilia used in the Harry Potter films.  We marveled at it all, especially the sorting hat, which unflinchingly announced which Hogwarts house we were assigned.  We giddily let the magical riptide pull us deeper into this enchanted world, the seed of which was painstakingly planted by one woman. 

We muggles are sad but grateful for the wild, wizardly ride.

Words That Cross

It was a brilliant ruse.

She would warn us (well, really my two brothers) that she would individually list our many infractions if we did not settle down.  The misdeeds would be shared with our parents upon their return.

In her left hand was a newspaper section neatly folded into one quarter size. In her right, a pen (not pencil) at the ready to jot down the misbehavior.  This was my grandmother's way of keeping order while babysitting us. It was also a marvelous slight of hand. Each movement of her pen served dual purposes depending on which side of the paper you viewed.  We saw our future punishments multiply as the diligent notation of bad behavior took place.  My grandmother saw the white spaces of her crossword puzzle dissipate as she conquered them with answers.

Four youngsters'  naughty list was one woman's solved puzzle. 

I love thinking about my grandmother's duplicity.  Talk about multi-tasking! She was able to double her pleasure as she maintained control and solved the daily puzzle, proving the pen is mightier than the sword.  Though as a parent I could never match her effectively simple scheme, I did come to love the addiction known as (and I use this verb loosely) solving crossword puzzles.  My two favorites are Merl Reegle's crossword inventions and the New York Times Sunday puzzle.

The puzzles, pristine as I begin my attack each weekend, transform into crumpled, smudged, tattered opponents as I enter the weekly mind bending wrestling match. I attempt to solve them in one day but keep them on my nightstand to return for more attacks during the week. Yes, I am not a speedster in this arena.  I remember seeing the 2006 documentary "Wordplay" marveling to the point of dumbstruck at solvers setting stopwatches to time themselves completing the puzzles. 

Here is the beauty of this playing field.  While the timekeepers are battling it out in the World Series and  I am playing stick ball on a dirt lot, we are all vying with the same opponent.  Now this is fair game!

To any fellow crossword nerds who are reading this, please stay with me now. Are we simpatico? Does the next sentence resonate with you?  If a blood pressure cuff was attached to my upper arm as I looked down the driveway each Saturday morning to see if the half of the Sunday Times was delivered, it would spike precipitously as I unfurled the plastic sleeve contents looking for the Sunday puzzle. Likewise, if the puzzle is missing, another spike will occur measuring profound disappointment.  The Times customer service is always so willing to quickly refund my money if the magazine is missing.  I suffer through the automated menu to reach someone live so I can explain that nothing but the publication containing the puzzle will suffice. (yes, you can get it online, but the tactile nature of the beast is essential.)

The overhaul of the Times Sunday magazine in March of this year readily assured readers that the puzzle was the one item that remained untouched.  In fact the editor's letter was titled "Everything But the Crossword." No matter what you think of the NY Times, you have to admire their common sense.  They may wrestle mercilessly with the Tea Party, tea leaf politics, and world issues of the day but they know better than to mess with crossword geeks ready to storm the castle. 

NY Times Crossword
Puzzle Editor, Will Shortz

For 34 years many of these very soldiers of solving have been meeting at the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament. "Wordplay" takes us inside once such tournament and it was here that I realized, in this funny little arena,  these are my people.  A little more ardent than I, perhaps, and definitely much more intelligent, we share fervor, humor and appreciation for the usually clever, often brain crushing construction of a puzzle created by a cadre of puzzlemakers,  names of whom I now begin to take note.  All edited by Will Shortz.  And yes, the Times puzzles are tops.  Jon Stewart puts it this way in the documentary: "I am a Times puzzle fan.  I will solve USA Today, but I don't feet good about myself!"

The paper's crossword blog, aptly named Wordplay, provides such quirky, interesting, insight into this wordy world it attracts my oddball sensibilities and delights to my freak core.  Here is a sample:
http://wordplay.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/07/08/terrorizers/?scp=2&sq=wordplay&st=cse

There is a minor athletic component to this crossword craziness.  We read the clues aloud, mumble possible answers, try to syphon through the double meanings, bang the table as we are outwitted, and yell at the puzzle maker du jour who teases us with hints that confound.  More than one pen has been chucked across the room as I labored over these moments. 

And here is the final irony - we are required to think outside the box, all the while at war within one large box composed of many little black and white boxes!

My secret wish is to attend the crossword puzzle convention in Brooklyn as an observer, possibly a rookie. Yes, it's time to let my freak flag fly.  In the meantime I am about to make my Saturday walk down the driveway to snag my arcane addiction.

I have words and I am not afraid to connect them! I think my grandmother would approve.

"Noble Be Man, Merciful and Good"

It eventually was the studied quiet that surprised me the most. 

There I was in our nation's capital on the eve of Independence Day weekend.  I could feel the excitement starting to build with visitors filling the historic setting under the perfect summer weather conditions.  America was on the cusp of celebrating its youthful self at 235 years of age. 

Focused on how I wanted to make the most of this precious time alone, I pinpointed places I had never before toured. Topping the list was the US Holocaust Memorial Museum. I realize now that the forethought used in every aspect of this museum's design was subtle because its contents were so blatant. For example, while anticipating the timed-ticket entrance to the permanent exhibition, visitors are deliberately bathed in light in an atrium waiting area.  In contrast, light is used sparingly throughout the multi-floored exhibits, setting a purposeful tone.

I stood among my fellow tourists in clusters reading explanations and viewing photographs about the Nazi rising and assault.  It was somewhat crowded at first.  I found myself being concerned about craning to view the abundance before me.  It became all too clear that the crowds naturally thinned because everyone moved at their own pace, making the visit more personal than I had expected.  From the outset, the tenor was church-like.  People spoke in whispers, if at all.  The universal reverence surprised me a little. It sustained me throughout.  

It was a reassuring result of an unspoken agreement: we walked among the hallowed. 


Gerda Weissman Klein
(Photo by the US Holocaust
Memorial Museum)

The gradual immersion on the third floor titled the Final Solution created needed solemnity. The boxcar, the hair, the shoes, the photographs, the cement camp posts, the barrack bunks, the suitcases - artifacts of lives sheared off by unthinkable hate. 

Two final pieces of the exhibition deepened its impact: the Testimony Theater and the Hall of Remembrance.  Videos of survivors telling pieces of their stories played continuously in the theater.  These first person narratives gripped me, especially the one given by Gerda Weissman Klein. Under Nazi rule in her Polish homeland at age 14, Gerda was sent to a concentration camp at age 17.  She was among those on a 350 mile death march at the war's end.  While pausing in a bombed out factory, the 68 pound, white haired girl saw a jeep in the distance.  She became curious when she noticed it did not brandish the swastika but an unfamiliar white star. 



Kurt Klein
(photo by the US Holocaust
Memorial Museum)

The jeep driver stopped upon seeing her at the building door. Two US soldiers got out and one, named Kurt, addressed Gerda in English and German.  She replied in German immediately informing him almost as a warning, "We are Jewish."  His delayed response belied the emotion this soldier felt witnessing the skeletal collection of women before him.  He said, "So am I." Gerda then quoted the German poet Goethe saying "Noble be man, merciful and good." The soldier, dumbfounded by this young woman's wherewithal to quote exacting poetry in the desolate setting, moved him in a life changing way.

Gerda and Kurt were married in 1946.  The gasp of audience satisfaction was one of the few collective sounds I heard that day in the museum.  The couple celebrated 57 wedding anniversaries until Kurt's sudden death in 2004. 


I exited the theater and entered the Hall of Remembrance.  The light-filled rotunda signaled hope and I found myself crying in quiet gulps as the consummate power of the last three compelling hours was unlocked. I was grateful for the peaceful respite before heading out into the July day.  The faces I saw for the remainder of my visit echoed Goethe's optimistic reflection as I chose hope over despair on our nation's birthday. 

Noble be man,
Helpful and good!
For that alone
Sets him apart
From every other creature
On earth.

(in The Divine, Goethe, 1783)

Here is the link to Gerda and Kurt's videos at the US Holocaust Memorial Museum:
 http://www.ushmm.org/museum/exhibit/online/phistories/phi_individuals_kurt_gerda_klein_uu.htm