The 1953 Ray Bradbury novel, Fahrenheit 451,depicts a future American society where books are outlawed and those that are found are destroyed by fire via that society’s “firemen.” The premise of the novel has been described as representing the suppression of dissenting ideas from those deemed correct and appropriate: censorship at its worst. This blog entry is not about censorship; it is about the possibility of losing the tactile, hard or soft cover media that has entertained billions of us over the years: the non-electronic book.
I crave books and I am never without a selection from which to choose,
but maybe the vehicle by which I read books – and that so immediately satisfies my hunger for more books – will bring about the demise of the tactile tome.
I’m talking about e-readers.
From June 3, 2010 through June 8, 2014, I have spent just under $3,000 on e-books. If that shocks you, imagine how I feel seeing that number because I have to admit it doesn’t feel like thousands of dollars when I download a new book in less than a minute. I purchased books now and then prior to purchasing my first e-reader four years ago, but most of my reading addiction was satisfied compliments of the local library system.
Caveat: I can justify a certain percentage of my e-book purchases by telling you that quite a bit of the research I perform for my writing career comes from fiction and non-fiction works that focus on aging – most specifically on Alzheimer’s and other dementia. But even I will admit that it’s a very small percentage.
I would gladly give up my e-reader if doing so saves soft and hard cover books.
One of my family members stopped using his e-reader; he lost the passion for reading – or more accurately – he found it difficult to find a book he could dive into. He kept going from book to book and nothing he read captured his attention. He had a light bulb moment, however, when he discerned that the content he was reading was not lacking, it was the electronic apparatus that was at fault. I’m not parting with my e-reader yet, but the anxiety I have been feeling the past couple months haunts me each time I pick up my e-reader and swipe the page from right to left, instead of lifting the top right corner of the page and laying it down on the left.
Sarah Jio’s most recent novel, Goodnight June, hints at what has already occurred and might very well occur completely: an absence of book stores and readers to keep them in business. Another voiced concern in Goodnight June is that the childhood love of reading is waning.
What do you see children doing when they have free time? Do they pick up a book like so many of us did when we were their age or are they cozying up on the couch with an electronic device?
Is it just me? What are your thoughts?
Fanaticism on both sides of gay-rights issue | Local News | The Seattle Times. by Danny Westneat Please read the attached article if you have not already done so.
A friend from college found me through Facebook the other day and we’ve spent a couple days catching up with each other via e-mail because it has been decades since we’ve communicated with each other. I told Angie about my work with the elder-care community and I also mentioned that I’m a contributing writer for Grandparents Day Magazine (an Australian online publication), I have my own blog, and I’m writing my first novel. “Irene, did you major in English at the University?” “Nope, I majored in French. I write not because I’m an exceptional writer, but because I have something to say.”
As is the case today.
Danny Westneat of the Seattle Times wrote another brilliant column in such a way as to make you say, “Hmmmm.” What I mean is that at least for me, he opened my eyes as to how demanding some of our opinions can be. For example:
Whether you support same-sex marriage or you don’t, you have the right to say how you feel about it.
Six years ago, Mozilla CEO, Brendan Eich contributed financially to Proposition 8 in California – a proposition that opposed gay marriage. It was discovered that he had done so, and the newly installed CEO was immediately ousted. He had, however, been with the company since the 1990s, and as Danny Westneat pointed out, “There was no evidence his views against legalizing gay marriage had any effect on his various jobs at the company, including his treatment of gay co-workers.”
Putting a more local perspective on this same subject, Washington State’s 2012 Referendum 74 that would allow same-sex marriage in our state, had 5,700 names on the anti-gay-marriage monetary contributor list, including those from Amazon, Starbucks, T-Mobile, F5 Networks, Microsoft, and Boeing, to name a few. Many others were opposed to the Referendum and financially contributed against it: medical professionals, public-school teachers, a school superintendent, and a couple college instructors. The measure passed, with the voters split 53.7% to 46.3% of valid votes placed.
Isn’t that grand? Everyone was allowed to vote which ever way they wanted; a fabulous example of the right to believe/speak the way you want through the democratic voting process. But do or say something that might give ones business a bad reputation in the eyes of the majority – or even the minority – then by God, you’ve gotta go.
Where do we draw the line?
Personally, I passionately voted the way I wanted to vote regarding Referendum 74, and although I might disagree with those who voted differently from me, I respected their right to vote which ever way they wanted.
In his article, Danny Westneat talked about the fanaticism that the Boy Scouts exhibited by ousting a gay Boy Scout leader because of who he is, not because of his work performance. But the columnist added that the same fanaticism was displayed when the Mozilla CEO was ousted for what he believes.
If we are now requiring everyone to believe the way we believe; think the way we think; or vote the way we vote, aren’t we exhibiting a radical intolerance that nullifies our right to believe and speak as our conscience leads us?
I hope I never live in a world where someone figuratively puts a gun to my head to force me to think, believe, or vote the way they want me to.
Anyone who knows me, knows that would really piss me off, and it should make you pretty darn angry as well.
My adult life has been an open book; just ask my husband. He would tell you that on our very first dinner date at a Kirkland, Washington waterfront restaurant, I pretty much told him my life from A to Z, and then some. That’s why it was so astounding that at the end of our date he asked, “Would you like to do this again?”
Wow, I didn’t scare him off.
I’m pretty sure my open book living started quite young for this girl who is one of the most talkative people I know. What can I say? Apparently a lot. As a youngster, I recall engaging my parents’ dinner guests in conversation, even sitting on their laps, without much hesitation or shyness. And along with my brother and my sister, we would sing and dance for any person who would sit down long enough for us to entertain them. I’m quite certain this ability is a Desonier family trait that has been passed down from generation to generation.
Being talkative is one thing, but if your words don’t account for much, that’s all they are – just words.
I admire those who are able to change the world – or at least improve someone’s day – with an economy of words that have more impact than any vomiting of words that I can spew during the course of an hour. My husband, Jerry, is one of those talented people. Forgive me for sounding morose, but I guarantee that years, and years, and years from now, those attending my husband’s funeral will remark on how he was a man of few words – but the words he spoke were golden.
At our wedding reception – a family-only party at our residence – I told both families that one of the things I admired most about Jerry is that he is a man of very few words, but what he says is worth listening to. Of course seeing as his siblings were also at the reception, one of his sisters yelled out, “Yah, he’s an empty book!”
That’s humorous, but far from the truth. My husband’s story is one of family, commitment, and protectiveness. He’s always thinking about what he can do to protect his two adult daughters and how he can keep me safe, wherever I may be. I love taking walks – rain or shine – in our rural neighborhood where dogs, bobcats, and even black bears, have been known to present themselves when you least expect it – not to mention the inattentive drivers who may not notice that I’m trekking along the side of the road. In the past ten years, my husband has gifted me with: waterproof long pants, a sturdy walking stick, a fluorescent yellow vest, a pair of straps with strobe lights on them that I can either wear around my arms or my ankles, pepper spray, and the list goes on. Some wives may take offense to receiving such practical gifts, bemoaning the fact that he must not love me if these are the types of gifts he thinks I really want. I see those practical gifts as a sign of love from someone who wants me to be around for many years to come.
Words, followed up by actions, have the power to change everyone in your corner of the world. Whether hastily spoken harsh words or well-thought out words of encouragement – your corner of the world will be changed. Many of us need to learn to swallow our words and only let escape those that feed and nourish the recipient. I, for one, can cut my dialogue in half, as long as what remains serves to build up those with whom I come in contact.
One thing is for certain; the less often you open your mouth, the less opportunities exist to stick your foot in it.
Forgive me, if you will, because I am going to start this blog piece by quoting some of the lyrics from Katy Perry’s song, Roar. You may not have heard of this popular singer or if you have, you may not follow her career, but one of her songs resonated with me and challenged me, so thus begins a few of the lyrics:
I used to bite my tongue and hold my breath; scared to rock the boat and make a mess, so I sat quietly, agreed politely. I guess that I forgot I had a choice; I let you push me past the breaking point; I stood for nothing so I fell for everything.
When was the last time you swayed in the wind of other people’s opinions and fearing ostracism, you swayed in silence even though you disagreed with those opinions being expressed around you? What did that feel like?
You held me down, but I got up, already brushing off the dust. You hear my voice, you hear that sound, like thunder gonna shake the ground; you held me down, but I got up; get ready ’cause I’ve had enough. I see it all, I see it now…
How long did it take to break the hold that your silence had on you? How much time passed before you got up and let your “you-ness” shine forth amongst the crowds – whether those crowds consisted of strangers or close loved ones? What did it take for you to divert from the ebb and flow of popular opinion and launch your own?
I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter, dancing through the fire; ’cause I am a champion and you’re gonna hear me roar. Louder than a lion, ’cause I am a champion and you’re gonna hear me roar.
The purpose of this open-ended article is to encourage some personal internal dialogue wherein you answer the above questions for yourselves and discern whether or not you’ve been stifling beliefs or opinions that define the essence of who you are, but which you’ve held to yourself because you don’t want to rock the boat.
What are you waiting for? The author, Eckhart Tolle would say that Now is all you have. You can’t go back and correct the past; it doesn’t exist anymore. You can’t rely on there being a future. All you have is the present moment, so do yourself a favor and stop denying who you are, and what you believe in. Take it from someone who knows – you’ll like and respect yourself a whole lot more when the real you starts living.
Please answer the following two questions:
- What were you doing when President John F. Kennedy was shot? (West Coast Pacific Time for that was 10:28 a.m.)
- What did you feel as a result of his assassination – either right then and there and/or the days and weeks following?
I was in my 5th grade classroom at St. Bede the Venerable elementary school in La Canada, California, when suddenly, the school’s public address system came on in our classroom, broadcasting what appeared to be an urgent radio message. The Principal of the school gave no preamble to the radio broadcast, it simply became suddenly audible in our classroom. When I was able to focus, as a fifth grader, on what was being said, I recall hearing “The President of the United States has been shot; John F. Kennedy was shot during a motorcade in Dallas, Texas and is not expected to live.” (Or words to that effect.)
My teacher, Sister Mary Fahan told us kids to put our heads down on our desk and pray. It seemed so startling to me – it was a heavy moment for which us fifth graders didn’t have 100% understanding, but the young boys and girls in my classroom felt the heaviness of the moment anyway. Many of us were crying at the words coming forth over the speakers in our classroom – urgent and shocking words that stuttered from the radio announcer’s mouth.
School was dismissed and when my sister, Mary, and I were picked up by our mom, we climbed into her red and white 1957 Chevy Bel Air Nomad station wagon and joined our tears and fears with those of our mother’s.
Then for the remainder of November and into early December, it seemed as though the only story being covered on our little black and white (somewhat brown and white) television screen were the news updates and somber funereal activities inherent with the death of a President.
I recall that after I recovered from the initial shock of the incident, the impatience of a nine-year old took over due to the bombardment of constant television coverage that echoed around the walls of our house. I yearned for normalcy, and for me that meant a return to TV episodes of Lassie reruns and new episodes of My Three Sons. Perhaps what we experienced during that 1963 tragedy is not unlike what the children of the 9/11 era felt when their lives were invaded by the tragedy that marks their young lives.
Unfortunately, there seem to be enough horrific world events going on that each and every generation’s children will have memories about which they will reflect as they enter their older years; just as us Baby Boomers reflect on November 22, 1963 and all the other tragedies that have invaded our lives since then.
My father, Don Patrick Desonier, born March 12, 1918 in Toronto, Canada is my Veterans Day hero. He was still living in Toronto when World War II broke out in the late 1930’s. A young man of approximately 21 years of age, my dad voluntarily signed up for the Canadian Army and served in the artillery division as a Second Lieutenant or – because the Canadian Army spoke both English and French – Sous-lieutenant.
My father was bi-lingual because his father was French Canadian – a descendant of French settlers in Canada. The correct spelling of our last name was Desaulniers, but when my parents and us three kids settled in the United States, my parents grew weary of the mispronunciation – and misspelling – of our surname, so in the 1950’s, mom and dad had our surname legally changed to its current spelling.
When my father died on October 13, 2007, many of his effects were distributed to my brother and sister, and me. I have some amazing black and white photos from WWII as well as a couple German handguns – both of which are locked in a wall-safe in our house. A couple years before my father died from complications of Alzheimer’s, he and I had a brief, but eye-opening discussion about his war service.
My father fought in France, Germany, and England and saw it all – I know this because I asked him. Our conversation went something like this:
“Dad, I have to assume that because you were in the artillery and served in several WWII hotspots, you were called upon to kill those who were designated as the enemy – right?”
“Yes, Irene. No one wants to take someone’s life, but when it’s a question of the enemy taking a bullet or you and your buddies, you choose the former.”
“So dad, you saw your buddies get severely injured and even killed – didn’t you?”
“Yes – that’s the way it is on the battlefield.”
I looked at my father, tears in my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I said, “Thank you for your service, dad. I appreciate all that you did to defend what was right during World War II.”
His response – and I paraphrase: “It’s just something you do, Irene, because it needs to be done. No one likes war, but thus far no war has ever ended on its own. Unfortunately wars don’t just peter out.”
Those of us Baby Boomers who have parents that fought in the earlier wars may not have considered what they endured before they started a family and got on with the rest of their lives. I hadn’t, but I’m grateful that in my late 40’s, I asked dad about his military service, and I thanked him for it.