Le Choix du Roi

                                                                                        

A few years ago, I must have been listening to NPR or watching PBS. I heard (or saw?) some interesting man talk about le choix du roi. That’s all I remember about the piece, but the meaning of the phrase, which he explained, touched my heart. The French phrase means “the king’s choice,” and it refers to a first-born son and a second-born daughter.

During the Middle Ages, kings needed a male heir to pass on their realm to an undisputed heir. Then, a daughter brought the prospect of a marriage that would cement a political alliance and/or bring additional wealth to the kingdom.

That’s all pretty cool.

Our children were le choix du roi. Our son was 30 months older than our daughter. Although they bickered quite a bit when they were young, they became and remain each other’s best friend.

We now have another choix du roi with our grandchildren. The first was our son’s son, our grandson, born in August 2021. Then in April 2022, our daughter had a daughter. Could we call this le grande choix du roi?

Now, our son and his wife are expecting their own choix du roi. Our grandson will have a baby sister in October 2022. It is said le choix de la reine, or "the queen’s choice," would be a first-born girl, then a boy. (I couldn’t find any explanation for why a girl-first-then-boy would be the queen’s choice.) Perhaps that will come to pass for our second-born daughter and her first-born daughter.

Le choix du roi. Such a lovely phrase. Such a wonderful blessing. C'est certainement le plus beau choix pour nous.

Turning Seventy

 

I might have been in junior high when I started listening to Oliver! This musical adaptation of the Charles Dickens novel Oliver Twist was written by Lionel Bart and first produced in England in 1960. That’s according to Wikipedia; you can look up all the details there. I loved the music; I still do. I believe we read the novel in my English class. As a project, I made a diorama of the death of Bill Sykes, using a little six-inch mannequin that was an advertisement for a sleeping aid. Some pharmaceutical company sent it to my dad, the doctor. Believe it or not, I still have Bill hanging in my office.

One of the songs in Oliver! was a lament by Fagin, “I’m Reviewing the Situation.” As the aging criminal/gang leader is thinking of getting out of the crime business, he sings, “What happens when I’m seventy? Must come a time – seventy. When you’re old and it’s cold and who cares if you live or you die.” As a seventh-grader, the idea of being 70 was too remote to be imaginable.

 In the fullness of time, I turned 70 on November 8 this year. I don’t have any real wisdom or pithy thoughts about this, but I did start thinking about other songs that deal with age. Six years ago, I posted the link to the Beatles song, “When I’m Sixty-four” on my Facebook page. That may be the best-ever age-related song. Here are a few others: “It Was a Very Good Year,” by Frank Sinatra. “Hey Nineteen,” by Steely Dan. “On the Edge of Seventeen,” by Stevie Nicks. “At Seventeen,” by Janis Ian. I like all these songs; they’re oldies but goodies.

I Googled “songs with ages in the lyrics.” As it turns out, there are quite a few. Some I’ve heard and do remember: “I’m Eighteen,” by Alice Cooper; “Sweet Little Sixteen,” by Chuck Berry; “You’re Sixteen, You’re Beautiful, and You’re Mine,” by a lot of people. “Sixteen Going on Seventeen,” by Rogers and Hammerstein. And there are tons I have not heard! I might have heard “Fifteen” or “22” by Taylor Swift; maybe not.

I guess I’d have to note that there are a whole lot more songs about people in their teens and twenties; not so many about older folks. Maybe the grim reality of turning 30 takes away all the music.

As I write this, we’re coming to the close of the tumultuous year 2021. My sweet sister Helen passed away in January. The world has staggered under the threat of COVID-19. I am still angry about the January 6 assault on the Capitol. I continue to be bumfuzzled (to say the least) about prevailing beliefs regarding the “stolen election,” the so-called reasons for not getting vaccinated, the polarization of opinions to the point of violence. And then there’s the unending literal violence. I quit listening to the news months ago and limited myself to reading the Dallas Morning News. Nowadays, I have cut that down to the letters to the editor. Everything else makes me depressed and frantic.

On the other hand, my sweet friend Sara beat the hell out of her cancer this year and she’s doing great. We had a baby grandson in August, and learned about a baby granddaughter coming in April. I retired from the church Library, and people sound like they respected what I achieved during my seven years. John and I have made great strides toward downsizing and moving to Plano; we have secured a great apartment we’ll move to in March 2022. I have read more than 100 books and audiobooks this year.

Turning 70 in November felt like an accomplishment. I guess in view of so much tsuris around us in the world today, getting to 70 and feeling good about it is something to celebrate.

On that final note, I hope and pray that YOU may celebrate this year and all the good things around you. Don’t forget: Christmas is about God Almighty Himself breaking through time and space to become human and demonstrate His righteousness, His mercy, and His love. Gloria in excelsis Deo. Come Lord Jesus.

Advice

 Last week our Zoom Book Chat (ZBC) group held our monthly session. Our assignment this time was to share what  piece of advice or information or other thoughts we would pass on to a grandchild, or to any younger person coming up behind us regarding racial reconciliation/social justice.

As you may recall from my last blog post, “Grandmother,” I have recently become one. (Quick update: My husband and I did indeed drive to the airport and fly to Washington to meet Baby John when he was nine days old. So glad we did. He’s perfect. I can hardly wait to see him and his parents again in October.)

Thinking about being a grandmother, I picked the ZBC discussion topic. It sounded pretty good at first. But I was a little stymied about what I myself would say.

I’m hoping racial strife and social injustice are long resolved by the time any grandchildren start paying attention to the world around them. I hope it’s all a thing of the past. I hope that people really do judge one another by their character and not by the color of their skin. I hope that all the built-in advantages of having white skin have been distributed fairly to everyone. I hope that there really is equity and justice in the way people are treated when they apply for get a job, or have a run-in with the law, or try to access food, or look for medical care, or cast their vote.

Unfortunately, I’m not very optimistic about these hopes being fulfilled, even in the lifetime of anyone I might talk to about them. Maybe because I’m about to start my eighth (yikes) decade on this planet, I’m just more world-weary and pessimistic. And I have to say that some of the young people who are in my sphere seem to have radically different ideas about what I think about racial and social justice issues. There is something about this struggle for justice that seems like the closer you get to your goal, the farther it appears to be.

So, assuming that the world in a few years will not be a noticeably more just, equitable and loving place, what would I “advise” a younger person?

1.      Be empathetic. Try to always imagine how you would feel in another person’s place. How would the words you’re about to say fall on someone else’s ears? What would you do in this particular situation? How would you want others to treat or respond to you?

2.      Assume the best about other people, rather than the worst. Do all you can to resist judging others, unless you are actually a judge.

3.      Make it a point to learn about other people. This includes their own circumstances and background, but also the larger picture of their culture and history.

4.      Be humble. Be willing to admit you’re uninformed or misinformed or – horrors – just plain wrong about something.

Perhaps I would just pass on some of my personal maxims (that I try to observe, even if I fail often):

            

Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul and with all your mind. And love your neighbor as yourself. – Jesus

What does the Lord require of you? To do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God. – Micah

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” – Maya      Angelou

** Photo by Andrea Piacquadio from Pexels

Grandmother

 

Today I am a grandmother. Actually, I became a grandmother yesterday, August 18, at about 3 p.m. EDT. Welcome to the world, John Edward Thompson IV.

Strictly speaking, I’ve been a grandmother since sometime back in December, right? Or was it when I heard the news from Jett and Kimi back in January? Or was it when we learned the baby would be a boy, and be named after his dad, his grandfather and his great-grandfather? 

Side note: We joked a bit about what we’d call him. Our son, John Edward Thompson the Third, has always been known as JETT. It’s an acroname; get it? So would JETIV be Cuatro? IV (like, ivy)? J4? We can take some guidance, as always, from the Bible. Luke 1:13, 1:60, and 1:63 all make it clear: “He shall be called ‘John.’”

Which brings up another issue. Nowadays, people choose their own grandma/granddad name. I always thought kids kind of came up with names themselves, as they started babbling real words. But I guess it makes sense to give them direction. Just as they learn to pronounce “antidisestablishmentarianism” or “yacht” correctly, they can be taught the preferred rendering of their forebears’ preferred names. So John (Jr.) and I have landed on our names. John (Jr.) is taking the granddad name of one of our favorite Republican presidents – George H. W. Bush – whose grandchildren and even some staff members, I believe, called him “Poppy.” For myself, when I was going to camp as a youngster, people called me “Emmy.” It was my favorite nickname. Thus, we are now “Poppy and Emmy.” Sounds like a puppet show, though, doesn’t it?

We Facetimed with the newbie yesterday. He was so happy and content, skin-on-skin with his dad (John III). Today, we’re seeing more pix. We have reason to believe there will be plenty more to come.

The new parents look pretty serene and joyful, too. Part of their pleasant demeanor may be relief and fatigue. The labor and birth went without a hitch (thank God), but it was about two weeks ahead of the due date, and stretched out over three days. And let’s remember. There’s a good reason they call it “labor.” Kudos to you, Kimi.

Our working plan has been to fly to Washington in early October to meet our new sweetie. We haven’t changed those plans, but I’m sorely tempted to drive to the airport and get on the first plane flying to Washington. I don’t want to miss any of that new-baby aura!

Tomorrow, I’ll pack up and mail a bunch of Jett’s old baby clothes, along with a note that explains why I kept them. I’ll include some of the 479 items I’ve already knit or crocheted. (Okay, it’s not actually 479 items, and I’ve already delivered a number of crafty things.) Then I need to get snapping on the birth announcement cross-stitch and a Christmas stocking! For one who likes to do handwork, having a new baby in the family is heaven.

All in all, this new John in our family is a gift from heaven. Thank you to all, in heaven above and on earth below, for bringing him to us.

Pet Peeves 2.0: Dental Detritus

 

Have you ever been walking along in a public place and noticed one of those dental flosser things? The little plastic ones with a handle that you use once then toss? You have? Yes, I thought so. I seem to see them all over the place. It drives me nuts.

I have no problem with people taking their oral hygiene out of the bathroom with them. Heaven knows, I myself shudder at the idea of a piece of spinach or chicken stuck between my teeth. I used to write for a company that manufactures a sophisticated dental hygiene product, so I am a true believer in the importance of frequent flossing.

My problem is: Why do people feel it’s okay to just drop them any old place? How hard is it to dispose of the little piece of plastic appropriately? Most public places have lots of trash cans, only steps away from where these flossers are tossed. A used flosser is not as gross as a used tissue. Why couldn’t it just be tucked away in a pocket or waistband till a trash can is accessible?

You can hardly walk through a public parking lot without seeing one or several of them just lying around. (The parking lot at White Rock Lake always seems to have dirty diapers and used condoms lying around, too, but that’s not something I want to discuss in this blog.)

I snapped a photo of a flosser some time ago. Shortly after that, I started noticing other artifacts that people use for oral care. A dental tool that the hygienist would use for scaling and planing. A plastic invisible aligner for teeth straightening. And of course, countless baby pacifiers. See my photos below.

Maybe I do understand the baby pacifiers. I also see lots of baby socks that got tossed out of strollers, too. But that other stuff? And those millions of flossers all over town?

I just don’t get it.

Decluttering, Part 2 -- Frogs

 

Anyone who’s ever visited my house knows that I have thing about frogs. I guess you could call it a collection – that sounds much better than “obsession” or “addiction.”

I have frogs all over the place, literally in every room of the house. I have semi-useful items such as frog towels, frog soap dishes, frog wind chimes, frog candlesticks, frog napkin holders, etc. The majority of my frogs are decorative pieces. I have some elegant examples in ceramic, wood, pewter and glass. I have some pitifully cheap ones in plastic and even paper. I have lots of  toy frogs, including some satin ballerina frogs, and some bean-bag frogs. There are even a few that I stitched myself. 

Pride of place goes to two plush frogs. One is Ferrington, my very first frog, who was a Christmas gift the year I turned nine years old. Ferrington went with me to summer camp, to Japan (where I was an exchange student for a summer), to college, and even into my adult homes. I knew my John was a keeper when he respectfully hopped Ferrington off the bed. The other plush frog is Fred. He’s a replica of Ferrington, but much larger. Fred was a gift to my big sister Helen from her high school boyfriend. Apparently she thought I would enjoy this giant stuffed frog more than she did. Or more than she enjoyed that boyfriend, for that matter.

I also have a shadow box with about 60 tiny frogs on it. I knew my new cleaning lady was a keeper when she -- on her own initiative -- took the time to dust every one of those little guys. She was very relieved when I told her she never had to do that again.

Over the years, I have purchased many of my frogs. I can hardly resist a cute or interesting frog that’s not grossly expensive. My friends and family realized early on that they could always count on my effusive gratitude for a frog gift. Their shopping was always a no-brainer, and my collection has been enhanced by my friends’ generosity.

I mention all this because as I prepare to declutter and downsize, I am a little distraught about what to do with my frog friends. I love them all, and it pains me to think of getting rid of a single one.

As we think about a new place to live, we’ll have to consider proper places for the frogs. When we eventually move, we’ll have to carefully pack everyone up for the journey.

And then there’s the problem of the ultimate disposition of my frogs. Should I give them away to friends and family in advance? Do I put them in my will? Do I leave behind a mandate about how the frogs will be cared for in perpetuity? I fear my children do not have the depth of feeling for the frogs that would lead them to love them appropriately. 

In short, I struggle with what will happen to my frogs when I croak.

Guilty Pleasures 1.0 -- Flamethrowing

 

I have a lot of guilty pleasures. This is just the first I'm confessing. 

One recent guilty pleasure is responding to the emails I receive from a certain political party soliciting my support (i.e., donations). I get these emails daily. They come from politicians at all levels, in my state, other states, the national organization, et cetera ad nauseum. Literally ad nauseum.

Receiving the emails is not the pleasure. (See “ad nauseum” above.) The pleasure is in replying to the emails.

I get to vent my spleen! I get to use language I wouldn’t use elsewhere! To be clear, I don’t use profanity, but I have a whole store of fifty-cent words that would sound pretentious and arrogant to use with most of my communication. I just want these recipients to know that they are sending emails to someone who is sophisticated and well-educated. That’s because it would appear that whoever they’re targeting must be brainwashed or brainless. (IMHO)

Let me state here that I'm pretty sure my own preferred political party sends out the very same kinds of solicitations and they are no less infuriating. In politics, it's equal-opportunity nauseum. 

The thing is, I see lots of quasi-political posts on my social media. Sometimes the posts are about some profound “issue,” but they express a worldview that is clearly partisan, and not my kind of partisan. Since my social media is confined to people I know pretty well, I just don’t feel right lambasting them when they post something that irritates me.

But the political party that sends me these emails obviously does not know me. If they did, they would take me off their list. So I get great pleasure from laying into them.

I know, I know. The replies I send go into that great electronic dumpster in the cloud. I’m sure if I don’t actually donate—often and lavishly—the politicians don’t actually care what I think.

Furthermore, even if there were some humans that read my replies, I seriously doubt that they would go to their higher-ups and say, “Hey! There’s this wise, thoughtful, erudite, articulate woman in Texas who thinks differently than we do. We should listen to her opinion and change our misbegotten ways.” 

I can dream, can’t I?

Life is short. We should maximize our pleasure while we can. I’m starting to look forward to each day’s biased and incendiary emails from this political party so I can have the guilty pleasure of flame-throwing in return.