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Letter From America. .
By Cara Sheridan O’Donnell.
(Part 2)
Food manufacturers would be the first to tell you that product placement in a grocery store is a crucial component of their marketing strategy. Shoppers tend to buy what “hits ‘em in the eye.” Eye-level placement, therefore, is the most desirable spot on the shelves in any supermarket aisle. A wide expanse of a particular product is almost equally important. Not so important, at least to manufacturers, is the fine print on packages. Quite often, in an effort to earn increased profits on a product, a manufacturer employs the old trick of keeping the price the same on an item but reducing the amount of product in the package, while maintaining the same expanse of space on the shelf. To achieve this, packagers of ice cream, for example, shave off a bit from the depth of each waxy cardboard carton but maintain the height and width of the older, larger cartons. Oh sure, the fine print on the package might reveal to consumers the fact that they are no longer buying a half-gallon tub of ice cream, but rather a carton containing several ounces less than a half-gallon. The manufacturer counts on the statistical probability that faithful consumers who have been buying that brand of ice cream for years, even decades, will not bother to read the fine print. They are correct. Most shoppers will not even realize the difference. But when this consumer realizes it, she seethes just enough to motivate her to find the manufacturer’s website and dash off a complaint to the company’s customer relations department. A week or so later, upon receiving about 20 manufacturer’s coupons, each one good for one free carton of ice cream, she does a little victory-is-mine dance at the mailbox.
Another tactic manufacturer’s use to their advantage at the grocery-store level is to reach out to the little ones who so often accompany a parent on food shopping expeditions. Every parent knows that children want the cold cereal with the highest sugar content, the jelly or jam with the least amount of actual fruit in each jar, the peanut butter with the longest list of polysyllabic preservatives, and the bagged snack foods with the highest air-to-snack ratio within each bag. Did you know that parents are not the only adults who recognize this uncanny ability, this innate talent possessed by children worldwide? Product packagers know it, too, and they spare no effort or expense to capitalize on that knowledge. No child psychologist knows your children as well as those brand-name food marketing gurus know them. Their research and four-color packaging, both aimed at boosting their products’ appeal to the rug-rat set, are reflected in the price of the product. I should tell you that I was certainly no ogre of a young mother. I did occasionally – say, when Halley’s Comet was scheduled to make an appearance – indulge my four tykes by caving in to a sweetly worded request for Marshmallow Monster Fruity Bits or a giant bag of Frank Lee Tol’able Tater Puffs. There was, however, a method to my madness; I bought each long-coveted item…once. When the box or bag was empty – specifically (or at least in my kiddie-filled house), 23.4 minutes after I unloaded the groceries – I simply refilled that box or bag with the product’s store-brand equivalent, purchased in bulk. My wallet thanked me. Yours will, too, once you try this for yourself. As for your kids, well, someday maybe even they will thank you!
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Letter From America.
By Cara Sheridan O’Donnell
Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia or Plimoth Plantation in Plymouth, Massachusetts – or even such museums as the much smaller Old Bethpage Village here on Long Island, in New York – Mom ignored no opportunity to share facts sure to fascinate other museum visitors of all ages. During a visit to Old Bethpage, which is the faithful reconstruction of a typical Long Island village in pre-Civil-War days, we once stood in the children’s bedroom in a historic family residence. With varying degrees of interest, each of us examined the contents of the room. Suddenly, Mom asked the grandchildren who accompanied her to name something which modern mothers and children take for granted but which the Long Island mother and children who lived in this house when it was brand new could not even imagine.
My mom was born with the heart of a teacher. Little wonder: When her own grandmother was in her late teens, she was the teacher in a one-room schoolhouse in upstate New York. My great-grandmother, who lived with my mother until Mom was about five years of age, no doubt nurtured in her young granddaughter the gift which God had already bestowed upon her. When Mom became a mother herself, eventually giving birth to the six of us, she was never one to let a “teachable moment” slip away from her. She was particularly interested in imparting her knowledge of American history to me, my siblings, and, to this day, to her 17 grandchildren and two great-granddaughters. In touring “living” museums such as“Television!” shouted one of my kids. “Coca-Cola!” squealed my niece (who had been sorely disappointed during the lunch break to learn that the only soft drink available in the museum’s “tavern” was a bubbly beverage known as ginger beer). A nephew offered his response: “Cars!” By this time, other visitors seemed to be pondering the question, too. A pint-sized stranger in the room with us called out in a hesitant, high-pitched lisp: “Toileth?”
Mom encouraged all of the children with a hearty, “Good answers!” She then continued, “How about the medicines your mommy gives you when you have an ear infection or a sore throat?”
“How ‘bout ath-ma? I have ath-ma and my mommy thquirth a ‘haler in my mouf when I can’t breave!” (Despite her mother’s prompting, the little stranger wasn’t about to abandon our merry band.)
“Great question!” Mom nodded in the child’s direction and motioned for her to move closer. “Do you think that back when this village was new, the mommies had inhalers to give to children who had asthma? Do you think mommies back then had the same medicines we use today?” She was now on a roll and for the next few minutes, children (and quite a few adults) in a room about the size of a walk-in closet listened while my mother delivered a short but classroom-worthy lecture about the development of antibiotics in the 20th Century. She further explained why some illnesses in 1850 were always life-threatening and often fatal but are now easily cured. Weaving into her lesson a few easily understood examples of common childhood diseases, she piqued the interest of children and adults alike. By the time we were ready to move on to the next room, Mom had a following considerably more numerous than it had been upon our arrival.
I was recently reminded of this particular daytrip to Old Bethpage – one of dozens made over the years – when a young cousin posted wonderful news on her Facebook page. In her status update, my cousin announced that her daughter, who was diagnosed with leukemia a few years ago, at the age of nine, had just returned from her oncologist’s office, where she had received a clean bill of health. Furthermore, the doctor announced, much to their delight, that they would not need to schedule another follow-up appointment for four to six whole months! Naturally, while we are all thrilled, my cousin, as a mother, is ecstatic. Medicine has come a long way in the last 75-100 years, for sure. What you must understand, though, is that my cousin – or, more specifically (and in the parlance of her passion) my second cousin, once removed – is a genealogist. Having pored over thousands of documents in the course of her work, she has debunked (but also verified) several long-embraced and oft-shared family anecdotes dating back more than 100 years. In the course of her research, she has read hundreds of birth and death certificates. On how many of the latter, I wonder, has she seen listed a cause of death that would be unimaginable to us today?
My hope for this New Year is that in decades to come, future genealogists and lovers of history – people like my cousin and mom – will look at death certificates issued in the early 21st Century and wonder what life was like when people succumbed to cancer, malaria, complications of HIV, and systemic infections. Perhaps at some reconstruction of a typical 21st-Century American town, a school-aged visitor to that living museum will lecture to her own attentive audience:
“My grandma had thumthing called ath-ma when she wath little. Her mommy uthed to give her a thing called a ‘haler when she wath thick, but people don’t get thick like that anymore!”
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Letter from America.
My eldest child was the lucky recipient of the temporary loan of an ingenious device. It arrived on Tuesday, December 18, 2012, and will not have to be returned until after the New Year. Much like one of those automatic, free-roaming floor vacuum cleaners/wet mops, the gizmo she has use of follows my daughter’s 14-month-old toddler all over the family’s playroom, picks up everything the little mite drops, then puts each item in its proper place. Now, you are probably wondering what this gadget is, so I'll tell you. It's called the RoboGranny. You can find these electronic marvels in a variety of sizes and colors, well padded, sleekly streamlined, or somewhere in between. Each RoboGranny features either retro or contemporary accessories, but all units are guaranteed to remain in the "on" mode until a new battery (or a generous infusion of pomegranate margaritas) is required, a condition easily detected by the user when the unit starts to sputter and whine.
RoboGranny not only picks up toys but also does laundry and cooks, reads bedtime stories to older children, bathes and shampoos kids, combs long wet hair without provoking outrage, dries and styles that hair, then tracks down the perfect hair bow to complement any outfit. RoboGranny also provides wholesome snacks to children of all ages, and stays up late to care for those well-fed (and, with luck, sleeping) tykes while their parents go out for dinner or to a movie. Some RoboGrannies are more domestic than others, but nearly every one of them has a specialty, which it is eager to pass on to the children in its care. The RoboGranny unit my daughter has at her house has made it quite clear that it wants the younger child to add ten words to her vocal repertoire and to address her RoboGranny by name by the time the unit is returned to the factory for program tweaking and improvements (something human grandmothers call “rest and rehabilitation” between visits with their grandchildren).
Among other things, the almost-perfect RoboGranny – after all, no unit is yet perfected – passes on lessons in arts and crafts, riddles, silly songs, rhyming games, helps with homework, gives advice, cuddles, makes funny faces and hilarious noises, is almost never seriously cross, and doles out punishments sparingly.
If the RoboGranny units prove to be anything like the real deal, many will last quite a long time. This means that the ideal RoboGranny will possess the one quality that all who are fortunate enough to possess one – whether those so lucky are aged six or thirty-six – find the most endearing: RoboGrannies LISTEN! This is a particularly important characteristic, as each RoboGranny comes with a disclaimer: “Your RoboGranny’s memory chip will have to be updated periodically to remind the unit that things in your household might not be exactly the same as things were in the household your RoboGranny kept when the unit was a mere RoboMommy.” The process for updating the unit’s memory chip varies with each user but, because RoboGranny’s prime directive is to long for invitations to visit your home often and to stay for lengthy periods of time, most users will discover the process easy to discern and master.
I’ll let you know when the RoboGranny my daughter enjoyed in the latter part of 2012 is ready for wider utilization. So far, that RoboGranny has only two grandchildren to love, but it is programmed to welcome many more.
By Cara Sheridan O’Donnell
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Letter from America
Cara Sheridan O’Donnell
If you are reading this, then the world has not yet come to an end. For months now, you have probably overheard or even engaged in conversations about the 12/21/12 end-of-the-world prediction made centuries ago by Mayan scientists. If you believed their prediction, then you probably have not done your Christmas shopping. If that is the case, I’d encourage you now to drop what you’re doing and get crack-a-lackin’ right this minute. If you rejected the prediction, your presents might be already wrapped, under the tree, and ready to be opened by recipients on Christmas morning. (In that case, I’m just envious of your preparedness.) Quite a few people I know took no interest in the Mayan prophecy at all. Several of them recently provided an explanation for their nonchalance.
“I try to live each day as if it is my last, whether it is the last day of life only for me or for the entire world,” my friend Amy said to me. Now, you must understand that Amy is the least gloomy woman I have ever known. She doesn’t appear to dwell on this subject at all but, if her personal behavior and interactions with others are any indication, then her subconscious mind is roiling with last-day thoughts during most of her waking hours. I am here to tell you that Amy is ready for anything. Should an invasion of her home by zombies ever occur, she would probably invite them to sit down for lunch, offer them her right arm, but ask them (ever so politely) to spare her left upper extremity so that she could finish stirring the batter for the cake she wished to give them for dessert.
Most people do not – and even actively try not to – think that any one particular day might be their last day on earth. As they finished breakfast, started their cars, and drove off to teach school last Friday, three Connecticut schoolteachers, a behavioral therapist, a principal, and a school psychologist most likely envisioned a day much like any other, with, perhaps, the addition of dealing with the pre-vacation exuberance most children exhibit in mid-December. Twenty small charges in their care certainly expected nothing out of the ordinary, either. Neither did the parents of those children. But when the unthinkable happened, stunning the world, life for the families of those 26 souls would never again be the same.
Immediate reactions had more to do with the need for gun control in the USA, increased availability of mental health care, and improved school security measures than with the simple admission that bad things happen in our ailing world, most often without any explanation at all for its random appearances. As reality began to sink in, though, and shock started to wear off, a nation grieved right along with the families of the 26 Newtown victims. The very sensitive even expressed their sympathy for the father and brother of the gunman and sorrow over the seemingly senseless slaughter of a 27th victim, the gunman’s own mother in a separate shooting earlier that morning. Some people were quick to criticize the presence at a memorial service for the victims by a US President who declines to attend Sunday services (in a church long used to attendance by a sitting president) with the explanation that it would “distract” others from worship. Others praised the sensitivity he exuded in meeting with victims’ family members at that memorial.
What nobody could argue about was the bravery of the Sandy Hook Elementary School staffers who lost their lives that Friday morning. Without exception, each one made the ultimate sacrifice in her attempt to spare the Sandy Hook children any harm. Some succeeded; others, sadly, were unable to save children. Teachers all over the US asked themselves if they would have been as selfless. Personally, I have no doubt that the vast majority of them would have done the same. The protection of children is a powerful natural instinct, making it possible for otherwise ordinary adults to perform heroic feats of strength and acts of courage. This instinct might be even stronger in those who choose to work with children in professional capacities. While Newtown could be Anytown, even Yourtown, and its children yours or mine, so too could its teachers be standing in front of classrooms filled with our children. Even as we grieve for the citizens of Newtown, mourning their losses right along with them, keep in mind that any day might be the last for you, for me, or even for a significant number in any small town. Taking our cue from those prepared for anything, living each day as if it were our last is a good idea. Living each day as a person worth remembering is even better.
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Letter from America
Cara Sheridan O’Donnell
What are the most popular names for babies in the United States? For decades, “plain Jane” names, such as John, James, Mary, and Jane (naturally), topped the lists. In 2010, the top three names for boys were Aiden, Jacob, and Jackson, while the favored names for bundles of pink were Sophia, Isabella, and Olivia. Not bad, you are probably thinking to yourself. It is always safe to go with one of last year’s most popular names when choosing a name for this year’s current model. But the list from which I got the information above is merely a list of the top 25 names. Using a formula for “safe” but creative baby naming, some parents play around with the favorites. Believing that if they name their precious man-child Aiden, he will one day play on a lacrosse team with too many other Aiden’s, but not wanting to stray from their comfort zone, some parents just zap on a consonant or two at the beginning of the name. Aiden is thus transformed into Brayden, Kaden, Grayden, or even Zaiden. I sincerely hope that parents who use this formula in the future remember that, as an alternative to Aiden, Maiden is neither safe nor creative; indeed, it is most inappropriate, even cruel. To name a child Laden, as a young couple named Boyle did a few years ago, constitutes (at least in my opinion) cruel and unusual punishment. In a self-fulfilling prophetic manner, this child will undoubtedly develop undesirable avoirdupois, excessive guilt, and/or self-recriminatory doubts. In the worst-case scenario, he might someday acquire a wife who wants to saddle her first born with the name Lancelot, even though Laden will argue with her that Lance Boyle won’t make it psychologically unscathed through middle school. Ah, but I get carried away.
In similar fashion, the young mother who has always wanted to parent a little girl named Isabella, but who also realizes how common that name has become, resorts to another tactic. Just change the spelling! Izabela, Izobela, Issobella… Take THAT, such a new mom thinks to herself, Isabella is SO 2010! MY Iz’zobelah will NEVER be one of the pack! In the quest for creativity in the baby-name game, changing the spelling is small potatoes compared to the lengths some people will go. Choosing a name based on the location of a baby’s conception is one example. Paris, London, Savannah: They all sound so romantic. Dewy-eyed with nostalgia, Mom and Dad gaze down upon their tiny Dakota, who wriggles in his sleep, perhaps popping a thumb out of his perfect oval of a mouth while simultaneously kicking aside the cashmere coverlet his great-grandmother lovingly crocheted for her first child in 1950. “Dakota,” Mom sighs. In another household, one with the same creative ambiance as Dakota’s but far livelier, Mama and Papa and kids are rushing out the door for a trip to their grandparents’ ski house for the holidays. “Have you packed your retainer, Boston? Remember to use the bathroom before we leave, Aspen! Sydney…Hampton! Get a move on!” Lovely picture, is it not? But think about it. Should this creative trend take firmer root, we here in the U.S.A., would have classrooms full of kids named Parsippany, Scranton, Menominee, and Albuquerque. Imagine the names one would hear if this baby-naming fad spread elsewhere in the world. Hmmm! Dublin is kind of cute, do you not agree? But Baile Átha Cliath just doesn’t cut it! Further specifying the place-of-conception baby-naming technique scares me, to tell you the truth. I know that I would be sorely tempted to laugh out loud if I were introduced to someone called Volvo, even though I wouldn’t think about it at all if introduced to a Mercedes.
Naturally, one should consider the family name and many other factors when considering choices for a baby’s given name. My own top three cardinal rules are as follows:
- Rhyming names are never cute, with the exception, perhaps, of Jack Black and Faye Wray. Keep in mind, however, that Jack was born Thomas Jacob Black and that Fay is actually Vina Wray’s middle name; their parents did not intentionally burden them! Shaquille O’Neal is big enough to defend himself from any teasing. Your baby might not be so lucky. So steer clear of Isabella if your last name is Fratella.
- Creativity should not embarrass your children. If your family name is Gardener, do not name your daughters Ivy and Fern.
- If you have any aspirations for your baby, names such as Trixie, Taffy, Jim-Bob, and Biff will never make your short list.
When naming your own children, did you have to take anything special into consideration? If asked for suggestions for baby names by parents-to-be, what do you deem important? Did you ever consider a name for your own child and later thank your lucky stars that you rejected it? C’mon; you KNOW you have!
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