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Dave Hendricks
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Tina Bishop
The snow is falling on New York City. Lots and lots of it. More than New Yorkers have seen in years. A frozen tree limb crashes and kills a man in Central Park. No, he was not a “homeless” person, simply a man who was taking a short cut across town.
Which brings up a relevant question: whatever happened to all of the homeless persons who were so much on the mayor’s mind in past years?
Have they all found housing, or are some of them still living in the darkness of the subway tunnels, or warming themselves over hot air gratings, or making do in cardboard boxes? We no longer hear about them.
New Yorkers are undergoing one of the most wretched winters in memory. It’s been colder than a witch’s you-know-what. The unemployment rate is scary. Many are losing their homes through foreclosure. Strangely enough, we do not read there days about the “homeless.” They seem to have vanished.
Perhaps some public relations wizard tipped off the Mayor about all that talking about the homeless. Tourists don’t want to hear about the sordid side of New York, better to focus on former Mayor Lindsay’s “Fun City.”
Sometimes I wonder if all this silence about the “Forgotten Man” in the song of the Thirties, is some kind of conspiracy to keep the lights glowing on Broadway.
February 27, 2010
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Tina Bishop
Don’t let anyone tell you that your name isn’t important. Until fairly recently, I was the only “Tina” on the block. Now there are a number of Tina celebrities: Tina Fey, Tina Brown, Tina Louise and Tina Turner–not to mention an astonishing numbers of authors with that first name.
Like most children, I always wanted to conform with my peers at school in every way. I always envied the Joans and the Marys and the Bettys—even the Barbaras (who seemed a bit exotic or “Barbarian’’ to me.) Their names were comfortable, no tricks there. It was bad enough having to wear foreign looking, beautifully embroidered items from the Woman’s Exchange, (my grandmother’s picks) but to have a strange sounding name as well, was not happy-making.
Fortunately, my school friends eventually accepted my non-conforming ways. They never humiliated me by asking “Is Tina a nickname? What does it stand for?” In later years when the question came up, most of the time I evaded answering, but when I finally did, they’d laugh and say, “You’ve got to be kidding!”
When you get landed with two names like Celestine Noel, you’re not kidding. Trying writing that on your passport, along with another mouthful, my maiden name of Appleton. My grandmother’s parents, the Noels, were French and in making sure by honoring a bunch of saints to pave their daughter’s path into heaven, she was given the following names: Cathrine, Marie, Therese, Emilie and last of all Celestine. Celestine was the name with the greatest pull. Guaranteed to send one through the Pearly Gates.
My three siblings had perfectly normal names: William, John and Ann. Much as I adored my grandmother, I wondered, that with all her names to choose from, why was I landed with such an embarrassing and inappropriate one?
I never knew until I picked up a book in the library that “Celestine” was the name of a martyred Pope. Many centuries ago, after an election impasse at the Vatican, two Popes were chosen, one to rule at Avignon, the other in Naples. One of them, Celestine, had been found as a hermit on a mountaintop, a dubious choice, but somebody had to do the job. Apparently, he was a dud as a Pope, (no good at public relations?) and after two disappointing years in Naples, his enemies smothered him with a pillow. Why innocent little girls were named after him is a mystery. But as I said, his name had pull.
For many years I kept my name a secret. I had a near-miss on the day of my wedding in 1939, when the priest noticed my real name on the marriage license. “Ah, I see your name’s Celestine—should I call you—“
I interrupted him, “Don’t you dare! Everyone will burst out laughing!”
Now I’ve told my secret. Laugh all you want, and I’ll join you.Ironically, I remarried at 70, as a widow named Tina Appleton Hendricks, to a widower, Richard Edmund Bishop. Guess I couldn’t find a man named Pope.
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Tina Bishop
Thumbs Up for Our New “Old Generation.”
“Senior Citizens.” Whoever dreamed up that dreary description of much of our present population?
Sounds better than “old folks,” I guess. How did this happen? It seems that suddenly people began living longer. A whole new class of potential consumers was born: people who were still buying cars, attending theatres and restaurants, and going on world cruises. They may be “seniors” but they’ve got the dough.
Recently I went to a matinee performance at a suburban theatre. It was one of those experimental sort of plays with only two characters. I can tell you that the “experiment” was a flop. Within twenty minutes at least half of the white-haired audience was sound asleep. Very politely, mind you, no snoring. It must have been truly daunting for the actors to emote in front of row after row of nodding heads. At play’s end the curtain went down swiftly. There was no bowing, no call for the cast. One sensed that in their dressing room the actors must have sighed, “Phew. I’m glad that’s over!”
After the show, energized by their naps, the people piled into their tour buses, and happily discussed the “wonderful show.” They had enjoyed what they came for- a pleasant outing. Never mind the play.
Go to any afternoon performance and you will see the same scene. The same elderly folk are also filling the tour buses to the gambling casinos and the Broadway shows. The financial impact of “Senior Citizens” is astonishing. In former times these people would be stay-at-homes, busy with their cross word puzzles, needlework and TV programs. Now they’re browsing the internet, shopping for new wardrobes, looking for bargain hotel rooms, plane tickets, and seats for football games.Let’s stop patronizing our older friends. They’ve lived prudently, saved their money, and now they’re ready for a good time. Don’t tag them as “Senior Citizens”. They’re simply a little smarter than most of us.
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Tina Bishop
For the past months our TV screens have been filled with scenes of the tragedy in Haiti. Even as we watched the agonies of the Haitians and saw the incredible destruction, it was almost impossible to believe that it was true. Here was a “reality show” that was the real thing. There is no happy ending to that scenario. How long will the networks spin out the story?
Ironically, in the USA the Haitian disaster seems to have taken second place, in TV coverage. Yes, it’s been snowing here. In Washington everything is paralyzed under a record blanket of snow. Airports have shut down along the Eastern seaboard. In major cities budgets for snow removal have long been used up.
Have we forgotten that it’s February? Our TV screens are literally whitened with coverage of the “Snow Threat”. The way we carry on, one would think we’d never seen a snow flake before. How would we behave if we were hit by a real Haitian-style disaster?
Not too well, I suspect. Would we have the same remarkable courage and stamina of the Haitians? I hope we will never be put to the test.
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Tina Bishop
60 years ago I moved into a well-known town I’ll call Old Haven. There were rich folk galore in this place. They lived quietly behind stone walls. The walls had been built a few generations ago by a group of less rich folk— gifted artisans from Europe. The majority of these followed the politics of their employers. Old Haven became a haven for true blue Republicans. Politics were seldom discussed. Why bother? Religion, too, was rarely a topic of conversation. Were not all of us Christians?
Times have changed. The metaphorical walls that once barred blacks and non-Christians have since evaporated. Schools have morphed into “magnet” institutions, drawing children of assorted backgrounds from all parts of the town. We are trying very hard to erase the term “bigotry” from its history.
Until recently I have been heartened by these developments. Unfortunately there are now signs of fracture in our peaceful lives. Though the town is no longer split among rich and poor, and racial and religious factions, there is a kind of unspoken war going on- an unpleasant tension between the pro and anti Obama forces. Though the town’s character was recently turned upside down by a surprising number of Democrat votes there are certain sections where it is risky to admit to being an Obama admirer. Such is the bitterness in some Tory quarters that one hardly dares to venture into political discussions. Weeks before Obama’s election I felt quite courageous when I put an Obama sticker on my car. Would my social life be scarred forever? Better park that old red Camry out of sight.
I can only hope that better economic conditions will bring a softening of the relations between our not-so-civil wars. Meanwhile I’ll just have to try to keep my mouth shut- and that ain’t easy!
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Tina Bishop
No, Bobby Burns, I have no desire for that great gift, “To see oursels as other see us.”
Most of the time, thank God, we can bumble along in blessed ignorance of how we look and how we sound to others. There is a magic thing in our inner selves that shields us from the truth.
In my heart of hearts, I know that I’m a very old woman, subject to all the souvenirs of old age: wrinkles, age spots, creaky joints, puffy ankles, sagging chin lines and occasional flatulence. Until I spot my image in a store mirror or in a recent snap shot, I can cling to my fantasy that I am an attractive, slender, well-groomed young matron of say, 39. This kind of self deception is the only thing that keeps one good-humored and buffetted against the slings and arrows of outrageous decrepitude.Just when I think I’m fooling myself and the public, some well-meaning soul comes along with an offer to carry my packages or help me across the street. Can’t they see that warning in my eyes, “Don’t touch me –I’m not that old!”
Of course, there are times when such help is indeed welcome. I am shameless about asking my fellow passengers for aid in hoisting my bag unto a luggage rack, and for several years I have thoroughly enjoyed feeling very pampered as I roll through airports and customs in a wheelchair. Cruising along in it, my cane across my lap, gives me a real high. The feeling can only be described as regal.
A few years ago when I was traveling in a European airport with my son and daughter-in-law, I was in a wheelchair as usual, propelled by a strong Italian girl. We were trying to make a short connection between planes, and she was tearing along with the speed of an Olympic athlete. When we finally arrived, she was panting as she talked to the pilot. At her words, my son, who spoke fluent Italian, burst at laughing. She turned crimson, not knowing that my son understood every word. He refused to tell me what she said, but I suspect it might been, “Well, I never thought I’d make it. That old bag was a real load.”
That was seven years ago, when I was giddy young thing of 85. I still don’t know what that young woman said. Don’t ask, don’t tell!
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Tina Bishop
About six months ago I discovered something quite startling about myself: I had suddenly become a nonagenarian. That’s a fancy word for being over the hill.
I did not want a big, festive fuss on my birthday. A friend recently celebrated her 90th with a gala reception attended by 150 friends and relations. I really can’t think of a time in my life when I could have been honored by so many. Most of my old time friends are either dead or in rest homes, or have been added to my feud list.
How does one achieve the distinction of getting on that selective list? It’s relatively simple. A few ill-chosen words will do it. Let me suggest a few samples.
“Dear, you’re looking lovely as ever. How smart you were not to tell anyone about that face lift.”
“Put on a few pounds, haven’t you? I always say it’s better to blow up than to wrinkle up.”
“Even from across the room, I can always recognize you by your walk. When are you going to give up those ridiculous high heels?”
“Saw your husband in the supermarket the other day. The poor man looks so thin and worn out. Does he still do all the garden chores and the cooking, too?”
“Ran into your older son the other day. Too bad he doesn’t do something about that acne.”
“Thank you, honey, for that big box of clothes you sent to our thrift shop. The Actors Group’s always on the lookout for period costumes.”
I’m the last one to make trouble for a good friend, but I think you should know………….” That one takes the prize.
With friends like that, who needs new friends? Even at an advanced age, making new friends is not as hard as you might think. Lesson number one: even if your hip is killing you and you’ve just found out that you’ve over-drawn your bank account, keep smiling. A grumpy little old lady is far from appealing. A radiant smile will transform the most ancient of faces. Don’t look too helpless, but also avoid looking too feisty. A boastful, gutsy old type may be fun on a TV comedy, but in short order can become an awful bore.Beware of bragging about your age. I have heard so many “Why God bless yous” that I am ready for a halo. I’m still waiting for someone to exclaim, “Ninety! I can’t believe it!”
PS Since I wrote this I’ve turned 92—and everyone believes it.
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Tina Bishop
If you are lucky enough to be feeling perfectly healthy, stay away from the pharmaceutical ads on TV. (From now on, I’ll call then “drug” ads. Spelling’s a problem for me.)
According to these commercials, we are a nation in acute physical decline. Gas, bloating and diarrhea (with graphic depictions of our distress) seem to be endemic. But wait—a dose of Aunt Jennie’s Magic Elixir can fix all that in jig time.
But beware, the drug company warns us, “Do not take this medicine if you are subject to dry mouth, falling hair, hallucinations, occasional bad breath and frequent pregnancies.”
If your digestive system is functioning well, you’re lucky. But once in a while you could be feeling listless or depressed. There’s a cure for that condition, too. Be wary of dosing yourself for anxiety, high or low. “Consult your doctor before using this medicine as suicidal thoughts, nightmares, uncontrollable rages, and sudden switches from one political party to another can occur.”
For men who are suffering from once unmentionable “masculine” problems, the drug companies’ warnings are hilarious. Watch it, Buster, or you’ll be sorry. Too much plenty, no good.
Some of us are so impressionable that an ad about migraine can start a pulsing in our heads, and our bones ache when we see the arthritis ads. Our advice to them is as follows: turn off your TV, go off for a silent, bracing hour in the fresh air. As they say, “You’ll be glad you did.”
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Tina Bishop
2009 was for the most part, a year to forget. It started on a note of optimism. Our new President had promised so much and so many of his grand plans had been scuttled. It was to be expected that he would meet with brickbats and sledge hammers from those on the opposite side of the aisle, but the surprise alienation from those of his own party was a shock.
As a fervent Obama supporter, I must confess a certain disappointment in his record so far. Perhaps I had hoped for a miracle, a complete turn-around from the usual antics in Washington. The health bill finally seemed like a done deal. In order to placate some recalcitrant Democrat senators, it now comes with strings attached.
I am one of those elusive voters, a registered Republican whose last vote for a Republican was for Eisenhower, and who has voted the Democratic slate ever since. Call me an Independent, a creature much lusted for by both parties.
Last night Ron Paul was on the TV. Like many others, he is disgusted with the situation in Washington. He discussed the Tea Party group, a faction which in college would be labeled “nerds”, the misfits.
Unfortunately, unless things in Washington shape-up, the nerds may conquer all. We are at a cross road. Unless we watch out, a third party could sneak in and rule our world.
As a 92 year old woman, whose only political foray was a speech, made at 18, for Alf Landon, my interest in the future is fading, but I still would like to feel that my descendants will be living in happier times.
I can only croak out my dismay and hope that some one will listen.
