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Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade. Left, Right, Ambidextrous?Funny what strange beliefs we have as children. I was convinced that I bounced a ball left-handed, and played cards that way, too, because my left-handed uncle taught me how to do both. I didn't even think it was strange to bounce leftie then transfer the ball to my right hand to throw it at someone, since that uncle didn't teach me to toss anything. 'Course this made lay-up shots, in basketball, difficult to do and funny to watch; every gym teacher I had thought I was just trying to be irritating or call attention to myself. No matter how many times I verbalized that I really couldn't bounce right-handed nor shoot a basket left-handed, I was viewed as a troublemaker. I also learned to knit 'European' and was sure everyone did. I happily made whatever my mother suggested, leaving buttonholes or zippers for her to create. As a teen, glittery sweaters were chic, so I tried to follow directions for a beaded sweater and the beads came out on the inside. Ah, ha, said the knit shop expert: you knit leftie. Hm. That uncle didn't teach me knitting and my parents/grandparents were right handed. Someone, somewhere... or maybe it was a European way and we Americans knit as silly as we eat with transferring silverware like my lay-up shots. I tried bouncing rightie; I couldn't. I tried playing cards differently but my hand got tired. I tried knitting the way directions were printed and couldn't. I accepted I was ambi-dextrous. In a college psychology course, I learned about the brain's right and left sides. I decided both parts of my brain were perfect and I'd never have to 'suffer' if a stroke hit one section. At that age, however, strokes seemed academic, like wrinkles or jowls, and superior brain sides definitely were good for the ego. I practiced signing my name left handed. I married a rightie and promptly defied Mendel's Law: we produced three lefties. No one would ever use my husband's broken-in baseball mitt as it was the wrong hand for our offspring. At least I could teach knitting and ball bouncing . I began to realize that my uncle had less to do with my being capable that way as a leftie than my genetic predisposition. The concept of dominant and recessive genes, however, was being challenged as right's dominant, right? So where'd the three lefties come from; my persistent asking was about as irritating to listeners as my gym instructors' observations of my lay-up technique during basketball gym periods. Who were the family lefties, I demanded! As if a scarlet letter was stamped on a concealed-by-clothing part of their bodies, no one except that uncle admitted to such an awful condition. Teachers forbid students to use left hands, my mother said, and, in her day, they were permitted to strike a pupil's fingers with a wooden ruler. She believed that every adult who stuttered was a victim of the ruler treatment. I listened to every family member articulate; no stutterers. My kids bowling was costly; they needed to own equipment since most finger holes drilled-in on rental balls were on the wrong side, and slides on shoes had the same problem. My daughter claimed she couldn't iron 'cause the thumb indent was in the wrong place; and I always got stuck with cutting out her paper dolls since scissors had blades made for righties. I taught shoe-tying via big loops when I couldn't find velcro closings. They wanted to learn to play golf. Since it is a dominant left-sided game, I suggested they learn to play rightie and they'd already be ahead of their opponents. They fell for my logic not realizing that I didn't want to invest in opposite-from-usual game gear. Tennis came next. At least a racquet was a racquet but a stranger thing surfaced: my oldest played rightie. Here were these three eating leftie, writing leftie, and suddenly this older son was hitting forehands and backhands with a wooden racquet in his right palm. Oh, no. He's ambidextrous. I thought about having him do the ironing but knew he'd insist the thumb indent was wrong as only tennis is his rightie thing. Well, my three lefties went through school with impressions etched into their arms from spiral notebooks being unavailable for lefties, sitting sideways in lecture seats designed with a right writing surface, elbow bumping at dorm dining tables, putting ignition keys into right slots when driving a car, and even dealing with car’s controls in the center console to the right of the driver. Now married, they've produced only righties. ©1995 Lefthanders International reprinted August 2015 Clear Mt.
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Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade. Substitution?Does she know when I lace her shoes that I’m helping and loving? Does she know when I comb her hair that I’m stroking caring? Does she know when I place her toys on the dresser that it makes me smile? Would I trade my fatigue, occasional wish for adult conversation, for time alone? Never. published Summer 2006 Shemom Fountain pen filled with South Sea blue liquid formed words on margins of my books. Thoughts, feelings, arguing with authors' phrases, I look back on my decades-old texts, girlhood hardcovers, and find my unchanged values. published spring 2014 “Shemom” Sports ChicOn crutches or in walking cast, Some skiers spent the season last. More status my torn muscles showed When I bragged "running in the road". published 2002 Words of Wisdom pants suitWhy did Betty Friedan upset me
with her “Feminine Mystique” when I actually enjoyed playing multiple roles and my spouse’s was static? Politics and power proved synonymous as the phrase ‘glass ceiling’ was coined. Where was feminine? Could I trace a line where it was and when it ended? Business suits replaced flirty dresses, and strong suggested macho; females forgot assertive and forged aggressive to be taken seriously as leaders. A labyrinth, unlike Daedalus’ maze, seemed to lead to nowhere. I flinched, a reflex, when women insisted a country’s leader must be female. I’d rather vote for a person, either sex, who is capable and passionate about the enormous task. published May 2017 Indiana Voice Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade. MUSIC AND MEMORY“What new piano book has the teacher given you?” I asked my 12 year old grandson, Kevin, when he began lessons.
“Level 1.” I looked at it, noticed its tempo and four-quarter time and remarked, “You must be doing very well to get the fast-paced music with a beat.” I sat on the wooden bench beside him and said, “Play me something, first, that you like and already know.” A short melody put me into a time many decades old, and I ‘saw’ my mother doing handwork in the living room as I practiced nightly. Kevin quickly played a selection that had much repetition and my mind forgot I wasn’t 14. “Kevin,” I began, “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking or seeing-and-feeling with each piece you play, and then you do the same.” I got up from the bench, and went to a soft chair with a very high back that was facing Kevin’s profile and keyboard. “Okay.” “Well,” I began, “the repetitive piece took me back to age 14. I had to practice for 40 minutes every night, and my Mom was sitting on the couch knitting, or sewing, or crocheting for the whole time. I had a social club meeting I wanted to go to. I was dressed in my green wool pleated skirt, and a sweater that I had on backwards with all the buttons going down the back, just to be different, and wanted to finish my session fast. I kept speeding up my scales and the whole thing sounded just like the music you played.” I couldn’t believe how I actually had returned to my childhood’s living room, and even remembered my clothing. My head leaned on the chair’s fabric, and I appreciated that it was so tall. Kevin asked what crocheting was, and I explained that. I smiled, but kept it to myself, that I learned every sewing or handwork skill my mother taught me but I just couldn’t get comfortable with a crochet hook. I almost felt how my usually adept fingers felt clumsy attempting to use only one skinny metal piece to create an afghan or such. When Kevin wanted to know why my sweater was backwards and I told him ‘cool’ before there was such a thing as ‘cool’, he grinned. Did I get to the meeting, was the next question? I did, but my Dad drove me so I wouldn’t be late. Then he told me that he saw a mirror, as he was playing, because a mirror repeats everything in front of it. He turned the page and a combination of notes took me to a place by water where I could be alone. It was Long Island Sound. Sometimes I’d even take my diary, secure it in my bicycle basket, and with sunlight and shimmers on the water, I’d re-read my private thoughts. My mind moved into the present: I live 400 miles from my childhood home, and I was no longer young. Lapsing again into the music, which Kevin repeated on the piano, I told him about my experience. He said he’s in the woods and a bird is flying. He’s running with it, but not chasing it. He’s alone, and as long as the bird is there he isn’t frightened, but the bird goes too high and he no longer can see it. He then realizes he is alone. “Grandma,” he continues, “the last note is lower. That shows sadness, don’t you think? When the last note of a song is higher, the whole song seems happier.” How could I be so privileged to be sharing not only my love of music but inner thoughts with this child? How could I be so privileged to have him be doing the same with me? He’d never been given “Greensleeves”. I moved from the chair back to the wooden bench, showed him the fingering for a chord, and briefly explained the sharp vs the flat note with just the F-key. He played it with gusto. But then I told him how the melody had me standing where the wind is blowing, and I’m young and my long hair is lifting, and my skirt is being moved by the wind. I’m feeling relaxed and pretty and safe. “Can you play it that way?” I asked. To my surprise, he changed not only the tempo, but the way he depressed the keys. “I heard a music box, Grandma, like the ones you put near a bed. And the sound was quiet and nice and I felt sleepy.” Music boxes. I had one as a girl and a tiny ballerina twirled as the pink rectangle made its sounds. I hadn’t realized they were still being made. I wanted to change mine and drop the sound an octave, I once told my mother this, and she laughed. Had an hour passed so quickly? I was learning how Kevin related to the world that he sees and how it might relate to him. But I was back in my parents’ house, not much older than he now is, and actually re-living memories I’d simply stored someplace in my mind. While my Dad, who died at age 45, didn’t have such pleasures as I now was experiencing, I was grateful to have lived this long to, without judgment, tell my experiences to Kevin, and all because of his piano books. I took my son and daughter-in-law aside, told them how many observations and feelings Kevin shared because of his piano practicing, and encouraged them to do the same. My son, David, noted “I never would have thought of this. How did you?” Maybe my parents did this with me, maybe my personality just lends itself to prodding and revealing with a trusted person, maybe my mother influenced me with her allowing me to tell her anything and she never laughed........ it didn’t matter ‘why’ or ‘how’, it only matters that, in this time and place, a unique bonding happened with my grandson. © 2005 The Jewish Press reprinted 2005 United Methodist Publishing House |
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