Well Shut My Mouth

 by Charlotte Hinger

Years ago, a lady I think the world of--a dear, dear friend, a native Kansan like me, scolded me after a talk I had given. She said "You really don't like Kansas, much, do you." I was dumbfounded and stricken with remorse. What had I said that gave her that impression?

Anyone who knows me and reads my books knows I'm plumb silly about my native state. I've always loved Kansas.

 In fact, when I was in the fourth grade and a little girl moved to town from Oklahoma, I greeted her with infinite compassion because she would never be quite right. She would never be a little sunflower. She had not been born in Kansas! The poor little thing.

After my talk when I was so obviously distressed, another friend told me "Charlotte, not everyone gets your sense of humor."

A light bulb went off. I changed. My correcting friend was right. Humor can easily be misunderstood. 

I became much more circumspect about my presentations. Talks are a two-way interchange. Individuals attending can easily be distracted. All it takes is fumbling for a dropped program, a waitperson coming around with the coffee pot, a delayed urge to use the rest room and phoof! There goes the wittiest punch line since the Marx brothers made their debut. 

For that matter, late arrivals often miss the whole point of a carefully structured lecture. Cell phones ring at the most opportune times. 

I've also become aware of how lines taken out of context can be miscontrued. Is there anyone today who is not conscious of the importance of political correctness? Woe to the naive speaker who uses the wrong word when referring to an ethnic group. 

And while I have your attention:

What does a Kansan do when he wins the lottery?

He buys a second tractor.

That's all folks!

Fake Phez Phest

 This past weekend was the beginning of pheasant season in Western Kansas. It used to be our favorite family celebration. 

It began innocently enough at Jerry Hinger's house in Codell, Kansas with a group of relations and the usual assortment of hunting dogs. It moved to our place in Hoxie, Kansas to relieve Kay Hinger from the ordeal of providing bread and board to an ever increasing bunch of men. 

I can't remember when or how music became part of the mix. But it did. Music and women and children. We're talking serious bluegrass enthusiasts here. I certainly do remember when the New Old-timers started coming. They were a professional band. Joe Newman played the banjo, his wife, Kenda, manhandled an upright bass, and the incomparable J.F. Stover played the guitar. In a couple of years, Todd Toman and his wife, Mary, were added to the mix. 

Other people began bringing instruments. Pheasants flocked to the Hinger's little homestead because they knew they were safe. Collectively, this was the worst group of shooters that invaded Sheridan County that weekend. 

Our adult children and our grandchildren looked forward to it and told their friends about it. Soon friends and their relations made Phez Phest a priority. Ian Alexander and his boys came from Michigan. There was always a group from Missouri. There were Californians, and Coloradoans. I wish I had kept a list. 

This was a kind group. Little boy fiddlers got to squeak out "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," to standing ovations. Vic Mowry was delighted to bring his fiddle because my husband knew the words to every dance song he wanted to play. Country Western competed with bluegrass all weekend long. Hingers have a particularly vicious version of pitch. That's a card game for those who don't know. Learning to play Hinger pitch was a requirement. 

It was a joyful weekend for the children. We have pictures and videos of kids rolling in leaves. I recalled the year they filled our garage with tumbleweeds and tried to sell them to the adults. 

After my husband died and I moved from Hoxie to Colorado, we tried renting another house for a weekend. We called it Fake Phez Phest. And it was just that. Times had changed. There were other deaths, and divorces and health issues for some. 

It didn't work. The world had moved on. We were all miserable. The time for Phez Phest had passed. 

Those of us who have joyful memories of their childhood and positive family experiences are very fortunate. I'm very grateful that I'm among that number. 

The trick is to be aware of how precious family events are when they are happening.

Social Animals

Late afternoon or evening I go for a walk. Usually along the Spring Creek bike trail. A couple of days ago I passed a group of neighbors who found a way to socialize at a distance. They took their lawn chairs to a large green common area and visited. 

Now they would be wearing masks. But I think this is a very good idea. The lack of human contact is even getting to me and I'm extremely introverted. 

This morning one of my friends from my knitting group came to my house to get some elastic. We both are making masks and I happen to have quite a bit of elastic on hand. I met her on the patio and wore gloves to hand her the plastic sack of material. We both wore masks and sat more than six feet apart. I was so happy to see her!

We talked for quite some time. This six member knitting group has been meeting at Barnes and Noble in Loveland for about ten years. Three of the members are expert knitters. It's also a confidential support group and a group of avid readers. We have never had a meeting that we didn't share information and opinions about books although it's not a formal book club. 

We love meeting in B&N because we can leave our table and run to purchase the books other members are recommending. It's a busy happy group and I really miss it. 

In fact, during this sad bizarre time, I've done a lot of thinking about activities I've always taken for granted. Our Diocese has done a marvelous job of producing on-line religious services, and I admire the work that has gone into the presentations. But Easter! Home alone? 

I have a book to review and last week I finished a piece a publisher had requested. Beyond that, it's difficult to anticipate where the publishing industry is heading. It's always a mistake anyway to write to the market. The best plan always has been to write what you really want to write. 

I'm reading like crazy, watching too much TV, and making masks. 

When Mary Met Raymond

Mary Tyler Moore died on Wednesday, and I cried. I was surprised that the death of a woman I had never met hurt so much. Maybe because although I never met her, I felt I knew her. Whether she was "Laura Petrie" -- professional dancer turned suburban housewife -- or "Mary Richards" -- making her way up the very short career ladder of her TV newsroom -- she was someone I liked. I was one of the many young women who could imagine having Mary as my downstairs neighbor and BFF.

When I heard she was dead, I ran through my memory bank of favorite episodes of  The Mary Tyler Show. I still watch them in re-run. If you've read my post, you know by now that I love television. In fact, I even managed to make TV relevant to my academic research. I study crime and popular culture. But ask any baby boomer, and many of us will be able to describe episodes of our favorite TV shows scene by scene, even quote favorite lines. We can go down the list, calling out the shows that were the visual sound-track of our childhoods and that taught us important life lessons. We're no snobs. Many of us also love the great sit-coms that came later -- but the classics helped to shape who we are.

The Mary Tyler Moore Show was special to a generation of women. Aside from what we learned from her about being single and pursuing a career, Mary taught us important lessons about grown up friendships with both women and men. Those friendships were messy and touching and complicated. We learned that it's okay if your best friend occasionally makes you crazy. Remember that episode when Rhoda, who was spending night at Mary's, left the dinner dishes in the sink "to soak" and Mary got up in the middle of the night to try to wash them without waking Rhoda. Mary and Rhoda always reminded me -- still do -- that friends don't have to be carbon copies. Friends can come from different worlds. The important thing about a good friend is that she is always there no matter where you are. She's the person who listens and understands, who you laugh with and cry with, and who always has your back.

And then there was what Mary Tyler Moore and Lou Grant, her boss in the newsroom, taught me about writing. When I was thinking about my favorite episodes of the show, I remembered when the one when Lou introduced Mary to Raymond Chandler. I found it again on YouTube. The title of the episode is "Mary the Writer." Mary persuades Lou to read a piece she is working on. It's a true story, but he thinks she's trying to write fiction. He opens his desk drawer -- where he also keeps his liquor -- and pulls out a book. In his gruff, tough-guy voice, he reads her the first paragraph of Chandler's "Red Wind." When he's done, he tells her that's great writing. Mary's response (that I appreciate even more now): "He writes well about the weather."

RIP Mary. Thanks for the laughs and the life lessons. And for sending me back to try Raymond Chandler again with Lou Grant's voice in my head.