The Weight of Weight

My last post was about two of the columnists for the Battle Creek Enquirer, Linda Jo Scott and Nicole L V Mullis. The following is an example of Nicole's writing.

I don’t handle scales well.

My parents’ bathroom scale had a slim window through which I could watch the numbers blur back and forth when I stepped on it. Waiting for that thing to settle on my weight was my first brush with roulette. I had a number in my head and all my happiness was pegged on it coming up.

Women never give their weight, unless they’re proud of it. It’s the original “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Since only thin people were telling, I grew up believing most women were between 102 and 112 pounds.

Unfortunately, I passed 102 pounds sometime in the fifth grade. Never did I think about my height and frame. Never did I consider the heavy muscles I earned through ceaseless ballet classes. Never did I contemplate the possibility that one-size-does-not-fit-all. Individuality was fine for personality. When it came to weight, there was acceptable and unacceptable.

There was even a chart.

Any gal who has bought nylons knows about The Chart. It is a tight grid composed of miserly five-pound boxes stamped on the back of every pantyhose package. Find your box; get your letter – A, B, C, D, etc.

Like a real report card, the lower your letter, the more help you needed. Control Top, Shape-Enhancing, Extra-Firm Support. Eventually you were paying twice as much to be half as comfortable. Privately, I aspired to be Valedictorian of pantyhose or, at least, on the honor roll. And I knew how many five-pound boxes it would take.

Like most women, I subscribed to the Five-Pound Fallacy, the ardent belief that five pounds can make a huge difference and one could lose those five pounds in five days.

Many, many desserts were lost to this lost cause.

Although I exercised and sacrificed, those five pounds came and went as they pleased. Never mind that five pounds was the margin of error on my parents’ scale. That thing may as well have been measuring my soul every morning.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Things changed when I got married. Although I knew my weight on my wedding day, I didn’t know it the day after. My husband and I didn't register for a bathroom scale and it wasn't worth breaking our tender budget to get one. Besides, I didn't miss being judged before breakfast.

Then, I got pregnant and gaining weight came with the territory. A nurse told me a secret. “Get on the scale backwards and I won’t tell you the number.” It seemed childish, but it ensured I left the office with only one number in my head – my child’s heartbeats-per-minute.

After my daughter was born, I remained ignorant of my number. I knew I lost my baby weight because my pants fit again. No judgment. No skipping dessert.

I know I’m not cured. Whenever I encounter a bathroom scale while visiting friends or family, I’m on it, squinting my eyes, not breathing, a number in my head. Fortunately, I’m in my own bathroom most mornings, where ignorance is bliss. And that bliss extends beyond me. I have two daughters who are in the prime scale-watching years. I don’t know their weight and neither do they. They are strong and healthy and that is all they need to know.

The rest is just pantyhose.

Nicole L.V. Mullis can be reached at nlvm.columns@gmail.com.
You can find her on Facebook or follow her on Twitter @NicoleLVMullis.

We Columnists

This column was originally published in The Battle Creek Enquirer in February 2010. For some time now, Linda Jo and Nicole have each had their own weekly columns.

Every other Sunday the Enquirer gives either Nicole L. V. Mullis or me a chance to share our ideas and experiences with you by way of our columns.

And we both delight in this opportunity. We're very different people, at different stages in our lives. Nicole is in her 30s, and I just turned 70. She has three grade-school-aged children and is busy mothering, tutoring, chauffeuring, and so forth, while I'm a grandmother of three who doesn't even get to see her little darlings very often.

Nicole is a Catholic; I'm a Unitarian. She's married, I'm single. She and her husband come from large families who live fairly close by and have regular reunions, whereas I seldom see my siblings, who live in Florida and Alabama, and I don't even feel as though I know my nieces and nephews, who live further away still.

Nicole was a journalism major, whereas I was an English major. But different as we are, Nicole and I share a love of writing. And, though we try to use our senses of humor throughout the procedure, at the same time we both take it quite seriously.

Over the last couple of years we've met here in Battle Creek a couple of times for tea (me) and coffee (Nicole), just to get acquainted and talk about the art of column writing. And, different as we are, we found that we both follow similar procedures. We make notes about possible column subjects and then let them "ripen" before actually starting to write.

We both use computers and, as we find sentences or even paragraphs that we aren't sure of, we cut and paste them to the bottom of the screen - just in case we decide we need them after all.

"But I almost never pull them back up," I declared to Nicole, and she laughed and agreed that she didn't either.

I've had over 100 columns published in the Enquirer over the past 12 years, and sometimes think about trying to put together a collection of my favorites. Nicole has had the same thought and has even begun to approach publishers. But I must say that I get weary just thinking about trying to peddle my book. It is so much more satisfying to have people - even ones I don't know - tell me how much they enjoyed a particular column than it would be to try to persuade anyone to purchase a whole book of them.

Both Nicole and I hope to be able to continue our columns for many years to come, and we especially thank "Cranky Bob" Warner and Eric Greene for encouraging and promoting us.

In closing, we'd declare, along with priests, ministers, rabbis, choir directors, scout leaders, and such prominent news people as Bill Moyers, David Gregory and the late Tim Russert, "See you next week."

Or, "See you week after next," as the case may be.

Writing for The Enquirer

This year I’m celebrating not only 15 years of retirement from teaching English at Olivet College but also 15 years of a new part-time career writing for the Battle Creek Enquirer.

My first boss, Bill Miller, gave me easy assignments, such as various aspects of village business in Bellevue and Olivet. No matter how small and minor a task he gave me, however, I enjoyed writing about it.

Soon Bill let me start writing feature stories, most of them accompanied by color photographs taken by John Grap. Sometimes I was assigned stories, but for the most part I found subjects on my own. People got to know me and would give me suggestions for interesting stories.

Jonas Blanton was an octogenarian pilot, and, after our conversation about his years of flying, he took me for an exciting plane ride above Battle Creek.

Then there was an amazing horse owner, Tom Smith, who, though he was crippled from polio since the age of five, he certainly didn’t let that stop him. One of Tom’s best stallions, Rompaway Butch, had sired more than 200 foals and had earned more than $200,000 for Tom as a racehorse and $1,500 for each live foal he sired. Those colts then could be sold for $8,000 to $10,000.

A sad story involved Camilla Jaquette, who at the age of 54, in 1978, had completely lost her memory of anything before that time. Speculation was that she had a series of small seizures--and perhaps a blow to her head, so that if she wanted to know anything about her childhood, her marriage, her children, her life in general from her past, she had to ask others.

I also interviewed Bill Worthington, barber at the local “Clip Joint.” When I told him that I played the violin, he invited me to join his weekly music group. I still have a fun picture on my wall of me playing with Bill and his friends in his barbershop.

I enjoyed doing the story of Sandra Goble, who was reunited with her dad, Andrew LaRochelle, after 50 years apart. “I love him to death,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “He makes me laugh, but he’s also sentimental. He’ll cry at the drop of a dime.”

Then there were the twins, Marvin A. Cooley and Melvin A. Cooley, who celebrated their first birthday together since their birth in 1923.

It was inspiring to get to interview Miriam Brysk, who had been a toddler in Warsaw in the 1930s. Her powerful paintings, which were on display at the Art Center, were created particularly to ensure that people never forget the horror of what happened during the Holocaust.

Brooks Grantier, a fine organist with whom I play music often, also appeared at Union City’s Victorian Villa, together with John Sherwood, as Watson and Sherlock Holmes. I got to see their production and wrote a feature story about the show.

I even did a story about “gardening buff” Bill Schroer, a sometimes nudist and now a regular Sunday columnist.

And finally, for the last four years, I have been privileged to write a column for each Friday’s paper. I love this, too, being able to express my own opinions--and being completely on my own schedule.

I wish I could mention more stories and talk about various columns, but because I almost reached my limit of 600 words, I will end simply by thanking Bill Miller, Robert Warner and Charles Carlson for helping make my retirement so enjoyable.

Originally published in The Enquirer October 2013

Viktor Frankl

I received many positive comments on my column about Elie Wiesel and have therefore felt encouraged to do one on another equally commendable European Jewish man, Viktor Frankl.

Both men went through the horrors of concentration camps during World War II. Frankl was 23 years older than Wiesel and was already a practicing psychiatrist when he was imprisoned. His time there was no doubt in some ways easier, for he was able to practice mental health care and was even assigned to help the people who were just arriving.

Both suffered terribly, however, for both of them lost their parents, most of their siblings, other relatives and friends. Frankl lost his pregnant wife as well, after only about three years of marriage. Remarkably, however, neither Wiesel nor Frankl let that terrible experience make them bitter. Both had highly successful careers serving others, and both wrote many fine, inspiring books, some of the most famous ones about the horrible experiences during World War II.

By 1947 Viktor married his second wife, Eleonore Katharina Schwindt, who was a Roman Catholic, and, together with his wife, he celebrated both Hanukkah and Christmas.

Before the war, Viktor was a follower and even a colleague of Sigmund Freud and Alfred Adler, believing that people were “driven by the need to gratify physical need and a will to pleasure.” After his experience in the Nazi death camps, however, his whole outlook changed.

He realized that some prisoners had positive attitudes and deep senses of purpose, despite their terrible suffering. He had observed that humans had a unique ability to make their own choices and live by them, no matter the pain and sorrow they might suffer. As he put it, “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”

Back in practice after the war and being no longer a follower of Freud and Adler, Viktor had a hard time with patients and colleagues who were their followers. In fact Frankl was almost ready to move to Australia, where his sister lived.

Just then, however, a woman named Margaret Chajes arrived at Frankl's home and brought him a message from a Jewish rabbi from America who had admired him. “Remain strong!,” he had asked Margaret to tell him. “Continue your work with complete resolve. Don't give up. Ultimately you will prevail."

This encouragement was just what Viktor needed at that moment, and he went on to great success, becoming a guest lecturer at universities in five continents and receiving many honorary doctorates and awards in numerous countries. In addition, he wrote one of my favorite books, “Man’s Search for Meaning.” It became available in English in 1959 and has sold well over 10,000,000 copies.

Viktor remained faithful to his Jewish faith throughout his life. As his wife said, as he traveled all over the world, he “took the phylacteries (two small leather boxes, with quotations from the Hebrew Scriptures), and everywhere, every morning, he prayed. He uttered memorized words of Jewish prayers and Psalms.”

Viktor died in 1997, at age 92, but he is still remembered as an extremely intelligent, caring, devoted man who has inspired millions through his work as a caring psychiatrist and as a fine writer.

Jeff Van Nortwick, Landscape Lover

Many people have good ideas and strong hopes, but Jeff Van Nortwick of Barry County has spent his life suggesting and making actual changes to improve life for all in his county and for Calhoun County as well.

Ever since his college days at Michigan State, where he studied landscaping, he’s cared deeply about conservation and environment. Soon after his college years he formed Environmental Landscape Services, which is still in operation today.

When he worked for Archway Cookies as grounds manager he genuinely tried to make what he calls “a sustainable landscape.” He has even written a book on the subject of optimum plants called, “Maximum Performance on Each Piece of Land.”

Over the years Jeff has worked hard on sensible, long-term landscaping for between 8,000 and 9,000 rental homes as well as for many other places here in town, including the Art Center of Battle Creek.

I wrote a column some months ago about Kay Doyle, also a Barry County resident and her amazing nearly full-time volunteer work with animals. When working on this column about Jeff, I learned that Kay has deep respect for him through his concern for animals.

During the six years Jeff served as Barry County Commissioner, among many other duties and concerns, he was instrumental in forming the Barry County Animal Control Shelter Advisory Board. Kay, as a member, explained that “He was very concerned about the number of euthanasia vs. adoptions at the Barry County Shelter. He wished to see improvements in one way or another to get the cats and dogs adopted/rescued instead of euthanized.”

While in that position, Jeff truly tried to educate residents about environmental health concerns in general and to make them more involved in all sorts of country government issues.

In his first year alone, as commissioner, he went to over 200 meetings about various problems and projects. One of the many places he took seriously was the important and charming Charlton Park, for which he worked hard to get support.

Another generous, impressive local citizen, Andrew Freemire, is also a friend of Jeff. As Andrew puts it, “He has decades of experience in designing and installing self-sustaining landscapes for corporate as well as private patrons. He selects with the patrons, elements that best suit their respective environmental and esthetic needs and always uses the best materials and makes his customers realize that their needs are most important to him.”

Life hasn’t always been easy for Jeff. Back when he was in his 30s he a serious inflammatory disease in his eye which has caused a continuous problem of uncontrollable glaucoma. Currently he even has what is called “a piece of cadaver heart muscle” in his eye. In addition, last year alone he had a hernia, a rupture of his appendix and a heart attack.

Jeff hasn’t let any of these problems stop him from caring about others, however. He is still trying to help individuals, companies and volunteer organizations improve their landscaping for both the present and the future.

I always feel rewarded when I get to meet new people in our area who give their lives to all kinds of community improvements. Jeff is certainly a fine example, and I surely hope 2014 is a better year for him - and for us all.

Mother

“I hope you never hear those words “Your mom. She died.” They are different than other words. They are too big to fit in your ears. They belong to some strange, heavy, powerful language that pounds away at the side of your head, a wrecking ball coming at you again and again until finally the words crack a hole large enough to fit inside your brain. And in so doing, they split you apart.”

- Mitch Albom, “For One More Day”

This was the opinion of Charles, a character in Albom’s book, but sad to say, Albom himself suffers these days as well, for as he said on a recent television interview, his mother has had strokes and can no longer talk.

I understand these very strong feelings about mothers, for though my mother has been gone since 1975, I still miss her every day. She and I had a very close relationship through both music and literature. She was a wonderful pianist who could play any song she knew in any key.

We both loved playing by ear, for we could feel much closer to those for whom we were playing if we didn’t have to look constantly at printed music. I still remember my mother’s comment on playing by ear: “The paper just gets in the way.”

Mom and I played together very often on piano and violin without music, and thus I grew up feeling that playing music was nothing but fun. We played regularly at home and at my grandmother’s house, and we also played for my grandmother’s friends in nursing homes and for the small children in the Sunday School class my mother taught.

These days I still play regularly in nursing homes and assisted livings, and people really appreciate that I can walk around the room, playing close to each person, even if that person is a wheelchair or in bed.

Though we were both serious about playing music, neither of us wanted to deal with music as a full-time occupation. True enough, we both pursued it most every day from early childhood through our adult lives, and I played in symphony orchestras including 31 years here in Battle Creek, but it was never a career. I finally retired when the orchestra became more and more professional, and I realized I was one of the only “amateurs” in the whole group.

My mother was also an enthusiastic reader and writer. She majored in English in college and graduate school and taught English in various schools for many years. Here, too, we had much in common, for I had the same major and the same career. We not only loved to read and teach novels, non-fiction books and poems, but we both also loved to write letters, stories, articles and poems.

It was especially sad when Mom died suddenly at 66 from a blood clot.

I’m 74 already, thus already having had eight years more than Mom to play music, read books and write various items.

My mom would be over 100 years old now and would no doubt be in bad shape if she were alive, but I can’t help but to wish that she could still be alive to play music and share her various writings with me. I know, too, that she’d enjoy reading my columns in the Enquirer and could no doubt suggest good subjects each week for me to pursue.

Louis Armstrong Lives On

Some people seem to live long after their deaths. An amazing example for me is Louis Armstrong, who I was surprised to learn has been gone for over 40 years. One reason he seems to be very much alive even now is all of the extremely popular sites on YouTube where we can still see and hear him sing and play his trumpet.

His recording of a favorite song of mine, “It’s a Wonderful World,” has been watched over 35 million times, for example. And others of his recordings, including “When the Saints Go Marching In,” “La Vie en Rose,” “Go Down Moses,” “Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen,” “Moon River” and “When You’re Smiling” are also still regularly heard - and loved - by millions. 

Also known as “Satchmo” and “Pops,” Louis Armstrong had an extremely difficult childhood. Not only was he a grandchild of slaves and born to a poor family in New Orleans back in 1901, but in addition, his father left the family when Louis was just an infant. His mother, out of desperation, became a prostitute, and poor little Louis was moved back and forth between his separated parents and also spent a lot of time with his grandmother.

This kind of insecurity in childhood causes many people to become bitter and unsuccessful in life, but that was certainly not the case with Louis Armstrong.

Even as a young boy he tried to help his relatives by delivering newspapers, selling discarded food to restaurants and even hauling coal. He was sent to the New Orleans Home for Colored Waifs for various issues of delinquency, but that turned out to be fortunate, for he got some musical training on the cornet while there. Most of his music training, however, was achieved simply by observing other musicians’ techniques and teaching himself.

As a young man he joined a band which toured up and down the Mississippi River on a steamboat and later described the value of that experience as being almost equivalent to going to a university.

He later moved to Chicago, where he was extremely popular. My father, along with thousands of others, loved hearing him perform there in the 20s. And my mother, also from Chicago, actually did the same part-time job playing as Armstrong, playing music in theatres for silent films.

It is very unusual for musicians to sing as well as performing on instruments professionally, but Armstrong was equally famous for both. In addition, he was a master of “scat” singing, which he was the first to record. You can hear a combination of his playing, singing scat as well as words on the YouTube recording of his song called “Heebie Jeebies.”

In 1930, Armstrong moved to Los Angeles, temporarily, where he played with Lionel Hampton and even appeared in his first film, “Ex-Flame.”

He eventually performed in 20 different films, the most famous ones being “Hello Dolly, “High Society,” and “The Glenn Miller Story.”

Besides performing thousands of times all over this country, he also toured Africa, Europe and Asia, sponsored by the US State Department. It was during those experiences that he earned the fun nickname, “Ambassador Satch.”

For all of these reasons, I would say that the amazing Louis Armstrong is still very much alive in our minds and hearts.