Kathy Ewing

William Strunk, Jr.

Mrs. Morgan, my tenth-grade English teacher, was near retirement age in 1967, white-haired, lively, and enthusiastic. She smiled a lot. She loved teaching and loved teaching writing. She told me I was a good writer. Maybe she said the same to everyone, but her words encouraged me nonetheless.

She introduced me to The Elements of Style  by E. B. White and William Strunk. “Omit needless words!” she exhorted us, just as Strunk exhorted White, and as White exhorted Elements readers. It’s hard to find a word out of place in E.B. White’s sublime classic Charlotte’s Web.

I’m still trying to omit my own needless words, all the time. And I’m striving mightily to convince my writing students as effectively as Morgan, Strunk, and White convinced me. This semester two students have admitted that past advisors have encouraged the use of passive voice and big words whenever possible, because they’re more impressive to readers.

I always suspected this! Why else would I be reading sentences like the following?

As I analyze personal educational experiences, I’ve realized that the nation’s system of education is lagging, not so much in the sustenance of educational resources, rather there is a lack of care that has become institutionalized within education, stemming from congress and state government, slowly permeating into the classrooms and minds of the children exposed. 

How to respond to such a sentence? Teeth-gnashing? Primal screams? I write “wordy” in the margin as calmly as I can and remind myself that this unfortunate student never experienced the gift of Mildren Morgan.

How about you? Did a teacher change your life?

On the rare occasions I shake hands with someone whose hands are even colder than mine, I realize what an unpleasant experience it is. “Icicle” and “dead fish” come to mind. Unfortunately, my frigid fingers are usually subjecting another person to the chill.

I try not to complain about the weather, per se. It’s futile, and, really, all times of the year can be beautiful. I can’t help complaining about the cold sometimes, though, because from early October to late March, I’m cold, my hands are cold, and my feet are cold. I wish my touch conveyed warmth, but instead I can only hope my hapless receiver is thinking, “Cold hands, warm heart.”

When I awaken on these winter mornings, toasty (at last) in my flannels, under a quilt, a blanket, two comforters, and sometimes my bathrobe, I think to myself, “This is the last time today I’m going to be warm.” Returning to my bed at night, I drift off to sleep just as my extremities begin to defrost.

Turkeys similar to ours

This evening, though, I remembered why not to complain about the weather. As I walked the dog down the driveway at dusk, I spotted the tracks of our turkeys. My urban neighborhood has been blessed with a visiting flock of five. Sometimes they hang out in our backyard. Sometimes we spot them a block or two away. Tonight, their footprints pointed like arrows down the sidewalk. It was snowing, so their quite visible tracks had to be pretty fresh.

My aged dog and I followed the arrows. They led south to the next block and then east. Thinking we must be getting close, I began to hear a little squeaking noise. It wasn’t a “gobble,” but who knows what sounds turkeys make? This chirping sounded bird-like, anyway – if not from turkeys, maybe a few sparrows, or even some agitated squirrels. Then I realized that the squeaking was coming from the windshield wipers of a car backing out in front of me. A wildlife expert I’m not.

Eventually the arrows pointed off the sidewalk into the street, where they disappeared in the smashed and treaded snow. Darkness was falling, and I couldn’t pick up the tracks across the street, and since our dog can’t walk indefinitely in the snow and cold, I turned back.

The snowy twilight felt like Christmas-time, but without the subliminal anxiety. As we headed home, the street was white and silent. The bare branches of the trees formed black silhouettes against the dusky sky. My icy, mittened hands were thrust deep into my pockets.

The blog section at Scene, our local alternative weekly, posted a column I recently wrote. Read it here.

In 2003, I wrote a column for the Cleveland Plain Dealer about New Years Resolutions. As in previous years, I aspired to read all of Proust, give up sugar, meditate daily, be nicer to my family, get up earlier, keep my desk clean, and try new recipes. I hoped to get books back to the library on time, defragment my hard drive, and vacuum my refrigerator coils.

Alas, I had resolved these things before, and upon reflection, I concluded that though I’m not a scientist, “this repetition constitutes anecdotal evidence that I do not actually keep my resolutions.”

Instead, I wrote about making insignificant resolutions. Maybe if I chose trivial things…I’d actually do them. I’m taking a look back to see if I’ve kept any of those seven-year-old resolutions. First, here they are:

• Notice where I’ve parked the car at the mall.
• Return cd’s to their cases after I’ve played them
• Carry my empty coffee cup from the car into the house.
• Close kitchen drawers while I’m cooking.
• Pin together matching socks before laundering.
• Return credit card to appropriate slot in my wallet after making a purchase.
• Avoid looking at photos of Halle Berry in a bikini.
• Throw away magazines promptly, say, within six months.
• Keep one roll of tape in house at all times.
• Ditto a roll of toilet paper.

As it happens, I’ve done pretty well at keeping the tape and toilet paper on hand, pinning the socks, keeping track of my credit card, and avoiding the Halle Berry pics. (That James Bond movie promoted by Halle’s orange bikini was over and done with).

Otherwise, not so much.

But now I’m even wiser than in 2003, being seven years older. “Nothing creates more unhappiness than failed expectations,” says Deepak Chopra. And so I’m resolving not to expect to do any better this year. That way, if I fail yet again by spilling sugar in my kitchen drawer and accumulating six coffee cups in my car and wandering like a cloud in the Target parking lot, I won’t create more unhappiness for myself, because I had no expectations.

 And if I succeed in not expecting to do any better, I’ve won!

How about you? Expectations? Resolutions? Palpitations?

This essay appeared in the Plain Dealer’s “Her Say” spot in 1997, a few years after my mother-in-law’s death. A family friend just asked for a copy, and when I dug the old clipping out,it seemed like a good thing to recycle on this Christmas Day. I’d love to have you respond with memorable-gift stories (not necessarily for Christmas) of your own.

Recently my husband purchased some new sweaters. Up to now, all his sweater needs were filled by his mother, who loved buying things and who thought a good-looking sweater made the perfect gift. Dee Ewing bought John and her three other children at least one sweater every single Christmas.

We daughters-in-law also received our ration of sweaters. Through my nineteen years of marriage, I have winnowed out the out-dated and the outgrown editions every so often to make room in my drawer for the new ones. Gone are the garish, the too-tight, and the monogrammed. This fall, I sorted through my sweaters once again in preparation for the holiday sweater-giving season. A particular well-worn sweater with stretched ribbing and torn elbows I returned to the drawer, as I had many times before. It’s a souvenir.

This threadbare specimen dates from my first Christmas with the Ewing family, a couple of years before my marriage. John and I had been dating for awhile, but I hadn’t had the courtesy or common sense to get to know his parents. A post-60’s graduate student, I was in my late-hippie stage: long hair, frayed jeans, bad attitude. I slithered in and out of the Ewings’ well-appointed home as unobtrusively as possible–too shy to initiate a conversation and too self-involved to realize my rudeness.

A few weeks before that first Christmas, John asked me my size, because his mom wanted to buy me a present. I said she didn’t need to.

A week or so later, John asked again about my size. I bristled. When John reported back to his mom, she said, “Tell her we don’t bite.”

I regarded that as challenge I couldn’t refuse, so I divulged my size and agreed to come for Christmas. I arrived at the Ewing home carrying a nondescript Christmas mug for my hostess. Sitting in the living room with John’s family, I marveled at the size of the tree, the abundance of gifts, and the mountians of discarded wrapping and ribbon. As the endless gift-opening proceeded, I watched the Ewing siblings and their spouses come upon their Christmas sweaters from Dee. Each one had a ’70’s-style patchwork design of varying colors.

My mother-in-law-to-be brought me a large, beautifully wrapped box to open. Inside I discovered a patchwork sweater like the ones she had given to her family. Mine had squares of pastel blues and pinks, and it fit fine. I wore it for years, until the ribbing stretched and the elbows frayed.

This was just the beginning. Dee, I soon learned, would always arrive at our home laden with presents — sometimes a barely used Christmas decoration, sometimes a tin of cookies, sometimes t-shirts or toys she had picked up for the kids on vacation, and once an entire set of china. There were too many gifts, more than our house could hold, but all of the dishes, clothes, furniture, and knickknacks were outpourings of a generous spirit.

A few years ago, on a Monday night just before Christmas, John’s brother called to tell us of Dee’s heart attack. Thus we lost the person who remembered everyone’s birthdays and anniversaries, who always came bearing gifts, and who filled her family’s every sweater need. But everywhere I turn in my house, from bookshelves to cupboards to closets, I’m reminded of a giver. Each time I glance at a catalogue or browse at the mall I’m reminded of a certain shopping addict who loved giving gifts. Every time we buy a sweater, I remember the gift that invited me to join a family.

I imagine I’m not the only one to put on my favorite music while I’m cooking. Then there are some pieces that are special to this season.

Our regular Christmas cd’s are satisfactory accompaniment, except John’s Slovenian Christmas album. And he’s not even Slovenian. Sorry. I just don’t like it.

My favorite Christmas-baking cd is Respighi’s Ancient Airs and Dances. It’s not Christmas music, but I heard it for the first time (or at least took note) several years ago at a holiday concert of the late, lamented Red: An Orchestra. Ever since, I’ve associated it with Christmas, though I play it all year round. We have a piano version, too. Try it. It’s the most celebratory music, especially the Bergamasca in Suite 2.

Then, closer to Christmas, I pull out my old News From Lake Woebegone tapes (a gift from Joel?), which came in a set of four–one for each season. I will be playing the entire Winter tape (go figure) while I bake or cook later this week. On one side, Garrison Keillor tells the lovely story of James Lundeen, a childhood friend, who yearned for a Lionel train set for Christmas but then found, after his dad almost died in an accident, that his real little town and family were sufficient.

On the other side, Keillor describes his childhood “storm home” — the refuge he was assigned if he was ever stranded by a blizzard in town after school. He realizes that just imagining the welcome he’d received at the Kruegers, a family he never actually met, provides comfort enough. “I suppose my storm home was a kind of fiction,” Keillor says. His principal might just as well have assigned him to Mr. Zuckerman’s farm with Charlotte and Wilbur the pig, or to a raft on the Mississippi.

Such are the comforts of fiction, and such the comfort of familiar sounds when the spritz cookies won’t spritz (like today), the brown sugar’s turned into solid rock, and, at last, the cookie sheets have to be scrubbed clean.

What’s your favorite kitchen accompaniment?

During this cookie season, my husband’s theory always comes up. To wit: women prefer crispy cookies, while men prefer chewy, soft ones.

At a holiday party the other day, a lady fell into the appropriate demographic. When I offered her one of my home-baked chocolate chip cookies, she asked if it was soft. Yes, I said with pride, because at my house that’s the preferred answer.

She shook her head and waved her hand at me. No thanks, she said. Ah! I said. You prefer crispy? She nodded.

What do you think? (And we’ll consider this poll scientific.) Soft or crispy? Does your preference fit your gender?