Posts Tagged ‘Common Sense’

Whatever Happened to “Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice”?

By Bob Litton

¶I believe I have always been averse to absurdities, especially grotesque and gruesome absurdities. That’s why I am coulrophobic (turned off by clowns). The aversion probably circumscribed my enjoyment childhood, affecting not only my reaction to clowns but also to some children’s stories and nursery rhymes. I couldn’t see anything amusing about Humpty Dumpty breaking his “crown” or in Jack breaking his either. And those poor three blind mice whose tails were cut off by the farmer’s wife? Phooey! One nursery rhyme particularly annoyed me, this one:

What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Snips and snails
And puppy-dogs’ tails
That’s what little boys are made of.

What are little girls made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice
And everything nice [or “all things nice”]
That’s what little girls are made of.

¶The reported consensus of literary historians is that the above verses were composed by English poet Robert Southey (1771-1843), although they did not appear in any of his published works. Besides his own seven children, Southey and his wife supported the wives and children of his companion romantic poets Robert Lovell and Samuel Coleridge, after the former died and the latter abandoned his family, so we cannot criticize his personal observation of what children are like. He wrote some poetry and stories for children, including “Goldilocks and the Three Bears”, which was probably my own favorite in childhood.
¶But I am digressing too much from my topic: the change in our image of girls and women.
¶What bothered me about the sketches of gender above is that it paints boys in such miniscule and dingy terms (Did Southey’s boys cut off the tails of puppies?). Of course, individual grains of sugar and spice are miniscule, too, but they are usually partaken in bulk and children of both genders can’t seem to get enough of them. Moreover, reserving “everything nice” for girls pretty much excludes any pleasant attributes for boys. As another grownup male complained on an Internet site that critiqued the verse, “It isn’t fair!” Hearing that poem read aloud was my introduction to the “battle of the sexes”.
¶Back in Southey’s time, girls and women, of the upper classes in England at least, were pointedly sheltered from the cruder aspects of life. They were expected to be the moral exemplars for society, maintaining values which men, for their part, had not many qualms of abusing. Sure, there were some young gentle women — Mary Shelley, for instance — who breached that rule; but, overall, it seems that people paid at least lip service to it until the early 20th century. And it has been a downward spiral ever since Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I was especially disappointed when, in 1987, the editor of the New Yorker magazine caved in and allowed a four-letter word to be printed; now that magazine’s pages are littered with words ordinarily reserved for Penthouse.
¶I was raised under the old code. Mother instructed me to surrender my seat on the trolley to ladies, especially old ladies. And I was taught by various elders that profanity was excusable only among adult males, never in the hearing of ladies. Recently, I mentioned my developing dismay about the modern trend of ubiquitous profanity to a female acquaintance at our local senior center (she is about my own age). “Yeah,” she said. “When I was young we couldn’t even say ‘sex’; we had to spell it, s-e-x’!”
¶One of the former residents at my apartment complex was an old harridan, whose unit was two doors south of mine. She was quite loud in every way: face-to-face conversation, her television-viewing, and on the phone. For some reason I never discovered, she would not have the courtesy to shut her front door when engaged in her racket-making and especially liked to stand on our common porch and chatter away on her cell phone. One afternoon, while I was outside sweeping leaves off the porch, she was in her living room, practically yelling into her phone. I walked over, opened her screen door, and pulled the main door shut. She jumped up from her chair and came to the door, opened it, and started cursing a blue streak. That old cliché about “words that would make a sailor blush” seems hardly adequate to describe her behavior. I silently kept on sweeping.
¶Don’t gather from the above that I am a “goody-two-shoes” (whatever that is!). I sometimes utter curse words, mostly while I’m driving, but my vocabulary level in the vulgar range is limited and I’m certainly not proud of my profanities; it’s just a release for my frustrations, I guess. It is mainly an echo of that old lesson “don’t swear in the company of ladies” that causes me to get slightly irritated when I hear fellows at my favorite bar punctuating their conversations with the activities and products of their body parts.
¶The problem is not just the presence of “ladies” (for they can be just as foul-mouthed); the issue is also the gratuitousness of such extended vulgarity. Imagine: If all of us — men, women and children alike — include an obscenity in every sentence we utter, those profanities would lose their effectiveness. After all, the rare use of a four-letter word used to signify a sudden change in temperament or it charged an incident with emergency. Now they are just wasted puffs of breath with a slightly foul and boring odor in them.
¶Female use of profanity is all part of the “women’s liberation” movement which began in the 1960s. It was also connected to the growing prevalence of smoking among professional women, epitomized by Philip Morris Company’s 1968 advertising slogan for its new Virginia Slims cigarettes: “You’ve Come A Long Way, Baby!”* Of course, smoking by women was common in the 1920s, -30s, and -40s, in the movies at least; but the trend seemed to have burgeoned in the 1960s.
¶Before I go, I want to add a few words about the other new trend: tattooing. Like cursing, this feature used to be almost the exclusive property of sailors and South Seas islanders; but now it seems to have become fashionable in my home country. I frankly don’t understand it. The human body, at least for many of us, can be beautiful; but we seem determined to besmear it with ugliness. Those generally indistinguishable markings with their lurid colors, that look more like signs of a blood disease than artwork, are just another way of attracting attention to one’s self, when the best way to do that is to be well-groomed and courteous.

*If you would like to see how this slogan developed over the years, check out this site: http://flashbak.com/youve-come-a-long-way-baby-virginia-slims-advertising-year-by-year-365664/

Finis

So Where’s The Wisdom?

©2013 By Bob Litton

I will reach — perhaps peak at — seventy-four next Sunday. Let that announcement be a warning that you can expect a heavy dose of “navel-gazing” in this, my last post of the year, maybe last post ever.

I was sitting in one of the two rocking chairs at Judy’s Bread and Breakfast cafe this morning, sipping my honey-sweetened coffee and reading D.H Lawrence’s Women in Love for about the fourth time. I had read it first back in the 1960s. The novel had enthralled me, mostly through what I perceived to be its perfectly balanced structural architectonics. I was a history major at the time, and when I returned to the university for a master’s degree in English literature, I chose Lawrence as the subject for my thesis largely because I had admired that particular novel. Naturally, I had to reread it a couple of times, along with other of Lawrence’s novels, stories and essays, to complete my thesis. Although I liked some of the other writings, Women in Love remained preeminent in my estimation.

Now here was I forcing myself to finish the last thirty pages of that novel. Why? Why did I have to force myself? Forty-two years of changes in the world and my own maturation is the only answer I can offer. I can no longer perceive the “architectonics” of that novel; rather, mostly what I see is a drum-beat of repetition and a whole cast of characters obsessed with their own ambivalences, their alternations between hate and love. It is a very dreary world: but Lawrence’s attitude can be understood, I believe, when one considers that the book was written during World War I and that Lawrence and his German wife, Frieda, were hounded all over England.

But neither Lawrence nor Women in Love is my primary topic here: change due to aging is.

In an essay I published here on December 2, “Looking Backward”, I noted how many items and experiences we had enjoyed in our youth lose their luster over the years. I still do not understand why that should be the case, especially to the extensive degree that it holds true: I mean, the degrading of some items and experiences I can understand, but a massive load of them? Give me a break!

Surely, I thought as I sat in that rocking chair this morning, surely we should be able to retain something of value and true to the fact as it first appeared; it should not all be flushed away. If the face of everything fades or gets distorted over time, then what is the point of ever liking something in the first place?

That thought led me to wondering if I could point to anything — hopefully, many things — I had learned during my seventy-four years that was still valuable. One possibility was a comment that I had heard from two people, at different times but still similar almost verbatim. One young lady, speaking to her mother in my presence about a boy in her high school class, said, “He is brilliant, but he hasn’t got any common sense.” On another occasion about thirty years later, an elderly woman, speaking of her daughter, told me, “She’s brilliant but she hasn’t got any common sense.” Since that second instance, by its exactness and remoteness in time, seemed to strongly support the first, I deduced that such a quality in humans must be at least somewhat common. I even could see the quality in myself; for, even though several people through the years — from one of my Chinese professors at Yale University to a tradesman in a Dallas pub — have remarked that I was very intelligent, others have been exasperated by my inability to perform the most common of everyday tasks.

While I was sitting there in the rocking chair pondering that and similar episodes, a customer, who was standing in line, waiting to make his order at the counter, addressed me, “What are you reading?”

Women in Love…by D.H. Lawrence,” I replied, with a rather doleful smile on my face.

“Do you like it?” the customer asked.

“I can’t stand it now, although at one time…many years ago…I enjoyed it very much; I can’t imagine why now. I am forcing myself through it. It’s awfully cynical.”

The man smiled and said, “My son says I am cynical. He’s twenty-four. ‘Just wait a few years’, I tell him.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be turning seventy-four in a few days, and I’ve been trying to recall whatever I’ve learned during all those years, but it seems that the lessons I’ve learned…well, there never is an occasion to apply them. The problems that develop are never the same; they are different.”

“That’s true,” the customer said. “I’ll have to write that down.”

Many people over the centuries have asserted that aging and experience foster wisdom, but all I can say is I am still waiting: So where is the wisdom?

Finis

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