From My Past: Kissing and Telling

Over 40 years ago I wrote an explanatory essay for an English class in college. The memory of how I landed on my topic — kissing and telling — is long gone. However, the typewritten pages of my essay have remained, tucked away in an old trunk, saved but for the most part neglected, except for occasional reviews during widely separated now-and-thens, after which I’d return the essay to its attic hideaway.

But not this time. Instead, I shall be brave, or stupid, and share my college essay in this blog. I have removed the names that appeared in the original and made my professor’s minor edits; the rest appears as it came forth from my typewriter in 1983. Enjoy!

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I’ve always heard that you shouldn’t kiss and tell, and I suppose that’s wise. But, like most people, I do it anyway. Some people kiss and then tell about their kissing whenever and wherever they get the chance. Telling about kissing happens everywhere — in bars and locker rooms, at coffee klatches and stag parties, and during intermissions. People kiss and tell because sometimes the telling can be almost as much fun as the kissing.

I don’t tell much and I don’t tell often, but sometimes I will compare kissing notes with my friends. We tell about who we’ve kissed and who has kissed us, and who we’ve heard might be kissing someone else.

“First kisses” is one topic that usually comes up for discussion at these telling sessions. There are different varieties of first kisses, including the first kiss you ever got, the first French kiss you ever got, and the first kiss you got from a particular person. These kisses are not mutually exclusive.

I got kissed for the first time when I was 17. “*” was a cute boy I met at a summer camp. I think our kiss was his first kiss too, because he asked permission to put his arm around me half an hour before he asked permission to kiss me. No one else has been that polite.

I found out what a French kiss was when I was 18. “Mr. Lips and Tongue” invaded my mouth at a dorm party during my freshman year in college. I think his name was “**” but I’m not sure. We didn’t talk much.

First impressions are important and first kisses are very important first impressions. If you don’t like someone’s first kiss, or if that someone doesn’t like yours, chances are you won’t get together for a second impression. “***” gave me my first, and so far only, whisker burn. His scratchy face left a dime-size burn on my chin that didn’t go away for two weeks. He did not get a repeat performance.

My friends and I also discuss kiss initiating. I have never initiated a first kiss, though I’ve contemplated it a few times. I always chicken out and follow tradition, letting the “him” make the first move. And I’ve had some moves made on me. Once “****” managed to dance me into a far corner of a crowded dance floor and kiss me, right in the middle of disco fever. I have no trouble initiating kisses after the first one is out of the way, however.

Telling about kissing is like comparison shopping. My friends and I are still searching for the perfect kiss, that romantic, gentle kiss from a tall, dark, and handsome hero. We just keep each other posted on our searches. The trouble is, we never meet any tall, dark, and handsome heroes. The kissers we meet are often sloppy about their kissing, open their mouths wide enough to kiss your whole face at once, or are professional hickey givers.

I know I’ll never find that perfect kiss, but I enjoy searching for it. So I will continue to kiss, and I will probably continue to tell about it too.

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My professor’s note from 1983 stated that my kissing and telling was “to very good purpose.” My essay was “concrete, lively, and entertaining,” written in a “clear, straightforward way.” And I got an A for my effort. So I guess this old college essay is good enough for my rambling blog in 2024.

Laura Sternweis, College Class of 1984

P.S. In case you were wondering, after this 1983 essay I stopped telling about kissing. And I’m still not talking.

Something out of Nothing

At first glance the old iron bed frame didn’t look like much when Dear Husband found it along the side of a country road, laying next to a garbage can, forsaken as common trash. But what the previous owner dismissed as not much, Dear Husband could envision as much more — and eventually something special.

So from the roadside to his truck, from 10 miles out in the country to town, the old iron bed frame began its journey to a new life. However, after Dear Husband unloaded the frame and assembled it in our driveway, the side rails broke beyond repair; so to the scrap metal pile they went. He leaned the headboard and footboard along the side of our garage, where they would stand tall for several years as his vision for their better future took shape.

This past winter his vision became reality as he cut the brokenness from the old iron, then sanded and painted. We chose the footboard, the more complete of the two pieces, as our new headboard. He screwed it to a wooden plank, to which he attached the modern metal frame that accommodates our mattress and foundation. The original old iron headboard, missing one finial, now serves the bed in our guest room.

A wise old woman we used to know would have called this “making something out of nothing.” It is a philosophy to which we continually aspire. That is why we often shop second hand, as well as from the curb. When we find a cast off that intrigues us, we try our best to reuse, recycle, or repurpose it. Because, as we have learned, even nothing can become something if you are only willing to see it.

Laura Sternweis

Reading Grandma’s Trash

On July 25, 1930, my grandmother gave birth to my mother, and then she read a book. Well, maybe not immediately, but at some point during her recovery from childbirth she read the book she received from her sister. I know she read the book because inside the front cover she wrote her name, that the book was from her sister, and the exact date of my mother’s birth. And on the very last page of the story she wrote, “Oh Boy!”

Ninety-three years later, her hand-written-in-pencil opening note and final comment spurred me to assess the book for myself. That is how I came to read “Louis Beretti,” by Donald Henderson Clarke. Turns out it’s a trashy novel of New York life in the 1920s featuring gangsters, murders, bootlegging, and sex. “Oh Boy” is right, Grandma!

This year maybe I’ll read more books from her small collection that I inherited. And maybe I’ll start with “Broken Engagement” or “Deserted Wife.” I wonder what they’re about? Oh Boy!

Laura Sternweis

P.S. Here’s my list of books that I read in 2023.

• Growing Up Biden: A Memoir, by Valerie Biden Owens
• Iowa Boy: Ten Years of Columns, by Chuck Offenburger
• The Pecking Order: Which Siblings Succeed and Why, by Dalton Conley
• Skirts: Fashioning Modern Femininity in the Twentieth Century, by Kimberly Chrisman-Campbell
• Americana Soul: Homes Designed with Love, Comfort, and Attention, by Luke Caldwell
• The Dictionary of Lost Words: A Novel, by Pip Williams (fiction)
• The Wonderful World of Grandmothers: Writings by and about Those Very Important Persons, edited by Jan Miller Gilmore (Hallmark Editions, 1973)
• House Beautiful Live Colorfully, by Joanna Saltz and the editors of House Beautiful
• Number One Is Walking: My Life in the Movies and Other Diversions, by Steve Martin; drawings by Harry Bliss
• When I Am An Old Coot: Witticisms for People Who Refuse to Grow Old Gracefully, by Roy English
• Celebrities for Jesus: How Personas, Platforms, and Profits Are Hurting the Church, by Katelyn Beaty
• Everything: A Maximalist Style Guide, by Abigail Ahern
• The First Forest, written by John Gile, illustrated by Tom Heflin (children’s book)
• Plain: A Memoir of Mennonite Girlhood, by Mary Alice Hostetter
• State of Terror: A Novel, by Hillary Rodham Clinton and Louise Penny (fiction)
• Resistance in the Bluegrass: Empowering the Commonwealth, by Farrah Alexander
• Embrace Your Space: Organizing Ideas and Stylish Upgrades for Every Room on Any Budget, by Katie Holdefehr
• Hunker: Brief Essays on Human Connection, by Michael Perry
• How We Behave at the Feast: Reflections on Living in an Age of Plenty, by Dwight Currie
• Momilies and More Momilies: As My Mother Used to Say, by Michelle Slung
• Animal Farm, by George Orwell (fiction: a re-read; I first read it sometime in the 1970s)
• Better Homes and Gardens New Classic Style, edited by Vicki L. Ingham
• Like, Literally, Dude: Arguing for the Good in Bad English, by Valerie Fridland (professor of linguistics, University of Nevada, Reno)
• Taunton’s All New Decorating Idea Book, by Heather J. Paper
• I Remember, by Joe Brainard (2001 Granary Books edition)
• The Scrapbook of Frankie Pratt: A Novel in Pictures, by Caroline Preston (graphic novel)
• Louis Beretti, by Donald Henderson Clarke (fiction, 1929)
• The Ruling Clawss: The Socialist Cartoons of Syd Hoff, published in 1935 under the name “A. Redfield” (copyright 2023 edition by Philip Nel)
• The Boy Who Saw Big Foot, by Marian T. Place (children’s fiction: 1979, Weekly Reader Books)
• More Than Words: A Memoir of a Writing Life, by Jerry Apps
• The Little Book of Living Small, by Laura Fenton
• The Midwest Survival Guide: How We Talk, Love, Work, Drink, and Eat … Everything with Ranch, by Charlie Behrens
• Lost and Found: Reflections on Grief, Gratitude, and Happiness, by Kathryn Schulz
• The Joy of a Peanuts Christmas: 50 Years of Holiday Comics, edited by Erin Slonaker and Megan Bossuyt (Hallmark Books)

When This Baby Crawls

My grandson is on a mission to explore — across the room, down the hall, and points beyond. He is a baby learning to crawl — and a metaphor for growth. When this baby crawls he is often moving forward, sometimes moving backward, yet always pursuing whatever lies ahead. When he encounters an obstacle he maneuvers to overcome it, sometimes quickly, sometimes with more deliberation. He may become distracted, but only for a moment. Soon enough he is focused again, back on his mission.

I watch him and I marvel. I want him not to rush through his journey, whether just down the hall or far into his future, so I can savor each moment. But I am not his timekeeper. I cannot control the development of this baby any more than I can control the speed of this metaphor — neither for his life nor for mine.

So I observe his setbacks and his achievements and offer encouragement. And I hope I will have many more years to watch him go — and grow.

Laura Sternweis

P.S. Now he is learning to walk and the metaphor continues, uprightly so!

Some Songs That Might Explain Me

If I were to explain, in music, how I came to be who I am, what songs would I choose? It’s a novel concept that I did not originate. Full disclosure: I read “10 (Or Actually, 11) Songs That Explain Me,” by Lindsay Zoladz — her version of a social media prompt to list songs that one finds meaningful. I liked the idea so I thought I’d try it. As of this writing, here are some songs that might explain me.

Number 1. Any song by Elvis Presley. My nearly 50-year obsession with Elvis is well documented. So, of course.

Number 2. “Down in the Valley,” by Slim Whitman. When I was a baby in 1962, my mother went to the local record store to find a recording of someone, anyone, singing “Down in the Valley,” a song I favored. She wasn’t picky. The clerk found the song on a new, long-playing album – “Love Song of the Waterfall,” by Slim Whitman. Not knowing what she was getting into, Mom purchased the record, took it home, and popped it on the turntable for a spin. Let’s just say she was surprised by what she heard: Old Slim was a yodeler extraordinaire. But I liked his music and so did my Dad. By the early 1980s he had 20 or more Slim albums, from Irish ballads to Christmas classics. I am the reason my father liked Slim Whitman. This is a memory I still cherish today, long after Dad and Slim have both passed on.

Number 3. “Spanish Eyes,” by Al Martino. Al Martino was Mom’s favorite singer and his “Spanish Eyes” was one of her favorite songs. When I was 8 years old I started taking piano lessons and discovered that I could listen to a song and then play a reasonable facsimile of it on the piano. “Spanish Eyes” was one of the first songs I learned to play this way — “by heart.” And Mom liked it when I would play “Spanish Eyes” for her. After she died in 2004, I claimed her Al Martino album collection. From time to time I’ll listen to “Spanish Eyes” or another song by Mr. Martino. Sometimes my eyes well with tears and sometimes they don’t, but in any case Al Martino transports me to a sacred place of memories with my mother.

Number 4. “Holly Holy,” by Neil Diamond (specifically, his live version from his album “Hot August Night,” recorded in concert at the Greek Theatre, Los Angeles, August 1972). I’ve read the lyrics of this song and several writers’ attempts to discern the meaning. Frankly, I don’t know what the lyrics mean. I chose this song for how it makes me feel — happily nostalgic — and who it causes me to remember — my big sister, who died in 2014. When she was 18 and away at college, I was 8 and at home. With my #2 pencil and my wide-ruled paper I would write letters to her, and she would reply, and I would get U.S. Mail — quite a big deal for a little kid. And when she came home for visits, she let me listen to her Neil Diamond records. Over the years our letter writing continued, with Neil Diamond as our soundtrack. When I listen to Neil now, I am happily reminded of my kind and caring, big sister.

Number 5. “Take Me to the River,” by Talking Heads, and Number 6. “Sultans of Swing,” by Dire Straits. These tunes helped me survive my teenage angst. A hopelessly un-cool nerd striving to embrace my uniqueness, I would not settle for what everyone else was listening to, neither the sappy pop songs nor the driving disco beats of the later 1970s. Instead I wanted something else: a little new wave and art rock mixed with British rock and a touch of blues. Now at 61 and quite comfortable with my nerdiness, I still like their music from that era (both bands disbanded years ago), as well as their newer work (U-rah David Byrne and Mark Knopfler).

Number 7. “You Better Be Good to Me” and Number 8. “The Best,” both by Tina Turner. After two early 1980s romantic relationships that ended badly, I decided I was done taking any crap from men. And then I heard Tina, who strengthened my resolve to make better relationship choices. So 38 years ago, choose wisely I did, and to this day Dear Husband continues to be good to me and is simply the best!

Number 9. “Pony Boy,” by Bruce Springsteen. I’ve liked Bruce’s music since “The River” (I got into his earlier stuff afterward) and I think I have acquired all his albums since then. “Pony Boy” came into my life via his “Human Touch” album, which I received shortly after my first child — my pony boy — was born in 1992. I played the album and sang the song to him then, and now I sing it to his son, my grandson. For me, this little lullaby symbolizes love and family.

Number 10. “The First Hello, The Last Goodbye,” by Roger Whittaker. Throughout my life I have enjoyed music in the “easy listening” category, another nod to my nerdiness. I first heard Roger Whittaker in the 1970s — on the barn radio tuned to the local easy listening FM station. And when I was 19, I bought his “The Best of Roger Whittaker” album, which included a song I hadn’t heard before — “The First Hello, The Last Goodbye.” At the time I thought it was merely a simple song of an ending romance. Now with an additional 40-plus years of living, I perceive a deeper message. Today I understand it as a song about not only meeting and parting, but also living and dying and savoring every moment in between. In my 61 years I have welcomed people into my life and also witnessed their departure. I have experienced overwhelming happiness as well as devastating loss. I have loved and lost, but I have also loved and won. I welcome unanticipated hellos and I have come to accept the inevitable goodbyes, because that is what life is about. So it seems “The First Hello, The Last Goodbye” might explain me best of all. Thanks, Roger.

Laura Sternweis

RIP Roger Whittaker, 1936-2023

Flowers Again

She died in mid April, three days past Her birthday. She was only 32 years old, the beloved partner of my son, the devoted mother of my grandson. She died suddenly and unexpectedly. Vibrant and alive in the morning, She was dead by nightfall.

I did not see my tulips bloom. I spent the spring some 260 miles away from home, living with my son and grandson, helping them adjust to life without Her.

When I returned home the peonies were blooming, and I wondered: How could it be the season for peonies? How could my son already have been a single parent for six weeks? How could She really be gone? It made no sense to me, for there is no sense to be made of a young woman’s death.

And yet, there were flowers — signs of new life, harbingers of hope. I collected a few peony blooms from the backyard and placed them in a vase as a centerpiece on the kitchen table. I needed this reminder that even in the midst of sorrow, life goes on. Flowers bloom and flowers die, yet we know there will be flowers again.

We celebrated Her life at the end of July. Family and friends gathered to remember Her and support each other. We shared memories to honor Her brief time on this Earth and give us the strength to carry on. Because life goes on, not as we had planned, but as it now is. We must live without Her, but we will never forget Her. And there will be flowers again.

Laura Sternweis

Now I Am Grandma

As I trace my life in familial relationships, I have been a daughter and a sister, a wife and a mother. And now I am Grandma.

As I hold my grandson, I remember my mother holding my son, this baby’s father, over 30 years ago. I imagine both my grandmothers taking turns holding me when I was an infant, some 61 years in the past.

I wonder what it was like for them to be grandmothers in their time. It never occurred to me to ask them when they were alive. I could try to surmise what they thought and how they felt, but that would be mere speculation. So instead I’ll try to discern what I think and how I feel about my own situation.

Grandma is a title bestowed upon me simply by the lineage of myself to my son to his son. At the moment of this child’s birth, I became his Grandma. It was so easy — and it is so wonderful.

I can pick up my grandson and hold him and simply look at him for hours. I watch his eyes open and close. I smile as he waves his hands and stretches his legs.

I can see his father — my son — in his eyes and in his face, and in his feet for that matter. This child has the same wide feet as his father, and I wish my son good luck in finding shoes for him that will fit.

I look at my son and I wonder how 30-plus years passed by so quickly. I remember when he was a baby and I would pick him up and hold him and simply look at him for hours. I would watch his eyes open and close. I would smile as he waved his hands and stretched his legs. I have been blessed to witness his milestones and his everyday moments as his life has unfolded. And now I watch my son be a father and I am blessed again.

I am 61 and I have a grandson and I understand how quickly the years may pass. And I wonder: Might I be so blessed to have 30-plus years with this child? Oh how I want to witness his milestones and his everyday moments as his life unfolds.

My paternal grandmother lived to be 90. Perhaps I’ve inherited her staying power. This Grandma can dream — but she’ll also exercise and eat her vegetables, just to hedge her bets.

Laura Sternweis

Something Better to Do

One of these days I will scrub the kitchen cabinet doors — when I have nothing better to do. I’ll also wipe down the cobwebs up high where the ceiling greets the wall and dust the 6-inch baseboards throughout the house. The thing is, when confronted with deep cleaning, I can almost always find something better to do.

Now for me, something better to do often involves selecting a book from my pile by the couch or the stack on the shelf and taking a moment — or two or three or more — to read. It’s always easy to read a book, even when I first must wipe the dust from the cover. (My sleeve works well enough for that task.) Literary cleaning I don’t mind.

Laura Sternweis

P.S. Here’s the list of books I read in 2022 when I wasn’t cleaning. Enjoy!

• Threebirds Renovations: Dream Home How-To, by Bonnie Hindmarsh, Erin Cayless, and Lana Taylor
• The Call of the Wild, by Jack London (fiction; this edition copyright 2012 Simon and Brown)
• Modern Americana, by Max Humphrey with Chase Reynolds Ewald
• Cokie: A Life Well Lived, by Steven V. Roberts
• Feels Like Home: Relaxed Interiors for a Meaningful Life, by Lauren Liess
• Is This Anything? by Jerry Seinfeld
• The Hardest Job in the World: The American Presidency, by John Dickerson
• Storm Lake: Change, Resilience, and Hope in America’s Heartland, by Art Cullen
• Assume the Worst: The Graduation Speech You’ll Never Hear, by Carl Hiaassen
• Snails and Monkey Tails: A Visual Guide to Punctuation & Symbols, by Michael Arndt
• Little and Often: A Memoir, by Trent Preszler
• Being the Church in a Post-Pandemic World, by Kay Kotan
• Graceland, At Last: Notes on Hope and Heartache from the American South, by Margaret Renkl
• Jesus and John Wayne: How White Evangelicals Corrupted a Faith and Fractured a Nation, by Kristin Kobes Du Mez
• The Thoughtful Dresser: The Art of Adornment, the Pleasure of Shopping, and Why Clothes Matter, by Linda Grant
• The Indigo Girl, by Natasha Boyd (fiction)
• Writing While Masked: Reflections on 2020 and Beyond, by Mary Ann Gonzales, Tyson Greer, Wanda Herndon, Laura Celise Lippman, Jan Spalding, Suzanne Tedesko, and Beth Weir
• Elvis Presley, Reluctant Rebel: His Life and Our Times, by Glen Jeansonne, David Luhrssen, and Dan Sokolovic
• The Flag, the Cross, and the Station Wagon: A Graying American Looks Back at His Suburban Youth and Wonders What the Hell Happened, by Bill McKibben
• Bet the Farm: The Dollars and Sense of Growing Food in America, by Beth Hoffman
• American Junk, by Mary Randolph Carter
• Cottage Retreats: Decorating Ideas for Every Room, by Lisa Jill Schlang
• Love and Vermin: A Collection of Cartoons, by The New Yorker’s Will McPhail
• Rural Free: A Farmwife’s Almanac of Country Living, by Rachel Peden (2009 edition, originally published 1961)
• God Land: A Story of Faith, Loss, and Renewal in Middle America, by Lyz Lenz
• People Facts: An Extraordinary List of Strange and Wildly Witty Things about You! by Franziska Liebig and Julian Reale
• Home with Rue: Style for Everyone, by Kelli Lamb
• Decorating with Flea Market Finds, by the editors of Country Living Magazine
• Let’s Pretend This Never Happened (A Mostly True Memoir), by Jenny Lawson
• Excuse Me While I Disappear: Tales of Midlife Mayhem, by Laurie Notaro
• Girl Sleuth: Nancy Drew and the Women Who Created Her, by Melanie Rehak
• What Shall I Wear? The What, When, and How Much of Fashion — Revised and Updated Edition (2022), by Claire McCardell, with foreword by Tory Burch and afterword by Allison Tolman (originally published 1956 by Claire McCardell)

Becoming Jane

As I fastened the pearly snaps on my western shirt, I realized I looked a bit like Jane West. Her hardened-plastic western wear is more than 50 years faded, but a close enough match to my current polyester number. Maybe that’s why the shirt appealed to me from the display rack at the farm and home store — that, and the 60-percent-off sale price. I am a practical gal.

I got my Jane West as a gift when I was 8 or 9 years old — for Christmas, I think, or maybe for my birthday. (I was born in January, so my gift memories may be blurred.) She arrived ready for work in her permanent, plastic ready-to-wear, bringing with her only two wide brimmed hats and two vinyl skirts and matching vests for special occasions, because that’s all a cowgirl needs. With her singular career focus and simple, functional wardrobe, she was an anomaly in my doll family, the plain Jane among my glamorous Barbies, who, thanks to Mattel merchandising, were subject to countless occupational and fashion choices.

I played with Jane and with my Barbies (specifically Barbie, Francie, and Skipper) and I had fun. They all got along together in the doll role-plays I created, though Jane was focused on cowgirling and the Barbies were not focused. Perhaps they had too many choices. Jane, however, was steadfast and forthright. Early on she found the work she loved and stuck with it. She had no need to prove anything to anyone.

Jane never was as popular as Barbie, which I know from personal experience, as all my friends had Barbies but I didn’t know anyone else who had Jane, and from Google, which indicates Louis Marx and Company produced her for only nine years, as part of their Best of the West series. But as a child, I liked Jane anyway.

I still like Jane, not only because of our western shirts, but more so because she reminds me of me. At this point in my life, Jane is an attitude, an acquired outlook on living. Becoming Jane means knowing who I am and who I am not; what I will and will not wear, what I will and will not do, when I will say yes and when I will say no.

Perhaps we all start out as Barbies (and since I’m talking metaphors here, this applies to men as well). With time and experience, we work our way toward Jane. Some of us just get there sooner than others. In my case, the older I get, the more Jane I am.

The point is: be true to yourself. According to a current ad campaign, with Barbie, you can be anything. After you figure it out, you might be ready to become Jane.

Laura Sternweis

Certifiably Something

The pages in my over-40-year-old scrapbook indicate that I am well certified, or at least I was in my youth. Documents with decorative borders and fancy type, many had been sourced by my high school from the Interstate Printing Company of Danville, Illinois. Bearing golden seals and official signatures and my name inserted into the fill-in-the-blanks, the documents detail my youthful accomplishments in academia and service.

Back then I was a certified over-achiever with the paper trail to prove it. According to my scrapbook, I had achieved recognition for my accomplishments, with a high level of study and proficiency. I had demonstrated superior performance and faithful service. I had served my high school with credit and distinction, and I had shown my potential for further development.

There were times in my life when I collected such ephemera — in high school most definitely, but also in college and the early years of my career. The certificates and awards meant something then. However, they mean nothing now. They are simply sheets of paper, suitable for framing yet never framed. So why have I kept them this long?

Nobody else really cares that I was Student of the Month in December 1977. Hell, I don’t care anymore either. So at age 60+ I sorted through my scrapbook, chucking most of its contents into the trash and saving only a choice few items that still have meaning.

Assembling this scrapbook made me happy over 40 years ago, when I needed paper proof of my certifiability. Dismantling it now makes me happy again. Because at this point in my life I don’t need a lot of paper to know that I am certifiably something — certifiably nostalgic, looking back upon my youth, and certifiably determined to sort through my material memories myself and not leave them for my children to have to deal with at some later date, upon my infirmity or demise.

I will keep my certificates for High Quiz Bowl (my first time on television), National Science Foundation summer camp, and Badger Girls State provided by the Wisconsin American Legion Auxiliary. I will keep my SAT scores, a few photographs, and two cards from my mother. But so long, Student of the Month!

Laura Sternweis