A Place for Indians

Once the tribes were free. . . they roamed everywhere, beating up the trails with hooves' tracks; they settled in new territories at will, fought hard and took few prisoners. Their ways were derived from nature--from the diurnal settings of sun and moon, from the marks of the tides and habits of the animals; they were contented in the knowledge their lives and families operated from natural patterns and the traditions of the Old Ones.

We all know the middle and end to this story. Trails, thousands of trails of tears withered away once they passed by; spirits were broken systematically, one by one. They were broken not by failures of the sun or the moon, but by immigrants who came to own the same land the natives knew was free and part of life's bounty--land could not be owned, they said. They were proven wrong time and time again--wrong by one set of standards, not their own.

Sometimes, as in the case of Quanah Parker, the half-blood son of Cynthia Parker, captured in childhood by the Comanches, and her husband, the chief Peta Nocoma, an Indian chief would understand both sides of the arrowhead, and would wish to integrate his people into the new ways of the white people, as they were called. Quanah broke ground with the whites, leasing the land of the Comanche and Kiowa to cattle ranch owners for grazing rights, and founding the Native American Church, which was based in both Christianity and the Indian tradition of philosophy.

"The white man goes into his church and talks about Jesus," said Quanah. "The Indian goes into the tipi and talks with Jesus." Yet he helped his people to integrate, to read and write, to make their livings as the white tradition dictated. It was no longer Quanah's country, and he knew this. Acceptance came at a huge price, but it did come.

When I was very young, my grandmother (on Dad's side) took me to the Alabama-Coushatta reservation in Livingston, Texas, not far from her Lufkin home. I don't remember why we were there, but I remember her dropping off some bags of supplies, and assume now that she was carrying out some errand of church work. That place for Indians was desolate at that time--early 1950s. It was deathly quiet and I felt no one could possibly live there--a series of wooden structures leaned against the pines. This place of shambles could have been only the portion that I saw. But I'll never forget the experience. Looking at the website today, the reservation appears active, lively--full of promise--that reassures me a lot.

The Alabama-Coushatta came from the Creek people, and though they had little contact with British settlers, they eventually avoided war and troubles by settling on reservations in Louisiana, and finally Texas; they also became Christian. Interesting that in their present-day gaming casino, no alcohol is allowed because of their beliefs. Continuous operation of the casino was a legislative fight; the facility has provided relief from unemployment in the Louisiana tribe only, however, aside from any moral aspects of gambling. The tribal leaders advocate gaming as their way of earning a living for all members of the tribe, via its shared funds. The Texas tribe has been left to fend in other ways, without this resource.

This piece has become incredibly sad and somehow dry--I didn't intend that--but the green wood was long ago spent in these indigenous tribes. The dry wood is all they have left. Their places in the forests and fields, mountains, mesas on both sides of what we now see as the "border," between the U.S. and Mexico, were conquered by the immigrant "whites," their families either dead or kept in the new places. The Comanche, the Cherokee, the Alabama-Coushatta and hundreds of other groups--have come to accept and to cope with their appointed place.

What will happen now, with immigrants from Mexico being targeted as culprits for a system fed by business interests, we can only pray about. Talking about Jesus, or about whatever entity our Gods take these days, will certainly not be sufficient action to provide enough places to go around.

http://www.alabama-coushatta.com/ac/index.php

Image: "Indian Madonna," by Benjamin A. Gifford, 1901

Eau de Sauvage

Well it's official: Calvin Klein's "Obsession for Men" is the most potent animal-magnetism magnet in the entire world. The cologne attracts any living creature within whiffing distance, including, and I'm not making this up: jungle cats in the wild, or so says the Wildlife Conservation Society.

Researching a group of "elusive" jaguars in Central America, the WCS announced its researchers have been using the high-end cologne to draw the big cats toward cameras set up in the wilderness. Triggered by an infra-red beam, the animals come close to investigate the mesmerizing scent, and quicker than you can say Abercrombie and Fitch, "candid" shots of the cats are flashed automatically, and subsequently used in research projects.

I'm not sure exactly what qualifies the term "candid" here, but I'm picturing the purring spotted beasts pawing and arching for the camera, as their interest in the faux mating scent is piqued.

Now correct me if I'm wrong, but aside from the more bizarre aspect of this story, the scent itself and its drawing power on wild jungle cats, isn't there something a bit je ne sais quois about spying on wilderness cats without their permission? And could we call it a little unfair to lure them with Calvin's "Obsession," which goes for up to $100 a bottle? The cats don't know it's expensive, but there's something unnatural about it.

This whole game, albeit laudable in its conservation goals, probably burns those cats up--not only are they intrigued by this fabulously musky scent in the otherwise natural setting of the forest, but also they're cheated out of the expected finale to the evening! It's bait and switch!

Sure, some of the jaguars enjoy the hunt of a member of the opposite sex hiding in the shrubs, perhaps fawning for the camera as well, but they're just acting on instinct. They're cats, after all! This would be like giving Tabby her cat-nip, only without the zing, then repeat-snapping her pic in the bargain.

Naturally, the fashion world has been turned on its collective ear by the news of this shocking phenomenon. Discovered in research on cheetas and other felines at the Bronx Zoo, "Obsession for Men" was proven more attractive than any other scent on the market. But what about the other fragrance lines?

Poor Liz Taylor--she's donated good dollars to animal rescue organizations all her adult life, but "White Diamonds" can't get as much as a sniff from a snow leopard? A pinch from a puma? The poor woman doesn't deserve such treatment, although the cats can't help it if Calvin's formula smells better than all the rest.

"Jaguars are highly elusive creatures and for years WCS researchers struggled to develop more effective methods for estimating how many jaguars were in the forest, hidden amongst the ancient Maya temples,” said Roan McNab, WCS Guatemala Director. “Now, due to the fact that jaguars love Obsession for Men, WCS field conservationists are getting more precise estimates of jaguar populations.” Based on the photos released by the WCS, "Obsession" also attracts pumas, ocelots, tapirs, peccaries and coatis.

Now I wonder what effect this may have on the fur industry? And will the fragrance designers start testing on animals again, perhaps sending nice gift baskets down to the zoo? Picture J-Lo and entourage dashing into the lion cage wearing furls of leopard skin, announcing free-with-purchase cosmetic bags with every positive response to her new version of "Deseo."

And now that Calvin has conquered the wild beasts, beating out any reasonable expectations for success, what's next for him in the fragrance department? Scented kitty litter would be my guess. Next he'll be lecturing on proper kitten potty training and how to slim down your middle-aged Persian.

Slowing Down

Summertime. . . I'm going to slow down for a couple months, writing more sporadically, regaining a bit of equilibrium. Grandson's visiting, so when there's something striking, I'll be around. . . and when I'm not, I'm out having fun in the sun. . . making cookies. . . stroking the light brown hair, playing ball with Ethan and the dogs. . . settling back for a movie.

Being Grandmother--to someone who needs a grandmother--it's like nothing else, yet it's indescribable. When my grandmother, Mamaw died, she was eighty-eight and I was forty-four. . . and when I was born in 1946, she had been forty-four. It was hard to believe that for all of my life, it had only been forty-four years we had been together. . . she was my best friend. That day, the day I'd dreaded all my life, when she died, I promised myself I would be all that she was to me, to any grandchildren we might be blessed with.

It would be ten years thence, when Ethan was born. It was love at first sight. I fell into the grandmother role with great vigor and awe. . . the power and simplicity of the relationship surprised me--it moves me still. I was lucky the first five years of his life--he lived nearby. Now we count the weeks and the days until we see one another, but we're still close. . . the Vonage phone helps so much.

When we have time together, time stands still and becomes of less importance--accomplishing every day things takes on a different agenda. The world slows down for us, gives us a little break, and when we can do something with just Michael, Ethan and me. . . that is the best thing since the invention of good stuff. Seeing the look of simple enjoyment in his eyes, knowing the complete security he feels in the company of "Gran" and "Da," being part of that equation--I think sometimes my grandmother is with us. For nothing else can compare to the feeling of having a close grandparent, than being one.

Old-Timey and Right-Smart

Once in a while I'll be talking to my friend Missie, who grew up in Atlanta, and she'll make a comment that rings an old bell.

"He doesn't have a lick o' sense," she'll say, and immediately I feel right at home. Chuckling, I will listen a bit more closely for another nugget, and usually I'm not disappointed.

"She's so picky, the devil himself couldn't please her," she'll say and I'll say:

"Oh Lord, don't I know it."

She reminds me of other sayings, some well known, (such as "He's two bricks short of a full load") and others not so much (such as "We'll need right smart o' line for that reel"). Papa used to say "right smart" any time he referred to "plenty" or "lots" of something.

"Did it rain good yesterday, Mr. Johnny?" one of the men in barber chairs would ask.

"Oh, right smart I guess," my grandfather would answer, clearing his throat first.

They dubbed things from long ago, or out of style, as "old-timey." That struck me as very funny, as I just couldn't make the connection from old-times to out of style.

"You know," they would say, "she wears those old-timey leggings, hotter'n sin and I can't fathom how she can stand them."

"She's just gettin' on up there. Hon, would you hand me my purse, it's over yonder on the chiffarobe."

"OH me! I ain't had so much fun since the hogs ate my little brother." That shockingly funny one came from the proper mouth of my paternal grandmother, Mema. More on her later, but she was a spitfire. She was funnier than a crutch.

Someone would hear a piece of shocking news, and all they could say was "Well, I'll Swan," which came from "I'll Sewanee," according to some sources, but "I'll swoon," some others say. Wherever the saying comes from, at times I would just love to hear somebody say, "Well, I'll Swan," just to be reminded of some of the old-timey talk.

When I get a "right smart" of the sayings together, I'll scribble them all down into one article. For now, I got about forty-leven things to do. I can't sit here all day like a bump on a log. But I do wish it would come a good frog-strangler. If it would rain, I'd be hoppin' round faster than a knife fight in a phone booth.

Summers of Childhood

"Green is my favorite color," said Mamaw, my grandmother on Mother's side. Mamaw was a Riley and grew up, living her whole life, in the tiny town of Frankston, between Athens and Jacksonville, near Tyler, Texas. Her given name was Mossie. Mossie Riley. How Irish can one name sound?

She married a Thrasher, my grandfather John William "Mr. Johnny" Thrasher, of Poyner, who set up his barbershop in Frankston, across the street from the cleaners and next to a cafe where the jukebox played "bop" music and sometimes the teenagers hopped up from their booths and burgers to dance. The First Baptist Church was just down the street, so sometimes a good Christian woman would enter the cafe, tsk-tsking the kids, 'til they sat down just long enough for her to priss on down the street.

Mamaw and Papa Thrasher were good Baptists; they never missed church unless a high fever was involved, and on Sunday afternoons they did nothing more exciting than a little fishing at the lake. My brother and I spent summers with Mamaw and Papa; idyllic is an understatement for the life we led under their care.

Mamaw had a little apparel store called "Mary's Shoppe," named for my mother, Mary, Mamaw and Papa's only child. When she wasn't working in the shop, Mamaw was always busy sewing Pricilla curtains or baking pound cakes, or taking a Mason Jar of soup to a sick friend, often a Sunday School class member or a neighbor who was really a cousin from some connection.

Getting dressed for church was quite an ordeal--there were white gloves and small purses with handkerchiefs containing the proper number of coins for the Sunday School offering. Mamaw tied me into organza dresses, or little ruffled cotton pinafores with white blouses, their small round collars ironed just so.

The gloves came from small boxes with many rules: never remove them by pulling on the fingers; ladies pull the whole line of fingers gently, until they're loosened to the point they can be surreptitiously removed; never wear just one glove unless that hand is holding the other glove. Why that was, I never understood, but I followed each dictum to the letter.

Then there was the whole extravaganza of the socks; I was not allowed to wear colored socks, ever, so white socks softened the hard edges of either black or white Baby Jane flats, depending on the season. I didn't like it one bit that in Mamaw's dress shop, baskets and baskets of darling ice-cream colored socks would become sold out in no time, yet it was only white ones for me--the others were considered a bit tacky I guess. The law was not explained. But it meant something to Mother and Mamaw, so I never cheated on that rule.

Green was the color of many of Mamaw's things--minty soft green platters, green crystal cake plates that were really pressed glass; the yard shone green with a lawn and shrubbery she loved to clip and prune, and the flowers bloomed in every bed, in every season. Soft teal napkins were washed and ironed regularly, until Wash 'n Dry fabrics came onto the scene. Cloth napkins meant something to Mamaw--there was always a little wooden napkin holder full of them at her house.

Iced tea was the daily ritual once coffee time had passed, and we sometimes got to run outside and pick fresh sprigs of mint to garnish the Cape Cod tumblers packed tightly with ice. Mamaw measured out many spoons of loose Lipton leaves into a large jar at the back of the counter top, pouring the boiling water carefully and leaving it for just five minutes. At times of great numbers of family at Thanksgiving or for summer reunions, she had four or five jars of leaves steeping at once. The pungent smell of tea brewing instantly imports me back into her kitchen.

Green days of summer--they lasted for weeks it seemed--and we spent them doing as we liked, as we were good children (the word "kids" was also not allowed in Mamaw's home) and could be trusted to a normal point. We put on theater productions underneath the pecan trees in Mamaw and Papa's back yard, pestered the gas station attendants across the street toward town, as they repaired old Fords and Chevys.

We played in the Gazebo, or band shell, in the park, which went for one block in the center of town, bordered on the south by the railroad tracks, and on the other three sides by the stores. . . Clyde's Dry Goods sold everything under the sun at one end of the block facing the park, the Weesner's Grocery on the other end. . . in between were some favorite haunts besides Mamaw's shop: The Five and Dime, where we could run in for penny candy and those waxy tubes fill with heaven knows what, and cool off a while; the Frankston Citizen's news office, where something was always happening, and our favorite, the huge cavernous Drug Store, soda fountain, marble floor, patterned tin ceiling and all.

The smell of the Drug Store tantalized us, between the "fountain's" vanilla ice cream and root beer, the perfumery which also sold pinky-orange face powder by the waxed-paper bag, measured out in small silver scoops, and the druggist's counter, which was always mysterious but good-smelling, as if he cleaned the place with pure Witch Hazel. It was always cool in there, and sitting in the booths drinking our lime freezes or Coke floats, I liked to slip out of my sandals and massage the marble with my feet.

No wonder Mamaw insisted we scrub our faces and hands before we ever set foot into the Drug Store. We were probably "filthy-dirty" by the time mid-afternoon came, and we'd either been swinging in the trees like Marmosets or climbing the rungs of the Gazebo to get a better look at the thousands of boxes of peaches that came into town on the train.

The widespread whole-town smell of those peaches--I smell their syrupy perfume, can see them now, glowing pink and gold in the sunlight. Soon the tomatoes would appear and we would feel hungry even if lunch had just filled our tummies--who could resist one of those farm-grown, vine-ripened tomatoes, big as a baseball in our small hands?

Mamaw had cornbread for supper, with the left-overs from a fried-steak lunch with rice and gravy maybe, and myriad vegetables. Sliced tomatoes and cornbread, with a big glass of tea, and I didn't care what else was on the plate. But it all came out delicious: fresh Crowder peas with their bits of ham; yellow squash stirred together with onions in the buttery skillet; salads with oranges and apples and pecans, bits of coconut, or sometimes the traditional "Ambrosia," that old signature dish of Southern parties.

And Frankston is a very Southern town, even if Dallas and Ft. Worth, two hours away, border the West. Then, people called one another "Mr. Johnny," "Miss Mossie," and I was "Miss Cheri Dena," and my brother "Mr. Randy." It seemed to be part of life, like breathing in the Sweetgum-flossed air, or shelling pecans while an aunt told stories of the old farms, the fields, the cousins and weddings and babies and betrayals and resolutions. "Mother and Daddy" this, and "Mother and Daddy" that. . . some of it I could understand but often the cup towel would hide her lips from the young ones.

The form of address was formal but the people, in the middle of 1950s small-town East Texas, were a thing apart. Always polite, perennially friendly, hospitality was serious business: they actually cared for one another, looked in on "Old Miss Althea," who's 85 after all; took care of the sick "Old Maid" down the lane, delivered pound cake or blackberry pie to the bereaved.

Traditions live on in one way or another, and the First Baptist Church is still in its old spot, enlarged to take in the growing population, but still with its old red brick entrance. Funerals are still served up with pound cake and pies, visits during the night by concerned neighbors, vigils in the Irish tradition without the whiskey, or at least without showing the whiskey.

The summers of my childhood are more about the simple honest sweetness of the household of Mamaw and Papa, than about the culture. But it all blends like cream, vanilla and sugar, twirling around like an old crank-handle ice cream maker, solidifying, if not factually perfectly, at least simply and resting cool and secure, like a child's head sleeping in somebody's lap.

Medicine Women

Carole King is singing "Far Away" on FM radio. The melody makes me homesick. I go back in time, dreaming of a story.

In my father's family history is a true legend, one that speaks more clearly at some times than at others, but always with a ghostly calling, as hoarse whispers through a moss-hung forest.

The records say that Edmund Mason arrived in Southeast Texas from Ireland, a "red-headed Methodist preacher, teacher, song writer." He worked as a preacher and settled in Crockett, Texas before the Civil War.

When Edmund married, the woman was a Cherokee medicine woman, whom they called "Elizabeth." She rode on horseback through Houston County, delivering babies and healing the usual illnesses of the 19th Century, using the methods her parents had taught her, boiling herbs and making tea from fresh leaves.

Edmund and Elizabeth somehow managed to combine the teachings of the Methodist Episcopal Church with her old ways. They were ahead of their time. Their new church flourished, which they founded in Crockett, and even today the church there honors Edmund, and his history and his work. The Texas Methodist state-wide newsletter declared him a fine man, stating "as a preacher, he stood tall."

They had children, among them a son Isaac. When the Civil War began, Edmund and his 17-year-old son rode away to serve side by side in the Texas Cavalry; by some miracle they both returned home at the end of the War. Elizabeth had carried on with the duties of the church, as well as her duties as a Cherokee midwife, so that the home fires were still burning strong when the men finally came home.

Elizabeth taught Susan, their daughter, the ways of the Medicine Woman, and they rode together for many years, the circuit around the county, until Elizabeth died, long after the daughter had married a Read and moved to Lufkin to run the Read Hotel. The Methodist Church became a force in the lives of Edmund and Elizabeth's children, one photograph depicting clearly the strong, big-boned Susan holding a Bible in one hand, the other hand on her hip in a determined stance.

Young Mrs. Read continued to treat the ill with no doubt a mixture of modern medicine and her mother's old ways. She was my father's grandmother, and the stories about her are few, although one uncle remembers her home made cookies and boarding-house meals.

Edmund and Elizabeth, long dead, both still fire my imagination, visit my dreams and inspire my goals. I see them now in their simple cotton Sunday clothes: the fiery Irish preacher who wrote songs and taught school, the quiet Cherokee woman, trailing through the trees on horseback. . . I believe that their ways continue in us still, however assimilated we are in our modern world.

The customs of the Masons, both his and hers, were passed down in the family, treasured more than any chest of silver. Inspiring us to express ourselves in each our own way, we see ties that bind and also powerful differences which make us individuals.

I see Elizabeth, smudging the yard, her medicine bag and her horse with sage smoke, in preparation for riding on an emergency, while Edmund crouches over his books, preparing this Sunday's sermon. The children are playing sticks and hoops in the church yard, a yellow dog leaps up joyfully, the chickens squawk in their coops as the Medicine Woman mounts her horse and gallops away, down the proper brick streets of Crockett, toward a dusty pine-tree path.

Lights Out

Funny, going about my morning routine without noticing the power outage. . . a ponytail/t-shirt day, I didn't fire up the hair dryer.

I fed Woody and Maddie, the two starved, dancing Dachshunds, poured a glass of milk and grabbed a carrot muffin, remembering we'd had three household canines just a few wan days back.

Whispering a prayer of thanks for Stella's new-found relief in dog heaven, I measured out the vitamins and capsules, took a quick gulp and headed as usual, for my desk.

Oh no. Oh man! That little slice of lime-green light marking the lower-right corner of the monitor: all black. The three red dots on the "Micro volt 1200:" dead. Tried the room lights: zilch. Dining room fixtures: zip. Fuse box switches: nada.

I see. I get the picture. Comprendo!

THERE IS NO ELECTRICITY IN THIS HOUSE.

Well. It usually comes back on once the electric company finishes with some power line somewhere. Only real worry was the salmon in the freezer. I guessed if it thawed we could build a fire in the Hibachi and grill 20 steaks for a block party.

Heavy on my mind was my Friday blog article. I'd planned to post it before meeting my friend Jennifer for lunch at the new Thai place. Glancing doubtfully at our HP Notebook, I remember that the keyboard is half the size of a sheet of typing paper, and if there's no power, the wireless connection would also be deceased. All I can do is type and save a piece for later.

Feeling much like a Pioneer mother who can't find enough cow patties to burn under the big cauldron on laundry day, I reluctantly open this miniscule laptop and now I've hunted and pecked to this point in the story.

What can I tell you? I'll look out the window.

The sun is out in full regalia, splashing every leaf, bloom, rock and brick with dazzling blind-white light.

One of the chortling birds, a baffling tropical creature whose voice mimics the ring of an old telephone, sings out in full force. Down the street, his pal seems to hawk some type of ballpark snack: "Cheeeeee-ipppeeeee-chee-chee-cheeeee!"

A tiny bird calls, "Good to see you!" and in Brazil it's an exact translation. "Bem te vi, bem te vieeeeeee," he cries, seeming genuinely pleased to see us.

The ever present coo of the mourning dove adds its tenor note to the quintet, while somebody's peacocks meow all at once, like cats in heat. . . typical of sopranos, the peacocks come off more dignified than the others.

My jade plant has grown high as my waist and the big potted ferns, simple as they are, look stately enough to grace a wedding altar. I pick a few beige, curling leaves from the geraniums. The Docs flop limply in the shade, taking time out only to bark at the occasional passing car or pedestrian.

I'm sounding out notes, a song from the distant past. What is that? It's a joyful, glad-to-be-alive little ditty.

"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood." Recalling Mr. Rogers, I come in to save this scrap of thoughts. With any luck at all, the lights will be out all day.

Alice in Groceryland

Just poised to bite into a delicious Oreo cookie, fresh from the box, my husband made one of his signature incredulous faces and said:

"Is it me, or are these Oreos smaller than they used to be?"

"Let's see," I said, grabbing a cookie. I turned it from side to side, feeling the weight and heft in my hand. Strange, but it seemed to be shrinking before my eyes. "It IS smaller! Hard to see it, but I can feel it!"

We exchanged that look we get when the satellite service reacts to the wind, breaking the picture into puzzle pieces. It's infuriating to pay for goods and services, only to realize you're not actually getting them. We don't like that. Well, who does?

"Rip off!" we both snarl.

"I want my real Oreos!" he says.

"Yes, d****t!" I agree.

Glowering like second-graders having to skip recess, we continue slowly munching and they're just as mortally delicious as ever, no matter the size. But I must say in the case of Oreos, size DOES matter, as the price has remained the same.

Next day in the cereal aisle, I shake a box of Cheerios. It IS smaller! Infinitesimally less weighty, but I NEED a box of toasty-oat goodness, so I drop it, shaking my head and sneering, into the cart alongside smaller OTHER items, such as ice cream, bread and even--yes, even MILK!

"'Got milk,'" indeed! "Not as much as we used to get!" I want to say.

Enraged shopper, Edgar Dvorsky, started Mouseprint.org when he noticed his groceries were actually shrinking.

"The companies have found a sneaky way to pass on a price increase by taking out some of the content from the package, but making the package look the same size," he explains on Consumer Watch.

But I also notice that this report was made in 2008, and little was reported on the "Mystery of the Shrinking Products" since then. Curiouser and CURIOUSER!

Now I'm busily inspecting jars of peanut butter. Really, how can we call ourselves Americans if we goof around with the size of a jar of peanut butter? Come ON! It's for the kids. (Who'm I kidding? Adults like it too. With Oreos, between the chocolate and the marshmallow on S'mores, in milkshakes. Drooling, I digress.)

Here's Skippy Peanut Butter. How much more American could a peanut butter get? Moms love Skippy, right? I'm holding the jar and it seems the same as before, but then my eyes sort of waver around the edges.

"To the untrained eye," writes Dvorsky, "there's no real difference between the old jar and the new jar. But if you put to two side by side and look closely, you'll see there are actually two fewer ounces in the new Skippy jar than the old. Most people don't check the net weight of a product to make sure it hasn't been reduced from the last time you purchased it." OH THE NET WEIGHT! THAT is the secret.

Do not tell me the companies are saving money by skimping on the products, while sticking it to our grocery bills all the while. This is the land of the free, for heaven's sake.

But. Read on, if you dare. This is not for the faint-hearted, Alice. And I don't see Johnny Depp in green make-up anywhere.

"The size of a box of Applejacks cereal has gone from 11 ounces to 8.7 ounces, and a jar of Hellmann's Mayonnaise has shrunk from 32 ounces to 30," says the report. Applejacks! Hellmann's! Cheerios! Oreos! What has happened to the universe? Has the world gone mad?

"Most people can't tell the difference between the old and the new except when they're side by side," Dvorsky explained. "And even when they're side by side you can't tell. . . ."

I go tearing out of the grocery store and take my laptop to Starbucks. (Is this jumbo mochaccino smaller than the last time? Who remembers how many ounces from purchase to purchase? I'll know if I get less jittery.)

Googling "shrinking products," I'm aghast. So many links; so little time! Apparently the trend started when the economy began to flag. To quote Marlon Brando, "The horror! The horror!" It's not limited to packaged foods! Drinks, bath soaps, shampoos, toilet paper. . . TOILET PAPER?

Hey, that's going too far. One thing we have always been able to count on to distinguish the U.S.A. from slightly less-scrupulous countries is our triple-ply cottony quilted toilet paper. Sighing as if life as we know it is over for good, I sip some mochaccino and read on.

Dan Howard, a marketing professor at Southern Methodist University, says this is a company's way of instituting a price increase without actually raising the price. (Without its being noticed, that is.)

"Price is much more visible," Howard says. "Consumers notice the price before they turn the box over or the jar over and say 'Gee, I'm actually getting fewer ounces of what I just bought.'" Ohhh. . . I feel as if I'm coming out of some deep dark dream, with remnants of conspiracy plots dancing in my head.

I understand now! This way, in other words, the food companies can cheat us behind our backs. I lie back in my uncomfortable Starbuck's club chair. (Do they make them uncomfy so we'll stay for less time, so they can sell more coffee?) Incoherent, I lapse into nursery rhymes.

"Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater!" (Uh-oh. Better check those ounces in the pumpkin can before Thanksgiving!) "Liar, liar, pants on fire!" (Wonder if a size 14 still IS a size 14?). . . so. . . wait just a minute here.

If the size of packaged foods is SMALLER than usual, then why is the population still gaining weight? I mean per capita, we're porkers, let's face it. Wouldn't you think, if we're getting fewer Cheerios, then we'd know we have to lessen the portions? Suddenly nothing makes sense at all!

What time is it? What day is it? Where am I? Everything is slowly turning into polka-dots and stripes in pink and yellow and blue! Oh, it's beautiful here! Such flowers! I smell cookies baking and fresh milk for tea time! (Excuse me. I seem to have disappeared down the Rabbit Hole.)

The Problem with Urban Males

For several years now, we've been inundated with the term "New Urban Male," and as a trend, it's as virile as ever. From web sites to jewelry lines, the needs of the NUM dominate the men's fashion world. The young men are paying more attention to their overall appearance, and what could be better than that?

At first the phenomenon focused on the grooming habits of 20 to 40-year-old men, who took longer than their dates to get ready for events, perhaps having a facial with mani-pedi before dashing home to shower with scrubs containing tiny particles of exfoliating ingredients.

Then they packed on a masque, something like cake frosting with a men's fragrance and a soft green hue so as not to mistake it for Mother's ritual. . . this masque works wonders, spread thickly over the face and hands, then drying to a consistency of bathroom caulking, pulling impurities from the freshly scrubbed complexion.

The boys could follow up with pore-shrinking activities, cold splashes, hot stones, collagen-packed nutritive creams, eye cream, throat cream, forehead cream, wrinkle cream. . . until finally, patting the skin gently dry, they could air-brush a nice bronzing finish onto the entire face, adding a pearly coppery glow, looking like a young George Harrison. . . after he'd been sand-blasted to the age of pre-adolescence.

Don't get me wrong--I love a well-groomed male, especially when they layer up their fragrances-- a nice whiff of Ralph Lauren is absolutely tantalizing. It's just that lately, the men are prettier than I am, and I don't pay good salon dollars for that. And they're not so young these days.

Older male faces glare from the magazines. . . movie stars with long blond-layered tendrils draped over baby's-bottom foreheads, perfectly airbrushed cheekbones perched directly below "piecy" sculpted hair, permed, prepped and packed with "product."

They're very attractive, fascinating even, but it takes a bit of adjustment: one does not expect to open "Vanity Fair" and stare directly into the spit-polished 12-year-old face of Sylvester Stallone, who must be 60-something now. They've gone too far, methinks. Michael Douglas with his perfect gray mane, Armani jacket, and the cheeks of my 8-year-old grandson; Conservative Party leader David Cameron, posed jauntily, fluorescent with facial creams.

Even more jarring, Nick Nolte, whose craggy, weather-beaten features were once signatures for him, poses, slouched just so, open-shirted with the ubiquitous bad-boy stare, but his skin has been rubberized, buffed and polished like a peach. The final blow, the absolute limit! Here is beefed-up Mickey Rourke with golden highlights trickling down, outlining his powder-puffed forehead. This image does me in. I put my face next to Mickey's, holding up my compact, stare for a dark moment, trying not to pass out.

I chase screaming to the bathroom, turning on the magnifying mirror. Oh Mama! My skin looks more ragged than Mickey Rourke's! And no amount of ex-foliation will correct this. Well, maybe a little avocado with egg whites and oatmeal. . . you think? Perhaps Clinique's freshening lotion with moisture and a layer of Vaseline? I now resemble that lady from "Throw Mama from the Train" slicked with vegetable oil!

Breaking the speed limit and running 3 stop signs, I skid into a space at the salon for a facial. The woman wraps, slaps, kneads, beads, splays and sprays and finally applies a sticky layer of what feels like glycerin, and then she allows me to apply make-up as I see fit. Silly woman.

OK. I'm equal to this. Foundation, blush, shadow, liner, brow pencil, mascara, cover-cream and lipstick. Finishing with some pearl-moist amber glow, I pause and inspect, trying not to glower, which causes wrinkling. . . hmmm. . . that's not half bad. . . I'm between one of the Carradines and Regis. Adding dark glasses, I can just about slink into the supermarket with a minimum of self-consciousness.

Unloading my purchases in the check-out aisle, Meryl Streep's perfect ivory countenance gazes serenely from the cover of "VIPs" like the Virgin Mary's fairy godmother--she's exactly my age.

"Hold it a minute!" I yell to the dubious check-out girl. Sprinting toward the cosmetics department I lunge into the L'Oreal aisle--Diane Keaton looked pretty perky in that copper-cream serum commercial.

"It just melts into the skin," she conspires. . . then she winks, adding, "And we're worth it." Here it is! Gorgeous paper box over gold round jar. Forty bucks--but if it'll make me look better than my uncles, I would sincerely appreciate it.

Cycles of Life

On the way to the vet's this morning, we rode slowly, I in the back holding our 16-year-old Husky so she wouldn't jostle and hurt her dear self, my husband driving while mopping up his tears. We passed families going to market, the little ones jumping like puppies, an old woman bent double with her shawl draped against the sun. At one point a Dachshund puppy of about 5 months jumped up into his master's arms, seemingly alongside a bag of groceries, both from the back seat of an old Volvo.

We managed to carry her into the operating room, and the vet, near tears himself, declared her beyond hope, as her back legs had almost atrophied already. We held her and talked gently to her as the vet gave her one shot for relaxing, the next to stop her heart. I had thought this would be the hard part--watching her go. It wasn't. It just happened. She relaxed and went to sleep, and her shoulders, her face, and eyes all relaxed completely. We were draped like damp towels over her, needing to say so many things to the longest-standing pet we'd ever owned, but reassured that she knew our hearts already.

Her name was Stella; she was the kind of Husky with long hair, with one blue eye, one brown. . . a noble dog, the alpha of the group which had shifted in several ways over the years, a Collie Shepherd having run away; a mixed Terrier having died suddenly. She weathered two new Dachshund puppies and three moves, one from Chicago to Mexico. She had the most beautiful face, black with a white muzzle shaped like a star.

I trimmed a bit of her black-and-white hair before we left the house, while she slept this morning, and slipped it into a painted wooden box marked "Gran," one of the earliest gifts from our daughter after her son was born. I remembered to remove her collar and tags. I see her star face, trusting and good, resting where it will remain always, in my mind's eye.