culture | Bertram's Blog

A Forty-Three-Year-Old Lemon

January 25, 2015 — Pat Bertram

When I bought my VW forty-three years ago, there were so many problems, I thought for sure it was a lemon. For one thing, it wouldn’t always start, and for another, the gears would grind when I shifted. I kept taking the bug back to the dealership, and the men would patronize me, telling me in their superior tones that I didn’t know how to drive, that I just had to get used to the new car. One time, the jerk took my instruction manual out of the glove compartment and scribbled all over the page about how to start the car to emphasize his point.

It wasn’t until months later that a friend of a friend who loved to argue took the car into the dealership and got them to take it for a drive. And then, oh, my. What a backtracking. “Why is she driving this car?” they asked. “There’s no syncromesh.”

Yep. My fault. (Is the mystery of why I still have the same car becoming clearer? I never wanted to deal with such folks again.)

Eventually, I got all the original problems straightened out, and then the secondary problems (such as a clutch cable that broke at about 1000 miles). That set the pattern of my dealings with the bug. Things would go wrong, and I got them fixed.

When the car was working, I liked it just fine, but when it wasn’t working, I hated it.

Somewhere along the line I began collecting articles about shopping for a new car (new to me, that is). One article is called, “The Smart Way to Car Shop,” and another is, “Lots of Used Lemons.” The tagline on the second article is “There’s a whole new generation of secondhand cars out there. One in ten is a disaster waiting to happen.” (Apparently, a lot of cars that were totaled end up being fixed and sold illegally without a warning about the accident.)

I figured if there was a chance of ending up with a disaster, I might as well stick with the disaster I knew. And somehow, my “disaster” has managed to survive for 43 years. (To show you how old it is, I just found the license plate renewal for when the car was four years old. The tags and license fee were $2.50.)

I’ve been trying to figure out what sort of vehicle to replace this one with, but all of a sudden today it struck me that I wasn’t the one who decided I needed a new car. The men in my life and one or two women seem to think this vehicle should be disposed of and I went along with their assessment because there is no getting around the fact that the bug is old, decrepit even.

The truth is, I don’t really care what car I drive. For me, a car is simply a car. A car wouldn’t make me feel special or young or safe or . . . whatever it is that a car is supposed to make me feel. I have no need of a new car smell (would probably aggravate my allergies, to tell the truth). I do have to admit that for a while, I was embarrassed to be driving such an ancient thing, as if it said something about me, but it doesn’t say anything. The bug is simply a means of transportation. I don’t even care that it is temporarily unreliable. I don’t need to be anywhere that I can’t get to on foot, at least for now, and I don’t particularly like driving anyway.

Although it would be nice to have a “stealth camper” that I can park anywhere without anyone knowing I was camped inside, I probably wouldn’t be able to afford a long trip for another year, and such a vehicle would be impractical for city driving.

So, as with everything else in my life, I’m taking the stance that things will work out or they won’t. It’s as simple as that.

And how lovely not to feel as if I need to make a decision!

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Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Posted in culture, life. Tags: do I need a new car, lemon, used lemons, vehicle, Volkswagen bug, why buy a new car. 3 Comments »

My Problem With Men

January 24, 2015 — Pat Bertram

Lately I’ve been noticing a strange thing about men. If I get upset by something they say, even if they are simply imparting information and not saying anything to purposely hurt me, they respond, “I shouldn’t have told you.”

Huh? Just because I don’t like the news doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have told me. Just because I get upset is no reason to keep me in the dark. Are men so fragile they can’t handle anger, tears, heartbreak, even if it’s not directed at them? Or even if it is directed at them? (To tell the truth, I’m not sure I could handle anger or tears if they were directed at me, but if I did something to provoke those reactions, I sure would do something to try smooth things over.)

I seem to have lost the ability to deal with men, assuming I ever had the ability to begin with. I’ve lost a friend who was dear to me because he couldn’t handle my emotional reactions. He didn’t seem to think I had the right to be angry or feel hurt by anything he did, or maybe it was just that he didn’t like my show of emotion. For a while, I thought my problems with him were more of a personal nature, but now I see that the problems stemmed from a basic conflict — he is a man and I am a woman. We might not be from Venus or Mars or whatever planets we are supposed to be from, but there is a distinct difference in the way we see things.

Today, another man told me that my neighbors were hurt by my not telling them about my father’s funeral, though I had done so. They had been shunning me, turning around and walking the other way when they saw me or when I spoke to them, and even though I was upset by what he said, I needed to know because his words explained their actions. When I made the comment that it was my father who died, I got tearful as I always do now at the reminder of death. He immediately said, “I shouldn’t have told you.”

So what if I was upset? So what if I cried a bit? So what if I was momentarily angry at the unfairness of it? It’s not like I’m going to spend the rest of my life agonizing over the neighbor’s snubbery. (My word processor doesn’t like my making up words. It keeps changing snubbery to snobbery.) Luckily, my emotional reaction passed as quickly as it came, and luckily he was reasonable so we were able to get beyond our differences.

My real problem with men and emotions comes when I interject my emotions into the middle of a story or explanation. I don’t know whether it’s the interruption that upsets men or that the interruption is emotional. (I never notice this with women.) I don’t deny that my emotions are close to the surface now, and they pop up when and where they will without waiting for the end of a tale. I suppose I should try to cap my emotional responses, but I’m not sure I want to. It’s easier to get beyond life’s sad/bad parts if I can emote a minute (or a lot of minutes) and then let go.

There is a lesson in all this, though I’m not sure what.

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Posted in culture, life, relationships. Tags: differences between men and women, emotions, getting upset, interruption, men vs women. 14 Comments »

Truth and Literature

January 22, 2015 — Pat Bertram

J. Conrad Guest, author of A Retrospect In Death and A World Without Music (plus several other books) just posted a blog about truth and its importance to literature. Like J. Conrad, I believe that fiction should impart “Truth” with a capital letter or even just “truth” with a small letter. If there is no truth in fiction, it is merely entertainment, and that seems a waste of both the human mind and human potential. For sure, it is a waste of my time.

J. Conrad quoted Susan Sontag as saying, “In my view, a fiction writer whose adherence is to literature is, necessarily, someone who thinks about moral problems: about what is just and unjust, what is better or worse, what is repulsive and admirable, what is lamentable and what inspires joy and approbation. This doesn’t entail moralizing in any direct or crude sense. Serious fiction writers think about moral problems practically. They tell stories. They narrate. They evoke our common humanity in narratives with which we can identify, even though the lives may be remote from our own. They stimulate our imagination. The stories they tell enlarge and complicate — and, therefore, improve — our sympathies.”

Then J. Conrad asks, “How many writers today seek truth in their work, and how many simply identify an audience — for instance, unhappy housewives, or fanatics of vampires or werewolves — and simply write to that audience? The mercenary who writes for a paycheck is really saying that sales are more important than truth.”

It’s interesting to see someone besides me lamenting the lack of truth in fiction — I thought I was the only one who thought fiction should help us see the truth of the world, to see the truth of what is beyond the world, to see the truth of our place in the world. One does not need big words, convoluted sentences, and ponderous tomes to show truth. Simple words and engaging stories can make truth more readily accessible to even someone like me who has spent a lifetime searching for truth.

Literature can take us beyond ourselves, take us deeper into ourselves, take us into the minds and hearts of others to help us understand a greater truth or to see the world in a fresh manner. Good stories are like the first pair of eyeglasses to someone with poor vision. I still remember as a child being bewildered by other people’s uncanny ability to know what even unfamiliar streets were called, but then I got my first pair of glasses, and oh! I understood! They weren’t somehow superior to me in their understanding of the world. They had simply been able to see that which I couldn’t. And that is what fiction should do — enable us to see that which we couldn’t.

Truth seems to be something writers and readers shy away from, especially since so many people believe that truth is relative and so there is no point in discussing it or showing it or even alluding to it. But the truth is, Truth is never relative. Truth is Truth. Only our perception varies. At rock bottom, there is immutable truth. I couldn’t even begin to tell you what that immutable truth is — no one can. It’s bigger than any of us, and yet we all add to and reflect the truth in what we do, and especially what we write. In addition, we each have our own immutable truth. Whether we know ourselves or not, there is truth in us, and perhaps this individual truth is what people mean when they say truth is relative. (Some people do not accept my assessment of myself as being true, for example, and their perception could be right for all I know, but neither their opinion nor mine changes who or what I am.)

I seldom read any more. When writers don’t bother to show me Truth or even their own truth, then the writing seems trivial to me. I’d rather do something more truthful. Dance, perhaps. Executing a perfect triple time step is truth, too.

J. Conrad Guest ends his post with: “In today’s book industry, if it doesn’t sell, it isn’t relevant. But if truth isn’t relevant, what’s that say about the world around us?”

Good question.

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Click here to read: What Is Truth? by J. Conrad Guest

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Posted in culture, writing. Tags: A World Without Music, dance is truth, immutable truth, J. Conrad Guest, serious fiction writers, Susan Sontag and writing, truth. 6 Comments »

We Are Not All Created Equal

January 21, 2015 — Pat Bertram

Despite what the U.S. Declaration of Independence states, all men are not created equal. Nor are all women. Ideally, people are equal under the law, but even that is a specious claim since so often rich folk who can hire high-priced attorneys with dozens of partners and associates are more equal than those who have to make do with overworked public defenders.

But this bloggery isn’t about such grand matters. It’s more about the little things that makes us so very different from one another.

People who love Mexican food are often perplexed by my dislike of cilantro. “How can you not like cilantro?” a friend asked me in accusatory tones, as if she thought I were being contrary by choosing to dislike something most people loved. I retaliated by asking her what cilantro tasted like to her. She said it tasted citrusy, slightly bitter and very refreshing. But that is not how it tastes to me. To me, it tastes like soap. Cilantro contains chemical compounds called aldehydes, which are also present in soaps and other cleaning agents, and apparently I don’t have the enzyme that breaks down the soap-like compounds of the herb into a tasty seasoning, so I get the full soap taste.

Regardless of what she seemed to think, I was not being contrary. Just unequal.

A similar situation happened when I drove a friend to her mountain home this weekend. In a couple of instances, I had to drive down very steep roads that made me feel as if I were free falling down an elevator shaft. She made a few comments about my nervousness, and she didn’t seem to believe me when I told her I wasn’t nervous, that it was a physical reaction. I explained it using the example of a level. Some people are born with something similar to the bubble in their center, so they always know where they are in relation to the earth. These people can turn cartwheels, ride roller coasters, descend steep slopes, and never lose their equilibrium. I on the other hand, have no bubble, so I never know where I am in relation to the earth. (It’s an inner ear thing, or so I have heard.) I remember once as a very small child, maybe 5 or 6, I took tumbling lessons, and I couldn’t do what the other kids did. I got too disoriented, and feared I would break my neck. (They always say kids that young don’t know there is such a thing as necks breaking, but I bet others who lack an inborn plumb bubble also were aware of the possibility.)

Again, I wasn’t being contrary by repudiating her calling me nervous, I was simply explaining our inequalities. Some things I can do, others can’t, and some things others can do, I can’t. It’s that simple.

I’m not sure that being equal is an important matter, anyway. We all wish to be treated the same as others in similar circumstances, and we should be. But other than that, it’s the ways we are unequal that make us who we are, and that is something to celebrate.

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Posted in culture, life, relationships. Tags: aldehydes, celebrating inequalities, cilantro, created equal, disorientation, inner ear, plumb bubble. 9 Comments »

My Iconic Car

January 20, 2015 — Pat Bertram

I am not at all sentimental — I am too practical for that, though sometimes the things I do seem sentimental to others. For example, I keep scrapbooks, not out of sentimentality but for a very strange and practical reason. After Jeff died, I started the books for the old woman I will become. I wanted her to be able to see where her life went. I wanted her to know that even though she lost her soul mate, she didn’t waste the years she lived alone, that she experienced a full life after his death. Other people don’t have to think of such things. My parents, for example, celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary a few months before my mother died. She never had to worry about perhaps living decades with no one to share her memories. The old woman I become may not care, but I want to make sure she knows someone was thinking of her and sharing her memories, if only her younger self.

And then there is my Beetle. I have had the thing for 43 years. It’s the only car I have ever owned, and I am the only owner it ever had, which is something very few people can say. I am hesitant about giving it up, though not for sentimental reasons. (Well, except for my not wanting anyone else to have the car. Some people believe our things become steeped with our spirits, and after so many years, there is a lot of my spirit in the bug. But that’s not strictly sentimentality. It’s more mysticism. I wish I could bury this particular thing when I sign its do-not-resuscitate order.)

On the practical side, the yearly upkeep including repairs, is a lot cheaper than the increase in insurance rates and tags would be if I got a more modern car. Not that I’m against a new vehicle — I will happily get one when/if I decide what sort of life the vehicle will need to support. If I decide to live on the road, maybe a nicely outfitted camper would be more apropos than a city car. Or maybe some sort of small commercial van would be more practical than either. A new car would be nice, but if I wanted any other sort of vehicle, I’d have to buy a used one. (New van conversion campers are as expensive as some houses.) Lots of things to think about. Luckily, I don’t have to act on any of them now, because I do have a car that works (most of the time, anyway).

Then there is another practicality — if I got a new vehicle today, while my old car is still running, then five years from now, I will be driving a used vehicle. On the other hand, if I waited to buy until five years from now and continued to use my old bug in the meantime, then five years from now I’d be driving a new vehicle. (Go ahead, laugh. I don’t mind. Everyone else finds my reasoning risible.)

Although I don’t particularly like the car (I truly am surprised it lasted this long — when I first got it, I thought it was a lemon because too many things were wrong with it), I do like that other people like the car. Such an iconic car is a conversation starter. I don’t know how to strike up conversations with strangers, but I don’t have to know — the car does it for me since everyone has a nostalgic VW story they are eager to share. (Oddly, as little as my father understood me, he did understand this. “It’s like your hats,” he told me shortly before he died. “It’s part of your persona.”)

Everyone has an opinion about my bug. Some people worry for my safety and think I should get rid of it. Some people think I’m wasting my money on such an old vehicle. Some people think I should keep it, especially those who once owned a Beetle themselves. A few people have suggested that I keep it but buy a new car, but what’s the point of that? I can only drive one car at a time, and the truth is, I don’t particularly like driving any sort of vehicle. Some car guys think I should donate it to them so they can restore it — for themselves of course.

A friend told me the other day that I will cry when I finally replace this thing that has been with me almost 2/3 of my life. I have cried for many reasons the past five years, but I doubt I will cry when it’s gone. I am not very sentimental, and after all, it is just a beat-up old car.

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Posted in culture, life. Tags: beetle, bug, conversation starter, driving an old car, iconic car, old car, scrapbook, VW. 2 Comments »

I Am Truly Blessed

January 18, 2015 — Pat Bertram

As I was setting up for my party last night, cooking the various taco fillings, chopping the many garnishes, and arranging everything in a pleasing and practical manner, I thought about all the people I had invited, and what they meant to me.

First were the people from my grief group. When I came here after the death of my life mate/soul mate, I joined a grief group to be with others in the same hideous and incomprehensible situation, and they helped me get through that awful time. I’m still friends with some of those folks, though I don’t see them very often, and it was nice to think of seeing them again.

Then there was the group I went walking with. Through the hugs we shared and the stories we exchanged during the three-mile walks, these friends helped see me through the torments of dealing with my dysfunctional brother and dying father.

And finally, the dance group, especially our teacher, who helped me see that life was still worth living, that there were still things to be learned and much joy to be experienced.

Although I hadn’t planned the party to be anything other than a simple get-together with friends, it turned out to be more than that — a chance for me to say thank you and to let everyone know how much they meant to me.

While I was making my little speech to my guests, I realized the truth: that although the past five years as I lived them seemed to be one trauma after another, in retrospect, because of these people, those years seem pretty damn wonderful.

I am truly blessed.

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Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire,and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Posted in culture, life, relationships. Tags: dancing, grief group, I am blessed, taco party. 2 Comments »

Pre-Probate Party

January 17, 2015 — Pat Bertram

There is a probate hearing next week to rule on the administration of my father’s will. Since this is the last weekend I know for sure I have a place to stay (though I guess I’ll be here at least another month), I am celebrating with a pre-probate party. Nothing fancy, just a taco bar with three kinds of taco shells, three kinds of filling (one vegan, all gluten free), all sorts of toppings and garnishes, and homemade brownies made with butter and extra chocolate for desert. Alas, the brownies are neither vegan nor gluten-free, so those with special needs will have to choose between fruit or ice cream.

If you are in the high desert area, you are invited! Just let me know. Should be fun. I know that a least a few people will be here (maybe more!), so that is a big step above the last party I gave where no one showed up. (But that was so long ago, I’m not sure it even counts.)

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Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire,andDaughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Posted in culture, life. Tags: party, pre-probate party, probate, taco bar, taco party. 4 Comments »

Phones and Other Connections

January 16, 2015 — Pat Bertram

When did talking to someone on the phone become something that people did while doing something else?

I have a friend who calls me only while she is walking. I have another friend who calls me only when driving. I just talked to someone who put me on the speaker so she could make her bed while we chatted. I know several people who play computer games while on the phone. In other words, no one really talks to anyone anymore. They just phone seem to be filling in what might otherwise be almost-empty time.

I no longer feel slighted by this disregard as I once did, but I am egotistical enough to want people to want to talk to me, to want them to want to connect on a more personal level rather than using me to keep from being boring by mundane activities. (Or — perish the thought!! Could they be doing those other things to keep from being bored by me?)

I do realize time is at a premium in this insanely busy world, that sometimes people can only converse during barely-used moments, but still, it would be nice to feel as if what I have to say — or what people have to say to me — is important enough to experience unaccompanied by the huffs and puffs of the walkers, by muttered comments to other drivers, by computer beeps and dings.

We’ve come a long way from the days of being tethered to stationary phones, but still, it seems as if we’ve gone too far. Just because we can drive and talk on the phone, or walk and talk on the phone, play games or do housework and talk on the phone, it doesn’t mean that we should.

Or maybe I’m being too unrealistic and should be grateful for any moment of another person’s attention, no matter how divided.

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Posted in culture, life, relationships. Tags: cell phone, driving while talking on the phone, feeling connected, walking and talking on the phone. 3 Comments »

Happy National Hat Day!

January 15, 2015 — Pat Bertram

Ever since I came to stay in this dusty desert community, I’ve worn hats to ward off the glare and to protect myself from the ravages of the sun. When my old straw hat wore out, all I could find was a hat that looked like a gardener’s hat, so I spruced it up with a fancy ribbon that had once adorned a gift. Realizing how fun it was to wear lavish hats, I’ve become somewhat of a collector — not just of hats, but hat trimmings. For example, my basic black indestructible hat is currently bedecked with the ribbon from the gift basket I received this Christmas.

Usually I try to match the decoration to my outfit (I hesitated over the choice of the word since what I wear can’t actually be called an “outfit.” If I’m walking to or from dance class, I generally wear black leggings, a black t-shirt and some sort of bright scarf to add color, otherwise I wear whatever is handy.)

Sometimes, if I feel a need for a bit of silliness in my life, I don a quirky hat, such as this crown of crows, though I have to admit, I usually wear a single crow because two is just a tad too zany even for me.

zany hat

This lovely, very expensive chapeau seems to suit me — sedate and whimsical all at once — though I seldom wear it. It seems more fitting for soirees and teas than for cutting through empty lots on the way to dance class. Besides, it’s so light, I’m afraid it would blow away in the frequent winds .

I also have a couple of very broad-brimmed hats, a cowboy hat and a wool Irish walking hat that used to belong to Jeff, a cotton hat that used to be my father’s, two cowgirl hats, an assortment of insignia-less ball caps, a red stocking cap so long it wraps around my neck, and various other hats.

So, what hat did I wear on this day set aside to celebrate hats?

None. I drove to the dance studio because I had to run an errand afterward, and since I didn’t need to worry about protecting myself from the sun, I left my hat behind.

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Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, andDaughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Posted in culture, life. Tags: broad-brimmed hat, crown of crows, decorating hats, hats, national hat day. 7 Comments »

Stepping From The Known Into The Unknown

January 13, 2015 — Pat Bertram

Ever since I came to look after my nonagenarian father after the death of my life mate/soul mate, I’ve been looking forward to a time when I would be free of all responsibility and would be able to do whatever I wanted (within the bounds of my meager resources). I’ve daydreamed about living a nomadic life, traveling around in some sort of camper or van or even a car with a comfortable back seat. I’ve daydreamed about epic walks, imagining myself thru-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, the California/Oregon/Washington coastal trails, the breadth of the USA. I’ve daydreamed about just heading out and letting the path form before my feet as I journeyed into the unknown.

Now that my father is gone and I’m on the brink of that new life, I’ve been trying to figure out what exactly I expect to gain from an adventurous life (particularly since I am anything but adventurous). It wasn’t until a mentor left a comment on my A Little of a Lot of Things blog post that I realized what I wanted.

She wrote: Listing priorities is something you’ll be doing the rest of your life. You have plenty of time. Beginning with familiar things is a good step, as it’s always easier to step from the known into the unknown than to springboard into a whole life of new things all at once. You’re doing fine. Trust your instincts.

I realized I don’t want to start with familiar things. I want to jump off the precipice of the known and land gently in the middle of a whole new life filled with amazement, joy, and wonderful new things.

Such a childish wish! Not easy to do and probably not feasible, either. I know we take ourselves with us wherever we go, but I’d hoped an epic journey with all its challenges would change me into something . . . other. Other than what I am now, I mean. Other than a sad woman who has endured too much loss too fast. Other than a lonely woman who is neither jaded nor bored, just . . . tired. Other than an earth-bound woman who seems to have misplaced her power of uplift.

But life doesn’t work that way. We are always who we are. I’ve lived a creative life and lived life creatively. That will never change. But I’d like to be uplifted, amazed, excited, entranced by life once more. Cripes, it sounds like I want to be young again, doesn’t it? But I don’t. I just seem to have lost the power to feel the daily miracles. I can still be appreciative, still be grateful, but how many times can one feel totally uplifted and awed by a sunset before it becomes ordinary? A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? How many times can one feel the new grass beneath her toes and feel the wonder of being on this earth? After a while, it simply feels like . . . grass.

The older we get, the quicker things go from awesome and new to comfortable and familiar, from comfortable and familiar to entropy and stagnation. I’m sure my efforts at living creatively will stave off both entropy and stagnation, but I want more than a life spent staving.

The alternative to springboarding into a completely new life would be to take things one step at a time, savoring each new step into the unknown until it becomes comfortable, then taking another step into a new unknown. And that is doable.

Today marks the beginning of a new year. Think about it, and you’ll realize it’s true. The calendar might not change, the year number might have already changed, but this is the beginning of the year 1/13/15 to 1/12/16.

So happy new year! Wishing all our dreams begin to come true, one step at a time.

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Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, andDaughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.