Emergency parking

I’m back from a few days book-ended by to and fro on the interstate highways of Ohio. Here and elsewhere, I’ve noticed small pull-out areas with signs reading, “Emergency Parking  2 hour limit.”

That strikes me as amusing (but then, what doesn’t?). Seems to me that if your emergency has continued for as long as two hours without an EMS wagon showing up, you’re in deep difficulty. Or maybe not.

Once upon a time (I was all of nineteen years old), in a land far away (on the PA turnpike somewhere between Pittsburgh and the Breezewood exit), I pulled off on the side of the road.

A trooper stopped behind me and walked up to my car, a homely Rambler passed on to me by my grandmother, a car my friends somewhat unkindly nicknamed “the bathtub.” 

“Is everything OK, Miss?” he asked, bending over to peer into my low-to-the-ground window.

“I’m fine,” I answered, scribbling away on a sheet of staff paper.

He paused. “You can’t stop on the shoulder except in an emergency.”

“This IS an emergency,” I said, no doubt with some degree of adolescent drama. “Something was playing in my head and I had to get it down before I forgot it!” 

I continued to write. “You know,” he said, both elbows still on the door frame, “I could give you a ticket.”

“I’m almost finished,” I said. “Really, I’m just about done.”

He sighed and straightened up for a moment. He bent back down to my window. “Don’t . . . ever . . . do this again,” he said, then walked back to his car and drove off.

It was a different age. Today he’d have run my license and registration through his computer and probably told me to step out of the car. And he probably would have given me a ticket. Unless, of course, I parked in one of those emergency parking places. Then, I would’ve had two long legal hours to work. I might have finished the whole piece right there.

Take my card . . . please

I met my friend Kathy for lunch today. No mere social outing, this. We had serious work to do. She had a short story she wanted me to pick over, and I needed help deciding what to put on my business card.

Not that I have a business. That would imply regular, gainful employment by self or other, but “business card” is a shorthand that everyone understands: a  2" x 3.5" printed piece with my name and contact information on it.  Plus, some hint as to who I am and what I do. Therein lies my difficulty.

What DO I do? Well, I do write choral music. I’ve had some pieces published, gotten several commissions over the years (money for art - what a concept!) and my work has been programed in more than a few places. I have some cards that cover that. I had them printed when I was headed for a choral music conference and needed something to hand out that made me look like a grownup. It reads, “Jan C. Snow, Music for Voices,” followed by my phone number and email address.  

But that really doesn’t do the job. Are we to identify ourselves only by what earns us money? Or by how we spend our time? How about by what gives us joy? I’ve made my living, for the most part, in journalism. “Writer” is what the occupation spot on my IRS form reads. And although it doesn’t say anything about teaching, I’ve wrestled down more than my share of writing workshops and classes. 

But I’ve also taught paper making and book making. (The journal-of-your-own kind, not the horse-racing kind.) The bottom of my refrigerator is home to plastic vats of paper pulp. And squeeze bottles of dye. I mess around with a variety of fiber arts, particularly shibori, a Japanese version of resist dyeing. Think tie-dyeing but somewhat more organized.

I’ve played piano all my life (well, minus three years) and two decades ago I added hammering a dulcimer to my skill set. I'd like to play my grandfather's fiddle but I keep forgetting to practice. I also draw. I make no claim to professionalism, whatever that means, but more to the point, I love to draw. I don't even care how it turns out; I just like doing it. And I think I’d like to try painting.

So you see my problem. Who we are beyond the pigeon-holes of endeavor? My late friend Jeffrey was fond of reminding me when I bemoaned my perceived lack of productivity that we of our species are dubbed “human beings,” not “human doings.” Jeffrey would listen to me whine for just so long;  then he’d tell me to go take a hike -  preferably through the park or to the lake.

So, besides, my email, phone number and the address of this blog, here’s what I’ve decided to put on my card:

     Jan C. Snow

        ink-stained wretch

                 multi-arts maven

                 mostly fabulous person

I think that about covers it. 

The answer is, “Are these people on drugs?”

The clue, my friends, is “Wheel of Fortune contestants.”

Yes, it’s true. I have a TV. I got the set - and cable service - a few years ago so I could watch Cavaliers’ b-ball. (We will not discuss that period of my life. It’s just too pathetic.) I’ve since cancelled the cable. I can get PBS, plus four broadcast stations, and on evenings that I find myself at home, I’m likely to watch “Jeopardy” on one of them.

In this market, “Wheel” immediately precedes Alex and his blue-screen categories. If I’m a little too quick in switching over at the end of the sober PBS “News Hour,” I catch Vanna, the ultimate Stepford wife, turning over some letters. 

Not that I mind Vanna. She does her job well. In addition, she crochets afghans and lends her name to a line of inexpensive acrylic yarn. Who could harbor ill will toward anyone who crochets afghans? And smiles all the time. (OK, that part is a little creepy.)

I do find Pat Sajak kind of unsettling. His mostly blank eyes seem just a bit too close together. Or maybe slightly crossed. I’m not sure. Then again, that set resembles a Japanese pachinko machine, all flashing lights, crayon colors and manic movement. Imagine working in that environment day after day. It would make anyone’s glazed-over eyes cross. 

But the contestants on this show? These people clap like crazed seals and jump up and down like five-year-olds who need to go to the bathroom. (From the looks of things, they’re screaming as well, but I can’t be sure since I keep my thumb on the mute button.) The only explanation is massive doses of stimulants. Some assistant producer, one of those under-paid young women carrying a clip board, probably force-feeds them espresso shots for a good twenty minutes before they go on. 

What bothers me most about “Wheel of Fortune,” though, is not the totally cheesy set or Vanna’s frozen face with its forever smile. I don’t even mind the somewhat odd host that much. What really bugs me about “Wheel” is that I can almost never figure out the puzzles. How in the world these people manage to do so while clapping and jumping up and down ( and possibly screaming) is completely beyond me.