I’m working my way through Faulkner’s letters, and you get the occasional gem. In a an August, 1961 letter to his editor, “Hot as hell here, as usual. Now it’s 64 years I have said I’ll never spend another summer in Miss.”
After attending the annual Faulkner conference in July a couple of years ago, when it was 90+ every day, I am glad to know that even natives find the heat a bit much.
Erin
As the daughter of a Southerner, and one who was instructed to use “ma’am” as a term of respect, I was chagrined to read this NYTimes piece, in which a “completely unscientific poll” supported the anecdotal evidence of the article in characterizing “ma’am” as a way to irritate women and make them feel old. I’ve always called women “ma’am,” including those both older than me and teenagers, and I haven’t been terribly sympathetic when I’ve been told that the term makes a woman “feel old.” I tend to use the term whether a woman is married or not, because I really don’t want to have to guess about her marital status. I can’t say I think much of the substitute terms that were offered in the article and subsequent letters to the editor: until it’s been fully adopted into the English language I will not be using the French “Madame” where the English will do, and it will be a cold day before you catch me calling someone “Goddess” or “Princess” instead.
But I’m not deaf to connotation, despite my mulishness on this issue, and I’d be curious to know what you think of “ma’am,” either when you use it or when others use it to address you. I am willing to wager that respondents to this blog will cover more geographies and cultural niches than the article-writer’s poll.
Erin
One of the things we’ve been wrestling with this summer is a profusion of unhelpful businesses. We’ve been overwhelmed by the sheer volume of paperwork from Cornell, Oxford, and our house-rental agency, much of which is just frustrating in that it takes time away from real work, but all of which continues to remind us of the sheer wastefulness of moving (yes, we’ve posted long missives on our dislike of modern society’s fascination with mobility). But on top of that, we’ve run into a few real snarls: I’ve been in a three-month dispute with UPS over packages that we had sent from Ithaca to Canada, and our visa applications for the UK were handled by a private company that made our handing over a ton of money for a one-shot application process a lot more harrowing than it needed to be.
I think I’ve largely gotten over the shock of finding that customer service has taken a serious nosedive since I worked in it, but I find myself continually torn between taking a line that I find civilized and logical in dealing with these companies on the phone, and taking the line that seems to trigger progress. For example, UPS sends you through a maze of call centers in six major cities any time you try to call them. Regardless of the city or person who answers, they have mastered a certain kind of unity: none of them seems to mind speaking a bunch of blather at you while he or she buys time, such as “I am happy to process your request in a manner that will be satisfactory,” particularly when you’ve pointed out a problem in the system and that you’re not going to just nod and hang up.
In these cases I seem to come up with two responses: one is to point out that they don’t know what they’re talking about. When a young man clearly had never processed an international transaction, but insisted on providing answers for me anyway, I listened for awhile, took notes, and then told him that I was very sorry to have to say this, but he didn’t know what he was talking about, and I wished he would transfer me elsewhere rather than make up things while I waited. No, not my most subtle, but I was trying to keep my temper in check as best I could as I was being lied to right and left. I got transferred, and I addressed the problem directly, both of which I wanted, but I wasn’t able to do so without hijacking the “conversation” and staying civil.
The other response seems to be to play some sort of bizarre corporate word-fishing game, where after listening to blather for several minutes, realizing you’re getting nowhere, you simply speak into empty air something like this: “Thank you very much for your help. Perhaps another solution might be reached?” Obviously the person didn’t have any other solution in mind, and you are saying absolutely nothing in direct response to what they were talking about. But vague gestures like this seem to spark the magic words: “I’ll transfer you to my supervisor.” Okay, so that works, because nobody at the lower levels has the power to do anything but repeat my case back to me, but it makes me feel covered in corporate slick.
I have been doing a lot of the latter in phone calls where I reach individuals on lower rungs of the latter; I’ve been doing more of the stubborn former when I’ve reached someone higher up who has talked to me a few times. Both leave me unhappy with myself and corporate America, particularly since I hope to reach old age without becoming cripplingly cynical about the world. Clearly it’s time to go play with Katherine, rather than make phone calls.
Erin
We got word today that our visas have been approved. Big sigh of relief. I will wait to be fully enthralled until we have them in our hands (and until I can see that they were granted for the length of time we requested), but this is still a big step forward. Without them we couldn’t get back to the States in time to travel to England, much less get into England itself. But now it looks like we should be in good shape to fly back to my parents’ place on September 14th, my mom’s birthday.
Erin
In a letter to his mother during his European Tour: “I have a nice room just around the corner from the Luxembourg gardens, where I can sit and write and watch the children. Everything in the gardens is for children–its beautiful the way the French love their babies. They treat children as though they were the same age as the grown-ups–they walk along the street together, a man or a woman and a child, talking and laughing together as though they were the same age.”
– The Selected Letters
Erin
Yesterday the whole family went to Nelson’s cafe for dinner, using my birthday as an excuse. Sydney’s mom, Dora, brought me a huge arrangement of flowers from their garden, with layers of gladioli, sunflowers, and marigolds, and Katherine was given the run of the restaurant. The food was delicious, as I knew it would be, but it was also just wonderful to be able to go out with Katherine and not have to worry about keeping her strapped into a high chair. We had the place to ourselves for the time being, leaving Katherine free to check on the action in the kitchen, bring me bags of coffee and tins of tuna, and, after I went to investigate the sudden silence, smile sweetly up at me as she collected loose change in a mug. The mix of formal food and setting with easy, casual family time made it all very special.
Erin
Last Sunday a group of people from Sydney’s extended family got together to walk Cape Split, a hike that’s five miles out to a spectacular view on the edge of the rocks that jut out into the Bay of Fundy. If you’re not tired out by that you can then pick your way down to the base of the cliffs and along the rocks, adding both a couple of miles and some very steep terrain to your trip. We hiked the first part of this last year with Nelson and Katherine, when she was quite a bit lighter and less inclined to use her own legs. This year we left her with Grandma Penner, who very kindly let us go on the trip without having to worry about trying to keep a toddler from tumbling off the cliffs. We had a great time and really enjoyed the exercise, though the steep stuff down to the water left me wondering whether we’d need to rig a pulley system to get back up.
We also found a place to stay for the month of October, as we settle into Oxford life and wait for our house to become available. We’ll be staying on a farm in a town just outside Oxford. The town has buses that run to the city every 15 minutes, and we’re grateful for the chance at a bit more country living to help us transition to the city. The best part is that the farm is very keen on kids, so we won’t have to worry about shushing Katherine every five minutes or keeping her from tromping manicured lawns.
Erin
When looking for places to stay for a short while in Oxford:
“Oh wow. This place has that old-fashioned electricity system . . . [and after a blank look from me] . . . where you feed coins into the meter.”
[At my look of horror]: “This is your chance to get a bargain!” [a low blow, since he knows I’m cheap when it comes to hotels]
After a few emphatic headshakes he gave up. Maybe it’s time he starts laundering Katherine’s diapers every other day. Clearly we need to get our priorities in sync.
Erin
I’m emerging from the deep. After several weeks of spending most of the day in my pajamas, trolling apartment listings and calling agencies, we finally have a house. Yes, a house. There’s room for Katherine to have a bedroom and us a study, plus a little conservatory out back. It’s within 1.5 miles of campus, and about a mile if you cut through the university’s extensive parks. Access to parks for Katherine was high on our priority list, having seen what she’s like when cooped up inside for too long. And having ready access to Sydney’s work was important, both to make it easier for him to navigate the needs of work and home and to make it easier for Katherine and me to worm our way into Oxford life. Most importantly, we feel sure that we’ll be safe there, something that became a lot more important now that we have a family. We won’t be able to move in until November, so we’re currently sorting out short stays and whether we’ll all be going over at the same time, but the most important thing is secured.
Erin
We’re hunting housing. The big drama, of course, is whether we will get visas so we can even enter England, and whether we’ll get them in time, but since we had to send Sydney’s diploma away to be translated (yes, we are cursing Yale’s decision to confer degrees in Latin right now, and no, though Sydney knows Latin he cannot translated it because he’s not “certified”) that is currently at a halt. So late night, nap time, and every moment Katherine doesn’t scream for our attention has been spent looking online and calling about Oxford flats and houses. We run into three walls:
1) most places hate children (no one says this in the listing, so you have to call to be rejected by a real person)
2) most places are taken before we even call, though there’s nothing on the listing to indicate that (so much for up-to-date web access)
3) most places are reluctant (if not out-and-out refusing our pleas) to rent a place to someone without the person visiting the place in person.
Plus the usual ones like a far from expansive budget and some hope for personal safety. With those hurdles we’ve knocked out several dozen listings and alternate between elation and despair several times a day.
I don’t think this is what I had in mind by looking forward to an “exciting” globe-trotting period in my life . . .
Erin
Alan Schmierer