Friday, December 29, 2006

Eldercare Costs

Elder-Care Costs Deplete Savings of a Generation

Published: December 30, 2006

To care for her ailing 97-year-old father over the past three years, Elizabeth Rodriguez, a vice president at the Federal Reserve Bank in New York, has borrowed against her 401(k) retirement plan, sold her house on Staten Island and depleted nearly 20 years of savings.

The money has gone to lawyers’ fees ($50,000) to win a contested guardianship. It has gone for home-care equipment like the mattress for his hospital bed (about $3,000 in all) and for a food service to deliver meals ($400 a month).

It has gone for a two-bedroom rental apartment big enough for herself, her dad and a home aide ($1,600 a month more than a one-bedroom apartment in the same building), and for a wheelchair-accessible van to get him to doctors’ appointments ($330 a trip).

Asked to tally the costs, Ms. Rodriguez, 58, said she had no idea how much she was spending. “A shower chair, body cream with no alcohol, new shoes,” she said. “You don’t stop and calculate. You just buy what you have to buy.”

Ms. Rodriguez is among the legion of adult children — more than 15 million, according to various calculations — who take care of their aging parents, a responsibility that often includes paying for all or part of their housing, medical supplies and incidental expenses. Many costs are out of pocket and largely unnoticed: clothing, home repair, a cellular telephone.

Adult children with the largest out-of-pocket expenses are those supervising care long distance, those who hire in-home help and those whose parents have too much money to qualify for government-subsidized Medicaid but not enough to pay for what could be a decade of frailty and dependence.

The burden is compounded by ignorance, according to a study by AARP, released in mid-December, which found that most Americans have no idea how much long-term care costs and believe that Medicare pays for it, when it does not.

Families have always looked after their elderly loved ones. But never has old age lasted so long or been so costly, compromising the retirement of baby boomers who were expecting inheritances rather than the shock of depleted savings.

“There is a myth out there that families abandon their frail elders,” said Dr. Robert L. Kane, a geriatrician at the University of Minnesota School of Public Health. “Instead, across the income spectrum, children are sacrificing to care for their parents to the limit of their means and sometimes beyond.”

Researchers have documented the time spent by adult children, and others, caring for ailing relatives. But data is woefully inadequate on how much they actually spend, health economists say, because most people do not keep itemized entries as they write checks, use their credit cards or pocket money to meet the demands of the day.

“When you’re in the middle of the forest, with so many things coming at you, you can’t really see the trees,” Ms. Rodriguez said. “But each one of those trees has actual dollars connected to it.”

Costs are astronomical for long-term, low-tech care, the sort most often needed by those who linger with Alzheimer’s disease or are too frail to get around on their own. Medicare is of almost no help, since it covers only acute episodes like a heart attack, cancer or repair of a broken hip.

That means the elderly and their families are left to pay for assisted living (which averages $35,000 a year), nursing homes ($74,000) or home health aides. Only the very poor receive Medicaid, which pays nursing-home bills nationwide but home care in only a few states (New York among them), and nothing toward assisted-living rent.

Nor does Medicare cover equipment like grab bars for the shower and incontinence supplies, which alone can run $2,000 a year, or travel expenses for an adult child responding to medical emergencies.

Marilyn de Leo, for instance, has made two trips from New York City to Los Angeles since September, when her mother fell in the bathroom and broke her neck and both ankles. Ms. de Leo, 62, an associate director in the development office of Mount Sinai Medical Center, spent $800 on airfare for the first frantic trip , plus $50 a day on taxis, since she had left her eyeglasses behind in a mad dash to the airport and therefore could not rent a car. Ms. de Leo has no savings left, and is $5,000 in debt. When asked about her own future, she said, “I’ll have to work till I drop.”

Only one authoritative survey, in 2004, has even asked adult children how much they contribute to their parents’ support. Half said they did, and the average monthly expenditure was $200. Respondents who looked after their parents at least 40 hours a week said they spent an average of $324 a month.

But those figures were based on “quick, top-of-the-head estimates,” said Gail Hunt, president of the National Alliance for Caregiving, which conducted the survey.

Knowing the extent of these expenses might inform public policy, some experts say, calling attention to a gap in the government safety net for the elderly.

“Should this burden fall solely on the individual and the family?” asked Judy Feder, dean of the Public Policy Institute at Georgetown University. “And can we really expect this arrangement to keep doing the job as a larger and larger population comes to grips with it?”

Congress recently passed a poorly financed bill that would help family members who need a break to pay for substitute care of an ailing loved one. But the Bush administration, to date, has preferred a private sector solution, recommending long-term insurance and reverse mortgages.

For spouses, most expenses are tax-deductible if they exceed 7.5 percent of adjusted gross income. But children cannot claim parental expenses unless they pay more than half of a parent’s support, which is often not the case when the parents are on Medicaid, like Mrs. Rodriguez’s father, or have savings, like the Schoengood family.

The elder Schoengoods, both 86, own a home in Yonkers and a condominium in Florida and have assets enough for round-the-clock care, which can cost $100,000 a year. Still, their son, Matthew G. Schoengood, 49, vice president of student affairs at the Graduate Center at the City University of New York, has kicked in at least $1,000 a month since 2005, when his mother had the first of two strokes.

Mr. Schoengood flew his family nanny to Florida, for example, to look after his father. Now that his parents are permanently up north, Mr. Schoengood orders their groceries online along with his own. “As a child, it’s just something you do,” he said. “Mostly you don’t even think about it.”

His father makes a half-hearted effort to pay him back, but Mr. Schoengood always says, jokingly, “I’ll put it on your tab, Dad.” Typical of their generation, his parents fret about every penny. His father asks, incessantly, “Do we have enough?” Mr. Schoengood tells him not to worry.

For sure, he hopes his own children will do for him what he is doing for his parents, but he cringes at the prospect of burdening them — one reason long-term care insurance is becoming attractive.

Mr. Schoengood’s out-of-pocket spending is not sensible, elder-care experts say, but the result of the awkward minuet of preserving a parent’s pride.

If families behaved logically, said Steven Schurkman, an elder-care lawyer in White Plains, all expenses would be paid from the parents’ money, which if depleted would entitle them to Medicaid. “What most of us do isn’t sound financial planning,” Mr. Schurkman said. “But it’s healthy for the family dynamic.”

Carol Levine, director of the Families and Health Care Project at the United Hospital Fund in Manhattan, said that paying for her mother’s needs required delicacy, even subterfuge. When Ms. Levine went shopping, her mother would say, “Take $5 out of my purse.” Her daughter would return with 10 bags of groceries, and both would pretend that was all she had spent.

Both Mr. Schoengood and Ms. Rodriguez say their out-of-pocket expenses will not ruin them. Others are not so lucky.

Take Patrice B., 47, who returned to her childhood home in Jacksonville, Fla., seven years ago to move in with her mother, 84, who has Alzheimer’s disease, and her father, 86, who has congestive heart failure. (They requested that the family’s last name be omitted so neighbors would not know their plight.)

In their African-American culture, Ms. B. said, putting her parents in a nursing home would have been shameful. Plus, they could pay for some home care out of pensions as well as military disability checks. She, on the other hand, after years of sporadic part-time work and untallied out-of-pocket expenses, is broke.

She has catastrophic health insurance, but it will not pay for the hysterectomy she needs. She has lost her credit cards after accumulating $20,000 in debt. “Honestly,” Ms. B. said, “I’ve got nothing anymore. I go from very angry to very depressed.”

Kate Mesmer, a single mother in Northern California who had always worked for nonprofit organizations, was living paycheck to paycheck when her mother had a stroke in 2001. Ms. Mesmer took a tenant into her house so she could contribute to her mother’s $6,000-a-month rent at an assisted living center.

Then Ms. Mesmer lost her job and had to move her mother to a board-and-care home. A second stroke forced her mother into a nursing home, where she qualified for Medicaid. That is where she died last year, with nothing left but an $18,000 I.R.A. The State of California is seeking that, contending the $18,000 should have gone toward nursing-home fees.

Given what she learned in the final years of her mother’s life, Ms. Mesmer said: “I have a panic attack at least once a day. It’s frightening to think about our generation and what’s going to happen to us.”



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Thursday, December 28, 2006

Fitness : BMI

Fitness

Quick, Do You Know Your B.M.I.?

From left, Mario Anzuoni/Reuters; Danny Moloshok/Associated Press; Michael Stravato for The New York Times; Mike Segar/Reuters

RATING GAME The facts and figures for these examples of the Body Mass Index come from public records and interviews. (Mr. Stallone’s B.M.I. represents his fighting weight in “Rocky Balboa.”)

Published: December 28, 2006

IN the past, you could learn a lot about a person from a group of letters: Ph.D., D.D.S., V.F.W., D.W.I.

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Now another set looms ahead, and it affects everyone from teeny tiny models to adoptive parents to schoolchildren: B.M.I. or Body Mass Index.

But few people actually know what it means.

“I know that having a low B.M.I. is supposed to be a good thing, but I have no idea what it really is or how to figure it out,” said Hilary Black, 35, the editor of Tango, a magazine about relationships. “Keeping track of my weight is more important to me than keeping track of my B.M.I.”

Ms. Black is not interested in adopting a child from China. If she were, she might be very concerned with her index rating. Last week, the government-run China Center of Adoption Affairs mandated that prospective adoptive parents have, among financial, educational, marital and other health requirements, an index rating under 40.

Ms. Black does not have children. If she did, and if she lived in Arkansas or Tennessee, she would receive a report card noting her children’s index figures, in addition to their ability to play nice with others.

Ms. Black might also be worried about her index number if she were a model: In September, organizers in Madrid banned from its runways five models whose index rating was below 18.5. In Milan, fashion industry officials have also barred knife-thin models from its February shows.

The B.M.I. is a mathematical calculation of a person’s weight in kilograms divided by his or her height in meters squared. Since most Americans have no clue what their height is in meters (remember the failed attempt to go metric circa 1976?), it’s easiest to determine an index rating by visiting a Web site like that of the National Heart Lung and Blood Institute (www.nhlbisupport.com/bmi), where one can determine their index rating by entering their height in feet and weight in pounds.

And as the index, a measurement adopted by government health agencies, increasingly gains currency in many areas of life, you may wish to know yours. But how important is it? The number should not be the final word for measuring whether a person is under- or overweight to an unhealthy degree, some experts say.

“Our society is really fixated on numbers, and the problem is when it comes to weight distribution and the risk for heart disease, it’s not just one number — it’s the percentage of body fat, B.M.I. and waist size that matters,” said Dr. Nieca Goldberg, a cardiologist at Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan.

Dr. Peter D. Vash, the director of medical affairs at Lindora Medical Clinics, in Costa Mesa, Calif., compares the index to a speed limit. “It’s not always an absolute index in the individual case,” he said.

A Belgian statistician and astronomer, Adolphe Quetelet, invented the index formula in the 1830s. But it wasn’t until the 1980s that public health agencies adopted it as a way of identifying individuals at risk for heart attacks, hypertension, diabetes, stroke and some cancers.

In 1998, two branches of the National Institutes of Health created new guidelines which divided people into categories: You were “normal” if your index rating was between 18.5 and 24.9; “overweight’’ if it was 25 to 29.9; and “obese” if it was 30 or higher.

After the change, many doctors and lay people were up in arms. By the revised standards, nearly 55 percent of the American adult population in 1998, was considered overweight or obese, according to the N.I.H. (Today, 66.3 percent of adults are overweight or obese, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.)

The index also didn’t distinguish between body fat and muscle mass, so athletes and bodybuilders like Arnold Schwarzenegger, whose rating was 33 when he was Mr. Universe, were technically obese.

That struck some people as odd. Such discrepancies got experts wondering how accurately the index gauges health. Others questioned the reliability of the index because the figure doesn’t take fitness into account.

A low number can be deceptive. Sedentary men with a rating of less than 27 were at a greater risk for heart attacks, strokes, diabetes and certain cancers than fit men with a rating above 30, according to a study of 25,389 men conducted by the Cooper Aerobics Center in Dallas.

“In the past, it used to be felt that if you had a high B.M.I. you had a high mortality and all these risk factors,” said Dr. Michael D. Ozner, a cardiologist and medical director of wellness and prevention at Baptist Health South Florida in Miami. “We now know that exercise is extremely important.”

A study published in the August 19 issue of the medical journal Lancet combined data from 40 studies involving about 250,000 people with heart disease. The researchers found that patients with a low rating in the normal rating had a higher risk of death than others in the normal rating. Overweight patients had better survival rates and fewer heart problems than those with a normal index number.

“We concluded that B.M.I. might not be the best way to assess body fatness,” said Dr. Francisco Lopez-Jimenez, the lead author and a cardiologist at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn. “The issue is that people with ‘normal’ weight based on B.M.I. may have a lot of fat, and we’re labeling these people as completely healthy when they might not be.”

Yet, the index remains a widely accepted gauge of health, even though some tools are better predictors like say the hip-to-waist ratio in the case of heart attacks. Part of the reason is because it’s simple to calculate and cheap.

It is not the best way to test body fat, but the others are often time-consuming or unreliable. Many gyms use the skin-fold test: a caliper-wielding trainer pinches your body in three to seven places to determine your fat-to-muscle ratio. But the results vary depending on who’s administering the test, and what body parts they pinch.

The method that many doctors consider the gold standard is both tricky and inconvenient, since it requires a patient to be submerged in a water tank, to exhale, and then sit on an underwater scale. (Since fat is less dense than muscle, the more body fat you have, the less you’ll weigh in water.) But most doctors don’t have oversize cisterns in their offices, not everyone can hold their breath for an extended period and “Who wants to get all of their patients naked?” asked Dr. Amanda J. Dupont of the Austin Bariatric Clinic in Texas.

To assess her clients, Charla McMillian, a former Marine who runs FitBoot, a training program in Boston, says body fat is more crucial than the index. “It has nothing to do with how’s their heart, how’s their cardio, how’s their strength,” she said.

Maybe so, but that’s not much of a consolation for Lauri Owen, a lawyer in Bethel, Alaska, who is planning to adopt a 3-year-old boy from China, in March. Ms. Owen, 39, applied in July; her application was accepted a week before the China ruling. “If it had been a week later I wouldn’t have been able to adopt the boy,” said Ms. Owen, who is single and whose index rating hovers between 41 and 42. “It’s appalling. There are so many kids over there who desperately need homes. It was my hope to adopt him and then another child from China. Obviously, that’s not going to happen now.”

Paula Schwartz contributed reporting.



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Tuesday, December 26, 2006

Weight & Prostrate Cancer

Study: Weight Loss May Lower Cancer Risk

Published: December 26, 2006

Filed at 7:46 p.m. ET

ATLANTA (AP) -- Here's another reason for men to avoid packing on extra pounds over the holidays: A new study has found that losing weight reduces the risk of an aggressive form of prostate cancer.

After tracking the weight of nearly 70,000 men between 1982 and 1992, researchers from the American Cancer Society and the Duke University Prostate Center found that men who lost more than 11 pounds had a lower risk for aggressive prostate cancer than men whose weight remained the same over a decade.

Previous studies have found that obese men have a higher risk of developing aggressive prostate cancer. This study appears to be the first to indicate that recent weight loss can decrease that risk.

In the study reported this month in Cancer Epidemiology, Biomarkers & Prevention, researchers analyzed the height and weight of the men in 1982 and 1992 and every three years after that until 2003. At that time, more than 5,200 of the men -- more than 7 percent -- had prostate cancer.

Among those cases, about one in eight had a form of cancer that was aggressive but had not spread to other areas of the body. The study's major finding focused on those aggressive cases, with researchers concluding that those who lost 11 or more pounds were 42 percent less likely to develop that form of prostate cancer than those whose weight remained the same.

''Whether it's exactly 40 percent, we don't know, but they lower their risk when they lose 11-plus pounds. We feel confident, at least in this population, that was real,'' said lead researcher Dr. Carmen Rodriguez.

More than seven times as many men whose weight remained the same developed aggressive prostate cancer compared to those who lost 11 or more pounds.

''No significant associations'' were found regarding the effect of weight gain or loss on the most severe forms of prostate cancer, those that spread throughout the body, the study said.

The number studied was small, the researchers acknowledged, because fewer than 15,000 men lost weight over the time period, and only 1,000 of those developed some form of prostate cancer.

The 69,991 participants were part of a bigger cancer society study of 1.2 million Americans that began in 1982.

Rodriguez said men should avoid putting on extra weight as they get older.

''The main message for men is to not get overweight. If they are overweight, that's another reason to try to lose weight, just to decrease the risk for prostate cancer,'' said Rodriguez, who works for the Atlanta-based cancer society.

Other than skin cancer, prostate cancer is the most commonly diagnosed cancer for men, and about one in six will get it during his lifetime. It is the second leading cause of cancer death for U.S. men.

The study is considered the first of its kind to examine the role of weight change in the development of prostate cancer, said Dr. Ronald Ennis, director of radiation oncology at St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital Center in New York, who was not involved in the study.

''This is one of the best studies'' examining the role of weight on prostate cancer, Ennis said. ''It does seem to be true that if you are overweight, you are at risk of getting more aggressive forms of prostate cancer and if you lose weight, you can decrease the risk.''

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On the Net:

Cancer study: http://cebp.aacrjournals.org/cgi/rapidpdf/1055-9965.EPI-06-0754v1.pd f




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Monday, December 25, 2006

The Christmas Spirit

Editorial

How We Say Christmas

Published: December 25, 2006

What would you say if you had to explain Christmas to someone who knew nothing about it? You might begin with the shepherds in the fields by night or Santa at the North Pole or even the druidic appeal of a winter festival that comes just when the sun seems most meager. Redemption and rejoicing, feasting and singing, humility and awe — these would all be parts of your answer, as would the perennial cast of characters who people this turning time of year. The personal explanations would come easiest: the rituals of Christmas Eve, the smell of fresh balsam, the stillness of a world cloaked in snow. You would probably have something to say about the importance of family and the force of a holiday whose strongest emotions center upon children, and upon our memories of being children.

And yet to really explain Christmas you would also have to try to answer the question that seems more pressing every year: how do those emotions and memories connect to the frenzied commercial machinery of the weeks that lead up to Christmas? What does all that retailing and wrapping paper have to do with peace on earth? There is no glossing over the problem — not to a puzzled stranger and not to ourselves. What matters is not just the disjunction between the majesty of those old hymns and the immodesty of this shopping season. It is that all those presents did not really catch the feeling we were looking for, did not say what we hoped to say.

A stranger might well wonder, don’t you always hope for peace on earth? Does good will really have a season? And if you genuinely love one another — truly hold one another in your hearts — wouldn’t simply saying it be far more eloquent than any other gift that you could give? These questions point to something most of us already know, that for all the push and pull of the Christmas rush, for all the sputtering of the commercial volcano that erupts at the end of every year, this is truly a holiday of modest spirit, a day of humble aspirations. What we want is to love and know we are loved and to imagine a world that lives up to the purity of that feeling.



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Sunday, December 24, 2006

Death & Diamonds

Op-Ed Contributor | A Work of Fiction

A Real Gem

Published: December 24, 2006

Thanks to cutting-edge technology and a patented process, the newly bereaved no longer need to say goodbye. For a reasonable price, the compassionate and caring consultants at Eternal Love Gemstone Inc.® will transform the carbon of your loved one into a beautiful, gemologist-certified diamond mounted in any one of our wide variety of jewelry settings. True love is eternal. So is a diamond.

THERE’S no question my wife, Marsha, is batty, but this time I think she was on to something. Not that I would have agreed to the idea if she’d run it past me ahead of time: I had plenty of notions about the afterlife, but they usually involved angel wings and St. Peter at the heavenly gates. Never did I imagine this.

It took me a while to clue in to what was happening. Being dead is disorienting enough: one minute you’re cleaning out the eaves and reaching a little farther than maybe you ought and the next someone is zipping you up in a bag. And the bedside manner of that mortician left something to be desired, bouncing around to that horrible hip-hop and ramming things into me like nobody’s business. It’s disrespectful is what it is. Would it have killed him to play a little Brahms? Then in the crematorium — everything went so dark for so long I was terrified I’d been put in the ground or sealed in an urn. And the pressure! Lord help me. It wasn’t until that fellow plucked me out of the squeeze thing and held me up to a jeweler’s loupe that I finally understood what was going on, and that’s only because I remembered that story on NPR.

I guess Marsha remembered it too. At the time I thought the whole concept was nuts and said so. Marsha just sat quietly and listened. My only complaint is that the place she sent me also does pets. Did she check how well they clean their equipment? For all I know I’ve got dog residue in me. Speaking of which, she’d better not be planning on doing this with that sloppy mutt of hers. I’m guessing this wasn’t cheap, and Barney’s no purebred.

When Marsha cracks open the box and looks in at me, she holds her hand to her chest. I gather it’s Christmas. Gift-wrapping me seems a bit over the top, but I suppose she was excited at my reappearance. Like I said, Marsha’s a little on the ditzy side. Lord only knows what she’s been up to while I’ve been gone. Probably run up all the credit cards, and I’ll bet she hasn’t checked the car’s oil once.

She looks different — thinner, and her hair is blond. She’s also wearing makeup, something I never approved of. She looks ridiculous for a woman her age, slathered in orangey-pink mousse with her eyelids painted blue. Talk about mutton.

She holds me up to the light, letting me dangle in a most disconcerting way before finally fastening me around her neck. It’s a strange view. Life as Marsha sees it, only 10 inches lower. She may be a ditz, but I’ll tell you what: she was using her head when she had me set in a pendant rather than a ring. Just watching how much her hands move makes me want to vomit. I’m dizzy enough nestled on the relative calm of her throat. I think it’s the facets: I suppose I’ll get used to them, but I feel like a housefly coming around after an anesthetic.

Marsha sips her coffee and patters into the kitchen. I’m still woozy, but I can see that she’s preparing a turkey breast rather than an entire bird. I assume this means our hippie son decided not to come home for Christmas. Still following that wife of his around, I suppose. Doctors Without Borders indeed. And what is he? Her scrub nurse? Apparently he was too good for the shoe business. Fifty years I worked so I’d have something to leave him and he’d rather go traipsing around Afghanistan. Children, they rip your heart out.

Marsha wanted more, but I was thinking of her when I laid down the law. Think of all the heartache I saved her. She never saw it that way, but this proves me right. Would it have killed Justin to invite his mother for Christmas? I know Karen never warmed to us, but this year at least you’d think she’d make the effort.

Marsha is humming “Little Drummer Boy” and poking stuffing under the turkey breast. Her fingers are coated with bread crumbs, butter and sage. That huge yellow beast of a mongrel is standing on his hind legs right beside her licking the counter, and she’s doing absolutely nothing to stop him, just humming and stuffing, humming and stuffing — meanwhile his great pink tongue and dirty toenails are inches from the food. I probably ate dog slobber every meal of my life since the moment she talked me into letting her keep him, never mind what he brought in on his feet. But I’m lonely with Justin gone, she said. I’m not ready to be an empty-nester. What was I going to do? Dollars to doughnuts she lets him sleep on the bed now. I always suspected she let him up on the furniture the second I left for the store.

Marsha puts the meat in the oven and rinses her hands with water only, no soap. I’m surprised I didn’t die of E. coli. When she moves into the dining room, she doesn’t even try to make Barney get down, just leaves him scrounging on the counter. She circles the table, arranging two place mats, two napkins, two china plates — oh God. Justin is coming home. Karen must have left him. I knew she was no good. I told Marsha right from the beginning, but would she listen? Oh no. Give the girl a chance, she said. Only a very special person could do that kind of work. Now who’s right? Eh, Marsha? I’m just surprised he’s not back living in the basement.

O Lord, please tell me he’s not back living in the basement.

When the phone rings and Marsha hurries back to the kitchen, she doesn’t seem remotely fazed to find Barney standing with all four feet on the kitchen table. “Oh, Barney, you’re impossible!” she says with no conviction whatever. She might as well have said, “There’s a good boy.” Barney grins at her for the space of a couple of wags with his legs splayed, and then goes back to the business of dragging his grotesquely long tongue across the table’s surface.

Marsha plucks off an earring — I haven’t seen those before, did she get her ears pierced? — and reaches for the phone.

“Hello?”

I’m close enough to hear every word: “Merry Christmas, Mom!” Justin and Karen chirp, immediately before launching into a bad rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” They have half a nerve. I suppose he thinks a phone call will make up for leaving his mother alone on her first Christmas of widowhood. She should hang up on them, but she won’t. She always coddled Justin. Let him get away with murder, just like the dog.

“Oh, goodness!” says Marsha. “That was lovely! Sounds like you’re having fun.”

“We’re fine, but I still think you should be here with us,” Karen says.

Marsha’s hand waves dismissively in front of her, as though they can see her. “Don’t worry so much.”

“It’s not good to be alone on Christmas. Especially this one. You should be with family,” says Justin.

“I’m fine, sweetheart.”

“Do you want us to come get you?” Karen asks. “Justin could be there in a couple of hours. The bird is huge. Pack a bag, stay a few days.”

“No, really. I have plans.”

“Plans? Are you going out?”

“I’m having someone over.”

“One of your girlfriends?”

“No,” Marsha says.

“Oooooh,” trills Karen. “Anything we should know about?”

“Not yet.”

Not yet? Not yet?

“Well, if you’re sure you’re O.K. ...”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Oh — there’s my doorbell. Must dash! Love you!”

Marsha kiss-kisses into the receiver and hangs up. She pauses to clip her earring back on (thank God she hasn’t completely lost her mind) and stops in front of the hall mirror long enough to fluff her hair. When she opens the door, my business partner is behind it.

Morty? What does Morty want with my wife on Christmas? He’s Jewish, for crying out loud.

Morty struggles out of his coat and drapes it across the hall chair in an overly familiar gesture. When he leans in to kiss her and dangles his stubbly neck wattle over me, I want to throw up. He has Old Spice stink lines rising off him. “Merry Christmas to my beautiful business partner!” he says, pressing a wrapped gift into her hands.

His bug eyes flash. He reaches out and mauls me with fat sausage fingers. Hey, Marsha? You want to get a clue? The bastard’s looking at your cleavage. Which you apparently powdered.

“So that’s him, is it?”

“It is.”

“I thought you said it was a diamond.”

“It is a diamond.”

“It’s yellow.”

“They come in yellow, blue, or red. I liked the blue better, but it takes longer and I’d already waited 26 weeks.”

“Diamonds are supposed to be clear.”

“It has something to do with the remains.”

“Huh,” Morty ponders. “How big is it?”

“Just under a carat.”

“Really? I’m surprised. Norm wasn’t exactly a small man ...”

And just who’s talking, Mr. Porkster? Checked a mirror lately? You haven’t missed a meal in 76 years.

“The longer the remains are in the press the bigger the diamond, but I wanted it for Christmas. It’s the only jewelry I ever got from him.”

I beg your pardon? Are you forgetting your wedding ring? Maybe it’s not the biggest, but it’s all I could afford at the time. I know I said I’d replace it one day, but by then we were married and I figured I didn’t need to impress you anymore. O.K., O.K., maybe I should have replaced the diamond. But can you please not complain to Morty, of all people? Sweet Jesus, woman.

She shows him into the kitchen and ladles steaming mulled wine into garish mugs with snowmen painted on them. From the Home Shopping Network, no doubt. Barney crashes down from the table and greets Morty, who goes to great pains to pretend to like him, even crouching on the floor. He struggles to his feet when Marsha hands him a mug garnished with a cinnamon stick.

I had forgotten just what a bore Morty could be. Through the rest of the preparation and halfway through dinner he hardly lets her get a word in edgewise, what with yammering about his condo in Florida, his sons and their children, his sailboat, the marvelous life he’s built. Just when I’m finally managing to tune him out the old son-of-a-gun comes up with, “We could be more than business partners, Marsha.”

I want to kill him. I want to leap from her throat and wrap around his and twist, twist, twist until his eyes pop and his tongue swells blue and his skin is black.

Marsha drops her eyes. “Please, Morty. It’s only been six months.”

Yes. That’s my girl —

“My Becca’s been gone four years. Life is short, and let’s face it, we’re not getting any younger.” He reaches across the table and snags the tips of my wife’s fingers. She doesn’t pull away. “Becca always said that if she went first she wanted me to find someone else. I’m sure Norm wouldn’t want you to be alone.”

Speak for yourself, Buster! And Marsha! For God’s sake, we played bridge with Morty and Becca for 40 years! He’s after the other half of the business is what. He doesn’t want you.

“I could get you a real diamond. A clear diamond.” He raises one of those Donald Trump eyebrows, and I suddenly realize Marsha is not the only one dyeing her hair.

Marsha withdraws her hand. “Goodness.” She folds her hands in her lap, where Barney’s massive head is resting. Then she rises. “I’ll be right back.”

“Marsha —”

“I have to check the pudding.”

IN the kitchen, she stands in front of the microwave, staring at her reflection in the glass. She brings her hands to her cheeks and holds them there, breathing heavily.

I could kill him for upsetting her. He’s my business partner, for crying out loud. You don’t go after your partner’s wife. I know she’s lovely. She always has been. I can’t say I care for the blond hair, but she could still pass for 60 in the right light. I hope I told her enough. I think I did, but what do I know? I never knew she held a grudge about the diamond, and now Morty’s in my dining room putting the moves on her. All these years you think you know someone.

Marsha drops her hands so they cup the back of her neck. Then she tips her head back and closes her eyes. Poor ditzy Marsha — probably thought she was doing a good deed, inviting lonely old Mort over on a holiday, never even thinking that for him it isn’t a holiday.

All of a sudden I’m swooping down toward the counter. It takes me a moment to process that she’s taken me off — I’m still getting used to the facets, and to complicate matters she covers me with her hand. Oh, and she’s set me in a puddle of congealed gravy. Nice.

“I’m sorry, Norm. I don’t want you to see this,” she whispers.

Say what? You don’t want me to see what?

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. For a moment I think she’s going to put me back on, but then she straightens her dress and disappears around the corner.

I hear the scraping of table legs across the floor and the muffled sounds of conversation. The pitch rises and falls: he pleads, she responds, and not with as much conviction as I’d like, either. I’m trying desperately to make out the words but it’s hard because stupid Barney’s nails are click-click-clicking toward the kitchen. He’s roaming unattended.

And here he is, and I do mean right here — the broad yellow forehead, the disgusting nose, the dopey eyes and eraser-pink tongue swooping, arcing past and rasping against the dried gravy. Then all is a jumbled, swirling riot of rank, metallic breath, browned teeth and wet mucosa.

I’m halfway down before I realize. My chain must be trailing because he gags — his throat muscles contract around me and I wonder briefly if this is what birth feels like — and then I’m enveloped by churning blackness.

Behind the monstrous symphony of Barney’s guts is a muffled trill of laughter, and the tinkle of cutlery on fine bone china.

Sara Gruen is the author, most recently, of “Water for Elephants.’’



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Friday, December 22, 2006

Art of Conversation

The art of conversation

Chattering classes

Dec 19th 2006
From The Economist print edition

The rules for verbal exchanges are surprisingly enduring


Bridgeman

SIR ISAIAH BERLIN, a Latvian-born Oxford philosopher who died in 1997, may well have ranked among the greatest conversationalists who ever lived. According to Robert Darnton, a Princeton historian, Berlin's friends would “watch him as if he were a trapeze artist, soaring through every imaginable subject, spinning, flipping, hanging by his heels and without a touch of showmanship”. Darnton reckoned that Berlin's only match in relatively modern times might have been Denis Diderot, an 18th-century French Enlightenment philosopher. By one account Diderot's conversation was “enlivened by absolute sincerity, subtle without obscurity, varied in its forms, dazzling in its flights of imagination, fertile in ideas and in its capacity to inspire ideas in others. One let oneself drift along with it for hours at a time, as if one were gliding down a fresh and limpid river, whose banks were adorned with rich estates and beautiful houses.”

Churchill was another magnificent talker, perhaps the greatest of the 20th century, but often a poor listener. Virginia Woolf was given, in the words of one biographer, to “wonderful performances in conversation, spinning off into fantastic fabrications while everyone sat around and, as it were, applauded”. A short list of the greatest living conversationalists in English would probably have to include Christopher Hitchens, Sir Patrick Leigh Fermor, Sir Tom Stoppard, Studs Terkel and Gore Vidal.

Great brilliance, fantastic powers of recall and quick wit are clearly valuable in sustaining conversation at these cosmic levels. Charm may be helpful too—although Samuel Johnson, one of the most admired conversationalists of 18th-century England, seemed to manage without much of it. For those of more modest accomplishments, but attached to conversation as one of life's pleasures and necessary skills, there is a lively market in manuals and tip-sheets going back almost 500 years, and a legacy of wisdom with an even longer history. One striking thing about the advice is how consistent it remains over time, suggesting that there are real rights and wrongs in conversation, not just local conventions.

The principle that it is rude to interrupt another speaker goes back at least to Cicero, writing in 44BC, who said that good conversation required “alternation” among participants. In his essay “On Duties”, Cicero remarked that nobody, to his knowledge, had yet set down the rules for ordinary conversation, though many had done so for public speaking. He had a shot at it himself, and quickly arrived at the sort of list that self-help authors have been echoing ever since. The rules we learn from Cicero are these: speak clearly; speak easily but not too much, especially when others want their turn; do not interrupt; be courteous; deal seriously with serious matters and gracefully with lighter ones; never criticise people behind their backs; stick to subjects of general interest; do not talk about yourself; and, above all, never lose your temper.

Probably only two cardinal rules were lacking from Cicero's list: remember people's names, and be a good listener. Each of these pieces of advice also has a long pedigree. At a pinch you might trace the point about names back to Plato. Both found a persuasive modern advocate in Dale Carnegie, a teacher of public speaking who decided in 1936 that Americans needed educating more broadly in “the fine art of getting along”. His book “How to Win Friends and Influence People” is still in print 70 years later and has sold 15m copies. To remember names, and to listen well, are two of Carnegie's “six ways to make people like you”. The others are to become genuinely interested in other people; smile; talk in terms of the other person's interests; and make the other person feel important.

Cicero's rules of conversation seem to have been fairly common across cultures as well as time, if varying in strictness. It might reasonably be said that Italians are more tolerant of interruption, Americans of contradiction and the English of formality, for example. These rules of conversation also intersect with those of politeness more generally, as formulated by two American linguists, Penelope Brown and Steven Levinson, the pioneers of “politeness theory”.

Courtesy counts

The Brown and Levinson model says, roughly speaking, that Person A probably does not want to be rude to Person B, but in the way of things, life may sometimes require Person A to contradict or intrude on Person B, and when that happens, Person A has a range of “politeness strategies” to draw on. There are four main possibilities, given in ascending order of politeness. The first is a “bald, on-record” approach: “I'm going to shut the window.” The second is positive politeness, or a show of respect: “I'm going to shut the window, is that OK?” The third is negative politeness, which presumes that the request will be an intrusion or an inconvenience: “I'm sorry to disturb you, but I want to shut the window.” The fourth is an indirect strategy which does not insist on a course of action at all: “Gosh, it's cold in here.”

The first three of those options are plain instrumental speech, and are the sort of approaches that the conversation manuals warn you against. The fourth one alone leads into the realm of conversation as such. Here the purpose of speaking is not so much to get a point across, more to find out what others think about it. This principle of co-operation is one of the things that sets conversation apart from other superficially similar activities such as lectures, debates, arguments and meetings. Other qualities which help to define conversation include the equal distribution of speaker rights; mutual respect among speakers; spontaneity and informality; and a non-businesslike ambience. The last of these was well caught by Johnson when he defined conversation as “talk beyond that which is necessary to the purposes of actual business”.

If conversation, and politeness, do have common features across time and culture, it is not all that surprising that newer manuals will find little to add in terms of fundamental principles. They can, however, offer specific tips which are useful in the right circumstances, and these, too, change little with the years. “Never recount your dreams in public,” wrote the anonymous author of “Maximes de la Bienséance en la Conversation”, one of the first manuals of conversation published in France, in 1618. Margaret Shepherd, author of “The Art of Civilized Conversation”, a manual published in America in 2006, offers the same prohibition. Among the ill-judged remarks that she calls “saboteurs of small talk”, she includes “self-absorbed comments like ‘I had the strangest dream. You were in it. Uh, let me try to remember it’.”

The more modern the manual of conversation, the more concrete its advice is likely to be. Ms Shepherd offers seven quick ways to tell if you are boring your listeners, which include: “Never speak uninterrupted for more than four minutes at a time” and “If you are the only person who still has a plate full of food, stop talking.” Her checklist of things best not said to the parent of a newborn baby should be memorised for future use. It comprises: “What's wrong with his nose?” “Should he be that colour?” “Isn't he awfully small?” “Shouldn't you be breast-feeding?” “Did you want a boy?” “Is he a good baby?” “He looks like Churchill!/She looks like ET!” “It's really cute!”

It is easy enough to see the usefulness of such tips, but they capture none of the joy which comes from the mastery of conversation. For enthusiasts conversation is an art, one of the great pleasures of life, even the basis of civilised society. Mme de Staël, a great talker and intellectual of the French ancien régime, called conversation “a means of reciprocally and rapidly giving one another pleasure; of speaking just as quickly as one thinks; of spontaneously enjoying one's self; of being applauded without working...[A] sort of electricity that causes sparks to fly, and that relieves some people of the burden of their excess vivacity and awakens others from a state of painful apathy”.

The Athens of Socrates and Plato, in the 5th and 4th centuries BC, is often seen as home to a first golden age of conversation. That view has relied mainly on the writings of Plato, whose dialogues, often with Socrates as speaker, constitute “a search among friends...for the divine ideas of the true, the beautiful, the good”, says a modern French scholar, Marc Fumaroli.

Bridgeman Old French masters

The second golden age of conversation, among the French elites in the late 17th and early 18th centuries, is much better documented. Historians associate the rise of conversation at this time with the prestige enjoyed by women in French high society, which was perhaps unique in Europe before or since. Women ran the salons where the culture of the time was created, and their presence civilised the men they invited there. Another factor was the leisure forced on the French aristocracy by an absolute monarchy. Their political ambitions thwarted, the upper classes turned their energies towards entertaining themselves. A man without conversation was liable to find himself devalued, whatever his other qualities: “In England it was enough that Newton was the greatest mathematician of the century,” wrote Jean d'Alembert, a French philosopher and mathematician; “in France he would have been expected to be agreeable too.”

The conversation of the French salons and dinner tables became as stylised as a ballet. The basic skills brought to the table were expected to include politesseesprit (wit), galanterie (gallantry), complaisanceenjouement (cheerfulness) and flatterie. More specific techniques would be required as the conversation took flight. A comic mood would require displays of raillerie (playful teasing), plaisanterie (joking), bons mots (epigrams), traits and pointes (rhetorical figures involving “subtle, unexpected wit”, according to Benedetta Craveri, a historian of the period), and, later, persiflage (mocking under the guise of praising). Even silences had to be finely judged. The Duc de La Rochefoucauld distinguished between an “eloquent” silence, a “mocking” silence and a “respectful” silence. The mastery of such “airs and tones”, he said, was “granted to few”. (sincere good manners), (obligingness),

Conversation was also flourishing across the channel in the early 18th century, but for a different reason. This was the golden age of the British coffee house. Whereas the French salon excluded politics from polite conversation, in the British coffee house politics was a main preoccupation. Foreign visitors remarked both on the free range of speech there and on the mingling of classes and professions. A modern German sociologist, Jürgen Habermas, linked the coffee houses with what he called the “rise of a public space” outside the control of the state, or, as we might say now, civil society.

Bridgeman

But if British liberals were keen on free speech, they were much less preoccupied than their French contemporaries were with its forms and flourishes. Dr Johnson was considered so great a talker that a contemporary compared his conversation to Titian's painting. But he also could sit stonily silent through a dinner that bored him, or contradict and interrupt in defiance of all common etiquette. Even Boswell, his devoted note-taker, acknowledged his “dogmatic roughness of manner”.

Strong and silent

Johnson was far from the only Englishman to have matched a love of conversation with a reputation for occasional difficult silences. As he himself said: “A Frenchman must always be talking, whether he knows anything of the matter or not; an Englishman is content when he has nothing to say.” In his book “Democracy in America”, Alexis de Tocqueville refers to the “strange unsociability and reserved and taciturn disposition of the English”. But for Charles Dickens, another foreign visitor to America in the 19th century, it was the Americans who seemed taciturn. He blamed this on a “love of trade”, which limited men's interests and made them reluctant to volunteer information for fear of tipping their hand to a competitor. The idealisation of silence remained strong in American culture into the 20th century: think of the laconic heroes of Western films, or of Hemingway's novels.

More recently it has been neither trade nor taciturnity, but the distractions of technology, which have seemed to threaten the quality of conversation. George Orwell complained in 1946 that “in very many English homes the radio is literally never turned off. This is done with a definite purpose. The music prevents the conversation from becoming serious or even coherent.” The television attracted similar comment when it became commonplace two decades later.

In 2006 an American essayist, Stephen Miller, published a book called “Conversation: A History of a Declining Art”, in which he worried that “neither digital music players nor computers were invented to help people avoid real conversation, but they have that effect.” A reviewer of Mr Miller's book found it “striking” that past generations would “speak of conversation as a way of taking pleasure, much as a modern American might speak of an evening spent browsing the internet”.

Bubbles Still talking

Conversation has survived worse challenges (Johnson thought it might be killed by a return of religious zealotry), and it will doubtless survive more. For evidence that it thrives still, go into any smart New York restaurant, where the noise level will be deafening. Or go into a Barnes & Noble or Borders bookshop and look at the shelves of manuals on how to talk better. Most of them are aimed at people who want to talk more persuasively and engagingly in order to get on in their careers, not at people who want to engage in conversation for the sheer pleasure it affords. But these motivations are far from exclusive. Making friends and influencing people, to borrow the language of Dale Carnegie, amount in the end to much the same thing. Both of them require charm, courtesy and the desire to understand the ideas and opinions of others. And whatever the strategic objective, those will never be bad tactics.



Check Out My Other Blogs (click on blog name to go there) = / 1.3rd Eye Blog / 2. Favorites Blog/ 3. Vita Excolatur (Living Well ...) Blog/ 4. Humor Me Blog/ 5. News and Current Events Blog/ 6. Consider This ... Blog/ 7. Consumer Warnings Blog/ 8. New Orleans Pentimento Blog/ 9. We Constant Gardeners Blog/ 10. Chaillot Family Blog/