Call Me Old Fashioned
by Calla J. Corner
I imagine that for many families who got together over Easter weekend there were some valuable teaching moments. Our family was no exception, when I lived with my husband, in Montecito.
Our daughter, son-in law, and three boys (twins aged seven and an eighteen-month-old) braved the traffic from Pacific Palisades, where they lived, to spend part of the long weekend with us. We had a lovely time and, as always, cherished the moments we spent together. All three boys seemed to have grown inches since we last saw them at Grandparents’ Day at their school.
What struck me most, however, was how they’d matured in other ways.
Yes, they were reading well (one of the twins even showed me his reading plan that would send him a free book when he’d read fifteen books – he had three more to go) and we had some hilarious reads together. We even did some math as they helped me make our traditional Sunday breakfast of lacy Swedish pancakes (pläta) just as my Swedish mother and grandmother made. Little brother could now eat our food, so we had to adjust upward the recipe by adding another third to the ingredients (equal portions of milk, eggs, melted butter, half a portion of flour with a pinch of salt). That cooking-math lesson was funny and instructive as the boys tried to decide who should get the third egg to break into the blender. “Lilly, you get it”, said one of the boys to me. The others agreed.
Call Them “Dudes”
The boys even showed me how much money they had earned watering the neighbor’s plants while they were away. One was saving his money for a toehold for his surfboard – the boys went to a surf camp in Malibu and won best campers prize for attitude as well as ability. One proudly told me,” Lilly, just call us dudes”.
Both boys volunteered to change little brother’s diapers when needed. Their mother paid them 25 cents each change. Boy did they do a bang-up job of it as their toddler brother lay still, giggling while his brother made a kind of game of it. Helping mom that way had added significantly to their piggy banks' balances. Granny thought the twins would make great future dads and entrepreneurs as they learned the value of good parenting, work (even if it’s smelly), and money, even if it’s seemingly small change, it adds up.
The best thing they taught me was how to do the new dance: “flossing.” Apparently a thirteen-year-old invented the dance that moves the hips and arms in opposite directions, just as one does with the tape when one flosses. It was a hoot as Lilly, unsuccessfully, tried to follow their moves. Apparently, the new dance craze had nothing to do with dentists, though it did remind kids to floss.
At one point I was able to get my granny grammatical two cents in as I pointed out the difference between “may I” and “can I” over pläta. One twin made an alliterative, scatological joke out of the difference – I leave that to the imagination. Nevertheless, they got a grammar lesson. I hoped it stuck. They’ve already had Lilly’s "Valley Talk" about using the word “like” only when they meant “like” to mean “like.” So far, so good on that one.
Torn Jeans, Tattoos, and Green Hair
That brings me to my last favorite lesson: My family knew what I thought about torn jeans (still do) and how I find nothing remotely attractive in this absurd fashion statement. I had written a story for my children and grandchildren about my distaste for the way torn jeans had become a symbol of our torn society. My disdain over the degrading of contemporary culture had now taken on tattoos as they took over so many humans’ bodies. I grew up with Popeye’s tattoo, so that says a lot about me. My father, an OWI war correspondent in CBI (China, Burma, India) spent three months on a Liberty ship getting from New York to Calcutta, zig-zagging the Pacific to avoid Japanese submarines, and never got a tattoo.
More and more I was caught off guard when I spotted an attractive face (male or female) only to see the mess they’ve made of their skin with tattoos. I wondered, What were they thinking, what were they hiding?
I chose my moment to ask what the twins thought of tattoos. Not much, it seems. “It hurts,” one told me. “And it even hurts more to have them removed,” I added. When I told the boys that people can’t go out in the sun for weeks after being tattooed and that some even get infected, they both promised me to never get tattooed. I didn’t mention that tattoos were part of Dude Culture.
While they were in the “listening to Lilly” zone, I asked them to promise me they’d never dye their hair blue, pink or green. “Call me old fashioned,” I started out. One of the twins interrupted me with: “That’s O.K. Lilly, I like you old fashioned.” What grandparent could ask for more?
Escape From L.A.
The twins are now 12 and their little brother is seven. They escaped L.A. during Covid, and their French school closed, to spend three years in Antibes (their father is a French cinematographer), where they went to school – French schools stayed open during Covid.
They have been in Australia now for two years, one hour north of Sydney. A big part of L.A.'s movie business has gone down under.
I FaceTimed with my family in Australia over Easter. The parents admit that academics are not as good as the French, but that their outdoor life and the safety of being in a small village make up for the scholastic discrepancy. All the boys surf and play golf.
My grandsons still have their own color hair and don't sport tattoos. But they are the only kids in school who don't have iPhones. "And it's going to stay that way,” my daughter insisted.
Could my old-fashioned views of parenting have made such an impression that my children are being saved by the lessons I learned as a child and passed on to them? Nancy Reagan said it best: “Just say NO!”
Yikes! Whoa, easy on the reins there, Katy. Poor Calla; she just wanted to relate a positive tale of generational communications. Instead, she is beat up and berated by an angry woman. Anyone who believes scarring their face or body with a pile of tattoos is "embracing alternate forms of expression" is fooling themselves. They're just dedicated followers of fashion and mostly will rue what they've done twenty or thirty years down the road. Unfortunately, those things don't come off as easily as bell bottoms. You go, Calla. Be proud that your grandchildren are listening to your common sense!
In the tattoo community we like to say that tattoos will attract people you'd like to get to know, and repel those you'd just as soon not meet. I've been tattooing in Santa Barbara for four decades, and consider the work I do an externalization of internal aesthetics. Sometimes they are memorials for a loved one, sometimes enthusiasm for ethnic identity, sometimes permanent jewelry or expressions of appreciation for the beauty in our natural world. They've been a part of the human experience forever, and there have always been judgemental people who disdain those who choose to have them. I'll be the first to agree that certain subject matter gives a very negative clue to the personality of the wearer, and to that point I personally won't tattoo any satanic or evil imagery. I'd rather not touch that person who chooses that dark path. But for the vast majority of tattooed people their epidermal embellishments are their own choice of something that means a lot to them. And I will guess that for every tattoo this author has seen and disliked there are dozens of people she knows who have tattoos they have not shown to her, because they are none of her business.