Author: Bev

I frankly didn’t know this column title was a word, until….  My bestie gave to me two books about words, among other thoughtful gifts last Christmas.  She knows me so well.  One of the books introduced to me the word, edutainment.

All I can say about those two books about words is – watch out folks.  I’ve just been charged up.  New words are my version of an EV (electric vehicle), and I’ve just been plugged in.   I thusly don’t think I’ll ever be short on ideas for columns.

Edutainment is obviously a new word which combines the words education and entertainment; which is in itself called a portmanteau, a lovely word, don’t you think?  Now that I’ve been so enlightened by this one word, edutainment, I think my entire column should be so entitled.

Besides spewing what spills out of my brain each week, I think there is a twinkle of a goal to both entertain readers of said column, and educate or prevent you all from making the same mistakes I’ve made, or feeling bad about making them.  This is pure edutainment.

The thing about education is, it’s tumbling and compounding.  You learn one thing and it tumbles into another thing, and another, and another.  As En Vogue sang in 1992, “Free your mind, and the rest will follow.”  Observations of people and the compounding generalizations we make, drawn from life experiences, is what we in our household used to call edumacation.

As to entertainment, I hope to amuse you, divert your attention from the usual, and perhaps occupy your mind agreeably for just a moment of your day.  It would honor my dad’s storytelling legacy if I were to elicit a giggle, a chuckle, even an occasional snort, when you read these articles.

Thus, you may now refer to this, my one hundred fiftieth column, as Bev’s Weekly Edutainment, or not.  You may truly do what you want with the words that I heave in your direction each week.  Of course, I’m assuming that at least everybody in Bedford County, Pennsylvania, if not the world, via Facebook “shares” on the Internet, reads my column.

I’m not much of a follower.  I’m more likely the one over to the left or the right of the pack, daydreaming and meandering around thoughts and ideas, completely oblivious to who everybody else is following.

Social media (Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter), is overflowing with people accumulating friends and followers, like possessions.   On these platforms, we share our accomplishments, best selfies, information, marketing, and some sadness with the occasional obituary or prayer request.  A simple life with a few face-to-face friends, is on the downswing, in favor of amassing unknown and distant followers and admirers.  It’s no longer the twentieth century, Dorothy.

It used to be that just Jesus had followers.  But now it’s the goal of every Brittany Ann from Butte, and Kelsey from Kansas or Lily from Los Angeles to acquire followers.  This is usually on Twitter, on which I rarely post, or Instagram, which used to be a medium for photographs, but is now a popularity contest, and I have a few followers.  I follow no one.

If “influencers,” like the Brittany’s, Kelsey’s and Lily’s of the world, can accumulate followers in the millions, they’ve arrived.  Arrived where?  Fame or better yet, celebrity.  It’s not unheard of for a little one these days to answer,” famous,” when you ask them what they want to be when they grow up.

I read that to be famous or a celebrity is to be familiar to throngs, but without proximity.  We think we “know” celebrities because of this interview, that story, and their images pasted at billboard size all over the place.  But they do not know us from Adam.  There is no reciprocity in celebrity.

I guess I’m not that interested in being famous. I’m not at all enamored with the accumulation of followers or mounting up humongous numbers of friends on social media.  I will never know millions of people in person, and that’s fine with me.  I can barely keep up with the few intimates, friends, and acquaintances I have in my life, now.

About information and education, the Internet was created to distribute information about everything, everywhere.  I think Amazon created its business model to mimic the world wide web.  Everything for everybody, all in one place.  So much information.

I wonder, is information the same as education, or knowledge, for that matter?  And, when does knowledge spill over to wisdom, or understanding?

Education is supposed to grow us into adults capable of functioning in the world around us, hopefully as contributors to a better world.  Having been so schooled, we are intended to walk the earth aware, prepared, discerning, enlightened, and more intelligent than when we were youngsters.

I received a liberal arts education, which supposedly, well, it did, broaden my understanding of a breadth and depth of information.  Brain science tells us that we retain only a fraction of all the knowledge presented to us.

However, all that information combined with experiences lived, might blessedly turn into something akin to wisdom.  I hope my words set into this format each week, contribute to your education, make you laugh or smirk, or grin or sigh, shake your head, but never turn the page too quickly. 

It’s my sincere desire that, me in the use of new or old words, and you in the acting out of those words, can together make this fireball of a planet a better place.  Cheers to another one hundred and fifty columns of edutainment.

I grew up with the picture book, The Little Engine That Could.  The story originated in the early twentieth century as a folk tale, the gist of which is optimism and fortitude.

As the story goes, all the big engines refused to come to the aid of the broken-down locomotive, pulling a long line of train cars over a mountain pass.  Only a small engine came forward to attempt the difficult rescue.

At each slow advance over difficult terrain, the little engine uttered the mantra, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.”  After surmounting the journey and having reached its destination, the little engine said, “I thought I could.”

I don’t know if this folk tale enhanced an already building work ethic in me and my generation when we were youngsters, but it may well have.  We were subtly taught that we could have what we wanted if we worked hard enough.  “Anyone can become the President of the United States,” was a common theme.

I wonder, not having received what I wanted, more than a few times in my lifetime, if getting what you want is all that it’s cracked up to be.  And, watching the aging generation ahead, who raised us, not being able to do what they want is prophetically palpable.

Perhaps it keeps us grounded to not be enabled to do everything that we want to do.  I know I’ve heard it said over and over again and I’ve said it myself, “If I had a million dollars, I would….”

I wonder if those things I’d do with a million dollars would hurt or hinder who I am and who I should be.  How about, “I’d relieve your pain, your distress, your sadness, if I could.”  But, I can’t. 

There’s a saying taped to my desktop computer monitor, reinforcing the truth that I’m not God and I can’t fix everything that’s wrong in my world, as much as I want to.  “You can’t heal people you love.  You can’t make choices for them.  You can’t rescue them.  You can promise that they won’t journey alone.  You can loan them your map.  But this trip is theirs.”

It may be that we’re not meant to have everything we want, or fix everything that’s broken, for that matter.  Where would I be if I had done what I wanted, every time I wanted it?

I kind of think that when we don’t get what we want, we edit.  We use the creative juices inside us to change what we want.  How many of us, college bound had an idea what we wanted to major in?  Then, how many of us changed our minds, maybe a few times?

Picasso said, “if I don’t have red, I use blue.”  That’s optimism and fortitude as surely as is, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.”

There’s something encouraging to those of us who are losing the generation who raised us, and becoming less able to do what we want, or what we used to do, how we used to do it.  It’s the simple truth that life is ten percent what happens to us and ninety percent how we react to it. 

For example, if I can’t walk as steady on my feet as I used to, by golly I’m gonna get me a Mercedes-Benz walker and push that puppy in front of me at speed, dude.  In fact, let’s have walker races.

If I can’t eat greens, let’s try oranges.  If I’m unsteady, use it as an excuse to hold someone’s hand.  If I lose a friend, maybe I can make a new one.

It’s all a matter of attitude and that Little Engine That Could spirit of optimism, strong work ethic, and sticking to it.  “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can,” how about you?

I follow the activities of the British royals.  Some folks around the U.K. and their Commonwealth of Nations, believe the royals owe them because of the massive perks they receive in lifestyle and wealth which is way beyond what most of the populace would dream of.

I like their sense of service, born out by the concept of noblesse oblige, or nobility obliges.  They truly live to serve others.  They might perform their service in more expensive and flashier clothing than any of us might wear when in service; but service it is and for them it’s their life’s work.

Lately, I’m especially interested in Catherine, the Princess of Wales’s new Shaping Us Campaign of Early Childhood.  Much of my psychology and sociology study has focused on human development, and as it goes,” the earlier the better.”

What the Princess is trying to do with her work on this campaign is to affect the nurture part of our early years.  Presumably there’s not much we can do about what “God gave us,” or the nature part of the growth and development equation.  This is debatable, but it’s a debate for others more educated in biology than this writer.

I’m more able and willing to pontificate about nurture.   For instance, it’s observable by everyone who hasn’t lived under a rock since birth, that people love to give credit to their parents for the good stuff they “inherited,” and blame them for the bad stuff. 

It’s my personal theory that Benjamin Franklin’s statement that nothing is certain but death and taxes doesn’t go far enough.  I think the inevitables are death, taxes and blame.  Maybe not everybody succumbs, but most of us want to blame somebody for “what’s wrong,” in our lives.

I also think that there’s a third factor beyond nature and nurture, that determines who we become as adults.  It’s the trinity of me, myself, and I.  Some stuff can only be attributed to my reaction to my environment, upbringing, circumstances, beliefs-held, physiological makeup, etc.

And, funnily those traits that skip a generation or two, but someone in the misty-distant past in the line of descent, triggered the same stuff in me.  It’s called atavism, and that’s fun.

Now, I’ve clearly got some stuff from my parents.  Back in the day, my dad, a carpenter, would have been characterized a blue-collar worker vs. a suit (white-collar worker).  He worked hard and believed everybody should do the same.

I learned from Dad, a work ethic.  I will work on a hands-on project until either I’m exhausted or the job is finished.  That’s all there is to it.

Dad’s go-get ‘em physicality probably carries over into my health and workout regime.  But my doctor has worked on me for years to be aware that my mom’s diabetes might be lurking in my aura.  If I’m calling it like it is, that factors mightily into my exercise-or-diabetes fear.   Thanks doc.

It’s obvious to anyone who knew my mom and knows me that I got her sarcasm, dry sense of humor, seriousness, and tendency toward the cerebral.  These traits go together and cannot be separated, in my opinion.

I’ve always described this combo of traits as “kindly sarcasm,” not the mean stuff.  It’s best exemplified in the phrase, “are you kidding,” which is not a question but a sarcastic comment about something I think is inconceivable, unimaginable or just plain stupid.

My mom also passed along her propensity for attention to detail, to put it mildly.  She was known to write on the back of a photograph, a comprehensive biography of the person(s) pictured, including their full name of first, middle, last, married, and nickname, which resembles either that of royals or pedigree dogs entering a dog show.

You’d think that with all that detail, mom would have attended to dusting.  But, not so much.  She avoided it like the plague that it is, and so do I.  Go, mom.

My dad loved the woods.  So, do I.  I grew up with a pine forest in my back yard, oaks in the side yard, a creek down below, a corn field beside the lane, apple trees along the lane, lilacs and concord grape vines outside the back door, etc.  I like trees and quiet, vines, plants, and dirt.  Thank you, dad.

It’s not all mom and dad who bequeathed traits to the kids.  If you have older siblings, and I’m blessed with a number of them, you inherit a fair amount of stuff from them as well.  Thanks guys for your contribution to my life.  You all rock, in your own way.

How in the world did I get my unquenchable desire for travel, mostly to European or Canadian destinations?  And, I inordinately dislike collecting and hoarding stuff, to the degree that I have thrown useful stuff out or given stuff away when I later clearly could have used it, worn it, or repurposed it.

All I know is, we should all be cognizant that hand-me-downs are inevitable.  We receive traits from who they are and what they did, by example and by genes.  Importantly, however, we can choose to enhance the good stuff that we got from our parents and our culture, and we can diffuse and refuse the bad stuff. 

So, let’s just go with God, and what we’ve got.

Once upon a time I earned a bachelor of science degree in psychology, and ever since then I’ve been fascinated with the science of proving or disproving one hypothesis or another.  I continually ask, are my theories about thus and such, right or wrong?

Everybody likes to be right, but admitting you’re wrong is another matter altogether.  However, the integrity of science demands that when you’re wrong, you freely acknowledge it and explain why.  Being wrong is just as important to the advancement of knowledge as is being right.

It occurs to me that few woke folks will admit they’re wrong.  But sleepy saints are just as guilty of thinking they’re right about everything.

Admitting that we’re wrong about something is clearly an issue of humility and not with the integrity of the scientific method.  I wonder if in order for society to move forward, we need a massive infusion of humble leadership rather than throwing more and more money at our societal problems.

Is a leader who says, “I got that wrong,” and sacrificially takes measures to correct their mistakes, a more valued leader, for their humility?  Or do we prefer the leader who arrogantly plows through the will of those they represent, with their own interests for personal profit and aggrandizement?

“Am I right or am I wrong?”  This reminds me of an old blues song, but also of leaders and followers, generally; which reminds me of the metaphor of sheep and shepherds, accompanied by the well-known Psalm 23 poem by David, the Shepherd and would-be King.

I observed a Facebook post where a friend was insulted for being a dumb sheep for following a certain leader, not to the bully’s liking.  My friend defended himself with a few facts as his weapon.

My reaction to this post was readiness to fight the bully of sheep everywhere, and punch that particular bully in the face.  So much for right and wrong.

After quickly checking my fantasy-behavior, I formed a hypothesis about it not being the sheep’s fault for following the only reasonably protective shepherd they’ve had.  Instead, it’s the shepherd’s fault for leading his sheep astray.

Having had family history raising sheep, the sheep metaphors from Psalm 23 vividly instruct “we, like sheep…”.  Like most people who grew up in the church, I memorized the twenty-third Psalm at a young age.

Psalm 23 is an uncanny metaphor for people.  It’s a love poem from sheep to shepherd.  The comparisons between the behaviors and characteristics of sheep and people, shepherds and leaders, is remarkable.

The twenty-third Psalm is comforting.  Why?  Because it depicts a benevolent leader who’s got your back and will never see you hurt or in danger, without his or her support. 

It seems to me that sheep are widely disparaged for blindly following their leader, whose sole purpose is to guide, direct, coach, nurture, protect, teach, and incentivize those in their charge.  To say someone is just a dumb sheep is really telling them that they have an unworthy leader. 

Sheep are not dumb, nor are most people, but we are vulnerable creatures if not nurtured, protected, cared for and led by a loving shepherd or leader.  Maybe you’ll recognize some people you know in these sheep metaphors, from Psalm 23:

Sheep can’t raise themselves.  They need a shepherd/leader.

Sheep cannot lie down in green pastures unless they’re free of fear.  There is much to be afraid of when you have no defenses but to run.  A fearful sheep can literally run itself to death.

Sheep can literally be bugged to death with un-anointed heads.  Rest cannot come when insects are buzzing incessantly around your head.  Have you ever been “driven to distraction” by something bugging you?

Sheep are creatures of habit and if not led and managed by a kindly shepherd, will follow the same trail over and over until it’s a rut and the land is decimated.  Some of us resist change, even if it’s for the better.

On the other hand, sheep leave behind the most beneficial manure to the land, of any livestock.  They also eat all manner of weeds; so, with diligent shepherding they can renew the land on which they graze.

Rams are competitive.  They’ll butt their rivals to death, vying for top status unless a shepherd is present to put a stop to such shenanigans.

Sheep that are too fat or with bounteous wool can topple over onto their backs, called “casting,” and are unable to get up.  They will die unless rescued and shorn by their shepherd.

Most sheep resist the shearing process and the more contrary among them, receive wounds from kicking back, not knowing it’s for their safety and benefit.  You’d think they were being tortured to see a sheep being sheared.

There are always a few sheep, often ewes, that repeatedly wander away from the flock.  Such ewes teach their lambs this bad habit, putting themselves and their offspring into the dangerous position of being picked off by predators, just waiting for the opportunity.

Again and again, the attentive shepherd leaves the flock to bring these sheep back to the fold.  “We, like sheep, have gone astray, each unto his own way…”.

Realistically, we, like sheep, have to pass through the valley of adversity in order to reach the high tableland or mountain of summer delight.  However, sheep aren’t in fear of falling from the steep paths, and people aren’t afraid to make mistakes, if their shepherd and leader are within bleating distance to catch and correct them.

Sheep are visibly content, safe and loyal when the shepherd/leader is present and attentive.  An absent shepherd means unruly, unhealthy, discontented sheep that don’t thrive.

Experience teaches us that beneficial change sees its way through the moments of chaos and desperation, if you wait for it.  Let me ask this in conclusion, who’s your shepherd?  And, what kind of sheep are you?

(refer to- “A Shepherd Looks at Psalm 23” by W. Phillip Keller)

My father-in-law was a practical man of few words, a “just the facts” kind of man.  When he retired and spent much of his time meandering around the county, us kids used to accuse him of wandering aimlessly.  He replied to our chides with, “I have purpose.”

Okay, so this brings me to the many meanings of the word and concept of meandering.  Sometimes my brain is an alliteration machine so I wonder is meandering just messing about?  Is meandering, mixed up?  Maybe meandering is courting moonbeams.

If meandering is wandering about, I wonder if it’s also about wonder, and curiosity, and thinking and thought, as much as it is wandering in the vagabond sense.  When we hear our back property alarm sounding, we usually know our younger cat is meandering and it usually worries me because you know what they say about curiosity and cats.

I think meandering must look visually like the way creative people think.  It’s a circular and random pattern rather than a linear one that’s easily understood.  Meandering might be a ridiculously scattered and winding foray on the way from here to there.

Around what, do we meander?  What is the center that we’re traversing?

Is meandering the fact that there is no point or focus?  Or is meandering the very best of complex thought?

Meandering seems the very definition of internet culture.  You can’t just look up one thing, on the internet.  You’ve heard of click-bait.  We all get distracted when looking up something on Google, or Bing, or whatnot.  One thing leads to another then to another, infinitum.

I wonder if meandering is simply living in “what’s next” mode?  I don’t really know, but what I do know is, the word, meandering describes something inherent in my personality.

The origins of the word, meander, is from the Greek, maiandros, specifically referring to the Menderes River, noted for its winding course.  So meandering, as my father-in-law knew, is not only wandering about without definite aim.  More-so, I think that meandering is following a winding, curved, intricate, and indefinite course.

In our traipsing about, my husband and I are known to take the long way around to get where we’re going.  It’s our way of enjoying the journey.  We avoid interstates and freeways, selecting sinuous roads that have character.

We’ve seen many a moving landscape on our road trips, going from an ordinary here, to a commonplace there.  Just by taking the circuitous route in our life’s journey, we’ve seen things that are just not there on the straight, faster way.

Speaking of seeing things, the most intimate way to see a landscape is to ditch the vehicle and peregrinate or traverse it on foot.  I would like to take every person who litters for a walk with me.  It’s a wholly different view when you’re walking between a road and its natural berm than speeding along a highway with your eye trained toward your destination, a human GPS tracker.

As confusing as a highway roundabout can be, it’s never boring and there’s something freeing about rambling, roving, and roaming around the center of a town, city or village, to the outskirts.  Roundabout is part and parcel of my essay-writing style.  I circle around a concept, knowing all along that I’ll get back on topic sooner or later.  But there’s so much more to investigate between here and there.  Twists and turns, bends and forks in the journey, are where the wonder is.

Going the long way was frowned upon when I was growing up.  It was called gallivanting, and it wasn’t economical as to time.  It was cheaper to take the direct route, but I preferred the “back road.”  So, it’s possible that people of a utilitarian nature, find meandering, a waste of time.

Au contraire my beloved, meandering is where the meat of the meal, is. Try it.

Extravagate beyond the wall of your closed and customary choices.  Roam a bit beyond the bounds of your reasonable point of view.

Expand your comfort zone and go to a joint or a dive instead of a restaurant for lunch.  Drive through the city instead of around it.  Go to an art museum after the ballgame.

Take a drive down an unfamiliar road, just to see what’s there.  Meander a little and let becoming rich with wonder, be your purpose.

Having been academically trained in both sociology and psychology, I don’t know who to be angry with when venting my frustrations: myself or the bureaucratic systems with which I interact.  May I start with the postal and delivery bureaucracy?

Our business, my husband and mine, uses some digital delivery but we have and do rely on traditional package delivery for the bulk of our product delivery.  Ninety nine percent of the time this goes without a hitch, thank you.

However, a certain delivery company has befuddled me off and on for about a year.  I’ve rarely had to use them but on occasion a customer requests them.  Thrice now, we’ve had problems with what appears on the surface like it should be a fluid process of online shipping.  Appearances deceive.

I admit that I have made mistakes in the past with their online forms.  I input an incorrect customer billing account number.  I paid, specifically eighteen dollars, for that mistake.  They were going to charge me thirty-six dollars but forgave me eighteen, one time and one time only, after I pitched a fit.

I vowed I’d never make that mistake again.  But I am a smidge leery now when completing those online forms.  Having made that unnecessarily costly mistake, I’m very careful now.

So, I went into a royal tizzy when the delivery driver one day shortly after the holidays, handed me a package that I had diligently sent, nearly a week prior.  I momentarily expected him to hand me a gift or something nice that I had ordered.  But this can’t be!

Why was it returned?  Stamped all over my original label was something like, “incorrect street address, undeliverable.”  I feared déjà vu, and panicked a little; had I made another mistake?

I spent the rest of my day making phone call after call, trying to sort this out between my customer, and the delivery company.  I minutely observed the company’s webpage containing details of my shipment, double checking account numbers and alternate addresses.  All day, mind you.

I’m like a dog with a bone when there’s a problem to be dealt with.  Until it’s solved, I’m on the job.

With that particular problem, it was the company bureaucracy gone awry.  Plain and simple.  They claimed the address on our label was incorrect.  But my customer confirmed it was indeed their correct address and they receive deliveries all the time at that address.

So, at their behest, we switched out labels and sent the package again, with an apology and a “we’ll delete that first label and bill.”  The package was delivered a few days hence without further incident.

You understand my trepidation when yet another customer asks us to use that delivery company.  It was too soon, after the first trauma, ha-ha.

But I carefully and diligently packaged the product, presented it at the front door, alongside packages for two other delivery companies, and carried on with my day.  Don’t you know that package laid there overnight and was never picked up.

Oh, my heavenly goodness, geez and golly!  I can think of no more, even half-way civil ways to express my dismay.  Un-believable.

I knew it wasn’t a good idea to start my morning with a phone call to that company, but everything I could do online was exhausted.   I started the call armed with pickup and tracking confirmation numbers on my computer screen, and the best and most hopeful and positive attitude I could muster.

I kind of held my breath and dialed.  Here goes.

I hung up and started over a few times because I got stuck when guessing which number to push, in the automated system.  This time, right away I demanded a representative or agent or whatever they call a human being.

Not sure I was happy with the person I got, I really tried to stay positive and calm.  I remember making myself speak slowly, softly and stick to the facts.

After supplying those numbers on my screen along with confirming the addressee’s details – don’t ask me what that had to do with not picking up the package – she came back with, “I can’t confirm that pickup.  Our system doesn’t recognize those numbers.  If you can find a driver or deliver it to a pickup site you can send it that way.”

I could feel my blood pressure rising and I automatically deep breathed.  I said quite factually, “your system generated those numbers, how can your system not recognize the numbers it generated?”  I then suggested, I thought quite reasonably, that she cancels their bogus pickup and unrecognizable numbers and generate a brand-new pickup for this package.  She said, “well that will be another $10.49.”

I truly couldn’t believe what was happening in that moment.  I felt myself losing, my now fragile mental health.

I started to raise my voice.  You know how you do that because something inside you thinks they surely didn’t understand or hear you during the last fifteen minutes.  So, you get louder in hopes that they will get it through a bolder delivery method.

“Are you kidding me,” I shrieked.  “Your company shows on my history page on your website, a pickup number which your company now says it doesn’t recognize and you want me to pay you more money to correct your error in giving me a bogus pickup number, to give me a viable pickup umber?  I think I need to speak to a supervisor.”

She said the only thing anyone could do there is suggest that we find a driver or delivery store nearby.  Hang up.

Later in the day, we found a driver in the parking lot next door.  Can you say, never again!

What to do with the spares?  Some people just don’t like leftovers.  If you’ve got an extra part, do you hold on to it or not?  Spare parts are easy to give away If they’re free of charge, as in the French, lagniappe.

As to spare parts, they might be on the shelf, as surplus, but we keep them, just in case.  They’re held in reserve, as a backup.

When putting anything together isn’t there always at least one spare part?  What are we supposed to do with the spares?  Is there a place for spares in the world? 

IKEA furniture is notoriously complicated to put together.  It might have something to do with the “rules for assembly,” which require some interpretation.  No wonder there’s a spare part or two left over when you’re finished.

We Americans don’t naturally take to being told how to live our lives, pioneers that we are.  We pitched-out the rule-book, long ago.

But when you’re from a centuries old royal family that has rules for geniture and pretty much everything else, their hierarchy demands that you live a certain way.  I think the feeling in that historical institution, family or not, is that the perks balance the inconveniences of being born royal, or marrying into the royal family.  It’s also known as noblesse oblige, or nobility obliges.

The late Queen Elizabeth, II set the standard for her family and those tied to the monarchy, regarding this moral obligation of those of high birth and in powerful positions.  It is their duty to behave with honor, kindliness, generosity, charity, and Christian virtue.  Working royals have jobs, tied to noblesse oblige.

There is a subtle expectation in America, as well, for those privileged with wealth and fame, to carry out noblesse oblige.  The Kennedy family comes to mind; and they paid a hefty price.

A few of the perks of royalty, fame, or celebrity, are recognition, admiration, and wealth.  The inconveniences are recognition or misunderstanding, admiration or the expectation of perfection, and wealth or lifestyle maintenance.

So, what if a person is spare?  Oh boy, Spare, the royal book of complaints and family drama amongst the privileged, jealous, ambitious, and leisured, has dropped.

I believe there is space for spares, just as there is a place for heirs.  Spare parts are dealt with in families, in convoluted ways.  I guess when you’re royal, you try to birth a spare heir, just in case.

“Don’t you have anything else to do” comes to mind when I say leisured, in reference to Prince Harry of the Sussex’s.  I get it, since he and his wife were cut off from British funds when they resigned from their family business, they had to make some big bucks in order to fund their fame.

Having already contracted for an extraordinary paycheck, after the first project, then another project, and another paycheck, from Netflix; they’re well on their way to funding their lifestyle.  However, with Spare now hitting the shelves, what’s not to sell, making a couple of notorious rich kids richer and their fame-hungry souls, more talked about?

Even if you’re the spare, it seems to me that there surely are more benevolent ways to work through the pain of your past, not to mention, to make money, than selling your family secrets, to the highest bidder.

I confess, I like a good memoir or biography; in fact, it’s my favorite genre.  However, I’m not so partial to tell-all’s.  They smack of revenge porn.  From the snippets being leaked from Spare, there are cringe-worthy stories in the book, that nobody should want to know about.  Can you say private?

And, airing the dirty laundry of your family, that’s just in poor taste.  I know the man had a ghost-writer, but perhaps he should have written in a pseudonym and classed it as a novel set in another time, place, and planet, even.

Is it even close to fair, for Harry to have so boldly and publicly told his side of the story when he knows full well, that it’s royal protocol for his family to “never complain, never explain;” therefore, they will not tell their side?  Patti Davis, the now-seventy-year-old child of a famous family has some advice for Prince Harry, “Be quiet.”

Davis also published a tell-all in her younger days, about the in-fighting and feuds of the Reagan family.  In her seasoned adulthood, she has said that her truth back in the day, was only one version of the truth, of which there are many versions depending on who is doing the telling.

“The other people who inhabit our story have their truths as well,” Davis said.  Her twenty-twenty hindsight, informs her to not have exposed the innermost secrets of her famous family, at least until she could “stand back and look at things through a wider lens.”

Davis continues in her wise, but certainly unheeded advice to Prince Harry, “Silence gives you room, it gives you distance and lets you look at your experiences more completely, without the temptation to even the score.”  She further says, “Not every truth has to be told to the entire world…  not everything needs to be shared, a truth that silence can teach.  Harry seems to have operated on the dictum that ‘Silence is not an option.’  I would, respectfully, suggest to him that it is.”

So, if you have a hankering to air your family’s dirty laundry, because you’re the spare, take Patti Davis’s advice and “Be Quiet.”  Sometimes it’s just better for everyone to keep your feelings of lack of appreciation or value, out of the public sphere.  Air your dirty laundry inside the fence, so to speak.

Perhaps you could metaphorically sit on your spare parts for a few years.  Let them mellow, and move on with your life.  Maybe you’ll find a use for those spare parts, or you won’t, and no harm’s been done.