Christie explores a modern dilemma: is time saved actually time well spent?

The whole idea started when I was standing at my kitchen sink washing a badly blistered finger and cursing enough to make Snoop Dog blush. I had spent 30 minutes yanking the pull rope on my gas mower. The grass grew another half-inch while I over-exerted myself, sweat stinging my eyes and puffs of blue-reeking smoke burning my lungs. Enough! Gas mowers are supposed to save you time and effort. I dragged the dying beast to the curb, wrote “FREE” on a piece of cardboard and went inside to clean my wounds. The truck pulled up while I was at the sink. Sayonara El Toro.

I was not quite prepared for the clothes dryer to give a screech and die. Shall I buy another? Or shall I try and do without another time-saving machine of post-modern living?

It was about this time that friends passed along a wonderful read, Drinking The Rain written by Alix Kates Shulman. Ms. Shulman writes about her life and of her self-imposed exile to an extremely basic Maine Coast cabin. After a particularly stressful and difficult visit to the local store for food supplies she muses on “saving time/time-saving.” Her muse visited me. If I am saving time, who and what am I saving it for? Can time actually be saved? If you have been following the progression of quantum physics from string to membrane (or brane) theory to parallel universes you know we could go a lot of places with these questions.

Here’s what I have come to; time cannot be saved, it can only be spent. Brilliant!

I bought a pretty little push-mower. It is bright green and makes a throaty purring sound—like the noise when you stuck a plastic disc in your bike wheels. I can now spend my time mowing, morning, noon or night, without disturbing my neighbours. It is more labour intensive, but people passing by stop to ask about my natty little mower and I spend time responding enthusiastically to these enquiries.

I am hanging my clothes out to dry. They smell amazing and I am ridiculously happy spending time carefully folding sheets and towels into neat colourful piles. I make the time to take my rugs outside and give them a good beating on the deck. They look a lot cleaner than after vacuuming. And, I have a bicycle that can transport me to the local stores with ease. Oh, the wonder of the space-time continuum.

I am spending my time lavishly and extravagantly too; visiting friends old and new whenever the budget or opportunity permits. Gives whole new meaning to time well spent.

So to all my Big Spender friends who live miles away I say, “How about spending a little time with me?” The door is open, the spare bed is made-up, it’s time for a visit.

From “Bigotgate” to shades of Kennedy/Nixon, Christie Healey gives the play-by-play on the recent UK elections

As I sat eating my breakfast this morning, I thought of Mr. Brown. Gordon Brown, a man whose brilliant background in accountancy could not save him from miscalculation of the odds. I imagined him at the 10 Downing Street breakfast table last Friday, the eviction notice hovering in his mind. He must have thought, “Where did I go wrong? He waited years for this gig, suffering in silence while Tony bounced all over the world like Tigger only to be given the old heave ho at the first opportunity.

The last two weeks of the adorably short UK general election campaign have been nothing less than stunning. The changes for Mr. Brown were foretold upon England’s foray into that most American of primetime shows, “The Debates”. Our brusque-toned dour Scot was pitted against the Liberal Democrats’ youthful and articulate leader, Nick Clegg, who puffed deep breaths of fresh air into the stale clichés of British politics. Even the Conservatives’ front man, an urbane and typically toffee-nosed type, managed to look like one of the stars of Mad Men compared to the rumpled, haggard Mr. B.

More modern communication curses were heaped upon Brown’s brow when he learned first hand that an open mic is also deadly weapon. The press-op teatime with Mrs. Duffy, loyal Labour Party housewife, seemed to start out pleasantly, but seizing her righteous 15 minutes she launched into a racist rant against immigrants. Mr. B tried to soothe her with mumbled purrs of campaign speak. On the way back to the car, the real Gordy emerged and he entered into a rant of his own, calling Mrs. Duffy a bigoted woman and heaping scorn upon his handlers, with the mic still clipped to his lapel in the “on” position. The listening press corps experienced mass spontaneous orgasm over “Bigotgate”.

The election resulted in a hung parliament because the magic number of seats that any party has to attain is 326. Despite the expected resurgence of the Conservatives they only got 306, Labour squeaked out 258, the LibDems have 57. Which means that Labour and the Conservatives must woo the LibDems to reach the winning number. Whoever gets to first base with Nick Clegg will be Prime Minister in a coalition government. The LibDems are usually more attracted to the brawny workers of the Labour Party, but that cunning little minx leader of theirs decided to go all the way with Conservative David Cameron who has just become England’s youngest Prime Minister. This is getting more and more like an episode of Mad Men!

In England we say we elect the party, not the person. If you believe that, then I have some amazing old Houses on the banks of the Thames to sell you. Judging from the press reports, no one was prepared for how Kennedy/Nixon the debates were destined to become. Obviously, we do now care very much about the person. Not that an Armani suit, a good haircut and some subtle face-lifting would have saved our single-malt Scot. His fate was sealed with his belief that he was entitled to the job. Note to John McCain: call Gordon, he needs you.

Britain has turned a corner in its political history. There may even be a change in the “first past the post” system to proportional representation. But, if the British political movie-of-the-week becomes an American long-running series, the British public may demand cancellation of the show. By the way, the election may have to be held again later this year and I can’t wait for the new season of Britain’s Got Political Talent. Maybe Simon Cowell will preside over the contestants as they primp and charm their way to victory and who knows, the Labour Party version of Susan Boyle may appear on our screens.

Its Saturday morning and the winter is coming to an end. Although here on the tundra we are wary of any irrational exuberance until May. The phone rang and I heard Heidi’s voice say, “Want to go for a walk?” I cannot think of anything I would rather do at this moment than join her and her beautiful sad-eyed dog Sara on a stroll around the Lake Como in the crystal sunshine.

My mum and dad would take a walk every Sunday afternoon. They talked quietly while my sister and I wandered along with them, playing make-believe games and seeing who could run the fastest. In the past few years I have become a walker again. There is singular joy in strolling along talking to my companions or, when I am alone, talking to myself. It seems as if walking frees the tongue and the mind. Difficult topics can be broached more easily; old hurts can be mended, secrets may be revealed, sadness might suddenly find release, and laughter often comes unexpectedly.

You see and experience more when walking. Recently I was in Hawaii visiting my son. We took a long walk to a remote beach. Kerri, Fred’s partner, spotted the whales just off shore. We saw great splashes and spouts as they breached and slammed their flukes, two different worlds in joyful harmony.

Walking with Cathy once, we passed a man in obvious physical distress; he said his name was Charlie. Cathy called for help and we stayed with him until he assured us and the emergency personnel he was okay. As we continued on our walk Cathy said, laughing, “We’re Charlie’s Angels.” The next day we went for a long hike on the Northern California coast. Late in the afternoon we walked down a hill confident that we would see her car at the bottom. We must have been distracted by our conversation because when we reached the road we realized we had taken the wrong path and were a few miles from the car. Two young men stopped and asked if everything was okay. We told them the problem and they offered to drive us to the car. We dithered a bit because one should be cautious, but something in our senses, an echo perhaps from the previous day when we had offered assistance to a stranger, told us to accept the offer. One wrong turn becomes a good turn, and we know what a good turn deserves.

I wonder if the humans were nicer creatures when we walked more. The wanderer on foot has not always been seen as a threat. The great traditions of hospitality grew out of the possibility of the news and stories that would be imparted when a walker entered the camp. There was honor in sharing one’s food and water with travelers. My mum called tramps “Gentlemen of the Road.”

It is possible that if President Obama had taken all the politicians on a strenuous hike the other day instead of sitting in a room in Blair House for eight hours, we might have seen a different, more positive outcome. It is difficult to walk and pontificate at the same time. There is a risk of stumbling on. On the other hand one might just forget the path one was supposed to take and find something different works just as well. Should we demand that Congress walk first and pass laws second? Come on Washington, get out of those buildings and Nike-up. You’ll be amazed what you’ll see and learn.

Dave Carroll adds new meaning to “sweet revenge”. This may not be everyone’s idea of an inspiring holiday video link, but it is mine, and I hope it makes you smile and sing along.

United Airlines broke Dave’s custom Taylor guitar and were not really sorry about it. During Dave’s final exchange with United Customer Relations, he said he had no alternative but to create a music video and post it on YouTube. The manager responded “Good Luck with that one pal.” After the video received almost 6 million hits and was featured on CNN, United contacted Dave and attempted settlement in exchange for pulling the video. And his response? “Good Luck with that one pal.”

A little bah humbug, but a lot of giggles too. A big Happy Holidays to all.

For Christie Healey, adapting to the Midwest brings a new approach to life’s challenges.

Garrison Keillor, the Upper Midwest’s patron saint of wit, created a hometown for himself called Lake Woebegon, Minnesota. As the name suggests, there will always be woe, but how we respond is the key to when it will be gone. People in this neck of the woods face life’s inconvenient onslaughts with equanimity and acceptance. Former wrestler for governor? Well now he may have some good ideas, we’ll give him a chance. Massive influx of immigrants from Cambodia, Ethiopia, Somalia? Oh well, they’ve got to have somewhere to live. Message: don’t panic it may turn out alright.

There are many things to dismay a single woman in this world, but walking across your fully-carpeted basement family room and getting your feet wet is way up there for me. First reaction: denial. Must have donned wet house socks when I got up this morning and only just noticed. Second reaction: Hmmm. I commenced research into the problem. The long and winding road of discovery included: 1. Accusing Frankie (the cat) of being really, really, really naughty. 2. Chimney seal failure. My good friend and marvelous boss, Dan, came over, walked all over the roof and climbed up into my dusty attic. 3. Ripping up sodden carpet and thick wet underlay.

Pulling up carpeting and underlay also requires that you get it out of the house as quickly as possible. I managed the cutting and pulling part okay, but if any of you have ever been faced with ten by eight foot pieces of sodden heavy material you already know what comes next. It’s in the basement, steep steps and a hundred feet away from the garage, where I planned to temporarily dispose of it. The wrestling match that ensued might have been more fun if another person and a bed had been involved.

Halfway to the garage I fell and lay panting, spread-eagled across the heap. A regular passerby stopped to wish me a cheery “Good morning, might rain later.” I waved and nodded. The passerby asked if needed help, “Nooo-no,” I replied, “Nearly done now.”

The rain, when it came a day later, showed me the source of the problem. I was standing with the insurance adjuster who was assuring me in even mellow tones that none of the damage or repair was covered. Equally calm I nodded as he pointed out the exclusions in the policy. He offered to walk around the outside of the house with me in the pouring rain to see if he could help find the leak. We found it. The extension to a down-pipe from the guttering had fallen off and instead of running the water out to the street it was ponding by the foundation. I was infected by the adjuster’s obvious joy at the discovery and calmly reattached the extension. We watched the torrent resume its intended course. “Oh, sure, sure that’ll take care of it,” he yelled as he drove away. Woebegon indeed!

I thought as I dressed for work how differently I handled this problem, than in other years and times. No fervent questioning of the gods who could allow this to happen to me, no screaming epithets at my own idiocy in not discerning the obvious. I just accepted and got on with it. I am turning Minnesotan. When I heard that Barack Obama had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize my immediate thought was, “Good Grief, is there any end to the burdens to be heaped upon this man?” Later that day hearing the calm tones in his gracious and humble words of acceptance, I thought, “He knows only too well the burdens that are placed on his shoulders and he’ll just get on with it.” There’s a little Minnesotan in all of us.

1969 is known for Woodstock and “The Summer of Love,” but for Christie Healey, it was a special winter day when she was at the right place at the right time.

I was doing a little paintwork touch up around the house the other day, musing about my life and thinking how satisfying it can be to paint over things—chips, scratches, cracks, dust. NPR was playing in the background and I heard a review of Ang Lee’s new movie, Taking Woodstock. I don’t remember much about Woodstock. Not because I was there, I (unlike others of my generation) will emphatically state, I was not there. My defining music moment happened in January of 1969.

I was working in the marketing department of Tyne Tees Television, a commercial TV station that occupied the fifth floor of an office building on Savile Row, London near Regent Street. My boss, Oliver Trigg and his tall, handsome sidekick, John Finch, were off to the boozer for their usual lunch of a pint and some rib-sticking food. They asked if I wanted to join them. I was working on some magical marketing numbers that needed to be presented later that day and, reluctantly, said no. I settled down in Ollie’s office to study the most inventive fiction ever created by humankind, audience demographics, when I noticed some activity on the roof opposite. I opened the window and leaned out.

There was lots of musical equipment being set up, drum kit, amps, guitars on stands and mikes. A door to the roof slowly opened and some women drifted out and settled themselves off to one side. Good Lord, it was the Beatle women. Then the door opened again and the Beatle men appeared. By this time I am hanging out of the window about 30 feet above the opposite roof. The first chords struck and the Beatles launched into their last concert.

It was so loud traffic stopped in Regent Street. People flooded out of offices and filled the street, looking up in wonder. The police arrived on the roof, talked with the Beatles for a couple of minutes then settled themselves down opposite the women, instinctively knowing that this should not be stopped. The music continued, some blues numbers, old rock n’ roll and Crikey, they even played “God Save the Queen.” When they played “Let It Be,” I knew it was over. They were moving on and this was their gift to those who by happenstance were lucky enough to hear, and for some see, their final wave and nod to us. Ollie and John got stuck in the crowds and could not persuade the police to let them back down Savile Row. I could never mention that day in their presence without seeing them wince with regret. Not long afterwards, I left Tyne Tees TV and moved in with John. We had a wonderful couple of years together before time and the tides of our separate desires parted us.

One Christmas afternoon about 10 years ago, I was watching television with my husband and my son, Fred, when we came across a documentary about the Beatles and started to watch. It was a long doc and I got up to make a cup of tea when Fred said, “Mum, look.” The screen showed a grainy black and white image of the Beatles last concert on the roof of Apple Studios, the camera panned around to the building opposite and there’s 21-year-old me, leaning way out of a window.

The memory faded and I sat back in my house in Saint Paul, rested my paintbrush and thought, funny how painting over some things can sometimes help uncover so many other things.