When I was a teenager, a popular cartoon character was Speedy Gonzales, the "fastest mouse in all of Mexico," who raced everywhere. Audiences enjoyed the antics of the laughable speedster, though his name actually became a symbol for our version of "speed dating." A Speedy Gonzalez was a boy who tried to get too far too fast with the girls of our pre-liberation generation. Today, I can see this character manifested everywhere in the way many of us scurry about.
It seems to me that I, as well as many of my acquaintances, rush around being too busy—too frantic. There is an irony here, of course. The older I get and the more I realize that time is the one thing I can't stop, the more I try to do. However, the flaw in this reasoning is that I don't really savor the moments when I am hurrying; I need to slow down and thus absorb the beauty and solace available if I just stop long enough to grasp them.
Last week, a friend and I played the e-mail version of phone tag trying to set a time to have coffee or lunch. Finally, I realized that I had packed so much into my schedule (and I am supposedly "retired") that we now are planning on late April. What has happened that I can't find a space for even that kind of simple relaxation with a friend?
I was talking with some visitors to Sun Valley about the reasons they love to come to this area to ski. They said they have returned here often because the pace is more relaxed and comfortable than some resorts, that they don't feel the pressure of having to "do" so much all the time. Like many other travelers to this area, they had experienced snow delays en route but accepted this as the price to pay for reaching a resort that isn't overcrowded, partly because it takes some effort to get here. I liked their philosophy, and somehow we went on to talk about how rushed we feel in our daily lives, then on to how children seem overscheduled and harried, even at 7 and 8 years old, with being booked for so many things after school. They pointed out a study that found one common denominator in "happy" families. It was, surprisingly, that these families had camped together.
Naturally this finding is a generalization, but what we discussed is the possibility that families who camp together probably take time to relax and enjoy each other without the constant pressure of schedules.
My fondest childhood memories are not of winning contests or rushing to lessons, but the sentimental recollection of the daily ritual after school of (oh, yes) milk and cookies with my Mom, of lying back in the meadows near my house with my best friend Jeanette and just staring up at the clouds, of camping on the river in Yosemite and sleeping under a huge sequoia with my family. Simple, quiet things.
In order to make a living, we all have to plan and schedule. In my case, I try to pack in lots of work when the seasons are here, now that I am "part time." I have traded the security of a regular job for the freedom to travel and pursue other interests, I know, but I still find it troubling to feel so burdened by the need to "make hay while the sun shines" or, rather, while the snow falls. Friends tell me I am rushing too much, even to the extent of slipping on ice and falling into furniture. They remind me that one of my favorite quotations is by E. E. Cummings: "Nothing beautiful every hurries."
On Feb. 12, the New York Times Magazine ran an article on attempts by food purveyors to create pre-sliced apples that could be sold in packages for people too rushed to slice them themselves. The trick is to preserve them so that they do not turn mealy, brown or splotchy in the process. It is hard to imagine that even in our fast-food culture the pre-slicing of apples would be desirable. I guess I am still hoping for slower food, slower hours and a slower inner clock so that I can have time to have a cup of coffee with a friend.
So, I ask myself, "How are 'dem apples?" However I slice them, I may be missing the juicy flavor.
JoEllen Collins
