Sixties Chick

Is there anyone out there who likes to be hocked? I can’t imagine. I, for one, feel an instant visceral bristle whenever someone starts in on me. “Yeah, yeah, here it comes,” I think to myself. “I know I should, but I haven’t, and I might, but I probably won’t,” so please don’t hock me.

For those of you from another tribe, a hocker, quite naturally, is a person who hocks – someone who nags, harangues, badgers and otherwise annoys. According to Leo Rosten of Joy of Yiddish fame, it is a shortened version of the Yiddish “Hok mir nit kayn chainik,” literally translated as “Don’t knock me a teapot,” which makes a bit more sense as “Don’t bang on my tea kettle.” In other words, “Stop with your noise.”

The Brazilian version of that comes from my ex-husband who with his fractured yet inventive English coined the phrase, “Stop putting bother on me.” It seems to work so much better than simply saying, bug off, another curious phrase.

And isn’t that exactly what we want to tell the people who hock us? With the exception, of course, of the ones who do it with a lot of love and ever so gently, with a tad of humor and not too often. Like me, for example.

Now frankly, I don’t think I qualify as a real hocker although my daughter might disagree with that analysis. Let’s face it; type B personalities don’t make very good hockers. We laid-back people simply don’t have the temperament for it. Or the stamina. My hocking is always quite minimal. When pushed, though, I usually resort to notes, the civil kind, like the one I taped to the toilet tank the other day for the aforementioned visiting ex-husband who long since stopped listening to me. It read “If you have a penis, please lift the seat.” I thought it was a succinct yet gentle way to get my point across.

High powered hockers are another thing. And my reaction to them, probably quite common. When accosted by a tried and true hocker, I subtly disengage; then I shut down. At times, you might say I even leave my body. This is followed by the vacillation phase in which I bounce between feeling bad and feeling really aggravated. It ends with a silent yet firm vow not to do whatever it is being hocked about–out of pure spite. I had hoped I’d outgrown this response, but I can not swear to it.

Hocking is just very tough to take. It was tough as a kid, it is tough as an adult. It reminds me of a sign on the wall of a Miami deli which read, “Never try to teach a pig to sing. It’s a waste of your time, and it annoys the pig.”

As a postscript, let me just say that I am sincerely grateful for those hockers in my life who lovingly prod me along, nudge me forward and at times, light a fire under my sometimes very slow-moving tush. You know who you are.

In response to my last entry (the rant about cell phone usage in enclosed public spaces), both my somewhat cynical brother-in-law and my cousin in sunny, foreclosed-upon Florida commented that they had been hoping to read something a bit more upbeat. “Uplifting,” I think was the word they used. Seeing that their comments came within minutes of each other, I figured I’d better take a look at it. Have I been too negative lately?

In my defense, it sure is easy to feel down. What passes for reality looks mighty grim. A jobless recovery (that should cheer up everyone who’s out of work!), more troops for Afghanistan, and Cheney’s snarly punim plastered once again all over cable news. It’s enough to wipe the smile off of any face.

My solution, inspired by those little monkeys of “see no evil and hear no evil” fame, is to boycott the news. I decide that in order to “uplift” myself, the news has got to go. On TV, on the internet, in print. Not even a quick peak at the rolled paper lying on my neighbor’s front walk is allowed. And just so I do not shirk my civic duty before I plunge my head into the sand, I send a round of e-mails to my U.S. elected officials informing them of their responsibility to stand up to the insurance companies and pass real health care reform for people like me and my daughter. Then I pull the plug. It takes a stalwart soul to stay upbeat. That which uplifts is what I’m after.

Lucky for me that one evening, shortly after instituting my news blackout, I happen upon a spider web hanging from the utility line in front of the house. It’s huge, at least five feet in diameter, magnificent. “Wow,” I exclaim to Rio (the dog) who pays no attention, “Would you look at the beauty of this thing!”  The web is incredibly intricate,  simple at the same time. It is light and delicate, yet said to be as strong as tensile steel.  It is a work of art, yet totally functional. I am captivated by the perfection of it.

The next morning, I rush outside –eager to get a better look, but it’s gone.  “Talk about being OK with impermanence,” I remark to Rio as he lifts his leg on the nearby bush. That evening, the web is back, just as big, just as beautiful as before, the brown spider in the center doing his thing. “Now that’s what I call perseverance,” I pronounce with conviction, noting that Rio is busy with his nose down a  hole in the yard awaiting his chance to finally snag something that can’t outrun him.

Everyday and every night for over a week, the pattern is repeated. The web is there, magnificent and whole at night, gone in the morning. “Imagine having that kind of willingness, that sense of purpose,” I assert, awed by what I am witnessing. Rio sniffs and heads for his favorite spot on the neighbor’s front lawn.

One morning around five o’clock, unable to sleep, I go out to see what’s going on with the web. There she is, my marvelous Charlotte, eating her creation, strand by strand, demolishing her masterpiece – a design more brilliant than any in Architectural Digest or Art News. There she is, deftly taking down the structure she so steadfastly builds day after day, even as she clings to it.  “What an exquisite dance,” I think as I watch her start to consume  the strand she is balancing on.

“This is a wondrous world,” I say quietly only to myself, knowing that Rio is not all that interested in my observations. He looks up, though, with those loving, deep brown eyes, head cocked, and I am moved to add, “Yes, you and I, we’re wondrous too.  Not to mention uplifting.” But this, you can be sure, is not news to Rio.