KGMom Musings

Some Kind of Thresh Hold

2012-01-29T00:01:00.000-05:00

This blog post is NOT about me--although, I confess, the thresh hold that is being crossed affects me. You see, in just a few hours, my elder child will turn 40.

The photo above is of our son Geoffrey and our daughter-in-law Christy.

While there are many photos I could choose of him, this one seemed most fitting. Of course I have those wonderful baby photos, and the little boy photos too. I have used them before on the occasion of his birthday. But the photo of you two together is just right.

This time I want to write about a few scenes which I hold dear in my mother's heart.

I remember a day when you were about 18 months old. I had just come home from teaching, carrying you, along with a bag of your supplies from the baby-sitter's, complete with a container of Spaghettios. I don't know how I got distracted, but for a moment I turned my back. When I came back into the room, there you sat with the Spaghettios container opened and smeared all over the place.
I remember how you fell off a coffee table, and cut your head. We had to rush you to a hospital to get some stitches. And I remember how white your dad's face was as he helped to hold you so you would be comforted while the doctor worked on you.
I remember the first time you walked alone up the sidewalk to a neighbor's house so you could play with your friend. I thought--wow, he's on his own.
I remember how you reacted when we told you we were going to have another baby--you said, oh good, now I won't be an only child anymore.
I remember how sweet you were (most of the time) with your sister. And still are.
I remember how proud we were when you won academic recognition and went off to the college of your choice.
I remember when you came home and told us you had met someone special--and you asked if you could bring her (Christy) along on our family vacation.
I remember that only when you headed to grad school did I cry--realizing you really WERE on your own--but this time with Christy by your side.
I remember how happy you and Christy were on your wedding day--even though you hadn't thought to get programs ready and printed until the morning of the wedding.
I remember several moves we helped you with.--to apartments, to houses.
I remember--

A mother does remember--and I am proud, so very proud, that you are our son.

So, special love to you this day--as you celebrate your 40th birthday.

Cry, the Beloved Country

2012-01-21T23:29:00.001-05:00

Lovely mountains around Cape Town

It had been more than 50 years since I was last in South Africa, and--to tell the truth--I had very little memory of the country. But, having grown up in what was then Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, I always maintained a keen interest in southern African developments. I read much about Zimbabwe and South Africa. Among these books, I recall reading Nadine Gordimer's novel July's People, written before the change of government from minority apartheid rule to majority rule. In that work, she postulates the end of apartheid, in a civil war which turns the power structure upside down.

That vision was entirely credible, and what I anticipated would be the most likely ending of apartheid.

But, then, the world witnessed the miracle of Nelson Mandela. Imprisoned for 27 years for his anti-apartheid activities, upon his release he continued working for majority government. Seemingly, miraculously, he succeeded. In 1994, he was elected President of South Africa. A civil war was averted--South Africa managed to make the transition from a minority government to a majority government, escaping the fate of its neighbor to the north, Zimbabwe.

True, many people died on the struggle to reach majority government. There were multiple massacres of citizens on both sides of the color bar. Leaders of the African National Congress (ANC) spent years in prison, along side Mandela. Many of those years of imprisonment were on Robben Island, within easy view of Cape Town's harbor--it must have been maddeningly tantalizing for both sides being so close. But Mandela seemed to accomplish the impossible--he not only survived; he thrived and honed his deeply moral presence.

Cape Town Harbor with Robben Island in the distance

Under the surface, simmering problems linger that threaten to undo all the creative work to bring the new South Africa into existence. While the power structure has been realigned, the economics of the country have been largely unchanged. Unemployment hovers around 25%, with the rate of unemployed youth at 50%. However, the unemployment rate for whites is around 4%. Average annual income for blacks in South Africa are around $1,800; for whites around $8,200.

Nowhere is the disparity more evident than in housing. The three main racial divides in South Africa are white, colored, and black. Whites are those who descended from the original Dutch and British settlers. Coloreds (a term I had difficulty with given my U.S. thinking) are those who descend from Khoisan (the original inhabitants of southern Africa), mixed race and immigrants from various Asian countries such as Malaysia. Blacks are those descended from earlier migration of Bantu peoples from further north on the African continent. With a population of about 60 million, 80% of South Africans are black, whites around 9%, and colored including Asians around 11%.

A township

Housing is like a pyramid--at the top the lovely houses in urban areas, many in gated communities, are largely owned by whites; in the middle, cinder-block houses in organized communities are owned by coloreds; at the bottom, in a huge swath of housing, are the townships. The houses in these areas are quickly constructed lean-tos, pieces of corrugated iron thrown up with a roof across. Township housing lacks internal plumbing; instead townships have communal bath houses where families have to do all their toileting and washing. Electricity is provided by central poles with wiring from which people string up electrical wires to connect. Frequently people get electrocuted trying to tap into the power supply. And these townships just keep growing--one of the largest in Cape Town, Khayelitsha, has over one and a half MILLION people living in it.

80% of farm land continues to be held by whites. The ANC had promised land reform which intended to restore land ownership to blacks, but over time progress toward that goal has stalled. Now, newer leaders in the ANC--those who have moved away from the harmonious legacy of Nelson Mandela--promise, or threaten, massive redistribution of land and wealth. One particular leader--Julius Malema--threatens nationalizing South African gold and diamond mines.

Upon our return from South Africa, my daughter and I set about reading (actually re-reading) Alan Paton's Cry, the Beloved Country. While many aspects of the novel seem very dated, and also quite simplistic, there is a prophetic sense about the work. Paton writes:

Have no doubt it is fear in the land. For what can men do when so many have grown lawless? ... There are voices crying what must be done, a hundred, a thousand voices...one cries this, and one cries that, and another cries something that is neither this nor that.

Paton envisioned a time when the social fabric, which was already tearing in the reality of which he wrote, would dissolve completely.

As we waited in the Cape Town airport to board our flight back to the U.S., I perused books in the bookstore. One was titled After Mandela: The Battle for the Soul of South Africa. Out of curiosity, I thumbed through the book, and read the chapter titles. The last chapter title brought me up short: "The Shadow of Zimbabwe."

I can think of no greater tragedy for Mandela's legacy than to see South Africa go the way of Zimbabwe. So, indeed--cry, the beloved country.

Photo taken by Kristen, my daughter, of Franschhoek, S.A.

Photo taken by my husband, of Klein Karoo

Sunset over Camps Bay Beach

Glimpses of A Childhood Home

2012-01-12T23:36:00.000-05:00

One of the pleasures for me in our recent trip to South Africa was to experience some scenes that reminded me very much of my childhood. Long time readers will know that I did not grow up in South Africa, but in the country just to the north--now Zimbabwe, Rhodesia in the years I was there.

I had been ages since I saw a lovely avenue of trees bordering a well-tended dirt road. The one shown below is the avenue leading up to Boschendal The Estate, now a wine estate. It was originally established in 1685 as a farm including vineyards. In 1897, Cecil Rhodes acquired the estate, established fruit orchards and eventually turned the whole estate over to De Beers.

In Bulawayo, the town where I went to school, the avenues were lined with jacaranda trees. Below is a photo of jacaranda blossoms close up. It was wonderful to see them again. Also, bougainvillea, another flower from childhood memory.

During my parents' time as missionaries, they occasionally had vacation time--it was during these times that we visited Cape Town. Of course, Table Mountain is the iconic landmark in Cape Town. You see it everywhere you travel around Cape Town.

My prior time going to the top of Table Mountain was when I was a child. Then, the cable car was a less sturdy looking device. Based on a website recounting the history of the cable car, I assume when my dad and I visited it, we rode the car identified as the First Cable Car. The newest iteration of cable car is much sleeker and sound. Despite my fear of heights, I rode the cable car with no apprehension at all. The small nob you see at the top is the cable car station.

And, here I sit with my husband on rocks at the top of Table Mountain.

Not the same rock, to be sure, but here's proof that I sat on the rocks atop Table Mountain once before--with my dad, some time in the early 1950s.

Most people identify almost any part of Africa as a place with animals. Growing up, I did see lots of animals--more, actually, than we saw on our recent trip. One animal that is still seemingly present everywhere is the baboon. Oh, yes, I recall baboons from my childhood.

As we drove various places, baboons could be seen along side or even on the roads. One baboon had found a beer bottle, which he cradled jealously, and kept from the other baboons in the troop. The photo below is one our son-in-law took. He was seated on the side of the car with the best view. Travelers are sternly warned: 1) not to open car doors as the baboons know no fear; 2) not to feed the baboons; and 3) not to harm the baboons which are a protected species. We saw people whose job was to mind the baboons, and warn cars to slow down. I wondered if the people told their friends they were in "monkey business."

Finally, many of my childhood memories involve lovely flowers and interesting birds. The flowers shown were in Kirstenbosch Gardens, a lovely large park adjacent to Cecil Rhodes' Cape Town estate of Kirstenbosch.

The bird is the blue crane which is the South African national bird. Kind of an odd looking bird, if you ask me.

But the most scene reminiscent of my childhood were the African skies. I kept thinking of Paul Simon's song "Under African Skies" as I looked at the endless sky unfurling around me.

Not all the scenes in South Africa are as lovely--I will share some of my sadness in another post.

Lovely Cape Town

2012-01-08T19:06:00.001-05:00

It is time to begin reflecting on our most recent trip. We returned, on New Year's Eve day, from a visit to South Africa.

We spent a week in South Africa, with our daughter and son-in-law: our Christmas gift to each other, no need for any other presents.

The scenes below begin to tell the story of our trip--Camps Bay Beach at sunset, with the ocean spray.

Turn around and we can see part of the mountains around Table Mountain lit by the setting sun.

Part of Cape Town, the Malay area, with brightly painted buildings. After years of mandatory whitewash exteriors, when the rules were changed, the residents in this area opted for splashes of color.

The mandatory trip up Table Mountain, the cable for the cable car firmly in view. I had been to Table Mountain as a child, traveling up a more primitive cable car with my dad. Now, a corporate sponsored sleek car takes us up, all the while revolving for a view all around.

Table Mountain dominates Cape Town, visible from almost all angles. The winds sweep clouds over the mountain, which give the impression of a table cloth. Our guide told us Table Mountain is a guide's nightmare. The cable car up can be closed down on a moment's notice, due to high winds. Frankly, I'd rather not ride up in high winds. We were fortunate--up and back with no hitches. Our guide told us of one group he had who were determined to go up. When informed that the cable car wasn't running, they wanted to know if there were another way up. HIKE--was the answer. So, they all informed the guide they would, and they did--two hours up.

I wanted a reprise photo of me on the top of the mountain, this time with my husband. I have a photo from childhood of me with my dad--not necessarily sitting on the same rock, but certainly on the same mountain.

Lion's Head to the one side of Table Mountain.

The view below--Cape Town. In truth, Cape Town is all around Table Mountain.

Well, there's a start. More photos, more reports and observations--to come.

The Last Report

2012-01-01T19:57:00.000-05:00

Forgive my silence, dear reader, and the rather extended pause in the on-going saga of hospital care in the U.S. I have been away--but my absence is testament to the fact that the recently inflicted treatment must have worked.

When my doctor said he wanted to try a new prescription for atrial fibrillation, he also noted there was something I wouldn't like: a hospital stay. At the time, my only response was--no problem. I just have two trips that I am planning to make, and, if I can fit in the hospital stay between those two trips--well, fine.

So, at the beginning of December we went to San Diego to see our son and daughter-in-law, then over Christmas we traveled to South Africa and met up with our daughter and son-in-law. The doctor didn't blink at my schedule caveat--so I am guessing he hears such conditions frequently. His response--I think we can work something out. And work it out we did. Trip 1, hospital stay, and then trip 2.

As anyone who watches the myriad of health shows that have been televised knows, hospitals are places of great drama. There are daily mini-dramas. My two roommates are illustrative.

The first roommate came in very shortly after I was admitted. She was wheeled in, and transferred to her bed. With her came a retinue of family--sons, daughters, spouses. Who knows who all was there? All I could tell was that there was a hub-bub of activity on the other side of the room. Since my husband was with me, I just rolled my eyes to indicate my puzzlement--and, yes, maybe intolerance.

But over the next two days, this family showed warmth and support. You see, the woman was in her 80s. She had been, until a few weeks before, a picture of health, quite independent and most certainly stubborn. Then, she had a fall, and a subsequent stroke that leveled her. She was hospitalized, and then a heart condition became apparent--she had multiple blocked coronary arteries.

Her family members buzzed about her, trying to make her comfortable, tut-tutting if she tried to move or do something. Even though the curtain was drawn, I could hear them saying "Mom, you can't do that" or "Call the nurse for that." It seemed a bit over-done to me, but she was clearly the glue in that family's fabric--a true matriarch.

When no one was there, I went to her bed and said hi, and introduced myself. I asked if she needed anything, and she managed a very weak hello followed by a demurring of help.

As it turned out, that seemingly overwhelming family was really tremendously supportive. At one point, I heard the older son say to his sleeping mother--Oh, Mom. It was a heart-felt cry. Later, he came over to my side of the room and sat down and visited for quite a while. Another son also made a point of introducing himself to both my husband and me. For a brief two days, I almost seemed to be included in that expansive family.

When the mother went in to surgery, one son stopped by to see me, just to see how I was doing.

And, then, there was my second roommate. With the matriarch in surgery, and being returned to a more intensive care room, the bed next to me was empty. Soon, a second post-surgery patient was wheeled in.

What ensued was a circus. First, with new patient in the room, all the staff departed. Then the phone rang. And rang. And rang. So , I said--through the curtain--just push the red button. Meaning, of course, on the phone. But new patient thought I meant on the device to call a nurse. She kept saying, loudly, HELLO, HELLO. Then she said GEORGE? I finally got out of bed, went over to her side of the room and pointed out the telephone. Of course, she had NO idea who I was, and gave me a wild-eyed look.

Then, a nurse came in (maybe in response to the call button) and said--Barbara, don't move around so much; you have to stay still. As soon as the nurse left, Barbara tried to get out of bed. That set off a loud beeping alarm which produced several staff members. This happened multiple times, each time with an accompanying loud beeping alarm. Every time they came into the room, they said (quite loudly)--Barbara, what are you trying to do?

Soon, another staff member came in, and began to ask Barbara some questions. Herewith the conversation:

Q--do you know where you are? A--I am at So-and-so's house.
Q--why are you there? A--I am at a party.
Q--do you know what year it is? A--(pause) 1998.
Q--do you know who is President? A--Al Gore.
Q--aren't you in a hospital now? A--(most indignantly) NO.

Oh, my. Other than the startling news that Al Gore actually won the election (well, he did--but that's another story altogether), the whole conversation was most bizarre. But, I recognized the questions as standard ones asked to ascertain whether or not someone has dementia. Oh, and Barbara most certainly did.

Layer dementia on top of the disorienting experience of being in a hospital, and no wonder Barbara looked at me with wild eyes.

Most annoying of all, each time a staff member came in to see Barbara, they asked if she wanted her television on, and then JUST turned it on. And turned up the volume. I told my husband--I can't stay here another night if Barbara is my roommate.

Thankfully, when the doctor came in (finally), after initially saying I had to stay one more day so that I would have the requisite number of doses of the new medicine--and after being informed that in fact I had HAD the correct number, he agreed to discharge me.

Hospitals--places where life's dramas, both tragedy and comedy, play out. I promise--this the last report on my hospital stay.

Next up, the trip to South Africa.

Oh, the Sights, the Sounds, the Smells...

2011-12-18T21:58:00.001-05:00

Here I go again--relaying tales of being an impatient in patient.

In addition to my initial observations, captured here, I offer now the feast of the senses that a hospital stay can bring to you.

The first thing that really strikes me is the SOUNDS. There are dings, buzzes, beeps, muffled voices, loud voices, confused voices, footfalls, cart wheels, squeaks--too many sounds to be able to convey them in silent print. We do live in an increasingly noisy world, but a hospital adds new dimensions to the world of noise. Most of us are accustomed to hearing cell phones. At least when it's your cell phone, you know how to identify the sound. In the hospital, the sounds are simply baffling. Is that beep coming from me? And should I do something about it. Most of the sounds trigger a staff reaction--understandably. We patients are tethered and monitored and an errant sound might mean we are making a concerted break for it.

Next come the sights. While a hospital is generally a sterile environment--not in the bacterial sense, but in the artistic sense--there is plenty to see in a hospital. There are, of course, the ubiquitous fluorescent lights. They are on everywhere...all...the...time. Day and night. My bed was closer to the door, so at night, the hall light came pouring in. I drew the privacy curtain (huh! is that ever mis-named) not so much for privacy but for a bit of light dimming. At home, I need a dark dark dark room to sleep happily. There are many other sights--some potentially embarrassing. Hospital gowns are not made for modesty. The opening in the back can fly open at the slightest provocation. Don't even try to keep your clothing on...any care requires some skin exposure. So, you just learn to bare what you must.

And then there's all that measuring. Your height, your weight, blood pressure, heart rate, lung clarity, oxygen level, water intake, urine output. Oh, yes, you get measured. The urine part was...interesting. You place a small plastic contraption inside the toilet seat, and when you have finished, you either put the plastic container on YOUR shelf, or you read and record the amount. I asked to do the latter--even converting the ounces to milliliters (why oh why didn't the U.S. convert to metric?). Several times, I went to the bathroom only to find my roommate's container still inside the toilet seat.

Now we come to taste--which would be food. Only, don't count on much. I had checked into the hospital late morning, and--when asked--told staff I didn't need lunch. BIG MISTAKE. Supper did not arrive until much later than I expected it. And by then, my decision to abstain from lunch was working against me. When supper did arrive, it was a box lunch. With a bologna sandwich. On white bread. I thought--you have to be kidding. On a cardiac unit, a high salt, low fiber sandwich. Oh, yes, along with applesauce and a pack of Lorna Doone shortbread cookies. While the remainder of meals improved a tad, I was still mostly hungry. My roommate even remarked that she had been in another nearby hospital recently, and the food there was much better.

One more post to go on the fascinating world of hospital care.

Hospitals--Not for the Faint Hearted

2011-12-15T11:46:00.000-05:00

So, I just returned home last evening from spending three days in the hospital. Never fear, it was an entirely planned hospital stay--in fact, wedged in between a trip to San Diego to visit our son and daughter-in-law and another upcoming trip to see our daughter and son-in-law.

I am a Type A personality (if such labels still exist). Patience is NOT one of my virtues, and anything annoying....well, it annoys me. So, when the doctor announced that my recalcitrant blood pressure, that just would not come down, despite adding new medicines, needed yet another new medicine, he also announced--and you're not going to like this. What? I asked innocently. Well, you need to have it administered in the hospital. All for to monitor my heart rate. I mentioned a while back that I was rebooted and regained my sinus rhythm. Premature announcement, as it turned out--even though it was true at the time. Because, dear readers, I lost my rhythm. Humph.

New med is designed to bring down BP and to help a heartbeat stay regular. But, every now and then, it actually causes the heartbeat to go all wonky. Hence, the need to wear a 24 hour monitor for several days.

Hang in there with me: I am just getting to the good part.

Hospitals, I have decided, are not places for the faint hearted, especially not if one is NOT really sick. For three days, I felt a bit as if I had wandered into the set of making of the movie "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."

Herewith some random observations.

Check your modesty and need for privacy at the registration desk. You will not need it. You get poked, prodded, pummeled...well, maybe pummeled is a bit of exaggeration. You have your "vitals" checked endlessly. Even all through the night. I would be in a sound sleep, only to hear a chirpy voice saying "Just checking your vitals" as I felt an ear probe measure temp, blood pressure, pulse. Thank goodness that's where the vitals check stopped. And privacy? Nope--with a roommate (which I had) there were family visitors coming in at all times, along with a seemingly endless parade of hospital staff: RNs, nurses' aids, housekeeping, food services, social workers, the occasional chaplain, and -- is it? It just might be a DOCTOR! Woo hoo.
Forget efficiency and speed. Things move at a glacial pace (pre-global warming) in the hospital. I arrived, as ordered, late morning on Monday. Not until three, almost four hours later was my medication regimen begun. And, since it necessitated 48 plus hours of continuous cardiac monitoring, that time made a difference. It was not until the second day of being in the hospital that someone from the cardiac practice came to see me, and then only because my husband called a number the practice had given us. When the doctor did arrive, he pointed out to me that "this is a hospital and there are emergencies that we have to deal with; people arriving in the emergency department, with heart attacks, etc." I meekly accepted it, thinking all the while--that my husband's call was the proverbial squeak that garnered the dollop of grease the doctor's visit represented.
If you are interested in a retreat-like pace, slow deliberative moving toward an unknown goal, then the hospital is the place for you...except it's not a silent retreat. More on that in the next post.

No Country for Old Men

2011-12-03T11:53:00.001-05:00

I have just finished reading Peter Godwin's compelling memoir When A Crocodile Eats the Sun. Part personal recollection, part political commentary, the book chronicles his father's dying and death. Along the way, Godwin learns some family secrets and helps reconnect his father to his past. But, what I found particularly compelling is Godwin's account of the nearly current state of affairs in Zimbabwe, the book's account ending in 2004.

As you no doubt know, I spent some of my growing up years in this country--then called Rhodesia. I have a very fond memory of a childhood that was not usual by American standards. When I read Godwin's account, I could travel back in memory to some of the kinds of things he is describing.

As I read along, I found myself cringing more and more, almost to the point of physical revulsion. How in the name of all things sane can a tyrant such as Mugabe remain in power. It is tempting, from a distance, to wonder at the inadvertent complicity of the populace in allowing him to remain in power. Reading Godwin's account disabused me of any such thought.

In detail, he recounts the thoroughly calculating move on Mugabe's part to institute the land reallocation "plan." So, a country which had been the breadbasket of the continent became a virtual wasteland, unable to grow enough food to feed its own citizens. So-called war vets (from Zimbabwe's civil war in the 1980s) were rewarded with seized farms which second- and third- (or more) generation white families had successfully farmed. The fact that many of the war vets were only in their 20s (in the year 2000), thus making them NOT war vets, did not alter Mugabe's cynical plan. And why did he push the land reallocation? Because he lost the election, and needed something to divert the populace so he could retain power.

Not only has Zimbabwe's productivity dropped agriculturally, but the life expectancy has also dropped from one of the highest in Africa to one of the lowest...in the world. From a life expectancy of mid-60s some 50 years ago, Zimbabwean men now live an average of 37 years, and women 33 years. Meanwhile, Mugabe will celebrate his 88th birthday in February, 2012. As Godwin notes, Mugabe is now on his third lifespan while his country men and women die after barely living a lifespan.

AIDS is part of the reason for this precipitous drop, but so is targeted denial of food supplies. Mugabe channels food to his supporters and denies his enemies. It is not too big a stretch to aver that "Zimbabwe is dying" as Bob Herbert wrote in a New York Times editorial in 2009.

I keep thinking about the marvelous William Butler Yeats' poem "Sailing to Byzantium." This poem has been the inspiration for many interpretations, and has provided book and movie titles--just read through and spot them.

I have a new interpretation. Zimbabwe is no country for old men. And if ever there were an aged man--a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick--it is the second president of this country. And the closing of the poem speaks to that great unknown unknowable--"what is past, or passing, or to come."

No one knows what is to come in Zimbabwe. My hope and prayer is that this, too, shall pass--and a lovely country will somehow be revived to a state wherein all citizens are valued, where life is cherished and where all old men and women can thrive.

Sailing to Byzantium

by William Butler Yeats

Thatis no country for old men. The young

Inone another's arms, birds in the trees

—Thosedying generations—at their song,

Thesalmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

Fish,flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whateveris begotten, born, and dies.

Caughtin that sensual music all neglect

Monumentsof unageing intellect.

Anaged man is but a paltry thing,

Atattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soulclap its hands and sing, and louder sing

Forevery tatter in its mortal dress,

Noris there singing school but studying

Monumentsof its own magnificence;

Andtherefore I have sailed the seas and come

Tothe holy city of Byzantium.

Osages standing in God's holy fire

Asin the gold mosaic of a wall,

Comefrom the holy fire, perne in a gyre,

Andbe the singing-masters of my soul.

Consumemy heart away; sick with desire

Andfastened to a dying animal

Itknows not what it is; and gather me

Intothe artifice of eternity.

Onceout of nature I shall never take

Mybodily form from any natural thing,

Butsuch a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Ofhammered gold and gold enamelling

Tokeep a drowsy Emperor awake;

Orset upon a golden bough to sing

Tolords and ladies of Byzantium

Ofwhat is past, or passing, or to come.

Lower the Bucket Deeper into the Well

2011-11-25T23:17:00.001-05:00

I find my musings are coming to me fewer and farther between...thus, I post less frequently than I did when I first began blogging. I also note I am slowly approaching 600 posts. Perhaps that is a good time to draw to a close this venture into self-publishing.

I know that I could turn my blog into a collection of essays and self-publish. However, I am not so egotistical that I give that thought much attention. I am trying to save past postings, in an electronic file, so that someone--my children?--may some day re-read them. There's a difference between being egotistical about the value of what one writes, and wishing dear ones to be able to peruse writings in their own time. My writing is my voice. And someday someone might wish to hear me speak again.

We--in our family--have had just such an experience. I have shared the story of my mother's journey in the final six weeks of her life. She died after having had heart surgery which led, inadvertently, to her acquiring a staph infection that eventually killed her. But just before she went into the hospital, she led a seminar. Someone taped it, and after her death, gave my father the tape. He passed it along to me.

When I received that tape, now 20 years ago, I listened to it. It was bittersweet to hear my mother's voice--and her laughter. I learned things there that I had never known--for example, her favorite color was blue. I didn't know that--such a little thing, yet I did not know it.

Recently, we were preparing to go to the annual family reunion that my mother's family continues to hold. Part of the event includes an auction of items on which family members might be willing to bid. My husband had the idea to convert that tape of my mother's talk and burn it on a CD--which he did. We made 4 copies--one for me, my brother and my sister. And then one to take to the family reunion.

Well, the ensuing bid between two of my cousins ran up to $30--this in comparison to other items that were bringing $1 or $2 or maybe $5. The winning cousin, who had been named after my mother, was pleased to get the CD. But, it turned out, my oldest cousin was greatly disappointed. So, I asked her if she would share the bid cost, which she agreed to--and another cousin piped up "me too". So they all chipped in, and we made 2 more copies and shipped them off.

My mother's subject--Living Fully in the Autumn of Life. How wonderful. And how ironic. I am now in the autumn of my life. And I can have my mother giving me advice and pointers.

This year has made me more aware of my own mortality more than any other year I can recall. The recent bout with atrial fibrillation made me think how thin the gossamer web of life is, and how fragile. I find myself thinking, worrying, remembering, regretting, rejoicing--all at the same time, practically.
There are still things I want to do--things that I look forward to. So, I will lower the bucket deeper into the well of inspiration. And keep on keeping on.

How are the mighty fallen!

2011-11-10T10:04:00.000-05:00

Perhaps it is no surprise that I ended up majoring in English literature in college. While I had first intended to go into medicine, an early encounter in my freshman year with chemistry ended that goal, there was always one of my first loves waiting: poetry.

I grew up listening to and reading the Bible--King James Version. I now prefer other translations more, but for sheer poetry, it is hard to top the KJV command of language and its lovely poetic sounds. So, with the unfolding news this week about Penn State University, the phrase that rushed to my mind is the title passage above--David's lament over the deaths of Saul and Jonathan.

The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how are the mighty fallen!
Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Askelon; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph.

Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew, neither let there be rain, upon you, nor fields of offerings: for there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil.
From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty, the bow of Jonathan turned not back, and the sword of Saul returned not empty.

Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided: they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions.

Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights, who put on ornaments of gold upon your apparel. (2 Samuel 1:14-24)

Pure poetry.

If ever there were a "mighty" in our times, especially in the field of higher education, it would be Joe Paterno.

My husband and I have gone to Penn State football games for YEARS! We began attending these rites of fall when a friend of ours offered us tickets for several games. We eventually built up enough points to be able to buy our own tickets. So, we got 4 season tickets--and another friend gave us a parking pass right next to the stadium--we were set. We took along friends and always had a grand time watching great college football.

We even went to what turned out to be the second national championship game, when Penn State beat Miami in Phoenix. What a grand time. And when Penn State joined the Big Ten and won its championship and returned to the Rose Bowl to play New Year's Day--we went to that game.

Several years ago, we decided to stop going to all the home games, and have loaned our tickets to a colleague of my husband's. But we still watch the games on HD TV.

And now this news.
The much vaunted defensive coordinator, Jerry Sandusky, who crafted the winning defensive strategy against Miami, was indicted for abusing 8 boys (and a ninth has since come forward) since the late 1990s. In 1999, when told that he would NOT be named head coach to succeed Paterno, Sandusky took retirement. He focused his attention on a charity he ran, called The Second Mile, which he founded to give at-risk children a better chance in life. All the boys in this unfolding scandal were ones who came into contact with Sandusky through The Second Mile.

The Penn State connection to this story is that a current assistant coach, while he was a graduate assistant, had inadvertently come upon Sandusky in the Penn State locker room showers and CAUGHT Sandusky, mid-abuse of a young boy. The graduate assistant, shaken, retreated and went to talk with his father, who said--tell Paterno. The graduate assistant did. Paterno told his superior in the university, the athletic director, who in turn told the vice-president, who in turn told the president. And, there, it seems, the trail stopped.

The current furor now is why didn't Paterno do more?
Who knows? I really have no answer.

But the consequences for this grand old man of football--who has all his life lived by a personal ethical code par excellence, who has insisted his players graduate, who has lived in the Penn State community for decades, who has a listed telephone number and a published address, who has given millions of dollars to his university--this grand old man has now fallen.

Should he have been fired? Should the other three university powers have been fired, as they were? Should the graduate assistant have told ONLY his father and his coach? On and on the questions go.

And all we are left with is the sinking feeling--HOW THE MIGHTY HAVE FALLEN!

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

2011-11-05T22:08:00.000-04:00

With apologies to the Bard (who, by the way, DID write the plays of Shakespeare), I find myself speaking that portion of Hamlet's most famous soliloquy quite a bit these days. I am in the midst of a bout wrestling with sleep.

Since both my husband and I are now retired, and thus can pretty much live to our own body clocks, we have discovered we have different internal clocks. My husband has always been an early riser--and now, even though he need not rise early, he continues to do so. He winds down in the evening--so, don't even think about beginning a discussion after--say--9 p.m. His mind is sufficiently wound down that anything that revs up the adrenaline is counter-productive.

I, on the other hand, have discovered that I am a night owl. Try as I might, I cannot wind down much before midnight. Even if I get sleepy earlier in the evening, the MINUTE I get up to do the final evening chores (e.g. emptying the dishwasher) I am AWAKE. After I get ready for bed, and settle down in bed to read--I can read, get sleepy and turn the light out. Even so, I still almost always take at least a half an hour to fall asleep.

But several times, of late, that half hour has turned into hours. I had one night recently where I was still awake at 4 a.m. I really can't figure it out. Oh, occasionally, I know I have had a bit more caffeine than I should have. But we have changed our coffee habits--partly to help me. I now drink my diet Pepsi sans caffeine. And in the evening, I have ONE cup of coffee--that is half caf/half decaf.

Frankly, I chalk it up to aging. Just as "other things" change as we grow older, no doubt our ability to sleep changes too.

I mostly keep in good spirits--I figure, well, I can get by on 6 hours of sleep, or 5, or 4...You can see how the night goes, as my mind keeps bouncing around, careening off the walls of my skull.

I think I'll start reading every time I can't sleep. At the current rate, I should be able to whip through several novels a week!

Poisoning Democracy

2011-10-31T12:07:00.001-04:00

I have just finished reading the excellent article by Jane Mayer, which appeared in a recent New Yorker magazine. Entitled "State for Sale," the article chronicles the activities of Art Pope in North Carolina where he has successfully taken over the state legislature. How? you might ask.

Well, he bought enough Republican seats to change the state legislature in North Carolina--a state that voted for Barack Obama in 2008, and where both houses of the state general assembly had not been controlled by ONE party for a hundred plus years.

Here's how the article opens: "In the spring of 2010, the conservative political strategist Ed Gillespie flew from Washington, D.C., to Raleigh, North Carolina, to spend a day laying the groundwork for REDMAP, a new project aimed at engineering a Republican takeover of state legislatures. Gillespie hoped to help his party get control of statehouses where congressional redistricting was pending, thereby leveraging victories in cheap local races into a means of shifting the balance of power in Washington."

The basic strategy was to go after elected officials and paint them as too liberal. Throw enough money at something, and you can change people's minds. And that's exactly what happened.

This strategy has eerie echoes of the current efforts of the Koch brothers. In another New Yorker article--titled "Covert Operations"--Jane Mayer had also chronicled the Koch brothers' rise in political financing circles. These billionaire brothers have set up various foundations which primed the pump by funding the "grassroots" rise of the so-called Tea Party. No wonder some pundits refer to the Tea Party as an AstroTurf movement.

Along about now, are you wondering--so what? As the Mayer article on Art Pope unfolds, you learn that the tactics used were to target Democrats, throw buckets of money into ad campaigns that smeared these candidates and spread misinformation about them. In one instance, a candidate who had dark hair and dark skin was identified as Hispanic. The Pope money helped fund a campaign ad that showed the candidate with a sombrero and a tag line of "Mucho Taxo! Adios, Señor!"

What makes this disturbing trend of excess money being thrown into political campaigns is the recent Supreme Court decision on Citizens United. You can follow the link to Wikipedia to read the basics of the case, but in brief the Supreme Court held that corporations WERE people and had First Amendment rights to free speech. Thus, the Federal Election Commission could not limit the amount of money corporations could spend on political campaigns. The result of this decision is that the election process is being flooded with money, with the sources largely untraceable, as reporting requirements do not apply in many instances. One news commentator noted that another country--say China--could throw huge sums of money at a campaign to turn the outcome of an election in its favor on an issue such as environmental deregulation.

The result of this convergence is, I fear, a poisoning of democracy. Of course voters should be better educated. Of course people should do their homework before they mark a ballot for a candidate. Of course people should ignore ads that misidentify someone as Hispanic (never mind the so-what response that we really should give to such an identification). We have lost far too much of our critical thinking skills as it is--can democracy really survive as a political system when the electoral process is so polluted by far too much money?

A recent Writer's Almanac included a quote from our second president, John Adams: "Democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts and murders itself. There was never a democracy that did not commit suicide."

Our Bodies, Ourselves

2011-10-25T20:21:00.000-04:00

40 years old! It's hard to believe that 40 years ago, a group of women got together and wrote a small pamphlet which helped alter women's awareness of their bodies.

Titled appropriately Our Bodies, Ourselves, this booklet dealt with subjects that were taboo in the early days of women's liberation. It talked about human sexuality in frank straightforward terms. It gave detailed descriptions of the types of birth control available. And it used rudimentary drawings to show female anatomy.

Hard to believe that such information was revolutionary, but it was. I bought one of the first versions of this booklet--a newsprint paper version that did not hold up well to constant consultation. Then I got an upgraded version with a more substantial cover that helped the book weather all the use.

I soon got one to give to my sister, who is 12 years my junior. As I recall, my sister took her copy and disappeared into her bedroom for hours. Since at that time, she was a teen, no doubt she too was learning things she had not known about her body, herself.

When I had a daughter, and when she was a preteen, I gave her a copy. She too took her copy and disappeared into her bedroom for a time.

One of the things my parents did absolutely right in raising me was to always be very straightforward when it came to talking about human sexuality. This booklet was written in that same vein--straightforward information. Truth is always better than myth.

As our children were growing up, my husband and I likewise were very straightforward with them. Inevitably, both our son and our daughter, as they grew up, asked the inevitable questions: "How did I get to be born?" Many parents have that experience--it is even the subject of comedy. Mothers or fathers tongue-tied, unable to tell their children in direct language about human sexuality.

Well, that was not us. We always used correct terms, completely avoiding euphemisms. I recall one day when a neighbor several houses up the street from us asked me if we had told our son "about sex." Of course, I said, why? Because, she said, their son (about the same age as our son) had asked them something he learned from our son. Well, I said, haven't you talked with him? Oh, no, she said, he's too young. My response--if he's asking his friends, he's not too young.

So, many many thanks to the women of the Boston Women's Health Book Collective. I just hope that we don't lose all the gains of women controlling their bodies, their selves, in the next 40 years.

DAY TRIP--Fallingwater

2011-10-15T20:41:00.000-04:00

(this photo is from the Wikipedia page on Fallingwater--all the others were ones I took during our day trip)

Our next day trip covered a few more miles than the one to Hawk Mountain. We decided to go to Fallingwater, a place neither of us had ever seen. Fittingly, this lovely house (but, oh, so much more than a house) is a U.S. National Historic Landmark, as well as being on the U.S. National Register of Historic Places.

The day began with most unpromising weather--yet another day of rain. We drove across the PA Turnpike in a pouring rain that made driving anything but a delight.

Just as we reached Fallingwater, the clouds began to clear and snippets of sunshine peaked from behind the remaining clouds that were reluctant to leave.

Autumn has finally arrived--the leaves were not quite as bright as I had hoped. Autumn is my favorite time of year--and I look forward to the splashy displays of vermilion, yellow, and orange. There is just enough color now to satisfy me.

After checking in at the Visitors' Center, we waited for our tour group number to be called. Then we walked down a crunching gravel path to Fallingwater.

No photographs are permitted inside the house, so I had to content myself with views from the outside.

A little history is in order. Anyone who grew up in western Pennsylvania knows the name Kaufmann's Department Store. For decades, this department store was the height of upscale shopping. This downtown Pittsburgh store was the kind of place people got dressed up to visit. Maybe you remember the days when department stores had ladies with gloves operating the elevators. Kaufmann's was that kind of place.

By the time Edgar Kaufmann, Sr. was running the store, the Kaufmann family had a country retreat location on Bear Run, some 76 plus miles southeast of Pittsburgh. They wanted to have a house built on the location. Through various contacts, Edgar Kaufmann engaged the services of Frank Lloyd Wright. He fully expected that Wright would design a house that would face the lovely view of the waterfalls. Imagine his surprise when Wright's design called for the house to be built OVER the waterfalls.

What followed is a well-known story of twists and turns in the building process. Not only was the location a surprise, but the design itself was revolutionary. Wright called for cantilevered reinforced concrete balconies that were the primary features of the house extending over the waterfalls. The conversation flowed back and forth between Kaufmann and Wright. Some of the controversy swirled around whether or not Wright's design could, in fact, be built. Of course, eventually it was.

When Kaufmann Senior died, his son Edgar Kaufmann, jr. (who, for some reason, insisted on the lower case j for jr.) inherited some of his father's wealth along with Fallingwater. The son Edgar was an only child--and, as it happened, he was also gay. He never married, though he did have a long term partner. Since Edgar, fils, was childless, he made plans for Fallingwater to be deeded to Western Pennsylvania Conservancy, which occurred in 1963.

The house was, in many ways, a glorious failure. While it was being built, the soundness of design was the subject of constant communication between Wright and Kaufmann, Sr. Eventually, during the 1990s, the house had to be reconstructed to shore up the cantilevers. The last work, which finally appears to resolved the structural problems, was done in 2002.

While the house was being built, Edgar jr. joined the fray, defending Wright. It is telling--at least to me--that when Edgar jr. was selecting a career, he eschewed retail altogether, having no interest in the life of running a chain of department stores. His passion? Art. He studied during the 1920s at the School for Arts and Crafts at the Austrian Museum of Applied Arts in Vienna. He also was a residence apprentice in architecture at Wright's Taliesen East school in the mid 1930s.

Edgar jr. went on to become the Director of the Industrial Design Department at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. He also authored a book on Frank Lloyd Wright.

What a day trip. Not sure if we have energy for another such trip this autumn, but if we do, I will surely let you know.

DAY TRIP--Hawk Mountain

2011-10-07T19:10:00.003-04:00

While my husband and I enjoy traveling, usually when we talk about a trip, we mean A TRIP—you know, somewhere away that takes multiple days. For example, we could travel to San Diego or to London.

What we have not done as much of is take day trips. Pennsylvania, where we live,offers a number of delightful destinations for day trips. And October is such a lovely time of year in the northeast, where leaves turning brilliant colors make a perfect backdrop for a day trip.

This week we set out for Hawk Mountain. We have been members for years, maybe even decades, but have never traveled there.

The story of Hawk Mountain is one of the power of individual effort and the need to respect and preserve nature. It began with a young man named Richard Pough who had recently graduated from college. He was a budding conservationist. Having heard of a place near Reading, PA called Hawk Mountain, he decided to visit.

At that time, the Pennsylvania Game Commission had placed a bounty prize on the heads of goshawks--$5 a head. The thinking was to eradicate any predator in the wild, including birds. (It is a huge irony that humans, the greatest predators of all time, would make such a determination to try to exterminate other predators.)

Pough* found a scene of incredible destruction—hundreds of raptors shot dead by hunters. He returned the following weekend with a camera, gathering up the dead birds which he lined up and photographed.

The photos helped galvanize other like-minded people, including a New York philanthropist named Rosalie Edge. She had the means to secure the land around Hawk Mountain. She first leased it, and 1934 she installed a warden to keep hunters away.

Within a year, all hunting there had ceased. She went on to purchase the 1,400 acres and the next year opened the Sanctuary. She then deeded the site to Hawk Mountain Sanctuary which incorporate in 1938 as a non-profit organization. Today, the bulk of funding for the place comes from member support.

That makes Hawk Mountain the world’s first—and largest— refuge for birds of prey.

Why Hawk Mountain? The mountain, part of the Appalachian chain, sits right in the middle of one of the North American flyways. The sanctuary is well-developed with trails to various lookout points over the valley below.

On a clear day, such as the one we traveled on, the unobstructed view across the valley is some 70 miles. The main trail is about one third easy walking and two thirds climb over rocky terrain. One mile out to the North lookout point, and one mile back is a good walk in the woods.

We didn’t see too many raptors. The turkey vultures were out in force, riding the thermals with such ease, almost mockingly. One kept swooping in right where we were sitting as if to say “Look at me. You can’t do this.” We also saw red tail hawks, an American kestrel, and a bald eagle in the distance.

The two primary lookout points have volunteers and interns during all the hours the Sanctuary is open. They do a daily count, which you can see here. Sharp-shinned hawks, the ones most prevalent during the first week on October, were not to be seen during our trip.

Day trips? Yes, we plan more and I will photography and report on each.

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*Art Pough went on to lead an amazing life as a conservationist. He helped found the Nature Conservancy. As his obituary in 2003 notes (he lived for 99 years) he served “stints at the National Audubon Society and the American Museum of Natural History… he wrote a series of Audubon guides on birds; helped to get a law banning the sale of wild-bird feathers; became one of the first to warn of the dangers of DDT; established several important preservation groups; and inadvertently established the house finch population of the eastern United States.”

Sing Out!

2011-10-03T23:02:00.002-04:00

When our kids were just wee, we had several tapes with children's songs. The tapes were called "Wee Sing..." There was a "Wee Sing America," "Wee Sing Silly Songs," "Wee Sing Bible Songs," and on and on with the "Wee Sing" series.

Many of these songs were ones I knew, and had sung as a child. Some I did not know, but had great fun learning. I learned new favorites: "Boom, Boom Ain't It Great to be crazy," and "Little Bunny Foo Foo." Frankly, I mustn't get started recalling all these songs. Remembering them brings a HUGE smile to my face, but it will distract me from my subject here.

Oh, just one more side-track. One favorite song was "Catch A Little Fox." You know the words:

A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go,
Heigh ho, the dairy-o, a hunting we will go!
A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go,
We'll catch a little fox and put him in a box,
And then we'll let him go!

We would play this portion of the tape, and our daughter who was around one year old would listen intently. When the chorus line came--Catch a little fox and put him in a box, And then we'll let him go!" she would sit up, and join in merrily. As soon as the chorus was over, she went back to quiet listening. We would back the tape up again and again, and every time got the exact same reaction from her. Kind of like a wind-up doll.

So, what got me off on the subject of singing "Wee Sing" songs? Well, recently I attended a church meeting. NO, no--we did not sing "Wee Sing" songs--but we may as well have. The entire church was filled, and hardly anyone used the music. Instead, the words were projected on a screen, and people dutifully read the words. Hardly anyone bothered to sing harmony, or even knew that such a thing existed. What a let-down.

Now, I confess, if there's something I really enjoy it is singing in four-part harmony. But, if Coke ran that old classic commercial today--I'd like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony--the words would have to be changed.

We are losing--or maybe have already lost--our ability to sing in public. Certain styles of popular music seem to avoid melody at all costs. Televised singing contests, a la American Idol, have elevated harsh vocal performance to an art. I have a friend who teaches voice, and invariably when she gets new students, there's always someone who wants to sing "like they do on American Idol." My friend patiently explains that that's not singing.

One of the most popular television shows, when I was a college student, was Hootenanny. OK, you can follow the link and figure out my age... This show aired on Saturday night. It was practically required viewing on campus. Admittedly, in the early days of television, there were very few places to watch it. So, the college student lounge was a natural gathering place. By acclimation, Hootenanny was the show of choice. (And, on Saturday mornings, it was "Rocky and Bullwinkle. Sigh, the good old days.) Hootenanny featured many groups who did nothing but sing, sing, sing.

Think of the times now that we do sing together in public? Don't include church. And what do you get? Maybe, if you attend a sports event, you sing the National Anthem--and just hope that someone isn't butchering it in the process.

I can think of a song for almost every occasion. It doesn't take much inspiration for me. A day without clouds? "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning" or "Blue Skies, Smiling at Me." A cold gloomy day "Oh, The Weather Outside is Frightful." And so on.

I don't really know how to revive singing. But, I think we've lost something very special. Maybe we could start by using songbooks instead of projection screens. We could skip watching "American Idol" and go instead to a sing-along concert. We'd better hurry--soon, no one will remember what songs we had.

Sing out!

The Pizza King

2011-09-26T17:14:00.002-04:00

Do you remember that great scene in "Back to the Future" when Dr. Emmett Brown doubts Marty's story that he is from the future. So he asks him: Then tell me, "Future Boy", who's President in the United States in 1985? And Marty replies: Ronald Reagan.
To which Dr. Brown says in utter disbelief: Ronald Reagan? The actor?

Well, folks, if the seasoned Republican voters in Florida have their way, get ready for the pizza king. That's right. Herman Cain WON the Florida straw poll, beating Rick Perry with 37 percent of the votes to Perry's 15 percent.

Now, I grant you, it in no way grieves me to see Perry lose. But to the Pizza King? (In case you have been living in a cave--which, come to think of it, doesn't sound so bad these days--you may not know that Herman Cain's SOLE claim to fame is that he was the chief executive officer for Godfather's Pizza.)

True, the number of Republicans voting in this straw poll was 2,657 people. So 1,062 people think the pizza king should be president. Maybe they like his 9-9-9 plan: 9 percent tax rate on personal income, 9 percent tax rate on corporate income, and 9 percent national sales tax. The simplicity is breath-taking. Even though no serious economist gives this plan any credence. Oh, for goodness sake, we want simplicity.

We don't want to have to think about anything. And if someone tells us that something is a THEORY, well, kiss that piece of knowledge good-bye. After all, doesn't theory mean "not proven"? Republican candidates are falling all over each other trying to see who can "diss" science the most. Poor Jon Huntsman (uh-oh--here's one of those inescapable word combos--you, know, like "the doomed Donner party" or "the ill-fated Titanic") took the bold stand of supporting evolution by saying "Call me crazy, but..."

But, folks, think we must. For example, how can Herman Cain with straight face propose the simple 9-9-9 plan, when the last 9 means poor people (and everyone else) paying a 9 percent federal sales tax. If you're poor, paying 9 percent sales tax is a killer. A rich guy won't mind paying 9 percent on his yacht, but a poor guy paying 9 percent on food?

Or another example, how can Rick Perry say he thinks the science on global warming was rigged, when Texas is experiencing unheard of weather extremes, and is--as one analyst noted--on fire? Literally!

Well, if Professor Brown couldn't believe that Ronald Reagan, the actor, was president, how about the pizza king?

Oh, do you want that pizza with extra cheese or pepperoni?
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Full disclosure--the photo of the pizza? Why, that's from Godfather's Pizza website.

Where are They Now?

2011-09-19T19:54:00.001-04:00

Occasionally, I fall for a magazine, stacked up at the cash register of a grocery store, when it trumpets from the cover WHERE ARE THEY NOW? Usually, there is a photo spread of stars of yesteryear, or other people in the public. I am always curious about the paths that people's lives take.

With the arrival of social networking sites, such as Facebook, we can now indulge in our own version of "Where are they now?" Maybe you have played this game. After you sign up with Facebook, chase down immediate friends, relatives, neighbors, whoever--eventually you get to the point where you wonder "who else can I friend?" (Sorry, it annoys me as much as you that we have converted yet ANOTHER noun into a verb! After all, isn't "befriend" a perfectly good verb? Yet FB insists on "friend" as the verb form...but I digress.)

I love the graph below suggesting who finds YOU on Facebook. Thus far that has not been my experience. I have, however, had the experience of befriending someone who later, summarily "unfriended" me. And, truth be told, I have done the same thing. After all, no need to be subjected to reading updates about things which matter not on whit to me.

If you like the above graph, you can find more at GraphJam.com.

Recently, one of my Blogger friends, AC, hauled out a third grade photo, and had his readers guessing which cherub was him. That post engendered another, as he found a second grade photo as well.

That got me to musing...I know somewhere I have a fourth grade photo. So I hauled it out. I have only one such school photo. Most of my elementary school days were spent in government run schools in then Rhodesia. I don't think they took class photos there. At any rate, in the mid-1950s, my parents returned to the U.S. for a furlough (extended vacation time).

Time enough for me to go to part of third grade and fourth grade at the Shepherdstown Elementary School. My teachers were Mr. Meyers and Mr. Ryder. How unusual then to have had two men as grade school teachers. Looking at the photo, I have distinct recollections of most of the students. One girl, standing right next to me, was named Ginny.

I suspect every class has someone like her. You see, her problem was cleanliness. Or rather lack thereof. She came to school day after day, frequently in repeat clothing. Her hair was dishevelled, her face unwashed. And her body odor was painfully rank. Poor girl. No--really. POOR girl. I don't know who cared for her, if anyone. No one in class would tell her she needed to bathe, and use deodorant. We all steered clear as much as we could.

By the time my family returned to the U.S. in the 1960s, and I finished high school, returning to the same school system, many of those third grade classmates were still there. But not Ginny.

Well, Facebook hasn't revealed any Ginnys to me. I do not recall her family name at all. And, yes, there are times when I wonder "Where is she now?"

Knitting at the Guillotine

2011-09-17T13:52:00.000-04:00

We are now in the season of vetting candidates for the privilege of running for President of the United States. To that end, the Republicans are holding a series of "debates" (more like sequential staged monologues...but that's another post).

When the first debate was held, hosted by NBC, Brian Williams in his moderator role prefaced a question to Governor Rick Perry. He noted that the governor has presided over more executions than any other governor in a state--whereupon the audience burst into applause and hoots of approval.

While the question and audience response clearly didn't phase Perry, it absolutely took my breath away. The visceral, red meat, blood lust response was repeated in the next Republican debate when the question was posed about someone who does not have health insurance and is diagnosed with a life threatening condition. What should we do--asked moderator Wolf Blitzer--let him die? YEAH, the audience loudly responded.

While some may quarrel with the moderators--did they ask the right question; did they ask the question the right way, etc.--I can't help but wonder: what has happened to the United States? Why such vicious uncaring reactions?

We have become a nation of Madame Defarges, sitting with our knitting at the base of the guillotine, sopping up the blood while we blithely knit away. How did it become so?

There are two thoughtful, yet deeply troubling, pieces that I have read recently. One, recommended to me by our daughter, points out the disparity of Republicans' deep distrust of government--as evidenced by the constant drum beat of every single Republican presidential candidate--EXCEPT when it comes to the death penalty. If government fouls up everything it touches--the current Republican mantra--why can't Governor Perry think, for a second, that maybe, just maybe government also fouls up and sentences an innocent man (or woman) to death? Read the Slate article for yourself here.

The second article is one written by a long-time Republican staff person who retired after 30 years as a House and Senate staff person. In the article, titled "Goodbye to All That," the author Mike Lofgren, meticulously catalogues the ways in which the current Republican leaders have intentionally changed the terms of the political debate. He opines that "it should have been evident to clear-eyed observers that the Republican Party is becoming less and less like a traditional political party in a representative democracy and becoming more like an apocalyptic cult."

Lofgren does not extol the virtues of Democrats--he tags them as hapless in the face of the current Republican approach. But his comparison gives one pause: in recounting the recent debt ceiling debate debacle, he notes that "everyone knows that in a hostage situation, the reckless and amoral actor has the negotiating upper hand over the cautious and responsible actor because the latter is actually concerned about the life of the hostage, while the former does not care."

Wow!

I suppose the only cautionary conclusion I can draw from this musing on my part is that, while the guillotine began as an instrument of execution for one intended victim, by the time the revolution ended, those who cheered on the executions eventually became the victims.

Knit one, purl one, repeat...

The Rule of Threes

2011-09-10T20:57:00.018-04:00

We humans are an interesting lot--we note things by number groupings. It is an arbitrary approach to observing things, but we can't help ourselves. The number three is one way we note things. We hear of the death of a famous person, then another--and we wait for the third death. If we try twice at something that doesn't work, we say "third time is a charm."

Well, not sure if nature counts by threes, but this summer has brought three unusual events our way.

The first unexpected event this summer was the earthquake. I grant you, by California standards--or almost anywhere in the world far less tectonic plate stable than the east coast, it wasn't much. Still, since I felt it--and saw the walls move--it was plenty enough for me.

Then, the second event--Hurricane Irene decided to waltz through central Pennsylvania, as well as other parts of the north east U.S. No matter how loudly and heartily I sang "Goodnight, Irene"--she just wouldn't leave. We watched as our lovely tall evergreens in the back yard began falling: one...two...three. Several days later, the tree guys (who were SUPER busy these days) arrived, whipped their noisy saws into action, slung rope and pulley over a neighbor's tree, hoisted, dragged and pushed the downed trees through a large grinder.

That was quite enough for me. But, nature had one more little treat in store--the third event.
Hurricane Irene gave way to Tropical Storm Lee. As rain fell day after day, we watched anxiously to see if our usually dry basement would stay dry. This past Wednesday, both my husband and I had plans to be out of the house for separate lunches. I went to the basement around 9:30 a.m., just in time to see a portion of the basement floor with a slight inch of water creeping in and bubbling up.

We both changed our lunch plans and went to work. While I began syphoning up water with our wet vac, my husband made a quick trip to our friendly Ace is the Place Hardware store to rent an industrial size wet vac.

We worked solidly for five hours--emptying the vacs by lugging buckets up the basement steps. Finally, with the rain continuing, we gave up. We managed to rig up a small pump which normally is used in the winter to keep water off the swimming pool winter cover. By attaching a long garden hose to the pump, and then running that hose up the stairs to the family room level, we were able to have the water run down a drain in the laundry room.

That system ran all night. By morning, small patches of dry floor began to appear. We turned on the dehumidifier, and set up a floor fan. With the rain slowing down, then stopping, we "won" the water battle.

What was ending for us was just beginning for the area. The Susquehanna is a lovely old river--almost a mile wide where Harrisburg, our state capitol, sits--this river can handle a lot of water. But it begins to flood at 17 feet. The original forecasts were for the river to rise to 29 feet.

Suddenly everyone was making the obvious comparison--to Hurricane Agnes. Hurricane Agnes wasn't much of a hurricane, back in 1972. But this low-level hurricane stalled over Virginia, Pennsylvania and New York. Between June 19 to 24, Agnes dumped upwards to 19 inches of rain in Pennsylvania. Rivers rose, creeks rose, and even long-forgotten canals filled.

In Harrisburg, water backed up the Paxton Creek, which had been channeled into a canal which few people knew even existed. The result was that Harrisburg had water all around it, almost cutting it off.

At the time, my husband and I were living in an apartment outside of Harrisburg. We had recently had our first child, our son--who was six months old. We were not greatly affected, except by the excitement of the news.

So, when the comparisons began this time to Agnes, it brought back memories as well as a frisson of dread--would Lee be as dramatic as Agnes? Well, yes and no. The river level did not break the Agnes record--it crested just over 25 feet. But still, for all the folks who were displaced, who lost homes to the flooding, the height of a flood matters little.

This photo--taken for the Patriot News by Sean Simmers--shows a neighborhood in Harrisburg called Shipoke. We have three friends from church who live in houses facing the Susquehanna. All of them had to evacuate.

Here are some other photos by the same photographer.

Some places that had not been affected by Agnes were flooded--for example HersheyPark, a favorite tourist destination. Both of our children had worked there-so we had a frame of reference as we looked at photos of some of the places we knew. The roller coaster was not designed as a water ride.

Lee has moved on--and, with 15 1/2 inches of rain, it now takes its place as the SECOND wettest tropical system to dump rain on Pennsylvania, right behind Agnes.

Let's just hope that the rule of threes holds--that there are no more unusual events at least for this year.

Places in the Heart

2011-09-05T20:47:00.011-04:00

For as long as I can recall, my mother's family has held a family reunion on the Saturday before Labor Day. Rather like salmon returning to the home waters, the offspring from the original grandparents return every year to a small community park in the Morrison's Cove area of Pennsylvania.

So, you can guess where we were this past Saturday. Not that I attend every year, I hasten to add--because we don't. It doesn't take me long to catch up with cousins with whom I have less and less in common as each year passes. Understandably, we have all moved on with our lives. The rough and tumble play of some 30 plus cousins is long past. In its place we find staid, solid folk with greying heads, aging bodies, aching knees, hips and backs. The annual softball game has long ceased

What remains is a fleeting contact, a chance to exchange hugs, eat some food, and then scatter once more.

This year, my husband asked one of the cousins who is older than I am if he could recall when the first such family reunion was. The cousin paused, and finally said that as long as he could recall, they had been holding the annual reunion.

Maybe this photo of my mother's family was taken at just such a reunion. All of my mother's brothers and sisters are there. Mother was one of eight children--from oldest to youngest they were: Ada, Paul, Andrew, Kathryn, Dorcas (my mother), Ezra (also called Fred), Mark and Davey. (My mother is the second one on the right, in the middle row, standing right behind her father.)

Now, the family tree has branched out. The first generation--my grandparents--are long gone. The second generation--the eight sibling--are also all gone. The third generation--me and all my cousins--are now in our autumnal or even winter years. Those of us that remain--that is. Because even in our generation, we have lost some to death. The fourth and fifth generation, as well as a sprinkling of sixth, are spread further and further apart. We no longer know each other by first names, much less which branch of the family we are attached to.

So, we gather, bringing our covered dishes.

We hold an auction of various items to help raise the money to pay for the pavilion in the local community park.

Some cousins, along with their sons or grandsons, get brave and give us a rendition of a song they have been practicing.

We bring cameras and take photos.

And we talk.

After we returned home, I kept thinking about my interaction with these cousins. Many of them grew up together. And I, along with my brother and sister, were miles away--in fact, an ocean away. When we returned home, we would make our way to my mother's home area--she loved it so--and we three alien siblings would be lost in a jumble of faces and names.

When my parents returned to mission work in southern Africa, I stayed here--in fact, in the Morrison's Cove area initially. I lived with Kathryn and her family. Her daughter and I spent a couple of years together--and made promises to be in each other's weddings--promises which we kept. We are not close now, but we share a common bond.

The thought occurred to me that what I hold in my heart are a multitude of memories of a time that is long past. Family members who are now dead still live in my memories. When I see cousins at the family reunion, I link them with their entire family. It makes for a constant bittersweet melange--a sense of what was, and what still is, bound up with joy at remembrance and sorrow at reality.

Places in the heart indeed.

Only God Can Make a Tree

2011-08-28T11:52:00.020-04:00

When my husband and I moved to the house we now live in, the neighborhood was brand new. In fact, my son and I had discovered the house for sale. Our son was eight, at the time, and the two of us had gone out for an afternoon bike ride. We rode from where we lived to a newly developing neighborhood very close by. In fact, our old house and our now house are less than a mile apart.

As we rode into the developing neighborhood, it showed all the signs of being brand new. About a dozen houses had been built, all on speculation. Since it was during a housing slow-down, very few had sold. And there were NO trees anywhere.

Once we had bought the house, and moved in, one of the first things on the list of things to do was to plant trees. The wind came whistling out of the north-west, and smacked our new house, especially in the winter. So, trees to help break that whistling wind were a MUST.

We got about a dozen small evergreens--all bare root stock and each eighteen inches high. And I walked along the back of our lot, with my husband digging holes, as I planted the small trees. Each tree seemed to be pitifully small. The result was that we planted them entirely too close together. As it happened, about every other tree was a Japanese pine. When they got too big, we took them out, leaving the Douglas firs, the Scotch pine, and the Colorado blue spruce, and one lone Austrian pine. Eventually, we added two Engelmann spruce (that had been live trees in front of our church).

This year, we had the Austrian pine taken down. It still had some green at the top, but most of the rest of it was dead. A neighbor thought it might come down in his yard, so we had it removed.

When Hurricane Irene began to blow up the East Coast, it did not even cross my mind that we might have storm damage. This week began with an earthquake in the east--a rare occurrence. So, a hurricane seemed like a fitting second act. But we have had hurricanes blow through central Pennsylvania before. Some do significant damage--mostly from high water. Hurricane Agnes in 1972 was just such a storm.

But the forecasts showed our town to be just enough to the west of Hurricane Irene that it seemed we might get a dose of rain, some wind, but not much else.

I awakened around 4:30 a.m. to hear the rain and the wind. Things sounded restless enough outside that I did not go back to sleep--more from curiosity than concern. As it began to get more light outside, I could see the trees being whipped around by the wind.

When I looked outside again--I got the first shock. TREE DOWN. This Douglas fir was one that our son had brought home from grade school, which we planted near our pool. And now it was down--just heaved over from the too much rain softened soil, and finished off by the wind.

Then, a bit later--there seemed to be far more light to the north side of our house than usual. Tree 2 down.

And, it continued then when Tree 3 leaned, on its way down, only to be stopped by a neighbor's black cherry tree.

So, now we wait for a tree service to come, clear away, clean up and haul off our lovely 30 plus year old trees.

And, then, we will have to decide--what to plant there next.

Joyce Kilmer's oft-cited poem came to mind:

I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree. . .

YOU ROCK!

2011-08-23T16:07:00.004-04:00

After the event this afternoon, my husband remarked with incredible irony that he had thought of the possibility of experiencing an earthquake, but assumed that we'd be in California, if that happened.

With our son and daughter-in-law now living in southern California, we know we will be visiting there more frequently. So that raised the possibility of experiencing an earthquake--not a huge likelihood, true. But we certainly didn't think we'd feel the earth moving here in central Pennsylvania.

Yet, that is precisely what we felt today. Just before 2 p.m. EST, we each felt something a bit unusual--my husband thought the dog had bumped his office chair. I saw the walls seem to move slightly--a disorienting sensation.

I confess, the first place I turned to figure out what had happened was Facebook. It lit up like a switchboard (what a funny comparison). And immediately the USGS confirmed that it was indeed a 5.8 magnitude earthquake centered in Mineral, Virginia, some 90 miles south of Washington, DC.

Here's a USGS map of the places where the earthquake was felt--based on reports people have made.

I can't say that experiencing an earthquake was on any personal experience list that I had--but if this is the only earthquake I experience, I am just fine with that. I recall hearing from an aunt of mine who lived through the great Alaska earthquake of 1964. That event seemed like the end of the world to her.

I am fine with a 5.8 magnitude earthquake almost 200 miles from where I live. I would NOT want to experience a 9.2 magnitude earthquake.

The Writing on the Wall

2011-08-19T11:45:00.014-04:00

Well, the local news has done it again.

I know I have railed before, in this venue, about the sad state of news coverage in general in the U.S., and on the woeful approach to news coverage in local news. I guess I shouldn't be surprised when a local television news station leads off its nightly news with an absurd story.

So, here's what the local CBS affiliate led with last night: "3 deaths reported from brain-eating water amoeba." (As a side note, when they promo'd the news earlier in the evening, with that headline, they showed a graphic of a euglena! So, big deal, you say--amoeba, euglena, what's the diff?)

Never mind the wrong graphic, I have so many OTHER problems with this story. First, the deaths that were reported occurred in Louisiana, Virginia and Florida. Huh? Three places that are MILES (make that states) away from our city. Second, our city is located along a river--the Susquehanna--and people do use it as an entertainment source--a place to swim if there isn't a community pool nearby...i.e. much of the inner city. And yet, one visual point after another featured our river. In fact, the local reporter was STANDING in the river (wearing waders). I am certain there are some viewers who thought--YIKES, can't swim in the river anymore. Third, the reporter went on to say--the one victim even contracted his amoeba from TAP WATER. Oh, no. Not even tap water is safe.

Fourth, when the local reporter talked to someone knowledgeable in the area--a physician--the physician stated point blank--such a condition is EXTREMELY rare. (Something like 1 chance in 10 million!) Got that--extremely. Yet, the local news led with this story.

Sadly, science knowledge and comprehension continues to decline in the U.S. I suspect too many viewers won't exercise their healthy skepticism. Instead, they will go--oh dear, there's a flesh eating amoeba in our river, and we're all going to die! And even if you do an Internet search on the topic, you don't find much help out there. The first story that popped up in my search was from an NPR blog. NPR? Really!

SIGH.

What to do? It certainly doesn't help that we have, among the dominant forces in our country, destructive pressures on the reason to have any science knowledge. Of course, it's too simple to blame television, but I can't help but wonder what all the exposure to "reality" shows is doing to our thinking powers. There are many reasons why people might like reality shows: the chance to root for the underdog; the "at least it's not me" syndrome; the freak show appeal. But advancing knowledge is not one of those reasons. And yet, these shows dominate television, driving out quality drama, and killing informative shows in general.

Another culprit to this decline in scientific knowledge, in my opinion, is the disdain that is heaped on long-held scientific views. Take Rick Perry, for example. Seriously, take him. OK-sorry, old joke (thank you, Henny Youngman). Anyway, Perry made news recently when he opined that evolution is "a theory that's out there...and it has some gaps in it." He went on to say that in Texas (Lord, deliver us from another Texan) they teach both evolution and creationism*, and he guesses the students are smart enough to figure it out.

When I was most recently teaching, I encountered students who had been schooled in a such a way. One earnest young man even brought his science text books in from a private religious school (complete with artistic renderings of Adam and Eve). This dismissive tendency--to say evolution is a theory (implying that as such it is not reliable, much less proven)--in part draws on a common misunderstanding of how science uses the term "theory." Wikipedia does a nice job of explaining the word's meaning in a scientific context: "A common distinction sometimes made in science is between theories and hypotheses, with the former being considered as satisfactorily tested or proven and the latter used to denote conjectures or proposed descriptions or models which have not yet been tested or proven to the same standard." So, where the average person in public hears "theory," thinks "unproven," the scientist says "theory," and means "demonstrates by data over time."

So, saying something is a theory does not mean it is unproven. It means that it has been satisfactorily tested and proven.

I shudder when I think how the dismissive approach to science is affecting our country. I read a recent New York Times article that put things into stunning context. Herewith the gist: Grinell College in Iowa markets itself to students in China, which has resulted in 1 in 10 applicants to Grinell come from China (about 200 students). Of those 200 Chinese applicants, half have perfect scores in the math SAT. HALF. Perfect scores.

GULP.

So, while Rick Perry disparages evolution, while local news scares people to death with stories of flesh eating amoebae, while U.S. citizens wile away the hours watching reality shows on TV, the students in China are studying math. I don't know about you--folks--but I see the writing on the wall, and it doesn't say USA.

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*The Texas Tribune notes the following:
In 1987, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that teaching creationism in public schools was unconstitutional. In the case Edwards v. Aguillard, the court ruled that teaching creationism in Louisiana public schools was the equivalent of teaching religion — and violated the Constitution because it advanced a particular religion.

A Tale of Two Cities

2011-08-10T22:27:00.005-04:00

We have recently returned from visiting our son and daughter-in-law, who recently moved from Pittsburgh to San Diego. We had not seen them since they left the east coast. And now they are living on the west coast.

As ever, the ocean is a marvelous thing to behold. Two things can bear endless watching: a camp fire or fireplace, and the ocean.

We had spectacular weather while we were there--it was wondrous to leave the heat and humidity of a typical Pennsylvania summer, and experience the cool days with breezes blowing.

While we were there, we used Skype to have a sort of family reunion--talking with our daughter and son-in-law who live in London. Yes, that London.

Not long after we returned home, the news began breaking about a sudden up-swell of riots in Tottenham, a section of London. As if someone splashed gasoline on smoldering embers, the riots bloomed and spread through various parts of London. Then it morphed again, and spread to other cities in the UK.

View Initial London riots / UK riots in a larger map

The map above gives some sense of the extent of these riots.

It is always hard to be a parent when your children live at a distance from you. But, it is even harder to have them literally a continent apart and away.

It really struck me that there's a sense of revisiting, in contemporary terms, what Dickens was writing about in his classic A Tale of Two Cities. Of course, then London was the stable city, while Paris was the city on fire.

I am hoping that calm is restored soon. And even though we are thousands of miles from our children, we too can regain our calm. But, as we wait for calm, I also recall the moral of another English novel--The Lord of the Flies: the veneer of civilization is very thin indeed.

One Man's Mutilation

2011-08-02T21:39:00.013-04:00

An ad I saw the other day in the New York Times sent my mind spinning. And it made me recall what was so much fun about teaching.

There are many things I loved about teaching, but far and away my favorite part has always been having spirited class discussions.

Soon after I returned to teaching, at the local community college, I learned that a new essay text was going to be picked. When the writing coordinator asked if anyone wanted to help select it, I volunteered. We ended up picking a neat text of essays (called Every Day, Everywhere) that included a wide range of delightful readings.

Early in a semester, I would assign Germaine Greer's incisive essay titled "One Man's Mutilation is Another Man's Beautification." You can read it here, if you like.

To get students' minds working, I would show them various photos--here are some samples.

from top left, clockwise: Neck elongation; skin scarification; henna painted hand; lip enlarging using wooden disk; bound foot (pointing straight down); and filed teeth.

Invariably, students would react negatively. The one practice that really seemed to bother them was foot binding. A spirited discussion always followed my showing that photo.

Of course, I was lying in wait for them. After the students got lathered up in discussing the barbarian practice of foot binding, I would ask--you mean you wouldn't submit to such a practice? Of course not, they indignantly replied.

And then I showed them photos such as this.

What's the difference? I asked. And then the discussion really heated up.

I am particularly interested in the answer. Shoes with such a high heel go in and out of style. I remember spike heels. I wore some when I was younger. I do NOT wear anything like that today. I wince and hobble with bad knees, even if I am bare foot, or have my favorite pair of Clark's on my feet. Super high heels? Well, you may as well tell me to have my feet bound.

Of course, what I am tapping into with the discussion is the cultural variations we all exhibit. And that's what Germaine Greer meant by her provocative title.

Bound feet...
Super high heels
Scarification...
Body piercings...
Tattooing...
Teeth filing...
Teeth capping...

Ah, the ad? Well, it was those photos of women's super high heels. Inflicted cruelty in the name of fashion, if you ask me, resulting in long-term mutilation all for the sake of short-term beautification.

One man's (or woman's) mutilation is indeed another man's (or woman's) beautification. OK, class, discuss among yourselves.

That Sinking Feeling

2011-07-25T09:30:00.016-04:00

Once again, the Writer's Almanac has inspired the subject of a blog for me. It was on this day that the Italian ocean liner Andrea Doria was struck, off the coast of Nantucket, and eventually sank.

Now, why, you might wonder, is that event of particular note. Well, several reasons. On the larger scale of human events, certainly there were bigger more costly ship sinkings. Obviously, the Titanic is the most famous, at least in terms of lives lost, with 1,517 people perishing. The Andrea Doria had only 46 people die.

Strangely, the Andrea Doria benefited from the lessons learned on the Titanic--to a point. The Andrea Doria was struck by another ship, the Stockholm, in a heavy fog. The impact of the collision resulted in the Andrea Doria listing hard to starboard which rendered the lifeboats on that side unusable. With only half the lifeboats usable, the numbers of passengers who could be rescued using them was greatly diminished. Shamefully, some of the crew fled on the first 3 lifeboats.

However, and here's where the Titanic lessons came into play, there were other ships in the area that immediately set course to assist the crippled ship. These ships included the Ile de France which had passed the site hours earlier. This ship had sufficient capacity to take on the passengers from the stricken ship. The call to abandon ship came 30 minutes into the accident, and the ship sank eleven hours after being struck.

As Wikipedia notes, the sinking of the Andrea Doria was "the last major transatlantic passenger vessel to sink before aircraft became the preferred method of travel."

So what? you might be thinking. When this story was first in the news, I was riveted with the details. Our family was one of those ocean-traveling families. With my parents doing mission work in southern Africa, which they first went to in 1946, we had to get across the Atlantic Ocean, somehow. The very first time, we went by plane which is standard now, but very unusual then. After that trip, we crossed the Atlantic in 1954 to return to the U.S., then again in 1955 to return to Africa.

So, crossing the Atlantic was something with which I had familiarity, when I first learned of the Andrea Doria sinking. It did not instill great confidence in me. The only thing I really feared crossing the ocean was the prospect that the ship could sink. It didn't help matters when on one ocean crossing the ship we were on showed a movie "Run Silent, Run Deep" about submarines preying on ships.

Sure, it was great fun to cross the Atlantic in a huge ship, such as the Queen Elizabeth I (as we did). And the time spent on shipboard was a wonderful way for missionaries heading home to decompress. But, the prospect of another ocean liner striking the ship we were on did not thrill me.

When I returned* to the U.S. for the final time in 1959, we once again crossed by ship--a ship called the African Enterprise. I even found photos of it on the Internet--shown below--which completely matched my memory of the ship. The photo of the ship's main lounge really brought back memories for there was a piano there (seen on the left in the photo) on which the ship's doctor--an Italian opera lover--played the Triumphal March from Aida JUST as we steamed past the Statue of Liberty into New York harbor.

Ah, the days of passengers crossing the Atlantic are long gone--at least in the commercial sense. There are, of course, luxury tour which do take passengers around the world. But, mostly now, people go on short jaunt cruises which are nothing like an ocean crossing.

What has not changed, of course, is the prospect of a ship sinking. Sadly, such catastrophes are still happening (as this summer's news attests), and lives are lost.
--------------
*My parents returned to southern Africa in 1960, while I stayed in the U.S. to continue my high school education.

Revisiting the Classics

2011-07-18T17:01:00.005-04:00

Someone recently wrote a comment on my Facebook about recalling the days when I was teaching (in my first college job) and she was a student there. What she indicated was that as she and her fellow classmates reminisce they all recall having to read “the dreaded Young Goodman Brown.” She said she remembered nothing of the story or its meaning, only the dread of having to read the story. And she wondered—should she read the story again, perhaps with the maturity of some life experiences that would make “the dreaded” story more meaningful.

That got me to thinking—there are many classics that we could revisit and appreciate now with some life experience informing us of deeper meaning.

And then I thought—why not help you revisit the classics. Starting with “Young Goodman Brown.” If you still think this story might fall into the dreaded category—go ahead, skip the rest of this post.

“Young Goodman Brown” is one of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short stories. Written in 1835, it is widely regarded as his best-known short story. The primary characters are Young Goodman Brown himself, his wife Faith, and sundry characters who appear during the course of the story.
A quick interjected comment about the character’s name—Young Goodman Brown. Obviously, young is an adjective describing his youth. The family name of Brown is somewhat universal. And Goodman—well, that’s an honorific title that would have been used during Puritan times, one step below “gentleman.”

The story begins with young Goodman Brown taking leave of his wife to set out on an unspecified errand as night falls. They are newly weds, having only been married three months, and she somewhat petulantly begs him not to go. He tells her he must go—and so he leaves his sweet wife Faith, who is the picture of innocence with pink ribbons in her hair.

Ah—foreshadowing. The wife’s name is Faith.

Not long after setting out, young Goodman Brown encounters an unnamed character who upbraids him for being late. Goodman Brown replies “Faith kept me back a while.” The two begin to walk along, deeper into a darkening woods, and Goodman Brown begins to hang back complaining that his father never went so far into the woods. But, he is urged on by his traveling companion, who tells him:

``Well said, Goodman Brown! I have been as well acquainted with your family as with ever a one among the Puritans; and that's no trifle to say. I helped your grandfather, the constable, when he lashed the Quaker woman so smartly through the streets of Salem; and it was I that brought your father a pitch-pine knot, kindled at my own hearth, to set fire to an Indian village, in King Philip's war. They were my good friends, both; and many a pleasant walk have we had along this path, and returned merrily after midnight. I would fain be friends with you for their sake.''

The traveling companion is now identified as “he of the serpent.” So, clearly young Goodman Brown is on a dodgy errand and has met up with the devil, or at least the devil’s emissary. The quoted speech (above) clearly links historical events within the Puritan community with the forces of evil: the Salem witch trials, and the so-called King Philip’s war, where wholesale slaughter of American Indians was carried out by the settlers.

Young Goodman Brown is astonished to learn that his traveling companion is well acquainted with church leaders, the governor, and members of the council. As he digests this information, he sees a woman ahead of them on the path. She is Goody* Cloyse, who taught him catechism. Not wanting to be seen by her, Goodman Brown ducks into the woods, while his traveling companion stays on the path. When he encounters Goody Cloyse, she screams “the Devil” but they soon fall into friendly banter so it is clear they too are well acquainted. When she disappears, and young Goodman Brown is once again walking with his traveling companion, Brown demurs:

``Friend,'' said he, stubbornly, ``my mind is made up. Not another step will I budge on this errand. What if a wretched old woman do choose to go to the devil when I thought she was going to heaven: is that any reason why I should quit my dear Faith and go after her?''

His traveling companion suddenly disappears, leaving Goodman Brown sitting puzzled and contemplating what to do next. He then hears voices of two approaching travelers, who turn out to be the other people who instructed Brown in catechism—the minister and Deacon Gookin. They too are on their way to the same gathering as the devil, and Goody Cloyse. Goodman Brown cries out: ``With heaven above and Faith below, I will yet stand firm against the devil!''

As he cries out this plaintive declaration, he hears a young woman’s voice. And looking up to the sky, he sees something fluttering down, which catches on a branch—a pink ribbon.

``My Faith is gone!'' cried he, after one stupefied moment. ``There is no good on earth; and sin is but a name. Come, devil; for to thee is this world given.''

He finally gives himself over to the forces of evil, and joins the gathered worshippers. Someone calls for the converts to be brought forward, and Goodman Brown steps forth. He hears the words of welcome:

``Welcome, my children,'' said the dark figure, ``to the communion of your race. Ye have found thus young your nature and your destiny. My children, look behind you!''

Goodman Brown beholds Faith in the gathering, and in a final desperate plea tries to save her: ``Faith! Faith!'' cried the husband, ``look up to heaven, and resist the wicked one.'' The story solemnly informs the reader “whether Faith obeyed he knew not.”

The next morning, young Goodman Brown returns to his village, a changed man. He sees all the familiar loved figures—the minister, Deacon Gookin, Goody Cloyse, and finally his wife Faith who greets him happily.

The story wonders whether or not Brown had fallen asleep and only dreamed the witch-meeting.

Sorry, no answer to that question.
The ending informs us:

“And when he had lived long, and was borne to his grave a hoary corpse, followed by Faith, an aged woman, and children and grandchildren, a goodly procession, besides neighbors not a few, they carved no hopeful verse upon his tombstone, for his dying hour was gloom.”

After that summary, do you really need an interpretation? For myself, I like the thought that what Goodman Brown discovers in the darkened woods is that we are all mortal—we are not perfect, we are flawed. And the knowledge—the coming of age, if you will—overwhelms him. He cannot live a carefree satisfied life with that knowledge.

What do YOU think the story is telling the reader?

Now, I am taking requests. What classic would you like to see revisited? If I have read it, and can remember it, I will “teach” a class on it.

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*Goody—a shortened version of Goodwife, corollary to Goodman

Rebooting

2011-07-16T08:57:00.008-04:00

Several weeks ago, I began to notice that my heartbeat was not all it should be--you know, not nice and regular and steady. Instead, it felt thready and at times weak.

Since I pay attention to little messages from my body, I made an appointment with my family doctor. She too felt my pulse, listened to my heart--and to me as I described what I had been feeling--and then promptly called on the office intercom for an EKG. Once I was hooked up with various little leads, and a read-out of my heartbeat was made, she announced: yes, as I thought, you have atrial fibrillation.

Now, I don't like to hear little words (or actually some long words) such as atrial fibrillation. But not liking to hear something does not make it go away. My doctor referred me to a cardiologist with these words--I don't think you need to go immediately to an emergency department. Well, such a statement focuses the attention when your doctor allows as how you DON'T need to go to the emergency department. I couldn't help but hear an unspoken YET.

A few days later, I did see that cardiologist, and he in turn had another EKG performed--yup, still in atrial fibrillation. He started me on a new blood thinning medicine and recommended scheduling a cardioversion.

Now, cardioversion is the little cousin of that dramatic medical procedure on TV shows, when a patient is in cardiac arrest, and someone grabs two paddles, yells CLEAR--and then zaps the patient. In cardioversion, the paddles are smaller, and the electric charge toned down some, but it still is zapping the heart. (And, I learned the nickname for the doctor who does the cardioversion is Sparky...)

Or, as my cardiologist (who I did like a lot) said--rebooting. HA. Immediately my husband took to referring to the procedure as my rebooting, and that the result would be KGMom 2.0.

Hmmm.

So, I am now at the end of the week which began with my rebooting. Since cardioversion is done under general anesthesia, I felt nothing, and have no negative residuals from the procedure.

What I am hoping is that rebooting is not prelude to more such procedures. And I hope that KGMom 2.0 had all the bugs worked out first. You know, I don't want a constant stream of updates being rolled out, requiring installation etc.

As usual, Shakespeare provides words of wisdom: all's well that ends well.

Here's hoping...

Remembrance of Things Past

2011-07-10T16:07:00.008-04:00

Those readers who know me realize I am a big fan of the Writer's Almanac. I receive it as a daily email, a practice I began when I missed the NPR segment too often. So now every day, I can start out with a literary bon mot to savor.

For example, today is Marcel Proust's birthday--July 10, 1871. And I know that because I read my Writer's Almanac. Two Proustian amusements I enjoy--one is the recurring reference to him in that charming independent movie of a few years back--Little Miss Sunshine. Steve Carell plays a very depressed scholar who fancies himself the number # 1 Proust scholar...until he learns of someone ELSE who is even more the # 1 Proust scholar.

The other is the title of Proust's most famous work--Remembrance of Things Past. At least that's how the title is rendered in English. Apparently, that title, though so well-known by most literature students, should have been rendered as In Search of Lost Time. I like Remembrance of Things Past better--maybe because that's what I feel I frequently do when I set out to write a blog.

For the purists, Proust's title in French is À la recherche du temps perdu. which I confess really does translate better into In Search of Lost Time. OK, whatever.

The other day, on the anniversary of the poet Shelley's birthdate (of which the Writer's Almanac reminded me), I went searching for a suitable Shelley poem to use on Facebook. I found the poem "When the Lamp is Shattered."

Interesting how the themes in this poem seem to echo that search of lost time, or even remembrance of things past theme.

Herewith the opening stanza--the rest you can read by clicking on the link above:

When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead—
When the cloud is scattered
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

I heard a successful movie script writer being interviewed by Terry Gross the other day. He made the point that, in his opinion, most movie scripts are really the same story told over and over again. He gave some examples to illustrate his point. I see what he means--and that repetition of theme certainly occurs in literature. Only there--we call them archetypes.

There is that recurring theme of the intransigence of existence--the mutability of all things. Contemplate how an entire play--Hamlet--seems to hang up on that theme. And Hamlet's awareness incapacitates him. He wanders around musing "to be or not to be."

About now, dear reader, you may be wondering--what's gotten into her. Oh, maybe I am just musing. Tempus fugit. Memento mori.

Let's hope that the next Writer's Almanac puts me on the path of a cheerier theme.

Goodbye, Mr. Chips

2011-07-01T19:48:00.005-04:00

The other day I was suddenly seized with the urge to clean out my office--not the one in our home, but the one at the community college where I had taught for the last several years. I have not taught a course for three semesters, and I have no thoughts of asking for a course. With my husband retired, my not having a course frees us up to travel. So perhaps my teaching days have drawn to a close.

But, the office that I shared with two full time faculty and one other adjunct still held some of my personal items as well as student information and text books.

I loaded books into boxes, and then went through several file drawers where I had accumulated worksheets, quizzes, exams, and even student papers. With abandon, I tossed the papers into recycle bins. I wondered what to do with some of the textbooks--composition books which I had no use for if I weren't teaching.

As if by design, a man appeared at the door. He was one of those textbook buyers who circulate at the end of each semester, looking for used textbooks for which they pay money. Well--sure, go right ahead, look through my books. And he did, and found a fair number for which he offered me $17 total. Done and done. The first time such a buyer appeared at my door, I agonized over what to do. Many of the books that I had collected had been sent unsolicited as tryout texts. So, I was in a quandary. When I asked a colleague, she was frankly puzzled at my ethical pause.

The task of cleaning out the office was a necessity, but it also set me to musing--and thus the real inspiration for this post. I have loved teaching. Nothing I have done in my varied work career has been so rewarding as teaching. And I am grateful to all the links along the way that led me into teaching.

Fresh out of college, with my degree in English literature in hand, I had no clue what I might do. So, off to grad school for me. I realized that I had been privileged to have excellent professors at my alma mater, so I wrote a note of thanks to one of my favorite profs. He promptly wrote back and asked--did I want to return to my alma mater, after my master's degree program was concluded? It was for a one-year fill in for someone on sabbatical. Did I?

Well, I surely did. So, after one year away for grad school, I returned as a very young newly minted instructor in English. I was all of two or three years older than my students. I had no trouble asserting my classroom authority with students, but some of my former professors, now colleagues, didn't exactly help me. Some students told me that one prof was reminding students that they had to read their assignments if they wanted to discuss intelligently the issues. Only one person that he knew could discuss intelligently without having read the assignment--that was me.

So, I asked my former prof, now colleague--please, don't tell students such stories about me! (I think I might have been secretly pleased at being identified as discussing intelligently.) That was then--now I realize that I no doubt short-changed myself but not reading thoroughly the assignments.

After eight years of teaching, I moved on to other work. Make that three other jobs. The last full time job came to an abrupt end when the company I was with merged with another, and I was "made redundant" (that wonderful British term). Facing the prospect of sudden and unplanned retirement, I wondered what to do. Well, there was teaching. So I applied to our local community college for adjunct status teaching English composition. Thus I returned to teaching to conclude my working career.

As with anyone involved in teaching, I have my cache of student stories. There was one student who was furious at me for "giving" him an F. I calmly informed him that he had earned that F. There was another student who gleefully told me, when I returned a paper to her on which she had earned a B, that she only began writing the paper the night before it was due. My comment to her--imagine if you had done more preparation; you might have gotten an A.

Encountering students after a 20 plus year absence from teaching had a completely different dynamic. Add to the time factor the difference between students attending a four-year residential college and students attending a two year non-residential community college. Students at community colleges frequently carry full class loads and work full-time. That leaves little time for engaging enthusiastically in the academic riches of college education.

At the community college some students' stories nearly broke my heart. I would always give students an initial assignment in class--write a diagnostic essay in response to a prompt. That way, I could see how they wrote and have a base-line sample of their writing skills. Sometimes I used the prompt--what was a problem you had, and a way that you solved it. I had quite a few young women who wrote about getting pregnant while in high school, and their decision to keep and raise the baby as a single mom.

In one class, I had a young woman named Brooke. She sat in the back, and never talked. I could tell she was friends with one of the young men. One day, she missed class. I had a fairly strict attendance policy, so I noted the absence. Then she missed again, and again. I finally asked the young man--and he said he thought she was dropping out. It turns out that she had quarreled with her mother, who turned her out. Brooke, at age 18, was living in her car. She never did return to class, and I often wondered what happened to her.

So, as I cleaned out drawers and files, packed up books and personal items, I thought. I thought back on a career in teaching, and again silently thanked the professor who tossed me a one-year teaching position. Of course, it lasted more than one year. The professor on sabbatical who I replaced never returned.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (terza parte)

2011-06-23T22:42:00.014-04:00

Well, it is time to finish the southern Italian tour series. I admit to a bit of cheating--the ugly in some instances was really ugly, but in other instances it is an effect that ends up being ugly--not so much the sight.

Take for example, Pompeii, pictured below. Probably one of the most famous volcanic eruptions in human history--Vesuvius erupting in AD 79. Three small towns were buried then, of which Pompeii is the most well-known. It is almost an obligatory tourist stop--and a most interesting place to see.

Visiting there solved a puzzlement for me. Why did so many people die in Pompeii? Why hadn't they left? When Vesuvius began erupting, the residents in the area thought it simply a normal occurrence. Frequent eruptions had lulled them into a kind of complacency. But the mountain continued erupting, for two days. When the wealthier residents became concerned, and left Pompeii, they instructed servants and slaves to remain behind to guard things. These, then, were the people who died. A few of these poor souls can still be seen, in varying poses of death rictus. Ugly.

What is really mystifying is that Vesuvius could erupt again as it has through the centuries--and in its shadow live some 2 million people. The town of Naples is very near Vesuvius. Speaking of ugly--Naples set a new standard. Not that Naples is ugly, but everywhere we encountered mountains, yes mountains, of trash. Trash bags and refuse piled high--going uncollected week in and week out. A host of issues have converged to cause this on-going trash crisis: incompetency, work stoppages, organized crime. The result is an eye-sore and a nose assault. Just ugly.

Near Pompeii, we visited another place I had not heard of before this trip--Matera with its Sassi. Now a picturesque location, with the tangle of pristine white houses you see below, this place was once a site of unimaginable misery. You can read more here--but the nub of the crisis that what began as houses hewn out of the rocks in pre-historic times continued to be homes into the mid-1900s. Families of 12 or more people would be crowded into two cave rooms, along with farm animals. When the situation came to light, the Italian government eventually solved it by forceably removing all the residents. Today, the authentic cave houses are tourist attractions. And the whole town has become a place where upscale living quarters are being built. Any such building must conform to original appearance to help the place maintain its historic status. It is the sad history of the place that is ugly.

We visited the town of Syracuse, where there is an extensive ruin of what was once a quarry. Now, it appears to be an open pit (see below), but at one time it was really tunnels in the rocks. At the height of its being used, some 30,000 slaves were forced to quarry stone all their lives.

In its heyday, Syracuse was a thriving city-state, dominating the southern end of Sicily. It was allied with Sparta and Corinth. Among the name of great people born there is Archimedes who died during a siege of the city.

There is still a Greek theater which continues to be used, and evidence of a Roman amphitheater. So many places on Sicily experienced multiple waves of invasion--so you see Greek ruins, Roman ruins, as well as other conquering nations.

Almost everywhere we went, along the eastern coast of Sicily, we saw the gentle rise of Mt. Etna. Etna is still a very active volcano--you can see the smoke that is visible almost every day. The sight of it is beautiful--until you consider that Etna regularly spits out lava flows that run down the mountainside. The next photo shows the different colors of the lava--as it ages, it darkens.

So while the view is very pretty, living in the shadow of a mountain that can send down hot lava was potentially ugly--except everyone who lives near Etna is entranced by the physical beauty that results from incredibly fertile soil, made so because of the lava.

The last city we visited was Palermo, Sicily. Now, my advice to tour planners is never end a tour in the least attractive place. Palermo was dirty, dingy, run-down. Scenes such as the one below were fairly common--nothing inherently ugly about seeing street vendors offering their wares--but a large tuna being sliced up, and then left to sit there in the heat, all day--well, that did not appeal to me.

One of the most quixotic things to me was the reaction of many of the people on the tour. My husband and I were among the very few people who had NO Italian, specifically Sicilian, heritage. Everywhere we went, our tour group folks kept warbling--oh, isn't it just so beautiful. Why did our grandparents leave this lovely place. I felt like saying--because they were unemployed, they had no hope in this place. They came to America for opportunity. One of the fellow tour members very tellingly noted: in America, I'm Italian; in Italy, I'm American. Ah, yes.

So, I will leave you with two scenes that did merit that "oh, isn't it lovely" response--the first photo is from Agrigento, the second from Selinunte. While we saw many places with ruins, one of the most unusual was Selinunte. It was a place utterly without tourist crowds. No tour guides. Just a few folk wandering around, soaking up the stunning skies and massive ruins of a temple. This scene was enough to compensate for any ugly, and utterly remove it.

Waterloo

2011-06-18T16:08:00.006-04:00

Author's Note: A brief interruption in the southern Italy tour series--that gives me time to finish processing photos.

---------------------------------

Today is the 196th anniversary of the battle of Waterloo, which was fought on June 18, 1815. Because it had rained the day before, and the area where Napoleon's army had gathered was soggy, he delayed the start of the battle until noon. Unfortunately, for him at least, that delay gave the opposing forces time to rally and position themselves. And, we all know how the battle ended...(don't we?). Napoleon met his Waterloo.

We visited the battlefield several years ago, when we toured Netherlands and Belgium. At the time of the battle, the village of Waterloo was part of the United Kingdom of Netherlands; today Waterloo is in Belgium. The visit was listed on the tour description--and I was quite excited to see this famous battlefield. Between Waterloo and Trafalgar, the two places where Napoleon met defeat, I figured seeing the site of the land battle was more promising than seeing the site of a sea battle.

Was I ever wrong. The location is an utterly unremarkable, mostly flat crossroads. Oh, sure, there are some buildings standing that were there when the battle was fought, but nothing in the entire site gave you the sense that here a great battle had been fought.

Perhaps I was spoiled, having visited the Gettysburg battlefield near where I live in Pennsylvania. There has been a concerted effort to try to preserve as much of this battlefield as possible. Plus, the topography of the area dovetails nicely with the accounts of how the battle unfolded there. I think I expected Waterloo to be a similar scene. But no.

The battle of Waterloo was a long hard fought battle. You can read an account here.

But there's another little story that fascinated me more than the great battle. The English hero of the battle was the Duke of Wellington, Arthur Wellesley. So lauded was he with various titles, statues and monuments that when we visited England a tour guide pointed out one of the monuments--a monolithic column--and simply said: there's an Arthur. An Arthur? The proliferation of honorific monuments was so common they had earned a simple first name.

Ah--but did he deserve the credit that he got? That's the little story. I picked up a book somewhere called Wellington's Smallest Victory. It recounts the story of an admirer of Wellington, Captain William Siborne. To commemorate the great victory, he decided to construct a miniature scale model of the battle of Waterloo. They did such things in the days before television, movies, and other electronic imagination robbers. To get the most accurate picture of the battle, he began interviewing veterans. He picked a particular moment of the battle--the presumed turning point at 7 p.m. The Duke of Wellington with 68,000 soldiers, was turning back an attack by Napoleon.

With painstaking care to show that accurately, Siborne displayed Wellington's battle strength. He also displayed the 48,000 Prussian (who were allied with the English) soldiers who were attacking Napoleon's right rear guard. That Prussian charge likely turned the battle.

Now the rising conflict. When Siborne had completed his miniature, he hoped to sell tickets--such displays were routinely carted around the country and people came to see them. To drum up a big opening, he invited the Duke of Wellington--the hero of the battle--to come and see it.

The Duke was stunned. He had written his own account, and had greatly downplayed the role of the Prussians. In fact, he insisted there were only 8,000 Prussian soldiers. He absolutely refused to endorse Siborne's representation, and refused any correction of his view. Poor Siborne. He reworked the miniature, taking out 40,000 Prussians. But the Duke was not assuaged. He began a vicious campaign against Siborne.

Siborne lost his backers who were going to help fund the miniature and its tour. He died a beaten broken and penniless man. The little book has helped restore his reputation. However, the Duke of Wellington won his smallest victory by defeating an alternative view of the battle of Waterloo which would have somewhat lessened his great victory.

Thus endeth the lesson.

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The painting is William Sadler's The Battle of Waterloo

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (parte seconda)

2011-06-08T23:11:00.010-04:00

Capri harbor

Iconic rocks just off Capri coast

Eisenhower's headquarters on Capri

Primavera

Positano cafe

Naples castle

Mosaic showing Vesuvius, before the top blew

OK--the bad. No, the photos above do not give you a sense of the bad, although they relate in some ways.

The second major place we visited after Rome was Capri. This lovely little island is off the coast of Italy in the Tyrrhenian Sea. It is a gorgeous place, but it has a somewhat troubled history (...almost bad, one might say). It was a place of exile and isolation. Tiberius took himself there from the daily responsibilities of being Caesar in Rome and lived on Capri for the last 10 years of his reign. I still have seared in my memory the scenes in I, Claudius where Caligula (who would later become Caesar) plied Tiberius with what we would call pornography. As a result of Tiberius' self-imposed exile, Sejanus who was the military might in Rome, made his encroachment into a power grab which would flower after Tiberius' death.

But, I digress. Capri today is a high priced very posh tourist destination and home to many stars. It was also a place where the Allies set up a headquarters during their final push into Italy--note the salmon colored house in the photos--that's where Eisenhower set up his command.

After docking in the harbor--first photo--we rode a funicular up the mountainside to the village of Capri on top. Of course, that ride prompted the second "bad" thing about the trip--an outbreak of singing "Funiculi, Funicula"--oh, come, you sang it in high school. I know I did.

That song in turn gave rise to singing all the other sappy quasi-Italian songs (complete with our bus tour group having an old Dean Martin CD being played). It is simply impossible to convince American tourist that the song "Volare" has no meaning at all. When they ask for a translation, and learn "volare" means "flying" they say--what? Yeah, what? Why get all goofy about a song that says
Volare oh oh
Cantare oh oh
Nel blu dipinto di blu
felice di stare lassu

Translation
To fly oh oh
To sing oh oh
In the blue painted blue
happy to be up there

Sappy, huh?

The first painting in the photos--the woman's back--is called "Primavera"...at least that's what our guide called it. It is in the Archeologica Museum in Naples. To get to the museum, in fact to get to Naples, we drove on wondrous curving very scary (bad) roads. In a tour bus. Not looking down. The Amalfi coast. Along the way, we visited Positano--a hugely expensive (even more than Capri) place, with a lovely little cafe (photo of the lantern).

There are many mosaics in the Naples museum which were taken from the villages destroyed by Vesuvius (talk about bad). In fact, the one mosaic showing Vesuvius is also in the photos above. Speaking of bad--the museum also has an entire section of adults only mosaics that were featured in the various residences in Pompeii...shall we say, x-rated mosaics. Who ever would have thought to put those two words together?

While the painting of Primavera is lovely, it was the last thing the guide showed us because it was for him the pièce de résistance. He had dragged us all over the museum, in and out of various rooms, explaining many more things than our brains could hold, and then showed us that painting. The peak experience...except that by then we were too tired to appreciate it. A word to guides--keep your charges fresh; they will enjoy the art more.

You may have noted the photo of a castle--that is in Naples, which really deserves its own account, which I think you will get when I get to the ugly.

End of tour for today.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

2011-06-05T22:47:00.006-04:00

What better title for an initial post on our recent vacation trip to Italy--a spaghetti Western title!

It has taken me a bit of time to get to viewing and paring down my photos from our trip to Rome and southern Italy. We began in Rome, and these photos are from that eternal city.

These brief remarks summarize our trip. Some ten plus years ago, we had done a trip to Italy that began in Rome and took us to places north--Venice, Florence, Assisi, Verona, Sienna, Bologna, and Pisa. We loved our views of Italy from that trip, so we anticipated this trip.

Rome was...well, Rome. It is such a wondrous mix of antiquity and modernity. The colors of Rome that we remembered from our first trip--that deep sun-washed mustardy yellow--were still there. And, that monstrosity that no Roman guide will speak well of that ruins the color scheme--the Victor Emanuel monument, a white confection of a tomb plopped within sight of the Flavian Amphitheater--was still there. On our first trip to Rome, our local guide was named Vera (pronounced Vay-ra). And she was most precise. She practically spat when she pointed out the Victor Emanuel Monument.

Of course, we took in the usual ancient sights--the Flavian Amphitheater, maybe you know it as the Coliseum or the Colosseum; the place where the Forum once stood; the place where Julius Caesar was cremated; the gardens of the Vestal Virgins. We also went to St. Peters, all of one week after John Paul II's beatification. So, posters hung everywhere with his smiling face. Almost made me feel bad for Benedict. We also visited the Pantheon, and Piazza Navone.

One real bonus in visiting St. Peters on this trip was the more leisurely time there. When we had previously been in the Sistine Chapel, it was high summer and the whole place was being restored so scaffolding hid part of those amazing Michelangelo paintings. This time, all scenes were completely in view, and no one hurried us through. So we stood, craned our necks, turned in circles and took it all in. I still think Michelangelo paints like a sculptor. He really needed to work on his anatomy of women, but...oh well.

I think all the things in Rome definitely fit under the rubric of "the good."

Fear not, dear reader. I will get to the bad and the ugly soon enough, in a future post.

The fabled pines of Rome.

Around the site of the ancient Forum.

Outside the Coliseum.

Remnants of the Vestal Virgins gardens.

I liked the sunburst view of the Coliseum.

Original Roman road paving stones--these are big...would have made for a rough chariot ride.

Now to St. Peters--the Papal balcony from which blessings are dispensed.

And of course the dome seen in the distance from many points in Rome.

That's a fine welcome home...

2011-05-20T22:57:00.006-04:00

We have just returned from two weeks in Italy--I do not post in advance that we are going away (for obvious reasons). And yes, yes, I will post pics and a few random observations.

This post is to relate the not so welcome home.

We came home to voice mail messages--and as we waded through them, there were several from an online company questioning a purchase that had been made on a credit card. Would we please call them because the billing address (ours) was not the same as the delivery address. Hmmmm.

So, my husband called. Had we ordered XXXX ? No, we had not. Well, the company thought not, especially when we didn't return the call. SO they had already cancelled--i.e. refused to fill--the order. Thank goodness for intelligent thoughtful companies.

That triggered my husband's curiosity--so he went to the website for our credit card. Aha--another purchase, not ours. He called that company, but they couldn't (read wouldn't) cancel the order unless my husband faxed them a copy of a police report. Well, not knowing WHERE that purchase came from, how were we to file a police report?

So my husband called the credit card company. They agreed to void any sales coming in on that card--and as he spoke with them, another order popped up on our card.

The thing is--we still had the card. No card had been stolen. And we used the card only once on the trip--the timing of the purchases was such that the identity theft must have occurred before we left on the trip.

So, for now, the card is cancelled, a new one is on its way. But the mystery remains--how was the number along with personal information--address and phone number--lifted? We still haven't figured that out.

Squirrel Tales

2011-05-05T22:38:00.001-04:00

We live in a squirrel riddled neighborhood. I always take it as a sign that a neighborhood is established if it has attracted squirrels.

When we first moved to our home 30 years ago, the neighborhood was newly built--and had no squirrels. There were few trees--maybe that explained the dearth of squirrels. I set about planting trees, not because I wanted squirrels, but because I wanted shade. We bought about 30 trees--many of them bare root stock spindly little things--and planted them all around our property.

(Small rabbit trail--a couple of weeks ago, I was talking with our young neighbor boy, who remarked about the trees. I told him that we planted them all. This conversation took place just before Earth Day. The neighbor boy was really impressed that we had planted all those trees--whoa, he said, I can tell my teacher that for Earth Day. That made me smile.)

Anyway, now with lots of trees, and our putting out many feeders for the birds, we have attracted lots of squirrels. Their acrobatic antics have become quite amusing. They scale poles designed to defeat them, they lift the tops of weighted bird feeders so they can reach the seeds, they leap across chasms of space to get from one seed point to another. (The photo to the left--the photo is correct; the squirrel is standing upside down eating a bit of corn.)

Well, today, yet another squirrel met its fate. I was heading out of the neighborhood on my way to a meeting. I looked up to see a red tail hawk flying overhead with a limp squirrel in its talons. A small bird was harassing the hawk. In that drama of hawk and harasser the squirrel was a bit player. But of course to the squirrel, it was front and center.

A few years ago, I witnessed a similar mortal struggle between hawk and squirrel on the campus where I was teaching. It doesn't take much to distract students, so when students spied a hawk with squirrel in its grip, they all craned to look out the window and watch the death struggle. The hawk sat calmly atop the squirrel until it ceased struggling.

I did not see the denouement of today's struggle. I only saw the aftermath. When I returned home, my husband was mowing. He stopped briefly, and said he had something to show me. There, next to our sidewalk lay the dead squirrel, with gouges in its side. I am guessing the harassing bird harried the hawk enough for it to drop its prey. The squirrel was scooped up, and dropped into the recycling cans along with yard waste.

The cycle of life, death, return to earth. O, fortuna.

Intimations of Immortality

2011-04-30T23:40:00.002-04:00

Time for a terrific read designation. It's been...ages since I made such a pronouncement.

I have just finished The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, by Rebecca Skloot, and I highly recommend it.

This non-fiction work details two story lines: the fate of Henrietta Lacks, who died of virulent cervical cancer, and the early efforts to culture and maintain live human cells. The intersection of the two stories is what occupies the heart of the book.

Skloot first heard of Henrietta Lacks when a biology teacher wrote the word “HeLa” on the board, the name of a most important line of human cells. The teacher went on to say that the cells had come from an African-American woman named Henrietta Lacks, but that no one knew anything else about her. From that moment, Skloot was hooked.

When she began the search to learn more, she spent more than twelve years to learn the true identity of the source of the HeLa cells. Her search gave rise to the book. No wonder, it reads as though it is a fiction mystery story—the unfolding story pulls reader along, so be prepared for reading it late into the night.

In addition to teaching you a whole lot about cell culture techniques and challenges, the book also explores medical ethics. When Henrietta Lacks’ cells were sampled and grown, informed consent was not a common practice at all. Henrietta died in 1951, and it wasn’t until the mid-1970s that informed consent and patient information about testing that what we take for granted today became common practice.

However, two historical frameworks complicate that observation. First, immediately following World War II, when it became clear that the Nazis had been conducting horrific experiments in the name of medicine, the doctors involved were tried at the Nuremberg trials and convicted. To rectify an perceived legal lack of a guiding code. Dr. Leo Alexander—who was the principle medical advisor—developed a ten point code to govern using humans as test subjects: the Nuremberg Code. The first of those principles was the unequivocal need for voluntary consent by human subjects. Of course, the doctors at Johns Hopkins—where Henrietta Lacks was treated and where her cells were sampled and cultured—would not have viewed using cells outside the human body as experimenting ON the human body.

Second, the history of public health in the United States has been woeful where African-Americans are concerned. Perhaps one of the worst examples of the failure of health care for African-Americans is the infamous Tuskegee syphilis study. This study began in 1932 when the Tuskegee Institute linked up with the U.S. Public Health Service. They enrolled almost 400 African-American men who had already contracted syphilis. They offered them free medical care, meals and burials—all in exchange for drawing their blood. The men were NOT told they had syphilis nor were they treated for it, even after penicillin was developed in 1947 and became the widely accepted standard treatment. Instead, the men were told they had “bad blood.” A leak of information brought the study--which was examining the ravages of the disease on untreated humans--to an abrupt halt in 1972. In the meantime, unsuspecting wives were exposed to and contracted syphilis, and children were born with congenital syphilis.

No wonder, African-Americans in general are deeply suspicious about the medical establishment. And it helps explain why Henrietta Lacks’ family in particular were deeply suspicious of Johns Hopkins and its use of Henrietta’s cells.

What Henrietta’s cells did was grow in the culture medium, and they thrived. In fact, they are still “alive” today, doubling every 24 hours. The estimate is that today there are more cells derivative of Henrietta Lacks than she had in her body when she was alive.

All in all, a terrific read.

Where the Books Are

2011-04-24T08:41:00.002-04:00

Remember that old story about Willie Sutton who when asked why he robbed banks replied--because that's where the money is?

Well, here's a take-off--libraries are where the books are. Only, hopefully, no one robs them. But sometimes they do take out all the books. Perhaps you wonder why I made that reference--a blogger friend of mine sent me a story a couple months ago about how a small town saved its library, which was scheduled to close, by coming to the library repeatedly and eventually checking out all the books, so the library could NOT be closed. (Thank you, Philip, for sending that wonderful story.)

So, why write about libraries today? After all--this is Easter Sunday and many of the blogs I read have that as their theme. A most fitting theme. The promise of new life is all around us in spring--plants spring to life emerging from the ground, birds return and build nests. All the world bustles with the promise of new life.

I guess I decided to write about libraries on Easter--well, no good reason. Just because. Oh, yes--and because on this date the Library of Congress was established in 1800. At that time, our capital was in Philadelphia. When Congress authorized its transfer to what became Washington, DC, included in that bill was a call for a reference library with "such books as may be necessary for the use of Congress — and for putting up a suitable apartment for containing them therein ..."

The original library was burned when the British burned it in 1814 during the War of 1812. The British burned the Capitol building, and since the library was housed there, it too burned.

To begin the rebuilding of the library, Thomas Jefferson donated his entire personal library which contained some 6,500 books that he had collected over his lifetime.

Eventually, a lovely new building was erected to house the library, where it remains today. First opened to the public in 1897, the Newly built Library of Congress is now the largest library in the world. Its website points out that:

Today's Library of Congress is an unparalleled world resource. The collection of more than 144 million items includes more than 33 million cataloged books and other print materials in 460 languages; more than 63 million manuscripts; the largest rare book collection in North America; and the world's largest collection of legal materials, films, maps, sheet music and sound recordings.

I would not have known about the Library of Congress founding date were it not for The Writer's Almanac--yes, I have referred to this gem of information before. From the Almanac, I also learned the power of books in the lives of famous people.

Herewith:
John Grisham, certainly one of the most successful contemporary writers, developed his love of books through libraries.

He grew up all over the Deep South. Every time his family moved somewhere new, they'd join the local Southern Baptist church, find the public library, and get new library cards.

Langston Hughes writes movingly about books and how they gave assuaged his loneliness.

Langston was fascinated by the streetcars in Lawrence, and he wanted to be a streetcar conductor when he grew up. But he also loved books. The Lawrence Public Library was one of the only integrated public buildings in the city, and he spent as much time there as possible, trying to make sense of his extreme loneliness, a combination of feeling abandoned by his parents and feeling left out of fun things that most boys could do, because of segregation laws. He said, "Then it was that books began to happen to me, and I began to believe in nothing but books and the wonderful world in books where if people suffered, they suffered in beautiful language, not in monosyllables, as we did in Kansas."

Finally, Ronald McNair:
Ronald's voracious appetite for learning began with libraries.

Ronald turned into a serious reader, eating through the books his family bought, and borrowing books from friends and neighbors. Though after reading all the books, he still longed for more books, wishing he could stand in the aisles of Lake City's whites-only "public" library. Finally, when Ronald was about nine years old, he took action. "He decided to go to the library, and he refused to leave," recalled his mother later. "The library workers called me," continued Pearl. "I rushed over and found police cars outside the building. Ron was sitting on the charge desk, holding a pile of books in his lap. His little legs hung down, not reaching the floor. I was pleased that he didn't want any trouble, just the books. He wanted to study." Young McNair had changed a small piece of history. "From then on," his mother recalled proudly, "Ron was allowed to borrow books from the library whenever he wished.

So, celebrate today. Celebrate spring and new life. Celebrate resurrection. And also celebrate libraries--they preserve all the wonderful knowledge we have.
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PHOTO CREDIT: Higgins, Jim, photographer. "The Jefferson Building, The Library of Congress, Washington, D.C." Jefferson's Legacy: A Brief History of the Library of Congress.

Rest for the Weary

2011-04-19T09:37:00.000-04:00

With the horrific line of storms that moved across the U.S. over this past weekend, our area ended up with record breaking rain. The previous record of rain for the day of April 16 had been just shy of 2 inches. Until this past weekend...we had three and a half inches on Saturday--on top of several inches so that in several days we had 5 inches of rain, in a very wet spring. The effect was very much like pouring a full glass of water on top of an already soaked sponge.

On Saturday evening, my husband went to our basement around 9 p.m.--and I heard him say something like--that's bad news. What? Well, our basement floor is getting wet. We have lived in our house for 30 years and have only had water in basement once before--when it bubbled up through our french drain. This time, water was coming in at the edge of the basement floor.

So, nothing to do but go to work. We grabbed towels, put them on the floor and in very short order the towels were soaked. We got out the wet/dry vacuum and began sucking up the water. What with my husband running the wet vac, and me throwing towels on the floor until they were soaked, then I would wring them out, throw them down again, wring again--repeat, we kept the water from encroaching all the way across our basement. We confined it to one third the total basement. But we worked for four hours.

Finally, the rain stopped, but by then, the hydrostatic pressure underneath our basement floor had sent a spidery network of minute cracks across the basement floor, and little bubbles gave away the leak source. Vac, mop, vac, mop.

We declared victory or defeat around 1:15 a.m. and went to bed. Now--two days later, I am slowly recovering from aches and weariness. Rest for the weary.

I note, somewhat ruefully, that this tendency to feel overwhelming weariness is increasing with my age. That realization makes me recall the two most significant senior women in my life--my mother and my mother-in-law.

When I first met my husband, and would spend time at his house, it did not take long for me to feel very much at home. And, his parents must have been comfortable with my being there. His mother had worked most of her adult life, so not surprisingly when she came home in the evenings--after the dinner dishes were cleaned up and put away--she would get into her nightgown, and come sit with us as we watched television. And she would frequently fall into a light sleep. Then she would awaken, get up and go to bed. Rest for the weary.

I think of my mother who, as she began to experience the consequences of a defective heart valve, would sometimes slip upstairs to her bedroom to lie down and rest. She was a most amazing woman who was seemingly indefatigable in every day life. But you could tell that her energy would flag when she slipped off for one of those little naps. Rest for the weary.

One more thought on weariness. Since we are now less than a week away from Easter, it's time for my husband and me to engage in one of our Easter preparation rituals--playing Handel's Messiah. We began doing this several years ago, and have enjoyed listening to this great uplifting music.

Perhaps that is why, as I contemplate the weariness of body, I suddenly found myself humming the marvelous aria from Handel's Messiah: Come Unto Him, All Ye that Labor.

Well, I trust that if you overdo your labors this spring, as I have recently done, you will find rest for the weary.

Come unto me, all ye that labor...and I will give you rest.
Matthew 11:28

It's Official

2011-04-13T11:46:00.003-04:00

I don't mean to brag--honestly, I don't. Before I tell you my small story, you need a bit of background about me.

When my husband and I planned a church retreat some years ago, we settled on an introduction to Myers-Briggs personality typing. It was fascinating.

I have previously written about my personality type--here--which turned out to be INTJ. Now, I will spare you the arcane aspects of personality typing right now, BUT...you should know that the slogan for my personality type is--INTJs can improve anything; just ask.

So, I am constantly thinking about how things can be nudged into being just a bit better. Our friends (and maybe even our children) recognize this trait in me. More than a decade ago, one of our friends gave me a button that read "I Thought I Was Wrong Once...But I Was Mistaken."

That about sums it up. (And I hate to be wrong...ahem...but I'm working on that.)

Anyhow--now for the little story. I was looking on Google Maps the other day--looking for a store name. We have a cute little shopping center nearby us, called Shoppes at Susquehanna. When I got to the coordinates on Google Maps--nothing. No mention of that shopping center. What? It's been there at least 5 years. Then, I noticed--Google Maps lets you send them a message if they got something wrong.

Heh heh heh. So, off I sent a message. Then a couple of days ago, I got an answer.

TADA! "Your Google Maps report has been reviewed, and you were right!" So, it's official.

Even Google Maps acknowledges that I am right. Now, back to being humble.

At a Loss for Words

2011-04-09T22:50:00.005-04:00

I realize I have been silent for more than a week. While I don't post as frequently as when I first began blogging (who does?) I do try to think of something to say once or twice a week. But this week--no.

Well, I have been a touch distracted with a major renovation project in our house. Not that I am doing the work, mind. But, we finally decided to have our two bathrooms overhauled. So, what with the banging of hammers, the squeal of power saws, the garage turned over to work space, and ever present dust in the air, my thoughts have been stymied. Add to that my utter perplexment (is that a word?) over the current budget "debate" and I think you'll forgive my silence.

So, the federal budget. That's a thought stopper, isn't it. Maybe my thinking has been also been somewhat inhibited by the radio that the workmen who are redoing our bathrooms listen to. They actually have Rush Limbaugh on the whole day. OK, not the whole day--it just seems like it.

Back to the federal budget. I am not an economist, but let me put it to you this way. Say you earn $50,000 a year. Go ahead--say it. Now, say your boss tells you he is going to cut your salary to $25,000 a year, BUT the bills you have to pay stay at exactly the same level, or maybe even go up a bit. Would you have a budget crisis?

That is a bit like our country's situation. I know this is oversimplification, but we have cut our income. The tax reductions that President Bush touted for 10 years now seem to have become permanent. And when you cut salary, but still have bills to pay, you will suffer a financial shortfall.

One party in Congress is jumping up and down yelling--it's not that we don't have enough money; it's that we spend too much. So, we have to cut down our spending. What puts me at a loss for words is that--as a country--we seem to be buying this argument.

Let me point you in the direction of someone who has more skill expressing this point than I--Matt Taibbi has a wonderful opinion piece in the current issue of Rolling Stone (thank you, Carol, for referring it to me). Taibbi concludes, in reference to Paul Ryan (the congressman proposing the Republicans' spending plan) that "Ryan’s gambit, ultimately, is all about trying to get middle-class voters to swallow paying for tax cuts for rich people."

What makes this current push even more breathtakingly brazen is underscored by a current piece in Vanity Fair. This article points out that the disparity in income gap between the top 1 % in this country and the other 99 % has widened. The top one percent takes in one quarter of all the income in the U.S. and controls 40% of all wealth. The article points out ominously that:

"Some people look at income inequality and shrug their shoulders. So what if this person gains and that person loses? What matters, they argue, is not how the pie is divided but the size of the pie. That argument is fundamentally wrong. An economy in which most citizens are doing worse year after year—an economy like America’s—is not likely to do well over the long haul."

The article goes on to enumerate why this income disparity is bad for the country's economy. So, how does the budget crisis link to income disparity in the U.S. It links directly because those programs that are on the chopping block are precisely the ones that benefit low income Americans.

I don't know about you, but that cold-hearted approach leaves me at a loss for words. How have we arrived at this place--where political leaders convince us that the rich should become richer, that the poor are the cause of all our financial woes?

Words, words, words

2011-03-31T09:44:00.008-04:00

Yesterday’s Writer’s Almanac imparted wondrous trivia about the humble pencil. Herewith some of the tidbits. A common pencil (think No. 2) is hexagonal to keep it from rolling off the table. It is yellow because the best graphite—what we incorrectly call lead—came from China and yellow was the traditional color of royalty in China. Start drawing a line with a common pencil and you can go for 35 miles before you run out of graphite.

Before the advent of computers, or even typewriters, writing was a hand affair. Some of America’s best writers wrote their masterpieces long hand using pencil. John Steinbeck particularly favored the pencil. He started every day by sharpening 24 new pencils. When he wrote East of Eden (oh, I do recommend it if you’ve never read it), he used 300 pencils.

Why this reverie on pencils? Well, writing and more specifically writing words. Words words words. I just finished reading a marvelous new literary biography: Lyndall Gordon’s Lives Like Loaded Guns. The subject is Emily Dickinson, who had her own way with words. Gordon has a dual thesis—first, she posits quite convincingly that Emily suffered from epilepsy, and that the disease may have accounted for her success as a poet. In part, the disease fueled some of the content of her poems, both in subject matter and style. A poem such as “I Felt a Funeral in My Brain” which is sometimes interpreted as a description of madness makes much more sense if you understand it as a foreboding of the effects of a seizure. As for style, Gordon points out how Emily’s unorthodox use of words and punctuation can be a verbal representation of a seizure like state. Read a poem such as “After great pain a formal feeling comes” and think epilepsy. The closing line “First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –“ sounds so like the onset of a seizure.

Not only do the poems shed light on the prospect of Emily’s awareness of her illness, but also the details of her life line up in support. Gordon most convincingly traces the historical record of visits to physicians and medications prescribed for Emily. She slowly withdrew from the world, narrowing her circle of contacts. That is not to say that she did not carry on lively correspondence with various friends. But, if you accept that she suffered from epilepsy, for which at the time there was no effective treatment to forestall seizures, her withdrawal makes absolute sense. She would have isolated herself to avoid the stigma that accompanied having a seizure in public.

Gordon points out that Emily’s father in his effort to help his daughter exempted her from most household chores, which freed her to write poetry. She may have been counseled not to marry—which also freed her. Read this little poem—and see how its meaning dovetails nicely with Emily’s awareness that her illness freed her.

A Death blow is a Life blow to Some
Who till they died, did not alive become —

Who had they lived, had died but when

They died, Vitality begun

Second, Gordon chronicles the adulterous affair between Emily Dickinson’s brother, Austin, and Mabel Loomis Todd, wife of an Amherst professor. Emily Dickinson’s grandfather had built a homestead on Main Street in Amherst. There, Emily’s family—her parents and her brother Austin and sister Lavinia—lived. When Austin married, he and his wife Susan had moved into a house (called the Evergreens) built immediately next door to the Homestead. When Austin began his affair, some 27 years into his marriage, he and Mabel would meet at the Homestead. By then, the senior Dickinson parents were dead, and the Homestead belonged to Emily and Lavinia.

Imagine, sometimes up to three times a week for several hours at a time, the house being taken over by the lovers. They used a room downstairs, the dining room, as their place of assignation. Emily presumably stayed upstairs, writing poetry. No wonder her “life stood like a loaded gun.” Gordon credibly writes that the stress of this untenable situation may have hastened Emily’s death.

The stress of the affair may have killed or at the least hastened Emily’s death, and it also led to a multi-generation feud over who was the heir to Emily’s writings. Sue, Austin’s estranged wife who had been Emily’s dear friend, and Mabel, the mistress, each thought themselves the true beneficiaries of Emily’s life work. Their feud then was passed on to the next generation with Sue’s daughter and Mabel’s daughter each claiming the right to Emily’s words.

WORDS. Wondrous that we have pencils that write them. Wondrous that we have a poet such as Emily who flexed them to her use. And wondrous that we have a biographer such as Gordon to ferret out the details of a complicated life and record that life in words.

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photo of Emily Dickinson:

Daguerreotype of the poet Emily Dickinson, taken circa 1848. (Original is scratched.) From the Todd-Bingham Picture Collection and Family Papers, Yale University Manuscripts & Archives Digital Images Database, Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut.

Close Reading

2011-03-27T13:26:00.003-04:00

In honor of A.E. Housman's birthday (March 26) and in honor of spring--herewith.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

I have used this poem many times in teaching poetry. It is an utterly charming poem, and most accessible. One of the first questions I ask is--how old is the speaker in the poem? Well, how old?

Maybe you all are too smart to be fooled, but invariably I would have students say--seventy. No, I say, look again. So then I can see them doing the math--three score year and ten, well that's 70. And they subtract 20 ("will not come again") and say--fifty.

No, close reading now. AHA--the light goes on and they answer--twenty.

Oh, such a young man is that speaker. He has enjoyed spring cherry blossoms for twenty years. It is almost ironic that the VOICE of the poem is a far older, maybe wiser, voice than twenty years might suggest. I think the speaker sounds more like someone who is three score years and ten.

Whatever age--enjoy the spring. And all the blossoms--cherry included.
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Image from http://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/foodanddrinknews/5898662/Traditional-English-cherries-in-danger-of-wipe-out.html

A Good Man is Hard to Find

2011-03-25T16:54:00.006-04:00

...and a good woman, for that matter. And a good writer is even more rare.

I have a candidate for a good writer--and today is her birthday, so recognition is not only merited but timely. Flannery O'Connor.

A prototypical story of hers, one of the best, is "A Good Man is Hard to Find." If you've never read it, you can go to the link, and read. It is a disturbing story. It centers on a family going on vacation. The son and his wife, along with three children, are accompanied by the matriarch of the family. She is one of the central characters. She is a complaining nagging domineering woman. She complains about their vacation destination. She begins to obsess about an escaped convict called the Misfit.

After a lunch stop, she recalls a house with secret passages that she believes is along the route they are taking. The family diverts to visit the house--and then the matriarch realizes that the house is not even in the state where they are traveling. She becomes flustered, her cat becomes agitated, and in the ensuing ruckus, their car crashes. As they assess their situation, another car approaches, and soon some people begin approaching them. It is none other than the Misfit and his cohorts.

The family is taken captive and the matriarch cannot shut up. Eventually, she begins babbling about salvation, realizing the potential evil of the Misfit, and begging him to turn to Jesus. Of course, he is not persuaded by her newly found grace. I won't characterize the unraveling of the story. But it is indeed a grim tale.

The themes that Flannery O'Connor explores focus on the possibility of redemption. She is always identified as a Christian writer. It may be difficult to discern that strain in her writing, yet it is undeniably there. You can read a fuller treatment of her themes here.

Her stories are dark--no question. She is sometimes identified as being a Southern Gothic writer. But it is not unreasonable to see how they emerged from the crucible of her own life.

She was an only child whose father died in 1941, of lupus, when she was only 16. Ten years later, when she was 26, she was diagnosed with lupus from which she suffered the remainder of her life.

She never married, continuing to live with her mother on the family farm. She loved birds of all sorts, including peacocks. As a young girl, she had taught a chicken to walk backwards--which garnered her some fame. She wryly noted that "When I was six I had a chicken that walked backward and was in the news. I was in it too with the chicken. I was just there to assist the chicken but it was the high point in my life. Everything since has been anticlimax."

At age 39, she died of complications of lupus.

Her small body of work is extraordinary. I can think of no other writer who wrote the kind of stories she did. The characters are grotesque, yet they are searching for the same thing we all yearn for. Her humor is grim, while her vision is clear-eyed.

While I do love Flannery O'Connor's dark vision in her stories, I have another reason to love her. As someone who taught writing at times in my career, I love what she had to say about that:

"Everywhere I go, I'm asked if I think the universities stifle writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There's many a best seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher."

I am not sure if I did my part, but I hope I dissuaded some from writing best sellers!

Happy birthday, Flannery!

Big Blue Marble

2011-03-21T12:13:00.002-04:00

You know, sometimes it just doesn't pay for me to read the news thoroughly. Too depressing. But my ever attentive husband brings a story to my attention, and I ask for the link. And, (sigh), a blog is born.

Here's a link to the story he read this morning. Can you imagine a sadder lead-in: "Americans say save the economy, not the planet"?

The story relates the findings of a recent Gallup poll. You can see the basics in the graph below. For 26 years, the graph shows we have cared more about the environment than jobs. In recent years, the environment has been losing ground, slowly. In 2008, environment slipped below economy, then rose, and now has fallen again. You can go here and see the source of the graph as well as Gallup's findings.

A bit over a year ago, I posted on this wonderful blue dot in the vast universe--and I used the photo above (from NASA). The big blue marble. This is home, folks. Not sure what else to say. Of course it is very important, even critical, to have a job. But should we de-value the environment just to have jobs? That's the drumbeat we are hearing today.

I am reminded of that great philosopher, Theodor Seuss Geisel, aka Dr. Seuss. He wrote many wonderful books, but the one that comes to mind right now is The Lorax.

Do you remember this book?

Herewith a quote:

BUT...
business is business!
And business must grow
regardless of crummies in tummies, you know.

I meant no harm. I most truly did not.
But I had to grow bigger.So bigger I got.
I biggered my factory. I biggered my roads.
I biggered my wagons. I biggered the loads
of the Thneeds I shipped out. I was shipping them forth
to the South! To the East!
To the West! To the North!
I went right on biggering... selling more Thneeds.
And I biggered my money, which everyone needs.

That doesn't do the story justice, so go read the whole thing here.

We can turn that graph around. The environment and the economy are not incompatible. They may have been made so by the drumbeat in today's political environment, but they are not.

And, remember, when they're all gone--whether truffula trees, or regular trees, or the air we breathe, or the water we drink--when that's all gone, just what good will your job do you then?

I speak for the trees.

Freedom!

2011-03-16T22:17:00.004-04:00

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose..."

This morning, my husband and I were sitting in our sun porch. This room is a favorite one--added on to our house about a decade ago. It has windows on three sides--actually sliding glass doors--which afford us a view to the yard.

I looked out and saw a rabbit hopping about--not too unusual. Except. . .

Except this rabbit looked a bit too light in color--sort of caramel colored. And it seemed to be a different size, with shorter ears. But I ignored it.

Back to reading my newspaper.

Then, there it was again--this odd rabbit. I pointed it out to my husband. And then I thought--I wonder if that's Hoppy. Not sure if you remember my writing about Hoppy--he's the neighbor's bunny who is kept outside in a hutch all the time. It drives me crazy--I mind so much his constant captivity. I go up to his hutch almost every day to bring him fresh parsley, which he loves, and carrots. His owners seem to feed him irregularly. I also gave him a full bedding of straw and some timothy to keep him warm during the winter.

Anyway--I grabbed a handful of parsley and pulled on a coat and gloves, and headed up the hill. I walked up to him, as he was hopping around eating clover. I talked to him--as I do every day--and then just reached down and picked him up.

I carried him back to his hutch, and latched the door.

Later today, I took his regular food up to him. And there he sat, hunched in the corner of his very small hutch. He usually jumps around when he sees me coming. Not this time. He just sat there. And at the risk of anthropomorphizing him, I thought he looked depressed.

Sigh.

Such a brief taste of freedom. So enjoyed by one wee bunny.

Wednesday's Ashes

2011-03-10T23:49:00.005-05:00

I was a bit hasty in my Wednesday post on "Upstairs, Downstairs." It had nothing at all to do with Ash Wednesday--of course, I knew that, but I hadn't planned to post about the significance of Ash Wednesday at all. . .except--

Except we went to Ash Wednesday service at our church, and one particular aspect of the service moved me incredibly. And, yes, I use that word particularly. I did not believe I could be so moved, yet I was.

If you have attended an Ash Wednesday service, you might know that imposition of ashes upon one's forehead is a traditional part of this service. Herewith, an image from my denomination's website.

As we approach the minister, who is holding a small bowl of ashes (traditionally made from burning last year's palms from Palm Sunday), the minister asks--what is your name?

Donna.

Donna, remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.

Such a simple exchange.

In effect, the minister has just said--you are going to die.

And what is the reaction of people as they receive this sentence?

Thank you.

I watched people as they received this cross of ashes. Watched them as the minister drew this small simple symbol of suffering on their foreheads. I watched them close their eyes, as if in prayer, or keep their eyes open, looking with clarity into the eyes of the minister before them.

And I saw person after person murmur "thank you."

That's what moved me.

I recall a marvelous little poem about mortality.

---------------------------
Epitaph
By Sir Walter Raleigh (1554-1618)
(written the night before his execution, 1618)

Even such is time, that takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;
But from this earth, this grave, this dust
My God shall raise me up, I trust!

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Photo of the Ash Wednesday service taken by Beth Hager.

Upstairs, Downstairs

2011-03-09T15:35:00.006-05:00

Time for another installment from my parents' biography. This story is actually a continuation of one I wrote about 4 years ago. In fact, I was thinking today about continuing the biography series, and thought--well, I had best do an introductory post and call it "The Rich are Different from Us." As I thought about what I could write, I thought to relay the story of the famous conversation between F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, in which Fitzgerald opined that "the rich are different from us somehow."

But I had a sneaking suspicion I had used that story before. So, I searched my past blogs and--voilà--there it was. A post titled (appropriately) "The Rich are Different from Us" wherein I relay the entire Fitzgerald/Hemingway story complete with punchline, as well as my thoughts on some of the rich folk I have encountered.

I also told the story of my father's first foray into serving as a house servant--an ill-fated foray as it turned out. And, I gave an account of my own time "in service" -- that is working as a house-maid and sometime cook for rich Americans who had vacation homes along the shores of Lake Erie, on the Canadian side.

It was the way that I was treated--and the way my father was treated as I recounted in the story--that strikes me. The rich in those stories were different--there was a sense of entitlement, an attitude born of having made money, and now having servants to whom one could give orders, and treat badly, if one so chose.

This class division is far more pronounced in Britain--where there is a sharp division between upper class and lower class. The long running series of BBC--Upstairs, Downstairs--which was then brought to the U.S., captured that class division marvelously. It was also featured in the wonderfully charming mystery movie Gosford Park. These media depictions showed how much those "in service" were just as opinionated as their employers. They may have been invisible but they certainly knew what was going on.

Okay--so that's the background. Here's a brief story of my father's SECOND foray into working for the rich.

The summer of 1940, my father secured work as a houseman, one of a number of servants, in the summer home of Henry McCormick. The McCormicks were a family of some prominence in Harrisburg, PA. His brother, Vance, was prominent in Democratic politics, and served a term as mayor of Harrisburg. Henry B. McCormick, for whom my father worked, was a director of a Harrisburg bank and of the Harrisburg Bridge Company. At that time, most bridges were toll bridges, garnering a handsome income for the owners. Henry McCormick owned a summer home along the Yellow Breeches Creek, near Bowmansdale, which is very near Grantham (where my father's family had lived).

My father’s duties included pressing Mr. McCormick’s suit daily, polishing his shoes, wet mopping the front porch weekly, and cranking ice cream weekly. My father also occasionally served as a driver to help with transportation. He even had a slight accident while driving one of these cars, but Mr. McCormick was a kindly soul and nothing came of the incident.

Happily, this employment situation ended far more amicably than had his stint as a butler. He even got to keep the summer suit the McCormicks had purchased for him.

True, the rich are different from us (whoever "us" may be). I wonder--do young people still head off in the summertime to work in wealthy homes? Along the shores of Lake Erie? Along a creek? Somewhere at ocean's edge? Or, have the rich turned elsewhere for those who labor downstairs, while they wile away the hours upstairs?

Approaching Lent

2011-03-06T18:43:00.008-05:00

Almost any description you read of Lent talks about this season as a time of prayer, fasting, and self-examination. Fair enough.

The website for the church to which I belong points out that Lent lasts for 40 days "like the flood of Genesis, Moses’ sojourn at Mount Sinai, Elijah’s journey to Mount Horeb, Jonah’s call to Nineveh to repent and Jesus’ time of testing in the wilderness." If you want to read more from that website, go here.

I can appreciate the beauty of such a time. Where Advent, the season that leads up to Christmas is a time of anticipation and waiting, Lent is more solemn, not nearly so joyful. True--Lent leads to Easter, where the climax is the resurrection account, but to get there, the story takes us through a trial, a betrayal, and a crucifixion. No wonder the season dwells on darkness.

But the meaning of Lent is not what this post is about.

This is about the way people get ready for Lent--by engaging in excessive celebrations and overeating.

On Saturday, my husband saw a small poster for a local Byzantine Orthodox church that was having its Mardi Gras festival. The features: Slavic foods, Mardi Gras beads, and a polka band. Did I want to go?

Sure, why not? Let's go.

When we walked in to this totally unfamiliar environment, we first were practically bowled over by sound--loud raucous polka music.

We asked for some of the ground rules--how to get food? where to sit? We learned we had to buy tickets--then order our food and pay with tickets. OK. Next was figuring out what the food items were. Kielbasa--that's easy. And perohis (aka perogies). Check. But halupki? And halushki?

So for ease, I said--just go ahead and order one of each. R-i-g-h-t! You can see the perohis, the halupkis and the halushki above. Mostly pale white food. Most carbohydrates. Mostly not much taste. I mean--if you like (make that love) cabbage, potatoes and flour--you are all set.

But it was fun. Something a bit different. Neither my husband nor I has any Slavic blood in our family pedigrees, so while these were unfamiliar dishes, we managed.

But isn't it interesting--preparing for Lent by over-indulging in some of the worst imaginable foods for your health's sake? Of course, Mardi Gras, aka Shrove Tuesday, aka Fat Tuesday, aka Fasnacht Day--all these day names refer to this coming Tuesday, the last day before Lent--the featured foods call for over-indulgence in carbohydrates, sugars and fats. Fasnachts--really donuts made from potato dough--what could be more. . .filling. Getting ready for Lent--for 40 days of denial.

I don't typically "give up" anything for Lent. Oh, I know--I'll give up halupki and halushki. Maybe even perohis.

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Photos from Web.

Food photo guide: photo 1-- halushki; photo 2--perohis; photo 3--halupki.

And the Oscar Goes To...

2011-03-01T13:50:00.010-05:00

In past years, I have blogged about the movies which have garnered nominations for the annual Academy Awards. And, in preparation for that blogging, my husband and I engage in a mad dash of seeing a whole slew of movies.

Well, this year I didn't blog in advance, and we did our movie going in slower dashes. Maybe it's a sign of encroaching age--dashing not being a thing we try to do more often than necessary.

Anyway. The first movie we saw was True Grit--back when it was first released and no Oscar nominees had been announced. It was a bit of a shock when the Golden Globes skipped nominating True Grit for anything. That snub notwithstanding, we went to see True Grit and enjoyed it enormously. I am not really a fan of Westerns--and there are many Western classics I have never seen, including the original True Grit. But I am a fan of the Coen brothers--of their movies I have seen, there is not one that I would say "oh, skip that one." The Coen brothers movie making sensibilities can be described as quirky, at best, but the result is usually an indelible movie that stays with you. So it is with True Grit--scenes from it keep popping into my head.

What we usually concentrate on is the best movies category, and the top actor nominee movies. We are not slavish, though, and willingly skip a movie we think we might not enjoy. So, we skipped 127 hours, The Black Swan, and The Fighter.

In the run-up to the Oscar night, we first went on a Toy Story bash. We recorded and watched all three. Toy Story 3 is the animated feature that was nominated for Best Movie. To understand its plot, we watched 1 and 2. Toy Story 3 is so charming, so endearing. Any adult would enjoy it. And, I confess, I wonder what it says about our non-animated movies when it is the animated ones that actually make us cry. Every child who has grown to be an adult, and every adult who has watched a child grow can find something to love in this movie.

As soon as The King's Speech came to theaters here, we went to see it. What a wonderful movie. The story would have been most compelling without the historical framework, but of course the point of the movie was not only the triumph of one person, but the triumph of that particular person--the man who became George VI. As an Anglophile, I enjoyed almost every part of this movie--the people, the setting, the social commentary. I can't claim to be prescient, but this did seem like the movie to beat.

We next The Social Network which recounts the creation of Facebook and the rise of the genius behind it, Mark Zuckerberg. The contrast between the old-style Western and the new generation social network couldn't be more stunning. Each movie crafted its own kind of dialogue--the wonderfully oddly stilted formal dialogue of True Grit contrasting with the rapid fire Aaron Sorkin dialogue of The Social Network. My ears simply can't listen fast enough to an Aaron Sorkin script. But I love it anyway. The bits I do catch are worth the effort.

We then recorded several movies to watch at our leisure. First, we watched The Kids are All Right. This movie was not great in its story--the story of a marriage, where secrets are uncovered, where infidelity occurs, and where final forgiveness is achieved--that's an old story. What was new was that the marriage was a gay marriage. The normalcy of the family underscored part of the message--so what's the big deal about gay marriage. A gay couple is in every detail--save one--completely the same as a straight couple. Get over it.

Next we watched the one movie we knew very little about--Winter's Bone. As the title might suggest, this movie--set in the grim grey winter world of the Ozarks-- presents a stark story of a young woman who is the sole locus of responsibility in her family. Her father, a meth making drug dealer, has vanished, but not before putting up the family home as collateral against his bail. The mother is catatonic, in a silent world of her own, incapable of caring for the two younger children. It is only Ree Dolly, the 17 year old heroine of the tale, who has any sense and tries to care for the family. She goes on a quest to find her father and make sure he appears for a court date and does not thereby cause them to lose their home. As she searches, she is turned away at almost every place by heartless relatives and even more heartless neighbors. Only a few folk are willing to help her any, until one person steps forward and helps her in a wonderful surprise twist.

Finally, we watched Inception. OK, OK--I admit it. My husband watched this one. I started watching it, and gave up. The premise was so preposterous to me--dreams within dreams within dreams--and all of them controlled by external intention. I got lost trying to figure out which layer of reality--oh, did I say reality?--err, unreality we were in that I just plain quit watching.

When the Oscar nominations were announced, the battle seemed to be between The King's Speech and The Social Network. Each garnered multiple nominations, each had a compelling story. Interestingly, a generational split developed, with older viewers (ahem, that would include me) preferring The King's Speech and younger viewers (say, my daughter) preferring The Social Network.

The surprise for my husband and me was that we really preferred the small budget unassuming movie: Winter's Bone. Were I a member of the Academy, one of those folks who receives a ballot and gets to vote, my votes would have gone to Winter's Bone.

Ah, well. Oscar night has come and gone. Anne Hathaway changed dresses--almost too many times for me to enjoy each; James Franco looked oddly stoic and bored. Come on, James--say something. The viewer audience dropped from last year's numbers, and the show ran over-time.

But the movies? Well, they just keep rolling along.

What were your favorites?

Sleuthing?

2011-02-25T08:41:00.007-05:00

NBC recently aired a special on various "commercials" that had aired over the years on Saturday Night Live. It provided me with a welcome evening of laughing, and also reminiscing as old faces popped up--Gilda Radnor, John Belushi among them.

One commercial in particular struck a most topical note--it was for a product that turns teens' posts on Facebook or their text messages on cell phones into Mom friendly content. The commercial was titled "Damn It, My Mom is on Facebook".*

In its wry way, SNL had poked fun at an issue parents today face. True, parents have always faced this issue--that is finding out what your children are doing, and whether or not as a parent you are ever justified in snooping.

Years ago, I knew of a mother whose family called her "J. Edgar" for her snooping ways. She rifled through their dresser drawers, she read anything she found in their room, she looked under beds, lifted mattresses and so forth. I can't imagine what she would be doing in the present world of electronic communication.

Where once the parental dilemma might have been "should I read that diary or not?" now the question is "should I friend my child on Facebook or not?" Some parents handle the dilemma, especially for pre-teens, by not allowing a Facebook profile to their children under a specific age. Some parents limit computer and cell-phone use.

Many advice givers intone sternly--make sure your child does not have a computer in her room; place the computer in a family accessible location. Or, don't give your child a cell phone until...or get a plan that doesn't allow texting. Or whatever.

I have wondered what it might have been like for my husband and me as parents to raise our children in this over-exposed electronic age. Our questions dealt with more passive electronic--should she have a TV in her room or not. It is with great amusement that I recall the dilemma of my own teen years--having a radio in my room. I listened late at night, turning the volume way down low so my aunt and uncle (with whom I lived) wouldn't hear--generally rock and roll was verboten.

What do parents today do? Whatever it is, I would venture that the temptation to be a sleuth still rises within each parental breast. I come down on the side of honoring your children's privacy, but being very watchful and attuned to them.

How about you?

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*By the way, you can watch the SNL "commercial" here.

The Real Culture War

2011-02-23T08:27:00.003-05:00

No doubt about it, there is indeed a culture war afoot in the U.S. While there are many differences among Americans on issues of personal morality, the war to which I refer is an economic war.

I am almost apoplectic about the current happenings in Wisconsin--the governor there has declared war on public employees, one of the largest group of employees working for middle class wages. He has decided that the state's budget deficit must be fixed by slashing benefits, specifically pensions, of state workers, including teachers.

Sadly, too many people are blinded to what I believe to be his true motive--breaking the unions. It is a simple equation--break the unions, take away collective bargaining rights, and thereby weaken the power of Democrats, because unions have traditionally supported Democrats.

This approach is rather like grabbing that goose that lays golden eggs and killing it. Why? Because, as Robert Reich has persuasively argued, it is the middle class that drives the engine of our economy. He makes the point in his recent book Aftershock that without middle class buying power, our economy will continue to falter.

One of the arguments that Reich makes is that without middle class buying power, the other segments of our economic layers cannot make up for that loss. The desperately poor cannot buy goods to drive the economy, and the type of goods the rich buy will not: yachts, luxury goods, McMansions.

I am even more outraged when I learn that Wisconsin's governor received huge amounts of funding for his run for governor from two sources: Rupert Murdoch and the Koch brothers. The New York Times ran a recent story on this funding. The Koch brothers are the primary funding source behind that so-called populist movement, the Tea Party.

Paul Krugman, in a recent editorial, labels the Wisconsin governor's move for exactly what it is: a naked power grab.

I feel like yelling--PEOPLE, STOP SLEEP-WALKING. The super rich are funding movements to have the little guys vote to take power away from themselves.

One of my birthday gifts that I received is a book I have wanted for a while--What's the Matter with Kansas. I am looking forward to reading it. I want to try to figure out how we have been duped into voting against our own interests.

OK--enough ranting. I need to get back to building the barricades, and standing on the ramparts. Oh, say can you see. . .

Taking It Easy

2011-02-18T01:04:00.004-05:00

One of my favorite music groups is the Eagles. So, this week, I find myself humming one of their classics: "Take It Easy". We are spending a bit of time in the San Diego area. By circumstance--that is to say, not specifically precipitated by my birthday--we were offered an opportunity to visit southern California. The only birthday I ever celebrated in California (at least to my knowledge) was when I turned one. So, it was fun to celebrate number 66 here.

Many things impress a visitor to this area. First, what's with all the highways and the cars that are rolling rolling rolling--constantly on the go. Of course, there is traffic anywhere in the U.S., given that we are a car-crazy society. But in southern California, the traffic is non-stop. Thank goodness for our friendly little GPS unit--we have gone various places with nary a mis-direction.

Second, this is a place of great natural beauty. The vistas are stunning, the skies blue--except for the first rain of the year in the San Diego area, and the gentle winter sun is a welcome respite from a biting cold winter.

We managed a few adventures--or, at least what passes for such, at our age!

A view to lovely beach housing on Point Loma.

The Pacific in view. I loved the mostly unspoiled views of the ocean. I know if we traveled further north, these lovely views would disappear in over-developed areas.

The force of ocean breezes shapes trees along the coast.

We did one day's worth of driving--the California entertainment. We headed north, then turned east and drove CA Highway 74, the Ortega Highway. Oh my, what a fun drive--if you enjoy palms sweating, toes curling, and quick glances down the steep hillside. Once at the coast, we turned south and ended up at Point Loma, at the Cabrillo National Monument (pictured above).

But lovely cacti greet us along the road side almost everywhere.

We spent two days visiting San Diego's famous zoo and Safari Park. Maybe I will post some other animal photos--but for now, enjoy these flaming flamingos. Love that raucous orangey-pink.

My birthday evening, we drove to Carlsbad, and watched the sun set across the Pacific. The changing light infused the red cliffs with a wondrous glow.

And the cloud formations put on a special show, until finally the sun slipped below the edge of the world.

I mentioned to my husband that next year's birthday celebration will be hard-pressed to beat this year's.

Double Six in View

2011-02-12T00:01:00.002-05:00

Maybe the title sounds like an ode to a famous route, or a high-roll with a pair of dice. But, no, dear reader--the title alludes to my natal anniversary, looming straight ahead of me.

Sigh.

I am now official a Medicare beneficiary as well as someone collecting Social Security. I guess I join the ranks of curmudgeonly seniors snarling--get your hands off my entitlements. Oh, please don't let me become self-centered and selfish.

Anyway, it is time to run a bit more of my parents' biography. This story is taken from my father's account of the day I was born. While all the details, and most of the words are his, I have edited it a bit. At the time of my birth, my parents were living in Waukena, California, where my father was the pastor of a church in central California, and also a public school teacher in a school some 25 miles away.

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I was born on February 13 on a Tuesday evening. Because the due date was five days later, my father had gone to school that morning all unsuspecting that "today" was the day. While my mother was beginning to have feelings and symptoms pointing to the fact that she would likely soon deliver their first baby, she had not told my father. It was his week to drive to school. After school, he had dropped off his fellow teacher with whom he car-pooled at her home. When he arrived home, he found a friend there with my mother, who had been having labor pains all day long and she was beginning to become concerned knowing that my father did not know. She had walked over to a local store and Post Office in the morning and told the store owner. Eventually, word got around to the friend who stopped by just before my father got home; she was prepared to drive my mother to the hospital.

When my father got home and learned that "now" was the time, his first feelings and emotions were to be overwhelmed at all that was happening. So he took my mother in his arms and hugged her, with the friend hovering over them and urging--go, go, go.

So, off they went to the "East Tulare Hospital", about twelve or thirteen miles away. About halfway on the trip, the car began a knock in the car engine, and my father felt the car losing power. He kept the accelerator down and kept moving until they got in closer to town. They had to cross a railroad track, the Southern Pacific Rail Road, as they approached the hospital. Looking ahead, my father saw a slow moving southbound freight train coming to the crossing. Trying to keep his speed up, for fear the engine would die, he turned on to another street to avoid the crossing altogether.

As he slowed to make a left turn the motor died completely. It would not budge. They coasted to the side of the street. My father jumped out and ran across the street to a house where several people were sitting on their front porch. He said to them, "I'm taking my wife to the East Tulare Hospital and my car died." They had seen and observed that fact, and the "East Tulare Hospital" was a maternity hospital only. So they took in the situation immediately. A young man there jumped up, ran into the house saying, "Where are my keys?", grabbed his car keys, ran out to the carport at the side of their house, backed out and pulled his car up beside their car. My mother was transferred to that car, and the three of them sped across town to the "East Tulare Hospital."

With my mother safely in the hospital, my father made his way to the house of one of his church members. They then took him back across town to the car to tow it back to his place. It was parked where he had left it, parked at an angle partly out into the street. After they all got back to the church members’ house, my father wanted to go back to the hospital right away. But the church members assured my father that it could be hours and hours yet, that the first baby usually took a long time coming. So they insisted he eat supper with them.

By the time my father got back to the hospital, I had been born. My father came into the room to see my mother just as a nurse came along and popped a thermometer in her mouth. Anxious to learn of his child, he asked her, "Is it a boy?" And she shook her head "NO". My father then said, "Is it a girl?". And she shook her head "YES".

A Cautionary Tale

2011-02-07T17:24:00.005-05:00

I recently finished reading Barbara Kingsolver’s newest novel The Lacuna. While I love everything of Kingsolver that I have read, I kept reserving judgment on this work. It is a slow growing work—moving along with the life of Harrison Shepherd, son of estranged parents—his father a U.S. minor bureaucrat functionary working in Washington, D.C., and a Mexican mother with a wanderlust, and sometimes just a plain lust. Harrison grows up in Mexico, and early on encounters Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo (yes, those famous artists). Their lives entwine with Trotsky, exiled in Mexico, so young Harrison encounters Trotsky as well.

He leaves Mexico twice—first as a young boy who is sent off to live with his father for a time, and then later as an adult when he eventually settles in Asheville, NC. Drawing on his childhood, he begins to write novels of the fallen Aztec empire, reworking stories he heard in his childhood. These novels are wildly successful, and provide a livable income for him. But, he harbors a personal secret. For me, the major frustration in reading the novel is that the secret is only touched on, and never explored in depth.

All his life, he has kept diaries. These diaries provide the literary conceit which moves the story along. As a successful author, he employs a personal secretary who eventually becomes the recipient of the diaries, and it is her telling in the second half of the novel that moves the story along. By now, the time frame of the novel is the mid-1950s. The height of the House Committee on Unamerican Activities and the Senate McCarthy hearings. Harrison’s prior contact with “Communists” comes to light. And thereby hangs a cautionary tale.

I could not help but think of current events. There is a kind of drumbeat in this country to have only one kind of thinking. Maybe that is too dire a pronouncement, but to hear some of the commentaries that air on television, the acceptance for diverging points of view is minimal. You don’t think as I do—the fault and blame is yours. MY WAY IS THE ONLY RIGHT WAY.

Things are far worse in places where religious extremism reigns. I read stories of the Taliban in Afghanistan or Pakistan stoning people to death. There have been two recent such instances. As if the actual event weren’t bad enough, the stonings were videotaped. Maybe the video bears witness to the practice—and needs to be shared.

Maybe there is something built in to our human nature that just wants to point the finger and say—YOU, you are the transgressor. You must die for not thinking, or acting as I do. Or you must be banished. Or silenced. Somehow you must be removed from having any influence on the world in which I live.

I recall that stunning story by Shirley Jackson “The Lottery.” If you've never read this story, you should--though prepare to be horrified. It too is a cautionary tale. There are difference between the events portrayed in The Lacuna, and in Jackson's "The Lottery." But the driving motivation behind them is the same--it is oh so tempting to find someone to blame--to point the finger--to cast a lottery and pick someone to stone, because that process gives us the illusion of safety.

Can it happen here again? Would we go through the kind of horror that reach epitome in the McCarthy hearings? I fervently hope not. But it takes vigilance on all our parts. We need to remember that only as we are tolerant, only as we live and let live, only as we acknowledge that the path each of us has chosen is NOT necessarily the path others must walk--then with that level of awareness and acknowledgement, we might be able to escape the cycle of history.

Read The Lacuna, by all means. Enjoy its peek into an era. But also think of it as a cautionary tale.