Sunday, July 26, 2015
PBX
P? Yes, I have to, but Mary Hitchcock’s already on break
B? A ballerina please. Toe shoes gleam in the light beneath my desk
X? Sí, Señor, puede obtener un X-Ray en éste dirección
I rattle off an address in English or in Spanish, more likely,
In the heart of the City of Angels, Ciudad de la Reina de los Angeles
“Good afternoon, Tuberculosis and Respiratory Disease Association of
Los Angeles County.” A mouthful. A bounty of
Cumbersome spittle creating consonants. My tongue’s dry by ten a.m.
At 19 in my second year of pushing and pulling brass nibs into or out of
Exasperating round holes, I shorten it.
“Hi! Christmas Seals, how may I direct your call?”
No one the wiser, but me. I learned a lot of Spanish in two years.
Forty years later I still have the small Pacific Bell tin of brass polish
My now grown girls loved to play dress-up with the worn out toe shoes.
Dreaming of other than menial labor.
Monday, July 20, 2015
Sunsets
Rain storms make beautiful sunsets.
Los Angeles slurped up the recent dump of the wet stuff on its parched soil. My husband reported that Saturday was soggy at camp in the low foothills.
Some of that blessed moisture made its way north. The sunset Sunday evening in Oakland was one of those never to be duplicated displays by Mama Nature wearing her most flamboyant dress. Purple islands floating in a coral sea were shot through with the kind of slanting golden rays that makes me imagine I can hear angels singing. The colors had staying power, and didn’t slough off their warm oranges and crimsons until well past 9pm. The golden glow permeated the house, but I had to be out IN it, in the warm soft air. Perfect temperature. A colleague, who stayed a few days here while attending a training, and I basked like a couple of marshmallows, turning golden in the light.
I thought about my honey in southern California, how the sunset looked at camp with all that rain. Later he told me that he’d been of service as the kids were forced inside by the deluge for most of the weekend. His Magic (show), his gift of creating cozy energy to contain and entertain kids whose laughter is the best medicine for pain, is such a boon for so many.
Yet, I couldn’t help but miss him this sunset. Aren’t we in our sunset years? Aren’t we supposed to be together. No supposed to’s, Melinda… that’s only for movies and romance novels. But, I DO miss him. Absence makes the heart grow… confused. Three months is a long time. I can rationalize that three months is small potatoes in the context of forty three years of marriage, but my heart has trouble with numbers. It understands addition and simple multiplication, but struggles with division.
In 1952, my father took a classically beautiful photo of his brother, my Uncle Bob, with his wife and daughter at Malaga Cove, where our two families spent many Sundays in summer. The three have their backs to the camera, facing the setting sun as it drops toward the ocean’s broad horizon. Although the photo is black and white, you can tell it’s a beauty of a sunset. Aunt Nora and Uncle Bob always loved beach walks at sunset. They instilled in their children and in me that sense of awe and delight in Mother Nature’s artistry.
The recent tropical storm coming up from Baja has drenched Southern California, and deposited a Mother Lode of golden sunrises and sunsets all the way up and down the coast.
I look forward to a glorious reunion at the end of August, when Pun returns and the sun comes out edging the clouds with pinks and purples and golds.
Perhaps next summer we’ll find a different soul-lution more supportive of our viewing beautiful sunsets together.
Los Angeles slurped up the recent dump of the wet stuff on its parched soil. My husband reported that Saturday was soggy at camp in the low foothills.
Some of that blessed moisture made its way north. The sunset Sunday evening in Oakland was one of those never to be duplicated displays by Mama Nature wearing her most flamboyant dress. Purple islands floating in a coral sea were shot through with the kind of slanting golden rays that makes me imagine I can hear angels singing. The colors had staying power, and didn’t slough off their warm oranges and crimsons until well past 9pm. The golden glow permeated the house, but I had to be out IN it, in the warm soft air. Perfect temperature. A colleague, who stayed a few days here while attending a training, and I basked like a couple of marshmallows, turning golden in the light.
I thought about my honey in southern California, how the sunset looked at camp with all that rain. Later he told me that he’d been of service as the kids were forced inside by the deluge for most of the weekend. His Magic (show), his gift of creating cozy energy to contain and entertain kids whose laughter is the best medicine for pain, is such a boon for so many.
Yet, I couldn’t help but miss him this sunset. Aren’t we in our sunset years? Aren’t we supposed to be together. No supposed to’s, Melinda… that’s only for movies and romance novels. But, I DO miss him. Absence makes the heart grow… confused. Three months is a long time. I can rationalize that three months is small potatoes in the context of forty three years of marriage, but my heart has trouble with numbers. It understands addition and simple multiplication, but struggles with division.
In 1952, my father took a classically beautiful photo of his brother, my Uncle Bob, with his wife and daughter at Malaga Cove, where our two families spent many Sundays in summer. The three have their backs to the camera, facing the setting sun as it drops toward the ocean’s broad horizon. Although the photo is black and white, you can tell it’s a beauty of a sunset. Aunt Nora and Uncle Bob always loved beach walks at sunset. They instilled in their children and in me that sense of awe and delight in Mother Nature’s artistry.
The recent tropical storm coming up from Baja has drenched Southern California, and deposited a Mother Lode of golden sunrises and sunsets all the way up and down the coast.
I look forward to a glorious reunion at the end of August, when Pun returns and the sun comes out edging the clouds with pinks and purples and golds.
Perhaps next summer we’ll find a different soul-lution more supportive of our viewing beautiful sunsets together.
Monday, July 13, 2015
Taming Emotions and the Beast
Saturday found me with older daughter in the iconic Grand Lakes Theater here in Oakland. I’d never been inside, only seen its imposing curved corner presence while driving by, or from a the Saturday Farmers Market across the street. It houses a truly grand pipe organ, ornate columns, and plush old seats - just right for viewing Inside Out, Pixar’s new flick about emotions.
We went to preview it with the six year old in mind who features prominently in our hearts. While we concurred that the film is not right for her yet, it offers a useful springboard for jumping into conversations about emotion.
Daughter and I found it to be a three hankie event, and were so glad to have seen it together. Any
time spent with her is golden time, for me!
After the film, we drove to one of the venues hosting BEAST CRAWL. What’s that? Lit Crawl, Lit Quake, and Beast Crawl offer readings and open mic opportunities for writers to share their work. In Oakland they call it Beast, which in Pig-Latin, of course, is East Bay.
We heard some wonderful works shared, and doubled our exposure by each of us going to different venues of the thirty offered over the course of five hours, hosting one hundred and fifty authors. We compared notes Sunday.
At my first venue, Sweet Bar Bakery, I met two of my writing buddies for readings from a group called Bay Area Generations, which pairs two writers of different generations who read somewhat on a theme. Funny and fine readers included: Colleen McKee & Jon Sindell; Eileen Malone & Kathleen McKlung, who is going to lead a writer’s workshop at my home later in July; and Nina Serrano & Garrett Murphy. We enjoyed wonderful music from Stella Peach, who played violin with the new technology I first heard used by Wah! at Shakti Fest, and Lisa Fischer, most recently, at Kate Wolf Festival. It allows the musician to sing/play with her/himself by way of recording and playing back the loop.
At the second venue, The Beer Garden on Telegraph, my most memorable readers were Peter Bullen, who does a stream of consciousness flow that is so in the moment, you can’t believe he’s reading it from the page. The dude only began writing when he was 49 - a couple decades ago. Think Kerouac, but sober. (Maybe.) His work may be found at WETRIEDOURBEST.WORDPRESS.COM
Then there was Maisha. This woman is eloquent. I want to keep track of her skyrocket to success! This is from the program: Maisha Z. Johnson is an Oakland-based writer and activist of Trinidadian descent. She writes poetry, fiction, and essays, and works at the intersections of the arts, healing, and social change. Maisha has an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University and she is the author of No Parachutes to Carry Me Home (Punk Hostage Press 2015), Through Your Own Words: 51 Writing Prompts for Healing and Self-Care(Inkblot Arts 2014), and three poetry chapbooks. Her work has been published in numerous journals and nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, and she writes for online publications including Black Girl Dangerous and Everyday Feminism. Visit her at www.inkblotarts.org.
At the third venue I visited were readings from published authors Joshua Mohr, Ethel Rohan, Janis Cooke Newman, founder of Lit Camp, which I plan to submit for this year, and a recent Lit Camp attendee, Morgan Davis. Truly, an inspiring group reading from beautifully rendered texts.
Sigh… my work is cut out for me. Butt in chair, fingers poised over keyboard, ready set...
I think I’ll take a nap, now…
We went to preview it with the six year old in mind who features prominently in our hearts. While we concurred that the film is not right for her yet, it offers a useful springboard for jumping into conversations about emotion.
Daughter and I found it to be a three hankie event, and were so glad to have seen it together. Any
time spent with her is golden time, for me!
After the film, we drove to one of the venues hosting BEAST CRAWL. What’s that? Lit Crawl, Lit Quake, and Beast Crawl offer readings and open mic opportunities for writers to share their work. In Oakland they call it Beast, which in Pig-Latin, of course, is East Bay.
We heard some wonderful works shared, and doubled our exposure by each of us going to different venues of the thirty offered over the course of five hours, hosting one hundred and fifty authors. We compared notes Sunday.
At my first venue, Sweet Bar Bakery, I met two of my writing buddies for readings from a group called Bay Area Generations, which pairs two writers of different generations who read somewhat on a theme. Funny and fine readers included: Colleen McKee & Jon Sindell; Eileen Malone & Kathleen McKlung, who is going to lead a writer’s workshop at my home later in July; and Nina Serrano & Garrett Murphy. We enjoyed wonderful music from Stella Peach, who played violin with the new technology I first heard used by Wah! at Shakti Fest, and Lisa Fischer, most recently, at Kate Wolf Festival. It allows the musician to sing/play with her/himself by way of recording and playing back the loop.
At the second venue, The Beer Garden on Telegraph, my most memorable readers were Peter Bullen, who does a stream of consciousness flow that is so in the moment, you can’t believe he’s reading it from the page. The dude only began writing when he was 49 - a couple decades ago. Think Kerouac, but sober. (Maybe.) His work may be found at WETRIEDOURBEST.WORDPRESS.COM
Then there was Maisha. This woman is eloquent. I want to keep track of her skyrocket to success! This is from the program: Maisha Z. Johnson is an Oakland-based writer and activist of Trinidadian descent. She writes poetry, fiction, and essays, and works at the intersections of the arts, healing, and social change. Maisha has an MFA in Poetry from Pacific University and she is the author of No Parachutes to Carry Me Home (Punk Hostage Press 2015), Through Your Own Words: 51 Writing Prompts for Healing and Self-Care(Inkblot Arts 2014), and three poetry chapbooks. Her work has been published in numerous journals and nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, and she writes for online publications including Black Girl Dangerous and Everyday Feminism. Visit her at www.inkblotarts.org.
At the third venue I visited were readings from published authors Joshua Mohr, Ethel Rohan, Janis Cooke Newman, founder of Lit Camp, which I plan to submit for this year, and a recent Lit Camp attendee, Morgan Davis. Truly, an inspiring group reading from beautifully rendered texts.
Sigh… my work is cut out for me. Butt in chair, fingers poised over keyboard, ready set...
I think I’ll take a nap, now…
Monday, July 6, 2015
On Furniture
If tables turned, and furniture could talk, and people could sense how different elbows feel, when placed just so upon them, it would be an interesting conversation, I think.
Cousin June’s elbows captivated our Megs. Whenever June came to visit, little Megan would make a bee-line for Junie’s soft lap and reach around to touch and gently pinch her soft elbow skin, all slack and gappy around the knob of her bone. I’ll bet the table liked June’s doubly soft elbows too, and how padded her forearms were say, compared to mine - all bone and angles with hardly any flesh at all over them.
To this day, I expect there are dents from my butt bones on that chartreuse Naugahyde chair of my youth - where ever it is. I wonder what it would say, you know, if the tables turned, and furniture could talk. “Ouch?” Or, “Go get something to eat, little girl, and fatten yourself up, child!?”
What do you suppose Winston Churchill’s wooden suit valet would say when it accepted the weight of the world as the Prime Minister let slip from his shoulders, and dropped his suit coat onto its oaken rack just before getting into bed?
Or, Einstein’s desk. Do desks get head aches? All those numbers would make mine spin. I wonder if its surface developed a groove from the movement of his calculating hand.
I don’t know if it’s possible, but how loving a cradle might feel toward the weight of a couple’s first newborn placed so tenderly there with hopes that her first sleep in it would be restful for all.
I’m fairly certain that the wheel chair of my friend from the 1970’s, Frances Rainbow, felt very proud to be her understanding and to stand under her every day and every night of her too short life. Frances used to give tours of her chair to all who would listen: “This lever makes it go backwards and forwards, this one is for steering, and this is the all important eject button which no one but I, Frances Rainbow is allowed to touch.”
Brittle Bone Disease made her lighter than a feather, and her voice sounded as if she’d inhaled helium, or like that of a small child - delicate and high pitched. Imagine how proud of her that chair felt the day she piped up and testified before the Los Angeles City Council on behalf of all people in wheel chairs. Frances’s testimony and her sturdy chair helped so many folks with accessibility issues in the city. Pretty soon the idea caught on all over the country. Her chair’s cushions must be puffed with pride.
When I was no more than six years old, I wished for a chair that could hold and rock me, like a pillowy, bosomy mama, whose enveloping softness would almost swallow my angular boney self, ’til I could hear its inner-workings, and it could hear mine. How would it interpret the gurgles of my always hungry belly? What would it think about my pockets full of pill bugs and foxtail filled socks? And what would it say about my dreams of running so fast that I’d take off - lifting into flight?
I imagine furniture made my humans has a lot to say. Conversely, I believe we humans have a lot to learn about how it feels to be interacted with respectfully.
Monday, June 29, 2015
Festival Flying
Atop the light fixture, Stellar Jays have built a nest for five - mama, papa, and three hungry hatchlings. The folks staying in Cabin Five don’t turn on their porch light for fear of creating cooked little “squab” jays. I stayed the night in adjoining Cabin Six, compliments of an invitation from my new Berkeley friends Daphne and Don. Camping at the Kate Wolf Festival in Laytonville, California is for the birds, the young, the stoic, or insane. The average temperature is “in tents” - ranges between 98 to 106 degrees in the afternoon.
While I did bring my tent, by Saturday night I was droopy of wing, having left Oakland that morning before sun-up. By 10:00 p.m., after Smokey Robinson had reminded me why he was one of my favorite heart-throbs in the sixties, and after glowing orbs were tossed by merry-makers as high as the buttermilk clouds that swallowed the moon, I followed the path of least resistance, and we three festival goers went twenty minutes further up 101 to a peaceful place on the banks of the Eel River. I was grateful to spread my sleeping roll on the futon in the living room of Cabin Six.
Up by 6:00, I observed the elder jays feeding the youngsters, then side-stepped poison oak on the narrow path down to the river. The rush of water over smooth stones filled my senses. Eyes registered the hypnotic drought-defiant tumble and swirl; ears were nourished by the nearly forgotten sound of gush and gurgle; the ol-factories, (not on strike), picked up the scent of cool mud, damp mosses, and mugwort. Mugwort! Good! It’s a repellant to mosquitoes which found my skin boundary permeable and stepped up to the bar. Mugwort is also good for inviting lucid dreams when tucked under the pillow. I crushed a leaf and swabbed and daubed myself with its fragrant essence on face, neck, hands, and feet. Dang mosquitoes got through my jeans! Must be the genes. Sweet blood eggs ‘em on, my Daddy used to say.
At the Festival Sunday, I guarded my energy, knowing I wanted to stay for Lisa Fischer’s gig at 8:00pm, and still have enough meewee to drive safely, the three hours to home. Mercifully, Sunday afternoon, some strong winds kicked up. By opening all the doors and tail gate of my car, I could nap fairly comfortably. Gorgeous sounds of Judy Collins' lilting voice as she led a singalong of favorites were a perfect lullaby. Who Knows Where the Time Goes, when listening to Judy Blue Eyes? I was glad I got to hear and see her on the main stage Saturday afternoon.
Truly, when I first saw the flier for the 20th Anniversary edition of the Kate Wolf Festival, the first “must hear” name that jumped out at me from the screen was Lisa Fischer. In the documentary film, “Twenty Steps from Stardom,” her astonishing voice is featured. Her precisely perfect passion poured into my soul through ear canals as hungry and wide open as those baby birds' mouths. She’s been stuck to my marrow ever since. I watched that film three times! Ms. Fischer is one of the most in-demand back-up singers, and has performed with Sting, Stones, and Nine Inch Nails.
I left the concert filled with the sounds and images she gave us to keep. My favorite of her short seven song set is called Freedom. Memorable lyrics are: It’s just another bird in this house, bumpin’ into walls, dyin’ to get out… Free my mind, free my soul… I just want to be with my own kind and know that I belong…
This bird flew home and didn’t get cooked. I’m hoping the same is true for the bird family atop the light fixture of Cabin Five at the Big Bend Lodge.
It was a fine festival.
While I did bring my tent, by Saturday night I was droopy of wing, having left Oakland that morning before sun-up. By 10:00 p.m., after Smokey Robinson had reminded me why he was one of my favorite heart-throbs in the sixties, and after glowing orbs were tossed by merry-makers as high as the buttermilk clouds that swallowed the moon, I followed the path of least resistance, and we three festival goers went twenty minutes further up 101 to a peaceful place on the banks of the Eel River. I was grateful to spread my sleeping roll on the futon in the living room of Cabin Six.
Up by 6:00, I observed the elder jays feeding the youngsters, then side-stepped poison oak on the narrow path down to the river. The rush of water over smooth stones filled my senses. Eyes registered the hypnotic drought-defiant tumble and swirl; ears were nourished by the nearly forgotten sound of gush and gurgle; the ol-factories, (not on strike), picked up the scent of cool mud, damp mosses, and mugwort. Mugwort! Good! It’s a repellant to mosquitoes which found my skin boundary permeable and stepped up to the bar. Mugwort is also good for inviting lucid dreams when tucked under the pillow. I crushed a leaf and swabbed and daubed myself with its fragrant essence on face, neck, hands, and feet. Dang mosquitoes got through my jeans! Must be the genes. Sweet blood eggs ‘em on, my Daddy used to say.
At the Festival Sunday, I guarded my energy, knowing I wanted to stay for Lisa Fischer’s gig at 8:00pm, and still have enough meewee to drive safely, the three hours to home. Mercifully, Sunday afternoon, some strong winds kicked up. By opening all the doors and tail gate of my car, I could nap fairly comfortably. Gorgeous sounds of Judy Collins' lilting voice as she led a singalong of favorites were a perfect lullaby. Who Knows Where the Time Goes, when listening to Judy Blue Eyes? I was glad I got to hear and see her on the main stage Saturday afternoon.
Truly, when I first saw the flier for the 20th Anniversary edition of the Kate Wolf Festival, the first “must hear” name that jumped out at me from the screen was Lisa Fischer. In the documentary film, “Twenty Steps from Stardom,” her astonishing voice is featured. Her precisely perfect passion poured into my soul through ear canals as hungry and wide open as those baby birds' mouths. She’s been stuck to my marrow ever since. I watched that film three times! Ms. Fischer is one of the most in-demand back-up singers, and has performed with Sting, Stones, and Nine Inch Nails.
I left the concert filled with the sounds and images she gave us to keep. My favorite of her short seven song set is called Freedom. Memorable lyrics are: It’s just another bird in this house, bumpin’ into walls, dyin’ to get out… Free my mind, free my soul… I just want to be with my own kind and know that I belong…
This bird flew home and didn’t get cooked. I’m hoping the same is true for the bird family atop the light fixture of Cabin Five at the Big Bend Lodge.
It was a fine festival.
Monday, June 22, 2015
A Watched Pot...
I'm watching the pot. In it are simmering onions, leeks, and potatoes.
At the Farmer’s Market, I ask the vender which potatoes she thinks are best for Vichyssoise.
Not familiar with the dish, she asks, “What’s vicious saws?”
“ Vee-she-swahz,” I say, “Leek and potato soup.”
“Oh, sounds good. Depends on if you want it chunky or creamy?”
“Doesn’t matter. It all goes in the blender”, I say.
“I think these German Butterballs might be just right.”
“Should I worry about German potatoes acting up in a French soup?” I ask her jokingly.
“They still don’t get along well, do they?” she chuckles
“Seems the whole world doesn’t get along recently… except maybe here in Oakland since the Warriors victory has united folks. Thanks for the guidance… Say, do you want to hear the recipe for Vichyssoise?”
“Yeah. What is it?”
“First, you take a leek (leak)…”
(Her puzzled face slowly draws into a grin…) “Ewww… I get it. I’ll try and remember that one! Good day to ya.”
“And to you,” I say, walking away with fresh leeks, potatoes, kale, cukes and chard in the bag.
I wish we humans could get along as well as veggies in the pot seem to do.
The Kingston Trio sang their Merry Minuet in the ’60’s:
They’re rioting in Africa, they’re starving in Spain
There are hurricanes in Florida, and Texas needs rain
The whole world is festering with unhappy souls;
The French hate the Germans, Germans hate the Poles
Italians hate Yugoslavs, South Africans hate the Dutch
And I don’t like anybody very much!
But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud
Man’s been endowed with a mushroom shaped cloud
And we know for certain that some lovely day
Someone will set the spark off
and we will all be blown away
They’re rioting in Africa, there’s strife in Iran
What Nature doesn’t do to us
Will be done by our fellow man.
Blessings on Pope Francis who’s thrown his two cents into the pot about global warming being caused by humans.
I’m hopeful the actions he proposes we take are not too little too late!
And Thank You, Barack Obama for suggesting that grieving along with the community in Charleston, South Carolina,
now at the effect of Dylan Storm Roof’s insanity, is not enough. We have the power to change our status in the world as the country with the highest death rate due to gun violence perpetrated by citizen against citizen.
When will the NRA be proven wrong for saying that guns don’t kill people; people kill people? People without guns are less likely to kill other people with their bare hands.
According to the Wall Street Journal, the winning states in the contest for most deaths perpetrated by people with guns, whether suicide or homicide are:
1.Louisiana
2.Mississippi
3.Alaska
4.Wyoming
5.Oklahoma
6.Montana
7.Arkansas
8.Alabama
9.New Mexico
10.South Carolina
States with strong gun laws have seen dramatic declines in violence, while states with weak gun laws have not seen declines. Overall, there has been a 10% increase in gun violence in the last ten years.
Can we say, “insanity,” boys and girls?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Something palpably magical is happening here in Oakland. Having won the Basketball Championship over the Cleveland Cavaliers, celebrations are occurring, and the whole city seems to be melting. Hearts are expanding, eyes are twinkling, bliss seems to unify all the citizens as if Joy is the common heart rhythm. Who knows how long this tide of commonality in ebullient elation may wash over us? Not even the events in Charleston have re-erected the barriers.
Dare I hope this heart-warming effect may linger long enough to become the new norm?
Standing in line at the post office late Friday afternoon, I asked a mom and her ten year old daughter if they had been to the parade.
Their eyes glistened beneath the bills of their Warriors caps. Their chests puffed proudly, expanding the lettering on their Warriors T-shirts.
“Oh,YES” they exalted, and regaled me with their favorite highlights until it was their turn to be served at the window.
They waved to me as they left. I was warmed by the nourishing exchange.
Oakland is a good place to practice what my husband calls affirmative inter-action. There’s a rainbow of possibilities when I have choice to rub shoulders and share conversation with folks who, on the surface, look different from how I look. Once rubbed, we find we’re made of the same material - driven by the same human heart rhythm thrumming away.
Friday a week ago, several colleagues and I gathered at a friend's house for fireside camaraderie. Two of the gals taught us this “repeat-after-me-song.” We chanted after Brandy and Andrea, each of us patting the rhythm with palm over our heart.
I can hear my heart beat
(I can hear my heart beat)
Listen to the rhythm of the freedom song
(Listen to the rhythm of the freedom song)
When I feel that beat in me, I can set my spirit free
(When I feel that beat in me, I can set my spirit free)
I’m liking this pot of heart-melting soup here in Oakland very much, and being nourished by it.
At the Farmer’s Market, I ask the vender which potatoes she thinks are best for Vichyssoise.
Not familiar with the dish, she asks, “What’s vicious saws?”
“ Vee-she-swahz,” I say, “Leek and potato soup.”
“Oh, sounds good. Depends on if you want it chunky or creamy?”
“Doesn’t matter. It all goes in the blender”, I say.
“I think these German Butterballs might be just right.”
“Should I worry about German potatoes acting up in a French soup?” I ask her jokingly.
“They still don’t get along well, do they?” she chuckles
“Seems the whole world doesn’t get along recently… except maybe here in Oakland since the Warriors victory has united folks. Thanks for the guidance… Say, do you want to hear the recipe for Vichyssoise?”
“Yeah. What is it?”
“First, you take a leek (leak)…”
(Her puzzled face slowly draws into a grin…) “Ewww… I get it. I’ll try and remember that one! Good day to ya.”
“And to you,” I say, walking away with fresh leeks, potatoes, kale, cukes and chard in the bag.
I wish we humans could get along as well as veggies in the pot seem to do.
The Kingston Trio sang their Merry Minuet in the ’60’s:
They’re rioting in Africa, they’re starving in Spain
There are hurricanes in Florida, and Texas needs rain
The whole world is festering with unhappy souls;
The French hate the Germans, Germans hate the Poles
Italians hate Yugoslavs, South Africans hate the Dutch
And I don’t like anybody very much!
But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud
Man’s been endowed with a mushroom shaped cloud
And we know for certain that some lovely day
Someone will set the spark off
and we will all be blown away
They’re rioting in Africa, there’s strife in Iran
What Nature doesn’t do to us
Will be done by our fellow man.
Blessings on Pope Francis who’s thrown his two cents into the pot about global warming being caused by humans.
I’m hopeful the actions he proposes we take are not too little too late!
And Thank You, Barack Obama for suggesting that grieving along with the community in Charleston, South Carolina,
now at the effect of Dylan Storm Roof’s insanity, is not enough. We have the power to change our status in the world as the country with the highest death rate due to gun violence perpetrated by citizen against citizen.
When will the NRA be proven wrong for saying that guns don’t kill people; people kill people? People without guns are less likely to kill other people with their bare hands.
According to the Wall Street Journal, the winning states in the contest for most deaths perpetrated by people with guns, whether suicide or homicide are:
1.Louisiana
2.Mississippi
3.Alaska
4.Wyoming
5.Oklahoma
6.Montana
7.Arkansas
8.Alabama
9.New Mexico
10.South Carolina
States with strong gun laws have seen dramatic declines in violence, while states with weak gun laws have not seen declines. Overall, there has been a 10% increase in gun violence in the last ten years.
Can we say, “insanity,” boys and girls?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Something palpably magical is happening here in Oakland. Having won the Basketball Championship over the Cleveland Cavaliers, celebrations are occurring, and the whole city seems to be melting. Hearts are expanding, eyes are twinkling, bliss seems to unify all the citizens as if Joy is the common heart rhythm. Who knows how long this tide of commonality in ebullient elation may wash over us? Not even the events in Charleston have re-erected the barriers.
Dare I hope this heart-warming effect may linger long enough to become the new norm?
Standing in line at the post office late Friday afternoon, I asked a mom and her ten year old daughter if they had been to the parade.
Their eyes glistened beneath the bills of their Warriors caps. Their chests puffed proudly, expanding the lettering on their Warriors T-shirts.
“Oh,YES” they exalted, and regaled me with their favorite highlights until it was their turn to be served at the window.
They waved to me as they left. I was warmed by the nourishing exchange.
Oakland is a good place to practice what my husband calls affirmative inter-action. There’s a rainbow of possibilities when I have choice to rub shoulders and share conversation with folks who, on the surface, look different from how I look. Once rubbed, we find we’re made of the same material - driven by the same human heart rhythm thrumming away.
Friday a week ago, several colleagues and I gathered at a friend's house for fireside camaraderie. Two of the gals taught us this “repeat-after-me-song.” We chanted after Brandy and Andrea, each of us patting the rhythm with palm over our heart.
I can hear my heart beat
(I can hear my heart beat)
Listen to the rhythm of the freedom song
(Listen to the rhythm of the freedom song)
When I feel that beat in me, I can set my spirit free
(When I feel that beat in me, I can set my spirit free)
I’m liking this pot of heart-melting soup here in Oakland very much, and being nourished by it.
Monday, June 15, 2015
Mixed Bag
Hey, D. Mencha
Don’cha mention my name!
I heard you call my Mama, I heard you call my Pa
I hear you calling my dear friend who’ll never be the same.
Once you call them, they must come and lose themselves each day
Little bit by little bit I see them slip away
So forget you ever knew me, forget I have a name
Don’t ever EVER call me
D.Mencha, ‘cause you SLAY.
You slay the mind you slay the speech
You slay the memory too
You think you’re tough, but not enough
To slay me, I'm watchin' you
I’ll eat my greens, and vitamins
Exercise and rest
I’ll eat blueberries till I turn blue
I’ll put you to the test
Neener, neener, Slick and Sly one
Catch me if you can
I’ll laugh and play and live my life
I’m stickin’ to my plan
Pfthththtfffffbbbbbttttttt!
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I spent time with a high school buddy in L.A. last week, who is struggling with this Demon Dementia.
It's so very hard to watch her mind unravel, and yet, she's still her essential self - fun-loving,
funny and with a great sense of humor that still shows up in actions, if not words. We laughed a lot.
We played guitar. We walked and talked about old times and dear folks we both know. We ate, and watched Annie Hall and toured the garden in the unexpected rain.
Dementia is unexpected. It's not supposed to happen to those we love, yet it does. Pisses me off, (just for the record.) I'm royally pissed with no outlet for the scream. No target, no repository for rage.
The invitation to "be with what is while it is the way it is" has been extended. I'm doin' the best I can
with that invite. I wonder what I'd do if similarly afflicted. Overdose of something sounds promising... but without a plan in place before need... it's impossible to hold a thought to execute it if the dreaded D calls.
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This afternoon, family arrived from L.A. Healthy, stealthy, and close-knit - this family puts the FUN in functional. All four plus my Grandie, who is now SIX, are sweetly slumbering here, as I write. I love having a house-full! Only took four stories and eight lullabies to settle the grandie down for sleep. She gets so wound up with her cousins, Auntie and Uncle here!
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When the DEEEELIGHTFUL D calls, she floats my boat on a sea of joy. When grandchildren read to grandparents, there's a race to see who can stay awake longest. She won. Awe arises in hearing her read so fluently. She read. I read. She read again.
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Stephen Curry floats along, making baskets hither and yon. The Warriors won and it was fun to see the last few points.
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