A Good Man is Hard to Find

...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

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!

"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

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.

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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

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

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...

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?

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

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

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

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

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.

On Privacy

I have been fussing around on this topic, mentally writing a blog and contemplating the issues of privacy in the age of electronic access to myriads of information.

Herewith some of the impetus for these thoughts.

# 1--I watched an interview on CBS 60 Minutes today--Julian Assange was the interviewee. Combine that interview with the fact that he is also the topic of the New York Times Sunday magazine--quite some exposure for an incredibly self-assured cocky self-righteous self-designated savior of the world young man.

# 2--we recently went to see the movie The Social Network. This movie recounts the creation of that most ubiquitous of websites--Facebook--from its days of infancy as the brain child of Mark Zuckerberg, while he was a student at Harvard. Of course, those of us who now have Facebook profiles are constantly being warned about guarding our privacy on our Facebook settings. Why, even Mark Zuckerberg's Facebook profile was hacked, just the other day. (Oh, if only I were teaching a literature course right now--that would be the PERFECT example of irony.)

# 3--a blogger whose wonderful writing I have been reading indicated, right after the horrific shootings in Tucson, that the writer of one of the blogs she reads--by someone named Ashleigh Burroughs--was one of the victims. So, I scooted off to The Burrow to read what I could. I am naturally curious, and wanted details. I read a couple of posts--posted from before the shootings, and after. I learned--via a post her daughter made--that she was doing as well as might be expected, for someone who had been shot and survived. It wasn't until days after I began reading that the proverbial lightbulb went off. Several clues, along with her being "outed" by her own admission, made me understand--I had been reading Suzi Hileman's blog.

I include this last example because it speaks directly to the issue of privacy in the age of electronic information overload. She had decided, when she began blogging, to use a nom-de-plume. In the context of her blog, she became Ashleigh. And people read her blog, responding to her, calling her Ashleigh. She wanted this other persona, no doubt for many reasons, but at least in part to preserve privacy.

When I began blogging, I used my own version of a nom-de-plume. Not a full fledged alternative identity, but one which did not use my real name. Over time, most people have figured it out. That has been part of the fun of blogging for me--figuring out the names behind the pseudonyms bloggers choose to use. I understand completely the desire for privacy.

In this electronic age, some people choose to go entirely underground--no online identity of any kind. That kind of anonymity is very hard to achieve and maintain. Frankly, our identities are practically plastered all over the place--what the electronic age with the Internet has done has made it EASIER to find out someone's name, address, phone number and maybe much more. I recently made a request to put a list of names and addresses online, and got the response--what about privacy? My first thought was--those names and addresses are available in any phone book. Even when the paper version of the phone book goes away, the online version will still be there.

So, how do I pull together the three impetus inspirations for this blog. Certainly what Julian Assange has done is a cautionary tale. He has decided that it is his right, no--make that his duty to share information with the world. He believes that only the harsh light of revelation can lead people to make correct decisions. The information he deals in is weighty--world-changing in fact. Privacy be damned, inan Assange world, we all have the RIGHT to know whatever, even if it results in someone's being killed--as it surely has. Mark Zuckerberg's brainchild Facebook demonstrates that no tidbit of information is too trivial to keep it from being shared. Sadly, there are people who use such a social network to berate, belittle and besmirch people. Information becomes a cudgel with that approach. The world of blogging is different from the first two examples. The exposure there is slower developing--some blogs may have large readerships, but most probably do not. Sometimes bloggers long for more readers, but certainly not at the cost of what Suzi Hileman has had to endure.

Truth be told, I really don't know where my thoughts are going. I certainly prefer privacy, but I also love information. Are the two irreconcilable?

Anyone out there have an answer? Anyone?

A Voice in the Wilderness

A friend of mine (on Facebook) recently suggested that I should write about the current goings-on regarding Keith Olbermann and MSNBC.

Now, long time readers here will know that freedom of speech is one of those topics I return to at times: here, or here, or even here. So, why does my mind turn immediately to freedom of speech as one of the sub-texts in relation to Keith Olbermann. Partly, because I don’t know exactly what’s going on here. And also, because I found Olbermann’s voice to be one of those critical voices that we need during a time when far too few people on the airwaves look at issues deeply. Without his voice, our vaunted freedom speech loses some of its luster for me.

Keith Olbermann, who has been the host of “Countdown with Keith Olbermann,” announced suddenly on Friday night that this would be his last broadcast. Some of his phrasing could lead a viewer to think he was departing on his own timing, while other phrasing made it sounds as though he had been pushed out.

Whatever the reason, it also makes me ruminate on the nature of being a prophetic voice. While too many people tend to think of future telling as what it means to be a prophet—you know, predicting who will win the Super Bowl, or whether the stock market will go up or down (yes, it will), or when the world will end—being a prophet really means speaking the uncomfortable truth to those who do not want to hear it. It is this speaking truth to power niche that Olbermann occupies. Not alone, mind you, but there are not many such brave voices.

Mostly, being a prophet is a lonely occupation. You don’t get invited to dinner parties, and if you do, the guests tend to scoot away from you, not wanting to sit too close, lest the doom rub off on them. There are many examples through time—of course, the term prophet is most associated with Biblical times. The Old Testament fairly drips with these guys. The one prime example in the New Testament—John the Baptist—fits the eccentric description to the hilt.

There are other examples through history and in literature. The Greek Cassandra appears multiple times—in Homer’s writings, in drama. She has insight into the future, but her utterings are at best ignored, at worst scorned—and she seems mad, insane to mere mortals.

Maybe it is too much to identify Olbermann’s voice as prophetic. After all, he commented with deep intelligence on current affairs. He didn’t really try to warn about what might come. At times, he was strident—perhaps even too strident. But his gaze never faltered. His incisive analysis of current events was not an empty egotistical effort. He put his politics into action. Deeply critical of the on-going absurdity in this country of the lack of universal health coverage, Keith committed his own funds to help underwrite several free clinics around the country. He raised money for these efforts, and helped sign up health providers to provide care.

As you can tell, I am still processing. Trying to figure out what really happened? Was he fired or did he quit? What comes next? Who will raise the liberal banner and bluntly address the issues from “the other side”? We seem to have our surfeit of voice on the so-called right. I will miss this voice on the left.

The Old Neighborhood

For someone who grew up moving back and forth between continents (in my 12 years of basic education, I attended 7 schools in different locations)--I have stayed put in the same area for more than 4 decades.

My husband and I moved to the south central Pennsylvania, when he was finished with college and beginning his first job. Initially, we lived in an apartment, like many newly-weds. But after several years, we decided it was time to buy a house. Our son was just one year old when we began house hunting. We were decidedly not wealthy--my husband was teaching public school, and I was teaching college part time. Then, as now, part time college teaching pays woefully little. And public school teachers had only just won the right to bargain and strike if need be to raise salaries. So, we did not have loads of disposable income. We are also very sensible people, and made sure we looked at houses we could afford. The concept of buying so far over one's income level as to be "underwater" had not even been invented.

We were shown some very sorry houses--one tiny house with grey stone exterior had well water and a septic tank, not unusual. BUT this house was in a suburban neighborhood where all the houses around it were on city water and sewer. Another house, at that time 25 years old, had its original furnace. My husband envisioned a wheezing failing furnace and us with our restricted finances.

Finally, we found the right house--a one-story ranch house in an integrated neighborhood that was about 15 years old. The owners of the house that we were looking at were a former priest and a former nun who had found the strictures imposed on them by the Catholic Church to be untenable--so they left their vows and got married. They had been active in the anti-war movement during the Vietnam era, and had entertained some of the luminaries who came to town when the Harrisburg Seven were being tried. One of the people whom they housed over-night was Father Philip Berrigan--one of the seven-- and they had entertained his brother Father Daniel Berrigan.

On a side note, a dear friend of ours--who gave her son the middle name of Berrigan--when she visited our old house walked out on our lawn, and said--Daniel Berrigan walked here. Anyway, that's not why we bought the house. But it was an interesting back story to that place.

We lived there for about seven years. We weren't really looking for a new place, but one day--when our son was 8, we were out bike riding, and came upon this tiny new development very near our old house. We saw a house with a for sale sign in front. We got off our bikes, peered in through the windows--and thus was born an idea. Why not move?

Well, we did. When we left the old neighborhood, it was with a touch of sadness--leave takings are always thus. But it was a house we were leaving. Not really a neighborhood. Oh, true, we had neighbors--we knew their names, we said hi and such. But we never really got to know anyone. Almost all the yards were fenced in--a kind of metaphor for the lack of contact between neighbors. The only people we ever had inside our house were one couple (whose husband was also a public school teacher), and one little neighbor boy who wandered into our kitchen one day. I turned around--and there he was. I asked if his parents knew he was out--and he said, no. Strange. I just walked him home--not surprisingly, his parents were as blasé about his being out and about as he was.

The new neighborhood to which we moved--well, we have lived here for more than 30 years. And we know just about everyone in our neighborhood. Given our preference, we'd just as soon not move again!

Alexander the great

It is fashionable these days among some political circles to speak disparagingly of the country's debt. One of the most commonly repeated bits of "wisdom" is--we wouldn't run our own finances that way; how can we allow the country to go into debt?

To which I usually respond--poppycock. Of course, we all do (or most of us do)--we borrow money when we have need to buy some item for which we do not have the ready cash. How many of us have ever borrowed money? If you own a house on which you are paying a mortgage, you borrowed money. Or if you own a car that you bought on time. Or if you use a credit card and do not always pay the balance due at the end of the month. All these are ways in which we do, on our own small scale, what the country does.

Of course, we can argue the merits of how MUCH debt the country should have. But, really folks, arguing whether or not the country should have any debt is just plain...silly.

It was Alexander Hamilton who, though he was never president, did as much as anyone in those heady revolutionary days, to make it possible for the young country to succeed.

I would venture that if I were to ask you to rattle off what you know about Alexander Hamilton, you might say--in this order--

• he was killed in a duel with Aaron Burr


• he was a most important aide to George Washington, both during the American Revolution and also in Washington's cabinet


• he was the bastard child of an Scottish father


• he was born in the Caribbean


• he was the first secretary of the U.S. Treasury


• he was denied admission to Princeton (because of his bastard birth), and was then admitted to King's College (which became Columbia)


• he was one of the primary authors of the Federalist Papers

All those things are true of Hamilton.

There are some slightly more obscure things about Hamilton.

He fought actively during the American Revolution, including leading troops in battle--the Battle of Monmouth.

He also had an affair which resulted in the U.S.'s first sexual scandal of a prominent politician--he admitted it publicly and since it was determined NOT to have any connection to his political position, it was eventually forgotten.

He had two sons named Philip. The first one was killed in a duel in 1801; the second son named Philip was born in 1802, not long after his elder brother had died, so he received the name of the deceased son.

He had a contentious political career, including a falling out with Washington, with whom he had worked so closely. In the presidential election of 1800, he worked against the candidate of his own party--John Adams who was the sitting president. When the election results were basically tied, Hamilton ended up throwing his support behind Jefferson (over Aaron Burr), giving Jefferson the win. Needless to say, Burr was not happy, and the enmity between him and Hamilton began to grow. Of course, we know it ended with the infamous duel in 1804.

I don't know what got me to thinking about Hamilton lately. Maybe it's because we recently passed his birthdate--he was born on January 11. Or maybe it's because I read a fascinating biography of him a year or so ago (written by Ron Chernow).

I think it most likely that I think of someone like Alexander Hamilton as I despair, listening to what passes for deep thinking from members of the so-called Tea Party on how to manage the country's economy. Alexander Hamilton, who helped create the U.S. Mint, who founded the first national bank, who recognized the need of the infant country to set tariffs, would roll over in his grave.

The talk of not raising the debt ceiling--so the country defaults on its debt obligations--would have garnered Hamilton's scorn. Hamilton took the mishmash of the financial system that had emerged during the period of the early confederacy of states, and honed it into a national unified system that stabilized the country and gave foreign investors the confidence to invest in the U.S.--in us.

There are many maddening by-products of the degree to which some politicians fail to know the history of our country. A few years ago, someone wanted to change the portraits on the U.S. paper currency, by placing Reagan's picture on the ten dollar bill. Part of the rationale was--we only have presidents' portraits on money--so get rid of Hamilton on the $10. Never mind that Benjamin Franklin's portrait graces the $100. It certainly wouldn't hurt if people today would pay a bit more attention to someone who was never president. Were it not for Hamilton--our Alexander the great--the United States might not be at all.
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Source of engraving of the Burr-Hamilton duel: http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/duel.htm

The graphic of Reagan and Hamilton: http://money.cnn.com/2004/06/08/news/economy/reagan_hamilton/

Staying Alive

A syzygy of events has set me to thinking about time and mortality. First, I am approaching a birthday. Since I have been excerpting portions of my parents' biography, I will save birth stories until then (not much to tell, but at least it fits with the day).

Second, in a recent Facebook posting, a high school friend noted that it was her birthday, and she said--it's my party, and I'll cry if I want to. I know she was referring to the Lesley Gore hit of many years ago, but I couldn't help but respond. I wrote back--No need to cry--just laugh and enjoy staying alive.

While I am not approaching a really ancient age, I am of an age where staying alive is something to be celebrated. Which brings me to the third event in this alignment of inspiration.

Here's the link for a longer version of this sad story. It seems an elderly couple were in our area this past Friday, visiting a daughter. They left at 5:15 p.m. to return to their own home, about 30 miles away. They never arrived. The family contacted police, and a search began. Then four days later, their car was spotted, and then they were found--both dead from exposure. Their car was found in Maryland--some 40 miles beyond their home destination. The conjecture is that they became disoriented and confused, and somehow drove until they ended up in a field. When their car got stuck, they got out and tried to walk to safety. They did not make it.

I have no connection to the people involved in the sad story. But, because of a nearness of circumstance--I too have aging parents about whom I am concerned when they go driving--the story struck a particular chord with me.

It is deeply grieving that the story ended the way it did for them. I am sure they too just wanted to stay alive.

Oh, maybe these thoughts are too disconnected and disparate. I am not at all melancholic about an approaching birthday. In fact, I am grateful to be staying alive.

Perhaps the most fitting conclusion here is to note that my husband and I got back to our local gym (after a hiatus due to holidays and travel). Just all part of staying alive.

(Now, head right over to YouTube and pick whichever version you want of the BeeGees "Staying Alive." Frankly, there were too many for me to choose one to post here.)

On The Road Again

Disclaimer: I absolutely cannot take any credit for these three stories. They all came from my dad. But they were simply too rich not to share. All three were included in the biographical article.
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ROAD STORY # 1
From time to time, dignitaries from the United States would travel to visit the mission work in Africa. During one such time, there were two men, each going to a different mission. The one man visited my parents' work, and my father wanted to take him to an out-station. My father picked a school, which was south of Sikalongo Mission, down the escarpment towards the Zambezi Valley, where road conditions were very poor and the road quite steep. The vehicle they had was an older one, and the brakes were in bad shape.

Even with my father using the foot brake and the hand brake, it was all he could do hold the car on the steep decline. My father instructed the African helper who was along to find a big rock, and then get on the running board of the car. He then instructed the helper that if the car would start going too fast, my father would call out, the helper should jump off and quickly put the rock under the front of the rear wheel to help stop the car. The visiting dignitary was duly impressed with the conditions under which the missionaries worked.
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ROAD STORY # 2
My mother also had car difficulties. On one trip that she and another woman missionary were on, the car got stuck in mud a few miles from the mission. Unable to extricate themselves, they saw a African riding by on his bicycle. My mother gave him a note to take to “Mufundisi” (meaning my father). Off he rode. Rather than wait, the two missionary women kept trying to get unstuck, and by perseverance succeeded. As they neared the mission, they encountered another African who flagged them down, and handed them a note to take to “Mufundisi.” It was THEIR original note!
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ROAD STORY # 3
A more reliable means of transportation was a bicycle. Most of the missionaries had a personal bike. My father used his bicycle at times to visit out-stations. He would take a folded camp cot and a changing of clothing along. His African helper carried along minimum cooking equipment. On one visit to out-stations, my father along with another missionary man and an African helper, all on their bicycles, encountered a river swollen due to seasonal rains. Faced with this situation, the two missionary men (and presumably the African helper)decided to strip naked, hold their bicycles over their heads, and ford the river. Once safely on the other side, and reclothed, the other missionary man turned to my father and wryly remarked “That was a rich experience."
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I hope you enjoyed these road stories.
Next time, maybe I will pull out some of the animal stories.
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Please note: the woman pictured in the photo above is NOT my mother, but another missionary woman standing with her bicycle.

I Wonder Why...

If you were going on a trip, and you booked a plane ticket, would you want a pilot who has never flown before? Or one who has at least handled the controls in the cockpit a time or two?

If you were going to the dentist, would you want a dentist who had only read textbooks but never trained on real patients? Or one who knew how to fill a cavity with a minimum of discomfort?

If you were going to buy a birthday cake at a bakery, would you want a baker who had never read a recipe much less bake a cake? Or one who had turned out a cake or two, and had even decorated a few?

The examples could go on and on. . .

So, I wonder why it is that so many people in the United States are positively enamored with people running for political office who have no idea how government works? In fact, the candidates tout their lack of experience. They show up in Washington, D.C., (as they are doing this week), and make statements like--I don't live here...I don't want to spend my time inside the beltway...I just want to do what the people sent me here to do.

I can guess what that might be. Inexperienced legislators make a mess of governing because they don't know how to govern.

I hold no illusions about this new Congress. Sorry for the cynicism and bitterness. But I see very little good coming out of this governance by ignorance movement now afoot.

Resolved: that...

One of the activities in which I participated when I was a college student was collegiate debate. Our small college had a relatively decent debate team, and--unlike sports--we competed against far bigger colleges. We had lots of exposure to other campuses as well as we traveled for intercollegiate competition.

There was a movie a couple of years ago that did a fairly accurate job portraying collegiate debate: The Great Debaters. The movie had other points that it was making, and debating was only a vehicle for those themes. But, still, it helped show how debating can work.

Every year, all the colleges would focus on a single resolved. The first year I debated the resolved was:

RESOLVED: That the non-communist nations of the world should establish an economic community.

The next year it was:

RESOLVED: That the federal government should guarantee an opportunity for higher education to all qualified high school graduates.

It is interesting to me to note that, in part, the first topic has been realized with the European Union.

I debated on the affirmative side of the issue. That meant that I and my partner had to do the research to PROVE the resolution. The negative team also had to do research, but could also focus on pulling the affirmative team off topic. I don't think my partner and I won many debates, but the experience was memorable and enjoyable.

So, why this reverie on debating. Because the word RESOLVED leads me to think of resolutions. Resolutions are sort of personal RESOLVEDS that you take the affirmative on and try to prove.

Every year, many people engage in their own little debate--whether or not to make New Year's resolutions. I say--do it! RESOLVED: that making resolutions at New Year's is a good thing to do.

A quick word about resolveds. They should always be worded in the positive. So, you would not say RESOLVED: making resolutions at New Year's is not worthwhile.

But, I digress.

Here's why I like resolutions.

1. They give you a goal to focus on for the new year.
2. They help you affirm the possibility of possibilities.
3. They give you the opportunity to leave behind what was less than perfect in the year gone by.

I make modest resolutions.

I resolve to
--take part in a book club
--clean out my closets before they overflow
--have lunch with friends more frequently
--take longer walks.

I never make too many resolutions. Too hard to keep track of! And, one thing I never do. At the close of the year, I do not beat myself up for any resolutions unmet. I stay on the affirmative, and eliminate the negative.

So, are you on the affirmative on this question? Or the negative?