Saving the Republic

I have decided to haul myself out of the corner, stop licking my wounds, and begin to articulate some of what I have been thinking.

The genesis of my thought is this: what exactly is it about democracy (or more correctly, a republic) that the Republicans don't like that they are so hell-bent on establishing a one party (and ONLY ONE party) government in the United States?

To wit--it is no secret that Senator Mitch McConnell (pah, leaves a bad taste in my mouth to even write it) has said his goal is to make sure that President Obama is a one-term president. On that basis alone, how on the earth can anyone expect anything to change in our nation's capitol, much less get anything done?

And the reason McConnell--and others who think the same way--are so moved? They don't like the direction the country is headed. Apparently, it is their thinking that only one party is capable of coming up with programs and ideas to direct the country. Ergo--a one party system. I find that profoundly undemocratic.

The story goes that during the deliberations of the Constitutional Convention in 1787, Ben Franklin emerged from the heated discussions. A woman encountered him who asked--well, Doctor, what have we got—a Republic or a Monarchy?

Franklin's reply: a republic--if we can keep it.

A republic indeed. While it is tempting to launch into a discourse on the nature of a republic versus a democracy, I will resist. The distinction between a republic and a monarchy should be clear. In a monarchy, the power passes from one individual to another, usually by means of heredity, without any consultation of the people.

The very vitality of preserving our form of government depends on more than one voice, or one mode of thought, contributing to the conversation. Over time, what had been the federalists, or those who favored a strong central government, and those opposed to a strong central government, who instead favored more states' rights, has morphed into Democrats and Republicans.

If you will recall, the initial form of government tried by the colonies was a loose confederation of states, without much central authority. It failed, and failed miserably. So, the Constitutional Conventions struggled and finally brought forth the essential form of government we have today.

True, nothing in the Constitution presumed a two-party system. In fact, George Washington, who was generally a Federalist, warned about the dangers of political parties. It grieved him to see the seeds of dissension that were growing in the famous conflict between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson.

In his farewell address to the nation, when he declined to serve a third term as president, Washington was prescient in his anticipation of the impact of political parties on the nation:

They serve to organize faction; to give it an artificial and extraordinary force; to put in the place of the delegated will of the nation the will of a party, often a small but artful and enterprising minority of the community; and, according to the alternate triumphs of different parties, to make the public administration the mirror of the ill concerted and incongruous projects of faction, rather than the organ of consistent and wholesome plans digested by common councils and modified by mutual interests. . . [T]hey are likely, in the course of time and things, to become potent engines by which cunning, ambitious, and unprincipled men will be enabled to subvert the power of the people and to usurp for themselves the reins of government, destroying afterwards the very engines which have lifted them to unjust dominion.

WOW--I'd say he nailed it.

However, we do have a party system today. Over time, as political systems have evolved, it becomes less possible for a country with a single party system to exist democratically as a republic. When I think of the non-monarchist governments in the world that have a single party "system" I can only come up with examples of places where tyranny has the upper hand.

So, my petition is--save the two party system. Save the Republic.

A republic--yes, if we can keep it.
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Feel free to print this and mail it to Senator McConnell or Rep. Boehner.

Portrait of Benjamin Franklin by Joseph Siffred Duplessis

A Favorite Day Among Days

I do not have many "favorite" days. True, there are the celebratory days of our lives--family remembrances, anniversaries, birthdays and such. Then there are the annual holidays that many people celebrate: Memorial Day, Independence Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving. I also love the liturgical holidays (or holy days)--Easter, and Christmas particularly.

But one of my favorite days is one that has morphed over the centuries--today is Hallowe'en. I insist on writing Hallowe'en, inserting the apostrophe to denote the missing V. Today is the day before All Saints' Day (November 1) and as such was celebrated in Christendom for centuries as All Hallows' Eve or Hallowed Evening. True, the church had appropriated this holiday from non-Christians worshippers, in this case the Celts. That history I will leave to another to tell.

No, what I like about this day is this is the day on which a German priest took a bold step that set the church on the road to reformation. That priest, Martin Luther, who had been wrestling with the abuses he witnessed in the Catholic Church, wrote a series of statements--95 theses. Whether Luther posted them on the door of the Wittenberg University(in Germany) All Saints' Church or whether someone else posted them, they reportedly became public on this day. You can read them by going here.

The bold act of writing these 95 theses or statements might not alone have set of the cascade of events that followed, but around the same time, the printing press had been developed, and when the 95 theses were printed and widely circulated, they stirred up a storm. Luther was primarily protesting the practice of the time which amounted to purchasing salvation. A papal legate Johann Tetzel had been dispatched to Germany to sell indulgences. Indulgence is essentially forgiveness for sins committed, but the practice at the time had become corrupted so that forgiveness was being sold. The money raised was to be used to renovate St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. Luther found this practice abhorrent.

Luther protested this practice. He had come to an understanding that salvation was a matter of sola fide--faith alone.

Of course, there were many events that nudged along the cause of the Reformation prior to Luther's bold act. There also many events that followed. There were other reformers. The move toward reforming the Christian church was not one long smooth simple course. Luther himself was excommunicated. He had to defend his increasing disaffection with the Catholic Church. He did so, in part, before the Diet of Worms, in the cathedral in Worms, Germany. It was here in response to the charges that he uttered his famous "Here I stand; I can do no other" statement.

It is for the posting of the 95 theses on October 31, 1517 that this day is remembered as Reformation Day. It is celebrated especially by Lutherans* on the Sunday closest to the 31st of October. This year, the day and celebration coincide.

So, here we are at All Hallows' Eve or Hallowe'en, all wrapped up with Reformation Sunday, and a famous priest of five centuries ago taking a bold stand--that's why this is a favorite day for me among days.
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IMAGE--of the Wittenberg Door from Wikipedia.

*For the record, I am not a Lutheran, but a Presbyterian. The founding reformers for Presbyterians are John Calvin and John Knox. But, that--as they say--is another story.

Annus Horribilis

No, the year is not yet over, and in no way do I intend this post to be a reflection on the year as a whole. I am enough of an optimist to continue to view each year as good. However, here in this humble household, we are having a run of ill health.

Perhaps it is the rapidity of repetition of ill health that has me reeling, just a bit. Back in June, we very suddenly lost our sweet dog Tipper. I am one of those folks who reckon that the animals in our lives are part of what connects us to that great mystery of life. Tipper's sudden decline into deteriorating health came almost without warning. True, she was an older dog, but I thought she might be with us longer.

We are currently experiencing a similar surprise of declining health with our one dear cat, Cassidy. He was one of a pair of kittens my daughter and I picked out fifteen years ago. When we first saw him, Cassidy and his brother Sundance were playing animatedly in a small cage at the local humane society. My daughter and I were walking around in the "cat room" looking at kittens. Some looked positively ill, others were so inanimate that, save for the rise and fall of their tiny sides evidencing breathing, it wasn't certain they were in fact alive.

And then there were these two oblivious kittens. They tumbled, and played, stopping only briefly to come to the front of the cage, paw at us, then resume playing. We picked them out right away. There was a bit of a disagreement between my daughter and me as to what to name them, but suddenly Cassidy and Sundance seemed like the RIGHT names.

Sundance was a gorgeous cat, but he succumbed at age three to renal failure. And now Cassidy is showing signs of kidney failure. He has almost stopped eating, is losing weight, and generally declining including sudden blindness from retinal detachment. I am savoring each day with him, knowing the days are coming to an end.

(Kitten Sundance at left)

So, back to this ANNUS MIRABILIS. The phrase has been variously used, but really came to public prominence when Queen Elizabeth II used it in her annual address to her nation in 1992. Herewith her opening sentence:

1992 is not a year on which I shall look back with undiluted pleasure. In the words of one of my more sympathetic correspondents, it has turned out to be an Annus Horribilis.

True, the queen's troubles far exceeded mine. She had experienced the break-up and divorce of her second son's marriage; her first son and his wife (Diana) had separated and their sordid conversations were being aired in the British press, and her daughter Anne divorced her husband. Then, one of the queen's favorite residences, Windsor Castle, caught fire. No wonder, it was an annus horribilis for her.

For me, it has been a run of family ills. My father fell, developed a hematoma and was hospitalized. My aunt fell, broke her hip, and is slowly on the way to recovery. Then my sister's daughter required near-emergency surgery, and just last week, our daughter-in-law had a health emergency that required her to have surgery, followed by several weeks of recovey.

I almost hesitate to turn the calendar over to the next month in a couple of days. I will strive to adopt the attitude of the poet John Dryden who wrote the poem Annus Mirabilis from which the term Annus Horribilis was derived. Dryden's year of wonders was 1665-1666, which ended with the great fire of London. Dryden was comforted by the fact that the fire eventually stopped and London was rebuilt.

Ah--time to resurrect a favorite expression that I have been known to use: this, too, shall pass.

A Sense of Style

This post is in honor of our daughter's birthday. The remainder of the blog will be addressed to her. (If you, dear reader, are very quiet, you may listen in.)
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Dearest daughter:

When I think of you, I am filled with a flood of thoughts. I think back to when I first learned you were going to be a girl. As a mother of "advanced maternal age" (snort), I had genetic testing done. Among the things that testing could tell us was what SEX you would be. When the hospital called, I asked--and what is "it"? The health worker on the other end paused and said--are you sure you want to know? ABSOLUTELY. Well, she said--you are having a girl.


A girl? Since we had a boy, I thought--well, another boy would be easy (HA!), but a girl? Of course, by the time you were born, I had adjusted to the idea. Soon after you were born, I reveled in it. And I still do.

There are many stories I could explore in remembering your growing up. Many, if not all of them, you have heard. They are still among my favorite stories to tell. I will be sparing, and select only one. You know this one.

I remember the day when you were maybe in junior high. You asked me--Mom, when did you get your sense of style? I confess--I was secretly pleased. My daughter. She's growing up. She wants to know when she will begin to be more like her mother.

I am not sure exactly how I answered, but then I remember I said--why do you ask? Well, you said, when I get my own sense of style, I hope it's not like yours.

Crushed! But not really--in the long run, I am so very glad you are your own young woman. I love that you are so strong, so determined, so intelligent, so lovely, so much our daughter.

I know, I know--you're no doubt saying--don't get all weepy on me, mom!

So, on this day--here's to you, to your wonderful sense of style, to you being your own person.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY. Love you to the moon and back. . .

Mom

Flattened and Impaled

Certainly the title of this post sounds dire, no? Well, it's a brief health report. . .of sorts.

One of the joys of womanhood is the periodic demand to get flattened. By that I mean the annual (or biennial, depending upon whose advice you are heeding) mammogram. I am somewhat remiss--sometimes I let more than two years go by. I am not unmindful of the benefits of screening tests, but I follow medical studies, and the evidence is still coming in as to whether or not screening mammograms do more than BSE (breast self-exam) in discovering early cancers.

However, October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, and my husband kept reminding me to schedule my mammogram. So, I did--finally. And earlier this week, I trundled off to be flattened. I am always completely relaxed for my mammograms, even though I am not wild about the whole process. I amiably chatted with the radiology tech as she turned me this way and that. I noticed two ammonia ampules taped to the side of the mammogram machine. I asked--do people sometimes faint? Oh yes, she replied, we have a fair number of women who collapse as soon as the machine releases. I tried to envision that--being flattened, then released, then fainting dead (only temporarily) away.

The report--all is well; free from flattening for another year (or two).

The impaling part of this report, thankfully, had NOTHING to do with the mammogram. My husband and I were working around our house the other day, gathering up various yard items and storing them for the winter. We also refurbished and refilled the bird feeders. On a whim, I decided to reposition an iron tripod plant holder. It was wobbly, so I thought--why not move it.

When I got it in its new location, I decided to step on the lower brace to push the tripod stakes into the ground. I was wearing my wonderful Privo sandals, and gave no thought to the suitability for use as a sledge hammer.

The next thing I knew, a part of the iron ornamental stand poked through the bottom of my sandal, completing impaling my shoes but--thankfully, going right between my big toe and the next toe. It did whack the side of the nail on my big toe, knocking it lose like a child's tooth.

I could not pull my sandal up, being entirely captive to the iron spoke sticking through my shoe sole. For a second or two, I tottered trying to balance and then fell backwards, landing FLAT on my back. And I mean flat. Flatter than a mammogram, I might say.

It reminded me very much of the time our son took judo lessons. He was in his early teens and thought judo would be a fun thing to do. He spent hours in our back yard practicing falling. He would fall straight back, landing on his back. He flung his arms out to the side to dissipate the energy along his arms, and protect himself from being hurt. It worked.

I wasn't feeling very judo-like, but I really didn't hurt anything other than my pride and dignity. I must have looked ridiculous. My husband was momentarily horrified. Right before I fell, I had hollered that I couldn't move my foot--he thought that meant the iron spoke has gone through my foot! No, no--I reassured him--just my shoe.

Well, the end of the story is that I was sternly admonished to stand there, while my husband went and got a real hammer, and a board, which he used to hammer the stand into place.

Forgive my Absence

The last several days I have been remiss--not posting to my blog, barely getting around to read other blogs. Please believe me, it is not for lack of interest. No, the thing I am missing is . . .TIME.

The past two weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind. Seemingly simultaneously, my father and aunt needed medical care. My father fell off his motorized scooter and, after delaying seeking treatment, ended up in the hospital with a deep leg bruise with a hematoma. He is now home, and recuperating. Around the same time, word came that my dear aunt had fallen and broken her hip. She had surgery and a hip replacement. She is in rehab, recovering, but longer term arrangements are needed for where she goes to live after she leaves rehab.

These two events have meant I need to devote my time and attention to things other than visiting blog friends.

And then, this past Friday, we had a guest come to stay with us for a week. Our son and daughter-in-law's dog Sonnet is visiting. She is being treated quite royally, as you can see.

Sonnet's visit has set up a most interesting dynamic between her and Ziva. Sonnet was great doggie friends with our sweet (now departed) Tipper. They had bonded, even though they sometimes fought.

Tipper was a definite alpha dog. She thought it her duty to police Sonnet in all things. Sonnet loves nothing more than grabbing a squeaky toy in her month and squeaking away--actually SQUEAKING away. When Sonnet ran to chase after a thrown toy, Tipper would race after her, barking like crazy.

Ziva, on the other hand, is most definitely NOT an alpha dog. She is all the way an omega dog. She instantly shows belly to any dog that challenges her. So, here's Sonnet--first of all, obviously remembering Tipper and disapproving of Ziva. Secondly, Sonnet has discovered that Ziva actually defers to her. So Sonnet has decided to take full advantage, and occasionally growl at Ziva.

I took the dogs to the dog park today. Ziva has only just begun to get the idea of the dog park. First number of times we took her, she stood there seeming to say--what? what should I do? Today, as soon as she got in the park, she raced off. After a bit, Sonnet ran after her. For once, the roles were reversed--Ziva in full command, Sonnet a bit bewildered. The time did seem to help even the balance between them.

And, of course, the best part--both dogs are wiped out sleeping tonight.

Take Back Our Country?

I am puzzled. A cry I hear a lot these days is--it's time to take back our country. And I wonder--what? who? did someone "take" your country? What are you talking about?

Let's review a few things. In 2000 we had a presidential election. The popular vote was 50,999,897 for Al Gore, and 50,456,002 for George Bush. The eventual electoral college vote was 271* for Bush and 266 for Gore. I have heard conservatives at various times say that people such as me should "just get over it"--the fact that the squeakingest close election in U.S. history was eventually decided by a vote of 9 people, with the vote 5 to 4. Get over it.

OK--I got over it. Well, not really--but I lived with it. For eight L-O-N-G years. But I never once shouted that we have to TAKE BACK OUR COUNTRY. I assumed the democratic process does work and would work.

Then, we had another presidential election with new players. This time around the popular vote was 69,456,897 for Obama, and 59,934,814 for McCain. The electoral college vote was 365 for Obama, and 173 for McCain. No need to go to the vote of 9 people.

I believe that's called "democracy"--vox populi. The voice of the people.

So, now when I hear these cries for "take our country back" I want to know--from whom? From me? Because I voted for Obama. And I believe I was VERY much in the majority.

Of course, there is a subtext here, and it turns the cries to a more sinister bent. Do you remember when the whole affair of Henry Louis Gates, Jr. kicked up a bit more than a year ago? I wrote about it here.

One of the subtexts in this story was that a black man was standing outside a really nice house, and it looked like he was breaking into the house. What was a black man doing in that neighborhood? Well, friends, I am sorry to say, the same subtext runs through this cry "take back our country." What is that black man doing in that neighborhood?

Oh, the people crying take back the country won't admit that they feel this way. In fact, some have even had the temerity to claim that Obama is the racist. (!) But, that is surely part of what this fuss is all about.

I just got done reading the book The Help. It's not a great book, but it is a page-turner, and it has some cogent observations about the way black and white folk interacted in the south 50 years ago. I am now reading a history of the development of Atlantic City (the basis for the new HBO series Boardwalk Empire). That book makes it plain that Atlantic City could not have become the resort it was without black help, yet blacks were expected to keep in "their place."

You can almost hear some of the same logic (or lack thereof) working in the anger directed at "Mexican" immigrants. It is hugely ironic that the website Take Back Our Country uses a stylized image of the Statue of Liberty's torch. (I am NOT going to link their website--if you really want to see it, you can find it.)

Maybe the folks who run the Tea Party, or who want to "take back our country" have forgotten what this country is all about.

So, here's a reminder.

It's about democracy--the people speak when they elect a president.
It's about the yearning to be free--that's why immigrants come here. Not so they can "drop" babies, but so they can be free.

Emma Lazarus captured part of the essence of this country when she wrote "The New Colossus."

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

This poem is engraved on a plaque that is placed at the base of the Statue of Liberty. So, people who want to "take our country back"--you may want to change what you stand for, or tear down the Statue of Liberty.

Oh, and just a little word--it's MY country too.

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* A presidential candidate needs 270 electoral college votes to be declared "the winner."

Lost in New York City

Part of this week, I have been focusing a great deal of my attention on a dear aunt. She lives in the state of New York, and this past Sunday she fell and broke her hip. She is now on the road to recovery, having had surgery, but for a few days, she was in pain waiting for treatment. Fortunately, she has a circle of wonderful friends who have stayed with her during trying hours.

But all my thinking about her caused me to recall various times she has been a marvelous force in my life. For example, part of my love of classical music derives from time spent with my aunt. When I was 8, she took me to hear the Harrisburg Symphony perform in the Forum Building. The auditorium there has the most marvelous ceiling--a representation of the constellations and a suspended chandelier depicting the solar system. I would sit, gazing up at this ceiling while strains of Beethoven's 7th filled my ears. Who wouldn't be thunderstruck with the majesty of music?

I thought of another time I visited my aunt. By then, she was living in New York City, having gone there in the mid-1950s. She took me to the Lincoln Center to see the 1976 revival production of Kurt Weill's Threepenny Opera. This particular production starred Raúl Juliá, in his heyday as a performer. He was lusciously and villainously sexy as Mack, (see photo at left).

But, the trip to visit my aunt that I remembered with the most clarity was one where I did NOT get to see her.

While I was a college undergrad, a group from a music class at my college went to New York City to see an opera at the old Met. The part time music teacher was an opera buff, and a particular fan and friend of Zinka Milanov. She was past her prime as a soprano when we went to see her as Desdemona in Verdi's Otello.

Since the students who went along on this trip had some time before the opera performance, we all decided to see New York City. Some students planned to go to Radio City Music Hall, but I thought that far too touristy. I decided I was going to visit my aunt, who had an apartment near Columbia University. Somehow, I talked a fellow student into going along with me.

We headed off, riding the subway north. I don't remember the exact address of my aunt's apartment now, but at the time I knew it, and calculated that we needed to get off at whatever street. Since her street number was somewhere in between subway stops, I chose the further point to exit. My companion and I would simply hop on a bus and ride back toward the street where my aunt lived.

Only, when we got off the subway and on the bus, we noticed that we were the only white folk around. We were in the middle of Harlem. Just before the Harlem riot of 1964. When we exited the bus, we discovered that we were at the bottom of the hill at Morningside Heights, and my aunt's apartment was on the other side of the hill. The other side of an iron fence. With locked gates. Somehow, after we climbed the hill, we managed to squeeze through the bars of the fence.

When we got to my aunt's apartment, she was not home. Naturally, I had not thought to TELL her I would be in NYC and could visit. I left a note for her. I learned that after she read the note, she was very upset that I had been so naive.

When I had recent contact (after a college class reunion) with my traveling compatriot, I asked he recalled our time LOST IN NEW YORK CITY. Oh, yes, did he remember.

Herewith his recollection:

I do remember looking for your aunt's apartment during our trip to New York City with Ken (the music teacher who had organized the field trip.) It's been over 40 years since I read The Catcher In The Rye, but I've always considered that my "Holden Caulfield experience". The man sitting beside me at the opera put his hand on my leg several times (that was a new experience for a young man from Lebanon County, Pennsylvania) and after the opera we went back stage to visit with Ken's favorite soprano -- Zinka Milanov.
When Zinka saw Ken she grabbed him, gave him a big hug, and buried his face between her ample breasts.

Zinka shown at right

So, for my dear aunt, best wishes for a speedy recovery. And many thanks for memories, including one where I didn't get to visit!

Traveling Wisdom

My husband and I got behind a white van the other day. Perhaps you have deduced that I am a bumper sticker reader. Anyway, this van had on its bumper three somewhat puzzling stickers.

Now, I am not one to put stickers on my bumper. Oh, there are some sentiments that I could live with. Several years back, I was taken with and amused by the one that said "Visualize whirled peas." There's a current one I like: "God bless the whole world; no exceptions." There are also humorous ones I have been drawn to: "Support the right to arm bears."

But I have never found one that I would want PERMANENTLY on my bumper.

Not sure what the guy in the white van had in mind. Here are his three choices:

JUST SUFFER

(Was he Catholic? or did he have a Jewish mother? no, that would be GUILT, not suffer.)

CRUSHED STONE: FOUNDATION OF THE NATION

(Hmmm--he was perhaps a stone cutter? a quarryman? (wasn't that what the Beatles were originally called?)

And finally:

ONWARD THRU THE FOG

Oh, advice to the country! Now I get it. I think.

At any rate--onward. . .through the fog.

The Art of Giving

On the occasion of his retirement, my husband received various gifts. Of course, each of the gifts was thoughtful, but he was not able to enjoy all of them to the fullest. One of the gifts was for two nights at a local bed and breakfast. Frankly, I am not sure why someone thought we would want to drive a few miles from our house to sleep in another house--but someone did.

We have had a busy year, what with a wedding last October, and a few other things, so we didn't get around to using the gift certificate.

When we called recently to inquire about it, we learned the bed and breakfast had been sold. In fact, in a month the new owner will take over, and will not use the place as a bed and breakfast.

Somewhat chagrined, we asked if we could at least come for a breakfast. Well, the answer was yes, so last week we traveled a few miles for a wonderful breakfast. Then we got a tour of the place. Herewith a peek inside.



The stunning stone house had walls at least a foot thick, with deep windows. It is situated right along a small creek.

The table all set for breakfast. I don't know about you, but I don't usually have a silver candelabra set for breakfast.

Love the chandelier hanging from the skylight three stories up!

And the soft rosy glow of the light next to the staircase.

This is a holder for a wine bottle.

Not sure if this is a tea service, a coffee stack, or pots du creme.

The front entrance hall with a painted floor.

One of the bedrooms. Every bedroom is different. Note the "dollhouse"? That's actually where the television set is concealed.

Another bedroom with a really HIGH bed.

And, one of the bathrooms. Every bedroom had its own bathroom, also each individually decorated.

This bedroom was a favorite of a prior owner--love the faux tropical theme.

This bedroom with light and airy.

Breakfast was smashingly good. The tour of the bed and breakfast most interesting. The new owner was there, and she conducted the tour of the place. She informed us that when she takes over in a month, almost all the furniture will be sold at auction. She thought some of the pieces too large, too high maintenance, too unsuitable for what she envisioned. So we were seeing the place as it will soon no longer be.

All in all, even though the gift was well-intentioned, it failed. So, what is the art of giving. Some people have the knack of giving the perfect gift (my daughter is one such person.)

First, I would suggest, know the person to whom you are giving the gift. Selecting a gift that is misdirected is almost like not giving a gift at all. Second, don't pick something just because YOU like it--make sure the receiver will like it too. This one is hard--I am reminded of a time I bought a sweater for my dear departed grandmother. I picked a red sweater, because I thought she would look great in red. But she never wore it. When I asked her why, she said--I don't like red.

I suspect you could add your own suggestions for the art of giving.

License to Kill?

I had to run a brief errand today, and, as luck would have it, I got behind a red pickup truck. I confess to being curious about the various stickers people choose to slather all over their vehicles, so when I saw a sticker on this truck, I tried to read it.


Herewith a photo of the truck in front of me.





The sticker that roused my curiosity is the one encircled in red.

Here's what is was (image obtained from the Internet):




When I went looking for a copy on the Internet, one site that advertises the availability of these stickers warns you NOT to copy it. Excuse me? You have this most odious sticker that you are selling, and you tell ME not to copy it.

The site goes on to give this promo:

Get your terrorist hunting license now to bag your very own terrorist trophy. Show your support for democracy, help protect our freedom and support our troops. Terrorist Hunting Permits are available. . .

Oh, my.

So, I got to thinking. I wondered if I offered the possessor of such a "license" the opportunity to use his "license" on one of two individuals, who would he choose.
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Candidate # 1

A young man, blond hair, blue eyes. Enlisted in the U.S. Army, enjoyed working with computers. Lived with his grandfather, after his parents divorced. Awarded the Bronze Star; received an honorable discharge from the Army. Was a Christian. Thought the government is tyrannical. Wrote extensively about government excesses.
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Candidate # 2

A young man, reddish hair, blue eyes. When he was 14, his father died. While in college, joined a secret organization. Dabbled in politics in his youth. Was a skeptic, though he spoke admiringly of Muslims. Took a copy of the New Testament and cut out all the things he did not think were authentic. Thought the government is tyrannical. Wrote extensively about government excesses.
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Candidate # 3

A young man, with a ruddy complexion. As a teenager got involved in a major fight and killed a local hero. Got involved in politics very early in his life. Actively involved in overthrowing the government. Was something of an outlaw, on the run while being pursued by authorities. Was deeply religious. Had multiple wives.

OK--which one of these three candidates is the terrorist?

The word "terrorist" has come to mean something other than what the definition would suggest-- a person, usually a member of a group, who uses or advocates terrorism. That simple definition is not what people are thinking of when they use the word today. I suspect the pickup truck driver probably means Iraqis, or Afghanis, or Muslims when he (or she) slaps the sticker on the back window. I would define a terrorist as someone who USES terror--not a person of any particular nationality, or even religion.

Oh, and I would NOT use the same tactic against them, so I would revoke that "license."

So, which one--Candidate 1 or Candidate 2 or Candidate 3--would the pickup driver be out to get. Which do you think?

In a short while, I will reveal their identities, or, if you know, go ahead and state who they are.

The Graduate

When we got Ziva, our new dog, we determined to "do things right" with this sweet puppy. We vowed to be good people parents, not succumbing to some of the bad habits we had previously given in to with Tipper.

Among other things, we thought it would be a good idea to take her to obedience class. So, we signed up at our local P*t Sm*rt store for classes. The instructor was a kindly older German woman named (Re)gina. She told us to call her Gina. She spoke with something of an accent, which only gave her instructions the sound of COMMAND as she put us through our paces.

The first week, there were about ten dogs and owners in attendance. One dog was a small pit bull who could not/would not stop barking. Gina took a metal water dish and kept dropping it next to the dog--clang, clang. The dog would startle, stop barking for a bit, then resume barking. There was a sweet looking border collie named Dakota that was so shy and freaked by all the people that she would not look at anyone. She kept her head tucked in next to her person.

Then there were Murphy, a labradoodle who looked for all the world like a big doofy puppy, and Brook, a sweet retriever mix. And of course Ziva. These three dogs were the "big" dogs of the group.

Brook and Murphy

The second week of class we missed because of Ziva's little medical episode. When I called Gina to tell her we would not be there, she said, no problem. Also, she was dividing the class into two groups; would we come next week at 8 p.m. Sure.

So the third week, we went, and found that it was just the three big dogs. Actually, the pit bull was supposed to be there too, but the owner never came back. Maybe he liked having recalcitrant perpetually barking dog.

Each week, the class would begin with a mad tumble of dogs. All three mixing it up, with Brook and Ziva especially liking (and licking) each other. Ziva and Brook seemed to be best friends. Then it was down to business--sort of.

The training focused on SIT, DOWN, STAY, COME, puppy push ups (sit, down, sit again), and WAIT. The difference between "stay" and "wait" is basically that "stay" requires duration, distance, and distraction. You get your dog to sit or lie, you back up to put some distance between you; then you hold for 15 seconds or so, then go back and release the dog. Distraction means you should be able to have the dog stay, even if you walk around it or some other distraction. "Wait" is you walking away from the dog, then calling her to come to you. Frankly, a fine distinction, but maybe there is a point to it.

Finally, there was one magic command that Gina wanted everyone to learn and practice. TOUCH. When you are some distance from the dog, and you want her to come to you, raise your hand overhead, waving, and yell ZIVA, TOUCH. The dog comes running, you grab her collar or leash, say "good touch" and give a food reward. If you imprint this sequence enough, you should be able to use it to bring your dog back to you, if for some reason she is getting away from you, or about to be in danger.

Ziva receiving instructions

Let's just say that Ziva was an easily distracted pupil. Oh, look, there are bunnies in the cage over there. Oh, there's a customer, maybe he wants to pet me. Oh, another dog, I should go say hello. She reminded me of the dog in the movie UP--squirrel! If you have seen it, you know what I mean.

We would go through the paces, she would sort of do each step. She got very good at SIT, and DOWN. OK with puppy push-ups. STAY--well, sort of. For a few seconds. COME--no problem. WAIT--forget it. TOUCH--she was great with that, and we have even used it a few times at home.

The next to last class, when she was supposed to go through ALL the steps, she would not do it. She basically refused every command. Gina was very understanding. Oh, it's the border collie in her. RIGHT. All I see in Ziva is retriever. Her mother was reputed to be a golden retriever., But my suspicion is her mother was a yellow labrador retriever. And, labs can be rascals--loving, yes, but rascals.

So this week was graduation. But, first, there was the final exam. Gina walked around dropping a label on the floor with each step. My heart sank--she (Ziva) had been so bad the previous week. But, like some human students I have known, Ziva seemed to be absorbing even when she wasn't performing.

The final exam

She went from SIT, to DOWN,STAY, and COME. She even did puppy push-ups. Then WAIT--a bit of trouble with that. But she enthusiastically ran to me for TOUCH. In fact, as each dog owner would say TOUCH, Ziva was ready to run to them.

She passed. And got her certificate to prove it. I don't think she's a natural student, but at least we both survived our training.

The graduate!

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P. S. Dakota, the sweet border collie, completely came out of her shell, and was very friendly. Another successful graduate.

Bite me!

Summer is not my favorite season--there, I've admitted it. Deep down, I am really a cold weather person. And this summer has been particularly tough to handle--excessive heat with many more days than usual over 90. On top of that, we have had an outbreak of biting insects in our part of the world.

Central PA is known for our infamous black flies--some people call them gnats, but they are really small black flies. They are ubiquitous, and they bite. For years, our state ran a black fly spraying control program, using BT (so no chemical toxins). But with funding cutbacks, gradually the spraying program has been scaled back and then eliminated. And now the gnats flourish. And bite. Specifically me. They. . .bite. . .me!

This summer, every time I go outdoors, I come back inside with at least 2 to 4 bites. These bites itch like crazy--I grit my teeth and steel myself to NOT scratch, at least for 30 minutes. The histamine reaction that kicks up sets the itch control central on hyper-drive for about that long. If I can resist, I avoid spreading around the insect's poison, and thereby limit the histamine swollen area.

Now, we are experiencing an upsurge of mosquitoes (oh, great!) and there are more reasons for me to get bit.

I cannot fathom it--I get bit, and my husband does not, usually. I do try to carry along a handy Off clip-on fan. It has a little switch, a battery and a fan that blows Off in a cone of protection around me. OK--not really a cone. But anything helps.

So, I will soldier on through this summer, sweating in the heat, and itching from several bites every day.

If any of you gentle readers has a near-foolproof method to keep from being gnat and mosquito-bitten, please do tell.

Thoughts on Freedom of Speech

(or this could be sub-titled The Right of the People to Assemble)

This evening, my husband and I headed in two different directions. No, dear reader, no familial split; just a dual scheduling that sent one of us one way, and the other another.

I have been taking our new dog Ziva to obedience lessons. Let's just say that tonight she was . . .not good. Too much energy. Too much distraction. After listening to me for two or three commands, she became very distracted (what with shoppers wandering through the pet store where the lessons are held) and just would not cooperate. I only hope she can graduate next week!

While I was having fun, my husband went to our local township's zoning board that was holding a hearing. Hence the right to free speech title (and the right of the people to assemble sub-title).

The genesis of this hearing was a request from one of our neighbor's to have a variance from a local ordinance. But, let me go back a bit in the story.

We make multiple walks around the neighborhood every day (because of the dog), and along these walks we encounter and chat with neighbors. This is how we came to learn that Jeff, owner of a lovely standard poodle who is great friends with Ziva, was concerned about birds--specifically pigeons--flying over his patio and dropping aerial "bombs." Turns out, his next door neighbor, Sergei, keeps "homing" pigeons. And he was "training" them to visit Jeff's place to eat the bird seed Jeff puts out.

I am not sure exactly how the ordinance limitation came to be known, but I am guessing Jeff called the township office to complain--or at least to inquire. That's how he likely learned of the ordinance that says you can keep birds, such as homing pigeons, only if you live on an acre or more of land.

When he was informed of the limitation, Sergei applied for a variance. So the township zoning board scheduled a hearing. They posted signs around the neighborhood and set the hearing for August 26. So my husband went, in support of Jeff. My husband's point--if you have a zoning requirement, then only a compelling reason would be sufficient for it to be set aside. What was the compelling reason for Sergei to keep pigeons?

When he got to the hearing, my husband found that he was one of ten people who were neighbors attending the hearing. Only Sergei wanted a variance. All the other neighbors, some living next door to, wanted the pigeons gone.

Well, folks, the pigeons must go. Sergei presented no compelling reason. In fact, he said these were not homing pigeons; they were injured pigeons that he had rescued. (?) One neighbor stood up and said--pigeons are nothing more than rats with wings. (As a parenthetic note, I know someone who used to eat her lunch in Trafalgar Square in London who thought the same thing.)

The zoning board voted, 5-0, in favor of the no-pigeon rule.

Oh, it wasn't a great victory. But it was nice to see freedom of speech and freedom to assemble both victorious. Freedom to own pigeons took a hit, however. But then, it's not part of the Bill of Rights, so I guess that's OK.

Thoughts on Religious Freedom

The controversy over building an Islamic cultural center at 51 Park Avenue in lower Manhattan rages. How different that description sounds than the much-ballyhooed appellation of "a mosque at Ground Zero." Or, should I say (as does Fox News) MOSQUE AT GROUND ZERO! I confess that I am appalled at the attention this issue is garnering.

I had not formulated what it was that so bothers me about this "debate"--that is, until I read Frank Rich's excellent editorial in the Sunday New York Times. To get the full effect of his logic, you have to read the whole piece, but in brief what he argues is that by whipping up an atmosphere of "Islamophobia" the opponents of the proposed building have sapped what little support may have remained for the protracted war in Afghanistan.

What incredible irony. George W. Bush, as president, committed this country to a war in Afghanistan for the presumed purpose of helping a beleaguered country free itself from the Taliban tyranny. You would think that, if anything, the people who think the Taliban should be defeated would support the building of a center that promotes a peaceful more moderate view of Islam. That irony is what is captured in the title of the Frank Rich piece: How Fox Betrayed Petraeus.


Rich also points out that the New York Times ran a substantial piece back in December, 2009, and no one screamed "MOSQUE AT GROUND ZERO."

It is extremely troubling that one of our great freedoms--freedom of speech--became the vehicle for the story that threatens another of our great freedoms--freedom of religion.

Slate did a wonderful piece that traces the timeline for how this controversy was generated--one might even say manufactured. What a sad commentary this article is on how one or two people have manipulated and exaggerated information, and in the process have whipped a great many people in the United States into full-throated war cries to undo a bedrock foundation of our nation.

So, on September 11, 2001, terrorists attacked the United States. Their intent was to bring down this country. And what is our response? To do to ourselves what the terrorists could not do.

We have met the enemy. . .and he is us.

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Image is one of the Four Freedoms series Norman Rockwell painted--Freedom of Speech; Freedom to Worship; Freedom from Want; Freedom from Fear. The background story one the paintings and the "freedoms" is here.

Passages

Yesterday, I took my dad along on a day trip. Our destination? My nephew's graduation; he was getting his PhD in mathematics from Penn State University. For the curious among you, here's an example of a paper he has written on "Multifractal formalism derived from thermodynamics," and here's another on "Bowen's Equation in the Non-Uniform Setting."

Yeah, I thought so too.

Anyway, the occasion gave me pause to think about passages. We sat in the Bryce Jordan arena, families arranged in clusters peering down on the floor below, where rows and rows of chairs were arranged. The masters' students were all arrayed on one side, sitting in small clusters; as it soon became clear, they were seated by their majors. Masters' students had dressed themselves and some had not mastered (tee hee) the fine art of arranging their hoods. Some did not have the velvet sides properly displayed: colors on the velvet denote the major, the inside of the hoods denotes school colors.

Then the procession began, led by the marshal with the official mace. Behind the marshal came rows and rows of faculty resplendent in academic regalia. Most robes were black, dotted with the occasional dark blue. And then there were the splashes of red, green or dusty orange gowns. I even spotted one pale blue.

Finally, in marched the doctoral candidates in their robes, with their faculty advisors interspersed. The doctoral students did not have their hoods on; instead they were draped over their arms.

When the degrees were awarded, first all the masters' students rose and were pronounced as having their degrees. I confess--I relaxed a bit, no individual names, I thought. But, wait. . . The voice on the loud speaker intoned, "We know the family members here are proud and have supported their sons, daughters, husbands, wives and loved ones, but please HOLD your applause until the end, and no yelling out so we can hear the names as they are called."

OH. Individual names. Indeed--called one by one, marched up to the stage, handed the degree, and then the newly minted grads walked down the line of dignitaries' shaking hands.

Then the doctoral students--first, they were all called to rise. Then advisors hooded them, and they were pronounced all doctors. And then the calling of names. By then, the well-behaved families and friends had forgotten the intoned announcement. As some names were called, there were loud cheers--"Go, ___" or "WOOOOOO". Well, I can understand the feeling.

Finally, our doctoral candidates name was called (and properly pronounced). I confess squelching the urge to stand up and go "WOOOOO" myself.

Passages are important. My father had expressed an interest in attending this graduation. I think he has attended the various graduations of all his grandchildren, who chose to participate in their graduation ceremonies. I likely would not have attended my nephew's graduation otherwise. But, it was a rewarding event to have attended.
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Here's a link that has a photo album with a Penn State Graduate School ceremony: it is not my nephew's but shows what the scenes are like.

Photo above of my nephew--contemplating Niagara Falls, from the photo album on my brother's Facebook page.

The End of the Story

I have been greatly preoccupied of late (just ask my husband) with a writing project. I was commissioned to write a biography of my parents for a small church historical journal and the submission deadline is September 1. So I have been hard at work.

Yesterday, I hit a bit of a writing wall (all you writers out there will know exactly what I am talking about). The reason? I was at the point in my parents' lives when I had to write about my mother's death. This is one end of the story I would rather not to have to write. But write it I did. Having written about her death on this blog before helped.

As I am writing about my parents' lives, I am also doing a lot of thinking about my own. Have no fear--these are not deep dark thoughts. More like gentle rumination on the living I have done thus far.

I confess--I am consumed with curiosity about the future. Oh, not so much what will happen to me in the remainder of my life. More like--what will happen to EVERYTHING as time keeps on marching.

I am known in my family as one of those readers who turns to the last page of a novel just "to see how things turn out." I think that is part of the frustration I have when I contemplate my own life span being limited. I don't really want to live forever. But I do want to know where the story goes. . .

Do humans wake up and take real steps to protect their planet? Do humans learn to live with other animals? Do nations find ways to live peaceably with other nations? What happens? What happens?

Oh, maybe I really don't want to know all that--maybe the knowledge would be overwhelmingly crushing. True, I can't flip to the end of this story of human history or even earth's history. But that doesn't stop me from being curious about the end of the story.

In or Out

A little episode today had my heart racing for a while and my adrenaline level cranked way up.

My husband is an early riser, and part of his morning routine, at least in the summer, is to check our swimming pool. Now that we have "new dog" Ziva, he takes her along out. She loves to race back and forth in the fenced in pool area.

This morning, just before he went out, our one cat Allie jumped up on the window ledge looking out into the pool area, and "asked" if she could go out. So, he let her out. She found her way to a great hiding place, under some myrtle growing along the pool edge. Then he went out the side door, taking Ziva along into the pool area.

Ziva was checking things out, unaware that one of the cats was out there. Then, suddenly she spied (or more likely sniffed) Allie. And Ziva offered to play. Honest. That's all she wanted to do. Allie, however, took it as a threat, and that deep seated fight or flight choice kicked in. Allie chose flight. She bounded out of the myrtle, Ziva in the chase, and jumped onto a picnic table, and then over the fence which is surrounded with arbor vitae into the great unknown.

I awakened to hearing the excited barking of Ziva. Soon, my husband appeared in the bedroom, and I said--is everything OK? No, he said, Allie ran away.

I quickly got dressed and spent the next two hours walking all over our neighborhood. looking in nooks and crannies, under bushes and plaintively calling ALLIE, ALLIE. Or rather Allie, Allie. Trying to be quiet so as not to awaken neighbors. And also trying not to make anyone think I was trying to break in to their house.

When we couldn't find her, we decided she would have to find her own way home. She is NOT an outside cat; she does not roam around the neighborhood. So we really weren't sure where she might go, or if she would find her way home. I tried to think like a cat, and figure out where she might go. No success.

We left the gate to the pool slightly ajar (something we NEVER do for obvious reasons). After three hours, my husband looked out the window overlooking the pool, and there was Allie "asking" to be let back in.

So, the in or out question? We know people whose cats are roamers. And, yes, the cats do kill birds--that bothers me.

When we first got a cat, many years ago (and were ignorant of the issue of in vs. out), we started out leaving her roam outside. That is, until one escapade. She did not come back. I went out, looking, shaking her cat food box and calling her name. After a bit, I heard the faintest "meow". And there she was--our first cat, Missy--WAY UP in the neighbor's tree. Unable to come down. So my husband dutifully climb the tree, and coaxed her to jump on to him.

That was the end of any of our cats ever going outside. The exception are these brief outings in the fenced in yard, while we are outside. Our cats have NEVER caught a bird. The most any of our cats ever did was capture a chipmunk, that the one cat then BROUGHT in the house. The poor chipmunk was scared almost to death, running around squeaking while three cats watched, puzzled.

So, on the IN OR OUT debate, we are decidedly IN people. And that is even more reinforced after today's little episode. I suspect it will be awhile before Allie "asks" to go out again.

On Target

I've been thinking a lot lately about the growing divide in the U.S., the so-called culture wars that rage. The latest salvo fired--OK, it does seem like there are bombardments all over the country every day--is the Target dust-up.

Target (now included in the definition of "person" according to the Supreme Court) gave a donation to the Republican candidate for governor in Minnesota, Tom Emmer. Emmer is very out-spoken in his opposition to issues of concern to gay rights groups. As a result of this donation, gay rights groups are calling for a boycott of Target.

Wait, it gets more complicated. Target has a long history of being "unwavering" (the word Target's CEO used) in its support of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender workers.

So, here we have a company donating to a candidate for governor who opposes the rights of workers that said company is unwavering in support of. Huh?

What's a person to do?

One mother has made her decision. Randi Reitan, the mother of a gay son, decided on a one-woman protest. You can see what her response was here.

When I first read her story, I felt the tugging of boycotts long past. It's been a while since I boycotted a national company. There was the grapes boycott, in support of farm workers; there was the boycott of Nestlé . This latter one REALLY got complicated when you started following the string of who owned whom and was affiliated with whom. Talk about multi-national intertwining of corporate interests.

I posted the link of Randi Reitan's response on Facebook with a note that I too would be boycotting Target for a time. Well, I got two responses--one from a dear cousin who posted the EXACT same link and indicated that "Let Target know you DO NOT support this boycott, but rather SUPPORT them in their decision to donate to Tom Emmer's campaign!! I typically don't get involved in these issues, but I believe it's time we LET OUR VOICES BE HEARD!!"

I also got a note from a FB friend who pointed out Target's long-standing commitment to supporting gay and lesbian rights.

Wow--so complicated.

Then I wondered--was this what it was like pre-Civil War. No, I am not issuing dire warnings that that is where we are headed. But, I do ponder--have we become so schizophrenic on some of these issues that we meet ourselves coming and going. Is it possible to hold civil dialogue on such issues? Can we find common ground anywhere?

I do wish that the media would enable such dialogue. I am a strong supporter of a free press in part because that can foster dialogue. But what do we get instead? Angry voices pushing harder to have us face-off.

I could have used the recent Shirley Sherrod incident as an example. That sad episode illustrates painfully how quickly we rush to judgment without bothering to dig for all the facts.

Where does that leave me? Confused. Saddened. Numbed. Will I boycott Target? Still thinking on this point. Ultimately what matters to me is whether my action does more good than harm.

Oh yeah--it's complicated.