Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving Preparation Ain't All It's Cracked Up To Be

Where Do We Go From Here?

It is only possible to live happily ever after on a day-to-day basis. ~ Margaret Bonnano

Boo!

Politics as Usual

At times one remains faithful to a cause only because its opponents do not cease to be insipid. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Adjust According to Taste

If you’ve been reading along from nearly the beginning of the blog, you know I used to own a small catering company. [If not, you can read the post “Feeding the Hungry” dated April 21, 2006.] The backbone of my little company was constructed out of chili. Gallons and gallons of chili. But things change and I now think I shouldn’t be eating huge quantities of beef or fat, so have adjusted a couple of my recipes accordingly. Maybe – just maybe – this version is better than my original one. And so because several folks have asked for the recipe lately, I thought I’d just stick it up here – have fun and eat well. In that order.

[I’m going with the assumption that you already know that t = teaspoon, T = tablespoon and c = cup. If you didn’t before, now you do.]

2 pounds ground turkey (in place of the ground beef I used to use)

2 coarsely chopped onions

3 minced cloves garlic

(You could add a medium chopped green or red pepper, too, but I don’t like them so I don’t. No accounting for taste.)

In a large Dutch oven sprayed with non-stick cooking spray, sauté the onion until it’s wilted. (I used to brown everything in about 4 T of corn oil. I don’t any more – would rather save those fat grams to butter my cornbread.) Add the garlic and sauté a few minutes longer, but do NOT allow the garlic to brown. Burnt garlic is nasty and bitter. Bleugh. Add the ground turkey and sauté until barely browned, stirring often to make sure the garlic and onion don’t scorch. If things start to scorch or stick, deglaze with a little wine, chicken stock or water. Don’t add fat, even though you’re tempted to. No point in defeating the purpose here. There’s still cornbread and butter to eat, and beer to drink.

Add to the barely browned turkey:

5 T chili powder

2 T ground cumin

½ t hot red pepper flakes (Or more. Or less.)

1 t kosher salt

1 t ground black pepper

½ t ground nutmeg

1 t ground cinnamon (no big surprise, garam masala works really well here instead)

1 scant t onion powder

1 scant t garlic powder

2 T brown sugar (I prefer dark)

1 T cocoa powder (No, I’m not kidding. Think molé sauce)

1 c red wine (whatever’s left over from last night’s dinner is fine – do not use that nasty stuff at the grocery store called “cooking wine.” Shudder.)

Stir everything into the browning turkey and allow everything to sauté nicely as you stir often to crumble the ground turkey and prevent sticking. When everything is nicely caramelized and aromatic, add salt and pepper to taste. (Remember I told you that garlic burns and gets bitter very easily? Same with black pepper.) The measurements above are only suggestions. Spicy or mild – adjust to your taste.*

Then add:

3 14.5 ounce cans undrained diced tomatoes

1 T red wine vinegar

1 14 ounce can undrained black beans (See note below about undrained beans)

2 14 ounce can undrained dark red kidney bean (Or use pintos or light red kidneys if you prefer. I just like the dark ones cuz they’re pretty.)

1 14 ounce can undrained white beans, such as navy or pea beans

(Use whatever bean combination you like, but the three colors are nice together. You can easily substitute garbanzos for the white beans. Do what you want. I do.)

Simmer on a VERY low heat for several hours, stirring every now and then. It scorches pretty easily, even on a low heat in a heavy stainless steel pot, so don’t let it burn. Correct and adjust the seasonings to your own taste. I suspect you’ll want to add a bit of salt. If you eat it the same day it’ll be pretty good. If you eat it the next day, it’ll be fabulous.

When you’re ready to eat, squeeze a wedge of lime onto the chili in your bowl and toss the lime wedge onto the top of it. (No, don’t eat the darned thing – it’s just pretty and adds a bit of additional flavor as it sits there.) No one seems to feel ambivalent about cilantro. Love it or hate it. I love it, so I always sprinkle a bit of chopped cilantro on top of my chili. If you can handle the fat, garnish with a dollop of (low fat?) sour cream and/or some grated cheddar cheese. A couple of (baked) tortilla chips and fresh salsa on the side are pretty dandy. A bowl of chili, a piece of cornbread and a cold beer just make my night.

Important Notes:

All chili recipes are intensely personal and I sure don’t want to get involved in the controversy about what constitutes “real chili.” Beans or no beans. Texas-style, New Mexico-style or Cincinnati-style. Alone or on top of rice or spaghetti. Cubes of beef chuck, pork roast, ground beef or turkey, or no meat at all. Don’t know. Don’t care. This is just what I like. Happily, a lot of other folks have also liked it and perhaps you will, too.

The phrase “adjust the seasoning to taste”* used to intimidate me when I was a young(er!) cook. Just remember that (unless you’re a professional chef) the only taste buds that matter are on your own tongue. Fiddle with the seasonings any way you want and make it your own. I’ve happily added or changed the seasonings with these randomly combined ingredients – to taste!

Toasted cumin seed

Bay leaf (Remember to fish it out of the chili before you serve.)

Dried basil or marjoram

Minced toasted chili pepper

Chipotle chilis in adobo sauce

Espresso powder (I know. Sounds weird. It isn’t. Try a scant teaspoon.)

My Midwestern mom used to chop up a kosher dill pickle and stir it into her bowl of red. Then she’d drizzle a little bit of pickle juice over everything. She liked the zippy crunch of the pickle to cut the chili’s heat. I’ve never tried either, but she loved it so I’m passing it along. Again, no accounting for taste.

And, because it’s occasionally good to feel righteous, I’ve also used the next little fat-lowering tip when I’m feeling particularly chubby:

First, barely brown the ground turkey. Then scoop it into a colander and rinse it off. Yep. Honest. Rinse it off. Most of the fat just slips down the drain. Let the meat sit and drain while you sauté the onion, garlic and peppers if you’re using them. Add the rinsed ground meat back into the pan with the sautéing vegetables and proceed as usual. Losing this fat lets you eat another piece of buttered cornbread.

Now, about the undrained beans. I know this sounds like sacrilege. I understand that when you rinse the beans you’re rinsing off salt and oligosaccharides (the complex sugars that cause, well, you know, flatulence). You’re also rinsing off a lot of flavor. Just remember, when you buy canned beans (or anything else!) read the label. If there are lots of preservatives, additives, salt or sugar listed in the ingredients, choose a different brand. If you decide you just have to rinse the beans, add some more liquid to make up for the loss. Chicken stock, water, tomato juice or wine are all good choices.

If you’re going to freeze the leftover chili, (I never have leftovers, but I suppose you might.) remember that in the freezer, the pungency and heat of garlic and hot peppers increases beyond your wildest imagination. Use less of both if you’re going to freeze. Bitter personal experience – literally and figuratively. Ooof.

In life and in chili making, it’s important to use whatever quantities and combinations of ingredients that please you. Luckily we don’t all have a taste for the same things. Just keep trying chili making – and living – until you get both just the way you want them. But for heaven’s sake, don’t use all these ingredients together or your taste buds will fall off.

No. I don’t know how many it serves. How big’s your bowl? How hungry are you? It makes plenty for you and a bunch of other hungry people. As a matter of fact, writing this is making me want to brew up a batch. Tomorrow will be a yummy day. I’m heading out to buy the beer now.

Hormones Rage and Babies Boom, Part 2

You should read “Hormones Rage and Babies Boom, Part 1” before you read this. The post is dated October 12, 2006.

………

I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you about Part 2. Do you want to know what happened next to my raging hormones and quest for a child, or do you want to know what happened next to my heart? Maybe you want to know all of it. Or none. Those days are intertwined and some of those stories are hard. They’ll take time to tell. We’ll see.

I’ll tell you a bit more about The Quest. The heart stuff will have to wait.

We became friends while planting garden annuals. We shared a common condo wall, a common postage stamp yard and a common love of children. My realtor was wrong, though. They weren’t really cousins. Oh my heavens … LESBIANS!

We’re about the same age, so all of our time-bomb hormones were raging and crashing around at the same time. There was so much estrogen bouncing off our townhouse walls that it’s amazing male visitors didn’t grow breasts.

The lesbian baby boom was in its early days, and they were just starting the delicate dance, negotiating with adoption agencies and with each other. Their own baby quest was very different from mine. (You now know – or should – that my journey on the motherhood train was more traditional, and derailed.) They hired an international attorney and international adoption liaison, and so, three months later, got a call to go to Brazil to meet their daughter. They rushed around, packing suitcases and money belts, and loading up with Pampers and penicillin, adrenaline and hope.

The flight to Brazil seemed never-ending to the moms-to-be, fraught with “Oh my Gods!” and anxious second thoughts. After arriving and hastily stashing their belongings in a barren rental apartment, they rushed to the adoption liaison’s office. There, the solemn-eyed, curly-haired baby girl erased all second thoughts.

But as so often happens in all good fairy tales, there were dragons to fight along the way. The baby was sick. No pre-natal care and four months of orphanage life took a toll on her tiny body. The lung infections were probably the result of burning tobacco fields, and the scabies and boils a result of … well, you decide. Whatever miseries you imagine are probably right. American money and drugs immediately charged to the rescue. Without them the doctors said the baby would have died that night.

The Brazilian government required a forty-five day stay before the baby could be taken out of the country to her new home. While the new little family walked along Brazilian beaches, 4,153 miles away I was setting up the baby’s new room with rockers and teddies and blankies, oh my. Nesting seems to be my particular skill – a way of controlling something when everything else is spinning out of my control.

As proof of my lack of control over anything real, my baby’s intended father-to-be (loosely defined as my husband) left me for his 19-year-old girlfriend the very week my next-door-friends brought their baby daughter home.

Now, I can’t explain this at all, and I’m not much of a believer in mystical moments or psychic flashes, but as she got out of the car, one of the moms put her beautiful and exhausted crying baby daughter into my arms and The Quest ended. Just like that, my baby burn disappeared. The fire just fizzled out. Poof. She stopped crying and snuggled into my arms and heart, where she’s been all these years since. My God-daughter now, she filled in all the blanks. I suppose it might be possible to love a child more, but I can’t imagine it.

A year or so later, another of my dearest friends decided it was time for him to become a father. As a gay man his daddy options were a bit limited, but his strong mother raised him with the surety that, “Happiness is about raising a family.” He was pretty sure that his own baby quest could be quenched only by a biological child of his own, and so we talked about having a child together. I chickened out. My hormone-driven baby daze had vanished and I quickly reverted to my pre-raging days of baby ambivalence. And of course my God-daughter was already prancing around my living room, playing gleeful tag with my dog and giggling, as she filled the voids in my heart.

After watching me with my God-daughter – birthed 4,200 miles away by a woman of another ethnic background and color, and mothered by middle-class suburban lesbians – he changed his mind. He watched as this girl-baby mimicked me as well as her moms, and it became difficult to see where one influence began and the other ended. And so he and his husband adopted their daughter from New York, where she was put into her dads’ arms at birth by a loving nurse. She’s brilliant – a reflection of them, as well as of the woman who chose them to be the parents of her birthchild. And maybe, just maybe, she reflects a dollop of my love, too. (I suppose it’s possible that she was born instinctively knowing the words to “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair...” but I’m willing to admit that it might have been me who taught her the song.) Another one of the children I can’t imagine loving more.

But even biology doesn’t guarantee a parental mirror. Every now and then, even the well-intentioned can be ignorant and hurtful. A friend of mine from the Midwest married a dark-haired, black-eyed, olive-skinned man from a Mediterranean island. Their children (much as my brother and I do) reflect their parent’s genetic melding and prove (again) that opposites attract and make beautiful babies. Her daughter’s swinging black hair, fiery dark eyes and sun-kissed skin carry the promise of Mediterranean sunlight and laughter. Her appearance is as different as night and day from her auburn-haired, amber-eyed, fair-skinned mom. “Now, I know she’s not your real daughter. What country did you adopt her from…?” It never occurred to the woman (who nonetheless felt it perfectly within the bounds of etiquette to ask such a personal question) that my friend carried her daughter for nine long months and then gave birth to her in the heat of a sultry Midwestern summer.

Who is it who decides when a family becomes “real?” And is it the children or the parents who become Real? Maybe the story of the Velveteen Rabbit is right – "Real isn't how you are made. It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

Pressure to parent is strong, and occasionally that old joke is dead center true – almost any guy can become a father. I think it’s often just a matter of aim. But the decision to adopt a child is just that. A decision – a process. Intimate interviews replace intimate caresses. No one can accidentally adopt a child in a drunken moment of careless passion. Now, I’m not suggesting that biological parents be interviewed for parental fitness, their finances and backgrounds scrutinized. Smacks too much of a brave new world to be comfortable. But how different life would be if all children were deeply and truly wanted.

Somewhere in here there’s an unspoken essay about gay rights, international and domestic adoption, nature versus nurture and the definition of family. Will they look like me? Will they act like me? Will they BE like me? … Will we love each other? … Maybe it’s all just the luck of the draw, and both biology and adoption are a crapshoot. Perhaps with luck and love everything really does turn out ok. I know that these adopted children – and their more recently added siblings! – are bonded to their parents and to me. (Although I must tell you that I’m deeply grateful I get the love and not the tuition bills.) My life is filled with many prancing children who exuberantly love me back. I have crayon drawings on my refrigerator door to prove it. And I know that my hormone-driven baby quest blazed hot and then burned out, leaving in its place the special love an armful of children.

And then I did a really stupid thing. I let my absent husband move back home. He said he didn’t really love her after all and that I was The One. Of course there’s more to this story, too. Maybe later.

Happily Ever After

Cool Slideshows

Who, What, When, Where, Why

With her it’s never why or when
It’s only what and where

And sometimes
What next.

Sap Runs

A friend forwarded this silly email to me today. I dislike sentimentality when it’s cheap and I’d like to believe – and con you into believing, too – that I’m not overly sappy. That I don’t cry easily. That I don’t love flowers. That my heart is stone, not glass. But you and I are both smarter than that.

So, here it is. I like it - sappy or not:

As we grow up, we learn that even the one person who wasn’t supposed to ever let you down probably will.

You will have your heart broken probably more than once and it’s harder every time.

You’ll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken.

You’ll fight with your best friend. You’ll blame a new love for things an old one did.

You’ll cry because time is passing too fast, and you’ll eventually lose someone you love.

So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you’ve never been hurt because every sixty seconds you spend upset is a minute of happiness you’ll never get back.

Don't be afraid that your life will end, be afraid that it will never begin.

~ Unknown

Hormones Rage and Babies Boom, Part 1

I was 39 and wanted babies. I thought I would implode, bleed out and die unless I got myself preggers. So I changed my chameleon self from Wild Child into Mother Most Holy. It was hormone driven, of course. I didn’t want children when I was younger when, according to my mother, getting pregnant was as easy as sitting on a toilet seat. I avoided the possibility of motherhood at all costs. Loved tormenting my grandchild-seeking parents, telling them that I never wanted biological children, but might – perhaps – consider adopting an Asian child. (Okokok. I specifically chose this racial background because I am a brat, and because I knew the barest possibility of a Japanese grandchild would send my father into a paroxysm of residual PTSD. He was at Pearl Harbor when the bombs and planes dropped, which left him with sleep disorders and the inability to allow his children to own Japanese transistor radios.) Adoption, yes. Biology, NO!

Then I hit my mid-thirties and realized how incorrect all this baby avoidance had been. What was I thinking?!?! Hormones kicked into hyper drive and The Quest began. It should be as easy as One-Two-Three … bingo, bango, baby! So I did what seemed logical at the time – I got married. Step One accomplished. Never mind that all (yep, every single one) of my friends told me I was making a huge mistake. Several even pleaded. But how many Scottish/Sicilians do you know who aren’t brick wall stubborn? The Pollyanna prancing around in my brain told me it would all turn out ok. Of course I knew I was being dopey, but you’d be surprised at what a hormone-hot brain can rationalize.

The Quest started immediately – a basal thermometer became my morning best friend. (Odd that rolling over sleepily and putting something hard into your mouth can help you get preggers, but there it is.) I had several minor and major surgeries to ready my rapidly aging nest. I saw so many fertility specialists that I began to think that every time I walked into a 12’ x 12’ white room I should drop my knickers and throw my heels up over my head to let all and sundry have a look.

Precious time passed with no hint of a baby. We finally entered the Invitro Fertilization Program at a shiny, world-class hospital and I let my child’s chosen father-to-be learn to inject me with Pergonal and various other substances the names I which I no longer remember. Better living through chemistry. Step Two accomplished.

One deep winter evening the baby doctor called. Two couples ahead of us had dropped out of the IVF program. (Fear of failure – or of success – can be unbearable.) We could now move several rungs up the ladder of our baby timeline to start the program in two days instead of two months. JOY! I ran to my baby’s father-to-be to share the happy news. [Music swells dramatically here, and changes from a major to a minor key…] After a startled, “Oh?” the intended father paused and took a step backward. A deep breath. “I’ve been meaning to bring this up… I, um, have a girlfriend. I think I’m in love with her and I’m planning on moving out. I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

Really? Which part? The part about the shots, the surgery and the baby, or the part about the girlfriend? Doesn’t really matter, I suppose, since it amounts to the same thing.

So that was that. There would be no Step Three. He left the night we were supposed to buy a Christmas tree.

There’s more to this story, but you’ll have to wait. There will be other words for other times. Come back and see. Things get better – I promise.

Twice in a Lifetime

I’ve been trying to figure things out. It’s so different than before, now that you and I are pretend “grown ups.”

Once upon a time I threw myself into the frantic search for fun in order to hide myself from the anguish of the past. But it seems that the universe wanted to show me what was possible, and put you in my path. You with your twinkling eyes and your pied piper laugh. But I was burdened by the impossible weight of the 7,146 days that happened before you, and couldn’t take the leap.

Now I seem – at long last – able to put my burdens down in the dust and walk away from them. Tired of the role of tragic heroine and finally, hopefully, free.

From March 28, 1972 to April 19, 2002 … 10,979 days without you.

And now, here we are. Twice in a lifetime.

No, I'm fine. Really.

The troubles of the young are soon over; they leave no external mark. If you wound the tree in its youth the bark will quickly cover the gash; but when the tree is very old, peeling the bark off ... you will see the scar there still. ~ Olive Schriener

Sudden Gift of Fate

Some people need to know what to expect
Need to keep control, need to keep one step
Ahead of every chance, as if chance decides
Who it's gonna pass, who it will reward
They don't understand, chances don't keep score
They just find us when we're there to find

And so this has to be, a sudden gift of fate
You're nothing less to me than a sudden gift of fate

It's not as if it comes down to your turn
That someone somewhere feels you've earned
You just learn to wait for sudden gifts of fate

Some people have never been the lonely kind
Never called a friend in the middle of the night
Just to hear a voice say it's okay
And now I hear you speak each and every word
That I didn't think lonely people heard
You took a long night and turned it into day

And so this has to be, a sudden gift of fate
You're nothing less to me than a sudden gift of fate

It's not as if it comes down to your turn
That someone somewhere feels you've earned
You just learn to wait for sudden gifts of fate
You can celebrate, gifts are never late
You just learn to wait for sudden gifts of fate
















Mary Chapin Carpenter

Rebound

Did you fall in love with me because my heart was broken,

Or break my heart
because I fell in love with you?

She Lived Happily Ever After?

Once upon a time,
In a far away, long ago kingdom,
Stood shining castles on distant shores,
With spells and curses, magic wands,
Enchanted mirrors, crystal balls.

Where the hunter slays with evil words and bloodied fists.

Mirror, mirror,
The fairest of all,
The beast is curséd beauty,
Serving poison apples.

Captured,
Locked in mindless prisons,
No shimmering sunsets,
No glass slippers, no pumpkin coaches.

Fairy God-mother mine,
Is there, some day, a handsome prince to come,
And kiss the girl?
Do heart’s desires and dreams come true?
A true love’s kiss while Beauty sleeps?

Will he find the key, unlock the chains,
And fight the evil jailers?
Clear-cut the briar forest thorns,
And slay the fiery dragon,
With shining swords of justice?

God-mother, God-mother,
Read me that part of the story again.
Tell me how good fairy stories begin.
Tell me that True Love might possibly win.
Tell me again how the story will end,
In happily ever after.

The Future

Stephanie, Michael, Matthew, Kayla, Anna, Lily, Carmen, James

Cool Slideshows

Site Unseen

The traveler sees what he sees.
The tourist sees what he has come to see.
~ G.K. Chesterton

Wanderlust

I wish I’d realized you were spending time in Paris. I’d have sent you to Mariage Freres to buy tea (never mind the lovely tea salon there – the tea’s the thing, stacked to the ceiling in enameled black metal tins and waiting to be measured out for you by charming, young French men), or to Angelina’s for sinfully rich and steaming hot chocolate to die for (or from). Just down the street from Angelina’s is a wonderful perfumerie where I’ve occasionally indulged my scent addiction. Ah me.

I’ve been to Paris three times and each time have had a better experience. About a year and a half ago I went with five women friends. (I am blessed with a very tolerant husband. You should learn from his example for later use.)

We rented an apartment in the 16th Arrondissement, near Bois de Boulogne, happily just a few feet away from a dandy boulangerie for croissants every morning. Lazy mornings glowed golden with sunlight, coffee and butter.

If I had to choose a couple of my most loved places (which of course I don’t, but what the hell) I’d pick the Museum of Modern Art at Centre Pompidou in spite of (or perhaps because of) the fact that it’s not at all my style with its geometric architecture and minimalist art, and Sainte Chapelle, because it is very much my style. (That being kind of extravagant, ostentatious and perhaps a bit overdone.) Sunlight falls through stained glass like candlelight bathed in red wine.














And the flea markets! Faded laces, elegant top hats and walking sticks, blousy jewelry and row after row of crystal with tiny rainbows trapped inside by amber sunlight.

Everything you might ever (or never) need, splayed out and ready to buy from old men who smoke and swear at you.















Taillevent, a restaurant housed in the former residence of the Duke of Morny, has, beyond any doubt, the best food I’ve ever eaten – best by an order of magnitude. Refined and effortless elegance and taste that most of us can only faintly imagine.




Ah me.

You’ve released my wanderlust again. And I thought I had her properly corralled here in the Inland Northwest.

I Am

The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Separate But Equal

Every now and then Flo and Dorothy tried to keep The Girls apart. (A futile exercise often tried by the mothers of daughters with unsavory boyfriends, or by the moms of spirited teenagers who poke into more trouble together than apart.) And sometimes The Girls, with adolescent jealousies and tender feelings, kept themselves apart. Never worked long, of course.

A furtive peek from behind lacy summer curtains, through the bedroom window, across the green expanse of joint lawn and past the lacy curtains on the other side confirmed suspicions. It was time.

Budding, bashful figures tucked into optimistic two-piece bathing suits, Junie’s a soft creamy yellow to match her silken hair, and Connie’s a bright green to match her twinkling eyes. Coltish legs and arms slicked in baby oil and iodine. Hair pulled into high, sleek pony tails to avoid the dreaded tan line. High noon Southern sun blazed overhead. It was time.

Without looking across their yards toward each other, The Girls strutted into the heat and across their lawns like novice models prancing down a cat walk. As if synchronized by Busby Berkeley, each delicately balanced an icy glass of sweet tea on the grass. Each fluffed brightly-striped over-sized beach towels over hot, webbed aluminum lounge chairs. Each tuned miniature transistors to AM bubblegum radio stations. Each eased long legs and bodies into low chaises. Divided by more than the white pickets and climbing roses, each pointedly ignored the other.

……….

“You better turn over. You’re gonna burn.”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Then don’t talk.”

……….

Sweat trickled past girlish down to puddle into smalls of backs.

……….

“You made me eat worms.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

……….

Junie’s skin glowed golden. Connie’s pinked.

……….

“Wasn’t worms. Just cold spaghetti.”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Then don’t talk.”

……….

Bees buzzed and bumbled against the nodding roses. Ice clinked and disappeared.

………

“We were just initiating you.”

“Why did I have to be initiated into a club you made with her?”

……….

Sweat, or something like it, blinked down a childish cheek and was impatiently brushed away.

……….

“You know I love you best.”

“I know. Roll over. You’re gonna burn.”

……….

Just Do It

You do things again and again, and nothing happens. You have to do things, do things, do things. You have to light that match, light that match, light that match, not knowing how often it's going to sputter and go out and at what point it's going to take hold. Things take a long time. It requires patience, but not a passive patience - the patience of activism. ~ Howard Zinn

Old Friends

Hey, old friend,
Are you ok, old friend?
What’ll you say, old friend, 
Are we or are we unique?
Time goes by,
Everything else keeps changing.
You and I - we get continued next week.

Most friends fade,
Or they don't make the grade,
New ones are quickly made,
And in a pinch, sure they'll do.
But us, old friends,
What’s to discuss, old friend?
Here’s to us!
Who’s like us?
Damned few!
       ~ Stephen Sondheim

Another Version of Family II

Flo and Dorothy were best friends. Their mothers were friends, too. Naturally they raised their daughters to be best friends. Well, more like sisters.

When they were in their late 30s, they bought houses next to one another. They grocery shopped together, reprimanded their children together and, in the evenings, wandered over to one another’s houses in fluffy pink (Flo) or blue (Dorothy) bedroom slippers and wrappers (Southern-speak for “bathrobes”) to watch the 11:00 news and sip Bloody Marys together. Sometimes they’d sneak cigarettes together, too.

The children (there were 4: Amy, who was a few years older, Stephen, who was a few years younger, and The Girls - Junie and Connie - who were nearly the same age) never noticed they weren’t really related, since family isn’t always easy to define, even when there’s shared blood. They played and fought together, they went to school and church together and they just generally grew up – sure of their places in the world and in their momma’s hearts.

On summer evenings, the kids would all sneak outside in their jammies into the steamy southern night. Spotless peanut butter jars with holes punched in the lids by screwdrivers detained captive fireflies as they slowly blinked out. Too soon, Flo (or Dorothy) would call out, “Ok, kiddos, your time’s up. C’mon inside now.” “Come in and wash your feet off and run some cool water over your wrists. It’ll make you feel better.” “C’mon, now! It’s time for bed!”

In a pre-cell-phone-pre-teen world, The Girls strung shiny, scrubbed-clean tin cans on a clothesline cord across the lawn and into one another’s bedroom windows. “Hello! HELLO! Can you HEAR me?” Their giggles floated through the windows, but not through the cans. Later they snitched Stephen’s Cub Scout knife and snuck out behind the hedge to cut small slivers into each other’s fingers and press bleeding finger tips together, declaring themselves blood sisters. Sometimes they’d sneak cigarettes together, too.

Years of sultry summer nights turned into crisp autumns, frosty winters and hopeful pink springs. Flo had surgery on her blind eyes and Dorothy finally acquiesced to hearing aids for her deaf ears. The world and the children grew up, as children will, even in the south.

Flo and Dorothy are gone now, and are probably sitting on a pink heavenly cloud, wearing fluffy pink (Flo) or blue (Dorothy) slippers, sipping Bloody Marys and sneaking cigarettes as they watch their kiddos – and grandchildren – and great grandchildren – continue to grow. Still friends. Still family.

Iron Man

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength; loving someone deeply gives you courage. ~ Lao Tzu

Love Games

We play this game, he and I. I think we both like it. Well, I do, anyway.

“I love you,” one of us will say.

“How much?”

The answers are never the same – it’s part of the game. Sometimes the answer is “As much as there is water on the planet” or “From here to Venus and back again.” Sometimes, when it’s my turn, (because I am a brat) I answer “3,052” or “7.5.”

“I love you.”

“Why?”

"Why not?"
“It’s chemical.”
“Because you’re cute.”
“Because you’re sexy.”
“Because you love me.”
“Because you tolerate me.”
“Because you’re a good cook.”
“Because I love the way I feel when I’m with you.”
“Good sex.” (Yep. We both really like that answer.)

I guess the truth is that I have no idea why he loves me. A mystery. I’m just glad he does. Really glad.

I don’t think I’ve ever given him the Real Answer. I feign indifference or befuddlement. “Because the dog likes you.” “Beats me. Just do.” But I know the answer. Right down to my toes, I know the answer.

He makes me feel as though I am his chosen one. After a lifetime of looking and disposing, the one he chooses is me. Me? Wow. It’s electric to be chosen and to be established as unique within the confines of a loving relationship. It’s addictive – this feeling that I am the center of his world. I am the sun. He revolves around me and basks in the light of my happiness.

I don’t think many women will find what I happily stumbled into, because so many men seem uniquely incapable of giving the two ingredients of chosen-ness – namely, primacy and exclusivity – to make a woman the one and the only. Funny that I never asked either from him, stuck as I was in my “me first” world and no longer able to believe in monogamy. A freely given gift.

I choose you, too. Over and over again. For all the days and nights of my life.

Happy Anniversary. Again. I love you. And I know why.

When I Die

When I die

Plant a tree close to me.

Hemlock, holly, buckthorn, oak –

it will not matter which,

when I seep through the earth

like slow rain sipped by roots

I’ll rise

skyward pulled into branches, into twigs,

I’ll feed unfolding leaves, I’ll flower,

fruit and fill with seed.

I’ll transpire

and with each green and glorious exhalation,

I’ll become

The air you breathe.

Aging

Age does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age. ~ Anaïs Nin

Happy Birthday to me!

To Flo & Dorothy with Love from Junie & Connie

"Your Mother is always with you. She's the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street. She's the smell of certain foods you remember, flowers you pick and the perfume she wore. She's the cool hand on your brow when you're not feeling well, she's your breath in the air on a cold winter's day. She is the sound of the rain that lulls you to sleep, and the colors of a rainbow. She is Christmas morning. Your Mother lives inside your laughter. She's crystallized in every tear drop. A mother shows every emotion: happiness, sadness, fear, jealousy, love, hate, anger, helplessness, excitement, joy, sorrow...and all the while, hoping and praying you will only know the good feelings in life. She's the place you came from, your first home, and the map you follow with every step you take. She's your first love, your first friend, even your first enemy, but nothing on earth can separate you. Not time, not space, not even death." ~ written by Frank Ferreri upon the occasion of his Grandmother Flo's death.

Balanced Family

I know why families were created, with all their imperfections. They humanize you. They are made to make you forget yourself occasionally, so that the beautiful balance of life is not destroyed. ~ Anaïs Nin













Happy Birthday little brother. I love you.

What Happened Next

So I went to Peoria to visit my brother and his family. Peoria.

(It might be useful here to read the “One Version of a Family” post dated Wednesday, April 19^th. It’ll fill in the blanks.)

We grew up as city kids. I stayed that way, moving from city to city. He gave it up, moving from city life to the middle of nowhere, which, loosely defined, is Peoria.

The travel wasn’t so bad. I do so enjoy getting out of my warm and cozy bed at 2 A.M in order to start my traveling day. The drive to the airport was insignificant, made up for by the more than significant lines at the ticket counter and security checkpoints. But I’m a well-seasoned traveler, and had a book to read and little carry-on luggage, so I experienced no personal delays. You asked whether or not I saw any racial profiling during this journey – I was completely unaware of any. You see, there were no (NO – as in zero) people of color at my airport. None. When I arrived in Detroit, I saw one or two people with skin darker than my own, but I was rushing from gate to gate, so have no idea how they fared. And of course no one of any color other than pale pinkish white was going to Peoria.

Neither of my nephews recognized me when I came in the door. The eldest is 12 and hadn’t seen me since he was 5, and the youngest is 8, so can’t be expected to remember me from his 1^st birthday. My beloved niece is older, the product of an earlier marriage. She’s the reason I acquiesced and traveled to Peoria – I adore her, and hate that I live so far away from her. She’s nearly an adult now, tall, strong and beautiful.

For a while, we were all on good behavior, but eventually everyone settled down into standard patterns. My brother and I easily revert to tweaking reactions from one another, but it’s relatively benign. No one broke a chair over anyone’s head this time. There wasn’t even much tension when I explained to him that it would be broader minded of him to at least acknowledge other points of view different from his own. (This was a discussion on how religion has changed his life. Not that I don’t accept the fact that it’s *possible* that his god helps him out when he needs extra strength to turn a stuck oil filter, but I would like him to acknowledge the possibility that it’s a fluke. This is, perhaps, just me poking at him to see what happens. I am a brat.) I even found the strength to walk away when he tossed out bigotted salvos about homosexuals and racial minorities, allowing myself only the briefest of disdainful glances as I shook my head in disgust. I understand that he doesn’t believe his own words, but is just trying to poke at me until my head spins off. But since I still had several days of my visit left, I tried to keep my spinning to a minimum and to spread it out over the several days I was there. If I don’t spin, he will (probably) stop trying to get me to. Perhaps. It’s an old game. He tweaks me, I tweak him. There’s continuity, familiarity and safety in old patterns.

The kids and I watched videos of Shrek and Dr. Doolittle. Video games and cap guns are everywhere. I suppose this should be disturbing to me since I haven’t owned a television in many years, and have spent my life with my nose stuck in some book or other. But the simple truth is that they all seem to love each other. Affection abounds. You just can’t get around it. The kids and the grownups actually seem to like one another, and love is in the air. Even the golden retriever smiles. Very Norman Rockwell America.

Of course, Norman Rockwell only painted heterosexual white people.

Got Any Change?

They say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself. ~Andy Warhol

October 22

Drip
Drop
Trickle
Plash

Ruby
Red
Drizzle
Lash

Black
Blue
Shiver
Ash

Soft
Still
Quiver
Sh!

Dead.

Courage

Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage. ~Anaïs Nin

Growing Pains - for TDE

She shattered.
Scattered on a twister-wind,
Like a freight train casualty.
Flattened.

When the consequences of past, present, future
Conquored,
He gifted her the power to stand,
In turn fixing, comforting, ignoring, jabbing,
An illustration of his own miraculous strength.

Sometimes they longed for who they used to be,
With each other. By themselves.
In the old times they clung to each other alone.
Scared,
Like flowers dying in the rain.

As time whirled past them,
They reached,
The grappled,
They grasped,
They expanded.
They grew.

Together.

Apart.

They Became.

Finally they loved.
Really loved.
Each other. The others. Themselves.

Another Version of Family

Family violence is a global and pernicious problem. It takes many forms, and affects all spheres of society and all aspects of human development. The links between violence in the family and social, structural and political violence are often overlooked, and the problems therefore dealt with in isolation. Not only that, but family violence is frequently denied as a problem, but until it is openly acknowledged and tackled it will not be eradicated. ~http://www.bahai.org.uk/dp/evif.htm

Survivor

Are you a “survivor”
simply because you outlive them?

Does longevity make you the winner?

They stay, like it or not.
Dead or alive.

They stay.

They’re the operating system.
Can you re-write the software?

Bound

Red shadow dancers
Drift
Through my daydreams
Like ribbon
Winding through the empty spaces
In my thoughts.

In and out
The dancing red ribbon
Cinches tight
Keeping me in bondage.

Becoming a Wise Woman

Somewhere in your mid-forties, if you paid attention to your life, you may have accumulated enough experiences to have gained a litle wisdom. This mostly because you've made so many mistakes so many times you finally get it and stop repeating them - maybe. A wise woman has learned to cherish her mind. She reads, she listens and challenges her mind with new information, new ways of thinking, new experiences. She learns to form opinions of her own that are worth listening to. The fact is, she's an avid student, hungry for all life can teach her and she's confident that she can learn anything she puts her mind to. A wise woman hones skills, first by learning to listen more carefully; she listens to her own voice, then to her body and finally, making efforts to suspend judgement, to other voices. A wise woman is stronger than ever, and softer at the same time. She moves furniture and she cuddles. ~Holly Fordyce

Autumn

The years will take part of him from her.
Some of him will fall off her
naturally,
like leaves.

In time
some of him will turn into other men,
and later
to lines below her eyes.

She'll lose a lot.
But even so,
I know she'll keep the sound of him
calling
her name.

Life's Gifts

I saw a woman sleeping. In her sleep she dreamt Life stood before her, and held in each hand a gift -- in the one Love, in the other Freedom. And she said to the woman, "Choose!"

And the woman waited long: and she said, "Freedom!"

And Life said, "Thou hast well chosen. If thou hadst said, 'Love,' I would have given thee that thou didst ask for; and I would have gone from thee, and returned to thee no more. Now, the day will come when I shall return. In that day I shall bear both gifts in one hand.

I heard the woman laugh in her sleep." ~Olive Scheiner

Truth or Consequences

Paradoxes and ironies.
Truth is never neat.

I finally understand
that there is no such thing as Truth with a capital "T."

There is only one's own truth,
and it is - or should be -
a developing concept,

a sort of Truth-in-Progress.

Gift of Fate

"I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman."

~ Anaïs Nin

Anaïs is right, you know. That’s just what I did. Well, I didn’t really do it consciously, but luckily that’s how it turned out.

After a lifetime of relationships I didn't understand, I’m finally loved by someone who loves me for the Me I Really Am, not as the Fantasy Me drifting around in a lover’s daydream.

I’ll (probably) get around to telling the story of our beginnings, but of course that doesn’t really matter. What matters is the rest. That it’s finally “enough.”

This man expects me to be strong, and never doubts that I am. Courage is something he sees behind my eyes, like a warm and steady fire, even when I don’t know it’s hiding there. He believes me brave and so I am. He sees courage in the simple act of rising to face each day’s thoughts and in the quickest beat of every heart.

Never let fear stop you.

His own bravery shines out of him like a bright knight's shining courage, joyfully alive. With him, for the first time, I feel safety, and his peace at last releases the clenched fist of my brain.

Life’s current brought me here by accident and happenstance, and I’m glad. To want more would be to say to the air, “Please. Give me more air.”

No one is promised happiness. When life goes well, it’s a sudden gift.

Freedom Flight - a Japanese proverb

A man watched as a chrysalis began to pulse with the violent struggle of the butterfly encased inside. She thrashed against the hard shell of her prison, and eventually exploded a tiny hole in the shell and began to slam her wings against the chrysalis walls.

The man saw the thrashing and worried the beautiful butterfly would be damaged by her struggle. He feared for her. Gently and carefully he incised the opening of her private cage and helped her out into the warm sunshine. She was radiant in his hand, and he felt pride, knowing he’d eased her path into the sparkling sun.

She tried to flex her wings and fly to freedom, but as hard as she tried, she could not. The fierce beating of butterfly wings against the hard chrysalis shell strengthens her muscles so the delicate wings support her body in flight. Without the struggle, the butterfly had no power to fly. There would be no fluttering in the morning sun, no slipstreaming in the afternoon breeze.

The man saw that by easing her struggle he doomed the butterfly to death, and so wept until he could weep no more.