Elephant

A quote that caught my eye in the whole Baltimore mess was -"If property damage is more upsetting to you than institutional racism your moral compass needs a realignment."

Sobering.

Some Baltimore police have publicly admitted there has been harassment on a major level. Millions of dollars spent to settle suits against them. Facts.

We want things to remain neat and tidy while injustice flows like wine in paths other than our own.

Sure, we want equality for all, but when peaceful protests - and think how many there have been in the last six months alone - get very little press or results, what should be the next step for the oppressed.

Never violence. Never looting and pillaging. Never burning.

But exactly what does it take to prompt change?

That is the huge unsettling  elephant in the room.

the dying light

An elderly patron called me the other day with an initial question of looking up a play by Jean Cocteau that she had seen on tv the night before. She had the title wrong but I kept pushing on through Amazon and finally came up with the correct title. Then she began. She was irate that Sophia Loren wasn't speaking classic Italian - "but some Neapolitan dialect" and she only got bits and pieces of it! I was about to quietly ask if the subtitles didn't help when she barreled on - "and I wouldn't dream of using the subtitles. I know Italian!" And her anger grew from there. She once knew some of the dialects from her time in Italy, but what was wrong with Sophia Loren??? Did I know she wasn't formally educated. Shocking, isn't it.

And on and on. I learned of her youth visiting Italy and how she loved it. When I finally told her the play wasn't in our collection, but I saw a used copy on Amazon for $7.49 she said, "Now how would I do that?" I asked as gently as possible if she knew someone who had a computer who could do it and she agreed she would lean on one of her friends.

"This computer business I know nothing about and it makes me sick. I'm old."

And there you have it. Lash out at Sophia Loren's shoddy education. Be angry with technology." Rage, rage against the dying light."

I comforted, consoled, agreed about electronic frustrations and at the end she said, "Well this is the nicest chat I've had in some time."

I could have wept.

civility and doubt

Early this morning the show "On Being" featured a discussion on gay marriage and while they covered a lot of ground pro and con, one idea struck me as unique. There was a mention of "civility and doubt" being friends - defining civility as treating the other person like you would like to be treated and doubt as realizing that your position may not be absolutely correct!

Just think how our world would change if we each embraced those simple thoughts - being civil and simultaneously questioning whether or not you have the ultimate truth in your corner.

I grew up in black and white. Really comforting! But as life flows on, I have more questions than answers, and, I hope, more compassion.

Still, I want to walk that mile in both the high-topped shoes and the flip-flops, dancing or praying.  Both modes of travel have their value.

beginnings

Despite the great joy of springtime, I always have a sense of melancholy when I realize how fleeting it is!

Right now the outdoor palette is breathtaking! This glorious feathering of pink, white, green fills in more solidly each day and I know very soon - way too soon - it will essentially be solid green. Oh I know there are flowering trees all summer at various points and I know our gardens, both lavish and postcard-size, bring kaleidoscopes of color and texture for months, but still its not the same as the virginal spring hues arcing overhead against the bluest skies. I want it to stay!

Of course I realize that all delight is by contrast and after a long hot summer, I will again rejoice in the splash of autumn and the hush of a snowstorm.

But right now, I just want to roll around in these delicate tones and drink them deep into my soul, rejoicing in beginnings.

And for this moment I say, with Edna St. Vincent Millay, "my heart is all but out of me."

Henry James

wrap up of Washington Square

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

When Henry James invites us into the house on Washington Square, Austin Sloper isn't a happy man. His only living child, Catherine, is disappointing, dull and stolid - by his assessment during a European trip "she's about as intelligent as a bundle of shawls."

 

Dr. Sloper married an lively, elegant woman who had "the most charming eyes in the island of Manhattan", claiming in retrospect that his program in life was to learn something and be useful and "the accident of his wife having an income appeared to him in no degree to modify the validity". Unfortunately the son his wife bore, died at the age of three and the wife also succumbed after the birth of Catherine a bit later. And Dr. Sloper was left with viewing life through the thwarted lens of grief and loss - and judgment.

 

Catherine, now twenty-two, endowed with a generous trust from her deceased mother, knew little of life when she met dashing Morris Townsend, a distant relative of a cousin's bridegroom. Morris zeroed in on our heroine, decked out in a red dress trimmed in feathers, like shark to chum, and for naïve Catherine, the rest was history.

 

Understandably the good doctor wanted to know more about this gentleman who appeared to be monopolizing his seemingly unattractive daughter, wondering if the money alone accounted for the magnetism. Through some sleuthing of his own, he learned that Morris was an idler, a squander of an earlier inheritance, now living apparently "upon" his sister. This information confirmed all his suspicions about Morris 'mercenary intentions.

 

To Catherine, Morris was astonishingly handsome - "he had features like young men in pictures...he looked like a statue". After years of being sidelined she was dazzled to have gained his attention and, "the present had suddenly grown rich and solemn."

 

But not so for Dr. Sloper.

 

The rest of the story seesaws over the strong wills of father and daughter, each trying various stratagems to bring the other around to his point of view.

 

Acting as comic relief to the struggle is Dr. Sloper's sister, Lavinia. When Catherine was 10, her father invited Lavinia to come live with them as a feminine mentor for his daughter in the absence of her mother. Said James, "she accepted with the alacrity of a woman who had spent the ten years of her married life in the town of Poughkeepsie." Lavinia is a matchmaker and does everything in her power to smooth the way to the altar for Morris and Catherine, while trying to stay in her brother's good graces and keep a luxurious roof over her head, a high-wire walk indeed.

 

When despite all her efforts, Catherine realizes that her father is not to be dissuaded; she steels her heart against him and heads down a lonely independent path. Even bundles of shawls take shape when pressed hard enough!

 

Henry James anoints his prose with layers and layers of nuance. One reading gives you the meager plot, the second the humor, irony, delight, social satire, and genius of his writing.  The characters though placed in an era of stringent social strictures, exhibit the same emotions, longings and dreams of the present day readers. There is treachery, disappointment, betrayal, but there is also, the triumph of the individual who acts decisively in crisis. While no Austen happy ending, something propels us back again and again to the ending where Catherine in the parlor, picks up her morsel of fancywork and sits down with it again -"for life, as it were."

 

Ah, we too settle.

 

 

Freedom

Ironing.

No, I can't say its a completely archaic word, but getting close! Ironing for Mother meant a day's work. At least.

Because after the shirts and blouses and dresses had blown completely dry on the pegged line, we brought them inside and sprinkled them with a plastic squeeze bottle that had many tiny holes in the lid. Then, lightly moistened, we rolled them up and put them in a bag!

Why? Well I guess because they were mostly cotton and dried wrinkled! Obviously we would some time later take them out and iron them smooth. And starch them of course. So - wash, dry, sprinkle, starch, iron. It all sounds like a cruel joke! But it was Tuesday in the life of our mother - and us as we grew into ironing capability.

I started with men's handkerchiefs Lovely easy little squares. No harm, no foul. Then pillowcases. Larger areas, but still simple When the moment came to learn how to iron a shirt or blouse - oh, dear, the pressure of it all There were rules of the road! Collar first, sleeves second, front panels next and then the back. THAT was how it was done.

When I think back to those days - before fabric blends, steam irons, even spray starch, the work of looking presentably unwrinkled was really horrendous!! Now, you understand, not everyone did this, but their appearances were deemed "careless."

I raise a very joyous glass to labor free clothes!

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin

"Between the dark and the daylight
When the night is beginning to lower
Comes a pause from the day's occupations
That is known as the Children's Hour."

I can hear my mother's voice echoing Longfellow's lovely words over and over. They became my words. They became my rhythm. They became my pictures. I saw those little girls laughing, tumbling, shouting, hugging their father at the end of the day.

And as the poem continues he closes with

"I have you fast in my fortress
And will not let you depart
But put you down in the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart

And there I will keep you forever
Yes, forever and a day
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin
And moulder in dust away." 

Did we use phrases like "night beginning to lower" "moulder in dust away" in our Hinkletown household? Surely not on a day to day basis! But those words were mine from the time I was the smallest child. I recognized them everywhere we met and hugged them close because of a poem about a father and his children.

And just as surely I have kept my mother and her words in the round tower of my heart, forever and a day.

Hope

I am listening to the Diane Rehm show this morning about the Holocaust death camp for women called Ravensbruck, where extraordinary gruesome experiments where carried out routinely and the newborn babies were left to starve to death. And I pause and try to get to the end of the concept. I know evil exists. I know there are people who for whatever reason have had horrendous lives and have melted down into unspeakable actions. But HOW could so many people be convinced to carry out these deeds? It takes my breath away. Literally.

But when Diane asked the author how she possibly could have written the book as we who are listening are almost too sickened to continue, she said that in her research she found survivors who had equal courage and beauty to balance the horror.

and I guess that's what keeps me hearing the birds in springtime.

She owns the truck

In that same two-room schoolhouse playground where I spoke so recently of the famous day of Crack the Whip, we played endless games. And we sang songs and ditties - sometimes to the swing of a thick rope as we jumped through it. But just this morning our version of My Country Tis of Thee came to mind:

"My country 'tis of thee
I'm going to Germany
To see the king.
The king is Donald Duck
He drives a garbage truck
His wife is Daisy Duck
She owns the truck."  (!!)

Could it be, could it be, that the seeds of feminism were being sown on that humble muddy ground in the late 1940's?

 Oh, I do hope so!

beginnings

"An early Easter bunny
Came hopping through the snow
No birds were singing in the trees
How could he know?
The days were cold and cloudy
And all the trees were brown
Yes Spring was not so far away
From Bunny- Town!"

The above is a song/poem that I painstakingly copied from the blackboard in Grade 1! I remember every word. Where in my brain was the Bunny Town song stored for 65 years?! The brown notebook is probably at the bottom of some trunk, but the song is alive and well in my heart. Its not the only one I remember. There was a song about a pirate ship, the boy next door with a rabbit to sell, pussy willows, valentines, etc. etc. I know all the words. I think an extra memory boost happens when the words not only go through your ears and mind, but also your fingers!

In any case, my first grade song applies to today as well! It is a cloudy day with mostly brown trees - no snow, thank God - and there are welcome peeks of color slipping into our winter palette. How reassuring that the cycle of life continues despite all the disruptive things in our world.

Rock on, Cotton-Tail!

painting Easter eggs

Good Friday. A day of solemnity and fasting for my husband's family.

For the Hinkletown crowd it was a different matter. I guess there may have been services at one time, but I don't remember them. For us, the afternoon meant, covering the versatile kitchen table (we did so many, many things on that table in addition to eating!) with newspapers. Mother had been busy hard-cooking dozens of eggs. We had been busy fastidiously twisting just the right amount of cotton around toothpicks. Then came the cupcake tin and little bottles of dye were poured into the cup forms. Creativity unleashed!

It all started slowly, amid the smell of eggs and vinegar. Delicate shades, intricate patterns, attempts at flowers, crosses, words.... but as time went on and all the dyes got muddy, we went for broke, painting over the delicateness - any white spot was fair game in the end frenzied burst of mixed colors.

The resplendent eggs rested in a bowl lined with green plastic grass in the frig. I supposed we ate them in the days that followed, but I think in general our interest in them at that point was nil.

But it was another notch of tradition on that glorious childhood belt.

Crack the Whip

On these morning walks, when the ground is halfway frozen but squishing to mud, my thoughts roam back to the spring mornings when Nancy and I walked to school through edges of lawns and fields, arguing about when the actual first day of Spring was official. It seemed her Mam Fry always had a different date than my mother - who probably got her info from Arthur Godfrey! All I remember was the sun's warmth was a tease and recess beckoned throughout the day's lessons.

I remember one day, the big farm boys decided the muddy schoolyard was the ideal place to play Crack the Whip and as bullying was alive and well in those days as well, they put one of my classmates on the tail of the whip. He was already in social arrears and had gotten the nickname Allen-Ballen- Lunch Kettle because when he got a new lunch kettle he proudly showed it to the teacher when one of the Big Boys was around. Thus the name.

When indeed that human whip was cracked he went flying into the mud. Hands, face, clothes were caked with gooey brown and he needed to walk the long way back to home and get cleaned up. I don't think anyone paid for their crimes. Indeed, when he returned much later in clean clothes, he still hadn't gotten the picture and proudly announced to the teacher that his mother had given him a marshmallow to comfort him! Talk about red meat to the pack!

Spring, mud and bullies.... the cycles of life. Who knows, the bullies may have had miserable lives and Allen Ballen Lunch Kettle gone on to glorious heights. All I know for sure, is that the April earth is giving rise to green shoots, new beginnings and second chances.

Sen-Sen through the ages

I found an old pack of Sen-Sen in my drawer - popped three little squares into my mouth and was immediately transported back to Weaverland Church! They were one of the acceptable boredom chasers in the face of long sermons! Basically licorice and various other ingredients, they are always a love-hate thing with me. I always think they will be a welcome diversion and they seldom are!

But I just did a quick look-up on-line and discover they came on the market in the late 19th Century and first appeared in a small matchbox-like container with a hole at the one end where you shook out the individual goodies! I had almost forgotten about the early packaging. That was half the fun - to shake them out. And a bit more of a time- killer!

But then the best part of the Wikipedia article: Sen-Sen have been mentioned by the likes of Somerset Maugham, John Steinbeck, Robert Penn Warren, Ray Bradbury, Stephen King, Zora Neale Hurston, Toni Morrison, Philip Roth, - even Thomas Harris in Silence of the Lamb!! How exciting is that! A childhood treasure savored in Weaverland Church showing up next to Hannibal Lector! Small world indeed.