BEYOND BLAME, BEYOND SOLUTIONS

What happened in Tucson on Saturday was begotten by laws.
The laws that allow mentally ill people to go untreated.
The laws that allow guns with fancy magazine clips to be easily purchased.

Guns that are clearly not for hunting animals.
We made those laws because they reflect our values as a community.

That’s where our laws come from.

Good mental health treatment is expensive and voluntarily purchased by people who can afford their problems.

We don't want to spend the money that provides treatment to those who can't.

Only those who demonstrate that they are a danger to themselves or others can be court-ordered for treatment. If they are planning or plotting or getting ready to act… if they are frightening their classmates with their bizarre behavior… they are still free agents.
We agreed to this.
So rather than blame Sarah Palin or Glenn Beck or anyone else for senseless violence, we can look to our laws for root cause.

And we can look to our history.

We are and always have been a violent country. We have settled our grievances with guns and with bombs. We covered a swath of states with 620,000 corpses from 1861 to 1865 over an essential disagreement. We have destroyed Japanese cities and napalmed Vietnamese villages. We have sanctioned and carried out political assassinations.

This is how we do business.
Our films and our television shows reflect this. We like “action”. This is rooted in our DNA.

And so when one of us goes over the edge, whether it be at Virginia Tech or at a Tucson Safeway, we look for someone to blame.
If we truly wanted to prevent the violence, we would have done it by now.
We haven’t.
So now we need to look into the eyes of our nine-year-old children and carefully explain to them why Christina Taylor Green had to die.

The Tree

It’s more beautiful this year than ever before.
We say that every year.
Which doesn’t mean it’s not true.
It holds our memories-
and celebrates our survival as the most delicate of ornaments survive with us.
Each one has a story.

This is the baby carriage that was on Paul’s first Christmas tree

And the one that we added when Diana was born.

This was the flower that Liza wore in her hair in Hawaii.

She wore one like it in Glendale.

This is the snowflake that my friend Kathy made for me.

And this is the sled that Diana made in third grade. (She will know if that’s right or if it was really second grade).

This is my personal favorite that I bought in Wickford, Rhode Island on a lovely day with Jo-Anne.

This was a gift for Eliza (collector of Pigbos) from Jo-Anne this year.

This is one of thirty wooden hearts. Paul made them for the Christmas of 1987 when we were very broke. He was painting goose plaques in Fredericksburg and the hearts were the throw-away part of the plaques. They are the ornaments that we can never lose.

This is the 2008 bride and groom commemorating Liza and Jon’s wedding.

And this is the dreidel that brings Hanukkah to the tree.

Here is the elephant that we just bought in New York to help us remember Thanksgiving with the Berkons.

And this is the whole tree on Christmas Eve.

Lastly, here we have a very tired Christmas poodle.

The end.

Happy Anniversary

“Grow old along with me
The best is yet to be…”

We heard these words of Robert Browning when we were kids. I can remember rolling my eyes at the thought of life being better when you got old – when your hair turned gray and your hands were as lined as Shredded Wheat. I saw my elderly neighbors the Budlongs, the Belgers, Marsha Soar’s grandparents. They moved slowly – sat for hours on the porch – took the front steps gingerly.

My mother had no use for aging. She fought it with everything she had. She refused to tell her age and kept her hair blonde and her dresses pink. She encouraged us to kiss her octogenarian mother’s cheek “even though her face is so wrinkled”.

And so it has come as a big surprise that the “best” is indeed coming to us at this time of life. Paul and I celebrated our fortieth anniversary a week ago and realized that our fortieth year of marriage has been the best yet. Despite the inevitable marks of age – the graying hair, the lined faces, the stoop at the neck – we are laughing more and feeling more simpatico than at any other time.

Our married life began when we really had very little in common. He was the artist and intellectual, and I, the political junkie and party lover. We discovered early on that there was something powerful and ineffable that connected us to each other and have yet to define it. But it’s still there – after all the relocations, the dashed expectations and the hard-earned successes. It’s been reinforced by all of that and by the joy of our daughters from their births to the immediate present. Our interests now seem to have converged. He's come to appreciate my passionate devotion to Chris Matthews and Hardball and I am finding new beauty in slightly injured ladder back chairs and peace in the small stretches of the Appalachian Trail we've been exploring.

Marriage is a mystery. We will never know what really goes on the in the marriages of others and we barely know what’s really going on in our own. That said, I thank my dear husband for being by my side all these years and promising to hang out with me here on the mountain for as long as we have left. It’s a great wondrous ride together.

HOW WE SPENT OUR SUMMER VACATION

Our week in Rhode Island after a 26-year absence was both familiar and novel. We gaped out the plane window trying to find our old house on Canonchet Ave. and argued about whether we were spotting Wickford or Pawtuxet Cove. After arriving and sharing lunch with Jo and Lee-Anne, we actually got lost on the 40 mile drive to Misquamicut and found ourselves in the cul-de-sac of Route 108 and Point Judith. Our beach rental set on a huge salt pond was perfect.

Paul took me on my first canoe ride soon after we got there and we were delighted to find that the pond was lovely and quiet and provides a habitat to so many egrets and herons. At night we could hear the ocean at high tide and the crashing waves lulled us to sleep just as they had so many years ago.

Our visit was planned around seeing all of our dear RI friends. John and Mary came on Sunday bringing their kayaks and after paddling to our hearts’ content, we had dinner at a restaurant with tables right on the beach so that we could feel the cool sand under our bare feet while we ate. Monday we stopped in to see Diana Loeffler in East Greenwich and brought her to have lunch by the water. Newport was on the agenda for Tuesday. Paul spent the day with Fred while Jo-Anne and I dined at Castle Hill and followed that up with pedicures in town.

The next evening we were reunited with Gary whom we hadn’t seen since 1984. Fresh from his London film award, he was as fit and funny as ever. Paul and I extracted his promise to come to Harpers Ferry before long.

The next few days were filled with hurricane warnings. Predictions were dire and we envisioned Earl barreling up the coast (it never happened) and wiping out homes and boardwalks. Paul eventually prepared our rental for the worst, taping up windows and garaging the porch furniture. We changed our plan from a Friday house party to a communal dinner at Twin Oaks. And although the storm petered out, the alternate plan was a great one.

Gathering after so many years – more than 40 years of friendship - we were chatty and energized. We were also grayer, more lined and worn by the decades. We caught up on kids and grandkids, parents and friends who have passed, ways we are spending –or hoping to spend- retirement. Everyone looked so good. That used to mean something different. Lookin’ good was wearing those sexy high heels or the new lipstick or, for the guys, the black turtleneck and jeans. Now the turtle’s neck is a permanent part of each of us. Looking good means looking pretty healthy and bearing a fair resemblance to how we used to look. We all recognized each other!

We also recognized the humor, the political insight and all the Rhode Island-isms. The waiter asked, “Hower ya doin’?” with the unique Cranston accent and we knew exactly where we were. There is so much in common – RI College, politics, memories of social service jobs and – of course – Volkswagens. Karen, Bill, Carole, Al, Rick, Martha, Mary and John all with generous hearts and kind words, we revelled in their company. Dinner was followed by a cabaret of sorts at the airport hotel where we resurrected the 60’s in song (shedding a few tears in the process) and pushed through the lyrics of a few show tunes as well. It was a lovely time. And even though we are in our 7th decade, it’s not too late to start an annual tradition.

OUR SUMMER SO FAR

In Italia

It’s really impossible to talk about a trip to Italy. You must go and experience it. The daily life is so different from what we know in the U.S., that words can’t do it justice. I could go on and on about the art and architecture, the food, the fashion, the antiquity that coexists with contemporary living. But you wouldn’t feel the charm and the pace. It’s easier to talk about what we brought back home.

· We live in a Protestant country. We never fully realized that before. This is a country where we are conditioned to be cautious and careful – not to eat or drink what we really want, not to dance or sing on the street, not to be too flashy with our wardrobe choices… too sinful. In Italy, everything has color, aroma and sounds. The church bells in Venice don’t ring modestly on the hour, they peal for twenty minutes – churches all over the city, at different pitches and tones. Italy awakens all the senses.

· And reason doesn’t trump joy. In Rome, they checked us into our plane by “zones”, led us down a jet-way to a bus where they mixed us all up again. Then they drove us to the plane and had us enter via two staircases so that we all had to fight an oncoming stream of passengers to find our seats. Crazy – but it was Italy. Just as crazy and more wonderful was the spontaneous street opera in Venice. The young company of Don Giovanni had just finished for the night and sat on the opera house steps to enjoy a glass of Campari and soda before heading home. Paul chatted with a few of them, requesting just one song and they then sang aria after aria, drawing a crowd of about 200 from all the nearby bars and trattorias. On other nights, we danced under the stars, took the clichéd gondola ride (which turned out to be really beautiful) and stayed out very, very late in the piazzas talking to strangers with whom, as it turned out, we had almost everything in common.

· The “big guys” are not necessarily the greatest artists. Michelangelo’s Last Judgment left us cold. Donatello’s David was far more interesting than Michelangelo’s and a painting in the same Uffizi room with “big Mick”, the Visitation by Albertinelli, took our breath away. It got us thinking how the category of the “greatest” creates an absurd ranking of artists at every level. It’s so American.

· The Vatican is scary. Not the beautiful architecture and collections but the compound itself. St Peter’s Basilica speaks of empire and power, whereas so many of the smaller churches conveyed a sense of sacred space and reverence. And our walk through the hushed passages beneath St Peter’s where so many late popes are entombed was more memorable than the tour of what’s built over it.

· Make the trip. Then take another trip. It’s so easy to tell yourself there’s not enough money or time. There never is. And there’s never a perfect time to start a family. And falling in love is messy and fraught with danger. All the best parts of life challenge us and once we give over to them, we’re so much happier and truly alive. For three days after we returned, we were sure we wouldn’t do a trip like this again. All the walking, “boomer” back and knee pain, sweaty planes with sneezy passengers – no way.

And then, on the fourth day, we pulled out the brochures on France.

The Sticky Poem and the Crumbly Cake

Thursday was a weird day. It actually started Wednesday night when I baked a chocolate cake – the one from an old recipe a Providence coworker had given me that is topped with nuts and chocolate chips and is usually moist and delicious. It was in the oven when Diana called and I was so into talking with her at length about everything from lipstick to algorithms, that I lost track of the time. When I took it out it looked fine but I had a sense it was overbaked. I decided to bring it to work anyway and let the (chocolate) chips fall where they may.

I packed the cake up very carefully and carried it safely to the train and to the Metro and through the security scanner in my building. There was a lunch in honor of my coworker Carolyn who transferred to another branch on Friday and this cake was on the menu. Luckily, there were assorted cookies and brownies as well because when I cut into said cake, it had no cohesive properties whatsoever. It was pretty amazing have quickly it became a million crumbs. This was a particularly humbling experience since I had stated vehemently the day before that I would never use a cake mix and always baked from scratch. That‘s exactly what it looked like….cake scratchings. It tasted good but had few takers. I brought 80% of it back home on said train and delighted Paul with its return. He loved it! He comforted me as usual by saying “There’s nothing wrong with this. It’s great!” This was the same very dear husband who last weekend when I used a new box of hair color that was supposed to be reddish brown and my hair turned out black said to me – with a straight face, “Looks great!”. You gotta love this man!

Meanwhile, back to Thursday. When I checked my emails in the morning, Diana had sent me a beautiful poem about spring by Richard Wilbur. I did a copy and paste so I could print it out but for some reason, it didn’t paste. I tried it two or three times without success.

Later that afternoon, I was sending out group emails to my grantees telling them about a change in project officers and introducing their new contacts. One grantee responded and I noted that my email to her, which was attached, had the POEM hanging off it at the end like flypaper! It was repeated several times. The poem had a biblical title and so it looked like some religious fanatic had taken over my Federal government role and was promoting the King James!

I checked my sent emails and saw no sign of the poem so called IT to come and investigate what was going on. At the same time I sent new emails to all my grantees asking them to disregard any emails they received with poetic appendages. (One sweet man from South Dakota responded saying “I didn’t get the poem. Can you send it to me?)

Thursday was pretty embarrassing but also yielded benefits. I learned not to brag about my baking, Paul gained almost a whole cake and now you, too, can read this poem.

Ecclesiastes 11:1

We must cast our bread

Upon the waters, as the

Ancient preacher said,

Trusting that it may

Amply be restored to us

After many a day.

That old metaphor,

Drawn from rice farming on the

River’s flooded shore,

Helps us to believe

That it’s no great sin to give,

Hoping to receive.

Therefore I shall throw

Broken bread, this sullen day,

Out across the snow,

Betting crust and crumb

That birds will gather, and that

One more spring will come.