His family moved to Cambridge when we did. His mom was one of the first women I met. She was immediately friendly, a hands on hugger. We socialized as couples and our fifth grade sons became friends. Jim with his toothy smile and gangly gait had manners and charm. Was it his midwestern roots or was it his upbringing? His older sister always looked out for him; I imagine she still tries, but now he ventures very far from home to war zones where no one can protect him.
On September 11th, Jim was a college senior who was riveted by the attacks on our country and galvanized to somehow serve. After graduation and basic training, he was battle ready. Last April when his dad, a Vietnam vet, told me that his son was in Fallujah, I was speechless. He couldn’t have been in a more dangerous place; I knew that father and son were the best of friends. This was certainly one of his dad’s worst nightmares. When word came a few weeks later that Jim had been wounded, I caught my breath as I wondered how bad it could be. I phoned his mom who sounded upbeat. His wounds weren’t critical and even though he was languishing in a fly-infested Baghdad hospital, maybe now he’d get to come home.
Eventually he did get to come home. His shrapnel wounds began to heal, as did his ear that was now missing a piece. He would earn a Purple Heart. Yet he always said that there was still a job to complete. So when his mom called recently with an impromptu Sunday invitation: “Can you guys come over for a drink and a hug?” …I wasn’t surprised. It was Jim’s last weekend at home as he is being deployed imminently. He looks dashing in his lieutenant’s hat and is resolute that he has more work to do. He is in charge of a battalion of sixteen men. Their two tanks and four humvees have already been shipped ahead. He towered over me as I hugged him goodbye. Everyday, I will say a prayer for his safety and the safe return of all of his men.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Young Women in a War Zone
on the banks
I was at the eye doctor yesterday...time to check that five year-old prescription. In the waiting room was a copy of US News and World Report...an October 2004 issue, pre-election when we still thought it possible that enough people would wake up and vote for change. There's an interesting article about what it's like to be an urban teenager in Iraq, specifically a female adolescent. Any notion that US forces would bring them a better way of life has been disspelled as they live in a war zone where it's not safe to go to school, to socialize with friends, to leave the house for that matter. Many sleep much of the day in between watching reruns of American sitcoms. If they leave their homes, they are heavily robed and veiled. Parents worry about kidnapping, rape, murder. They vigilantly protect the safety and honor of their daughters. One young woman chillingly commented that she can understand how this extreme frustration and desolation leads to females her age becoming suicide bombers. How unbelievably frightening for all of them, for all of us.
I was at the eye doctor yesterday...time to check that five year-old prescription. In the waiting room was a copy of US News and World Report...an October 2004 issue, pre-election when we still thought it possible that enough people would wake up and vote for change. There's an interesting article about what it's like to be an urban teenager in Iraq, specifically a female adolescent. Any notion that US forces would bring them a better way of life has been disspelled as they live in a war zone where it's not safe to go to school, to socialize with friends, to leave the house for that matter. Many sleep much of the day in between watching reruns of American sitcoms. If they leave their homes, they are heavily robed and veiled. Parents worry about kidnapping, rape, murder. They vigilantly protect the safety and honor of their daughters. One young woman chillingly commented that she can understand how this extreme frustration and desolation leads to females her age becoming suicide bombers. How unbelievably frightening for all of them, for all of us.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Reflecting on the Lost Election
Kerry’s loss may not have felt so devastating if those early exit polls hadn’t been so strongly in his favor. My superstitious inclination warned me not to believe that it was a done deal, but it certainly was easy to feel a little gleeful. My husband and I were emotionally involved in this campaign, not just because we had given personal funds and raised significant money. We agreed with Kerry’s agenda, and the values of honesty and service that he represented. We also knew Kerry personally, had attended small dinners with him, and contributed to his early Senate runs. Now as he ran for President, he would acknowledge my husband if he spotted him in a crowd and bother to hug me if I was up front in a rope line. This was heady stuff, and as close as we would ever be to someone with serious political power.
People often commented that they didn’t like Kerry, but they would vote against Bush. I suspect that they weren’t drawn to the Senator because they found him to be stiff. They complained that he spoke as though programmed; his wife’s blunt views sometimes made them cringe. Relating with female voters was so important, yet when Heinz Kerry said that Laura Bush had never held a “real” job, she was questioning anyone who had chosen to be a stay-at-home mom. I’ve talked with Teresa one-on-one, and found her to be articulate and vulnerable as she explained how tough it’s been to be pilloried in the press. It’s unfortunate that neither the press nor the public is ready for outspoken, intelligent women.
His wife’s verbal miscues certainly don’t explain Kerry’s defeat but they do illustrate that in this age of reality TV, media frenzy, and sound bites, it’s more important than ever to connect with people, to be that warm and effervescent presence. At the Democratic Convention and on the campaign trail, Kerry’s daughters successfully humanized their dad. His “band of brothers” were also important advocates. But the man himself was at his best in his Faneuil Hall concession speech when he looked out at the audience, choked back his tears, and spoke from his heart.
The winning numbers across this country reflect the many Americans who voted Republican because they were concerned about moral values as in gay marriage and late term abortion. It amuses me that this administration’s supporters pride themselves on holding the moral compass because true family values include feeding and sheltering the hungry, educating our children, providing adequate child care support for parents working outside the home, medical coverage for all, making sure that women have access to abortion so they don’t have to leave themselves open to being maimed or worse, and protecting the civil rights of all as in same sex couples who are currently treated as second class citizens.
I could go on with my rant, but I’d rather look on the positive side. My children as well as my nieces and nephews and countless friends’ kids, were riveted by the 2004 election. They paid attention, and discussed sobering issues such as how Bush’s flawed international policy threatens our national security by inciting would-be terrorists. Young people held registration drives, knocked on doors, and voted. While they were amazed by the number of “red” states, incredulous that so many people voted for Bush/Cheney, and disappointed with the outcome, I hope they’ll continue to be involved. We owe it to them to keep working for change, because this is the legacy we are leaving them and future generations. We should also remember that 55 million people voted for Kerry/Edwards.
There are many reasons for speaking out but one in particular is critical right now. The President’s proposed appointment of Dr. Hager to chair the FDA’s Reproductive Health Drugs Advisory Committee is a scary possibility as this group is charged with making pivotal decisions regarding drugs used in obstetrics and gynecology. As the author of “As Jesus Cared for Women: Restoring Women Then and Now”, Dr. Hager is pro-life and won’t prescribe contraceptives for unmarried women. He uses his religious belief that Christ is the healer of women as part of his medical practice, and has written in his book for example, that women complaining of premenstrual syndrome should find solace in prayer and reading the Bible. The danger in Dr. Hager’s appointment would be that this blending of politics and religion could drastically compromise women’s rights. Here is a prime example of why we need to remain vigilant by writing letters to the White House, letters to the editor and commentary pieces. The more we e-mail: president@whitehouse.gov, the more we keep on making our opinions known.
People often commented that they didn’t like Kerry, but they would vote against Bush. I suspect that they weren’t drawn to the Senator because they found him to be stiff. They complained that he spoke as though programmed; his wife’s blunt views sometimes made them cringe. Relating with female voters was so important, yet when Heinz Kerry said that Laura Bush had never held a “real” job, she was questioning anyone who had chosen to be a stay-at-home mom. I’ve talked with Teresa one-on-one, and found her to be articulate and vulnerable as she explained how tough it’s been to be pilloried in the press. It’s unfortunate that neither the press nor the public is ready for outspoken, intelligent women.
His wife’s verbal miscues certainly don’t explain Kerry’s defeat but they do illustrate that in this age of reality TV, media frenzy, and sound bites, it’s more important than ever to connect with people, to be that warm and effervescent presence. At the Democratic Convention and on the campaign trail, Kerry’s daughters successfully humanized their dad. His “band of brothers” were also important advocates. But the man himself was at his best in his Faneuil Hall concession speech when he looked out at the audience, choked back his tears, and spoke from his heart.
The winning numbers across this country reflect the many Americans who voted Republican because they were concerned about moral values as in gay marriage and late term abortion. It amuses me that this administration’s supporters pride themselves on holding the moral compass because true family values include feeding and sheltering the hungry, educating our children, providing adequate child care support for parents working outside the home, medical coverage for all, making sure that women have access to abortion so they don’t have to leave themselves open to being maimed or worse, and protecting the civil rights of all as in same sex couples who are currently treated as second class citizens.
I could go on with my rant, but I’d rather look on the positive side. My children as well as my nieces and nephews and countless friends’ kids, were riveted by the 2004 election. They paid attention, and discussed sobering issues such as how Bush’s flawed international policy threatens our national security by inciting would-be terrorists. Young people held registration drives, knocked on doors, and voted. While they were amazed by the number of “red” states, incredulous that so many people voted for Bush/Cheney, and disappointed with the outcome, I hope they’ll continue to be involved. We owe it to them to keep working for change, because this is the legacy we are leaving them and future generations. We should also remember that 55 million people voted for Kerry/Edwards.
There are many reasons for speaking out but one in particular is critical right now. The President’s proposed appointment of Dr. Hager to chair the FDA’s Reproductive Health Drugs Advisory Committee is a scary possibility as this group is charged with making pivotal decisions regarding drugs used in obstetrics and gynecology. As the author of “As Jesus Cared for Women: Restoring Women Then and Now”, Dr. Hager is pro-life and won’t prescribe contraceptives for unmarried women. He uses his religious belief that Christ is the healer of women as part of his medical practice, and has written in his book for example, that women complaining of premenstrual syndrome should find solace in prayer and reading the Bible. The danger in Dr. Hager’s appointment would be that this blending of politics and religion could drastically compromise women’s rights. Here is a prime example of why we need to remain vigilant by writing letters to the White House, letters to the editor and commentary pieces. The more we e-mail: president@whitehouse.gov, the more we keep on making our opinions known.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Marfa Impressions
I keep reminding friends, relatives, and anyone who will listen that this is a big country with huge variations from east to west, and north to south. I had never been to Texas but was certainly prepared for the accents, the boots, the big hair and magenta lipstick, and the cowboy hats. But beyond the obvious, there is much more in terms of graciousness and hospitality, manners that are too often missing in the northeast.
Marfa, Texas is on the western edge of the state not far from the Mexican border and the Rio Grande. In fact, at one time this territory was part of Mexico. This town was the set for George Stevens’ 1955 film “Giant” which starred Rock Hudson, Elizabeth Taylor, and James Dean. The shooting of this movie has to have been a highlight for Marfa as the Hotel Paisano in the center of town has a restaurant called “Jett’s Grill”, certainly a nod to Dean’s character, Jett Rink. While the movie setting is a desolate and arid dustbowl, I found this land to be dotted with sage and pinon pines. Locals commented that this year’s unusual rain has kept the landscape especially verdant. We traveled to Marfa at the urging of my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, neither of whom has sent us astray in terms of vacations. They had loved Cibolo Creek Ranch where they had stayed while they explored the nearby Chinati Foundation, a modern art museum that is unlike any traditional concept you might have about a museum.
Thirty years ago, artist Donald Judd discovered Marfa and the neighboring abandoned army barracks, a property that lent itself to vast spaces housing huge pieces of contemporary art. During the past several decades, this property has become somewhat of a mecca for art aficionados, artists-in-residence, interns learning to be docents, and those who generally appreciate works of art which adapt themselves to a series of buildings as well as buildings which adapt themselves to the pieces displayed within them. Here you can view Chamberlain’s crushed metal pieces, Wesley’s pop paintings, Price’s clay sculpture, Horn’s polished copper forms, Flavin’s fluorescent lights, and Judd’s concrete and mill aluminum boxes. Judd chose this particular kind of aluminum because it is a material that shines and reflects the environment just as his outdoor concrete boxes frame scenes of the tall grasses with the Chinati and Cienaga Mountains beyond.
The Chinati Foundation is named for the mountain range, which forms the backdrop for Cibolo Creek Ranch, an authentically restored hacienda that is reminiscent of the old west. From Marfa, Cibolo is about a 45-minute drive west on route 67. On our first afternoon, we hiked for an hour to an impressive waterfall. Part of the allure of this ranch land for those who settled it long ago was the natural water source and the ability to trap and conserve water. We quickly realized that if we wanted to get a true sense of these 32,000 acres scattered with prickly pear cacti and tumbleweeds, we would have to get on horseback and ride along riverbeds, up steep stone trails, and along hilly ridges. In the distance were long-horned cattle, antelope, and even a blue-tailed fox. Below me in the thicket, I could see centipedes, horned toads, and even tarantulas (!).
This being only my third time on a horse, I was jittery but the young wrangler, Elmer, inspired confidence as he gently explained what to do. Once when my horse, Rico, took off uphill and I feared galloping of into the “wild blue yonder”, I pulled back hard on the reins and shouted “whoa!” Rico actually stopped; Elmer rode up beside me and calmly nodded his approval.
Riding wasn’t the only activity that put me on edge. This being an extremely divisive political season, I was concerned that the meals served family style would encourage heated arguments. After all, we were in the president’s home state, so I assumed that the predominantly Texas guests would be his serious supporters. I was surprised to find not only democrats among them, but republicans who had decidedly mixed feelings about Bush, Cheney, and their crew. The discussions were thoughtful, occasionally heated, but never rude. Here it seemed possible for people to be carefully articulate whether or not they agreed with one another.
Marfa, Texas is on the western edge of the state not far from the Mexican border and the Rio Grande. In fact, at one time this territory was part of Mexico. This town was the set for George Stevens’ 1955 film “Giant” which starred Rock Hudson, Elizabeth Taylor, and James Dean. The shooting of this movie has to have been a highlight for Marfa as the Hotel Paisano in the center of town has a restaurant called “Jett’s Grill”, certainly a nod to Dean’s character, Jett Rink. While the movie setting is a desolate and arid dustbowl, I found this land to be dotted with sage and pinon pines. Locals commented that this year’s unusual rain has kept the landscape especially verdant. We traveled to Marfa at the urging of my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, neither of whom has sent us astray in terms of vacations. They had loved Cibolo Creek Ranch where they had stayed while they explored the nearby Chinati Foundation, a modern art museum that is unlike any traditional concept you might have about a museum.
Thirty years ago, artist Donald Judd discovered Marfa and the neighboring abandoned army barracks, a property that lent itself to vast spaces housing huge pieces of contemporary art. During the past several decades, this property has become somewhat of a mecca for art aficionados, artists-in-residence, interns learning to be docents, and those who generally appreciate works of art which adapt themselves to a series of buildings as well as buildings which adapt themselves to the pieces displayed within them. Here you can view Chamberlain’s crushed metal pieces, Wesley’s pop paintings, Price’s clay sculpture, Horn’s polished copper forms, Flavin’s fluorescent lights, and Judd’s concrete and mill aluminum boxes. Judd chose this particular kind of aluminum because it is a material that shines and reflects the environment just as his outdoor concrete boxes frame scenes of the tall grasses with the Chinati and Cienaga Mountains beyond.
The Chinati Foundation is named for the mountain range, which forms the backdrop for Cibolo Creek Ranch, an authentically restored hacienda that is reminiscent of the old west. From Marfa, Cibolo is about a 45-minute drive west on route 67. On our first afternoon, we hiked for an hour to an impressive waterfall. Part of the allure of this ranch land for those who settled it long ago was the natural water source and the ability to trap and conserve water. We quickly realized that if we wanted to get a true sense of these 32,000 acres scattered with prickly pear cacti and tumbleweeds, we would have to get on horseback and ride along riverbeds, up steep stone trails, and along hilly ridges. In the distance were long-horned cattle, antelope, and even a blue-tailed fox. Below me in the thicket, I could see centipedes, horned toads, and even tarantulas (!).
This being only my third time on a horse, I was jittery but the young wrangler, Elmer, inspired confidence as he gently explained what to do. Once when my horse, Rico, took off uphill and I feared galloping of into the “wild blue yonder”, I pulled back hard on the reins and shouted “whoa!” Rico actually stopped; Elmer rode up beside me and calmly nodded his approval.
Riding wasn’t the only activity that put me on edge. This being an extremely divisive political season, I was concerned that the meals served family style would encourage heated arguments. After all, we were in the president’s home state, so I assumed that the predominantly Texas guests would be his serious supporters. I was surprised to find not only democrats among them, but republicans who had decidedly mixed feelings about Bush, Cheney, and their crew. The discussions were thoughtful, occasionally heated, but never rude. Here it seemed possible for people to be carefully articulate whether or not they agreed with one another.
Friday, October 01, 2004
First Debate
Obviously a Kerry supporter, I have read editorials across the country this morning, written letters to editors and taken online polls. We live in a time when the packaging of the message can be so effective in swaying how people think. I feared that the Republican machine would insert itself in its famously insipid way and convince us all that the President was the winner last night. Guess what! In his baggy suit, Mr. Bush gripped his lecturn while he shifted from right foot to left foot and made silly facial expressions. He referred often to his "hard work" and his being the best to lead, but was short on facts as Senator Kerry literally stood firmly, dressed sharply, and kept a relaxed demeanor throughout the 90 minute debate while he kept hammering away at the facts. Although our president has often derided his opponent on the campaign trail, Senator Kerry showed himself to be the candidate with a statemanslike command of the information right in front of us and the international experience to truely elevate our stature in the world and build coaltions with other nations. In the end, this is what is so vital to our national security.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Clothing Exchange Reopens
After surviving four floods and being closed for nearly nine months, the Children’s Closing Exchange is reopening in its original location at 56 Magazine Street. Located in the basement of Grace United Methodist Church on the corner of Perry Street and Magazine, visitors are once again greeted with gaily-painted wall murals, shelves of pastel-colored sneakers, and racks of barely worn party dresses. Harvard students as well as other community volunteers have been working hard sorting clothing, refinishing furniture, and cleaning out a space that has been ravaged by the elements.
On Wednesday, September 8th I had a chance to sit down with Sonya Darcy, manager of the Clothing Exchange. Sonya exclaimed that ever since the phone had been connected a few days earlier, there have been at least 50 or 60 phone calls. People have clearly missed this valuable community service. Not only have parents been able to find clothing for their children from newborns to sixteen year-olds, but also mothers have chosen outfits they can wear to job interviews. Baby equipment, toys, and books are available too. A memo board provides an easy way for people to display any announcements or events they want to publicize. Families from throughout New England travel to the Clothing Exchange, as the merchandise is free and known to be in excellent condition. Customers are encouraged to either trade their good quality items for other good quality items or to volunteer their time. Many mothers have used this venue to meet other young women.
This bustling center of community activity has been part of Solutions at Work, a Cambridge-based organization that transitions adults out of homelessness to work and stability. Founded in 1989 by a group of formerly homeless people led by Macy DeLong, Solutions has helped thousands of people move into permanent housing, learn job skills, and how to budget their expenses. The Clothing Exchange has been one of Solutions’ original service areas and Sonya has been manager for many years. As she explained to me, Solutions has helped her secure a regular job while juggling her child care needs. Sonya, in turn, has created both a carefully organized business and a valuable meeting place for parents.
Sonya would like the public to know that after its grand reopening on September 11th, the Children’s Clothing Exchange will be open Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays from 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Clean, ready-to-wear clothing for children from infants to teenagers as well as items for women to wear in the workplace are welcome for donations. Baby equipment such as car seats, carriages and strollers are needed. Books and toys are great not just for taking home, but also for occupying kids while their parents shop.
Prospective volunteers can phone: 617-576-0039 and ask for the manager.
Sonya’s wish list is as follows:
New winter hats
New socks
New kids’ underwear
New arts and crafts materials
Of course, financial support in any amount is helpful.
On Wednesday, September 8th I had a chance to sit down with Sonya Darcy, manager of the Clothing Exchange. Sonya exclaimed that ever since the phone had been connected a few days earlier, there have been at least 50 or 60 phone calls. People have clearly missed this valuable community service. Not only have parents been able to find clothing for their children from newborns to sixteen year-olds, but also mothers have chosen outfits they can wear to job interviews. Baby equipment, toys, and books are available too. A memo board provides an easy way for people to display any announcements or events they want to publicize. Families from throughout New England travel to the Clothing Exchange, as the merchandise is free and known to be in excellent condition. Customers are encouraged to either trade their good quality items for other good quality items or to volunteer their time. Many mothers have used this venue to meet other young women.
This bustling center of community activity has been part of Solutions at Work, a Cambridge-based organization that transitions adults out of homelessness to work and stability. Founded in 1989 by a group of formerly homeless people led by Macy DeLong, Solutions has helped thousands of people move into permanent housing, learn job skills, and how to budget their expenses. The Clothing Exchange has been one of Solutions’ original service areas and Sonya has been manager for many years. As she explained to me, Solutions has helped her secure a regular job while juggling her child care needs. Sonya, in turn, has created both a carefully organized business and a valuable meeting place for parents.
Sonya would like the public to know that after its grand reopening on September 11th, the Children’s Clothing Exchange will be open Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays from 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Clean, ready-to-wear clothing for children from infants to teenagers as well as items for women to wear in the workplace are welcome for donations. Baby equipment such as car seats, carriages and strollers are needed. Books and toys are great not just for taking home, but also for occupying kids while their parents shop.
Prospective volunteers can phone: 617-576-0039 and ask for the manager.
Sonya’s wish list is as follows:
New winter hats
New socks
New kids’ underwear
New arts and crafts materials
Of course, financial support in any amount is helpful.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
Back to school
I remember several years ago when I first dropped my daughter off at the overnight camp bus. I wore large sunglasses to camouflage the tears that were certain to pour down my face. Imagine my surprise when the bus pulled away, and moms and dads began to applaud, cheer, and actually skip to their cars. I was amazed. Certainly I've always yearned for adult time with my husband, wanted to stand in the doorway and gaze at a teenager's bedroom that could double for a "pottery barn" ad. You know what I mean: pressed sheets pulled tight, comforter spread nicely on top of the mattress, pillows plumped in their shams, coordinating shades drawn just so, books lined up carefully on shelves, dirty clothes in the hamper, CD's arranged in their towering holder. The truth is far from this scene. In reality, wet towels are tossed over the floor, sweaty t-shirts lie in heaps, as books, papers and discs rest here and there. The bed is definitely rarely made and the shades hang at crooked, almost jaunty angles. As I pulled onto my son's college campus last weekend, I felt like I was part of a wagon train. Station wagons and SUV's were filled to overflowing with music systems, book shelves, computers, duffles, bikes, and bedding. Every once in awhile I would see a mom or a dad stranded on a street corner, sitting on top of a pile of blankets and throw pillows. Perhaps the vehicle had already been unloaded, parked, and the move of all the stuff needing to go into that tiny dorm room was in process. I've had lots of seasons of moving kids here and there, but this passage, the one in September when summer ends and we're rolling into fall, always seems bittersweet. Yes, he is where he should be and I do need stretches of quiet time in my study to discipline myself to focus and write. But that quiet is so palpable. No other cell phone is ringing, no other music is playing, and no extra car keys are strewn across the kitchen counter. His bedroom looks like the shrine of a high school boy and yes, it does finally look like it could be a page out of a catalogue.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Serendipitous Meeting
Last November, my husband and I signed up for a group tour of Cuba, the only legal way to go at that time. We grabbed the opportunity, knowing that the writing was already on the wall that such tours to study architecture and design would become extinct by January 2004. Just another repressive gem from our current administration. Hearing that I was headed for Havana, my brother said: "You must read OUR MAN IN HAVANA by Graham Greene. The comedic premise of this book is an Englishman living in Havana in the '50's with his teenage daughter. He is a vacuum cleaner salesman, divorced, and trying desperately to provide his child with all of the material things that she desires. But in '50's Havana, a fast lifestyle included private clubs, riding lessons, and fancy clothes. The Englishman needed to find a way to supplement his salary. Slowly but surely, someone begins to approach him to become a spy. A man slinks around in the shadows; notes appear mysteriously.
On our first night in our Havana hotel, my husband and I returned to our room after dinner only to find a note under our door: "Betsy, Call Pamela." Now we knew nobody in Cuba and couldn't imagine how this message had come out of nowhere. It was also strangely mimicking the story I was reading. All of a sudden I was nervous, even shaking, but incredibly curious. I convinced my husband to make the call. It turned out that Pamela is an American married to a Cuban artist. She knew an American Betsy who would be staying at our hotel that week, but couldn't remember her last name. The hotel operator said: "Yes, we have an American Betsy" and put her through to our room. Pamela was immediately open and friendly on the phone. We said we were obviously the wrong Betsy, but could we get together? We wanted very much to see her husband's work.
The next evening, we hopped into a cab and gave the driver an address. As he drove further and further away from our hotel, we asked if he would wait for us while we visited. He communicated that this was not possible. Finally he stopped in front of a building and gestured that this was our destination. We walked through a front gate, along a short gravelly path, and pulled hard on the door knocker. Inside on the first floor, we could hear dogs barking and Spanish chatter. The scent of onions frying was strong. A slim young man, hair pulled back in a ponytail, sneakers on his feet, and a wide smile on his face opened the door and led us upstairs to his apartment above. This was Pamela's husband, Damian, who greeted us as though we had always known him. In fact, the warm embrace of this couple was infectious. They immediately offered us rum drinks and then insisted that we join them for dinner at their friends' "palador". In Cuba, citizens are allowed to have small restaurants within their homes as long as they serve what they're cooking for their own families, employ relatives, and keep the operation on a moderate scale. It's one of the few ways of being entrepreneurial in that country.
Every once in a while in life, there are serendipitous meetings. This was one of those moments. We ate and drank with this couple long into the night, and continued to see them on subsequent evenings. For us, they filled out a bus tour experience that would have been two-dimensional. For them, we were voices from the outside who could convey information and impressions. We also just clicked as people. We continue to e-mail as I worry each time I read news of hurricanes or blackouts caused by serious energy shortages. I work hard fundraising, writing articles and letters as I hope that a change in our administration will open the door to Cuba at least a crack before our embargo and their lack of access to medicines and other basic needs becomes a humanitarian crisis. The US spreads it resources far and wide while it shuns a neighbor 90 miles from Florida. And selfishly, I want to be able to visit our new friends.
Originally a painter, Damian's current work involves metal men which he carves from found objects like refigerators and car parts. Sometimes he uses the men to create giant sculptures which he installs on walls. Sometimes he lets some of these men rust and leave their decaying impressions on canvas. Havana's buildings are decaying from neglect and lack of attention, but there is a strength in their young people whose music and dancing spills out into the streets.
On our first night in our Havana hotel, my husband and I returned to our room after dinner only to find a note under our door: "Betsy, Call Pamela." Now we knew nobody in Cuba and couldn't imagine how this message had come out of nowhere. It was also strangely mimicking the story I was reading. All of a sudden I was nervous, even shaking, but incredibly curious. I convinced my husband to make the call. It turned out that Pamela is an American married to a Cuban artist. She knew an American Betsy who would be staying at our hotel that week, but couldn't remember her last name. The hotel operator said: "Yes, we have an American Betsy" and put her through to our room. Pamela was immediately open and friendly on the phone. We said we were obviously the wrong Betsy, but could we get together? We wanted very much to see her husband's work.
The next evening, we hopped into a cab and gave the driver an address. As he drove further and further away from our hotel, we asked if he would wait for us while we visited. He communicated that this was not possible. Finally he stopped in front of a building and gestured that this was our destination. We walked through a front gate, along a short gravelly path, and pulled hard on the door knocker. Inside on the first floor, we could hear dogs barking and Spanish chatter. The scent of onions frying was strong. A slim young man, hair pulled back in a ponytail, sneakers on his feet, and a wide smile on his face opened the door and led us upstairs to his apartment above. This was Pamela's husband, Damian, who greeted us as though we had always known him. In fact, the warm embrace of this couple was infectious. They immediately offered us rum drinks and then insisted that we join them for dinner at their friends' "palador". In Cuba, citizens are allowed to have small restaurants within their homes as long as they serve what they're cooking for their own families, employ relatives, and keep the operation on a moderate scale. It's one of the few ways of being entrepreneurial in that country.
Every once in a while in life, there are serendipitous meetings. This was one of those moments. We ate and drank with this couple long into the night, and continued to see them on subsequent evenings. For us, they filled out a bus tour experience that would have been two-dimensional. For them, we were voices from the outside who could convey information and impressions. We also just clicked as people. We continue to e-mail as I worry each time I read news of hurricanes or blackouts caused by serious energy shortages. I work hard fundraising, writing articles and letters as I hope that a change in our administration will open the door to Cuba at least a crack before our embargo and their lack of access to medicines and other basic needs becomes a humanitarian crisis. The US spreads it resources far and wide while it shuns a neighbor 90 miles from Florida. And selfishly, I want to be able to visit our new friends.
Originally a painter, Damian's current work involves metal men which he carves from found objects like refigerators and car parts. Sometimes he uses the men to create giant sculptures which he installs on walls. Sometimes he lets some of these men rust and leave their decaying impressions on canvas. Havana's buildings are decaying from neglect and lack of attention, but there is a strength in their young people whose music and dancing spills out into the streets.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Ramler Park
I remember visiting the proposed site for Ramler Park several years ago. This vacant lot on Peterborough Street just a few blocks off of Park Drive in Boston was a derelict piece of property. It featured overgrown crab grass, broken glass, a tangle of weeds, and flattened beer cans. After the Ramler family who had operated a business in this Fenway neighborhood for many years generously donated the land, a group of community activists worked hard to raise the needed funds to create an urban oasis. At the grand opening this past Tuesday, a classical trio serenaded the arriving public while local merchants provided cold drinks. Lush gardens complete with a fountain, crushed stone walkways, inviting benches and a pergola for shade await those who will enjoy this city green space for years to come. I find that more and more I cannot read the daily newspaper or watch the nightly news because my mind cannot tolerate any more stories about abused children, murdered wives, and random drive by shootings. Here is a story that should have been front and center as a positve and refreshing model of an individual family's creative vision coupled with able and enthusiastic volunteers who successfully realized their mission to design an area where multi-generational groups can gather and enjoy each season outdoors in a blooming, welcoming spot.
The Little White Bowl...
The Little White Bowl…
The shards of porcelain lay in shreds around my bare feet. I stepped over them nimbly to search for my clogs in the back hall, and grab a dustpan and broom from the pantry closet. I had mistakenly thought that a hardwood kitchen floor would cushion most wayward objects. That little white bowl had just slipped from my hands. It hadn't even fallen very far. Certainly it didn't have much monetary value, just broad sentimental memories. With its handle on one side and its spout for pouring on the other, it was the perfect baking accouterment for my grandmother. How many times had I precariously perched myself on a high stool to watch her mix and knead? Enough times that even forty-five years later, the scene is imprinted on my brain.
My grandmother's Dorchester kitchen was laid out long before the days of streamlined Formica counters and cabinets latched to hide clutter and dust. Her kitchen was a melange of open shelves filled with canisters of nuts, brown sugar, and dates. Baking sheets and muffins tins came in assorted sizes, as did the tables in the center of the room with surfaces perfect for rolling dough and decorating cookies. School vacation days started early for me at her house because she always believed: "…early is the best time to cook…before the neighbors start phoning and the fruit and meat deliveries interrupt…".
The back door was never locked; its screen was hardly ever hooked shut. How else would the milkman have come right into the kitchen bearing a carton of eggs, pounds of butter and even the large curd cottage cheese that I liked best. At eight o'clock in the morning, I would still be sitting quietly in my flowered flannel nightgown while sipping milk flavored with Grandma's coffee as the milkman greeted me with merry surprise flushing his face. "What was I doing there?" He wondered aloud, and then I would laugh and explain that I was visiting for just a few days.
There was a warm comfort in Grandma's kitchen that emanated not just from her huge gas stove that she lit with a match, but from the trill of her voice as she brewed afternoon tea and shared a story with one of her many female friends who stopped by to see how smart and tall her granddaughter had grown. I could feel her pride in my ability to read big books, play Beethoven sonatas on her piano, and look pretty in a new velvet party dress trimmed with white lace. But could she foretell the future when I would reflect on the ease with which she prepared enormous holiday meals, entertained endless groups of people, and always showed a serenely happy face to the world? Would she have guessed that as an adult I would frequently slip into one of her handknit sweaters to warm myself during a dreary evening while I perused her cherished recipe cards, carefully written in her faded script.
Years later when I set up my own kitchen, she insisted that I take some of her molds for jello and bowls for mixing. At that point in time, she was no longer planning large-scale feasts as she had moved from her three-decker house to a small apartment with a kitchenette. Her molds and bowls have always had honored spots on my shelves as they help me remember her while I gather ingredients, measure, and marvel at how she did it all with even-tempered grace. With the loss of the little white bowl, my supply has dwindled to two cooking bowls, one green and one white, made of the same porcelain. I also have a wooden bowl and a chopper that Grandma used for dicing apples to make Passover charoset or for cutting up chicken livers to make a liver spread. Even though I have her French Limoges china plates, which are festive to use on special occasions, the mixing bowls become part of my daily routine.
Now that she's gone, I feel close to her when I pour my mandarin orange concoction into her star jello mold or mash potatoes and butter in her green bowl. Picturing her benevolent smile, I wish I could glue that little white bowl back together. Somehow she seems further away as I sweep the pieces into the trash. I almost feel bereft at its loss, knowing that I'll miss it the next time I'm pouring a sauce or preparing a pudding.
The shards of porcelain lay in shreds around my bare feet. I stepped over them nimbly to search for my clogs in the back hall, and grab a dustpan and broom from the pantry closet. I had mistakenly thought that a hardwood kitchen floor would cushion most wayward objects. That little white bowl had just slipped from my hands. It hadn't even fallen very far. Certainly it didn't have much monetary value, just broad sentimental memories. With its handle on one side and its spout for pouring on the other, it was the perfect baking accouterment for my grandmother. How many times had I precariously perched myself on a high stool to watch her mix and knead? Enough times that even forty-five years later, the scene is imprinted on my brain.
My grandmother's Dorchester kitchen was laid out long before the days of streamlined Formica counters and cabinets latched to hide clutter and dust. Her kitchen was a melange of open shelves filled with canisters of nuts, brown sugar, and dates. Baking sheets and muffins tins came in assorted sizes, as did the tables in the center of the room with surfaces perfect for rolling dough and decorating cookies. School vacation days started early for me at her house because she always believed: "…early is the best time to cook…before the neighbors start phoning and the fruit and meat deliveries interrupt…".
The back door was never locked; its screen was hardly ever hooked shut. How else would the milkman have come right into the kitchen bearing a carton of eggs, pounds of butter and even the large curd cottage cheese that I liked best. At eight o'clock in the morning, I would still be sitting quietly in my flowered flannel nightgown while sipping milk flavored with Grandma's coffee as the milkman greeted me with merry surprise flushing his face. "What was I doing there?" He wondered aloud, and then I would laugh and explain that I was visiting for just a few days.
There was a warm comfort in Grandma's kitchen that emanated not just from her huge gas stove that she lit with a match, but from the trill of her voice as she brewed afternoon tea and shared a story with one of her many female friends who stopped by to see how smart and tall her granddaughter had grown. I could feel her pride in my ability to read big books, play Beethoven sonatas on her piano, and look pretty in a new velvet party dress trimmed with white lace. But could she foretell the future when I would reflect on the ease with which she prepared enormous holiday meals, entertained endless groups of people, and always showed a serenely happy face to the world? Would she have guessed that as an adult I would frequently slip into one of her handknit sweaters to warm myself during a dreary evening while I perused her cherished recipe cards, carefully written in her faded script.
Years later when I set up my own kitchen, she insisted that I take some of her molds for jello and bowls for mixing. At that point in time, she was no longer planning large-scale feasts as she had moved from her three-decker house to a small apartment with a kitchenette. Her molds and bowls have always had honored spots on my shelves as they help me remember her while I gather ingredients, measure, and marvel at how she did it all with even-tempered grace. With the loss of the little white bowl, my supply has dwindled to two cooking bowls, one green and one white, made of the same porcelain. I also have a wooden bowl and a chopper that Grandma used for dicing apples to make Passover charoset or for cutting up chicken livers to make a liver spread. Even though I have her French Limoges china plates, which are festive to use on special occasions, the mixing bowls become part of my daily routine.
Now that she's gone, I feel close to her when I pour my mandarin orange concoction into her star jello mold or mash potatoes and butter in her green bowl. Picturing her benevolent smile, I wish I could glue that little white bowl back together. Somehow she seems further away as I sweep the pieces into the trash. I almost feel bereft at its loss, knowing that I'll miss it the next time I'm pouring a sauce or preparing a pudding.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Katman-Who?
We have close friends who will be visiting Nepal next January. They were just saying that they'd like to "pick my brain" since I travelled there nine years ago. Well, I do have serious thoughts as well as published travel essays and articles I could share. But what follows is the unedited truth about a journey to that country!
KATMAN-WHO?
One afternoon in the foothills of Nepal, a sign beckoned to me from half a mile away: “HOT SOUR-FIFTEEN RUPEES”. (Hot shower-about a quarter.) I hadn’t washed in five days and therefore scrambled as fast as I could, after slinging a sweaty tee shirt around my neck to use for a towel. It turned out that a Tibetan family were the proud owners of a solar powered shower. After climbing inside and removing my clothing, I was amazed to find the grandma hopping in with me. She gestured to the water spigot, evidently just wanting to check the temperature. “Did she scrub your back?” My daughter later inquired. “That’s the best part!”
When I told a friend that I was headed for Katmandu, he responded “Katman-who?”. But most people in my offbeat university town knew where I was going. After alI, I have neighbors who’ve escaped avalanches in the Himalayas. They know that Katmandu is Nepal’s capitol city where cows meander unscathed along the main boulevards, because they might be the reincarnation of someone’s ancestors. Crossing the street means dodging water buffalo, stray dogs and “tempos” ( tiny taxis which are boxes containing a bench and a driver’s seat, all on three wheels). During our stay, we learned to form a human chain and run.
My husband, David, and I were in Nepal with our twelve year-old son, Jason, visiting our daughter Jess who was studying abroad. Do you remember when abroad meant theater in London or discos in Paris? Now it’s often Botswana or Bhutan.
Although the plane fare feels like an investment in a small business, the cost of living is cheap. Neither dining on rice twice a day nor mud hut accommodations rate five stars in the Michelin guide.
As we waited on the tarmac at Tribhuvan International Airport in Katmandu, David leaned over and whispered: “ The only way we’d have to go further to see Jess would be if she becomes an astronaut and we have to shuttle to the moon.” We had flown west from Boston sleeping in San Francisco, refueling in Tokyo, spending a night in Singapore, and a brief stopover in Bangkok.
Inside the Katmandu terminal, it took us an hour to find the right visa line because all the signs were in Nepali. As I peered around furtively trying to figure out where to go, the heavy set woman behind me dressed in “kurta salwa”, the native costume of a tunic over wide legged pants, stared at me with a fixed gaze. I pulled out my pocket mirror to check for airline lettuce left between my teeth or a pimple sprouting on my chin. Jess eventually told me that it’s culturally correct for Nepali people to stare, and she herself had gotten into it. What a relief to lose all pretense at sophistication and freely ogle and gawk!
Jason was wearing his hair long at the time, but Nepali boys are close-cropped. People immediately surrounded my son and inquired: “Kati?”. (Is it a girl?) Fortunately he’s good-natured. Talk about the complexities of a preteen grappling with his sexual identity.
Our daughter was impressed when she saw her family checking into a hotel with flush toilets and purified water. She was used to hovering over holes in the floor and putting iodine tablets in her water if she couldn’t readily boil it. Our indigenous experience was yet to come. David had read up on trekking beforehand. Fortified by memories of his once nubile wife as a nineteen year-old bride camping and hiking her way through Nova Scotia, he couldn’t wait to set out on foot in the Annapurna Sanctuary.
Because roads are scarce in rural Nepal, David was certain that a trek was the only way to absorb the scenery and village culture. He hadn’t factored in my forty something body with its expiring knee parts. At one point, we walked up one thousand stone steps. Our ascent was the equivalent of hiking Mt. Washington in a day, yet we were reaching an altitude of ten thousand feet.
The elderly Nepalis and Tibetans skipping along in rubber thongs demoralized me until I saw one older man being transported in a basket secured on a porter’s back. “ How do I order one of those?” I asked our guide, Lakpa. He spoke no English but smiled a lot as he balanced my carry-on suitcase above his shoulder, while hovering at my elbow, ready to grab me if I started to slip.
David, Jason and I had two tents each night, but Jason wouldn’t stay alone. The second honeymoon wasn’t to be, but who could blame him? Even I lay awake listening to yaks yowling in the distance, and elbowing David each time I needed to venture out to the facilities. The three of us slept lined up in a two-person pup tent, with David in the center since that way he had the most length for his nearly six-foot frame. Having no room to stretch, he ached each morning when Lakpa knocked on our tent pole with hot tea.
Our campsite always included a “charpi”, a gap in the ground toilet surrounded by a flapping canvas tent. Foolish me had thought that we had packed our headlamps for night reading. In fact, we needed them in the “charpi” for delicately balancing ourselves after the sun went down. As for all those guidebooks suggesting that women trek in skirts instead of shorts out of respect for the Nepali culture where women cover their legs, I’d say skirts make sense for easier squatting.
After a particularly nasty “charpi” experience in the village of Ghorepani where strangers had clearly missed their shot, I spent the next day complaining. That evening when we came to the town of Tikedhunga, Lakpa pointed to what looked like a real outhouse with four walls. Inside were a roll of tissue, a waste bin, and a sparkling porcelain hole in the ground. Finding toilet tissue was in itself, a novelty. Using my little metal can filled with water, I had already become adept at what I fondly termed: “splashing and dashing”.
“For you, Madam...good one!” Lakpa grinned happily, while motioning in the direction of our “charpi” of the night. I would have hugged him were it not for the Nepali taboo against male/female affection. Later as I lowered myself over that shiny porcelain space, it almost seemed like home.
If You Decide To Go:
1) Our travel arrangements were handled by Yeti Travel, located in Durbar Marg, Katmandu. Other possibilities in Durbar Marg are Adventure Travel Nepal and Everest Express. Yeti Travel contracted our trek with the Annapurna Trekking Company. Among the myriad of trekking company options are International Trekkers and Lama Excursions. There are lodging and meal options to fit every budget.
2) Numerous carriers fly to Katmandu, but Thai International is regarded as the most reliable. With Royal Nepal Airlines, we experienced delays of up to twelve hours.
KATMAN-WHO?
One afternoon in the foothills of Nepal, a sign beckoned to me from half a mile away: “HOT SOUR-FIFTEEN RUPEES”. (Hot shower-about a quarter.) I hadn’t washed in five days and therefore scrambled as fast as I could, after slinging a sweaty tee shirt around my neck to use for a towel. It turned out that a Tibetan family were the proud owners of a solar powered shower. After climbing inside and removing my clothing, I was amazed to find the grandma hopping in with me. She gestured to the water spigot, evidently just wanting to check the temperature. “Did she scrub your back?” My daughter later inquired. “That’s the best part!”
When I told a friend that I was headed for Katmandu, he responded “Katman-who?”. But most people in my offbeat university town knew where I was going. After alI, I have neighbors who’ve escaped avalanches in the Himalayas. They know that Katmandu is Nepal’s capitol city where cows meander unscathed along the main boulevards, because they might be the reincarnation of someone’s ancestors. Crossing the street means dodging water buffalo, stray dogs and “tempos” ( tiny taxis which are boxes containing a bench and a driver’s seat, all on three wheels). During our stay, we learned to form a human chain and run.
My husband, David, and I were in Nepal with our twelve year-old son, Jason, visiting our daughter Jess who was studying abroad. Do you remember when abroad meant theater in London or discos in Paris? Now it’s often Botswana or Bhutan.
Although the plane fare feels like an investment in a small business, the cost of living is cheap. Neither dining on rice twice a day nor mud hut accommodations rate five stars in the Michelin guide.
As we waited on the tarmac at Tribhuvan International Airport in Katmandu, David leaned over and whispered: “ The only way we’d have to go further to see Jess would be if she becomes an astronaut and we have to shuttle to the moon.” We had flown west from Boston sleeping in San Francisco, refueling in Tokyo, spending a night in Singapore, and a brief stopover in Bangkok.
Inside the Katmandu terminal, it took us an hour to find the right visa line because all the signs were in Nepali. As I peered around furtively trying to figure out where to go, the heavy set woman behind me dressed in “kurta salwa”, the native costume of a tunic over wide legged pants, stared at me with a fixed gaze. I pulled out my pocket mirror to check for airline lettuce left between my teeth or a pimple sprouting on my chin. Jess eventually told me that it’s culturally correct for Nepali people to stare, and she herself had gotten into it. What a relief to lose all pretense at sophistication and freely ogle and gawk!
Jason was wearing his hair long at the time, but Nepali boys are close-cropped. People immediately surrounded my son and inquired: “Kati?”. (Is it a girl?) Fortunately he’s good-natured. Talk about the complexities of a preteen grappling with his sexual identity.
Our daughter was impressed when she saw her family checking into a hotel with flush toilets and purified water. She was used to hovering over holes in the floor and putting iodine tablets in her water if she couldn’t readily boil it. Our indigenous experience was yet to come. David had read up on trekking beforehand. Fortified by memories of his once nubile wife as a nineteen year-old bride camping and hiking her way through Nova Scotia, he couldn’t wait to set out on foot in the Annapurna Sanctuary.
Because roads are scarce in rural Nepal, David was certain that a trek was the only way to absorb the scenery and village culture. He hadn’t factored in my forty something body with its expiring knee parts. At one point, we walked up one thousand stone steps. Our ascent was the equivalent of hiking Mt. Washington in a day, yet we were reaching an altitude of ten thousand feet.
The elderly Nepalis and Tibetans skipping along in rubber thongs demoralized me until I saw one older man being transported in a basket secured on a porter’s back. “ How do I order one of those?” I asked our guide, Lakpa. He spoke no English but smiled a lot as he balanced my carry-on suitcase above his shoulder, while hovering at my elbow, ready to grab me if I started to slip.
David, Jason and I had two tents each night, but Jason wouldn’t stay alone. The second honeymoon wasn’t to be, but who could blame him? Even I lay awake listening to yaks yowling in the distance, and elbowing David each time I needed to venture out to the facilities. The three of us slept lined up in a two-person pup tent, with David in the center since that way he had the most length for his nearly six-foot frame. Having no room to stretch, he ached each morning when Lakpa knocked on our tent pole with hot tea.
Our campsite always included a “charpi”, a gap in the ground toilet surrounded by a flapping canvas tent. Foolish me had thought that we had packed our headlamps for night reading. In fact, we needed them in the “charpi” for delicately balancing ourselves after the sun went down. As for all those guidebooks suggesting that women trek in skirts instead of shorts out of respect for the Nepali culture where women cover their legs, I’d say skirts make sense for easier squatting.
After a particularly nasty “charpi” experience in the village of Ghorepani where strangers had clearly missed their shot, I spent the next day complaining. That evening when we came to the town of Tikedhunga, Lakpa pointed to what looked like a real outhouse with four walls. Inside were a roll of tissue, a waste bin, and a sparkling porcelain hole in the ground. Finding toilet tissue was in itself, a novelty. Using my little metal can filled with water, I had already become adept at what I fondly termed: “splashing and dashing”.
“For you, Madam...good one!” Lakpa grinned happily, while motioning in the direction of our “charpi” of the night. I would have hugged him were it not for the Nepali taboo against male/female affection. Later as I lowered myself over that shiny porcelain space, it almost seemed like home.
If You Decide To Go:
1) Our travel arrangements were handled by Yeti Travel, located in Durbar Marg, Katmandu. Other possibilities in Durbar Marg are Adventure Travel Nepal and Everest Express. Yeti Travel contracted our trek with the Annapurna Trekking Company. Among the myriad of trekking company options are International Trekkers and Lama Excursions. There are lodging and meal options to fit every budget.
2) Numerous carriers fly to Katmandu, but Thai International is regarded as the most reliable. With Royal Nepal Airlines, we experienced delays of up to twelve hours.
Friday, July 30, 2004
DNC Snapshot
Friends said: "Hey...the faces are closer on TV." Yes, they are but no match for being in the crowd and feeling the energy and the optimism. I even sat briefly with Representative and former Presidential candidate Dennis Kucinich. He too was sitting high up in the gallery. (The seating at the Fleet was totally egalitarian. My husband and I arrived shortly after 5:30 p.m. just to secure two spots. The hall was actually closed at 7:00 p.m. because it was so jam-packed.) I told Kucinich that he had given a great speech the other night, and it was an honor meeting him. He held my hand and said "You're so kind." Two secret service men loomed over us. How can you compare this with lounging at home on the familyroom couch?
I can see in this morning's Globe that Thomas Oliphant claims that Kerry's speech was a rushed, lost opportunity. The problem with the pundits is that when they tell us how to feel and we haven't actually been there, it's possible that we can be drawn in to their point of view. Well, I listened first hand to the Kerry sisters eloquently talk about their dad, to the "band of brothers" describe their Mekong experience, and saw the Senator bound up from the crowd to make his acceptance speech. The throng of thousands was on their feet, cheering, waving placards and flags, tears in their eyes as he illustrated one image after another, but was mostly strong, relaxed, articulate, as he won our confidence and was very clear that we all are part of this journey and we are respected partners. People around me, young and old, were emotional and clutching one another. Even as the balloons and confetti continued to pelt us after 11 p.m., no one seemed to want to leave.
I have one aside about Senate candidate Barack Obama...to think that his father grew up in Kenya, on the other side of the world, and here was his son addressing the Democratic National Convention.
Barack means "blessed" in African; Baruch means "blessed" in Hebrew. Worlds intersect so closely sometimes.
I can see in this morning's Globe that Thomas Oliphant claims that Kerry's speech was a rushed, lost opportunity. The problem with the pundits is that when they tell us how to feel and we haven't actually been there, it's possible that we can be drawn in to their point of view. Well, I listened first hand to the Kerry sisters eloquently talk about their dad, to the "band of brothers" describe their Mekong experience, and saw the Senator bound up from the crowd to make his acceptance speech. The throng of thousands was on their feet, cheering, waving placards and flags, tears in their eyes as he illustrated one image after another, but was mostly strong, relaxed, articulate, as he won our confidence and was very clear that we all are part of this journey and we are respected partners. People around me, young and old, were emotional and clutching one another. Even as the balloons and confetti continued to pelt us after 11 p.m., no one seemed to want to leave.
I have one aside about Senate candidate Barack Obama...to think that his father grew up in Kenya, on the other side of the world, and here was his son addressing the Democratic National Convention.
Barack means "blessed" in African; Baruch means "blessed" in Hebrew. Worlds intersect so closely sometimes.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
SOX
What's with the SOX? Is this always the pattern...strong start, weakening middle...will they rise again? When they lost in '86 making Aron at age 8 watch in tearful disbelief still wearing his Red Sox cap and clutching his Red Sox flag with his brother Jason at only 3 snuggled asleep beside him...I frankly couldn't bear it and said I wouldn't even discuss this team for a good long time. But I'm always sucked back in and my hope and enthusiasm are always there. Some of my best times w/husband, two sons, their friends are spent at Fenway Park and even Yankee Stadium (home base of the dreaded evil empire). I'm crazy about Damon, Ortiz, Manny, Mirabelli, Varitek...will they prevail..is it still possible? Guess what: I still believe, always will.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
DNC
As I've been a Kerry fundraiser this past spring and summer, I get to attend the DNC this week. Tonight will be my first at the Fleet. Figuring it's a once-in-a lifetime opportunity, I can't wait. There's nothing like being part of a "happening"...especially for those who marched to the Boston Common, marched on Washington, marched and marched and canvassed door-to-door. You know who you are. I haven't felt so strongly about the importance of a regime change in this country since the days of Richard Nixon, and he was smarter than George the second. Our domestic agenda: health care, the environment, education, public service, stem cell research, civil rights, etc., etc. needs to be front and center again. Our need for international respect is vital and profound. Here is a candidate who has the experience to lead both national and international policy, the intellect to engage in rigorous discussions and a moral compass guided by more than 30 years of service to his country. Our children and grandchildren deserve an America which is respected throughout the world.
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
Thoughts on the candidate...
This past Monday, I attended a lunch in Boston with over thirteen hundred women and maybe a few hundred men. (It had been billed as a womens lunch with John Kerry and his wife Theresa.) For the first time, I found Kerry newly energized as he spoke about his vision for America: health care for all, bringing manufacturing back to the US, cleaning up our environment, creating jobs, making certain that headstart and after school programs continue, and vowing that we will once again be respected internationally and never send young people to war unless there is absolutely no other choice. That day, his wife spoke eloquently about marching against apartheid in the 50's in South Africa and about what it means to be an American and have the right to vote. These are smart people who look you in the eye and speak from the heart. With John and Elizabeth Edwards, we now have a foursome capable of lifting our national spirit and image of ourselves. Every vote counts. I hope we all will be present and involved during this election season. The stakes are higher than ever.
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Vineyard Ties
Vineyard Ties
From the time we purchased our land on Martha's Vineyard, it took three years for us to see our house almost completed. I say "almost" because details and issues always lag behind. Island time after all is quite different from mainland time, but I remind myself that this is precisely one of the reasons why people choose to live on an island.
At the first opportunity, my husband and I packed a U-Haul truck with our essential furniture and partially moved into our house. With painting, sanding and installing still to take place, we didn't want to expose all of our possessions to the dust and debris. Yet even without a usable kitchen, shades on the windows or walls on the showers, I felt like I was in a charmed place. Sitting on a lawn chair in the middle of my livingroom while drinking my morning coffee, I gazed out of the back windows. The yard was a combination of dirt and sawdust, but beyond it stands a stone wall, which is most likely a few hundred years old. From my front windows, I could glimpse the ocean through the trees. As I thought back to my own childhood, I could almost hear the voices of the kids who I hope will spend time in this house. The history of why I have such a deep bond with the Vineyard is long and complex.
My father claims that he’s much more attentive as a grandfather than he was years ago when he was a young dad. As a grandfather, he scarcely missed a performance or a soccer tournament. When his grandchildren grew older, he and my mom visited them at college and planned trips to see those who had already graduated.
When I was small, I rarely saw my dad. Sundays were reserved for special time with him that included walks to admire the lilacs in Boston’s Arnold Arboretum, ice cream stops at Brigham’s or journeys along the Freedom Trail. For my sister, my brother and me, the notion of making any sort of an independent plan was heresy. My dad was busy building what was to become an illustrious career at a renowned hospital; other people swallowed up his hours. During the week, he came home long after I was in bed. My mother usually ate her dinner without us so she could wait to eat with him. Each evening she chatted on the phone with her friends, read books voraciously, wrote letters in her perfect cursive script, or sat by her bedroom window needlepointing pillow covers. Always a self-contained person, she was earnest about the job of running her household and raising her three children.
In the midst of my dad’s hectic work routine, there were three and a half weeks every June that were sacred for my family. My father set aside these days as his vacation and chose to spend them on Martha’s Vineyard Island, where he had honeymooned with my mother. Each May we packed trunks of sunsuits, shorts, sweatshirts, and beach blankets. We watched at our front window as the men driving the truck with "Andrews and Pierce" emblazoned along the side loaded our bikes, sand toys, and suitcases bearing our beloved "Ginny" dolls to be shipped to Katama Shores Inn. The sport utility vehicle had yet to be invented; our VW bug could barely fit the five of us. Including the myriad of stuff in our car was not a possibility.
Armed with her degree as an early childhood educator, my mother met with our teachers before we left town. She made lists of the assignments we would miss so she could drill us on our multiplication tables and question us about the Nile River even while we wriggled our toes in the sand. She realized the value of home schooling even before we read about it years later in magazines.
I’m surprised by my dad’s concern about his past parenting skills because by setting aside each June and even by endorsing the skipping of school, he communicated loud and clear that the five of us were an important entity. Although I may not remember many raucous moments in our Brookline home, our languid afternoons spent collecting smoothed green glass together or trying to walk to the end of the horizon on South Beach, shaped my concept of family.
My dad often said that he relaxed as soon as the ferryboat pulled away from the dock at Woods Hole. Then he would hold my little brother aloft for a closer look at the seagulls. My mother seldom seemed to mind the wind blowing through her usually carefully coifed hair. My sister and I could never wait to get to Katama. A Canadian family with girls our own ages returned each year. If Mrs. Atwood who owned the inn had extra time, she produced plays with the four of us as well as any other young and available guests. One summer I was Rumpelstiltskin, somersaulting through the long beach grass with my floating cotton beard sailing behind me.
Our parents became fast friends with these girls’ parents who loved to pile all of us into their rented jeep for sunset drives and barbecues near the surf. I had hardly ever heard my mother laugh so heartily or seen my father so silly with glee as his fishing hook yielded nothing but ugly sea robins. I grew to rely on the scent of marshmallows toasting on the end of a stick as a significant beacon of summer.
Although we went in June because that was when my father could take time off, the weather was not always at its best. Those cool, gusty winds forced us to fashion a shelter of bamboo sticks covered by a canvas tarpaulin so we could have a little protection at the beach. "Put on your red jobs!" My dad would command and my sister, my brother and I would pull on our matching hooded crimson sweatshirts. I would always tie the strings in a tight bow at my neck to keep that whooshing sea air out of my ears.
During our very first summer there, my mother discovered a storybook about a little child who spent her summers on an island. At the end of every August, Suzy tossed two pennies overboard as the ferryboat pulled out of the harbor at the start of her homeward journey. Those two tossed pennies guaranteed her return the following July. Almost immediately this custom took hold in my own family's lore. Once we started throwing our pennies overboard, we figured it would be risky to discontinue this annual practice.
That juncture each June has become so embedded in my soul that even before my husband and I had children, we brought our bikes for day trips on the Vineyard or reserved weekends near Edgartown. When our daughter was in diapers, we rented our first cottage with friends for a week. I must confess that these friends, unseasoned Vineyarders, were less than certain about the mildewed kitchen and the towels hung out to dry which only became wetter with each new morning dew. But they were brave enough to soldier on through a few more summers with us.
When our family expanded to number five plus a babysitter, we sometimes secured a home for two weeks. The energy spent dragging carriages, booster seats, wading pools, and favorite foods hardly seemed worth the effort for just seven days. Together we have built our own memories while flying brightly colored kites, boiling sweet corn fresh from the farm in pots filled with ocean water, and riding the Ferris wheel at the Tisbury fair.
Now that our children have grown up and need to keep track of their own busy schedules, Vineyard time has become four days grabbed here or two days savored there. Yet we have never sailed out of Vineyard Haven harbor without each tossing at least one penny overboard. With the passage of time, we have begun to feel guilty about all those pennies at the bottom of the Atlantic. But who among us wants to chance halting this ingrained custom?
Five years ago while she was living in far away Wyoming, our daughter for the first time could not join us for our Vineyard holiday. Her several phone calls let us know how much she missed our traditional vacation. That August we sent her a box of famous Murdick’s fudge purchased within sight of the "Flying Horses" carousel at Oak Bluffs where she had spun around and around trying to grasp the brass ring.
Shortly after enjoying our next beach weekend with our sons, my husband insisted: "It’s time to invest in this place…if we have land, eventually we’ll build." I blinked back my tears because as he knew so well, this was something I had always wanted.
We were lucky to find property bordered by an old fieldstone wall with blueberry and blackberry bushes scattered every once in awhile. The ocean is only about a ten-minute walk down a nearby path. While waiting for the cantankerous seller to accept our offer, we noticed our sons perusing photos of their toddler selves searching for clamshells or looking at videos of themselves and their sister struggling to windsurf on Katama Bay.
For my part, it’s hard to erase the image from my mind of an older me picking blueberries with a grandchild or driving to story hour at the library in the center of town. I immediately pictured a house designed with two wings: one cozy section for my husband and myself with our bedroom, a livingroom we would actually live in, a kitchen with a large wooden table for eating meals, and perhaps a screened porch for buggy nights. The other section would include bedrooms for our children, a bunkroom for expansion, an outdoor shower to limit the incoming grit and a clothesline because hope springs eternal for a dry spell. I have observed the occasional trophy home: temperature-controlled for fine wines and wired for sound. But for me, some simple quality would be lost without ceiling fans to move the sultry humidity and a turntable for playing our vintage rock albums.
We wound up with a home very close to the design we had originally imagined. Although manageable in size for us when we are there alone, it also accommodates our family. The difference from the vision to the reality is that the windows soar to a staggering height, the rainwater sounds musical as it rushes over the gutters and washes down to the piles of stones below. The minimalism of the interior spaces as well as the quiet atmosphere on the deck above our bedroom makes us feel as though we are in a truly meditative spot.
What’s especially nice is that my extended family has shared my excitement for this new project. Perhaps our childhood Vineyard time is as memorable for them. My mother says she knows this is a dream come true for me; from the start, my sister looked forward to seeing our land with great anticipation. Before we began construction, we arranged a Vineyard Thanksgiving reunion so we could all bundle up in fleece jackets, lace our boots, and walk the property. I’m hoping that my parents get to enjoy their grandchildren and great grandchildren in this home, to buy cherry pies at the Vineyard Bake Shop, and collect pieces of driftwood at the beach.
Part of envisioning a new dwelling is letting one’s imagination run free. Maybe because I associate the Vineyard with quality time between the generations, I always picture multi-layered gatherings there. At the end of an afternoon spent baking blueberry muffins or choosing new books from the library, it’s hard to imagine an experience more satisfying than meandering toward the water and settling myself on a straw mat. I cannot wait to lean back and shield the sun from my eyes so I can watch another little girl somersault nimbly over the sand.
Betsy Banks Epstein
From the time we purchased our land on Martha's Vineyard, it took three years for us to see our house almost completed. I say "almost" because details and issues always lag behind. Island time after all is quite different from mainland time, but I remind myself that this is precisely one of the reasons why people choose to live on an island.
At the first opportunity, my husband and I packed a U-Haul truck with our essential furniture and partially moved into our house. With painting, sanding and installing still to take place, we didn't want to expose all of our possessions to the dust and debris. Yet even without a usable kitchen, shades on the windows or walls on the showers, I felt like I was in a charmed place. Sitting on a lawn chair in the middle of my livingroom while drinking my morning coffee, I gazed out of the back windows. The yard was a combination of dirt and sawdust, but beyond it stands a stone wall, which is most likely a few hundred years old. From my front windows, I could glimpse the ocean through the trees. As I thought back to my own childhood, I could almost hear the voices of the kids who I hope will spend time in this house. The history of why I have such a deep bond with the Vineyard is long and complex.
My father claims that he’s much more attentive as a grandfather than he was years ago when he was a young dad. As a grandfather, he scarcely missed a performance or a soccer tournament. When his grandchildren grew older, he and my mom visited them at college and planned trips to see those who had already graduated.
When I was small, I rarely saw my dad. Sundays were reserved for special time with him that included walks to admire the lilacs in Boston’s Arnold Arboretum, ice cream stops at Brigham’s or journeys along the Freedom Trail. For my sister, my brother and me, the notion of making any sort of an independent plan was heresy. My dad was busy building what was to become an illustrious career at a renowned hospital; other people swallowed up his hours. During the week, he came home long after I was in bed. My mother usually ate her dinner without us so she could wait to eat with him. Each evening she chatted on the phone with her friends, read books voraciously, wrote letters in her perfect cursive script, or sat by her bedroom window needlepointing pillow covers. Always a self-contained person, she was earnest about the job of running her household and raising her three children.
In the midst of my dad’s hectic work routine, there were three and a half weeks every June that were sacred for my family. My father set aside these days as his vacation and chose to spend them on Martha’s Vineyard Island, where he had honeymooned with my mother. Each May we packed trunks of sunsuits, shorts, sweatshirts, and beach blankets. We watched at our front window as the men driving the truck with "Andrews and Pierce" emblazoned along the side loaded our bikes, sand toys, and suitcases bearing our beloved "Ginny" dolls to be shipped to Katama Shores Inn. The sport utility vehicle had yet to be invented; our VW bug could barely fit the five of us. Including the myriad of stuff in our car was not a possibility.
Armed with her degree as an early childhood educator, my mother met with our teachers before we left town. She made lists of the assignments we would miss so she could drill us on our multiplication tables and question us about the Nile River even while we wriggled our toes in the sand. She realized the value of home schooling even before we read about it years later in magazines.
I’m surprised by my dad’s concern about his past parenting skills because by setting aside each June and even by endorsing the skipping of school, he communicated loud and clear that the five of us were an important entity. Although I may not remember many raucous moments in our Brookline home, our languid afternoons spent collecting smoothed green glass together or trying to walk to the end of the horizon on South Beach, shaped my concept of family.
My dad often said that he relaxed as soon as the ferryboat pulled away from the dock at Woods Hole. Then he would hold my little brother aloft for a closer look at the seagulls. My mother seldom seemed to mind the wind blowing through her usually carefully coifed hair. My sister and I could never wait to get to Katama. A Canadian family with girls our own ages returned each year. If Mrs. Atwood who owned the inn had extra time, she produced plays with the four of us as well as any other young and available guests. One summer I was Rumpelstiltskin, somersaulting through the long beach grass with my floating cotton beard sailing behind me.
Our parents became fast friends with these girls’ parents who loved to pile all of us into their rented jeep for sunset drives and barbecues near the surf. I had hardly ever heard my mother laugh so heartily or seen my father so silly with glee as his fishing hook yielded nothing but ugly sea robins. I grew to rely on the scent of marshmallows toasting on the end of a stick as a significant beacon of summer.
Although we went in June because that was when my father could take time off, the weather was not always at its best. Those cool, gusty winds forced us to fashion a shelter of bamboo sticks covered by a canvas tarpaulin so we could have a little protection at the beach. "Put on your red jobs!" My dad would command and my sister, my brother and I would pull on our matching hooded crimson sweatshirts. I would always tie the strings in a tight bow at my neck to keep that whooshing sea air out of my ears.
During our very first summer there, my mother discovered a storybook about a little child who spent her summers on an island. At the end of every August, Suzy tossed two pennies overboard as the ferryboat pulled out of the harbor at the start of her homeward journey. Those two tossed pennies guaranteed her return the following July. Almost immediately this custom took hold in my own family's lore. Once we started throwing our pennies overboard, we figured it would be risky to discontinue this annual practice.
That juncture each June has become so embedded in my soul that even before my husband and I had children, we brought our bikes for day trips on the Vineyard or reserved weekends near Edgartown. When our daughter was in diapers, we rented our first cottage with friends for a week. I must confess that these friends, unseasoned Vineyarders, were less than certain about the mildewed kitchen and the towels hung out to dry which only became wetter with each new morning dew. But they were brave enough to soldier on through a few more summers with us.
When our family expanded to number five plus a babysitter, we sometimes secured a home for two weeks. The energy spent dragging carriages, booster seats, wading pools, and favorite foods hardly seemed worth the effort for just seven days. Together we have built our own memories while flying brightly colored kites, boiling sweet corn fresh from the farm in pots filled with ocean water, and riding the Ferris wheel at the Tisbury fair.
Now that our children have grown up and need to keep track of their own busy schedules, Vineyard time has become four days grabbed here or two days savored there. Yet we have never sailed out of Vineyard Haven harbor without each tossing at least one penny overboard. With the passage of time, we have begun to feel guilty about all those pennies at the bottom of the Atlantic. But who among us wants to chance halting this ingrained custom?
Five years ago while she was living in far away Wyoming, our daughter for the first time could not join us for our Vineyard holiday. Her several phone calls let us know how much she missed our traditional vacation. That August we sent her a box of famous Murdick’s fudge purchased within sight of the "Flying Horses" carousel at Oak Bluffs where she had spun around and around trying to grasp the brass ring.
Shortly after enjoying our next beach weekend with our sons, my husband insisted: "It’s time to invest in this place…if we have land, eventually we’ll build." I blinked back my tears because as he knew so well, this was something I had always wanted.
We were lucky to find property bordered by an old fieldstone wall with blueberry and blackberry bushes scattered every once in awhile. The ocean is only about a ten-minute walk down a nearby path. While waiting for the cantankerous seller to accept our offer, we noticed our sons perusing photos of their toddler selves searching for clamshells or looking at videos of themselves and their sister struggling to windsurf on Katama Bay.
For my part, it’s hard to erase the image from my mind of an older me picking blueberries with a grandchild or driving to story hour at the library in the center of town. I immediately pictured a house designed with two wings: one cozy section for my husband and myself with our bedroom, a livingroom we would actually live in, a kitchen with a large wooden table for eating meals, and perhaps a screened porch for buggy nights. The other section would include bedrooms for our children, a bunkroom for expansion, an outdoor shower to limit the incoming grit and a clothesline because hope springs eternal for a dry spell. I have observed the occasional trophy home: temperature-controlled for fine wines and wired for sound. But for me, some simple quality would be lost without ceiling fans to move the sultry humidity and a turntable for playing our vintage rock albums.
We wound up with a home very close to the design we had originally imagined. Although manageable in size for us when we are there alone, it also accommodates our family. The difference from the vision to the reality is that the windows soar to a staggering height, the rainwater sounds musical as it rushes over the gutters and washes down to the piles of stones below. The minimalism of the interior spaces as well as the quiet atmosphere on the deck above our bedroom makes us feel as though we are in a truly meditative spot.
What’s especially nice is that my extended family has shared my excitement for this new project. Perhaps our childhood Vineyard time is as memorable for them. My mother says she knows this is a dream come true for me; from the start, my sister looked forward to seeing our land with great anticipation. Before we began construction, we arranged a Vineyard Thanksgiving reunion so we could all bundle up in fleece jackets, lace our boots, and walk the property. I’m hoping that my parents get to enjoy their grandchildren and great grandchildren in this home, to buy cherry pies at the Vineyard Bake Shop, and collect pieces of driftwood at the beach.
Part of envisioning a new dwelling is letting one’s imagination run free. Maybe because I associate the Vineyard with quality time between the generations, I always picture multi-layered gatherings there. At the end of an afternoon spent baking blueberry muffins or choosing new books from the library, it’s hard to imagine an experience more satisfying than meandering toward the water and settling myself on a straw mat. I cannot wait to lean back and shield the sun from my eyes so I can watch another little girl somersault nimbly over the sand.
Betsy Banks Epstein
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