WWKW?

A few weeks ago, in a discussion in a different forum, I commented that I was "articulate with rage." Not what I meant to say, of course, and when I changed it to "inarticulate," several of my friends jumped in to say, no, the first wording was more accurate. I was flattered, and then a uncomfortable.

The source of my discomfort is simply that I don't write when I am outraged. Not consciously. I sit down at my computer, and write, and then I say "Who the hell is responsible for that?" How I write when I write deliberatively is different -- more casual, less structured.

So the last time I wrote something in a state of complete outrage, I listened to the voice that spoke the words in my head.

It was Keith Olbermann.

It seems I channel K.O. when I get good and angry. What Would Keith Write? Not that I try to do that, mind you, or that what I write is as good as Olbermann's, just that his writing -- his voice -- has had an influence on how I channel my own outrage.

Although I should note that I have always distanced myself from my own outrage, even before I had ever heard of Keith Olbermann. (Actually, that's not quite accurate: I've known of Olbermann for years, but only as "that guy who used to be on SportsCenter.") Anger comes from a place deep inside of me that seems somehow detached from my meek mild exterior -- my warrior woman.

There has not been much of her lately: not that there hasn't been much to be outraged about, just that it's really hard to sustain the appropriate level of outrage. The Vice President surely was involved in the smear campaign against a CIA operative, and the press didn't care enough about its sources to make a big deal of it? Old news. The death Anna Nicole Smith -- a woman whose main claim to fame is her marriage to an octogenarian millionaire who died -- is more important than the latest casualties from Iraq? So what did you expect? The president is making menacing noises towards Iran? Yeah, like any of us can do anything about it. The new budget figures are made of smoke and mirrors, and anyway result in large cuts to government agencies to pay for this useless war in Iraq? Pretty much SOP. Even the machinations of the schismatics in the Episcopal Church, and the Anglican reactionaries in Africa and elsewhere elicit merely a weary shrug.

Outrage fatigue has set in. I look at the world, and America, and who we are, and what we have done and what we are doing, and I can't even weep anymore. I can simply sigh.

Fortunately for all of us, Keith Olbermann still has plenty of outrage left -- witness this latest special comment about the President's State of the Union address. Not as good as his best, which was called "The Beginning of the End of America" about the Military Commissions Act, but still quite good, nonetheless.

Maybe if he can stay outraged, he can inspire me to remember my outrage, too.

Notes from art class

I am taking a drawing class. Oh boy.

I earned this class by virtue of volunteering at a local arts organization for 100 hours -- answering the phones and staffing the reception desk, mainly. "No, sir, the pastel portrait class is still cancelled, and no, the instructor will not give you a different answer. If you insist, I will give her a note to call you." "No, I can't give you the phone number of the painter whose work you saw in an exhibit in a gallery in the city last month -- especially when you're not sure of the last name -- because I've never heard of them and they're not listed on our website." "Yes, you can register for the Zen of Printmaking* which started last week, but you still have to pay the full amount of tuition. No, we do not pro-rate fees. No, the instructor will not give you another answer." "If you want to drop off crafts to sell in the gallery, you need to make an appointment to see the gallery director. Really." "Sorry, the Insanely Popular Collage course** is full. It fills up the first week of registration. You can speak to the instructor, but there are two people already on the wait list and you will be put at the bottom." And so on.)

I wasn't sure if I was going to go today; it's raining and my legs and elbows are hurting. I made myself go -- drawing class is something I look forward to a great deal and I figured it was good for me to get out of the house. I had to sit down for class, which makes drawing trickier, but I still went. Yay me.

Herewith my notes from art class:

Aaaaaarrrgggghhhh!!! still life! Complex forms!!!! FLOWERS!!!!! Run away!!!!!

I hate ginger jars. Damn things are hard as hell to get proportioned right. Give me a wine bottle any day.

Apples are not round are not round are not round. Oranges are round. Pears are.... um, pear shaped. Grapes are a pain in the ass. Which is why I decided to draw the stupid ginger jars, remember? So I wouldn't have to draw the grapes?

Gee, I never thought of it before, but R. (the instructor) is sort of a cross between Jimmy Stewart and Keanu Reeves. Which could explain the popularity of his classes. Good thing he's also a good teacher.

Yay! R. said I had a good composition! So the fact that I cannot draw the thumbnail sketches (to determine composition) to save my life but instead have to sort of figure it out as I actually start drawing didn't kill me.

Why do the other students tell me I'm doing a good job? I don't feel like I am. It's so damn frustrating -- I can't translate what I see to what I can put on paper. It's almost enough to turn one into an Abstract Expressionist.

Damn, forgot to turn off the cell. No, Not-so-little Drummer Boy, I am not going to drive over on your lunch period and drop off the lab notebook you left at home. I'm in class. I'm making art, here.

Actually, what I'm making is charcoal dust, which I am getting all over myself. Once again I end up looking like Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins. I might as well take up sweeping chimneys and be done with it.

Oh, well, as the song says, art isn't easy.

But it is fun.



*Not a real class. But wouldn't it be great if it were?
** Not a real class, either -- but a description of one of the classes we offer. It's not a beginning class, so people repeat it. There is a mad rush when registration opens to get signed up.

I got bored, and decided I missed my old color scheme. It took me all of a few minutes -- with no mucking about in HTML -- to get it back to the way I wanted. Unlike when I first set it up.

Have I mentioned how much I love the Blogger template customizer?

It's been a day.

Not much of a day, but a day, nonetheless. The house is filled with the incense of wine and oregano, as the pot roast slowly simmers towards its ultinate culinary destination. Dinner was originally suppposed to be around 7:30, but as I picked him up from school the Not-So-Little Drummer Boy announced that he had a percussion group practice in preparation for a charity performance tomorrow night. And oh, yeah, he wasn't quite sure where the practice was located.

A frantic Google session allowed to figure out where he thought it might be, and after a delay while I browned the beef and got the roast simmering, we headed out. Fortunately, he was right, and he showed up, late, but at the right place.

I came home and had to oversee Echidna Boy's project -- the one that he was supposed to have done a couple of days ago. He had called from school to let me know that he was "benched" -- kept in from recess -- until he got it finished. He now has a fake newspaper (on heavy watercolor paper -- he turned down the newsprint) all about Johnny Tremain and the Revolutionary War.

My house is not clean, but that's okay. I am listening to good music, and there are wonderful smells coming from the kitchen that hold the promise of delights to come, and I have slain one very small dragon today: I have learned how to sharpen my charcoal pencils.

I take a drawing class. We work in charcoal, probably because charcoal is very forgiving of the incompent -- you can practically erase it with your hand, especially if you use vine charcoal and don't draw darkly. Some of us appreciate this quality a great deal. We also use charcoal pencils, which we are to sharpen with our x-acto knives.

Each pencil is supposed to have a 3/4 " lead. Right. At this point, I have sharpened away more than three inches on one particular pencil in my search for that elusive stretch of naked 6B charcoal. But even where I've managed to get enough open charcoal, I've never quite understood how to sand it properly. I always end up with a point -- which sort of defeats the purpose of all that carving, no?

Tonight, as I settled down with my supply box to prep my pencils for tomorrow's class, it came to me. There was no blinding light or dove descending from the heavens, but just a clear sudden understanding that, hey, if you sanded the charcoal on the side you didn't get a point but a line of charcoal, allowing you to use the entire 3/4"! Calloo Callay!

As I said, a very small dragon. But sometimes the small victories can be just as sweet.

When I started this blog, I was hoping to post every day or two. Clearly this was optimistic, to put it charitably. The past couple of months, however, my posting has been spottier than usual, with days going by with no posts (sometimes followed by days with multiple posts). There has been a lot of stress in my personal life, but the most significant issue has been pain. As in, a lot of it. All mine. Sometimes the pain -- or the pain medication -- makes it difficult to concentrate, and on other occasions it hurts to walk so I spend a lot of time at my computer.

I have fibromyalgia. I've had it for years, actually, and it has been an occasionally discomfort, and very occasionally significantly painful, for short periods.

Until this summer, that is. Since this summer, I have had more days in pain than otherwise. The pain ranges from achiness to, some days, severe enough to make it difficult to walk. And if I ignore the pain and "play hurt," the muscles will stop responding, and it will be difficult to walk at all. A good day can be followed by a bad day. It is hard, on days when I feel "almost normal" not to do as much as I used to do all the time -- because if I do, then the next or the day after that will be horrible. My doctor and I are working on ways to control the pain, and I have a referral to the Pain Clinic, but right now, I'm in pain. I keep praying that this is temporary, that the fibromyalgia will disappear as quickly as it appeared in June, but it hasn't, yet.

I am trying to let go of this. I am trying to learn to turn this over to God. I am failing.

I do not ask "Why me, Lord?" I keep feeling that somehow I must have done something to deserve this, even though the rational part of my brain says it's just a disease, and God doesn't work that way. I do not feel anger at God, only shame before God.

I know that there are psychologists and theologians out there who have done work on the pictures of God that people have internalized. I want to believe that God is love; I really truly do. And part of me does. But part of me internalized an angry, vengeful God, who is punishing me for who I am and the sins I have committed. And all my knowledge of a nurturing, caring God flies out the window in the face of that picture. My understanding of the falsity of that theology -- rejected expressly in the Book of Job! -- does not to lessen its grip on my psyche.

This is another day, O Lord. I know not what it will bring forth, but make me ready, Lord, for whatever it may be. If I am to stand up, help me to stand bravely. If I am to sit still, help me to sit quietly. If I am to lie low, help me to do it patiently. And if I am to do nothing, let me do it gallantly. Make these words more than words, and give me the Spirit of Jesus. Amen.

RIP, Molly

Molly Ivins died of breast cancer yesterday. Damn.

She was only 62. Way too young.

I can't eulogize her. I'm still in shock, and besides, she speaks for herself, in all the myriad words she wrote "afflicting the comfortable" and calling on all of us to fight for our nation and ourselves.

She, and the late Ann Richards, and (the fortunately still with us) Linda Ellerbee, were the best things to ever come out of Texas. A triumvirate of brilliant, funny, strong women. How can the same state produce women like that -- and George W.?

In her last column, Molly said

We are the people who run this country. We are the deciders. And every single day, every single one of us needs to step outside and take some action to help stop this war. Raise hell. Think of something to make the ridiculous look ridiculous. Make our troops know we're for them and trying to get them out of there. Hit the streets to protest Bush's proposed surge. If you can, go to the peace march in Washington on Jan. 27. We need people in the streets, banging pots and pans and demanding, "Stop it, now!"

I'll do my best, Molly.

Oh, and say hello to Ann.

Questions...

While I was trying to make dinner last night, on a day when I was in the midst of amassing more miles than a Boston cab driver on a good night, I kept getting bombarded with questions by my offspring, as usual. We were having tortellini with homemade alfredo sauce, which takes all of about twenty minutes to make, but their little enquiring minds still demanded answers.

These questions included, but were not limited to:

"What's my email address?"

"Why doesn't my email work?"

"What was the last battle of the Revolutionary War?"

"Are you sure it was Yorktown?" (No, I wasn't.) "I thought it was Bunker Hill. Wasn't it Bunker Hill?" (No, it wasn't Bunker Hill. Go look it up.)

"Why can't I get the confirmation to the game website on my email? I can't play until I do."

"Can you come look at my email, Mom?"

"In colonial times, would blacksmiths have been rich?"

"Would they have been as rich as silversmiths?"

"What show is that song from?"

And my favorite, from Echidna Boy, who's all of ten:

"Mom, what's the plot to Les Miz?"

The Not-So-Little-Drummer Boy had only one question, in keeping with his teenage priorities: "What's for dinner?"

At least that one I didn't have to think about to be able to answer.

And they wonder why I look so harassed all the time.

The long fight is over.

This is the obituary I've been waiting to write for six months -- which was at least five months too long.

Barbaro has finally been put down. It seems the whole country was pulling for him to make a miraculous recovery. Not surprisingly, since he had cheated death twice before: once from the massively fractured right leg that ended his racing career and in past times would have ended his life, and once from laminitis, the same disease that felled Triple Crown winners Affirmed and the magnificent Secretariat.

He developed an abcess in his left hoof (the one that had had laminitis) a week ago, followed by yet more surgery, followed by the discovery of laminitis in both his front legs, leaving him, as his surgeon noted , "with not a good leg to stand on." Unable to rest, the colt was clearly in significant pain, and the owners decided that they could not subject him to any more, and had him euthanized.

The entire case of Barbaro raises significant ethical questions, most notably: when is enough, enough? By all accounts, laminitis is a painful disease. And surely, both the broken leg and the abcess would be painful. And yes, he would have been on painkillers, but still... his handlers insisted all along that he was not in pain. A horse cannot talk; what if they were wrong?

And there is the question of resources: Barbaro underwent nearly two dozen surgeries and other procedures. Yes, it is the owners' money to use as they see fit. But is it really wise to spend so much in such an elaborate attempt to keep one horse alive? Especially from such devastating injuries? As much as I love them, horses are not people. Measures which may be justifiable to keep, say, a newborn alive may not be justifiable to keep a thoroughbred alive.

Then there is the question of precedent. We may be dangerously close to breeding horses that are lightning fast and china fragile. If we are willing to go through all this for this horse, what will we do for the next good horse that breaks down? And should we? Barbaro's treatment has pushed the boundaries of what is possible. What is in the best long-term interests of the breed may be another thing altogether.

Aside from the ethical questions, there is simply the sadness of the loss of what was surely going to be one of the great ones. I have seen the Triple Crown winners and other major race horses since I was about ten : I fully expected Barbaro to be in their league. (Well, maybe not Secretariat: he was in a class all his own.) After his phenomenal career, we expected Seattle Slew; we got Ruffian.

There is talk of burying him at Churchill Downs. I hope they do that; the site of his greatest triumph, it was the place where for a shining moment all of us caught our breath as possibly the greatest horse in a generation thundered past. Barbaro was in the house, and all was right with the world.

I don't fall in love with horses easily, anymore; Ruffian taught me the pitfalls of giving your affection to large animals with slender legs. But Barbaro made me fall in love with a horse again. I'm glad he's no longer in pain. But as his owners said in a press conference Monday, "Grief is the price we all pay for love."

Rest in peace, Barbaro. You fought a good fight.

It's that time of year again....

Woo hoo!

The pro football (that's American football, none of this soccer stuff) conference championships are this weekend. And this year, the choices are pretty easy for me.

None of my favorite teams (Bucs, Dolphins, Raiders) made the playoffs. But several of my second-tier teams did, and two of them -- New Orleans and Indianapolis -- are in the championship games.

I've always been fond of New Orleans. My family used to live there, and I was born in Oschner Hospital. And the Saints -- neé the "Ain'ts" were for many years the league's most hapless and lovable losers. I have a soft spot for losers -- hence my support for the Buccaneers and the Democratic Party. (Just kidding.) And the city needs this: the Saints have a large impact -- psychologically and financially -- on New Orleans. Although the game is being played in Chicago, the better the team does now, the more enthusiasm for next year, the more tourists, etc. Besides, in a city still reeling from the effects from Katrina a year and a half later, don't you want good things for them?

And then there is the Manning factor. That would be Archie Manning.

Archie Mannning was maybe one of the best quarterbacks of all time. He just played for the Saints. For ten years. Ten years without a single winning season. According to Wikipedia, had sacks against been an official statistic, he would have held the record. In 1972, he set the League record for pass attempts and completions, and for yards passing, all for a team that went 2-11-1. Hell, the one year the Saints hit .500 (1978), Manning was named NFC Player of the Year. He ended his career with the Oilers and Vikings, teams which went a combined 6-35 when he was with them.

He survived all this with grace and humor. He once said, "“I never intended to stay in New Orleans, ... [But] along the way, New Orleans was really good to me. We were the only pro team in town. We weren't too good, but the fans were passionate about the Saints and extremely good to me and my family.” Such an attitude is rare in professional sports. Archie Manning was -- and is -- a class act.

Now, of course, he's mostly known as Peyton's (and Eli's) dad. And Peyton plays for the Colts. It would be lovely to have one of Archie's kids go to the Super Bowl, since he only had the chance of a snowball in hell of going himself when he was playing.

But the real reason I root for the Colts these days is Tony Dungy. Tony Dungy used to be the coach at Tampa Bay, which is my team. He was a damn fine coach there. He made the Bucs respectable -- so that we could say "I'm a Buccaneers fan," and people would no longer laugh at us.

Dungy was unceremoniously dumped in 2002. He had gotten the Bucs to the playoffs, but not to the Super Bowl. It was handled poorly, and many people thought he got a raw deal. The Bucs brought in Jon Gruden, who won the Super Bowl the very next year.

With the team Dungy had assembled. Completely. In the four seasons since, the Bucs have only had one winning season -- 2005, when they won their division -- in contrast to the three seasons before that, when they had made the playoffs every year.

Dungy moved on to Indianapolis, but many Bucs fans still have a warm place in our hearts for him. He and his family are still so well regarded in the Tampa Bay area that when his son committed suicide in January 2006 -- four years after he left the team -- it was front page news in the St. Petersburg Times.

So this week I'll pull for the Colts against the Patriots (and haven't the Patriots just been to the Super Bowl too many times already?) and the Saints against da Bears. If they both win and go on the Super Bowl, well, I'll worry about that then.

I'll root for the Clydesdales.

Dear Mr. President...

I saw how in that interview with Jim Lehrer the other night you said we Americans “sacrifice peace of mind when they see the terrible image of violence on TV every night.” You went on to say that “the psychology of the country…is somewhat down because of this war.” You said this in explanation of why you would not ask us to make sacrifices to support the war effort.

You insult us, sir.

Each and every American. Do you really think us that frail and delicate that we cannot make difficult choices when neccessary? Do you really think us such a whining bunch of babies that we confuse being upset with what we see on television with real honest to goodness sacrifice?

Or is it you who are afraid to make sacrifices? Is it you who are afraid that if you ask more of us that the majority -- yes majority, much larger than you ever had when you were elected to office -- of Americans who oppose this war and who you have steadfastly ignored, and the even bigger majority who oppose the increase in troops you are pushing for, in contravention of all common sense and the recommendations of even your own blue-ribbon commission, that we will raise our voices and become even louder so that you cannot ignore us any longer? Are you afraid of upsetting the rich and powerful, who are more than willing to send young men and women to risk their lives in the hellhole of a civil war that Iraq has become, but who balk at actually paying for it?

You won't even rescind the ridiculous tax cuts you pushed through, with the aid of a cowardly Congress. And the budget deficit which was nonexistent (in fact a surplus) when you took office heads into the stratosphere. We will not have to sacrifice, oh no: our children and our grandchildren will. Shame on you.

Our parents and grandparents knew sacrifice during World War II: they rationed everything from sugar and gasoline to nylon. They bought war bonds. They planted victory gardens. They worked and sacrificed in support of the war effort because their country asked them to.

Hell, even during Vietnam, Americans faced the uncertainty of the draft, which brought the war home in ways that today's volunteer services -- which cause the sacrifice to fall most heavily on only a part of the nation's young people and their families -- don't. Or don't you remember? Oh, that's right. You chose to take a course which would avoid you seeing combat, or even going to Vietnam at all -- and your fellow Republicans had the unmitigated gall to mock your opponent who actually served in Vietnam and performed heroically.

Maybe that's the problem: you have no idea of real sacrifice because you have never in your life been asked to make any.

I do not know how America would respond to being asked to sacrifice in the name of the Iraq War. My belief is, given how the majority of Americans are opposed to this war, any efforts would be soundly defeated. But not because we're shrinking flowers who can't face the truth.

It's because we realize sacrifice in support of one man's insanity is in itself insane.

"In Summer and in Winter I shall walk..."

Most war poetry speaks to the situation of the soldier. One of the most subtle speaks to those left behind:

Patterns

I walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree. For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime-tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles
on his shoes.
I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon --
I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
"No," I told him.
"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer."
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?

Amy Lowell, 1874 - 1925

"To children ardent for some desperate glory...."

[Note: as of December, 2010, this post was by far the most viewed on my blog. People get here through Google Searches, usually for the phrase "children ardent for some desperate glory." If this describes you, I would strongly urge you to  hunt down a site than covers Wilfred Owens' work more generally.  He was a brilliant poet who died all too young, in the last week of the very war he wrote about.]


My eldest son is studying the poetry of the First World War in his literature class (along with All Quiet On the Western Front). Looking over what he was reading, I noticed one of the poems I find most moving. Rereading it, I was struck by how much the last four lines seem to resonate with me, when I think of the escalation of the Iraq War, or the saber-rattling towards Iran that our Administration is currently engaged in:

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen, 1893 -1918

Odds 'n' ends.

My friend Jen has seen the light, and now has a blog of her own, Small Moments of Grace. Jen is thoughtful, faithful, honest, and writes well. She also knits -- really knits, not just makes funny motions with yarn and needles, the way I do. Her "Works in Progress" post is a bit intimidating. *waves at Jen*


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It came to my attention that my blog was banned in Pakistan. I was about to feel terrific about this -- even though I have a tiny readership, someone must have objected to something I said! I was speaking out for truth and justice! I was making waves! -- when I learned that the government of Pakistan has a blanket ban on all Blogspot (Blogger) blogs. (You can stop laughing now.)

Oh, well. A girl can dream.

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

We had our fifth night of sub-freezing temperatures last night. If I wanted to deal with this, I'd move somewhere with a lower cost of living. Brrrrrr.

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

Until January 30th, Barnes and Nobles, at least the ones in my neck of the woods, are having a "Buy One, Get One Free" sale on boxed television program sets. Which allowed me (using a forty dollar gift card) to get the eighth season of "Red Dwarf" and "Looney Tunes Golden Collection, Volume 2" for $25. Not too shabby. I had been wanting to get the latter of those two for some time because it included "What's Opera, Doc?," which is listed on the National Film Registry (as is "One Froggy Evening," also in the set).

"Kill the wabbit, kill the wabbit, kiiiilllllll the waaaabbbbiiiiiittttt............"

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

Speaking of the National Film Registry, the 2006 additions were released on December 27. They include Blazing Saddles, Rocky, Halloween, and sex, lies and videotape. Fargo made the cut the first year it was eligible. To be selected, a picture must be "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant." Which leaves me wondering why they selected Groundhog Day....

Overall, not as much fun as last year's class, which included the footage from the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake and Fire, Toy Story, and best of all, The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Now there's a "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant" picture. Even more so than This is Spinal Tap, which made the cut in 2002.

I still can't figure out how they can leave off the Apollo 11 moon walking footage, though.

On a serious note....

Growing up in Florida, of Southern parents, and then living later in Atlanta, I have never bought the contention that bigotry is solely a Southern phenomenon. Over at Orcinus, Dave Neiwert has a piece on "Sundown Towns" and the horrific effect of racism across the country. Fascinating reading.

The reason it matters? Because pointing fingers at the South does nothing beyond stir resentments, while not addressing the widespread nature of the problem. Just yesterday, for MLK Day, someone in a condo across from the Starbuck's had hoisted a Confederate flag. A Confederate flag which doesn't fly any other day of the year. In California.

The piece on "sundown towns" part of a series on eliminationism in America. Important -- if scary -- reading.

Food for thought.

When I gave food to the poor, they called me a saint. When I asked why the poor were hungry, they called me a communist.

Dom Helder Camara


This week I'm worried about fruit.

We've had a cold snap, with temperatures in the high twenties and low thirties (no snickering from those of you who live in genuinely cold places), and the tangerine tree in the backyard has taken a hit. We strung Christmas tree lights up to try and raise the temperature a few degrees, and probably saved most of the tree, but the fruit is done for. (I started to say the fruit was toast, but realized that would not be the best metaphor here.) I pulled some of the fruit -- maybe 150 -- off the tree on Wednesday before the weather hit, and have been giving them to friends since them. We will see what survives: the frozen ones should drop to the ground in a few days, and the rest we can pick.

This is the third year that we've lost some of the tangerine harvest. The past two years, fruit thieves stripped the tree -- and I do mean stripped, not a fruit was left, not even a green one -- before we could harvest the tangerines.

This annoys me no end. First of all, we use the tangerines: the tree supplies our fruit for lunches and snacks for a good couple of months. Tangerines picked right off the tree are wonderful. We juice them. We cook with them. We put them in salads -- ambrosia and green (lettuce, tangerine pieces, pecans, dried cranberries, with a raspberry vinagraite, yum). And we help feed the hungry.

Some portion of our harvest -- anywhere from 10 percent to as much as a third -- is dropped off with the Second Harvest Food Bank.* They give it to people who need food. Simple as that.

California is the land of the ornamental fruit tree. You can't drive down a street without seeing at least one orange or lemon tree (and usually more) laden with fruit. More fruit than can be eaten by an average family. And not just citrus: persimmon, fig, apple, pear, and pomegranate all can be found in the city I live in.

A lot of that fruit goes to waste. You see it on the ground, or you see it being cleaned up. Lately that's been bothering me: how to get the fruit that would otherwise go to waste to people who can use it?

I try to do my part. Concerned about thieves, this year the first harvest went to the food bank -- some 400 tangerines. Only then did we think about picking for ourselves or our friends. I was still unhappy that I had been unable to make my usual donations the past two years. But I keep feeling the need to reach others.

I was fretting on this, and then I found Village Harvest. Village Harvest, among other things, sends teams of volunteers to pick fruit off trees which is then donated to food banks and other charities. I can't volunteer to pick -- picking the fruit off my own tree was hard enough on Wednesday, and the earlier harvest of 400 was done my eldest, who was paid a nickel a tangerine -- but I can get the word out. That's what I am going to try to do.

Which begs the question, why do we have a society with such a driving need for food banks anyway? Part of it is the war, and the billions of dollars being siphoned off every month, money that could go a very long way towards eradicating hunger. But more than that is the discomfort we feel at the notion of poverty among us. Poor people are scary -- because we hate to face the fact that, given the right set of circumstances, we might be where they are, too. So poverty becomes a moral failing, thus relieving us of our duty to help people.

How come so many politicians and others who trumpet their special relationship with Jesus Christ so studiously ignore his words about helping the poor?



* According to the Village Harvest website, the SH Santa Clara warehouse is not accepting home-grown produce due to a med-fly quarantine. On the other hand, when I showed up with the produce, they took it (and I talked to a warehouse person, not simply left it in a bin). So which is right, I don't know. I'm concerned that the fruit may have simply been thrown out when I could have taken it elsewhere (other food banks, including the San Mateo County SH, are still accepting home grown produce). However, it looks like the Village Harvest website may just have been out of date: the quarantine was lifted on September 7, 2006. Our fruit would not have been from within the quarantined area to begin with -- the medfly quarantine was limited to the San Jose area.

EchidnaQuest 2006, Part II

EchidnaQuest Part I, here.

The fateful day arrived. Echidna Boy could hardly contain his excitement.

We arrived relatively early at the zoo, and there were already long lines for tickets. Going to major tourist attractions during the week between Christmas and New Year's is always stressful for the crowd-averse (i.e., moi), but at least it wasn't Disneyland (*shudder*).

We had determined that Victor the Echidna was in the Children's Zoo, right near the petting zoo. We set out, going right by the long lines for the "sky-fari" and the tour bus, and dashing past the beautiful blue macaws and the flamingos. Some of us were not especially happy with this.

We followed the signs to the echidna enclosure. And there was Victor. Curled in a ball, with only spines showing. Asleep.

Echidna Boy was ecstatic. We sat there and watched Victor for a long while, during which the only thing he did was snuffle occasionally. People would come and go, usually walking up and saying "Look at the porcupine!" Echidna Boy would quickly say "It's not a porcupine, its an echidna!" I was chagrined, and told him it was rude to correct people.

After a while, and far too many people who couldn't be bothered to read the large sign which said "Short-beaked Echidna" I (and the rest of our party), found ourselves saying to passers-by "It's not a porcupine, it's an echidna."*

The rest of us got bored and wandered away, mostly to look at the wombat around the corner. I had been under the mistaken impression that wombats were roughly the size of housecats -- instead, they're the size of small pigs. The eldest child was driven up a wall by parents saying to their kids "Look at the piggie!" He took to saying, "It's not a pig, it's a wombat!"

My kids, pedants through and through.

We finally convinced the obsessive that we could come back later in the day to check on Victor, that the rest of us wanted to do something else than watch a sleeping ball of spines. Like the polar bears and pandas and gorillas, or just about anything else.

After we left the children's zoo, our friend had the brilliant idea of calling the zoo's office and explaining that we had a child who had come all the way from the Bay Area just to see Victor, and couldn't someone come and wake the echidna up? A very nice keeper named Richard met us at Victor's enclosure.

He held Victor up, and the echidna seemed none too happy about this. My kid was over the moon. He could see the face and underside. The keeper gave a short talk about echidnas (by this time other people had gathered), and asked Echidna Boy if he knew any cool facts about the animals. EB, who on a normal day can talk for hours about the stupid things, became extremely self-conscious. Finally, he stammered that echidnas have been known to live fifty-six years in captivity.

Good answer: it turns out that Victor was closing in or had surpassed the echidna longevity record. He had come to the Zoo in 1952, and had been at least 2 when he arrived, making him at least 56 this year. He is the oldest animal at the zoo. EB beamed with delight. He then got to pet Victor, at least until Victor decided he had had enough and put his spines up. EB delirously -- and predictably -- announced that he would never wash that hand again.

Richard put Victor back down and left. We got people washed up and had lunch and then saw the rest of the zoo, staying until it closed at five. The other big hit was the gorilla enclosure, although I had a lot of fun watching the river otters. (I skipped the pandas, even though everybody else stood in line to see them. They're cute, but they are not the only cute animal in the world, and I didn't feel like standing in line for half an hour.) Dinner was aimed at adults: we ate at a great Mexican restaurant in Coronado, so that some of us could window shop at the boutiques in the Hotel Del Mar. Picking up insanely decadent desserts at a dessert restaurant (the name of which escapes me) completed the evening.

The next day we headed home, relatively uneventfully. Five of the six people in our group geocache (guess which one doesn't?) so we stopped several times along the route to find caches. I was okay with this and went along, until we hit caches located in the middle of agricultural fields in pitch blackness. Having read too many novels about serial killers, the thought of being out where no one could help us if something went wrong did not appeal to me. So I (and the middle child, who is none too keen on dark deserted fields himself) camped out at a local Starbucks while the crazy people went off with their flashlights.

A late dinner at Harris Ranch (if you're ever there, get the pot roast, it's out of this world), and a quick gas and coffee stop at Casa de Fruita (fortunately, we arrived there after almost everything had closed -- my kids love Casa de Fruita) and we straggled in after midnight.

It was a pretty good trip, all in all. I really could do without the car breaking down and the eldest getting sick, but seeing Echidna Boy's face when he stroked Victor sort of made it all worthwhile. It's not often you can give a kid his dream -- and have it be just as wonderful as he imagines it.


*Knowledge is contagious: A man came up with a child and said, "Look at the porcupine!" I replied, as usual, "It's not a porcupine, it's an echidna!" A minute later, his wife came up and said "Oh, a porcupine!" The man said to her "It's not a porcupine, it's an echidna!" I felt I had accomplished something.

EchindaQuest 2006, part I

My youngest son is insanely obsessive about echidnas. They are his favorite animals. He can tell you all about them. Where they live (Australia and New Guinea), what climate they like (temperate), how they give birth (leathery eggs like reptiles, then the young stay in a pocket like marsupials), which ones are endangered (long-nosed) and which ones are not (short-nosed) and how long they live in captivity (over fifty years).

We're not quite sure why he became so obsessed, since an echidna looks pretty much like a porcupine or hedgehog. Sure, they lay eggs, but so do platypi, and those are seriously trippy animals. Part of it may be that he can say "I just love echidnas!" and quite a number of people -- kids and adults -- will say "What's an echidna?"

Not every zoo has echidnas. They're not common, like giraffes or lions. So, at some point this fall, it was decided that during the break we would drive to Los Angeles to see the echidna at the L.A. Zoo, since K. had never seen one. (Neither had anyone else in the family except my husband, but the rest of us didn't really care.)

Oops. We found out, a week or two before we were to go, that the echidna from the L.A. Zoo is on loan for breeding purposes. It looked like the pilgrimage was over before it was begun!

But then there was Victor. Victor is the echidna at the San Diego Zoo, and we decided that, what the hell, we were driving the five hours to L.A., might as well drive the additional three to San Diego. I wept a small inner tear for Santa Monica and Hollywood, as well as the La Brea Tar Pits, but it did seem like the best solution. Especially since we could also hit the San Diego Model Railroad Museum for my train-freak middle child, and go to Harris Ranch for the teenage carnivore. (The last was miffed because he could only order an eight-ounce steak for breakfast -- we wouldn't let him order two -- instead of a sixteen-ounce. We made up for it be also eating dinner there on the way back, much to the annoyance of his two younger brothers, who decided early in November that they were going to be vegetarians for ethical reasons.)

So we loaded up the van and headed off. The weather was not fun -- nasty wind gusts, intermittent showers, dropping temperatures -- but we had gotten an early start and made very good time and was looking to pull into our hotel at about 4:00 p.m. We stopped for a late picnic lunch at a park just off the freeway in Pasadena, that my husband knows about because it is on the way to the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, where he often goes for business. As we were leaving, the van died.*

My husband went with the van and the tow truck (in spite of our instructions to the tow-truck company, they sent a tow truck which could carry only one passenger), leaving me and the boys stranded in the park, with nothing to do, and with rapidly dropping temperatures. We would end up sitting there for two-and-a-half hours. Attempts to get a cab failed when the cab company refused to send a car out because I did not know the address of the park.

Anyone who thinks it does not get cold in Southern California has never been stranded outdoors in Pasadena in late December, in a relatively light fleece jacket. By the time my husband came to get us with a rental car, it was close to freezing, and getting dark. The boys had been running around (thanks to the inspired efforts of the eldest, who organized games for the other two)and so were pretty warm, but I had been sitting down and was chilled bordering on hypothermia.

After getting hot drinks from Starbucks (which only warmed me up a little -- I stayed cold most of the night), we fought rush hour traffic through L.A. and made it down to our motel about 8:30. The friend who was meeting us there had already checked in, which was good, so I could simply veg out while the other adults went out for pizza.

The next day had originally been planned for the zoo. Change of plans -- my husband had to go back to Pasadena to pick up the van and drop off the rental car, and I was going to go with him so he could take advantage of the car pool lanes and so I could drive back. So we went to the Model Train Museum in the morning -- my husband and I, our friend, and the two younger children. (The eldest spent the entire day in the hotel room vomiting uncontrollably.) Then the van rescuers left, leaving our friend to take the kids around Balboa Park for the afternoon (they had a marvelous time -- well, except for the eldest, who was back at the hotel). We picked up the van, fought more traffic, rolled back into San Diego at about 8:30 -- fortunately missing the Holiday Bowl traffic -- having spent a good seven hours driving back and forth from San Diego to L.A.

The next day was the Zoo. And Victor.

[To Be Continued ....]






*This is the same van that died in the Central Valley on our way back from San Diego in June, and that conked out in October -- and it is less than three years and 70K miles old. It has led to two things: it is the last vehicle we will buy from Ford, and it may be the last time we drive to San Diego, at least for a little while, until the curse wears off.

Virginia Woolf was right about a lot of things. Mainly about how life can interfere with the creative process. I have a room of my own -- more or less -- but there is no place to write in there, and I am sadly lacking in outside sources of income.

Life is. I am supposed to be writing -- it is allegedly good for me -- so I am going to try to do better in that regard. I am still here, although many days lately it feels like I can't say much more than that.

There are some good things. The holidays are over, which is good because the kids are now back in school and everyone is over being sick. (My youngest, poor child, spent Christmas Day vomiting uncontrollably. His eldest brother spent a day stuck in a hotel room in San Diego doing likewise.)

My drawing class starts on Friday. I volunteer at a local arts organization, and have racked up enough hours that I get a free class. Maybe I'll post some of them, if I can ever figure out how the scanner works. If I really work hard, I can rack up more hours and take the class I really want to -- watercolor. (I decided I really needed to learn to draw before I learned to paint.)

Right this second, my kitchen counters are clean.

I keep thinking of things I need to write about -- musical odds and ends, football, EchidnaQuest 2006 -- and just can't seem to get my act together.

Oh well. Happy 2007.

Religious question du jour...

I know that at least two members of the clergy read this blog occasionally. And others who have Altar Guild experience. So maybe you people can help me out.

What is the proper method of disposal for candles that have been used in Advent wreaths? After all, they've been blessed and prayed over. But they still have a lot of wax left, so to speak (especially this year, when the last candle will burn for one evening's meal), and you are going to get fresh candles next year.

Is it okay to put them in the junk drawer to have on hand in case of power outages? What about making firestarters out of them?

How about using them for candlelight dinners of tapas (garlic prawns, chorizo-stuffed dates, bruschetta with tomato and Serrano ham) and rioja? Does it make any difference if the menu is Cornish game hen with cornbread and red pepper stuffing and honey-glazed carrots, along with a nice gewerztraminer?

Enquiring minds need to know.

Definite proof that this Christmas business has gotten out of hand.

In Palo Alto, California, there is a street where all the houses decorate for Christmas. The street is lined with small pines strung with lights. They even put red coverings over the street lamps (leading me or my husband to always make the very stale joke about it being a red-light district, albeit one with houses worth about $2 mil). During the weeks after Thanksgiving, there are always lines of cars cruising down the streets slowly, parking lights on.

Sunday, as we were cruising, the driver of the beat up mid-seventies sports car in front of us got impatient. Annoyed that the Prius in front of him was going too slowly, he pulled out and passed the guy. It was unreal. I sat there in the driver's seat of my van thinking, "Whoa, someone needs to chill out."

We proceeded down the street. The impatient driver pulled away a bit and then stopped in front of the last house to look at it. The Prius driver sat for a minute, then gently tapped his headlights. Mistake.

The insane driver sped up and drove a short way, stopped, and put his car in reverse, and started coming back, fast. It was the unfolding of a classic road rage incident -- over Christmas lights.

Fortunately, at that point a large and noisy group of pedestrians came to the corner. The first driver stopped, and sped around the corner. The Prius sat still for a moment. I was getting annoyed, until I realized he was probably waiting to make sure the other driver wasn't waiting for him -- either that or he was in shock.

After a minute the Prius turned the corner, with us behind him, and drove off.

As the notable philosopher Linus van Pelt once observed, "Not only is Christmas getting too commercial, it's getting too dangerous."

What I contemplate during Advent.

Christmas is so bittersweet.

There is the Child. The shoot from the stump of the tree of Jesse, called Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero, Prince-of-Peace.

There is his mother, young, trusting, faithful, who would be told by Simeon soon that her child would grow to be the cause of turmoil, and that her own heart would be broken.

There are shepherds and there are the wise men from the East, who sought for the child, asking, where is the child who born the King of the Jews?

There are other children, the children of Bethlehem, slain by Herod. There are the mothers and fathers of the other children, weeping for their sons, asking of a distant God, why?

There is the man the child grew into, who walked the roads of Samaria and Judea, healing and performing miracles, and teaching. The man who will be betrayed to crucifixion and death.

The manger stands in the shadow of the cross. Without that shadow, Christmas has little meaning, simply a story about a young woman of faith and her baby. The light forming that shadow is the glow from the mouth of the open tomb.

So we celebrate the child, keeping in mind all the while where the end lies. Except it's not the end, for there is the resurrection.

The Child is Immanuel, is God-With-Us, and by His life, death, and resurrection brings hope to us all.

It is Advent, when we await the arrival of He who said

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives
and recovering of sight to the blind,
to set at liberty those who are oppressed,
to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.”


I have not written about politics for several weeks. I have been trying to not get sucked into dissections of the results of the election and what it means for the country, here or elsewhere on the 'net. What will be, will be.

Sometimes, however, what is at stake is not politics but justice. What has happened to Jose Padilla transcends politics.

Jose Padilla was picked up in Chicago following 9/11 as a suspected member of Al-Qaeda. There were originally allegations that he was part of a plot to manufacture a dirty bomb. He was declared an enemy combatant, and shipped to Naval Brig in South Carolina.

Jose Padilla is an American citizen, arrested on American soil.

His lawyers fought his detention all the way to the Supreme Court. Two years ago, the Supreme Court agreed with him on the merits, but ordered him to refile in the proper Circuit. He did so. The Bush Administration fought to keep him in military control, up until earlier this year, when the case was on course to get back to the Supreme Court, when they quickly transferred him to a (civilian) federal penitentiary, charged him with conspiracy and providing material support to terrorists. Charging him with a crime means that he will be brought to trial, rather than languishing in military detention with no hope of a jury hearing his case.

During the time he was in the brig, he was alone in a ten cell wing of the facility, his counsel allege. He saw no one but his interrogators. His windows were blacked out, he had no clock or calendar, and had his Koran taken from him. He slept on a steel platform.

The military argues that none of this was inhumane, and that his basic needs were met, and that he never complained. He never complained? Maybe he was afraid.

In the course of his incarceration, Padilla needed a root canal. What happened next is captured on video. Armed guards -- their faces completely hidden behind visors -- entered the cell. They did not speak. Padilla was manacled -- to be expected -- and then...

He was given noise-blocking earphones, and blacked goggles. He was taken from his cell, without being able to see or hear what is happening around him, by completely anonymous figures. To get a root canal. It makes one wonder -- did they even tell him what was going on?

He lived under these conditions for three and a half years.

His attorneys say he is incompetent to stand trial. He does not seem to understand the charges against him. He is unable to assist in his own defense, primarily because he seems to not believe that his attorneys are working for him -- but that they are part of an interrogation scheme on the government's part. He is afraid to talk about what happened in the brig because he is terrified he will be returned there.

He is a broken man.

Torture does not have to be physical to be torture. Sensory deprivation and isolation strike at the heart of the greatest human needs beyond food, water, and warmth. To be trapped with only your own mind for company for months on ends is terrible to contemplate.

All for a man who has not stood trial for any crime, and who even his jailers admit was not disruptive.

Not that it matters -- since we should not treat any human this way -- but it bears repeating that Padilla is a citizen. Before its passage, we were repeatedly told that the Military Commissions Bill would not be used against American citizens. Do you believe that?

In this season of Advent, I pray for Mr. Padilla. I pray also for his jailers, that one day they realize what exactly what they have done.



UPDATE: Terry Karney's post about the situation is well worth reading.

Proof that my youngest child is, in fact, forty-five:

He likes goat cheese and discussing politics.

He enjoys tea and wants to start collecting handmade teacups.

He loves showtunes, and knows the words to nearly as many of them as I do.

He saw Titanic before I did.*

He has a large and somewhat esoteric vocabulary, at least for his alleged chronological age.**



And the final proof? This morning he said he wanted a shiatsu massage chair for Christmas.


* Titanic came on television, and he came in the room. "I can tell you how it ends," I smirked. "The boat sinks." "The boat sinks," he replied gravely, "and the man she is in love with.....[not revealed here in case someone hasn't seen the movie]. I've seen this already." And he left the room, leaving me speechless. I'm still not sure where he saw the movie.

** He has a passion for monotremes, and it confuses his grade school teachers, several of whom did not know what a monotreme was. (They do now.) He is especially fond of echidnas, and wants to own one when he grows up.

Bad Christmas Music, Revisited.

Remember how I said that the worst secular Christmas songs were "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer," "Santa Baby," and Weird Al's "Christmas At Ground Zero"?

No.

I forgot the absolutely worst Christmas song, which I'm not sure I've heard yet this holiday season, but which, nightmare-like, inserted itself into my brain this morning as I woke up and will not go away.

"Last Christmas," by George Michael.

Whatever you think of Michael's music -- and he actually did three songs I like ("Faith," "Freedom '90," and "One Last Try") -- this particular songs is syrupy and whiny. You understand why his lover left him, if he's this annoying.

The narrator of the song "gave his heart" to the object of his affections on Christmas, and "the very next day, you tore it apart." Good heavens, man! It's been a year, pull yourself together! How completely pathetic! So you've found a new lover -- why are so obsessed with the old you have to go back and point out this fact?

I just hope I can scrub it out of aural memory soon, and replace it by something less objectionable, like "It's a Small World." Or "Achy-Breaky Heart." Or dentists' drills. Or something.

Of course, it could be worse: I could have "My Heart Will Go On" stuck in my head.

I have a teapot now. I grew up a bit of a wild child -- a tomboy to the max -- and while I was exposed to "tea" as an event rather than simply a beverage at college (Wellesley has tea every Wednesday in the dorms), I didn't really understand the joys of using a teapot until recently, when the ladies at my church have had several teas.

A dear friend of mine, knowing that a teapot was on my Christmas list, gave me a lovely china teapot on Tuesday. The upshot of this is that on Wednesday, I sat with my youngest son (who had with his own money purchased a handmade Japanese-style teacup and saucer because he thought it was pretty) having tea. Very civilized.

All I have to do now is learn to make scones.

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

I have started listening to liberal talk radio occasionally on satellite radio, and have come to the conclusion that there are almost as many reality-challenged people on my side as on the other -- or, at least, those are the ones that call in. Guys? Impeaching a president in the last two years of his second term, when you hold a one vote majority in the Senate and it would be impossible to convict, makes no sense and would simply tear the country apart. Fortunately, the hosts seem to be reasonable people, albeit strident.

Because, of course, I am never strident. No siree Bob, not me. And I have this bridge in Brooklyn....

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

Advent starts on Sunday, and on Saturday I go and make the Advent wreath. We always have an Advent wreath for part of Advent, but because we usually travel at Christmas we never finish using it. We're staying home this year, and one of the highlights (in addition to worshipping at our own church for Christmas) will be lighting all the Advent candles, and saying all the prayers.

I love the Advent wreath. I love making it, I love the lighting and the prayers. I love that it helps reinforce what we are waiting for, rather than simply a day to get presents or eat a lot of chocolate. My kids love it too, there is always a debate over who gets to light the candles.

I am hoping to write about Advent, and about faith in general, during the Advent season.

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

I have decided on a winner in the "Most obnoxious contemporary Christmas song -- religious theme" category. (The winner in the "Most obnoxious Christmas song -- secular" category is a three way tie between "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer," "Santa Baby," and Weird Al's "Christmas At Ground Zero" -- the last having a horrible tendency to warp itself into an endless loop as part of a mashup in my brain with "Jingle Bell Rock.") I generally don't mind religious theme Christmas songs, because, no matter how bad the song is as a song, at least the songwriter is trying to sing about the true meaning of Christmas.

But then I heard "The Christmas Shoes." This is about a little boy who is trying to buy shoes for his dying mother so she'll look nice when she meets Jesus. The narrator gives him money for the shoes, and thanks God for the boy "reminding him what the season is all about."

This song is wrong on so many levels: manipulative, crass (Jesus and consumerism! -- Hey, maybe that *is* what the season is all about!), and psychologically improbable. I have known kids with dying parents -- even kids from devout conservative Protestant families, and they were not out buying shoes, or anything like that: they are too fearful, and sad, and in shock. The entire scenario is intended to pull the heartstrings of gullible adults.

But the coup de grace is at the end of the song: the producers have added a choir. I'm not sure whether it is intended to be boys or the angels coming to take mama away, but it sounds like neither: the chorus is, I swear, sung by aliens.

Maybe mama was abducted by aliens? In which case, the shoes wouldn't help much.


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


Speaking of Christmas songs, I get really cranky with all the songs that equate Christmas with snow and sleighbells and things like that. I grew up in Florida, where the only white Christmases we had were because of the beach sand.

And you tell me how much snow there is in Palestine. Really.


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

Next week the males of my family turn into mighty hunters and go to the forest to fell the evergreen that will grace our living room. One of the joys of living in Northern California is that you can go cut your own tree (actually, you only cut the top off the tree -- you leave enough so the actual tree survives); a joy, that is, except for the cold, and the wind, and the rain we often get this time of year. For some reason there has always been a competition in my family to find the perfect tree, and me staying in the car is considered poor sportsmanship.

Once you find the tree, you wield your mighty bow saw (being sure to leave at least three or four limbs at the bottom so the tree can regenerate) and fell your prey. The best tree we ever found, though, was one that someone had already cut and abandoned. I didn't want it -- if we were going to go all the way out there to get a tree, by golly we were going to get the freshest tree possible -- but my kids begged. "Please, mom, it needs us!" Sigh. We took the tree home, and once we decorated it, it looked fantastic. From then on out, we called it the Charlie Brown tree.

There is a fair amount of ritual -- we always have chili for dinner (put on before we go out) and we always have mint hot chocolate after we get back with the tree. We decorate the tree either after dinner or, if we get the tree on Saturday, on Sunday evening. We go in for the "eclectic" decorating style, placing glass ornaments owned by my husbands grandmother next to paper Santas made by my eldest son in kindergarten years ago. It's chaotic and messy, but full of personality.

Rather like all of us.

Sunday afternoon at the movies......

[I was going to write this Sunday night, but a family crisis (my son accidentally nearly set the house on fire -- long story) shoved it out of my mind. Everything's better now, if still a bit smoky.]

The family went with friends to see Happy Feet. Herewith, a report:

The trailers:

Charlotte's Web looks like it actually might not suck, which is all you can hope for when a filmmaker takes on a classic. You think LOTR fans are rabid? They're nothing compared to former little girls who adored E.B. White's arachnid and who will be out for blood if this thing is bad. And of course Steve Buscemi has to voice Templeton. Of course. It's like Alan Rickman playing Snape: there are some casting decisions so obvious it would be folly to disregard them.

Speaking of Snape, The Order of the Phoenix trailer looks good, too. Alan Rickman looks like he is playing Snape as actually human, going for a nuanced portrayal. Hurrah! I've always had a soft spot for Snape, probably because I have adored Alan Rickman ever since he first sneered at Bruce Willis in Die Hard. And the Harry Potter movies are uniformly well-cast, with actors well-known (Rickman, the wonderful Emma Thompson -- and by the way, weren't they so great together as a married couple in Love, Actually?) and the less well known, at least to American audiences (Mark Williams, Imelda Staunton as Umbridge -- I can hardly wait to see it, she's such a wonderful actress).

Oh. My. Goodness. The Nativity Story? They cast an olive-skinned, dark-eyed, dark-haired, teenager as Mary. They cast an Iranian actress as Elizabeth. And to my untutored American eye, Joseph looked like he was born in Palestine (he's actually Guatemalan). Finally, a religious themed picture that did not cast the holy family as freaking Europeans. (Jim Cavaziel in The Passion of the Christ? Give me a break!) It's not my ideal religious movie casting (Naveen Andrews -- Sayid from Lost -- as Jesus) but it's pretty darn good. And the flashes they show of Mary in labor? She looks like a woman in labor -- absolutely panicked and in pain.* Catherine Hardwicke, who directed this, also directed Thirteen, one of the scariest looks inside the mind of adolescent girls ever.

The movie:

Much better than I expected. Was not the rip-off of March of the Penguins I feared, and has a killer soundtrack. The voice work is uniformly good.

It's the music and the dancing -- yes, I know it's animated, but the dancing matters** -- which carry this movie. The "you have to be yourself" message, which could have been disturbingly cloying, was carried of with humor and restraint. There is also a subplot in there about religious fundamentalism, which is sufficiently subtle that two of the three people I talked to about it missed it -- until I pointed it out to them.

And, after seeing this movie, you may become obsessive about cutting the loops open on your plastic soda can holders before you throwm them away, if you're not already. Which is not a bad thing.

All in all, I give it three and a half stars.


*Of course, there is such a thing as taking Method acting too far: Keisha Castle-Hughes, the young actress who played Mary, had to miss the premiere because she's pregnant and can't travel.

** The dancing was done by Savion Glover, the premier American tap and modern dance artist. Glover won a Tony in 1996 at the age of 23 (!) for his choreography of Bring in Da Noise, Bring in Da Funk, a show he co-wrote and starred in. His dancing on Happy Feet was transferred to the screen using motion-capture, and the result is that Mumbles the penguin has some really sweet moves.

It's that time of year again.

I jumped the gun again, and started listening to holiday* music, even though it is only the day after Thanksgiving, and not even Advent yet. And that includes a fair amount of actual Christmas music, even though I know I should not be listening to Christmas music until CHRISTMAS (sorry, Maly).

My tastes in Christmas music tend to run to traditional carols and humorous secular songs. My favorite secular Christmas song is Barenaked Ladies "Elf's Lament," mainly because it takes the cult of Santa Claus (to which we do not adhere in our house) down a notch or two.**

Last year a friend sent me "The Christians and the Pagans" by Dar Williams. It's a lovely little song about ecumenical understanding, about gathering together and looking past differences to celebrate family and time together. I really like it.

Except for this one line: "She said 'Christmas is like Solstice.'"

No, it's not.

I don't have anything against Solstice. It's a wonderful idea for a holiday -- to celebrate the turning of the year, the joy of Creation and the passage of the seasons. What better time to mark the gift of time? To recognize the blessing of the fallow time of winter, and to prepare for the rebirth of spring? Maybe it's just that I'm hazy on the pagan theology here, but I don't object to Solstice.***

But that's not what Christmas is about. Yes, there was a Christ child, wrapped in swaddling clothes, if we are to believe Luke. Christ comes to earth to redeem mankind, and will walk upon the earth not for a year but for over thirty and when he dies he will not be a small babe wrapped in swaddling clothes but a man tortured and broken who goes unflinchingly to his death. A willing sacrifice for all the world. I don't understand it, but I accept it.

Solstice is for a season, a year. Christmas is for a season, but is a symbol of the eternal.






*Holiday, not Christmas, because there are a fair number of generic cold-weather songs such as "Baby, It's Cold Outside" and some Hannukah songs, such as the Velveteens "Get Your Channukah On."

** One notable exception to my liking for humorous secular songs is "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer": I can't stand it.

*** The early church fathers did, but handled it by appropriating much of the symbology of Solstice or Yule celebrations, such as trees, and holly or mistletoe, and the date of Christmas itself. The Bible doesn't indicate what time of year Jesus was born, but it's a fair bet it wasn't on December 25th.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Things I have to be thankful for:

The boys: the Not-So-Little Drummer Boy, the Wrestler, the Red-Headed Menace, and the Rocket Scientist.

That I don't have to worry about having a roof over my head or food to feed my children.

That we live in relative safety, with car accidents being the biggest threat to our well-being.

For my friends, who keep actually talking me, even when I withdraw from the rest of the world.

For health insurance that provides me with the care I need to be able to function.

For yams with marshmallows on top and cornbread stuffing with red peppers.

For Starbucks Venti Nonfat No-Whip Peppermint Mochas.

For the Bill of Rights.

For the Nineteenth Amendment.

For the color blue.

For Presiding Bishop Katherine Jeffords Schori.

For Speaker-Elect Nancy Pelosi.

For flowers.

For the LiveJournal and Blogger the rest of the blogosphere, which allows me to interact with people in many counties on different continents.

For the music of Stephen Sondheim, Eric Clapton, and The Who.

For the Pacific Ocean.

For art.

For love.

For life.



Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, wherever you may be, whether in your country you celebrate on this day or not, may you have joy and many blessings.

Parental evaluation.

Parenting is a bitch. There is no instruction manual, and no exams or performance evaluations to tell you how you're doing, so you can fix your mistakes.

The worst part? You're trying to mold young minds into growing up to be thoughtful, compassionate, faithful human beings with a thirst for social justice, when all they seem to be interested in is playing video games and annoying the crap out of their brothers.

Me: "Did you hear about that political commentator who almost accused that new Representative of being a traitor simply because he's Muslim?"

Rocket Scientist: "Yeah. That was just incredible. I can't believe what some of these people say."

Red-headed Menace (who's ten): "What's a Muslim?"

Me & RS: Explanation of what Muslims were, and how most Muslims were peaceful but that there were some who were violent and that the 9/11 hijackers and the insurgents in Iraq had been Muslims, and that some people viewed all Muslims as being an enemy.

Red-Headed Menace: "You mean he was accusing this guy of being a traitor based on nothing more than his religion? That's terrible! That's like what we did to the Japanese-Americans in World War II!"

Political awareness and critical thinking skills, both at the age of ten. We need to work on nuance -- Glenn Beck did not come out and say Keith Ellison was a traitor, merely implied he might be, and that Ellison needed to prove he was not -- but still, I must be doing something right.

More probably uninteresting tidbits about my musical tastes. Mainly because I'm bored.

I have a lot of playlists on my iTunes, which make more or less sense. There's "Broadway," and "No Garth C0untry," and artist-specific ones such as "Great Big Sea." And then there are the rand0m-organizing-principle playlists, such as:

"The Name of the Game" (songs in no particular order):

"My Baby's In Love With Eddie Vedder " Weird Al Yankovic
"Come On Eileen" Dexy's Midnight Runners
"The Downeaster “Alexa”" Billy Joel
"Tango: Maureen" Rent:Original Broadway Cast
"A Boy Named Sue" Johnny Cash
"Sloop John B" Beach Boys
"Sweet Baby James"* James Taylor
"Guinnevere" Crosby, Stills & Nash
"Amazing Grace" Judy Collins
"Maggie May" Rod Stewart
"Old Polina" Great Big Sea
"Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard" Paul Simon
"Gee, Officer Krupke" West Side Story: Orginal Cast Recording
"Lady Madonna" The Beatles
"Layla" Derek and the Dominoes
"Layla" Eric Clapton**
"Boston and St. John's" Great Big Sea
"Bruce's Philosophers Song" Monty Python
"The Moon And St. Christopher" Mary Chapin Carpenter
"Matthew" John Denver
"Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)" Bruce Springsteen
"Uncle John's Band" Grateful Dead
"Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" Elton John
"Cleopatra, Queen Of Denial" Pam Tillis

and so on and so forth -- that's about half the list.

I also have playlists called "Professionally Speaking," "H2O" and "By the Numbers," not to mention the more boring "Geography."

Oh, and Mad Priest, if you read this? Unlike your musical tastes, this list is seriously unhip, and I recognize that. I embrace my unhippness... I'm a mini-van driving, stay-at-home mother of three, you don't get much less hip than that. It's only in my other life that I am in fact an international espionage agent and racontuer.

And after all, somebody's got to listen to all those John Denver and Billy Joel albums.



* The rocket scientist insists that I named the Not-So-Little Drummer Boy after this song. He's wrong.
** Which is better? I don't know. The first (which is horribly mixed -- the piano completely drowns out the guitar solo in the second part of the song) is a young man's song, all full of passion and "I'm going to die if I don't get you;" the second is the song of a guy who's been around the block quite a few times and knows full well that if she turns him down he'll live, and even probably hit on the next pretty face at the party. I love listening to them back to back.

God's music?

I was at my church's yearly "Women's Retreat" this year -- a weekend of sisterhood, spiritual growth, and, as always, chocolate. It was a bit more stressful than past retreats: I had roles to play in the drama (used as a springboard for discussion on the spiritual themes), and had written the bible studies for the small groups and was as usual nervous ab0ut how they would be received. Also, the site was a problem: it was hilly, and I have been in an extended fibromyalgia flare for the past several months. I bought a walking stick, but by the time I left I was in considerable pain.

During one of the workshops, a discussion arose about the importance of Christian music. I kept my mouth shut, mainly because I just didn't have the bandwidth to put forth my views, which were mainly that Christian radio was a waste of good frequencies that could be put to better use, such as listening to crickets chirp. After the exchange of information about good local Christian radio stations, another woman in the room, bless her heart, spoke up and gave the opinion that she had grown up in a household that really didn't play much Christian music, and that a lot of secular music had strong spiritual messages -- she referred to U2 as a good example. After the group ended, I went and thanked her for saying what I was thinking.

My feelings on contemporary Christian music range from indifference to disdain to deep dislike. The best -- which includes most, but not all -- of the worship music we use in our contemporary services, is decent. The worst, such as much of what is played on Christian radio stations, is overblown, saccharine crap.

Jesus deserves better.

I have a "Spirituals" playlist on my iTunes. There is not one "Contemporary Christian hit" on it.

Don't get me wrong -- there is religious music. There are traditional hymns sung by contemporary vocalists: "Down to the River to Pray" by Alison Kraus, "Amazing Grace" and "Simple Gifts," by Judy Collins, "Morning has Broken," by Cat Stevens. Don't ask me why, but traditional hymn are so much better written than contemporary Christian music.

But the rest of it is "secular" music. Some of that music mentions Jesus: "Travelin' Thru" by Dolly Parton, for example. (And then there is "Kyrie" by Mr. Mister, which doesn't mention Jesus but which lifts its refrain from the Catholic Mass.) Most of it does not.

But the music is spiritual nonetheless -- for example, what else can you say about a lyric which include the lines "Tonight I feel like all creation/ is asking us to dance"? ("Asking Us to Dance," written by Hugh Sherwood, performed by Kathy Mattea).

There is the music with no words: "Fanfare for the Common Man," "Appalachian Spring," Beethoven's Ninth, "Rhapsody in Blue."* Oh, and "Soul Sacrifice" -- the eleven-minute live Woodstock version. Have you seen the painting "The Dance" by Chagall? "Soul Sacrifice" is what they were dancing to. Had to be. Even though the painting was created fifty years before Woodstock.

The rest of it is mostly just songs you might have heard on the radio at some point -- crossing genres: pop, rock, country, a little blues, a little jazz, and because I'm who I am, show tunes (even aside from Godspell). Some Beatles, a little Clapton, Randy Newman, CSNY. No gospel per se, although I am firmly convinced that Aretha Franklin is, in fact, the voice of God.

And two of those secular songs have appeared in worship services at our church: "The Garden Song" (written by Dave Mallet) and "Stand by Me" (written by Leiber & Stoller). We've also sung "I Can See Clearly Now" (Johnny Nash), and at the retreat itself we sang The Judds' "Love Can Build a Bridge," and Bill Withers' "Lean on Me."

All of that music fills something in me that could be called spiritual: either joyous and thanksgiving ("Good Morning, Starshine," "Happiness"), or full of lamentation ("Louisiana, 1927," "Wish You Were Here.**"). It's about seeing God in nature ("Colors of the Wind," "Morning has Broken"), and God in each other ("Matthew"). There are prayers ("Will I?" from Rent, "Let the Sun Shine In"*** from Hair). And there are a lot of songs that make me strong and fill me with resolve, and a lot of songs that I can't even classify. Sometimes it's the words that move me, just as often -- or more -- it's the music.

My choices would not move everybody, possibly even not most people. But that's okay -- there are a billion songs out there in the world, and some of those will say something to someone.

What songs speak to your spirit? Where do you hear God? Where can you listen to the voice of the divine?



* Without "Bohemian Rhapsody" attached.
** Not quite on topic, but one of the ways I knew I would like our church's new rector is that in his bio he listed Dark Side of the Moon as an important early spiritual influence.
** A few years ago, we sang the second half of "Let the Sun Shine In" at our Easter services. I was really annoyed. First of all, it's only half a song: the first half, called "The Flesh Failures," is about death and despair. The second half, the familiar "let the sun shine" is a prayer for deliverance, not rejoicing at resurrection. My friend Jennifer said it didn't matter, that a) most people wouldn't know and b) using it in the context of Easter changed the meaning of the song. Poppycock. Context is context, and "Let the Sun Shine In" is a Good Friday song.

Rock on.

In December '84 March '85, Eric, a college friend of the resident rocket scientist and me, blew into Atlanta on business. We went out for the evening -- Eric wanted to see local talent, so we checked out a show at Emory of several one-act Sam Shepard plays and a local folksinging duet. (Yes, we were cheap -- we were living off a grad student's stipend. Serious entertainment costs money.)

There were seventeen people in the audience. Pity, because the folksingers were really pretty good, I thought. I told Eric this, and he said "Nah, they're too derivative -- they'll never amount to anything." As it turned out, he was wrong.

I caught the same duet in concert tonight. The venue was quite a bit bigger -- the Warfield Auditorium in San Francisco, and the audience much larger -- the place was packed, and the repertoire was more extensive, but they were indeed the very same Indigo Girls.

Over the years one of their songs has become an anthem for the rocket scientist ("Closer to Fine"), and another has become an anthem for me ("Prince of Darkness"). I had not followed their career, though, and thus much of the music they played tonight was delightfully new. I look forward to rediscovering them.

It doesn't seem like it should be over twenty years, but it is. They're my age -- well into their forties -- and rockin' on, making a lovable combination of earnestly romantic and politically progressive music. Strong women -- gotta love 'em.

You go, Emily and Amy. You go, Girls.


ETA: There has been a dispute between the rocket scientist and I about when that concert happened. He said December '84, I thought February or March '85. (Thinking about it later, I decided it was March.) I went with his date when I originally wrote this (because he usually has a better head for dates than I do), but NPR other online sources indicate that they started playing together under the name "Indigo Girls" in 1985. Whichever, it seems clear that we had a rare chance to see something being born.

It's insanely beautiful today. The sky here in Northern California is that almost surreal shade of blue -- too bright to be found in nature, almost, and yet too intense to be replicated on canvas. The light is as golden as butter and as sharp as broken glass. The breeze has died down, but before it was making the trees toss their locks like girls primping before the prom. The air is cool and clear and crisp.

Wonderful. Aching, joyful, lovely.

That election thing? Why, that turned out okay, too.

Voter Rights

This comes very late, being only the day before the election, but I thought I'd pass it along. The NAACP Legal Defense Fund has a handy-dandy page with pdf's of a "Voter Bill of Rights" for 45 states. They've developed these by combing through state election law. In several cases, they have the same information in Spanish as well as English. In addition, I have state sites which contain either a "Voter Bill Of Rights" or a "Voter Rights and Responsibilities" (same thing) listed below. Finally, for the three states that fall outside either list, there is the AFL-CIO page, which has VBRs for several states, including Tennessee, and the Massachusetts VBR [pdf] prepared by the Massachusetts chapter of the League of Women Voters and posted on the website of the Town Clerk of Lexington. Rhode Island? You can look at the Voting FAQs on their general election site, but there is no one single page to print out and take with you to the polls.

The voter rights differ from state to state. Some are universal: if you are disabled, you have the right to have assistance in filling out your ballot, while others are not: you have the right to bring your children into the ballot booth with you. It's also important to know what the I.D. requirements are, although you should be fine if you have a driver's license. (The sociological and political ramifications of requiring a driver's license is a post best left for another day.)

Important reminder: North Dakota has NO registration requirement: you can walk up to the polls with the proper I.D. and vote. In Idaho, Minnesota, Wisconsin and Wyoming you can register to vote at the polls tomorrow. In Montana, you can register at county election offices. In New Hampshire, you have to register at the town clerk's office. Maine likewise. But in any case, it is still possible to register and vote in those states if you have not already registered. You can find links to registration information in my "Are You Registered?" post.


Arkansas [pdf]

California

Connecticut [pdf]

District of Columbia

Florida [from Pinellas County Supervisor of Elections website]

Hawaii

Iowa [pdf]

Kansas[pdf]

Kentucky

Maine

Michigan [pdf]

Minnesota [pdf] [audio version]

Missouri

Nebraska [pdf]

Nevada [from the Election office site for Douglas County, but applies statewide]

New Jersey [by counties]

New Mexico

Texas

Virginia

Last word on this topic?

VOTE.