tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-211023842024-03-12T19:08:12.779-07:00WordWorksA collection of ruminations and updates on the writing and editing projects of Terri Gordon. Enjoy and share.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-54870404068165132672017-01-05T06:52:00.001-08:002017-01-05T07:00:54.198-08:00At the ZooOver the last several years, public awareness and outcry has led SeaWorld to change its model. No more trained orca shows. No more captive breeding. No more harvesting from the wild. It will direct its focus on rescue and research. Similar reassessments of how animals are used are taking place across the spectrum: in circuses, in feedlots, and in zoos.<br />
<br />
The first zoo I ever visited was the Fleishhacker Zoo in San Francisco, California. I must have been five. I remember mostly my feeling of awe, viewing live what I’d been pointing to—and identifying—in picture books for years: bears, lions, tigers, and monkeys.<br />
<br />
The last zoo I visited was the Lincoln Park Botanic Garden and Zoo in Chicago, Illinois. I enjoyed seeing Bactrian camels, leopards, vultures, a bear. I still felt the thrill of being up close and personal with the animals, but even in their large, naturalized areas, I felt a bit of sadness too.<br />
<br />
Scientists have learned a lot about animals in the years between my two visits—and in the nearly 10 since that last one. They’ve learned that animals are more intelligent than first thought. Whales and porpoises travel in groups called pods. Each pod uses its own dialect. They seem to even have proper names, in the form of whistles, for each other. Crows remember faces. Don’t ever make one mad. They don’t forgive, and they don’t forget. Try to keep a squirrel off your bird feeders. Or raccoons out of the garbage. It is annoying, but it demonstrates intelligence.<br />
<br />
Scientists have learned that animals have feelings. Elephants who’ve known each other earlier in life, and been separated, not only recognize each other when reunited many years later, but greet each other with vocalizations and hugs. Coincidently, elephants also bury their dead—and visit their cemeteries, seemingly remembering anniversaries.<br />
<br />
One of the best exhibitions of both emotion and intelligence in an animal is Koko the gorilla. Koko, 45, was the grad-school project of Penny Patterson, who intended to spend four years teaching the ape sign-language and documenting the process. It has become a lifelong endeavor. There is debate, to be sure, over the gorilla’s use of language, but time has won over many detractors. The public has seen Koko receive, and name, her beloved kitten All Ball, and the public watched her mourn All Ball, when it was killed at a young age. Koko got a new kitten, but alas, she signed, it was “not All Ball.” Intelligence. Feelings.<br />
<br />
A lot of information has been gathered over the years about animal sociology, too. One of the biggest things that’s come to light is the family-based structure found in almost every animal society. The whales and porpoises mentioned earlier, horses, bison, monkeys, lions, and tigers all belong to intricately woven societies—much like our human ones—based on familial relationships.
These new discoveries make a reexamination of zoos imperative.<br />
<br />
While zoos have contributed much to the animal research out there, their for-profit business model presents a built-in conflict of interest, and chances are, the animals suffer for it. Zoos, by definition, are collections of animals. Space constraints make it impossible to import whole herds of water buffalo, or prides of lions. This means that the lion exhibit may have a handful of lions, and is probably not a true “pride” in that the animals are probably not related to one another.<br />
<br />
But zoos have good breeding programs, and are helping conservation efforts, especially when it comes to endangered species. Breeding creatures to repopulate a habitat can have positive outcomes. Populations of eagles and the California condor have recovered since DDT nearly wiped them out.<br />
<br />
The problem is: most species are endangered because they are losing their habitats. This leaves zoos breeding them—for zoos. It’s like breeding Siamese twins for the circus. An animal is brought into existence that will never be able to express its natural being. It will never hunt its food, or choose its mate, run its native terrain, or climb its native trees. It is only for display.<br />
<br />
At the Lincoln Park Zoo, on the day I visited, there was a lone tiger. He had a large space to roam, with real grass and real trees. A deep moat separated him from the people who came to see him. As I watched from the back of his area, he meandered toward the crowd gathered at the front. I could hear their excitement as people got their cameras ready. But when the tiger reached the group, he turned his back on them—and defecated. To this day, I believe that big cat knew what he was doing, and I believe he did it on purpose. Take that, y’all.<br />
<br />
So, because animals are kept in unnatural habitats, and forced to live lonely, neurotic and unnatural lives, I believe that zoos must be rethought—in their missions as well as their practices. If what’s happened with Sea World is any indication of what’s in store for zoos, then they’d best see the writing on the wall and make changes to bring their facilities in line with the latest animal research, and with the wishes of a public interested in the welfare of its natural resources.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-23488929209153983922012-01-27T05:39:00.000-08:002012-01-27T05:41:44.305-08:00Blogging--or a lack thereof.I can’t believe how long it’s been since my last blog post. I apologize to those who follow WordWorks. It isn’t for lack of ideas. In fact, it may be that there are too many, all tumbling around in my head, none fully “polished” yet. <br /><br />I have spent the last year teaching various writing classes at the local college. People who haven’t taught simply do not understand what it is like. It’s a lot like Disneyland’s Tea Cup ride. As a semester progresses, the spinning gets faster and more intense. It’s uproariously fun--until it leaves you dizzy and puking as it stops. <br /><br />I don’t physically vomit at the end of a term, but I do go through a certain malaise, a grieving almost. The classroom becomes a community, almost family. We get to know each other, through interacting, and especially through our writing, which becomes quite personal and intimate as experiences, philosophies, and feelings are related. It is a great loss when it disbands. <br /><br />A theatre professor early in my own college career impressed upon me that good theatre grabs a person, lifts them, carries them away, and then sets them down, but never quite in the same place. This is what teaching does to me. I hope, and like to think, my students experience somewhat the same thing.<br /><br />As class work ratchets up, much of my normal life falls by the wayside. Laundry piles up. Dishes. Dust. Correspondence. Classes ended for me in mid-December. It has taken me six weeks to get back to my “normal.” At least my physical normal. I think I am still working on the mental normal. I’m still having classroom “flashbacks,” things I could have done, ideas for future classes, stories and ideas my students have presented--and that we have worked to hone.<br /><br />I m still waking at 6:00 a.m. (partly because the cat got used to getting his “good stuff” at this time, and begins to pester me if I try to sleep longer). I still feel I should be “doing something” school related--lesson plans, papers. <br /><br />But I am slowly recalibrating. reorienting toward the writing side of my career. I have realized the two do not blend well and I am not sure why. Perhaps because it is difficult to commit to and meet deadlines--like trying to hit the bull’s eye of a dart board from a spinning teacup. It may also reflect my own somewhat obsessive nature. I like variety, but I like to focus on, and finish, one project at a time.<br /><br />I will get back in the groove though. I have started with writing this blog post.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-13616776651906348512010-12-21T05:13:00.000-08:002011-01-15T06:46:30.018-08:00Celebrating the Winter Solstice *Yea! The days are getting longer! We’ve reached the winter solstice. December 21 marks the point in Earth’s annual trip around the sun where its tilt changes--and the days begin to get longer again! <br /><br />I have realized that, more than the cold, more than the snow, more than anything about winter (well, maybe not the heating bills . . .), I hate that the sun goes down at 5 and doesn’t rise until 8 the next morning.<br /><br />I am not the only one who celebrates the lengthening of days. In fact, it is the single most universal and ancient of celebrations. What I mean is, nearly every civilization since the beginning of recorded time has celebrated the winter solstice--Mayans, Native Americans, Persians, Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, and eventually, Europeans, whose traditions modern western societies have incorporated into their Christmas holidays. <br /><br />Structures like the famous Stonehenge--and numerous others--are ancient, but precise, calendars marking the solstices, both winter and summer, as well as the equinoxes of spring and autumn. <br /><br />The seasons were extremely important to the agricultural communities, and concerns for the food that ensured their survival was paramount. Early peoples were afraid of “the day the sun stood still,” fearing it would not bless them and their crops again. They also feared the forces of evil they believed ruled the dark. They pleaded with their gods to return the sun to the earth. They lit fires and candles in homage to the sun. <br /><br />Many of these celebrations recognized a “reversal of order.” Feasts--often served by the masters to the slaves--marked the season, and criminals were pardoned. Presents were exchanged. <br /><br />Homes were decorated with “powerful” evergreens for good luck. In Scandinavian countries, holly was hung around doors and windows to snag evil spirits trying to enter the buildings. <br /><br />Mistletoe was especially magical. It was the sacred “Golden Bough” of the Druids and the Norse, and protected the Celts from evil. To Native Americans, it was the medicinal “All Heal.” And in Scandinavian tradition, soldiers meeting under it in the forest were obliged to observe a truce. <br /><br />There was of course, practicality to many of these rites. The fires helped warm the people in winter, the feasts supplied extra fat reserves for the lean months ahead, and the celebrations provided recreation during a season that was slow--between harvest and planting--and dreary.<br /><br />It is amazing how much of this holds true today. I guess the old adage, “the more things change, the more they stay the same” holds sway. The sun is still a symbol of rebirth and hope.<br /><br />And so, even as winter descends, I will sip my hot cider (a remnant Romanian rite), content to bide my time and comforted by the knowledge that the days are getting longer--and spring is on the horizon.<br /><br />*This post is another "oldie but goodie," pulled from the past to honor the rare full moon eclipse that occurred on this, 2010's, winter solstice. Alas, a view of the event, which is the first since 1638, was blocked by clouds in my neck of the woods. Another is not due again in my lifetime . . . .Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-51433570650729282322010-10-22T05:19:00.000-07:002010-10-22T05:34:34.410-07:00Is Our Democracy Dying? *I’m disappointed with the current state of politics in the United States of America. Not because the candidates I've voted for have won or lost. Not because policies have, or have not, gone the way I think they should. I’m disappointed because, it seems to me, running the country has become a power game, and elections more a sport than a time to come together and decide the business of our government.<br /><br />The very language used--horse race, winning team, point spread--turns them to game. The candidates come out “boasting” of their feats, and deriding the opponents’, posturing reminiscent of the mudslinging that precedes wrestling matches. <br /><br />Commanding our government is not a wrestling match. In his letters, Thomas Jefferson states, "The equal rights of man, and the happiness of every individual, are now acknowledged to be the only legitimate objects of government." Since we, as the people, are the government, our job becomes to promote and ensure the liberty and opportunity of everyone--not ourselves, not the few, not even the majority, but all. <br /><br />According to Jefferson, again, this is done, not through wrangling, but through honest pursuit of truth. He further contends that it is the expression of differing opinions that uncovers truth. "Difference of opinion leads to enquiry, and enquiry, truth,” he wrote to P. H. Wendover, in 1815. Uncovering truth means honest debate and honest discussion. <br /><br />I do not hear that taking place. I hear a lot of positioning, I hear a lot of rhetoric, I hear a lot of buzzwords and sound bites. True discussion would have each person truly hearing and understanding others’ positions. True discussion would clarify the rhetoric and define the buzzwords. True debate would tell not just what, but how something could be accomplished. I believe true debate would bring us, not to a 51-49 split, but to general agreement.<br /><br />Dr. Phil often asks people on his show: “Are you fighting to be right, or are you trying to resolve the issues?” I think, as a nation, we should ask ourselves the same question. <br /><br />Our job is not to decide a winner, or even to choose the person who presents the best ideas. Our job is to figure out how best to safeguard the liberty and happiness of our citizenry. When we have done that, we send the person to the capital whom we deem best able to carry out our wishes.<br /><br />In 1787, Alexander Tyler, a Scottish history professor at The University of Edinburgh, made the statement: "A democracy is always temporary in nature . . . . A democracy will continue to exist up until the time that voters discover that they can vote themselves generous gifts from the public treasury. From that moment on, the majority always votes for the candidates who promise the most benefits from the public treasury, with the result that every democracy will finally collapse due to loose fiscal policy, which is always followed by a dictatorship." <br /><br />Tyler saw that each of the great civilizations of history followed a pattern “from bondage to spiritual faith; from spiritual faith to great courage; from courage to liberty; from liberty to abundance; from abundance to complacency; from complacency to apathy; from apathy to dependence; [and] from dependence back into bondage." <br /><br />Our founding fathers thought Tyler was wrong. They had great faith in the human desire for justice, and in the human ability to reason. "If ever the earth has beheld a system of administration conducted with a single and steadfast eye to the general interest and happiness of those committed to it, one which, protected by truth, can never know reproach, it is that to which our lives have been devoted," wrote Jefferson to James Madison, in 1826.<br /><br />It would be a shame to lay their work to waste, and to return to the bondage against which they revolted.<br /><br /><br />*In light of upcoming elections, I am reprising this essay. I think it still applies, not only to the United States' system, but to all democracies. My hope is that it will spur people to think about the purpose of government--and the part(s) they might play in achieving and maintaining a system that benefits everyone equitably.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-37065500274472164602010-07-29T04:20:00.001-07:002010-08-14T05:30:23.145-07:00A Tribute.The first time I met my aunt Robyn, I thought she was the coolest woman I had ever met. She had a wicked sense of humor, and her laugh, while melodic, had a husky quality, with a hint of mischief. I was 14, she was 23. It was the early 70s, and she was a perfect blend of hippie and LA chic. Even her name, spelled with a "y" was cool. She had a flaming temper, though, and you truly never wanted to set that off (though it could be fun to watch when others did!). <br /><br />Of course, she wasn’t my aunt then. She and my uncle were dating. She had accompanied him, from California to Arizona, to help my mother whose car’s engine had run dry of oil and seized. My uncle set up the appropriate repairs and then returned to California, with Robyn, and with me. It is one of those “times of your life” you never forget.<br /><br />We left as the sun went down. It was summer and we had to cross the desert--something knowing folk don’t do under blazing sun. We made the trip in my uncle’s ‘63 Cadillac convertible. I can still feel that air as it hit my face and roared over and around my body the whole way. It was the sunburnt air of day being cooled by the ever so slight dampness that arises out of who knows where in the nighttime desert. <br /><br />I don’t remember how long exactly I stayed with Robyn and my uncle in “the valley,” but it was long enough to change me forever. When I returned to my father’s home in Ohio, I put away my Bobby Sherman and Monkees records, and bought albums: Elton John’s Honky Chateau, the Rolling Stones’ Let It Bleed, and Cat Stevens’ Teaser and the Firecat. And, these were not played on my record player, but on my father’s stereo.<br /><br />In time Robyn and my uncle did marry and there were other trips and vacations spent with them. There were visits to Malibu Beach, and Magic Mountain, and “the Strip.” The roughly ten year age gap between Robyn and I closed as I got older and we became less adult-teenager, and more adult-young adult, more pals. We did some crazy things--some things we shouldn’t have, some she wouldn’t have if not for me, but she rolled her eyes and giggled when we got away them. Maybe she was recalling her own not so long ago youth.<br /><br />We did some serious things too. At one point, I decided I wanted to be a magazine editor, and since the magazine I knew best--and had recently “graduated” from--was TigerBeat, we called and made an appointment. She didn’t laugh at me, but instead donned professional attire and took me over the Hollywood Hills to the Highland Avenue office where the editor patiently showed us around her office and explained her routine.<br /><br />It was also my Aunt Robyn who, as an executive secretary at Paramount Studios, took me around the grounds, popping into a taping of “Little House on the Prairie.” During a break, I met Michael Landon, who I still remember as gracious and kind. He had a ready smile, and a warm and generous handshake.<br /><br />Eventually, my aunt and uncle went separate ways. I understood the divorce, but was still disappointed. Robyn and I stayed in touch at first. She took me to my first, and only, studio preview--where the studio shows the latest movie for employees. I don’t remember the movie, but I remember the “Wow!’ Aunt Robyn was still cool.<br /><br />The last time I saw her, my mother and I met her for dinner somewhere off Sunset Boulevard. We sat outdoors, and the rest becomes a blur of mellow wine and laughter. I still hear her gentle laugh in my ear as she hugged me good-bye and kissed my neck. I was a bit annoyed when I found her lipstick on the collar of my satin blouse the next day. It took some doing to get it out. If I’d known this would be our final meeting, I might have just left it.<br /><br />Earlier this year, Robyn was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The doctors convinced her to try a round of chemotherapy. The treatment caused a stroke that left her unable to talk or eat--though my uncle told me they could sometimes hear her crying. They didn’t even try to save her, and instead let her starve to death. I do not understand this, but will save discussing the medical industry for later. She was 61. I regret I never told Robyn the impact she made on me, or how much she meant to me, how much I just plain liked her. I guess that’s just how things go. We take things for granted until we lose them--and all we have left are our memories.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-70445260999218305882010-04-18T14:36:00.000-07:002010-04-19T07:41:14.275-07:00In Praise of PoetryApril is National Poetry Month, and so, before the month is through, I want to share a couple of my favorites. Both are by e. e. cummings, a writer known for his unconventional punctuation and syntax. Many people are confused by his works--myself included at times. I think he did this on purpose to challenge his reader, and to make them work for the interpretation--to make them invest themselves, and at the same time to make them let themselves go and just intuit the meaning--a sort of “free association” of words, images, emotions, and thoughts. <br /><br />The first poem is “the greedy the people,” the second is “dive for dreams.” Happy spring!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">the greedy the people</span><br /><br />the greedy the people<br />(as if as can yes)<br />they steal and they buy<br />and they die for because <br />though the bell in the steeple<br />says Why<br /><br />the chary the wary <br />(as all as can each)<br />they don't and they do<br />and they turn to a which<br />though the moon in her glory<br />says Who<br /><br />the busy the millions<br />(as you're as can i'm)<br />they flock and they flee<br />through a thunder of seem<br />though the stars in their silence<br />say Be<br /><br />the cunning the craven <br />(as think as can feel)<br />they when and they how<br />and they live for until<br />though the sun in his heaven <br />says Now<br /><br />the timid the tender<br />(as doubt as can trust)<br />they work and they pray <br />and they bow to a must<br />though the earth in her splendor<br />says May<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">dive for dreams</span><br /><br />dive for dreams<br />or a slogan may topple you<br />(trees are their roots<br />and wind is wind) <br /><br />trust your heart<br />if the seas catch fire<br />(and live by love<br />though the stars walk backward) <br /><br />honour the past<br />but welcome the future<br />(and dance your death<br />away at this wedding) <br /><br />never mind a world<br />with its villains or heroes<br />(for god likes girls<br />and tomorrow and the earth)Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-77336040531880922222009-06-22T07:37:00.001-07:002009-06-24T06:23:54.901-07:00Barbie Turns 50.My father recently sent me a newspaper clipping celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Barbie doll. It brought back some memories.<br /><br />My first Barbie doll was a gift from my father’s aunt, Mae. I was going to spend a school break at Aunt Mae’s. She lived in the city, where, unlike my small town, they had toy stores. I had decided I would get her to buy me a Barbie. I had been saving my allowance and planned to contribute it toward the purchase. <br /><br />In my father’s desk drawer, he always kept a little box labelled “My Two Cents.” It contained two pennies. At the age of six, I didn’t fully understand the meaning of this, but Dad always got a chuckle out of it. <br /><br />So, when the time came, instead of packing my savings, I packed two pennies. My aunt did not get my joke and was not amused. But she took me to the toy store anyway. She refused to buy me Barbie, though, insisting instead on Barbie’s cousin, Midge. She was more “wholesome,” my aunt explained.<br /><br />I’m not sure why I even wanted the doll. I was really not a “doll” person. I can only think I must have felt left out when my cousins played with their Barbies--of course they had “real” ones, and Kens, too. There was a decided difference between “baby” dolls and adult dolls, though. <br /><br />With adult dolls, one could make up stories and dress them in the latest fashions. We would make them zoom around in hot cars and do fun things. They could go on vacations, or to the beach, or just lie around the pool. The possibilities were endless. <br /><br />With two brothers still in diapers, I found baby dolls much too close to real life. The only story lines available were “mommy” ones--and they came with a lot of work! I have since come to see baby dolls as a societal ruse to train little girls to be mothers. I could maybe forgive this if they were also used to teach little boys to be fathers. But I digress.<br /><br />The small town I lived in was a rather conservative town, with a decidedly religious population. When I returned from the city with my “Barbie,” folks were wary. Might this be some evil influence in disguise? And none of my friends had one (which should have made me the object of envy, right? But, no . . . . ). And so, Midge, and later, my favorite, Skipper, only got to live in my little dream world, or when we went to the city.<br /><br />This all changed when one of the teachers at my school created a series of instructional skits. One was designed to show the proper way to brush one’s teeth. It involved a huge set of choppers and an equally large toothbrush. For some reason--maybe to play the germs and bacteria?--they decided small dolls would be the perfect thing. But the only dolls anyone had were baby dolls. And then someone remembered my Barbies. The teacher called my mother, and Midge and Skipper finally got their moment in the spotlight. The ice was broken. My Barbies were no longer contraband.<br /><br />In the end, my Aunt Mae gave me quite the gift. Now, forty-five years later, Midge dolls are rather rare--and that makes them worth a fairly pretty penny. Not a bad purchase--for my two cents!Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-11531207450486868822009-01-14T15:27:00.000-08:002009-03-25T05:46:48.815-07:00The art of procrastinationFor at least a week now, I have managed to put off vacuuming the kitchen floor. I’ve used legitimate excuses--appointments, writing deadlines, the piles of sorted laundry that cover it--and just plain flimsy ones--don’t want to disturb the sleeping cat, can’t put down the crossword puzzle. <br /><br />I have even scrubbed the showers, sinks, and toilets to get out of doing that floor!<br /><br />And yet, this morning, faced with writing this column, I vacuumed the kitchen floor--despite the piles of laundry, despite the sleeping cat, despite the crossword puzzle (in truth, there’s a fair stack of them). I’m not sure what it says about me, or about any of us, but clearly, when given choices, we have certain preferences that defy even our own logic. <br /><br />To an avowed efficiency maven, like myself, it would have made more sense to do the laundry first, and I have a separate list of excuses for procrastinating on that. (I don’t like leaving wet laundry n the machine, and don’t want to dry it until I have time to fold it, and I won’t have time to fold it until I get this column off to the editor . . . .)<br /><br />In terms of real life priorities, with no emergencies on the front--no illness, no flood, no fire--work, hence this column, should be pretty high on the list. So why am I stalling? Could it be a lack of inspiration? Perhaps. I didn’t really wake up with something I just had to get off my chest. <br /><br />But inspiration is such a fickle thing. It comes and goes on its own whim. If I were to always await inspiration, I would write less often, and in different genres, more for myself, less for publication--not conducive to making a living.<br /><br />Maybe I was inspired to vacuum the floor! No, that wasn’t it. While I do find occasionally find myself bitten by the cleaning bug--that isn’t so much inspiration as it is nesting impulse, or repulsion to mess, or a way to work out frustration.<br /><br />I suppose I could be rebelling--against obligation, against the authority that demands I produce something, even when I’m not totally inspired. <br /><br />Maybe I’m peeved at inspiration itself for abandoning me, leaving me to my own devices. <br /><br />It’s ironic to me though that procrastination in one area breaks the procrastination in another. I suppose the best I can do is try to harvest that energy--and come up with a list of truly loathsome chores to help me buckle down to the ones I’m putting off while writing this column.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-49637518714010504652008-12-02T07:03:00.000-08:002008-12-02T07:12:54.403-08:00Holiday Hurry.'Tis the Season for turkeys. I’m not talking about the steaming basted birds served with dressing and sweet potatoes. I’m talking about the ones you find in the car that just cut you off in the turn lane, or the ones you encounter blocking the aisles in the grocery store, and in long lines at banks and post offices. <br /><br />It never ceases to amaze me how the season devoted to gratitude and good will toward men instead brings out the baser side of humanity.<br /><br />Just today, in an hour’s worth of errands, I witnessed two near accidents--caused by people in a hurry. One man just had to be first in line when the road narrowed to one lane and zipped around the car he was tailing, passing on the left and then cutting back in front of the car he passed. The accident almost happened when he nearly collided with a car turning into the lane from the other side.<br /><br />The second near accident happened when a woman made a turn into traffic, causing another driver to slam on their brakes because there had not been enough room for the first woman to enter the lane in the first place. Undaunted, the first woman then pulled into the next lane, again causing the sudden breaking of, in fact, three cars, so that she could make a left-hand turn into the grocery store. Halfway through the turn, she finally signaled.<br /><br />What kills me about such moves is these people who are in such a hurry surely can’t be saving themselves any amount of time that would make it worth the accident if it were to happen. Or even a ticket. And that’s just accounting for the time involved, not the money it could cost, or the potential injury and pain. The adage “haste makes waste” springs to mind. <br /><br />I am not immune to the pitfalls of holiday rush syndrome, but I find that when I rush, I get distracted, I forget things and I’m more apt to make mistakes. I also find myself yelling and cursing at the other turkeys on the road, or in my way, and by the time I get to where I’m going, my mood is foul. <br /><br />If I encounter a bothersome person in a store, or at the post office, I can turn a bit nasty and rude myself. This does not make me happy. When I return to a calmer “place,” I usually regret my behavior. I feel bad about myself, and I’ve vented on a stranger who’s probably just as frustrated as I am, maybe more. And this is the time of year we are supposed to spread cheer!<br /><br />To combat the "syndrome," I have instated a “house rule.” When I am in a hurry, I actually make myself slow down. It’s the old count to ten, take a deep breath thing.<br /><br />And so, my wish for the holiday season is that people will join me in deliberately fighting the urge to rush. No shopping, no party, no anything is worth the stress and grief and anxiety.<br /><br />Remember the reason for the season, and do unto others as you would have done unto you. Give others the benefit of the doubt. Let them into the stream of traffic if it’s busy, or you can see they’re having trouble. Smile and hold the door for the folks behind you--even if it means they’ll end up in front of you in a line somewhere. Stop and help the person struggling through the post office door with a load of boxes. <br />Above all, keep your head as you drive. Use your signals, and check your road rage.<br /><br />Courtesy can be its own reward. Use the slower pace to take in the sights and sounds of the holidays. Take a moment to observe the people around you, to connect with them, and truly share in the reason for the season--promotion of holiday cheer and good will toward others. And who knows, the life you save may be your own!Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-86783787682404590842008-11-20T07:49:00.000-08:002010-03-03T06:44:24.071-08:00By the people, and for the people.In his acceptance speech, Barack Obama called his election a victory for the people. I think he hit the nail on the head. <br /><br />As television broadcasts began to show people lining up across the country, waiting for their chance to vote, I couldn’t help feeling exhilarated--not for the impending change of political party, but for the fact that people were getting off their apathies and claiming their power. This government is of the people, after all, and they finally stepped up to the plate and carried out their responsibility. <br /><br />As throngs filed into Grant Park in support of Obama, something I can only call pride welled up inside me. It was a truly moving sight seeing so many people come together--and peacefully. It was an historic moment, and these people knew it. <br /><br />I was impressed by John McCain's concession speech too. I felt I was seeing the real McCain for the first time in the presidential campaign. He was humble. He was honest. It was as if even he was moved by the change that had come over America--a change he too wants, but couldn't bring about. As I watched him deliver his speech, I couldn’t help wonder what might have happened if he had just been himself.<br /><br />Pundits opined that McCain’s age was his undoing. I suppose it was, but not in the way they mean. I think 72 is young enough to govern--my grandfather at 95 could have done the job. But the country changed the game on McCain--and his old guard methods couldn’t cut the muster. People have tired of pithy sound bites, and the smear tactics that kept him from his dream eight years ago worked against him in the new game. He was left baffled and unable to adapt. <br /><br />McCain told his supporters that his loss was not their failure, but his. I do not agree with him. I think, in the final analysis, the failure was George Bush’s. A sign held up in Times Square said as much: BUSH YOU'RE FIRED.<br /><br />Personally, I do not agree with all of Barack Obama’s ideas, but I am impressed at the thoroughness of his thought, by his sincerity, and by his overall aplomb. I am tired of living under fear. If he can change that, he has my support. Oprah wore a tee shirt reading “HOPE WON.” I can’t say it any better myself.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-48680712092025816282008-11-12T07:54:00.000-08:002010-03-03T06:42:07.586-08:00It’s the Berries!It never ceases to amaze me how inspiring it can be to get out of one’s own little world--and how little it takes to do so. The lesson was driven home once again as I attended Cranberry Harvest Days at DeGrandchamp Farms, in South Haven.<br /><br />I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day. It was sunny and clear, not too warm, not too cold. The sky was the color that gives meaning to the term “blue sky”--and it was dotted with white fluffy clouds. <br /><br />I had a nice easy drive north from Berrien County. Interstate 96 is a smooth highway, and scenic (Red Arrow Highway isn’t so smooth, but it too is scenic, and I took it all the way through St. Joseph to Hagar Shores Road before cutting over to the freeway.). There wasn’t a ton of traffic, so the trip was not stressful. In fact, it was relaxing. A good start.<br /><br />Once I arrived at the farm. I fell right in line and started to learn about the growing, harvesting, and processing of the berries. Fascinating! And all those red berries! <br /><br />I admire the way the family--four siblings--has divided the labor, working together, yet separately, with a common purpose, but not in each other's way. <br /><br />I especially enjoyed going out to the cranberry beds to watch the harvest. In talking to the DeGrandchamps, I was reminded of histories I already knew--about the cranberries harvested in Grand Mere, and of the cranberries that grow wild still in Mud Lake Bog, alongside their cousins, wild blueberries.<br /><br />I was reminded, again, how special this area is--geologically, and geographically, and climactically. <br /><br />I learned that Wisconsin was able to surpass Massachusetts in cranberry production for one reason, and one reason only: it had not developed its farmland. It is a lesson I hope this region learns--and before it’s too late, before it sacrifices its geologic, geographic, and climactic uniqueness for real estate's promises.<br /><br />DeGrandchamp Farms is proving there are other ways to be profitable. They have a thriving business that fills a necessary role in providing food, and they are creating a destination, and an event, where people can enjoy learning about something new, where they can get some fresh air, and let go their daily grind. <br /><br />I, of course, also took the opportunity to stock up on (locally produced!) cranberries--dried to put in my oatmeal and cookies, and fresh for making sauce. I also discovered chocolate covered cranberries, sure to become a new habit.<br /><br />All in all, the experience was invigorating. It’s not too late for folks to visit the store (where they have blueberry stuffs too), but I highly recommend Harvest Days--the first Saturday in October--and have already put it on my 2009 calendar.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-83762797513823292552008-10-10T07:26:00.000-07:002009-03-25T05:49:47.261-07:00Bicycling Safely.People are hitting the streets in droves--on bicycles! <br /><br />And bikes aren’t only for recreation anymore. With rising gasoline prices, more and more people are turning to bicycles as an alternative form of transportation. More and more cities and towns are creating recreational bike paths, and many have incorporated bike lanes into their infrastructures.<br /><br />With this increased bike traffic, there seems to be some confusion over rules and safe riding habits. I’ve witnessed some near misses lately, many of them involving cars--situations that rarely affect bicyclists positively. I thought a refresher might be useful. <br /><br />First and foremost, bicycles are wheeled vehicles. They are to travel with traffic, not against it as pedestrians do. The same rules that govern other wheeled vehicles apply to bikes. Cyclists are to stop at stop signs and traffic lights, they are to yield to pedestrians, and they are to signal, using their left hands, when slowing down, stopping, or changing direction.<br /><br />Bicycles belong in the road, in the right lane. Many places restrict bicycle use of sidewalks. Some ban it altogether, others regulate by bicycle size (usually allowing for smaller children to ride on the sidewalk).<br /><br />Groups of cyclists may ride two-abreast, when there is room, but should ride single-file when traffic is thick, and never more than two-abreast.<br /><br />Helmets, contrary to popular belief, are not required by law, though are undoubtedly a good idea.<br /><br />Safety is another matter, the aim of laws, but not always achieved by laws, a point made by the website BicycleSafe.com. It offers some very specific tips to combat specific scenarios, and warrants a visit. It also offers some basic common sense suggestions for safe bicycle riding.<br /><br />Visibility is paramount to staying safe on a bicycle. BicycleSafe.com recommends wearing bright clothing and using a headlight--even in the daytime. Night riders need taillights too and lots of reflectors, including reflective clothing. (Some of these things are, in fact, law for nighttime riding.)<br /><br />BicycleSafe also suggests people have mirrors, horns or bells, and that they avoid other vehicles’ blind spots.<br /><br />Bicycling is a good thing--good for the environment, good for the pocketbook, and good for the waistline--but only if it’s done safely! I’m hoping these tips and reminders help bring that about.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-84118982133275088692008-06-05T17:40:00.000-07:002010-03-03T06:39:43.439-08:00Locavore-ing.I learned last week that I am a “locavore,” a person who buys and eats food grown, or produced, as close to home as possible. While I have been doing this for some time, I did not know my practice had a name--or that there were others!<br /><br />The first conscious choice I made in buying locally was with wine. I reasoned that a ten dollar bottle of Michigan wine was more truly a ten dollar bottle of wine, while a ten dollar bottle of wine from California was a ten dollar bottle of wine--less shipping. And I saved the pollution caused by the shipping. I suppose I may be costing someone their job, but hopefully, if I drink enough local wine, I will create those jobs, well, locally.<br /><br />As I discovered the local farms and farmers’ markets, I became more and more a “locavore,” not only buying local fruits and vegetables instead of transported ones, but learning the types of things grown locally, and their seasons, so I could be ready for them. I learned what I could freeze and stocked as many and as much as I could.<br /><br />Buying locally grown produce not only has the same benefits as with the wine, but I can “quiz” the growers about how the food is grown. I can buy riper, fresher, better quality produce. I can support better growing practices, and can, in general, support the agricultural heritage of the region.<br /><br />I am lucky to have so much quality local fare at hand. In addition to the farm fresh produce, there is the international-award-winning Bit of Swiss bakery, in Stevensville, Old Europe Cheese, out of Benton Harbor, that produces cheese under the Reny Picot label, and family-owned Drier’s Meat Market, in Three Oaks, that offers smoked meats and other delicacies, and have for over 100 years!. There are the wineries, of course, and there are even locally made beers. Why go anywhere else?!<br /><br />As the dangers of industrial farming increasingly come to light, local food sources become more important, and as the economy stalls, supporting local economies becomes more important too--as does saving the fuel required to ship staples from abroad.<br /><br />I will admit, I don’t buy all my food locally. I still love avocados and artichokes and fresh figs. I haven’t found anyone who grows those here, but if I do, and the quality is there, I will surely buy from them. <br /><br />Now all this writing has me waiting on pins and needles for the farm markets to open and for the growing season to begin. Raspberries and apricots are right around the corner, and I can hardly wait! Yup, I’m a bona fide locavore--and I’m happy to know I’m not alone.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-89083057259266681762008-05-20T07:23:00.000-07:002008-06-05T17:49:42.331-07:00Oh, Maya! What’s Become of the Language?The other night the evening news ran a story about a guy who’s traveling the country correcting grammatical errors in signs he sees--an apostrophe here, one deleted there, spelling mistakes, the like. He’s found a lot of them. I particularly liked the sign promoting stationery, for people to write on, where the company itself had spelled it “stationary,” something that stands still. I thought it was a cool way to travel. I wonder if he gets paid.<br /><br />As someone schooled in English, I often wince at its “slaughter.” Newscasters particularly gall me. They have almost completely dropped the “ly” from adverbs, words that modify, or describe verbs (words of action, for those who’ve been away from the blackboard a while!)--drive safe, when it should be drive safely, eat healthy when it should be eat healthily. Healthy and safe modify nouns--a healthy snack, a healthy boy, a safe drive, a safe trip to grandmother’s house. I’m irked because they are supposed to know better, being also schooled in English. And, I am irked because I suspect the reason they butcher the language (this is only one example) is to make it fit their sound-bite time constraints. <br /><br />Another side of me thinks there can be too much nit-picking. After all, I still understand the message. When they say, “Drive safe,” they mean, “Drive safely,” or “Have a safe drive.” And isn’t that ultimately the aim of language? To convey a message? <br /><br />I also know that there is a difference between the written word and the spoken word. And I like the variations. They keep language, and communication, vibrant and dynamic and fun. Still, there are times and places, and, as the old saying goes, you must know the rules to break them. Knowing the rules, and purposefully breaking them gives them even more meaning, the original conventional meaning and the new one created by the juxtaposition between the accepted and the “broken” usage. But if the original rule is not known, much of the meaning and nuance of language is lost. <br /><br />In watching HBO’s series, “John Adams,” this winter, I was struck by how the language has changed since the birth of the United States. It takes some close listening to understand all they are saying! They speak in eloquent, drawn out sentences that convey well-crafted and complete, no-room-left-for-doubt, thoughts. They have true discussions. Nowadays, people seem more likely to string together a series of phrases, a sort of stream-of-consciousness thing that conjures up images--you get the gist, but it’s lacking in finely tuned articulation. Such is the evolution of language.<br /><br />Getting back to those typos and errors: PBS’ “Nova” recently examined the hieroglyphs of the ancient Mayan civilization. It was a difficult code to crack because the language had so many systematic variations. There would be no room for a typo--not only because they are carved in stone, but because it would drastically change the meaning of the symbol. I wonder what linguists 3000 years from now will think of our “code”--and if they'll be able to crack it!Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-1275531190916743722008-03-07T06:14:00.000-08:002008-03-10T07:01:23.341-07:00Downer Cows and Hamburger.I heard about it in passing, read about it on my computer. I tried my best not to actually see it, but in the end, I couldn’t avoid the videotape showing cows being shoved to their slaughter with forklifts and cattle prods. I winced. I like cows. I’ve worked with cows. In college, I took a job at a dairy. Cows remind me of dogs really, playful, friendly, and kind of dumb (as in, happy-go-lucky, not stupid, definitely not stupid). <br /><br />I don’t like people mistreating cows, but if that’s all it was, I could wince and let it go. After all, people mistreat people (which may be part of why I wince). But, this incident involves the food chain. People are being fed hamburgers made from cows too sick to stand up. It is against the law, and it is not a healthy thing to do.<br /><br />Fortunately, government officials have recalled the meat, most of which, they say, has, unfortunately, probably already been consumed. They also assure us we probably won’t get sick. That’s a relief--except that they cannot know that. The fact that nobody is puking their guts out simply means no one has been infected (badly enough) with E. Coli. This is good. E. Coli can be deadly, especially to children. <br /><br />But E Coli. is only one concern. Mad cow disease, a far more serious concern, can take many years to show itself, and one of its initial symptoms is loss of balance. This is why cows that cannot stand up are to be kept from the food chain.<br /><br />Of course the employees responsible for the using the sick cattle have been fired, though no action was taken against the company itself. But we would be fooling ourselves to think this an isolated case. I suspect this is very much standard practice. And that should have consumers worried. <br /><br />Americans must stop thinking with their pocketbooks--or more accurately, they should start thinking with their whole pocket book. Factoring in the price of illness--of insurance, of medical care, of lost wages, not even considering quality of life-- it quickly becomes more cost effective to spend a bit more for better quality food, for stricter standards, for better cared for cows.<br /><br />A friend of mine would say it's all about who makes the money. As it stands, the insurance, health care, and meat industries are making the lion’s share. I like to think my glasses are still tinted too pink to believe it such a conspiracy, but if there is any truth to what my friend says, it is all the more reason those eating the meat must take things into their own hands and demand better. We can only be as healthy as the food we eat. <br /><br />As for that E. Coli everyone fears: it wouldn’t even exist if cows were allowed graze grass the way they are intended. But they are pumped full of grains their digestive tracts can’t handle. Their intestines become inflamed and infected. The result is industry overuse of antibiotics, and the rise of an increasingly virulent form of bacteria.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-48461213080955731502008-02-18T06:18:00.000-08:002008-03-07T06:18:39.505-08:00Happy Cows Give More MilkCows give more and better milk when they are exposed to music. It’s true. It is thought that the music calms them, they relax, and outcomes improve. Happy cows produce better product.<br /><br />It stands to reason people work better when they are happy too. <br /><br />As I look back at my elementary school years, my favorite teachers were the teachers who made learning fun. I can still name the teachers--and many of the things they taught me. They made me want to go to school, and inspired me to reach for knowledge.<br /><br />My first boss, at Ponderosa when I was sixteen--his name was Stephen Cable--spoiled me for the workplace. He is, to this day, the best boss I ever had. As I have encountered “lesser” bosses along the way, I have tried to analyze what made Cable so great. <br /><br />First of all, like my teachers, he made work fun. It wasn’t just me. The entire work crew at that Ponderosa loved Stephen Cable. There wasn’t a person there who wouldn’t work overtime, or fill in on another position, or do just anything he asked.<br /><br />It went beyond fun though. He made us feel we were a part of something important, and that our contribution mattered. He respected us, and included us, and didn’t ask us to do anything he wouldn’t do himself.<br /><br />I remember him pitching in to bus tables on busy nights--and I remember him helping me bus on a slow afternoon, using the time to “pick my brain” about how we could make things run more smoothly.<br /><br />Cable didn't last long as manager. After he took our store from the bottom to the top in sales for the region, he was promoted to vice president.<br /><br />Like I said, Cable spoiled me. I moved on to other jobs with great expectation and anticipation--only to find that the majority of my bosses were egocentric power-brokers, interested in taking the credit for the work of their “minions,” and not much interested in doing any of the work.<br /><br />To be fair, I have also had some good bosses, and I have worked for them faithfully, and learned from them too, but Stephen Cable still shines forth as the best.<br /><br />I have some good friends who have lately shared their frustrations with their workplaces--and their bosses. I am, as a writer, self-employed. It has its downsides, but one benefit is that I can choose for whom I work. I choose to work for people who value my talents, who give me the credit due me, who understand that a happy worker is a more productive, and loyal worker.<br /><br />It’s too bad that so many businesses can’t see beyond the “bottom line” to realize they work with people--and ultimately, for people.<br /><br />If you were a cow, would you be more inclined to give milk to someone who beat you with a stick, or prodded you in the ribs, or would you give your rich sweet milk to the one who played you Mozart?Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-43193545605191251302008-02-01T09:24:00.000-08:002008-02-18T06:28:34.597-08:00The Oldest Profession.One of my favorite movies is Pretty Woman, starring Julia Roberts and Richard Gere. What’s not to like? The movie is a modern day Cinderella story, set in Hollywood, where “everybody’s got a dream,” and is replete with beautiful clothes, cars, and five-star entertainment--polo, and the San Francisco opera, attended by private jet.<br /> <br />The story begins when a lost tycoon, Edward, stops to ask directions of a streetwalker on Hollywood Boulevard. The streetwalker, Vivian, shows him by driving him there in the fancy sports car he has borrowed from his lawyer and does not know how to drive because, as he tells Vivian, his first car "was a limousine." <br /><br />Edward hires Vivian to be his escort for the week, and the two fall in love--natch. In fact, just about everyone in the movie--and in the theatre audience--falls for Vivian as she “cleans up” and learns to act like a lady. In a refreshing twist, as Edward climbs the fire escape to rescue his lady from the tower of her barely-scraping-by-lifestyle, she “rescues him right back” from his shallow, meaningless existence.<br /><br />Pretty Woman is a delightful romantic comedy, but I think there is a deeper discussion taking place in the movie. The love story provides an examination of the nature of prostitution. While Vivian is the obvious prostitute, Edward, and his lawyer, are the less obvious--cloaked in their financial success and upper-class trappings.<br /><br />A prostitute, according to the Oxford American dictionary, is "a person who misuses their talents or who sacrifices their self-respect for the sake of personal or financial gain." Prostitution, then, involves “put[ting] [oneself or one's talents] to an unworthy or corrupt use or purpose for the sake of personal or financial gain.” To prostitute is to “betray, demean, devalue or cheapen [one’s principles].”<br /><br />As Vivian learns, Edward has made his untold wealth buying companies in financial trouble, and reselling them in “parts.” He and his lawyer have been partners for years and are not above playing dirty to get what they want. “So you don’t build anything?” Vivian responds, uncomfortable with the nature of his business.<br /><br />Edward himself confirms the commonality of their businesses. “We are such similar creatures, you and I,” he tells Vivian, “we both screw people for money.”<br /><br />Vivian reveals a newfound understanding of her own as she refuses Edward’s offer of financial support. “That’s just geography,” she replies, when he argues that it will get her off the streets.<br /><br />In the end, they both change their ways--Edward agrees to build ships with the guy he’s been trying to ruin, and Vivian leaves the boulevard for Edward’s world.<br /><br />I find it ironic that society admires one kind of prostitution, and frowns on the other. I am reminded of the Jackson Browne lyric, “It’s who you look like, not who you are.” What a shame. I suspect much honest talent flies under the radar--and much falsity is taken for true gold.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-81116177842494681922008-01-22T09:41:00.000-08:002008-01-22T09:53:16.901-08:00MLK, Jr.: Passionate about Peace.It is unfortunate that Martin Luther King, Jr. Day has emerged as an “optional” holiday. Most of us get up, go to work, and conduct our business as usual. If banks and post offices weren’t closed, many of us wouldn’t even know that January 21 was a holiday!<br /><br />I suppose there are members of the Caucasian community who consider it an African-American holiday with little relevance. And perhaps some of the African American community wants it to be just “their” holiday. But I don’t think that is what Martin Luther King, Jr. would want.<br /><br />Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream--and it was a dream for all mankind, a dream of peaceful coexistence--and of true freedom.<br /><br />In his famous speech, “I Have a Dream,” King says of his vision, “It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed--we hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” The bottom line issue, he said, was “injustice,” the true oppressor, poverty.<br /><br />While King’s vision was for “all God’s children” alike, he did not whitewash the divide between blacks and whites that has existed because of the abuse and degradation of the slave system. Slavery fostered separate cultures, as well as the fear and distrust that stand between us still. King addressed this divide by dreaming that “one day . . . sons of former slaves and sons of former slave owners [would] be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.”<br /><br />But King knew this brotherhood could not be forced. He insisted that violence would only lead to more violence. “Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred,” he told his listeners. “We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plain of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.” Such sage words--for the 1960s, when he gave his speech--and for now, as America wages wars, and as African Americans, divided and frustrated, often fight each other. <br /><br />It seems America has stalled out in the movement for justice, civil rights, and the abolishment of poverty. The nation has regressed into segregated schools and neighborhoods.<br /><br />I wish we would all embrace King’s vision, and commemorate his birthday by reaching out to those who are different from us and by making an effort to learn from, and about, each other. Maybe then we would again feel the fire of inspiration, pick up the banner, and march for the common cause we all pledge allegiance to: one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.<br /><br />I can’t think of a better tribute to the man who lends his name to this holiday--and who gave his life for the dream of peace.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-25209121409524832842008-01-05T13:39:00.000-08:002008-01-05T13:45:13.396-08:00The Winter Solstice: Heading for Spring!Yea! The days are getting longer! We’ve passed the winter solstice. December 22 marked the point in Earth’s annual trip around the sun where its tilt changes--and the days begin to get longer again! <br /><br />I have realized that, more than the cold, more than the snow, more than anything about winter (well, maybe not the heating bills . . .), I hate that the sun goes down at 5 and doesn’t rise until 8 the next morning.<br /><br />I am not the only one who celebrates the lengthening of days. In fact, it is the single most universal and ancient of celebrations. What I mean is, nearly every civilization since the beginning of recorded time has celebrated the winter solstice--Mayans, Native Americans, Persians, Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, and eventually, Europeans, whose traditions modern western societies have incorporated into their Christmas holidays. <br /><br />Structures like the famous Stonehenge--and numerous others--are ancient, but precise, calendars marking the solstices, both winter and summer, as well as the equinoxes of spring and autumn. <br /><br />The seasons were extremely important to the agricultural communities, and concerns for the food that ensured their survival was paramount. Early peoples were afraid of “the day the sun stood still,”fearing it would not bless them and their crops again. They also feared the forces of evil they believed ruled the dark. They pleaded with their gods to return the sun to the earth. They lit fires and candles in homage to the sun. <br /><br />Many of these celebrations recognized a “reversal of order.” Feasts--often served by the masters to the slaves--marked the season, and criminals were pardoned. Presents were exchanged. Homes were decorated with “powerful” evergreens for good luck. Holly was hung around doors and windows, in Scandinavian countries, to snag evil spirits trying to enter the buildings. <br /><br />Mistletoe was especially magical. It was the sacred “Golden Bough” of the Druids and the Norse, and protected the Celts from evil. To Native Americans, it was the medicinal “All Heal.” And in Scandinavian tradition, soldiers meeting under it in the forest were obliged to observe a truce. <br /><br />There was of course, practicality to many of these rites. The fires helped warm the people in winter, the feasts supplied extra fat reserves for the lean months ahead, and the celebrations provided recreation during a season that was slow--between harvest and planting--and dreary.<br /><br />It is amazing how much of this holds true today. I guess the old adage, “the more things change, the more they stay the same” holds some sway. The sun is still a symbol of rebirth and hope.<br /><br />And so, even as winter descends, I will sip my hot cider (a remnant Romanian fertility rite), content to bide my time and comforted by the knowledge that the days are getting longer--and spring is on the horizon.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-86089094484809587242007-12-23T15:11:00.000-08:002008-01-05T13:39:00.393-08:00A River Runs.Last week I watched a story on the news about how the Yangtze River in China is the life’s blood of the country, and has been for as long as it has existed. The piece showed how industry and other development is impacting the river, and the people who live along its edge.<br /><br />Many of these people literally live off the land. They grow their food, hauling water from the river, raise what animals they might use--for food, for labor, for clothing--and live, simply, but fully. They make very little in the way of money, but they don’t need much--they sustain their own needs.<br /><br />But the skyscrapers in the background are creeping closer. <br /><br />I would like to think that the developers, when they want the farmers’ land, will buy it from them for a fair price, a price that makes it worth their moving, that let’s them, essentially retire.<br /><br />Unfortunately, I know better. I’ve witnessed similar scenarios in my own country, and I’ve learned that the languages of commerce and profiteering are universal. The developers will bide their time, build around the farms, isolating them, violating their borders, maybe blocking access to the water the farmers so desperately need. The government may even step in,condemning the farms as "blight." The farmers. with no financial wealth, will have no power to fight and will be forced out. Some folks call this “good business.” I call it rape and pillage. It has been going on since the beginning of time--but that doesn’t make it right. <br /><br />As humankind of the 21st Century, we consider ourselves at the height of civilization. We boast of the progress we’ve made. Indeed, many will respond to the plight of the Chinese farmers by shrugging and saying, “You can’t stand in the way of progress.” But having the bigger bulldozer does not equal progress--it is merely technological advance. Progress, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, is “development towards a better, more complete, or more modern condition.” I suppose one could argue that erecting skyscrapers on the displaced farmers’ land is a “more modern condition,” but it is not a better one--not for the farmers anyway. <br /><br />I believe true progress eludes us. True progress involves equity and fairness--even kindness. True progress is the achievement of Peace on Earth. <br /><br />Many of the stories in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales deal with power abuse--by the government, by church officials, by ordinary individuals--the stronger picking on the weaker, taking advantage for their own personal gain or pleasure. We are still wrestling with these same issues. In the roughly 600 years since Chaucer penned his stories, humanity has made little progress in creating a “kinder, gentler” society.<br /><br />Collectively, we’ve tried to bring about a more level playing field. We threw out the monarchy, a locked-in dictatorial system of government, in favor of parliamentarian rule--law and committee. We broke the monopoly of the Catholic church, creating many different denominations. Finally, the founders of the United States of America created what they called a democratic system based on liberty and equality. <br /><br />Unfortunately, fairness always gets in the way of our having what we want, and so we look for “loopholes” that let us rationalize our bad behavior.<br /><br />The Ten Commandments, the first Law of the Judaic peoples, a foundation of Christianity, and of all western thinking, clearly instruct people to treat each other with respect--to the point where they are not to even covet what the other has (like a poor farmer’s plot of land). It is up to each of us as individuals to embrace the objectives of these tenets, and supposedly of all systems of law, and do them.<br /><br />If I had one wish for the season, it would be that we would put our credit cards aside and embrace the true meaning of good will, that we would not covet the bauble in the next person’s stocking, that we would be happy they have received such a fine gift--and that we would carry the sentiment forward into the New Year, leaving the farmers to cultivate their land, and letting the developers build their skyscrapers in places they acquire fairly and squarely. <br /><br />You may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us. And the world will be as one. Imagine . . . .Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-52221287122885096862007-11-24T07:47:00.000-08:002007-12-03T07:17:03.773-08:00Nuts for the WinterThe squirrels outside my window have been scurrying up and down the trees, tucking acorns and other squirrel delicacies into hiding places only they know. They’ve been at it for a while now, making me wonder if they know something I don’t--like that the winter could be especially cold or long--and the warm autumn we've enjoyed will come at a price. <br /><br />Taking a cue from the furry creatures, I too have been stocking up on winter needs, travelling to my favorite farm markets to stock up on apples and squash, cabbage and potatoes. There is also honey to be had, and homemade jams and other home canned goods. I make a point of stocking up on baked goods too, loading as many loaves of bread into the freezer as it will hold. <br /><br />It’s a somewhat bittersweet activity. Sweet in that I love the fresh produce the area has to offer (I just can’t say this enough!)) I love the drives into the country and seeing the leaves change from shades of green to yellows and oranges and reds. <br /><br />The bitter part, of course, is that summer is over. And blizzards are, inevitably, on their way. The yellow, orange, red leaves will soon fall, and I will have to dig out my mittens. Trips to the beach will cease (except for the occasional trip to watch a sunset from the comfort of my warm dry car). <br /><br />In truth, I love the seasons, but the transition into winter is a bit rattling. Will I get everything done in time? And where are those mittens? <br /><br />I hate having to rely on the “big stores” for my groceries. When the time comes, I find myself standing in the middle of the aisle, dazed, confused, not sure why I’m there. It takes time to readjust, reacquaint myself with the scheme of things.<br /><br />I do use the big stores to stock up on non-perishables--things like rice, dried beans, pasta noodles. I also stock up on nonfood supplies--paper towels, tissues, light bulbs, batteries, soaps and detergents--things I would hate to get caught without in a blizzard Add cat food and kitty litter. And furnace filters.<br /><br />This time of year also finds me scrambling to winterize the house, and the car--would love to get another coat of wax on before the salt flies. (The lucky squirrels don’t have that worry!)<br /><br />To be honest, all of this is somewhat satisfying, especially as I watch the first snows fall. I am comforted in the fact that I am ready, that I have somehow beaten nature at her game.<br /><br />As the flakes swirl their way to the ground, I can kick back, sip my hot chocolate, stir the pot of chili simmering on the stove, and sigh a big sigh of relief that, like the squirrels, I am prepared for all the north wind can bring--snug as a bug in a rug!Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-15718928816325864802007-09-20T05:57:00.000-07:002007-09-20T06:06:41.380-07:00The Rest of the Story.In my previous post, I wrote about the experience of hunting the elusive Pink Lady's Slipper. It was an unpleasant and fruitless search. I ended my prose with Robert Burns famous "best laid plans" quotation and put the matter to rest.<br /><br />But when I recently shared the column with the friend who accompanied me on the "adventure," she responded, "Now finish it." <br /><br />So, here's the rest of the story: A few days after submitting my column, I was relaying the experience to another friend. She laughed and commiserated, and then she paused. "I think my neighbors have Pink Lady's Slippers on their farm," she said, suddenly remembering a conversation about them.<br /><br />And so, the next weekend, my "adventure" friend and I were on our way to my other friend's neighbor's farm--and there, just yards into the forest canopy behind the barn, we found Pink Lady's Slippers scattered across the pine-needled ground. There were no ticks, no mosquitos. We did not take a long hot hike. We simply followed my friend's neighbor into her woods. We oohed and ahhed and snapped our pictures. And that's the rest of the story.<br /> <br />The problem is, it messes up my conclusion, the moral to the story. I have been looking for the "point" of it all. I’m not sure there is one. It seems to expose the sheer randomness of things, events, conversations, even desires themselves. <br /><br />Perhaps the most telling feature of this “story” is that it exposes the need for meaning. We like to have things neatly tied up with beginnings and endings and points and purposes. Maybe that’s the lesson of the “real” story--that reality is random and unordered and we, refusing to accept this fact, impose morals, stopping the story short if need be to achieve the desired ending. Like Cinderella’s stepsisters we cut off the toes of reality to make it fit the fairy tale shoe.<br /> <br />At any rate, I have amended my story, I have told the whole truth. I have offered a fair and balanced accounting of 2007’s spring hunt for the Pink Lady Slipper. <br /><br />Certain details--that my friend’s three-year-old daughter went with us into the woods for instance--have been left out, but none that would “tip the balance,” only those that are redundant or irrelevant.<br /><br />In the final analysis, we in fact succeeded in what we set out to do--we found our flower. Maybe that’s all that matters. Shakespeare said as much when he concluded, “All's well that ends well.”Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-67893674243981917992007-06-11T05:38:00.000-07:002007-06-17T10:22:50.250-07:00Of Lady’s Slippers and Life.I took some time last week to try to fulfill a longtime wish--to observe the native orchid Cypripedium acaule, or Pink Lady’s Slipper, in its natural environment. I had it on good authority they could be found in Ross Preserve, just north of the county line, in Covert Township. I convinced a friend, another natureholic, to go with me, and on o fine clear sunny day, we set out. We had our hiking sticks, water, hats, sunglasses--and of course, our cameras. <br /><br />The path is a broad clear swath, once a road actually, so the hike was fairly easy, even if it was a mile in to the small lake. There wasn’t much in the way of “pretty” vegetation, most of the spring wildflowers were done. We did note the various trees that grew along the lane, and the numerous ferns we found where it was obviously wetter.<br /><br />As we approached the small lake, we began to scout for the prize--the low growing two-leaved plant with a pink “ball” dangling from a thin flower spike. We skirted the lake, venturing into the woods. Nothing. We headed out into the meadow, which we decided really was a mostly filled in, and very dry, bog. We noted the shriveled and brown fern fronds, the bloomless wild roses, and removed ourselves from wild blackberry vines. There was a certain pride in the ability to identify these things. The meadow was peaceful, though the traffic on nearby I-96 prevented us from hearing the birds that must have surrounded us. We lamented that we hadn’t brought binoculars.<br /><br />We finally gave up. We never found our flowers, and hiked out of the preserve hot, sweaty and bug-bitten. We had discussed bringing bug spray, but thought in the middle of the day, we’d probably be safe. We were wrong. <br /><br />I nursed an uncountable number of mosquito bites for two miserable days. I removed over a dozen ticks--finding my last one crawling along the edge of my laundry bag three days after what my friend has dubbed “my adventure.”<br /><br />As I mulled the occasion over (It’s what writers do, after all.), I couldn’t help but laugh. It’s just like life, you know. You set out eager, full of energy and hope, a dream in your heart. You contrive a plan and gather the things you might need for the journey.<br /><br />But as you travel the road, you encounter things you didn’t foresee, that were not part of the plan--sometimes these distractions are pleasant, some times they turn out to be bloodsuckers--and you realize you haven’t packed the right tools, or have carted other items needlessly into the swamp.<br /><br />Thus I harken to an older wisdom, the poet Robert Burns, who makes this similar observation after watching a mouse make and lose her nest: “ . . . foresight may be vain;/ The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men/ Gang aft agley [go awry],/ An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,/ For promis'd joy!” That's life.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-36080164511155422572007-05-20T13:35:00.000-07:002007-05-20T13:50:27.517-07:00Know Thy FoodThe recent pet food recall of tainted wheat gluten, responsible for the kidney failure and deaths of numerous dogs and cats, underscores the consumer’s need to know what is in the food they are eating, where it comes from, and how it was made. <br /><br />The incident shows that not all foodstuffs are grown under the same conditions, nor processed according to the same standards. If it is so cost-saving to import our ingredients from across the globe, perhaps we need to ask why.<br /><br />The recall reveals the lack of oversight being given to imported products, by the companies using them and the government agencies responsible for ensuring public safety. The FDA admitted testing very little of the wheat gluten, a food derivative used in human foods as well as pet foods, entering the United States. <br /><br />Menu Foods, the maker of most of the recalled food (though later other companies also pulled their products, admitting they used the same wheat gluten), waited an entire month, after receiving complaints, to take action. Not until they themselves had tested the products, not in the lab, mind you, but by feeding it to animals, many of whom died, did they alert the FDA. Imagine if the food was not for your beloved pet, but for your beloved baby.<br /><br />At the same time the food supply is proving unsafe, the food industry fights simple labeling, the only real tool a consumer has in knowing what their food contains, and where it came from. There is no question that labeling is the responsible approach. The consumer should demand it.<br /><br />Since the initial brouhaha, melamine has also been found in rice and corn products, and was discovered fed to chickens and hogs destined for human dinner tables. <br /><br />And it isn't just food. The lethal chemical diethylene glycol, a component of antifreeze, has been found in cough syrup, cold remedies, and most recently, toothpaste. <br /><br />A final note about the pet food recall: if I were the one buying premium, veterinarian recommended and veterinarian supplied, Hill’s brand pet food, and paying $1.29 a can for the very same thing Krogers sells for 39 cents a can, I would be madder than the proverbial wet hen!<br /><br />It pays to know thy food--or costs not to.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21102384.post-69909953360841400542007-05-16T07:26:00.000-07:002007-12-05T12:11:37.810-08:00G8, or, Bono's in Germany.So, Bono's going to Germany to lobby the G8 about increasing financial aid to Africa.<br /><br />In the past, concerts held worldwide drew attention to the plight of the "lesser." Organizer Bob Geldof said he wanted to draw people’s attention to the poverty and suffering of Africa, with a call, he claimed, for “justice,” rather than charity.<br /><br />I've written before (see "Brad Pitt is One Fine Hunk"), I think this is both noble and possible. Even as Christ told us the poor would always be with us, He also gave us the tools (love thy neighbor) to alleviate poverty, if we could ever get our act together. I’m just not sure about the way we’re going about it.<br /><br />First of all, Africa is not the only impoverished place in the world. For all its affluence, America has its share of starving children. In fact, there are poor and hungry people in every country, in every part of the world.<br /><br />Second, I’m not sure it is the job of the wealthy to feed them. While it seems that the rich “have it all,” they don’t--they can’t, nobody can. Christ himself ministered to rich and poor alike. He understood that people of means have their needs too. <br /><br />It stands to reason that, if by sheer luck, or hard work, one amassed an abundance of worldly goods, and people were always begging them for handouts, one might become suspicious, wonder if they are being used and question just how much responsibility they must bear.<br /><br />And even if it were the job of the wealthy, I’m not sure they understand the true needs of the impoverished. They aren’t wearing their shoes, after all (or going shoeless, as the case may be).<br /><br />George W. Bush is hesitant about giving aid to Africa. He’s not sure the governments receiving the aid will actually give it to the people in need. As an "insider," he surely knows a thing or two about government corruption.<br /><br />But, he’s absolutely right. I remember George Harrison’s Concert for Bangladesh and all the money it raised. Food was shipped to feed those ravaged by famine in that country--and the government held it in customs so long it rotted.<br /><br />I commend Bono, and Geldof, and others like them, and I would love to see justice done--I just don't think govenmental aid is the best way to bring it about. I think the best way to help the hungry people of Africa, and the rest of the world, is to solve the problem--of hunger and of injustice--for ourselves right here in the United States. We need to all--rich and poor--come to the table with our strengths--and weaknesses--and forge a fair and just system that allows everyone to feed themselves. We need to purge our own governing institutions of corruption and rise like the eagle we hold as our emblem of freedom. When we do this, the world will see our success--and our collective strength--and will want to follow suit. The best leader is, after all, the one who leads by example.Terri Gordonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15219760351006945164noreply@blogger.com0