WordWorks

Blogging--or a lack thereof.

2012-01-27T05:39:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I will get back in the groove though. I have started with writing this blog post.

Celebrating the Winter Solstice *

2010-12-21T05:13:00.000-08:00

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. In Scandinavian countries, holly was hung around doors and windows to snag evil spirits trying to enter the buildings.

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.

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.

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.

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.

*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 . . . .

Is Our Democracy Dying? *

2010-10-22T05:19:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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."

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.

It would be a shame to lay their work to waste, and to return to the bondage against which they revolted.

*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.

A Tribute.

2010-07-29T04:20:00.001-07:00

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!).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

In Praise of Poetry

2010-04-18T14:36:00.000-07:00

April 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.

The first poem is “the greedy the people,” the second is “dive for dreams.” Happy spring!

the greedy the people

the greedy the people
(as if as can yes)
they steal and they buy
and they die for because
though the bell in the steeple
says Why

the chary the wary
(as all as can each)
they don't and they do
and they turn to a which
though the moon in her glory
says Who

the busy the millions
(as you're as can i'm)
they flock and they flee
through a thunder of seem
though the stars in their silence
say Be

the cunning the craven
(as think as can feel)
they when and they how
and they live for until
though the sun in his heaven
says Now

the timid the tender
(as doubt as can trust)
they work and they pray
and they bow to a must
though the earth in her splendor
says May

dive for dreams

dive for dreams
or a slogan may topple you
(trees are their roots
and wind is wind)

trust your heart
if the seas catch fire
(and live by love
though the stars walk backward)

honour the past
but welcome the future
(and dance your death
away at this wedding)

never mind a world
with its villains or heroes
(for god likes girls
and tomorrow and the earth)

Barbie Turns 50.

2009-06-22T07:37:00.001-07:00

My father recently sent me a newspaper clipping celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Barbie doll. It brought back some memories.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

The art of procrastination

2009-01-14T15:27:00.000-08:00

For 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.

I have even scrubbed the showers, sinks, and toilets to get out of doing that floor!

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.

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 . . . .)

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.

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.

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.

I suppose I could be rebelling--against obligation, against the authority that demands I produce something, even when I’m not totally inspired.

Maybe I’m peeved at inspiration itself for abandoning me, leaving me to my own devices.

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.

Holiday Hurry.

2008-12-02T07:03:00.000-08:00

'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.
Above all, keep your head as you drive. Use your signals, and check your road rage.

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!

By the people, and for the people.

2008-11-20T07:49:00.000-08:00

In his acceptance speech, Barack Obama called his election a victory for the people. I think he hit the nail on the head.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It’s the Berries!

2008-11-12T07:54:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

I was reminded, again, how special this area is--geologically, and geographically, and climactically.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Bicycling Safely.

2008-10-10T07:26:00.000-07:00

People are hitting the streets in droves--on bicycles!

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

Helmets, contrary to popular belief, are not required by law, though are undoubtedly a good idea.

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.

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.)

BicycleSafe also suggests people have mirrors, horns or bells, and that they avoid other vehicles’ blind spots.

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.

Locavore-ing.

2008-06-05T17:40:00.000-07:00

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!

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.

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.

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.

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?!

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.

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.

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.

Oh, Maya! What’s Become of the Language?

2008-05-20T07:23:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!

Downer Cows and Hamburger.

2008-03-07T06:14:00.000-08:00

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Happy Cows Give More Milk

2008-02-18T06:18:00.000-08:00

Cows 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.

It stands to reason people work better when they are happy too.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

The Oldest Profession.

2008-02-01T09:24:00.000-08:00

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.

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."

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.

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.

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].”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

MLK, Jr.: Passionate about Peace.

2008-01-22T09:41:00.000-08:00

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!

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.

Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream--and it was a dream for all mankind, a dream of peaceful coexistence--and of true freedom.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Winter Solstice: Heading for Spring!

2008-01-05T13:39:00.000-08:00

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A River Runs.

2007-12-23T15:11:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

But the skyscrapers in the background are creeping closer.

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.

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.

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.

I believe true progress eludes us. True progress involves equity and fairness--even kindness. True progress is the achievement of Peace on Earth.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 . . . .

Oops! She’s (Apparently) Done It Again.

2007-12-11T11:06:00.000-08:00

“May I help you?” said the sales clerk.

“I’m sorry,” I replied, after taking too long to acknowledge her. “I was reading the headlines on this magazine. It says Britney Spears is pregnant again!” According to the subtitle, the supposed father has confirmed it.

“Yeah,” said the girl. “The court took away her other two kids, so she’s gonna show ‘em.” She echoed my own sentiment.

Now, for the record, I do not actively follow the goings-on of Ms. Spears. It’s just that they are pretty difficult to avoid. And I do feel a bit sorry for her. She’s a mediocre talent who’s been led to believe she’s “all that.” How does that not go to one’s head? And then there are the paparazzi. They really do hound her. Maybe if she learned to wear panties . . . .

But another baby?! That is not only inane. It is downright immoral. Bringing children into the world for any reason other than the right one--a commitment to rearing them--is wrong. This is not an undertaking to be done on a whim, or out of a need for revenge. It is not a job one does on the weekends, or when it is convenient. It is an all-the-time, forever responsibility. Yes, forever. Good parents are ongoing models and guides for navigating and coping with the various upcoming stages of life--and death.

I understand the naivety of youth, and not yet being adept at making wise and appropriate decisions, but this girl is taking “acting out” to a new level. She is clearly thinking with her ego, and making her decisions out of selfish desire.

The monitor, appointed by the court to supervise Britney’s visits with her children, deemed her a “bad mother,” who does not engage her children and treats them like “accessories.” In other words, when she says, “I love my children,” it is more about the “my” than the “children.”

I support a person’s right to be self-destructive. Life is a gift, and everyone gets to do with it what they want--until it impinges on another’s rights. Britney’s behavior--the aforementioned panties, the contempt for the court’s orders, the run red light (with the boys in the back seat, and the court-ordered chaperone in the front!)--has crossed that line. Exposing her children, or anybody’s children, to her recklessness is tantamount to abuse, in my dictionary anyway.

Here are two, and if rumors are correct, three, children who should have access to all the advantages money can buy, but because their parents won’t grow up, they are destined, I suspect, to lead miserable, mixed up lives. A good look at all those paparazzi pictures shows two boys who are anxious, uncertain, and even fearful--hardly happy.

Nuts for the Winter

2007-11-24T07:47:00.000-08:00

The 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.

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.

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.

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).

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?

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.

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.

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!)

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.

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!

The Rest of the Story.

2007-09-20T05:57:00.000-07:00

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.

But when I recently shared the column with the friend who accompanied me on the "adventure," she responded, "Now finish it."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

Of Lady’s Slippers and Life.

2007-06-11T05:38:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

Know Thy Food

2007-05-20T13:35:00.000-07:00

The 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

It pays to know thy food--or costs not to.

G8, or, Bono's in Germany.

2007-05-16T07:26:00.000-07:00

So, Bono's going to Germany to lobby the G8 about increasing financial aid to Africa.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

To Mothers Everywhere--Especially Mine!

2007-05-11T06:28:00.000-07:00

Mother’s Day sneaked up on me this year--it seems to have come early--but here it is, the second Sunday in May.

Traditionally, Mother’s Day has been set aside to show mothers gratitude and affection for all they do for us, their families. People mark the holiday with brunches, lunches and special dinners. It is one of the floral industry’s busiest days, and long distance phone lines jam up as children reach out to touch base with Mom.

The day became an official holiday in America in 1914, after intense lobbying by a women named Anna M. Jarvis. Jarvis was moved to mark the day after experiencing the loss of her own mother. According to womenshistory.about.com, Jarvis had an argument with her mom, and the two had not reconciled when her mother died. She began to mark the anniversary of her mother’s death, the second Sunday of May, by passing out carnations in her mother’s church.

Soon, her home city, Philadelphia, was celebrating Mother’s Day, and Jarvis, with others, began a letter-writing campaign to make it a national holiday. Jarvis later decried the commerciality of the holiday--the purchase of flowers, and greeting cards (she felt a handwritten letter was more meaningful).

But Mother’s Day celebrations are found even earlier in history than Jarvis'. Ancients of the Greek and Roman empires both had spring festivals honoring “mother” goddesses--Rhea in Greece and Cybele in Rome.

In the 1600s, England observed “Mothering Sunday,” a day servants and apprentices were encouraged to go home to spend the day with their mothers. They often carried with them special cakes to offer as gifts. This tradition died out with the feudal system only to be revived as American soldiers reintroduced the idea during WWII. And not to be forgotten is Julia Ward Howe, the first to organize Mother’s Day celebrations in the United States--as a day to promote peace.

Personally, I think we should pamper our mothers more often than once a year--how hard is a note, a phone call, or a bouquet of flowers? We may not even have Mother’s Day as a holiday if not for the guilt and grief of Anna Jarvis. To avoid the same trap that snared her--taking our mothers for granted, their love, their comfort, their advice--I suggest we keep our mothers on our minds and in our hearts every day of every year. Then, on the second Sunday of every May, celebrating Mother’s Day will be a greater, grander affair steeped with real meaning.

Discovering the Planet

2007-05-09T11:34:00.000-07:00

Discovery Channel’s series "Planet Earth: Portrait of a Planet" has had me completely riveted. The photography is astounding, and I am left awed by the vast and complex systems of life. The show, an eleven-part series, filmed over five years, is roughly divided by ecosystems--Caves, Deserts, Jungles, Shallow Seas, Deep Oceans.

From the Redwoods of California, the oldest living things on the planet, to the Himalayas of China, the tallest mountains in the world, created of limestone (essentially compacted seashells) and thrust into the air by the collision of tectonic plates, from the comical dances of Borneo’s Birds of Paradise, to the habits of Russia’s elusive and almost-extinct Amur leopard, I am amazed by the power, the tenacity and the efficiency of life.

This is no fluffy nature show. It is a comprehensive look at the real worldwide web that is our habitat and the intricate, interlacing systems that allow it to work. As intricate as those systems are, the purpose of it all seems quite simple: it’s all about the children--the survival of the species. In other words, it’s all about life itself.

Anyone who's seen "March of the Penguins," knows the utter extremes the parent penguins go to to ensure their one single egg produces its chick, and that that chick survives to grow and experience its own ordeal to produce its own chick.

Planet Earth takes the principle global, showing the unique extremes to which each species goes to produce young, to send it off with the best possible chance of survival--to promote its species. Sometimes, as with elephants, it takes a herd--that when threatened will form a formidable circle around the calves to keep them safe. Sometimes, as with sea turtles, it isn’t about nurturing, it is about numbers. The turtle lays many eggs in the hope that enough hatchlings, who never see their parents, will make it to the sea and survive to return to the very same beach to themselves breed.

It is heart-wrenching to watch predatory animals stalk and seize their prey. There is no regard for the other’s life, only the singular goal of eating--and feeding their young. It seems brutal to me, but I know it would be just as painful to watch the predators and their offspring starve. As difficult as it is to watch, I am comforted by the fact that animals are not greedy, nor wasteful, nor mean and spiteful. They kill to eat, period. And there is no such thing as a free lunch. From the crabs that clean the ocean bottom to the moths that pollinate the baobabs, each creature gives, as well as takes.

Watching Planet Earth has made me question my own place in the scheme of things. I feel much less "highly evolved." I have realized how little we humans truly understand the planet we call home, and how removing any single component, even the (icky!) cave-dwelling cockroaches which eat bat guano, could have a tremendous, and perhaps grave, consequence--we could, for instance, find ourselves buried in bat guano!

Poetry: Priceless.

2007-04-20T18:30:00.000-07:00

April is National Poetry Month, and in its honor, I’d like to share some thoughts on the topic.

At the close of the Civil War, Booker T. Washington and W. E. B. DuBois argued its importance. Washington felt it (I paraphrase) a luxury, as it could not feed the body, and DuBois felt it gave the soul the reason for feeding the body.

Long treatises have been written about the form and function and nature of poetry. Edgar Allen Poe felt that the most poignant poetic subject was the death of a beautiful young woman, as told by her bereaved lover.

The romantics thought poetry expressed man’s essential imaginations, capturing truth at its purest level. Shelley, in his essay “Defense of Poetry,” contrasts poetry to narrative, where time, he says, distorts things and makes them ugly. Poetry, on the other hand, "is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.”

Poetry was, in many ways, born of practicality. Before the invention of the printing press, poetry was the news and entertainment of its time. Its rhyme and repetition were mnemonic devices that let people memorize and recite its stories, its truths, its expressions. The greatest and oldest works of literature--Beowulf, the Iliad, much of the Bible--are in verse forms.

The word itself derives from an ancient Greek word meaning “I create.” Thus a poet is a creator--the poem, the creation.

In the 21st century, poetry seems to have become superfluous, an unnecessary adornment, the latest advertising jingle.

Has “creation” thus fallen by the wayside? And with it beauty--even truth?

Poetry, no matter its form, or its function, exerts an undeniable power on those who experience it. If you don’t believe me, ask yourself: What is this little ditty I can’t get out of my head?

Southwest Michigan has Jumped the Shark.

2007-04-13T07:57:00.000-07:00

After twenty one years of living happyily in southwest Michigan, I am afraid to say, it has, at last, "jumped the shark."

This saying references the infamous shark-jump executed, on waterskis, and in leather jacket and trunks, by “the Fonz” on the TV show Happy Days. The show's ratings declined after the stunt, resulting in its eventual cancellation. The phrase has been coined to mean that “over the top,” moment, where the tide turns, and the once popular begins its fade into oblivion. Southwest Michigan has reached this point.

What makes the region so special, so sought after, so popular with visitors and residents alike--the beaches and the farm belt--have become such a hodge podge of commercial developments, private enterprises, and homes that they are no longer enjoyable, nor, sometimes, even accessible.

Lack of cohesive planning has left the lake front a busy mix of styles, shapes, and sizes. Garish signs block what little scenic view is left, and lack of parking discourages visitation.

The wide open spaces so recently occupied by quiet farmland have suffered similar fates. Clusters of vinyl sided boxes sit where grains once waved and apple trees blossomed. Meanwhile, once charming older neighborhoods dissolve into dilapidated decay.

Area leaders, so thirsty for the almighty dollar, have sold the citizens of southwest Michigan out, stumbling over themselves and each other to “top” the last development, attraction, corporate tax break. Well, you can’t top sand dunes and fresh peaches. The leaders of this community have caused it to “jump the shark,” leaving the midwestern West Coast a mere facsimile of what it once was, what it could have been, and, presumably, what they wanted it to be.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz

2007-03-26T17:37:00.000-07:00

I love to sleep. The chilly mornings of winter make me roll up tighter in the warmth of my down comforter. Gray rainy Mondays send me back for a nap. Even the cool crisp mornings pf spring and autumn prompt me to spend “just ten more minutes” in bed.

This hasn’t always been the case. In my teens and early twenties, I shaved the candle at both ends, just sure that I was missing something as I lay in repose.

I learned the value of sleep in college. While I nodded and dozed my way through chapter after chapter, my straight-A, class president roommate, no matter what she was doing or studying, at ten o’clock sharp, picked herself up, brushed her teeth and went to bed. She arose at six the next morning and proceeded with her day. I was amazed at her productivity. I, of course, struggled to finish my studies, often until the wee hours of the morning. This became increasingly difficult with her deep breathing in the background. At some point, I gave up and began to follow her pattern. My alertness and energy levels increased, and my productivity rose. I have never turned back.

Getting too little sleep has become somewhat of a badge of honor as worker-bees slave at sixty-hour-a-week jobs, and struggle to maintain marriages and households. Getting enough sleep is also seen as a perk of privilege. “I wish I could afford to get enough sleep,” someone once said to me. I put this statement in the “penny-wise, pound-foolish” category. It’s like saying: I wish I could afford to live healthily. I would have to challenge the mental health of anyone who does not have health at the top of their short list. After all, if one isn’t healthy, how can one work to afford the things they want, or enjoy those things once they are acquired? It is the ultimate self-sabotage.

Research has begun to uncover the dangers of sleep deprivation. Studies show that not getting enough sleep impairs the immune system. And, just as the body has its own biorhythm--which is thrown off balance without proper sleep--individual organs have their own rhythms, also affected by sleep. Lack of sleep interferes with hormone production, and, oddly, erratic sleep patterns may lead to insomnia (we’ve all witnessed the two-tired two-year-old who winds him or herself up to stay awake).
People who work “graveyard” shifts, working throught the night, and counter to the body’s natural biorhythm have higher cancer rates than those who sleep.

And, while society wages war against driving while intoxicated, it has been shown that sleep deprived drivers are, in fact, more dangerous than drunk drivers.

My point? It pays to listen to your body! Get forty winks, saw some logs, grab that cat nap. Both body and mind will benefit from it. Energy levels and alertness will increase--and all those things folks are sacrificing sleep to do will get done.

--a version of this essay was published by the South County Gazette.

It’s a Snow Day!

2007-01-30T11:03:00.000-08:00

Note: Since this was published, as an Inside Column by the South County Gazette of Three Oaks, Michigan, on January 20, 2007, the area has been hit with much more snow! The "blanket" is easily two feet thick, with even deeper drifts. My editor has "blamed" this on my column.

I keep a list of column ideas--politics, health, environment--object lessons and observations I think could interest others, make them think, make them feel, remind them what life is about. But as I sat down to write this column, there was nothing on the list that could do any of that more than the view outside my window. At least six inches of snow coats tree branches, fence posts, lawns and rooftops. Small shrubs and utility lines sag under its weight, and the whole world looks light and bright--even without the sun.

Snow is often described in terms of “a blanket” of “sparkling crystals”--an apt description, yet somehow inadequate to capture its purity, its thoroughness and its egality, its way of covering absolutely everything, without discrimination, in thick dazzling white.

While we may complain about it, snow is important, especially to southwest Michigan. It is what allows the area to produce the wonderful fruit we relish in summer. Snow, and cold, kills bugs and diseases, and makes pesky raccoons hibernate. It is part of the great biological clock. Without it daffodils and cherry blossoms fall out of sync.

Snow refreshes and nourishes the environment, and as well, the soul. It is a great equalizer, making everyone have to get off their proverbial treadmills to dig out their mittens and scarves, shovel their their driveways and sweep their sidewalks. It makes people cooperate, as they help each other out of ditches, or drifts. For a brief time we are distracted from life’s pettinesses, and reminded of its importance.

All the machinations of man cannot stop snow from falling--that’s real power. It humbles “horsepower.”

Of course there are the lucky few who get to go out and play in the frosty fluff. Snow angels and snowmen spring up across the landscape. People head for the hills with sleds and skis. Snowmobiles race across the open spaces. This is as it should be--a hearty celebration of nature’s spontaneous gift.

Many years ago, living in southern California, I read an editorial written by a Chicagoan who found himself the manager of a local fast food restaurant. He incredulously proclaimed that “only in California!” would “surf’s up” be a legitimate excuse to not come to work. Dude! What surfers understand is that a good wave, like a good snow, only comes along once in a rare moment--and it should be respected, revered, appreciated and enjoyed. The burgers--and all the other “busy-ness” of human endeavor--can wait.

The Accidental President.

2007-01-23T14:12:00.000-08:00

In the weeks since Gerald Ford died, I’ve learned a lot about him I did not know. Ford at ninety three was, until now, our oldest living president, and held degrees from the University of Michigan and Yale. He was an athlete and a congressman for 25 years. I think the thing that impresses me the most is that he declined professional football offers to attend Law School. He set aside something potentially gratifying for something truly important He spent his career in Congress working hard, getting things done, and making friends along the way, according to those who worked beside him and are speaking out about it now.

I was sixteen when Nixon resigned amid financial scandal, antiwar demonstrations, and Watergate. Children lack context--the framework, a title. And so, what I remember from my early years are events--the assassinations of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, his brother, Robert Fitzgerald Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr. I remember Kent State; I remember Mi Lai. I remember the Black Panthers and the Hell’s Angels. Viet Nam surrounded and divided the nation, threatening to simultaneously suffocate and explode it.

Into this tinder box fell Gerald R. Ford, the “accidental” president who found himself appointed to replace vice president Spiro Agnew, and then became president when Nixon left the office. “Comfortable in his skin,” as someone described him, Ford took hold of the rudder and steered the nation clear of the rocks--and he made it look easy.

In responding to the former president’s death, the current president made note of Ford’s “integrity,” and called him “healing.” Others have spoken of his “openness.” He certainly doesn’t seem to have taken himself too seriously, and yet could get down to real serious business when necessary. He did the nation true service--and deserves to be commended for it.

As I watch the televised images of people streaming past the coffin of Gerald Ford, in California, in Washington, D.C., and in Grand Rapids, and as I read about what is happening in the world around me, in New Orleans, in Darfur, and in Iraq, I can’t help wondering if we couldn’t use another Gerald Rudolph Ford right about now. I'm wondering too just who that “accidental” president might be.

--a version of this essay was previously published in The South County Gazette.

Let Them Eat Cake!

2006-12-13T18:55:00.000-08:00

One of my most vivid childhood memories is of going Christmas shopping. Each December my parents and I made the nearly two hour trek from St. Helena (in northern California), down the Silverado Trail, to Macy’s, in San Francisco. I looked forward to the window displays, and the store Santa, of course, but was equally enchanted by the bell ringers that manned the red Salvation Army kettles on the sidewalks outside. I loved to add coins to their pots.

As a child, I’m sure the concept of charity was hazy at best, probably presented to me as “giving to the poor.” I just liked dropping coins through the slot, and all that bright, bright red!

But Christmas is a time of charity, a time of giving. One reads about mitten trees and Toys for Tots. One even encounters the occasional Salvation Army bell ringer, though companies have increasingly removed them from the marketplace. I guess it’s bad for business to remind shoppers of those less fortunate. And lest they seem Scrooge-ish, these same businesses make big donations themselves.

Unfortunately, much of charity is of the “let them eat cake” variety. The New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy defines this as “a saying that shows insensitivity to, or incomprehension of, the realities of life for the unfortunate.” The quote is supposedly made by a princess who, after being told her people had no food, replied, “Let them eat cake.” Sweet treats have little value to someone who, in reality, needs meat and potatoes--nay, a living, in fact.

And yet, charitable giving often consists of such short-termed reprieves, parties, dinners, events that allow those less fortunate to be “normal” for a few hours--before they return to their heating bills, and growing children and true needs. A lot of charity is also of a secondhand variety, goods no longer “good enough” given to churches and community thrift stores who cater to a sector for whom something is better than nothing. There's nothing wrong with that really. It's good to "recycle," afterall, and one man's trash is another's treasure. It just seems a bit demeaning, rubs noses in the idea that not everyone is worth brand new merchandise.

I can’t help wondering if some of these gestures aren’t more for those giving them than for those receiving them--to assuage guilt at having so much, to show others how to be like “them,” or to gain personal recognition. The parable of the widow and her two mites actually condemns the latter, showboat giving. The widow's two mites were deemed more valuable, because they came of pure motive, than the great riches the Pharisees bestowed with self-interested motive.

True charity is about assisting others in achieving their objectives, their goals, their dreams--for their gain.

A calendar I saw once carried the saying: “True charity is giving your brother a dime when you need it yourself.” This implies that true charity involves personal investment and sacrifice--not superficial overtures and leftovers. True charity comes from listening and hearing, and from giving away something truly valuable--love and good will.

In the Moment--for a Moment.

2006-11-06T11:42:00.000-08:00

People not a part of the world of writers may not realize how “out of time” we live. We always have to be ahead of time. Since publications take time to put together and go to press, the editors and writers have to be thinking about their topics well in advance of actual publishing dates. Often this lead time is six months, sometimes more.

In May, when peonies are popping, and iris’ raise their noble heads, writers are working on The Scariest Jack O’ Lanterns and Mince Meat Tarts and Corn Mazes.

In July when most people are under beach umbrellas, sipping mai tais, we writers are thinking cool, frosty, thoughts--of icicles, wool sweaters, hot chocolate. While people barbecue around us and watch fireworks--red, white, blue, we’re putting ourselves into Santa’s Sleigh and Making Snowmen and Decorating the Home for the Holidays. We’re conjuring up Ten Tips for Handling a Hangover, or for Avoiding the Flu or Hosting the Company Party.

In November, when people are baking pumpkin pies and roasting turkeys and getting out the woolens for real, writers are thinking Red Roses Tell That Special Someone You Love Them. We’re thinking lingerie and chocolates and heart-shaped jacuzzis: Show Him/Her You Really Care.

In December, when the rest of the world is opening gifts around the tree and snuggling under the mistletoe, writers must Think Spring! Planting Pansies for an Early Splash of Color! Ten New Ways to Color Eggs for Easter! The Family that Spring Cleans Together Gleans Together!

But every now and then a day comes along that just can’t be ignored--that quintessential “seasonal” day that even we writers can’t ignore, that makes us take notice, makes us stop for a moment and live in real time. The blazing hot day of summer that draws us away from our keyboards and down to the beach, the blustery day of winter that demands cozying by the fire--the first days of autumn, cool and crisp, turning toasty as the sun gains control. Those days where clear blue skies with cottonball clouds call us to our senses, or those rare evenings when the rising Harvest Moon humbles us. And just for a moment, even we writers must succumb to living in the moment.

Southwest Michigan: a Splendid Place to Live!

2006-08-08T06:22:00.000-07:00

I love southwest Michigan. This has been one of those slow-growing, creeping affections, not a love-at-first-sight passion.

I transplanted to the area in 1985, from the beaches, and mountains and deserts of California. By comparison, Michigan seemed dull--flat, mono-colored. Not ugly, just bland.

But slowly, surely, the place grew on me.

Lake Michigan was a draw of course, the sunsets assuaged my homesickness.

In the fall, the smell of ripening grapes lured me into the gentle hills surrounding the towns where I lived and worked. I began to notice the subtle differences in geography,learned to identify the native flora and fauna.

I watched the trees change color and drop their leaves.
Then came winter’s snow blanket, and later the wildflowers of spring. With each cycle I grew fonder of the area.

I love Michigan’s beaches for their fresh water (you need inhale salt water only one time to understand that!) and soft sands. I like its changeability. Ocean tides are regular, Lake Michigan’s movement is much more complex, unpredictable.

The high dunes and blue, blue skies have captured me.

But I think my favorite thing about southwest Michigan is the availability of fresh, ripe, high-quality produce to choose from during the growing season.

I’ve learned to pick raspberries in July, and blueberries. I’ve found farmers who grow asparagus and rhubarb and apricots, peaches and apples.

I know people who produce honey and maple syrup.

I love that I can actually know the people behind the food I eat, the wine I drink and the plants I grow.

I love the act of driving out to the farms to procure each one’s specialty.

I roam the farmers’ markets buying fresh baked goods, canned fruits and vegetables for winter, and homegrown bouquets. People offer herbs: basil for pesto, dill for pickles. There’re organic catnip toys for the puss and lavender soaps and potpourri.

Nurseries display their shrubs and flowers.

As summer gives way to fall, pumpkins and decorative corn will fill the stalls.

Apples will come on, good for eating and canning sauces and butters, and of course for pies!

Southwest Michigan isn’t just rich in good food, clean air and nice scenery, it is also rich with human ingenuity, imagination and industry.

If I could offer advice to anyone finding themselves in southwest Michigan, it would be: get out and enjoy it!

This essay previously appeared in the South County Gazette, Three Oaks, MI.

DuPont’s Teflon, and Nonstick Politicians.

2006-06-02T17:12:00.000-07:00

Recently, the mega-company DuPont agreed to pay fines levied by the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) for “allegedly” hiding research regarding the toxicity of Teflon--that ubiquitous nonstick, stain-resistant substance coating your cookware, your carpeting, your upholstery, your car’s upholstery, as well as candy wrappers, microwave popcorn bags and even small appliances--Foreman grills, waffle makers and clothes irons.

Apparently, Teflon’s main ingredient, perfluorooctanoic acid (PFOA), has been found in umbilical cord fluid, the water supply and even the polar bears of the North Pole. The EPA has upgraded it to being a “likely” carcinogen. It takes years to leave the human body and never breaks down--ever.

Now I believe in letting the market control things--get squeamish about government regulation--like to believe people should be responsible for themselves, and that they know best what's best for them. But where does my buyer-beware responsibility end and corporate responsibility start? This is a hot issue--just look at the Great Tobacco and McDonald's Spilt Coffee lawsuits.

It's one thing to unknowingly sell something dangerous--and another to sell something knowing it is dangerous. Innocent wrongdoing demands ceasing and desisting when knowledge exposes the wrongdoing, knowingly selling something dangerous should come with penalties severe and swift enough to cause ceasing and desisting.

A January 18, 2005 Chicago Tribune article asserts DuPont scientists were warning company execs as early as 1961 of problems--and the company hid the facts. They hid the birth defects of plant workers, and argued that while PFOA caused cancer, birth defects and liver damage in rats, there was no evidence it was harmful to people. In short, they lied.

They lie still. DuPont continues to market Teflon--aggressively. It is now a “new” ingredient in toilet bowl cleaner, and has been added to car wax to supposedly repel dirt.

In my opinion, there are (at least) two wrongs here: the deception of DuPont, and the complicity of our own government. DuPont put a product on the market, lied about its safety, breaking the law, and our government, rightly, fined them. An old episode of Andy Griffith shows Andy and Barney checking out a travelling salesman whose tonic consists mostly of liquor. When the truth is confirmed, Andy puts a stop to the man's enterprise. But the fines our govenment imposed on DuPont were a pittance of their profit, certainly not enough to force them to remove Teflon from the market. If the government agencies involved were doing their jobs, Teflon would be recalled and DuPont would be made to clean up its mess, the same way Mayberry's salesman was made to relinquish his permit and refund everyone's money.

If the government is not willing to enforce its own laws, and persists in levelling such impotent fines, they are, in fact, rewarding bad behavior. If they are not part of the solution, they become part of the problem. If my government is part of the problem, then I shouldn't be paying their saleries and rewarding their bad behavior. Now there’s a free market control I'd like to see!

Is Our Democracy Dying?

2006-05-10T09:05:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

In 1787, a Scottish history professor at The University of Edinburgh, Alexander Tyler 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."

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."

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.

It would be a shame to lay their work to waste, and to return to the bondage against which they revolted.

--an earlier version of this essay was published in the South County Gazette, Three Oaks, Michigan.

Wetland Habitats Best Preserved.

2006-04-04T14:40:00.000-07:00

Since the 1600s, human endeavor has drained or filled fully one half of the wetlands those early settlers encountered across the expanse that is now the United States (including Alaska). This is according to the Environmental Protection Agency’s website.

What this means is that in roughly 400 years, man has engineered himself out of acres of habitat that filters drinking water, controls flooding, balances nutrients and sodium values--and, new evidence suggests, perhaps even climate itself. He has undone in a short period of time what nature has taken tens of thousands of years to put in place, and he has spent billions of dollars creating waste water treatment centers to do what the wetland did with greater efficiency.

And this is just the wetlands, the swamps and meadows that line the coasts of our oceans, the shores of our lakes and the banks and flood plains of our rivers.

Rivers themselves have been dammed and redirected. All of this has been done in the name of progress, for purposes ranging from power production, to recreation, to sheer convenience. And now decades down the line, the folly of these endeavors is becoming evident. Our groundwater is polluted, shorelines and river banks are eroding, flooding has increased.

Many of the neighborhoods that flooded in New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina hit used to be wetlands--wetlands that would have absorbed much of Katrina’s wrath, or at least water, wetlands that would have buffered the impact of the waves against higher ground, a sort of shock absorber, as it were. In short, flooding would not have been as wide spread. And the manmade levees put into place in their stead did not do the job. I am sorry for the people who lost their home, that is tragic--but the homes should not have been built there in the first place.

Because of all the dams and diversions along the Colorado River north of the Grand Canyon, the once-raging whitewater that carved the gorge is now murky and still. Plant and animal species are dying off at tremendous speed as the river drowns in its own silt. A river that once ended with a great delta before emptying into the sea is now but a stream.

As man hurries to undo what he has done, he finds he can’t--he can make it better but he cannot replace what has been lost.

The lesson here, as with the lessons of all history, is that we must think before we act, not after. We have, it seems to me, put our desires before our needs. We have put golf courses before drinking water. We have been blinded by easy living, existing on a “credit card” whose interest has been accruing, and whose bill is about to come due. We can’t afford environmental bankruptcy. That is the air we breathe, the water we drink, and the soil that grows our food.

Before we undo nature, maybe we should try to see why nature has put what she did where she did. There is a scene in the movie Out of Africa where the character played by Meryl Streep brings European technology to the “outback,” and has her servants dam the river running through her property. Her servant is taken aback. “This river lives in Mombassa,” he tells her. And when it rains, the river floods, the dam breaks. After several attempts to rebuild it, and several rains that destroy it, she finally concedes: the river lives in Mombassa.

My point is: wetlands are where they are for a reason, and will not be easily changed. I can give a local example. Just south of Higman Park, in Benton Harbor, the Paw Paw River was diverted so a road could be built (at least this is what I’ve been told). One can tell by the vegetation, and remaining ponds, that the land is low. And every time it rains, Jean Klock Road floods. It is best suited to being the wetland it was, and I suspect, given time, it will reclaim its territory.

As a child, in church school, I was taught a little ditty about the “wise man,” who built his house upon the rock, and the “foolish man,” who built his house upon the sand. I realize the song was about building on a spiritual foundation, but the analogy wouldn’t work it there weren’t physical truth in it.

In the song, the “rains came down and the floods came up,” and while the house upon the rock “stood firm,” the house on the sand went “splat.”

Wetlands not only provide valuable habitat, and ecological functions, they aren’t good places to build. It is the wise man who understands nature’s law, and obeys it.

--a version of this essay was published April 1. 2006 by The South County Gazette.

Take a Deep Breath

2006-03-29T14:41:00.000-08:00

Several years ago, I heard a sermon. The speaker made many good points, but the one that has stuck with me is the distinction he made between those things which are important, and those things which are urgent. The important things, he said, are always being derailed by the urgent.
Mulling this over, I of course realized he was right. In our “hierarchy of needs,” health comes first, social support--friends, pets and family--usually comes next. These are things that cannot be replaced. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. Wal-Mart doesn’t carry them.
But more often than not, we are “too busy” to really give these things the attention they deserve.
I can think of lots of examples: we don’t have time to exercise, or to sit down to home cooked meals, or to take walks on the beach, or read to our kids, or sit down for a cup of joe with Aunt Greta and Uncle Ben (Good gawd! That would take all day by the time they got out the good china, bickering with each other all the while, and then he’d start telling his stories and before you knew it, you’d have to stay for supper, and watch the evening news--and the car wouldn’t get washed, or the football game watched, or the leaves raked.). These are things that become more important when you can’t do them anymore--when the kids are grown, when the aunts and uncles are dead (and you can’t remember exactly how that story went even though you heard it a million times), when you can’t stand up straight, or drive anymore.
Much of the urgent we pay obeisance to is done to keep up with the Joneses, to look “normal.” We let daycare and television raise our kids so we can work to have the two-car garage, the picket fence and caller-ID. We struggle to feed our families, but we have cable TV.
We drag ourselves to work when we’re “fighting a flu,” or are “under the weather.” “But this project has to get finished,” we argue. Never mind that we, by expending our energies on work, are robbing our own body of the energy it needs to rid itself of whatever “bug” ails us. Never mind that we are probably prolonging our illness. Never mind that we are exposing our (important!) friends and family to our germs. And never mind that we probably are not functioning well enough to do our “project” the justice it requires.
But if we call in sick, we say, we will let down our boss, we will disappoint our clients, we will overburden our coworkers. These sentiments are admirable, but they are putting people over health--and if the people become sick as a result, well we have, in my opinion, negated the good we set out to do.
Just out of college, I was contract teaching at a local college and just wasn’t making ends meet. People were telling me I needed to get a “real” job (and what is teaching?!), and I was increasingly frustrated. Over the Christmas break (out of contract, with NO money coming in), I was contemplating throwing in the towel, and looking for work I knew would be less intrinsically satisfying, but more financially rewarding, when my landlady died. She had had gallbladder surgery five weeks earlier, and they had opened her up to find her riddled with cancer. The whole thing kind of knocked the wind out of my sails. The conclusion I came to was: If that had been me, I’d have been glad I stayed in the classroom.
I refer to this scenario often when I am harried and confused and frustrated. I take a deep breath and say: If I were to die next week, next year, tomorrow, what would be most important today. I won't be a slave to the urgent.

The Homeland

2006-03-22T05:40:00.000-08:00

As a graduate student, I spent a month taking classes in England. It was a wonderful place, just like in the pictures one sees--a green carpet framed by low stone walls and decorated with quaint cottages, flower gardens and castles. From the rhododendrons lining the driveways, to Buckingham Palace, England mirrors its press.

During the course of the month, there were trips to London, to Stratford, to Oxford and to Canterbury. One excursion was to Tintagel in the southwestern tip, over Dartmoor, and through the legendary land of King Arthur. We saw Stonehenge, the British Museum, Shakespeare at the Barbican. We visited Jane Austin’s grave and saw the spot in Canterbury Cathedral where Thomas á Beckett was slain. We took a boat along the Thames to Kew Gardens, and visited the ancient Roman baths in Bath that still gurgle and steam after all these centuries.

My favorite trip was one where a friend and I rented a car and "motored" north for a free weekend. It was on this trip, while "oohing" and "aahing" my way through the North York Moors, and along the coast of the North Sea, that it struck me. The thought crossed through me, "This is so beautiful--but, I’ve seen landscapes just as beautiful in America."

It was on that winding roadway I realized: aside from the exhilaration of driving on the "wrong" side of the road, traveling the coast of England was a lot like traveling the coast of New England. And though they sported purple heather and wild horses, the moors were formed by glaciers just like the moraines of Michigan and Ohio and much of the northern United States.

Of course, there is more to traveling than scenery and geography. There is no substitute for experiencing another culture, observing how they solve the problems all humans encounter, coming to an understanding of their viewpoints on issues, and partaking of the unique contributions they make to taste and style.

I grew fond of malt vinegar on my "chips," and I haven’t tasted a scone that held a candle to those of England. I enjoyed walking to the "news agent" everyday, and eating Ploughman lunches at local pubs, but I did resolve, right there on the coast highway, to appreciate my own country just a little bit more when I returned.
I guess its a human tendency to get bored by what is too accessible, or familiar, human tendency to look for the thrill. It’s a shame really. We miss a lot, I fear, and waste the precious time life bestows on us, in our frantic pursuits.

A few summers back, I took a trip with my mother to Mackinac Island, coming back through Traverse City and the Leelanau Peninsula. We climbed Lookout Point and toured the Grand Hotel. We rented a horse-drawn buggy to drive around the Island. We drove the 5-mile bridge that spans the Straits of Mackinac, uniting the Upper and Lower Peninsulas. We bought souvenirs and postcards and nutty fudge.
We ate the nectar-like cherries of Kewadin, and toured the wineries of Leelanau County. We watched the sun set over Traverse Bay from a top-floor, glass-walled restaurant.

I’ve never had such good perch as I ate on the Island, and Sleeping Bear Dunes could surely challenge the White Cliffs of Dover. I read about the glaciers that helped form the land and the legend of the mother bear and her cubs who swam Lake Michigan to escape a fire. The “mother” still waits upon the shore looking across the water for her cubs who tired and drowned just short of safety. Small islands commemorate the spots where they were lost.

I stand looking over the lake and could as easily be looking out from the ruined walls of King Arthur’s mythical Tintagel castle. In England or in my own backyard, the lesson is the same. It is the lesson learned from watching the endurance of nature and of human story--it is patience and awe.

I am reminded of Claude Monet, who in his later years retired to Giverny, his home and gardens, on the premise that it would take a lifetime to see everything they contained. He found peace and contentment among the flowers and ponds, and painted some of his most famous paintings there.

I want to return to England someday--to go to places I didn’t before, and to revisit some I did. But until that day comes, I’m going to breathe deeply the Michigan air. I’m going to climb the dunes and delight in the sound of the waves lapping against the sand. I’m going to drink in the purples and the oranges of the sunsets and eat the fruits of local farms. I am going to watch the birds and creatures around me and appreciate the beauty and the people of the land I call home.

Driving Lessons

2006-03-21T09:42:00.000-08:00

With all the beauty of spring, the season is, unfortunately, marred by the foolish drivers of winter who now have actual traction. It’s easy, after creeping along all winter, to want to kick up one’s heels, and squeal some tires. But there’s a fine line between spontaneous fun and disaster. And fun becomes very un-fun when disaster strikes. What I’m seeing on the streets isn’t fun, it’s scary.

Maybe drivers should have to take continuing education to renew their licenses, refresher courses to remind us all how to be on our best automobile operating behavior.

These courses could put us nostalgically back into the driver’s ed car with an instructor counting off a three-point complete stop. People seem to have forgotten that one. The stop sign has become a yield sign, requiring a stop only if traffic demands it. I hate to think what the yield sign has become--since the concept of yield itself seems to have become fuzzy.

I was travelling westward along a thoroughfare last week. A group of cyclists filled the other lane, moving east, toward me. A car approached, also travelling east, behind the group of cyclists. Instead of slowing until able to pass the bicycles, the car moved into my lane, forcing me to brake to avoid collision. The driver didn’t seem to give it a second thought--or a first.

Periodic driving tests might help people remember the basic rules of the road: right of way, respect for the center line (and the shoulder line, while we’re at it), and turn signal usage.

The thing is: most of the basic laws are a matter of safety. Yielding the right of way--letting the driver take his or her rightful turn--is designed to prevent accidents and to let traffic move in as smooth a manner as possible.

Yielding the right of way comes into play a lot at four-way stops. People act as if the objective is to come to the quickest possible stop, and then go. They miss that the stop is required to ensure everyone gets a a fair opportunity to advance--that the reason I stop is to let you go, and vice versa.

Another example of not yielding the right of way is often found inregards to turning right on a red light, where people stopped for a red light can turn right if there is no oncoming traffic. The operative phrase in that sentence is “if there is no oncoming traffic.” More and more, people do not yield to the oncoming traffic, but pull right on out into it, reminiscent of their behavior at the four-way stop.

Another rule people ignore is the one that requires drivers entering traffic to match the flow of traffic, the reason for freeway on-ramps, so the car has room enough to accelerate to "freeway" speed before entering the freeway. This means, when you run that stop sign to “make the break,” and avoid having to stop and wait for the oncoming cars, you’d better quit fiddling with your drink, step on it, and get up to speed.

Again, a safety issue: When you run the stop sign and proceed down the road at 25 miles per hour, in a 40-mile-per-hour zone, fumbling for your breath mints, the cars behind you all have to break their pace. If cars are travelling in a tight enough line, they may actually have to brake, which leads to many a rear-end accident.

And traffic laws, much like manners, are quite simply common courtesy (not to mention common sense).

Take that turn signal usage. Now, I certainly understand how it would be difficult to signal when your hands are full, like when you’re talking on the phone, lighting a cigarette, or drinking your coffee. And I’d hate to see you take your hand off the steering wheel, but--wait a minute . . . .

When you are behind the wheel of your car, your primary focus should be on commandeering your vehicle safely and efficiently down the road! The automobile is not an extension of your living room, it is a tool we all use to get places--places we all need to go, places equally important to each of us.

It seems so minor, that turn signal, but it is such a simple, effective agent of safety. It tells other drivers what you are doing, and more importantly, it tells other drivers that you know what you are doing--that you are focused on your driving, that you are in control and driving with a plan.

We all make honest mistakes, missing a turn, getting into the wrong lane, forgetting to look before backing up. But failure to use a turn signal is blatant disregard for law and decorum. It is inconsiderate, and downright rude.

Now, I know there are many very good drivers out there--and lest they take offense, I’d like to say: if the shoe doesn’t fit, don’t wear it.

But if the shoe does fit: Please! Get your head out of the clouds, put your mind on what you’re doing--and pay attention to the other idiots around you--you just can’t predict what they might do next--especially now that they have traction.

Life Cycles

2006-03-16T05:28:00.000-08:00

Note: This is an oldie--I wrote it in college. But it's still one of my favorites!

There it is again. That spot in the road. I've passed it every day this week and last. It is almost unrecognizable now--almost a pile of dust. But I remember the first time I saw it. Fresh. Twisted--almost alive--still warm?--brilliant, red, vibrant, but dead. An unsuccessful dash across the road--with an especially desirable acorn to store for winter?--in that extra special cache on the other side?

Cringing, I swerved--offering more space than necessary--to avoid any contact. I averted my eyes to avoid seeing the last evidence of life oozing from the tiny mouth of the squirrel that lay across the white line of the road.

Passing the same spot the next day, I swerved a little less--I offered less distance. I averted my eyes more slowly. The bright red liquid coming from the mouth was now frozen--crusty and black. The body still lay twisted across the center line, but something--not swerving away as I had done--possibly swerving to?--had flattened the once bushy tail.

Each day I drove past that spot in the road, I swerved less. I winced less. The legs became flattened against the pavement. The red fur became colorless, blending into the road beneath it.

Gradually, the legs, tail, head became separate entities of their own--disconnected from the whole--no longer a part of the giant red squirrel of that first day.

And now it is a pile of dust. I think nothing now of driving over it--through it! I no longer hesitate to mangle and destroy what little is left of life there in the middle of the road, in that pile of dust.

At some point someone will walk barefoot over this pile of dust, scattering it, redepositing it into the berm where dandelions will use it to germinate their seed. Children will mix it with water and form it into mud pies and "gingerbread" men. Trees will be planted; skyscrapers built. At some point, the pile of dust in the middle of the road, the dead red squirrel, will once again become life.

Brad Pitt is One Fine Hunk

2006-03-15T06:48:00.000-08:00

But he has a bit to learn about the way the world operates.

In an hour long interview with Diane Sawyer last year (7 June 2005), Pitt nobly tried to draw attention, as others have before him, to the plight of the impoverished people of Africa. He made the statement that, if we tried, we could wipe out poverty in our lifetime.

I agree with him--all poverty, not just Africa’s. What I think he doesn’t understand is that not everybody thinks that’s a good idea.
World history shows that the powerful marauders and explorers and conquistadors who braved and tamed and conquered Earth did so looking for land and wealth. The people they found inhabiting the places they “discovered,” or claimed, often became slaves--laborers and servants--of the triumphant. The people’s property was duly appropriated.

Even the Nazis confiscated the valuables of the Jews, and others, they exterminated--to the point of removing teeth containing gold. Healthy Jews were of course put to work.

For these practices to be carried out requires the perception that there is a type, or types, of people who are unworthy to participate in the pursuit of happiness, if you will. People unworthy of proper food, proper shelter, a fair living. Disposable people. People worthy only of doing the dirty work of the people who are “worthy.”

The key word is “perception.” The “worthy” people are, more often than not, just like the “unworthy,” with a bit more luck, or strength (as in brute strength) or inherited wealth. People, over time, have banded together, joined forces, created treaties in order to attack and overthrow and oppress the “others.”

If they didn’t do this, they would have no one to do the undesirable work of living: the trash collecting, the ditch digging, the emptying of the chamber pot. To avoid doing this work themselves, they need an “underclass.” To avoid feeling guilty about using others to do their dirty work, they must deem them unworthy.

To do away with poverty would put everyone on a more equal footing. To actually pay members of the underclass what they’re worth would be to acknowledge that they are worthy. If the poor could actually make fair and decent livings, who would do the dirty work? Who would fight the wars?

Thomas Jefferson, and other founders of America’s governmental system, tried to build equal “worthiness” into its constitution. They envisioned an educated self-sufficient population, with members who did their own dirty work, or at least respected the people who did it for them. As these men were also slaveowners, I realize they had some bugs in their “vision!” In fact, that makes my argument somewhat stronger--these men had the best of intentions, and couldn’t pull it off.

And the America they created becomes increasingly stratified: the wealthy get wealthier, the poor get poorer.

So, I applaud Pitt’s efforts, and understand how meeting the children he met, and learning their stories, in his words, “broke his heart.” It breaks my heart. I can’t imagine watching my children bloat with starvation, flies feasting on the pus in their eyes. I just think the issues are bigger than he realizes, and the answers more complicated.

Until he convinces the upper class to do its own dirty work (I wonder who swishes his toilets . . . .), or to pay a truly living wage to have it done, there will continue to be oppression and poverty.

Christ Himself said the poor would always be with us. Christ understood that the issues were too big for even Him. He also understood that the poor and oppressed were not unworthy. He told them to be glad they were poor--that they would inherit the Earth.

I think what he meant was: it is morally and ethically better to be oppressed than to be an oppressor. Though this is little comfort, I’m sure, to those watching flies feed in the corners of their baby’s eyes.

For the Bulls of the PBR!

2006-03-13T16:15:00.000-08:00

It happened quite by accident really. I was flipping through the channels, looking for something to watch on TV, when I stumbled upon bull riding.
Thinking it might be a rodeo, I decided to watch a bit of it. I was hoping they’d show barrel racing. That had always been my favorite at the annual rodeos I attended as a teenager at the local fairgrounds (in Dayton, Ohio).
I’d never seen the attraction to bull riding. It has no function other than sport. The bull is bred strictly for the event. It is not a dairy bull, nor a beef bull, only a bucking bull. I find it an arrogant sport at that--the epitome of “small man syndrome” (and by this I refer to smallness of ego, not stature).
The bull is put into a “chute” so he can’t move--it’s the only way to get on his back. A rope is tied around his groin to ensure his annoyance, and a spur-sporting cowboy climbs onto his back. Said bull is then released into the arena, twisting and bucking, trying to throw the cowboy off his back before the eight second buzzer signals a successful “ride.” Who thought of this?!
I envision a bunch of rowdies sittin’ ‘round the campfire drinking grog, when one of ‘em says, “Hey! Let’s make a bull mad and try to ride him!”
You’d think that the first broken rib, or dislocated shoulder--not to mention hitting the hard ground upon “dismount”--would have put an end to this idea, but no-o-o! They just tied themselves on tighter and had at it.
It’s now a Ford sponsored, Las Vegas-big, event. And so, disappointed, I reached for the remote.
But then it happened. The camera zoomed into the chute, where the next cowboy was boarding a bull named Chili Pepper. He was a white bull “peppered” with red spots. “Aptly named,” I thought.
Then the camera caught his eyes. A chill went through me--the kind of chill that goes through me when they show Charlie Manson on TV--the chill of confronting sheer madness. I froze.
Well, they opened the chute and that bull exploded in a fury of bucking and twisting like I’ve never seen. The cowboy was thrown so fast, he might as well have just stayed in the chute--and that part of me that appreciates poetic justice cheered.
I spent the rest of the summer watching PBR bull riding--not for the eight second ride, mind you, but for when the cowboy loses his rope, or his balance, lands in the dirt, and the bull wins. It’s especially exciting when the bull wheels around and chases the limping would-be rider out of the ring. Sometimes it gets serious and the “clowns” (now called bullfighters) have to step in, distracting the bull so the guy can get away.
Do I have any sympathy for the participants in this sport? Who suffer the broken bones and torn muscles, the sprains and dislocated joints? Who risk getting stomped on and gored by maddened animals? Nope. Anyone fool enough to attempt riding a ticked-off, two thousand pound creature reaps what he sows. I have no sympathy--I root for the bulls!

Brokeback Mountain is Not a Gay Movie

2006-03-10T08:13:00.000-08:00

In fact, it’s a rather sad movie--the way life is sad when you aren’t true to yourself, when you try so hard to please others that you force yourself into molds that don’t fit, and you end up not only miserable yourself, but making everyone you were trying to please miserable too. That’s the kind of movie it is--with universal lessons for everyone.
Yes, the movie does detail a gay relationship (in a refreshingly real way--not like on Will & Grace, with silly, stylized characters and insider jokes, but as ordinary people--like you find in real life). But, the movie also details heterosexual relationships, and relationships between parents and their children--with all the struggles and hurts and joys that come with them.
Brokeback Mountain portrays real life--up and down, good and bad.
It is a good snapshot of the time periods in which the story takes place, of the social attitudes and realities that led to the actions of the characters, as well as social attitudes and realities that have led us to the times in which we now live (which may not be as different as we think).
If Brokeback Mountain makes viewers uncomfortable, I suspect it has little to do with “gay cowboys” and everything to do with having to look at themselves and the relationships they are involved in.
The study of literature involves talk about round and flat characters--round being three-dimensional, deep, real. Flat characters are two-dimensional, undeveloped. They serve primarily to move the story. Brokeback Mountain makes you examine your relationships in somewhat the same way. Are they real? Or just role-playing?
We should all be so lucky as to experience a Brokeback Mountain--a time and place where we are completely free to be ourselves, a place where we are loved for being ourselves--in our lifetime. The saddest part of the movie is coming away from it wondering if such a place exists, and if you’ll ever be so lucky as to find it.
No, Brokeback Mountain is not a gay movie. It is a moving, thought provoking and inspiring movie, a movie well worth seeing, a movie that deserves its nominations, its awards, and a movie with lessons we could all benefit from learning--about making committments to ourselves, and not putting off until tomorrow that which we are afraid to do today. It leaves all who see it thinking about it long after they’ve left the theatre.

Soap Operas Say So Much

2006-03-09T15:04:00.000-08:00

I take a lot of guff from friends and colleagues for my devotion to soap operas, or “stories,” as we afficionados call them.
They cite my Masters degree in English, the study of “high” culture, and cannot understand why I would stoop so "low" as to watch such trite melodrama.
It’s true, the plots are predictable, the dialogue unrealistic and the situations people find themselves in completely implausable.
And yet they are addicting. Nor am I the only student of high culture I know who watches them. I won’t blow anyone’s cover, but I know entire English departments devoted to soap operas. In fact, soap operas generate a gargantuan amount of money. What started as a series of commercials has become a fullblown industry. Whole magazines are devoted to the shows. College courses have dissected them, books have been written about them. And just go ahead and google the term.
One English professor along the way explained their popularity saying people are suckers for a neverending story.
I think people just fall in love with the characters. I am particularly fond of the grande dames of shows: Phoebe Tyler (recently deceased in real life) of All My Children (AMC), the Lila Quartermain (also deceased) of General Hospital (GH), Katherine Chancellor of The Young and the Restless (Y&R).
And then there are the characters you love to hate. I remember Victor Newman from Y&R when he had his wife Julia locked in a cell in the basement (a common story theme, by the way). Now how could a guy like that ever be loved? And yet, I’ve ridden the roller coaster. The bad guy becomes the hero, falls into disrepute again, only to become the victim of unfairness, so one can’t help but sympathize. You hate him, you love him, you hate him again. It’s like Michigan weather, just wait ten episodes and it’ll change.
People who watch them seem to get caught up with predicting the outcomes, or giving the characters advice. Watching once with a friend who was less than enamored, I exclaimed to one of the characters, “No! Don’t trust him. You can’t trust him.” The look on my friend’s face prompted me to explain that that’s what soaps were for. She replied she thought that’s what football was for.
And maybe that’s part of it. These are problems we can solve. Next to the problems these people have, our own seem petty.
They let us vent. The dialogue is unrealistic, but the characters often say things we think and would never dream of sharing.
Perhaps they pull us out of ourselves, a bit of fantasy, a bit of entertainment.
But they can also be educative, or at least they put issues on the map and get people talking. Every soap has at one time dealt with alcoholism. Most dealt with AIDS when it was considered the “gay plague.” The soaps put a face to the disease, easing the public panic.
Soaps expose viewers to the latest fashions, hairstyles, music. Ther've been zig-zag hair parts, and “weedwhacker” haircuts, and seventies "retro."
They oil social interaction. I worked in an office where it was almost a duty to watch the “office” soap opera on your day off and report the next day. It provided a topic of discussion, it bonded workers. It is certainly better to gossip about soap opera situations than real ones!
Soap watchers know this isn’t reality. Babies stay babies for years, and then suddenly come on as teenagers. Then there are the plunging necklines worn to the office, and how people can just leave work when they need to.
Even in their implausibility, soaps, like fairy tales, offer lessons in society. A friend of mine started dating a woman of a higher social class than he. I bit my tongue, but thought, “That’ll never work! Doesn’t he watch the soaps?”
They offer lessons in what not to do. Lovers hide things from each other because they love the other and don’t want to “hurt” them. Of course their secrets backfire and create an even bigger mess. You find yourself saying, “Just tell him/her the truth!” (Though whether we apply this to our own quagmires is debatable!)
Soap watchers learn to speak in terms of the “old” Rosanna vs. the “new” Rosanna. Sometimes an actor joins a soap after playing a character on another soap. It can take some time to adjust. Sometimes you never do. Cliff from AMC joined Y&R, replacing Jack. He’s been Jack for a long time now, but to me he’s still Cliff. And I still miss the”old” Jack.
Many famous stars started on the soaps. I remember David Hasselhoff as Snapper from Y&R. Demi Moore’s character helped Robert Scorpio look for the Ice Princess during the height of the Luke and Laura days on GH.
Not all actors move on. Some stay and become stars of soap operas. The most famous of these is probably Susan Lucci who plays Erica Kane on AMC.
And “stories” are just fun, they aren’t too serious, they tap into our fantasies and lift our spirits.
Lastly, a note about "high" and popular culture: Culture gets passed on through time because it reaches the masses, it becomes popular--they pass it on. Because it survives, we call it “art.” Maybe the Shakespearean plays we think of today as “high art” were nothing more than the soap operas of their time.
So, I try not to think in terms of embracing high culture or popular culture, but more in terms of respecting the former, and keeping up with the current. Now there’s the neverending story.

Literacy: a Lost Art

2006-03-09T08:17:00.000-08:00

On Monday, December 26, 2005, the Washington Post ran a piece proclaiming an “alarming drop in reading proficiency” among college graduates.
As a teacher of college literature, I am not surprised.
First, literature is not valued as an essential component of the learning process--even by the administrators of our schools. When the last three literature classes I was scheduled to teach were cancelled due to lack of interest--too few people signed up to take them--administration explained that literature was no longer a required core class, rather it is an elective. Students didn’t sign up for literature classes because they weren’t deemed “necessary” to their obtaining a degree.
Second, the last time I did teach a literature class it was an extremely frustrating experience as I could not get people to read the material. It was explained by the students that another professor, in another discipline, had assigned a long chapter and they had had to read that. When I said that was fine but that I had assigned the story/play/poetry that we were due to discuss that day, I was told, “But that’s just a story.” I could go off here on the importance of story, that story teaches social lessons, that stories record cultural history, but I’m going to try to stay focused.
I have been bothered for years by the government’s, and the media’s, focus on science and math as the primary measure of success in education.
When I was in high school, with my eye on college, I made the conscious decision to major in English. I reasoned that with the ability to read, I could teach myself anything--science, math. I have no regrets. The analytic skills I’ve learned are just as useful as the research skills of science, and I have taught myself many other things.
I think literature has lost ground for a number of reasons, competition from TV and other media among them. The benefits of literature are not as tangible, perhaps, as with math and science, the job market is not as specific.
And there I’ve hit on the real reason I believe literature has been tossed aside. Education is increasingly about getting a job.
My family was proud of me when I graduated college--but when I went on for a master’s degree, they berated me. “What was I going to do with that?” they said. I am only sorry I ran out of money and was unable to pursue a doctoral degree. Because: education is not about a job, and while I may be out of vogue, I still believe in the liberal arts credo that a well-rounded person is a better person for it--and will therefore function better on any given job.
A common misperception about education, college in particular, is that it is about amassing information. While a familiarity with any given discipline’s “canon”--for literature the works of the greats like Chaucer and Shakespeare and Steinbeck, for psychology the work of Freud and Skinner and Jung, Einstein for physics and so on--is part of it, the main body of information one acquires in school is obsolete the day they leave its doors. What school gives you, or should give you, is its process--how to ask the right questions, how to search for the answers, how to analyze information. These skills have universal application, whether on the job or in “real life.”
In this realm, literature is important. Reading a story, I learn about people, their relationships to each other, to their world and to society.
If I am honest, I will admit that part of why I chose English was that it was “easy.” I couldn’t have been more wrong. When I read a story, I must analyze the author’s “message” and how it is conveyed. In class, this invariably leads to discussions of the meaning of life, the nature of society, politics, death and God.
In the twenty years since I graduated, I have seen an increase in vocational degrees. One no longer has a master’s in sociology, but one in social work. I find this view limited and wonder how one could not perform better social work with a better understanding of sociology.
The popularity of the associate’s degree, a two-year endeavor that focuses on just what one needs to know to do the job, has reduced the number of “core” classes. This is how my literature classes became “electives.” When academia itself doesn’t think literature is important, how do they expect others to value it? I must argue that without the analytic skills the study of literature fosters and hones, one loses important skills useful to all other disciplines--and to life itself. It reduces people to mere work horses, even machines, and the meaning of life is lost.
As a young adult, living in Dayton, Ohio, I saw the closing of Frigidaire. Its workers went from being prosperous, middle-class citizens, to unemployed, desperate people struggling to survive. All they knew was the one skill they performed on the assembly line--and that didn’t exist anymore. A well-rounded education would have enabled them to transfer, or transform, their skills to other arenas.
So, articles citing failing literacy rates in college graduates come as no surprise. However, articles bemoaning the chronic loss of jobs in the American work place also appear regularly. I can't help but feel that this reflects on the choices we have made in our fundamental education.
Education is about broadening the mind, strengthening analysis skills, and honing the ability to think critically.
If our graduates can do that, they are less at the mercy of the whims of the employment market. Unfortunately, the classes that helped to teach such skills are quickly becoming as obsolete as long-term, dependable employment.

We're Not in Mayberry Anymore

2006-03-08T20:02:00.000-08:00

I spent a recent dreary day watching a “Mayberry Marathon”--six hours of reruns of that popular TV show featuring the antics of Sheriff Andy and his Deputy Barney Fife. After laughing my way through the first hour, I realized that--seriously--today’s society could learn a lot about civility, common sense and community from the citizens of Mayberry!
Among the episodes that stick out in my mind is the one where Barney, who can’t sing, takes over the tenor position in the church choir. No one in the community has the heart to tell Barney he is off key--and they go to incredible lengths to cover him up and drown out his solos--but they let him remain part of the group in a collective exhibition of compassion and tolerance.
The show that really got me thinking was the one where Barney decides to run for sheriff because of Andy’s “malfeasance.”
A town meeting is called so the candidates can debate. Barney goes first listing his grievances which include Andy’s lax enforcement of parking and jaywalking laws and the fact that Andy has not stocked the police station with adequate riot gear--tear gas and automatic rifles--let alone the fact that Andy himself rarely carries even a gun.
In a very moving rebuttal, Andy points out that while all Barney’s accusations are true, it just defies common sense to enforce rules when there is no need. He offers as evidence the fact that he can’t remember the last time there was a traffic accident in Mayberry, or a riot. He doesn’t carry a gun, because there just isn’t the kind of crime that warrants it.
In the end, Barney gets up, accepts Andy’s explanations and announces “I’m voting for Andy!” The whole town cheers and applauds and there is a lot of back-patting and hugging.
So many points can be made from this show that I’m sure I’ll miss a few, but here goes: First of all, when the town gathers to hear the candidates debate, the whole town gathers. Not just the “Barney” supporters, not just the “Andy” supporters.
We, the viewers, of course know that Barney is a bumbling fool who would be an incompetent sheriff, at best. Mayberry knows this too--and yet they give him his time and listen to his complaints--they show him due respect.
Barney, in the end is allowed to, and does, come to the conclusion that Andy is the best choice for sheriff himself. He is, in turn, a big enough person to admit that he was wrong. I like to think that he feels secure enough to do this because of the supportive, respectful community he belongs to.
I think what the crowd really cheers, in the end, is that the community has been kept whole. They haven’t had to choose sides. If they had they would probably elect Andy--which would leave Barney feeling rejected, hurt and embarrassed, maybe even an “outcast.”
Or perhaps Barney would have garnered enough supporters to divide the town (he got enough to call the town meeting), pitting neighbor against neighbor. As it turned out, Barney was given an opportunity to save-face and they remained one big happy bunch of people. Community triumphs.
There is victory here, also, for common sense. Andy underscores the true purpose of law and its enforcement--to maintain civility and community, not point out everyone’s every infraction (I’ve only offered examples of Barney’s charges, but if my memory serves me accurately, he had a list of 72 “incidents” of Andy’s “malfeasance.”) With as many laws as are currently on the books, can anyone really be a totally “law-abiding” citizen?
Yes, but the time and place that was Mayberry was a simpler time and place--or was it? Maybe we make things more complicated than they are. Maybe we should take a step back and remember that mutual respect and common sense go a long way in maintaining civility and community.
And a good laugh now and then doesn’t hurt either!

Downsizing the Dollar.

2006-03-08T19:53:00.000-08:00

A friend recently purchased a 1976 Sears catalog at a rummage sale, thinking it would be a hoot to see how prices had changed in 30 years. Expecting things to seem ridiculously inexpensive compared to current rates, he was surprised, and perhaps a bit disappointed, to find prices almost exactly the same then as they are now.
And yet, the two of us agreed that the dollar does not go as far as it did in the 70s. What makes the difference?
The price is increasingly being paid in reduced quantity and quality, I fear. From the materials used to the way things are put together, corners are cut, and the consumer pays just a little more for just a little less.
Downsizing and reformulating is a popular trick. Many products charge the same for the “new and improved” carton that contains an ounce or two less (Andy Rooney has been tracking the shrinking pound of coffee on “60 Minutes” for years). Other companies begin using cheaper ingredients and components resulting in diminished quality.
Corporate America has switched its allegiance from the customer to the stockholder. It takes a lot of consumer awareness to keep up with the decisions made by ”the big guns.”
Reading labels is a good start--for ingredients, for volume, for just what company produces the product. I am astounded how many Nestlé products there are! (That’s not necessarily a bad thing--just a surprise.)
Remember good ol’ Ivory Snow--”99 44/100 % pure?” That was then. It has not only lost its purity, it is no longer soap. I am splitting hairs, I suppose, but a soap works differently than a detergent--and in some instances, soap is better. Thinking I’d just switch, I picked up the competing brand--turns out it’s made by the same company that owns Ivory.
That brings me to choice. If choice is freedom, then I fear we’re at risk of losing ours. How can we have freedom of choice when eight of the ten laundry detergents at the store are produced by the same company?
I had a similar experience shopping for scissors. Confronted by an array of scissors with brightly colored handles, I set to determining the differences between each pair. While the scissors were all of the same type (hair cutting scissors), there were two different name brands and a hand full of prices. When I got to reading the fine print, I discovered they were, each and every one, manufactured by the same company. The only difference was packaging--and price.
More recently I switched from using a brand of toilet paper. The maker replaced the regular sized six-pack with a six-pack of “giant sized” rolls. The price more than doubled--from $1.99 for the regular six to $4.59 for the giant sized rolls--but the new giant sized six-pack is about 70 square feet less than if you doubled the size of the original. (Yes, that took some math!)
ISo, it’s not enough to be a consumer, one has to be a good consumer. It is up to the responsible consumer to choose the best of what’s offered, and to research alternatives where products are unsatisfactory. Consumers must determine whether the products they’re buying offer good value for the cost. I could argue that a consumer in a market-driven world has the same sort of duty as a voter in a democratic world.
And perhaps that duty even extends to monitoring the company producing those products, being aware of their employment practices, their pollution records.
If we made sure we bought from companies who were good employers and good environmental stewards, the others, by theory, would cease to exist.
I think Americans have forgotten that as customers--the ones with the dollars businesses are clamoring for--they are the ones who have the power to demand quality product for their hard-earned money.

The Cost of Shopping at Wal-Mart

2006-03-08T13:06:00.000-08:00

I used to shop at a little grocery store named Schneck’s, after the family who’d opened and run it for 50 years. My English students once called it the “claustrophobia store” because it was so small. But it was a truly mighty store!
You could find most anything you wanted on their shelves, and they were usually willing to order what you couldn’t. They had the best meat, with a butcher who could tell you how to cook it. They bought their produce locally, fresh and in season. Everyone who worked there was friendly. They knew me by name, and if ever I was short of funds, they just put my groceries “on account.” They closed awhile back, and I miss them.
Several years back I ran into an old boyfriend in Schneck’s. He’s from a rather well-to-do family. He reacted to seeing me with a surprised, “How can you afford to shop at Schneck’s?”
And I answered: “I can’t afford to not shop at Schneck’s.” I went on to give him a lesson in “real” math.
For one thing, prices at Schneck’s weren’t that much higher than the other local grocery stores, especially on “fresh” items like meat and produce. Canned goods were sometimes higher, true, and they didn’t run incredible sales like the bigger stores, but the differences were often within a ten-cent range.
At first, I bought only “good deals” at Schneck's, going elsewhere for the “expensive” stuff--like toilet paper, kitty litter and Campbell’s soup. But somewhere along the way, I realized that it was costing me as much in gasoline to drive to the other stores as I was saving, and it took a lot more time. Little by little, I stopped shopping around and shopped more at Schneck’s.
By the time I ran into my old friend, I was shopping at Schneck’s almost exclusively.
“If I don’t shop at Schneck’s,” I told him, “they will go out of business, and I will be at the mercy of the "big guys." That is what I can’t afford (Sniff!).”
It wasn’t long after that that Martin’s (a bigger guy) came to town. They were tempting at first--a nice bright store--clean and shiny. They beat Schneck’s on prices, and had my favorite gourmet items too! Many of the workers at Schneck’s got jobs there.
I can’t remember who closed first, but the local D & W (another independently owned grocery that had just expanded to two locations) and Schneck’s both went out of business; Martin’s purchased the D & W in a nearby town. Yet another store is showing signs of stress. People whisper that it’s next.
In the meantime, prices have gone up at Martin’s, and the gourmet goodies have disappeared.
Now I’m not naming names to point fingers and tick people off. These stores are just doing business the way business is done. I’m not decrying capitalism either. But I am saying that where you shop has an effect.
Recently Wal-Mart has been in the news because of these same issues. Many communities are voting against new Wal-Mart stores because they tend to suck customers away from the small mom-and-pop businesses. They also practice questionable labor practices, using more part-timers to avoid paying the benefits they would need to pay full-time employees.
The author of one New York Times story suggests that we, as customers, are burning the candle at both ends--our quest for savings creates an impoverished class that will need to rely on government benefits to survive (and "we" fund the government).
When I shopped at Schneck’s, I knew my money stayed in the community. The extra dime I spent on a can of soup bought me friendly service, and let the Schneck family retire comfortably.
The Walton family, who owns Wal-Mart, does not live in my community, nor even near it. They do not know my name. Family members rank quite high on Fortune magazine’s list of the richest people, with worths well into the billions of dollars. Society considers the Wal-Mart story the fulfillment of “the American dream.” Real math says not.
Thomas Jefferson’s vision for America was not of conglomerate Wal-Marts, where a few get rich on the backs of many. Jefferson’s ideal was of a lot of Schneck’s-like stores, where a community supports, and is supported by people who know each other, care about each other and take pride in providing the goods and services they do.
When I make billionaires of a few, at the expense of my neighbors, I’m shooting myself in the foot--that’s real math.