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.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Saturday, January 05, 2008
The Winter Solstice: Heading for Spring!
Yea! The days are getting longer! We’ve passed the winter solstice. December 22 marked the point in Earth’s annual trip around the sun where its tilt changes--and the days begin to get longer again!
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.
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.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
A River Runs.
Last week I watched a story on the news about how the Yangtze River in China is the life’s blood of the country, and has been for as long as it has existed. The piece showed how industry and other development is impacting the river, and the people who live along its edge.
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 . . . .
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 . . . .
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Nuts for the Winter
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!
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!
Thursday, September 20, 2007
The Rest of the Story.
In my previous post, I wrote about the experience of hunting the elusive Pink Lady's Slipper. It was an unpleasant and fruitless search. I ended my prose with Robert Burns famous "best laid plans" quotation and put the matter to rest.
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.”
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.”
Monday, June 11, 2007
Of Lady’s Slippers and Life.
I took some time last week to try to fulfill a longtime wish--to observe the native orchid Cypripedium acaule, or Pink Lady’s Slipper, in its natural environment. I had it on good authority they could be found in Ross Preserve, just north of the county line, in Covert Township. I convinced a friend, another natureholic, to go with me, and on o fine clear sunny day, we set out. We had our hiking sticks, water, hats, sunglasses--and of course, our cameras.
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.
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.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Know Thy Food
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.
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.
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