HOGMANAY 2007

What does Hogmanay actually mean and what is the derivation of the name? Why do the Scots more than any other nation celebrate the New Year with such a passion? Why should a tall dark stranger be a welcome first foot visitor after midnight, carrying a lump of coal and a slice of black bun?

The Origins of Hogmanay

A guid New Year to ane an` a` and mony may ye see!

While New Year's Eve is celebrated around the world, the Scots have a long rich heritage associated with this event - and have their own name for it, Hogmanay.

There are many theories about the derivation of the word "Hogmanay". Hogmanay could be traced back to the Anglo-Saxon, Haleg monath, Holy Month, or the Gaelic, oge maidne, new morning. The Church did not approve of Hogmanay traditions.

"It is ordinary among some Plebians in the South of Scotland, to go about from door to door upon New Year`s Eve, crying Hagmane."
Scotch Presbyterian Eloquence, 1693.

Historians believe that we inherited the celebration from the Vikings who, coming from even further north than ourselves, paid even more attention to the passing of the shortest day. It may not be widely known but Christmas was not celebrated as a festival and virtually banned in Scotland for around 400 years, from the end of the 17th century to the 1950s. The reason for this has its roots in the Protestant Reformation when the Kirk portrayed Christmas as a Popish or Catholic feast and therefore had to be banned. Many Scots had to work over Christmas and their winter solstice holiday was therefore at New Year when family and friends gathered for a party and exchange presents, especially for the children, which came to be called hogmanay.

There are traditions before midnight such as cleaning the house on 31st December (including taking out the ashes from the fire in the days when coal fires were common). There is also the superstition to clear all your debts before "the bells" at midnight.

Immediately after midnight it is traditional to sing Robert Burns' "For Auld Lang Syne". Burns claimed it was based on an earlier fragment and certainly the tune was in print over 80 years before he published his version in 1788.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot and auld lang syne
For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup o kindness yet, for auld lang syne."

"First footing" (that is, the "first foot" in the house after midnight) is still common in Scotland. To ensure good luck for the house, the first foot should be male, dark (believed to be a throwback to the Viking days when blond or red headed strangers arriving on your doorstep meant trouble) and should bring symbolic coal, shortbread, salt, black bun and whisky. These days, however, whisky and perhaps shortbread are the only items still prevalent (and available).

Some of these customs do continue, especially in the small, older communities in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland where tradition, along with language and dialect are kept alive and well. On the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides, the young boys form themselves into opposing bands, the leader of each wears a sheep skin, while a member carries a sack. The bands move through the village from house to house reciting a Gaelic rhyme. On being invited inside, the leader walks clockwise around the fire, while everyone hits the skin with sticks. The boys would be given some bannocks - fruit buns - for their sack before moving on to the next house.

One of the most spectacular Fire ceremonies takes place in Stonehaven, just south of Aberdeen on the North East coast. Giant fireballs, weighing up to 20 pounds are lit and swung around on five feet long metal poles, requiring 60 men to carry them as they march up and down the High Street. The origin of the pre-Christian custom is believed to be linked to the Winter Solstice of late December with the fireballs signifying the power of the sun, to purify the world by consuming evil spirits.

And it is worth remembering that January 2nd is a holiday in Scotland as well as the first day of the year - to give us all time to recover from a week of merry-making and celebration, all part of Scotland's fascinating cultural legacy of ancient customs and traditions surrounding the pagan festival of Hogmanay.

Why is there a monkey in my sink?

I haven't posted for a while because the vicissitudes of 2007 finally caught up with me. I spent Christmas (HO HO HO) in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer. And I do mean 'bleeding', the details of which I will leave off here. When I presented myself at the emergency room, I figured I'd be there a couple of hours. Until they hung five IV's, plasma, blood pressure cuff, heart monitor, the whole works. For a hospital/doctor phobic like me, it was quite an experience.

Needless to say, they admitted me, so I spent December 23, 24 and 25 in the good hands of the doctors and nurses. Diet, stress and lifestyle changes are now in order.

The EVENT of the stay however, was the endocscope. I absolutely didn't want to have an endoscope. Being a world class 'gagger' I could not imagine a tube down my throat into my stomach. I was assured and reassured that I would be in twilight sleep and remember nothing.

Maybe that works for some people, but not for me! I went to twilight sleep all right, but woke right up when it felt like a garden hose was being put down my throat. This is not the doctor's fault entirely - I had a drug interaction/allergic reaction and began hallucinating. I was dimly aware of three nurses holding me down as I mumbled something about a banana being forced down my throat. After three attempts at "the insertion of the tube" down my throat the ever hopeful doctor said "just one more try" whereupon my head spun round like Linda Blair's in "The Exorcist" and in my best Mercedes McCambridge voice roared "We are NOT trying one more time!"

He acquiesced. Poor guy. I apologized later - for what, I'm not exactly sure.

Anyway, I hallucinated for the next 45 minutes or so. I couldn't speak clearly and was afraid I'd had a stroke (I didn't, it passed). There was a lady's face in the clock on the wall, and the walls kept morphing between the hospital and my office. Very weird. The best part, however, was the monkey sitting in the sink.

The next day they brought in an anesthesiologist and accomplished the thing as it should have been - to quote Sgt. Schulz "I knew nussing, nussing".

I'm better now.

I worry about the doctor though! And where the heck is that monkey?

BECAUSE IT'S OBLIGATORY

Dog in Santa hat.

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CABIN FEVER

I have been pretty much 'home' and 'working from home' since Lili's last cancer surgery. Thankfully, that looks to be pretty much over. Other than her obsessive licking and a little small hole in her leg, she's doing well.

But strange things happen when you are housebound for too long, with only a dog for company. Things that you would not normally do, or find amusing, suddenly become hysterically funny.

I was playing with Lili with a dishtowel, and suddenly I thought "who does that look like?" So I took a picture. She was not amused.

I suspect that King Abdullah will also not be amused. But at least Lili didn't use "just for men" on her mustache and beard - she is proudly grey.

You'd better hope I get out of the house soon, or who knows what is going to show up on this blog!

90 LASHES FOR ME

This is my new teddy bear. I've named him Jesus. (Pronounced 'hay-soos').

Anyone ready to move to Sudan?

WELL, WHAT WILL IT BE?

Will it be this?

I've always believed that meteorologists belong in Dante's Eighth Circle of Hell, the one reserved for fraudulent magicians. They just love to pander panic in the populous (that was alliteration). So first it is supposed to be snow in this part of the country, the one inch that will send us flatlanders into white knuckled fear, followed by a MONSTER of a windstorm.

We'll see. If I get all jacked up for these things they never seem to happen. If I ignore them, they do.

(I did go grocery shopping though!)

THANKSGIVING

I'm thankful for many things today. That my parents are still on this earth, that my family is relatively healthy overall, that my friends stay close and that Lili's cancer saga may be about over (knock wood).

So, not having a dogsitter of any kind, and still not able to leave the pooch alone, it was just Lili and I for Thanksgiving dinner. It actually worked out well, since my Mom wasn't feeling so good, so I made them dinner and packaged it up for Dad to retrieve. They liked most of it, and given the amount of days I spend actually cooking in a year, I'll take that as a plus.

Lili was a more difficult matter. She wanted pheasant! Pheasant, I said? But she was insistent. So we set her little table with two pheasants, a little Clos du Bois for a dry white on the side, and a candle. She was pretty damn happy, although what you can't see in the photo is the drool on the table since I was holding a treat in my mouth to make her stay still!

PS - the pheasants aren't real.

A well loved poem in honor of my friend's mother, who we buried today

Sabbatical

Someday I want to take my leave
without a ripple, after the sun turns

sour. Perhaps a night when winds
are calm and the moon turns rain.

You'll be sleeping of course, but I won't
disturb your rest, just ease through the door,

start walking West. Someone I've known
may feel an emptinesss, go to the window

and not know why. Remember that morning
robins stopped singing? Nobody noticed

till after snow. That's how I want to go.
Look for me in the shade of a willow.

Listen hard. Whatever grass says,
it speaks for me.

RELIEF

Some good news in a week of "not so much"

MAY THE ANGELS BEAR HER SAFELY OVER

I have known my oldest friend since we were six years old. We lived around the corner from each other, in a quieter time of the world.

Her mother passed over tonight. She was a stubborn fighter, a little slip of a woman, but this last struggle was just too much. She was too tired, and was ready to go.

May the Saints and Angels bear her safely over. I know they have.

HEEEEEEEERE'S 'STUBBY'

Well, here we go again...

Lili is home after challenging surgery. My partner Robert was our chauffer once again and now he has seen up close and personal how challenging Lili can be in the car. Even though she was sedated, she climbed right up and over the sedation once she saw me. (No one really believes me when I tell them this about Lili – even the vet techs). CHARGE! Lili the rhino, complete with a leg bandage clear from her toes to her elbow looking like a big yellow peg leg – GOING HOME GOING HOME GOING HOME! They didn’t want her to jump – neither did I – but HA! I warned the vet tech that as soon as I opened the hatchback she was going to leap – and she did and scrambled in on her own before either of us could get our respective arms around her to help.

So now the healing begins. And the future depends upon the pathology. Again.

For now, Stubby is sleeping. May she heal fast and well.

Nerve Sheath Sarcoma - Vets, Scalpels and Lili

Well, I wish I could say it is good news. Poor little Lili has a new primary Nerve Sheath tumor on the same poor leg that already went through the indignities of radiation. I've had too many phone calls and appointments with too many (albeit helpful and understanding) vets. And now off to yet another one, a specialist. We can only hope and pray (and pay) for the best. And hope we don't have to go through another series of radiation. That was hard on both of us. And that Lili doesn't have to ultimately have an amputation. If you knew her, you'd know the idea is pretty terrible. My dancing dog.

This has been quite a year, it seems like it has been one thing after another. I can rationalize it against more terrible things that have happened to others, but pain is relative to the soul. So I guess I'll just say a prayer, pour some whiskey into the earth this Samhain eve, as a tribute to the old ways, and put my game face on. The game face is tired.

WORRIED...

This is Lili, my heart. She took over when Max died. She's been through quite a bit in her short, 9 year old life. When I got her, her rear leg was crushed from an accident with her prior owner. She was only 12 weeks old, and they were going to euthanize her. With that face? So we fixed it, with the help of very good orthopedic veterinary surgeon. $ Then the obligatory spay. $ Then she blew out her ACL just like a professional athlete, and we did 'plateau levelling' surgery to fix that. $$ Then, last year, she got nerve sheath cancer on her front leg. $ That tumor was removed, and then came back six months later.$$ Tumor II was removed, and then we started radiation. $$$$ That was an unbelievably hard process, and if I didn't have the support of my family and my friends and the people at work, I think I might have crumbled. She had just about every complication you could think of, and from start to finish, it was a grueling eight months. But she healed.

Lili has the happiest dog personality I've ever met. Despite her furrowed brow in the photo (she mugs for the camera)she dances every day.

And now she has another lump on her leg, just below the radiation site. Regular vet today, oncology vet on Tuesday.

Worried.

St. Francis pray for us.

SPINSTER CEMETERY, FLORENCE ITALY

Unmarried women. Generally, we're pretty happy. Especially as we hit 50 and most of our friends are getting divorced, with children in the mix (unhappily).

I just love the term "spinster". I actually had a family member use it to my face to "describe me" a couple of years ago. I was pretty astounded. What a throwback! I've had a number of men in my life, many wonderful and many more 'not so much'. So despite the fact that at least half my family is happily married, I've concluded that the natural order of things is for members of the opposite sex to live across the street from one another. Close enough to be companions as needed, and far away enough to get away from each other as needed. A close male friend dubbed it "Nancy's Love Commune" and offered to sell time shares.

So, a friend and I were traveling in Florence, Italy, and I wanted to see the "English Cemetery" which is right in the middle of the City in an urban island (It is actually owned by the Swiss). Elizabeth Barrett Browning is buried there. While wandering around, we found a great tombstone, "Sacred To the Memory of Ann Murray, SPINSTER obeit (died) May 6, 1843, Florence.

Well, we couldn't resist putting on our worst tragic faces and having our pictures taken.

Ann Murray, we honor you.

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE

I've known this poem since I was 8 years old. I'm surprised I don't twitch more than I do!

Little Orphant Annie

LITTLE Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other children, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

Wunst they wuza little boy woudn't say his prayers, --
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout: --
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputter, an' the wind goes woo--oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away, --
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' cherish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

James Whitcomb Riley(1849 - 1916)

The Next Gladys Kravitz

I live in a nice neighborhood. I really do. I keep telling myself that. But there is one trouble house - you know the kind! Six cars parked on the front lawn, an RV with an extension cord strung into the house, an ever changing cast of characters. It is interesting to work from home, with a bird's eye view of the comings and goings.

I've been working with the police to track some plate numbers that come and go. Surprisingly, the police and detectives have been very responsive (it probably helps that they already know about this place and its' occupants and it's on their radar).

However, as I'm crouched behind the blinds with my binoculars, with my dog looking at me very oddly, I do feel like Gladys Kravitz. Abner!!!!

SAMHAIN, HALLOWEEN, WHEN THE VEIL BETWEEN THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT IS THE THINNEST

Samhain marks one of the two great doorways of the Celtic year, for the Celts divided the year into two seasons: the light and the dark, at Beltane on May 1st and Samhain on November 1st. Some believe that Samhain was the more important festival, marking the beginning of a whole new cycle, just as the Celtic day began at night. For it was understood that in dark silence comes whisperings of new beginnings, the stirring of the seed below the ground. The most magically potent time of this festival is November Eve, the night of October 31st, known today of course, as Halloween.

Samhain (Scots Gaelic: Samhuinn) literally means “summer's end.” With the rise of Christianity, Samhain was changed to Hallowmas, or All Saints' Day, to commemorate the souls of the blessed dead who had been canonized that year, so the night before became popularly known as Halloween, All Hallows Eve, or Hollantide. November 2nd became All Souls Day, when prayers were to be offered to the souls of all who the departed and those who were waiting in Purgatory for entry into Heaven. Throughout the centuries, pagan and Christian beliefs intertwine in a gallimaufry of celebrations from Oct 31st through November 5th, all of which appear both to challenge the ascendancy of the dark and to revel in its mystery.

In the country year, Samhain marked the first day of winter, when the herders led the cattle and sheep down from their summer hillside pastures to the shelter of the stable. Those destined for the table were slaughtered, after being ritually devoted to the gods in pagan times. All the harvest must be gathered in, for come November, the faeries would blast every growing plant with their breath, blighting any nuts and berries remaining on the hedgerows. Peat and wood for winter fires were stacked high by the hearth. The endless horizons of summer gave way to a warm, dim and often smoky room; the symphony of summer sounds was replaced by a counterpoint of voices, young and old, human and animal.

In early Ireland, people gathered at the ritual centers of the tribes, for Samhain was the principal calendar feast of the year. The greatest assembly was the 'Feast of Tara,' focusing on the royal seat of the High King as the heart of the sacred land. In every household throughout the country, hearth-fires were extinguished. All waited for the Druids to light the new fire of the year -- not at Tara, but at Tlachtga, a hill twelve miles to the north-west. It marked the burial-place of Tlachtga, daughter of the great druid Mogh Ruith, who may once have been a goddess in her own right in a former age.

At all the turning points of the Celtic year, the gods drew near to Earth at Samhain, so many sacrifices and gifts were offered up in thanksgiving for the harvest. Personal prayers in the form of objects symbolizing the wishes of supplicants or ailments to be healed were cast into the fire, and at the end of the ceremonies, brands were lit from the great fire of Tara to re-kindle all the home fires of the tribe.

Even today, bonfires light up the skies in many parts of the British Isles and Ireland at this season. Whatever the reason, there will probably always be a human need to make fires against the winter’s dark.

Dreaming Stones
Go to a boundary stream and with closed eyes, take from the water three stones between middle finger and thumb, saying these words as each is gathered:

I will lift the stone
As Mary lifted it for her Son,
For substance, virtue, and strength;
May this stone be in my hand
Till I reach my journey’s end.

(Scots Gaelic)
Togaidh mise chlach,
Mar a thog Moire da Mac,
Air bhrìgh, air bhuaidh, ‘s air neart;
Gun robh a chlachsa am dhòrn,
Gus an ruig mi mo cheann uidhe.

Carry them home carefully and place them under your pillow. That night, ask for a dream that will give you guidance or a solution to a problem, and the stones will bring it for you.

© Mara Freeman, 1999

Jenny White Ray of Light

Well, it's October again. Lots of October birthdays in my family. My two brothers were both born in October, on the 3rd and the 5th of that month. I counted backwards and have concluded that they were both "New Years Eve" babies. I haven't asked my Mom about that.

And in October my sweet Jenny was born, October 21st, 1980. She would have been TWENTY SEVEN YEARS OLD this year. Amazing. Hard to talk about it even now. She died of cystic fibrosis just before she was 13 years old. Her mother died nine months later of cancer. And my brother - so strong - found a new path through life, as a side trail from the one he had been on. What else do you do? He is an inspiration about living through trials that would end the lives of some people. He set his face into life as a tribute to those he had lost.

I prefer to think about the wonderful times we had: Jenny, my 'white ray of light' her sly smile and sense of humor which she inherited from both her parents. Our hammock time at my Mom and Dad's. And her search for the perfect Christmas tree at her Grandpa and Grandma's on a very rare white Christmas season.

These anniversaries are difficult even so many years between. But Jenny was a pistol - never a victim or an invalid. So I have to believe she's over there on the other side bossing some folks around (her Mom right behind her!)

Jenny and Candy. I miss you.

"TALKING TO DEER" (or "How I Survived Lost in the Wilderness in Sunriver, Oregon")

So, as you know from my prior posts, I spent a long weekend in Central Oregon at Sunriver resort. On Saturday, despite the fact that it was VERY COLD (had snowed on the foothills the night before) I hauled my sedentary - ahem - self out for what I had anticipated to be a half hour walk.

Now, you may think it is impossible to 'get lost' at a resort. I assure you, in Sunriver it is quite possible. Not hopelessly lost but, "wander around longer than you had planned lost".

I set out without any real plan, just picked a path in the late afternoon sun. Soon, I happened upon a herd of deer. Not tame, but not afraid either. A big doe, obviously the leader, another doe, a yearling and three little fawn, just past 'spots'. Two of the fawn had little boy deer horn buds. Well, I'm captivated. Naturally, I walk along with them, talking all the while. Talking to the deer, as they do their evening foraging. Talking, talking, and not paying attention to where I'm going. I keep this up until the 'head honcho doe' starts chuffing at me. "For goddsakes quit babbling and leave us alone we can't understand a thing you're saying...". So I walk on.

Pretty soon I realize that I have no idea where I am. No problem - this is Sunriver, all paths lead somewhere! So I wander on, hit a road and ask at a business for an alternate route back to the lodge rather than backtrack. They give me one, which I promptly foul up, walk a half mile on a loop and end up back in the same place. Then I DO decide to backtrack. But nothing looks familiar. The sun is starting to get low in the sky, its getting cold again, and all the houses are shuttered for the winter. I am thinking about the possibility of breaking into one of the summer homes and living on crackers and water until spring. I am calculating where the sun is - over my left shoulder, that would be Southwest at this time of year so I must be heading Northeast roughly. OH MY GOD WHERE AM I??

This is especially amusing because 1) I have blithely followed my dad into rough Trask drainage backcountry - true wilderness - when we used to hunt with never a thought about whether we could get back - all we had to do was find a 'cat road' (there is always one somewhere, even if it doesn't even resemble a road) and 2) I had a cel phone with me. But these fantasies do persist.

Finally, I run into my friend 'head honcho doe' and company and I know I'm on the right path. I stop to chat. The two little horn bud guys bed down six feet from me, and I figure its time to do the same. Two hours after my adventure in the wilderness begins, I'm sitting in front of a fire, reading a book and pondering my brush with death. And wondering - just how do you talk to deer?

THE CIRCLE GAME - LUCIANA IS NOW ALMOST 12 YEARS OLD

YESTERDAY A CHILD WENT OUT TO WANDER ...

Where are you going, my little one, little one? Where are you going, my baby, my own? Turn around and you're three, turn around and you're four, turn around and you're a young girl, going out of the door.

Turn around, turn around, turn around and you're a young girl, going out of the door.

Where does the time go?

REDMOND OREGON - HOTBED OF TERRORISM

I just got back from flying back and forth from the (for now) little 'burb' of Redmond, Oregon from/to Portland for a legal conference. As part of that I got to see my dear friends and their children, my godchildren.

Redmond, population 13,815, has very 'scrupulous' TSA employees. I have been through O'Hare, JFK, PDX, Dulles, - hell, even Heathrow just after the first Trade Center bombings - and never experienced such diligent and unbending attention to the slightest detail of each rule of law as I did in REDMOND OREGON POPULATION 13,815. Is this a good thing? We report, you decide.

Breezing through PDX to Redmond, I had the same 'purse contents' on the way back. Security at Redmond was very backed up - one security screener - and as I mentioned above, oh so diligent. Finally, ten minutes before my flight was scheduled to leave, there I finally was, confronting the purple latex gloved maven of all that is necessary to ensure the safety of our skies. She has my 'pale beige foundation', mascara, under-eye concealer (oh how I wish THAT wasn't necessary) and my Afrin sinus spray in her purple hands. She graciously tells me I can keep the Afrin since it's medically related. But, goshdarnit, I didn't have the other stuff in a clear zip lock bag.

I point out that nothing is over the 3 oz. limit for carry on liquids or gels. But, goshdarnit, ITS NOT IN A ZIPLOCK BAG! She tells me that I can step back into the terminal, buy a ziplock bag for twenty five cents and come back through, and THEN I can take my items on board. I look back at the half block long line (to which this mindless consistency is contributing) and tell her - "if I do that, I'll miss my flight". She shrugs and say, "well, then, we have to throw it away. Sorry."

At this point, I am tempted to ask her what fundamental chemical change will occur between the items she is currently holding in her purple latex hands and the same items which will later reappear inside a film of plastic with a ziploc on top. Then I ask myself if I want to get on the plane, or spend an hour in a TSA office being interrogated because I had the temerity to speak some logic to a federal TSA employee.

I tell her to throw it away and I board, sans cosmetic help, knowing that the people at the office will suffer for it tomorrow.

I am COMPLETELY in favor of airline security, being a nervous flier in the best of situations, but good grief! Redmond, get over it, and spend your TSA dollars on what really matters!

IRAN'S HITLER?

So, the "President" of Iran, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, appeared at Columbia University today, to protests, general contempt (well deserved) and questions he would not answer.

Was it a free speech issue? Should he have been shunned?

I don't think he should have been given a platform to espouse his nutjob idealogy. I'm no scholar of Iranian politics, but intuitively, you just have to LOOK at this guy - he's no diplomat, and he was 'elected' by an ultra conservative Islamic fringe. Iran was moving again toward a western style civilization, and then along came "Mahmoud", partly in response to the US presence in the Middle East and our support of Israel. Already, however, the moderates in Iran are moving away from him, seeing that the fringe positions he has taken don't fit in the modern world, as Iran wants itself to be seen as a 'modern' culture'. If the saber rattling could stop, I think the Iranians would take care of Mr. Ahmadinejad (usually I just say Ahmamamamamabla because I can never pronounce his name). This is not so different from the ole Ayatollah coming to power in the 1970's as a backlash to the western supported Shah. Except now, so much worse, with all the conflict in Iraq. That is not to say that the United States is to 'blame' for the shift to the Islamic right in Iran and elsewhere, but for every action there is a reaction, and, sorry, this is it.

But how reassuring that there are no homosexuals in Iran. None. None whatsoever.

Our gaelic ancestry

The Autumnal Equinox, on September 22nd this year, is called Alban Elfed or Light of the Water in the Druid tradition. It represents the second of the harvest festivals - this time marking the end of harvest-time, just as Lughnasadh marked its beginning. Again day and night are equally balanced as they were at the time of the Spring Equinox, but soon the nights will grow longer than the days and Winter will be with us. In the ceremony we give thanks for the fruits of the earth and for the goodness of the Mother Goddess.

What is called the "old religon" is very intriguing to me on a visceral level. I think the old ones had a better idea of the balance between nature and the divine than we do now. So, I do go out and say a prayer to the moon on these festival days.

Reality Check...

I stopped by St. Vincent's hospital on my way home from work today. A friend of many years has been there at her husband's bedside for two weeks. These are not elderly people - both in their 50's (you know, the new '30!'). Anyway, her husband was stricken with an aortic aneurysm two weeks ago, out of the blue. He actually had two aortic ruptures, and so the fact that he is still with us on this side of forever is quite miraculous. Just as he was ready to go home this week, he had to have another open heart surgery. Two in two weeks. Wow! The doctors still say his prognosis is good, since he has survived the worst of it - most people do not survive the first event. He's in good hands with the cardiac team at St. V's.

My friend is Odette, and she is an interesting person in her own right - a tiny frenchwoman by birth, was raised by nuns in an orphanage in Brittany, France and is a dynamo of faith. I am amazed at her strength. As we had a salad bar in the hospital cafeteria this evening while her husband had (once again) the hands of angels on his heart, she was so amazingly calm, was dressed nicely, pearls on her throat. I told her I would have been in a burlap sack and barefoot. She said that her husband was encouraged by seeing her nicely dressed. She also said that God and his angels were holding her up.

But she also added, in her sweet heavy french accent, "When zees is all ovehr, I am going to go on a bendehr" [when this is all over, I'm going to go on a bender].

I told her to call me. I'll go there with her.

If thoughts are prayers, send some her way.

Other Men in My Family

Donald Foelker and William Foelker, the oldest commissioned officers who served as brothers with the U.S. Marines in the South Pacific during World War II.

Oh, I love them. The "Uncs". They are great men in the best sense of the word, just as men, but also proud of their service. And my other Uncle, Walter Foelker, now departed from us. A poet, a writer, a painter. His correspondence, so beautiful, has been included in an OPB documentary of WWII . He wrote so profoundly, so sensitively. He saw so much -particularly after the liberation of a concentration camp in Germany. Perhaps I will post about that later. He is missed.

If not me, who? If not now, when?

I’m posting this photo of my mother's father, whom I never really knew. My only memory of him is that he would hide a fifty cent piece in one hand and a nickel in the other, and ask me which one I wanted. I always said the ‘big nickel’. Guess I had a career ahead as a lawyer.

He died when I was about 4 years old, badly, of cancer, back in the day when even the pain of that couldn’t be well controlled. I think about my Mom, the only daughter, who had to be about 37 at the time, trying to juggle a young family of four kids and one on the way, Thad, with whom she was 8 months pregnant. I can’t imagine.

I don’t fully understand the philosophy of ‘stoicism’ but in its common usage, I’ve always thought it applied to my family – that is, not so much to me, but the generations above me. Marcus Aurelius, author of Meditations (b: 121 AD, d: 180 AD) said:

Because your own strength is unequal to the task, do not assume that it is beyond the powers of man; but if anything is within the powers and province of man, believe that it is within your own compass also.

They believed that implicitly, even without reading Marcus Aurelius. My Mom, the mother living through the illness and death of her parents and a few babies, my Dad, the father, living through his mother’s death at a young age, and then, oh, yes, the Battle of the Bulge and all that fun stuff which it has taken him years to be able to talk about. And both their parents and grandparents – leaving tiny peasant towns in Italy, and Germany and Norway and Scotland for something else, something better, always believing that their strength just HAD to be equal to the task. There wasn’t another option. And generally their strength always was.

I don’t think we are as strong now as individuals, as a people. I’d like to think so, but I don’t.

Settling Everyone Down with "Puppy Pictures"

Well, obviously from the most number of posts I have EVER had on this blog as a result of our esteemed President and my criticism of him, I must NOW post something that no one can object to.

Cute puppy pictures.

What has this nation come to?

No Wonder My Dad Fell in love with her!

She was just Mom to me and my sibs. The bandager of knees, the listener of woes, the maker of lunches (not to mention breakfasts and dinners). But before us, she was a performer, a wonderful singer, studied at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music, sang on the radio in the 40's, was a local beauty queen, one of the first 'Bond' girls (i.e. "any bonds today" - war bonds that is, not the James variety shaken not stirred.) She gave us the gift of music; singing to us at night - one song per bed per kid. I know all those old songs as a result. Pretty much every one of my sisters and brothers plays an instrument or is a singer. Dad can hum a tune, but my Mom has the gift.


Her theme song from her radio show was "The Song is You". Still true...


I hear music when I look at you
A beautiful theme from every dream I ever knew
Down deep in my heart
I hear it play
I feel it start
then melt away.

... The music is sweet.
The words are true.
The Song is You.

The Worst President Ever

I have tried to stay away from political posts because I find my poor family divided about this ridiculous, incurious, un-intellectual and poorly educated president who has failed at every business venture he has ever undertaken. And now has failed so profoundly at being the president of this country.

You can blame many other men and women for what he has done to this United States, but at the end of the day it comes down to his entitlement mentality and fundamental stupidity. And this is the guy who is the leader of the 'free' world. Or what used to be. "Free" that is.

These are indeed the times that "try men's souls". And if you don't know what that quote is from, don't bother to post a response. Thomas Paine is spinning in his grave.

A few points of interest:

We are not financing the 'war' in Iraq. China is.
China could swamp our economy by calling their loans.
Trickle down economics were proved to be crap during the Reagan administration, but here we are, trying it again. Good idea!!
Refer to the China issue above regarding deficit spending.
The free market is not the solution to every problem.

I have never, ever participated in a 'protest' i.e. showing up with a sign. But, HELLO! The United States is NOT a dictatorship, and King George has just about run out his course. It is apparent that his entire objective is to keep US forces in Iraq AT LEAST until he is out of office. His "legacy" [how sad] is more important than actually getting our forces out of the **effing * mess that he has created.

Isn't it amazing that 40% of the public still believes that Saddam had something to do with the attacks on 9/11? Why? Because the Cheney/Bush team has had that No. 1 on their agenda for the last six years, and 40% of Americans would rather know what was happening with Britney Spears than with what is happening with their own government.

This 50 year old may end up at a rally with a sign. I frankly don't see any other alternative. Good grief! If the people don't stand up against this dictator - and I don't say that lightly - then - who will? I can tell you this... It won't be the 3700 dead soldiers. Or the thousands of dead Iraqi civilians.

RAIN!

I must be an Oregonian. I love it. The sound. The smell. The rain.

Jesus Weeps Into the Fire

Slowly, slowly, slowly
Christ comes through the garden,
speaking to the sacred trees -
the trees.
Their branches bear his Light without harm.

Slowly, slowly, slowly
Christ rises on the cornfields.
“It's only the harvest moon,
the moon”.

The disciple turns over in his sleep and murmurs
“my regret”.

The disciple will awaken
when he knows history.

But slowly, slowly, slowly
the Lord of history
weeps into the fire.

This is how I grew up. Does it exist anymore?

So, as my earlier post referenced, it was garage sale weekend. Which of course brings out the children in the neighborhood to see what wonderful things they might be able to afford with their dimes and nickels.

This picture is how I grew up. Unlike some family pictures from the 50's and early 60's, ours didn't hide some secret dysfunction that would later lead me to make millions on a memoir. We really did have a small town home life, Mom and Dad present and involved, we played in the street with our sibs and friends back in the day when there was almost no traffic and you could play dodge-ball for an hour without having to get out of the street, we played kick the can, we rode our bikes and sold lemonade and walked the alley at night to get fast food without having to worry about pedophiles, we all sat down to dinner together. And never worried that Mom and Dad wouldn't protect us if we needed it. A childhood with few worries. Whatever good things that I've accomplished are a direct result of the way I was raised up.

Which brings me to the little girl across the street. A pretty little third grader who rings my doorbell about once a day and sometimes more. Mostly because her single mother harbors felons, there are strange men in and out of the house across the street daily, police contact is regular and I suspect (and police have confirmed) drug use (but not dealing - how reassuring) in the home. She rides her little bike aimlessly around the neighborhood. So during my Sale of the Century, she came over and hung out in my driveway. She sat on the warm sidewalk and played with some little wicker doll furniture from the sale, making up a little story in a murmured voice about an imaginary duck that lived in the house.

Someone has given her manners, so I guess I give her mother that. She is polite and sweet. I so worry about her in that household, with various young men in and out, and her being so precocious and cute. And so desperately in need of love and attention.

That little crack you hear? My heart breaking.

Garage Sale is OVER! and I'm temporarily rejecting autumn and embracing spring that I somehow missed!

Got done with the garage sale today. I'm not an early riser, so I called several people today at 7 a.m. and announced that I hated them and the world. Like it was anyone's fault but mine to have this bright idea. But, praise the lord its over! Did I make a lot of money? No. However, I did move some things along in the 'reduce/reuse/recycle' mode. And pretty much every member of my family showed up at one point or another so we got to say a hiya, and trade stuff to go into each others' garages! Until their next garage sale... Good grief. I think this - my half century garage sale - is going to be the last for me.

Garage sales are interesting. You meet some good, interesting and chatty people, but I'm finding that ebay and craigslist are eroding the 'garage sale' crowd. I still have a garage full of shtuff to take to a charity.

Given my unending interest in poetry and prose much better than anything I could ever write, and because I am resisting the end of summer and the beginning of fall, I am posting a Thomas Merton poem. Thomas Merton was an interesting man, a renegade, a monk, a priest and a poet. He wrote the following while in a cloistered monastery. It was also written into music by John Jacob Niles, a great composer. I've always loved it (so, naturally, it is on my refrigerator, is there anyplace else?) OK, I'm tired...

Now, in the middle of the limpid evening the moon speaks clearly to the hill. The wheatfields make their simple music, praise the quiet sky, and down the road, the way the stars come home. The cries of children play on the empty air, a mile or more, and fall on our deserted hearing, clear as water.

They say that the sky is made of glass, they say the smiling moon's a bride. They say they love the orchards and the apple trees, the trees, their innocent sisters dressed in blossoms, still wearing in the blurring dusk, white dresses from that morning's first communion. And where blue heaven's fading fire last shines, they name the new-come planets with words that flower on little voices light as stems of lillies. And where blue heaven's fading fire last shines, reflected in the poplar's ripple,

one little wakeful bird, sings like a shower.

Talkin' about Ireland

My prior post got me ta' thinking about my trip to Ireland, my first trip out of the U.S., courtesy of my brother Craig's many frequent flyer miles, and so I got to ride in style, first class all the way. Not bad for a first trip overseas. It was 1993. I look back now in wonder - I made no plans, except arriving in the country, a room in Dublin and plans to stay with a friend's mother in Cork. Other than that, it was 'play it by ear'. I went out from PDX in the biggest snowstorm we'd had in years, wondering who was going to pick up my dog Max and care for him (my brother Thad and my Dad in a four wheel drive in a foot of snowdrift). I made it, they made it and Max made it for another 12 years, so the finger of God was on our heads.

At this point in my life I would probably never do that vagabond thing again, but what fun it was then! After Dublin and Cork, I rode a bus out of Cork City to Kinsale, accompanied by little blue eyed, dark haired Irish children in Catholic school uniforms, who sang songs in honor of their friend's birthday halfway from Cork to Kinsale. In Kinsale, "Auld Pete" told me it was just a 'wee' little walk up to the fort, offered me his gloves to wear (which I took!), and miles and hours later, I was puffing my way back down to the tourist office where "Auld Pete" was gleefully wheezing away at yet another American he had put on the treadmill. The Fort was worth it, by the way.

Then on to Killarney, as so many tourists have gone before. I always travel off season, so much easier. And, as I frequently travel by myself, I'm pretty much aware of my surroundings (I've been robbed at gunpoint, but only here in the good old safe USA - but it does make you aware). As I was wandering around Killarney town, down an old cobbled street without much traffic, I became aware of footsteps behind me. When I stopped - they stopped. I walked on - they walked on. I stopped again, they stopped again. I was obviously looking for a person following me, but, no, no one was there. Finally, I got out my camera, walked on and then whipped around and took the picture of my follower! He didn't have a gun.

But he was mighty cute!

The Dog of Killarney. I've never forgotten him.

Yep, I'm Catholic. Thoughts on confession

I was raised a Catholic. It gave me many things, structure, belief, thoughtfulness. Believe it or not (maybe I'm a renegade Catholic) a questioning mind. There is man made dogma I don't believe (yes, yes, 'cafeteria catholic' I've heard it all). I don't believe the Pope is infallible. I think people who are called to be priests, with all the sacrifice that entails, should be ordained regardless of gender. Like any thinking person, the sex abuse scandals in the church have been hurtful, hurtful, and such a breach of trust. Those annointed hands being used for harm, and the corporate church 'powers that be' allowing and facilitating it.

So, I am still Catholic, not practicing very regularly. But I just can't seem to get into the groove of another established religion. I'm inculcated in the ritual and the sacraments, from the time I was little. Confession, that is something I think is pretty uniquely Catholic. I can remember as a child my sisters and I would make up 'sins' to tell the priest. Good grief. How many sins can a 7 year old have? "I disobeyed my parents 7 times". "I lied to my teacher 1 time". My sister Lori and I have concluded however, that it was the best laxative in the world, going to confession. Nothing sent one to the bathroom quicker than the prospect of pre-first Friday confessions.

I think this is a better expression of what 'confession' is really all about.



First Confession

When the landlord turns
off the heat and the only
tune that can be heard
is the clatter of your own
teeth, take heart, and enjoy
the music given
to you by the cold.
When the woman you love walks
out because you earn too little and dream too much,
smile, empty your pockets
and bid farewell. When the fat
lout next door junks his rusty
Buick in your favorite
field of wildflowers,
open your refrigerator
and offer him your last
beer. But when you find
yourself at rest in the tall
grass of a spring day,
watching the clouds
amble across
the sky like polar
bears traveling on the open sea,
confess to God, for the first
and last time, that you love
this life which is yours,
because it is unlike
anything else you have ever known.


Robert Edwards
Thousand Oaks, CA

BTW I took this photo in a church in Killarney, Ireland. I wandered in, and the entire church was empty, except for a casket in the center aisle. I assume it was occupied. I was intrigued by the statue and by the circumstance, and was happy with the photo I took. I had several unique experiences that first trip overseas to Ireland, and this is one of them. Thank you, Killarney.

Jennifer Eileen Smith

October 21, 1980 to September 3, 1993.

"... No, sure my lord, my mother cried. But then a star danced, and under that I was born"

William Shakespeare >

POLICE POLICE POLICE EXCITEMENT EXCITEMENT EXCITEMENT!

Excitement in the sleepy Hillsboro neighborhood on a Sunday afternoon. Suddenly the street was ALIVE with police cars, sirens, a tracking dog (Oh, Lili LOVED that!) The officers were going from house to house with dog, looking for 'someone'. I think the 'someone' was probably a hispanic male, since they skipped my all white (except for black dog) household. I was cleaning the garage in anticipation of The Sale of the Century, so looked my absolute best, dirty pants and t-shirt, no makeup - really attractive. I had combed my hair (barely). You never know when the gentlemen will come a'callin', even if they are the men in blue.

The officer I queried was guarded with his response, so we'll have to wait for tomorrow's paper or tonight's news to see what all the fuss was about.

Excitement!

Garage Sale Hell

...It seemed like a good idea at the time. I have accumulated so much 'shtuff' that I just need to get rid of some of it. I have collections of antique photos, antique books, household stuff (oh yes, I had to have the Panini press and used it - once) and so, eureka! I'll have a garage sale!

My family has a long garage sale tradition, both hosting and attending. But, why oh why didn't I just make some trips to goodwill? I've spent days moving stuff in to the garage, I have to park my car in the driveway, I paid $30 for the ad (which will probably be my profit on the sale) and now have to go out and price and organize the gajillion precious things that some other poor sap will take home. I hope they like the Panini Press!

MEN IN MY FAMILY

I have great men in my family. My father and my two brothers are great people - sensitive without being wimpy, strong in the best sense of the word, funny and practical jokers. Plus, they can all build or fix anything. I am a well educated person, but I can't fix things to save my life. Absolutely no skill in that regard, and I so admire those who can build things and understand engines and 'stuff like that'. They've tried to teach me, but that knowledge just leaks away from me. I can't retain it.

Here is a poem I have saved and admired, and somehow embodies how I feel about the men in my family.

MALE IMAGE

I watch for my uncles to come in from the fields,
The three of them, big-shouldered men in overalls,
Their bare necks are streaked with dirt and sweat
Which I want to lick when they pick me up.
They are so warm and strong; they smell of summer:
The dark odor of horses, the dry green smell
of tomato plants, the tan smell of loam.
They taste male and I can't get enough of that.

They also talk male. Everyone else calls me Teddy
or Little Benny, after my father, who doesn't pick me up;
They call me "You bondit" which is Yiddish for rascal,
Or Butch McDevitt, which makes me feel like a cowboy.
When my uncle Moish puts Brownie in the stable,
He says, "Get in there, you son of a bitch".
Son of a bitch. I say it over and over after that,
When I rake the chicken yard, shuck the corn.
It's not a bad word anymore. Son of a bitch:
It's what men say when they are strong and happy
Because they have something hard to do.

Ted Solotaroff

Poetry for Max

A friend wrote this poem about Max after he died. I was grateful. However, I am not nearly as erudite as she makes me out to be.

Imprinting

Cool evenings, the Black Dog heard her read.
He lay at her feet curved like a scythe
a satin shadow-carpet. For him, here
was the crown of the day: he and she absorbed
in her speaking - Milton, Jonson, Poe, Donne,
Ferlinghetti and Dickinson.
His brandy eyes sealed to her face.

For a time, the random paw pat on her foot
was simply restlessness. Then her sensitivity
woke to his unvoiced opinion. But this
was personification, to give a dog opinion.
She smiled at the folly.
In a murmur one night, she said,
"What shall we have?" and from the floor
a rasp-bass replied "Donne"

Elizabeth Pharris

In Memory of Max

Willows never forget how it feels to be young.
Do you remember where you came from?
Gravel remembers.
Even the upper end of the river believes in the ocean.
Exactly at midnight, yesterday sighs away.
What I believe is, all animals have one soul.
Over the people they love, they crisscross forever.
William Stafford

Meet "Lili"

This is Lili. She is the ruler of the house and all things 'Lili' - in other words, all things. Lili is 9 years old and just came successfully through radiation treatment for cancer on her leg. Consequently, she now has a weird, naked, spotty leg, which has given rise to an entirely new rash of nicknames. She is a self actualized labrador however, and her self esteem is unaffected.

Lili misses her old friend Max who crossed the rainbow bridge in April 2005 - well, actually she misses eating his poop (but that's another story)