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