a little red hen

Beautiful Yetta, a Jewish Chicken to love...

The city where we live, Portland, a northwest bubble, in the larger bubble, Oregon, is sunny and crisp today.  Summer seems to have taken time off; we wear light jackets.  We're sorry to have left high heat to our New York family.  We have also moved into an ethnically-challenged environment where all the women are white and the men are not bad looking and white also--to badly paraphrase Garrison Keillor.

Why a bubble?  Another glorious Saturday Farmers Market can distract from events that seem far away.  Issues with much traction  here revolve around the land and the environment--important, but what about threats to democracy?  

Terrible trouble is being brewed on the other coast by uneducated people blindly following a crazy fool whose cause is stoked by a woman who perverts feminism with every breath she takes.  I choose not to speak their names on this site.  Two blogs I read regularly for their insights Darlene's Hodgepodge from Arizona and  Citizen K from the state of Washingon enlighten readers on the dangers seeping from this execrable duo.  I thank them for doing the work. 

To celebrate the possibilities of diversity which might expand my own new city's bubble, I offer a children's book I'm about to mail to granddaughter Roxie in New York.  Each of my grandkids has been indoctrinated into my love of hens.  When they are older, I'll try to explain the reason behind this obsession.  I believe my maternal great grandmother in Poland must have raised chickens; this is an invention since no one was kind enough to share any of my ancestor story.

Ron, however, brings chickens closer to me via his paternal grandfather, the one who was brought to America from Bialystok, Poland by his sons who'd come before World War One.  The Blooms love to tell how this ultraorthodox Jewish gentleman, a ritual slaughterer (mostly chickens I assume) and scholar, arrived on the boat at Ellis Island with an explanation.  Wind had blown his professional certificate out of his hands and into the sea.  Now he could devote himself to religious study and be supported by his three American sons.

[Aside:  My sister-in-law, M.M., who reads my blog, is older than spouse Ron, will--I hope-- correct inaccuracies  in this story.]

Yetta, Jewish Chicken, entered my life through NPR.  Scott Simon of Weekend Edition Saturday has a long-running friendship with the writer, Daniel Pinkwater.  They entertain themselves and listeners by reading children's books together laughing as they go.   With four grandchildren (and on my own for suggestions),  I decided it was time to track down Pinkwater's books of which there are many.  Yetta is the most recent, a treasure even if you are not a chicken aficionado--lovable illustrations by Jill Pinkwater.  The text mostly in kids' book English plus much Yiddish, and a little Spanish too! 

Beautiful Yetta The Yiddish Chicken seems a timely addition to Roxie's (laundry helper on her June visit) poultry collection in New York; her family is about to move from the only home she has known for her first four years.  Tucked into its quirky, child oriented text about a lost chicken who lands in an unknown place is a message.  The book's flap, explains:

"Moving from city to country...appearing different from others, or adjusting to change...Jewish tradition teaches how we are to treat newcomers....From the Torah, 'The strangers who sojourn with you shall be to you as the natives among you and you shall love them as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.' "

Yetta, Roxie, and I want you to join us in hope that rises above and beyond what happens today.  I close my eyes and remember a conference in 1964.  Martin Luther King speaks of his dream to New York City teachers.  We rise to our feet; we are true believers.

"ella," lower case contraceptive pill, tip toes here

How far did I have to go to find this picture?  To the UK where ella, the new "You have five days to take care of your unprotected sex encounter" pill    is now available.  Approved this week by the FDA as available by prescription in the U.S., none of the stories about it showed what its packaging looked like.

Call me paranoid, but this seems just another symptom of how frightened officials here are about making this breakthrough contraceptive pill available.  If you don't see it, will it go away?  Please.

In a braver time for women who demanded control over our own bodies, there's  this heartbreaking pin in my jewelry box.  Every now and then it appears on my shirt.  Probably has no meaning for women with no memory of time before Roe v. Wade.   Each time I look at it, I feel the sadness of my own experience and exasperation about the unwon battle for reproductive justice.  A recent find of a hangar slipcover left from our son's wedding in New Orleans (the year before Katrina) moved me to think about writing a post, "Meditation on a Hangar." But celebrating ella is more upbeat and hopeful for the future of my grandchildren.

My English friend Gillian who lived downstairs in my 4th apartment in Manhattan in two-year span and the one I returned to after my own illegal 1957 abortion, would  entertain as she described the dime store wedding band almost slipping off her ring finger during her visit to the NYC Planned Parenthood (link not historical indicates the ongoing struggle).  Why were we laughing?  We had cried so many times.

That was New York City in the 1950s when the only way a woman could get a diaphragm was visit to a gynecologist for a prescription.  Expensive.  The cheaper alternative was PP.  Gillian developed a complicated story for the doctor there.  At the time, the gyn would ask the patient supplicant to see if she could use the device properly.  And so the ring began to slip.  Her story became more hilarious when she returned to PP for a new diaphragm the following year and saw the same woman doctor who remembered her.  Gillian was seriously challenged to update her marital story.

All this to say, I wish the organizations that support CHOICE would spend some of our support bucks on powerful imagery.  Then get a couple of those "girls" on the TV show "Mad Men" to appear in national advertising with one on their breasts. From what I can see here of the ella pill, that would be a fine design, surrounded by the message, "Five days to Choice."  Sure, you can think up a better one but will the orgs listen to old ladies?

UPDATE:  The one place that gets my money in this never-ending struggle is the Center for Reproductive Rights.  Check their site for all their important legal work that could use your support .

Unemployment in America: Where's the rage?

  Searching, as my life script has determined, for my own possible employment--useful work suitable to pensioned, Social Security enabled, Medicare granted old lady--I believe it is here.  Every day I pin this small NO WAR patch to my outfit.  This is my job:  end the wars--current and future.  

Button highlights the word "employee."  Such a relief to say farewell to "retired" and retrieve my proper identity.

[Thanks to Sunday Oregonian "Business" section for the article that led to above graph at the blog, Calculated Risk.  An investment adviser in Oregon notes, "The disturbing notion is that the slope of the line is now headed back down."]

Meeting Ehren Tool, "war-awareness artist"

Ehren Tool, veteran of the first Gulf War and a potter, was "installed" at Portland's  Museum of Contemporary Craft in June.  A museum member, I'd heard earlier about his work, looked forward to his "durational performance."

 Exchanging with Ehren was all I could hope for-- an old political activist encountering a  young one.  He was the first Marine I'd ever met,   had to adjust my stereotyped expectation of  what he'd be like. Ehren surprised me with with an open, gentle manner.    I am challenged by his attitude, different from mine, not anti-war rather focused on raising general awareness of war.

Three years ago, Allison Smith, posted a long, thoughtful interview with Ehren.  He spoke of what drives him:

"It's this freaky thing. To me, it's like there's a siren going off in the background all the time. There are so many veterans and refugees who've seen war firsthand, but then they don't talk about it when they get back to the States. So what regular people know about war tends to come from toys and pornography and video games. I give away the cups because, it's like, 'Drink out of the cup with skulls on it.

Drink out of the cup with bombs on it.' We don't have money for schools, we don't have money to make the corrections system a corrections system instead of a penal system, for any of that. But we do have money for million-dollar Tomahawk missiles and $13,000 cluster bombs.

 And every single one of us is part of that system whether we act like we know it or not."  

Ehren threw his cups at his wheel in a windowed, first floor temporary studio in a  corner of the  Museum. Passersby could watch him from the street.  Our three visits were uplifting for Ron and me, a powerful reminder that there can be hope in a time of darkness.

  One of his porcelain cups sits on our windowsill.  I hope you will enlarge the closeups to see the images; they are instructive, not pretty. Better, closer ones are HERE .  But this one is mine, a reminder of  how  "lifelong learning" is more than sitting in classrooms. 

Without my usual note-taking of our conversatons, my memory of Efren has a kind of purity.  It is hard to describe my feelings about this chance to be  with this young man,  a soldier in the war I'd energetically protested.  He had lived the life reflected in the images on the cups--now close to 10,000 of them are out in the world.  The NO WAR  patches Sally Mericle and I  rubber stamped in 1991 Baltimore, while Ehren was a young marine in combat,  only numbered one thousand.  Something other than the difference in scale has been on my mind since my time with him. 

His ability to put values and craft together in a sustained way are a lesson for me.  He continues to throw more and more cups, to look for venues that will bring others to join him in cup-making--war veterans, communities of caring Americans.  With all his intensity around his craft and message, he is a very gentle man with a delightful sense of humor.  When Ron and I spent time with him on the final day of the installation, we learned that where he is now is miles away from the 18 year old who joined the Marines, wanted to be a policeman.  After his military service Ehren went to college, then art school.   He was very even in reflecting on gallery visitors who glanced at his work and withdraw from its directness-- or did not respond at all.  I'd like to be  as balanced about responses to my own creative efforts.

Ron promised to mail him one of his knit hats; I enclosed  a No War patch.  Ehren sent an email "thank you" with this somewhat elfin photo attached.

Talking about him has made July 4th a more meaningful day for me and, I hope, for you.  

Too Far North for Our Attention?

On June 27, Hattie's Web posted a powerful You Tube clip.  I do not usually sit  through an eight minute online video.  But three days later, when Roxie and her family had just returned to New York, I  slowed down enough to watch/listen to Naomi Klein in an interview on  Amy Goodman's  Democracy Now program.

Klein illuminated the background on the police reaction to demonstrators at the recent  G20 summit in Toronto.  Canada, our always low-key neighbor with liberal politics, now has  a very conservative prime minister.  Like here, seismic changes are happening to the north.   Were you puzzled about the police shift from their initial no-reaction to over-reaction?  She explains the convoluted situation.

Next, in response to a question from Goodman, Klein connects the Gulf oil crisis with G20 inaction. I hope you will watch.  It would be transformative, as in the universe shifting, if more people could watch/listen to more thoughtful political commentators.  Women speaking instead of the ubiquitous men in dark suits.

FEMINISM...Hers & Mine

Elena Kagan, old enough to be my granddaughter, sat before this daunting crowd of Senators and media and held her own.  Personable, engaging.  Yes, that's what I have wanted. 

Would she self-describe as a feminist?  Don't care:  I know, she knows, and that's what counts.

Many women like me, political ones, the women who angst about the future of the planet, really  needed an American event that we could  feel good about this July, just before the fourth. 

Now I have had an excellent month.  Personally, it's been my actual granddaughter Roxie's visit; politically, the possibility of a  third woman on the Supreme Court. 

Roxie, the NYC girl, does Portland

It's her second trip here.  The last time Roxie and her parents (our son and daughter-in-law) were in Rose City their visit coincided with the birth of cousin Elianna.  Literally, the new baby arrived before her mom Rachel could get to the hospital.  Quite a scene.

Roxie's parents have made an effort to keep her memory of her now-moved grandparents up front, so she made a smooth transition to familiar old faces and furniture as soon as she arrived.

In her first week, she's been around the city-- painting in our apartment, eating in the Pearl Bakery (mounted police surprised us, provided a view out the windows).  Much playing with cousins.many thrilling rides on Portland's free trolley, another at a waterfront amusement park with Grandpa.

Today the cousins all go to the famous Rose Parade.  The SUN is shining, the sky is very blue after Roxie's introduction to the famous daily rains of the past week.

Thursday Ron and I had our own two-hour adventure--a hands-on breadmaking class, scheduled long before we knew when the New York group would arrive.  Held at Bob's Red Mill, [1500 grain-related recipes @ this link] a real mill, with an  excellent instructor, David Kobos, longtime coffee roaster.  David's avocation is baking bread, tweaking recipes he finds in out-of-print books.

   He also raises chickens --check out these gorgeous ones from his flock of 50.  A very popular class, we'd signed up early, thought it was a good way to celebrate Ron's  75th birthday.  Watching David is another old guy in the class...a trend? 

Talking afterwards we discovered  that David, besides all else, shares a background with us in teaching in 1960s public schools in New York City.  The time went by very quickly; all the chairs were filled but my picture was taken during a seven-minute break!  We had an enjoyable, energetic time, and learned new approaches to making bread.  We're going to try his Sourdough Rye recipe at home.

Good to be with someone around our age sharing his enthusiasms.  The student across the way from me had this one tatoo (she told me so) and agreed to have its picture taken.  Now that I have spiky haircut, could a tiny tatoo be in my future....I might move more toward "Portlandness" with, like her,  just one.

It's very special  to have all our family in the same place. We're grateful to Nick and Leanne for making the trip and taking three weeks out of busy NYC lives.  Last night Rachel put together Ron's strawberry historical (another story) shortcake idea, everyone sang Happy Birthday in an informal, kitchen celebration of his 75th. Tomorrow is Zach's 8th birthday.  We're  very lucky old people!

Elianna, the baby, loves chickens too

Being the third and youngest child in my daughter's familly, Elianna, has been photographed less than her brother and sister.  Now that we've moved here, our goal is to add photos as she moves toward age two.

Until recently Elianna was often carried or sitting on a parent lap as in this one where she has just discovered earrings as a style possibility.  Or about to go to bed (with pacifier) as her parents are about to go out.  This was April when Rachel  was named "Volunteer of the Year" at the annual dinner of the Oregon League of Conservation Voters. 

In the last couple of weeks, her walk has moved into stride mode; she is more on her own.  Sunday the entire family came over for pancakes.  (I'm a fan of Stonewall Kitchen's Pancake & Waffle Mix.)  Elianna, like her older sister Zoe, is a fan of chickens.

Now she has discovered most of my collection--fiber, metal, and ceramic while behind a close door, Zach and Zoe watched cartoons.  No TV in their house so it's an occasional grandparent-visit experience. 

     

Old Woman Does Steroids

I will never play professional baseball again...or bike race in France.  Today I took the plunge:  a steroid shot in my right arm, the dominant side.  The hope is that the pain in shoulder/arm will subside.  It has been a very long time since picking up a small grandchild was either possible or painless.  Knitting has been less frequent.

Steroids suddenly are moi.  Last Saturday I visited "Immediate Care" (a walk-in facility connected with Providence Hospital) because my primary physician is Monday - Friday except for emergencies.  Seems to be style here; classier than emergency rooms of NYC hospitals. Desperate after two weeks of dramatic coughing plus nose running (hoping it would disappear), and missing a baroque chamber concert.

Seen by a Nurse Practitioner, I left with prescriptions for a five-day regimen of steroid tablets and an antibiotic.  Though less coughing when I laugh (have to rush to bathroom), reduced nose action, generally improved.

 Sunday I went to OHSU (Oregon Health System University) just up the hill from us.  Much attractive art in halls.  MRI scheduled for shoulder, very efficient, back to D.O. (Doctor of Osteopathy) in a local orthopedic practice.  Yes, there's a tear in my rotator cuff.  A quick steroid shot in the arm as defense (my word) against the dreaded arthroscopic surgery. 

This Saturday, I began 8-sessions of  physical therapy for "scapular stabilization."  An aside, to note  why "Feminism" is a category for this post.  Checking out my history, the young therapist asked, "Is it alright for me to call you 'Naomi?'"  Pleased, I agreed and answered, "First time a health care provider has asked in a long time."  And shook his hand.  When I posted here about "10 Questions to Ask Your Ob-Gyn," the 1977 Baltimore NOW effortI neglected to mention that one of the very non-radical requests we were making was not to be called by our first names unless the doctor was ready to do the same.

Has this changed in your life?  Rhetorical question:  Might physicians have moved more quickly toward single-payer if we'd demanded more interactions of equality in the past 40 years--for male patients too and with the help of men too.

Cartopia Dinner with Zach

Thinking over why food carts, the outdoor food art-form here that I admire but do not engage with often.  It may be   they require the  stand-up-to-eat pose.   I'm similarly disinclined toward buffet dinners, cocktail parties.  Not much of a casual eater, I want a chair/bench and table!

We had found a place with great middle eastern food around 6th and Broadway (across from a Kettleman's bakery) but it disappeared.  We'd buy the very ample dish in the afternoon and take it home for dinner.

Between our place (it may be known as the  "West Hills") and our daughter's house in Hawthorne, there's a collection of carts known as Cartopia with benches protected by tents.  I learned their proper name not from a sign (maybe there is one) but a massive fact-stuffed blog, Food Carts: Portland. Driving home  around 11 p.m. after baby-sitting, we'd see all this action as we turned the corner from Hawthorne onto  12th.  All lit up, many young people.  What were we missing...we found out when  we visited closer to our old-fashioned foodtime, 6 p.m. 

El Bracero, a Mexican place, is the early bird opener, in fact hardly closed.  We've stopped by for delicious  vegetarian burritos--just one big enough to share.  A little later the Belgian fries cart,  Potato Champion with its Poutines via Canada, comes alive...excellent not-so-good-for-you food but you gotta do something risky once in a while.  And choices of things  to decorate the greasy things.

 I favor the remoulade but you might prefer rosemary truffle ketsup.

Knowing our grandson Zach is a burrito fan who loves to eat out, we took him there one mild evening.  Other families with kids are always part of the mix in the early hours.  But the pizza cart got his attention first.

 The fries worked for him too. He was very interested in the crepe-making (huge productions) at Perriera.  Turned out he'd had one recently and mentioned that the milkshakes were very good too.  What could we say?  We took two very, very rich Girardelli chocolate ones home to his Mom and Dad (his sisters were in bed) and split them among the five of us.

You could call our particular adventure Portland Cart-lite.  We have yet to try some of the other places at Cartopia.  One very decorated one, Yarp with its long message of mission, comes to life  after 8 p.m.  Of course, this scene is not here for our crowd; we are the outsiders and they are very polite in an offhand way.

Welcome to Portland, Oregon, Ronni & Ollie!