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 .

Grand Isle, Louisiana, now, May 2010, USA

First image I saw this morning. In an email from FDL, the blog Firedoglake.

Asked me to tell the Senate to "Hold BP Accountable" and sign their petition.  I did that.

Does not provide relief:  corporations have bargained away our grandchildrens futures.

Photo:  John McCusker, Times Picayune, New Orleans.

Ron Bloom Celebrates Another Birthday!

All my love and thanks for all the places we've been, crises we've survived,  children and grandchildren we've loved...

...and your great patience in teaching me too many things to list...what I've learned from your pleasure in sharing with everyone who comes within your range.

  All of us look forward to many more June tenths with you--

most especially yours truly ...

Celebration: High-Rise Style...Last night--a building party where we live. Lee Morgan, Ron's co-chair and great party-giver, suggested this one as they wrapped up their term of office, turned it over to another pair. Singing the Birthday song was a high point of the pot-luck evening...who says New Yorkers don't care about one another?

Invitation forwarded from NYC...which button wiil I wear?

Like everyone else, my expectations are high for President Barack Obama.  Far from the East Coast where I'm usually  closer to Federal action, I feel a bit disoriented.  My Elderblogging friend, Betty Reid Soskin, has flown from California with her special invitation for January 20, 2009.

As I watch from Oregon, I'll think of her, an 83 year old African American (still working as a Park Ranger) who has known discrimination on both coasts and perservered through many life changes.  Her next post at CB Breaux Speaks will be wonderful to read.   My own hopes are expressed in the many categories  listed at the end of this post.

 Sunday's Oregonian featured a long article  on Portland as the whitest city in the United States.  It's a long and sorry story that goes back to its beginnings in the middle of the 19th century.  Young Oregonians and new residents are asking more questions--a hopeful sign.

Good News + Miscellany

How about starting to knit again, Saz, my friend in blogland? Maybe a scarf for people in Mongolia where winter is very intense. Lots of people did it-- coast to coast, Canada, Australia. The Dulaan Project collected 12,085 handknits-- at least one item of clothing or a blanket went to more than 12,000 men, women, and children.  A year's worth of knitting by many little red hens and a few roosters.  Time to begin the 2007 accumulation.

More at Mossy Cottage Knits, Ryan's blog from Seattle.  There's even a tiny photo of little Mongolian children as they wear the latest shipment.  I could swear the brown and orange hat is the one Ron knit.   Of course, it could be someone else's very original color combo. 

                                                *  *  *  *

Emaile from my friend, Steve Hill, "... recently found good news about New Orleans:  http://www.justiceclothing.com/thereis/justice/kgordon where
I ordered some shirts made in a unionized factory
that reopened there!  (It's difficult to find ethical
clothing that appears conventional enough for the
office, so this site is handy.)"
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Car radio, somewhere in Massachusetts, "Rent a husband!  For everything from                                               baby to faucets to...."                                                      

Bingham, Maine, Main Street

                  

                        

Updated political banner, Radical Vegan Food, Durham, N.H.

What's the Distance between New Orleans and San Leandro?

                   This morning's Comment from Joared, lively responder in Elderblogland.

"is anyone writing about New Orleans? .... it would be quite challenging to capture everything that needs to be said. Wonder if August Wilson, whose plays are so well written, would have undertaken such a script?"

Tapped into my guilty feelings: need to post something besides this one.  Could I lay off some guilt on viewers; only response to it came from knitting friend Njoyia of the Harlem Knitting Circle.  Do only black Americans continue to feel the pain?  Do those who are not black really understand the pain of racism?

Not according to Brian Copeland, whose powerful one-man show, Not a Genuine Black Man, we saw last night.  He brings humor to his terrible, personal story.  Not what we've seen in Richard Pryor:  this is more about us, the white Americans who think we get it but never can.  Because there are not enough of us trying to make a difference.  Sorry, readers, but it is Sunday and you have happened upon my soapbox, a little red hen. 

Let me make it more personal.  It is 1969.  Ron and I have already lived with, as Jews, housing discrimination as others in two places outside New York City-- Oberlin, Ohio and Baltimore. We'd observed the "illness" of racism and its impact on African-Americans and on us.  My hair is very long, Ron has almost as much on top and a bushy beard.  We sit at the after-dinner table in suburban St. Louis with my father and his wife, longtime civil rights activists around school integration.  I asked, "Wouldn't it have been a better strategy to go for housing integration right after WWII...when everyone was feeling positive about "the other"?  They were incensed; I was their hippish, smartass child who thought open classrooms would be a good idea for my child. 

Look at Brian Copeland's website.  Look at the video clip from his hometown, San Leandro, California, a 1971 CBS-TV special.  This was not the South.  How he survived is a very powerful story.  But at what cost to him--and to us?  If you're in New York, the show is on till July 16.  Or, you can buy his just-released book, "Not a Genuine Black Man."

By the way, Eleanor Roosevelt also believed that housing integration was the place to begin.  I'm honored to be in her company.  New Orleans?  Send a check to Common Ground or one of the black colleges, Xavier University of Louisianna. 

 

NEW ORLEANS: 2002 Memories and Now

Because my son and daughter-in-law, Nick and Leanne, were living in New Orleans in 2002, I decided to take This Dirt Museum on the road. With their help, I connected to delightful people, hospitality, and an introduction to the city's delightful  enthusiasm for the unexpected.

Ever since beginning this blog, I've wanted to express my concern about the present and future of New Orleans and the Guf Coast.  Up to now  the website link to Common Ground Collective has been a stand-in for my wish to DO SOMETHING useful.  That's a feeling shared by all Americans of good will.  We wish for a more personal connection--after we've sent money for relief efforts, books to the New Orleans library.

Is this urge too self-serving?  It certainly is the right instinct when we see that our government's response is no-response.  So much could have been different if the feds had created massive programs along the lines of the 1930s Civilian Conservation Corps to clean up and re-build.  Though this elderblogger is not able to join the thousands of college students and medical professionals running a clinic who have volunteered at the Common Ground site, I hope that writing about the area reminds you to do what you can.  Send money, if possible, encourage young people to participate in hands-on relief efforts.

In my "Favorites" file, I keep the link to The Times Picayune, New Orleans' daily paper.  The image at the top of this page is the best piece ever written about my life with worms. It appeared April 12, 2002, as an alert about my many performances at Kingsley House, Crescent City Farmers Market, Tulane University, and the Botanical Garden.  (I was younger then.)  Arranging red wigglers to spell "Compost" was inspired. A readable copy is on the wall of my current installation at Knitty City.

Sadly, the Times Pic, as its known, carries bad news this week.   FEMA is closing the facility that housed up to 40,000 volunteers who have been giving their time and energy to re-building efforts.  What can we do?  Write our congressmen/women, lobby those running for national office.

Wanting to end this post with some upbeat nostalgia, I offer a view of one of the objects New Orleanians particularly enjoyed.  Before I plunged into kitchen composting, my art form was neckpieces crafted from weathered shells, beads, hardware.  Once I discovered that wet compost could be handled like clay, would dry very hard, I had an exotic new medium--vermicompost, a/k/a, transformed garbage, to use as beads. 

Compost Necklace.  Components, starting from bottom:  Manhattan compost (center square bead, note white eggshell), carved bone beads,  flattened bottle caps, Mexican compost (round and small square beads), Italian glass beads, Jute cord, copper clasp.                                                                              

"It is just not natural to speak of New Orleans in the past tense. There is an element about it that is timeless, that is always the present. The past in New Orleans cohabits with the present to an extent not even approximated in any other North American city." -- Tom Piazza, Why New Orleans Matters, 2005