a little red hen

A mid-20th century romance began, endures...

 

THE LONG-TERM MARRIAGE

At last she’s happy, reigning with her creams,

rubbing his scalp’s roof until it gleams.

As the squamous-cell carcinomas sprout,

the local dermatologist cuts them out

 

or frosts the lunar surface with liquid nitrogen.

The creams come from West Fourteenth Street, Manhattan,

FedExed from their adopted son’s boyfriend’s home,

a relationship that remains, to them, unknown.

 

Their Oriental rugs are steeped in piss

from the bulldog barking like an activist.

Bickering over misplaced books, the tchotchkes

lost, and how she re-remembers her stories,

 

they wait with an unfinished, finished look,

and note how honeysuckle crowns Old Saybrook

and thistles overrun their last garden.

The dash between their dates is nearly done.

                                                                -Spencer Reece

Published in The New Yorker,  April 13, 2009;  on my bulletin board since then.

On a spring day in Portland, Oregon, I celebrate  meeting my spouse in Manhattan.  March 1966,  a large, airless room at a counseling conference in the Commodore Hotel. He was presenting; I was in the audience determined to get my question answered.  He took me for an ice cream soda at a nearby Schrafft's on 42nd Street..  It was a lovely day; we walked twenty blocks south.

We lived four blocks apart--Ron in a  classic 8-story 1930s building--one-bedroom, rent-controlled  ($110) on East 24th. Mine was a smaller studio ($160), in a new 21-story high-rise.    We married in his apartment October 29, 1966--the same year NOW began.  The word "femnism" was not in my vocabulary at the time.  We disagreed on the war in Vietnam.  We moved quickly toward working on equality between women and men--and being very opposed to the "American war," as it's known in Vietnam.

Two children, four grandchilddren, several moves--Oberlin, Ohio then Baltimore, Maryland, then back to New York City before landing in Portland.

The Commodore, built in 1919, was renovated inside and out in 1980.  Unrecognizable to us in its current state. Schrafft's is gone.  We are still New Yorkers in spirit, almost 50 years later, in Portland, Oregon.  

New York Times discovers Oregon gun "issues"

Many false starts for this blog is about my horror with the gun culture in Portland, in Oregon.  I  attended a gun control rally last month.  Horror?

Yes.  I had never been in a public place and seen men with rifles.

Walking among us--women, children, old people. Neighbors of mine have gathered since the gun murders in our own city at Clackamas Town Center, followed by the elementary school in New Town, Connecticut.  We were at a rally to support gun control.  City Hall in downtown Portland.

An hour earlier friends and I had listened to a plea from Penny Okamoto of Ceasefire Oregon to mobilize ourselves to move along legislation under review in the state house. She is the hardworking, unpaid staff person.  There is no paid staff for the group.

At the rally I'd met, talked with state senator Ginny Burdick, who represents this area.  Another hardworking woman who has spent years trying to get more human-centered gun control legislation passed.  Another hardworking woman.

I cannot get used to the idea often voiced that we should speak of  "gun safety" because that is less infuriating to our opponents than "gun control."

Then the opposition, supported by the head of the state Republican Party went to Burdick's home and videotaped her daily life--like taking out trash.  We were prepared to attend a meeting she called on upcoming legislation.  She cancelled the meeting.

Next, Steve Duin, among the few readable columnists in the sad daily, had a Sunday piece with this headline  "Intimidation tactics may silence Salem..." [Salem is the state capitol not the one with the witchhunt history in Massachusetts].  

Now we learn that Mitch Greenlick, another member of the state legislature, has been subject to pro-gun ire that speaks to precisely who these people are, the racist anti-Obama men and women we've heard about nationally, the Tea Party enthusiasts:

"But even Greenlick has been surprised by the abusive, obscene and anti-Semitic tenor of the reaction to his support for gun-control legislation after the Sandy Hook Elementary massacre."

The next day there was an Op-ed column by Joe Nocera in the New York Times.  "Politics by Intimidation"  tells the Oregon gun story.  Must come as a surprise to all those convinced that Portland, the City of Roses, was like the light-hearted view from "Portlandia," great restaurants, craft beer overflowing.  But guns?

Living in Baltimore, in Harlem, I never felt as edgy about being on the streets as I do now. Day or night who knows if I may be sitting in a restaurant next to someone with a concealed weapon.  And he has a disagreement with his wife? 

My political life requires a placeholder...

Too much going on to be a frequent poster here...or infrequent.  Yet I want to stay with blogging as a practice even while I need more thought on its structure for the future. 

My neighbor Joella demonstrates a perfect solution for all those buttons we collected in second wave activity in last century--coast to coast.  Hers in Oregon, mine mostly Baltimore and New York.  Gun control is a shared focus through Ceasefire Oregon.

Marian Wright Edelman on Inauguration Day 2013 in conversation with Melissa Harris-Perry wears image of Sojourner Truth.  Takes our feminism back to the 19th century struggle for African-American equality.  Read Ta-Nehisi Coates in the March Atlantic on why the re-election of Obama matters even more than the first. 

Speaking of blogging, the life in bread has not had enough attention here. It has not had as much attention as I would wish.  Here's a whole wheat sourdough made in October 2011.

My personal challenge is should I emulate one of my favorite, 19th century feminists, Frances E. Willard of the WCTU (Women's Christian Temperance Union).

"Do Everything" was her motto. Is it mine?   Her unusual book,  "A Wheel with in Wheel: How I Learned to Ride the Bicycle" used that newly-introduced contrivance as a metaphor for women's lives.  An excerpt HERE  with comments by a contemporary blogger.

And so you have it: Black History month (a young friend recently pointed out is the shortest month of the year) and the upcoming Women's History Month.  Both of which call out for celebration more often.  I hope to do my part one day soon but till then...  

Life before Hurricane Sandy

We were at grandson's cross country meet a couple of weeks ago.  My daughter turned to me, because elections local and national are  on our minds, and announced, "There's a movement to write-in Eileen Brady for Mayor." Wonderful to dream of possibilities for the candidate-who-should-have-been rather than the two losers we're left with.   Became slightly more engaged on Facebook so could add my "like" to the page someone started there.  Made a simple card to hand out.

Zach did very well in his race.  I was impressed by the number of  girls and boys, Portland public and private schools, 4th and 5th graders, who were eager participants. Let's hear it for Title IX!  They had to climb a hill twice and jump over a hay bale to make their way.  

Rachel, Zach, and little Eliana (no slouch herself in climbing monkey bars with ease), left to pick up Zoe for her soccer game.  Before we left another mother from Zach's school, described her life before Portland.  Pretty similar In Brooklyn as she shuttled three children from one activity to another and tried to keep focused as she worked from home. Not much time for politics for these working mothers.

Afterwards Ron and I went to eat always-delicious Vietnamese food at JADE Teahouse in Sellwood--eggplant and pork plus a very rich macaroonish dessert. Sort of a reward  for hours and hours--primarily his time-- on the phone with prescription plan, Medicare Part D. Very patient Medicare and insurance company people worked to sort out a mistake from last year.

Why are we putting up with all this shuffling of our lives by providers? And we are the fortunate ones who have good healthcare coverage.  

************Election Day, November 6, 2012 at 4:30 p.m. (PST)*****************

All of the above was written in October before Sandy, before Halloween.  Not posted because I'd thought to write how the U.S. needs something like the Citizens Advice Bureau in the United Kingdom. Begun in 1924, this non-profit "charity" (their word) helps people "resolve their legal, money and other problems by providing free, independent and confidential advice, and by influencing policymakers."  First heard about it when I was in social work school in the 1970s as a way the British had developed for people to  sort out which government agency could handle their issues.

Now I'm avoiding looking at today's election returns.  So much more to think about since the Hurricane but election anxiety gets in the way.  More creative avoidance by going tonight to "Seven Guitars" by the late, lamented August Wilson.  This is the sixth of his ten plays that explore African-American life in the 20th century. We will travel back to 1948 in Pittsburgh.  Beats angsting about whether Obama will be re-elected and New York City's massive recovery problems.

My son and his family are okay in Tarrytown, New York, above the flooded areas.  After last summer's Irene storm their co-op decided to install a back-up generator so they have had lights, heat.  Roxie even went back to kindergarten on the school bus at the end of last week.

How will the City re-locate thousands of public housing residents in Brooklyn's Red Hook?  Thinking my causes need to become entirely environmental--climate change especially.  

"It's the little things..."

When the that phrase runs through my head, the song from the musical, "Company" comes to mind. It is, however,  a less positive take on the words.  A youngish Elaine Stritch (in white hat) sings rehearsing for  the original 1970 cast recording...    

In my old lady life, the good small stuff is an email with picture plus short note from daughter about our 7 year old grandchild, "Zoe learns to tie her own shoelaces."  To avoid turning it into not-so-good stuff, I gave into iPhoto's refusual to rotate the image.

Or, the two women, encountered in recent months. Both resonated to the message of the 17% button, pleased to take and wear one. At left, a much decorated checker at a local Whole Foods store; right, a dedicated Planned Parenthood petitioner at Powell's Books.

                       

Happy find while searching for Stritch performances.  Isotop Films is raising money for "Elaine Stritch:  So Shoot Me," a  documentary of this funny, bawdy, show-biz survivor, now 87 years old.  Clip has song bits from her one-woman show, "At Liberty"  in 2002. Living in NYC then, saw her at youthful 77!  [Click on red letters for video] 

 

"I've got money, I've got fame...if I could drive, I'd really be a menace!"

Black & white image altered by new media

Fan that I am of hard copy newspapers, one of my favorite reads is the Friday Art section of the New York Times.  It is unimaginable using an electronic device giving as much pleasure--tactilly, visually.

Folded back to an image that strikes me,  the paper lies on the couch, for a day or two.

Something about the gray tones of this painting appealed to me.  This is my photo of the newspaper itself. Running beneath it was Roberta Smith's review.

In “Chinatown” Ms. Weatherford lays down a broadly brushed expanse of regal reds, deep blues and golds, finished off with a low-lying horizontal line of aqua neon. 

Its neon light was only a white line, a detail I'd missed, in the newspaper picture.  This, below, is the picture itself I found at Mary Weatherford's gallery-- the "true" Chinatown she imagined, electrical outlet included.   Without electronic assist from Google, I experienced the image of work I thought I'd like to see in real life. In color, lighted up, I'm just fine with the gray newspaper.  But, if I had been to Weatherford's exhibition, then seen the Times, I might have said to others, "Oh, you must see painting itself!"

I wonder what Marja-Leena Rathje  (see blogroll) would make of all this.

Travel mind-expanding in unexpected ways

Staying in motels on the road always means a window into life outside my bubble--encounters in elevators, free breakfast at Hampton Inn.  Sure, we try to do things in Portland that keep us in touch with the known universe but it is a challenge for old people. In our retirement community no one is poor.  Is anyone worried about paying next month's fees?  I would not know.  Because we have an active foundation trust fund to provide financial support to those who have exhausted their funds.  

When we attend Portland State for classes/lectures, we see a homeless person or two. Going further downtown, there are more since there's a shortage of housing for the homeless. Even in New York where there are more robust public programs for homeless families and childrens, needs now outstrip the supply.  

But then we leave home to travel and want to keep up with news; lately  we do not find the Times.   Lucky us, U.S.A. Today is everywhere we stay. Theirs is a different point of view from what we're used to, brings us in contact with a more conservative view of the world.

July 31, headline: "The underlying duel of 2012:  Seniors vs. Millennials."  Along with the narrative which we have heard and will hear over and over again, I am startled by the photos chosen.  Older white guy and young woman of color.  This selection, not an accident in the news room, delivers a double-whammy.  It's not devisive enough to point out how old folks "more engaged than in 2008,"  are in an ideological war with the young who favor Obama.  The paper would have readers think that only black people will be voting for the President.

The kicker:  the two in photo are grandpa and his granddaughter--so you can't say it's about racism.  I can.  In an effort at fairness, the paper's website features a sensible response from a reader in California:

"The future generation is being short-changed by cuts in education spending and the increasing cost of higher education. We are witnessing the dumbing-down of America."

In Yakima, Washington, my education is further expanded.  On a sidewalk, a couple of people are campaigning for a local candidate.  To get attention to what he stands for, they have used a photo-shopped image promoting impeach Obama that I had only seen on news programs.  An even bigger one is attached to the side of the table.
“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”
                                                                                –Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad 

“Too often travel, instead of broadening the mind, merely lengthens the conversation.”                                                    -- Elizabeth Drew, N.Y Review of Books

 

79th birthday on a dark & light Sunday

Toward the end of our trip north, my move toward 80 occurred.  An August birthday often has seemed less notable than those happening in non-summer months.  The month is know primarily for its connection to Hiroshima, our country's leap into the darkest side of "American exceptionalism."  Does that sound like an only-child sigh?  Yes.  What did my 12 year old self think as children at summer camp puzzled over the news.  We could not have understood more than that "the war was over."

From the window of our Tacoma, Washington motel on August 5, this dancing green figure sent a welcome, could pass for a birthday wish.

The heat that our son had reported from New York, our daughter from Chicago, had reached the northwest.  We searched for a spot to get a good view of majestic, mysterious Mount Ranier.

Found a local free paper, learned there was a used bookstore in the south part of town-- good views of the mountain and the industry on Puget Sound. We had a fine time among the shelves at King's Books.  I bought two bread books never seen before; talked with the young man at the counter.  He loved New York, was very involved in local theatre.  Oh, he must go to the Brooklyn Museum on his next trip--since he has friends in the now-youth-filled Williamsburg.  

Because the front window of the store was filled with feminist books, I mentioned that Judy Chicago's Dinner Party was there. "What is that?"  Always time for educational input of the feminist sort.  He immediately looked it up on the computer, "Looks fabulous!"  Yes.

What's the best thing for lunch at Doyle's Bar next door, we asked.  "Definitely, the Cubano sandwich."  He was so very right.

Driving back to Portland, we heard of the awful murders in a Wisconsin Sikh temple.  How often, people, will we allow the rationalizing to continue: that gun control is not the problem...accept that our presidential candidates slip and slid around this monumental issue?  Have you signed a petition, written your congressperson?  

Read, please, this from The Washington Post, a blog by Anya Cordell, "Sikhs bearing pizza," filled with many insights from her work against appearance-based judgments.  In 2010, she received the Spirit of Anne Frank award, is author of Race: An Open & Shut Case, a book I intend to read and share.

 

Summertime & the jammin' is easy...

Only for my spouse.  Making jam never claimed my attention.  Maybe I have a less sugary early history than his in Brighton Beach, the 20th century one so different from today's changing Brooklyn.  But, he says, Becky only made a simple compote from summer fruits. He claims it's my influence.  Curious.                                                                             This photo from last month cannot truly represent the extent of his enthusiasm for peaches, apricots, blueberries as their seasons arrive.  Our supply is only limited by a very small freezer drawer.  Always room for more, however, as he gives a jar away to friends and neighbors.

My favorite this year is peach-apricot jam.  Just a little sugar.  He went to a free how-to evening at one of Portland's vintage co-operatives, People's Co-op (sorry the link only gives first paragraphs to Oregon Historical magazine article).  Afterwards he tried the suggestion to add a little lemon juice.  Not pleased with result...back to his way.  

Cooking jam takes the place of some winter knitting of button hats.  And there is always the opportunity to give one of these away in warm as well as cold weather.  Here's a neighbor in one he selected at the April arts & crafts event at our retirement community. As we left to travel north to Vancouver, B.C. and surroundings, Ron selected more hats to take along for women and men we will meet along the way.  

Myself, the non-driver, will be knitting a blue cotton sweater for youngest grandchild, Eliana, almost four, who has reached a behavioral milestone (no details, please).  We are very lucky feminists, spouse and I.  Beneficiaries of a lost mid-20th century time, we craft, we politick to bring a saner 21st century to the lives of those we will leave behind.  

Here's something just in about a darker side of Canda and people trying to protect us and our environment.  We'll see what more we can learn in our travels north.

A bird's nest...recent traveling bread memories

Much going on over spring/summer that needs attention here.  Many choices for posting--ideas sparked by other bloggers, stuff in my everyday life. Deciding can get in the way of doing, don't you think?  Over at Folkways Notebook, the images Barbara posts often lead me to stuff in my own space as this one of a Carolina wren nest.  Time to consider the nest lingering, carefully saved in a container that once held roasted, unsalted cashews from the Harlem Fairway. 

Imagining-- did it land on a Manhattan street or did I find it in my Baltimore backyard in 1995 before we made the final move to New York.  A birder was visiting, so I opened it for the first time so we could examine it closely.  From the front and the back, a bit of dental floss?  Birder took out her book and delivered a lesson:  "It's probably a Blue gray gnatcatcher " (link is to actual bird sound).   

    

BREAD  Have neglected writing about it lately.  Was I so bowled over by my encounters in northern California that I felt inadequate to homemade efforts? The loaves at Acme Bread in the Ferry Building at the San Francisco wharf were good but the five-grain loaf  and pastries at Pearl Bakery here in Portland are more flavorful. 

Tartine on Guerro Street in the Castro District?  This is complicated. I was especially looking forward to this.  Much hullabaloo on food sites about the book the baker there had written.  Delightful ride on crowded trolley in the late afternoon, then startled by naked gay men preening in the sunlight at the last stop, finally a very long walk through friendly neighborhood to arrive for the moment bread was removed from ovens--at 5 p.m.  Different.

"Our bread is available Tuesday through Sunday after five o'clock in full or half loaves."  Folks lined up around the block. It was also possible to order earlier by phone, then get in line.

Staying in a motel, eating out, we were not up for even a half loaf. Here's the only photo we managed of quickly-purchased intact loaves--on the way back from the restroom. We ate an early dinner in the tiny Tartine cafe alongside the waiting bread-buyers.  Had delicious quiche, followed by an abundant and tasty bread pudding.  

From what we could discern, bread was good  but with so many other ingredients surrounding, it was hard to compare with our favorite so far on this trip, Wild Flour in Sebastapol--out in the country in Sonoma.

Finally, on our trip on our return to Santa Rosa, our friends said we had to have THE experience.  And we did.  We went to the  Sonoma Farmers Market where the bejkr (may be Esperanto for "baker") holds court, along with a clay, wood-fired oven for pretzels attached to his vehicle.

Cult Sonoma dscribes him as an "artisanal god."  Hyperbole but  the quirky Mike Zakowski is both an unusual character who grows his own wheat (little red hen could relate) but also makes fabulous bread and pretzels.

Our encounter was soon after he'd won a silver medal in a bread-making competition in France.  Movie is in the works.

On returning to Portland, my first effort, oft baked sourdough graham recipe from from some mix of flours , looked remarkably like a torpedo. Used French bread pan,carried from our place to our baby-sitting gig at our daughter's.  Best part was six year old Zoe joined grandma in working with the dough.

Stopped for a while.  Last week used my sourdough starter to make another starter for a Sourdough Semolina bread recipe I found online. Gave the entire process far more time for autolyze and fermenting.  Excellent result--even though I turned the oven too high at beginning.  But no illusions I'll reach the level of the bejkr in this lifetime.