Wishes for my Grandkids in 2014

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL!

My grandkids, 2013. The family collage: Christmas Eve at Casa de Mama.

I have pretty much the same wishes for my growing grandkids, now ranging in ages from 25 down to 2 years old, this New Year's Eve as I did last year. So, with a few updates, here are my wishes for them, and for all grandkids everywhere, in 2014. 

Who knows what the future will hold for my seven grandchildren.  The world, ever-changing, holds both challenges and opportunities. The environment is fragile--global warming, the Arctic, rising seas, devastating natural disasters. Technology advances at cyber-speed. My grandkids have so many choices in this world of rapid social change. 

I hope they chose wisely.  I hope their wishes come true.  I hope they stay safe and healthy. That the god and goddesses who watch over children are always with them.  That angels like my brother Loren sit on their shoulders at all times and protect them, encourage them, give them confidence.  I hope my grandkids stay positive about life, choose a good path to their future, take life’s inevitable ups and downs with strength, even humor, and remain resilient. Yes, resilient and strong, bending with the wind like reeds.

I hope they remember that the content of their character and good values are more important than material things, that their inner spirit is more important than their outer looks, that following their inner light is  more important than following other people's. 

I hope they remember they live in a global village, that some people are less fortunate than they are, that in gratitude and with compassion they can contribute to making the world and their environment a better place. 

I pray that they grow in wisdom, stay true to themselves, follow their dreams.  These are some of my new year’s wishes for my grandchildren, and for kids of all ages all over the world.

Florida Heaven before Home for the Holidays

The beach (near the historic pink Don Cesar), a white bird of paradise, with friends,
 some downtown decorations, full moon over palm, visit to Gulfport and iconic Casino.

It was great being back in St. Petersburg, Florida, where I had lived for 10 years before going to Ukraine with the Peace Corps and then moving back to the Toledo area.  I stayed with friend Sandie;  visited a former neighbor, 85-year-old Maria, still going strong; and also artist friend Sue and retired publisher Christopher, who helped publish my brother Loren's autobiography, An Asperger Journey. I couldn't do everything I wanted; time flew by.  I'll return next year, for sure!

Best was being in the downtown area, close to the Bay, on the waterfront, near museums, restaurants and shops. A dinner at The Moon, a favorite restaurant, was a special treat.  We ate out a lot, there are so many great choices and all in walking distance.  The holiday decorations along the waterfront are spectacular, and more so as the sun sets and a glorious full moon rises. The weather was perfect. The beach was wonderful.  Christopher reminded me that the heat is never far away, but I remember the winter months--December, January, February, March--the best time of the year in the Tampa Bay area. While snow and ice covered Toledo and places North, we basked in the glow of a Florida winter. No wonder those Allegiant airways flights between Toledo and St. Pete are always filled! 

Now I'm back home in Sylvania, negotiating colder temperatures and snow. But I have my Florida memories to keep me warm.  And the joys of a family holiday in the wings.

Grandkids and Holiday Shows

The Timberstone 6th grade band on stage and after the
 show.  Kyle, wearing a holiday tie, and his mom.

Tis the season for children's holiday concerts, plays, and performances.

My grandson Kyle, age 11, plays the trumpet in his Timberstone Junior High School's 6th grade band. It's his first experience with the trumpet, and his first in a band.  He's enjoying it. This week, Kyle's band performed at the annual holiday concert, which took place at Sylvania Southview High School.  The 7th and 8th grade bands also played, along with the high school Jazz band.   

The 6th grade band did a great job of  Jolly Old St. Nicholas, Jingle Bells, a Hanukah song, and a Kwanza song. These kids are learning how to read music, play instruments, absorb a repertoire of new and classical interfaith music, follow a conductor, and practice orchestral protocol.  It's learning for a lifetime.

The older kids showed the younger ones, and the audience of enthusiastic parents and families, how wonderful the progression is from one year to the next, in terms of mastering an instrument and the whole orchestral experience.  "The kids get better and better," my daughter Michelle noted.

I used to say "these concerts are a hoot" but that was before one of the kids took up the trumpet.  Still, I remember my kids' concerts, where no one was on the same page, forgotten lines were the norm, the sounds were, well, cacophonous, and it was all good!  

Kyle's band, and all the young performers at Southview, actually did a super job and performed at a pretty high level.  Kudos to them, and to their dedicated teachers!



The recent highlights of the season also include my great-grandson Philip's performance in his church's Christmas play. I think Philip played an angel.  He sure looked like one, in his jeans and white tee-shirt, singing merrily along. He went through all the motions and movements, with great gusto, to the thumping sounds of pop music and the good old classics, and read his lines perfectly.  My daughter Elissa, his Gran E, swears he winked at her a few times.  She restrained herself from jumping onto the stage to hug him.  Philip's mom, my granddaughter Julia, smiled with pride.

Kyle is too old to wink, but I think he looked up from his trumpet a few times to see his mom and I, and the whole extended family, applauding vigorously.  It didn't matter if the timing was a bit off.  To us it sounded like the trumpets of the Wise Men  welcoming the Three Kings.  Who knows, our Kyle might grow into a Miles Davis, or join the High School Jazz Band or, perhaps more important, become a young man who simply loves and enjoys music, all kinds of music.

I remind myself that my teenaged grandkids entertained us in the same way when they were six and eleven.   Now, they're off doing their own thing.  That's why the younger ones bring such great pleasure.  Two-year-old Chase is bringing up the rear, thank goodness. More performances to look forward to.

We know the magic years don't last forever, but the memories sure do!



 

VW Bus: Rolling into the Sunset?

Painted VW van in Brazil.  Andre Penner/AP

I am mourning the end of the Volkswagon bus. Production is stopping at the last VW van plant, in Brazil. The end of an era. The VW vans driving off into the sunset? I can't imagine a world without them.

If we hadn't had our red and gray VW van, covered with flowers and peace stickers, we may not have travelled from Madison, Wisconsin, to Toledo, Ohio, in 1968. That beloved van carried our 3-year-old daughter Elissa and 3-month-old daughter Michelle, our German shepherd, and our possessions, consisting mostly of the hundreds of books gathered during our days as history graduate students at the University.  We clocked up hundreds of miles, many memories, and lots of laughs in that bus.   

When we rolled up the driveway to our new home on Robinwood Avenue in the Old West End a few years later, our retired neighbor, Mr. Shifflett, in his 70s, was heard to say to his wife,  "Goddamn hippies moving in, Gertie."

That VW van must have meant something different to them than it meant to us, but we soon became the best of neighbors and friends in spite of it. As we struggled with plumbing, electrical and other problems in this our first house, we would call Mr. Shifflett to the rescue.  Time and again.  He loved it. Gertie whispered to me that she was glad we were there, to keep Bert busy.  "He needs to have things to do," she'd say, as she puttered in her beautiful garden, and helped me start mine.  We were glad to help out. We kept him busy. 

We kept our VW van busy, too, hauling and crawling and carrying us from here to there.  We held onto it through breakdowns, failing brakes, travelling accidents in winter storms, heater problems, our engine overheating on the highway to Rochester, and finally some fuel pump or transmission issue that led us to think the unthinkable: maybe we should trade it in for a station wagon.

A station wagon?  For a VW bus? Yeah, it did sound awfully suburban. "But the kids are growing, we have Tryg now (our huge Norwegian Elkhound), and we need something bigger to take on family visits and our summer trips to Nantucket." 

We traded in the VW van, but not the spirit of the van. That stayed with us a long time.  So did the music associated with it, for me the tunes of the Who, Dylan, the Beach Boys, the Grateful Dead. The music and the memories.  We'd see a red and gray VW van on the road and one of the kids would yell, "There's our van!"

Actually, I have a feeling the VW vans will be with us in person for a long time, too.  They can't just disappear from the landscape of our lives.

After all. there are still millions of them on the road somewhere. I see them, colorfully painted, in Mexico.  I envision them in Brazil, in Africa, all over the world where they fix cars up and keep them going.  Heck, they're still on the road from Madison to Toledo.

It's hard to imagine a world without them: the iconic van on wheels rolling into eternity.


yahoo image. 

Mandela's Legacy: Handshakes for Peace

USA Today, Getty image.
 

Handshakes for peace.  President Obama shook hands with Raul Castro today at Nelson Mandela's memorial service in South Africa. A gesture of friendship, long overdue in my view. Obama is also trying to open dialogue with Iran.  Another positive gesture for peace in the troubled Middle East.  Any diplomatic overtures beat war. I hope our Congress gets this, as it listens to Secretary of State John Kerry today. I'm not optimistic on this score, given this Congress's abysmal record.

Nelson Mandela would get it of course; he would surely applaud these actions.  In the tradition of Gandhi, Mandela embodied the belief that reconciliation and dialogue are the ways to peace.   In forgiving his jailors, Mandela freed himself.  In loving rather than hating, in keeping his eyes on the prize, he freed a nation.

I remember hearing Mandela in Washington, DC in 1990.  My friend Suzanne and I stood in line for hours.  It was worth it, being in the presence of Mandela, recently released from jail. He was still married to Winnie Mandela; she spoke too. It was powerful. Moving. Electrifying. Mandela, free after 27 years in prison, seeking an end to Apartheid, finishing his life's work, with a grandness of spirit that overwhelmed.  Tears of joy flowed.

I never even considered his age at that time. I didn't see a 72-year-old man.  I saw a warrior for freedom, a youthful spirit, a transcendent soul. It was beautiful, for all of us, thousands and millions of us, many of us who had once joined in protests to free Mandela and end apartheid.  How often do we get to share a soul? How often are we in the presence of greatness beyond measure?

Obama knows this, acknowledged it in his eulogy: "He taught us to fight for a world united by our common hopes....[But] people are still struggling around the world....Our work is not yet done."  South Africa still struggles.  Deadly violence has erupted in the Central African Republic.  And not only in Africa.  All around the world, peace, justice, economic opportunity remain elusive.

Pope Francis is reminding us of this, too.  I see great hope in the Pope's journey.  He has joined the struggle.  He is keeping Mandela's dreams alive.

To continue Mandela's work and vision, this is, indeed, the very best way to honor his legacy.     

Sylvania Welcomes Holiday Art Trail and Santa

The American Gallery at Saxon Square (center), with art pieces around it;
  Michael Calandra and granddaughter Julia at Frameworks, Mayberry Square,
 where I bought a print (upper right). Also enjoyed For the Love of Art, on 
Holland-Sylvania, a great place for art supplies and art classes for all ages.   

Sylvania was hopping this weekend, with its fantastic 4th Annual Holiday Art Trail and Santa's coming to town to light our Christmas tree.

The Art Trail featured fifteen galleries and arts places all over town.  My daughter, granddaughter and I immersed ourselves in the fabulous variety of these cultural treasures.  We couldn't make them all, only a few, but we savored the galleries we visited, and promised to start earlier next year.

We then picked up my great-grandson Philip, who was practicing for a Christmas play at church, and went to greet Santa's arrival in Sylvania.  It was a sunny but very cold afternoon. "I'm freezing. I can see my breath," Philip said to his GranE, pulling his facemask down over his face so all we could see were his big brown eyes. Okay. Time to go a few doors down to the barn in back of the Sylvania Heritage Museum for hot chocolate and cookies.  That hit the spot.

As soon as we walked back down Main toward Maplewood, hot chocolate in hand, Santa came riding into Sylvania, not with his reindeer, but in an old horse-drawn haywagon.  Mrs. Claus was with him.  The reindeer were resting for the big night, we assured Philip, and Santa came early to let us know he wouldn't forget to stop in Sylvania on Christmas day. Philip is still in those magic years when wondrous things  happen, and we rejoiced in his wonder.  He pet the horses and starred in amazement as Santa pulled the switch to light the Christmas tree in the center of town. It sparkled!

We walked back to my place with Philip chatting away about his Christmas wish list. We know it won't be long before Philip stops believing in magic. We cherish his sweetness. We watched the sun set and a quarter moon rise.  It was a cold evening, but our hearts were warm.




My great-grandson Philip and me, and with his mom and GranE,
around lighted Christmas tree  photo (center); going for hot chocolate
at the barn behind the Sylvania Heritage Museum (upper right); and some
bright purple berries on a bush along the way that matched Elissa's boots! 

.

 

Nelson Mandela Transcendent

"I am the captain of my soul." Nelson Mandela 

If there is a special place for magnificent souls in an after-life, in the quantum hologram of forever,  Nelson Mandela will now be there. 

Nelson Mandela (July 18, 1918 to December 5, 2013)  is one of the world's greatest  heroes ever. Few leaders touched our hearts more than this giant of freedom and forgiveness. 

After serving for 27 years in jail for his courageous fight against apartheid, Mandela returned to South Africa to finish what he had started.  He was 72 years old!  That fact alone astonishes.  In 1994 he became South Africa’s first black president. He served one term, then left politics to younger leaders. His dream lived on, and it will live on forever. Mandela united the global village in his heroic struggle for freedom.  His incredible journey, the last 23 years of his life, from 72 to 95 years of age, transformed us and the world.

My brother Loren would ask me, every time Mandela's name came up, which was often: “How many people could spend almost 30 years of their life in jail, for the crime of fighting for human freedom, and emerge with forgiveness in their heart?“

Not many.  "We'll probably not see the likes of Nelson Mandela again," President Obama said of him. He inspired the entire world by his example, his dignity and grace. He taught that "a big heart is better than a closed mind," Bill Clinton added.

"Nelson Mandela, Nelson Mandela, there's no one else like you," South Africans sing, as they now gather together, black and white from all walks of life, to celebrate his life and the triumph of the human spirit.  Creating a peaceful world through dialogue and reconciliation, in Africa, in the Middle East, around the globe, would be the very best way to honor his life.  Nelson Mandela transcendent.

Memory: My first participation in an anti-apartheid protest was in 1985 at the U. of Maryland, College Park. Signs said "Divest from S. Africa" and "Free Mandela!"   Lots of speeches.  After that I attended several protests in front of the So African Embassy in Washington, DC. I remember when Mandela was freed from jail, and joined joyful street celebrations. He came to Washington and spoke at the old Convention Center; my friend Suzanne and I stood in a long line for hours to get in, and we did.  It was thrilling, just to be in Mandela's presence. That was maybe 1995?  

Getting into the Holiday Spirit

The Sylvania Area Historical Society's home in holiday finery and lights along Main Street.
Below, my place on Main, December 2013.

Sylvania is sparkling in holiday lights, up and down Main Street and in the historic neighborhood around the downtown area. I joined in the festivities and decorated the front porch of the old house I live in on Main, a few doors from the Historical Museum, and the back porch entrance to my apartment.  

It is one of the loveliest times of the year. I put on the old Christmas music, classics like Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra, and remember the songs my Dad loved that filled our house as my mom fussed with the tree. It's a time for so many childhood memories and family traditions, which I now share with my kids and grandkids.

I'm not a big fan of huge malls and super-stores, but I enjoy the decorations and the wonders of the season.  Mostly, I try to "shop local."  Harmony in Life has jewelry, soaps, chimes, and other heavenly items, and so does Angela's Angels on the corner of Main and Erie.  The clothing shops have wonderful shirts, sweaters,  scarfs and colorful socks. ACE hardware has all the practical things you need, plus decorations and friendly service. And there are other small shops, like the Limelight, next to Sylvania Historical Village, that are great for gifts and stocking stuffers, as well as florists, beauty salons, and restaurants.   

And while you're on Main Street, why not tour the Historical Village and the Heritage Museum, now filled with beautifully decorated trees, some in historical themes.  These are treats the whole family will enjoy!

A walk down and around Main Street will get you in the holiday spirit. As soon as Santa gets into town, on Saturday December 7 around 4:30 pm, he'll light the Holiday tree. Downtown Sylvania looks like a fairyland, ready to welcome you.  

Long live Ukraine

Ukrainians in Kyiv commemorate Holodomor and protest moves away from EU.
The beautiful faces of Ukraine. (yahoo news, AP, Maria Danilova, 23 November 2013).

I'm trying to remain neutral on the issue of Ukraine joining the European Union or the Russian economic alliance.  It's a difficult decision for the country, made harder by the possibilities of higher oil and gas prices and prohibitive taxes on imports and exports.  This would be an awful hardship, a terrible blow.  The uncertainties are  great.

I'm not surprised at all that Ukrainians are divided, with pro EU sentiment strongest in western Ukraine, weakest in the east, strong in large cities like Kyiv, the capital, unsure in more rural areas suffering from high taxes, few services, and high unemployment, not to mention few expectations and dashed hopes.

Yahoo image. Joint Ukraine/EU flag.

According to a recent poll, 45% of Ukrainians want to join the EU, 14% prefer an alliance with Moscow, and the rest, 41%, don't know or are undecided.

That's a large percentage of undecideds, 41%.  I think it reflects the doubts and pessimism of people struggling to survive, many of whom live in the places I worked and grew to love.  They really are not sure which way to go.

Nor am I surprised, on the other hand, that many people are protesting the Parliament's decision to hold off on joining the EU in favor of Moscow.  I've seen how hard people are working to bring change from the bottom up. I've seen small nonprofits work mightily to make life better, more just, more secure, to make their government more transparent, more accessible, less corrupt.  Some folks are plain tired of the old ways.  



Vitaly Klitschko, opposition leader, in Kyiv.

Thousands of them showed up in central Kyiv to protest their president's alliance with Putin and commemorate the 80th anniversary of the Holodomor, the devastating famine engineered by Stalin in 1932-1933 to force farmers to join collective farms.  A few people, some old soldiers and babushkas, are still around to remember.  Up to 10  million people starved to death.  Seeds, farm implements, even grinding wheels were confiscated, thousands of peasants killed outright, their families left to die by hunger.  The Holodomor memorial in Kyiv was one of the most moving visits I made while in Ukraine.  Only recently has this enforced famine been acknowledged and some of the files opened to public view.

Free Yulia Tymoshenko sign, President Yanukovitch's arch rival who's been imprisoned.
The EU, and human rights groups, have urged her release.

These same protestors, young and old, also expressed their hopes for Ukraine to join the European Union, to try new alliances, new economic opportunities, new pathways to jobs and security.  They've given up on the status quo. Among them are opposition leaders like Vitaly Klitschko, a well-known boxer and outspoken reformer.  I have a feeling that some of my friends from Starobelsk, from Chernigov and Lugansk and Khargiv and Donestk, are there as well.  It's a big step.  A bold and daring step.  A leap into the unknown.

Who knows where Ukraine will go?  I only wish for the happiness and well being of the people who make up the country, who are strong, generous and kind, who work for human rights, who want to participate in their government, who are working for change, to make life better for all.  Viva Ukraine. 

For more on the Holodomor see:
http://www.rferl.org/content/ukraine-holodomor-famine-survivors/25178009.html
http://news.yahoo.com/ukraine-marks-tragic-date-amid-setback-eu-hopes-151438925.html;_ylt=A2KLOzHdZpFSBDIAMMDQtDMD

Remembering the day Kennedy was shot: Stunned beyond belief

Public domain image

I was going up the stairs into the Student Union at the University of Wisconsin in Madison on November 22, 1963, sometime after 1:00, when a friend, a fellow graduate student, ran out yelling, "Kennedy's been shot, Kennedy's been shot."  I tried to ask him something, but he kept running, frantic, arms flailing, god knows where. I walked into the building and was met by total silence. Oddly quiet. Then I saw that everyone was in front of a small black and white television set.  They sat or stood without moving, frozen like statues, made of stone. Only the colors of a parka or jacket here and there dotted a  gray canvas. I stood in the doorway of the room, shocked.  Students and professors cried. I couldn't believe what I had heard, what I was seeing. No one said a word, everybody turned inward with shock, grief.  I turned to walk back to my apartment. I have no idea how I got there.

My mind would not allow the worst to sink in. He was shot, but maybe he'll survive it.  But by the time I got home, the sad, the unthinkable news was blazoned across the country, the newscasters in as much shock as their millions of viewers. President Kennedy was dead.  Six hours later,  his body lay in a casket on Air Force One, and Lyndon Johnson became president.  "Today I ask for your help, and God's," Johnson said.  That's when the news really sank in, and the tears came.   

We were glued to the TV set for days, barely taking a break to eat or drink.  The shocks just kept coming. We saw Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald, right in front of our eyes.  Did we really see what we just saw?  What could it mean? Who are these guys?

To this day, most of us who lived then have a hard time sorting out our feelings and all the theories about the assassination.  A single shooter, like the Warren Commission found, a crazy loser with a rifle? A CIA conspiracy?  A Mafia hit?  Hatred of the US,  by Cuba or Russia, or both?   It's continued like this for 50 years.  We may never  understand it or know the truth, but most of us would agree that it changed the trajectory of history.  It has also inspired almost as many studies, reports and books as the Civil War.  The search for answers continues.

President Obama said of Kennedy: "He captured the idealism of America."  Certainly Kennedy's youth and good looks, his vitality and intelligence, his smile and charisma, won us over, made it harder to digest his murder, to think his voice could be silenced, in a flash, in that awful way.  And why? For what reasons? What motive?

Kennedy's words lingered, linger still. His talk about a Peace Corps. His inaugural address. His speeches about civil rights.  Beautiful, graceful words. Literate, flowing, thoughtful, memorable.  Delivered with passion and compassion.  His words made such an impact on our spirit, on our dreams.

At a 50th anniversary memorial today in Dallas, historian David McCullough said it best: "Kennedy knew words mattered, and his words changed our lives, changed history."  With a salute to Ted Sorenson and all of Kennedy's speech writers, I would agree with that.  That may be, indeed, one of JFK's greatest legacies.

Tirana, Albania: Painting a Town

Tirana, Albania, refreshed with paint. yahoo images.

Meet Edi Rama, prime minister of Albania.  He changed his country's capital city of Tirana with paint.  He had the town painted red, literally, and orange, blue, purple, and yellow.  Maybe this could be a model for our own area!

Rama was interviewed recently on CNN to tell the story. He was Mayor of Tirana at the time and wanted to transform those gray, dilapidated, outdated Soviet buildings into brighter, safer places to live, to beautify the town, "to give people a sense or order, and hope."  (CNN story November 10, 2013).   His enthusiasm was contagious, and the people of Tirana started to participate. A new spirit was born. A new civic spirit. This is saying a lot in the former Soviet republics of Eastern Europe.

"Beauty is more intimidating than brutality," Rama said. He also had thousands of illegal buildings, "eyesores on the landscape," demolished. 

What a guy! Tall, handsome, an artist himself, a former basketball player, a painter and a politician, a Renaissance man. He believed that painting his town in every color of the artist's palette would bring changes in attitudes, in citizen participation, in hope for the future.  It was a start.

I can imagine this same approach in every city I ever visited in Ukraine, or anywhere else with an over-abundance of gray, dingy, depressing buildings. Heck, we have some buildings right here that would benefit from a new coat of paint.

In fact, this whole idea takes me back to when I was a young girl of nine or ten, wishing I could paint every gloomy house I saw with a bright color.  I would stop and look at the neglected houses as I walked to and from school.   I dreamt about it. I'd pick a house and pick a color, and it would linger in my mind. From sad to happy, from dumpy to pretty.  I had such a strong sense, somehow, that aesthetics mattered.

It certainly mattered to Tirana.  The paint jobs have beautified the landscape, cheered them up, like Lady Bird Johnson's daffodils on the hillsides of Rock Creek Parkway in Washington.   My dark images of Albania, the mysterious country behind the "iron curtain," have turned around.  

Sure lots more needs to be done in terms of long-term change, Rama said, especially in infrastructure, jobs, and economic opportunity.  Some of my Peace Corps friends would ask me if the dark, dank entryways to apartments are lit, if the lights work, the water is hot, and the elevators go up and down and stop at every floor.  I understand. I lived on the 9th floor of a gray Soviet apartment building in Chernigov, where the elevator was out most of the time.  How can I forget going up and down nine flights of stairs several times a day.

I think Kama understands the realiities, too. He's working on them. But change has to start somewhere.  Why not with a paint job!

"Hot Topics" at Lourdes Lifelong Leaning: The Supreme Court and Race

Loryn Clauson talks about the Constitution, the Supreme Court
 and Race at Lourdes Lifelong Learning Program. The tile (upper right)
leading to Franciscan Center honors "E Pluribus Unum."

The popular "Hot Topics" luncheon series at Lourdes University's Lifelong Learning program last week featured "The U.S. Constitution, the Supreme Court and Race." 

Loryn Clauson, who studies Constitutional Law, was the speaker.  She did a great job of presenting the key cases and making a complex subject understandable.  She began by reminding us that two current cases before the High Court demonstrate the ongoing relevance of this long legal tradition.  Schuette (Michigan's Attorney General) v. Coalition to Defend Affirmative Action, for example, is considering the constitutionality of a voter ban against affirmative action, and Shelby County v. Holder considered the constitutionality of parts of the Voting Rights Act.

Loryn took us through the history of Supreme Court cases dealing with race, including:
* Dred Scott, 1857, which said Slaves were not citizens and had no right to vote
* The 14TH amendment case that reversed Dred Scott and ruled Blacks were citizens.
* Plessy v. Ferguson, which sanctioned "Separate but Equal."
* Brown v. the Topeka (Kansas) Board of Education, which reversed Plessy and ruled that "separate was not equal."
* Allan Bakke vs. the Regents of the University of California, 1978,  a ruling on Affirmative Action and "reverse discrimination."

The social milieu of the times and the make up of the Court certainly have a lot to do with how the laws are interpreted.  A Roger Taney court, just before the Civil War, dominated by Southerners, interpreted the U.S. Constitution one way; the Warren Burger court, to which Thurgood Marshall, the first Black justice, was appointed, another; and the modern Court still another.  The Supreme Court, in other words, can both reflect the times and also help shape them. 

Rule of Law is a fundamental concept in our democracy, and it has served to anchor our society and provide stability. Not without controversy, of course, but with general public regard for the law and the "balance of power."  America is a "work in progress," and interpretations of the laws, debates about whether or not they are Constitutional, and our ever-changing climate of public opinion on any given issue overtime, reflect this.  The founding fathers, Loryn said, were aware of this, and created the third branch of government, the Judiciary, as a countervailing balance of powers with the Executive and Legislative branches.  They were also wise enough to leave the U.S. Constitution vague in some ways that were open to interpretation.

The Supreme Court, it seems, as staunchy as it might appear, will always be a "hot topic."
 

My Brother Loren: Courage and Hope

Loren's autobiography, front and back covers, designed by his niece Elissa,
my daughter, which came out in August 2010, three months after he died.
 The photo on back cover is our mom reading to Loren. Loren's book
has helped hundreds of readers understand Asperger's Syndrome.



I was pleased to learn that there is growing awareness and lots of services in the Toledo area for people of all ages with Asperger's Syndrome and autism.  This wasn't so when my brother Loren was growing up in the 1950s and 1960s.  How different it would have been if he had had early diagnosis and intervention in his life.  Instead, he coped on his own until he found his own way.  I write this blog in memory of my brother, and for all the Aspies out there who should never give up.

It's my brother Loren's birthday.  It's been three years since he took his last hike on the Aucilla River with the Florida Trail Association.  He would have been 66 years old today.  The good die young.

I lost my soulmate, the person who taught me about facing obstacles with courage and hope.  Loren faced his challenges head on, searching ceaselessly for meaning and purpose in his life.  He accepted his Asperger diagnosis, at age 55, with relief, relief that there was a name for the social challenges he had faced since birth.  Loren was an Aspie with purpose.

He taught me how to see life from a different angle. When I tried to go where he went, to see what he saw, to think as he thought, I was in a new and glorious realm of being.  Loren took me to places I had never been before, to new ways of seeing the world, the transcendent, eternity.

I was the historian but he was the genius who held a myriad of knowledge in his head, and shared it openly, freely; some said too openly and too freely.  Sometimes Loren would get so enthusiastic it was hard to stop him.  He didn't catch those subtle verbal cues and unspoken hints.  It was hard for him, and people got impatient, dismissed him, left him on the margins.  He knew it. He fought it.   
But what knowledge he had, about every subject imaginable! What an awesome cosmic perspective! How generous and compassionate his outreach and his volunteerism.   Sure he often went over the top. But he came to recognize it, to deal with it, to gain in those common social skills that most ordinary mortals learn early on.

But he wouldn't have been Loren if he had been ordinary.  Loren was extraordinary.  He was passionate about life. And the kindest person I ever met.



It's what I loved about him.  It's what I can never replace, what I miss.  How I wish I could believe he's in a better place. "There are no ends in nature, only beginnings," he would say.  My friend Doris believes it.  She said, when I visited her in California a month ago, "I feel his ongoing sprit from another dimension.  He's cheering you on, Fran, as you continue your life's work." 






Loren's memorial bench, in northern Florida.

Some Asperger services in Toledo area: 

http://localmarket.autismsupportnetwork.com
http://support.autism-society.org
http://www.bittersweetfarms.org
Loren's books is available if you email me at fcurrocary@yahoo.com







Remembering Peace Corps Service on Veterans Day



Service to country.  It's what the Peace Corps is all about.  It's a commitment to representing America abroad, building grassroots friendships and cross-cultural understanding. So on this Veteran's Day 2013, I hope Americans will recognize Peace Corps along with our brave soldiers, veterans, and all those who have served and still serve abroad.
 

English Club, Starobelsk Public Library, 2009-11.
"We are the World!"

My Ukrainian friend Olga emailed me that she walked to the Starobelsk Public Library the other day and went into the grand reading room where we had held our English Club.  It is now the "Computer Room,' she said, thanks to the dedicated work we did to make it happen, including three grants to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation.  

The Foundation had a project, the Bibliomist project, whose goal was to computerize libraries in Ukraine.  This certainly addressed a real need in Starobelsk.  We jumped  on it.  After going through many hoops and many tries, "the little library that could" in far-eastern Ukraine got ten computers, wifi, and free ublic access to incredible online resources and services.   

So Olga watched the people at the computers and talked with the librarians.  It was nice news.

Добрый день, дорогая Френ! Я заходила в библиотеку. В большом зале стоят компьютеры. Зал полон людей- студентов и школьников за компьютерами. Все сотрудники передают вам огромный привет. Только при упоминании о вашем имени все улыбались. Вы сделали большое дело. Оставили яркий и незабываемый след  Спасибо вам за ваш труд. Здоровья вам и удачи! Мы вас любим!

 Loosely translated Olga said: Good day, dear Fran! I came to the library and went into the great hall with the computers. The room was full of people, students and school children at the computers. All employees send you a huge hello. Just the mention of your name brought smiles to all!  You left an indelible mark. We all thank you for your hard work. We wish you health and good luck. We love you!

It’s the best news a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer (RPCV) can get, to know that their work with their community made a difference, created friendships, and opened up a window of hope.   Over 200,000 American citizens who  have volunteered with the Peace Corps in over 200 countries around the globe can say the same thing. 

Today, America needs to remember the 8,073 volunteers who are now serving in 76 countries.   They are grassroots ambassadors empowering local people to take charge of their futures.  They lay the foundations for peace from the bottom up. 

    

      

Modern Japanese Prints and Old Friends Meet at the Toledo Museum of Art

TMA's Monroe Street entrance features the gate sculpted by Louise Nevelson.
Entrance to Modern Japanese Prints above it,
contemporary paintings and sculptures around it.



The Toledo Museum of Art (TMA) is not only full of beautiful art of every medium, variety, and era, it is also a great meeting place.  I went with my friend Teddy to see the modern Japanese woodblock exhibit "Fresh Impressions," which was lovely, and it turned into "old home week."  We bumped into several friends, including three friends who had also lived in the Old West End (OWE) in the 1970s and 80s. We had raised our children in the Victorian neighborhood and, now grown, they are friends to this day; many of them share an OWE facebook page, chatting frequently from all around the world.  It's a special bond.  We parents have it, too.

Since coming back to Toledo in 2011, I am gradually connecting with dear friends I haven't seen since I left in 1985. What better place to meet than at the TMA,  surrounded by beauty, soft jazz playing in the gift shop, great food and camaraderie in the café. We had once shared so many things, including a love of art and music, the varied architecture of our neighborhood and the distinctive personalities of our neighbors, the goal of preservation and restoration, the talent and creativity that abounded, ideas about gardening and plants, and some progressive politics. 

Here we are, I thought, almost thirty years later, older, wiser perhaps, lots of different experiences under our belts. So much to talk about, so much catching up to do.  

We chatted about the exhibit, about the art, craft and techniques of woodblock prints, the subjects and bold colors of the modern prints, as well as the artifacts on display around them. We all enjoyed the prints of women in various dress and attitude, the kabuki actors, and the scenes of Mount Fuji, cherry trees and other familiar landscapes.

The prints taken together compose what's called the Shin Hanga movement, which revived the well-known Edo printmaking tradition (1615-1862), but with a modern perspective.  Shin hanga prints, created mostly between 1919 and the 1940s, appealed as much to new markets in Europe and America as to Japanese collectors, the exhibit brochure tells us.

The amazing thing is that the ten artists featured in this show were first exhibited at the TMA in 1930.  Imagine!  An exhibit called "Modern Japanese Prints" in 1930!  These same artists, the brochure notes, "continue to be the most revered artists of the shin hanga movement."

How extraordinary, given those decades of world-wide change, depression, and chaos--the volatile mixture that accompanied the rise of a vicious nationalism and finally erupted into another world war. I think it's a wonder the shin hanga movement existed at all, and especially through World War II and its devastating aftermath.  

Art soars above bleak landscapes and human violence, I thought.  The Shin hanga movement exemplifies this, as well as art's power to draw in like-minded spirits and to bring together friends. We friends didn't have a lot more time to talk, but we agreed we'd get together again soon and take up where we left off, maybe back at the Toledo Museum of Art in the Old West End, our common ground.
 

Exposing the Culture of Secrecy

A culture of secrecy has taken over America. 

I think Julian Assange, Wikileaks, Ed Snowden will go down in history as speaking truth to power, as pioneers in exposing government cyper-surveillance excesses and lack of transparency, and in seeking to protect our first amendment right to free speech.  The whistle-blowers, in the tradition of Daniel Ellsburg and the Pentagon Papers, are blasting the culture of secrecy that enables the expansion and abuse of power.

It's not pretty. It's messy. It's not the best way to do it.  But is there another way to expose  the breadth and depth of these excesses?  I really would like some answers to this question.  How?  How, when we see the ways in which the US government has reacted to exposure, how defensive its responses, how overzealous its efforts to charge espionage, viciously pursue, capture, and imprison leakers like Snowden. 

I don't necessarily like these guys or the way they go about their work, but I dislike the secrets, lies, and over-the-top spying even more. There have to be boundaries. 

The Obama administration has dusted off the old Espionage Act of 1917, enacted during World War I and noted for its questionable constitutionality, and used it to go after the leakers.  This nasty undemocratic act enabled jailing anyone with a German surname, imprisoning reformers like Eugene V.Debs, deporting Emma Goldman, interring Japanese Americans, and charging Daniel Ellsberg with fraud for releasing the Pentagon Papers.

This act, amended a few times, is now embedded and enshrouded in all of the anti-terrorism legislation passed since 9/11.  The Secret State has burgeoned. 

Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan in the 1990s denounced the "culture of secrecy" made possible by the 1917 Act, noting the tendency of bureaucracies "to enlarge their powers by increasing the scope of what is held secret." (Wikipedia article on the Espionage Act).

"Increasing the scope of what is held secret."  This is the heart of the matter.  Why kill the messengers? Who else will speak truth to power?

Halloween Tales

"He's a lion not a tiger, Nana."  That's Josh, with the Uncle Sam hat.

 Oops, here's the revised tale! 

It was Halloween night, Sylvania 2013, and the little lion--tail wagging, ears perky, whiskers alert--walked through the woods to grandma's house.  Along the winding path he met a . . . .Santa Claus? 

Wait, where's the big bad wolf?  "No big bad wolves in this forest, Nana," grandson Kyle grinned.  "Just me and a friendly lion, and that would be my brother Chase.  He's harmless."

"Well, I like that story better," I replied.  "But Santa, you're a little early this year!"

"Yep, I'm getting ready.  This time I'm getting the candy, though!"

"Good idea.  And instead of reindeer, you have a happy lion to go along with you."

"I'd bring Rudolph if I could.  Oh wait, next year that's what I'll be!"

"Great idea," I yelled after him, as their mom took Santa and the courageous lion into the dark night with other goblins. The light from smiling or frowning or fierce pumpkins lit the way.

The ghosts howled and laughed. 

What memories these times create!

I remember the time we were in Rochester for my Dad's funeral. No costumes? No problem! My kids and my sister's kids dressed up in my mom's clothes and shoes, adding as much jewelry and make-up as they could. What a group!  My brother Loren took them tricks or treating that year.  As sad as we were, we knew my Dad would have wanted it this way.  "Life goes on."

My mom remembered a Halloween when she took my brother tricks or treating. My sister and I, so much older than Loren, went our own ways.  We lived in Rochester, NY.  Loren was a few years younger than my grandson is now, about 8 or 9, dressed as a soldier, helmet on, gun at the ready.  My mom, as creative and clever as ever, dressed up as a flapper.  She remembered it this way:

Armed and Unarmed
byRoseLynn Curro

It is dark, crispy cold
A silence fill the trees.
Soft sounds, faint lights
and smell of burning leaves.
Suddenly,
war hoop cries and
bands of ghosts appear.
Howl, howl
Tricks or treats!
They charge, attack and disappear....
Hurry, hurry time to go,
The conquerors' battle won. 
Tired flapper, weary soldier,
the ghosts all had their fun.
Deep the night, frosty cold,
My soldier leaves his gun.
Welcome sleep, contented smile.
I'm his mother, he's my son.

Secrets have Weight

yahoo public domain image

"Secrets have weight." It's a line from a TV show I flashed by on the way to the final world series game that the Red Sox won. That thought has stayed with me, for lots of reasons, personal, political, and cosmic. 

I think of secrets I have kept, usually to no good purpose.  I think of secrets others have had, ranging from silly rumors to blindsiding kinds of secrets, relentless, hateful.  Dirty little secrets, dirty little lies, like in the John Mellencamp song "Dirty Laundry."  I think what goes round, comes round.

On the political front, I think about our NSA cyper surveillance crisis and Obama's role in it. What does he know and how long has he known it?

It's a Catch 22 in any case.  If he knew about it, the unlimited scope of it, approved and condoned it, it's outrageous, possibly illegal.  If he didn't know about it, it's outrageous. 

Secrets have weight.  Either he approved the NSA cyper spying that includes spying on allies and millions of personal phone calls in cahoots with giant communication companies, or he didn't know because NSA is running its own out-of-bounds spy operations, a secret government doing its own thing, without a transparent chain of command, without oversight or accountability.  No doubt America has superior capability in electronic spying.  Some of it might be necessary, although a definition here, some criteria, some legal parameters that were public knowledge, would be helpful, and are warranted. It's the excess that worries.

Secrets have weight.  While we were tapping German president Merkel's private phone, her calls and texts, and those of other close allies, the Ambasador to Libya, Christopher Stevens, was killed in Benghazi in a secret terrorists attack on the US Embassy. Three other Embassy workers were also killed.  Where was the "surveillance" on this?  I don't want to jump on any political bandwagon here, but do we know all we need to know?  The juxtaposition is tragic.

On the cosmic front, I think of those more than 350 drone attacks in northwestern Pakistan. Cosmic because it involves the deaths of innocent victims.  I'm wondering about Obama's love of drones and the bombing of little villages like Warikistan, where terrorists are said to hang out.  How many terrorists have we gotten for all these secret attacks? We don't know.  We don't know much if anything about this secret little war. But we are now learning that hundreds of civilians have been killed, and that the attacks are probably creating a whole new cadre of terrorists who hate America and want revenge.   Does this kind of secret war make sense?

Secrets have weight, and these secrets are boding ill for Obama's contemporary role in peace-making and his place in history. They are contravening his goals and his promises. They are weighing him down.  We had hoped for so much more in his second term.    

Naomi Shihab Nye: Poet Without Boundaries

 

Nye at a book signing. Yahoo photo. 

Poetry soothes the soul. So I was glad that my cousin Kathy Curro, who led me to Mary Oliver when I lived in Ukraine, led me to another poet. Oliver remains one of my favorite poets, along with the likes of Irish poet Seamus Heaney, who died a few months ago and whose poems, transcendent and profound, I've been reading. Dig deep, and Heaney will be there.   

Now I am reading Naomi Shihab Nye, thanks to Kathy.  Nye is a Palestinian-American born in the US in 1952.  As a child, she spent some time with a grandmother in Palestine, her father's mother, an experience that infuses her writing. "She waits by the oven watching a strange car circle the streets. Maybe it holds her son, lost to America."  The lost son, Nye's father, tells his daughter who he is, that his name, "Shihab," means shooting star, "a good name, borrowed from the sky," she says in the poem "Blood." 

Nye has lived in San Antonio, Texas, for a long time and calls it home.  She's published dozens of books of poetry for adults and children, novels and songs.

Her sensibilities are international, transnational, tuned into identity and awareness of self and others. 

 

Poetry teaches with words strung together like pearls.  Nye's poetry is like that, necklaces of beauty that accessorize  our ordinary lives.

In Words Under the Words (1995), a compilation of her poems, she writes about her heritage, the American southwest, her travels all over the world. I like the poems about her father, and those in which she remembers her Palestinian grandmother, watching her bake bread, doing the tasks of daily living, praying to Allah.  "My grandmother's voice says nothing can surprise her." 

I also like her poems about hope and meaning, like the poem "Kindness," which Kathy pointed out. We've all experienced sorrow and kindness, and we know in our gut that kindness can keep us going when nothing else will do. Kindness has provided comfort since my brother's sudden death. Nye helps us understand. 

Nye's poems are evocative.  I feel the words at times, the emotions that flow around the words, "the words under the words."  

Words Under the Words

for Sitti Khadra, north of Jerusalem

My grandmother’s hands recognize grapes,   

the damp shine of a goat’s new skin.   

When I was sick they followed me,

I woke from the long fever to find them   

covering my head like cool prayers.

My grandmother’s days are made of bread,   

a round pat-pat and the slow baking.

She waits by the oven watching a strange car   

circle the streets. Maybe it holds her son,   

lost to America. More often, tourists,   

who kneel and weep at mysterious shrines.   

She knows how often mail arrives,

how rarely there is a letter.

When one comes, she announces it, a miracle,   

listening to it read again and again

in the dim evening light.

 

My grandmother’s voice says nothing can surprise her.

Take her the shotgun wound and the crippled baby.   

She knows the spaces we travel through,   

the messages we cannot send—our voices are short   

and would get lost on the journey.

Farewell to the husband’s coat,

the ones she has loved and nourished,

who fly from her like seeds into a deep sky.   

They will plant themselves. We will all die.

 

My grandmother’s eyes say Allah is everywhere, even in death.   

When she talks of the orchard and the new olive press,   

when she tells the stories of Joha and his foolish wisdoms,   

He is her first thought, what she really thinks of is His name.

“Answer, if you hear the words under the words—

otherwise it is just a world with a lot of rough edges,   

difficult to get through, and our pockets full of stones.” 

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Words Under the Words: Selected Poems (Portland, Oregon: Far Corner Books, 1995). Copyright © 1995 by Naomi Shihab Nye. Reprinted with the permission of the author.

Kindness Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever. Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness, you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive. Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.  You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to mail letters and      purchase bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say it is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you every where like a shadow or a friend.