Happy New Year and Happy Birthday Ruth

Ruth Ingeborg Alexander was born January 1, 1900. Every year on New Year's Eve I light a candle in her memory. I buy a yartzeit candle at the grocery store. It burns for many hours. It is customary to light this type of candle on the anniversary of a family member's death, but I am ever so thankful that Ruth was born to live on this planet, and I don't know much about nor care for religious traditions, and I never remember the exact date that she died. I prefer to light a candle for Ruth on the day of her birth.

Ruth came to take care of me and my four siblings when I was six weeks old. She was fifty. She told me she lied when my parents asked her if she had experience with children. She wanted that baby. That baby wanted her.

I wasn't with her when she had cancer and died. I didn't get to hold her hand, or rub her back, or stir ice cream until it was soft for her to eat. I just know that when I tried to call her to let her know I'd be coming to visit, her phone was no longer connected. Several days of calling government offices in Sweden led me to a women in a tax office who was willing to try to find her. And then the last time I called, the middle of the night for me, 9 AM in Sweden, "Miss Shapiro, I'm so sorry to have to tell you. Ruth Ingeborg Alexander, born January 1, 1900, is no longer alive.

I've lit a lot of candles for Ruth over the years, I estimate around 25. No reason to stop now. In fact, as I see it, every reason to continue.

Happy Birthday Ruth. Happy New Year to all.

The January Sun is Out

I said I'd post a reminder and I meant it. The January issue of The Sun is available on-line. If you subscribed to the magazine you'd already have your copy. I recommend it.

Museum of Bad Art or I don't know if it's good but I know what I like

With school out and lots of folks on vacation it's a great time to visit museums. If you're in D.C., there is an Annie Liebowitz exhibit at the Corcoran. The National Gallery, diverse and wonderful, until tomorrow has The Art of the American Snapshot, 1888–1978: From the Collection of Robert E. Jackson. Can't make it? You can go on-line and look through the catalog that they so graciously post. In New York, my first choice is the Whitney and of course, there's always MOMA.

My personal favorite, however, is MOBA, The Museum of Bad Art in Dedham, Massachusetts, motto "Art too bad to be ignored". According to the website "Since 1994, the Museum of Bad Art has been dedicated to bad art. It is only through the efforts of the worldwide Friends of MOBA that we have been able to carry out our mission: to bring the worst of art to the widest of audiences" The collection is on-line.

This is truly the best, bad, laugh-out-loud art you'll ever see.

IMHO, New Year's Day richer in symbolism

Depart Cleveland, travel east to New York. In Washington Heights, traditions of Japan are alive on New Years. The New York Times follows Mariko Hashimoto as she and her friends prepare to celebrate the New Year in New York with foods rich in symbolism.

Got your New Year's Eve plans? or A day "rich" in symbolism?

This uniquely Cleveland New Year's Eve Party has become a tradition. Guests bring an "old or useless" appliance to toss off the balcony at midnight onto a useless vehicle.

Huh?

Avery needed to e-mail her mother

Avery called to tell me she wanted to e-mail her mother tonight, her mother who died a couple of months ago. I told her I understood. I thought she should go ahead and e-mail her anyhow. I wanted to call my mother to wish her Merry Christmas but she's dead too.

After Dianne died I used to call her phone to listen to her voice on the answering machine. It felt weird, engaging in a covert act, but I did it. I called her phone more than once. More than twice. When her son, my nephew, changed the message I felt relieved and lost.

I called my sister on Christmas. I'm thankful she's alive. I promised I'd e-mail her. I told her I loved her.


I needed to talk to my sister..." by Grace Paley
~
I needed to talk to my sister
talk to her on the telephone I mean
just as I used to every morning
in the evening too whenever the
grandchildren said a sentence that
clasped both our hearts

I called her phone rang four times
you can imagine my breath stopped then
there was a terrible telephonic noise
a voice said this number is no
longer in use how wonderful I
thought I can
call again they have not yet assigned
her number to another person despite
two years of absence due to death

"I needed to talk to my sister..." by Grace Paley, from Fidelity. © Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008.

The Writer's Almanac has a way with poetry

Jeopardy

Sometimes when I phoned
my mother back in Tulsa, she would
say, "Hold on a minute, Ron, let me
turn this thing down," the thing
her TV, and she would look
around for the remote and then fumble
with its little buttons as an irritation
mounted in me and an impatience
and I felt like blurting out "You watch TV
too much and it's too loud and why
don't you go outside" because I was
unable to face my dread of her aging
and my heart made cold toward her
by loving her though not wanting to give up
my life and live near her so she
could see me every day and not
just hear me, which is why she
turned the TV down and said,
"Okay, that's better," then sometimes
launched into a detailed account
of whatever awful show she was watching.

Poem: "Jeopardy" by Ron Padgett, from How to Be Perfect © Coffee House Press, 2007.

Poem or Merry South Park Christmas to All

Brothers Playing Catch on Christmas Day
by Gary Short

Only a little light remains.
The new football feels heavy
and our throws are awkward
like the conversation of brothers
who see each other occasionally.
After a few exchanges,
confidence grows,
the passing and catching
feels natural and good.
Gradually, we move farther apart,
out in the field,
the space between us
filling with darkness.

He leads me,
lofting perfect spirals
into the night. My eyes
find the clean white laces of the ball.
I let fly a deep pass
to his silhouette.
The return throw
cannot be seen,
yet the ball
falls into my hands, as if
we have established a code
that only brothers know.

From The Writer's Almanac

Or . . .

This clip, in which Mr. Garrison gives the kids a Christmas lesson, was amongst even more irreverent holiday videos at Woodies Guthrie's Guitar. Reminds me a bit of W.The original disappeared. This is a replacement. Sorry you don't get to see Mr. Garrison.

Maybe you gotta be a South Park fan. I dunno, cuz I am.

Merry Christmas

Christmas Eve on Mars

Take a look at the Red Planet tonight. According to Astronomy, Mars won't be this big and bright again until 2016.

I hope I get this for Christmas too

This is what I want for Christmas

Blogosphere-romping or No, there's nothing more important I should be doing with my time

Bill Thomas at Changing Aging recently mentioned Cab Drollery, a site that I love to visit - Blogging Eloquence.

From there I happened upon the blogs of one Woody (Tokin' Lib'rul/Rogue Scholar & O'erall Helluvafella!) and his blog Woodie Guthrie's Guitar - My kids are always showing me amusing clips from youtube and once in a while I happen upon one myself, but in Woodie, I feel like I've found my own personal youtube shopper. Check it out.

Among other things Woodie says,"While it is useful and good to imagine Utopias, it is VITAL to recognize Dystopias, that we might resist them should they threaten us."

He has two other blogs - Walled-in Pond and the well-armed lamb which begins with the following quote, for me, worth the price of admission - "Democracy is two wolves and a lamb voting on what to have for dinner. Liberty is a well-armed lamb contesting the vote." --Benjamin Franklin

Sixties Irreverent Eloquence. Romp if you like.

I was being facetious when I said there's nothing more important that I should be doing with my time. But, when I really think about it, maybe there isn't.

Watermelon Love or Why I think Chris is a genius

Chris was talking about love and evolution (and religion and science, but never mind that) and she said, and I don’t quote her exactly, but here’s what I heard – The watermelon is the ultimate example of love and its role in survival of the species. Just look at the immensity of the flesh and protective skin that it develops to house, shelter and nurture its seeds.

Chris often speaks in metaphors. Discussing an affair that led to the end of a marriage, I said the woman involved was a catalyst. She said she was a can opener. A can opener!

I'm thinking of starting Metaphor-of-the-Day. I’ll have a conversation with Chris, make a note of whatever metaphor pops up, and send it on to avid subscribers -a cross between dictionary.com's daily word and Elder’s Meditation of the Day . This Native American meditation is sent by White Bison, an organization dedicated to helping Native Americans achieve wellbriety. Good stuff, and come to think of it, worthy of being noted somewhere less frivolous than with what follows.

Avery and I had a business idea several years ago and it appears that it's finally coming to fruition. Thing-of-the-Month Club. For a fee, we’ll mail an object to your designated recipient each month.

Let’s say it’s secret Santa time at the office and you pick the office mate who is practically a stranger. You’re at a loss for what to give them, but you have noticed that they keep a lovely selection of paper clips on their desk. We live to serve. For a nominal charge, each month we’ll mail them a new, different and exciting paper clip. Got a friend who’s into making rubber band balls? Every month they’ll receive a new rubber band. Don't know what to give that aunt who's always losing her pencil? You get the idea.

And for Valentine’s Day, for the ultimate expression of your love all the year ‘round, we’ll send a watermelon seed.

The Sun or Read this Post First

The January issue of The Sun showed up in the mail yesterday. I've had the privilege of reading The Sun for many years and given subscriptions to it as gifts numerous times. If you only follow the link on one post on this blog, I highly recommend that this be it. The links on The Sun website are wonderful, leading to all kinds of compelling places. The articles, stories, essays, photos and poems in the magazine are always likely to engage. You can use the Readers Write section as a thought-provoking once-a-month writing assignment.

The January issue isn't posted yet on the web. I like the January issue. I'll post a reminder to go see it when it's available.

Quite a testimonial, huh?

What I learned riding in the car with Julia after picking her up at the airport

1. The Tooth Fairy Museum is located in Deerfield, Illinois.

2. Some people think that calling rainbow sprinkles rainbow sprinkles and brown sprinkles jimmies had racist origins, referring to Jim Crow laws.

3. The conservative corollary to Wikipedia is Conservapedia, motto The Trustworthy Encyclopedia. Huh?

A Different Story of Stuff

An on-line publication of the Worldwatch Institute. As long as you're gonna buy stuff, may as well pick out the least offensive stuff to buy.

Yesterday as I was feeling like things were out of whack, I figured I'd best self-medicate with chocolate and coffee. Kristara got me a yummy mocha at Starbucks, made with soy milk, since she's decided we're vegans this week. Then I checked out the section in this guide on chocolate and coffee and, low and behold, I pass with flying colors on my chocolate purchases. As for going to Starbucks for that mocha . . .

Why do Republicans hate puppies? on Salon.com

I guess I'm feeling like stuff is really out of whack today.

A Meandering Rant or The Tips of My Icebergs

Those who know me have heard my mini rants, when I climb up on my soapbox and give speeches, tiny tirades. My kids know when to duck, turn up their I-Pods, roll their eyes, walk away. Chris calls me a zealot, a food Nazi, an ascetic. It’s easy to tune me out. You can stop reading. I’ll write on. When my children were little one didn’t dare mention the educational system to me. I’d go on about kids who were put in day care at age two in order to get in the right private school at age five so they could get into an exclusive high school so they could go to an elite college so they could . . . I don’t know what, be more accomplished, richer, happier than their parents? Interesting formula. Then I’d be asked about home schooling. What's magical about age five to hand my child over to the government, I'd say. What about socialization? they'd ask. Is institutionalization equated with socialization? I’d ask in return. Should an energetic six-year-old forced to sit still at a desk for hours on end be diagnosed as hyperactively disordered and put on medication? I‘d be off and running. Just the tip of the iceberg.

Have you read The Omnivore’s Dilemma by Michael Pollan? He’s a thoughtful and amazing writer. As a result of this read, my rant about the algae bloom in the Gulf of Mexico the size of New Jersey due to the ever-increasing growth of corn and use of chemicals and pesticides that devastates want once was farmland in this country, is always on the tip of my tongue.

Before reading Michael Pollan, how would I have known that cows are not designed to be fed corn. In “Grass-Fed or Grain?” Marion Burrows refers to other-than-grass-feeding of cows as “conventional”. Conventional? How exactly do we define convention? If barbaric behavior becomes normalized, how long must it teeter on the edge of conventional before becoming acceptable?

I remember standing in the grocery store with Julia staring at the beef display weeping. Someone at home wanted us to get steaks. I asked the butcher if there was any non-antibiotic-laden, grass-fed, organic beef. “Not here, Ma’am.” Julia dialed home, “Sorry, no can do about those steaks. Ma’s crying.”

Of course, Julia knows the scene well. She was the one weeping on Thanksgiving Eve a few years back when I got hit with a bout of nostalgia and loss and wanted to recreate my childhood with a “traditional” Thanksgiving dinner. I dumped a turkey in the cart. Julia pushed her finger into the thick plastic that encased the turkey, watching pinkish blood ooze about. She cried. So much for the return to my youth. Her childhood tradition would prevail. Off to the Indian restaurant again for us.

Jerzy hates it when I read the ingredients on stuff she eats -“Don’t say a word. No comments. I don’t want to hear it.” For a while she’d say, “High fructose corn syrup. Oh the horror!”, then defiantly gulp with gusto. I'm convinced that Kristara brings CoolWhip into the house just to gall me. While watching the movie Super Size Me, Jerzy craved McDonald’s snacks. Something tells me my technique of persuasion is somewhat lacking.

And now my problem is pigs. When Jerzy was little and wanted a hot dog I'd be sure to point out that it was made of dead pigs, adding the notion of snouts and tails. But my concern was nitrites, not the abuse that the pigs suffered when alive. I didn't give much thought to the plight of pigs until reading an Op-Ed piece in The New York Times, March 14, 2007 Pig Out, by Nicolette Hahn Niman, about the horrendous, extraordinarily barbaric ways in which pigs are raised in large “farms” in this country, packed in "like cattle", standing in their own excrement. The "other white meat" indeed.

Grrrrr. Mini tirades. The tips of my icebergs.

And speaking of icebergs, how much longer will they exist?

Physics is Fun and Free

If you're like me and The New York Times is your homepage, and if, like I do, you check out the most popular articles first, then you've already seen this one about Walter H. G. Lewin, internet Physics star. (When the The New Yorker shows up each week, do you read the cartoons and any article by David Sedaris right away, kind of like eating dessert first, lest you run out of time for the rest of the meal? Me too.)

I was never much of a Physics student. Although it might have been entertaining to contemplate the cockroach traveling on the edge of a record at 33 1/3 RPMs, calculating its rotational velocity was another matter altogether.

Apparently Professor Lewin makes Physics fascinating, understandable, engaging, beautiful. MIT makes it available to all of us for free online, along with bunches of other courses at OpenCourseWare . Sheer unadulterated enjoyment of learning.

And at the risk of being called ageist, I'd like to point out that Dr. Lewin is 71.

Family Business

Speaking of fathers, I am reminded of the book Julia gave me a couple of years ago - part of Mitch Epstein's film and photographic project, Family Business. In the aftermath of a devastating fire that would cause the demise of his father's business and economic security, Epstein returned to his childhood town, Holyoke, Massachusetts with his journal and cameras and an apparent desire/need to document and understand.

I marvel at Julia's ability to find this book for me. I am in awe of Mitch Eptein's ability to produce it.