J'adore l'été

Summertime, and the living is easy...
Summertime and the living is good!


Here are a few reasons I love summer.  

• Bike riding.
• Despite being perpetually cold most of the year, even I don't need a jacket (except in movie theaters!).
• Lingering on the deck for a second cup of coffee before work.
• Fresh herbs from my backyard garden.
• Saginaw's Lawnchair Film festival, especially when accompanied by a Mudslide from the Redeye.
• Homemade fresh berry sorbet right out of the ice-cream freezer.
• Chilled sauvignon blanc in the sweet fresh air of a cool Michigan evening.
• Finding the neighbors outside and taking time to chat with them while walking the doggie.
• The dappled sunlight through my red maple tree right outside my study window.
• The summer plumage of the goldfinches and house finches that frequent my thistle feeder.
• Flowers EVERYWHERE.  
• Fireworks on Ojibway Island.
• Fresh corn,tomatoes, and other veggies from Hemmeter Market.

Tonight's dinner before it got turned into grilled veggie kabobs!

Ah yes, summertime. Very good indeed.

Today, I am grateful for the warmth and bounty of summer.  

Minty mint-tea

The fresh mint is growing well in my herb garden and I decided to make a cup of mint tea, like the kind we drank in Morocco earlier this summer.  It is made from black tea and fresh mint leaves, and it is always generously sweetened.  I’m sipping it now- minty, sweet, tea-ey goodness.  We were only in Morocco for 2 days, but the place, as well as the tea has made a lasting impression.  That tea was our first greeting in the Riad Princesse Jamila, a sort of bed and breakfast where we stayed in Marrakech.

Morocco was the first place we have visited as a family where signage does not use the Roman alphabet. Traveling through Europe we have always been able to find our way around because even if we don’t know the language well, there are enough related words that we can usually figure things out.   Clearly, Morocco, where the primary language is Arabic, would be a different story.

Al had made pre-paid arrangements with the Riad staff to meet us at the airport and take us to the hotel.  As we emerged from passport control at about midnight, we saw a guy holding a sign that said, “Riad Princesse Jamila” so we figured we were all set.  Our driver, who spoke no English and not much French, put our bags in his car and we set off for the hotel.  Of course, it was dark, and as we entered the old part of the city, we found ourselves in a labyrinth of dark narrow streets, shared by scooters, bicycles, pedestrians, and cars.  Lane lines were mere suggestions and traffic seemed to flow according to constant  non-verbal communication between drivers. Our driver calmly navigated the maze until he could go no further.  He stopped abruptly, took our bags out of the van and drove away.  We looked around and saw nothing that looked like a hotel, a bed and breakfast, or any type of lodging. What we did see was a parking lot, a few small stores still open, and numerous small groups of men playing games and talking.  

Suddenly, a young man said “Riad Princesse Jamila?” He beckoned for us to follow.  Al and I looked at each other, uneasy about following this unsolicited stranger through the dark and spooky streets.  However, we really had no choice. We would not find the Riad alone, that much was clear.  So, the four of us, each dragging a suitcase, followed him on foot as he led us deeper into the jumble of ever darker and ever narrower streets.  We had no idea where he was leading us; certainly the surroundings did not give us any reason to suspect we were getting nearer to our hotel.  Our imaginations began to stir with the knowledge that not everyone likes American tourists and that we were pretty vulnerable.  Still, we had to trust him- there was simply no other way that we could find our way through or back out of the confusing web of narrow dimly lit passages.

This is a daytime photo of the narrow passageways near our hotel.  You can imagine how much darker it was at midnight!

The stranger stopped walking at what initially appeared to be a dead end, but then he pointed to a rounded door to our left.  In the dim light offered by a small sconce, we could read the words  “Riad Princesse Jamila” over the doorway.

The Entry way to our Hotel in broad daylight.   

 He rang the bell and a young woman in traditional Moroccan dress answered the door.  “Welcome,” she said, “Come in.”  She led us to an atrium area and motioned for us to sit down.  “Would you like a cup of tea?”  Meanwhile another young woman appeared and with the help of our guide took our bags and disappeared. We assumed and hoped that they had brought our bags to our rooms.  A few minutes later, they  reappeared  and stood watching us as we awaited our tea.  Finally the woman said, “Would you like to pay him?” We gave our helpful stranger a nice tip, he smiled, nodded,  and left.  It was our first exercise in trust in a land that seemed both exotic and dangerous, but turned out to be warm and friendly, as well as very tip oriented!

Behind that little door lies a beautiful atrium, the site of several cups of mint tea!

Zara, the proprietress of the Riad, emerged from the kitchen with a silver tray with a silver tea pot and a four small tea glasses.  Using silver tongs, she placed a sugar cube in each glass and filled each with the hot and delicious mint tea that we have come to love.  Our first taste of Morocco!

Today I am grateful for safe travels, warm hospitality and delicious tea.  And yes, our bags were in our room, the candles were lit, and we settled in for a good nights rest.

The Ancestor Project

We landed in Beijing at about midnight local time and boarded a bus for the hotel.  By the time we were all checked into our rooms, it was probably 1:30 in the morning.  I had awakened in Michigan nearly 30 hours earlier and although I had managed to sleep a few hours on the plane, I expected to crash for a good rest at the hotel.  To my surprise, I woke up with the sun, bright and early.   I tried to get more rest, but there was no more rest to be had, so I got up and decided to go for a walk before breakfast. 

I had absolutely no idea where our Beijing hotel was in relation to anything else.  I had no map.  I can read no Chinese.  I knew I needed to be back at the hotel by 8:30 a.m. because my travel group would then board a bus bound for  the Great Wall and would not be returning to the hotel.  Ever.  Missing the bus seemed ill-advised; getting lost seemed likely.  But once outside, I realized that our hotel was on a main street and I figured that if I didn’t make any turns, I couldn’t go too far astray.  

Soon, I came upon this sign pointing towards Tian’anmen Square, only 3 km away.  That seemed like a good destination, so I watched for additional signs.  I never saw another but after what seemed like 3 km, I saw a walled area across the street, which I guessed might be the place.  I crossed the street turned down a side street.  Suddenly, I was in a different world. 

Modern Beijing

The very modern glass,brick, and steel buildings of the eight-lane main street gave way to small shops and green spaces. 

Side street

Canal  one block off the main highway. 

An area of small and modest residences was to my right.  

Residential area

I figured the square had to be to my left so I looked for an entrance.    I found a little gate and proceeded through.  I was stopped by a young man who simply said, “Ticket.”  He pointed to a makeshift kiosk so I went over and the woman there said “2 Yuan.”  That is about 35 or 40 cents, so I assumed that I misheard.  “2?” I asked?  “2” she said holding up 2 fingers.  So I paid the rather modest fee and went inside.

I was suddenly in a park that was so quiet that I could hear my footsteps as I walked.  The acoustics were very strange and echo-y.  I could hear the footsteps of the one other person in the garden, probably 100 yards away.  The silence was almost deafening.   I explored the garden and soon stepped over a high threshold in an opening in a red wall to find myself among yellow-roofed temples. I was excited because I knew that yellow was the imperial color, so I thought I must be in an important place.

The largest structure was marked “Hall for Worship of Ancestors.”   Completely by chance, I had stumbled into a public park called The Working People’s Cultural Palace that includes the Imperial Ancestral Temple and associated buildings.  The Ancestral Temple is thought to be one of the most sacred buildings in Beijing.  The whole area was part of the old imperial city and it turns out that I was very near the Forbidden City itself, and just a  little east of Tian’anmen Square. I couldn't have gotten into either the Forbidden City or Tain’anmen Square, but I had the Imperial Ancestral Temple almost to myself. 

Serendipity?

Oh my, yes!

Ancestors play a big part in Chinese culture, much larger than in our own.  In my absence from this blog,  I have been working on what I call “The Ancestor Project.”  The idea took form last fall after I came upon a quote by Jonas Salk, who said “Our greatest responsibility is to be great ancestors.”  I thought about how much of my ancestry is lost; we have some genealogies and the like, but the characters and the thoughts of our ancestors are gone.  I really wish I had listened more carefully to all the family stories that my parents told, but I didn’t and now those stories are lost to me.  I assume that our kids are not really listening to us either.  So, I am writing the family stories, documenting events and trips, collecting photos, making a family cookbook, and trying to capture our  thoughts, ideas, and opinions so that someday, when and if anyone wants to look back they will be able to reconstruct this family in this time and this place.  A few of the blog entries from 2010-2012 have even been incorporated in one way or another.

I don’t think it will make me a “great” ancestor, but it seems like the least I can do.

I have been absent from “ExtraOrdinary Ramblings” for a long time.  I never intended to stop writing; I guess life just got in the way.   “ExtraOrdinary Ramblings”  began with the “August Pledge” of 2010, when I challenged myself to write every day of that month.  This entry begins my similar “July Challenge” of 2012.  As always, I will end each entry with a brief statement of gratitude.  This is the most important part for me because it helps me to remember how blessed I am, especially in the midst of the swirling chaos that can be my life. 

Today I am grateful for fresh air and clean water.  My travels this summer reminded me that not everyone can take these fundamental things for granted.    

Oh.  About that early morning walk in Beijing.  I was so enamored with the buildings and gardens that I completely lost track of time.  I suddenly realized I was going to be late unless I seriously hurried.  So hurry I did, made no wrong turns, and arrived in time for breakfast as if I had everything under control.  As if.

January 15th .... and 16th

Al and I had just put dinner on the table when the phone rang.  It was our first attempt at Beef Stroganoff and we were joined by an old family friend.  It was the summer of 1982, before the days of unlimited calling, voicemail, caller id and telemarketers, so when the phone rang, we actually answered it.  It was likely to be important. 

Dad(~1955) in his natural habitat.

On the other end of the line was my mother.  She began by apologizing for not calling me sooner.  Dad had been losing weight and generally not feeling well and she had finally coerced him into seeing a doctor.  She hadn’t wanted us to worry needlessly, but now the test results were in.  Dad had lung cancer.

I listened to the details of the treatment plan; I listened to her tell me that I shouldn't worry, that Dad had good doctors and so on.  I hung up the phone, stunned by the news.  Our friend offered to reschedule our dinner, but I said no.  Even though the news was bad, I could not imagine that my Dad -- a larger-than-life kind of guy -- was in any real trouble.  True, he had lived life a little too hard, smoked a couple of packs of Camels each day, but, this was my Dad. He was only 59.  He’d be ok.

At the time, Al and I lived in Ithaca, New York a six hour drive from our parents in Connecticut.  That summer, we made regular trips back east as Dad underwent radiation therapy, and initially the signs were pretty good.   The tumor shrank, and while the treatments took their toll, I held out hope that like many other obstacles in his life, he’d overcome this one too.

Throughout the fall, we kept in frequent contact with Mom who provided updates on Dad’s condition.  Maybe she didn’t want us to worry, or maybe her close proximity to him blinded her to his continual decline. Or maybe I just didn’t want to hear what she was telling us.  Whatever the reason, we were wholly unprepared for what we encountered when we returned home at Christmas.  By then, the cancer had spread, Dad had lost about half of his body weight and was very weak.

Al and I stayed at my parents’ apartment for the week between Christmas and New Years, trying to do what we could to help them out.  We had to get back to school after the holiday, but we returned to Connecticut a week later to visit again.

As we were leaving on Sunday evening, I said to my Dad, “We need to go home now, but we’ll be back next weekend.”  He replied, “No, next weekend is your birthday.  You should stay in Ithaca and have fun.  I’ll be fine.”


Of  course, by then it was clear, even to me, that he would never again be fine. Thinking we'd be back in a week, but not wanting to argue with him,  I leaned over to give him a hug. He was absolutely skeletal and I was afraid I might actually hurt him, so I just gently patted his shoulder.  He said, “Give me a kiss goodbye.”  As I did so, he reached up and with surprising strength, hugged me close to his bony frame.

He looked at Al and said “You too.”   Al leaned over for his farewell hug and kiss.

As we left, Mom walked us to the door, promising to call us if there was any change in Dad's condition, promising to take care of herself, promising that she’d let us know if we could do anything at all to help.

We cried all the way back to Ithaca. 

As the weekend approached, I called Mom, who told us that Dad was hanging in there.  She said that he really wanted us to stay in Ithaca for my birthday.  I wasn’t really in the mood for celebrating, but a new friend, Sandy, who did not know it was my birthday, had invited us to her house for pizza and euchre.  A big snow was predicted.   We decided to stay in town and promised Mom we’d be back the following weekend.

We did go to Sandy's house and stayed late playing cards.  By the time we left at 2 a.m. or so, there were 6  or 8 inches of new snow, with more coming.  

The call came at 7:30.  It was my brother with the news that Dad had died during the night.  I told him that we’d leave as soon as possible for Connecticut.   The snow had continued to fall. Al turned on the radio and we learned that all of the roads in the state of New York were closed, but as soon as the NY Thruway was open we began the long drive back home.

That was January 15, 1983, my 25^th birthday.  I always tried to disentangle the grief of my father’s death from the birthday cake and presents, but it has always been difficult.  One year, when my Mom called to wish me a happy birthday, I was too tired to fake it and told her that birthdays were not very happy for me because Dad had died on my 25^th birthday.

She replied adamantly “No, he didn’t.”

I agreed that technically she was right, but it was in the middle of the night on my birthday, so it was the same thing.

She said, “No, it wasn’t the same at all.”

Then she told me this story.
  

Dad had slept most of the weekend, and had been drifting in an out of lucidity. Early in the morning of January 16^th, Dad woke up and said, “Betts, what day is it?”

Mom answered, “Sunday.”


“But what day ?”

“January 16^th.”

“The 16^th? "

“Yes”

“Yesterday was Debi’s birthday.  Did you call her?”

“Yes, I talked to her.  She and Al stayed in Ithaca.  They went out for dinner.”


“Did you say happy birthday for me?”

“Yes.”

“Today is the 16^th?”

“Yes.”


"You're sure?"


"Yes, Sunday, January 16th."


He was silent for a couple of minutes and then said,  "I am going to rest now.”

Mom told me those were his last words.  The last thing, the most generous and possibly the nicest thing my Dad ever did for me was to, very deliberately, NOT die on my birthday. 

My birthday is still complicated, but because my Dad did not want to burden me, I try not to be burdened.  Yesterday was my birthday. My Dad died 29 years ago today.   Even now, I miss him daily and I  feel sadness at this time of year, but  I also feel a deep sense of gratitude for this last kindness. 


I am also grateful for the many birthday wishes I received yesterday.  It was a good day.

Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas

Ding! Dong! Ding! Dong!

Hark how the bells

Sweet silver bells

All seem to say

Throw cares away

Christmas is here

Bringing good cheer

Holiday music both expresses and amplifies the joy of the Christmas season for me.  While I rapidly tire of the shopping mall muzak played at the holidays,  I love the real thing, be it professionally performed, sung by church choirs, by children, or by friends gathered around a piano.  

You know-- real music by real people.

I recently had the joy of hearing a hand bell choir that was almost as much fun to see as to hear.  Each member of the choir, garbed in festive red shirts and soft black gloves had three or four bells to play.   Hand bells are not solo instruments; there isn’t a lot you can do with three or four bells, each of which plays just one note.  But together they comprise one instrument.  It is like each person is assigned  a few keys on the piano --  together all the notes are covered but no one person can make music alone.

Hand bell choirs are remarkable instruments of trust and community.  Each person must work independently, but with a keen ear to what everyone else is doing.  No one can cover someone else’s missing note, because no one else has the right bell.   Each person has to be ready to play their note at exactly the right time with consistent volume and tone.  Each member of the bell choir has to measure the passage of time alike - the same number of beats at the same tempo, as if all shared a common heartbeat.

While all members of the choir have to measure time equivalently, they clearly have different ways of experiencing it, which I have loosely classified into three distinct styles.

There are the mathematicians, precisely counting each beat.  You can watch them move their lips, silently counting 1,2,3,4,1,2,3,4…

Then there are the economists.  These players exhibit an economy of motion so pronounced that they barely move at all.  Concentrating intensely, they stand rigid, waiting for the moment to ring their bell with a precise and efficient flick of the wrist.

The dancers move enough to make up for the spare motions of the economists.  They don’t count with their minds, but instead their entire bodies swing, sway, and bounce with the beat.

The dancers must drive the economists crazy.  And vice versa.   Bell choir members must do whatever works for them individually, but also respect the disparate styles and techniques of others in the group.    They have to depend on each other to do their part,  so they learn to accept that there is more than one right way to play, that doing things differently is not necessarily the same as doing things wrong.  What really matters is getting the right tone on the right beat, by whatever means necessary.  And when that happens, despite personal differences, music emerges.

Since everyone has to do their part and can ONLY do their part, there are no stars in a hand bell choir.   Everyone’s notes are equally important.  It is just as important to be silent at the right times as it is to play out at the right time.  There can be no heroes.  No one can steal the show.   Each person becomes like a different vital organ in a single human body.   Each person is indispensable, but no more indispensable than anyone else.  Essential, but humble.

A hand bell choir is not about the individual, but rather the cooperative, communal, interdependent ensemble.  People play their individual parts, not for personal recognition but to contribute to something far greater than they could create alone. 

What a concept.

What if Congressional committees had their own hand bell choirs?  Would they find a way to make some progress? Maybe membership in a hand bell choir should be required of all of us.  It might help.

Today I am grateful for the joy of music, and especially human voices in song.   

Congress Schmongress

The difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits.

-Albert Einstein

Do you think he was talking about the congressional 'super' committee?

A dish, a vase, a little joy, a lot of grace

Here are some lessons in hospitality that my Mom taught me:

Rule number 1

When there are guests in the house, their needs and desires come first.

Rule number 2

Sweet treats go with hot drinks, salty treats with cold.

Rule number 3

When planning a party, choose your guests carefully and do so BEFORE you start inviting people.

When I was in third grade, I really wanted to be friends with two particular little girls, Susan and Terry.  I thought they were so perfect;  they were pretty, smart, and somehow they never got dirty on the playground, their tights didn’t sag and their knee socks didn’t droop around their ankles.  They were the leaders of  the third grade A-crowd, and I desperately longed to be a member.  But sadly, as little girls are wont to do, they excluded me from that inner circle and teased me mercilessly about my saggy tights and droopy socks. Try as I might, I could not break into that pre-adolescent aristocracy.  But, as my eighth birthday approached,  I had a great idea!  If I invited them to my party, then they would be sure to like me.  And if Susan and Terry liked me, so would everyone else.  Without asking my mother, I invited the two of them to my birthday party and to my delight, they accepted! Caught up in my impending social ascent and with a spirit of overwhelming good will, I invited ALL of the girls in my third grade class!  I was delirious with joy, knowing that I would be  admired by all and that everyone would want to be my friend. 

There was just one teeny weeny little snag.

When the time came to actually plan my party, my mother said that I could invite eight girls.  She had a method- the maximum number of children at a party should equal the age of the birthday child plus one.  So, for my eighth birthday, I could invite eight girls, and I would make the ninth person.   I imagine that this rule came from one of her women’s magazines, probably an article in Family Circle titled something like “Keeping your cool: setting bounds on birthday bashes.”  Whatever.  Where ever it came from, that was her rule and she was sticking to it.

The problem of course, was that my actual friends were mainly the neighborhood kids - Barbara, Joyce, Jenny, April, and the twins Cindy and Cathy.  With the six of them I could only invite two more girls.  This would have been fine, if I’d stuck with Terry and Susan, but I had invited ALL the girls in Mrs. Dunn’s third grade at Charles Wright Elementary School.  I don’t remember how many kids were in that class, but I must have invited about a dozen little girls in addition to my six actual friends from my neighborhood. 

When my mother started writing the invitations, she sent them to the neighbors, of course, and then asked if there was anyone else I wanted to invite.  I meekly asked if all the kids from school could come, after all, they had all gone to Martha’s party the year before.  My mother simply replied, “No.  Eight girls.”  I couldn’t find the words to tell her what I had done, and I couldn’t find the words to tell the girls at school that they couldn’t come to my party.

I hoped that my classmates would forget that I ever mentioned my birthday.  I said nothing, trying to let that birthday fly under the radar, but of course on the Friday before the big day, Mrs. Dunn, smiling with generosity, asked all the boys and girls to sing “Happy Birthday” to me.  In front of the whole class, she asked if I was having a party, to which I had to reply, “Yes.”  So much for flying under the radar.  After school, those girls were on me like a pack of hungry wolves, demanding to know where the invitations were, and what time the party was going to be.  I pretended I didn’t know the details and ran home in utter mortification.

Third grade me- ready for my tap
dancing recital.

Up Knott Street, across Wolcott Hill Road, down Morrison Avenue and cutting through April’s yard to my house on  Ireland Road, I fantasized and hoped that Mom would take pity and call the mothers of all my classmates and invite the girls to my party the next afternoon. 

But no.  That was not to be. The party was planned and the plans would not, could not, double overnight. 

Although she was not pleased, my Mom did bail me out, at least as much as she could without compromising her conviction that nine was the perfect number for my eighth birthday party.  She called all of the mothers and explained that my verbal invitations were well intentioned but unauthorized and that maybe soon we would arrange for their daughters to play at our house after school.  Apparently Terry’s mother informed mine that “That is just the sort of thing my Terry would do too!”  I took some modicum of comfort from that statement, although I doubted then and doubt now that it was actually true.

Funny thing is, that is all I remember about my eighth birthday.  I have no memory whatsoever of the actual party.  It was my second to last childhood birthday party.  On my ninth birthday, my parents took nine of my friends and me ice skating at Colt Park in Hartford and then returned home for cake and hot chocolate.    We moved to a new town a few months later and after that I celebrated birthdays with just my family.

But here’s the thing about that eighth birthday party.  My mother was right.  Not necessarily about the numbers, but about who should and who shouldn’t have attended my party.  The children that came- Cindy, Cathy, Barbara, Joyce, Jenny, and April - were the children that should have come.   I am sure that even if Terry and Susan had come to my party any boost in popularity would have been short lived.  I just wasn’t destined to be part of the A-crowd of Mrs. Dunn’s third grade class. Cindy, Cathy, Barbara, Joyce, Jenny and April had saggy tights and droopy socks and got dirty just like I did and we all somehow survived and even thrived. 

My Mom's crazy rule for party size may have been derived to keep mothers sane in the face of a bunch of sugared-up hyper children, but as I think about it, it also served  to limit the party to the children who should be there- those that were nurtured by friendship and nourished by celebrating each other’s joy.

Mom in July 2008.

My mother died  three years ago today and I think of her every day and miss her deeply.  When I host celebrations,  I don’t abide by  arbitrary rules on the number of guests,  but whatever the number appears to be, there is always one more, at least in spirit. In one way or another my Mom  is always part of any celebration or gathering at my house-- be it a large party, tea with friends, a family holiday dinner.   Maybe I am silly, maybe sentimental,  but when people I care about are gathered in my home, I honor my mother and her memory by using something that belonged to her.   A dish, a vase, a recipe, something.   In that way, she is with us. Because she nurtured and nourished and was nurtured and nourished by our lives together, she should be at my parties.  Having her there brings me a little joy.

Today I am grateful that we got to spend so much time with my mother in her last year. Her humor, her stories, and even her stubbornness enriched us all.  I am still in awe of her grace in the face of illness and those months together were truly a blessing.