The Hybrid

I listen to talk radio these days, flip on the TV when I awake at 6, think about things broader than my life, my home, myself. These are living history moments, today and in the days to come.

What will we remember most from 2008=09? Will it be the most historic Presidential election, with the choice of putting a Woman or a African American male in the White House? Or will America's financial industry's embarrassing scope of corruption which fueled the Wall Street and banking/housing debacle and subsequent grotesque bailout overshadow that? Families, it turns out, do not all deserve houses of their own, and that simple truth has taken our nation's economy nearly to its knees.

Legalizing Gay marriage is up for the vote, and that's momentus, but so is being on the brink of the Iraq war becoming a neverending saga. It is likely that auto manufacturers will have to shut down, along with a lot of other businesses whose names are household words: Washington Mutual, Lehman, AIG. How could we let Japan steal our thunder? Didn't WE invent the automobile?

I sat on the edge of my seat during the vice presidential debate tonight, not able to remember if I had ever bothered to tune in before this year. I found myself evaluating Biden and Palin's Commander-in-Chief qualities if their running mate was unable to complete the term of office. Remarkable.

Both candidates said the election is a clear choice. But a good one? McCain and Obama are uncomfortably divergent. I don't trust that they will be able to sit down together and craft solutions to very serious issues in a balanced, moderate way. I know I'd breathe a little easier if some of the candidates had more experience, or more demonstrated leadership over the long haul. When I was in Arizona, McCain did a whole lot of nothing that can be construed as Presidential or Maverick.

I don't want a President who's quick to anger and won't play by the rules even when he should; but I also don't want a wishy washy, Do-Gooder with untried philosophical principles to be played out on the world stage.

What we need is a Hybrid! An innovative, lean and mean, political team prototype that is scarcely reliant on fossil fuel and burns clean. Sleek, efficient and Eco-Friendly, they could effectively maneuver through rough political terrain with the onboard GPS system. Sound on or off, your choice.

Rice, not Potatoes

It's been an extraordinary year. We've got well defined candidates and it's a fight to the finish between the good old boys network vs the green idealists, making for a most compelling drama.

It's sure got us talking. My youngest says its the topic at parties, even for those too young to vote. Dinner parties I attend start and end with it, and I'm left wondering when the last time a Presidential race stirred us like this.

I have a rabid Republican in my life; well, more than one. I get that they want to keep what they work hard to earn. The Republican party protects and preserves through slow and steady routines; they go with the flow, stick with tried and true methodology, their world stays flat.

Not me. I'm an idealistic Democrat through and through -- a flower child believing the world is bettered through altruism and heart. We have to dream it before we can live it or, like the Velveteen Rabbit, it will never be real. My world isn't just round, it's in a constant state of evolution that has no room for same old, same old.

For a long time, I begged off political discussions. But we're now in a place where I've got to be more informed and insightful, where I can listen to the Republican hyperbole and know how to recognize and extract the kernels of truth found there. We all seem to agree there's a desperate need for a mainstream candidate solid and steady, visionary and brilliant, who represents the best of our country rather than extreme swings right or left. We'd sure warm to a competition that included Dr. Rice.

Obstructing Sidewalk Traffic

I've always been honored by my right to vote as a citizen of our country. I love the whole process, well except for the media hype part. I enjoy the little newspaper voting booklets, reading and marking them up. I love the rickety booths that threaten to collapse and the smiling volunteers who hand me an I've voted sticker.

A recent online article about The Women's Suffrage Movement really grabbed my attention and took it to the next level. I studied the Suffrage Movement in high school but I don't remember it getting into the down and dirty process of how these women earned us the right to vote. Could I have really forgotten the horrific abuse and intimidation that was suffered in the name of voicing our opinion?

This isn't a distant event: It was 1920. My mother was born in 1927, making hers the first generation of girls in America born into that right, making me the second. Here are excerpts from the article:

"On Nov. 15, 1917, the warden at the Occoquan Workhouse in Virginia ordered his guards to teach a lesson to the suffragists imprisoned there because they DARED to picket Woodrow Wilson's White House for the right to vote. Forty prison guards wielding clubs and their warden's blessing went on a rampage against the 33 women wrongly convicted of 'obstructing sidewalk traffic.'

"The guards chained Suffragist Lucy Burns' hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air. They hurled Dora Lewis into a dark cell, smashed her head against an iron bed and knocked her out cold. Her cellmate, Alice Cosu, thought Lewis was dead and suffered a heart attack. Additional affidavits describe the guards grabbing, dragging, beating, choking, slamming, pinching, twisting and kicking the women.

"For weeks, the women's only water came from an open pail. Their food--all of it colorless slop--was infested with worms. When one of the leaders, Alice Paul, embarked on a hunger strike, they tied her to a chair, forced a tube down her throat and poured liquid into her until she vomited. She was tortured like this for weeks until word was smuggled out to the press. And when the United States President and his cronies tried to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane so that she could be permanently institutionalized, the doctor patently refused, admonishing the men: 'Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity.'"

I won't forget your sacrifices when I proclaim I have ALWAYS had the right to vote.

Following Her Lead

Today I learned that Sophie's depressed energy is actually due to a neurological problem affecting her hind quarters. She can manage alright for a while, but time is short: well, shorter than I thought. She's a beautiful dog, a pedigree Boxer with sculpted lines and a highly muscular body and large proud chest. Her markings are perfect: she's tan with a white mane collar, white chest, a perfect stripe up her face and over her head, and white forepaws.

I haven't known her long, just a third of her life, a hair over 2 years. But she has made an impact. For instance, I like the way she strains against the leash with such force I risk shin splints just to keep up. I might as well be a kite when she encounters a certain basset hound in her disfavor. And yet with a pup, she gently nudges it around with her nose. She demands a cup of water mixed in with her kibble and begs at dinner from the edge of the carpet, staring hard to entice us to give her the last few bites. She self-directs play. Up her toy goes into the air and flies across the room or she chases laser lights down the hall, up the wall and into a closet. She's a great companion, sits at my feet as I blog or lays her head on my knee for reading time.

Her body will atrophy as she loses the ability to balance, maneuver, and stand. I can see it already, in her resignation at watching, rather than chasing, neighbor cats sitting out front. Ok, little girl, here's the plan: we're in this together. We will enjoy each other as long as we can and be satisfied with that.

My Favorite Cup

Funny how attached we get to things. Marcia and I went out to dinner last week and she was telling me a long, drawn out tale of her favorite coffee cup, how she found it in 1982 and it had been with her for years before it was broken in a tragic accident two years ago. She has had bad cup karma since and has broken two replacements.

I totally live in her world. I've got this coffee cup I just love to death. It was hand crafted in Ashland by a woman who rolled the handle and embossed a design on the outside. It's not perfectly round and it gets too hot to touch but it's light blue and completely unique. I bought it for $25 -- TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS -- which I gladly paid and which provides endless joy each morning. I'm so attached to this little ceramic cup that I'd never dream of taking it to work. When my son leaves it in the sink, having used it when I'm away, part of me actually wants to hide it.

Can you believe that? Of course you can.

Possessions are hugely significant, marking our travel through life. For Marsh, this faded 16 oz urn had weathered it all: marriage, divorce, three jobs, a daughter. For me, my little extravagant mug was the first thing I bought at the Shakespeare Festival to celebrate my emancipation after the divorce.

Imperfect. Serviceable. Unique. Now why does that seem familiar?

Looking Up

We've had a loss. A 16 year old, popular kid was gunned down at a party over the weekend. The article talked about his turnaround, leaving the gang and starting over, working hard in school and making choices for a bright future. He was a starter running back for a team that hadn't even played its first game.

How his life made a difference is all around me, with anger and tears that pay tribute to our loss. It's in the football team who walked through town to the home of his mother, paying tribute to their teammate and friend. He was a leader, a star.

But the kids here, they know all about second chances, about intolerable lives and the vulnerability of clawing their way out. It could have been me, their expressions say as they write his name on the wall; it could have been any of us. But today it was Robert, and for him we grieve.

TiMe

I miss me time: eyes closed, head resting back on the high back sofa, capturing the ingredients of ideas to roll and let rise and knead into something else. Thoughts that catch in my throat somehow find a voice through my fingertips. When was the last time I took genuine, leisurely time to let thoughts gather like clouds?

Me Time sounds selfish: Me-Me-Me-Me! Afternoon naps, are you kidding? Shouldn't we always have a purpose like baking a pie, or gardening, fixing the car, or reading two chapters -- TWO! -- in the just released Janet Evanovich book? Purposeful time is work all dressed up in a leisure suit.

But my body has this concept down pat. After 50 years, it tells me when I need Me Time, and it's not very polite about it. When a cold starts taking hold, it's followed by a forced trip to the Green Room where I sit and wait to find out what's next. Oh I employ my best diversionary tactics, double up on vitamins and drink quarts of OJ, but the Green Room wraps me up, makes me stop and inevitably head off to bed.

We need a Green Room for the spirit. When life tumbles too fast, something would automatically slow us down to regroup. Everyday things, like sweet little moments before the snooze alarm sounds, or the feeling we get when we treat the car behind to a bridge toll, or put a dish out on the stoop for that little lost dog that won't come near would give us the needed boost to put more of us back in our lives.

Howling at the Moon

Read recently about legislators trying to rescind food stamps being honored at fast food restaurants because the poor of their state are obese. Buying fast food is no bargain and food prepared at home is healthier. But withholding fast food from poor folk while allowing the rest of us to roam around free? That's just nuts.

If they need something to do, I wouldn't mind seeing better regulating of all this violent entertainment. People justify the violence by saying it's make believe, but if that's true, why do they spend millions of dollars to make it realistic? Entertainment is so enmeshed with the American social conscience that it's impossible to even say which came first anymore: is art imitating life or directing it?

What a legacy we're leaving, that violence is accepted -- expected -- to solve problems. It's not a matter of right and wrong, it's a matter of access and opportunity. Gee, wasn't that just on the 6:00 news?

Violent movies are breaking box office records as we rush to see the last performance of an actor who overdosed during filming. It was a dark and hateful film, which played out with loud and thrilling special effects the inhumanity of a man without conscience or remorse. The actor himself was a casualty of the Joker. He was so immersed in the character, I am told he needed sleeping pills to awaken, to sleep, to relax and it got the better of him. How can fantasy become life, you ask? This is how: the darkest side of our nature took hold of this man and he couldn't pull free.

What we think and learn is intertwined with who we become. That's what The Secret was all about. So I ask you, when historians study us, what will they learn that we don't want to know about ourselves? What are we filling our heads with and those small developing brains of our children? If movies can educate, shape values, and inspire, why are we so reluctant to accept responsibility for them also instilling hatred, violence and antisocial behavior?

Legislators should stop worrying so much about fast food. I'm pretty sure that's not what will kill us. All by myself, I'll just keep on howling at the moon.

Roots

From: 'David LaBonte'

My wife, Rosemary, wrote a wonderful letter to the editor of the OC Register which, of course, was not printed. So, I decided to 'print' it myself by sending it out on the Internet. Pass it along if you feel so inclined. Written in response to a series of letters to the editor in the Orange County Register:

Dear Editor:
So many letter writers have based their arguments on how this land is made up of immigrants. Ernie Lujan for one, suggests we should tear down the Statue of Liberty because the people now in question aren't being treated the same as those who passed through Ellis Island and other ports of entry.

Maybe we should turn to our history books and point out to people like Mr. Lujan why today's American is not willing to accept this new kind of immigrant any longer. Back in 1900 when there was a rush from all areas of Europe to come to the United States, people had to get off a ship and stand in a long line in New York and be documented. Some would even get down on their hands and knees and kiss the ground. They made a pledge to uphold the laws and support their new country in good and bad times. They made learning English a primary rule in their new American households and some even changed their names to blend in with their new home.

They had waved good bye to their birth place to give their children a new life and did everything in their power to help their children assimilate into one culture. Nothing was handed to them. No free lunches, no welfare, no labor laws to protect them. All they had were the skills and craftsmanship they had brought with them to trade for a future of prosperity.

Most of their children came of age when World War II broke out. My father fought along side men whose parents had come straight over from Germany, Italy, France and Japan. None of these 1st generation Americans ever gave any thought about what country their parents had come from. They were Americans fighting Hitler, Mussolini and the Emperor of Japan. They were defending the United States of America as one people.

When we liberated France, no one in those villages was looking for the French-American or the German American or the Irish American. The people of France saw only Americans. And we carried one flag that represented one country. Not one of those immigrant sons would have thought about picking up another country's flag and waving it to represent who they were. It would have been a disgrace to their parents who had sacrificed so much to be here. These immigrants truly knew what it meant to be an American. They stirred the melting pot into one red, white and blue bowl.

And here we are in 2008 with a new kind of immigrant who wants the same rights and privileges. Only they want to achieve it by playing with a different set of rules, one that includes the entitlement card and a guarantee of being faithful to their mother country. I'm sorry, that's not what being an American is all about. I believe that the immigrants who landed on Ellis Island in the early 1900's deserve better than that for all the toil, hard work and sacrifice in raising future generations to create a land that has become a beacon for those legally searching for a better life
I think they would be appalled that they are being used as an example by those waving foreign country flags.

And for that suggestion about taking down the Statue of Liberty: it happens to mean a lot to the citizens who are voting on the immigration bill. I wouldn't start talking about dismantling the United States just yet.

(signed) Rosemary LaBonte

Eye on the Ball(s)

I was sent an article about Cindy McCain the other day, an internet piece without an author or source. It talked at great length about all of Cindy's accomplishments and that she shouldn't be dismissed as a trophy wife. At the outset, the author wrote: "It turns out that she is a character as she is or has been a race car driver and is also a pilot. She flies John around the country to his rallies. After hearing that about her and reading this I now have a lot of respect for her."

Oh who are we kidding. We were ecstatic about Jackie Kennedy, a smart, educated, poised, lovely, wealthy trophy wife. Fashion and hair styles changed world-wide because of her. We all wanted to BE Jackie. Nancy Reagan, too, was adored for being a beautiful non-political, loving and devoted mother and wife, philanthropic by nature. We still compare every other First Lady to them.

Truth is, America talks out of both sides of its mouth. We don't celebrate strong women that push to achieve. Oh at first, maybe, because it makes us feel culturally advanced. But as the novelty fades, we accuse them of overstepping their bounds and exerting undue influence over their husbands for the very same qualities we hailed. Eleanor Roosevelt, honored for her intelligence and devotion, became the object of ridicule during her husband's second term when he/we needed her most. She was accused of having too much influence over matters of state. Imagine that.

I endured the Clinton years. I watched Bill and Hillary handle some rough terrain and assessed their character like everyone else. Hillary's strength as a woman is not my objection, but letting Bill back in the White House IS. Neither of them represent my values or the ones I want my nation to emulate, so why would I explore her stand on education and Iraq? They had their shot: nobody gets a do-over.

But this whole Cindy McCain thing has me baffled. Yes, Cindy let her integrity shine through privilege in order to enrich the world through philanthropic outreach and support. But this isn't about her, it's about John and Barak. I want to know what's in their satchels because rhetoric is cheap and plentiful. Let's see some action frames of our guys modeling integrity, hopefulness, strong values, grit, patriotism and balls of steel. As they say in the movies ... Show Me The Money.

Type Cast

I'm not his type, so I'm told.

I can see that. I'm a Democrat so we can't discuss politics (you know how ex-Democrats can be). I run late and am forever getting lost except when I'm with the Human Garmin. It creeps me out he knows where I am when I'm lost in downtown Sac and he's sitting in the pool in Woodland with a Scotch.

Life is entertaining. Much to my chagrin, I'm a natural straight man for his bad puns and wicked wit. We talk passionately about history and literature, play cribbage cross legged while we sing 1960s songs. Sometimes I remember both the lyrics and the name of the group, but he always does.

My dog hairs up the place, swims in the pool, licks him awake. He likes Shakespeare and I'm thinking about liking movies. We saw Executive Action on TV the other night and talked about it for the whole next day. (Sorry, not you, Batman.)

His 'carefree' yard takes an hour a day because we went hog wild with container plants that now need to be watered and tended. We talk incessantly about how they're doing, our little plants that we fuss over like children, and gripe at each other about over- or under-watering as we drag them around the yard. The man uses a 5 gallon bucket to water, for crimeny sake.

We stroll around big issues a while before coming back to decide. There's no big past drama to haul out and beat. Disagreements seem to dissolve in the hot tub along with the rest of life's stresses (but God Help You if you wash two-day-old shorts draped over the bench ...)

Needs are small, dreams are big, and time seems long and leisurely. Come to think of it, he's not my type, either.

Frequency

When I close my eyes, time floats away. Life presses down these days, responsibilities and commitments fuzzy in the gray areas where I reside. How do I answer the echo?

I know lots of things, like compromise means meeting halfway and the spirit has to be fed; like church is good and hope is great; like honoring separateness strengthens both; and life boils down to trusting someone to know your heart and do right by it.

A Double-Yolked Egg

I work with an amazing group of people. For a multitude of reasons, we've all found our way to this place where we spend most of our time. We talk about that sometimes, how we landed here and why, but mostly we just appreciate that we did.

Each school has its own rhythm and sound as it gathers inertia to begin the new year. I find it funny that working in a similar environment led me to think the process would be similar. Hardly! There is a fluidity to tasks and roles here, a results-driven focus without speed limits or white lines. I sit in meetings with excitement - and terror - at the road ahead.

This is an academic Galapagos, where the only thing you can count on is change. The model by its nature constantly adapts and evolves with the changing needs of achievement. We do whatever it takes as long as it takes for student success.

There are long odds for a lot of our kids, who come from environments eroded by poverty, violence and academic failure. A good many don't live with their folks or family members and are several grade levels behind. They come to us not daring to believe they will achieve a high school diploma let alone go to college. But they soon discover there is no great mystique about college: it just takes their hard work, with our support and resources. College is in the cross-hairs every day and over time they empower themselves to view a world much bigger than they thought. College becomes an attainable goal.

So many changes are happening at work. There is so much to do to support and assist the school now that we have compressed jobs and responsibilities. I am disheartened by the enormous tasks, all critical, all requiring 150% effort. How will it not shove my life out of balance?

The students must feel this way at times. What gets them up every day to make it to school is the knowledge they are investing in themselves. They work hard, struggle, slip back, press forward, and we nurture and nudge them to 'Own It. Fix It. Learn from It. Thrive.' It's not easy for them, either.

So I've decided this year to let THEM motivate ME. If they can do it, so can I!

Aging

This: anonymous, sage.

Old Age, I decided, is a gift. I am now closest to the person I have always wanted to be.

Oh, not my body! Often I am taken aback by that old person that lives in my mirror but I don't agonize over it for long. I've become more kind to myself, my own friend. I don't chide myself for not making my bed or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need, but looks so avante garde on my patio.

I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60's & 70's, and if I wish to weep over a lost love, I will. I am at times forgetful but some of life is just as well forgotten.

Yes my heart has been broken, but that gives us strength and understanding and compassion. I am blessed to have lived long enough to watch my hair turn gray and for laugh lines to etch into my face. I've even earned the right to be wrong.

Age has actually set me free.

Look

I had an interesting thing happen this week. A conversation with one of the girls brought up some vivid memories of my past, some 40 odd years ago, and something similar to what she is experiencing now. My eyes instantly welled up, and I was flat amazed at how modern life could be so unrecognizable and at the same time so completely unchanged.

I know it seems like a shock when big things hit our lives, like it's come out of the blue. But maybe it's more that we haven't looked hard enough to see life moving along the whole time, quickening the pace between leaves raked up in piles. How could I not notice my dog sleep more of the day as her muzzle turns gray?

What I say is what I know from where I've been, that years of trial and error, loving and losing, risking and winning train the eye to see past the glitz and twirl of life to the constancy beneath. Our feet reach for it, to anchor there and find the best of ourselves and a sense of place.

Lava to the Sea

Last night, there we were, all squeezed into a little waiting room, working a crossword orally -- Say, does anyone know a 4 letter word for an African beast with the 3rd letter a U?

Kids were strewn around, making joyful noises as they played, adults reading and teasing one another with a childhood familiarity that was repeated on down the line. One strummed a guitar and before long everyone was humming and singing and remembering five different songs all at once.

It went on and on, this crecendo of life. No one came to scold us for being noisy in the middle of the maternity ward late on a Sunday evening. I enjoyed the ritual, the celebration. And when he arrived, our littlest guest, we crowded around the window in awe of his weight and length, joyous to be the welcoming committee for the newest person on earth.

Four generations in the room but the circle didn't feel complete. My heart was sad for those I have come to know and love. As closely as I identified with the experience, remembering the first touch of my babies, learning their scent, wondering about the magic tucked inside, I knew I wasn't the right mom. Where was the matriarch?

What came to mind was a trip a decade ago to the Kilauea volcano where it was making land from sea. It was a fiercely beautiful sight to stand on the hard, black lava that stretched its wrinkles of new land in all directions. Last night, I again experienced the sensation of utter desolation that accompanies change, wherever it's found.

Unabridged

It's been over a year now. Movies and lively conversations are as natural as if that's all it's ever been. I sit cross legged, singing along with Robert Preston's Music Man, feeling the uniqueness of an unfenced world.

Like a beautiful, warm shawl laying gently on my chilly shoulders at night, I dip my feet in the pool and watch the stars, free to say and do as I please, looking down from the hilltop at an unabridged me.

Where It's At

We were a little early yesterday. I don't like being early to parties because when I'm giving it, either me or the house isn't ready on time. No sooner had we pulled in under the tree then the screen door flew open and a little granddaughter hurled herself into my arms in a welcome hug. Talk about melt.

The Bucket List is out on DVD now, have you seen it? Great movie, that will carry you along, laughing, celebrating, rooting them on. Rob Reiner sure knows how to tap into the deepest, richest parts of the human experience.

We spent the entire weekend with family. Saturday for a funeral, followed by a birthday surprise party, and on Sunday a Father's Day BBQ for Dad and his sons and their families. The Bucket List kept coming to mind, the part about giving and receiving joy.

It's easy to fill a life with owning stuff and making money in a country like ours, where so many believe it measures success. But looking at the family together, laughing, loving, tossing water balloons, the footprints we've made in each other's hearts is what really matters.

I'm new to this family, so the hug felt especially wonderful as it washed over my heart.

Finish Strong

Someone once said he felt like a spectator in his own life. He'd been plenty of places, interesting ones, but he hadn't learned how to push off from the edge of that high wall where he dangled his legs, and into life.

Half a century of travels, building hearth and home, exploring parenthood, working hard, trying to fill the hours and days with joy and purpose, and in the stillness of my thoughts I still struggle with transitioning into a life now that my sons are grown. Can I really feel out of place in my own skin?

Life is waiting. Just lean forward and push off the wall and fly feet first into the stream, it says. The water will be cold and invigorating, so float with the current awhile, get the lay of the land, acclimate. Rapids and rocks litter the way but look for the beautiful coves with beaches and waterfalls just around the bend. The melody is enchanting, offering up a chance to swim strong against the current and change direction as you will.

Do you hear it? Push off, it whispers, push off.

Doves

Yesterday I found a Dove outside the bedroom window. She had evidently hit the glass and broken her neck. Her mate sat cooing in a nearby tree and watched as I carefully tucked her inside a plastic bag. He trailed along behind, tree to roof, calling to her as I walked to the front yard and discarded her body.

I really like Doves. A few years back, a Dove made a tidy nest on a shelf near our back door. It had a deep overhang and looked to be an ideal spot. We gave her a wide berth, using other doors to get to the back yard, and watched her dutifully sit on her nest. Her mate came and went, sitting on the three eggs while she fed herself, sharing the responsibility of parenthood.

One afternoon, without warning, a hawk flew under the awning, slammed into the kitchen windows and snatched the Dove right off her nest, scattering eggs and nesting material everywhere. It paused on the fence momentarily to gain a better grip of the Dove before flying off to enjoy its prey. Her mate returned each day for a week, searching for her, because he expected to find her -- because she'd always been there.

Partners for life! I wonder with human partners if they ever stop worrying about dangers before they happen and build on the moments of their lives believing in each other like that.