You Don't Get Veggies

I was so excited to vote for the first time and waited a long time in line. I showed my license for proof of identity, signed the registration sheet, was handed a ballot and ceremoniously stepped into the booth and drew the curtain. The Curtain! 

It was a momentous moment. My country cared what I thought. The Vietnam war. College tuition rates. Women’s equality. I was invited to have a say. 

People can't just go in and toss down a vote like it’s nothing. I mean, they CAN of course do that, but why even bother if they aren’t familiar with the issues and don’t care? It’d be like planting strawberries in winter. 

Gardening is like voting.  It's not neat and tidy or perfect: there's the muck and snakes and bugs, and a whole lot of manure to wade through. It takes effort and know-how to do it. Its not a one and done thing: the crop comes from the effort. In other words, if you don’t tend the garden, don’t expect to eat. 

Once the vote is cast and the garden is in, the real work happens. Situations arise that are unexpected - blossom end rot and infestations - that needs immediate attention. Representatives lose their way, vote against their platform, and need to be reminded of their oath. Propositions are not always in our best interests. Pork swings past attached to the tail of a valuable bill full of favors and payoffs.  All that’s between the system and its shortcomings is the gardener.  The crop’s the thing: the democracy. 

Life After Work

I'm in the midst of a life change and like most retirement aged people, I wasn't quite sure what taking the plunge would bring. Even though I had looked forward to this day, it felt like a jolt to submit the resignation letter.

I wondered what the final weeks of work would be like. How would people take it? What would it be like knowing I couldn't get a job if funds were tight?  But mostly, even with all the planning we had done, had we done a good enough job? How will we cope with sacrifice down the road?

The retirement plan started in July, when I stopped using 'someday when I retire' and put a countdown clock on my cell: January 3, 2019. My husband and I had some financial decisions to make to prepare for my retirement, and timing was crucial.

Not only that. My cubicle was bursting with stuff that I'd need to clean out and do something with. I had a key job helping at work and was a valuable part of the team. Could I really say goodbye to my friends at work? They were such fun and energetic people.  On the other hand, life ahead was full of possibilities, and I was itching to explore and travel with my husband. It was time.

I asked around what it was like to retire. It's great, they'd say; you can schedule your day any way you want, they'd say; you can read all day long or volunteer or take a class to keep busy. Maybe I didn't ask the right question. So I really had no idea what retirement would be like on the inside.

Well here is my answer.

Life after work almost instantly brought me back to a time when work life/balance wasn't a catch phrase, because it was the way we lived.  Home time was filled with activities and hobbies, and family and friends, and there was always enough time to spend on what mattered because work was work and this was life.

Retirement gives the gift of savoring real time - my friends and I are chatting and laughing over lunch and linger as long as we want.  I think to myself, this may be the first time in years that I wasn't pulled and stretched by schedules and responsibilities.  I am here and enjoying the time and it feels downright luxurious.

And another thing. My husband and I fell into two meals a day right from the start. 10 and 6, with a snack some days around 4. What's up with that? It's perfect.

Some days we go in separate directions. Some days I cook all day and can meals and make a holy mess in the kitchen. He spends time with his hobbies and in the workshop. Some days it's a NCIS marathon day. Who cares? Someday we'll get ourselves to the gym, and into more of a routine, but right now, I love sleeping until 9 and staying up late.

We play cards in the Middle of the Afternoon on a weekday. 10 cents a chip. We talk more about money, but come to think of it we talk more about everything. 

So when someone asks me what it's like being retired, I can tell them I'd miss the stress of work if it weren't for the joy of living without it.

You Won't Get Veggies If You Don't Till The Soil

I think gardening is a lot like voting. Exactly like voting, actually.

It's not for weenies, for sure. It's not neat or tidy or perfect. There's muck to wade through that gets under the nails that is hard to clean out, and there's snakes and bugs and mice.  Gardeners deal with someone else's shit to mix the old with the new in the hopes that something good will come of it.

Gardeners think about the goal. They have learned how it works and their role in providing fertile soil, water, and sunlight for them to grow to be self supporting. Most gardeners don't garden in the dark behind closed doors. They rotate their crops, not because they want to but because if they don't the crops will fail.

Once the plants are in, things don't happen automatically. The plants need extra support and fertilizer when they are new. There's squirrels and birds that pick off the plants and crops that the gardeners are counting on. There's whiteflies and grubs and blight that can kill off the chance of success if left untreated.

The Garden is where all these lessons are taught. It is constantly changing and the Gardener has to adapt. Experience through the years has taught them that being informed makes them better, and offers them the best chance for success. 

Gardeners don't give up. They pool their years of learning and experimenting, and finally know their plants for what they are.  If a coastal artichoke plant can't take the heat of a valley summer, and they've already planted it, there's only two choices: move it under the shade of an olive and take on the responsibility to baby it along and mist it daily, or pull it out by the roots and plant something else.

A Day in the Life

A friend called me at 6 am the other day to say her 20-something son had died. I can't believe that was January 14th.

For the last 10 years I had imagined getting her call, so much so that when it came it didn't seem real. Don't come, was the last thing I heard her say as I scooped up my keys.

His mother fought an exhausting battle for and against him, and tossed everything she had in the way.  His mother spent hundreds of thousands of dollars funding treatment and researching counseling programs and rehab facilities. He was never far from her thoughts; even when he gave her no reason to believe in him she did. They stayed connected. She gave him more boundaries, more chances and more weapons to fight his Demons than anyone I know.

Why isn't there a word in language to define what this feels like? Something that defines the anguish, despair, and deep longing left behind; the sense of responsibility for a woman who takes seriously her duty to protect and nurture at every age; a word that tears at the heart where a boil has formed that will never heal. A word that others instantly recognize because have known that type of pain.

We sat outside with an adult beverage and held hands as the memories flooded over her. We talked about free will and the moment a person unintentionally gives that over to a drug.  We talked of how smart he was, with such promise and big smiles, and I cried as we looked at the boxes of pictures knowing I had the very same shots of my own boys at Little League, in their high chair eating Spaghetti, laughing at a birthday party, looking grateful on Christmas morning.

My son came, her sister and cousins and friends and even the neighbors, to rally around and share their love. I gazed at my son, wondering how he didn't stall in the exploratory drug phase of middle school even though I was wild with worry and he was just as much a pain in the butt. I fought just as hard as my friend, and I threw all the obstacles in his way that I could find, just like she did. 

My son and many of their mutual friends stood together at the memorial service from the old neighborhood and the old days. Most are leading wonderful lives with bright futures and a life full of promise.

Michael A. Zenti, you should have been one of them.

When It's Not Nothing

It's been one for the books, this winter.

What started as a general feeling of un-wellness, a nagging ache through the shoulders, indigestion, and having trouble settling down at night took us on an E ticket, but it was earned.

The Hubs is a ruddy guy and life had slowed for him, so gradual that he barely noticed until those nagging symptoms drove him to the doc.

I'm pretty sure no one expected for it to be much. He did a stress test in November and in December saw a cardiologist who suspicioned heart disease. An echocardiogram confirmed it, and an angiography was scheduled, after Christmas.

During the prep for the angiogram anemia was found so everything was put on hold, for an upper GI and treatment. Finally FINALLY in January they took another run at the angiogram. Hemoglobin was up, he was feeling ok but anxious to know.  The cardiologist pulled me out of the waiting room 20 minutes into the procedure and said stents won't do: he needs a bypass.

It was my great honor to be with my husband as he transitioned through news he had not been prepared to hear.  The whole process happened in a 4 hour span of time.  Initially the shock was replaced by quiet processing, absolute denial, firey anger, considering all the options, fear of the unknown, and finally the courage and humor to take it on.

He sailed through surgery and recovery. He was home in 4 days and already somewhat back to life @ the farm.  There are so many blessings too numerous to mention, but I'd have to say realizing the subtle symptoms needed to be checked out ranks up near the top.

There was the sheer luck of Sutter having a renowned cardiac hospital right in downtown Sac, and great medical coverage.  Little did he know what a close call it was.

He was left with an 8" scar that's super glued, a couple of arthroscopic incisions to harvest veins, and about 30 more years. The docs couldn't get over he came in on his own, which is rare in their line of work. They bypassed sections of all 3 main arteries -- one was blocked 100%, and the other two were blocked 90%.

Please Go, even if you think it's nothing.

A Plain White Envelope on the Tree

This Christmas was different in a lot of ways. An important addition came in the form of the youngest son's lovely girlfriend, who is a perfect compliment. Also, our family traditions were challenged when the eldest son asked for nothing this year but donations to a good cause.

Well, you can imagine our surprise. Our holiday traditions are deeply rooted and have been the same for as long as I can remember. We typically get a long list of wants and needs from him. What's not to love about opening a pile of thoughtfulness wrapped in a bow?

I wasn't a fan at first. The Hubs and I generously donate throughout the year, and I wasn't sure that would give me any pleasure. Me, as if that's what it is about.

I mulled his request over a while and tried to put it in the same category as any other 'real' gift, but it wouldn't fit.  And then it dawned on me how exceptional of a request this could become. It didn't have to be a check to a nameless charity, it could be wrapped around someone local who is in need.

Around this time, I read of a family in a similar spot. They donated locally and the gift was presented in a simple unmarked envelope on the tree for  - in their case, the Dad - to open Christmas eve.  For them, it became a treasured Christmas tradition. 

Lovely!  So that's what I did, and that's what I hope.  I wrote a letter with this little poem and the gifts in his name, and how meaningful it was for me, too.  And do you know,  that stoic, soft-hearted man embraced me with moist eyes.

Best.
Christmas Gift.
Ever.

T'is the week before Christmas and all through the house
Every creature is stirring including the mouse,
The stockings are hung and are half full already
The fam will be coming with 4 dogs a'plenty.

 The kitchen is turning out marshmallow treats
The vacuum is on and the beds have fresh sheets
The board games are dusted and ready for fun
The menu is planned but there's work to be done.

 Not everyone celebrates the way that we do
Some live behind dumpsters and have nothing new
No one to sit down with, in warmth and good cheer
No one to hear stories, no one to be near.

 It just takes a minute, or maybe a couple
 To give of your time to the folks who have nothing
To learn their first name and talk for a while
Reach into their lives with an ear and a smile.

 And if you can do it, it's a wonderful lift
To bring them a blanket, or gloves, or a gift
It will lighten their burden, and maybe your own
May Humanity start in our hearts here at home.

--Mom, Christmas 2015

Ransacked

I woke up thinking about Charles Kuralt, and the years he would get me out of bed really early on Sunday mornings.  His show Sunday Morning captured moments of exhilarating life full of compassion that bolstered me for the week ahead.

And that is why I have become a Facebook fan.

Facebook is somewhere people I like gather and share the moments of joy, surprising discoveries, amazing photos, silly jokes and the upside of life. We tease and play somewhere far away from the sobering fear and ransacked value system media is trying to shove down our throats.

I like Facebook because it connects people I truly love and would not spend time with otherwise: cousins and uncles/aunts and friends in far away states. The rabid laptop warriors don't post on my page, thankfully. What's going on is a fun group of friends, some of them new but all of them real, who chat about what is important. Facebook is the modern version of an old fashioned social hour to swap recipes and pictures and hobbies, and even advice. We offer up ideas, and congratulations and even condolences.

Will they be part of my world anytime soon?  That was never the deal.

And so to those saying FB isn't real, I have to disagree. Facebook is as real as any other virtual group of friends. But on FB, together we are able to create the spirit of the Sunday Morning show every day of the week, where we can play a while before heading into the day.  That's what keeps me coming back. I think Charles Kuralt would be proud.

Know Your Way Home

I sense the world is different. A paradigm shift in the Memory Makers.

I miss believing the illusion and comfortable arrogance of someday having my turn at circling a calendar date with the whens and wheres of retirement, and heading into the sunset with colors flying high.

It was different back then, wasn't it?

I miss the days of unending promise before I knew what old money was, and why it was important. I never wanted to learn why it was foolhardy to believe in the unlimited potential for new money.

         The Generation of Change,
               with blinkers to the right,
                   are sliding into the slow lane.

How can that be?

It seemed like such a never-ending life of busyness and energized chaos, with years flowing along like a river, and suddenly, unexpectedly the family was grown and gone.

So many wonderful things now.

A beautiful friendship that blossoms is easier to spot through the weeds than it used to be. Nobody really cares if I wear hats to the grocery store and put my feet in the fountain or stay in to finish that novel I've been obsessing about.

I hear the lessons of my parents clearer, and I realize I learned more than I thought I did.

Love has bloomed late in life and taken me on adventures I only imagined. What a great reminder that living every piece of your life is important, even the parts you didn't know where there. The beautiful tapestry of life is full and rich for those unafraid to start and fail, and start again.

I sit pondering all of this, and what makes a family strong.

Resiliency, I'd say. Fostering love and dispelling hate, facing loss and uncertainty, and pulling together no matter what.

Being open to new people even knowing they will change the family forever.

Believing in the stories and folklore, and the people who remind you where you come from.

Living life as a world traveler, exploring and learning and trying life on, but always knowing your way home.

But in the end, it is all about Love.

God Be With Us

I can scarcely get the words out that this is Today in America. 

Sharareh Delara Drury

7 December at 18:02 · Chicago, IL ·

Today. On a crowded bus. On Michigan Avenue. On my way home from a great job in a city in a diverse country that I was born in.

A man screamed at me. Called me a sand ni**er. Told me I was the problem. That I need to get the fuck out of his country.

I may have been wearing my scarf higher on my head than usual because it was cold out. I may have somehow looked suspicious listening to Spotify. I am half Iranian, so maybe it was my skin or my eyes.

But 5 minutes of this at least went on with no one doing anything. Me telling him calmly to back off. Me telling him I would call the cops and me trying to get my gloves off to dial.

Then this man spits at me. A man in a suit and tie. Like anyone else I'd see. He spits at me and looks at me with these regular eyes now filled with anger and tells me to get the fuck off the bus, do what I'm told, because this isn't my country. This isn't my place.

That's when I screamed at the top of my lungs for him to back off. That's when people decided to maybe help and tell him to stop. That got the attention of the bus driver to kick him out.

I'm home now in my nice apartment in a nice part of Chicago with my fiancé and my cat. Sitting in a room looking out at the lights of other apartments. Wondering how many others out there got screamed at and told today this isn't their country, that they're worthless somehow, that they don't matter. How many?

My father was in the World Trade Center on 9/11 and survived. Days and weeks and years after that horrible day, I have been told somehow me or my mother's family are the cause, that we are evil and going to Hell. That Iranians, that Middle Eastern people, that Muslims are less than human.
I am a mixture like so many in this country today.

I was born in Boston, Massachusetts. It's one of the most patriotic cities in America. My ancestor Hugh Drury is buried in the oldest graveyard in Boston, and he helped contribute to the building blocks of what would become the United States of America.

And yes I'm also Iranian. My mother's family came here to seek incredible opportunities and they found them. They've become doctors and entrepreneurs and athletes and writers and singers.

I have family who are Muslim.
I have family who are Catholic.
I have family who enjoy laughing and talking and dancing and drinking till they're silly.

And I am American. and this is my country. I do belong here. My roots are planted here.
I'm here and I belong. I won't get off the bus.

A Case for Access

I really do wonder if the world has gone mad. Friends are having conversations about owning a gun, and just how far they would go to protect themselves. Friends spend their days target practicing because it's fun, and it's a good-to-know skill.

A good-to-know skill. God help us.

We are shaken up by the violence in our communities and schools and homes. We don't know what to do. Guns are everywhere, and we know it. More and more we are coming to believe the only way to be prepared is to arm ourselves.

Most of us know history well enough to realize we are in much more danger without the right to bear arms.  The 2nd Amendment is an essential right, even  knowing among us there are life takers. Gun Control advocates stand on one side demanding regulatory responses and follow through, or the removal of guns altogether.  The Pro-2nd-Amendmenters stand on the other side saying, don't mess with our right to bear arms, and they do not believe any legislative body could ever propose anything to target the problem without encroaching on the right.

Both sides are right. Each state has its own regulations and California is one of the most stringent, and yet we continually struggle with our violent communities.  It is a multi-pronged problem, to be sure. I would like to point out, though, that it isn't just about the gun owner. Take me for example: I have total access to weapons because I live in the home with guns. I have access to them and have never had a background check or taken a gun safety class including weapon storage.

This exact situation is played out across America: people come and go from our homes and have access to weapons without a knowledge of how to handle and respect them.  What if they don't have a man like my husband who is expert at handling and understanding the safe storage in a gun safe, and who has made absolutely sure I know how to safely handle a weapon?

The only sensible place to begin is with Access.  We need a national safety policy that gun owners have to provide proof of a gun safe in order to pick up a weapon or transfer ownership. We need to focus on the importance of safe storage, perhaps in a mandatory class with statistics and personal stories on why the policy is there.  And we need to never look away when guns are not stowed safely. No one gets a pass. There needs to be levied an outrageous - and I mean outrageous - fine for non-compliance. 

Yes, it will be hard to implement.  Certainly not harder than burying a child. Not harder than watching your juvenile ruin their life for murdering a neighbor girl who didn't let him see her puppies. Not harder than looking a victim's parents in the eye during the trial and having no voice for the depth of your sorrow. Not harder than living with the guilt of not recognizing the danger in a family member before a massacre. Not harder than living in fear of your neighbor.

Tackle access first, and from there take on the legislation that tightens full compliance and follow through of what is already on the books, add peripheral hands training classes for families of gun owners, and insist on background checks that actually turn up useful information. 

The #1 unalienable right in the US Constitution is Life.  It is listed before Liberty and before the Amendments. For those qualified to own a gun but too stupid to see the benefits of safe storage, fix that with a firm, consistent and reasonable requirement for gun safe storage, which is in the best interests of all.  To Life!

Honest Lens Alert

I have had recent experience with friends/family 'coming out', and there being a flurry of activity right afterwards, calls and emails about the 'situation'. 

People seem all upset and wringing their hands, and praying to God for the young man's deliverance.
I think it reflects how uncomfortable they are to receive information like this. Sexual topics are generally not discussed in families. Someone has just shared an intimate truth about their life choices, their sexual choices, and allowed family and friends to know a profoundly personal part of their lives. They are not seeking permission. It is their statement of self.

It is a courageous thing to do.  A risky move.  I can't think of one heterosexual couple that has ever purposefully opened themselves up to the opinions and ridicule of others. We guard our intimacies, and believe what happens in the shadows of that is only our business. So why is a person coming out perceived as a call for action in some families?

On the flip side, I also don't believe it is newsworthy.  News reporters would never say, this heterosexual man was just indicted on Racketeering charges ... but they do typically mention if the person is Gay or Lesbian.   (Is that you, Prejudice?)   Unless it is a matter of unequivocal equality and the country needs to fight for their rights, I know that we will never truly embrace it until it is not considered noteworthy.

I believe that living according to the teachings of Christ means that we should try to be like him, and in that not to pass judgment when faced with values that are at war with our own. 

Except for Jenner.  It galls me to no end that he has achieved celebrity status. I have no quarrel with him wearing a dress, but do we really need to act like a bunch of immature 13 year olds snickering over finding a nudie magazine?

Coming to Class Having Forgotten it is Exam Day

A week or so ago I chatted up our mortgage company about the hazard insurance and property taxes they collect each month as part of our payment. PITI. Principal, Interest, Taxes and Insurance. I was just curious, really, why our tax collector had just informed us all of last year's taxes had not been paid.

They didn't get a bill?  They didn't notice on their end of year reconciliation statement it had a zero next to taxes paid? They had $3200 extra dollars sitting in impounds with nothing to do?

The mortgage company at first tried their traditional pass the buck stuff, but what turned up is that they utilized the impounds for cleverly double paying for hazard insurance with two different insurance companies (old and new). They also took it upon themselves to pay for FEMA flood insurance which had been prepaid and a copy of the invoice sent to their impound department to verify coverage.

We had a sticky wicket. I was transferred around past two or three people before resting in the tax department with a really young-sounding person who quipped: Oh no biggie! We will just refund you when all this sorts out. 

That would be fine except for the small matter about the taxes. Oh I don't know anything about taxes, let me transfer you ...

I was connected with an equally pleasant and useless tax specialist who chatted for a while about the curious situation with the impounds, and that she actually notified me the loan was not collecting for taxes.

We chatted a bit about the T in PITI.  I was getting nowhere fast, so finally asked, what do you suggest we do about the $2800 due by June 30th?  Well, she smiled through the phone, since we wouldn't be able to pay the taxes anyway through impounds, I suggest you pay it.

Just like that. $2800. Like it's sitting in the side drawer of my dresser.

In the meantime, she continued in her most professional, soothing voice to counteract the boiling blood vibes coming through the phone at her, I will call for an audit on the account to evaluate what happened. That can take up to 30 days to complete. We will be in touch.

In touch, they were.  A couple of days ago we received a somber form letter notifying us that our mortgage was going to jump $150.00 a month and did we know we are short on our impounds? 

No words.

Show Me Some Skin

By and large, I've had a boringly healthy life. My mother was a strong and healthy woman through her 70s. Gratefully, I am a chip off the old block. No heart/joint/diabetes/blood pressure issues like many of my friends. Doctors still comment on me being nearly sixty and on no regular medications.

So when I was diagnosed with Melanoma in 2006, I was shocked.  Shocked by the shell cracking open, but also by the speed at which I justified it. I have fair skin, this damage was likely from all that time on the Santa Cruz beach when I was a teen, or maybe the years under the Arizona sun in my 30s.  It was removed the day it was diagnosed and no follow up radiation or chemo was necessary. I was assigned for quarterly visits for a couple of years. In other words, a pass.

I'm a cancer survivor who doesn't feel like I earned the spot. I didn't have to suffer through treatment. The lesson I failed to learn is the only reason it went down that way was because it was caught early.

Fast forward to 2014, and again a suspicious spot that looked similar to the one that had been on my arm. It looked like a cluster of freckles: no raised areas, no red edges, no center dot. It was biopsied and sure enough, it was a melanoma - and quickly removed. I am now a high risk which means, for now, quarterly visits for life. Another pass.

When I got home, and the Hubs and I were talking things over, he showed me a spot on his forearm and went in for a biopsy and it, too, was a melanoma. He has Italian Mediterranean good tanning skin, and never worried much about time in the sun.  Skin cancer affects all skin types.

There are a lot of types of skin cancer but Melanoma is the most deadly.  An advanced melanoma can move quickly from the surface to the lymph nodes and invade internal organs such as the liver and kidneys. It is as deadly as other forms of cancer if not caught early.  My Doc's rule of thumb is to have any changes in your skin checked out.  Melanoma won't always look like the photos online. 

For me, the gift of Melanoma is its visibility. It lets me actively participate in my health by monthly self-checks, the way I do breast checks.  We get the choice to intervene before it becomes life threatening. As for all those sun worshipper times as kids? Let's make sure our children and grandchildren understand the advantages of sunscreens and cover-ups for a long and healthy life. As it turns out, wrinkles aren't the biggest worry that's out there.

Buying Admission

One of the best parts of getting older is to be in the position of lending a hand now and again. It is an equal blessing. Luck and circumstance have a lot to do with being able to say and do this, and it is a good reminder how extraordinary it is to be part of an all-in family. 

Being in a position to help the kids from time to time is one of my greatest joys. Everyone needs a hand, and growing up I certainly did.  But my lessons about borrowing money involved people who had an agenda to the gift, and the fine print that bought them extra privileges in my life.

Some loaners use money to buy admission. It usually happened with a bigger loan for a down on a car or money to finish school. All of a sudden they have opinions about your life and expect to see you whenever they want. They feel they have paid to have a more impactful role in your life. By the time you realize there were terms to the loan, it's too late.  

Things come up like, "Oh I understand, I set aside the whole day for you but that's okay, you go ahead and spend it at your cousin's house. How's the car running with the new engine?"  Or, "You don't seem very grateful for all the things I've done for you. I'm not asking much for the family to spend Christmas day with me again this year."

Anyone borrowing for debt consolidation forever are advised and judged on the things they buy and their lifestyle choices.

Ours is more of a co-op style with helper loans. The kids have to match funds and have some skin in the game.  They are asked to repay when they can. So essentially we are partnering with our adult children to empower fiscal responsibility. There are so many good lessons for a family who focuses on gratefulness. Win. Win.

Physician, Heal Thyself

I've read that when a person feels in crisis, it's because they have not yet adapted to what is happening.

Not always. I wonder where the lesson could possibly be with our news media which knows the impact of spewing negative trash on internet news and television, and does it anyway.

We are barraged by examples of brutality with a never-ending supply ~ adults against animals/children, children against other children, animals against other animals, adults against other adults, parents against children, children against parents, coaches against athletes, students against teachers. OKAY. WE KNOW.

Our News Media has cultivated an entire culture of addicts, intentionally, like cigarette company does. They expose us a thousand times a month to news that makes us fearful and distrustful, and they say, tune in so you will not be next. And so we do so, eagerly, turn on the news or log on our computers to learn the horrible things that are happening right outside our doors or across the world. We openly pray for them and secretly feel grateful it's not us.  It doesn't really matter to the new terror-driven Media, just so we lock our doors, put the dog in our laps and tune in. They have gained market share and made their millions off us: why worry if we are left feeling helpless and afraid?

Local interest stories are ridiculous anecdote to the young girl who torched her family's home because a fictional internet character told her to do it. Media has won the day even for those like me who turn it on only for weather and traffic, and turn the sound down and look away for the rest. I look around at a country of manicured lawns where children can't safely play and wonder where the hell America has gone.

I have heard it said imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and I guess so, when all the networks provide 24 hour coverage for seven days in a row for a child who turns the gun on his school and goes out in a blaze of glory. Take the ratings, boys: the next school shooting has been brought to you by Network XYZ.

I am so grateful to have grown up when our country knew better, when journalists and stories were about strengthening American values and exemplifying integrity and service. There absolutely were difficult stories to cover, and yes they covered them. But it was balanced news, not sensational, not shock jock news - and the kind of news we needed to know.  I most remember is Walter Cronkite weeping when the President was shot (don't ask which President), and when we landed on the Moon. It was a genuine and impactful response because Walter Cronkite had integrity and patriotism and honesty, and the news he presented reflected those esteemed values as a citizen first and newscaster second.

It was not in the best interests of the country to feel the world has become bitter and cold, and we are victims in wait unless we keep tuned to the news that will inform and protect us. They are making themselves our drug of choice.

I say no to all of it, the arming and looking around as I step outside my door expecting evil to be there. It is worrisome that our country does not push to the top of its agenda the good and the decency and kindness most of us encounter every day, for that to be the daily diet.  What of our children, I wonder, who grow up with nothing but grim news, who do not know there are many ways to look at the same issue? Who never listened to a news broadcast by Peter Jennings?

If they just looked back at their own history they would see an excellent blueprint of integrity and social conscience to inform and enlighten, and I'll bet still capture market share. Just say no to drugs.

Powell's of Portland

Imagine a place that draws scores of people inside to linger on a sunny, bright holiday weekend in Portland. People sipping on a coffee with a book open in their laps, and wandering around in packs discussing political science and international travel.

The building has interconnected rooms of eclectic and well marked categories, and used book sets for sale, but mostly the books are new.  The rooms are color coded and themed, I'm sure to guide you towards the exit, although that was a bit too subtle for me.

On the walls are huge chalkboards listing local authors and their books and locations in the store, a list of Pulitzer Prize winners, and earthy, cerebral staff to help as directional guides and problem solvers. There are Powell's t-shirts for sale, mugs, backpacks and postcards.

On the shelves were staff recommended bookmarks, like a fancy wine store that offers helpful tips on picking a good vintage. 'This is a complex and fulfilling mystery, well written, and a thoroughly satisfying read.'  Pair it with a weekend at the beach, brie and water crackers.

This IKEA-esque store has rooms within rooms, some up 1/2 a flight or down a flight that you move through vaguely aware you have transitioned. There are main paths and shortcuts, but what we ended up doing is enjoy being carried along by the crowd that enjoyed being here as much as we did.

It was a joy to be in the children's section and watching them talking and tucked into corners with books spread out in front of them, covers open, and taking in the texture, scent and feel of them. I'm not a fan of ebooks. The adults were the ones with their iPhones out, trying to corral their group into an arranged rendezvous point. 'How about the coffee bar in 10?' 

I thought of my father and hoped for his books. I was told that two of his titles have resided here previously but they were currently out of stock. I was informed the Transportation section is in Building Two.  Building. Two.


At one point we spied a bathroom, and the conversation resembled a vacation abroad:  Hey! There's a bathroom. Want to go?  Maybe we'd better, just in case. Who knows when we'll have another chance.

There are benches along some aisles and circling the support beams and in corners where two bookcases meet. Everything is wood and everything was occupied, so I went on a brief quest to find a seat and ended up utterly lost in the Russian Language section. 

There's a gallery upstairs we didn't see, but there was a glorious pillar at the entrance of a stack of books with some of the world's most influential titles. The Mahabharata, Hamlet, War & Peace, Psalms, The Odyssey, The Whale (Moby Dick), Tao te Ching, and 1000 Nights.

Welcome to Powell's Books of Portland. Can't wait to return.

http://www.powells.com/citytour.html

Robin William's Last Gift (Peter Coyote)

Robin Williams died this week at the age of 63. 

 

He was the supernova of comedians, and a brilliant actor and humanitarian. He seemed to do life very well, a home in Tiburon, friends on every continent, and compassionate enough that when an acquaintance's daughter who didn't have a parent available to go to Career Day asked if he could come, he showed. He had a wife. A family. Specials on HBO. Stellar and memorable roles in some of my favorite movies. He changed the face of America in many ways.

 

He died of his own choosing, at his own time. Looking in from the outside, it is hard to believe that the things we strive for as Regular People -- money, acceptance, comfort, purpose, and a lasting legacy -- weren't enough.

 

Well, maybe enough of the outward trappings of success and not enough of the things many of us take in stride: being comfortable in our own skin, moving through life with a sense of peace and contentment, knowing God, and that no matter what, we are part of a divine plan and never utterly alone.

 

I turn from the overabundance of articles and news programs about the gruesome details of his death because it is None Of My Business. Knowing them won't make him any more or less dead.  I want to process his life so I can understand what happens inside a successful and talented, humanistic man to bring him to an unimaginable moment where the only option left is death. I want to learn the lesson he was trying to teach.

 

Peter Coyote, also an actor and a good friend of Robin, wrote this essay which I saw this morning. It lit up the sky for me, and I hope for you, too. RIP, Robin.

 

-Nanci

 

Robin William’s Last Gift

Robin and I were friends. Not intimate, because he was very shy when he was not performing. Still, I spent many birthdays and holidays... at his home with Marsha and the children, and he showed up at my 70th birthday to say “Hello” and wound up mesmerizing my relatives with a fifteen minute set that pulverized the audience.

When I heard that he had died, I put my own sorrow aside for a later time. I’m a Zen Buddhist priest and my vows instruct me to try to help others. So this little letter is meant in that spirit.

Normally when you are gifted with a huge talent of some kind, it’s like having a magnificent bicep. People will say, “Wow, that’s fantastic” and they tell you, truthfully, that it can change your life, take you to unimaginable realms. It can and often does.

 

The Zen perspective is a little different. We might say, “Well, that’s a great bicep, you don’t have to do anything to it. Let’s work at bringing the rest of your body up to that level.”

Robin’s gift could be likened to fastest thoroughbred race-horse on earth. It had unbeatable endurance, nimbleness, and a huge heart. However, it had never been fully trained. Sometimes Robin would ride it like a kayaker tearing down white-water, skimming on the edge of control. We would marvel at his courage, his daring, and his brilliance. But at other times, the horse went where he wanted, and Robin could only hang on for dear life.

In the final analysis, what failed Robin was his greatest gift---his imagination. Clutching the horse he could no longer think of a single thing to do to change his life or make himself feel better, and he stepped off the edge of the saddle. Had the horse been trained, it might have reminded him that there is always something we can do. We can take a walk until the feeling passes. We can find someone else suffering and help them, taking the attention off our own.

 

Or, finally, we can learn to muster our courage and simply sit still with what we are thinking are insoluble problems, becoming as intimate with them as we can, facing them until we get over our fear. They may even be insoluble, but that does not mean that there is nothing we can do.

Our great-hearted friend will be back as the rain, as the cry of a Raven as the wind. He, you and I have never for one moment not been a part of all it.

 

But we would be doing his life and memory a dis-service if we did not extract some wisdom from his choice, which, if we ponder deeply enough, will turn out to be his last gift. He would beg us to pay attention if he could.

 

Fig Waits for No Man

It has been busy enough not to be able to blog, and that makes me unhappy.  Work has some new assignments and training, and I come home mentally exhausted and ready to rest. 

Fat chance.

When you're raising food you work on its timeline. The 2nd harvest, 1st pick of figs happened a couple of weeks ago and from them we made jam. Last weekend twelve more quarts of figs were picked, which became whole fig preserves along with fresh munchies and a bunch brought to work.  And by the looks of an inspection last night, the last of the figs should be ready today. 

Garden Chili Verde sauce

So in spite of intentions, I was canning and preserving continually after work, fell into bed, and was up and at it again the next day.

We have enjoyed a bumper tomato crop - and yes, Heirloom makes a difference in the taste and quality of the fruit - and also the garden has done well with salsa peppers, green peppers, Japanese eggplant and Armenian cucumbers.

We've put up quite a few quarts of Gardineira and dilly beans, plus a jalapeno/wax/green/salsa/garlic medley that looks interesting. It was another disappointing yield with zucchini, and I'm inclined to skip it altogether.  Our tomatillos are fruiting but they are small - we will trellis them next year and see how they do. They made a really good chili verde sauce base, along with some of the green tomatoes and salsa peppers - and we like knowing it has no preservatives.

Garden vinaigrette salad

 The full sun artichoke cannot tolerate full sun. It leaves me wondering why local nurseries sell it with those tag recommendations when they know better.  Seymour is too big to transplant, so I took cuttings and planted his offspring under the shade of the olive trees, where they seem to be doing well. He'll be coming out in the fall.

That little spindly leggy Pomegranate out back turned out to have the only beautiful pomegranate of the season: the other big tree produced a lot of small and dry fruit that opened months early and spilled out for the birds. Nothing gets wasted but we were disappointed.

Pickled raw veggies

We received a 13 gallon kitchen garbage bag of fresh basil and made pesto to share - how easy and delicious to whip that up with a Cuisinart, fresh garlic, olive oil, s&p, fresh parmesan and pine nuts. We traded it for a couple of pickled veggies and a bowl of tomatoes.

I am looking into a good salsa recipe now that we are quickly exhausting the tomato options with spaghetti sauce, freezing them whole, eating them in Caprese salads, and in vinaigrette salads. 

Garden Pesto

I mean, there comes a point ... hey, maybe a bbq sauce ...

These days, I am still tired, but canning seems to relieve some of the day's stress. Now if someone would just clean up my mess!

Retirement Sim

My brother retired yesterday.

I can't imagine that. It's not a cliché when the previous generations cautioned us to take our time and enjoy the ride, because you arrive at retirement age in an instant.

The hubs and I both are committed to work, at least until we figure out the medical insurance thing. That provides plenty of incentive to keep our feet in the stirrups. I am noticing a little bit of panic beginning to form around the edges as we approach the concept of retiring, not knowing if our choices will sustain us safely and comfortably in old age.

The financial planners hawking a million dollars in the bank drive me insane. Who ARE those people? So we got to thinking, how do we really know what retirement transitions will be? How much will be enough for a middle class hard working couple without much of a pension coming in? Short of a debilitating disease that wipes us out in the first year, how have we done with our retirement planning?

That is what hatched the idea for a little pre-retirement-readiness simulation for the next couple of months. The goal is pretty simple: by living on the budget you think will be there, what will you learn about money handling and lifestyle choices and learning a different way to live? 

To prepare, we are exploring our budget in depth. We are categorizing expenses into hard and soft - rigid expenses like mortgage, insurance, trash pick up, life insurance - things you can't alter month to month; and pliable ones like food, gas, electric and water use, shopping, gifts, entertainment - that are adaptable.  We are looking and charting our expenses and what percentage it uses of earned income.

For the next two months we will live on a budget based on earnings through Social Security and my little school retirement. We'll calculate earnings based on retirement at 66 because no way can we deal with the medical piece without Medicare.  Other income we receive will be stowed in savings.

I know that in *real life* there is the underlying confidence of having the WorkerBee there's-more-where-that-came-from mindset. The simulation won't create the anxiety of loss of earning potential that I imagine is part of retirement. But I hope it will show where we are with what we've set up for ourselves.

Insight goals.
--about modifying what we're doing to achieve an even greater quality of life
--about our current money habits of pulling from savings and how quickly we'll deplete the nest egg without adapting
--about the gaps we find and whether we can rush to fill them before we retire

Simulation dates will be September 1-November 1, 2014.  We will keep you posted.

Yes and No: Powerful Words

JULY 15, 2014 The Most Nonfrantic Woman I've Ever Met LYSA TERKEURST "A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold." Proverbs 22:1 (NIV) She was knocking at my front door trying to balance her paper coffee cup, her purse, her cell phone and a stack of papers. She was also trying to fix something on her shoe. She hopped a step or two when I answered the door. I smiled. Her imperfect posture delighted my mind that had been feeling a little off-kilter all morning. She smiled back and hopped one more time. Finally whatever was bugging her with her shoe seemed fixed. She stood up and smiled with an apologetic smile that made me adore her before we'd ever had our first conversation. And with her first step over the threshold, it was as if the shoe issue never happened. She was noticeably focused on the project ahead of her. She spent all day with my family and me. She was a reporter doing a story on our sons adopted from Africa. Even though she never alluded to another title she had, we knew. She was the daughter of a former president of the United States. As in ... she and her sister called the White House their home at one time. Her mom had been the first lady, which made her part of the first family. But being the daughter of a president wasn't her role that day. She was a reporter. She was at our house to do a story. She stayed present in that role alone. Her questions were honest and unassuming. Her demeanor kind. Her laugh delightfully loud. Her paperwork messy. But her focus was clear. She was there to uncover a story. So she stayed focused on the task at hand. She wasn't encumbered with a thousand other things pulling at her. She didn't try to multitask too much. She wasn't distracted by her cell phone. She wasn't running late or from one thing to the next. She said no to everything else pulling at her. So she could say yes to the story. She gave it her Best Yes. This woman who demonstrated a Best Yes that day left a lasting impression on my family for sure. Later at dinner my husband, Art, asked the kids to go around the table and say one word to describe the reporter. "Nice." "Humble." "Classy." "Elegant." "Humble." Then there may or may not have been a less than delightful exchange from an older sibling to the youngest child, "You can't say humble. I just said humble. You always want to copy what I have to say!" I love family bonding. But ... I really did love the collective experience of meeting this nonfrantic woman. And the words my kids used to describe her. Art went on to ask the kids to explain what she did and how she carried herself that led us to use such great words to describe her. Then he turned the conversation on each of us. "If you want people to use such great words to describe you, think about the decisions you are making. How are they leading people to describe you?" This question made me think of our key verse, Proverbs 22:1, which says, "A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold." We often encourage our kids with this truth when reminding them of the weight their decisions carry. Yes, great descriptions are birthed from great decisions. And there it was. A small beginning of a big thing to ponder. A clue that better decisions help make better lives for the souls of women caught in craziness. Snagged. Worn out. Worn down. Ragged. The decisions we make make the life we live. So if we want to live better, we've got to decide better. Yes. No. The two most powerful words in the English language. They can run us if we don't intentionally run them. Guard them. Guide them. Use yes and no to work for us. Can you imagine how great life would be if you didn't dread saying yes and felt completely empowered to say no? Then and only then will our best selves emerge. And maybe you and I can start to be a little less frantic.