I work in an urban part of the city and there's a lot of traffic especially near the mall. It's cool. But one thing that is not cool is the number of homeless people who hang out there. The business park has a lot of restaurants, with mature landscaping and lots of grass. Don't get me wrong: it's a great spot.
For shoppers rushing to do errands, they are probably invisible -- and I'm typically a live-and-let-live kind of person -- but recently they have started patrolling the berm in the left turn lane to get money from people stuck at the light.
It's like an in-your-space-and-in-your-face sales call just inches from the car. Sometimes the window is open and it's like they are in my car with me. When the light turns green, all the cars blast out of there like a rocket.
It's really hard to explain how uncomfortable this has become for all of us sitting there. We don't want to be shamed by their gestures and comments, and so we look in our laps and pray for the light to change. And the next time we have to head this way, we find an alternate route.
It happens in my hometown, too, at the exit from WalMart. The same guys have staked out this little exit route for 3 years or so. One time I watched one of them set up a mid-aged woman in a wheelchair on that little raised berm. So now it's a little business venture on the busier corners in town and they are using a marketing strategy for sympathy donations. It's probably very lucrative.
That makes me sad because there are genuine people in need. And it's not right to take advantage of people who are compassionate and generous. And that is why I don't like the term Homeless because it is too much of a catch-all for everyone in that circumstance. I want to understand what kind of homeless they are. Is chronic, habitual, opportunistic any less offensive than the old labels of bums, tramps and hobos? According to Wikipedia, generally, the terms mean:
Bums are consistently homeless. It is their choice. They are probably the guys on the corner who sit there day after day asking for handouts so you can pay their way for them. They know and work the systems with no intention of doing anything else.
Tramps work when they are forced and count on the generosity of others to fill in. Maybe bums, with a conscience? Economically speaking, they need a push. They probably use the system to their advantage, but they are able-bodied and productive.
Hobos work when work comes up, whenever and whatever that is. They follow the job if they can, and panhandle until the next things pops up. These are migratory workers who live doing piecemeal work, specialized and skilled.
I'm all for helping those trying to help themselves. I really do understand that when bad things happen, sometimes the gap between security and homeless is a very small one. I am grateful for the gifts in my life. But it is hard to know the best thing to do when you want to help others.
My husband and I now offer food instead of money, but that doesn't always work out so well. It goes something like this: We are leaving a pizza place and half a pizza is left. We approach someone and offer it. They ask what it is before taking it. I stand there looking stupid, I'm sure, trying to process the question. Or this: Some people we offer to buy a meal for decline and want money instead. What am I missing here?
There had to be a 'next time' when I had to take that route and turn left, and couldn't get over to take the other street, and I am again at the corner on the red arrow and waiting for the light. There was a new guy working the corner who had been in a terrible fire with scars covering his face and arms and one withered hand. It was a hot day and he stood looking from car to car into the faces of people who had already looked away.
I don't carry money as a rule, but I fished out a little to share. He caught my eye and I nodded to him and only then did he approach the car. His gravely voice thanked me (THANKED me!) as I handed over the bill, and I found myself not feeling the goodwill one feels when they do that sort of thing, but being grateful for his manners in letting me decide for myself.
Jul 8, 2011
Jul 5, 2011
Canned Love
Yesterday we spent the day celebrating the 4th with old friends. For as long as I can remember, we have gathered for holidays and summer barbecues, road rallies, winter snow days and raising our kids.
Yesterday we talked about some of us still having parents in our 90s. And the people sitting here listening will usher them through the rough patch ahead.
Life around the table seems remarkably unchanged -- other than our kids are now parents with kids -- and eyeglasses are strewn everywhere. It sounds the same is a better description, for it certainly doesn't look the same, with bad backs and high blood pressure, sciatic pain, diabetes and cancer. We don't dwell on that, because we are busy marveling at our good fortune.
Let it go on forever, I wish, as everyone leans forward to talk all at once. Let the old stories pour out funny and timeless. Let it bring comfort, that someone else knows our history and will carry it on. May we always listen and laugh, and be the light in each other's lives.
Yesterday we talked about some of us still having parents in our 90s. And the people sitting here listening will usher them through the rough patch ahead.
Life around the table seems remarkably unchanged -- other than our kids are now parents with kids -- and eyeglasses are strewn everywhere. It sounds the same is a better description, for it certainly doesn't look the same, with bad backs and high blood pressure, sciatic pain, diabetes and cancer. We don't dwell on that, because we are busy marveling at our good fortune.
Let it go on forever, I wish, as everyone leans forward to talk all at once. Let the old stories pour out funny and timeless. Let it bring comfort, that someone else knows our history and will carry it on. May we always listen and laugh, and be the light in each other's lives.
Jun 30, 2011
You Are What You Eat
So did you hear? I heard it on NPR. Bank of America came to an out-of-court settlement with investors who bought bundled loans that were secured through Countrywide who was committing fraud by reselling them as class A securities when they were not. (I think I've got that right.)
The settlement is so big, they say, that BofA will eat up all of its profit for 2011. And there are other similar suits pending. The article concluded that it was a good step in putting the matter behind us.
That silly, unregulated, unprincipled CountryWide. They extended credit to all sorts of people who didn't meet the minimums, had sloppy recordkeeping habits, and lost track of the Titles. And BofA still gobbled them up.
I still want to know what that means for the rest of us, the you's and me's who own a piece of the rock, maybe a CountryWide-esque loan too big for our britches. Is there relief trickling down?
... So ... you own a car ... you can't afford the upkeep or gas ... you put it on CraigsList ... you find a buyer who isn't deranged and you strike a deal ... but you don't have the pink slip. Is it yours? Can you sell it?
... So ... a bank strategically overextends the buyer, sells them a house, goes belly up, and in the process loses the paperwork, and the Title -- well, you get the picture.
I just want to see it. Just once. My title with all the original signatures of people who owned my house. Can I, CountryWide (slash) BofA?
I'd feel a whole lot better if they would offer up a complimentary refi at 3.75 for 30 years because they need help getting out of this mess. No need to pre-qualify, they'd say, with a solid mortgage payment history like yours! Oh, and a pass on this PMI business under the circumstances. Ya, I'd feel a lot better about the sinkhole of property values with that going on.
Talk about acid reflux!
The settlement is so big, they say, that BofA will eat up all of its profit for 2011. And there are other similar suits pending. The article concluded that it was a good step in putting the matter behind us.
That silly, unregulated, unprincipled CountryWide. They extended credit to all sorts of people who didn't meet the minimums, had sloppy recordkeeping habits, and lost track of the Titles. And BofA still gobbled them up.
I still want to know what that means for the rest of us, the you's and me's who own a piece of the rock, maybe a CountryWide-esque loan too big for our britches. Is there relief trickling down?
... So ... you own a car ... you can't afford the upkeep or gas ... you put it on CraigsList ... you find a buyer who isn't deranged and you strike a deal ... but you don't have the pink slip. Is it yours? Can you sell it?
... So ... a bank strategically overextends the buyer, sells them a house, goes belly up, and in the process loses the paperwork, and the Title -- well, you get the picture.
I just want to see it. Just once. My title with all the original signatures of people who owned my house. Can I, CountryWide (slash) BofA?
I'd feel a whole lot better if they would offer up a complimentary refi at 3.75 for 30 years because they need help getting out of this mess. No need to pre-qualify, they'd say, with a solid mortgage payment history like yours! Oh, and a pass on this PMI business under the circumstances. Ya, I'd feel a lot better about the sinkhole of property values with that going on.
Talk about acid reflux!
Jun 26, 2011
A Two Hour Tour
We boarded the Chardonnay II in Santa Cruz on Friday for a sail around the Monterey Bay. Steve & Barb are legendary for their luck and this was the latest winning raffle ticket from a $10 donation: a 2 hour cruise for them and 50 of their friends. Worth what, a couple of grand?
Cool captain and crew, too. There was a lot of good energy with all these guests who don'tsee each other very often - the brothers and friends and cousins and kids who almost all started at the same point in the Sunset.
After, there was the Santa Cruz Beach and Boardwalk and the Giant Dipper, twice! We saw Laughing Sal from Playland at the Beach, watched surfer dudes ride the waves, and grabbed for rings on the Merry Go Round to throw in the clown's mouth to light up the eyes.
Corn Dogs and Chocolate dipped soft ice cream and salt water taffy. Yum! And then there were the two free on-the-beach concerts with Eric Burdon and the Animals! - House of the Rising Sun
- We Gotta Get Out of this Place
- Baby Let Me Take You Home
- Spill the Wine
- Sky Pilot
- It's My Life
- Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood
- Boom Boom
- See See Rider
- San Francisco Nights ... the list is endless.
Great day, guys! We have The Animals Retrospective cranked up as I'm writing this.
Jun 21, 2011
This just in, from InnerWeekly
Liking Is for Cowards. Go for What Hurts.
by Jonathan Franzen
When I was in college, and for many years after, I liked the natural world. Didn’t love it, but definitely liked it. It can be very pretty, nature. And since I was looking for things to find wrong with the world, I naturally gravitated to environmentalism, because there were certainly plenty of things wrong with the environment. And the more I looked at what was wrong — an exploding world population, exploding levels of resource consumption, rising global temperatures, the trashing of the oceans, the logging of our last old-growth forests — the angrier I became.
Finally, in the mid-1990s, I made a conscious decision to stop worrying about the environment. There was nothing meaningful that I personally could do to save the planet, and I wanted to get on with devoting myself to the things I loved.
But then a funny thing happened to me. It’s a long story, but basically I fell in love with birds. I did this not without significant resistance, because it’s very uncool to be a birdwatcher, because anything that betrays real passion is by definition uncool. But little by little, in spite of myself, I developed this passion, and although one-half of a passion is obsession, the other half is love.
And so, yes, I kept a meticulous list of the birds I’d seen, and, yes, I went to inordinate lengths to see new species. But, no less important, whenever I looked at a bird, any bird, even a pigeon or a robin, I could feel my heart overflow with love.
And here’s where a curious paradox emerged. My anger and pain and despair about the planet were only increased by my concern for wild birds, and yet, as I began to get involved in bird conservation and learned more about the many threats that birds face, it became easier, not harder, to live with my anger and despair and pain.
How does this happen? I think, for one thing, that my love of birds became a portal to an important, less self-centered part of myself that I’d never even known existed. Instead of continuing to drift forward through my life as a global citizen, liking and disliking and withholding my commitment for some later date, I was forced to confront a self that I had to either straight-up accept or flat-out reject.
Which is what love will do to a person. Because the fundamental fact about all of us is that we’re alive for a while but will die before long. This fact is the real root cause of all our anger and pain and despair. And you can either run from this fact or, by way of love, you can embrace it.
When you stay in your room and rage or sneer or shrug your shoulders, as I did for many years, the world and its problems are impossibly daunting. But when you go out and put yourself in real relation to real people, or even just real animals, there’s a very real danger that you might love some of them.
And who knows what might happen to you then?
by Jonathan Franzen
When I was in college, and for many years after, I liked the natural world. Didn’t love it, but definitely liked it. It can be very pretty, nature. And since I was looking for things to find wrong with the world, I naturally gravitated to environmentalism, because there were certainly plenty of things wrong with the environment. And the more I looked at what was wrong — an exploding world population, exploding levels of resource consumption, rising global temperatures, the trashing of the oceans, the logging of our last old-growth forests — the angrier I became.
Finally, in the mid-1990s, I made a conscious decision to stop worrying about the environment. There was nothing meaningful that I personally could do to save the planet, and I wanted to get on with devoting myself to the things I loved.
But then a funny thing happened to me. It’s a long story, but basically I fell in love with birds. I did this not without significant resistance, because it’s very uncool to be a birdwatcher, because anything that betrays real passion is by definition uncool. But little by little, in spite of myself, I developed this passion, and although one-half of a passion is obsession, the other half is love.
And so, yes, I kept a meticulous list of the birds I’d seen, and, yes, I went to inordinate lengths to see new species. But, no less important, whenever I looked at a bird, any bird, even a pigeon or a robin, I could feel my heart overflow with love.
And here’s where a curious paradox emerged. My anger and pain and despair about the planet were only increased by my concern for wild birds, and yet, as I began to get involved in bird conservation and learned more about the many threats that birds face, it became easier, not harder, to live with my anger and despair and pain.
How does this happen? I think, for one thing, that my love of birds became a portal to an important, less self-centered part of myself that I’d never even known existed. Instead of continuing to drift forward through my life as a global citizen, liking and disliking and withholding my commitment for some later date, I was forced to confront a self that I had to either straight-up accept or flat-out reject.
Which is what love will do to a person. Because the fundamental fact about all of us is that we’re alive for a while but will die before long. This fact is the real root cause of all our anger and pain and despair. And you can either run from this fact or, by way of love, you can embrace it.
When you stay in your room and rage or sneer or shrug your shoulders, as I did for many years, the world and its problems are impossibly daunting. But when you go out and put yourself in real relation to real people, or even just real animals, there’s a very real danger that you might love some of them.
And who knows what might happen to you then?
Jun 18, 2011
Finding the Magna Carta
It sounds ridiculous to say I had a disappointing day in England because it is one of the Wonders of the World as far as I'm concerned.
You know how sometimes you over-anticipate something and build it up so high that it backfires? That didn't happen. Stonehenge just really sucked.
No, really: the pictures DO do it justice. It really is a bunch of large stones in a cow pasture. I have NO IDEA why calendars are devoted to it. One thing not replicated on film is the fencing that keeps tourists away and the little shacks that sell souvenier rocks and bottled water. Presumably, so you have a memento of the experience and are hydrated on the long trip home.
An hour and a half train trip and nearly 45 minutes by bus, for this? I was positively inconsolable knowing that the day could have been spent doing something, anything else. So I parked my butt at the train station and was thumbing through Fodor's Guide to the Universe when lo and behold I found a cathedral nearby with one of the tallest spires in England. And it was, like, a 10 minute walk.
I headed through town and could not help but notice the most marvelous smell coming from the fish and chips storefront just off the sidewalk, literally one step in and you are at the counter. Real English fish and chips, bubbling in oil and seasonings, being scooped up and drained on newspaper and copious amounts of vinegar and salt added before being tightly wrapped in fresh newspaper and shoved into a bag. L3, please. There was a line.
I took the searing bag of hot lava onto the street thinking I would die from the salt alone and that lunch would probably need to be thrown out. But at present it was keeping me warm.
Salisbury turned out to be an astonishing stop, architecturally and historically. It was deserted except for a friendly docent standing in a nave who introduced me to one of the last remaining copies of the Magna Carta signed by Prince John. Fodor's didn't even mention it!
The Magna Carta is as historically significant to the English as the Declaration of Independence is to Americans. It is a proclamation of freedoms granted to the citizens and limiting the monarchy's autocratic powers. This particular document was intended to 'reign in' Prince John who, in King Richard's absence fighting in The Crusades, tried to enslave Britains and usurp the throne.
Imagine standing there with an oozing bag of fragrant cod fillets in stark disbelief. I had some time to kill and the docent was very knowledgeable about the church and the document. I was right there looking down at Prince John's flowery signature from the 13th century!! Go, me!!
Walking back, I thought about what a close call the day had been, and how unlikely it was to find Salisbury Cathedral and the Magna Carta. I was in such a good mood, even the rail strike that delayed the trip back by several hours and required some creative criss-crossing to outlying towns around London didn't get me down. As it turns out, the fish and chips were out of this world.
http://encyclopedia.tfd.com/Magna+Carta
You know how sometimes you over-anticipate something and build it up so high that it backfires? That didn't happen. Stonehenge just really sucked.
No, really: the pictures DO do it justice. It really is a bunch of large stones in a cow pasture. I have NO IDEA why calendars are devoted to it. One thing not replicated on film is the fencing that keeps tourists away and the little shacks that sell souvenier rocks and bottled water. Presumably, so you have a memento of the experience and are hydrated on the long trip home.
An hour and a half train trip and nearly 45 minutes by bus, for this? I was positively inconsolable knowing that the day could have been spent doing something, anything else. So I parked my butt at the train station and was thumbing through Fodor's Guide to the Universe when lo and behold I found a cathedral nearby with one of the tallest spires in England. And it was, like, a 10 minute walk.
I headed through town and could not help but notice the most marvelous smell coming from the fish and chips storefront just off the sidewalk, literally one step in and you are at the counter. Real English fish and chips, bubbling in oil and seasonings, being scooped up and drained on newspaper and copious amounts of vinegar and salt added before being tightly wrapped in fresh newspaper and shoved into a bag. L3, please. There was a line.
I took the searing bag of hot lava onto the street thinking I would die from the salt alone and that lunch would probably need to be thrown out. But at present it was keeping me warm.
Salisbury turned out to be an astonishing stop, architecturally and historically. It was deserted except for a friendly docent standing in a nave who introduced me to one of the last remaining copies of the Magna Carta signed by Prince John. Fodor's didn't even mention it!
The Magna Carta is as historically significant to the English as the Declaration of Independence is to Americans. It is a proclamation of freedoms granted to the citizens and limiting the monarchy's autocratic powers. This particular document was intended to 'reign in' Prince John who, in King Richard's absence fighting in The Crusades, tried to enslave Britains and usurp the throne.
Imagine standing there with an oozing bag of fragrant cod fillets in stark disbelief. I had some time to kill and the docent was very knowledgeable about the church and the document. I was right there looking down at Prince John's flowery signature from the 13th century!! Go, me!!
Walking back, I thought about what a close call the day had been, and how unlikely it was to find Salisbury Cathedral and the Magna Carta. I was in such a good mood, even the rail strike that delayed the trip back by several hours and required some creative criss-crossing to outlying towns around London didn't get me down. As it turns out, the fish and chips were out of this world.
http://encyclopedia.tfd.com/Magna+Carta
Jun 17, 2011
The Six Year Blog
We've got a few throw pillows in the yard covered in a Hawaiian print in yellows and greens and pinks, hibiscus and plumeria and frothy leaves on a black background. They conjure up all sorts of pleasant memories when I look at them.
I'm at a too-big rambling old desk. The top is a formica replacement but the legs are original hardwood and sturdy, dark brown in color and all banged up. The drawers open almost the entire 3' depth which makes them incredibly heavy. They scrape in and out on wooden slides that will collapse at any moment, and are stuffed, and I mean stuffed with *old stamps*ear plugs*duct tape*cast-off sunglasses*guitar picks*mickey mouse rulers*old photos and slides.
Above, on the hutch, is Aiyana, the girls in happier days, and The Babe. Next to that are my bronze baby shoes and a can wrapped in plaid fabric with buttons haphazardly glued to it for pencils and scissors. 'To Mom from Tim, 1995' is scrawled on the underside (age 7). To the left are bills; to the right, receipts. The yellow pages (!!!) take up the upper right cubby.
The Aflac duck pencil; rare photos of San Francisco; an antique floor lamp, a playbill from Fillmore West; an 80 year old bookcase with a soft and beautiful patina; a baseball cap from the 1932 Boston Red Sox that is all dog eared and worn; tons of movies and music. I'm coming to see collectors just see things through a different lens. Feelin' the energy. H B-Day, blog.
I'm at a too-big rambling old desk. The top is a formica replacement but the legs are original hardwood and sturdy, dark brown in color and all banged up. The drawers open almost the entire 3' depth which makes them incredibly heavy. They scrape in and out on wooden slides that will collapse at any moment, and are stuffed, and I mean stuffed with *old stamps*ear plugs*duct tape*cast-off sunglasses*guitar picks*mickey mouse rulers*old photos and slides.
Above, on the hutch, is Aiyana, the girls in happier days, and The Babe. Next to that are my bronze baby shoes and a can wrapped in plaid fabric with buttons haphazardly glued to it for pencils and scissors. 'To Mom from Tim, 1995' is scrawled on the underside (age 7). To the left are bills; to the right, receipts. The yellow pages (!!!) take up the upper right cubby.
The Aflac duck pencil; rare photos of San Francisco; an antique floor lamp, a playbill from Fillmore West; an 80 year old bookcase with a soft and beautiful patina; a baseball cap from the 1932 Boston Red Sox that is all dog eared and worn; tons of movies and music. I'm coming to see collectors just see things through a different lens. Feelin' the energy. H B-Day, blog.
Jun 15, 2011
Baritone Chuckles
Ed.
I had a chat with my dad on Saturday. Don and I were passing by and remembered just where he is: a couple of miles off the freeway, in fact.
He has been on my mind more than usual. He would have been 83 on the 23rd. This would have been his 59th Father's Day. I would have taken pictures of him embracing his son on his wedding day and on the day his daughters' eldests graduated from college. And I mean by that, both Jana and I.
He was an author and teacher. A historian. A lover of all things good. A character, and a person of character. Shortly after he died, I googled his name and the hits filled the first couple of pages. Now he is but a footnote.
Life sometimes feels like intermission ~ that's what ~ the time between acts when the anticipation builds; the time when you discuss and reflect on what you know, and look toward the second act to tie it all together.
I've been collecting additional copies of my dad's books, and very attached to the idea of the tangible proof from the first phase of our relationship. He is fading out of family conversations and I wonder when the day will come that he fades altogether. Maybe I'm feeling especially weary and worn these days.
I don't know all that the boys remember, other than how he made them feel, and not much else counts to a kid. They talk about game days and Cousins Camps and getaways with each of them separately ... and always feeling valued, even with a dozen grandsons running around. I remember how he would sit with them and listen to all the interesting things that mattered to them, even as little ones. I remember how he would grab them in bearhugs as he walked by and how unafraid he was to tell them he loved them; I remember him calling them (Michael) (David) (Timothy) Mouse. It would be nice if these books would be about that, but we'll see.
I constantly tug at the leash. Clearly life has landed me somewhere better than before. There are very few wants. Life has blessed me with the love of a partner and friend; I am proud of my sons who are good people and likeable and hard working contributors, and that is what I wanted for them; I spend my time somewhere that reaches out to those who are suffering; and finally, finally I am in tune with selfless giving to the elders I cherish.
But that first act with my father is never far from my thoughts. It too often draws me back in contemplation. Some friends and family have recently lost a husband, a child, a sister, and their lives are upside down even after years, as though one foot is still rooted there and one in the now, and they are unable or unwilling to tug themselves free. I understand. In eight years, the feelings of loss are undiminished.
There are those who would criticize others for not getting over a death and moving on, but I look at them and wonder how they can be the way they are. I will never not wish for one more glimpse of those long and lazy conversation on a summer's night listening to my father's deep baritone voice chuckling through a story. I 'yam what I 'yam.
I had a chat with my dad on Saturday. Don and I were passing by and remembered just where he is: a couple of miles off the freeway, in fact.
He has been on my mind more than usual. He would have been 83 on the 23rd. This would have been his 59th Father's Day. I would have taken pictures of him embracing his son on his wedding day and on the day his daughters' eldests graduated from college. And I mean by that, both Jana and I.
He was an author and teacher. A historian. A lover of all things good. A character, and a person of character. Shortly after he died, I googled his name and the hits filled the first couple of pages. Now he is but a footnote.
Life sometimes feels like intermission ~ that's what ~ the time between acts when the anticipation builds; the time when you discuss and reflect on what you know, and look toward the second act to tie it all together.
I've been collecting additional copies of my dad's books, and very attached to the idea of the tangible proof from the first phase of our relationship. He is fading out of family conversations and I wonder when the day will come that he fades altogether. Maybe I'm feeling especially weary and worn these days.
I don't know all that the boys remember, other than how he made them feel, and not much else counts to a kid. They talk about game days and Cousins Camps and getaways with each of them separately ... and always feeling valued, even with a dozen grandsons running around. I remember how he would sit with them and listen to all the interesting things that mattered to them, even as little ones. I remember how he would grab them in bearhugs as he walked by and how unafraid he was to tell them he loved them; I remember him calling them (Michael) (David) (Timothy) Mouse. It would be nice if these books would be about that, but we'll see.
I constantly tug at the leash. Clearly life has landed me somewhere better than before. There are very few wants. Life has blessed me with the love of a partner and friend; I am proud of my sons who are good people and likeable and hard working contributors, and that is what I wanted for them; I spend my time somewhere that reaches out to those who are suffering; and finally, finally I am in tune with selfless giving to the elders I cherish.
But that first act with my father is never far from my thoughts. It too often draws me back in contemplation. Some friends and family have recently lost a husband, a child, a sister, and their lives are upside down even after years, as though one foot is still rooted there and one in the now, and they are unable or unwilling to tug themselves free. I understand. In eight years, the feelings of loss are undiminished.
There are those who would criticize others for not getting over a death and moving on, but I look at them and wonder how they can be the way they are. I will never not wish for one more glimpse of those long and lazy conversation on a summer's night listening to my father's deep baritone voice chuckling through a story. I 'yam what I 'yam.
Jun 13, 2011
The Vertical Garden Project
We gave away the mattress and cover and took the frame apart. The side rails and bottom pieces are going to be pitched, but we thought the mattress frame might make a good vertical garden.
We fell in love with the concept of a vertical garden when we were in Paris and drove past the astonishing Vertical (living) Wall on Jean Nouvel’s Musée du quai Branly. We had never seen anything like it before.
The double bed frame fit nicely against the side of the plain old boring shed, and with morning light and shade all afternoon it was a great location. The frame is roughly 75" h x 55" w.
We had to find the right type of planters. A hydroponic gardening shop I visited was using galvanized gutters for their indoor units, and the sales guy suggested a wider and deeper vinyl gutter. Vinyl would not conduct heat and could be cut to a desired length. It was certainly durable but not necessarily cheap, and available in 3 or 4 colors. Not a bad idea, actually.
The planter boxes came with railing hardware, and it was an easy retrofit to make them adjustable rather than permanently attached. We liked the idea of being able to adjust it as things grow, and that each year can be a fresh look with a new variety of plants.
We added an asparagus fern for fun and a star jasmine in a separate pot to crawl up the frame in-between the planters.
Repurposing the frame saved a ton of money. You can make a vertical garden out of anything that is sturdy and useful - metal bunk bed framing, the top of an old grid patio table. The planter boxes we chose weren't cheap but there are alternatives. The plants were cheap, on average $2.79 per, and we already had the soil ... so it wasn't anywhere near a budget buster.
Did you notice the silverware herb markers? Aren't they great? We were at the Sunset Open House last weekend and bought from a vendor these (FABULOUS) repurposed silver plate cast-offs that she picked up at yard sales and Goodwill stores. She flattens them out and punches words into them. Had To Have Them! She didn't have all that we were looking for and we happened to have a couple of cast-off utensils laying around so we have been experimenting with making our own. They're actually easy to make.
This was a super fun weekend project. A vertical garden is a great use of space, a great use of something destined for the landfill, and now a lovely focal point in what was a drab little part of the yard. We will enjoy it for years, especially at dinner.
Jun 7, 2011
To Thrive Without
“Time is the great leveler. It is one resource that is allocated in absolute egalitarian terms. Every living person has the same number of hours to use in every day. Busy people are not given a special bonus added on to the hours of the day. The clock plays no favorites.” –R.C. Sproul, “Time Well Spent”
I have only read a portion of that quote until today, and previously was of the mind that it was talking about the inevitably of age and how we are all the same in it regardless of station and privilege. Hmmm.
So as thoughts rolled around inside this empty head of mine, I became aware that I look towards the future with dread. What will become of me? Will I be tucked into one of those dark and dreary holes that meets the physical need but kills the spirit? Life-sucking life support ... no, thanks.
I've seen the promised land. Places that intuitively help with the transitions and challenges of age. Beautifully appointed places that are nestled in the hills amid walking and bike trails that engage and embrace life and nature.
Transportation. Health maintenance. Nutrition. Socialization. A Health Center to dispense meds when needed; housekeepers and a kitchen for meals; classes on technology, nutrition and travel; transportation to medical appointments, beauty and grocery trips; a gym, a pool, a woodshop. I'm not naive enough to think it isn't about money.
But . There is a gentleness in the way each of the residents approaches age and aging, a dignity and respect for the scooters and walkers and wicked coughs. There is patience and enthusiasm for every day. One could argue that the residents can afford to be that way considering the cost. But we know enough about the Rich and Famous to know that manners and money aren't inevitable companions.
Simply put, they have solved the biggest concerns as we age and at the same time encouraging independence as long as possible. There is a safety and readiness test each year to stay, and onsite options to transition to assisted living.
That structure frees them to focus on other things. They are confident and relaxed, more self sufficient and engaged. They dress for dinner on Thursday nights and enjoy Bocce ball tournaments. And linger just outside the diningroom to share lively, upbeat stories and warm smiles before heading in to meet their dinner companions. Age is celebrated and understood.
To unburden the day-to-day worries with a little innovation and contingency planning, now that's the ticket! A population who is elsewhere cast aside becomes a sustainable resource here. And from that philosophical environmental opportunity springs trips around the world and best sellers and active participation on committees that oversee the facility expenses and upkeep.
Purpose is translatable. A fat wallet isn't a necessity to implement the philosophy of value and respect. Gimme a plot of land where a garden walks its way to the table and a courtyard for pets to sleep in the sun; close-in to town and conveniences; a place to really open up that golf cart to 22 miles an hour; and brim it with people who want to work and share and live for the future instead of the past. And I guarantee the days of the training crate will be numbered.
I have only read a portion of that quote until today, and previously was of the mind that it was talking about the inevitably of age and how we are all the same in it regardless of station and privilege. Hmmm.
So as thoughts rolled around inside this empty head of mine, I became aware that I look towards the future with dread. What will become of me? Will I be tucked into one of those dark and dreary holes that meets the physical need but kills the spirit? Life-sucking life support ... no, thanks.
I've seen the promised land. Places that intuitively help with the transitions and challenges of age. Beautifully appointed places that are nestled in the hills amid walking and bike trails that engage and embrace life and nature.
Transportation. Health maintenance. Nutrition. Socialization. A Health Center to dispense meds when needed; housekeepers and a kitchen for meals; classes on technology, nutrition and travel; transportation to medical appointments, beauty and grocery trips; a gym, a pool, a woodshop. I'm not naive enough to think it isn't about money.
But . There is a gentleness in the way each of the residents approaches age and aging, a dignity and respect for the scooters and walkers and wicked coughs. There is patience and enthusiasm for every day. One could argue that the residents can afford to be that way considering the cost. But we know enough about the Rich and Famous to know that manners and money aren't inevitable companions.
Simply put, they have solved the biggest concerns as we age and at the same time encouraging independence as long as possible. There is a safety and readiness test each year to stay, and onsite options to transition to assisted living.
That structure frees them to focus on other things. They are confident and relaxed, more self sufficient and engaged. They dress for dinner on Thursday nights and enjoy Bocce ball tournaments. And linger just outside the diningroom to share lively, upbeat stories and warm smiles before heading in to meet their dinner companions. Age is celebrated and understood.
To unburden the day-to-day worries with a little innovation and contingency planning, now that's the ticket! A population who is elsewhere cast aside becomes a sustainable resource here. And from that philosophical environmental opportunity springs trips around the world and best sellers and active participation on committees that oversee the facility expenses and upkeep.
Purpose is translatable. A fat wallet isn't a necessity to implement the philosophy of value and respect. Gimme a plot of land where a garden walks its way to the table and a courtyard for pets to sleep in the sun; close-in to town and conveniences; a place to really open up that golf cart to 22 miles an hour; and brim it with people who want to work and share and live for the future instead of the past. And I guarantee the days of the training crate will be numbered.
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
--Robert Browning, Rabbi Ben Ezra
May 30, 2011
Hearing from the Heart
This bit of wisdom comes from Paula Underwood, clan mother of the Turtle clan, Iroquois nation - http://ijourney.org
When I was a little bitty kiddy, about five, my Dad began a process … anytime somebody came and said something to us, my dad would say, "You remember what he said, honey girl?” I would tell my father what the person said until I got so good at it that I could repeat verbatim even long presentations of what the person had said.
And he did this all the time.
Finally, one day there was this old gentleman, Richard Thompson. I still remember his name, he lived across the street. And every time my Dad started to mow the lawn, there came Mr. Thompson. And so I would stand out there.
Dad says, “You might come and listen to this man, honey girl. He’s pretty interesting.” And so I listened to him, and then my dad would say, “What did you hear him say?” And I would tell him.
Well, eventually I was repeating all the stories he liked to share with my dad verbatim. I knew them all by heart.
And my Dad says, “You’re getting pretty good at that. But did you hear his heart?" And I thought, what? So I went around for days with my ear to people's chest trying to hear their hearts.
Finally my Dad created another learning situation for me by asking my mother to read an article from the newspaper. He says “Well, I guess if you want to understand that article, you have to read between the lines."
I thought, "Oh, read between the lines. Hear between the words."
So the next time I listened to Mr. Thompson’s stories, I tried to listen between the words. My Dad said, “I know you know his story, but did you hear his heart?” And I said, "Yes. He is very lonely and comes and shares his memories with you again and again because he’s asking you to keep him company in his memories."
It just came out of me. In other words, my heart echoed his heart.
And when you can listen at that level, then you can hear not only the people. If you really pay attention, you can hear what the Universe is saying.
When I was a little bitty kiddy, about five, my Dad began a process … anytime somebody came and said something to us, my dad would say, "You remember what he said, honey girl?” I would tell my father what the person said until I got so good at it that I could repeat verbatim even long presentations of what the person had said.
And he did this all the time.
Finally, one day there was this old gentleman, Richard Thompson. I still remember his name, he lived across the street. And every time my Dad started to mow the lawn, there came Mr. Thompson. And so I would stand out there.
Dad says, “You might come and listen to this man, honey girl. He’s pretty interesting.” And so I listened to him, and then my dad would say, “What did you hear him say?” And I would tell him.
Well, eventually I was repeating all the stories he liked to share with my dad verbatim. I knew them all by heart.
And my Dad says, “You’re getting pretty good at that. But did you hear his heart?" And I thought, what? So I went around for days with my ear to people's chest trying to hear their hearts.
Finally my Dad created another learning situation for me by asking my mother to read an article from the newspaper. He says “Well, I guess if you want to understand that article, you have to read between the lines."
I thought, "Oh, read between the lines. Hear between the words."
So the next time I listened to Mr. Thompson’s stories, I tried to listen between the words. My Dad said, “I know you know his story, but did you hear his heart?” And I said, "Yes. He is very lonely and comes and shares his memories with you again and again because he’s asking you to keep him company in his memories."
It just came out of me. In other words, my heart echoed his heart.
And when you can listen at that level, then you can hear not only the people. If you really pay attention, you can hear what the Universe is saying.
May 28, 2011
Drifting Off
You know that sweet time at night when you find just the right position, on your side, on your back, flat on your belly with your arms under the pillows and puffing them up for your head ... and there are those comfortable moments just before drifting off to sleep?
I like that the right spot isn't right every night. You have to search for it, take the time to try different spots until you find the right fit. Put in effort to make it work. After a brainiac day, it's my left side all the way. After a day on my feet, definitely on the right. And so on.
After leaving a place after a lot of years there, there's a tight link at first with your friends but gradually you start to notice things. Like there's an awkwardness in trying to swap stories and laughs now that the kids aren't playing together. Like talking about your day is ok but you don't share the same people, or the same bargains. Like you begin to carry on with other local people and sometimes that other friendship ends up just behind the curve.
Successful distance friendships are truly astonishing. Somehow two people followed through on the promise to set aside part of their life just for each other. They let it be about something deeper than where or how they met. They share in calling. They crave the sound of shared laughter, the words of encouragement and support, the listening and celebrating a relationship they take responsibility for and share equally. Like a good marriage, maybe. Fair and equitable; hard work but worthwhile.
That is why electronic communication doesn't work as well for me. It messes with the rules of friendship. It doesn't nourish the aspects of friendship that feed its roots, at least not typically. FB / twitter / texting / email most often are used Instead Of rather than In Addition To. Saying hi once a week online and spying on what's going on seems to satisfy some people's curiosity but give me the old call-me-up-and-let's-chat-awhile any day of the week. I'll make the time.
I made the mistake of accepting an e-invite to an event I haven't even been personally invited to attend. How could I know how much of an afterthought it would make me feel?
I see no comfortable spot in the direction this is heading ... well, you catch my drift.
I like that the right spot isn't right every night. You have to search for it, take the time to try different spots until you find the right fit. Put in effort to make it work. After a brainiac day, it's my left side all the way. After a day on my feet, definitely on the right. And so on.
After leaving a place after a lot of years there, there's a tight link at first with your friends but gradually you start to notice things. Like there's an awkwardness in trying to swap stories and laughs now that the kids aren't playing together. Like talking about your day is ok but you don't share the same people, or the same bargains. Like you begin to carry on with other local people and sometimes that other friendship ends up just behind the curve.
Successful distance friendships are truly astonishing. Somehow two people followed through on the promise to set aside part of their life just for each other. They let it be about something deeper than where or how they met. They share in calling. They crave the sound of shared laughter, the words of encouragement and support, the listening and celebrating a relationship they take responsibility for and share equally. Like a good marriage, maybe. Fair and equitable; hard work but worthwhile.
That is why electronic communication doesn't work as well for me. It messes with the rules of friendship. It doesn't nourish the aspects of friendship that feed its roots, at least not typically. FB / twitter / texting / email most often are used Instead Of rather than In Addition To. Saying hi once a week online and spying on what's going on seems to satisfy some people's curiosity but give me the old call-me-up-and-let's-chat-awhile any day of the week. I'll make the time.
I made the mistake of accepting an e-invite to an event I haven't even been personally invited to attend. How could I know how much of an afterthought it would make me feel?
I see no comfortable spot in the direction this is heading ... well, you catch my drift.
May 26, 2011
Summer Normal
It's been too long since I've checked in. Life has taken on a life of its own. That's a good thing, I guess.
I'm in full swing with the Relay For Life events -- and Rman's work is going like gang-busters. No recession in Roseville, CA.
We had a great time last weekend for Ken/Tim/Marcia's birthdays. Mike entertained us with funny stories of his adventures into Mexico and back. Yes, the $500 CraigsList motorcycle made it and so did the boy: all 3,200 miles of it in 2 weeks, if you can believe that. He's glad he went and I'm glad he's home -- sounds like a win-win to me.
We've been to the horse races and The City and played an enthusiastic audience for Lodi High's Fiddler on the Roof. It was fabulous, and not just because our grandson played a leading role. Summer is trying to arrive but a couple of days a week are cloudy and rainy. Wouldn't it be nice for the whole summer to go that way? So we never take the sunshine for granted? Because by mid August I'm just about done with the whole summer and hot temperature thing and beg for rain.
The Dove family is rolling out its new models. We found Willy and Kate happily fluttering around on the ground today under the watchful eye of their mother. Not a BlueJay in sight. I guess they've passed the word that this yard is being patrolled. Kate looks just like her Mum: long slender neck, lighter gray. And Willy is a robust little chap that poops up a storm.
Graduations, birthdays, game days, a little boating around Santa Cruz, maybe a bbq or two - that's it for June. Teacher friends have their feet up at 10 in the morning for a well deserved break. And one teacher friend has a job interview on Tuesday. Fingers and toes crossed for that one.
We're kicking around the idea to bid on one of those unpaid public storage units like those Auction Hunters guys. Get our big old camping flashlights out and strategize in quiet whispers holding a couple of padlocks and a wad of cash. I knew it was a mistake to clean up the garage. I'll tell you one thing: I'm NOT getting a tattoo.
I'm in full swing with the Relay For Life events -- and Rman's work is going like gang-busters. No recession in Roseville, CA.
We had a great time last weekend for Ken/Tim/Marcia's birthdays. Mike entertained us with funny stories of his adventures into Mexico and back. Yes, the $500 CraigsList motorcycle made it and so did the boy: all 3,200 miles of it in 2 weeks, if you can believe that. He's glad he went and I'm glad he's home -- sounds like a win-win to me.
We've been to the horse races and The City and played an enthusiastic audience for Lodi High's Fiddler on the Roof. It was fabulous, and not just because our grandson played a leading role. Summer is trying to arrive but a couple of days a week are cloudy and rainy. Wouldn't it be nice for the whole summer to go that way? So we never take the sunshine for granted? Because by mid August I'm just about done with the whole summer and hot temperature thing and beg for rain.
Graduations, birthdays, game days, a little boating around Santa Cruz, maybe a bbq or two - that's it for June. Teacher friends have their feet up at 10 in the morning for a well deserved break. And one teacher friend has a job interview on Tuesday. Fingers and toes crossed for that one.
We're kicking around the idea to bid on one of those unpaid public storage units like those Auction Hunters guys. Get our big old camping flashlights out and strategize in quiet whispers holding a couple of padlocks and a wad of cash. I knew it was a mistake to clean up the garage. I'll tell you one thing: I'm NOT getting a tattoo.
May 17, 2011
The Other Shoe Just Dropped
A friend of mine finally heard back from the bank.
About 2 years ago they were in serious financial distress with a crazy-ass mortgage and no way to pay. They did the sensible thing and put the place up for sale with an agent, thinking they could sell it and get out from underneath. It's a big and beautiful place and well kept, and a buyer appeared in a relatively short amount of time.
The offer was good but no one knew precisely what the house was worth. And then the appraisal came back $100K under the offer and everything fell apart. (Nowhere do people buy homes for more than they're worth except in brain-impaired Silicon Valley.)
BofA didn't even bother to respond, and so the offer and the buyers evaporated.
Fast forward two years. The house is currently worth a lot less than in 2009, and NOW the bank approves a short sale for them? And gives them 4 months to do it in? With no buyer in the wings?
Had the bank just let them sell it in 2009 when they needed to, it would have saved them 24 additional months of crushing debt and two bankruptcies.
Banks are starting to really piss me off.
About 2 years ago they were in serious financial distress with a crazy-ass mortgage and no way to pay. They did the sensible thing and put the place up for sale with an agent, thinking they could sell it and get out from underneath. It's a big and beautiful place and well kept, and a buyer appeared in a relatively short amount of time.
The offer was good but no one knew precisely what the house was worth. And then the appraisal came back $100K under the offer and everything fell apart. (Nowhere do people buy homes for more than they're worth except in brain-impaired Silicon Valley.)
BofA didn't even bother to respond, and so the offer and the buyers evaporated.
Fast forward two years. The house is currently worth a lot less than in 2009, and NOW the bank approves a short sale for them? And gives them 4 months to do it in? With no buyer in the wings?
Had the bank just let them sell it in 2009 when they needed to, it would have saved them 24 additional months of crushing debt and two bankruptcies.
Banks are starting to really piss me off.
May 11, 2011
Listening Ears
Listening, listening.
There is anxiety in her voice, recalling the day spent at the MediCal office downtown and being clustered and crammed into a too-small, windowless office with uncomfortable chairs.
She was there to get relief from crushing medical bills after a surgery. She keeps current on a $600 a month medical plan although she can't really afford it. It used to be decent coverage with modest out-of-pocket expenses. The monthly costs have gone up and the benefits have gone down, leaving her with a co-pay of thousands of dollars she was not expecting to owe. Former work buddies tell her they too have filed for MediCal assistance to help with co-pay expenses and they are working full time.
Her disability checks are small and almost cover rent and heat and water and garbage and food. She tells me about $5 Fridays at Safeway, where you can get a turkey breast almost $4 off. She does ok, if the 14-year-old car she shares with her daughter doesn't need tires or brakes. Or if medical coverage plans stop covering actually what she needs them to cover.
This is how she came to be in the last place she ever expected to be. She worked 30 hard years to develop the skillsets she has, being both smart and educated. She has a polished resume showing job stability and has been on unemployment for nearly 2 years. I don't know about everywhere, but here the job market is saturated with Administrative Assistants and employers can and are being choosy and cheap.
Most of her applications go unanswered. It is a toss-up whether the discrimination is age-related or earnings related. An employer can't come out and ask a person's age, but they can ask the high school graduation date. I have a calculator right here in my purse: let me get it.
Add to that the fact that nearly all job applications ask about prior earnings before it can be uploaded to a website. So if you earned $25 an hour but suspect the job is paying $12, and you don't want to lie, typically that type of thing is addressed in the cover letter: ... for the right opportunity ... my salary requirements are negotiable ...
She doesn't think the machines scanning resumes are sophisticated enough to include hers in the pile that makes it to the HR tech's desk. And when she does miraculously jump all the hurdles and lands an interview, the employers see a woman hobble into the room with her 5 week old hip and 50-something everything else. They're thinking about the costs to cover an older woman with visible health issues. How can polish and experience overcome that?
Is it unfair? You bet. Illegal? Absolutely. Also impossible to prove. So I will stay a good listener for the phone calls that are coming. Unless something changes, there will be more of the same kind of day she just had.
There is anxiety in her voice, recalling the day spent at the MediCal office downtown and being clustered and crammed into a too-small, windowless office with uncomfortable chairs.
She was there to get relief from crushing medical bills after a surgery. She keeps current on a $600 a month medical plan although she can't really afford it. It used to be decent coverage with modest out-of-pocket expenses. The monthly costs have gone up and the benefits have gone down, leaving her with a co-pay of thousands of dollars she was not expecting to owe. Former work buddies tell her they too have filed for MediCal assistance to help with co-pay expenses and they are working full time.
Her disability checks are small and almost cover rent and heat and water and garbage and food. She tells me about $5 Fridays at Safeway, where you can get a turkey breast almost $4 off. She does ok, if the 14-year-old car she shares with her daughter doesn't need tires or brakes. Or if medical coverage plans stop covering actually what she needs them to cover.
This is how she came to be in the last place she ever expected to be. She worked 30 hard years to develop the skillsets she has, being both smart and educated. She has a polished resume showing job stability and has been on unemployment for nearly 2 years. I don't know about everywhere, but here the job market is saturated with Administrative Assistants and employers can and are being choosy and cheap.
Most of her applications go unanswered. It is a toss-up whether the discrimination is age-related or earnings related. An employer can't come out and ask a person's age, but they can ask the high school graduation date. I have a calculator right here in my purse: let me get it.
Add to that the fact that nearly all job applications ask about prior earnings before it can be uploaded to a website. So if you earned $25 an hour but suspect the job is paying $12, and you don't want to lie, typically that type of thing is addressed in the cover letter: ... for the right opportunity ... my salary requirements are negotiable ...
She doesn't think the machines scanning resumes are sophisticated enough to include hers in the pile that makes it to the HR tech's desk. And when she does miraculously jump all the hurdles and lands an interview, the employers see a woman hobble into the room with her 5 week old hip and 50-something everything else. They're thinking about the costs to cover an older woman with visible health issues. How can polish and experience overcome that?
Is it unfair? You bet. Illegal? Absolutely. Also impossible to prove. So I will stay a good listener for the phone calls that are coming. Unless something changes, there will be more of the same kind of day she just had.
May 10, 2011
How to Hide a Dent in the Roof
My brother reminisces about his early years with a paper route when we are together and having a glass of wine. He had a 6am morning route of the San Jose Mercury News, a mammoth paper requiring more than two hands to hold it in order to roll the papers into plastic bags on rain days. I helped sometimes but not too often and so he was left to the goodwill of friends to get it out on time.
This one particular morning was foggy and bone-chillingly cold. He and his two buddies were in the garage folding papers and the idea was hatched to deliver the papers by car. He snuck into the house for the keys and they rolled the car out of the garage silently.
In the street two boys positioned themselves on the roof, legs wrapped through the windows and around the door jambs, and the least experienced driver was behind the wheel.
The streets were nearly deserted. Jerry kept it pretty slow and the guys on the roof wiggled toward the center to hang on and toss the papers left and right. It was going pretty well until they hit the parked car.
The boys and papers flew over the hood and onto the lawn, and after an astonished moment, they scrambled up and dove into the back seat for a getaway. They finished the route from inside the car and quietly pushed the car back into the garage and replaced the keys.
This was quite an adventure! It took a while for the boys to calm down, but once they did and surveyed the damage, it wasn't too bad: just a dent in the fender with some paint scrapes. So they decided to wash the car and buff it out, and while they were doing that, they noticed water pooling on the roof from the large dent that had formed.
The collective weight of their butts was around 300 lbs (plus papers) and no way could they hide that. They tried everything. And so it was decided that they would just let it ride.
It actually took about a week for the dent to be noticed. When he was called on the carpet for it, you know that brother of mine was able to convince Mom that it must have always been there and she probably had never noticed it before.
This one particular morning was foggy and bone-chillingly cold. He and his two buddies were in the garage folding papers and the idea was hatched to deliver the papers by car. He snuck into the house for the keys and they rolled the car out of the garage silently.
In the street two boys positioned themselves on the roof, legs wrapped through the windows and around the door jambs, and the least experienced driver was behind the wheel.
The streets were nearly deserted. Jerry kept it pretty slow and the guys on the roof wiggled toward the center to hang on and toss the papers left and right. It was going pretty well until they hit the parked car.
The boys and papers flew over the hood and onto the lawn, and after an astonished moment, they scrambled up and dove into the back seat for a getaway. They finished the route from inside the car and quietly pushed the car back into the garage and replaced the keys.
This was quite an adventure! It took a while for the boys to calm down, but once they did and surveyed the damage, it wasn't too bad: just a dent in the fender with some paint scrapes. So they decided to wash the car and buff it out, and while they were doing that, they noticed water pooling on the roof from the large dent that had formed.
The collective weight of their butts was around 300 lbs (plus papers) and no way could they hide that. They tried everything. And so it was decided that they would just let it ride.
It actually took about a week for the dent to be noticed. When he was called on the carpet for it, you know that brother of mine was able to convince Mom that it must have always been there and she probably had never noticed it before.
May 6, 2011
So Goes The Nation
I was reminded of the word duplicitous this morning, which means intentionally false and misleading words and action. It was used in a news article from Britain, a country that embraces the beautiful variety of its language and the necessity of communicating on a higher plain. Britain expects its people will maintain more formalized, expansive oral and written expression. Their newspapers are smart and expect their readers to be.
I delegate to Britain on this topic, having existed since 927 AD and survived numerous conquerings that have hugely impacted the development and maintenance of their language. Britain clings to its language, and exercises the beauty and expansiveness of communication that it affords. They passionately work to preserve the rich heritage of their poetry and prose. But more than that, Britain understands that in order to preserve the language it must be used.
In America, we delegate the more expressive prose to novelists and poets and heady magazines like US News and World Report and The Economist. Ours is a simpler language: typically 4 or 5 syllable words, uncomplicated sentences, short paragraphs, lots of pictures. We want to be sure those on the lower rungs of the communication ladder will understand.
That is unfortunate. We are a new country and our language has shallow roots. Have you noticed how poorly we use words and with such little variety? Ours has become a language of catchy phrases and inside jokes, which sarcastically trivializes some very serious issues. You might want to ask someone who is unemployed if we should be taking Obamanomics seriously. Terms like Watergate and Irangate have become the identifying norm.
It is a juvenile way to communicate and certainly projects a lack of regard for ourselves. We act incapable of maintaining an educated level of communication without watering it down. Our lazy language habits cater to the least educated and least interested citizens. Would it be so wrong to up the ante and leave them behind? If oral and written communication is something our citizens do not want to strive to master, they could always tune in to Entertainment Tonight and the Six O'Clock news.
No great country can stand strong without a great language. It drives us to achieve. Evidently America thinks its citizens will not even modestly participate in a strong, educated and articulate country. And that speaks volumes to the world.
rugoing2nite?
Txt me @ 1
K
cuthere
I delegate to Britain on this topic, having existed since 927 AD and survived numerous conquerings that have hugely impacted the development and maintenance of their language. Britain clings to its language, and exercises the beauty and expansiveness of communication that it affords. They passionately work to preserve the rich heritage of their poetry and prose. But more than that, Britain understands that in order to preserve the language it must be used.
In America, we delegate the more expressive prose to novelists and poets and heady magazines like US News and World Report and The Economist. Ours is a simpler language: typically 4 or 5 syllable words, uncomplicated sentences, short paragraphs, lots of pictures. We want to be sure those on the lower rungs of the communication ladder will understand.
That is unfortunate. We are a new country and our language has shallow roots. Have you noticed how poorly we use words and with such little variety? Ours has become a language of catchy phrases and inside jokes, which sarcastically trivializes some very serious issues. You might want to ask someone who is unemployed if we should be taking Obamanomics seriously. Terms like Watergate and Irangate have become the identifying norm.
It is a juvenile way to communicate and certainly projects a lack of regard for ourselves. We act incapable of maintaining an educated level of communication without watering it down. Our lazy language habits cater to the least educated and least interested citizens. Would it be so wrong to up the ante and leave them behind? If oral and written communication is something our citizens do not want to strive to master, they could always tune in to Entertainment Tonight and the Six O'Clock news.
No great country can stand strong without a great language. It drives us to achieve. Evidently America thinks its citizens will not even modestly participate in a strong, educated and articulate country. And that speaks volumes to the world.
rugoing2nite?
Txt me @ 1
K
cuthere
May 5, 2011
Wonderful Hugs
There's times when I look over at my husband's chair and miss him. He is puttering somewhere in the house, and I can hear rooting sounds of opening and closing drawers and his footsteps in the hall. The chair is a beautiful leather recliner with nail head trim that he uses every day. No one would guess it is part of the spoils of a war from a long and fierce battle to find each other.
I'm feeling an incredible sense of dis-ease as my son travels through Mexico on vacation. He posted a photo with AJ in Simi Valley on Saturday; we've spied on his account, which is linked since the college days, and there are gas fill ups to the border on Monday; and yesterday there was a VM from BofA thanking him for notifying them he would be out of the country for the next two weeks. We are awaiting word of his safe arrival in Cabo.
All the boys are half daredevil, admittedly by exposure to scuba gear and spelunking suits and snorkels when they were growing up. They rode scooters and played street hockey, baseball, soccer, football, and handball. They camped and swam and biked their way along and now that they are of age, they do all the things I never approved of: they own guns, dabble in racing 'lemon' cars and ride motorcycles.
I sometimes wonder what life would be like without them. They are such precious gifts. And so this weekend for Mother's Day is the perfect time to celebrate each of them. Two of my sons will be with us at the races on Saturday; and when the eldest returns, I promise to take time to memorize and appreciate his wonderful hug.
I'm feeling an incredible sense of dis-ease as my son travels through Mexico on vacation. He posted a photo with AJ in Simi Valley on Saturday; we've spied on his account, which is linked since the college days, and there are gas fill ups to the border on Monday; and yesterday there was a VM from BofA thanking him for notifying them he would be out of the country for the next two weeks. We are awaiting word of his safe arrival in Cabo.
All the boys are half daredevil, admittedly by exposure to scuba gear and spelunking suits and snorkels when they were growing up. They rode scooters and played street hockey, baseball, soccer, football, and handball. They camped and swam and biked their way along and now that they are of age, they do all the things I never approved of: they own guns, dabble in racing 'lemon' cars and ride motorcycles.
I sometimes wonder what life would be like without them. They are such precious gifts. And so this weekend for Mother's Day is the perfect time to celebrate each of them. Two of my sons will be with us at the races on Saturday; and when the eldest returns, I promise to take time to memorize and appreciate his wonderful hug.
May 2, 2011
On the passing of Osama Bin Laden
May 1, 2011
Statement by President George W. Bush
Earlier this evening, President Obama called to inform me that American forces killed Osama bin Laden, the leader of the al Qaeda network that attacked America on September 11, 2001. I congratulated him and the men and women of our mili...tary and intelligence communities who devoted their lives to this mission. They have our everlasting gratitude. This momentous achievement marks a victory for America, for people who seek peace around the world, and for all those who lost loved ones on September 11, 2001. The fight against terror goes on, but tonight America has sent an unmistakable message: No matter how long it takes, justice will be done.
--by: George W. Bush Presidential Center
May 2, 2011
My statement: Any day we 'pass off' Bin Laden is a good day for the world.
Statement by President George W. Bush
Earlier this evening, President Obama called to inform me that American forces killed Osama bin Laden, the leader of the al Qaeda network that attacked America on September 11, 2001. I congratulated him and the men and women of our mili...tary and intelligence communities who devoted their lives to this mission. They have our everlasting gratitude. This momentous achievement marks a victory for America, for people who seek peace around the world, and for all those who lost loved ones on September 11, 2001. The fight against terror goes on, but tonight America has sent an unmistakable message: No matter how long it takes, justice will be done.
--by: George W. Bush Presidential Center
May 2, 2011
My statement: Any day we 'pass off' Bin Laden is a good day for the world.
Newsworthy Enough
I am always surprised by violence on tv. It comes in the most innocent ways: a commercial for something on later in the day; a punctuation to nearly all news casts. People sit with eyes glued to the screen and don't even flinch.
But not me. I know what real life is. I understand the difference. But something about seeing dangerous and violent situations kicks in my self preservation instinct and an overwhelming sense of dread. I have to remove myself.
Slowly and cautiously I try to sidestep violence and brutality in the media. It is increasingly harder to do with video games and news clips and free PG-13 or R movies on every channel. There are eons of sitdrams and overly zealous reporters on the 6:00 news thinking the gory details and videos of brutality are what we want to see.
It's not. When Prince William married, I guarantee you I did not want to see photos of his mother's mangled car and relive the details of her horrific death. On my marriage day, no one paraded pictures of my parents in their final moments.
Why would anyone want to go there with the flip of a switch and watch over and over our favorite actors being blown up and brutalized? Is it so appealing now that violence should be mainstreamed?
It makes me heartsick. I couldn't handle the violence and brutality in the 1970s. And today? Today I can't even sit still for most movies. I emphatically do NOT want to witness gory and vicious crimes as a helpless observer. It is not the least bit entertaining.
We seat belt our children in the back of the car, feed them the best and most wholesome foods, love and nurture them, teach them to walk and then later sit beside them on the sofa while Bruce Willis blows the head off an adversary and throws him out a five-story window. Right there with their hands in the popcorn bowl, we are teaching them something really important. We are showing them how inhabitable life will be.
I know the world is complicated. But it is my world, too. Why were our news crews so surprised when the Japanese people handled so graciously the series of recent devastating disasters? And when no one lashed out, wailed and moaned, or tossed blame around, why were they so willing to pack up and move on? Not newsworthy enough without the Western drama?
Who decided for us that violence is entertainment, anyway? And how can we voice a dissenting vote? Life is a real life, magnificent drama of wonderful experiences. Leave us to discover for ourselves what is in store rather than forcing the conclusion that it will be a vicious, unsafe and violent world.
But not me. I know what real life is. I understand the difference. But something about seeing dangerous and violent situations kicks in my self preservation instinct and an overwhelming sense of dread. I have to remove myself.
Slowly and cautiously I try to sidestep violence and brutality in the media. It is increasingly harder to do with video games and news clips and free PG-13 or R movies on every channel. There are eons of sitdrams and overly zealous reporters on the 6:00 news thinking the gory details and videos of brutality are what we want to see.
It's not. When Prince William married, I guarantee you I did not want to see photos of his mother's mangled car and relive the details of her horrific death. On my marriage day, no one paraded pictures of my parents in their final moments.
Why would anyone want to go there with the flip of a switch and watch over and over our favorite actors being blown up and brutalized? Is it so appealing now that violence should be mainstreamed?
It makes me heartsick. I couldn't handle the violence and brutality in the 1970s. And today? Today I can't even sit still for most movies. I emphatically do NOT want to witness gory and vicious crimes as a helpless observer. It is not the least bit entertaining.
We seat belt our children in the back of the car, feed them the best and most wholesome foods, love and nurture them, teach them to walk and then later sit beside them on the sofa while Bruce Willis blows the head off an adversary and throws him out a five-story window. Right there with their hands in the popcorn bowl, we are teaching them something really important. We are showing them how inhabitable life will be.
I know the world is complicated. But it is my world, too. Why were our news crews so surprised when the Japanese people handled so graciously the series of recent devastating disasters? And when no one lashed out, wailed and moaned, or tossed blame around, why were they so willing to pack up and move on? Not newsworthy enough without the Western drama?
Who decided for us that violence is entertainment, anyway? And how can we voice a dissenting vote? Life is a real life, magnificent drama of wonderful experiences. Leave us to discover for ourselves what is in store rather than forcing the conclusion that it will be a vicious, unsafe and violent world.
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