May 23

Breakfast in Americastan

burned eggs and toastServing up Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton for President this November is like your waiter asking if you’d prefer cold, runny eggs for breakfast, or yesterday’s burnt toast. The only other thing on the menu is not voting for a president, and that is even less appetizing.

But Mr. Trump’s interruptive, bombastic, New York, New York-style might be just what The People need in Washington, DC right now. The number one job of our next POTUS must be to end the gridlock in Washington, and to finally hold all elected officials to a higher standard. Like their sworn duty to work for the people who elected them instead of the lobbyists who made them millionaires. Maybe that’s not “old-money” billionaire Trump, who put his own money where his big mouth is to win his party’s nomination. But it is certainly not “new-money” millionaire Clinton who speaks privately out of one side of her mouth and publicly out of the other side. So, if it’s between cold, runny eggs and yesterday’s burnt toast anyway, here are two ducks Donald could get in a row to earn my vote.

First, my main concern is stopping the Republican party from further weakening women’s rights. Mr. Trump has waxed and waned on this issue, so he could decide to put a stop to it. His wife and daughter might help. They are both powerful women in their own right, and they have his ear.

Some Republican legislators are trying to enact demeaning, overbearing and purposefully humiliating laws on young women. Laws that are based on pseudo-science and someone else’s religious convictions. It is hard for me to distinguish the difference between a Turban and a Yamaka, a Habit and a Hijab, when I see baseless laws trampling the First Amendment. The Supreme Court – if not Mr. Trump – must stop the Republican Party’s religious right from trying to run the country from the pulpit. Otherwise, I fear it will soon be breakfast in Americastan.

Abortion is a hard decision for any would-be parent, a decision they will live with for the rest of their lives. I doubt if it is ever made lightly. But it is a decision that should be debated by family, not legislators, behind closed doors, not in open court. And the medical community must be free to dismiss all legislative-induced, pseudo-science.

If Trump says he’ll leave all personal decisions to the person, I’m voting for him. If not, Hillary has already said she is pro-life. I’d rather four more years of gridlock than see women lose their right to self-determination.

Second, as long as Trump is cutting his own Republican cloth, this summer would also be a good time to announce he will repeal the federal criminal laws on marijuana.

It is way past time to remove marijuana from its Schedule 1 status, let the medical field conduct proper research on it, and let adults smoke it recreationally. The marijuana laws have done more harm to people than the product ever could. A lot of countries are finally realizing this, but there are over 100,000 Americans, most of them young, who are serving pot-only related sentences, and thousands of more lives have been diminished because of pot-related felonies. President Obama is trying to rectify as much as he can. He commuted another 58 such sentences earlier this month including 18 who were serving life. He’s now commuted 306 sentences while in office, more than the previous six presidents combined.

On April 20th, the Prime Minister of Canada introduced a law to decriminalize pot by next year. Two days later, the President of Mexico proposed new laws to decriminalize possession of under an ounce. It’s high time America did, too.

All comments welcomed.

 

May 21

Memory?

Memory has always fascinated me. Why do I remember some things and forget others?

Whenever I hear “Bring Flowers of the Rarest”* from Queen of the May, I’m transported back in time to my nine-year-old self, wearing my white communion dress and walking in procession down the aisle of St. Thomas the Apostle Church in San Francisco. The sun is shining, a cool breeze is blowing in from the ocean and my family is watching. I’m worried if the dress is too short because my Mom told me this is the last year I could wear it, as I’d grown so tall.

Why do I remember this scene so clearly, but can’t recall much else about that year? And though I was in that same procession every year I was in grammar school, I hardly remember the other ones.

When my grandson was first learning to drive, his parents sent him to a Drivers’ Ed class. Just hearing about it brought back the memory of my first accident.

Our house was on a flat, dead end street and the blue Kaiser was parked in front. I wanted to practice putting in the clutch and shifting the gears. I didn’t have the keys because I hadn’t gotten to the actual driving part of the class yet.

claire car

After mentally rehearsing what I was going to do, I released the parking brake, put the car in neutral and got ready to shift into first. The car suddenly rolled back a few feet and hit the car behind. My first car accident and I hadn’t even turned the ignition on!

I hadn’t thought about this in YEARS! Yet, in that moment I remembered every detail as if it was happening right now.

This is what has always fascinated me about memory. A song, a chance comment by someone, and I’m in a movie of my own life, remembering everything. But other times, when I try to remember, I can’t.

Recently I heard of an adult education class on memory. I immediately signed up. The required reading, before class starts, is White Gloves: How We Create Ourselves Through Memory** by John Kotre. I just finished reading it.

claires old photo

Fascinating book! He talks a lot about how memory works and the different types of memory. I was surprised to find out that over time, we can change our memories. This is why different people, present at the same event, can recall the situation very differently. That’s why eye-witnesses in court cases can be so unreliable.

Class starts Tuesday!!!

*Bring Flowers of the Rarest is a well-known Marian hymn written by Mary E. Walsh. It was published as the “Crowning Hymn” in the Wreath of Mary 1871/1883 and later in St. Basil’s hymnal (1889). 

**White Gloves: How We Create Ourselves Through Memory by John Kotre, W.W. Norton & Company, New York, London, 1996

 

 

May 18

Coffee Shop Chronicles: Overheard Conversations

FullSizeRender (2)Starbucks

Livonia, MI

Have you ever just sat in a coffee shop and listened to conversations?

This can be done anywhere really: in a park, on a bus, at a college football game, a kids’ softball game, in a lunchroom, at your coworker next cubicle over.  Anywhere.  What does that say about them?

I’ve listened everywhere, partially because of boredom, partially out of curiosity.  Dad always enjoyed being in the Now, and that’s why I’ve always enjoyed people-watching and people-listening.

I’m sipping my Clover Reserve coffee, the West Java Preanger while it’s still available. What are people saying here, today?

What’s This Song?

A guy finishes humming and says, “Do you know what that’s from?” The woman with him is shaking her head.  “It’s from the movie the Officer and…the one with Richard Gere.”

ME:  It’s An Officer and a Gentleman, geez.  You don’t even know the title?  I didn’t hear that tune in it at all.  Maybe you should try harder.  Are you trying to impress this girl, like on a date, or is she a friend who tolerates you?  Does she know movies?  Does she care?  She just tapped some sugar into her coffee and walked away.  You, you’re dumping about…is that four or five packets of sugar…in your coffee?  You’re both staying here, and you have to-go cups?  Don’t you see my for-here mug beside you as I mix my Splenda and steamed 2% milk?  I’m saving a cardboard tree.  You’re drinking that coffee black.  Ugh.

A Guy and His Buddy

A guy walks in, shakes his buddy’s hand.  “Free car?” the guy says, a smile in his voice.  I don’t hear his buddy’s response, but the guy says to him, “You can get a car for a reasonable price of a truck.”

ME: Sounds like buddy’s in a world of trouble.  Is he poor?  Is he desperate?  Why does he want a truck, or is that something the guy wants?  I’m thinking pickup truck–I mean, what else is there?–but buddy’s got a jean jacket and a laptop.  He doesn’t look the truck type.  The other guy, he has that sauntering attitude around his beefy self.  I could see him wanting a truck but stuck driving daddy’s Caddy.  Or am I just thinking of my ex-boyfriend’s lawyer-to-be friend from those oh-so-many years ago?

About Bill

“I went to Bill’s class on Friday, and it wasn’t filled.”

ME:  Is he a college student?  Probably, since it’s around 1:30 pm.  That’s too early for high school to be out.  What does Bill teach, and why isn’t he filling up his classroom?  Does the girl he’s talking to know the class or Bill?  Is he not a popular teacher?  Could it be that the subject isn’t fun?  Does the class happen at an awkward time?  As a college student, I couldn’t handle morning classes.  The 9:00 am ones were tolerable, but the 8:00 am classes were too much, too early.  At least you’re there to support your friend.

What does this say about me and interpreting them?  Some of this stuff is so perfect that, as the cliché goes, I couldn’t write or make up this stuff.

I feel a little jealous.  I’m left out of the loop.  Something cool is going on, and I’m not a part of it.  Why am I not a part of it all?  Maybe that comes from being picked last for sports teams in grade school.

If I was curious before, I’m more curious now.  There’s the context behind the above comments, and I’d love to know more about them.

Listen.

May 16

I Love You, More Than Words Can Express

What are you willing to do to show your love?

What are you willing to do to show your love?

“Gestures, in love, are incomparably more attractive, effective and valuable than words.” ~Francois Rabelais

“I love you.” Those words carry great significance. We hear them and feel a number of different emotions. How we react depends on who is speaking to us. Similarly, by saying the words aloud to someone else, we hope to impact their feelings. It seems like this simple, short expression should do nothing else but make moments in life more enjoyable.

As parents, we effortlessly cuddle our infant children and whisper that we love them. We read books like Guess How Much I Love You to them and rock them to sleep with the words from Love You Forever. Some of us—older parents—now have adult children. We remember doing silly things, like singing along with . . . maybe even dancing to . . . Barney the Dinosaur as he nasally projected the lyrics to his “I Love You” song.

Mature moms and dads, we look back at tender moments such as these and wonder how time passed by so quickly and stole our babies from us. We realize that saying “I love you” was easy when showering affection upon our little ones. But wasn’t it hard to get those words out for the first time when dating our would-be spouses?

Hopefully, by the time we know we’re in love, the other person feels the same about us. But there’s anxiety in that moment in which we’re wondering whether or not our words of endearment will be returned. If they aren’t, we feel squashed and rejected once we’ve uttered, “I love you.” Old scars and deep wounds from past relationships oftentimes affect our new ones.

For example, a divorced man, whom I’m going to refer to as The Captain, struggled with telling his second wife how deeply he felt about her. Throughout their marriage, he instead made sure that he showed love to her. Tennille, also an alias, understood the personal reasons that prevented The Captain from saying those three little significant words. That didn’t stop her, however, from wanting to hear, “I love you,” from her spouse. The couple found inspiration to their problem in the movie, Ghost.

In that movie—arguably one of the most romantic films ever, fictional characters, Sam and Molly, are portrayed by actors Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore. Like The Captain, Sam consistently withholds from saying “I love you” to Molly. Whenever she says the phrase to him, he responds with a simple, “Ditto.” Toward the end, Sam has one last opportunity to speak to Molly before he ascends to heaven. He locks his gaze upon her, stares into her eyes, ignores the supernatural things happening around him, and speaks the words she has longed to hear: “I love you, Molly. I’ve always loved you.” Molly, is so enamored by Sam’s declaration that she stops breathing for an instant, then exhales in one soft gust, smiles, and responds with Sam’s customary line, “Ditto.”

After watching the movie, The Captain and Tennille adopted similar dialogue for many years. Gradually, they replaced ditto with their own more personal, private, mushy word: smooches. This one word became synonymous with love because the couple reserved their flirty exchange only for each other. I first learned of it when The Captain spoke about it during his and Tennille’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party.

As I celebrated with the couple that night, I agreed with The Captain’s point of view that showing love through our behavior and in our conversations is the best way to convey our love for someone else. On the other hand, I believe that husbands and wives should also be comfortable saying “I love you” to one another. As long as it doesn’t become a rote response, it’s a strong reminder of the bond between them.

I have proof that there’s power in the words.

Years ago, I was a less experienced driver than I am now. I turned my car, evidently too quickly, into an intersection with oncoming traffic. The oncoming car, which I had accidentally cut off, was full of people—rude people—who weren’t happy with me. They showed me just how they felt through both their crude actions—flipping me the bird—and through their words, which I’m glad I couldn’t quite make out. My anxiety level climbed sky high. Of course I knew I had made a mistake. At first, I was embarrassed, but then I was defiant. My actions had been accidental. These people were plain nasty. My blood began to boil and then for some strange reason I couldn’t bring myself to flip them off in return. Instead, I looked at the driver and mouthed, “I love you . . . I LOVE YOU!” Amazingly, my gesture diffused the situation. The other driver and her passengers responded with “I love you too.” We all ended up smiling at one another after that and I can tell you that I felt instantly relieved. Those words were and are powerful.

Now, lest you think that The Captain and Tennille have anything less than a blissful marriage, let me finish telling their story.

The Captain and Tennille had never had a song. You know what I mean: a special song that a couple claims as theirs. A song captured during a meaningful moment; secured safely in the hearts of two lovebirds; and often selected as the first song a bride and groom dance to as husband and wife during their wedding reception.

The Captain and Tennille had never selected such a song for themselves. So, twenty-five years after their wedding, The Captain chose one and presented it to Tennille at the anniversary party. This charming guy claimed that he didn’t have a romantic bone in his body, yet he made his bride weep with joy when he shared “More Than Words.”

In turn, Tennille surprised everyone, including The Captain, by reading the words of a different song, “Through the Years,” which reminded her of her relationship with The Captain.

If you take a moment to listen to those songs, you’ll know that saying “I love you” isn’t essential for a good relationship. For me, that doesn’t mean I’ll stop telling my husband that I love him. The exchange is comfortable and meaningful to us. But we also recognize our love for one another in our own unique ways. Whether we exchange short texts or lengthier love notes, whether we go out for a date or stay home, whether I do something nice for him or he does something nice for me, the way we approach our daily activities reflects our love for and commitment to one another. We’ve learned that what’s most important in a healthy, vibrant marriage is to always love and respect one another, and, through the years, to show it with more than words.

May 15

Hunter

 

While attending college in Flint, a friend, Dale, asked if I would like to go rabbit hunting the following Saturday on his father’s farm. Weather was promising and I was looking forward to just enjoying a day outdoors tramping around on a Saturday in fresh air and sunlight. I hadn’t brought a .22 squirrel-hunting rifle to college, knowing I wouldn’t have time, so Dale agreed to loan me an old rifle of his. 

Another student, Mike, heard about our plans and invited himself along. He had returned to college after a stint in the Air Force and delighted in reminding us of his military experience. It wasn’t clear whether he was ever more than a supply clerk, but he had a habit of imparting his world-wisdom whether asked or not. Mike assured us no one had more experience hunting small game as himself, and that he had been a great marksman in the Air Force.  Up to that point, I hadn’t been aware the U.S. Air Force spent any time hunting rabbits. Saturday would be interesting.

 Dale and I and another friend drove out to the farm Saturday morning and began unloading guns, coats, lunch bags, boots, and gloves. It was early November, a cool sunny day. A fresh breeze rattled a vast field of broken cornstalks that hadn’t been plowed under. Our outerwear consisted of jeans, worn coats, and orange hats, anything to keep warm and safe. I was glad to be out of my rented room and didn’t care if I saw a rabbit or even shot at one.

 We were ready to go when we saw a car in the distance. It was Mike. He pulled behind on the narrow dirt road and got out, resplendent in a brand-new hunting outfit. It was as if he’d stepped from the pages of an L.L. Bean catalogue in a new orange shooting jacket with the wrinkles still in it. The jacket would have been great on an African safari, with all its epaulets, cartridge loops, extra pockets, and leather elbow patches. His heavy green-camouflaged hunting pants had never seen a thicket or mud bog. His new boots were luxurious supple-leather, and his yellow non-glare hunting sunglasses were amazing. 

He greeted us, smiling broadly, unloading and assembling a brand-new Beretta over-under double-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun, sliding new soft leather gloves over checkered grips. The engraved receiver gleamed softly in the morning light, and he began inserting shotgun shells out of a box into the loops of a tooled-leather cartridge belt. When all the loops were filled, he resembled a cleaned-up version of Pancho Villa without a sombrero. 

The three of us, wearing old clothes and carrying .22 rifles, were agog. Whether Mike’s outfit would impress the rabbits, I didn’t know, but we certainly were. But this wasn’t Vietnam and rabbits weren’t going to return fire. He didn’t have a single item indicating he was an old hand at hunting, whereas our old clothes and .22 rifles were more suited for an early morning cornfield. It didn’t help that he took pains to remind us yet again how much hunting he had done, as he was haphazardly handling the Beretta, allowing its barrel to swing past us dangerously. I quickly barked a warning and told him to be more careful, which wasn’t accepted very well. But I was determined to enjoy the day despite his presence. He chose this moment to order me, in no uncertain terms, to walk in back of him instead of in line with everyone else. Exactly why he wanted this wasn’t clear, but he insisted on having a clear field of fire in front. He said he wanted to know absolutely where I was at all times, in the interests of safety as he put it, even though I would have a loaded .22 rifle to the rear. 

 Of course, from a safety standpoint, it made no sense at all to hunt in anything but a single line, so I unloaded the .22 and left it, wondering again if he knew what he was doing. Dale’s quizzical expression confirmed my misgivings but, being safety conscious, I decided to continue behind the group. For the next half-hour, not a single rabbit popped up, but Mike had a great time shouting directions and generally acting the leader. 

Returning to the cars for soup and coffee, we were walking down a dirt track. I was still twenty feet to the rear as I had been for the last hour when a solitary rabbit suddenly ran from behind. It had only scooted a few yards in front when it suddenly reversed course and ran straight back at Mike. Suddenly, wildly, Mike began drawing a close-range bead while the rabbit was only yards in front. Mike swung the shotgun toward the ground, the poor rabbit skittering past and back toward me. In a split second, lacking any field sense at all, fingers tightening on the triggers, Mike continued swinging the shotgun in an arc past Dale and toward me. 

In the heat of the moment, out of control, he had forgotten everything he ever knew about firearms and field safety. I dropped flat to the ground, and he yelled “I got it!” firing both barrels over me while I was lying on the ground. Both loads of twelve-gauge pellets missed the terrified rabbit, ricocheted off the hard dirt track, and into the front of a wood-framed farmhouse only a hundred yards away, the rabbit long gone. 

I picked myself up, shaking, completely hollow inside, Mike’s crestfallen, guilty expression and sagging Beretta slowly revealing all. If he had ever hunted before, it wasn’t apparent. Besides endangering all of us, he had almost taken my life instead of a rabbit’s.  We left him standing there and drove home in silence. Whether he ever went back to the farmhouse to own up for the damage, we never learned, but Genesee County’s rabbits were safe for another day.