Rootless

I’ve been thinking about my “hometown” recently.  I put it in quotes because I’m not really from there.  I was born in another state, and didn’t move to Hometown until I was seven years old.  We had no family in the area; no history.  So I was always aware that I wasn’t quite as much from there as most of my classmates. 

Then at age 18 I left for my first year in France, straight after graduation.  No email, no texting, and trans-Atlantic calls were rare and expensive.  Add the occasional French postal strike, and it was a pretty clean cut from my friends who were off to their new adventures in college.

So, I only spent about 11 years there as part of the community, and in spite of fond nostalgia, I don’t have very strong roots in the area.  But I looking back, I see that I was part of the community, and that place had great effect on who I am today.  The drafty 19th-century house on 10 wooded acres was where I developed and honed a love of nature and an appreciation for the change of seasons.  The small shingle-sided church is where I grew to understand what Christ’s message meant to me.  The main square with the historic courthouse and confusing traffic patterns was where I had my first kiss and my first job.  And the ugly, sprawling brick high school was where I learned lessons about everything from physics to friendship.

I have vague memories of many of those years, which doesn’t help me feel any more "from” there--but of course there are those that stand out.  The Maple Festival, the county fair, learning to drive.  The picture above is in the cafeteria where I watched those solid pillars do the wave during an earthquake my sophmore year (in a part of the country that’s not supposed to have earthquakes!)  It’s where I caught my boyfriend senior year, sitting with the girl he’d been rumored to be cheating with.  The gym right next to it is where he tried to make up with me during the homecoming dance a month later.

It’s also the cafeteria where a young man shot and killed three of his classmates this week.

We never thought Chardon would ever be famous.  If it did, it would be for some athlete who went pro, or maybe…no, we never thought anyone would ever hear of it.  When people ask me where I grew up, I tell them “near Cleveland,” or “northeastern Ohio.”  What a nightmare to have your small town rocketed to fame by joining a growing list of school shootings.

So it’s been a complicated week for me.  I can’t say I’ve spent a huge amount of time meditating about it.  I don’t really have any direct ties there anymore.  My parents sold the farmhouse and moved south almost 15 years ago.  I haven’t lived there full-time for almost 25 years.  Any of my friends I’m in touch with is living elsewhere, and don’t have children in the school system.

Still…watching the news coverage has been tense.  The names—German, Slavic, Italian—are the same kinds of names in my yearbook.  A kid with the last name of Mueller was interviewed, showing a tiny spot on his ear that was winged by a bullet.  There was a Mueller in my graduating class—are they related?  The students were hustled out of the school across the street to the elementary school.  The photo of police officers searching their bags before they could enter was particularly shocking to me.

What is this place?  I know these buildings, am comforted by the sounds of the names, smile at the ever-present snow blanket.  But bag searches?  SWAT teams?  A National Guard helicopter on the front lawn where I watched my brother play soccer?

It’s so easy to picture what happened—I know the layout of the place, where the teacher must have chased the shooter out the door.  I can imagine the students running out the opposite door—I know this place.  And yet…this place has moved on.

Inevitably have come the online calls to “lock him up,” the probing into the shooter’s troubled family life, the arguments about his access to guns.  And as I read the hateful messages, it helped me understand something.

The guns have always been there.  Chardon is in the country; hunting isn’t something you talk about or question.  Some do; some don’t.  Whatever.  There have always been the rednecks—or, as we called them, hicks.  Folks who wanted little to do with society’s norms or rules.  But there was enough room for everyone to live their own way, for the most part.

No, that much hasn’t changed.  It’s the world around Chardon that has changed.  To these students, there have always been school shootings.  Columbine happened 13 years ago, when TJ Lane was three years old.  Growing up while constantly bathed in a wash of information, connected to desperate, depressed and attention-seeking teens, this behavior seems more and more like a logical reaction to kids in extreme mental states.  When I was growing up, it was sex, drugs, maybe suicide.  Today we’ve added another violent act to our repertoire of calls for attention or help.

I’m not going to point fingers or share my feelings about who should be blamed, punished or treated sympathetically.   It doesn’t involve me, and I don’t know all the facts.  What I’ve learned from this week is that the small town I grew up in and left has not stayed still in time.  Like an old boyfriend who goes on to marry, have kids, divorce, lose a job, Chardon has moved on, for better or for worse. 

It’s time to acknowledge that I’m not from that Chardon anymore.  The small town I know exists today only in my head, in my memories.   It’s still with me, and always will be…but these days, I’m from Charlotte, North Carolina.  And I’m okay with that.

I’m the one on the left…red and black, Hilltopper pride.

Politics

Oh, North Carolina legislators, you make me so sad.

Re-run: Do You Remember?

This is a post I wrote two years ago, as I noticed fewer and fewer people were making a conscious effort to mark the events of 9/11.  Of course, on the tenth anniversary, the media are trying to make us feel like we're there again.  But in some, unconscious way, many of us carry it with us every day.

I did not lose anyone on that dark day.  But I came too close to ever forget the feelings of fear.  And having family ties to the city, having visited the towers and Manhattan many times, the extent of the physical and emotional damage for all who were involved that day is beyond comprehension.

All I can say from the heart is what I wrote two years ago.  Please remember...for those who are not here.

I remember clearly that it was a Tuesday. I was living in Mobile, Alabama at the time. It was my turn for night on duty at the school, so I had the morning off. I slept fairly late, got dressed without tv or radio on, and was headed to the gym in my car before I heard the news story. I thought it was a spoof; like an April Fool's joke. Ha ha. It sounded way too "out there" to be real.

Planes, crashing into a building in New York City? Please; the likelihood of that level of mechanical and human failure happening in the middle of one of the largest metropolises in the world? Not hardly.

I didn't think about the failure of human minds and hearts.

At the gym, I was on the elliptical machine watching the news on tv when I saw that it was real. That something was gravely, horribly wrong. I don't remember when the word "terrorist" first rolled across the screen (do you remember when we still thought it was just an accident?). My first concern was for my uncle Paul, who had worked for NY Bell and was part of the repair crew on the Towers in 1993.

But he was long retired; surely he wouldn't be down there.

And then a moment of sheer terror: I had completely forgotten that my brother worked there, somewhere in lower Manhattan, not in the Towers, but I didn't know where. As the story spread, the towers collapsed; ash and dust coated the entire area and I finally panicked. I grabbed my water bottle and towel and ran to the car.

How odd; nobody around me seemed moved or concerned. They had no connection to this news story unfolding up there in "the corner." But my dad's family is from New York; we had all visited the Towers one summer when I was ten or twelve. I had been there; I knew what it was like, the sheer enormity of the place.

And my brother was there now.

As I drove home, I called his house in New Jersey. Busy.

I called his cell phone. All circuits busy.

(Do you remember how the phone lines on the entire east coast were tied up that day?)

Tried his home again. Still busy.

Tried my parents' down in Georgia. Busy.

Finally, I noticed the voice message icon on my cell phone. It was from my father; they had heard from my sister-in-law that my brother was ok. He was trapped in Manhattan (remember how they shut down all car traffic to and from the island?), but he was safe.

I called my father and finally got through. My brother had watched the whole thing from his office in the Traveler's building, two blocks from the World Trade Center. He was on the phone with my dad, watching the first tower burn, assuring him that they had been told to stay where they were, everything was fine.

Then the second plane hit.

My brother said, "I've got to go," and hung up the phone. That was the last my dad heard from him for the rest of the day. I never did talk to my sister-in-law that day, but I knew there were vastly more important calls that needed to get through.

My brother was the recipient of some of the amazing generosity that bloomed that day. He walked tens of blocks north, and was given shelter by a friend's sister, or something like that. Her landline was the only way he was able to call his wife that day. I don't remember how he got home, or when. That day, it was enough to know that he was alive. (Do you remember the confusion; the "Missing" fliers plastered on every vertical surface?)

He worked for Citigroup at the time, in their International Treasury division. He spent the next weeks at an emergency backup site in New Jersey, working 12- and 14-hour days to ensure that his small part of our financial system remained functional. (It didn't sound all that impressive back then, but after 2008's financial meltdown, I'm a bit more respectful.)

When I finally got to talk to him about it, weeks later, he wouldn't. He wanted to put it behind him and move forward. He had lost colleagues and neighbors. He had watched people leap to their deaths rather than face hell on Earth. That detail was the only thing he would say about it, and he said it angrily: "You don't understand what it's like."

No, he's right. I don't.

Less than six months later, in February 2002, I flew up to visit. (Do you remember how brave you had to be to get on an airplane again?) My brother took me into Manhattan, and we visited his office. Two blocks down the street, there was the raw wound, the huge square of nothingness. "If they had missed the Towers, our building would have been the next one they hit."

So every September 11th I fly the flag for many reasons, but mostly to commemorate the innocents who lost their lives that day. The ones who were in the wrong building. Who weren't lucky enough to flee, covered in ash, panicked and cut off from their loved ones, but alive. Who ran in the other direction, into danger.

I fly it in the hope that it will keep the memory alive another year. To remind myself of the inconceivable tragedy that still should haunt us. To remind myself to be grateful that I still have a brother, no matter how little we may agree sometimes.

My nephew Ethan was born in 2002.
My niece Keira was born in 2006.
My sister-in-law is not a widow.

I know that by the time Ethan's and Keira's children are in school, this will be just another date in history. A bunch of people died. They'll learn the definitions of "isolationism," "nationalism" and the names Bush, Hussein, Al-Qaida, Desert Storm. And it will mean as much to them as Pearl Harbor meant to me growing up.

That's the nature of history; as it retreats further into our collective past, it gathers dust, a soft coating that makes it difficult to see clearly. It's inevitable. Over the years, plenty of other, more immediate crises will push our country this way and that. Yet, for the time being, I'm doing my part to keep the memory alive and distinct.

I don't know anyone who actually died that day. But my flag, this post, and my tears are for their memory, and for the ones they left behind.

A whole family, June 2011

Reaction

Osama bin Laden has been killed, and Americans are jubilant in the streets.  Not me.  I cannot celebrate a death.

Don't get me wrong.  I am relieved, and proud of the amazing skills and courage of the small team that succeeded in this mission.  It was long past time for this man to be brought to justice.  But I feel like celebrating anyone's death brings us all lower.  It had to be done, but it's not something we should enjoy.

Martin Luther King Jr.: "I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that."

(On the other hand...there's one guy out there who can say "I shot bin Laden."  Can you imagine being him today?  I wonder if we'll ever know his name?)

So, what about you?  What's your reaction?

Auntie Eva

Do you remember, as a child, when the arrival of the mail was still interesting? Do you remember a time when unexpected packages promised mystery and excitement?

Most of the packages arriving at our big farmhouse in the country were not unexpected. Christmas and birthdays brought regular boxes from the UPS truck. But every once in a while, out of the blue, we'd get a box from Auntie Eva.

I had no memories of Aunt Eva, though she was very present in our photo albums. Both my brother and I dandled on her knee as infants. Yet, since we'd moved to Ohio, and she remained in Manhattan, I hadn't seen her since I was about a year old.

I can't say her absence bothered me. After all, in the pictures, she seemed very serious, even grumpy to a kid like me. And she was greatly overweight. I was happy that my mother was the more attractive of the two.

However, Eva got major points for sending packages! You see, Back in The Day, the New York Times was not available at every convenience store or gas station. My parents, having met and lived in Manhattan, missed the world-class reporting that was unparalleled in the days before satellite communications and internet. So every month or so, Auntie Eva would pack up a box of her gently-used Times and ship them off to northeastern Ohio.

Even though I was too young to read such serious fare, I was always excited when her packages came, because there was often something besides paper in there. At Christmas, she usually sent a real gingerbread house, which was displayed on the dining room table--and never eaten! She also sent chocolates, candies and other treats; I especially remember strawberry candies in red wrappers with green tufts that mimicked the fruit itself. I've seen them since, but they've never tasted as good as the ones Aunt Eva mailed us.

As I grew older, I began to delve into the Times Sunday Magazine. At first, it was mostly to look at the pictures, to see how the other half lived. My brother and I often pored over the real estate section in the back. Estates for over a million dollars! Back in the eighties, conspicuous consumption was something we kids aspired to.

Of course, I eventually began to read some of the articles, usually starting with the humorous one-page essay at the back. I didn't "get" a lot of the articles, especially the ones dealing with strictly NYC affairs. The Fashion Issue was completely beyond my comprehension (and still is!).

At some point, having visited my dad's sister and brothers in New York and New Jersey over the years, it suddenly dawned on me that Eva didn't fit into either family tree. "Is she a real Aunt?" I asked my mom. No, she wasn't. In fact, Eva was one of my mother's dearest friends.

They met in Manhattan, and though I'm not sure of the details, I get the feeling Mom was impressed, if not comforted, by Eva's worldliness. Mom had come from a small town in Pennsylvania, and college, to study biochemistry at Hunter College. I think between moving into the big city on her own, and starting post-graduate studies in a man's world, she must have been a little nervous.

I never heard much about what made them such great friends. I know they joined a ski club together--picturing the obese, unhappy woman from my baby pictures at the top of a mountain, perched on thin wooden slats, tested my imagination.

Eventually, I had more questions about Aunt Eva...where was she from? What about her family? And her story opened my eyes.

You see, Auntie Eva was a Holocaust survivor.

Her story is less dramatic than most that you hear about. She and her mother somehow escaped the camps. They were moved into the Jewish Ghetto in Budapest, where they lived, crammed together with strangers, scraping by the best they could on meager supplies of food.

According to Mom, Eva's obesity resulted from a metabolism destroyed by surviving for months on nothing but beans. Mom shared a story Eva had told her to illustrate their desperation in the Ghetto. A doctor came one day to treat a sick person in their building. He arrived in a horse-drawn carriage, and entered the house to treat the patient. When he came back out, the horse was gone.

That night, everyone in the building had meat for the first time in months.

I don't remember if Eva had any siblings; I do know she had a father. He was not as lucky. He was sent to a concentration camp, where he eventually died of exposure. The only reason Eva learned what happened to him was because someone--a guard, another prisoner, I don't recall--found a picture of Eva in a book of his after he died. There was enough information on the back of it to contact the family after the war.

Eva and her mother somehow escaped Hungary before the implementation of the Final Solution. They emigrated to England, and her mother later remarried. Eva was sent to stay with relatives in the US, which is how she eventually entered into our lives.

Now, as I said, I was never close to Eva. I met her once as an adult; she came to my (real) aunt's house while we were visiting in New Jersey. Oddly, I don't remember much of that visit. I do remember Eva was a presence. She made a living for several years as an extra in movies and tv shows. She was the big lady with the big laugh.

In spite of my apparent indifference, I think Eva enjoyed watching my brother and me grow up, even at a distance. I can recognize now that she would have liked to be a bigger presence in our lives, as she never had children of her own. She didn't marry until her 50s or 60s, though she was very happy when she did!

I'm sad to say Eva died a year or so ago. It's unfortunate that she'll never know that she really affected my development. Not only did her old Sunday Times broaden my horizons, but her life story introduced me to the horrors of World War II in a very personal way. It took me many years to figure out why I was so particularly empathetic to those in untenable situations--slavery, poverty, abuse. I believe it's because Eva's story made it so real.

Today is Holocaust Memorial Day. It is a day to remember victims of all holocausts, not just those of the second World War. It is not a day to wallow in despair, or point fingers of blame. It is a day to honor the victims by taking this lesson to heart: a holocaust can still happen, if we let it. It takes more than hate-filled people with weapons. It takes, as a wise man once said, for good people to do nothing.

Today is a day to remember that all people are human.

Full Stop

or, "From Crazed to Dazed"

In our last episode, Miss Chef and I had returned from a memorable trip to parts north--New Jersey suburbia, and the bustle of Manhattan. Our return flight was Friday morning, to allow Miss Chef and I to get back to our busy work schedules. Our flight was delayed, so almost immediately upon arrival, Miss Chef changed and headed back out to work. Yep, that's right: she's a workaholic.

My plan was to spend the weekend re-working and tightening up my syllabus, and maybe writing some conversations to introduce each week's topic. I really should have started it the week before Christmas, since school was out and my evenings were free. I wasn't looking forward to cramming all that work into the last weekend of my vacation.

But our last day in Jersey, I was thrown for a loop. I got the following email from my department head:

Alison,

I hope you enjoyed a nice holiday season.

Yesterday we closed the FRE101 course for the winter term due to low enrollment. We’ll try again for spring!

☺Susan

The subject line read "Schedule Change." Change?!? That's like saying death is a change in living status. Hmph. I had a hard time deciding how I felt: shocked, relieved, disappointed, excited, worried. "Hey, glad I didn't spend all that time before Christmas working on an unneeded syllabus!" "Damn, I hope word hasn't spread throught the student body that my class sucks." "Wow, I'll have plenty of free time again." "Shit, what the hell am I going to do with myself?"

And, as Miss Chef pointed out, "I bought you that nice briefcase for Christmas, and now you don't have any use for it."

I feel about half as bad as I would have if I'd been fired. I mean, it's not like they're going to go through the headache of finding another (well-qualified, happy to work part-time) French instructor. And I assume there will eventually be student demand for a French course again. Still, there's a sense of rejection there--probably more so because I'm female. (Is that sexist?)

Anyway, my point is supposed to be that I'm feeling a bit at loose ends. Add to that Miss Chef's absence this weekend, visiting her family and some of our friends in Alabama. For various reasons, I opted not to dip back into my vacation days to go with her, though I would dearly love to see Mobile again.

Just as I was coming to terms with missing out on the fun, near the end of the week, I realized I had Monday off. A three-day weekend? Double drat! Not only was it too late to change my mind about those vacation hours, but now I had three whole days at home, Chefless. *sniffle* *pout*

I have never felt so negative about a day off in my life.

Maybe I should explain a little. I lived alone for five years in graduate school. I made some friends; our department was small, my program even smaller. We all knew each other, for better or worse. But, between being alone, being single and in a years-long dry spell, and, as it turns out, going too far down the wrong path, I ended up in therapy. Nothing serious, in fact most of the people I knew in grad school had been or were going through counseling. Suffice it to say that, in spite of how important those grad-school years have been to my mind and my career, they were probably the worst days of my life.

This weekend alone, without a course to prepare, was starting to feel like my endless, dreary weekends alone in my apartment. And I know that depression is not something you get over like the flu; it's always ready to come back into your life. So I got proactive.

I emailed some friends, explaining my predicament. One couple apologized, saying they were going to be out of town. The other never emailed back. Oh dread...I started making up a list of projects to keep myself busy: get my oil changed. Hair cut. Trim shrubs.

Miss Chef left Friday morning, with my admonishment to call when she got home. (I never used to worry about people traveling...) That afternoon at work, I placed my cell phone on my desk, so I could grab it when she called. Around 4:00, it buzzed with a text message...but it wasn't from Miss Chef: "J & J are coming over to have some adult beverages. We'd love it if you could come by."

Sweet! My going-out-of-town friends had decided to have a happy hour at their place, partly for me. Not only would that keep me from moping around Friday night, but if things worked out right, I'd have a great excuse to drag around the house Saturday morning!

So my weekend is turning out to be only half-bad. Friday was wonderful fun, and I did spend Saturday doing absolutely nothing, even though I felt fine when I got up. My other friend called this afternoon to accept my suggestion to see a movie. (We saw Up in the Air, with George Clooney. I'd love to hang out with that man for a day. He seems fun. And yes, hot.) And it turns out I have a doctor's appointment Monday afternoon I'd forgotten about.

And so, feeling not so bad off, I'm spending the evening doing something I haven't had much time for: cooking. I'm camera-less too, this weekend, so I was unable to take any pictures, but I'm making an easy Coq au Vin. Do you want the recipe? I'm using this one I found at Epicurious.com. To summarize: in a heavy dutch oven, brown some bacon, pull it out; brown some chicken, pull it out. Brown some onions, garlic & carrot, add some wine and cook a few minutes, then put the meat back in with broth, herbs and more wine. Simmer 45 minutes, serve over egg noodles.

One pot; what's not to like? And baby, I gotta tell you--it smells good in here!

And yes, Miss Chef did eventually call me...after I called her and left a message. Humph. I may make a point of eating all this coq au vin before she gets home.

Today's post feels especially self-absorbed to me, especially considering the plight of Haitians this week. As I mentioned in a comment to Liz, I've been wanting to write about the earthquake and its aftermath, but I have no idea what to write. Only that I feel terrible, and I hope that we--the rest of the world--don't get bored and turn away when it doesn't get better in a week or two. I wish I could hold someone's hand, but all I can do is send some money. And I feel good that I have money to send, thanks to my crazy, two-job schedule the last several months.

God bless Haiti--they need it more than America.

Oh, and the picture...well, I told you I'm camera-less, so I thought I'd repost my fixed-up photo of the whale at the Museum of Natural History. Just 'cause...he's a pretty cool whale, I think.

Do You Remember?

I remember clearly that it was a Tuesday. I was living in Mobile, Alabama at the time. That day was my night on duty at the school, and I had the morning off. I was headed to the gym in my car when I heard the news story. I thought it was a spoof; like an April Fool's joke. Ha ha. It sounded way too "out there" to be real.

Planes, crashing into a building in New York City? Please; the likelihood of that level of mechanical and human failure happening in the middle of one of the largest metropolises in the world? Not hardly.

I didn't think about the failure of human minds and hearts.

At the gym, I was on the elliptical machine watching the news on tv when I saw that it was real. That something was gravely, horribly wrong. I don't remember when the word "terrorist" first rolled across the screen (do you remember when we still thought it was just an accident?). My first concern was for my uncle Paul, who had worked for NY Bell and was part of the repair crew on the Towers in 1993.

But he was long retired; surely he wouldn't be down there.

And then a moment of sheer terror: I had completely forgotten that my brother worked there, somewhere in lower Manhattan, not in the Towers, but I didn't know where. As the story spread, the towers collapsed; ash and dust coated the entire area and I finally panicked. I grabbed my water bottle and towel and ran to the car.

How odd; nobody around me seemed moved or concerned. They had no connection to this news story unfolding up there in "the corner." But my dad's family is from New York; we had all visited the Towers one summer when I was ten or twelve. I had been there; I knew what it was like, the sheer enormity of the place.

And my brother was there now.

As I drove home, I called his house in New Jersey. Busy.

I called his cell phone. All circuits busy.

(Do you remember how the phone lines on the entire east coast were tied up that day?)

Tried his home again. Still busy.

Tried my parents' down in Georgia. Busy.

Finally, I noticed the voice message icon on my cell phone. It was from my father; they had heard from my sister-in-law that my brother was ok. He was trapped in Manhattan (remember how they shut down all car traffic to and from the island?), but he was safe.

I called my father and finally got through. My brother had watched the whole thing from his office in the Traveler's building, two blocks from the World Trade Center. He was on the phone with my dad, watching the first tower burn, assuring him that they had been told to stay where they were, everything was fine.

Then the second plane hit.

My brother said, "I've got to go," and hung up the phone. That was the last my dad heard from him for the rest of the day. I never did talk to my sister-in-law that day, but I knew there were vastly more important calls that needed to get through.

My brother was the recipient of some of the amazing generosity that bloomed that day. He walked tens of blocks north, and was given shelter by a sister's friend of a coworker, or something like that. It was the only way he was able to call his wife that day. I don't remember how he got home, or when. That day, it was enough to know that he was alive. (Do you remember the confusion; the "Missing" fliers plastered on every vertical surface?)

He worked for Citigroup at the time, in their International Treasury division. He spent the next weeks at an emergency backup site in New Jersey, working 12 and 14 hour days to ensure that his small part of our financial system remained functional. (It didn't sound all that impressive back then, but after this past year's financial meltdown, I'm a bit more respectful.)

When I finally got to talk to him about it, weeks later, he wouldn't. He wanted to put it behind him and move forward. He had lost colleagues and neighbors. He had watched people leap to their deaths rather than face hell on Earth. That detail was the only thing he would say about it, and he said it angrily: "You don't understand what it's like."

No, he's right. I don't.

Less than six months later, in February 2002, I flew up to visit. (Do you remember how brave you had to be to get on an airplane again?) My brother took me into Manhattan, and we visited his office. Two blocks down the street, there was the raw wound, the huge square of nothingness. "If they had missed the Towers, our building would have been the next one they hit."

So every September 11th I fly the flag for many reasons, but mostly to commemorate the innocents who lost their lives that day. The ones who were in the wrong building. Who weren't lucky enough to flee, covered in ash, panicked and cut off from their loved ones, but alive. Who ran in the other direction, into danger.

I fly it in the hope that it will keep the memory alive another year. To remind myself of the inconceivable tragedy that still should haunt us. To remind myself to be grateful that I still have a brother, no matter how little we may agree sometimes.

My nephew Ethan was born in 2002.
My niece Keira was born in 2006.
My sister-in-law is not a widow.

I know that by the time Ethan's and Keira's children are in school, this will be just another date in history. A bunch of people died. They'll learn the definitions of "isolationism," "nationalism" and the names Bush, Hussein, Al-Qaida, Desert Storm. And it will mean as much to them as Pearl Harbor meant to me growing up.

That's the nature of history; as it retreats further into our collective past, it gathers dust, a soft coating that makes it difficult to see clearly. It's inevitable. Over the years, plenty of other, more immediate crises will push our country this way and that. Yet, for the time being, I'm doing my part to keep the memory alive and distinct.

I don't know anyone who actually died that day. But my flag, this post, and my tears are for their memory, and for the ones they left behind.

Ethan and his dad, July 2008

Friday Fragments

Hmm...I'm beginning to think my lovely, thoughtful, fascinating blog is going to be reduced to Flartus' Friday Fragments.

Why?

Well, I know I've mentioned it a few times before, but let me be explicit about my sudden new work schedule. As my handful of regular--and very much valued--readers know, I recently accepted a part-time teaching position. Yay! Very exciting; an adjustment to the schedule, but after a few weeks, I knew it would be fine.

So my Monday through Wednesday evenings are taken. No prob; I still have the rest of the week, right?

WRONG! Ever hear of a little government program called Cash for Clunkers? Well, my day job is in auto loans, and our volume has suddenly tripled. Besides working 10- to 12-hour days during the week, my department has worked every Saturday since...well, sometime in July. And it's going to continue for at least another two weeks. The worst thing is, 50 hours a week still leaves us 3 days behind!

Now, I don't want to complain (not that I haven't been complaining on my tired, panicky days!). I'm paid hourly, so the overtime isn't hurting the bank balance. And Miss Chef has been working these kinds of hours for at least 4 years, so I know it's not the end of the world. But that's why I haven't been to the farmers' market in a month. And why I dropped the ball on the garden, the canning, the teaching stories and the food pics. There has been very little cooking in the Flartus household! Hopefully by the end of September, I'll have some more time to share with you all.

So, anyway, off to the Fragments!

Brussels sprouts THIS is how they grow:

They start out like any little cabbage plant. As they grow taller, you cut off the lower leaves, promoting larger buds. You can see some of the leaves on the ground around this plant. I didn't realize they would need cutting every week or two. But Miss Chef was the one who wanted to try these out, so I figured everything I did was extra, anyway. :)

Here's a close-up of the growing stalk.

Miss Chef's Birthday Well, falling on a Saturday, this was going to be another working birthday for Miss Chef. In fact, she and I both went to school Saturday morning: she to do a demo for the open house, me to work on my lesson plans (our computer was still down, so I needed to go onto campus anyway.) We had lunch together at O'Charley's, where our food runner turned out to be one of my students. That happened fast; I'd only been teaching for a month before I ran into a student. Anyway, we each went off to our separate workplaces after that.

But it wasn't all lame-o work stuff. As he did last year, Chef Adam made Miss Chef a cake, and they called me from the restaurant to come for post-service cake & drinks. Which meant driving half an hour and arriving at 10 pm. But you know I love the post-service family-meal time there, and Chef once again ended up telling stories and acting out weird previous employees, so it was worth the drive. Plus, the cake was really good!

Sunday we went to see a free Shakespeare Festival rendition of Julius Caesar. It was not as good as the Twelfth Night show we had seen the month before, but we met up with Michele's (of Bosky Acres) two oldest kids, and stumbled upon an excellent little soul-food restaurant for dinner afterwards. So it was still a fun change of pace.

Teaching I love realizing that my students and I have established a group relationship. They know my sense of humor, I know more about their interests, strengths and weaknesses, and I've encouraged a number of them through some frustrations and bad grades. I may have finally figured out how to use the book: have the students read the bare-bones content before class, then flesh it out next session with more examples, explanations and practice. I'll see Monday how that works.

I came up with a really good partner practice activity for last Wednesday's class. They had to describe their situation ("I'm thirsty") using some new expressions, and their partner had to suggest where they should go to solve their problem ("Tu vas au café"), using new vocabulary and a new grammar structure. Unlike some classwork, this felt very natural; they found it amusing, too, but best of all: they were communicating in French.

Sure, it was very basic, the pronunciation was mediocre, and they could cheat by falling into English. But walking around, watching and listening to them do exactly what this course is designed to do, is one of those rewarding moments that inspire me. It's one of the few times I can see the tangible results of my work.

Ted Kennedy It's been all over the news the last two days: how much he did for the disadvantaged, and how good he was at reaching "across the aisle." I don't know a whole hell of a lot about his history in either area (nor about Chappaquadick, which seems obviously absent from what I've heard; let us speak not ill of the dead, I suppose). Sounds like Ted did a lot for his country and probably was sincere about trying to help the citizenry.

But I keep hearing about how he would compromise, reach out to conservatives and back off some aspects of his bills to make sure something got done. How he had actual, true friends of the opposite political persuasion. And it makes me wonder if that's all done. Is there any hope of sewing up this conservative ~ liberal, Democrat ~ Republican, red-state ~ blue-state, us vs. them, name-calling divide? As a true blue liberal, I could easily blame the past administration, but as Mom always said "It takes two to tango."

Cut it out, Americans! Would you start looking past political opinions and maybe consider where that other person is coming from? There's got to be a reason they feel, believe and vote that way, and no, it's not because they're crazy or stupid. Just different. Every sane person generally acts from a basis of rational thought.

And yes, I need to heed these words myself. I'm no saint, either. But sheesh; where is all this hatred coming from? Is this going to be our new reality, or are we still capable of returning to a more mature mode of communication? I'm scared, people, very scared for our little 200-year old political experiment here. As George Washington said (I believe), "Democracy breeds mediocrity." Are we becoming just another isolationist, ignorant populace, led by the nose by our demagogues?

I hate to end on a down note, but that's all I've got for this week. Maybe something miraculous will happen at Ted's internment tomorrow, and we'll all find ourselves joining hands and singing "Kumbaya" together.

Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?

Ready, set...!

Whoo-whee! Hit the ground running, I have! Got some stuff to catch up on, and some news to share. But first...a little administrative work.

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I don't want to take credit where it's not due, and I've been wanting to let you all know that that firefly picture several posts back was not mine. In fact, I don't even think it's a photograph. Believe me, I am flattered that you consider me capable of such a cool shot, but I'm not quite up to that level yet. I simply found that picture on the internet...as I did the one above.

On the other hand, I did recently learn--from a 13-year old--that my camera has a close-up setting. Whoa, watch out flowers, here I come!

I also want to let you all know that Miss Chef was responsible for most of the skyline pictures in my Chicago slideshow. And neither of us remembers taking the elephant picture, so I don't know who to give credit to on that one...

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Ok, now I did want to blog a bit more about Chicago, particularly some of the meals we had. (Joanna, careful what you ask for!!) I see Claire has been to Tru--which kind of surprised me, because you're the only person besides one friend in Chicago who's even heard of it! And I never heard of it until Miss Chef put it on our schedule.

Claire, I have to admit you had a better time than I did. Not that it wasn't lovely, long and fabby...I was just intimidated by the service. A stupid thing to get hung up on, but there it is. I thought I was pretty much comfortable anywhere, but for some reason seeing that swath of silent, white-linened tables peppered with understated dark chairs made me feel like a kid that wandered into the Sanctum Sanctorum. Everyone on the service staff was cordial and helpful, but they kept appearing suddenly beside me when I didn't expect it, with a stool for my purse (!!), amuse-bouches and other fascinating services I'd never imagined.

But don't let me take away from the meal itself. We had the three-course prix fixe menu. Miss Chef had the beef tartare, complete with golden egg...and when they say golden, they ain't talkin' color. No, there was a gold-leafed egg yolk atop the carefully formed tartare--which tasted great.

I hesitantly ordered the foie gras, as I've had a few strongly-flavored experiences with it in the past. Not to fear, this was exquisitely rich and smooth, with a collection of garnishes that brought the flavor to its true height (salt, dried chives, and verjus, a concentrated grape pulp). I have to thank Miss Chef for instructing me in how to eat the dang thing; guess she learned a thing or two at that culinary school, huh?

Our main courses were salt & cocoa-crusted venison--complete with tableside carving--and suckling pig with a licorice sauce and tempura-fried mini pattipan squash. If nothing else, Tru made me enjoy flavors I normally don't like, such as foie gras and licorice. We skipped the cheese course, as we were both still exhausted from our early flight that morning, and getting a bit full. So we opted for dessert; Miss Chef for something called a chocolate "bar," me something I can't remember the name of, but which involved a buttermilk cake, a cinnamon custard and raspberry/blueberry sorbet.

But that wasn't all we were served...there were at least 3 amuse-bouches, a rolling "bar" of bonbons, chocolate-encased liquid truffles, and housemade rootbeer floats. I regret that I had to leave that last one half-eaten, as I had absolutely reached my limit. As we headed out the door, the maître d' handed us each a buttery pastry "for breakfast tomorrow, to enjoy with your coffee." Miss Chef and I were both relieved we didn't have to eat them before leaving!

Oh dear, I've only half-described one meal, and I'm way further down the page than I expected. Ok, well, we were much less intimidated at our other restaurants. We both loved Avec, where I could not believe how much I loved the shaved brussels sprouts. I enjoyed Topolobampo more than Miss Chef did, though it may be because the server's wine suggestions came across as too pushy. The sauces on my two dishes really amazed me; one was a pumpkinseed and one a thin but lush bean sauce.

We also enjoyed a couple of good local brunch places, a gastro pub where two of my college friends joined us for an early dinner, our hosts' favorite Chicago-style pizza place, and a surprisingly good little Mexican place right under our el stop.

Beyond food, we had a very enjoyable evening at Second City, a must-see for me on every trip. My first two trips to Chicago were with my college improv troupe, to do workshops with Second City and other professional groups. I haven't done any improv for a good 15 years, but it's still fun to see a good sketch comedy group in action. The actual improv portion I found a little disappointing, but I'm not sure if it was them or my idealized memories of what good improv is. Regardless, we laughed our butts off and went home happy--and slightly buzzed, after those 20-ounce beers.

We also visited Adler Planetarium and the Field Museum, for the Real Life Pirates exhibit. Both were much larger than we had imagined, and we ended up scooting by plenty of interesting displays as our time and attentiveness dwindled. You've seen pictures of our architecture boat ride, though not so much of our stroll afterwards up a busy Michigan Avenue.

The only shopping we did on the Magnificent Mile was at the Borders, and the Hershey's store I didn't even know was there. Most of our shopping happened on N. Wells street, in Old Town. Miss Chef had found a shop called the Spice House while looking for an online source for citric acid. When she saw it was in Chicago, she wrote it into the schedule. It was everything she'd hoped for, and along with her citric acid, she got two kinds of cinnamon, three kinds of salt, fresh peppercorns and some other stuff I can't remember. She also got the roasted garlic powder I've been looking for everywhere, and some good-quality vanilla extract I made all cute for, so she couldn't resist.

Right next door was Old Town Oil, where, after tasting some intriguing combinations of flavored olive oils and balsamic vinegars, Miss Chef managed to limit herself to a lemon oil and a lime oil. I think. I got a little overwhelmed, I have to admit. We managed to stay out of the Fudge Pot, but returned on our way back to the Second City show to stock up on cookies at Twisted Sister Bakery--the guy at the oil store had praised the snickerdoodles there, and I have to say, they were nearly as good as Miss Chef's! (She does read this blog, so, y'know, I have to watch my language here, lol!)

There was even more I just can't go into, since I've got to share my little news...suffice it to say that when we got to the airport, our shared suitcase was 25 lbs overweight. We desperately stuffed every cranny of our carry ons, and somehow got it down below the limit. But I don't get it...we just carried all that removed weight into the cabin of the same plane. What's the point??

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Now, some of you may recall an allusion I made in my Award Awards post about teaching. Have I ever told you that I am supposed to be a French teacher? My graduate degree is in French linguistics, and I actually taught for about 10 years, from graduate school through two different high schools. However, I do not have certification, so when we moved to Charlotte, it was extra difficult to find a teaching job in a field that's not in very high demand to start with.

Well, after five years, I'm finally stepping back into the classroom. The Art Institute of Charlotte, where Miss Chef got her culinary degree, is expanding its electives to include foreign languages. At this point they only have one French course, requiring a part-time instructor available for two nights a week. Well, guess who is a) qualified, b) available, and c) friendly with several faculty members already? Bingo!

I am a little stressed about it, at least from a planning point of view. I only today found out what textbook has been chosen, and won't be able to get my hands on it until tomorrow. From the little I've been able to glean on the Amazon site, it looks pretty....dreadful. Ugh. Does not suit my teaching style at all. Oh, and did I mention that class starts next Monday?? Sigh. That's ok, once I get settled and started, it'll start to flow as it used to. I'll just have to supplement with lots of handouts and activities, and smile a lot.

I don't know how much time I'll have for blogging, unfortunately. Maybe I'll be able to manage it once a week; maybe more as I get more comfortable with my new schedule. I know that I'll have lots that I'll want to share, but as with this week, it may be hard to find the time. I will, however, be checking in on your blogs, never fear! And I just know I'll have some interesting tales and/or insights as I get back to where I once belonged.

"Don't Divorce Us"

Tangobaby and Liz have both posted this on their blogs, from the Courage Campaign. It is a response to Ken Starr's filing to defend the constitutionality of Prop 8 in California, effectively seeking to force over 18,000 couples to divorce.

I thought it would be a cute little show, but I ended up with tears running down my face. I can just imagine the frustration, after the elation of getting married, to lose that long-sought blessing so quickly.

"Fidelity": Don't Divorce... from Courage Campaign on Vimeo.

If you're interested, there is an online petition at the Courage Campaign website--the Supreme Court hearings start March 5.

I wish Miss Chef and I could get married. When we realized that we were going to stay together for the rest of our lives, Miss Chef declared she did not want a wedding. I thought it was some political or religious issue, but it turns out, she just doesn't want to have a bunch of people staring at her! She's a bit of a wallflower; that's why she likes hiding out in the kitchen, I guess.

Anyway, she has agreed that if we ever gain the right to even a civil union, she will go to the courthouse to be joined with me--but only if we have the minimum number of witnesses! (My parents' presence may be negotiable.) So now, like a 14 year-old, I can once again dream about my wedding day. Unlike my 14 year-old self, though, I am not dreaming of an elaborate white dress and pink flowers, in front of the priest I used to be an acolyte with. A shabby civic office with a perfect stranger is in my dream; maybe a white dress, maybe not. No stretch limo to run for, as all my friends and family toss birdseed in my hair; just a walk across a parking lot to my five year-old car, with our witnesses riding in the back seat. And instead of a grand entrance into a hotel ballroom, a first dance, and tossing a bouquet--maybe a backyard barbeque with a cooler full of beer and some pitchers of sangria.

Still...in my dream there are butterflies in my stomach, nervous glances with my soon-to-be spouse, probably a fumble with the vows and some giggling. Still..there is the presence of those who love us, the support of those who matter, and the stunning realization that our lives have just changed. There are toasts and jokes and laughter, hugs and tears and life-long memories. We will eat great food and take lots of photos with our friends and family. We might even throw a bouquet. And if we're really lucky, go on a honeymoon...maybe Hawai'i; that would be fantastic.

Someday, someday...believe it or not, I don't usually spend much time thinking about the issue of same-sex marriage, but, when I do, well...it really hurts.

I don't want to turn this blog into a bully pulpit for my politics, but unfortunately, these politics are interfering with my personal life. And that is the subject of this blog.

Inspiration & Precipitation

Millard Fuller died yesterday at age 74. I never heard of him, until listening to the news on the way to work this morning. I mourn his passing, however, because he was the founder of Habitat for Humanity.

Now that's a legacy!

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We got another round of light snow here in the Carolinas, and the whole dang city freaked out again. Schools were closed, as were entire streets. Apparently there was enough black ice on the roads to cause accidents. I, however, did my daily commute without any problems, and saw only teeny patches of iciness that were easy to avoid. I was the only person in my department for the first hour of business. In fact, when I got to the office, I was alone for a good 15 minutes, and was beginning to wonder if I'd been left off the phone tree or something.

In fact, I was disappointed with the snow. Two years ago, we woke up one morning to an inch or so of fairly wet stuff. It was shortly after Rosie had moved in with us, and she had obviously never seen snow before. She was a little leery at first, and needed some reassurance that it wasn't going to bite her. Then she suddenly decided snow was wonderful! You can eat it, romp in it, throw it around, and if your human's around, you can even chase it!


Of course, I had to scrape off my car and head to work, so I didn't get to enjoy the entertainment like Miss Chef did. She was working nights, so she got to play a little. And I've been waiting for a decent snowfall ever since.

I thought maybe today's little bit of white might be enough to get the dog worked up, but I'm afraid she may already be jaded. She trotted out with her monkey, and had a fine time rubbing his raggedy little head into the snow, but didn't seem to care otherwise. She was much more interested in what time breakfast was gonna get served, and trotted straight back to the door when her duty was done.

Oh well. I guess they have to grow up sometime...