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Archive for the ‘Books, Journaling, Wedding, Country’ Category

He sent his wife and child to the country so they could eat fresh strawberries. He hoisted the Union Jack above his residence, which he calculated was about three miles from a Federal garrison. In April of 1861, he actually boarded a dinghy in Charleston Harbor to get closer to the shelling of Fort Sumter.

Robert Bunch was the British Consul in Charleston, SC during the years of secessionist talk leading up to the Civil War, and I’m smack dab in the middle of reading the non-fiction novel by  Christopher Dickey, “Our Man in Charleston: Britain’s Secret Agent in the Civil War South.” I thought it would help me understand the city while we were visiting it, but I was wrong. http://www.wsj.com/articles/the-undercover-abolitionist-1437160470

Britain’s attitudes toward slavery were complex. In 1807, Britain and the United States had outlawed the trade, but unlike the Americans, the British were serious about it: The Royal Navy was charged with capturing slave ships off the African coast. In 1833, the U.K. freed all of the slaves within its empire. And yet, Mr. Dickey writes, “England hated slavery but loved the cotton the slaves raised [in the American South] and British industry depended on it.”

The African Slave Trade had been illegal for over 50 years. Now the North was enforcing the law, captured slave ships were being towed into the harbor for all to see; Dickey’s description of one is enough to make you sick. But Mr. Bunch was tasked with repealing the “Negroe Seamen’s Act,” which meant that any ship docked in the harbor, under any flag, must hand over every Black on board, free or not, to the jail until said ship left the port. The conditions of the prison meant that many men either died from disease or torture, while the lucky ones escaped to be captured and enslaved.

Still last night, during Hillary Clinton’s impressive marathon grilling on the Hill, I was struck by how many times she referred to Benghazi as a “19th Century posting.” So I wondered how present day Libya might compare to the pre-Civil War South. And it seems that communication is fraught with peril now, as it was then. That sense of distrust; Bunch (who was accepted by the aristocrats in the city, while he abhorred their sentimental reasoning for slavery) sent private couriers to Washington with his dispatches in code. He was a diplomat, a spy, and his own security force rolled up into one man.

All that badgering of Mrs Clinton, about how her email messages were received, if she was alone on the night in question, why Blumenthal had access, had she signed a waiver, if her diplomat had her private phone number…? It was maddening, and it was sad. Because it showed us, the American people, the antipathy, the malicious partisanship our leaders have wallowed in for so long.

I was reminded of Bunch’s “Smile of Indifference.” Hillary is our woman in Washington – a 21st Century presidential candidate, in a sea of Republican nonsense. “The frightful evil of the system is that it debases the whole tone of society — for the people talk calmly of horrors which would not be mentioned in civilized society.”  

The sign outside an H&M store in the Kress building

The sign outside an H&M store in the Kress building, Charleston

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While I was driving home from Isle of Palms, I put Bob in charge of playing podcasts. Like most things Bob, he had an opinion. He’s not one to listen to doom and gloom, and so I was prepared for an upbeat playlist. When I heard my favorite singer/songwriter, Sting, start to talk, well I just had to listen! It was the TED Radio Hour and the subject was “The Source of Creativity.” http://www.npr.org/programs/ted-radio-hour/351538855/the-source-of-creativity

If you live now, or have ever lived with a creative person, you know the drill. They are dreamers, they are never lonely, they find meaning in ordinary things. When the Rocker was little, his fingers were always moving, tapping out an inner beat. Once he held the guitar, it became a part of him and followed him everywhere. The music that was in his head finally had an outlet – it could flow.

Sting talked about taking risks, about not being afraid to fail, and how children are just naturally this way until growing up sucks that courage, the creative impulse, out of us. I remember seeing awards on a bulletin board in our elementary school, mostly for being “quiet,” mostly to girls, and I had a premonition. Would my son flourish here? He was always moving, he loved to make noise!

Early hours spent delivering milk with his father gave Sting the solitude to dream about a life outside of his working class English suburb. He spent decades making music, a most prolific artist, until he felt the music die within him. For two years he didn’t write another song. To get his creative drive back, he returned to his childhood, and wrote an opera. You have to listen to the podcast.

So we can all still tap into that reservoir of creativity. Elizabeth Gilbert likened it to a moving walkway in an airport – we trudge along pulling our baggage behind us, and every now and then a walkway appears and it becomes much easier to write. That analogy resonated with me. I always had a deadline, so I needed to sit myself down and sharpen my keyboard. But sometimes, time would stand still, and something else took over my fingers. As if the picture, the words were in my head and my ability to write them down was effortless…I didn’t worry about grammar, or spelling. My inner editor was turned off.

Which is interesting because when Dr Charles Limb, an otolaryngologist at Johns Hopkins who runs the Music Cognition Lab,  studied the brains of jazz musicians in an MRI scanner – yes, while they played a keyboard – he found that the self-expressive,  creative parts of the brain light up and are on fire only when the pre-frontal cortex, the self-monitoring, critical part of our brain shuts down. That ability to disconnect is what gave us Bach! So we all have to be willing to fail in order to create, which is exactly what Sting said…

When the Love Bug started to sing “Let it Go” at the beach, I immediately had to download the song so that I could learn the words (I know I’m a bit late on this one parents) and we could improvise a dance to the tune. Because there is nothing better than channeling your inner child to rev up the creative impulse. Nothing.

Here is our talented artist, finally allowed to give her baby brother a bottle, and thinking of her next project!

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Last night I met a stranger at a wedding. In the midst of glamor and cocktails,

We stood our ground and spoke profoundly about our journey.

Maura arrived at this spot, beneath the mountains via a sandy beach.

Still it wasn’t the sand that held us captive here.

It was our heritage, our ancestors from Ireland. She wanted to go back,

That longing was our introduction, so I told her about Deirdre;

Who runs a hostel on Achill Island, and Deirdre’s beautiful, old Mother

Who once taught Irish – the real Gaelic tongue – to schoolchildren

And their black and white working sheepdog howling at the TV,

Eating leftovers from the table, who must be gone now.

Maura’s two girls were Irish dancers, but without the wigs.

Caitly I must bring you there, to meet our family, your family,

To be surrounded by the warm and loving cousins

My Great Grandfather left behind in County Mayo “God Help Us”

When he was 19 years old in 1854 with four pounds sterling.

Can he see where we are now? Are the fields of Ceide missing his bones?

Last night Maura became a friend, and we hold a small piece

Of each other always in our hearts     IMG_3384

This is the poem I’m submitting to the Library of Congress’ Juan Felipe Herrera’s Poet Laureate project La Casa de Colores! You can enter too, just write about your Familia:

Theme for Oct. 15-Nov. 14, 2015
“Migrants: Portraits and Friendships”
Every inch of this land is woven with migrant trails. These are pathways from family to family, country to country, and most of all heart to heart. For this month, find a trail and travel through it to a new dream. What do you see in your travels? And how do you make friends along the way? Describe for me in the language of poetry—migrate into new words, use new landscapes of images.

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We are back in the Blue Ridge, except the mountains were orange this morning. And after almost a week in a news-free Curious George zone, I eagerly tuned into CNN for the Democratic debate last night. 

My ears picked up when Anderson Cooper brought up gun violence. And Hillary made a point about the special immunity gun manufacturers have from prosecution and civil suits. Bernie’s position on this issue seems to be evolving, but his reasoning about being from a rural state like Vermont didn’t ring true to me. 

The tide is changing. Two policemen in Milwaukee who were both shot in the face by a criminal – a guy who obtained his gun from a “straw” buyer – just won their suit against the gun store who sold the gun originally. This is a first. 

A jury found the gun store liable and ordered it to pay 6 Million in damages to the officers. 

It’s time we decided to tackle this issue head on, and to see Hillary come out swinging last night was a relief. 

If a car manufacturer sells a car with a faulty ignition, or a roll-over problem, or lies about emission controls, all hell breaks loose. We carry children strapped up tight in the back seats of our cars and we expect safety to be a number one priority. Yet we as a nation have allowed guns to be sold out of car trunks at gun shows. 

In other news, heroin deaths this year in VA have surpassed highway fatalities for the first time. The media is blaming doctors who write scripts for opioids. Of course I asked Bob how many Viginians died from gun violence this year in the state. He couldn’t find that data. 

The gun lobby doesn’t let the CDC collect those numbers. It’s time to study immune-resistant gun violence once and for all. 

 

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“Why do you always yell at me? I don’t really care what we do.” 

This was what the woman in the next car was saying to her presumed husband. I’m sitting in a parking garage waiting for the Bride and her family. It turned into a really rainy day so a trip to the aquarium was in order. This random woman was yelling about something Dr Jim had just told me about, the Abilene Paradox. 

This paradox is almost like “group think” or committee work, it occurs when a group of people decide to do something that is counterintuitive to each individual. In other words, it’s the old go with the flow. It’s like getting caught up in the Gulf Stream going the wrong way. 

Imagine everybody is sitting on the front porch and the grandfather says “Hey let’s go up to Abilene for dinner!”  He’s thinking aloud and hasn’t been there since he was a kid. The whole family agrees. Except the drive of 50 miles becomes interminable, the kids are cranky and once they arrive the restaurant is no longer there. One by one each family member realizes they didn’t really want to go to Abilene for dinner. 

If you’ve ever been vacationing with a group I’m sure you’ve experienced this paradox. How the heck did I get here? 

Well I’m glad we all decided to go to the aquarium. We saw an albino alligator named Alabaster. The Love Bug touched a starfish. And Bob found out what that bird was in our driveway – a juvenile White Ibis! Here is his buddy, an Egret!

  

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This morning we woke up in the Palmetto State. This trip to the Isle of Palms was planned months ago. Before surgery, before the thousand year biblical flood and dams breaking everywhere. Before we knew what we were made of. 

We passed fields of cotton in standing water, like white cranberry bogs. We passed lots of roadside gun shops. And because the Intestate was closed, we passed iconic small towns on two lane highways. I was tempted to go into a Lifeway Christian Store, maybe thay had a small model of Noah’s ark we could borrow?

But Bob brought along every navigational device known to man. He downloaded WAZE in order to be on point with crowd-sourcing traffic/flooding detours. I wonder if future generations will know what to do with a map?

We are no strangers to flooding; we moved to our mountain from the Jersey Shore and watched our tiny river swell its banks and invade our cars. We knew to watch the cycle of the moon and the tides. But what we didn’t know was how floods happen inland, and we didn’t know about Climate Change. We know now. 

Wish us luck, we have another 150 miles to go before we reach the ocean. Driving toward muddy flood waters wasn’t what I had in mind for this short vacation with the grandbabies. 

The sun is out and this is not a Bruce Willis movie. Still I wonder when the Waccamaw River will crest? Maybe we should fly?

 

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We’ve been visiting doctors lately. One gentlemanly Southern doctor in a bow tie plopped his black Doctor’s Bag down on the desk and introduced himself. He was young, meaning maybe 30 something, and I was surprised enough to mention his old-school bag. 

He pulled out the tools of his trade and did the most complete physical exam I’d ever seen in my life. Lots of hammering for reflex checks. Lots of listening via stethoscope. 

I’m not sure Bob ever carried a doctor bag per se. He always carried an old fashioned, beat up brown leather briefcase. Not as snazzy as DeNiro’s vintage case in The Intern, but just as efficient.

Bob carried lots of paper back in the day since he’s been an ED director for much of his working life. He remembers when he could no longer find his Mad Men briefcase in any store after using and abusing the original till it fell apart. That, he tells me, was a sad pre-Internet time! 

Today, in a small black duffle bag you’d find his iPad. The stethoscope still holds a place of prominence, but so does a Mophi for charging devices. This old duffle is getting threadbare. I asked him what most young doctors are carrying these days, and he told me backpacks. 

I was all set to get Bob a backpack – something with gravitas if possible – when we saw DeNiro pull his calculator out of his briefcase, right before trying to turn on his laptop. I laughed, didn’t he know there’s a calculator in his phone? Then I saw his flip phone. Later in the film, one of his younger colleagues found a sweet ancient briefcase on eBay.

So now I’m all about that Google search for a new briefcase. I know some hipsters carry old WWII messenger bags slung across their chests. And obviously some young docs have kept the mystique of the Doctor’s Bag alive, but there’s just something very 007 about the standard leather briefcase with a nice lock under the handle. Don’t you agree?   

Notice the handsome Darth Vader neck brace and the minimalist desk. Notice the body posture. Welcome back Doc!

 

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“We’re gonna have a good time!” Even though it’s not a “special” birthday, marking a decade or anything, it’s nice to know I’ve made it through another year on the mountain. As Bob would always say, “It’s better than the alternative,” meaning I could have had a funeral. Nothing like an ER doctor to put things into perspective.

According to Native American culture, I was born during the Duck Fly Moon. And last night, unfortunately, we missed seeing the total eclipse of the moon in VA due to a stack of clouds. Amazing pictures have been scrolling across my Facebook feed, along with birthday greetings from friends near and far. Sometimes I just shake my head at political commentary, or shrug about people sharing TMI, but sometimes you just gotta love social media!

Today we plan on going to the movies to see Robert DeNiro and Anne Hathaway in “The Intern.” People are raving about it, even my brother, Dr Jim, told us it’s a good take on aging. He said when some HR person asks DeNiro, the new intern, where he sees himself in ten years, and the answer is, “You mean when I’m 80?” his expression is priceless.

We could use a good laugh. And to be honest, I don’t see myself on this mountain for another ten years. I reluctantly moved South to be closer to the Bride, but she’s working on her career in Nashville while the Groom’s interviewing all over the country. Who knows where they will settle; and the Rocker and Ms Cait? I’m pretty sure they will be West Coasters for the foreseeable future. It’s time Bob really thought about retirement, and it’s time we thought about our Golden Years.

When we are no longer driving, I’d like to live in a walkable neighborhood. We know only too well how circumstances can change. And as much as I’ve enjoyed the serenity and the views from my aviary, I know we have another move left in us. But for today, I’ll eat some cake and think about all that tomorrow.

Sunset on the Porch

Sunset on the Porch

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At one point, in the build up to last night’s debate, we heard about the very first job each Republican candidate held as a youngster. Mowing lawns, life guarding, and all the usual career choices that open up to a sixteen year old aspiring politician. 

My very first job was temporary, wrapping Christmas presents at a women’s clothing store. Later that summer I was a counselor-in-training (CIT) at Camp St Joseph for Girls. I had to quit that job suddenly when the nuns found out I was the coordinator for night time trysts on the golf course between the boys camp and the girls. You may have heard the story, passing notes to the altar boy while receiving Holy Communion…

CITs lived in a limbo between the freedom of counselor life and the rules and regs of campers. I was happy to leave my childhood behind and get on with growing up! That summer helped me realize I was finally a “Lapsed Catholic.” 

I made a whopping $500. I lost my faith. And I cut my long hair. My feminist sensibility was growing roots. 

When I heard that Trump’s first job was collecting rent for his father I had to laugh. The arrogance and sense entitlement was ingrained. He must have learned that the world was his oyster at an early age. That everything comes easy with a little hard work and a lot of powerful privilege and leverage. 

When this bubble bursts, he can always go back to collecting the rent.  Here is the Love Bug, the next generation of feminist warriors, practicing her Jedi Knight moves!

 

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My daughter the Bride was born at 6:02 in the evening 36 years ago on this day! It was a beautiful sunny September day, in fact Bob took a little time that weekend to staff the medical tent at the Josh Billings run aground race. It took me awhile, but I finally forgave him for leaving me alone in the hospital.

And forgiveness is what Rosh Hashanah is all about. We listened to the shofar this morning at the family service. It’s the start of a new year and the slate is wiped clean. We say we are sorry for words or actions that may have hurt others. Some find it easy to say, “I’m sorry,” it rolls off the tongue or may include an eye roll. It becomes meaningless. 

When I was in Catholic school, we went to confession every Friday. We only had to tell a priest and say some prayers to get right again with God. Jewish people everywhere have only one shot a year to dig deep and seek out those they may have harmed. 

It’s only ten days of reflection, before Yom Kippur, but we need to be inscribed in the Book of Life. It’s an intense period of time. So if my words were in any way hurtful my dear readers, please forgive me. My intention with this blog is to keep my family and old Jersey friends and new friends close and speak my truth. 

I’m grateful for this New Year and for my wonderful daughter. She not only brings her Daddy milkshakes, she downloads podcasts and juggles a husband, children and a pretty insane job. Happy New Year to all and Happy Birthday sweet girl. We are all striving to be happy.  

 

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