What's in a Name?

For the last 17 years, the first Saturday in December has been set aside for a remembrance service held by the Bereaved Parent Group of Madison. The first year after Sophie's death we simply attended. Then we started contributing a song to the service: The Water Lily by Australian poet Henry Lawson, set to music by Priscilla Herdmann. We've missed just one service since Sophie died, the year I ended up in the hospital with pulmonary embolism (yuck.) I love it; it's a chance to catch up with friends whom we know only in this context and see once a year. People who speak the same language we do, so to speak. Members of the same club.

The most powerful part of the evening is when somebody reads off all of the babies' names. To hear someone else say your baby's name means so much. Last year, the people compiling the list made a mistake and got Sophie's middle name wrong, and I felt terrible. This year I checked the list to make sure it was correct. I hope I didn't seem too obnoxious.

Today brought a strange coincidence: Ed was at work and Sophie's cardiologist came in. We run into him from time to time around town, but today of all days? The world works in mysterious ways. And another year is past.

The Impossible Will Take a Little While

I have an admission to make: I had a hand in Scott Walker's victory last November. No, I didn't vote for him and I did vote for Tom Barrett, the Democratic candidate. But voting was all I did last fall. An act that added up to about 10 minutes of my time -- walking the one block to my neighborhood polling place, filling in my ballot, and walking home. Walker won, and I went around saying, "How bad can he be?" In reality, I was despondent and had disengaged from the process. 8 years of GeeDubya compounded with the disappointment in Obama. (YES, I AM disappointed, and I'm not afraid to lose friends on Face Book for stating that. Obama is a big disappointment to me.)

Well, February came and we learned very quickly how bad Walker could be. All of a sudden virtually everything that I had taken for granted here in my beloved home state of Wisconsin was in danger. Much has changed, and it is uncertain that we will be able to get it back. The recalls did not gain a majority of Senate Democrats, though they did slim down the margin enough for one Republican who shows signs of retaining a sliver of his humanity (all the rest have sold their souls to the corporate devil, as far as I can tell) to perhaps be able to step across the breach.

Like many of my fellow Wisconsinites, what our state's "Arab spring" did was to shake me out of my despondent stupor, and get me to put my shoulder to the wheel of change. You see, for 10 years I've been singing, "Come back Woody Guthrie …" and wondering where the leaders were. Where were the charismatic and eloquent people who would lead us Americans out of the wilderness? I was waiting … and waiting … and nobody was stepping up. I am a child of the sixties who grew up in Madison, Wisconsin, one of the hotbeds of anti-Vietnam War protests. I knew what my leaders should look and sound like, and they just weren't forthcoming. And I was losing hope.

The protests of February and March were exhilarating, galvanizing, and inspiring. What I realized was,
We the People are the leaders, the agents of change. "Be the change you want to see" is more than just words. We are the ones who must turn the wheels of change. And it's not easy. It takes work. It takes time. It takes you out of your comfort zone perhaps. Puts you in danger of arrest (or in some places, worse.) But it is the only thing that makes things better. And those rights that we hold so dear? They can, will, indeed have disappeared in the blink of an eye, because the powers that be -- all of the powers other than the power of We the People -- don't really believe we should have those rights. They have always been precarious. We were lulled into thinking that they were a given, but they're not … unless we fight for them.

There are leaders -- politicians and whatnot -- who will help us fight for our rights, but it is my responsibility as a citizen to be out there being a leader. What can I do? I am required to teach my students social studies … civics! Sure, I teach the larvae, the kindergartners, but there are appropriate ways to teach them important concepts that lay the groundwork for being good citizens. Ta dah!

We've got the big recall coming up -- the puppet himself, Scott Walker. With the gerrymandering and the voter suppression (yup, I believe that's what it is) getting voters to the polls is more important than ever, and it is a tangible place to put energy.

I'm not asleep anymore. I am not despondent. I've made me some hope. It was civil rights activist Bayard Rustin -- look him up if you don't know him -- who said that hope wasn't something you find, you have to make it.

Today my dear friend Chuck sent me this article -- the inspiration for my post. I hope that it inspires you the way it did me.

It's ALL About Love

I went to a memorial service this week for a long-time family friend, Louise Uphoff. She was an ardent progressive Democrat (with Socialist leanings). My parents were married on her in-law's farm 65 years ago, I used to babysit her firstborn child, and our paths crossed many times over the years, though as usual, not as often as I would have liked. At the service I learned that she was a passionate knitter who took her knitting to every meeting (including the Democratic National Convention, where she was a delegate); I never knew that we had that in common. I also learned that she loved Broadway show tunes (not me) and was an employee and proud member of the state teachers' union.

With the recall elections of 6 Republican state senators just days away, it was no surprise that amidst the tears and the funny stories, the service was really a rallying of We the People to renew our commitment to Democracy, to not give up the struggle because in the end, we on the Left are on the right side. Louise's husband, Charlie, wore a "Stand With Wisconsin" t-shirt to the service. The final eulogy was delivered by John Nichols, our Wisconsin-grown, progressive, Socialist journalist, and I don't think I was the only one to walk out feeling inspired and heartened.

When I was younger I avoided going to funerals. That was something the grown-ups -- i.e. my parents -- did. My parents have been gone a good many years now, and somehow I have become the person who goes to the funerals and memorial services of my parents' friends and associates, the representative of our family. (My oldest brother always goes too; the oldest and the youngest kids in the family -- I wonder if that fits some pattern in family psychology.) I started to do it because it felt like I should, to honor the interwoven threads that made up my parents', and thus, my history.

Along the way something funny happened. I started to like, no, love going to these services. Not in a Harold and Maude kind of way; funerals of strangers hold no attraction. I am a person who savors connections, and funerals are great places to reconnect, even for just a short time. When I see old friends of my parents I often feel like I've gotten in touch with a little piece of my parents whom I miss so much. And they're cathartic; a good cry is a good thing.

Maybe it's an age thing, but I have come to like funerals more than weddings. At the recent weddings I've attended, I often feel as if I have little in common with the bride and groom or their friends. In fact, it's often as if we middle-agéd people are invisible to them. (I suspect that will be different at my own kids' weddings, should they choose a state-sanctioned route.) Besides, 3 out of 4 weddings are destined to end in divorce. Call me cynical, but sometimes that pops into my head when I see all of the money being spent on wedding celebrations!

So I've become a fan of the well-thought-out goodbye.

Steppin' Out

Of my comfort zone, that is.

After months of deliberating back and forth, should I or shouldn't I? -- I registered for a weekend-long songwriting workshop at the end of this month. I realized that the only thing holding me back (except for the money, and what's money anyway? After all of the shit ScottWalkerCo is pulling in our state, I've developed something of a devil-may-care attitude toward my hard-earned, easily-stolen pay) was my inhibitions. But the thing is -- as I get better on the guitar, I really don't want to just play other people's great songs. I want to write my own, possibly mediocre, songs.

What is the worst case scenario? As with my guitar playing, I fear that I will channel the couple from A Mighty Wind. I will write verses not even worthy of a Hallmark™ card, be like Rod McKuen's younger and much less talented sister, be defined as part of the Sylvia Plath group (that's a high school reference.) And the best case? I will learn and grow, just as I have with my playing. I am much more comfortable on my instrument than I was even 6 months ago. The lesson is, old dogs can learn new tricks.

I preach to my student teachers what a good thing it is for us teachers to put ourselves in the role of being a beginner at something. It really makes you think about what we're asking our young students to do, how they go out on a limb every single day …

So I mailed my registration in and I'll be trucking off to Dodgeville, Wisconsin in a couple of weeks, notebook and guitar in hand, ready to learn songwriting. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Hmmm. A Question

Is there a male equivalent of being a "crone"? Something that implies the wisdom of years? Is it "gaffer"?

Maiden, Mother, Crone

Anna, age 6, and newly-hatched Grace, 2/3/96

Yesterday I attended a "croning" ceremony for my friend Frances, who just turned 60. There were 20 or so women at the event, and I suspect I was the youngest one there, still wet behind the ears at almost-52. At one point we were invited to share stories of significant transitions in our own lives. Always slow to speak up in situations like that, the group moved on to the next scheduled activity before I had collected my thoughts sufficiently. "Transitions?" I was thinking. "Every day feels like a transition!"

Later I was thinking about one big transition which I'm still trying to navigate -- that of being the mother of young children to being the mother of a grown and almost-grown child, respectively. From the time I was 12 or so I knew I wanted babies. Badly. I wrote lists of prospective baby names ad nauseum. I bought little items of clothing that caught my eye, to put away for "when I had a baby." It was bad. Really bad.

Still, I didn't have my first baby until I was almost 30.  It was hard in all the ways you might expect, but also an incredibly joyous time. Except for the sleep deprivation, I believe I was in my element. 5 years later we had our second child, who died in infancy. I was 37 when our third child was born, and I got to experience all of the parenting a very young child again, another joyous time, though admittedly tinged by the loss we had experienced.

I absolutely loved my children's childhoods. I was the mom who knit sweaters, sewed little sun dresses and stuffed toys, froze healthy popsicles in the summer … Oh, it wasn't all a bed of roses. It was as a young mother that I was first diagnosed with low-grade chronic depression that sometimes made it hard to be the mother I really wanted to be. It also brought out some of my very best intentions.

You readers who have raised children know, I'm sure, how when you're in the thick of it you think it will last forever -- for better or worse. You might listen to the Malvina Reynolds' song Turn Around and get all sad about the future (at least I did, when my first baby was still under a year old!) but it doesn't seem all that close. All of a sudden -- WHOOSH -- they're grown up (or nearly so.)

And I'm left holding the bag. The bag of bedtime stories, little dresses, star-shaped baby dolls, plastic horses, and all of the other flotsam and jetsam of my kids' childhoods, wondering where to go from here. I'm not worried about it. There are many times these days when I revel in the freedom to just go somewhere, without either packing Cheerios and a wet washcloth or finding a babysitter (okay, I exaggerate -- I haven't had to do that in a long time.) I adore the young women my little daughters have become, even if I look askance at their fashion choices much of the time.

This is a transition that I find particularly bittersweet.

Solidarity!

I just want to say that I, for one, do not take the decision to participate in what amounts to a strike lightly. For a teacher of young children it's pretty painful and I would much rather be teaching my class tomorrow. But the stakes are so high, not just for me or my fellow teachers, but for so many other workers, for both the poor and what we still quaintly refer to as "the middle class", and a quality of life here in Wisconsin. In a very short time Gov. Wanker has turned Wisconsin into a "pay to play" state. If you donated the bucks to his campaign you get favors, or at least he won't go after you … yet. If not, you're a big old ZERO to him. This is nothing less than class warfare of the kind we've been witnessing for some time now, but ramped up to a new level. It's redistributing wealth, upwards into the pockets of the already rich. THAT'S why I feel compelled to participate.

New Year's Eve 2010

I get a lot of pleasure out of Facebook (too much pleasure, some might say.) I'm one of those people who seeks out connections with other people. However, Facebook has its drawbacks, one of which is that one's postings there disappear so quickly and are seemingly gone forever (although I'm sure the FBI could retrieve them with no trouble at all.) I also really enjoy writing, and have a hard time limiting myself to the small number of characters allotted for status updates, and what have you. I am therefore going to try to do more regular blog posts, and no, that's not a New Year's Resolution™. (I don't believe in them, at least for myself. Daisy the cat, on the other hand, could resolve not to use her claws and my thighs as the means to get her chubby body up onto my lap at the computer. Just a suggestion.)

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, New Year's Eve. We walked to our friends Shel and Vicki's annual potluck/party where there was a whole lot of social networking of the face-to-face kind and connectivity going on. I saw a lot of friends, some of whom I hadn't seen in a l-o-o-o-ng time (like Lenny, with whom I went to alternative high school, and got more stoned than any other time I remember on a field trip to a very much not alternative high school and couldn't stop laughing, due to some killer brownies that Lenny had brought along. And Dan, whom I met for the first time maybe 31 years ago when he picked me up hitch-hiking and explained what a "loss-leader" was in grocery store terms -- funny the things that your brain remembers -- and later was my downstairs neighbor, and became a fellow teacher.) Then there were the friends I see pretty frequently, but always enjoy. It was a quite delightful evening. I love that Shel and Vicki don't feel the need to keep it going until midnight, so that we were home by 10:00 p.m.

At 10:30 I was walking the dog and ran into my neighbors out on the sidewalk with their 5-year old daughter, banging pots and pans with spoons. I stuck my tongue in my cheek and harassed them about noise pollution, to which they replied, "It's midnight!" (wink, wink) Oh yeah … as Terry Pratchett says in Hogfather, you tell children small lies when they're young, so they'll believe the big lies later. I remember those days.

I also saw this sad scene:

Bad Santa -- No more cognac for you!

Back home, I didn't get to bed early as planned, because we watched the movie Gran Torino in its entirety. Aside from the vigilante mentality which is kind of hard to take, it's an excellent movie, and the first I've seen that even acknowledges the existence of the Hmong people.

There you have it -- a play-by-play of my ho-hum life. 2011, here we are.