To Facebook Or Not To Facebook -- That Is the Question

But actually, there's no question about it. Yes, it is a time vacuum, yes it is frequently fairly shallow contact, but some really cool things can be facilitated by Facebook. Here's what happened:

Yesterday a young (F)friend's status update stated that he was going out to check the neighborhood garage sales for a bike. Reading that, I sent him a message telling him that we had some salvaged, but stalwart bicycles sitting in our garage if his shopping proved fruitless. Sometime in the afternoon he popped up in a chat window on Facebook, asking about the bikes. I invited him to come check them out. He came over yesterday evening while we were out, selected a bike and took it home.

This morning he showed up after Meeting, hands covered in grease and grime, to settle up on a price. He said he had been attending Meeting for Worship with Attention to Bicycle Repair, and had happily ridden his new bicycle over to the Meetinghouse. It's probably a pretty decent bike -- an older American-made (which in all likelihood means Wisconsin-made) 10-speed Trek touring bike. I'm happy to see it go to a good home, after rescuing it from a trip to a landfill.

As you might expect, I drive a hard bargain. "It's a graduation gift, Martin!" I said, and then added that if he wanted to donate some money to AFSC (American Friends' Service Committee) or another worthy cause, he could do so. I was rewarded with a very sweet smile. It makes me smile just to think of it.

So there you have it. Sure, it could have happened without Facebook, but that would have required Martin or his mom to come to Meeting and announce that he was looking for a bicycle or submit it to the weekly announcements, etc. etc. This way it was all so serendipitous. Community at work, facilitated by Facebook. Cool.

Goodman-Atwood Center -- It's a Good Thing

Yesterday was the grand opening celebration of our new neighborhood center, the Goodman- Atwood Neighborhood Center. Several years in the planning and building, this project is really a dream come true for our community. Community is a big deal in Madison, and it's probably a bigger deal on my side of town where it has grown out of neighborhoods that were largely mixed use industrial/residential, blue collar, and -- in some parts -- skid row.

Atwood Neighborhood Center has been around for a long time, offering programs for all ages. A few years ago when it was obvious they were outgrowing their current digs, they embarked on an ambitious fundraising drive, purchased a former foundry in the neighborhood, and hired an architect (who happens to be a friend of ours. Excellent work, Cliff!) The project was given a huge boost when local jewelers/philanthropists the Goodman brothers ("Hi. I'm Bob. And I'm Irwin. We're Bob and Irwin Goodman.") gave them a boatload of money.

They managed to preserve the overall structure of the foundry, complete with original beams and some of the industrial equipment, and yet create a state of the art complex with sound studios, art studios, a preschool, a full size gymnasium, a café (to be run by high school students), a teen center, and more.

The new center is right on a bike path, so neighborhood residents had plenty of opportunity to watch it develop. My school had an inservice there 2 weeks ago, and we got a tour of the facility. It is beautiful! And the most amazing thing about it? It was built for ordinary people to use: senior citizens, kids, teens, accordian players (OK, so they're not so ordinary, but ... ) It is a gorgeous, green-constructed, multi-million dollar facility that is a nonprofit, instead of being the headquarters of a bank, insurance company or HMO. That's pretty unusual in this day and age -- or perhaps any day and age here in these United States.

Yesterday was a joyous celebration. Here are a few pix:
The Reptile Palace Orchestra -- one of Mr. Ether's many bands -- played a set. That's Mr. Ether on the right and brother-in-law Ether on the left.
More Reptiles.
Where the Reptiles go, folk dancers follow. This is Fran and Lew, my all-time favorite dancers and role models for how I want to be when I am in my eighties.
Looking through the awesome playground at the main building of the center. All those beams are part of the original equipment.
The Feeny bros., all dressed up for the occasion. Brother-in-law Bill is wearing the shirt that I covet. I actually had one of my own, but I jettisoned it in, oh, 1973. If only I had a crystal ball and could have seen into the future!

Musing

I have a love-hate relationship with Garrison Keillor. I suspect that he is something of an egotistical so and so. If he is, he is a brilliant egotistical so and so. His essays always ring true for me. Maybe it's that upper-Midwestern sensibility. This one caught my eye this morning: Eulogy for the Winnebago. Keillor wrote:

So we will need to amuse ourselves in new ways. I predict that banjo sales will pick up. The screened porch will come back in style. And the art of storytelling will burgeon along with it. Stories are common currency in life but only to people on foot. Nobody ever told a story to a clerk at a drive-up window, but you can walk up to the lady at the check-out counter and make small talk and she might tell you, as a woman told me the other day as she rang up my groceries, that she had gotten a puppy that day to replace the old dog who had to be put down a month ago, and right there was a little exchange of humanity. Her willingness to tell me that made her real to me. People who aren't real to each other are dangerous to each other. Stories give us the simple empathy that is the basis of the Golden Rule, which is the basis of civilized society.

I had to laugh. My kids are frequently embarrassed by my habit of chatting with store clerks (as I was by my mom.) 3 years ago we added a screen porch to our house, and it is my favorite place to be. (We had to argue with the project designer to get it. "Are you sure you don't want a sunroom?" right up to the day we were signing off on the final plans.) And right now it's a guitar, but we have a banjo that is going into the repair shop sometime soon. And an accordian, that sits in a corner of the living room calling out, "Suzy, learn how to play me ...." (Ha! We'd be avenged for our two closest neighbors' obnoxiously loud air conditioners!)

While there are many scary things associated with passing peak petroleum, and it's hard to find justification for the gas prices when you know that it is all going to obscene profits for the oil corporation CEOs, beginning to plan for life on a more human scale isn't such a bad thing.

Lost Madison

My beloved spouse, who goes by the blog name Enriched Geranium, had a recent post that got me to thinking about cool buildings that once stood in our fair city but came up against the wrecking ball, mainly because of greed and stupidity (and don't those two always go hand in hand?) He was listing venues where his old band, the Appliances SFB, used to play. One of those was Turner Hall, a downtown monument and beautiful building, that was torn down, yes, to put up a parking lot. I loved Turner Hall. It had a divey little bar in the basement, The Wagon Wheel, and the main hall hosted not only many local bands, but also Cycropia, an aerial dance troupe that uses trapezes in their choreography. I saw an amazing performance there where we sat on the floor and the dancers flew over our heads.

Our public library puts up an annual exhibit of photos called "Lost Madison." I find it quite depressing, actually. The one that really gets to me is a house called "Mapleside." It was a beautiful limestone house that stood on a main thoroughfare, and was built by the first white settlers to farm in this county. In 1970, despite tremendous public outcry, Mapleside was razed to make way for (pardon my language, I don't usually swear in print) a fucking Burger King. I was 11 when it happened, and I remember it very well. In fact, I've boycotted Burger King for most of my life because of that travesty.


According to my friend the historical preservationist -- I'll call her "Beth" -- Mapleside became the poster child for historic preservation in the entire country. Its demise sparked the movement to try to preserve many old buildings nationwide. Unfortunately, what often seems to happen now is, developers are required to survey the property, but ultimately many buildings are still destroyed in the name of progre$$.

Right now our city seems to be undergoing a massive transformation. What I consider to be the landscape of my childhood is being changed to something unrecognizable. I have no idea where developers are getting their money, because there certainly doesn't seem to be any around for things like schools, for instance. The university is one of the worst offenders, and I know who's paying for that, given the absurd annual tuition increases. What a bunch of money grubbers!

Can you believe the city tore down this boathouse, designed by a young Frank Lloyd Wright?
And then, years later, out of guilt, we got this "Wright-inspired" convention center shoved down our throats:

Sigh. Sometimes I feel like such an old curmudgeon, but it sure seems as if humans are about the stupidest critters around.

Ain't a Fit Night Out for Man nor Beast!

This is unprecedented. We have another snow day! I actually checked early this morning, before getting all ready for work, and then I went back to bed for a couple of hours. Now that's unprecedented. I must have needed sleep.

Tuesdays have now been designated "date nights" for me and Mr. Ether. (After 20+ years of marriage, one kid out of the house and the other kid only one year away from being a teenager, are we finally getting it together to have "dates"? Don't hold your breath.) Last night, because we're broke and because we had delicious key lime pie in the fridge, left over from Sparkly's birthday on Sunday, we decided to really kick up our heels and walk to the food co-op for our date. Whoo-ee, do we know how to have a good time or what?

But actually, it was a lovely walk. The snow was starting to come down, and the route leads us along a river and then on a bike path. We bought some essentials, and headed home. We got to a place where one bike path intersects another, and heard a plaintive cry for help. There was a man in a motorized wheelchair, stuck in a snowbank. He had his phone out and had called 911, in fact had the dispatcher on the line, but his disability (cerebral palsy?) made it difficult to understand him when he told her where he was. She was assuming he was drunk, which he wasn't.

Mr. Ether recently threw out his back, so he was wary of trying to push/lift the chair out. I was wary of dumping the man out of his chair. (I did that to my kids with the stroller on more than one occasion.) The dispatcher said she would send a patrol car, so Mr. Ether went to wait at the corner where he would be visible, while I waited with the man.

Nice guy. He was only a block from home, but had mistakenly assumed that he could get through in a place which hadn't been shoveled. It looked like he had been doing the same thing we were doing, making a run to the co-op for some essentials before the storm came. (Of course, we were on a date.)

The police showed up after about 10 minutes. During that time he and I managed to get the wheelchair out of the trench he had dug by spinning the wheels, and turned around, but there was still another small snowbank. With a steady push from the youthful and brawny officer, plus the bulldog-like power of the motorized chair (they are like little ATVs, which is probably how he got so stuck in the first place) he was back on the bike path.

We carried his bag of groceries and followed him home. Afterwards, Mr. Ether and I were reflecting on the whole scene: how good it is to live where so much is within walking distance, how hard it must be to be disabled and alone (especially once you're older and perhaps don't have parents anymore,) how we love the winter but it is hard for some people who can't get around as easily, how we live close by two different accessible housing developments and there are people we've just seen around for years and years without ever having met them, how it felt good to help ...

It was a very good date!

(Late afternoon update: The snow is still falling and is now up to the bottom of the car and completely covering the little angel pictured above. Everything has shut down -- buses, public buildings, university classes ...)

10 Candles

My friend Madeline is in the Peace Corps in Lesotho. From time to time she emails a public letter, updating her loved ones about her life there. I was so moved by her most recent letter, which I received this morning, exactly when I needed it. I am sure she won't mind my publishing it here:

Candles on my Christmas Tree
Public Letter from Madeline U. in Lesotho, Africa (Dec 2007)

Those of you who've spent Christmas with me may remember I love lit candles on a live evergreen. Here in Lesotho , we're in the midst of summer, and I'm enjoying my second year of a no-commercials / no-pressures-to-buy-anything / no-Xmas-carols-in-shopping malls / no rush-around Christmas. Just the hot sun, farmers plowing with oxen, afternoon winds impregnating dust devils, and fields of aloe and wild flowers.

So my candles will be metaphorical ones – 10 candles on my Christmas tree of 2007:

Candle 1: Lit to celebrate my one year anniversary here. A decision to let go of the fast, rich life -- trading it for a slower, poorer one. Poverty is mean. Poverty wears me down, and it destroys the lives of my neighbors. But I am richer for living amidst struggling Basotho villagers, able to see how simple things mean a great deal, and how complex things intertwine to keep us in a mire of destitution. Most people in this world make the same amount of money per year as do the villagers in Mt. Moorosi . In one mere year, I've grown closer to the realities of people whose earth I share.

Candle 2: Lit for this sad and special year in my family. My brother Dave has been living with a fast growing brain tumor. From this great distance, as I see my sisters Susan and Kate, my brother Will, my mom Barbara, my cousins Donna and Annelle, and many friends and family gather around Dave to support him, I am awed at the strength and love that endures in my immediate family. Thanks to the Peace Corps, I was able to fly home in April 2007 to visit Dave, to say the hardest word in all the languages I've ever studied – good-bye, for now, dearest brother.

Candle 3: Lit for health. Who would have known that two years in the Peace Corps would be the best thing in 30 years for my own health? I climb mountains, eat simple meals, don't stress out with multi-tasking. I have time for everything – reading, visiting, travel. I'm rich in health, wealthy in time, prosperous with sunsets and moonrises, and a millionaire in children who love nothing better than coming into my rondavel to read books or draw with crayons.

Candle 4: Lit to salute the mountains of Lesotho . I traveled a few days ago to Lesotho 's southernmost national park, Sethlabathebe, to visit fellow Volunteer Lizbeth. When I saw the setting of her village, I recognized it from the fantasy I'd had before I got here – the dreams I'd had before I was assigned to dusty, dirty Mt. Moorosi. From her tiny rondavel, Lizbeth looks down upon valleys so deep that mountain peaks rise out of the pool of hovering clouds. I've walked miles and miles of mountain paths this year, visiting remote little schools and sites of other Volunteers. Lesotho 's beauty is awesome.

Candle 5: Lit in admiration for Lesotho 's care of its orphans. With just about the most orphans of any nation on earth, poor little Lesotho has somehow absorbed them – in the bosoms and modest huts of grandmas and aunts and neighbors. Lesotho has few orphanages. For these little people, some sleeping on city streets, all without secure futures, all without the love and identity of parents, please light a candle as well.

Candle 6: Lit for Dintle. This candle sputters a bit, and it's the reason I haven't written for awhile, trying to spare YOU from the horrors of Quthing Hospital. So despite it not being holiday material, let me be honest with you (you are strong enough) to tell you that in the last two months, 14 year old Dintle has been diagnosed as HIV-positive (raped when she was 10 years old), and has an acute case of meningitis. She has shriveled to a mere skeleton, hospitalized for over 45 days now. I fought my way into Maseru once when it turned out the hospital didn't have her blood type, and I traveled in again a month later when the hospital ran out of medicine and her survival hung by a thread.
Nurses in the hospital are so overworked they disappear entirely from wards. When I walk in, looking fresh (and white), neglected patients call to me to adjust their casts or empty bed pans. Dintle can't feed herself – so if I or one of her family members isn't there, she doesn't eat. She has bed sores on her butt and on her ear. She's lost muscle and any ability to move. Seeing the rapid deterioration of a normal, healthy, laughing teen is a knife to my heart.
Helping to keep this candle lit for me is a newly-arrived Peace Corps Volunteer named Jason (Sesotho name – Mokhaele, "son of a chief"). He's been my savior, helping me pay bus transport for Dintle's sister, cousin, and grandmother to make the long trip to the hospital, helping deliver medicines, sometimes just coming in on his own and feeding little Dintle in the twilight hours. You have to love someone like this!
And may the light of this sputtering candle also shine on the hospital's doctors from India – totally overworked – and the Clinton Foundation nurses, who make a real difference, wading into the sea of HIV/AIDS patients. I have new respect for anyone who works in health care – a field reserved for the strong of heart.

Candle 7: Lit for love and loss. When I filled in the Peace Corps application, I didn't factor in long-distance grief. It think it has mostly to do with my age. If we live to be older than 50, we have an increasing number of losses to bear, losses whose pain is as deep as the love was tall. The path of this year has been taken sharp turns as I've heard unexpectedly of the loss of dear friends ~ Mary B., who left a legacy of Dodgeville activism and laughter around her kitchen table. My cousin Doug U., a tower of strength and a deep canyon of reflection. Twinkling-eyed Sven, my fiddling, Swedish host father. No news of dearest Karen T., who shared my years in Japan with such flare. And others…. Grief is hard; grief alone is harder.

Candle 8: Lit for learning. As I look out through my open windows at the upside-down constellations in the starry sky, my mind reels with the mysteries of being a human on this planet. Can we solve problems that we create? Why not? As I fall asleep, I ponder global economics, world peace, village solutions. I wonder what sustains greed, rape, neglect of children. I wonder if I am truly strong enough to pursue a career in international development. Is hope naïve? Is optimism merited? How brilliant the Millennium Development Goals – modest solutions to staggering problems, if only each nation would do its small part. How often I've longed for a cup of good coffee and a conversation with you, dear friend.

Candle 9: Lit for you and those you love, for all your challenges, for all the great things that have happened to you this year. A great hug if you've written me a letter or e-mail, and total understanding if you've been too busy to. That "busyness" -- so American! A national treasure –many things to do. Enjoy the opportunities!

Candle 10: Lit for us, for all of us who share the planet. Who yearn for simple things like a fresh salad, a day of sunshine, a garden of flowers, a child's sweet hug. May we cherish these, support one another, and look with optimism toward a new year.

Madeline

Sunburned Shoulders, Strong Legs

As was touted in a video I posted a few weeks back, our city is blessed with myriad bikeways. With a few exceptions, you can get almost anywhere on designated bike/pedestrian paths in about the same amount of time it takes to drive a car. Sometimes less, depending on traffic! Recently my routes have taken me along lakeshore, river and creek, past a Cajun music festival, under bridges and through old rail underpasses, not quite over the river and through the woods but almost. And this is all within 5 miles of my home!

Getting places under my own steam is a real joy. I ride an English 3-speed, which I figure to be about 60 years old, and it's just about perfect. My bike mechanic tells me that for $500 he could totally overhaul it: rebuild the hub, replace the wheels with lightweight aluminum, make it a lighter and faster bike overall. It's tempting; maybe if I come into some extra money someday. Until then I'll just keep on doing what I'm doing. It's one of the pleasures of not-winter.

What do you want your money to support?

Madison (F)friend Margaret Krome has written the following essay. Food for thought.

Published on Thursday, July 12, 2007 by The Capital Times (Wisconsin)

Doing The Right Thing For Justice, Peace Costs

by Margaret Krome

Offer me a helping of potatoes and sugar snaps from a local farmer or a plate full of war and carnage, and I’ll take the vegetables, thanks.Invite me to sit on a cushion in a chair made locally from willow branches or let me settle softly into plush slave labor and environmental degradation, and I’ll choose the rustic chair and cushion.

None of my friends or family actively seeks to support war, impoverishment, or desecration of the earth. But what is indisputable is that most any product I purchase, unless I know its maker, has long supply chains in its manufacture that do just that. [my emphasis]

My point is not that farmers, even those in industrial production, support war or use practices that knowingly harm others or that furniture stores harm the environment or workers. They may or may not. But behind virtually every purchase, there are profound impacts, sometimes for individuals, but overwhelming for the broader society.

The American Association for the Advancement of Science says that of 20 major traded commodities, our nation consumes the greatest share of 11 of them: corn, coffee, copper, lead, zinc, tin, aluminum, rubber, oil seeds, oil and natural gas. Some of that consumption is obvious and wasteful, such as the 6 tons of rock mined to produce a pair of typical gold rings or the approximately 330 kilos of paper (around five trees) the average American uses each year. But much is hidden, because products are too complex to discern the impacts of our purchases.

Cars, for example. It’s not just the loss of life of miners in China and elsewhere or environmental havoc created to obtain metal for the car. Or the wars our nation fights to protect supplies of petroleum used to make plastics in the car. Or the labor abuses in developing countries used to assemble them. There’s no practical way to assess the environmental impact of one manufacturer over another.

We don’t understand the hidden world of power behind our purchase, and so we buy the model that looks best, drives most smoothly, and perhaps has good gas mileage.

From computers to clothing to musical CDs, the list of consumer products whose components have unknown environmental and social impact is virtually endless. Even some peace groups sell bumper stickers, mugs, key chains and computer mouse pads but give no information about the resources used in their manufacturing.

Where does this leave us — in guilt, passivity or self-reproach? Mostly we seem to ignore it and accept without question the marketing systems that obscure the impacts of what we buy.

I spent last week in a spiritual community with 1,500 Quakers at an annual gathering. I sang and ate with new and old friends, contemplating throughout the week the question of “Who is my neighbor?” For me, this has translated into a question of how to make consumer choices that support not only an environmentally sound but also a peace-based world.

My first decision must be forcing myself to decide whether I really need to purchase something. Can it be shared or done without? Second, given how well my junior high school home economics class trained me to seek the best dollar value for what I buy, I have to accept that not harming others I don’t know will cost more. Every time I buy a more expensive item whose provenance I know and support, I need to remind myself that I am buying healthier lives for others, a hope for environmental relief.

Current marketing doesn’t make this easy. Fair trade campaigns, organic food, and other certification programs are a first step in creating the peaceful world we want. And like “Build it and they will come,” I place my faith in the belief that if consumers communicate a desire to know, marketers of responsible goods will enter the marketplace to help us take more control over our impacts on neighbors across the world whom we will never know.

How Quakerly! part 3

Whew! What a whirlwind the last couple of days have been. I keep thinking "I want to blog about (fill in the blank) but then I'm carried away to yet another fun and fulfilling activity. Let's see: When we last saw our heroine ...

... she was going to an interest group about Vietnam, entitled "Stepping Out On Faith: Another Life Is Possible". Virginia Lockett is a physical therapist who has moved to Vietnam to do volunteer work in a rehabilitation facility. Predictably, Vietnam has a high number of people who have lost limbs stepping on land mines. A lesser known, equally grave (and wholly preventable) problem, is head and spinal cord injuries resulting from motorbike accidents. Virginia trains young physical therapists; she and her husband have also imported and designed adaptive equipment to help people be able to function with their disabilities more readily. She is also working to make helmet use, something which is virtually nonexistent now, widespread. She has founded an NGO called Steady Footsteps. (I'd link to it, but this computer will not allow it. You'll have to look it up yourself.) I love Vietnam, and I was inspired by her talk, her optimism, her humor. It's been enlightening to be in my money workshop with her too.

Last night there was a play/puppet show created and acted by my daughter's Junior Gathering workshop joined by many others. It was called The Neighbor (following the Gathering theme "And Who Is My Neighbor?") and based on the folktale The Woman Who Outshone the Sun. Musical accompaniement was provided by sacred harp singers, as well as a band made up of hammered dulcimer, fiddle, steel drum, concertina and various percussive instruments. It was so beautifully done (and I especially liked the giant black and white striped mosquito; now THAT's a mosquito I could take home with me!) I hope there will be a dvd of it available to purchase.

Today, I visited a traveling museum exhibit about yet one more shameful slice of U.S. history: the internment of German-American (as well as Japanese and Italians from South America) civilians in concentration camps scattered throughout the U.S. during WW2. Many of these people were forcibly removed from homes throughout Latin America and the U.S., and shipped to camps ostensibly because they were under suspician for being spies. Actually, under a plan conceived by George Marshall (whose name is on the Marshall Plan) these civilians would be used in trade for U.S. prisoners of war. Never mind the simple fact that they had left Germany (or Japan or Italy) 30 years earlier, or the fact that war was raging in their supposed "home" countries, or the fact that a number of them were actually German Jews and were delivered directly into Hitler's hands. Pretty diabolical, if you ask me.

On a close to home note, I was saddened to see that one of those camps was at Fort McCoy near Sparta, Wisconsin (the very same place that hundreds of Cuban "boat people" were interned in the 1980s. before being shipped back to Cuba or granted assylum in the U.S. -- yet another shameful stop along the way.)

It's a shocking story which has largely been kept under wraps. No effort has been made to make reparations for these people or their descendents, as was belatedly done for the Japanese-Americans. Dateline did a breathlessly outraged and sensational episode on it in 1996 (I think.) I couldn't help but wonder where Dateline has been for the last 6 years when we are being primed for the very same attrocities to be repeated (and in fact are being repeated at Guantanamo.) While I am glad that they "exposed" this story (for all the awareness it has raised) they stuck with something that is largely safe, as it happened so long ago. We can all let out a big sigh of relief and say, "Thank Heaven that something like that won't happen today!" Yeah, right. If you want to read more about it, look up the Traces Museum in Minneapolis.

Then to round out the day, world famous blogger Poodle Doc and I took our children and went on a mini-road trip, in search of the Franconia Sculpture Park. After many miles of driving and a frantic phone call to Mr. Ether at work ("WHERE did you say it was, again?") we found it, and it was interesting. I was a little disapointed that it wasn't the life work of a Norwegian bachelor farmer sculpting larger-than-life Bible characters out of concrete bejewelled with broken bottles and mirrors. No, it was sculptures made by a variety of REAL artists. Many had a political theme. I was especially struck by one called Literal Biblical Horrors, that unfortunately brought to mind the photographs taken at Abu Ghraib (but we don't torture, the Commander Guy says so.)

I hope I can post some photos of both the puppet show and the sculptures at a later date.

We got back too late for dinner in the cafeteria. But if God wanted us to eat good food, S/he wouldn' have made Dairy Queens, right?

What wonders will the next two days hold? Tomorrow we will be displaying the Minnesota and Wisconsin portions of the Eyes Wide Open exhibit. The whole exhibition has gotten too large to be able to be displayed in its entirety. There's a sad commentary on this sad and shameful war.

I want to believe that we are in the midst of a nonviolent revolution, as many theologians say we are. Yes, I still hope.

How Quakerly! part 2

Last night ... the Intergenerational Dance (sponsored by the high schoolers and Adult Young Friends). I got dragged to it by my younger daughter, dances of that ilk are not generally my cup of tea. But I really took great joy in watching the dancers, particularly the younger ones for whom that is a natural environment. Let me describe the finery I saw: everything from prom dresses to negligees over jeans, leather kilts, Barbie boxer shorts, and one incredibly delectable party dress that had been skillfully created from newspaper, shopping bags and duct tape. It was beautiful! And although I feel awkward doing free form dancing like that (I'm more of a waltz & polka person) I had a great time and stayed out too late.

This happened to me several times at the dance, and was a bit disconcerting: A person would come up to where I was standing and ask me to dance. I would decline, usually saying that I am enjoying myself just watching, and they would persist -- I suspect thinking that I was just shy. Then I would say, "I really don't like to dance," and they would STILL persist. One person said, "No one will be watching!" as if it was vanity that was keeping me a wallflower. Although I know that all of these people were well-intentioned, I wanted to say, "No means no! What part of 'no' don't you understand?"

An AHA moment: I have been attending Quaker Meeting for about 17 years. I was drawn to it in part because so many of the principles of Quakerism are in line with lessons I learned as a child in a very progressive household. And while I have embraced Meeting and made it my spiritual home, there are parts of it in which I have always felt "other" (if that makes sense.) Today I had a mini revelation that, although my mother in particular was fervently against war, her background (socialism and organized labor throughout the thirties and forties) had been in movements of armed resistance, which is a very different thing from choosing a path of nonviolence. I'll have to mull this over some more ...

Still having fun. This evening I will be going to a session with a woman (who is in my Money workshop) who now lives and works providing health care in Viet Nam. I'm excited.

How Quakerly! part 1

Wow, I don't even know where to begin ... everything is a bit overwhelming. I think I will just describe a few discrete experiences and impressions. There is no time to synthesize it into one profound essay, at least not right now. Maybe not ever!

Did I say it was overwhelming? I've been here since Saturday, and I think I'm starting to get the hang of things. I think. There are between one and two thousand people here. A mixture of people who have been to this gathering before and so-called "newbies" (identified by a blue dot on your name tag, so that everyone can be extra nice to you.) I feel like I've been walking around with an idiot grin on my face for 2 days, but it's really because I don't know what the heck I'm doing! My teenaged daughter (who has done this twice before and has the cocoon of the teen group) keeps calling me on my cell phone: "Are you having fun, Mom? Have you made any new friends? Did you like your workshop?" Her caretaking of me is very sweet.

OK, my workshop. You get to sign up for one workshop and you go to it every morning. Way back in March when I looked over the choices (over 50!) I was torn between going with something I knew I enjoyed ("Walking Toward Wholeness") and one that would challenge me ("Quakers and Money: Applying Your Ethics".) I chose walking, and after our first session yesterday I wasn't quite satisfied. I knew it would be OK, but I realized that the somewhat lackluster OK-ness was coloring my whole experience of Gathering. I labored over the decision to change workshops all day (I was afraid I'd hurt the workshop leader's feelings; never a good reason to stick with something) but in the end I changed to the money workshop. Perfect! The emotional challenge of this issue nourished my soul, and I think will continue to do so.

Food: College cafeteria food. They swipe your card and you shuffle into the line with your tray like so many sheep. Baa! I'll take one of that and one of that, mmm, cream pie, I never get to eat cream pie, and look, there's salisbury steak over there, why not? It took me a day to come to my senses about food. Too much smooth brown and white stuff augmented with mushy vegetables! So now it's a light breakfast and right to the salad bar, maybe a small serving of whatever meat is on the menu. I'm already feeling better. (The kids, predictably, are going to town with the self-serv ice cream machine. I think the teens were having a contest of some sort to see who could make the tallest cone. It was impressive.)

FGC Book Store: I'm keeping my buying under control (just in case Mr. Ether is reading this and has been worried.) It was a joy to go to a presentation with Catherine Whitmire yesterday; I have loved her book of meditations around Quaker Simplicity, and she has a new one about Peace. I bought them both (sharp intake of breath from Mr. Ether.)

Golf carts: The people driving them look like they are having altogether too much fun! (I liked seeing in the daily bulletin that listed when the various worship times were, that "Golf cart service starts at 7 a.m." I thought, "Meeting for Worship with attention to golf carts. Something for everyone. How Quakerly!" Tee hee.)

Afternoons and evenings are the hardest. If you know me personally, you might be surprised to find out that I actually feel very shy and awkward in social situations. I really want to cling to my friend Poodle Doc like a drowning person, but I realize that would be sort of stifling. So I'm doing my best, but sometimes I just retreat to a quiet bench or to my room to nap or play guitar. There seem to be opportunities to make music with other people, which I have yet to explore. Round singing, sacred harp singing, Broadway songs, singing from the ubiquitous Rise Up Singing songbook, hymn singing ... and then in the evening folk AND contra dancing (in two different locations.) I should say that I have a hard time with self esteem around my guitar playing -- it feels very fragile -- and ever since seeing the devilishly accurate "mockumentary"A Mighty Wind, I have this fear of channeling the woman with the autoharp. So, I tend not to seek out people to "jam" with. I think I'll check out round singing though.

My younger daughter is testing out her independence, making giant puppets, bonding with other kids and just generally having a good time. I hardly see my older daughter; the high schoolers move in a world of their own.

Men in kilts: 2 so far.

T-shirts with anti-war slogans: Everywhere (but what did you expect?)

Recumbant bicycles: A few

Oh well, things are looking up. I think the next time my daughter calls I will be able to give her an enthusiastic answer. YES! I am making friends and having fun. YES! I like my workshop. So it's all good.

More later in the week.

Gone Fishing ... in a manner of speaking

Blogging will be slim this week. I am off to mingle with thousands of Quakers for a week, at the Friends General Conference annual gathering. This year it's in Wisconsin, so how could I not go? I may try to post once or twice, but I don't know.

See you next week!

Farewell, Star Books

If you are one of the several (dozens? thousands? millions? oh, what the hell ...) who read my blog on a regular basis, you know that I have a special rant against big box book stores (including that virtual one, the one that shall not be mentioned, but the one that puts $$ into Rethuglican coffers and that it galls me so many Lefty blogs link to on a regular basis, and it starts with an "A" ... )

Anyway, where was I? My neighborhood was blessed with a little independently owned book store, Star Books. It had a great used book section, always had a large selection of Terry Pratchett books, and anything they didn't have in stock they could usually get within a week. I use the past tense, because I've been hearing rumors that they are going out of business. Today I biked past, and sure enough, the window has a big STORE CLOSING sign.

A lot of people I talk to don't seem to think it's any big deal. "They just didn't find their niche," is one comment I've heard. But what the hell does that mean? Isn't being a local neighborhood independently owned book store that can get anything you want a good enough "niche"? Isn't it the responsibility of the people who claim to care about such things, to support them when they're there? I think it is.

Anything that Crooks and Liars or Digby or Bob Harris or Tom Tomorrow sells through Amazon, can be purchased just as quickly and easily, usually over the phone, at your locally owned book store. Every dollar you spend is a vote. What kind of a world do you vote for?

Well, I'm grieving today.

Anyone want to buy a shovel engraved "Gen. Vang Pao Elementary School" -- cheap?

I've written a couple of times about the ongoing controversy in my city over naming a new elementary school after Gen. Vang Pao (in recognition of the large Hmong community here.) Given that he is now jailed on charges of conspiring to violently overthrow the Laotian government, the school board reconsidered and on Monday evening voted to open the whole process up again (that's the process which they didn't follow in the first place.)

It saddens me that it has been such a divisive issue between the Hmong community and the wider Madison community. Here is a quote from last evening's paper: "Americans in general have not realized how severe the sacrifices were that the Hmong made on behalf of the United States during the Vietnam war." I have to say I believe that many Hmong are missing an important point, that being that a majority of Americans came to fervently oppose the war in Vietnam and Cambodia, and the role of the CIA in fomenting that war.

It was our war in that our tax dollars paid for it, and for that reason I believe that the U.S. does owe the refugees created by our wars something. And clearly the Hmong community in the U.S. has a collective belief that promises to them in exchange for their help were made and betrayed. But I am sick of the argument that we should honor Gen. Vang Pao because he aided our CIA. The CIA typically works against the best interests of the American people, waging covert wars and committing atrocities in our name. That's who Vang Pao collaborated with (and perhaps what brought the Communists down so hard on the Hmong people.)

I also see a disconnect when it is said that Vang Pao is "like our George Washington." There is an assumption there that everyone sees George Washington as a shining hero. Sort of like, we should blindly follow that other George in Washington because "he's the president."

I'm going to go out on a limb and say that, much as many long-time U.S. citizens are ignorant of Hmong culture, history, and politics, many Hmong remain ignorant of the varied nuances of the American historical and political spectrum.

And the bottom line? No, no, no we absolutely should not be naming an elementary school -- any school -- after a war lord.

My daughter, the high school graduate, suggests that the community should choose school names from among artists, peacemakers, or people who have contributed to the local community. (Thornton Wilder is a native son who has never been honored with anything here. Gaylord Nelson, father of Earth Day, was our senator for years. Blues singer Tracy Nelson grew up here, and -- does this count? -- Otis Redding died here. "Dock of the Bay" could be the school song.)

A Local Defiant Garden

My city has a long history of being divided between east and west side, with the state capital building being the midpoint. In short, the west side (where I grew up) is home to the University of Wisconsin campus and the gracious living that accompanies that. (There were/are some notable exceptions: there was a large and vibrant working class Italian neighborhood called The Greenbush just south of campus which was razed in a shameful fit of "urban renewal" in the early sixties.) The east side (to which I migrated as a young adult and where I still live) was largely industrial; home to Gisholt, Oscar Mayer, Rayovac and numerous smaller industries.

When I was a child growing up on the west side, the east side was a scary place to me. We drove through it only to get out of town and visit my grandparents near Milwaukee. My dad's chosen route was Williamson Street, as down and out a street as existed in Madison at the time, inhabited by down and out people and home to a bona fide motorcycle gang, the C.C. Riders led by a guy named Dick Smith.

Fast forward a few years. I was a young adult, and Williamson Street was becoming the counter culture place to live. There was a fledgling food co-op and rent was cheap. My brothers were sharing an apartment on Willy Street (as it was and still is affectionately known) and I moved over there too. The neighborhood was undergoing some transformation, and one of the leaders was none other than Mr. Dick Smith (mentioned above.)

There was an empty lot kitty-corner to my apartment house and next to Dick's house. It was purchased by the restaurant chain Taco John's, which intended to put up a fast food taco joint there, development much opposed by the neighborhood. Taco John's didn't care; they went ahead and began building on the lot. That night, in glorious Monkey Wrench Gang tradition, Dick organized his motorcycle gang buddies and they dismantled everything that had been built. Same thing the next night and the next. This went on for some time, it ended up in court, and eventually (a few years later) Taco John's donated the land to the neighborhood association for a neighborhood park.

Willy Street is still a special place. Unfortunately it is undergoing major luxury condo-ification right now, with some of the early community members leading the charge. (Money talks.) But the park is small and funky, and there is not a chain store to be found (unless you count the St. Vincent DePaul thrift shop.). Every September the park is at the heart of an annual street festival, the Willy Street Fair, and Dick Smith has been a prominent feature, dressed like a combination of Bacchus (the Roman god of wine) and the Green Man, smeared in green make-up and swathed with fruiting grape vines. Not your image of a motorcycle gang member!

This story always warms me to the cockles of my heart.

Hell, Yes!

Some time ago I blogged about a decision our school board made to name a new elementary school General Vang Pao School, in recognition of the sizable Hmong community that exists here. This was after soliciting suggestions of suitable names from the wider community on the school district website. The decision to name the school Vang Pao caused immediate negative reaction in our community, because of his alleged drug running and summary executions carried out when he was working with the CIA to fight the Communists in Laos. While those charges are serious, I don't know enough about the man or his history to damn him on those points. But I strongly object to naming a school after him simply because of his military background; one of my friends called it when he questioned why we would name a public school after a warlord.

This is not the first time this controversy has arisen here. General Vang Pao is generally revered by Hmong people and several years ago there was a proposal to name a city park after him. It was ditched when the same allegations were brought up. Unfortunately it becomes an us/them kind of debate, with mostly Hmong people pitted against mostly white people. Very divisive and ugly.

Despite all of this, the school board staunchly stood behind their decision to name the school, and even broke ground for it 2 weeks ago using shovels emblazoned with "General Vang Pao." Fast forward to the revelations this weekend that General Vang Pao has been indicted on charges of allegedly masterminding a plot to overthrow the Communist Laotian government. Imagine the backpedaling that was going on at last night's school board meeting! (I shouldn't sound so gleeful, except that the initial decision was a perfect example of certain people bending over backward not to appear racist and making a decision without ever having done any background research, and in the process creating a huge amount of turmoil and bad feelings. Dummies.)

I took particular pleasure in this delicious little passage, taken from our morning paper:

Cher Peng Her, who spoke in defense of naming the school after Vang Pao, said later that even if the charges against Vang Pao turn out to be true, Vang Pao is simply defending his own people from a Laotian government that has sanctioned the killings, rapes and persecution of Hmong.

Her said President Bush used similar rationale for overthrowing Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein. "Should we bring charges against our president for doing exactly what Vang Pao is alleged?" Her asked. (To which I yelled out loud -- in the teachers' lounge -- "Hell, yes!")

Well, it's bound to get curiouser and curiouser. I'll keep you posted.

Awwww .... Shucks

I'm feeling very loved right now. My friend Potato Prints came to visit me in my natural environment yesterday, i.e. my classroom, and blogged about it here.

I often say that I see teaching as a radical act (yup, you can read it for yourself right there in my profile) and you might think it means that I teach Kommunism for Kindergartners (I don't) or refuse to lead my students in daily recitation of the Pledge of Allegience (I do ... refuse, that is. It's my right.) What I really mean by that is the essence of my teaching, and I am so pleased that it is so easily apparent to an outsider's eye.

I believe to the core of my being that what teachers really convey to their students is themselves. My students know without any doubt that I love them and will always treat them with dignity and respect, that in my classroom we are a community of individuals who love, accept, take care of, and celebrate each other. We don't get our community out of some canned curriculum: do activities 5, 10, and 12 in the Tribes book and -- VOILA! -- instant community. We build it from day one, and it's hard work, but the results are worth every gray hair.

I'm no pushover either. My students learn that being part of a community requires them to take responsibility. And they do. Early on this year I had a student who, it quickly became apparent, was a compulsive thief. In an amazing demonstration of self-awareness for a 6 year old, he told me, "I take things and I can't help it." He moved in January, but his classmates were helping him, NOT tattling on him and NOT shunning him. And he was coming up to me all on his own and saying, "I took this. I'm really sorry" as he returned some item.

Today I had a student who -- to put it delicately -- smelled like he had not crossed paths with running water in quite some time. Not one child said a word about it. And believe me, he was fragrant!

I can't be any other way in my classroom. It is simply who I am. And year after year, my students respond to it. It is interaction on an entirely human level. And I'd like to think that they will carry some essence of it with them as they grow up. Even if they don't, it's a positive place for them right here and now.

I take great pride in what I do.

Last Saturday I went to the Madison Area Music Awards (MAMAs) -- because my husband was performing there and my school was being awarded a grant to buy new instruments ... So I walked into the pre-show party wearing my very best t-shirt and clogs, and stopped in a panic when I saw all the sparkly evening wear and "little black dresses." I felt like I should check the bottom of my shoes for cow manure -- and this is Madison! Anyway, in an effort to quell my anxiety I had to tell myself, "OK, I may feel like a fish out of water, I have NO schmoozing skills, but I'll bet 99.9% of the people in this room would feel the same way if they walked into a room full of 5 and 6 year olds. And I know how to work a room full of 5 and 6 year olds!" And after throwing a little tantrum at my husband, I had a glass of wine and it was all good.

Anyway ... I'm rambling.

Creativity, pt. 1

I've been thinking about creativity a lot lately. Writing this blog is a creative act for me. In addition to writing, I love to knit, sew, felt, cook, bake, and decorate Ukrainian Easter eggs. Simply making things gives me so much pleasure. I don't feel as adept with drawing or painting, although in high school I was enamored of the work of Arthur Rackham and Beatrix Potter, and wanted nothing more than to illustrate children's books. But ... life took me on different pathways, as life so often does, and I ended up as an elementary school teacher who does all these other things on the side.

A few years ago I had an existential crisis that centered on my creativity. At the time I had young children, and was in a particularly stressful teaching situation. It felt to me as if I was being sucked dry: my well was dry and I had nothing left. I could barely get myself through a working day, then I would come home and sit in the dark with my fingers in my ears to block out ALL stimulation. It was a terrible feeling! (And hard on my family.) I did a lot of beating on myself -- "Why did I become a teacher? I should have become an artist!" -- pretty relentlessly.

I began working through Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way, and it was a great help to me. Doing the practices she suggested got me more focused on what I wanted my life to look like. I joined a couple of different groups of mostly women, who were also looking to make changes in their lives. And the funny thing was, I kind of did a full circle and ended up right back where I had been all along (kind of like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. No ruby slippers though.) With one difference: I was very clear that I wanted all the parts of my life to intertwine seamlessly with one another as much as possible.

Now about 8 years have gone by, and I'm in a very good place. I LOVE my job. I LOVE my community. I'm making music, which was a part of myself I had buried really deep for a long time. But I'm beginning to feel these stirrings in my soul that tell me I want something more, specifically I want to create more. So I turned once again to the myriad books that are available about awakening/reclaiming your creativity ... and they're just not doing it for me this time. In fact, for the most part they annoy me!

And I think it's because I know exactly what I need to do: If I want to create something, I need to just do it. I have all the materials at hand.

I also find that so much in the books is about the individual -- how to reclaim your creativity -- and so much of what moves me these days is community. The community of my classroom, my school, my Quaker meeting, my neighborhood ...

I want to write specifically about 2 books that I've recently gotten from the library, but I think I'll save them for a separate post.

Tired ...

Two evenings spent at "Rec Fairs" talking up the summer camp for which I somehow ended up being on the board of directors. It's a crazy place out there in the world of recreation! Do you want to send your kid to residential camp or day camp, soccer camp, computer camp, science camp, arts camp, Lego camp, invention camp, horseback riding camp, circus camp, "Y" camp ...?
Oh yeah, and my favorite: respite camp. (I want someone to send me to Respite Camp. I can see it now -- nightly bubble baths, someone else does the cooking, time to read and do art, go to the latrine with no interruptions ...)

These 2 evenings were local, sponsored by our rec department, and had a nice, friendly, homegrown feeling. A few weeks ago I went to a camp fair in a suburb of Chicago, and felt like a fish out of water. We were in an enormous tent-like structure with every kind of camp imaginable (even camps for overweight kids -- I can't believe those still exist -- and kids with ADHD) and many, many rich people "shopping". Our camp is a very small camp that emphasizes Quaker-inspired values of simplicity, harmony, service and earth stewardship ... but somehow in that room with the big glitzy displays of tree-rimmed Northwoods lakes, air-conditioned cabins and brand new Olympic-sized swimming pools, our rustic, open-fronted cabins looked run-down and our tiny pond looked like a muddy haven for snapping turtles and leeches. Passersby would turn up their noses and say things like, "My daughter wants sailing lessons."

They certainly didn't want to know about low camper:counselor ratio, building fairy houses in the woods, feeding the goats, or digging your own clay from the stream bed!

No, these two days were much better. People seemed genuinely interested in what we have to offer and I hope we got some campers out of it (because we're about to ink the deal to buy the property!!!)

I don't understand gun owners!

This article, which delves into the psyche of gun owners, appeared last week in our weekly "alternative" newspaper. I'd like to include the whole thing here, but you'll have to follow the link if you're interested.

Wisconsin is one of just a handful of states that does not allow the carrying of concealed weapons. There are people working tirelessly to change that. Are we statistically safer/less safe with or without it? I don't know. But the conceal carry advocates quoted in this article? They sound totally paranoid! And in my book, a person with a siege mentality, who sees bad guys everywhere AND who has a gun is dangerous. More dangerous than the perceived thug on the street.

OK, time for some disclosure here about myself. I am an anxious person. I still check my children while they sleep to make sure they're breathing. (They are 11 and almost 18.) In fact I check all the living things in our house frequently to make sure they're breathing: humans, dog, cats, and guinea pigs. Once my vigilance even paid off (see: Potato Chip Story). My kids make fun of me because I worry while they are at camp an hour from home that they will get dragged off into the woods and eaten by a mountain lion. (Hint: There are no mountain lions in southern Wisconsin.) In a bad period I will cycle through a heart attack, pulmonary embolism (which I really had a few years ago,) meningitis, 2 kinds of cancer, and a brain aneurysm, all in a period of a couple of hours, before I realize that maybe I'm having an anxiety attack. I love to camp, but when dark settles in I take anti-anxiety medication or I can't stop worrying about: a) snakes that have crawled into the bottom of my sleeping bag to warm up, b) the aforementioned mountain lions, and c) ax murderers.

BUT I have never felt the need to own or carry a gun! I have no desire to learn to shoot a gun. I do not think possession of a firearm would make me any safer, in my imagination or in reality. The presence of my dog -- even though she did almost die with her head stuck in a potato chip bag-- makes me feel a whole lot safer than any weapon would.

Then there is the question of access: if your firearm is accessible to you in an emergency, to whom else is it accessible? The article quotes a guy named Larry Gleasman -- who just happens to own a gun shop in my neighborhood -- as saying

“Look at the rapes on [the UW-Madison] campus,” he says. “Hell, if you had people out there with guns, you’d think twice about abducting somebody and throwing them in a car. I mean, she might have a gun in her purse.”

What is the likelihood that the gun will be taken away from the woman and used against her? Seems pretty great to me. This guy says he has a recurring nightmare of being in a McDonald's when someone comes in and shoots it up. I have some self-talk he could try to calm those fears. You tell yourself, "It might happen. But it probably won't." And then you pop your controlled substance and go on about your business. Gun free.

Then there are the angry, disturbed kids who get their hands on a gun and take it to school.

Then there are the accidental shootings. Whenever my kids are going to a friend's house for the first time, one of my first questions always is, "Do they keep guns?" and their direction always is, "If a gun comes out, leave. Immediately."

Then there's the fact that having a gun handy makes suicide a whole lot easier if a person is that depressed.

I'm not saying that I believe ALL gun ownership leads to tragedy, or that there are not responsible gun owners. But the possibility of unintended consequences is so great. And when gun owners cite their Constitutional right to bear arms to protect themselves, I become worried.

To me, always, the best protection a person could have is a strong community. No gun can replace that.