The Fabled 50's

Every once in a while a friend or relative sends me an email, usually cleverly written with beautiful illustrations and ingenious graphics, about the utopian existence we all experienced living in the U.S.A. during post-WWII and pre-Vietnam (roughly late 40’s through early 60’s) years. Who wouldn’t want to go back to that innocent time?

I, for one, would not. While the simplicity and naivety of that time looks enviable from a distance, there are too many moments I never want to see again.

Polio: From 1950 to 1959, 257,455 cases of polio were reported, mostly in children; 11,957 died of it. Thank God, because of the polio vaccines, that scourge no longer threatens the lives of our children.

Discrimination: In the 1950s, racism was deeply institutionalized. 50% of black families lived below the poverty line; migrant workers suffered appalling working and living conditions; people of color were not permitted to take part in the American dream. Before the Civil Rights Act of 1964 it was not illegal to discriminate based on race, religion, sexual orientation, gender…. Again, thank God we have better laws now, even if it’s still difficult to enforce them upon the hearts of all people.

Domestic Violence: Wife-beating was not really considered a crime. Many psychologists explained that battered wives were masochists who provoked their husbands into beating them. A husband raping his wife was not a crime at all, but a sign that the woman was deficient in fulfilling her marital obligations. The prevailing sentiment was that women were like children who needed to be controlled and protected.

And then, there were the every day irritants:
· Panty girdles - every female over the age of 16 wore them . . .with slacks, dresses, etc! Ugh!
· Nylon hose with seams that never stayed straight and ran the first time worn
· Pancake-like make-up
· Dampening and starching clothing in order to iron everything
· No paid personal time or sick leave and few positions offering paid vacations
· Corporal punishment in the school system; anyone could strike a child as a discipline measure and most parents approved

Oh, gosh, I could go on and on, but I’m starting to scare myself.

Still, we can take ourselves back to that time by embracing some of the good things of the 50’s - if we choose. Why not try to have dinners with the whole family together? Monitor the TV kids watch, have Family Game Night, take away the play stations and computers and instead teach kids the fun of group games and physical exercise. Get to know our neighbors better and, maybe, plan social time together. Save money and raise a vegetable garden. Buy a few chickens for eggs and later have a nice chicken dinner with that old hen. Make cookies for your children and grandchildren – and the kids down the street. Cook a meal for the old couple next door or offer a ride to the doctor’s office. Stop worrying so much about what your house looks like and just open your door to people who need you. Caring for one another, showing courtesy to each other, teaching our children to respect the differences in themselves and in others. Now, more than ever, that can be what America is all about.

Robert Burns Nailed It

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley,
or, as the modern translation states,
The best laid schemes of mice and men go often askew.

Our camping trip under Oregon skies, ostensibly to view the Perseids meteor shower, was less than auspicious. That is to say, it was a bust, celestial viewing speaking. After 29 dry never-a-drop-of-rain days in Northwest Oregon, the skies chose that very night to open up and pour a full inch of rain on our unsuspecting and astonished heads! Who knew?

And it wasn’t enough that we missed our meteor shower; we had the added attraction of experiencing flooded tents! Sure, we remembered to bring our rain flaps – we even put them on just so. Nothing dissuaded the water, however, from running into Rae Anne’s tent as she camped on a small depression at the edge of the campsite. Sometime during the night she crawled into our tent, wringing wet and shivering like a drenched puppy. The three of us finished out the night in relative dryness (as opposed to swimming in the tent – the next stage in our condition) and, as soon as the sun arose and the torrent let up just a bit, we broke camp, threw all of our damp possessions into the cars, and headed home to warm showers and dry beds.

Actually, we spent most of the day cleaning out tents, washing sleeping bags and clothing, scrubbing down camping equipment, and sorting through our remaining rations of semi-dry foodstuffs. Of course, the rain stopped soon after we got home and that was the end of that! Turns out our camping venture took place on the only day it has rained around here since late June – with no rain forecast for the immediate future. Sigh.

Usually, I like to think I'm organized. When I plan an activity, I try to take into account all contingencies - and most of my ventures are met with some degree of success. But, once again, God has chosen to remind me that, really, I have little control over anything in my life. What makes me think differently? "The best laid plans . . . etc.." Foolish broad.

Yes, we’ll go camping again. When Wally and I return from our visit to California we plan to camp a few nights on Mt. Hood – rain or shine. But it would be just grand if the weatherman (or whoever wants to take responsibility for climate control) would promise just a bit of sunshine – or, at the least, no floods, fires, hurricanes, or earthquakes. Just a simple camping trip. Please.

Catch a Falling Star and Put it in Your Pocket

I am ready for this year's Perseid Meteor Shower.

The Perseid meteor shower has a wonderful and somewhat grisly history. Often referred to as the "Tears of St. Lawrence" this annual shower coincidentally occurs roughly about the same date as the saint's death is commemorated on August 10. While scientifically we know the appearance of the shooting stars are the by-products of comet Swift-Tuttle, our somewhat more superstitious ancestors viewed them as the tears of a martyred man who was burned for his beliefs. Who couldn't appreciate a fellow who had the candor to quip, “It is well done. Turn me over!" while being burned alive? If nothing else but save for that very quote, I'll tip a wave to St. Lawrence at the sight of a Perseid tonight.

This evening Wally and I will join Rae Anne where she’s camping in Oxbow Park. We’ll look for a clearing and hope for a cloudless sky (unlikely, according to weather reports). Scanning the skies for the annual shower of space dust long has been a favorite past time in our family. In the early 90’s the most wonderful show of all occurred! We parked on Lone Pine Highway, the very deserted and dark back road to Wrightwood in the San Gabriel Mountains. Usually we encountered few fellow observers as we performed our annual celestial pilgrimage. However, word had spread that the close return of Swift-Tuttle in 1992 heralded a record-setting storm of meteors and no one wanted to miss the show! The road was lined with dozens of cars and vans with people spread all over the landscape, craning their necks for a total view of the heavens. We were delighted! This was Southern California: usually the stars that caught the attention of the populace were the ones found in Hollywood! Who knew so many people would care to make the effort to watch this heavenly production? It delighted us, especially, to see the number of children whose parents were providing this brilliant moment for them. Way to go, Mom and Dad!

We have watched the Perseids from every natural plane imaginable: from desert floor, from mountaintop, from coastal sand, even from a rooftop or two. My favorite venue was watching the skies, lying on a blanket on the dusty ground of Table Mountain above the Mohave Desert. Sigh. Best view on the planet – at least, it was the best view. Then civilization swarmed into the desert, spilling over the sand like hungry locusts, raising the specter of ambient light that robbed the pristine firmament of its night.

Now we await the mid-August theater from our perch on a mountain in Oregon. Clear skies are not a given, so we have to hope for the best. Still, it’s good to know that the show continues, just as it has for centuries. It doesn’t matter if we get a good view; it does matter that we make the effort. This meteor shower, appearing as regularly as the tides, reinforces our connection to the universe. We can make the choice to be a part of something over which we have no control; on our puny calendars we can foolishly “schedule” a visit from the stars and believe for a moment that the show is for us – that somehow God is tipping His hat to us and dusting us with a little star power - to delight our senses and fill our souls.

Patriotism

Not my own words, but certainly my thoughts as I kneel in my overgrown garden, pulling weeds and harvesting the bounty. How generous this earth - how blessed are we!

Patriotism

My country is this dirt
that gathers under my fingernails
when I am in the garden.
The quiet bacteria and fungi,
all the little insects and bugs
are my compatriots. They are
idealistic, always working together
for the common good.
I kneel on the earth
and pledge my allegiance
to all the dirt of the world,
to all of that soil which grows
flowers and food
for the just and unjust alike.
The soil does not care
what we think about or who we love.
It knows our true substance,
of what we are really made.
I stand my ground on this ground,
this ground which will
ultimately
recruit us all
to its side.

The Green Cathedral

When I was a kid - junior high, to be exact, I had the (dubious) pleasure of of singing in our school's chorus under the tutelage of Mrs. Clark. A real character. If the boys (always the boys) acted up, she threatened to "put on her red-checked apron", emblematic for giving them a spanking. Actually, corporal punishment was widely used in those days, so it wasn't by any means an idle threat.

But she was an outstanding music teacher. Most of what I know about music theory was taught to me then. I went on to "major" in music throughout high school, taking 3 classes a day (theory, voice, and chorus) but I owe Mrs. Clark for the basics she taught as well as the love of singing which she inspired.

One of her gifts to me was a love of the "art" form of music - poetry set to a non-linear music pattern. A challenge to the voice and a lift to the spirit. I always loved a song called, "The Green Cathedral" because I thought it depicted an idealized, romantic view of a green forest. Actually, I'd never seen such a place, but I wanted it to be. Now I live in a part of the country where such a site is rather commonplace.

This week Wally and I joined Chris and Marty (and Ian and Sophie, of course) on a camping trip into Southwest Washington in the Gifford-Pinchot National Forest. We camped among tall Doug Firs and old Cedars. Wow! At one spot Marty discovered a "cathedral" setting of trees, leaning into one another. As I snapped this picture, I was singing this old song:

The Green Cathedral
I know a green cathedral, a shadowed forest shrine, Where leaves in love join hands above and arch your prayer and mine. Within its cool depths sacred, the priestly cedar sighs, And the fir and pine lift arms divine unto the pure blue skies. In my dear green cathedral there is a sheltered seat, And choir loft in branched croft, where songs of bird hymns sweet; And I like to dream at evening, when the stars its arches light, That my Lord and God treads its hallowed sod, In the cool calm peace of night.

Am I My Father?

Know how you always hear the warning, “You’ll know you’re getting old when you look in the mirror and see your mother!”?? Well now, that all depends on how old your mother is – or how old she got to be before she gave up the ghost. My own mother lived until about the same age I am now, so as far as appearance is concerned, from here on out it’s virgin territory, so to speak. My mother aged quickly – no doubt raising eleven children had something to do with that. My life has been much easier than hers was, so it’s not surprising that I don’t have the requisite mother-wrinkles or the totally white hair she proudly flaunted. Vanity being all, I was determined to hold onto some semblance of youth as long as I could.

Then, this morning, tragedy struck! I looked in the mirror and saw - - - my FATHER!! What? What was that? Wait! Maybe it’s just allergies causing my eyelids to swell and hang over their sockets, blocking my vision! Let’s try some eye drops and start swilling the Claritin. There’s gotta be a cure for this – and nobody better mention my age - the cure for that is terminal! OK, calm down. This is just a temporary setback. Let’s see . . let’s try wet tea bags and Wally’s Preparation H on the eyelids. No salt for the rest of my life. In fact, stop eating right now! That way, I’m sure to eliminate salt and/or any other toxic ingredient. Drink lots of water. There! That’s the ticket. Wear sunglasses when I go out so no one will notice my bulging eyes; keep them on inside, too – so what if I can’t read the labels in Fred Meyer? In fact, try not to look directly at anyone – one-on-one eye contact is highly over-rated anyway. Breathe. Breathe again. Deep breaths. Hold on, don’t panic.

You think it’s funny? You think Old Crones don’t fret about aging because we’re so wise and self-assured and, well, generally “above all that”? Well, you can just think again! A woman is a woman is a woman. The one thing we all have in common, for sure, is a desire to be pretty. It doesn’t matter if we are a flirty four year old, a sweet sixteen, an engaging adult, or a post-menopausal personality. Every last one of us hopes to exude an appealing appearance. And it has less to do with what someone else sees in us and more about how we see ourselves. A loving husband can swear we are still beautiful and it doesn’t hold nearly as much weight in our judgment as an attractive image in the mirror. Fie on us, fickle, vain creatures! I’m certain there are some deep, analytical anthropological reasons for our foolishness and if we understood why we feel like this we could begin to appreciate how wonderful we are and how truly lovely and valuable we are intrinsically.

But today I just don’t care about that! Today I want to be pretty again. And thin. And winsome. And desirable. And yes, young.

Tomorrow I’ll be wise and strong and mature and capable and wonderful. Tomorrow I’ll understand this is just a momentary insanity; I’ll appreciate, once again, who I am and how much I’m loved by the people I love. Tomorrow I’ll be a much better person. For after all, as our heroine, Scarlett O’Hara, would say, “tomorrow is another day”.

My Best Friend

Little girls always have a best friend. Mine was a girl named Lorraine. She and I told each other secrets, laughed at ourselves, shared her bicycle, talked about our new baby brother (hers) and sister (mine), and thought we were on top of the world. When we entered 6^th grade Lorraine moved to Kansas and we pretty much lost contact until renewing our friendship on the internet a few years ago. Memories of us together are a warm part of my childhood.

Time went by, and I didn’t find a friend who was “really, truly, my best friend” again until I met Libby. Or, rather, Libby kind of met me. Actually, she crashed my wedding! That’s my story, anyway, and I’m sticking to it! Libby was a newly-wed herself, having just moved to California, and was living with her new in-laws. My prospective in-laws and Libby’s were good friends, so she and her new husband were encouraged to “come along” and attend my wedding. The first time I ever spoke to Libby was at my wedding reception, held in the home of my new parents-in-law. I don’t even remember meeting her – it was kind of a busy, frenetic moment for me, so how could I be expected to take notice of anyone but my adorable new husband? Libby likes to tell the story a little differently: she says she never wanted to come to the wedding anyway – “I had just been to one – why did I have to go to another?” – but when we met she quickly decided that she wanted to get to know “that little blonde person”. I like her story better.

I always liked Libby’s stories better. Nobody ever told stories like Libby. Nobody ever made me laugh like Libby. A born clown and mimic, she found humor and absurdity in every moment and every event! Whether mocking a German accent or butchering an impossible joke, Libby knew how to keep her audience alternatively shocked or in stitches. She didn’t care how you responded to her; the important thing was that you responded! Libby liked attention and she got plenty of it! After a morning spent with her I couldn’t wait to share her jokes and stories with Wally; of course, I never could convey successfully the hilarity and silliness – you just had to be there.

As with all those so gifted, Libby had an Achilles Heel. Often she was fodder for those emotional “bulls in the china shop” creatures who must take a shot at someone else in order to feel good about themselves. And there she was, larger than life, the loudest person in the room, a convenient target. But she could get hurt, bravado notwithstanding. She never developed the radar to detect deceit in others – or to know how to protect herself against it. Like Nathanael in the Bible, Libby was genuinely “without guile”.

Libby was my friend. I never knew why she loved me or why she chose me as her confidante; I’ve always been proud that Libby called me her friend. We used to talk about what we’d do when we finally got old. Definitely we would not be red hat ladies – ugh! We’d do wonderful, creative things – go exciting places and behave any way we liked. It didn’t happen. Libby got sick; then she moved away to be with her daughters, so we don’t see each other anymore. Ill health is her constant companion now and she can’t remember everything she knows. Rats!

Whoever designed this getting-old thing is going to have to answer to me someday – toe-to-toe! I know it’s God and He knows what I’m talking about; I’m getting too old to pull my punches anymore. There ought to be some sort of reward for having survived, endured, conquered, mastered, and succeeded at a job as big as Life! Instead, we’re not-so-honored with aches and pains and disorders and ailing loved ones. What? A little payback for the human condition?

Here’s what I want. A little more time with my best friend: another camping trip out on a windy mountain, listening to her tall tales and deafening guffaws; to watch her paint another still-life while she explains about colors and shadows; to share one more cup of tea as we rehearse again the qualities – good and not-so-good – of each others children; for good measure, to dream again of what incredible things we must still accomplish!

Old ladies are just like little girls – they still need a best friend to remind them of who they are and to validate their spot on this planet. Libby and I can’t share a bicycle – heck, we can’t even share a cup of tea. So I’ll call her tomorrow and we’ll reminisce. She’ll laugh too loud and I’ll be too silly. She won’t remember what we talked about; and I’ll never forget.

Wednesday Wanderings

Wally has Wednesdays off. Although we have each weekend of leisure time to enjoy, Wednesday is very special to Wally and me. He walks away from his busy job at the grocery store on Tuesday afternoon, knowing he can do anything he wants for the next 36 hours. A good time to catch up on errands, effect small repairs around the house, or work on some continuing project? You'd think.

Instead, we usually take off. This is our time to wander. Rarely do we have an actual game plan; usually it's just "get in the car and see where it takes us". Yesterday was a case in point. We knew we wanted to drive down to Duck Pond Winery in Dundee to pick up our (my!) quarterly wine club shipment, so that was our starting point. We like to drive to wine country by way of the "205" to the "5" to the Donald off-ramp, then through farm country, across the Willamette, into the woods, and, finally, meet up with the busy 99w right in Newburg. Most of the trip is through rural scenery, away from traffic - just to our liking. Yesterday, mesmerized by a north-bound, traffic jam on the "5" freeway (opposite side), we missed our offramp and had to continue to Woodburn before we could head east. No prob: when we're wandering we don't really look at the clock or worry about "wrong" turns. There are no wrong turns - just some place we haven't seen before.

The sky was low - thick, bulbous clouds hung over our heads like a false ceiling in a Disney ride; all we needed was to pass a pirate ship loading it's cannon toward our vessel! We drove on through new, but not unfamiliar rural territory. Wally remarked, "Well, here we are, on another Oregon country road. But then, most of Oregon is country roads". He's right, of course. You have to be in Portland itself to have any real sense of civilization in Oregon. Everywhere else is open fields or dense forest or wild coast. Oh, there are a few towns thrown in - just to help you keep your perspective. But none of them amounts to a city - mostly just rambling, loosely connected settlements between the wildness and intense natural beauty of this incredible state.

We found our way to the winery - purchased the wine - and consulted the map to see where we might continue our peripatetic path. Hum-m-m... We really wanted to head west, through the coast range, but we'd followed most of those roads already. Wally suggested heading down to Willamenia (site of his favorite sweet roll place!), then up the "22", through the mountains to Tillamook. That way we could follow the "6" (one of our all-time favorite roads), back to the "26", just in time to run into commuter traffic home. Of course. Why not? A little bumper-to-bumper beating is a small price to pay for an afternoon of soul-filling splendor.

Thus we discovered highway "22" - magnificent, mind-boggling, picturesque, untamed corridor through the coastal mountains. It's one of those twisty-turning drives where each turn brings new and fresh scenery - and elicts "ahhhhs" at every bend in the road. We could stop and just bathe in the lovely coolness of the dense forest, but then, just ahead, lies a similarly lovely, yet strangely unique, turn in our path - we have to stop there also! One could never get anywhere this way!!! And it's totally impossible to become jaded by the surreal, almost fantasy-like panorama. Once in a while we came upon evidence of human habitation - a house that we "almost" saw buried among the trees, a few cattle or sheep grazing in a distant, silvan meadow. That's about it. A road sign indicated a town up ahead - it turned out to be a wayside market, probably with a post office which merrited zipcode designation. The landscape was littered with unabashedly blooming foxglove and some enormous bush covered with thousands of red berries - not recognizable to us. Delicate Coastal firs, heavy disiduous trees vying for room among the hugh Douglas Firs, the forest understory choking with dozens of fern varieties; everywhere evidence of vigorous woodland life. Heaven.

Each time we venture into the wildness of this planet we are refreshed and satisfied - convinced that if such beauty exists for our enrichment, there must be a Creator who loves us, and this world, enough to care for us and keep us in harmony. I guess our part is to preserve that harmony with whatever skills and knowledge - and heart - we possess. So we arrived home, exhausted and happy. Another beautiful day spent in the clear air of our lush, green homeland.

A Beginning

Today feels like a beginning - a fresh start in so many ways. I'm starting my new "job", working in the kitchen at Portland Rescue Mission. I've begun and hope to stick with a moderate diet (post-menopause having robbed me of anything like an hour-glass shape). My vegetable seeds are all in and await a little sunshine (rain not wanting here in the Pacific Northwest!). Spring has brought forth flowering trees and plants all over my world!! Talk about beginnings!

And, finally, Summer is right around the corner. YES!! Summer means warmth. Give me warmth. Days idling 'neath my heavy-branched maple trees, reading a good book and sipping a good wine! Sigh! Trips to California, enjoying Micaela's laughter and good stories, Phillip's solemn pronouncements and sarcastic complaints, and Alex's dreams and hopeful plans for his future. What riches for this grandmother!

Summer also means that Rae Anne will be home for a while: who knows how long? We are something of a wayfarer's station for her as she moves from one life to another, each more challenging and exciting than the previous. I envy her the world travel she has experienced. Her wanderlust and need to immerse her selfless self in suffering humanity seem to know no bounds. Sometimes I wish I could pack up and follow her. But she is my eyes on the world - she helps me see and understand what is happening out there. She has opened my heart, globally speaking, and taught me to value cultures vastly different than my own. I am grateful for the safe world I inhabit, yet humbled by the knowledge that others love their land and struggle for it in ways I can never appreciate. I remember a song I learned in school; it was set to the tune of "Finlandia". Today the words ring truer than ever for me:

"This is my song, oh God of all the nations,
A song of peace for lands afar and mine.
This is my home, the country where my heart is;
This is my hope, my dream, my shrine.
But other hearts in other lands are beating,
With hopes and dreams, the same as mine.
My country's skies are bluer than the ocean;
The sunlight beams on clover leaf and pine.
But other lands have sunlight too, and clover.
And skies are sometimes blue as mine.
Oh hear my song, thou God of all the nations;
A song of peace for their land and mine".

Would that that prayer could be answered in the hearts of all man (and woman) kind. What a great beginning, in truth, if we could begin to see all peoples as our real brothers and sisters. Then we could love, serve, and live together in harmony. I know that won't happen any time soon, but it's a vision worth embracing. Perhaps FEAR lies at the bottom of our inadequacy to relate to one another. Fear of being hurt; fear of losing possessions; fear that we will have to change; fear that someone else could be "right", making us less "right". Fear that we are not the be-all and end-all of the universe! Legitimate fears: for if we do take the risk to reach out we may, in fact, be hurt; perhaps we'll choose to give up things that we treasure; certainly we will begin to change; and, yes, we will be able to allow someone else to be strong. After all, we are not the center of the universe, but we know Who is and we know that He is Perfect Love. And scripture tells us, "Perfect Love casts out Fear".

So I'm choosing some new beginnings today. And I suspect that change may not be limited only to my circumstances; change might actually occur in me. A hopeful thought. Change means growth; and, after all, eternal growth is what Old Crones are all about.