Reading, remembering, and thinking…

It’s a little thing, but I am committed to doing the little things I can do. I want to share this insightful article. Please read it. Please tell me what you think.

I didn’t know the word “patrimonialism” when I briefly visited South Africa decades ago, but as I learned about how that country worked, and how the tension between the broader good and tribal good caused even good people to make bad decisions. If you have a job to offer, competence can be less persuasive than closeness. Surely a member of your family or at least a member of your tribe can do the job. Or, yes, a member of your party. The rules to prevent abuse are fragile, even here.

When I visited SA, focusing on enjoying the beautiful country and spending time with my daughter who was studying there, Elon Musk was a privileged young man, and the influence of his upbringing is obvious.

Car rental for that trip included instructions about what to do in case of unexpected road obstructions, which might be part of a carjacking attempt. (Keep going.) Every place we stayed as we traveled the garden route was heavily guarded. Is that the direction we are headed in? We were stopped and our car inspected in case we were carrying meat or anything else we weren’t supposed to have, with an unsubtle suggestion that it would not take much of a bribe to make sure nothing was found. Much to think about, much to learn…

I learned more about patrimonialism when I visited Lebanon. I traveled with a diverse group of women who wanted to run for office. I saw women and non-governmental organizations running schools, hospitals, orphanages – running the country when the government broke down. The opposite of patrimonialism, I think: women who created not to get rich, but to help those who needed it. We may need that here.

In Lebanon, too, armed guards were ubiquitous.

As I cringe at current events, I remember so many people and places who have experience this and worse. It makes me both sad and hopeful. It makes me grateful and makes me want to do the small things that are possible, even now.

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“A Bowl of Borsch for Ukraine”


It’s hard feeling powerless, and I hate it. Actually I am angry at myself because I can’t do much to make the world better. So I need to look at smaller circles, I guess. and see what I CAN do.

Today I made Ukrainian borsch. Thanks to World Central Kitchen for the inspiration and the recipe. I made it babusia style, although my own grandmother would certainly not recognize it. I spent hours shredding, dicing, chopping and stirring. Dinner was late, but delicious. And vegetarian.

For the forseeable future, small actions close to home may be the best I can do…

Suggestions welcome.

Ideas welcome…

I knew that I’d be appalled at Trump, but I didn’t anticipate how bad I’d feel about myself for living in Trump’s America. I’m trying to stop reading the news and concentrate on the good, non-political reality I live in, but it’s not easy to banish the cloud hanging over me.

“Reasons to be Cheerful” founded by David Byrne is one place I’ve turned to repeatedly, and I hope to set aside more time for their messages going forward.

There are also countless small things to appreciate. This is a Satsuma Mule, sans alcohol, that I enjoyed in New Orleans at Cochon, just one example of how delicious food and drink can be a welcome distraction. I can cook good things to share.

Today’s rain isn’t helping, but I remind myself that every day brings spring a little closer. I can grow flowers, herbs, and vegetables.

I also have high hopes for reading to escape. We went to the library today, so I’m prepared with distractions for a week or so.

But the worst is that I can’t think of anything I can do to make this better. Anne Lamott has her own take on this situation, which has a certain appeal, although powerlessness has never been one of my goals.

So if you’re reading this, ideas welcome…

Another round

Without being quite sure why, I have decided to renew this blog for 2025. It will still be many things for me: a place to record thoughts and memories, a gratitude journal, and an attempt to connect with friends and family I don’t see regularly. Please follow me and wish me luck!

Another thing I have decided to continue: baking bread, often sourdough bread. It always feels like magic. Since there are only two of us at home most days, I often freeze it, and I’m learning all the things one can do with stale bread, too.

Twenty twenty-four brought us a new grand-daughter, and Zoraya is a joy.

Aloisa at 9 is beginning to leave childhood behind.

Both girls have enjoyed getting to know their cousins Joel and Alice Beans, and I am grateful that my sister’s daughter and her family are now not so far away. I’m so blessed by seeing family members both in person and virtually.

We’re heading to New Orleans for a few days. This picture includes so much of what we’ve experienced there. Not Bourbon Street – we usually avoid that. This scene is behind St. Louis Cathedral. We usually visit Jackson Square, and hope to do so this week. But we’ve also begun to enjoy exploring neighborhoods further from the French Quarter. We’re planning on listening to music on Frenchmen Street, eating Italian in the Marigny, and visiting a couple of new places in the Warehouse District. I haven’t tired of this old city yet.

My friend Polly gave me a lovely gift, which is continuing to thrive:

Grateful thoughts

Every year when I wake up on September 11th and no planes are hitting skyscrapers, I am grateful. That is among the least of the things I have to be grateful for today, but every year it’s a good place to start. Second on my list is Kamala Harris’ strong performance in last night’s debate. The next eight weeks will be long and tense, but I am hopeful. And third is the opportunity to make fresh tomato sauce from organic tomatoes and garden basil. Since we’re empty nesters again, I’ll be filling more pint jars than quarts.

tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, basil…

Empty nesting is an opportunity and a challenge. We have commenced Swedish death cleaning (It’s astounding how much one accumulates!) but are looking forward to lots more life in this house, where we have lived for 44 years. I’m hoping for cooking and gardening, dinners and parties (cocktail-, house-…) and sharing with both many old friends and always new ones. When our house was built more than a century ago, clearly it was intended for entertaining – the porches, the windows, the maid’s room… and now with our new kitchen it’s a joy to cook for guests. Again, I am grateful.

Yesterday we said goodbye to the ugly-but-fun pool that Jo has maintained for Loi’s enjoyment over many years. I”m not sure how long it will be until something grows there, but as Jo says, the pool had a good run. I feel the same about many of our plantings. Over time, I’ve lost the style thread and, too often, the gardening-conditions thread too. Yesterday I realized that I have WAY more wild ginger than makes sense. This year instead of planting I want to focus on soil-building.

I’m hoping to write here more regularly, and I invite your comments.

Good morning, Doctor

No, not Dr. Ross, although I greeted him first. In this post I am referring to Dr. Seuss, because that is what the newest flowers in my garden call to my mind with their crazy shapes and wild colors.

Spider Flower, Cleome

I don’t remember cleome in my grandmother’s garden, but I love this old-fashioned plant. The toughest thing about caring for it is choosing which seedlings to discard in order to let the remaining plants flourish.

Purpletop Vervain, Verbena

I’m sure I bought this plant once, probably because, although I haven’t watched The Vampire Diaries, I somehow remember their description of Vervain: One that makes vampire skin burn and strength wane; a secret weapon preventing them from compelling humans to do their will. Now, it has migrated throughout my backyard gardens, which is fine because it is a “see-through plant” and doesn’t block the light or my vision of its neighbors.

Milkweed

Since I bought this common milkweed from Monarch Watch, it has reliably hosted all stages of monarchs. Not this year, at least so far. No butterflies, no eggs, no caterpillars. I still have hope.

Zoraya

Have you ever seen a baby so clearly thinking deep thoughts? No, nor have I. I’ve only spent a week with my second grand-daughter, and already I am eager for more visits. In the meantime, FaceTime is better than nothing.

Zoraya in her vintage shirt and her new best friend.

When I was born, I was one of several dozen children of my generation on my mother’s side (My mother was one of the youngest of 12 siblings who reached adulthood.) I had cousins who were adults before I was born and a few who I remember as infants. Most lived within a few miles of my home, one was virtually next door, and none was more than a couple of states away. I was close friends with two of these cousins and acquainted with most of the rest. I had cousins on my father’s side, too, a more reasonable number and a smaller age range. Together, a family network that I took for granted.

I don’t think about it often, but some memories produce their own deep thoughts about how that shaped my early days. “There were frequent cousin sleepovers and occasional longer shared vacations.

I hope that Zoraya and Aloisa develop their own friendships to rival the easy, automatic way I knew my cousins. In hindsight, I had a bigger family than I realized:

“Cousins may not be siblings, but they are family just the same.”

History

My calendar tells me it’s the first day of women’s history month. I’ll take that as permission to reflect a bit on some of my own history.

In August of 1972, newly graduated from Cornell, I accepted a job as junior high math teacher at Ella P. Stewart school, then at 707 Avondale. We came to Toledo so that John could attend medical school. For various reasons, coming her was a last-minute decision. It took us a while to find a place to live, and we spent the first couple of months at the Ann Manor on Scottwood, later moving on to other Old West End locations.

For a girl who grew up in a town of less than 1000 people, all of whom were white and most of whom were farmers, Stewart was a new experience. All of my students were Black, and most of them were several inches taller than I. The veteran teachers in the school were Black but those of us who were new were mostly white. Apparently that passed for integration in those days.

To my horror, I was expected to paddle those who misbehaved. My helpful students made me a paddle in shop class and assured me that its aerodynamic design would make up for my small size and lack of strength. A Black college friend explained that if I declined to paddle, my students would believe that either I didn’t care enough to hit them or I was afraid to do so. (What do you suppose I did?) This disciplinary style was so ingrained in the culture that at least one young man routinely wore multiple pairs of pants when he intended to be troublesome. The alternative to taking a student into the hall, calling another teacher to witness, and taking a swing was to take them to the principal’s office. On at least one occasion I watched as the principal instructed the miscreant to take down all but the last pair of pants before administering their punishment. It was a different time.

Because Stewart was a neighborhood school for grades K-8, my students were not far from their homes, their siblings, and their mothers. As one of my students assured me, that led to relatively good behavior. “You should see what it’s like at XXX junior high” naming a nearby larger school where the students, 7th and 8th graders, were a few blocks farther from home.

I learned a lot in my three years at Stewart. I taught some remarkable children. I learned some horrifying things about the lives some of them lived. I learned that good teachers, of which there were many, could transform lives. I decided that being a classroom teacher was not for me.

It was 50 plus years ago. History.