Category: Uncategorized

What with presidential politics and global warming, lately I often feel the need to escape from real life for a while.  With few exceptions, televison doesn’t do it for me.  I read, and while I am reading I live in different worlds.  Not perfect, just different.  I have to be careful of what I read, because those worlds make a difference in this world.  I always bring something back with me.

Someimes I visit Venice with Vice Comissario Guido Brunetti and his wife Paola.  He solves crimes, she teaches English literature, and together they bemoan what Venice, and the world, have become.  Because of the Brunettis, my morning coffee is made in a Moka pot instead of the old Aero-Press (too plastic, too American).  The multi-course meals Paola serves her family (between her long sessions with Henry James) have inspired many ambitious meals at my house.  Venice, stinking and sinking but still glorious, is such a powerful metaphor!  The beauty and the rot.  The closest I’ve come to it here is New Orleans, another favorite escape.

I’ve spent a few hours in Three Pines with Chief Inspector Armand Gamache.   In a recent book, in the middle of a tense investigation that involves the whole community, Gamache invites last-minute guests to dinner, knowing there will be enough.  He says of  his wife Reine-Marie:   “She was four courses upset and considering an amuse-bouche.”  That resonates.  Since I inadvertantly skipped from number one and number two in the series to number eleven, I expect that I’ll return to Three Pines often, a sanctuary that we all need from Donald Trump.  Three Pines is fictional, but the promise of Cape Breton is real.

Not that I’ve given up on real life.  But sometimes it’s nice to take a break from it.  Have to go now, the smell of butter and sugar and blueberries coming from my kitchen is irresistible.

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t hang out in bars a lot, and I don’t want to.  But there are exceptions.  Lately John has persuaded me to come with him to a few of the every-Friday night open mic/poetry sessions at a local club in the North End of Toledo.  I pride myself on being open to new experiences, and this fits the bill.  Stormi’s Trunk of Truth is at Franklin and Pearl.  The first few times we went the door was locked, which seemed like  a reasonable security precaution.  Since wine did not seem like a wise option, on my first visit I nursed a brandy.  The next time I failed to stop at the ATM and, despite the signage, we had to count out our change and small bills to cover a couple of beers.  Last night we went for a special show, a collaboration with some Michigan poets.  We were hungry and left at the break.  I was surprised that I kind of wanted to stay.

Clearly the building has been re-purposed from either a storefront or, more likely, somebody’s house. The floor is black and white tile.  The walls are paneled and hung with an assortment of posters. There’s a hand-painted mural (a tree, of course). The tables, chairs, and couches are frequently re-arranged to suit the crowd.  Last night the restrooms, framed in at the back of what may was once have been the living room, had inexplicably been switched, resulting in the curious presence of a condom dispenser in the ladies’.

John plays his guitar when we go, but mostly it’s poetry.  And with a couple of exceptions the poetry is wonderful.  My favorites have involved “Namaste,” written and read by Dan Denton and a long hilarious piece by Arnie Koester about a Bangkok sex show.  (I like a bit of humor with my poetry. ) I know I’m late to discover Bob Phillips, but I’m ready to listen  and read more.

I’ve lived in Toledo since 1972, minus a few years in the late 70’s.  It’s never boring.

 

 

“To be a good Jew, you need to believe in one God, or fewer.”

some Rabbi, somewhere

When I was growing up in upstate NY we were all alike.  A few kids were noticeable because they were Catholic.  One Mennonite classmate was downright exotic.  There was one doctor in town; he and the teachers were special because you knew they had gone to college.  Once every summer we had a visit from an old friend of my mother’s and when she married a Jew he was the only non-Christian I had ever met. That’s how I remember it.  It was only when  as a high-achieving high school student and spent a summer at Syracuse Universtiy studying geology (it was the only NSF program I was eligible for as a sophomore) and the summer after junior year at Cornell (my Math classes were interrupted when the professor returned to Israel for the 6-day war) that I experienced ethnic diversity.   My cousins and I were the first generation of our family to go away to college and I remember my grandfather warning my mother to be careful because I might meet “someone from Oklahoma” and never come back.  He was not wrong, and he even got the “O” right.

Reading about Bernie Sanders’ secular Jewishness (including this article) brings wonderful memories of the women on the paternal side of John’s family, role models for me since I met them in the early 70’s.  As Mensheviks, the family had left Russia in the early 20th century fleeing both the Czar and the Bolsheviks. His gradmother, widowed young, lived with her never-married sister.  Two other sisters, also long-time widows, lived together as well and were actively campaigning for left-wing causes well into their eighties.  I didn’t meet the men of that generation but I’ve been hearing stories about them for years. For both the women I knew and the men I did not, my impression is of  irreverance, humor, varying levels of commitment to leftist politics, and, above all, intelligence.

I loved the Larry Davis impression and the  “Sanderswitsky sketch on SNL.   I admire the way Bernie Sanders is balancing honesty and political good sense with regard to his faith.

 

Our kids have left, returning to Chicago and San Francisco. John and I have enjoyied a few last rays of Mexican sun and we’re waiting for the It’s been a good week.

One thing I like about vacation is the chance to reflect with few distractions. I’ve been reflecting on how offended I am by Bernie Sanders. Every time I get an e-mail beginning “brothers and sisters” and ending “in solidarity” while, Rubio-like, recasting a narrow loss as victory, my sense of the man’s enormous ego is reinforced.

But it’s worse; it’s affecting me in real life too. If a waiter seems amused that when the bill comes John hands it to me (because I can be relied on to carry a card and keep track of it) I am angry. If a man, however well-meaning, steps in uninvited  to help with a task I am perfectly capable of performing I seethe with a mixture of resentment and guilt. Somehow the constant media swipes at Hillary make me feel these small humiliations more keenly.

The Sanders challenge has moved the discussion to the left, for which I salute him. But I would not look forward to a President Bernie. I’m with her.

Still holding an extra bedroom for a Hillary Clinton volunteer…

 

 

 

 

 

When we turned off Highway 307 on Saturday and entered Akumal, I breathed a sigh of relief.  We’d left the craziness of Cancun and Playa del Carmen behind us, and I thought Akumal was unchanged.  I was wrong.  In the 8 years we’ve been coming here we’ve seen an ever-growing number of tour groups coming from resorts up and down the coast to snorkel in Akumal Bay.  The number of resorts is exploding too as the highway to Tulum, the next big vacation spot, is improved.

Akumal was founded in 1959 as a community of scuba divers attracted by a coral reef which also serves as home to giant sea turtles.  Part of the town is still owned by the family of one of its founders, Pablo Bush Romero. It’s a community of condos and hotels with a few shops and restaurants.  Ocean and the sunrise to the east and sunset over the jungle to the west.  Across the main highway is Akumal Pueblo, where the non-tourists (about 1300 people) live.  The first time we came we stayed on our own side of the highway, but an overpass has been built and we’ve visited a couple of the local restaurants on our last few visits.

This year, there’s trouble in Paradise.  Depending on your point of view, long-overdue efforts to protect the bay and the reef have necessitated steps to limit access to an appropriate number of visitors and legitimate tour operators OR Bush Romero’s family, which owns a couple of hotels and the nicest restaurant in town AND has invested in a new 400-room resort, had blocked beach access for locals. For several months, either a small group of rogue tour operators OR a legitimate group of Akumal citizens have organized protests and, occasionally, blocked vehicle access in and out of town. On Monday, fences were broken, a statue was overturned, and the main beach was (briefly) closed.  Since we’re staying further into town on a secondary beach, we missed it all.  Today, a blockade went up and at least one tourist couple walked out through the grounds of the new hotel to get a taxi to the airport, leaving their luggage behind.

This is so hard.  A few elites are trying to do the right thing and save the bay, but apparently the rules don’t apply to them. No help is forthcoming from the local or national governments.  It’s heartbreaking to see the the environmental consequences of growth as the “Riviera Maya” attracts more and more tourists.  We’ve faithfully purchased “turtle safe” sunblock for years, blah blah blah.  But we’re part of the problem.  We’ve also shopped at local stores, eaten at local restaurants, and tipped the staff generously wherever we have rented.  Who can blame the local people who see restricting access as limiting their income?  For years we’ve read about the influence of one family here, noted environmentalists who nevertheless seem to be making a lot of money by bringing in more tourists and tour groups but now feel it’s time for them to protect the reef and the local community by preventing anyone else from doing so.

Oh, Akumal.  I thought you were not part of the real world.  I was wrong.

It was 30 below in northern New York last night, and it was damn cold in northwest Ohio too.  We’ve chosen a good week to be in Akumal, Quintana Roo, Mexico.  It’s seventy four  degrees at 10 am, and our top-floor terrace is situated for a perfect view of the sunrise, ocean breezes (actually, today, strong ocean winds), early morning sun, and shade from about now throughout the day.

We’ve been coming to this little town since 2009, the whole family and occasional guests.  It’s right off Highway 307, about halfway between Cancun and Tulum.  On the drive south from the airport, we saw many changes, development that is the inevitable result of the development and promotion of Tulum.  Akumal, blessedly, seems much the same.

For the first time we experienced the stereotype when, just after pulling out of the car rental agency in Cancun,  Olivia braked to avoid someone running across the road, was pulled over and avoided going “downtown” to retrieve her drivers license by means of a (modest) cash bribe. Elio, the manager of our Akumal condo, seemed to feel that the $60 she paid was excessive.

Also for the first time, our family includes a baby.  I’m looking forward to watching her have her first experience of Akumal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The clock talked loud. I threw it away, it scared me what it talked. ~Tillie Olsen, Tell Me a Riddle

There are a lot of ways of measuring time,  and I’m using some now that I never could have imagined.  Not infrequently in the morning I know what day it is by the label on my pill container (mostly vitamins) before I come anywhere near a calendar.  More happily, since I no longer spend time in a windowless office, often I ignore the clocks because I know what time it is by the angle and the intensity of the sunlight that I try to follow around the house all day.  I can measure the weeks since I’ve seen my granddaughter by the new things she can do and the new expressions on her face.

Today, coming home from an afternoon appointment, I stopped at Schorling’s for some orange juice.  I’ve known the store was up for sale, and I’ve even noticed that the shelves were getting barer.  But today all the groceries are 30% off and there was NO orange juice.  (I stocked up on ice cream and toilet paper.) I don’t need any more evidence that a LOT of years have gone by since we moved into this house and opened a charge account at our neighborhood grocery.   The whole family, including kids, could shop with a signature, and I’ve been writing a monthly check to Schorlings  for three decades.  They’re still running charges this afternoon, but I have a feeling the next statement I get may be the last.

I’m sad, but things run their course.  At the other side of Ottawa Hills, just west of the railroad tracks on Bancroft, I also used to shop at another grocery, Velmar, which closed a LONG time ago.  Now the space is occupied by a middle eastern market where in one visit last week I bought French feta cheese (my favorite), cumin cookies (really wonderful), and almond hair oil (still haven’t tried it).

Live is wonderful, isn’t it?

I’ve read with interest two articles this snowy Sunday.  The first details  recent research which urges ” a back-to-basics strategy: Invest in good schools and public safety, and don’t bet on the trendy stuff” like “casino gaming, programs to attract  creative-class workers, the stylish New Urbanism development projects and more.”  These, researchers found, while they may have been successful in themselves, “contributed little or nothing to overall regional economic growth.”  The authors argue for nuance, and I agree with the article’s conclusion:  “Yet researchers … are on to something here. It may not be sexy. And it’s not short term. But in urban economic development, as in life, if you take care of the basics, the frills tend to take care of themselves.”  I hope Toledo’s decision makers are paying attention.  We need a comprehensive and holistic approach to development.  Without basics like clean water and safe (and paved) streets, it’s hard to see how anything else will work.

(The back to basics approach reminds me of  Milwaukee’s “sewer socialists”  and makes me want think more about the Bernie Sanders phenomenon.  I’m not a fan of Sanders as a presidential candidate, but I admire what he was able to accomplish as mayor of Burlington. )

The second article was much less fun to read.  It’s painful for me to admit that I agree with much of what Keith Burris has to say about “the “good old boy” network in Toledo government” in this morning’s Blade.  Especially this:  “This spoils system has always been a part of city politics in America, from Boston to L.A. But the question of competence has not always been so totally irrelevant: Can the persons filling these jobs do them well and serve the public?”  When Toledoans voted to adopt a strong-mayor system in 1992 , they chose politics over professionalism.  Ironically, that choice was not just supported but driven by Mr. Burris’ employer.  As a non-resident of the city, I didn’t have a vote, but even then it was clear to me that the big labor, big business, and our big newspaper all saw this as a chance to gain power, and nothing I’ve seen since the first strong mayor election in 1993 has changed my mind.  As one labor  leader (no longer in the area) explained it to me, “There’s nothing wrong with the good old boy system as long as you’re one of the good old boys.”   Or girls, I suppose.

Burris criticizes Mayor Paula Hicks-Hudson for showing “zero capacity for reform and zero interest in professionalizing city government, which we need desperately.”  I don’t know enought about the specifics he details to have an opinion, but I do know that she is operating within a system that will make it tough to prioritize competence.  I trust that she will try, and I wish her the best of luck in doing it.

 

 

 

 

 

One of my first dreams of 2016 was familiar:  I was exploring a house which may or may not have been mine but in which I was completely comfortable.  It seemed utterly natural when I discovered several new rooms, all attractive and appealing but mostly in need of an update (picture a dusty-gray lace-trimmed pillow).  Hmmmm.  Not too subtle.  A quick google search reveals general agreement that dreams about houses are common and that one’s dream house symbolize one’s life.  Newly-discovered rooms suggest, alternatively, neglected parts of one’s self or as-yet-unrealized opportunities.  I think I’ll go with the latter.

 Finding hidden rooms, or rooms that you were unaware of in your present house can indicate a new potential for your life that you are just now realizing. destinydreamz.com

As my blog title suggests, I’m making it in Toledo.  I’m a happy woman and not ready to crowd-source life decisions.  I love having the time to bake and otherwise home-make.  I enjoy my husband and my kids. It’s great being free to play with my grandchild whenever she’s available.  I value the opportunity to help lead our local community action agency as board chair. Entertaining my friends of all ages is a delight.  But maybe it’s not such a good thing that I have time to clean my computer keyboard.  Maybe it would be good to be more selective about what books I read.  Maybe I could make more of a difference in the world.

This is not a resolution.  It’s a hope.  I want to find new pursuits. I don’t want to pursue busy-ness.  I want to focus on new opportunities. I want to preserve the privilege of being accountable mainly to myself, but I think it may be time to hold myself more accountable.  Comments and suggestions welcome.

 

 

 

When we returned after our recent trip out west, an unpleasant smell we had noticed in our coat closet had become unbearable.  After fruitless attempts to air it out, today I found the cause:  a very small mouse had crawled into an infrequently-used snow boot and met its end.   At least that problem was easily solved, although now I’m contemplating a trip to DSW.  The mouse who has been haunting our kitchen since winter arrived was luckier:  although it was caught in a snap trap it took off running into the back yard when I released it.  I wish it well.

At the personal level, I’m grateful that pretty much all of my problems are easy.  I have a hard time writing that, since I know it could change.  But i hope that acknowledging my good fortune and my privilege helps me to remember the responsibilties that come with it.  And to rid myself of the vague sense of guilt that I carry wherever I go.  In a community, a country, a world, a planet with so many problems, it’s probably impossible to do enough, ever.  But we try.  Perhaps we will be lucky too.