The...Umm...Joy of Cooking -- Jennie

It's December 1, which means that one month from today, resolutions will be made from coast to coast.

I'm making mine early--right now, in fact, before the holidays, when I'll be slaving away, I mean enjoying myself, in the kitchen.

I cook a lot. I mean, a lot.

Take today, for instance; the menu included:

spinach eggs on English muffins

peanut butter toast

Bear Mush with cream

slices of cheese
mandarin oranges

baked potatoes

applesauce from scratch

grilled cheese and tomato soup

yogurt with granola

bean nachos

tofu dogs

carrot slices

hot chocolate

oysters and crackers

leftover ham slices

Seriously!

And this was just for the kids. Husband was on shift, sharing some crock-pot surprise with the guys. If he were here, there would be a whole lot more meat (or "me-with-a-'t'" as my little vegetarians say; they have no idea that they're spelling "met").

Me, I like bakery stuff. Which means that frequently, in addition to the standard herbivore and omnivore fare, I'm whipping up banana bread or coffee cake. Mmmm...

And ouch.

I'm telling you, my feet are killing me!

However, based on the evidence I've collected over the past eleven years, the kids aren't going to eat less in the future. In fact, they are most likely going to eat more. It's a demand-thing.

Have them make their own food, you suggest? What that ultimately results in is a huge mess, not to mention my special-diet baby gorging himself on Capri Suns and, per earlier blog, the deadly Doritos.

For now, I have to cook.

And I have to deal.

The key to doing this is to find the joy. (Wasn't there a cookbook titled this?)

Regularly, I check out "Top Chef," not for cooking tips--no way; way too involved--but to steal the chefs' love of food preparation. These nuts gaga over the perfect grape. I want to be like that, instead of flinging pancake batter into the greasy pan.

I resolve, before New Year's Day, to open myself to kitchen magic, beginning tonight. Pasta salad and Pillsbury rolls.

Light It Up! --Christy

Before I go to the kitchen and deal with the twenty-four pound creature awaiting a sage butter massage and a good roasting, I’m going to express my blog thanks. The blogosphere has allowed me to keep my hermetic writing life intact but still have a nice connection with people throughout the day. The blog acts as a writing prompt, allowing me to get the brain cells pumping before turning my attention to the manuscript. Having people read it is a bonus that I am very grateful for. So thanks, dear readers.

Tomorrow is my favorite day in Ashland: The Festival of Lights. After sundown there’s a light parade and then everything goes quiet and dark. The whole town starts a countdown and when our collective voice gets to “one” the switch is flipped and downtown is ablaze in fairy lights. It’s magical. Right after that, writing partner Marcia and I are going to zip up to the cabin for a weekend writing intensive so I can deliver my manuscript to my editor on Monday. All in all, a good four days ahead!

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

The Gingerbread Queen of Medford--Marcia

The Gingerbread Jubilee is in it's eighth year. A gingerbread spectacular like no other. It is not for the faint of heart. The cleverest usually winds up getting featured on the front of the Medford Mail Tribune's "Tempo" section. There are cash rewards, lots of attention, and I guess for those group efforts, pleasurable family time. There are classes now, taught in town, just for people who want to enter the Jubilee. One of the women sitting by her cute but amateur house said, "If I'd had any idea, I never would have entered!" Obviously new to town.

We know the woman who usually wins. Before the family moved to Central Point, they used to have a hair salon next to the Deli. Although they are very kind, and gave very nice reasonable haircuts, I can't say I miss the smell of permanent waves wafting out over the clam chowder and turkey pastries.

They were a roly poly family. Big and religious. In an evangelical way. Everyone was surprised when the very beautiful, but easily 300-pound Melilssa, somehow nabbed a young man that looked like a country singer--a scrawny and scrappy country singer. Jesus was good to Melissa, she got a good looking husband, got really skinny, and then had a whole passle of children. All this while still running her hair salon and becoming the Gingerbread Queen of Medford, all before the age of 27.

The thing was, I hadn't seen Melissa's transformation. We had been about equal when she left. Often commiserating over our mutual difficulty in taking off the weight.

Then Melissa had her breakout moment. She became instantly famous for her gingerbread version of Autzen Stadium. It was featured on the front page of the paper. We all exclaimed over what she was able to do with jelly beans and fondant. Hummel move over. Melissa is a sculptor extraordinaire. My kids couldn't wait to go to the Jubilee and get a peek at this miniature version of their favorite place on earth.

To you rookies, Autzen is an Oregon Mecca. The faithful go there to worship throughout the fall, pom-poms fluttering from their trunks, flags hung from their windows. Babies are born green and yellow and are taught to say "Go Ducks!" before they can say "Mama."

Anyhoo, Melissa built Autzen stadium, and filled the stands with Jelly Bellys fans. Every Jelly Belly had personality. They had clothes, banners, face paint. It was unbelievable. You could have easily spent 45 minutes gazing into the bowl of Autzen--there was so much detail. The Duck mascot, rival Beaver fans, little Jelly Belly football players in the grid iron uniform. Crazy good, and funny. We were mesmerized. We paid no attention to the rail-thin woman sitting in the metal chair next to the creation. She smiled at us and called us by name. I looked directly into her face and still didn't recognize her. It couldn't be Melissa. She had beautifully luminous skin before, sparkling eyes, and long black hair. The hair was still there, but despite all her new cheek bones her skin had lost its elasticity. Her eyes some of their sparkle. But maybe that was just my own incredulity and envy speaking. Maybe she was just tired from all that Gingerbread making. I gave her a giant hug and congratulated her on all of her successes.`


Now her kids have grown up . . . sort of, they're like 9 and 6 and 2. And they all build gingerbread houses too. Last year they did Storybook Land, and three others. This year it's Charlotte's Web, Wall-e and Noah's Ark, complete with an ostrich puking out a porthole. Melissa always cracks a little joke. Hah.

There are competitors on Melissa's heels. There was a really good Three Pigs, complete with straw house ablaze, Hansel and Gretel with a peek hole in the roof of the witch's house, you could see her in there with her candy-cane jail, licking her lips, getting ready for those porky little kids. Yumm. My sons and I usually deliberate long and hard over our favorites. You are supposed to vote. This year they were all so good, we decided it would be an insult to all competitors to choose a favorite.

Melissa, surprisingly, was not the $1000 Grand Prize Winner this year. It was a lady who built a lighthouse. The ground the light house was on, was full of marzipan dinosaur fossils. The giant boulders around the base of the house were festooned with starfish, lobsters, mussels, clams, scallops, mmm (I'm getting hungry) and every other manner of sea creature. There was the light house keeper in the tower with it's cutaway view of him climbing down the stairs after lighting the lamp. Yes, it lights. There were lead-paned windows made out of sheets of gelatin.
You could see the light house wife, fallen asleep at the kitchen table over her crossword puzzle.

I had one German lady shout at me while I was looking in a window, because I bent over while she was taking a picture . . . "Now I've got a picture of your butt! Nice. That is so nice, while I am taking a picture!" How was I to know? This may be the same lady that shouted at my kids during the first Jubilee! I think she is a Gingerbread Spy, either that or they have never seen this stuff in Germany and she sends a complete dossier back to Deutschland. I don't know.

The Lighthouse creator said she started making the pieces in August. Her husband is always relieved at the end of Gingerbread season, because his wife becomes seasonally tempermental and the house is overcome with gingerbread product in various stages of completion.

My husband being a rookie, stalled on attending this family excursion and we didn't get there til after 2:00. Full house. Big line. Must be orderly. Youngest child with pants way down his hips and a penchant for putting fingertips very close to the edibles is freaking most of the attendants out. Yes, there is an attendant-bouncer-docent for each house. Really. They are often the creme de la creme of Medford Society. There is much Howdy-doing. Many hellos so good to see yous. And then there is the bragging on whether or not you know the Gingerbread architect or the home's sponsor. Really. It's fun. Melissa, however, was not in attendance. We missed her. We certainly let everyone know she is a personal friend.

We howdy-do-ed her parents. Admired the amazing spider web that had "Some Pig" written across it (M's 9-year old boy did that one!), and I wondered where our queen was. I think she is personally responsible for the amazing quality of our Jubilee. Grand Prize winner or not. Her talent has spawned the plethora of classes, unusual edible creations (you should see the Japanese Tea House--the roof is made out of seaweed), and spurred others to greater flights of fancy. She has forced competitors to push the envelope. Something all good art does--hers happens to be fondant.

She has even inspired my husband. The man who hasn't baked a birthday cake in 14 years is plotting his own gingerbread creation. So, we'll see you at the next Jubilee, I'm sure we will be suffering from seasonal tempermentalism, but we will have benifitted from the family time. And who knows, we might be the next Grand Prize Winner. We'll be sure to say Howdy.

To Ashland with love, take two, see below--Kerry

After all these years of writing, I'm still a rookie when it comes to blogger. I posted my post today, Tuesday, my day to post, only to realize that when you publish a post you have to check the date that you first started writing it.
As my daughter would say, "duh."
So it is there, just tucked into Monday, November 17....

Rock and Roll Revival -- Jennie

Before taking my kids to see "Madagascar 2" last week, I downed a big Diet Pepsi, determined to survive my greatest form of torture: cartoons.

Surprisingly, this movie's beginning was totally bearable. Almost funny, in fact.

And when the punchy penguins pushed an 8-track cassette into the airplane console, laughter ripped through the theater. Without warning, Boston began their famous "More Than A Feeling." It was so random, it was hilarious!

My girlfriends and I perpetuated the good time, playing the song on each other's answering machines for days after we saw the movie. We're now at the point where, two beats in, those quick, tinkly fingerpicks send us into giggle fits.

Boston's not the only rock-and-roll comeback.

Has anyone else noticed that Def Leppard is everywhere again?

Country cutie Taylor Swift, who poured some sugar with the English group on CMT's "Crossroads," is to thank for their re-popularity.

And AC/DC? They recently released a new album. A Wal-Mart exclusive: musical evolution.

Of course, there is one group that hasn't required a revival, and that would be timeless Bon Jovi. No middle-aged Prom Princess can get enough of Jon and Richie, even if their hair is (sigh) so much shorter than it used to be. It's definitely "more than a feeling" when we hear their old songs...

We're the Artsy Type

Anna Vollers has a link up today about an amazing Myers-Briggs test for your blog!

I "typed" the Lithia Writers Collective blog and we are - of course - ISFP: The Artist!

You're Going Down, cuteoverlaod.com!

As soon as I get things organized here I’ll be moving to Central Sulawesi. This just in:

“Mouse-sized primates called pygmy tarsiers, not seen alive in 85 years, have come out of hiding from a mountaintop in a cloud forest in Indonesia.”

Tarsius pumilus fulfills all my dream qualities:

Absurd – check

Cute – check

Fluffy – check

Miniature – check

Big-eyed – check check

I'm planning on starting an All Pygmy Tarsier All The Time website, which will surely eclipse the reigning Cute Overload in the absurd fluffy miniature big-eyed cuteness website department.

Who's with me, people? Anyone? Let me allow the tarsiers to speak for themselves:

To Ashland and LWC with love --Kerry

Things I love about Ashland:

Lithia Writer's Collective

Ladies night at Jackson Hot Springs.

The Metaphysical Library.

Hidden Springs Colonics - trust me on this one.

Hypnotherapy with Lydia Norris.

People's Choice Accupuncture.

The Co-op deli and Shop n' Cart.

The Farmer's Market - where pacifists gather peacefully in the Armory parking lot.

Jenny's displays at the library and the library in general.

The YMCA.

Real Bagels.

Dj's video.

Other things that I still want to do in Ashland:

Take a workshop titled,"Journey through the sacred Pelvis". Only in Ashland.

Get my ears waxed and cleaned - and you thought I was going to substitute ears for another body part. I should try that too, I guess.

Meditate in the Japanese Garden teahouse while my children roam on the path under the fifty different kinds of maple trees. And while I'm at Lithia, walk to the top of the reservoir one more time to see the trees.

And then exit, somehow.

Synergy Uncorked --Kerry

"Imagine that you had a huge cork at the bottom of the ocean and you let go of it. What would happen? The cork would shoot straight up, naturally rising to the surface unless something got in its way," author Richard Carlson.

I've been on wild rides before where the synergy is so powerful that it's all I can do to hold on for the ride as the forces in my life converge. The first time this happened was when I met my future husband, got married, purchased a house and helped him start law school all within the span of eleven months. And now it's happening again.

I am riding the crest of the wave with a mixture of joy and sadness. I never thought releasing things could be so cathartic - old emotions, old patterns of thinking, old clothes that I hate - it's all released into the tide.

Two and a half years ago I moved to Ashland, against my will, when my husband accepted a job here. I left behind a newly built house, devoted grandparents and more co-dependant issues than I care to acknowledge.

I arrived here depressed and vengeful. I leave here elated and grateful.

Grateful for the gift of knowing fellow writers in LWC. Grateful for all the crazy gifts of healing Ashland has to offer. Grateful to have been touched by the craziness and to feel joy again.

Wanted: One Agent, Any Agent -- Jennie

Since last summer, I have sent several queries to literary agents and publishers, pitching my YA boy-book.

Not surprisingly, most of those instantly rejected me. Surprisingly, some (amazing) agents asked for partial and full manuscripts. Even two editors solicited the work in its entirety; they are still "considering."

After revising the manuscript with an agent I was really hoping to sign with, I got the Bad News: He just didn't LOVE it enough to take it on.

The incredible Lithia Girls tried to console me with: "But he said so many good things about the book!" or "You were so close! You'll get there next time."

The only thing that mattered to me was the "Unfortunately..." part of the agent's email.

I have been rejected I don't know how many times. Really, I have no idea. So it must be a lot.

Of course now I'm questioning the integrity of the book: Is the premise weak? Is the plot boring? Is my character doomed to life inside my orange binder?

There is only one way to find out.

I have to query everyone.

And I'm going to.

This weekend, I sent out 15 emails. Two rejections came back immediately (on a Saturday???), and one request came for a partial, which I sent within hours.

After some Internet investigating, I found that this agency gets 70-something queries a week and requests partials for one of those.

I have decided that I'll be fine if this agent rejects me. I will be fine if every agent and editor on the planet declines to give my boy a cover.

But I know I can't live with myself if I don't do everything possible to turn these loose pages into a real book.

Even if it means kissing the ass of some one-man show in the Ozarks.

Memory Bank: A Case For Facebook Not Being Just A Massive Timesuck

Out of necessity I've become an excellent online stalker. I'm the one who people come to when they want to profile an ex-or-potential boyfriend/husband, see what an old college rival is up to these days, or find dirt on a snooty mom who snubbed them at school while dropping off kids. I've had to hone my skills because, until recently, there was no Facebook. Now I can retire from virtual PI work and focus my attention wholly on my craft, with short breaks for stalking that Facebook does in my stead.

Facebook was made for people like me who love/need to know what's going on in everyone's lives but are not that keen on actually communicating with people. In Facebook you make initial contact with someone and then sit back and voyeuristically enjoy the ride, peeking in on people's lives whenever you feel the need (read: hourly). What's more, I find Facebook is flooding my subconscious with memories, which are key for a writer. Grade school, high school, college; my own spotty memories get fleshed out with every new friend request and one-inch photo of someone who was, at one time in my life, important to me.

Becasue of a recent Facebook friend request, this morning instead of waking up with the conundrum of bittersweet chocolate vis a vis peppermint ice cream, I woke up thinking about 1987/88, my senior year in college. I'd moved out of the Kappa house and into a rental, dubbed The Kasbah, with friends Pam and Wendy. It was an old house that had been remodeled and it had super-shiny hardwood floors, which we thought was incredibly posh. We named it The Kasbah because of the Clash song—we knew no one would ever come off campus and visit unless they thought a party might break out, so we gave the house a name that engendered the feeling that it could really Rock At Any Moment. Parties never did break out though, because while other girls in other houses were filling garbage cans full of Spodi Punch with 151-proof rum in halter tops and mini skirts, we sat around in our nightgowns—remember the long, nun-like Lanz brand that had what looked like a lace-trimmed bib?—and played How Much, a game that dominated our social lives that year.

How Much was a simple game; one person came up with a rude, crude, or simply unsanitary dare and then the lowest bidder would do the deed. For example, I’d ask How Much to lick the mop after I’ve cleaned the bathroom floor. Wendy would say ten bucks. Pam would say three bucks because she never really grasped the nuances of the game, like underbidding to maximizing her payout; if this were Wendy or me we would have bid nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. So then, I would mop the bathroom floor and she would lick the mop and collect three bucks.

Pam always won at the foul-bordering-on-deadly deeds (things like chewing on raw chicken skin for 25 seconds), Wendy always won at the public humiliation deeds, and I always won when it came to eating large amounts of things that grossed other people out but I secretly liked. Just between you and me, you wouldn’t even have to pay me to eat a whole jar of mayo, but apparently this was gross enough to be valued at around twelve bucks. Ten bucks just to eat a whole cube of cream cheese? Bring it on.

Wendy always slept late; although she was enrolled in the University, you would never know it. Pam and I actually got up, dressed, and made our way to campus everyday, if only for a cup of coffee. Wendy preferred to sleep in, enjoy coffee and breakfast in her robe, and then get down to cross-stitching. She was a Leisure Studies major—there really is such a thing—so she could get away with this most of the time. She wanted to be a stewardess so she could cross-stitch all over the world.

While we had scrapped together real furniture for the living spaces, we lived at ground level in the bedrooms. If you had walked into my room with, say, one of those cones that dogs have to wear after surgery to keep them from licking wounds, and you could only look side to side, you would think the room was empty. I had a mattress on the floor, a wooden box for a nightstand, and milk crates to hold clothes and books. Nothing in the room was taller than two feet. When I sat on my bed it seemed like a rich life. We had hardwood floors, didn’t we?

Thanks for the memories, Facebook. I heart you.

Counting Crows -- Marcia

Sometimes when I panic about my inability to write at this time in my life, I think my muse has left me.

My friend Greta was the first person I ever met who loved crows. She likes them because they like glittery stuff and have been known to steal it. Greta is not a cleptomaniac, but she does have one of the best collections of vintage rhinestone jewelry I've ever seen.

Crows have been circling my house, cackling from trees, hopping off curbs, landing on playgrounds in front of me, and generally appearing at the oddest times, for the last two years.

I decided, several New Year's Days ago that the crows were trying to tell me something. What I've surmised is that they are trying to tell me to get busy. It's time to plumb the void, get writing and bring it all out into the light, and maybe I can have some rhinestones of my own.

Then the crows stopped coming. They were no longer calling to me. Had I missed my chance? Disrespected the message?

I took James to a Dia De Los Muertos shrine installation at the Briscoe Art Wing in Ashland the Sunday after Halloween.

There is something fascinating, humorous, reverent, and irreverent about the wonderful skeletons and shrines created in this tradition's name. I needed some of this that day.

The installation was horrible. It was less Oaxaca and more Way Out. And not even way out in a manner that was all that interesting. So much for skeletons smoking cigars and playing guitars. No little skeleton ladies of the evening under lamposts in green satin evening dresses. Boring with a big B. James pilfered a Hershey's kiss off of one of the "offerings" shrines and we headed for the playground.

That's when I saw these wonderful big plastic crows. They were mounted on wrought iron railings and festooned with rafia and grape vines. Marvelous Fu Dogs to the gates of the immortal. I mentally thanked whatever creative person with a good eye and a sense of rightness thought to fasten them there. I needed a visit from a crow, even if it was part Hekyl and Jekyl meets the Raven.

I pushed James on the swing, took pictures of myself trying to overcome my hatred of my own image, and snapped the gorgeous sap saturated light on the hills of Ashland. Then I sat on the swing next to my baby and reached for the stars. It felt good to fly.

Last week I bought a Smith-Corona "Coronette" circa 1976. Five bucks, St. Vincent de Paul's right before closing. I'm working on my short story "Skin Deep" again. A modern day fairy tale I enjoy dabbling in. The pages are coming. Let's see if the crows come back.

I'm listening.

K-Falls 11/10/08 --Kerry

Last night I drove my friend's 19 year-old German niece, Golda, to Klamath Falls so she could catch the 10:30 p.m. night train to San Francisco.

It's a long way from Nuremburg to K-Falls I thought to myself as a monster truck roared by us and I spotted yet another coffee drive through; two items I'm sure aren't proliferating in Germany at the same rate as they are here.

By the time the train arrived at 11:15 p.m. Golda was exhausted and so was I. The Lake of the Woods summit on the road home was already frozen over so I opted for the Shilo inn, much to the chagrin of my children and my husband, who grudgingly relinquished me.

I spent the next eight hours sleeping uninterupted and alone in a quiet, dark room. A blissful hour and a half silent ride back to Ashland through the glorious fall birches capped the whole odyssey where my mind contently percolated new story ideas and new thoughts.

When I am yanked out of my routine for a day here or there I notice that my mind quiets, my inner voice starts to gets louder, or maybe I just listen to it more.
Never underestimate a drive to K-Falls.

Ode to Democracy -- Jennie

Is America a great country, or what?

Whenever I get a ration of crap for supporting gay rights (like I did yesterday), I celebrate. Really.

When a friend of mine received an email, warning her that if she voted for Obama, she’d be answering to Christ Himself, I rejoiced.

Conservatives. Liberals. Freedom of speech is alive and well.

America may be young, but she’s not without an opinion, or without an opinion to contradict that.

Where else in the world can you vent openly—vehemently, even—with your mail carrier about the Wall Street Bailout?

Where else are motormouths like John Stewart and Bill O’Reilly not only tolerated, but idolized?

Where else is a (hilarious) blockbuster made about the president—while he’s still in office?

Where the third runner up contender for Miss Teen USA botches her interview so badly, she nets 31 million views on YouTube?

It’s November, the season of gratitude, perfect for counting our abundant freedoms. In America, we get to think what we want, and say what we want without getting our fingernails ripped off.

Gay rights?

Bring it on.

"Strange Magic" -- Julie

I've recently come under fire from a few extremely uptight middle school parents. These parents think their kids are extraterrestrially smart. And that I should be teaching extraterrestrial curriculum. But you see, I have also have students who fall out of their chairs during class and who sometimes don't know what class they are in. "It's Language Arts, honey. Do you see that short story you're reading?"

So you know what I did? I took a sick day.

Yesterday I received 138 two- to four-page drafts of writing -- stories, essays, poems -- and today I'm reading them. At home. In my p.j.s. Listening to ELO. And to the parents who say the expectations for my class are too low, I say, come on over and check out my dining room table. This outpouring of words and sentences and thoughts can only mean one thing: Something good has been going on in Language Arts this year. And once I give students all of my feedback, based on my 20 years of reading, writing, writing groups, and teaching, all these writers, those who stay in their chairs and those who cannot, will face the arduous task of revision. They will ask me for ideas about sensory detail; they will stick our their tongues as they try to punctuate dialogue correctly; they will ask me what a better word for "fun" is; and they will all produce final drafts that are better, tighter, livlier. It may not be extraterrestrial, but it's hard. And worthwhile.

In a Parallel Universe, What Would Be On Your Business Card?

For the first book I’m publishing with Flux, I needed a phrase translated into Latin. In the original draft I used some free online Latin translation site just to have something to work with. As I revise I’m trying to tie up all lose ends, so my friend Blue hooked me up with her old professor of Classics. He responded today with two elegant options, neither of which was even close to my hacked up guess, and my first reaction was, “I want to be him.”

So, I can add Professor of Classics to my list of things I’d like to be in a parallel universe. Others on the list are architect, Elle McPherson, food and travel writer a la M.F.K. Fisher, Tibetan Hermit, and archaeologist (specifically the archaeologist who discovered what the Antikythera device really did).

So, if you could snap your fingers and be ANYTHING else, what would you be?

I Pledge Allegiance--Marcia

In my classroom we still say the Pledge of Allegiance. Most of the time our kindergartners have never heard it before, don't have any idea what it's for, and barely realize they live in a "country". They live in their house, apartment, trailer, or motel, or worse. Country is way too big of a concept. Still we say the pledge and then sing a little flag song.

In the last few weeks a couple of our boys have been goofing off during The Pledge. They've been using Daffy Duck voices, saying it really fast, or using gibberish. I've held my tongue (unusual for me) but something in me rankled.

The feeling was more than just my school marmish, etiquette prone, manner-monster insistense on good behavior. I was insulted. Treat the flag with respect. I wanted a pencil thin skirt, a trip back in time, and a good ruler to smack them with.

Where did this come from ? I wondered about myself. Messages ran through my head: Don't you know hundreds of thousands of people have died for this thing? Do you know it's a crime to drop it. You can go to jail for burning it!

I did tons of flag ceremonies in Girl Scouts. Our hands shook, beads of sweat popped out on our pudgy brows lest we let it touch the ground or drop it while folding it into its tight puffy triangle.

When we invaded Iraq, I very seriously told my husband that I no longer wanted to be an American. Maybe it was time to leave this country. I felt this way for a long time. I know others felt the same.

When John Kerry ran for president and was derided for wearing the flag on his lapel, again I was insulted. Who said the flag belongs only to Republicans and "Christians"? I am a patriot. I want a thriving America. I don't think that being an activist makes me un-American. I stood in Vogel Park for the first gathering of Women In Black. I marched on Washington. I protested my own college graduation (!). I know, that was a little much (I might've been under the sway of a socialist). My family has fought for the freedoms of this country. Both sides of my family have a long and lauded military history. And I am getting very serious about my flag.

My children have been saying things like, "Patrick Bleeker's voting for McCain!, Tara's voting for McCain!, or We hate McCain." And then I have to explain--first off, Tara and Patrick can't vote, they're only in the fourth grade. Secondly, it's okay for them to vote for McCain, and it's okay for you to still be friends with them. You can be friends with people whose ideas and values are different from your own. That's the whole point of being American. We are free to choose. We are free to dissent.

And we do not hate McCain. I've had to say this a couple of times. I find myself saying this more than once yesterday. Both of these men want the best for our country. None of them wishes us ill. I've heard the scared talk about O'Bama--listened to Michael Savage and Rush. We are not going to lose our property and be taxed to death. Most of us have already lost all our property and been taxed to death. And then when we were left homeless and broke and audited, and suffering from stress, dementia, and high blood pressure, were unable to get the healthcare we needed to survive the struggle.

I tell my sons that McCain is a good man--do not get caught up in all of this and start hating.

Then they heard him speak. Not the crap he's been saying on the campaign trail, not the thumbs up, pained-grin jingoisms of the last year--they heard him speak as a patriot. He showed himself a leader who deserved to run for president. He spoke about continuing to strive to bring this country together and pledged his allegiance to his country and his new president.

We were moved. I had tears in my eyes.

Daniel said, "I feel sad for him."

"He's not sad, honey. He's tired and going on vacation."

When my kindergartners started acting up before the Pledge yesterday, poking each other, spinning around on the carpet, putting various body parts over their hearts . . . I turned and said, "Not today. Today is a very important day. It's election day, and we need to show respect for our flag and respect for our country."

Today is a new day. It is going to take all of us--for generations to come--to pull out of this. My country tis of thee . . . I pledge allegiance.

I'm going out to hang my flag.

Crazy Dichotomy --Kerry

Tuesday, November 4th, 2009

Today marks a historic presidential race in which the first African American man will become president of the United States or a woman will become vice-president. (Although I honestly think at this point may the best qualified candidate win and you know who I'm talking about).

Globally, the world is watching, all eyes on our country today to see if we will slide into mediocrity with our election, or worse, more war; or break through racial barriers and elect Barack Obama. The dam is about to burst in our country, and may we all ride the tide to more peace and prosperity with the hope this historic election may bring.

Because I still believe in this world and this country. It's a little bit crazy, like myself, or as Christy might say, it's own brand of crazy. And that craziness gives me hope. Tina Fey is free to satire Sarah Pallin on Saturday night live. John McCain appears on the same show and makes fun of himself. And while I've never been a gun-totin' flag wavin' rightie I do still appreciate the power of free speech and the ability that we still have in this country to stand in the same room with each other and kill each other with words instead of bombs.

I'm also free to talk to my children about birth control and making love and love in general without going to jail.

So today I'm pinning my hopes that just a little bit of crazy will happen today, because there's only a short distance between crying and laughing, and I'd like to do a little bit of both as I reflect on the sad/happy craziness of it all.

Buddhists say we live in between two contrasts at the same time - light and dark, black and white.

Here's to the dichotomy.

Lennon's Vision -- Jennie

The Oregon Cabaret Theater bustled Halloween night with “A Brief History Of White Music,” as three young African Americans infused Elvis, the Beach Boys, and the Beatles with gospel, blues, and even reggae.

The full house wondered “Who Put the Bomp?” and went “Downtown.” It was a toe-tapping, thigh-slapping, sing-along-time.

Until the second-to-last song.

The music stopped, the stage went dark, and one sad, sultry voice crooned, “Imagine there’s no heaven…”

The audience stood up. It stood up and wept.


One foggy December morning when I was nine, my grandmother and I drove through San Francisco. I don’t remember where we were going, but I’ll never forget Grandma pulling to the side of Noriega Avenue, in shock over John Lennon’s sudden death.

It was the first time I’d ever seen her cry.


Almost three decades later, people are still crying, not so much now over the loss of the legend, but more, perhaps, over his call for peace and its shrinking possibility.

With the War in Iraq, consumerism and plunging economy, global poverty, religious intolerance, and an orphaned environment, the world is further from Lennon’s dream than ever.

If he were crushed over the state of things then, he’d be devastated now.

The Cabaret audience felt it for him. There was a sixty-something year-old man, standing with folded arms and misty glasses. There was a wide-eyed preschooler, born after the War began, who has not lived one single day of peace in America. We wanted to “imagine,” but it was hard.

This song was a call to keep trying.

Here is what I know: two years ago in New York City, I pointed out The Dakota to my kids: Lennon’s house, the place where he was shot. Torches burn by the door. They burn, despite wind, and rain, and vandals.