Kurt Vonnegut says it all

That's right babies, "be Kind."

That’s right babies, “Be Kind.”

I’ve became a mini-patron of the arts. Here and there I pick up real artwork that adds to the personality of our home. I was in Houston visiting Ethan and Steph when we came across this comic-book style poster/print of Kurt Vonnegut’s well-known saying. I had to have it.

“Be Kind” is the ultimate advice to ourselves and our children. While I’m handing out advice, I’d add, try not to be paranoid or take everything personally, which I often do. This reminds me of a recent Stephen King quote on all the inane political accusations hurled around today: “Sometimes I wish they’d just grow up, shut up and go about the business of helping your fellow men and women.”

I’m a blurter. I appreciate when others just spit it out. How to be a blurter and remember to always “Be Kind?” The Vonnegut poster now hangs in our bedroom and I look at it every time I walk in the room, so  I’m working on it.

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Mysterious woman slinks through Topkapi palace

Who is she and why is she stopping in every room to get her picture taken?

Who is she and why is she stopping in every room to get her picture taken?

Wish I were a fiction writer. A mysterious woman poses in every room in Istanbul’s magnificent Topkapi palace. Click, click. A photographer follows her. I watch. She doesn’t change her expression, which is devoid of emotion. 

She’s a celebrity or a Turkish politician or a model. A cover story will appear in next month’s Vogue. And I won’t even know about it, although I followed her until I tired of guessing her identity.

I like to know what’s going on. A young mother from Staten Island was found dead in Istanbul the day that I left the city, returning to Tel Aviv to catch my flight home. A photojournalist, she had walked all the places I had walked alone at night. It was her first trip out of the United States and she was excited, her husband said.

She had stayed in a supposed “seedy part” of the city. She had written to a few men via the Internet before leaving home, unfortunately, on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. Quite a story. 

Apparently a homeless man who had sniffed glue “excessively” the day she was murdered was responsible for this hideous violence. There’s something odd about his confession, my friend Gail told me. The man wasn’t sure of how the killing took place. Seems like homeless people are often accused of crimes they didn’t do.

I want to know what really happened. Her husband reported there was no hanky-panky between his wife and the men she contacted online. Maybe that’s true. Maybe the real story is different. 

I make up stories all the time. Sometimes I wish I wrote fiction. But not very often. What I really like is asking questions. 

 

Posted in Journalism/Writing, The Rest of the World | Tagged , , , , , | 8 Comments

Moving forward into herstory…

Yes, I’m still basking in the afterglow of the Tucson Festival of Books. We celebrate the written word, ideas, stories at the festival. But lots of people do their celebrating  by listening to books on tape, or reading books on kindles, iPads, Nooks and other devices that allow them to download e-books and take off. 

I personally haven’t been a fan of audio books and I don’t have a reading device. I like to hold a book in my hands and turn the real pages. But that doesn’t mean other readers aren’t enjoying books as much in their own ways. 

We can’t stop history. To think we can is folly. 

Sharon, a friend of many years, commented on my last post about the joy of seeing so many book-lovers at the book festival this weekend, which is testimony to the future of books, however they’re read.

 The progress that women have made and the current retrogressive attacks we’re experiencing — you know, from those old white male politicians who don’t know the definition of rape and don’t want women to have control of their own bodies — is shocking. Women must speak out, which means the use of social media.

 To disregard Facebook, texting, tweeting and other online ways of communicating I haven’t tried yet, is also folly. I love Facebook; it’s an effective way to voice your thoughts to as many people as you choose, and to find out what your “friends” are thinking.  Although I don’t pay much attention to Twitter I check it out every once in a while. 

Sure, the Internet is intrusive, can take up too much time, foists unwanted advertising on us, but it’s a phenomenal way to learn about the world. No old reference librarians shushing us. The reference library is now at our fingertips. 

And texting? I figured it wasn’t for me. But I learned.  Does it help me make appointments, let people know where I am, where to meet and allow me to quickly ask a question, like do we need more eggs, is texting my friend? Totally.

Does it irk me when I see a lovely young couple out to dinner, looking down at their phones, thumbs going a mile a minute? Sure. But we have a choice how we use these new tools. We must speak out using every tool we have. That works for me.

 

 

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Hanging out at the Tucson Festival of Books

You know how certain subjects help organize periods of your life, like who your boyfriend was, what kind of car you drove or places you’ve lived?

Now that the Tucson Festival of Books is in its fifth year it has a history for me.

I don’t remember the first year of the festival. The second year, my friend Phyl, who teaches at the University of Maine, was here. The next year my friend Martha Dudman, who wrote “Black Olives” and “Augusta, Gone,” was here for a panel I set up on the ’60s.

Last year, my daughter, Brook Wilensky-Lanford, author of “Paradise Lust: Searching for the Garden of Eden,” was here. Of course, I was bursting with pride.

(Did I say that I’ve been on the author committee for the past three years?)

This year I invited Mazie Hough, a historian from the University of Maine, who spoke on a terrific panel, “Pregnancy, Birth and Choice Across Cultures,” along with historican Mary Melcher and University of Arizona professor Patrisia Gonzales.

My friend Gwen, who’s also on the author committee, came up with the panel idea. We were faced with the onslaught on reproductive rights during the presidential campaign. Very scary stuff. (You remember the Republican rape buffoons, who didn’t understand the definition of rape.)

Today I thought about a woman in her 90s whom I recently interviewed and asked about how — as a feminist and sociologist — she saw her life. “I can’t believe we’re still arguing about contraception and abortion,” she said. “Didn’t we already fight those battles?”

Today I couldn’t get angry about retrogressive history. The festival has been such an enormous success. It’s become the fourth largest book festival in the country in a very short time; last year 120,000 people attended in two days.

I’ve heard people ask, “Who knew there were so many book-lovers in Tucson?”

Many pundits say books are dead but it’s hard to believe, looking at the lines waiting to get into panels at the festival. I was five minutes early for a session with Douglas Brinkley, a historian from Rice University who wrote “Cronkite,” an acclaimed biography of the once most trusted man in America.

There was already a sign posted on the door: “Session full.” The volunteer told me the room was packed with 300 people. That makes me happy.

All I could think of was how incredibly wonderful it is to be surrounded by so many people who love books — itching to be writers themselves, listening to authors, learning more about the world.

 

Posted in For Love of History, Tucson Festival of Books/good books | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

“You must be a good mother…”

Standing in front of Ataturk's statue after luxuriating in a Turkish hamam, my last night in Istanbul.

Standing in front of Ataturk’s statue after luxuriating in a Turkish hamam, my last night in Istanbul.

What else could I say to a Turkish hamam matron scrubbing me with bubble bath? But I’m getting ahead of myself. My Tucsonan/Istanbul friend Gail suggested it: “Would you like to go to the Cemberlitas Hamami the night before you fly home? They’re having a special.”

“Sounds perfect,” I replied. And it was.

Tucked away on a busy Istanbul street, across from a mosque hundreds of years old, near both a MacDonald’s and a Burger King, I found it. There was no way of knowing that the heavy doors next door to an  outdoor stand squeezing fresh pomegranate juice would lead downstairs to a 15th century Turkish bath.

After putting my clothes in a locker, I wrapped myself in what seemed like a big cotton dish towel and went out to the common room.  A dark-haired, short woman in a flowered cotton housedress — like my mother wore in the ’50s — greeted me.

A number was pinned to her dress. I asked her name. I think it was Ulsa, but I couldn’t tell because she didn’t speak much English.

We entered a chamber into another world. In the center was a giant marble slab, covered with half-naked women of all sizes. In a moment I was one of them. Ulsa had pulled the dish towel off me. “Lie down,” she said.

I did what I was told. Next she poured a bowl of warm water over me. She left. I saw Gail waving to me from her spot across the slab. I couldn’t really relax, not knowing what would happen next. Around 15 minutes later Ulsa reappeared — unabashed — in a bikini that barely covered her plump body.

More warm water poured over me.  Mounds of  bubble bath somehow appeared over the front of my body. Ulsa donned her scrubbing mitt and went to work, flipping me over, this way and that, as she did her job.

Somewhere along the way she started to sing a lullaby. I figured she was singing to me. I smiled at her and said, “You must be a good mother.” She smiled back. I was ready to go home.

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Capt. Bunker speaks the truth

You never know where you may learn something. Something important. History. Statistics. Some new food you want to try. U.S. Coast Guard facts.

A Tucson morning walk is the perfect time to gather information by phone. No wasted steps. This morning I was trying to find out if one of my hometown mailboats in Southwest Harbor, Maine, could ferry people from behind our house on Shore Road to the Causeway Club near Somes Sound.

I called Capt. Bunker of the long-time toting-folks-by-boat Beal and Bunker ferry service.

“How many passengers?” he asked.

“Well, I’m not sure yet,” I replied.

“I’ll tell you why I’m asking,” he said. “Our biggest boat used to carry 40 people. But the new Coast Guard regulations made us change that to 36. Seems like people weigh more now.”

Really. Capt. Bunker speaks the truth.

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In Tel Aviv eating Turkish delight

Really, it’s all about the food. I’ve probably gained 10 pounds on my trip to Israel and Istanbul to prove it. Bags of tiny nougat squares of Turkish delight filled with pistachios, walnuts, pomegranate seeds, you name it. Forget about almonds, my usual healthy nibble. But let’s start at the beginning. Maybe you’ll understand that there’s no turning back in countries where tradition and hospitality begin with “Israeli breakfast” and end with small glasses of strong tea set in tiny flowery saucers.

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Breakfast in Israeli hotels could easily substitute for a wedding buffet: lox that goes down like silk, at least four other kinds of smoked fish, even more kinds of yogurt freshly made, gleaming in white bowls and a whole counter of scrumptious cheeses.

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Not to mention the rugelach ribboned with chocolate and other tender, flaky pastries. But when you’re talking tender, flaky — add buttery — pastries, nothing beats the world’s best baklava.

First fly north from Israel over the Mediterranean to Istanbul. My friend Gail warned me that I couldn’t eat just one piece. The old world charm of Karakoy Gulluoglu made me do it. Three pieces of baklava!

photo-87

Here’s the big surprise: Neither Israel nor Istanbul have good coffee. Fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice is plentiful in both places. I drank plenty of it.

Fortunately, both destinations had decent chocolate, which appeared most often in rich Israeli desserts.

Which I ate. My American Jewish Press Association colleagues and I were superbly wined and dined by our generous hosts, the Israeli Ministry of Tourism.

I wanted to connect with people and probably overdid “please” and “thank you” in Hebrew and Turkish. I believe in the benefits of chatting, without the complications of government and politics (more about those topics in future posts and articles).

I must have looked afraid in a colorful spice/tea shop in Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar. Young Osman — an English teacher and the best salesman I’ve ever met — sold me $40 worth of Turkish spices (like I cook), gorgeous dried flowers for tea that will help cholesterol and coughs, made me laugh and served me pomegranate tea.

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“You know, I’m not your enemy,” he said, after I was drawn into the shop. That stop was one of my favorite of the entire trip.

I’ve been in Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion airport for around eight hours, and still have five to go before boarding my El Al flight to Newark, with another nine hours to get back to Dan and Tucson at 6:35 p.m. Monday night (don’t ask).

So dear readers, toda raba (thank you in Hebrew) and tesekkur ederim (thank you in Turkish)  for following this flaky post.  I’m going to look for chocolate.

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We’re from New Yohk

Being able to walk on cool sunny Tucson mornings without slipping on ice is a miracle for this New Englander. Back east there’s snow and more snow, a friend was sandwiched between two storms unable to fly west from Massachusetts.

Some folks come to Tucson for the winter (aka snowbirds). Some Orthodox Jews also fly west from eastern U.S. cities. We were on our early morning stroll a few days ago,  returning home from a coffee-walk to our neighborhood Starbuck’s.

There they were trying to cross the busy street at Country Club and 8th. A wobbling, frum (religious) older woman in serviceable shoes, all in black from head to toe except for her short red wig. Her husband, also in black, was decked out in a flat-topped  satin-covered hat, old-fashioned wool topcoat and sported a scraggly white beard.

They’re here, I said to Dan. The foreign east-coast couple had stopped a bicyclist but he soon rode away. Clearly anxious by the time we got to them, the woman asked, “How do you get across this street?”

“Well you have to wait for a lull in the traffic,” Dan said. They didn’t know where they were going so Dan took out his handy-dandy iPhone and found the address of the synagogue they were looking for. The man stood back from our worldly conversation, too steeped in Talmudic learning to deal with the practical, I imagined. Or maybe he didn’t want to get too close to a woman — one with purple streaks in her hair.

His wife was all over it. Since I was familiar with Congregation Young Israel from work, she asked, “Are you Jewish?”

“Yes,” I said, and gave her my usual rap, how I’m not religious but am the associate editor of the local Jewish newspaper. And I’m going to Israel in three weeks on a press trip. “Is this your first time?” she wanted to know.

“Do you live in Tucson?” She was curious, and she didn’t mind that I wasn’t religious. At least I was Jewish. “Yes, we live right there,” I pointed to our house across the street.

“This is our first time here,” she said, leaning in and confiding, “We’re from New Yohk.”

“Really?” I wanted to say but maintained my politeness, maybe realizing that soon I’ll be a stranger in a strange land.

Posted in Bopping Around Tucson, The Rest of the World | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

Welcoming 2013

photo-64Life keeps turning. But there’s still so much I don’t know. Why does this Christmas cactus bloom at the same time every year?

Where do our memories go when we grow old? Dan’s father says the worst thing about being 88 is that “my memory is shot.”

Yesterday we spent the afternoon with Dan’s  parents. Did some grocery shopping for them at the Safeway where Gabby Giffords and  12 others were gunned down nearly two years ago. Put a damper on the new year but today that experience has whooshed by. Just like 2012. Just like the past 40 or 50 years.

Here’s how 2012 flew by: My hair turns back to gray with purple streaks, Brook and Gian become engaged, Ethan moves forward in the second year of his Ph.D. program at Rice,  Dan loses weight while I seem to take on his lost pounds — same goes for cholesterol, I’m inspired by my 101-year-old friend Brownie, I become pen pals with Noam Chomsky, Brook and Gian arrive for a lovely visit and her gig promoting “Paradise Lust: Searching for the Garden of Eden” (NYT Book Review Editor’s Choice twice) at the March Tucson Festival of Books,  Julie and I continue our inspiring walktalks 2-3 times a week in El Encanto hood.

The beauty of Mt. Desert Island never ceases to amaze — this year it’s the Rockefeller Gardens. Besides having Brook and Gian at our house for a week and having a yummy engagement dinner at Fiddler’s Green, I visit with 40 friends. No visit with my dear friend Ashley Bryan on Islesford this year but I’m lucky to find the best winter renter, a scientist who relocated from San Diego.

Back to Tucson in August — I’m happy to receive a Poets & Writers magazine grant to conduct writing workshops at Our Place Clubhouse/Cafe 54. It’s all about creating a chapbook to help reduce the stigma of mental illness. We end up in a Tucson Weekly feature story — thanks to Mari Herraras — and on KVOA TV. With more to come…

Dan and I start checking out ethnic restaurants around Tucson with our fine-dining friends Bruce and Judy, from Cafe D’esta to Caruso’s to Kimchi Time (probably our favorite).

Began collecting Social Security! It’s the best! Going to a financial advisor who lives in Tucson but was recommended by Maine friends is also a step forward monetarily.

Over-the-top obsessed with the presidential election. No kidding. I kept pressing the “donate $3” button for a total of nearly $200. Anything to keep clueless Mitt Romney out of the White House. If only we could get the do-nothing Republicans out of the House.

Favorite books read: “Wild” by cheryl Strayed, “When We Were the Kennedys” by Monica Wood, “Elsewhere” by Richard Russo, “The Son” by Lois Lowry, “Orange is the New Black” by Piper Kerman, “Truth & Beauty” by Ann Patchett, “Incognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain” by David Eagleman. I like true stuff.

Posted in Bopping Around Tucson, Family Matters, Mount Desert Island/Maine | Tagged , , , , , , | 9 Comments

An Ordinary Day

photo-62We chose an ordinary plant for our mini-holiday tree. This morning we strolled over  to our local Starbuck’s in the Tucson sunshine. I wanted scones and coffee for a holiday breakfast on an ordinary day. None of the usual suspects were hanging out. It was nice enough to sit outdoors, chatting ourselves about how nice it was.

I like ordinary days. They’re the best. Nothing makes me happier than knowing my kids are together for the holiday, just hanging out in Jersey City. It’s occurred to me that some people don’t have ordinary days.

Take deranged mass shooters. For some reason their lives have gone awry. They’re alone in a bad way, not in a quiet introverted way. For whatever reason they crave more attention than they’ve received in life and they’re pissed off because they didn’t get it.

To the extent that the media believes “if it bleeds it leads,” a mass shooter finally receives the attention he desires — even if he’s dead. Consider the suicide bomber who believes he’s going to heaven or at least a better place than where he lives in real life. That’s a problem for all of us, especially if we believe we’re all in this together.

As Andrew Solomon wrote in this Sunday’s NYT that “people are unknowable.” That may be true, but my theory is simpler than that.  Mass shooters don’t have “ordinary days,” which may include connection to others, feeling worthwhile, hope that the next moment may get better. Seems we human beans need at least one.

photo-63Sunday I drove out to Douglas Spring Trail in the Rincon Mountains. Strolling along, happy to be in nature,  I started humming. A few sparkly young girls, one wearing pink sequined sneakers, ran down the path toward me.

“Happy Holidays,” the girls called out, giggling as they soared by.

I wish everyone an ordinary day, when the sun still shines, when you can walk safely in your neighborhood, when you love and are loved.

Posted in Bopping Around Tucson, Family Matters, Nature Girl | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments