It’s all over but the shouting…

And there will be plenty of that. It’s no surprise that 82-year-old Clint Eastwood blurting stupid nothings to an empty chair was a not a big hit to the Republican party faithful. Speaking of faithful, what did all those white folks think of Eastwood channeling “Go f*** yourself” to the imaginary Romney. Couldn’t have been good.

Since the vapid Republican confab, Obama’s chances of winning the Nov. 6 election have been steadily rising, predicts Nate Silver of 538.com. I didn’t explain clearly enough in “Arizona Goes Purple” that Silver is an expert statistician. He digests all the polls and bases his predictions on probability.

Then there’s the powerful political adage: “Don’t change horses in midstream.” Incumbents usually win elections; political scientists know that. But there’s the poor economy with job creation not being as hefty in August as we had hoped.

Bill Clinton’s speech — the best political performance this year — presented the clearest argument for staying the course with President Obama.  He’s made progress. His opponents’ warped policies, which haven’t been fully explained or are always changing, would drive us into deeper economic trouble. The Republicans say they’ll make cuts to reduce the deficit, but won’t say what they’ll cut. It’s all a big mishmash of anything that will help rich folks accumulate bigger fortunes.

Republicans will spend billions of dollars to blanket the land with false advertising about Obama’s policies in the next two months. They will make voting more difficult for minorities who trend Democratic, with complicated new state ID laws. But I don’t believe their empty-chair politics will work.

The economy will not be the determining factor in this election. Obama  consistently scores higher on polls than Romney in “likability.” It’s more than likability. It’s authenticity and trust that will win the election for Obama.

On to the first presidential debate Oct. 3! I can’t wait.

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Arizona goes purple

Maybe I’m a little naive about politics. I’m an optimist. Genius political statistician Nate Silver calls Arizona for Romney by a whopping 89 percent; at the same time Arizona keeps getting less red on his state-by-state map.

Then there’s Democrat Richard Carmona, the former U.S. surgeon general running for Kyl’s Senate seat. Carmona’s Puerto Rican background may bring out Hispanic voters, who have been battered by Arizona Governor Jan Brewer and the discriminatory prospects of SB 1070.

If that happens, I believe that Obama will pick up votes on Carmona’s coattails. Not that Arizona will go blue, but I’d like to see dark blue designating Democratic strongholds when the New York Times posts its U.S. voting map by county after the election, making us Arizona Democrats feel like our votes count.

In 2000, two years before I moved to Tucson, I pinned that presidential election map on my classroom billboard at Mt. Desert Island High School. Pima County was dark blue, having gone for Gore by a decent margin. I could live there, I remember thinking.

I also recall pre-president, pre senator Barack Obama’s electrifying keynote speech at the 2004 Democratic Convention. “We’re not a liberal America and a conservative America; we’re the United States of America,” he said.

I’m all for a purple America.

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Altar boy gone bad. Goldwaters endorse Democrat.

I’m a political junkie. I can’t wait to see all the colorful faces at the Democratic National Convention starting Tuesday, people of all ages in silly hats, whooping it up, dancing in the aisles.

Nice people are talking about how handsome Paul Ryan is. A former altar boy with unblinking ice-blue eyes, don’t you wonder what he would do if his wife became pregnant and had a life-threatening illness exacerbated by pregnancy? To Ryan, “the method of conception” doesn’t matter. He won’t condone abortion exceptions to save the life of the mother, or from impregnation resulting from rape or incest.

Would he let his life die, if it came to that? Would he give up his political career to stay home with his three beautiful live children? Would he hire a nanny and leave them without their mother? Start dating? Who would want to be married to this guy, regardless of his good looks?

When political extremists like Ryan  themselves experience what they so stridently believe, they somehow change their tune. Did Dick Cheney rant about the horrors of homosexuality? Nope, because his daughter’s a lesbian!

And why do we all have to believe what right-wing, evangelical extremists believe? I was clearly not a Barry Goldwater fan, but his family members say he was a proponent of real liberty.  Joanne Goldwater, the oldest daughter of the late senator/1964 Republican presidential nominee, along with other members of  the Goldwater family, have endorsed Arizona Democrat Richard Carmona for the U.S. Senate.

Some of their comments from a Carmona press release, reported in Arizona newspapers:

“There’s no doubt that my dad viewed himself as a conservative, but he put serving Arizona over serving any ideology. I don’t see the same from Congressman Jeff Flake. Congressman Flake has tried to claim the ‘conservative’ mantel, but my dad’s brand of conservatism is not reflected by Flake or the modern-day Republican Party,” said Joanne Goldwater.

Granddaughter CC Goldwater said, “Conservatives insist they believe in freedom, as long as it’s not a woman’s freedom to make her own health choices. Congressman Flake has voted to defund Planned Parenthood, block access to contraception and even partnered with Congressman Todd Akin on a bill attempting to redefine rape.”

“Our family has always believed in equality for all Arizonans,” said Ty Goldwater. “My grandfather believed that no matter your race, ethnicity or sexual orientation, you’re no less deserving of your full constitutional rights. We need Arizona’s next Senator to be committed to the same set of beliefs.”

Today’s Republican extremists aren’t true conservatives, which reminds me of my one outspoken conservative student at Mount Desert Island High School. It’s his birthday today:  “If I’m in favor of the sanctity of all life and am opposed to abortion, I must also be opposed to capital punishment,” he said. Makes sense, don’t you think?

And ok, I’ll admit it. I’m glad George Clooney is a Democrat.

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Barack Obama Cares

“We watched his inauguration with tears streaming down our faces.  Barack Obama was the first African-American president. Raised by a single mother, he struggled to find his identity: Read “Dreams From My Father.” He was smart, he could write and he spoke in complete sentences.

The more I read about our president the more I like him. In 2004, I strolled down the street with him following his electrifying keynote address to the Democratic Convention in Boston. “Who is this guy?” I asked everyone. Soon everyone was asking. There was hope for a president who would be beholden to the American people, not the Koch brothers.

Then in 2010 came the devastating U.S. Supreme Court decision Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission which allowed “political speech” reflected by millions of dollars in campaign donations through “Super Pacs.” Super-rich Democrats have hesitated to put their money where their mouths are. It’s undemocratic, many say.

Why is a super-rich person’s free speech worth so much more than 99 percent of us? “The Obama people were tutored in the context of small money. They saw the big money as corrupt,” wrote one Democratic strategist. Obama’s 2008 campaign set the bar for raising money through the Internet, appealing to ordinary people like you and  me.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve clicked on the “Donate $3” to the Obama campaign button during this campaign. Ok, part of the deal is that a donation enters me into a contest to win a free trip to the Democratic Convention in Charlotte, N.C., or a dinner with Barack and Michelle.

But it’s much more than that. I keep checking Nate Silver’s 538.com to remind myself that the super-accurate non-political statistician predicts that Obama has a 70 percent chance of winning.

I’m an optimist but I fear for our country, perhaps more than ever before, if Obama doesn’t win a second term. I believe that quiet, reasonable people will vote rationally. But still. This summer, driving by a tiny house with a disheveled yard in Bass Harbor, Maine, I was aghast at the Romney signs. What the hell did these people think Romney would do for them?

Obama cares. “Working as a community organizer in a struggling Chicago neighborhood, a young Barack Obama concluded that to make a real difference, he needed to gain political power” (NYTimes Magazine, Aug. 19, 2012). That’s why he went to Harvard Law School; that’s why he went into politics in the first place.

William Julius Wilson, a Harvard sociologist, has noted that “Obama had done more for lower-income Americans than any president since Lyndon Johnson.” And that’s with a do-nothing Congress.

Remember Obama’s superb speech on race during the 2008 presidential campaign? He had hoped that the American people could work together, which he expressed in his 2004 keynote convention speech and during the 2008 presidential campaign. But since day one of his presidency he’s been thwarted by those — many of whom I believe are deep-down racists — who will do anything to defeat him.

So here’s the choice: a shameful Romney pandering to the basest greed and selfishness of the super-rich, or the reelection of a president who’s always worked for the betterment of us all.

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Birds of Paradise, part 2

Memories can be elusive, unlike flowers. In yesterday’s post I mentioned that my father, Sidney Edward Wilensky, was a florist. Guess I haven’t talked about him much, even to my closest friends. Maybe it’s because my father died in 1969, in what seems like another lifetime.

I’m sure my extrovert gene came from my dad (also my not-so-good businessperson gene). On a nice day Sid would stand in front of Cherry Hill Gardens chatting with everybody who walked by. He told corny jokes. He didn’t mark prices on plants, but changed the prices willy-nilly if he liked a customer.

My parents, Ida and Sid Wilensky, in front of Cherry Hill Gardens, in Waterbury, Conn., in the 1950s.

I come by my love of flowers honestly.   As a kid I didn’t know how much they would mean to me later in life. Those elusive memories surrounding my father the florist grew over the years.

 

 

 

 

The first time I saw flowering cacti in Tucson, 10 years ago, was a revelation. When it rains as it has lately, flowers burst forth, not caring if it’s spring and the “appropriate” time to bloom again.  Bright pink bougainvillaea can almost always be spotted around the city.

In our hood

Orange bird of paradise delivers color in the desert.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I can’t help myself. Almost every weekend I check out the plants at our local Home Depot. Even if they don’t survive in our tiny yard by the front door or in the atrium outside of our living room, I desperately want flowers to beautify our home.

 

 

 

Which reminds me of the upcoming presidential election. I desperately want our president to try his damndest to maintain a dwindling middle class and help the most vulnerable among us. Obama can do it with a little cooperation from a do-nothing Congress. We can only keep trying.

One showy flower is all it takes.

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Birds of Paradise, part 1

My father was a florist. Flowers meant work when I was little. I’d unwrap newspaper from poinsettia plants at Christmas and lilies at Easter. Hundreds of them protected from the Connecticut cold in a old livery-stable garage behind Cherry Hill Gardens.

Now I’m so strongly drawn to flowers that they’d be #1 on my list of what I’d miss if they were gone. Here’s my not-so-secret garden:

Rockefeller Gardens, Seal Harbor, Maine

In all my years living on Mount Desert Island I had never been to the Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Garden. Reservations had to be made months before for a two-hour visit to this usually private wonderland, scattered with Asian stone sculptures dating back more than 400 years. How did I miss this spot?

Stop and smell the roses…isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing as we grow older?

Another glorious place on the way out of Northeast Harbor is Thuya Garden. A bit less secret,  it’s always open to the public. There’s a couch at one end of the exquisite formal garden that promotes quiet, either sitting there myself or with a friend. How can I not be in awe?

On my way to the couch at Thuya Garden

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A poetic salad

Candice presiding over her kitchen

“Don’t worry Sheila, you’ll get to eat,” Candice tells me. We’re drinking tea in her kitchen, talking about relationships, writing, organic produce, Portugal, friendship, the world scene.

I’ve been back home in Tucson for a week. As always, my visit with Candice on Mount Desert Island — my other home — was loaded with words. As always, it was intense.

Candice is a poet. Words coincide with everything she does, even arranging a perfect salad.

Let’s go back to the beginning. Like all my  dear friends on Mount Desert Island, I met Candice at least 20 years ago. She came into Oz Books, and with typical Candice urgency, she asked, “Would you be interested in having a writing group in the bookstore?”

“Yes,” I answered immediately. Candice, a native Mainer, had just moved to the island.  It was winter. I remember because she was wearing a very large fur hat from China, where she taught for a few years in a previous life. “Oh how perfect!,” she exclaimed.

On July 26, the day of this summer’s visit, Candice has driven from Camden where she gave a poetry reading the night before. She’s ironing pillowcases when I get to her Somesville home surrounded by woods.

“Ironing calms me down,” she says. “I just walked through the door 45 minutes ago.” The phone rings, she zips around the house. She stops to show me the most gorgeous lettuce, which she bought in Belfast on her way home to the island.

Candice washes each lettuce leaf, then carefully creates layers separated by paper towels in a glass pan that she puts in the fridge to chill. We go for a walk at the nature preserve on Indian Pt. Road, looking for seals when we reach the water (instead the mosquitoes find us).

Back at her house, we sip white wine. She starts the process of preparing the salad. Two and a half hours later, we sit down with more wine, candles lit, looking out at her garden and the woods beyond.

Candice and I are both Geminis. She calls me her  Gemini sister. We talk on the phone regularly when I’m back in Tucson. “Real-time talking” is the only way Candice communicates, even with her students at the College of the Atlantic. “Don’t even think about emailing me,” she tells them.

When it’s time to go, she thanks me for carving out a visit. “I know how busy you are when you’re here, Sheila. You’re surfing all over the island.”

Then in her own surprising way, she starts singing “Everybody’s surfing now. C’mon, let’s go surfing now…Surfing Safari with me.” She makes me laugh. Makes me think.

“I think I’ll turn on Bruce Springsteen now, maybe dance,” says Candice, as I leave for another year. Even though I never know where poetry will take me, the best part of being with old friends is that I’ll always belong.

 

 

 

 

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Haddock that jumped off the boat onto my plate!

I’ve never blogged, posted, taken photos of food. Now is the time. The photo below may look jumbled but believe me, this was a plateful of really fresh food for last night’s island supper.  Can’t help stopping at the organic Beech Hill Farm whenever I drive by.

Last night’s supper complete with sauteed squash blossom (uncooked zucchini only for visual)

Tiny new red potatoes that could almost be eaten raw (maybe some folks do?), first tomatoes of the season, purple onions that glistened with freshness, and just-the-right-size zucchini. I’m told that squash blossoms are a delicacy. People go to Beech Hill Farm asking for just the blossoms. I was adventurous, sauteing one with my veggies for dinner. Edible, yes, but I’m not sure I’d call it a delicacy.

Dessert was a piece of blueberry-rhubarb pie concocted by the good ladies of the Somesville Meeting House church, “An Open and Affirming Congregation. A Just Church.” Every Wednesday at noon piles of boxed pies appear on a table by the church on Main Street in Somesville, wreaking havoc on the already turtlely slow traffic weaving through Mount Desert Island’s picturesque first village, which was established in 1761.

I meant to save the pie for Brook and Gian’s arrival tomorrow evening. How could I? I’ve been eating it for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Shared a piece with my friend Mary D., who immediately said “yes” when I told her the “just” church ladies made it. The most likely, lardy flaky crust, the right amount of unsickly sweetness, was a perfect match of stunningly blue blueberries and recently picked rhubarb. 

local blueberries!

I promise to get another pie on Wednesday. And did I say that I’m at the Common Good Cafe across from Seawall, the entrance to Acadia National Park on the quiet side of Mt. Desert Island? For a donation you can feast on popovers and strong coffee, gaze at the fabulous ocean view and be in technology land? I’m outa here. On my way to Wonderland…

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Wild as I am

This year’s wild blueberries lined my solitary walk around Little Long Pond in Seal Harbor yesterday. Today it’s fall on Mount Desert Island — not quite 70 degrees, breezy and gorgeous.

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A few nights ago, sipping rather large “wild” blueberry/raspberry vodka drinks with friends at the Claremont boat house, one of my favorite places on the island, I felt a little wild. Maybe my wacky outfit says it all — yup, see the purple patent leather shoes I snagged at Marden’s for $2.99? 

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Have you done anything “wild” this summer? Like beauty, “wild” is in the eye of the beholder. Take Cheryl Strayed’s new book, “Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail.” Hiking more than 1,000 miles alone appeals to me — in my imagination.

It took Strayed a lot longer to write the book than her six months on the trail more than 15 years ago, when she was 27. Trudging through ice and snow, carrying her humongous pack that she deemed “Monster” on her back, was a life-affirming accomplishment of the magnitude that often carries men who were soldiers through the years. Surpassing fear and surviving.

Although Strayed didn’t think she was well-organized, she was to me, thoroughly studying her guidebook, equipping herself with the proper tools and mailing new supplies to herself along the way. I was happy when she finally got the next size hiking boots. Jeez, her feet were a mess, but she kept on going. At one point she hiked in duct-tape booties!

I admire her discipline. What I admire even more was her choice to overcome fears along the way, not that she always succeeded. When the “Three Young Bucks” (hunky young guys) she befriended on the trail name her “The Queen of the PCT” because “people always want to give you things and do things for you.” Strayed realizes, “I had nothing but generosity to report.”

I like that. And at the end of her book she discovers that you may never know what you really learned until years later.

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Literacy above water!

Big Rock in Somes Pond

Somes Pond — named after the first settler of the village of Somesville on Mount Desert Island — has the most velvety water for cooling off on a hot day. It was 93 degrees here on Saturday. Downtown Southwest Harbor (due south of Somesville) looked like the storm of the century had hit. I saw one person walking around with an ice cream cone, checking out the dozen or so shops on Main Street. Otherwise the street was deserted.

There was no question where to go for a refreshing swim when my friend Martha called.   “Meet you there in 20 minutes,” I said. And we did. Grown-ups floating on rubber rafts and with foam noodles, kids with all sorts of water-play stuff, were splashing around close to the shore.

We swam off to the giant rock about 100 yards from the edge of the water. Martha and I are known for mischievous behavior, such as — ok, I’ll admit it — dunking ourselves in the Southwest Harbor town reservoir way before Mile Rock, which is permitted.

We’re women over 60, what can I say. On Saturday we were gliding along, delighted to cool off on such an unusually sticky day, giggling about how we were both wearing our old Keens. No stepping on jagged rocks for us, or worse yet, having our feet come into contact with an eel, leech or giant snapping turtle (Martha swore that happened to somebody she knew, But I didn’t believe her.)

Our silliness continued. About halfway to the rock, swimming toward us was a guy with a paperback book held in one hand. Astonishingly, the book was dry. The swimmer/reader alternated between reading his book and swimming with his head in the water, the book held high above him. Kind of like a submarine not fully submerged.

I had to know what he was reading. “Homeland,” by R.A. Salvatore, he told us.

“Must be a really good book,” said Martha. “Helps to pass the time,” he replied, swimming by with his book held high, smiling at us. What could two voracious readers do but smile back? And keep swimming.

 

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