“The Joy of Quiet” in the desert

I keep forgetting how much I love hiking in the desert. Every new year I vow to get out there at least once a week. But I don’t. I forget. My favorite part of hiking — houses out of view, feeling like a pioneer in Tucson. Crunching desert dirt under my feet the only sound except for birds chirping. Today the Rincons, Douglas Spring Trail to Wild Horse Trail, around four or five miles on a gorgeous 77-degree day. The perfect start to 2012.

Reading “The Joy of Quiet”  in yesterday’s NYT egged me on. I was struck by a remark attributed to French philosopher Blaise Pascal who lived in the 17th century:  “All of  man’s problems come from his inability to sit in a room alone.” Wow. Head to the hills. This afternoon I sat on a rock, with nobody around, and felt like a puppet. I could resist the strings trying to pull me up to be on my way or focus on the lovely quiet.

Being in nature feeds me, sustains me as much as chocolate. Gotta do it more.

Posted in Nature Girl | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

The year I went gray but still wore sequins

On the eve of 2012 it’s okay to eat as much chocolate as I want. Alternating between the raspberry and ginger dark chocolate that Dan presented me with on Christmas morning, that’s how the day is — one bite in the past and another that’s more zesty.

Raspberry: Subtle. Fading memories of arriving in Tucson on Jan. 1, 2000 to teach for a semester at Catalina Foothills H.S.  Raspberry spring. Arab spring, all the turmoil but hope for a new beginning in oppressed places. A hidden raspberry purple streak in my hair. A tragedy in Tucson almost a year ago. I’ll be in Houston with Ethan in his new life, celebrating his 31st birthday. Always hopeful about the future. Have to be when you have children.

Ginger: more pizazz, looking ahead to new adventures. Social Security this year — venture out into the world or be more practical, save for quiet within. (maybe some of both?) I’ll wear my sequined gray sweater tonight for dinner with friends. They’re going to grill steak and lobster tails — first time I’ve ever eaten lobster outside of Maine — but I’m told it was flown in from Maine (like me). Celebrating the incoming 2012 like the 1 percent, in the Foothills overlooking the twinkly city lights.

Here’s to chocolate and champagne, children and friends, books and bikes, health and happiness, raspberry and ginger, equality and justice for all!

 

Posted in Baby Boomers, For Love of History | Tagged , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Stephen King is a good guy

I’m reading my first Stephen King novel, 11/22/63. With my holiday gift certificate “burning a hole” in my sequined backpack, I biked to Antigone Books today as soon I found out they were open. After years of avoiding King’s scary stuff, “11/22/63” was different.

Fifteen years ago, when I owned OZ Children’s Bookstore in Southwest Harbor, Maine,  King lived in Bangor (still does), an hour’s drive down the road. Kids would come in the store looking for “Carrie” or “The Shining,” and we would try to point them to less horrific tales.

I finally wrote to King, commending him for major contributions to pediatric wings in Maine hospitals, his unending support of little league baseball fields, and other civic-minded ventures. But I said I couldn’t, in good conscience, sell his books to kids. They could check them out of the library; I didn’t support censorship.

King wrote back, sending a signed copy of “The Eyes of the Dragon.” His then 13-year-old daughter was too scared to read his books too, he said, and he wrote the fantasy for her. We sold the hell out of it.

One election year, King, a loyal Democrat, recorded one of those robo-calls that I hate. But I didn’t complain because he was so cheerful, ending the message with “Go Red Sox.”

When my niece, now in her early 40s, attended college in New York, King’s son was a fellow student. He would go through the dorms announcing that his dad was sending their private plane to pick him up for vacation; anybody who needed a “ride” home to Maine was welcome.

Lately, King has been contributing/raising money for low-income Mainers whose heating costs have skyrocketed while state assistance has been drastically cut. My favorite story about the Kings’ generosity goes back some years to the Bangor Public Library’s fundraising campaign for major expansion. King’s wife, Tabitha, gave about $1.8 million to the effort.

Her comment: I don’t consider this a donation; I consider it a debt repaid. Anyone who loved to read as a way of surviving those long, frigid Maine winters can appreciate her sentiment.

Stephen King and I are around the same age. We were teens when John F. Kennedy was assassinated on Nov. 22, 1963, a horrific event in our history. I’ve only read the first 50 pages of “11/22/63,” when the protagonist high-school English teacher first returns to 1958. What might have been if the Kennedy assassination had been thwarted? Would there have been a Vietnam war?

An alternative history? Where will King go with this, not his typical horror story? The only one of his books I have read was  “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft,” which was terrific. We share a love of politics, a hope for a more compassionate United States.

And these days, it’s American politics that’s a horror story.

Posted in Baby Boomers, For Love of History, Tucson Festival of Books/good books | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Calling bullshit on the small-minded newt

Oh please, what is it with the American Family Association? How could they possibly endorse Newt Gingrich in the Iowa Republican caucus? What happened to family values?

newt, a noun — a small rough-skinned amphibian with lungs and a well-developed tail, typically spending its adult life [conniving] and returning to the water to breed

“She’s not young enough or pretty enough to be the wife of a president. And besides, she has cancer,” the newt reportedly told L.H. Carter, a former campaign treasurer.  (Gingrich has denied saying it and dismisses Carter as a disgruntled campaign aide.)

In the 1990s, he rounded up his Republican cohorts to impeach Wild Bill for cavorting with a young intern in the Oval Office, while he was having an affair with his own young intern.

What bullshit.

What’s his real first name anyway?

Newton — as in fig newton, square, filled with sticky paste, easily crumbles

 


Posted in politics | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Neshama Carlebach: Soul-singing rock ‘n’ roll

This week I read that Neshama Carlebach is one of the world’s leading Jewish entertainers. I never heard of her before she came to Tucson. I may have thought of Woody Allen as a Jewish entertainer; his primarily Jewish humor often defines his films. And there’s Adam Sandler’s Chanukah song. Funny stuff that happens to be Jewish, at least that’s how I see it.

Generally, I don’t think of entertainers as “Jewish entertainers.” That seems like Jew counting, which understandably is part of my job writing/editing for a Jewish newspaper (more on that later). But at the Arizona Jewish Post, we never want to overdo it: True Jew-counting is when there’s a major accident and we receive a story about how many Jews died, as if that made it news. Ick. Kinda like my view of entertainers — we’re all human beings — there’s no need to further identify them. That doesn’t cut it.

The Tucson Weekly highlights Carlebach’s Jewish soul music. “Singing is like praying twice,” her famous rabbi father/entertainer, Shlomo Carlebach, said. For me, singing is singing. And Nesahma rocks.

Carlebach performed with the Green Pastures Baptist Church Choir last night at Tucson’s Fox Theatre. (For Maine friends it’s an art deco Tucson landmark like the Criterion in Bar Harbor. It reopened a few years ago after a multi-million dollar renovation, so it doesn’t smell all moldy.)

At the New Orleans Jazz Festival back in the 90s, I spent a whole day in the gospel tent. I got so carried away — or lifted up, some may say — by the music that jumping up and shouting “praise the lord” seemed natural, although I had never done anything like that before. Was it praying or just appreciating the rockin’ music?

If you’ve read my previous posts I’m probably repeating myself, but sometimes I wonder how I landed in my third career at the Arizona Jewish Post, the center of  Tucson’s Jewish world. There may be more to it than I consciously realize.

Posted in It's only rock 'n' roll | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Un-Soprano-ed but Wired for Homeland

I’ve never been one for television. When the kids were little I complained about the evils, the passivity, of television. Five years ago, when I first met Dan, he insisted there were better TV shows than movies. I found that hard to believe but took his comment to heart. Young love and all.

Now I’m hooked on “Homeland.” The first spectacular season will end Sunday with a 90-minute episode,  which is certain to be super-intense. Will Brody detonate the explosive vest he picked up — speaking Arabic to the back-room bomb maker in a clothing store — on vacation with his family in Gettysburg,? Will Carrie, the super-smart, manic CIA intelligence agent ever get her job back? And who is the mole passing valuable information to someone intending to wreak havoc on the homeland? Was seeing Iraqi children killed by American bombs enough to turn a marine against his own country? Stay tuned. 

House, The Mentalist, Castle, Person of Interest, Unforgettable are all shows that Dan and I watch together via computer magic. A cozy way to spend an evening. Part of our ritual is a delectable chocolate-soy treat from Trader Joe’s, or cuties, as we call them.

My brother, Joel, is also an ardent Homeland fan. We discuss each episode. He’s told me a zillion times that I must watch The Sopranos and The Wire. I’m going for The Wire next, mainly because both Brook and Ethan have highly recommended it.

On Thanksgiving evening in Jersey City, Brook, her grad school friend Kitty, Gian and I watched an episode of Homeland. Kitty assured me it wasn’t nearly as “brilliant” as The Wire.

Joel tells me that my sister-in-law, Sandy, a retired elementary school principal who abhors violence, recently watched all seven seasons of The Sopranos and loved it. I tried the first episode five or six years ago. The lead character (Mr. Soprano?) kicked someone in the head. Not for me, I thought back then.

Now that Sandy’s retired she’s catching up, my brother says. I read today about the key to happiness: Know yourself. I’m intense but way less anxious than I used to be. I won’t stay awake all night condemning a violent TV show in my mind, although I still refuse to watch Dexter. I won’t watch a program about a serial killer. I won’t watch comedy shows with canned laughter in the background. 

But maybe I’ll catch up too.

Posted in Visual Entertainment | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Twelve-year-old bartender: Anything goes in NYC

Anything goes in a traditional Central Park West household: a lavish dessert buffet, an overview of giant balloons ready to soar in the Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade the next morning, hip New Yorkers of all ages. What about a 12-year-old bartender in a coat and tie who confidently knew the difference between Pinot Noir and Zinfandel (I don’t!)?

August H. (don’t want to get him in trouble by using his real name) handed out business cards. He was a sweet, smart kid. “I’ve been doing this since I was 8,” he told us. His twin sister was the coat-check girl. When I met her she was lying on the bed under a pile of coats, probably being helpful matching the right coat to each partygoer. I never did catch her name; maybe it was Cordelia, which would have appropriately matched her brother’s name.

“We live in the building,” Augie said, as he poured a glass of wine, so there was no shortage of party-helper jobs. I was at an annual party held by a grad school friend of Brook’s, an older woman, well, my age. Great people watching: Young people in old jeans sat on the couch laughing. A perfectly buff middle-aged woman kept nodding her head, watching her silver-haired husband expounding to three or four younger women.

Charlotte, my friend since kindergarten, accompanied Brook, Gian and me to the party. She appreciated the NYC tradition, one that I had never heard of. We watched regular New Yorkers walking through the park below. I imagined them oohing and ahhing at the giant Snoopy, Spiderman and Energizer bunny balloons.

Funny thing, revelers in the posh Central Park West apartment were regular folk too. I didn’t feel out of place. In the bathroom I noticed Trader Joe’s citrus body wash, the same inexpensive kind that I use. Yup, it was a good Thanksgiving. I belonged.

Posted in The Rest of the World | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

NYC Occupy Wall Street unoccupied

Zuccotti Park had more private security people “occupying” it last Friday than Occupy Wall Street protesters. “Join us, join us,” a few people called out, huddling together at one end of the park in the rain.

“Sure,” I replied. A young woman offered me a luscious-looking piece of lemon pound cake from a large box, one of the food donations apparently still arriving at the park.

Amin Ali, 28,  a Pakistani financial consultant was the first person I spoke with. While working near Wall Street a few months ago, he had daily joined protesters for around three weeks.

“I wanted to see how inequality works here. I came here because of the American Dream,” he said. “You supposedly get to climb up the ladder, but it’s rigged.

“I know what it’s like to live in a place where rich people barely pay taxes. In Pakistan, the rich control everything. The rich are the government,” he continued. “There are no Abraham Lincolns over there.”

Ali, who currently lives in Atlanta,  said he doesn’t know if he’ll stay here. “The U.S. will end up being like Pakistan if the 99% doesn’t take control,” he lamented.

I couldn’t find anyone who had been at the park since the beginning of the protest on Sept. 17. Maria, who didn’t want to give her last name, is a paramedic and the psych coordinator for a church that now takes in former occupiers.

“At first, I came here to help provide adequate medical care for people who can’t get any,” she said. “I became involved, then I became angry.” The police would initially come by just to prove a point, but that changed, said Maria, who was at the park when police evacuated the protesters last month.

(I tried to engage NYPD officers still hanging out at Zuccotti Park, which I found out is privately owned. But they told me they couldn’t talk to the press: “Call the deputy commissioner’s public information [line]. They’ll talk with you for hours.”)

“A cop punched a kid in the face who was just sitting there locking arms with a few other kids,” Maria told me. While we were chatting, Eric came over and asked to be interviewed, which made me suspicious. I was wearing my press ID.

Eric had worked in marketing and promotion in the music industry, but “chose to be here full time. We’re here for the uplifting of humanity,” he asserted.

When I asked for examples of how to do that, he hesitated, after saying he was at the park “because the media coverage lacked clarity. I wanted to provide some answers.”

Here’s what he came up with: “Representative democracy hasn’t done too well for us. We need to limit interaction between Wall Street and politicians. We need more marches and boycotts around the entire world.”

OK, so I would much rather listen to Robert Reich or Paul Krugman “provide answers,” even if the powers that be don’t seem to be heeding their expert advice.

But clarify this: As a member of the 99 percent with an urge to do something, I’m heading to a local credit union this afternoon, switching my account from corporate Wells Fargo. I’ll tell someone there why I’m closing my account. Does it matter? Maybe.

Posted in Fight wimpiness, Journalism/Writing, politics | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Amy Goodman and me

Writing at 38,000 feet, on my way home to Tucson from New York City. So close to a sliver of moon. No stars in sight.

Last night, Amy Goodman of “Democracy Now” watched “The Descendants” with us, completing a day of superb visual entertainment — The Metropolitan Museum of Art and its new wing with a cornucopia of riches from Turkey, Iraq, Iran, Central and South Asia. Turquoise glazed pottery, elaborate rugs, and all sorts of pieces I couldn’t have imagined were magnificent.

We extended our art experience to food, having a fabulous dinner at the Pashra Turkish restaurant on the upper west side. “Can you have a bad eating experience in New York?” I asked Brook. She said it was possible but rare.

Tiny lamb dumplings in a creamy yogurt sauce, grape leaves that were more dilly than usual, and lamb entrees all around. A smoky eggplant puree made a bed for my tender  lamb entree. I could see myself sipping coffee in Turkey.

After dinner it was still early for a Saturday night in the giant apple. Brook suggested a movie at the 23rd Street Cinema, which catered to the Chelsea neighborhood, a hip place. Spotting Amy Goodman after the movie at around 11 p.m., I considered saying hi. After all, I stood next to her at the  2004 alternative Democratic Convention across the river from the real one at Boston’s Fleet Center. She asked questions, while her assistant maneuvered one of those giant fuzzy microphones. A niche newspaper reporter, I used a tiny digital tape recorder. Amy and I and her assistant chatted a bit.

But we were part of the same crowd then. Brook said if I wanted to talk with Amy, she and Gian would wait outside: “Go ahead, mom, I know you want to.”

I decided not to. One political junkie ranting to another, that’s what a hi could become. What was the point? She was out with a friend on a Saturday night. I had  spent a superb New York day with my daughter and her boyfriend.

New York/Jersey City/ Newark Airport/Tucson. Too much eating back east but it was all so delicious. Back to regular life in Tucson — salads, soy cuties for dessert. Back to the desert and Dan, which is okay by me.

 

Posted in Family Matters, Food/happy hours, Journalism/Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Jersey City rocks!

Strolling down Bright Street I spotted an end-of-fall red- and gold-leafed tree interspersed among solar-paneled poles that power the street lights. I’m impressed, never seen that before. Jersey City has a splendid boardwalk bordering the Hudson River with the most awesome view of the New York skyline.  If the weather holds out tomorrow we’re taking the ferry to the World Trade Center stop before heading uptown on the subway.

Jersey City is much closer to Manhattan and all its glories than where Brook used to live on 207th Street. Jersey City isn’t as crowded as New York City. Okay, there aren’t many folks roaming the streets on Thanksgiving. One grandmother tried mightily to get her tiny granddaughter to walk more quickly, but recalcitrant Emma wouldn’t budge. (“Emma, what’s wrong? Comon’ Emma,” she repeated).

I didn’t much like Emma’s grandmother either (if I’m ever a grandmother I’d be a lot nicer).

Now I’m happy sitting in Brook and Gianmarco’s loft apartment in their Jersey City historic industrial building. Wish Ethan and Dan were here too.

We’re going to have the most luscious Thanksgiving dinner ever. A turkey just off the farm, Brussel sprouts sauteed in garlic butter, tons of other fun veggies, mashed potatoes with real gravy, homemade biscuits and apple pie lovingly created by Gian. And the best olives I’ve ever had.

Jersey City rocks because the yuppy Hudson Green market by the river had peach ginger sorbet and jalapeno chocolate sorbet that I bought as the Southwestern contribution to our dessert bonanza.

Am I “grated full” of joy to be here? (A student once wrote in an essay that she was “grated full.” Not joking. Those silly high school students.)

Thanksgiving reverie. I’m already sipping a glass of Malbec from Argentina, looking out at the NYC skyline in that sublime light that illuminates Mount Desert Island in September and spectacular Tucson sunsets. Here I am in Jersey City, which so rocks  because Brook and Gianmarco live here.

Posted in Family Matters | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments