New Yorker cover

Posted on May 16, 2011 by sheilawill

It’s artsy and clever: An eraser eliminates Osama bin Laden’s face. The “decider” did nothing except bluster. No matter what President Obama does I appreciate his reserved style, his smarts (you can almost tell when he’s just blabbing). And bin Liden had to go. I’m not sure that it happened the right way but it’s done.

The May 16 New Yorker has it all, bin Laden’s history with the United States, the unerased suffering of 9/11 families, the effects of bin Laden’s demise on Pakistan and other Muslim countries.

But two things stand out in my mind: the image of bin Laden scruffily hanging out in front of a television in his “compound,” and instructing his children, in a will supposedly updated on Dec. 14, 2001, not to work for Al Qaeda after his death.

“If it is good, then we have had our share; if it is bad, then it is enough,” wrote bin Laden,  which the New Yorker reported in its May 16 “Talk of the Town” section. I find this fascinating. Underneath it all, there’s some fatherly advice — don’t get yourself killed for the cause.

But in 1999, bin Laden’s son Omar said he lost faith in his father, who suggested that he and his brothers consider taking up suicide bombing in the Taliban’s cause. “My father,” wrote Omar, “hated his enemies more than he loved his sons.”

Maybe bin Laden changed his mind after his horrific 9/11 success. He still espoused jihad, but not for his own sons.

The son of a Saudi billionaire, bin Laden chose to advise others to give their lives for jihad. Did he have any regrets, or just want his own kin to have cushier lives? Many of his numerous children (not sure how many with four wives) had already taken other paths.

Supposedly,  lot of porn has been found on bin Laden’s Pakistani premises. Porn and TV, that’s what his life became. Who was paying attention to him these days? Almost sounds like a regular middle-age guy bored with life, but without the six-packs.

But how many people have died in his name?

“Abbottabad Postcard” was illuminating. Two Pakistani real estate guys, who sold the land for bin Laden’s hideout, give their take on the  whole deal. It was all very ordinary; somebody wanted to buy land and they sold it to bin Laden’s couriers, not knowing who the place would be for.

The two found it “funny that the United States was portraying the house as opulent.” They’re concerned about terrorism, but noted, “it is only one of many.” More important, they say, is the state of the Pakistani economy, the same subject that underlies most people’s daily lives.

Forget about religious fanaticism for a minute. Why do megalomaniacs stir up such hatred and violence in young men who are unemployed? Duh. Erase that.

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Oh, the places you’ll go

Posted on May 14, 2011 by sheilawill

Wherever you go around Tucson today there are congratulatory signs to University of Arizona grads, whisking me back to my own college graduation.

It’s 1968, and I’m sitting next to my first real boyfriend, among 2,000 plus other College of Liberal Arts and Science grads at the University of Connecticut.  Many of us are snoozing (hope I didn’t snore back then!) listening to the U.S. director of the federal budget. What did he tell us? Save your money, buy a house, invest in America — I don’t have a clue.

What I remember about that day is that my mother, who was around the same age as I am now, stumbled off a curb and fell into the street. She was embarrassed, and I’m sure I helped her up, but was I kind enough? She often annoyed me with her complaints, her unspoken regrets, her spoken fears.

Now I wish I could go back, like in “Being Erica,” a Canadian TV series that we’ve been watching. Every episode features a theme from the life of 32-year-old Erica Strange, an editor at a strange publishing company.  She returns to an event via unscheduled visits to her therapist Dr. Tom, who magically appears at the appropriate time.

Oh, to have such a therapist! He’s also very wise and sprinkles his advice with meaningful quotes from the likes of Dr. Martin Luther King, Henry David Thoreau, and Ralph Waldo Emerson.

I’d like to return to my college graduation day. I didn’t understand how my mother could be so awkward. But now I do. Back in the ’90s I broke both my ankles on two separate occasions — one talking and missing a step while trespassing at a Maine summer home and the other not paying attention to ice on the road.

I’ve since lifted weights, walked more mindfully, and exercised more regularly to build muscle. I’ve fallen since but haven’t broken any bones. I’ve taken better care of myself, and wish I could have helped my mother do the same.

I like the idea of returning to amend regrets, erasing hurtful or insensitive comments, or doing something differently — perhaps even taking more risks, which was Erica’s last theme. But not if it took up too much time. Maybe I’d go back if I could choose just three life experiences to correct.

But I still have places to go! Maybe Italy or Turkey, but at least the three states I haven’t yet visited — Hawaii, Oklahoma and South Carolina.

A week from today Dan and I will head out on a two-week road trip to Oregon and the Northern California coast. We’ll probably visit dear friends in Bezerkeley, perhaps spend a day in Yosemite National Park. Better than visiting those elusive inner places? Maybe.

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Mother’s Day/Reading Day

Posted on May 9, 2011 by sheilawill

We went out for breakfast. I spoke to Brook and Ethan; nothing else matters on Mother’s Day. I wished a few dear friends and Dan’s wonderful mom a happy day. Then I read.

First the Sunday NYTimes — Week in Review all about ObL/Pakistan, an article about the aging Boston Celtics, and a blurb about the Oregon Shakespeare Festival’s current production of “Julius Caesar,” who’s played by a woman. I’d like to see that; we’ll be traveling through Ashland, Oregon. Maybe…

My niece Amy recommended “The Hunger Games,” a young adult title by Suzanne Collins. I call it political science fiction, like one of my all-time favorite chapter books, “The Giver” by Lois Lowry.

“It’s violent,” Amy told us, “but like nothing you’ve ever read.” It reminds me of “Divided Kingdom,” a grown-up, little known fabulous read but Rupert Thomson (I’ve probably mentioned it before). I already got the second of Collins’ trilogy out of the library for seamless continuity, to see where her saga about war — “for adolescents” — takes us. See what happens to our doomed society. Maybe she has a solution. I hope so.

Then there’s “The Love of my Youth,” the new novel by Mary Gordon. I started it but can’t say it’s drawing me in.

I’m also reading “Under the Banner of Heaven. A Story of Violent Faith” by Jon Krakauer for my book group. I balked after the very violent first 60 pages, but the person who chose the book assured me that there’s more to it, that it’s fascinating. All those Mormon gold tablets, Joseph Smith sticking his face into a hat to get the word is just plain wacky. And this book isn’t even about regular Mormons. I found a used copy at Bookman’s. It was was shelved in the true crime section. But I’m reading it because I want to be a good book club member. Yes, it’s riveting, although I’ve had to skip a few sections.

Then there’s the “Minders of Make-Believe: Idealists, Entrepreneurs, and the Shaping of American Children’s Literature” by Leonard Marcus. Great title, I wanted to confirm a few facts for my forthcoming article in Publishers Weekly. Still working on it. It could be a book!

Dusk. Birds singing outside my window. Gardenia flower fragrance wafting through the room. I’m going to finish “The Hunger Games” tonight.

I always long for reading days with a big bowl of popcorn nearby. I’m happy that I’ll see Brook in Maine for her first book event at the Southwest Harbor Public Library (July 14, 7 p.m.!). Hoping Ethan will be there too. That’s what Mother’s Day is for.

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Riding my blue bike

Posted on May 7, 2011 by sheilawill

Purple and white streamers, spongy purple grips, I could have been 10 years old. But I’m talking about today — my triathlon — cycling, yoga, swimming. First I rode five miles to yoga class, then rode back home another five miles, then I jumped in the pool.

I’m proud of myself! It’s a hot Tucson nearly summer day. Riding home from yoga was much easier than I expected. I even figured out a route that lessened the steady, but I’ll admit small, incline going south on Dodge. It was easy. Yoga stretching must help everything.

Dan says my type of bike is called a mixte, designated by the position of the three steel tubes to the back of the bike. He got the bike for me last year so I could ride faster than on his son’s old mountain bike. I’m in training now before taking off on a two-week road trip to the Pacific Northwest and Northern California. We’re taking our bikes, Dan’s fire-engine red recumbent Hurricane (is it a low-racer?) and my fluorescent blue mixte.

Fifty-five years ago, I had a similar blue bike with hand brakes, something new at that time. I was a cautious kid. Somehow I got going pretty fast down a neighborhood street and lost control. Boom, crash, bang! Next thing I knew I was in the street; I may have blacked out. A kindly neighbor helped me get home.

A blood vessel broke in my eye. My eye looked bloody, icky, for a few weeks. People stared at me. I was embarrassed. I was too scared to ride a bike again.

I’ve been reluctant to ride on streets all these years. I still remember that scary out-of-control feeling — losing my balance, knowing I was about to fall, being unable to stop myself. Sure, I’ve ridden a third blue 10-speed around Southwest Harbor, which I won in a drawing from Bicycle Bob at Southwest Cycle around 20 years ago. I never would have bought another bike myself. Was I excited to win anything, so dang, I had to use it. It wouldn’t be right not to.

When Dan came to Southwest Harbor five summers ago I figured we’d bicycle around town. With no bike lanes, no shoulders, and tourists going wild over the ocean views, he thought it was too dangerous.

Could I have predicted that I would ride another blue bike on Tucson city streets, in traffic, among honkin’ big trucks? No way. That’s what I like about life, you never know.

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Sharing the pain, part I

Posted on May 6, 2011 by sheilawill

One thing that came across loud and clear at last week’s Schorr Family Forum, held at the University of Arizona’s Centennial Hall, is that it’s time for mental illness to emerge from hiding, and that it’s called illness for a reason.

Young folks are getting it. Students learn to listen to classmates for words of despair. It may be hard for young people to say the words out loud, but there are helpful resources online that can start the conversation.

“I feel very strongly that denial will never reduce the stigma of mental illness,” said Dr. Thomas Insel, director of the National Institute of Mental Health, and this year’s recipient of the 14th Schorr Family Award for Distinguished Contribution in Furthering Public Understanding of Mental Illness.

Why do we as a society neglect mental illness so mercilessly? The statistics are astounding. Seventy-five percent of people with mental illness — which all have a biological basis — show symptoms by age 24. Detecting risk can be the same as in heart disease or diabetes, but the amount of funding for research is nowhere in the same ballpark.

Yet the first symptoms usually occur two to four years before full-blown mental illness, panelist Laurie Flynn, executive director of Columbia University Medical School’s Teen Screen National Center, told the audience.”Let’s promote early detection, making routine screening for mental illness part of early health care,” she asserted, adding that the Teen Screen Center offers a five-minute, self-administered psychological screening.

Might the teen years be a good time for such screening, considering that the leading cause of death among college students is suicide?

One-half of the people with mental illness get no care at all  in our society, according to Dr. Ken Duckworth, an assistant professor at Harvard Medical School, and one of the panelists at the forum.

“I think it’s easier to get access to firearms in Arizona than to get mental health treatment,” he quipped, although we all know that’s unfortunately true. “It’s easier to get into Harvard Medical School than it is to get psychiatric treatment,” he added.

Flynn said that her daughter tried to commit suicide 20 years ago, and that three members of her extended family had committed suicide. “But no one had said a word” prior to her daughter’s diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder. With adequate treatment, her daughter now lives a normal life. She hasn’t been hospitalized in 12 years, holds a good job and got married seven years ago.

But she’s one of the lucky ones.

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A kinder, gentler nation

Posted on May 5, 2011 by sheilawill

When someone I thought was a gentle, sensitive person sent me a gruesome photo of bin Liden’s face, with a link to a video of his demise, I was shocked.  That disgusting image has been popping up for me all day.

Why would I need to see this? I’m so glad President Obama has decided not to release photos of the corpse; maybe what I received was photo-shopped and not the real thing. I don’t want to see any of the graphic images whether they’re real or not.

One of my first reactions to bin Laden’s death, a patriotic or ethnocentric one at that, was that we wouldn’t behead him or desecrate his body. Although it was politically appropriate, I was surprised and heartened that before bin Laden’s burial at sea, pains were taken to wash his body according to Muslim ritual. Military personnel recited the proper words in Arabic. That was the right thing to do.

I liked Thomas Friedman’s NYT column today. He’s often too conservative for me, and he’s only one voice, but during this highly emotional time, he makes sense.

It’s ironic that bin Laden lived in a fine big house — by Pakistani standards — he who encouraged young Muslim men to give up everything to rid the world of “infidels.” No cave for him. I heard this morning that in his will he asked his own children to not continue his jihad.

Tomorrow President Obama is going to lower Manhattan to talk with family members of those killed on 9/11. He’s not going to yell about “gettin’ him.” He’s going to listen, give support to fellow human beings who have missed their loved ones for 10 years. That’s the right thing to do.

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Three funny stories, but not the funniest ever

Posted on April 26, 2011 by sheilawill

There I was, naked in the Jewish Community Center locker room post-Zumba class and shower. A young woman ran into the room announcing “Sheila Wilensky is writing a story on kids’ fitness for the Post.”

“Uh, that’s me,” I said sheepishly. The announcer and another woman started talking to me about the fitness program, but I insisted on getting dressed before the discussion went any further. That was a first.

I’m always running into folks from Maine in Tucson. A few months ago, I noticed a bumper sticker on my morning walk: “Got Maine lobsters.com.” The homeowner was watering her plants. I had to ask  if she had a Maine connection.

“Yes, my husband, Steve Wheaton, is from Bar Harbor, Maine,” she said. I blurted my usual reply: “No kidding!” We chatted a bit. Last week, I saw the woman and her husband walking their dog. “I was just thinking of you,” said Mary. She never did say why she was thinking about me but that’s okay (I don’t have to know everything).

It was her husband, Steve, who I wanted to talk to.  He had been in Tucson since 1970, taught math at the UA, and had graduated from the old Bar Harbor High School.

Did he know my good friend, Ellen Russell Gilmore, who also graduated from BHHS. “Oh sure, she was my sister Peggy’s best friend,” he said. “I had such a crush on her.”

I called Ellen yesterday to tell her. “Wow,” she said. “Nobody ever had a crush on me.” Hope I made her day.

I couldn’t help thinking that after all these years Steve still had a heavy duty Downeast accent and was wearing an L.L. Bean hat. Maine lobsters and all. How we cling to where we came from.

And here’s the strangest story. A few days ago on the windowsill in our shower I noticed a little blob that looked like part of a muffin or cookie. Some creature’s poop, said Dan. Too much, plus impossible to drop onto our windowsill from a locked window so nonchalantly.

I asked recent guests if they had brought a cookie into the shower. Why would anybody do that, I wondered, but you never know. Tomorrow I’m taking the mysterious blob to the UA extension office. Will they be able to identify it? Stay tuned.

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Genevieve Ferguson (1917-2011)

Posted on April 20, 2011 by sheilawill

“Oh sit by me dear. Tell me about Tucson and your life…”

Gen was elegant. She loved art. She loved music and beauty and surrounded herself with beautiful things. I’m sure they all meant something to her, and recalled her adventures or exotic places she’d visited all over the world.

I was relieved when Candice called a few days ago and told me Gen had died at home. Sometimes I stayed on the third floor of her lovely Southwest Harbor home if my house was rented to summer folks (like I am now myself).

I’m not sure if Gen finished the cookbook she had been working on when I first met her about 20 years ago. It doesn’t really matter; it was a project that kept her going, that challenged her. She wanted to do it right, as her exquisite cooking deserved.

Gen always liked to discuss ideas or a new book or TV program. “Dear, would you like to watch these videos of a PBS broadcast with Dr. Wayne Dyer?” She wanted me to have a happy, fulfilling life. I wished that she was my mother.

I liked to ask questions about her life, what she had learned. Gen was generous with her memories, was practical about life’s quandaries, and loved to laugh. She was 92 when I saw her last summer. She was wise beyond her years, and always gave the most sensible, clear-headed advice — only if I asked. And I never felt her sharpness had diminished.

Still driving last summer, she liked to go to Ellsworth and get her own groceries.

Sometimes she, Candice and I would have dinner or visit. It was easy to forget that Gen was so much older than us. There were no barriers between us, but she was probably the most dignified person I’ve ever known. She was also one of the girls.

The call girls was a group of Southwest Harbor women over 80 who had a phone tree to contact each other every morning, and “make sure we’re still alive,” Gen told me a few years ago, then chuckled.

There was nothing Gen enjoyed more than knowing the people she cared about were happy. “I’m glad Sheila isn’t selling her house,” she recently told Candice.

I hope I’m as “with it” as Gen when I’m old(er). I think she was in her 70s as part of the Oz writing group, jotting down her feelings about some trigger that Candice gave us and sharing her writing with a much younger group. She was always curious.

It’s hard for me to imagine Gen no longer in Southwest Harbor. I’ll always miss her. While walking and talking to Candice on the phone the other morning I stopped at a small stand of purple, pink and white wildflowers in front of someone’s house. OK, it’s woo woo, but a yellow butterfly flew by, dipping and swirling among the blossoms. I blurted to Candice, “It’s Gen!” What a dear, dear role model.

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People are so much nicer in NYC than they used to be

Posted on April 16, 2011 by sheilawill

I used to be afraid of going to THE CITY so everything seemed scary. But now people smile at each other on the subway. Guys give up their seats to old ladies (not talking about me here). People are generally quiet (you don’t want to know about pseudo-slutty girls from Hoboken). Maybe everybody’s too busy playing games on their iPhones. I was happy to see so many people still reading books, not as many newspapers though.

But there are still things about New York City that I don’t understand. How can so many people eat dinner at 11 p.m.? How do New Yorkers memorize zillions of subway routes? How come I had to swipe my Metro card repeatedly, but locals’ cards worked every time? How do city dwellers refrain from eating out nightly, going for broke on food? How do so many women walk so briskly in five-inch heels? What percentage of people get sick eating food cooked on tiny grills in food carts that look fairly unclean? Do the guys break-dancing and performing stunts like jumping over seven people at Union Square make enough money to buy food at Whole Foods across the street? Do people like making their way through the crowded streets, or do they feel lonely when hardly anybody’s around during a blizzard?

Shopkeepers say “Enjoy Your Day” when you buy contact lens solution. New Yorkers wait patiently in long lines at the new Trader Joe’s; at Whole Foods there’s a color-coded system to move shoppers through efficiently. Nobody looked enraged standing in line with their baskets of assorted greens, soy milk and goat cheese.

Then there were the girls from Hoboken. Okay, I can’t help telling you how they wore minuscule mini-skirts and seven-inch heels on the Path train back to Jersey from the city. They were swearing, talking loudly about what they did — or would do — to/or with guys. One man took offense and said something about what he would do if his daughter left the house looking as slutty as they did.

The girls (a la “Jersey Shore?” I’ve never seen the show but I’ve heard about it) admitted that they left home wearing sweat pants so their parents wouldn’t be suspicious. Then they called the irate father a pedophile. The conversation escalated. A few good-natured young men were making comments that I couldn’t hear. Ethan was laughing along with them. It became too much for me. I rolled my eyes a few times at the other mother sitting next to me and a quiet young man hugging the door. Many of us clapped when they left the train in Hoboken.

Offensive, yes, but not a scary situation. People were playing music in the subway stations: Blues, jazz, drums, Native American singers, and at one place couples were swing dancing. Ethan said he has never seen that before. I wasn’t one bit scared in the big city. Maybe I’ve grown up.

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Family: back east and in Tucson

Posted on April 7, 2011 by sheilawill

I’m going on a family vacation today — not to the Bahamas or Italy but to the heart of it all — hanging out with my kids in New York City. I’ll arrive at Brook’s new digs, which she and her boyfriend moved into last fall, at midnight EST.

“Mom, I know you’ll want to talk,” Brook told me, and made a lively gesture with her hands, but it’ll be late for them. All I have to do is see my lovely grown-up daughter and I’m on vacation.

The same goes for Ethan, whom I’ll see tomorrow. He’ll probably make that lively, wavy gesture too, and ask, “What do you want to do, mom?” And we’ll be off: I want to bicycle around that new Upper West Side bike path, walk that former train station hi-rise park, stroll through the giant exhibit on the human brain at the Museum of Natural History, maybe take in a fun off-Broadway play, engage in a Big Apple eatathon, but way more important, just gaze at the incredibly beautiful faces of my two children.

The rest of our small Wilensky family will join us over the weekend. My brother and his wife will come in from the Boston area. We’ll all get together with at least one of their daughters and my two adorable, super-sharp, smiley great-nieces. That’s it for my birth family.

I’ve vowed to myself to see my kids at least three times a year. I haven’t seen my brother in around two years, but he’s so funny. He calls me every week; once when I lamented not seeing him often enough, he said, “I have a picture of you in my office. I know what you look like.”

Here in Tucson, I have Dan and his family. I have a huge family of friends all around the country.

For those of you in Tucson, I recommend hearing UA President Emeritus Peter Likins talk about his unusual family at the UA Bookstore in the Student Union today from 5-6:30. I organized a  panel, “Parenting Memoirs: From Maine to California” at the recent Tucson Festival of Books, which Pete participated in. His story of adopting six children of various racial and ethnic backgrounds, with his wife, Pat, is as moving in person as it is in his new book, “A New American Family: A Love Story” (UA Press).

Wherever your family is, cherish it. I sure do.

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