Oakland Odyssey a/k/a Frisco Frolics With Florence

In the past, convention sites like Vegas
proved too stimulating for some delegates.

That’s why the view from our hotel bubble
looked down on modest Oakland this year.

However, just across the East Bay
lay the ever-so-tempting …

Golden Gate City …

Photo/PDPhoto.org

… winking naughtily from the horizon.

If a distant view from the hotel
allowed delegates to dream …

…then BART, Oakland’s shared transit system,
encouraged the same to hop aboard the
“How-Fast-Can-We-Get-Out-of-Oakland” express.

 Oakland has lots of cool sh#%, I said to myself.
In solidarity, I committed to stay in town my first night.

Photo/Wouter Kiel

Not necessarily pining for San Francisco,
I hadn’t left my heart there yet,
just my cell phone on the pier one year,
which a roving German student found
and kindly shipped back to me.

Little did I know that a whirlwind night
with a footloose friend lay ahead…

Meanwhile, three blocks from our hotel,
the Occupy Oakland encampment
raged against the machine.

Just asking for a fiery, extended pepper spray fest in the face.

The city was on edge, unsettled.

 

Photo/AP

 Days before our arrival, Oakland made headlines
when riots erupted between police and occupiers.

 …

While the city was simmering with uncertainty,
I devised a plan to occupy the
All You Can Eat Seafood Buffet in Chinatown.

Less civic, less courageous,
less righteous, but let’s be honest,
at least my plan covered the sometime
sticky problem of where to nosh in the days ahead.

Along with fresh sushi and seafood,
strawberries mingled with the
authentic and intimidating.

According to my tetchy co-chair,
buffets are one-stop from
medieval plague-ridden troughs.

  Depending which buffet trough
you’re referring to though,
I really couldn’t agree less
with such flagrant elitism.

 It was D-Day minus one
before the convention opened.

Amongst our soon-to-be-arriving
local delegates was the super-alternate,
and vigilant vegan, Firenze.

“Fih-rehn-tsay,” to her Italophile buds.

 

 

On my foray into Oakland I headed south
 along semi-deserted Broadway,
through a quiet sliver of Chinatown,
past one or two random businesses,
and a highway underpass
housing a cadre of dodgy drifters.

 

In retrospect, not the wisest
direction to solo navigate.

 

Just blocks from the waterfront
and the ghost town of Jack London Square,
I bumped into Souley Vegan cafe.

 

 

Just cause it’s vegan and looks scary
doesn’t mean it isn’t delicious…

The day we lunched at Souley,
Firenze was as giddy
as a glue-sniffing schoolgirl.

And just cause it’s vegan,
and might occasionally look pornographic
doesn’t mean it isn’t wholesome.

On the other hand, was the throbbing yam
a foreshadowing of Firenze’s
opening night hijinks??
Stay tuned. . .

My only beef was with Souley’s tofu burger,
a quivering block of virgin tofu
imprisoned in a deep-fried cornmeal armor.

What was up with that?

Everyone knows tofu has to be tricked out
whether spiced, spiffed or sprinkled,
marinated or manipulated,
injected, infused, or invigorated,
Something!

All in the name of awakening its inner sponge.

Luckily, the barbecue tofu,
grilled and slathered with a smoky hot sauce,
made up for the Ouija ball burger.

 

 

 

During the convention’s
opening night meet-and-greet,
Firenze was conspicuously absent.

 

 

Turns out she was at a play in San Francisco,
starring one of her friends, who,
according to reliable sources,
was performing in an interactive sex show,
all of which uncannily aligned
with Firenze’s appearance in town!

Seriously …. for no one else but Firenze….
could the stars line up just so….

 

 

When you hook up with your local peeps
you feel a special solidarity at a convention.

Reconnecting with ex-pat Kristyn,
seeing Nichole at her first convention, and
2nd-timer Roger, who was entertainingly tipsy,
if his faux-threatening march up to my nose
was any indication,
all fun and collectively inebriating,
I mean empowering.

 

*    *    *

The next morning. . .
D-Day One of the convention. . .

. . . F was somewhere in the house.

During a break in the first day’s training,
I spotted the little minx at the bottom of a private stairwell,
transmitting a mass-text to her “little chickadees.”

Having plotted that night’s activities,
she was checking in to see if anyone had the cajones
to join her on her next adventure.

Quizzed on her previous night’s activities,
Firenze grinned, “It was n-o-t a sex shooow….”

Fair enough.  However, her blow by blow
description of the play sure sounded like a, well…

One thing’s for sure,
if ever art and life blurs,
Firenze will have box seats….

 

 *    *    *

 

Following that sensational opening night,
F was on a roll, mapping out the next evening with
an agenda that would’ve cowed Lewis & Clark….

 

  

  

. . . make that Sacagawea.

 

I was excited.

I knew following in the go-go-boots
of Firenze would be an adventure,
and our timeline was, as Firenze delicately put it,
“Probably insane. . .”

But after 8 hours of training workshops,
I was jazzed and ready to go!

*    *    *

Having tossed our stuff back in our rooms,
we hightailed it to the BART station,
a block from the Occupy site.

An hour earlier, Ethan had warned the plenary
of a recent incident near the 12th Street Station,
not mentioning it was a fatal shooting.

The area appeared eerily quiet as we swung by
to descend the subway escalator.

F’s ambitious plan included touring San Francisco’s
five-storied Museum of Modern Art
before it closed. . .

The nearby Contemporary Jewish Museum,
before it closed. . .

The historic City Lights Bookstore,
before it closed,

And with time permitting, a streetcar ride
and a meal thrown in there somewhere as well,
before it and that closed.

 

 Above the atrium, in SF’s Modern Art Museum,
a hypnotic sculpture stopped visitors in their tracks.

People were hanging over the stairwell landings,
gazing at the hundreds of flickering LED lights.

Suddenly, you noticed dancing figures within,
leaping and twirling in a mesmerizing
twilight zone of acrobatic mime.

Sure-footed, camera-wielding.

Back home, Firenze I-Ain’t-Afraid-To-Tackle-That-Phallic-Yam
is a barrister, an artist, a docent, an astrophysicist,
and so much else it’s best I refrain
from full disclosure or heads might explode.

Shooting the artwork was totally legal by the way.

(Except for the newer photography)

But smacking artwork with your eyeglasses
cause the pair in the installation kinda matches yours
and you think that’s hilariously ironic is not.

I witnessed this startlingly daft move from
a Japanese teen trying to impress his friends.

When a nearby outraged guard hoofed it over,
I thought the kid was going to get the rack and pillar !

Instead, he was the recipient of violent gesticulations,
and a rigorous talking-to from the guard!

The rube’s friends looked properly embarrassed
and one of them gave him a healthy swat.

 

 

But he and his young friends were long gone
by the time a team of museum inspectors
swooped out to inspect any potential damage.

 

The pantomiming outrage from the guard
(possibly cause he thought the kid
was more fluent in WTF!? than in English). . .

 

 

. . . and the kid’s “Who me?” look with his Buddy Holly specs,
and the museum people tromping out to peer and squint
as if the Mona Lisa had been defiled,
well, it was surreal to have witnessed it,
yet strangely hilarious to have watched it all unfold,
and ultimately milk-through-nose-spurt-worthy
as my thoughts kept re-playing
the guard’s furious, orchestrally-conducted pantomime…

Firenze, who had missed the initial offense,
did wonder why a group of museum staff
were peering so fixedly at a framed installation
from all head-cocking points.

 

 

With its five levels of audacious modern art
San Francisco’s MOMA rates 6-1/2 out of 5 stars.

 

Art’s parallel with that guy’s shirt?
Happy coincidence.

The fit of his trousers?
Unfortunate.

 

Shortly after entering the museum,
Firenze’s GPS culture-tracking system kicked in
when she took an instinctive 45-degree turn
into an author’s book-signing reception.

Milliseconds later, we were enjoying
a complimentary glass of bubbly while
perusing the culture vultures about us.

No earthly idea who the author was
as we savored our
sparkly schahm-pahn-nyah…

Firenze shoots the beautiful planes of the majestic egg.
The installation was a live video of an egg,
being fed through 8 cryptically-stacked monitors,
so a series of live videos of one egg
on an egg-colored background
would result.  Capiche?

 Photo by Firenze

No?  Me neither…

But either way, provocative, eh?

 

 Like infinity maybe?

So we could privately linger,
or dash as personal need dictated,
we split up on our self-guided tours.

But every so often we’d criss-cross,
she so blissfully unaware of any peripheral activity,
immersed in an intimate piece of art,
or absorbed in an entire passageway.

Observing this highly-functioning creature
was nothing less than a civic duty and I knew
the Sleepless in Minneapolis Committee
would expect a full report.

 

 

What struck me about F’s modus operandi
was how unconcerned she was about our timeline,
how in the moment she always was,
drinking in her environment . . .

No mad dash through the museum
or frenzied gulping of champagne for this one.

 

 

A Jack Handy deep-thoughts lesson.

 

 

The Jewish Museum had closed by the time we exited,
but along the way, we ran across MLK, Jr.’s watery memorial.

Behind the 50 foot high, 20 feet wide waterfall
are back-lit photos from the civil rights movement,
glass panels inscribed with Dr. King’s inspiring words.

 

It was getting late for me, a Midwesterner.

But F’s “I have a dream,” speech
was so inspiring, so inviolable,
that clearly, hopping on a streetcar
and rattling up and down the perilous hills
of San Franciskee in the dark would revive me,
and was the best option for any
brain-fried somnambulist.

At the same time as these thoughts coalesced,
the rest of the voices in my head warred with me:
You are not cut from the same cloth as Firenze.

Hers being of the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat kind.

As the dark blanket of night fell over sparkly Frisco,
Firenze hung on to the rollicking old cable cars
with child-like zeal and a touch of pirate-like glee. . .

So infectious is the radiating energy
molecularily orbiting her person,
not unlike Jupiter’s Rings, that yes,
her ear to ear grin lit up
the San Franfriskey night
as she inhaled culture and life with a gusto
rarely seen in normal hominids.

And she wasn’t even drunk…

I mean, any effect that champagne had
had long worn off, is what I’m sayin’.

*    *    *

 

Seriously, with the bumping and grinding
and hand-cranking shifting of gears of the trolley
as it heaved its way up and down the hilly terrain,
we should have all had a cigarette
with the operator after that ride.

 

*    *    *

 

So natch, after the dizzying heights of the trolley,
F was poised for the famous City Lights Bookstore.
quite a hop and a skip from our street car deposit,
so we walked along the spooky dark side roads,
then caught a cab with the coolest local cabbie
who deposited us safely onto City Lights’ doorstep.

 

Photo by Elijah Nouvelage 

Lying snugly between City Lights Books
and the Vesuvio Cafe is Jack Kerouac Alley.

Once a repository for random refuse and rough-housers,
now it’s a vibrant pedestrian passage
linking Chinatown and North Beach,
screaming with colorful murals of revolutionaries,
and etched with eastern and western poetry.

As a symbol of the Beat Generation,
City Lights bookstore is a beacon to fans worldwide.

The dust, the mist of time permeates its creaky wooden floors
and shelves upon shelves of subversive literature,
biographies and electric poetry color its rooms.

City Lights was fronted by a would-be beatnik who took
umbrage at my taking a spontaneous photo of him.

When I asked him (after the fact)
if it was alright if I took his photo,
he positively bristled, “Actually - no!”

Trying to catch “a moment” means sometimes
not having time to ask for permission to take a photo…

It also means you sometimes risk losing the
good will and trust of a pretentious, goateed subjectee. . .

I already took the shot anyway, so what was the big whoop.

I’m pretty confident he wasn’t Amish.

Who did he think he was?
Jack Don’t-take-my-precious-photo Kerouac?

Frankly, I’m confident Jack would’ve kicked him in the nuts.

 

After our leisurely, delightful book-browsing,
F and I traversed the Streets of San Franciskee,
stopping at an off-street sushi place
where an initially cranky owner blossomed
under Firenze’s guileless healing powers…

What I mean is, after his initial coolness,
suddenly he wouldn’t stop bugging us,
stopping by to chit chat,
like a tommy gun on auto.

Who put a quarter in him, I wondered.

“Wish he’d get lost,”
Firenze muttered under her breath,
most unlike her usual genial self,
after he finally broke away
to look after a lone customer.

Ordering a nice glass of wine,
F downed it and rolled her eyes
world-wearily.

Hmmm,  Lesson #2
Firenze does have her limits…

But Lesson #1
Yes, she can go on all night.

Witness the following, if you please. . .

Oakland skyline

It was creeping past midnight
when we returned to our hotel.
In the elevator, I was just basking
at having survived
a San Francisco romp
with the indefatigable Firenze,
when suddenly, she turned towards me
and asked excitedly, her eyes as fresh as
a Krispy Kreme at 5 a.m.,
“Hey, wanna go for a coffee or a drink or something???”

In retrospect – Why not!
At the time - Hu-u-hh?? (tm DeeDee)

*   *   *

 

The next day. . .

At our “executive meeting” on the 21st floor. . .

 

Morris considers leaping during the in-house lunch meeting.

Just as Margarita loves her some colorful fruit,
we will all miss her colorful personality,
heightened by her hair-raising profanity.

 

*    *    *

 

If I was not in a very social mood while in Oakland,
my co-chair seemed obstructive, at times petulant,
possibly taking out frustrations on me,
but in any event taking rudeness to the next level
by inappropriately chastising delegates in public elevators,
and disloyally flattening co-chairs during the plenary.

I was flummoxed because we lucked out
with a good group in our committee,
allowing them to break out early,
while M and I stayed late to work on a
draft of our proposed resolutions,
so things seemed fine that first night.

Firenze had been released early from her committee as well,
and naturally made the best of it by
flying off to visit the famous parrots of Telegraph Hill
racing to view the Coit murals, and
catching the David Mamet play “Race” and
of course, catching another crazy cable car ride,
a different route of course !

  

 

 I smiled thinking of all the fun stuff she was doing,
as I crawled under my Marriott bed covers that night,
so cozy was I sleeping, dreaming in Noddy Land
while Robo-Lady/Wonder Woman/Flash Florence/Bat Girl
cavorted around town at all magical hours o’ the night
probably combating crime where convenient…

 

*    *    *

Returning home was bittersweet.
But I was plenty exhausted from
the shenanigans that drain you
at most conventions. . .

Shortly after settling in,
I learned of another Occupy suspense story
gripping the headlines.

Ripped straight from the Billings Gazette:

 

After employees reported ”a disturbance in the finance department,”
building owners discovered a rogue cockatiel
had plastered herself against an office window ledge.

True to the movement, Bitsy had chosen to occupy
a special corner of the United Properties building.

Photos/Dave Grubb, Billings Gazette

Bystanders watched the drama unfold as building engineers
tried to first coax, then pepper spray, the cockatiel down from the ledge.

I will now stop with the Occupy jokes.
Nothing funny about protesting staggering wealth inequality,
out-of-control human greed and government collusion.

 

PS  Bitsy is safe, back home, and licking her freedom feathers.

 

*   *   *

Speaking of greed and collusion, we just rented “Client 9 – The Rise & Fall of Eliot Spitzer” – a documentary of the one-time political Lone Ranger who took on Wall Street crooks before it ever became fashionable, and when no one, literally no one from the government would.  Single-handedly operating on behalf of the “little guy,”  the film covers the curious dichotomy and complex personality of Eliot Spitzer, who self-destructed in one of the most unexpected political suicides seen in this decade.

The soundtrack is heady, bluesy, perfect.  You won’t be as disgusted with Spitzer as much as disappointed, the unashamed embezzlers openly making a great case for top predators.

 

Enter stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn
Must pay most dearly in their turn.

Engraved on the doors of Gringotts Bank
thanks to J.K.R.

 

  *   *   *

  

  

“There are more important things than things,
like friendship and bravery.”

 

A Fairly Sticky Situation

On September 2, 1901, while visiting the Minnesota State Fair,
then-Vice President Teddy Roosevelt uttered these famous words:

“Speak softly and carry a big stick.”

In a preview of his upcoming administration,
Teddy wasn’t foolin’ when he whipped out that little gem,

but what an effect his words would have on future fair-goers. . .

Barb pays tribute to T.R.’s ideology.

* * *

From cool cats in the Fine Arts Building…

to cool cats cropped in the Ag Building

from Oat Couture

to the pleasures of the hand-crafted

For her artful exhibit on F.W. Woolworth’s,
Firenze nabbed a first place ribbon

For this unnerving over-achiever
not a surprising feat…

That’s why the chrome and linen hit the fan
when Firenze’s Mesabi mining exhibit
was slapped with a shocking 4th place finish
…

Fortunately a second place ribbon for her work
on Glass House diners somewhat appeased Ms. F

 But not since Brando’s infamous rejection of his Oscar
for his role as The Godfather has such a kerfluffle
shaken the world of judging malfeasance,
enough to keep ‘em awake at night. . .
and constantly checking their horse’s stables.. .

I’m just sayin’. . .

And don’t think this post is glamorizing
cut-throat competitions, or foodstuff on a stick, oh no,
cause the Fair offers deeper, obliquer insights, my friend.

If you’ve never attended  Minnesota’s get-together
because you have a classic case of demophobia,
(the crowd-willies)

I should point out a few things.

No crowd control has been necessary since
the infamous Cheese Curd Riot of 1874.

Most understand the Fair is not just a fair…

It’s an allegorical market and carnival of challenges and choices
illustrating the need for rapid-response decisions
on all the sensory options life lobs our way

It’s the Heisenberg Principle

. . . .

For instance, maybe you prefer
to wander the Fair with no particular plan…

 using the Beer Garden as a point of reference

Or maybe you’re the Magellan type who likes to
chart your course by the Daily Events calendar.

Either way, when Captain Jack Sparrow comes sailing by
unannounced in one of those random parades,
that’s just serendipity

At the same time, spontaneity brings great risk -
you might’ve totally missed the llamas
cause they’re only scheduled for two days
and you totally forgot to google their show dates!

Why would someone knowingly, willingly, miss this mug?

 Oh sure, there are plenty of outright Fair haters out there,
not to mention the legion of allergy sufferers,
but there are just as many desperate to get in…

And if you think you’re just a lemming among a crowd…

well, can’t argue with you there…

yet scientists affirm we’re cosmically connected
each of us as unique as stars or snowflakes…

Some channeling the very universe itself

Why alpacas are buzz-cut to look like a cross between E.T.,
an Amish elder, and a misbehaving poodle, I’m not sure.

This was the first year the Wild West’s little rescue dogs
performed derring-do’s with singular bravery.

 

Sweet Martha’s bucket of cookies are always
super-sized, teeter-tottering precariously.

Rarely is the customer consulted,
“Would you like a side of insulin with that?”

And in the Ironic Cake Decorating category, the winner is . . .

 

Beating siblings to siesta time.

To sleep, perchance to dream

Unexpected magical moments occur,
like when you twirl and find yourself nose to eye
with an unbelievable sapphire-eyed creature…

 

For those looking for culinary calamities,
the Fair doesn’t disappoint

witness the apocalyptically deep-fried Oreos
because the original hydrogenated recipe wasn’t enough!

The Owl gazes through
our dulled and over-pampered brain,
forged from our ancestors’ snafus
understanding the innate wisdom lurking within

silently bird-laughing

Never mind how undeserving, unwashed, gauche we may be,
it’s truly awesome how unconditionally our domesticated friends adore us

The Talent Competition was strange this year.
By some Jedi mind trick, the contestant who won in the adult category
compelled the Judges to allow him to re-do his painful screechy guitar act.
All because of some audio issue that no one noticed in the first place!

Orange boy moseys off to the left. . .

. . . and to the right

Where else are you actively encouraged to touch
warm newborns, cleaner-than-spit farm animals, and then
conveniently offered a clean-up station to scrub your mitts…

The Fair excels at showcasing
new musical talents on the “free stages”

You never know who might be playing.

Before the final Talent Competition at the Grandstand,
Irene and I were hoofing it back to the Food Building
to scarf down one of those tasty San Felipe fish tacos
when a rich, bluesy voice pierced the cacophony of noise
stopping us in our tracks…

. . . It was a Susan Tedeschi tune blasting over a speaker,
but when we looked around, expecting a D.J. with a CD,
we saw a live singer and band performing on Dino’s Gyro’s tiny stage.

The owner of the voice, Ali Washington,
went on to perform “Sweet Thing” by Chaka Khan,
some irresitable Jackson 5 tunes, and a host of other fun covers.

Any performer who inspires a pre-pubescent, 10-year old boy to drag his best friend from a crowd to the front of a stage to dance in that uninhibited, bone-less, joyfully gawky, free-form way, possesses some powerful alchemy, I tell you what.

Outside the DNR Building, as magnificent feathered representatives paraded by,
a respectful silence settled among the corn and beef-fed crowd.
.

We met this rescued little screech owl
before its public appearance.  Sweet!

All of the birds were so professional.

And hypnotic…

…I truly suck at identifying bird species

The Falconer at the Fair

By the end of the Falconer’s rap on raptors, no matter what your political persuasion, you believed humans should be responsible but unapologetic meat eaters, that vultures were the waste management wonders of nature, taking care of carcasses like nobody’s business; and finally, you experienced an irresistible urge to invest in raptor tschochkes to support this heart-warming, all-volunteer, non-profit organization.

*     *     *

At the Pet Center. . .awaiting the doggie obstacle course. . .

Snacktime before the event found
Steve showcasing his battered pork sandwich,
while Barb delicately demolished her foot-long corn dog.

…

The airborne Rocket Dogs

*     *     *

During a guacamole contest at the Tejas food stand,
Guest-celebrity chef Chad Greenway, a Vikings linebacker,
mashed avocados as if his career depended on it. . .

Such grit, such competitive spirit,
imagine if the Vikes played with such zeal. . .

On behalf of long-suffering, purple-faced fans everywhere,
I unkindly bitch slap Chad in lieu of the entire Vikings organization

but not before mugging for a photo and
securing an autograph for Josh first….

Barb helpfully pointed out abstract art on the ground

Steve was seriously packing at near-Sherpa level.

Funky 4-H  Boy and his Llama

Other than T.R.’s appearance in 1901,
no known tornadic episodes have been recorded in Fair history.

During the Raptor demonstration,
after one of the hawks flew over our heads,
I turned and saw this kid with a feather on his head
Oh cool ! I exclaimed. Can I take his pic?

Sure, said Dad, before noting, ”He actually just had that weaved in there…”

To coin Sari’s favorite “1910″ expression, classic egg-on-my-face moment.

In a culture where nothing is immune from batter and boiling oil, meat is sacred, and Spam is the pinnacle of creative cuisine, a new category was added in the State Fair’s cooking competitions – the Vegan Main Entree.  Like David going up against Goliath, the ubiquitous Florence convinced fair organizers to add this new cooking category.

The idea that a vegan entry could ever get a toehold, let alone a foothold, among the Midwest’s meaty, greasy atmosphere, is sort of a small miracle.

Firenze not only convinced organizers to add the new category, but also offered the winning prize – a copy of the newly-published “The Vegan Table.”  After I explained the odds of winning were greater in this first-year category, H and Irene agreed to enter the competition, especially after hearing Florence was recusing herself !

A week before the Fair opened, thirteen meat-less souls carted their vegan entries onto the grounds.  H and I guessed Irene’s Thai Peanut Tofu was most-likely-to-succeed, but H’s Lasagna Pinwheels were nothing to sneeze at !  As for my Tofu Broccoli Surprise, in my zest to crush the competition I kept tossing in extra ingredients to boost the flavor, which eventually snuffed out any individual flavors altogether.  Surprise!

In the end, Irene excitingly snagged a ribbon with her Thai Tofu – just squeaking into dubious 4th place!  H’s pinwheels may not have placed, but she did cook up some inventive blue streak cussing during her project, reaching her apex over the unmeltable soy cheese.

However the entries looked, a week later, after being nuked and picked over by the judges, surrounded by scrumptious cakes and pies, this is what the public saw:

Irene’s pink-ribbon achievement,
once an attractive, tasty Thai Tofu dish,
now an amalgam of Jabba the Hut
with a lone peanut on its landscape…

So a moment of glory explodes in a single display-case viewing…

Hopefully not irrepairably damaging veganism’s image

Until next year – Hasta la vista

Not only did she raise awareness on the plight of factory farm-raised animals,
but by promoting a radical idea, Firenze expanded a Midwest tradition,
encouraged subversive cooking contests, and possibly
revolutionized some smitten kitchen homefronts…

Teddy, a great hunter,
but an even greater preservationist,
would’ve been proud. . .

And I’m sure would have rewarded F
with a symbolic ribbon on a stick. . .

*  *  *

Right after his turkey shoot

DC: Dysfunction Junction

Hullo

It was uber hot in Washington during my last visit.

It always is in August.

Some were less affected by the heat than others.

Speaking of being affected by the heat,
in this case, the Republican blowhard obstructionists,

Wish Obama would take a page from FDR’s
playbook and introduce his own bold ideas,
project that can-do spirit and American optimism
and basically, grow a pair

preferably a bronze pair

Friday morning when I headed out for breakfast
it didn’t seem like such a fateful decision at the time.

Looking forward to my favorite DC treat,
the tea-smoked salmon and eggs at Teaism.

On the other hand, for the third morning in a row, I bypassed the made-to-order breakfast at my B&B…  Why?  Because at the time I had no idea the French innkeeper was a prodigy in the kitchen.  He was helpful, eager to please, impeccably polite, that much was clear.  But an accomplished cook as well?  Not likely!

In any case, once I arrived at Teaism,
I was distracted by a limbless Venus
propped in a garden across the street.

Next door, a woman was heading up the steps.
The man who opened the door for her
briefly watched me shooting an inert statue,
before beckoning and cheerily inquiring,
“Would you like to see some art?”

“Of course!”  I replied instinctively,
even as my grumbling stomach disagreed.

That’s how I met the mysterious Mr. Rappaport,
his faithful, furry companion, Petra…
and his loyal, less furry coterie of assistants.

. . .

If my stomach hadn’t led me to Teaism that morning,
I would have missed that evening’s wine-soaked soiree. . .

. . .

Earlier that week, before my encounter with Mr. R,
M and I enjoyed a gothically medieval time in Cathedral Hill. . .

After our meeting in HQ, we were very fortunate to catch a ‘Behind the Scenes’ tour of the National Cathedral.   Later that month, the cathedral would suffer significant damage when a 5.8 earthquake struck, toppling 3 of 4 spires from its central tower.

Known as the “Gloria in Excelsis” tower, it is (was?) the highest elevated point of Washington, DC.

And apologies to the structural engineers in advance, but honestly, punsters were handed a major boon when it was reported the cathedral’s east end had suffered major cracks in its flying buttresses.

Seriously, for the highly immature, some things are beyond resistance…

Although this event happened nearly 3 weeks after our visit, props to the red-ruffed lemurs at the National Zoo, who sounded the earliest-known quake warnings.  Zookeepers reported the lemurs began “alarm calling” 15 minutes before the quake hit.  Someone needs to hire these fuzzy geologists as consultants – stat!

Before the area’s geo-shakedown, stone structures inspired; in the quake’s aftermath, unsettling structural anxiety.

Oh to achieve such calm, such focus, such meditative silence,
such chiseled, statuesque, stone-faced absorption.

Perchance to even dream of attaining so zen-like a state.

Translation:  Yah, like that’s ever gonna happen!

The Airport’s domed ceilings have a bit of the cathedral…

But the airport doesn’t have the National Cathedral’s 200+ stained-glass windows that compete to thrill the most jaded, vanquish the deepest apathy, and harness the mysterious power of minerals.

Perhaps I overstate their properties.  However, consider the Ode to Space window…

Embedded in the center of this
magnificent artwork is a piece of moon rock
retrieved by the intrepid crew of Apollo 11.

Over one hundred gargoyles adorn the exterior of the gothic structure.  And of all creatures, Darth Vader glares down from the northwest tower.  I always puzzled over how he made it past the crass culture censor detectors.

Turns out Darth was added in the 1980’s after some architects ran a contest asking children to choose a grotesque for the tower.   After I found that out, I was just grateful Papa Smurf wasn’t chiseled up there.

Sometimes I think Luke Skywalker’s father detracts from the spiritual splendor of the site.  I’ve since learned that Darth is technically a grotesque, because he’s only decorative, whereas gargoyles are practical, doubling as a building’s guttering system.  As excess water is drained through pipes in gargoyle’s mouths, rainwater bounces from their heads, noses, or other protruding parts, protecting the Cathedral’s stone walls.

Still, it makes you wonder, who might be next on the grotesque roster?  He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named??  Hmmmmm

M and I were seriously chuffed to be escorted
through the hidden corners of the Cathedral,
gazing up close and personal at gargoyles and glass,
viewing the vaulting from lofty vantages,
discovering new panoramas of the city from spire heights…

It’s impossible not to stare slack-jawed
when viewing the windows in person.
(assuming slack-jawedness is not one’s natural mien)

At the start of our “Behind the Scenes” tour,
M and I noticed a little group at church center
gathering for a separate tour,
the infamous “Gargoyle Tea Party.”

With its limited tour dates,
it’s notoriously difficult to book.

The look of yearning on M’s face, so poignant,
her dreams of high tea so ruthlessly dashed…

inspired an SLP,
that is, a Seriously Lame Poem.

How longingly did M look back to see
if anyone from the Gargoyle Tea Party
would invitingly say, Come join us please!
We have a spot reserved for you, my Dear…

  Of course nothing like that remotely occurred
as M gazed back wistfully, ceremonially stirred.

Thanks to carved-in-stone schedules making us tardy
we’ll continue to miss the Gargoyle Tea Party. . .

It’s a cryin’ shame !

Maybe next time, M

Meanwhile, across town, in another neighborhood . . .

It may be “the People’s House” but it’s owned by the National Park Service,
which is technically owned by citizens too, but either way,
citizens are no longer allowed to waltz in and bother the president
as they often did in Lincoln’s day.

During our stay in the District,
the US took a symbolic sucker punch in the GDP
after the credit rating downgrade by S & P.

In the Portrait Gallery, a brooding Tom Jefferson

History tells us he strongly objected to Alexander Hamilton’s
proposal to create a centralized, national bank . . .

Hamilton thought banks were vital to America’s future,
and for a strong economy, a country needs lending,
and lending means banks, and isn’t it better, he argued,
to have American banks doing the lending
rather than those scuzzy Brits or other foreign banks??

He had a point.   Up to a point.

Hamilton obviously won the debate over Jefferson
and became the architect of the  First Bank of the US.

Also, in another historic first, few know that
Hamilton was the first recipient of an overdraft notice.

Skeptical Jefferson believed the bank would put
too much power in the hands of the bank’s owners,
essentially holding one over on the government.

Imagine that  !!

Jefferson didn’t trust any bankers,
viewing them all as swindlers, basically,
not the most circumspective view, but still…

After the sub-prime mortgage debacle that almost
brought this country’s economy to its knees,
Jefferson’s views seem more prescient,
even though Hamilton’s practicality
made perfect sense and he accurately
predicted how America would develop…

Ever notice how economists rarely run for office?

* * *

A novel proposal:
(future shock?)

“Money and Soul opens up new methods of looking at,
thinking about, and using money.  It points to a future
where our ideas about money will be greatly expanded;
a future with different kinds of money—
used for different social purposes—in circulation.”

* * *

A few months ago Sari sent me a text:

“Ya know what’s kinda funny….
Terrorists tried to ruin us with 9/11….
however if they would have waited
we would have just ruined ourselves
through greed…”

And a minute later, she added,

“…they must be laughing.”

* * *

From the mouths of babes

* * *

And from a resident, who inadvertently nails the disconnect in DC’s bubble,

“I know that millions are struggling to make ends meet,
though we hardly see it in Washington DC.”

In Java House, I couldn’t help thinking
we’ve come to prefer connecting electronically
while slurping sustainable coffees, and interacting
with our juice-draining devices.

M and I navigated the Newseum on her extra day in town, an overwhelming 250,000 square-foot corporate-funded institution dedicated to the history of journalism even as it ambiguously reflects the steady demise of print journalism.

In one of many well-laid exhibits,
the Newseum examines the emotional events
surrounding the rise and fall of the Berlin Wall.

Washington Post photographer Carol Guzy
captured a family “Fleeing Kosovo”
found in the exhibit on Pulitzer-prize photos.

The Newseum’s photos are arguably
the best part of the museum.

Along with the fun (and real)
botched headlines embedded in restroom tiles

Abe takes a mystical spin

Studying Edward Hopper

M reading a call-box

In the Portrait Gallery, a close-up of Cleopatra’s sandals

Would she have advice for these contemporary times
an era that views her as ancient world’s Jezebel,
envisioning her dying glamorously
encased in a throne of stone
a temptress who was compelled
to drink the poison
rather than return to Rome
against her will…

How bad must the pizzas and calzones have been?

Once again, apologies to both Cleopatra and Rome,
and you, innocent reader

…

“Love and art are greater than money and food.
I used to believe that.  But I’m always hungry.”

When Friday morning rolled around, I was touring Mr. R’s home previewing his art and learning about that evening’s upcoming festivities.  Dupont Circle’s galleries throw their doors open on the first Friday of every month for late-night art-viewing.  Luring a mix of artists and collectors, the curious and uninitiated and the just plain strays, I suspected the evening would have an interesting cocktail of guests….

Just how interesting, I hadn’t reckoned…

Mr. R’s “humble chapeau” across from Teaism.
iPhone Photo by  Bill Katzenstein

The Psychic’s Venus across from Teaism,
next door to Mr. Rappaport,
3 doors from the Chad Embassy,
a stone’s throw from Connecticut Ave.
…

Like a kid in a candy shop, the personable Mr. R.,
enthusiastic horse lover /race horse breeder,
looked up the results of his last winning thoroughbred
and re-played the exciting race online…

It was, as Miley notes,  “prehtty coool.”

Ever the entrepreneur, Mr. Rappaport
magnanimously made an offer I couldn’t refuse -
Come back to snap informal photos of friends and visitors
during that evening’s Friday Art Crawl.

Mr. R struck me as an amalgam of characters in some smokey film noir,
if it was filled with passionate art collectors/ wheeler-dealers, former Israeli soldiers,
horse breeders, and the occasional financier.  Swirling about such an interesting protagonist
would be your savory and unsavory characters, the slightly shady sort,
the spoiled rich man’s son who becomes more deranged as the night wears on,
as well as the wildly envious, frankly, the most dubious of all.

During my sometimes awkward photographic assignment,
I had the pleasure of taking the liberty of  psychoanalyzing certain peeps.

Fun!  And just slightly risky….

That’s how I met Bill, the shy, unassuming Architectural Photog
who admitted to moonlighting as a part-time consultant at the World Bank.
And Navy, one of Mr. R’s friendly assistants, a talented artist in his own right,
and a host of other fun, polite and usually respectful visitors.

Speaking of the less than respectful, if not downright snarky and art-envious. . .

The first photo subject of the night held his arm up dramatically moments after this shot, declaring huffily, “No pictures, please!”

Which was odd cause when I ran into him later that evening at another gallery, he greeted me like a long-lost friend, cozying up and  throwing his head back and laughing when I assured him I would delete his pic.  Oh no worries, he said, stroking my arm like it was a pet llama, assuring me he had only reacted so because he was (voice lowering dramatically) an undercover investigator…

Fueled by a civilizing stream of alcohol, variations in his story appeared.  He must have been implementing some super ingenious dyslexic plan consisting of blowing his secret cover over and over again…    Pretty wily!

Pass the merlot.

That evening, guests came from near and far to peer at Mr. Rappaport’s eclectic collection.

A couple of people mused on
the figure in the foreground who appears
to be skating through tumultuous history.

“Is that skater Ach-My-Dinner-Jacket ?” they wondered.

Only the artist knows for sure…
Cause apparently it’s gauche to ask

Once again, Mr. Twain’s advice reminds one,
“Better to keep your mouth shut and appear ignorant
than open it and remove any doubt…”

 Bill, the talented architectural photog,
pulled out his Jules-Verne inspired film camera
and just cause he could, set up a 15-second exposure shot
of Mr. Rappaport’s second floor living room…

Possibly to psych me out.  Which worked.

Viewing Mr. R’s phenomenal collection
means visitors are invited to ascend three flights.

A fan of Joan Miro

 Friends pointed out their favorites

Visiting artists snuck in

Patrick was instrumental in keeping wine, water and guests flowing

 A waif wandered in

A small visitor had his pick of transforming toys

In the kitchen, Mr. R and Navy discuss art with visitors.
Or maybe they were discussing the merits of owning 37 race horses,
lovingly tended by one overwhelmed personal stableman.

Or perhaps they’re discussing some fascinating new artist
Mr. R supports by showcasing their work in his archival home.

 Soft-spoken Sigay contemplates
the haunting maternal gaze that touched his soul.

Well, his soul and his pocketbook!

Yard sculpture in the hood

Foot sculpture down the street

…

The next day. . .

Guess who pulled up at the Market
with a pair of smiles or what?

Once again, not a question, just rhetorical,
but why are all the best ones furry, gay or taken,
not necessarily in that order?

At the Museum of Natural History
capturing an Evolutionary Arc moment !

In the 1830′s, after witnessing the US government
pass the Indian Removal Act, forcing Southeast Indians
to resettle west of the Mississippi,
George Catlin journeyed West five times
to paint the Northern Plains tribes in their natural habitat.

Admiring the Natives for living in harmony with nature,
and witnessing the devastation through land-driven corruption,
Catlin wanted to record the tribes’ rapidly disappearing way of life.

And so he did, marvelously.

The  National Gallery showcases 350 of Catlin’s
Indian paintings in a wonderfully staged solarium.

As noted earlier, unbeknownst to me, Jonathan, the inexplicably-named Frenchman who co-runs the inn at the American Guest House with Alexis, his no-nonsense American counterpart, whipped up breakfast specials with the aplomb of Jacques Pequin and the youthful charm of Jamie Oliver.  If Jamie was French and embarrassingly helpful and Jacques Pepin was, well, looked like Jonathan.

“My mother told me that no one would want to marry me if I didn’t learn to cook,” he admitted to his guests at the breakfast table.

One evening, in a girls’ late-night conversation with Alexis, she described Jonathan as “not gay, just French.”

Jonathan flits back and forth in the breakfast room

After belatedly discovering Jonathan’s cooking skills on my last morning at the American Guest House, my thoughts ranged from “Quel domage!” to ” Trop mal!” to “Tsk tsk” to a bit of the unprintable.   After all that, my one and only breakfast experience consisted of asking for scrambled eggs…wondering if this kid could even scramble les oeufs.  Upon receiving my modest request, Jonathan went as giddy as an overeager schoolboy and whipped up an airy concoction with a dusting of some dark spice I believe the French refer to as “le pepper” and finishing with a jaunty sprig of parsley on top, which I believe they call “le parsley.”

Coincidentally, there was a French couple sharing the table with me that morning.  They were in the States for the first time visiting their daughter.  Between me and them, it was clearly a crap shoot as to who would adopt Jonathan first.

At Eastern Market,
possible love among the peaches.

*       *       *

After roaming my favorite outdoor market,
it was time to say goodbye to the awesome innkeepers at the B&B
and time to say hello to the national airport.

The first leg of my return journey home is brought to you by
“Psych-Yourself-Out Head Games.”

It all started when our pilot announced he’d been flying in circles around St. Louis for the last hour because Chicago airspace wasn’t safe to land in.  The sudden reality that you and your fellow passengers are being propelled by thousands of gallons of rapidly-depleting jet fuel, “flying” through thin air under some delusional, barking mad scientific principle, runs through you in less time than it takes to yell “Uncle!”  A prickly cold shudder followed and my mind went off to the races, thinking of all the stuff people sneak on to avoid excess baggage fees, which further made me worry about how many passengers had eaten before boarding, and then actually just how much they might have eaten, I kid you not, and whether those seats that double as flotation devices had any parachute capabilities.

Which further had me yearning for the complimentary non-stop alcoholic beverage services being sloshed around in first class. . .

*     *     *

Which further makes me realize just how inappropriate and stupidly frivolous this anecdote is considering the unimaginable terror the passengers of those four hijacked planes underwent on 9/11 ten years ago tomorrow.  And the phenomenal amount of things we take for granted every day.

Flight 93 Memorial
Image by Mary Kokoska

Image by Dan Deluliis

A Grand Marais of Art

 

On our way to Grand Marais
we sang to pass the time away

With rest stops barricaded closed
thanks to governmental woes
bladders swelled like waves at sea
as travelers kegeled fervently

 When fog crept in on “little cat feet”
one and all cried, “Holy sheeet”

Along Superior’s shores we logged
miles and miles of devilish fog

Up ahead a shadow darted
deer in headlights roughly startled

Heart in throat H hit the brakes
Too close a call with rising stakes

Unease tinged the remaining drive
with each looming deer-crossing sign

As we drove past Superior’s cliffs,
piercing headlights sliced the mist.

Relentlessly, the gloom did slither
shadowing contours hither and thither
deepening as the dusk described
waves of tendrils across the tide

Up ahead lay Grand Marais
lighting up the pale highway

Once we reached the town we  found
phantom specters hovering ’round

In the distance, faintly, music hailed,
wafting, offering melodious trail

Down the street a golden glow
signaled where the music flowed,
a bluesy band from Gunflint Tavern
woke the stars from dark night’s chasm

*       *       *

Thus H blazed her way to Grand Marais
safely through the perilous haze
navigating the Great North Shore
delivering us to East Bay’s door.

Morning outside East Bay

. . . mostly spent exploring

 

Pilot and co-pilot proudly pose before the great Gitchigume

Heading to the Art Festival. . .

With a few detours. . .

A local told us, “Up here, we call it the Grand Marais Dog Festival.”

Even the DMV gets loosey goosey with the rules

One night, we discussed where to eat:

Speaker A:  Don’t you want to go back to The Pie Shoppe?
I thought you wanted to try it again.

Speaker B:  Are you crazy?  I am not going back there.
Do you want a repeat of that night of horror?

Speaker A:  That was six years ago!  How bad can it be now?
They must’ve improved!

Speaker B:  Improved??  Or gotten worse!  {Grumbling sounds}

Speaker A:  I’m just sayin’ – it has to have changed.
And don’t you want a little adventure?
The fear factor?  Will it or won’t it be a disaster??

Amazingly, Speaker B succumbed to Speaker A’s not so subtle manipulations
and directed Speaker C to drive out of town to find The Pie Shoppe.

Hearing about our prior discussion, a nervous Speaker C stays out of the fray.
As we drove out to find The Pie Shoppe, we discovered,
disappointingly for some, that it had a “Closed” and “For Sale” sign on it!

“Well that serves ‘em right !”  Speaker B harrumphed.

The next day, H, I mean Speaker B, suggested a breakfast spot in town
where the service and curried egg salad turned out equally top notch.

More surprising was the fact that after we paid and walked out,
we discovered The Pie Place was The Pie Shoppe,
just re-located, revamped and re-named…

Hee

(Sadly, Faulty Towers waitstaff nowhere to be seen)

Herons dropped by the Angry Trout Cafe

The Angry Trout inspires one to play
with other jazzy ideas for a cafe

Like maybe the Fuming Tuna, or the Raging Sardine,
or the Hepped-Up Herring, or the Livid Halibut,
or the Seething Salmon, or the Pissed Off Pike,
or the Belligerent Blowfish, or the Furious Flounder…

Too fun!

For such an angry cafe, the Trout serves pretty delicious food

While we were eating at the Angry Trout,
a pirate ship skulked by on the horizon

Pirate ship looms closer

Okay it’s a boat with brown sails
which is as close to piracy
as you’re gonna get hereabouts

Grand Marais boasts a thriving art colony with workshops,
competitions, exhibitions, classes, an accredited art school
and all kinds of local support for artists.

Disclosure – during our holiday, Love was in the air

As well as lots of facebooking

The gentleman on the right stopped me when I asked to take a pic of his beautiful dog, asking, “Are you with some publication or corporation?” I’m like, “Uh, no, I just have a blog and I like to journal, post pics and stuff.”

Seeing my reaction, he comes over and pats me and says, “Not a problem,” before launching into a tale of a guy from last year who took oodles of snaps of “Fido” (without even asking) and next thing you know, weeks later, Fido’s owner sees dozens of photos of Fido in a magazine!

I tell Fido’s owner I think that was not only rude, but improper and possibly illegal.

Later, when I tell the story, Irene disputes the illegal part, “Once you’re in public, you’re fair game,” she exults.

I am shocked, shocked and appalled at her paparazzi-callous statement, although she may be technically right.

“Well, what about the guy not even asking him if he could take a pic of his dog?” I sputter.

“Well yeah, of course,” she concedes, glaring at me pointedly, “You should always ask if you can take a pic…”

 The dual-eyed beauty of much speculation/publication/argumentation

Pottery demonstration, kinda intense, kinda earthy, kinda Patrick Swayze

 Betsy Bowen, artist-in-residence,
originally from Chicago,
now Grand Marais’ adopted daughter
lately accosted by geeky fan

The woodcut heard round the world

Betsy is uber natural and gracious with geeky fans and such

 

At the close of this year’s festival,
waiting patiently while owners pack up their wares

H sneaks a cat-nap in in front of the trading post

One day, we traipsed down to violate and molest the famed Artist’s Point
with our citified ways, not to mention clunky cameras and other technology

 The cairns, oh the cairns, enticed us off course.
The cairns are like the Mini Stonehenges of Grand Marais,
all of course contemporary productions

Much of Grand Marais and its peninsula reminds one of Cornwall
the crashing seas, the misty air, the rocky coves, but no 99′s or
Cornish pasties, or stuff like that

 

H sports a cairn of her own,
striking a pose with that amazing hair.
It not only has a mind of its own,
but recently qualified for its own area code

 Shortly before we veered off track

Tasha thought bubble:  “F-Stop – Shmeff Stop, ISO - OMG, What The Fuh izzat over there…”

Irene thought bubble:  “Oh Gawd, oh Gawd, the golden light, the golden light, it’s going!!”

H thought bubble:  “I wonder if there’s a chance we could get lost up here and then get
rescued by a Welsh-camping-photographer-triathlon-coach . . .  Hmm   Naw -  Ridiculous!”

 You can’t see the hidden scars from the lashing Irene gave us
to make sure we all timely posed on these rocks during the “golden light”
Even though Tasha blew it!

 

Woe betide you if you fritter away Ireney’s golden light

 

 

You know I just realized
Tasha never let out one bark,
not once did she bark
while she was in Grand Marais…

Struck speechless

Shortly after the night’s golden shots petered out, Scooby Doo’s little gang managed to get lost in the Peninsula’s scary “woods.”  Well, they’re only scary when the sun drops and you can’t see where you’re going so you could potentially fall into a crevasse forcing you to spend the night with Canadian mosquitos who must be slumming in town cause you can’t believe those little scavengers would emanate from a place as tranquil and beautiful as Grand Marais, a town located on the northern fringes of a land of 10 million swamp-breeding mosquito infested lakes…

Hmm wait a minute…  Apologies Canada

But instead, just at everyone’s peak of manufactured panic, we ran into an intriguing camper, with pitched tent and camera, who was perched on a relatively remote spot of Artist’s Point who was also vagabonding from Wales, and who chivalrously led us out of the wilds of the Peninsula.

Welshman Ralph finds our dilemma kinda funny

Considering how relieved and grateful we were to the mysterious Ralph, we may have acted like we were trapped in some kind of cannibal-infested jungle . . . and not some peninsula just a few hundred yards shy of Grand Marais beach, and so what if we’d been Up North many times, and our navigator just showed up yesterday after hitching from Canada, and manages to lead us all out like Mr. Livingston, we presume, and, oh yeah, whatever you’re thinking -  Shuddup.

 

At dawn, T-Bone explored the shores untethered

Looking west

One of us became obsessed with finding sea glass…
basically the Great Lake’s recycling of broken glass bottles…

Smoothly buffed through years of  Superior’s crashing and grinding waves
these colored remnants of flotsam and jetsam are as beautiful as gemstones

Everywhere she went, Tasha was as popular as U2 at an Irish pub.

No question I opened up a Pandora’s box of rock hounding by locating a few heart-shaped rocks,
and turning them over to Irene for her new he’s-only-4-blocks-from-my-house! boyfriend.

Above, the rock H found “not even two minutes” after asking for Mum’s mystic assistance.

Some of us didn’t want to leave a place of Northern woods, golden light, crashing waves,
rocky beaches, crying seagulls, nightly tinkling of rocks rolled back and forth by thrashing tides,
where fish are positively encouraged to get angry…

And yes, a magical place where dogs not only hold a place of honor,
but also routinely take over your pillow and general sleeping area…

Watercolor from East Bay’s common room

Because in our minds, everything’s for sale,
I was going to ask the manager,
something along the lines of,
“Hey, is that for sale?”

 Irene’s fish-eye captures T-Bone’s wistful moment

 

Somewhere a whimper, sotto voce:  No more tschochkes!

 

 

Rockin’ daisies

Just outside town, H insists on stopping at The Blue Moose
where she and Irene go wacky on the yard tschochkes

 

“Those who have never seen Superior get an inadequate
idea by hearing it spoken of as a lake.  Superior is a sea.
It breeds storms and rain and fog like a sea.
It is cold, masterful, and dreaded.”

                                        – Rev. George Grant, 1872

 

 Not so cold, or dreaded, as the Rev perceives,
at least not this time, but masterful, indeed!

*      *      *

On our way to Grand Marais
we sang our lungs out by the quay
we sang to keep the gulls at bay
we sang just for the hell of it
We sang because we couldn’t quit

R.I.P. Amy

 

Summertime – The Eyes Have It

Sigh…

 

It’s moving day for Irene’s next-door neighbors.

 

Ezra and T-Bone’s private, silent goodbye…

 

Skyler sidles toward the front steps
to wish her nemesis more of a “Sayonara Psycho !”

Lucky there’s a glass door separating the two,
although it’s risky -  one snarky look and Tasha’s schnozz
could easily burst through that storm door…

For Tasha, there’ll be no more Skyler to harass…

 

*    *    *

 

Across town, Lily’s in the bucket

 

Back in the hood, Casanova’s peepers
urge you to skritch his jowls longer…

 It works… for a while anyway…

 

His parting look seemed to reprimand,
How could you just paw me up
and then leave…

 

Two doors down, barricaded in his yard,
a pugnacious scamp is looking for action…

 

 

Improper Haiku

Ducks, duck and run for cover
flee in your feathers

Downwind of prey
Hunter’s nose hones in,
focused like a zen master

 

 

Stone Arch Bridge Festival of Dogs

 

 It was a particularly sweltering day at the Festival.

 

The clouds hid the sun most of the time.

 

The festival has noticeably “blowed up - real good.”

 

  

The heat was taking its toll on the furry.

 

The setting is always picturesque.

 

Princess’ doppelganger was there.

 

The dogs trumped the artwork, mostly.

 

I never met a pooch that didn’t distract

 

 

 

 

 Parking gets creative

 

 

 Ruins of the old mill loom

 

Tasha’s eyes and that little tilt
always seem to be inquiring.  In this case,
“Why didn’t you bring me along to the Festival?”

 

Maybe because at the Heights Jamboree Idol contest,
Tash was so overwhelmed with the buzz and excitement,
she shook like George VI at a podium. . .

At the zenith of her sensory overload,
she let out a ginormous yawn of anxiety. . .

 

And we won’t even discuss fireworks night
when a closet became her bombshelter bunker

Mama – Love, Tenacity and the Toll of History – Part II

When we last left Mama, our continental traveler
was facing an uncertain future, destination unknown. . .

*       *      *

On the last day of the war in Europe,
millions of ostarbeiters (Eastern workers)
found themselves stranded in Germany and Austria
without a home or homeland…

Overwhelmed by the sheer number of refugees,
the Allies hastily housed the Displaced Persons
wherever they could…

. . .sometimes in former German army barracks.

Many refugees had been slave laborers,
or, like Mama, “guest workers”
on German farms or in factories…

…still others toiled as death camp inmates
enduring to survive amongst a Holocaust of millions…

 Thousands were young Ukrainian men
who had fought Communists on the Eastern Front
as part of Germany’s Ukrainian “Nationalist” brigade.

All were sorely in need of shelter,
food and medical care…

The UNNR and other relief agencies
tended to this mass of humanity
while dealing with critical post-war shortages…

In Limbach, Germany, the first Allies to reach Mama
were the Americans, and they quizzed her
on Oma and Opa’s treatment during her “stay.”

Mama found the Americans fascinating, boisterous
and intrinsically different from Europeans. . .

 Apparently reading and military life are mutually exclusive in the U.S….

US 76th Infantry arrive in Limbach, Germany

Somewhere amongst these cheeky American troops, a young chap
offered to share his celebratory schnapps with Mama.

When the Allies arrived, they removed Limbach residents
from their homes, (along with Mama and her fellow laborers),
and temporarily set them up in churches and such.
Soldiers then quartered themselves in homes and farmhouses.

Two weeks later, when Oma and Opa exchanged anxious goodbyes
with their Auslander charge, Mama was transported by train
to a communal DP shelter in Saarlouis…

… where she lived for two years in hard-scrabble
conditions and a state of anxious limbo …

The Allies had partitioned Germany and Austria into 4 zones,
American, British, French and Soviet, respectively.

Most Ukrainians wound up in the Soviet sector.
Mama was lucky to have been in the American zone…

Soviet military personnel visited the other sectors to “invite”
Slavic citizens to return home, but got few takers…

 

 

Interestingly, in a 180 degree twist, the Soviets’
sacred duty was to suddenly
“extend a hand to our Ukrainian brothers…”

Heartwarming, I’m sure!

Even the Americans lobbied on the Soviets’ behalf,
for those who might be reluctant to return home…

Mama would not risk returning, all the while
resigned that she was turning her back
on her family and homeland forever…

 

Stalin Welcomes His Satellite Subjects Home…

Translation:  Stalin Saved a Bullet Just For You

For two years, the Soviets energetically tried to convince
refugees to return to their now Communist-controlled states.

. . . .Attempts that may have overreached. . . .

Just in case you missed it,
the Ukrainian peasant’s amorous lip-lock
with a Russian soldier illustrates just how grateful
Ukies should be to their Russian liberators
for whupping the Third Reich’s criminal ass…

And, of course, for Russian leaders’ restrained,
progressive, humane, civilized occupation of its neighbors…

Plucky Londoners bustle amid the rubble
a standard calling card from the German Luftwaffe
during the dark days of the war…

Two years into Mum’s stay in the DP camp,
England extended an economic invitation
to Europe’s refugees as part of a vast labor program.

Mama was one of 86,000 DP’s that said, “Will Do!”

…And so Mum came to the Land of the Saxons
the mother country as it were,
a Britannia of Kings and Queens and
the home of fish ‘n chip-butties (tm Patricia)
the former great colonial power,
that had once thrown its imperial weight
across large swaths of the globe…

Great Britain…

England’s economy was in shambles,
so much so that food rationing continued
for almost a decade after the war …

However, in towns like Bradford in Yorkshire,
wool manufacturing was booming. . .

…

 …for Mama and her compatriots,
starting new lives in their adopted homeland,
the transition into English culture was a blessedly gentle one.

 

One could say Mama and her fellow Ukrainians
helped Britain back up on its economic feet. . .

Dad said if you lost your job at one factory,
you could just walk across the street and
right into another building,
work and hiring was just that ubiquitous.

Pride of Yorkshire – The Dales

In the few photos Mum managed to retain from her single days,
I’d always wonder, what if she had fallen in love with this guy?

 

Or what about this guy?  He looks patient and kind…
as Mum sports some fashion forward drunken-goose-headware. .

Maybe if Mum had had her druthers,
she wouldn’t have gotten married at all…

But as things turned out,
it seemed other options
were wrested from her hands. . .

With her bff’s, always comfortable,
proudly representin’, still smilin’

On the River Aire,
Mum sits next to her cousin Teklya,
her favorite comic, and cherished best friend,
not necessarily in that order. . .

Both M and her cousin were torn from home,
and in a sweet twist of fate,
worked on neighboring farms in Germany.
Their shared experience during the war years
bonded them seriously as lifelong buds…

Teklya met and married a Polish immigrant in England.
However, he turned out to be quite the bastard.

After Mom immigrated to America,
he forbade Teklya to write Mom letters in Ukrainian!
Demanding she write them in Polish…

Who did he think he was, and
what century did he think it was?

And who anointed him ipso-facto Polish leader in Britain?

Schweini rheini…

The lovely “proper” hills of Bradford begin at the foothills of the Pennines, a spiny mid-mountain range referred to as “the backbone of England.”   The town’s former medieval country lanes had morphed into bustling city life.

Blackened with a century of coal-belching soot, Bradford’s buildings were crusted with character.  Corner grocers, shopkeepers, and charming English specialty shops peppered the tiny streets.  All day long, intoxicating smells permeated the air, the steamy pleasures of hot steak and kidney pies and fresh fish and chips that just left your ears wiggling (tm Dad).

If you mention Busby’s on Manningham Lane, one of two respectable department stores at the time, H’s face lights up…   She often went on outings there with Dad during her privileged first-born with highly-attentive parental upbringing.  And not just cause she was so dang cute and first-born, but because she kicked ass when it came to running, even when she ran into street poles and neglected to stop falls with her hands cause apparently her Dad appreciated speed over common sense….  But her sister’s not bitter, oh no…..

As rotating bridesmaid on the outbreak of marriages,
Mama met a dashing musician-about-town,
leading to an earth-shattering whoopsie moment,
as both succumbed to the raging hormone of the day
which might be viewed as a dark and fateful thing,
yet it led to the cosmically fabulous conception of “H”

A fateful thing indeed…

…

Mum looking petrified at her wedding to the chatty musician…
And with that dang black cat dangling off her bouquet, no less !!

As a kid, I was fascinated by this photo of pretty Mama
in her frothy white ensemble, as well as dapper looking Dad …

Years later, deep in the bowels of our basement,
shuffling through Mum and Dad’s shoebox of photos
I noticed something hinky between the month of their marriage
versus the birth month of their first-born …

Hmm, the discrepancy between those months
and the gestation time of a baby, well…

Even the non-mathematician in me
figured something was a wee bit amiss….

But girls in Mama’s position had few options,
and apparently Dad wanted to do “the right thing,”
and so . . .

Two people who passed like ships in the night
and should have kept sailing
but who had no foghorn to blast them a warning
and so chose a waterway, ocean, sea of endless regrets…

Yeah, my metaphors blow,
but then so did Mum and Dad’s options. . .

Of course, Dad could’ve been a shit
and skipped out to Lancashire,
another industry-heavy town…
but, to his credit, he didn’t….

Mixing up love with lust, or maybe
homesickness with perceived security and refuge
can make for spectacularly wrong decisions. . .

Dah said Mum appealed to him because she was quiet,
and didn’t fancy fussy female fripperies. . .

Asking Mum how she met Dad
or how their courtship went
was like pulling teeth -
that wouldn’t come out

My Godfather with Guitar, a bachelor
who lodged with my parents

One year into Mum and Dad’s marriage
they took in a bachelor boarder.
Dad taught him to play guitar
and he helped pay the rent.

When I rolled around,
Dad asked him to be my Godfather.

Godfather negotiated one meal per day into the deal,
but as it happened, Mum enjoyed cooking for him so much,
and he loved eating her cooking so much,
that the dinners became breakfasts and lunches too….

Mum became very fond of him, explaining,
“He always cleaned his plate and he never complained!”

He was a wonderful friend to Dad,
and a kind and gentle influence
when Mum and Dad needed it most…

A fuzzy-slippered Linda poses with a visiting H

His future Neapolitan-born wife, Linda,
was a good friend to Mum.
Many years later, after she passed,
Mama said Linda visited her one night
asking for a cappuccino !

The entrance to Bradford’s Lister Park,
Mum loved to stroll its tranquility.

As you pass the Park’s iron gates, Cartwright Hall greets you.

H must have been an engaging bebe because
Mum and Dad had lots of photos taken of her;
my brother and I, eh, not so much. . .  What?  Chopped liver??

At H’s first communion, Mum is surrounded by her butterball brood.
Safe to say England’s food rationing was ovah…

By the time me and my bro rolled into the picture,
Dad was not much for crying bebes,
preferring his infants to walk and talk,
communicate and rationalize,
like a savvy, cigarette-smoking 30 year old newshound
up on current affairs, history and politics…

On Friday’s Mama took her ducklings down for a rare treat,
the genuine, one and only pinnacle of English haute cuisine…

You know what I’m talkin’ about….

And by the way,
here’s the “propah” way
to wrap (and eat) fish n’ chips
– out of a greasy newspaper…
before it was banned !

*        *        *

By the time Mum and Dad got hitched,
Hitler was mouldering in the ground,
and Stalin was just about on his way out,
Dad’s Mom – Mama’s mutter-in-law - had survived the war,
and somehow this woman we called “Babusha”
smuggled her formidable self out of Communist-occupied Ukraine,
and singlehandedly battled her way into Britain
to supervise my Dad’s marriage to Mama.

Recently, we found out Dad wrote her and suggested
she make her way to Britain because she’d have her pick of
eligible gullible Ukrainians in England, I guess.

If he was trying to pawn her off on someone,
it was a very risky proposition any way you looked at it. . .

She was the kind of mother-in-law
who berated her son’s wife for being “wasteful”
for taking her kids out for a Friday fish n’ chips treat
and accused her of being “lazy”
while said wife cooked and cleaned
washed and ironed,
roasted and toasted,
polished and performed,
baked and dreamed.

She was the kind of mother-in-law
Stalin would have hastily transported back to the Allies
I’m talkin’ forthwith, full speed ahead, do not stop,
do not pass go, go directly to ….. jail hell…

She was the type of woman who would have
shaken things up in the Gulag…

Meanwhile, back in her shaky marriage,
Mama took Babusha’s knocks on the chin, repeatedly.

If only someone would have championed her,
someone like, maybe Dad,
if he hadn’t been so psychologically
damaged in his own serious PTSD issues
maybe he would have, and in the end, maybe he did…

But Mum stood up for herself in her own quiet way,
and on that very special day, when she did so,
Dad took care of that attitude by backhanding her
and breaking her nose and spirit in one fell swoop.

Nice going you bastard.

The effects of trauma can be passed down
through generations in different ways.

Thank Yahweh at least Dad had the sense,
kahunas, foresight, intelligence, wisdom
to leave his ball-busting Mama behind in Bradford
when he decided to move to America…

Most likely recognizing self-preservation in the whole issue

Just a month before Mah and Dah emigrated overseas,
some English lads did a recon mission to America for us first…

H was heavily into the Beatles
when Dad forcibly transplanted the family to America.

Mama always said Ringo was her favorite Beatle
because he had a big nose “like me!” she would announce,
self-deprecatingly, to the poignant extreme.

.   .   .

But before our journey to the original colonies,
while we still resided on English shores,
a little episode unfurled…

Artist’s rendering of Mama’s righteous rage*
upon finding her chocolate missing…

* Disclaimer:  Mum didn’t have a raging bone in her body…

An infamous story Mama had no trouble relating
involved the night of the chocolate and its mysterious
disappearance from her cute little English purse…

When Mum came up to ask me,
“What happened to the chocolate in my purse?”
she claimed I kept repeating,
“Black Magic,” “Black Magic!”
which was not only a crafty supernatural
excuse for my perfidy a/k/a klepto-ness
but also coincidentally happens to be the name
of a famous chocolatier in England…

The story is I broke into Mama’s purse
looking for something shiny and pretty
and found some “chocolate” instead…

Score!

Being the greedy little bastard I was,
I carefully unfoiled one square after another,
until all the little brown gift-wrapped pieces were going going gone
..

That night, after the perpetration of the crime,
I was writhing in agony with stomach cramps.
Opening my eyes, I saw Mum in the dimness,
rifling through her little purse, catching my eye,
and solemnly shaking her head at me.

Ooo, she’s upset I scarfed all her chocolate, I thought …

Well, who knew Mum was so crafty
keeping such a secret stash of chocolate!

Oh yes, she was a tad upset, as the Brits would say…

Seeing as how it was umpteen squares of
Chocolate Ex-Lax Tablets I gobbled, that is…

*       *       *

And now, an homage to Mum, and the English chocolatier
whom I blame for my unfettered chocolat habitue,
due to its siren song of chocolate advertising:

The one, the original…

The Chocolate Box

by Hay Machine

Black Magic
the red ribbon tied in a neat diagonal bow
the red Turkish tassel
the pony-tail for show

Years later
the box still oozing chocolate fumes
a few old photographs, a letter
the weave of other looms

You were Black Magic
that dark chocolate voice
your rich fruit centre
the most exotic choice

Almost back beyond memory
when porcelain women wore long
tapered dresses down to their shiny shoes
you were the shapes of a fairy
a spirit, a music, a muse

(PS:  To the makers of Black Magic:
Sorry for the unsavory mix-up with Ex- Lax)

And okay, I noticed those little squares tasted kind of funky,
but back then, I wasn’t fussy where my chocolate came from…

To her credit, Mum never lorded this story over me,
or rubbed any of that in my face,
either metaphorically, or otherwise…

As someone’s Mutter might have…

After our transatlantic journey to America….

Soon after this brush with chocolate trauma,
Dad packed Mum and us up, lock, stock and barrel,
and said “So long” to the Yorkshire moors…

And we said hello to eccentric Uncle Teddy
(look at him guffawing up there)

Uncle Teddy, known to us as curious “Voolyko Feydko”
had emigrated to America back in the 1930′s.

As an author and Professor of History at the U of M,
he was an erudite, intelligent, eccentric whirlwind,
and when he convinced Pop to come to America,
well, it was an offer Pop couldn’t refuse…

Uncle Teddy may have sponsored Mum and Dad…
but he kinda scared the crap outta us kids,
what with his scarily familiar, gregarious nature…
He so knew how to laugh, and take a bite out of life,
even when he became very ill, especially after he became ill
with his puckish, tongue-in-cheek sense of humor . . .

Being English, we found it all veddy veddy disconcerting, at first…

He and his supremely patient, kind and talented wife, Johanna,
along with their wild and wooly family, were our fabulous template
for all the crazy fascinating things that encompassed being an American.

Uncle Teddy seemed a cross between
Uncle Fester, Puck and the Artful Dodger…

I wanted to thank him for taking Mum and Dad
under his wing, and making them laugh…

Makes me wish I had known him as an adult…

In his letters to Dad, Uncle Teddy no doubt touted all the positives on living in America…

.

Mom and Auntie Johanna flank the family
as Uncle Teddy holds center court

I remember wishing we came from Uncle Teddy’s family.
They were such a welcome distraction,
such an amalgam of American generosity, energy and sensibility,
learned, bookish, cultured, festive social-animals.

Uncle Teddy specialized in handing out money to us kiddies,
that is, his wife’s money, always with a mischievous twinkle.

“Look!” he’d exclaim, pointing at us.  “Look how adorable those children are !”
“Give them some dollars, for God’s sake, Johanna !”

And Chocha Johanna would just imperceptibly grit her teeth,
as all of us adorable and chemnee children would file past
and accept the peeled dollars she offered from her
exceptionally gifted Ukrainian egg-making fingers…

Years later, Auntie Johanna and her daughter gently teased us on how
terribly British we all seemed after they picked us up at the airport,
mimicking our meek little English accents as we asked for,

“Corn flakes, please,” for breakfast.

Dad, so fabulous in social situations,
just not so much with la familigia.

Mum, sweet shy sensitive, surrounded by
drunken, and let’s face it, frightening looking men…

Mom surrounded in the backyard of our first house
in the heavily-Slavic ”Nordeast” hood.

As Mum hosts California visitors Chocha Olya,
her hilariously goofy son Roman
and oh so pretty daughter Nusia.

Dad displays the newly delightful addition,
bebe Irene, whom we fondly dubbed, “Egg Head.”

H is still fuming Dad forced her to get her “hooker hair”
chopped off, as well as catastrophically permed,
said perm leading to a permanent grudge against the old man…

Mom had an ally in her husband’s cousin, our Chocha Olya.

One day, when Dad tried to whip my brother
for some young-boy-inspired infraction…
Chocha Olya intervened, crying,
What in hell are you doing?  He’s a young boy…

What does a beating teach him?

The last baby Mama squeezed out was the magical little Irene
who was conceived two years after we arrived in the U.S.

Mum and Dad are visiting their best friends in America,
my Ukrainian godfather and his sweet Italian wife,
who followed my parents to America a year after we’d arrived.

Ireney the baby gave the family something wonderful to dote on
What would we have done without that phenomenal little Egghead.

*       *       *

Years later, after my Godfather’s wife died,
Mama was talking about their Ukrainian-Italian marriage,
and commented, “Linda picked a good one…”

*       *       *

When H was about 4 or 5 in England,
Mama underwent a dangerous surgical procedure.

When Dad had to tell her Mama was in the hospital,
H claimed he cried.  When I looked skeptical,
H nodded soberly and repeated, “Oh yeah, he cried.”

*       *       *

Mom’s cooking always impressed Dad,
he’d say, “So and So wouldn’t have made all that
(labor-intensive) Ukrainian stuff…but your Mama did.

Mum always described her cooking skills as “not bad…”

Which might have been acceptable,
except she used that phrase for almost everything!
If you brought, say, a rare Grade A paper home from school,
she’d look at it, nod her head a la Vito Corleone,
do one of those little moue moues with the mouth,
and come up with an ego-inflating, “Not bad….” (!)

..

The painstakingly delicate work of pierogis

Somewhere during this less than idyllic domestic situation,
Dad’s Mom arrived on the shores of America
…for her Satanic Majesty’s visit.

Just as she had barreled her way from the Ukraine to England,
so had she muscled her formidable self to the U.S. from England…
But not before first asking Dad to give her “carte blanche”
if she were to deign to move into the her son’s household,
that is, allowing her to rule the roost as it were…

Thank God Dad said, Uhhhh, hold your Cossack-trained horses…

Even so, her arrival brought much unnecessary unpleasantness
much like the flying monkeys brought to Dorothy and her adopted misfits…

Mama went to work at a popular downtown restaurant in Minneapolis
to earn a little pocket change for herself and her kiddies

Mama worked her fingers to the bone for the family,
working at the reverse-racism Nankin Restaurant
for many years, sweating over that giant rice cooker,
burning herself multiple times on that industrial stove.

Yes, the place was such a Minneapolis institution…

The type that kept an employee’s hours under 40 hours a week,
just to make sure no benefits could be earned,
the type that “let an employee go” a year before their retirement,
so retirement benefits would not kick in…

Mum and Dad didn’t believe in making waves with the state,
in this case, the government and the EEOC,
the idea of perpetrating charges against a private employer…

Well, not with their experiences with government…

Coming home at midnight, tired, spent,
she shouldn’t have had to work so hard again in her life.
Dad didn’t like her working, but they could use the money.

When Mum proudly showed him the $10,000 she’d saved over many years,
Dad was suitably impressed, impressed she hadn’t taken off probably,
but he did mention that, hey, maybe they should
pool that sumbitch cash in the family kitty pool as it were…

Somehow through the ups and horrific downs,
Mom and Dad must have loved each other,
it was just such a terribly bumpy ride. . .

They just weren’t made for each other, H said sadly,
but through the rough patches, they persevered…

So maybe it wasn’t a match made in heaven,
or anywhere else these matches take place.

But it was what it was, to pulverize a common phrase.

At the Minnesota State Fair, Mama always enjoyed buying
this prickly pink tower of terror a/k/a State Fair cotton candy
as well as, of course, her beloved kolaches…

With two of her favorite gals, and Simon, the cool “kick the habit” rabbit

Mum told her son that her one big regret in life involved
her parents pulling her out of school to help with the farming,
that she would’ve liked to have accomplished something beyond being a boffo Mom,
that she would have liked to have had an inner life in reading books.

We always wondered what my Mom could have been,
would have done, had she had the opportunities.

Julia

During Gorbachev’s Glasnost period, Mama’s sister Julia made an emotional visit to the U.S., bringing the sisters together after 47 years.  Julia had been 3 when Mama was taken to Germany.  Back in Ukraine, Aunt Julia lived in a house with a dirt floor.  Seeing her sister’s comparative relative luxury, Julia was no doubt filled with mixed emotions.

In New York, Julia was detained for trying to smuggle 4 precious tangerines to her Sister, causing her to miss her connecting flight to Minnesota, and causing much consternation for the non-English speaking visitor.

But she so wanted to present the exotic citrus fruits to her sister.  Cut to when Dad brought Julia to Byerly’s, a grocery store with ridiculous chandeliers and rows upon rows of citrus and produce…    Aunt Julia just stared at the staggering stacks of colorful fruit. . .  Trying to process the decadent bounty, vacillating from shock to righteous pride at seeing such unabashed abundance not to mention the ration-free lines her sister and family enjoyed…

A resentment surfaced when Julia described her Papa’s death in her arms, and how alone she had felt, seemingly blaming Mama for abandoning the family, not understanding Mama would have been branded a traitor and either shot or sent to Siberia if she had returned, but it was nothing little Julia would have understood or been schooled on in Soviet-occupied Ukraine.

No doubt Mum felt profoundly grateful comparing her fate with the extraordinarily hard life her sister had suffered in occupied Ukraine.

Honestly, what made Mom laugh here??

Dad probably greased one of our private letters from the mail shortly before this pic was taken – where he would slice up the envelope with a knife, and go through your private mail, like one of Stalin’s minions but just without their steam-opening letter machines…

Just sayin’

More importantly, What made Mom laugh here?  This is a photo of Mom and Dad with Chocha Olya’s brother visiting from Ukraine.  They loved his stories from the homeland, but the tales of severe shortages and rationing of foods not so much.

The fact that Dad is actually holding Mom is . . . astonishing. . .
We simply never ever saw any affection or touching between them.

Their murmuring voices emanating
from the kitchen at night was a comforting memory,
Dad’s deep burr, and Mum’s occasional alto intercession.

Mum would sit and listen to Dad for hours,
maybe stories from work, stories of old Ukraine, ancient history,
stories of war, and comic stories about new immigrants…

To Mum and Dad, Stalin and his living henchmen
would always be after them… possibly even in the afterlife…

*        *        *

And now, in honor of Mama’s
insatiable appetite for professional skating mishaps,
a little “Schadenfreude” interlude…
sung to the tune of

“How Do you Solve a Little Problem Like Maria…”

The dichotomy of such a sweet, kind temperament
exhibiting such alarming relish
at skating snafus was somewhat disconcerting.

FloJo’s analysis seems spot-on: Not so surprising
a reaction from someone who saw just how imperfect
life was, whose contempt for the stupidity, futility,
ridiculous notion of any attempts
to attain perfection transcended, or should I say,
trampled, her core nature…

It was just Mama’s grim satisfaction that
all was correct and balanced in this lopsided universe…

Schadenfreude just covered it !

After Sari was born, everyone smiled a lot. . .

But especially Gramma. . .

Momma was from the old school of “sugaring the pippa”
that is, dunking a wet pacifier in sugar for the little bebe…

Horrors !  Me and H had to keep an eye on her. . .

Seeing Mom’s unvarnished joy
when Sari was attacking those packages
. . . priceless. . .

She didn’t like having her picture taken,
but if Sari was in it, she bent the rules!

Mama loved “The Godfather.”

And she appreciated good films,
but she always said it was Dad who “loved the cinema”
that he always went to the “kino” in England.
But in a way, it was typical how she wouldn’t acknowledge
how much she loved films too
cause it was Tato’s “thing,” you know?

And she would always defer herself
to everyone around her
and especially to Tato’s tastes…

It drove us kids crazy !

Something in The Godfather spoke to Mama -
every time it came on she watched it raptly

Mum must have appreciated La Familigia’s share of dysfunctions. . .

Thankfully, weaponry didn’t often come up in our family conversations…

I mean, stuff like, “Leave the gun, take the cannoli.. . . .”

Doesn’t Mama look like, who is this man pretending to be my husband??

One summer, after Dad died, we took Mom to the
Stone Arch Bridge Arts Festival and sat down
along the river across from Pracna on Main.

Mama ordered the dark German beer
she vividly remembered from her days in Limbach
when Opa took her to town one day.
After a particularly hot day laboring in the fields,
he bought her what she remembered as
the most delicious, mouth-watering cold beer ever…

So she drank her Pracna brew along the Mississippi
near the historic Pillsbury mills,
thousands of miles from her last genuine dark beer. . .

Verdict?  Okay, but you know, not the real stuff
that grows hair on your chest. . . .

Easter Basket blessing – before her diagnosis…

You just always wanted to know what made her laugh.
cause the challenge gave us such pleasure !

If Mama didn’t like something,
she’d jokingly say, “I pro-test!” [emphasis on the test]

Skyping with Sari…

After Dad passed, Irene said Mama cried,
“Why didn’t you take me with you?”
proving her relationship with Dad had come full circle
in forgiveness, understanding, and friendship.

Once she found her footing, she survived sans Dad,
thank you very much, and enjoyed her few years of independence
before the stresses of her heart finally caught up to her. . .

The spark that is Sari and the special joy in Mama’s last years.

Shortly after Mama passed and
while listening to all the Mama stories,
Sari said half-wonderingly, half to herself,

“Grandma never felt sorry for herself.”

*       *       *

Towards the end, while she was being driven in
Ircha’s Go-Go Action Bronco to her hair or doctor appointments,
Mama would ask Ircha to “Play that song again…”
Her favorite song played softly before she took her last breath.

 

Tash knew how to wheedle her way into Mama’s heart…

“Some say joy is greater than sorrow,
and others say sorrow is the greater,
I say to you that they are inseparable. . .
the deeper sorrow carves into your being,
the more joy you can contain.”

-  Kahlil Gibran

Behind the Gaze

Oh the things you’ve witnessed
Your heart has bore
the night of death

Your soul can hear
the rustle of love
Your love can heal
the scars of a wound

Your mind can now rise and rest
on a wing and a prayer

Mama often bravely took on walking the psychotically-warped Tobie…

*        *        *

Some of Mama’s little sayings were pretty famous in the familigia…

If she had trouble disciplining you,
or she’d want you back in the house,
she’d always say, “Back to Zender…”

Although we often asked her,
“Where the hell is Zender, Ma?”
we never really found out. . .

On the human condition, she noted:

“You learn your whole life and you’re still stupid.”

Mum in her go-go boots
pets the notoriously reclusive
“I Vant To Be Alone” Hexe…

Evidence she had won over the aloof furry one. . .
or was it the other way around?

Dear Mama:  The responsibility we all share
for the past is what binds us all.
I hope you’re okay I told your story
the best I remember, and mostly I hope
you’re not mad I uploaded your photos!

Your gypsy looks are now captive in cyber-space.

ttyl  xoxo

*       *       *

Sometimes embracing the truthiness
of death is what brings you back to life.

We are so quick to look outside ourselves for love and validation.
We look for love, for the ways to acquire it, conquer it, to make it ours.

*       *       *

Sixty-five years after Mama was deported from Germany
Oma and Opa’s Granddaughter, Lieselotte, responds to Mama.

Mama – Love, Tenacity and the Toll of History – Part I

Calling Mama’s childhood turbulent
is like saying Hitler was a little rude
or Stalin had a bit of a temper
or Lincoln got a little shot.

By the time Mama was born in the Ukraine,
Russia and Poland had carved her homeland
into east and west partitions, respectively.

Although there was nothing respectful about it.

And yet Dad always said he and Mum
were lucky to have been born in Western Ukraine,
because even though the Poles tried to suppress
the Ukrainian language and culture in schools,
their tactics were not as harsh as the Russians in the east.

Just how harsh, we couldn’t comprehend,
until we learned of the “Holodomor” (Killing by Hunger) of 1932-33,
one of the worst atrocities of the Soviet regime.

Many years later, in her Midwest kitchen,
Mama recited a cryptic little rhyme from her childhood.

 ”Нi корови, нi свині,
тільки Сталін на стіні.”

Roughly translated, the little jingle says,

“No cows, no pigs,
but Stalin is on the wall.”

Today we would be saying,
There’s nothing in the fridge or pantry,
but this bastard’s on our wall.

When the first nightmare stories of the Holodomor
began making their rounds, Mama was just six years old. . .

. . . and entering her first year of primary school.

Just across the border in Eastern Ukraine,
Josef Stalin began implementing the most savage
manufactured famine in history.

While other Soviet republics suffered as well,
including people in the Caucasus and Central Asia,
the most draconian measures were reserved for Ukraine.

From November 18, 1932 peasants from Ukraine
were required to return extra grain
they had previously earned for meeting their targets.
State police and party brigades were sent into these regions
to root out any food they could find.

Two days later, a law was passed forcing peasants
who could not meet their grain quotas
to surrender any livestock they had.

Mama said it got so bad that
anyone caught hiding any food,
faced severe punishment, or worse.

Stories abounded of peoples’ desperate attempts to escape
across the borders, only to be re-captured
and forced back to their barren villages to starve.

 

Mom didn’t like to talk about the Holodomor;
her own Mother died during the Second World War,
from eating “a fresh piece of bread”
causing her stomach to twist…
“Consumption,” Mama called it.

During the dark days of the Holodomor
desperation led some to resort to the unspeakable.

For Stalin it was a win-win situation
reaping an annexed country’s resources
to claim success in his “5-Year Economic Plan,”
while “repopulating” dead and deserted Ukrainian villages
with Russians – killing two birds with one stone, as it were.

  To this day, apologists assert
the atrocity was a result of a bad economic policy,
and not a calculated genocide by a pathological tyrant.

How incongruous that the “Bread Basket of Europe”
with its rich fertile soil and thriving wheat farming would be
laid bare after undergoing a year of Stalin’s “Economic Plan.”

Stalin once famously said:

“The death of one man is a tragedy;
the death of a million is a statistic.”

…which explains how a mass murderer can sleep at night.

The first country to call the famine of 1932-33
“genocide” was the United States, in 1988.

The strange, systematic starving of neighboring countrymen
would leave an indelible mark on the survivors.

Little wonder our parents often reiterated
how sacred food was and how a little
piece of bread was like gold to the hungry.

A decade later, when 17-year old Dad left for the army,
his Mother gave him a “krumka” (crust) of rye bread,
as a symbol to ensure he would never go hungry.

Three decades later, after telling the story to his daughter,
he pulled out a plastic baggie holding a curious item,
the symbol that accompanied Dad through a world war,
from Ukraine to Germany, across Eastern Europe,
from Italy to England, and, finally, across the Atlantic to America,
the little crust of rye bread his Mama had given him.

Stalin’s ruthless acts in his sphere seemed about as barbaric as a madman in power could get, yet incredibly, his brutal policies would meet their monstrous match just over the border — in the form of a twisted Austrian corporal…

German propaganda urges Ukrainian youths
to stand up against their Bolshevik oppressors
and join the Ukrainian Division of the German Army.

In September 1939, German troops overran Poland’s western border, beginning WWII.  Simultaneously, Soviet forces were advancing into a wide area of Eastern Europe.  The brief thieves-pact between Hitler and Stalin took shape.  The Soviets occupied eastern Poland, including parts of Mom and Dad’s homeland.  Living in these war-zone areas were more than two million Jewish citizens.

Two years later, when Mama was just 15, Germany broke its faux treaty with Stalin, and “invaded” Western Ukraine.  In order to boot their Russian oppressors out, Ukrainians made a deal with the Germans, who promised young male villagers they would arm them to fight the Russians on the eastern front, and guaranteed Ukraine its independence thereafter. . .  And we all know how well that worked out.

As for the young and able girls, because of the labor shortage, Germany had dire need of farm and factory workers.

Nazi Army drives out the Soviet Army, leaving
Ukrainian people free to work for their liberators… Make sense?

 ”This was life under Soviet rule!”

Germany illustrates
life under Soviet Hammer and Sickle.

Initially a recruiting campaign was launched in January 1942 for workers to go to Germany. “On January 28 the first special train will leave for Germany with hot meals in Kiev, Zdolbunov and Przemyśl” offered an announcement. The first train was full when it departed from Kiev on January 22.

At age 15, Mama, along with thousands of girls, many of them children as well as young teenagers, “volunteered” to work in Germany “for the good of their families back home.”

Mama was taken to a rural region in Limbach, Germany.  She never saw her parents or siblings again.  (47 years later, thanks to Gorbachev’s Glasnost period, she reunited with youngest sister Julia).

As for the young workers transported to Germany,
only later did Mom and her friends discover
there was a fine line between “guest worker” and “slave laborer.”

After Germany invaded Ukraine, heart-warming Soviet bull shit
worked hard to convince Ukrainians the Soviets were there
to liberate them - from one menace to the other that is . . .

On behalf of all the oppressed peoples living in Communist territories,
Germany is giving the Bolshevik bully a good crack on his pie hole.
Ironic how righteous one despotic dictator can get while thumping the other …

“Gangsters are Stalin’s last option.“

German poster warning Ukrainians not to help the “Red Bandits.”

It was a time of great upheaval
It was a time of great suffering
It was a time of ruthless dictators
It was a good time for the propaganda artists

What can one say about Adolf Hitler that hasn’t already been said.  That he found a willing audience in his countrymen, as the other half shrank in fear and revulsion at the slowly-emerging terrifying truth of his goals?  That one man’s perverted philosophy was able to come to horrifying fruition through a government of criminals, armed with maniacal racist ideas, ready to invade, enslave, torture and butcher untold millions all in the name of a nirvana based on a deranged view of humanity.

And survivors of that experience were supposed to come out with their heads on straight?

In a move to control “the bread basket of Europe,” Hitler’s invasion of Ukraine and other nations in an attempt to create “Lebensraum” “living space” for his beloved ethnic Germans, always struck me as curious since the dumb shit wasn’t even German, but Austrian, and a psychotic racial-profiler to boot.

Communists preparing resistance to the Nazi threat

Soon after arriving in Germany, Mama was placed with a farmer who had a wife and child.  One day he tried to lure her into a barn loft.  Telling us she had “a bad feeling,” about the man, she ran away.  “Dumpkopf!” the brute yelled after her.  When he sent her back to “the office” to be re-assigned, Mama learned her replacement worker became pregnant by this “family man.”

Afterwards, as fate would have it, Mama was placed with a couple she came to call “Oma” and “Opa.”  Their son was away fighting on the eastern front.  Their son’s wife, Elisabeth, and their two children, Lieselotte and Ludwig, lived with Oma and Opa.  At first, the family didn’t know what to make of this strange “Auslander,” (foreigner), but while their son was soldiering, they were grateful for the young Ukrainian girl’s help, and they toiled alongside her in the fields.

As kind as Oma and Opa may have been, this was war time, and Mama did back-breaking work from sun-up to sundown.  Towards the end of the war, when Allies began bombing rural targets in Germany, she told us she was so tired from a day’s work that when the air raid sirens went off in the village, she was unable to muster the energy to crawl to the safety of the cellar.  She just stayed in bed, exhausted, prostrate, not caring.

A map pinpointing the number of “major” concentration camps in Greater Germany.  Limbach – the area where Mama lived and worked with the Reinhard family – is shaded in red.

Sometimes, Mom told us she noticed a strange odor wafting across the air, a smell like nothing she’d ever encountered before.  Somewhere downwind from Oma and Opa’s farm, the smell of burning flesh carried into the air.  Visits from her cousin Teklya who worked in the next village left her troubled.  Whispers and horror-filled rumors invaded her dreams.  Who could believe, let alone comprehend such a thing. . .  But Mama nodded her head soberly, “We knew somehow it was true…”

With daughter-in-law Elisabeth in kerchief on the far right,
Oma and Opa take a rare break to pose for a photograph.

Opa was a baker, as well as a farmer, and often baked treats at home in his brick oven.  One of Mama’s favorite memories was of Opa’s baking skills and especially his memorable apple cheese kuchen, with the fresh fruit he used from the orchard.  We always tried to find Mama a good kuchen, but even baking one of our own, none of them ever measured up to her memory of Opa’s.

Years with the Reinhard’s meant Mama started to pick up the German language.  Something Elisabeth would tease her about – “Oh!  Now we have to be careful what we say…”

Some of Mama’s fellow laborers slept in barns, and their “hosts” didn’t share the same food as the families ate, or have them sit at the family table.

Oma and Opa’s son stands over his family,
wife Elisabeth with daughter Liesolette on lap
and son Ludwig.

How to reconcile Oma and Opa’s son
in a Nazi soldier’s uniform,
with his family’s kindness to my Mom,
is, in the end, irreconcilable.

Mama told us that she never met little Ludwig
because before she arrived at the Reinhard farm,
the little boy had died.

She remembered Opa was inconsolable
over his grandson’s death and mentioned him often.
She told us Opa liked to go to the village pub
where he tried to anesthetize his sorrow with drink.

When Mama came to work for the Reinhard family, Liesolette was a toddler.  Daughter-in-law Elisabeth was a mid-wife, assisting pregnant women during labor.  Mama slept in the same room with Elisabeth and her daughter, and remembered how both mother and child would pray nightly for the safe return of their father.  Mama was happy Oma and Opa’s son did return safely from the war.

She also remembered soldiers routinely coming to the house to check on her and saying “Heil Hitler” – to which Oma and Opa would reply, “Guten Tag.”  “They never said, ‘Heil Hitler,’ Mama noted.  On one occasion, the soldiers asked Oma where the “Auslander” was and when told “at church” – they demanded to know why she wasn’t working. Oma told them the girl’s work was done.   A brave response, considering.

Propaganda urging farmers to metaphorically smash the blockade

Back in Nazi-occupied Ukraine, Mama’s father took a dangerous risk when he hid a Jewish neighbor from the village officials.  According to Julia, Mama’s youngest sister, who had remained in Ukraine, Grandpa was betrayed by a turncoat villager, and beaten so severely by the Ukrainian police in charge, that seven years later, he died from complications from such beating.  When she heard the emotional story years later from Julia, visiting from Ukraine, Mama muttered bitterly, “Stupid villagers.”

When the war ended and Hitler did the world a favor
and shot himself in the demented head,
the Allies had millions of war-torn
homeless people on their hands.

When the Allies came to Oma and Opa’s farm,
they asked Mama if the couple had treated her well.

She answered truthfully, yes.

Mama was in awe but also afraid of the American soldiers,
partly because they removed her from Oma and Opa’s,
after rounding up all of the foreign laborers,
and partly because Elisabeth had warned her
about unscrupulous soldiers.

“Don’t respond if the soldiers try to talk to you,
or even look at them!”

One day, Mama walked past a few American soldiers
celebrating the town’s liberation, the end of hostilities…
One of them offered to share some of his schnapps.
Maybe he was a nice guy – but Mum took Elisabeth’s advice!

Most of the victims of war, and political refugees
of the immediate post-Second World War period
were Ukrainians, Poles and other Slavs who refused
to return to Soviet-dominated eastern Europe.

From the chaos of post-war Europe, these
millions of collateral, homeless victims were
filed under the status of “Displaced Persons.”

Rumors had reached the DP camps
that returnees to the homeland were disappearing,
likely sent to Siberia for hard labor,
and or shot on the spot as traitors for having
“involuntarily” worked on German farms or factories.

And we wondered why paranoia, fear,
and suspicion ruled my parents’ lives
and transferred to the next generation. . .

 

 

  

Image via Wikipedia

 

Under an Allied agreement with Stalin,
who had annexed all of Ukraine by this time,
Displaced Persons from Eastern Ukraine
were being forcibly returned into the clutches
of the same despot responsible for the murder
of millions of Ukrainians in the Holodomor.

Knowing they faced death upon their return,
for some, suicide was preferable.

Just as Dad lingered for two years in his POW/DP camp
on the coast of Rimini, Italy, along the Adriatic Sea . . .

So did Mama spend two years in a DP camp
in Saarlouis near the French-German border.
Detainees’ food consisted of soup, and more soup.
This was her diet for two years. . .

Years of poor nutrition at the DP camp
played havoc with Mama’s beautiful teeth
and started her on her life-long health problems.

 

 

Here the smiling avuncular “Uncle Joe,” as Churchill and Roosevelt dubbed the old bastard, meets with his contemporaries (and temporary) Allies.  Nice to know they could still share a laugh.  Roosevelt was deathly ill towards the end of WWII, so perhaps he had an excuse for what “the Big 3″ agreed to at Yalta, but Churchill, not so much.

 Note to self:  Screenplay idea… “My Dinner with A Madman”
(Discuss with Eleanor…)   I think it just might work…

Dad always said Churchill made a deal with the devil when he agreed to Stalin’s terms – to return displaced workers and soldiers from republics who’d fought against the Soviets back to a now-Communist occupied homeland.  By branding Ukrainians and others as traitors to the Communist cause, Stalin would justify his murder of returnees.  Those who were spared were sent to hard labor camps in Siberia, often never seen again.

With such upheaval and governmental treachery in their lives, was it such a surprise to see my parents so well-schooled in suspicion, paranoia, and feeling their lives were forever shadowed. . .  An entire generation of post-traumatic stress victims - of the times - of men so evil and despotic, you’d think they could only be concocted in “fiction”, filed under “horror”…

64 years later, thanks to the Internet and International Red Cross Tracing Service, Mama was reunited with Oma and Opa’s granddaughter, Liesolette, after an exchange of letters.  With the help of her children, Mama located the surviving Reinhard family and wrote to Liesolette about how kindly the Reinhard’s had treated her, and how grateful she was to have been placed with their family.

When Lieselotte wrote back and enclosed the beautiful pictures of her family, we were so happy Mama could see photos of the people who had taken care of her during some of her darkest days.

Having been pulled out of school by her parents in the third grade to help with farm work, Mama had never been fully taught to read or write.  Haunted by this fact her entire life, Mama always felt guilty for never writing Oma and Opa after they had asked her to stay in contact and let them know how she had fared.  Lieselotte remembered her mother and grandparents often wondered what might have happened to Maria…

How Mama’s lack of education failed her and how her succeeding choices shaped her whole inner psyche became her life-long cross to bear.

 

Mum and Dad said England was one of the first countries
to open its doors to Europe’s Displaced Persons.

 

In the meantime, Mum’s first two years in England
were spent working to pay off the cost of a ship’s journey
from Germany to her new adopted homeland.

 

No longer a “DP”, the 19-year old enjoys some well-deserved free time with friends
in Bradford, England – before she has a fateful meeting with her future husband.

 

*       *       * 

In industrial regions like Yorkshire,
budding post-war Ukrainian communities began to grow.

 

*       *       *

 

The future husband in question . . . 
Oh Mum and Dad, if only we could have whispered in your ears….

Mom in Lister Park distracted, stifling a grin,
with her feisty first-born, and man-about-town husband.

Dad was well into a decade’s relationship
with his beloved ”pah-pih-roh-sih” [cigarettes].
They, of course, would aid in killing him one day,
but for now, those pills his Doctor said to take for the rest of his life
for that rheumatic fever?  “He just stopped takin’ em,” Mum said.

Ask anyone, and they would have told you
Dad was a charmer, a great story-teller, a highly talented musician,
but that war and his sadistic mother, not necessarily in that order,
messed him up in the head something fierce when it came to his family.

If only Mom had had fair warning before she married . . .

To be continued

“If anyone has questions about why [Ukrainians call the 1932-33 famine] genocide, they should look at two statistics, particularly Joseph Stalin’s census of 1929 and Brezhnev’s in 1979. We started with the Ukrainian nation numbering 81 million and ended up with 42 million [39 million missing persons].”

Interview with Ukrainian President Viktor Yushchenko
By Mykola SIRUK,
The Day, 13 November 2007