As I finished that horrific story, my eyes wandered upwards to the “World Digest” section where I read that an Egyptian court had banned ‘virginity testing’ of detainees.”   I discovered that the Egyptian military had put female detainees through virginity tests so that it could defend itself from accusations of rape.  The purpose of the tests was “to prove that they weren’t virgins in the first place.”  Obviously, once a woman is determined not to be a virgin, she could not prove that she was raped while in custody, in essence, separating those who could not be raped with impunity from those who could be.

After that discouraging report, the next digested world news was headlined “Somalia women face growing rape dangers.”   In Somalia, I read, the Islamic militant group al-Shabab is seizing women and girls as spoils of war, gang raping and abusing them. Other armed men are also preying on women and girls.  In the past two months, from Mogadishu alone, the UN has received more than 2,500 reports of gender-based violence.

If the newspaper layout editor was seeking to make the point that women are under siege by placing these articles all on the same page, he/she was preaching to the choir.  Yes, indeed, there is a war on women and we are not winning.  Even in this country we experience blips of progress, only to see them chipped away by legislators and judges who would steer us back into our “proper” female roles, living at the mercy of our biology and the male libido.

My hopes for women being treated as citizens with equal rights have been strapped in on a long roller coaster ride since those heady days in my 20s when I thought American women had achieved equality in the courts and congress with Roe v. Wade and decisions and legislation preventing gender discrimination.   But it didn’t take too many years before the backlash started and the ride began its downward trajectory.

For you who would remind me that it could be worse, I do consider ourselves in America fortunate because we aren’t subjected to direct assaults, batteries, and rapes that women in other countries experience.  American women are merely threatened with losing their rights as Congress, legislatures, and courts become the guardians of our wombs and ensure our status as baby makers.  Yes, there are worse fates, but it’s a bad one when you were raised to think we were going to have educations, careers, and be equal in all ways to our male counterparts, in addition to being mothers when the time and partner was right.  Instead, there are great numbers of folks who want to force baby-making no matter how the baby seed was planted, e.g., by knife to the throat or advantage-taking of a child.

If this isn’t an exercise in controlling women, it must be a strange womb fetish because these babies aren’t valued much once they depart the womb.  And as a mechanism to control women, these officials and their pep squads seem to be aiming at the wrong demographic.  Maybe those conservative men just get all flustered thinking of vaginas and uteruses, because the women who are most threatening to their control agenda are those who can afford both birth control and abortions, as hard as they try to make them.  Instead, they wage war to cripple (or preferably, dismantle) Planned Parenthood, often the only refuge for low-income women.

But, maybe I judge too soon.  Maybe those Republicans running for the presidential nomination have figured that womb-control via abortion rights doesn’t hit the right target, so they’ve come out against a better tool:  outlaw contraception!!  Wow!  That would hit where it hurts!   But would the sexual revolution that was birthed by “the pill” go back into the box?  I have to wonder whether American men would be happy living in a country of chaste females, waiting to wear wedding rings before sex.

Perhaps this prospect could be the hook to entice our 20-something male population (50% of that undependable voting demographic) into guaranteed participation in the political process.  I’m willing to try anything to stop this onward march against women’s rights.  Wouldn’t it be the height of irony if our freedom from reproductive fascism were achieved by enlisting the forces of our youngest, most libidinous male citizens?

Fortunately, women can still vote, too, and for that I am eternally grateful to those women in the late 1800s and early 1900s who fought the fight to obtain that right.  In that regard, the movie Iron Jawed Angels starring Hilary Swank and Frances O’Connor, should be required viewing.   This movie tells the story of Alice Paul and Lucy Burns who put their lives on the line to fight for American women’s  right to vote.  While picketing for women’s suffrage, they are arrested on the trumped-up charge of “obstructing traffic,” even though their picket line is on the sidewalk.  Refusing to pay a fine for a crime they didn’t commit, the women were sentenced to sixty days in a Virginia women’s prison.  Insisting that were political prisoners, Burns demanded the warden respect their rights, only to be cuffed with her arms above her cell door.  In solidarity and defiance, the other suffragettes assumed the same painful posture.  Thrown into solitary confinement for breaking a window for fresh air, Paul went on a hunger strike.  She was then denied counsel, placed in a straitjacket, and subjected to examination in the psychiatric ward.  The doctor told President Wilson that Paul showed no signs of mania or delusion (that would justify keeping her there), and she is returned to the prison’s general population, where she led the suffragettes on a hunger strike.  The warden then started force-feeding them, but never broke them.

Every American should see this depiction of feeding by force.  I had often heard of the process, but I had never seen how it was accomplished and I will never think of it in the same way again.  More importantly, since seeing this movie, I have never cast a ballot without recalling what these brave and passionate women experienced so that I could vote for the people who govern my life.

And as we select our leaders in this election year, let’s not lay down and enjoy it.  Instead, reject any candidate who would continue to imprison us in our biology and restrict us from the scientific advances of the last century that prevent unwanted pregnancies.  It is not a far step from imprisoning women and sticking funnels down their throats to supporting a return to the old days of back alley abortions and requiring women to carry the children of their rapists.  Furthermore, we can’t pretend that forcing women to hear pre-abortion lectures and view sonograms is not a part of that goal.

Happy 39th anniversary of making a difference in women’s lives, Planned Parenthood!

Rena Bartos

Another Christmas correspondent, New Yorker Rena Bartos, is one of my favorite “veterans” of life.  I forget her exact age, even though she wasn’t shy about revealing it.  Suffice it to say that she inspired me because she was not slowing down just because her mileage was high.  In fact, I met her as she enthusiastically added a few more miles to her odometer on a grueling three-week bus tour through Eastern Europe, Russia, and Scandinavia.

It was on that trip that I got to hear Rena’s life story. As I recall, she was in her mid to late 30s when her husband died, leaving her with a son to support.  In 1960, she joined the advertising workforce, and as you Mad Men viewers know, that was not a female-friendly environment.  But undaunted, Rena began as a marketing researcher and climbed to become Senior V-P at the J. Walter Thompson Company before forming her own marketing consulting firm, the Rena Bartos Company.   As I understand it, she was a pioneer in the field of marketing to women and an advocate for older adult consumers, until she retired in 1998.

While she had been very pleasant during the initial stages of the trip, I think our acquaintanceship took a real turn in a friendlier direction when I said something negative about President George W.  You could almost see her relief, as she expressed delight to learn that not all Texans were Bush aficionados.  As a liberal Democrat, she had reined herself in so she wouldn’t offend me with some crack about pre-emptive wars, for example.  I explained that Texas still harbored enclaves of liberal Democrats, particularly in Austin, who never believed GWB was ready for prime time.  Thus, Rena and I became political soulmates while traveling through Belarus and Russia, enjoying our freedom of speech in novel settings for that kind of thing.

Every year since, we have continued our political observations in short spurts written on the inside of Christmas cards.  This year I wrote about the other Texan swaggering around on the national stage while she countered with something about the specter of Callista Gingrich as first lady.

Her cards, along with other greetings in emails and on Facebook remind me of the  other great folks I’ve met on tours, particularly on my most recent to China.  For example, lawyer Howard Stern (yes, he’s been mistaken for the radio personality) provided me with many insights into practicing law in the northeast; while his wife Sandy told of her time working in the Justice Department under Robert F. Kennedy.  I felt an immediate kinship with Rosemary, a retired Michigan teacher, now living in Florida.  We bought bamboo hats in China and had such fun wearing them.  There are the Rapps from Des Moines, and Bunny and Fran from the state of Washington.  Meeting these lovely people from my own country is one of the delicious paradoxes and special benefits of my foreign travels.

My friend Mike and I have often discussed my preference for organized tours, which is 180 degrees opposite of his travel style.  Accompanied by his wife, Terri, they enjoy the Rick Steves-type of travel, managing their own trip, finding good deals on the internet, and enjoying the adventure of discovering good places to eat on their own.

But not all of us are so adept or have the time to plan.  And aside from meeting people you would never encounter on your own, there are other advantages:

1) More bang for the buck.  You can see and do more on a tour because they’ve worked out all the kinks, knowing the best travel routes, the closing times, not to mention, the language and the local customs.   They also provide you with better accommodations and other features because they are regular customers that can negotiate better deals than individuals.
2) Team spirit.  Among other aspects of being in a group, it’s nice to have bathroom buddies from whom you can gather intel about the style of toilets, for example, (Western or squat) and the availability of toilet paper.  Someone always has Kleenex or handi-wipes when you’ve run out.  And I like having gals to shop with.  You may be looking all over for thimbles to bring back to Aunt Edna for her collection.  Another team member will be the one to find them for you.  And who would you dress up with, folks?  And what fun to have a friend go with you to have high tea at the Peninsula when your traveling companion isn’t interested.
3)  Less risk.   You don’t have to worry about whether the pictures of the hotel on the internet were  misleading.  Tour companies have reputations to maintain, so they don’t dare park you in a cockroach-infested dump.  Also, as noted above, you don’t waste time getting lost, asking for directions in broken Mandarin (if you aren’t Jon Huntsman).   While great discoveries can be made while lost in a strange city, it can also be frustrating, tiring, and dispiriting.
4) No need to study.  When I book a trip, I sincerely believe I’ll have time to do the trip research.  About the time I buy the guidebook and start googling, however, something at the office will blow up and I will have to work like a madwoman up until the day I depart, having barely enough time to grab the guidebook and pack my suitcase.  In the end, however, it doesn’t matter: the company has figured it all out for me.   I’ll just be a little less informed.
5) Tour directors.  As sources of information, these people are better than books because you get to ask questions.  Foreign tour directors are professionals:   highly educated and very knowledgeable about their material.  I’ll never forget motoring through the UK as Peter regaled us with stories of the English kings and queens, speaking as if he had known them (and their bedrooms) personally.

To be fair to Mike, I will admit to the big downside:  Days on a tour are fuller and more tiring than the go-alone travel.  While on tour, you’re out of bed, breakfasted (usually sumptuously), and seated on a bus by 8:00 or 8:30 a.m.  Often, I’ve wished to sleep late or dawdle over morning coffee, but I can do that in Austin.   I remind myself that I’m on a mission to see the world, not the sheets.

And there’s nothing sweeter than Rena’s annual holiday card.  I’ll remember drinking vodka on a St. Petersburg canal cruise, talking politics in the shadow of the  Kremlin, and making a new friend who generously gave me a peek into her interesting world as we explored another one, foreign to us both.  I always open her card and muse a bit how this single holiday greeting can make this big world with all its wonders seem a little bit smaller.

For Christmas, we’ve occasionally gone “alternative,” but invariably, we return to the traditional fare for the next Christmas.  The turkey/dressing and all the rest is our comfort food, partly, I believe, because Christmas can get so complicated, it’s a relief not to have to think much about at least one element of the holiday.

Also, it’s comforting how the traditional fare, with its tastes and smells of holidays past, summon the memory and spirit of the women cooks in our clan, long deceased, who used to cook these same dishes.  My grandmother, Madeline, in particular, is the one who taught my aunt to cook, and they both taught me (with minimal input from my mother who hated to cook).  My aunt has been my main resource for the last 20 years or so on culinary issues, as she owns a prodigious number of cook books and seems to have a personal relationship with Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray.

And now she is passing her expertise on to an even younger generation.  This Christmas was significant because my nieces took over preparation of the turkey and dressing with my aunt’s supervision.  In years to come, whenever they prepare these for us and/or their own families, they will no doubt think solely of her, having never met Grandmother, of course.

But they need to thank my grandmother (their great-grandmother) for my own year-end, year-out contribution to the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners:  one of her desserts, which she called “Angel Delight.”  She didn’t start making it until after she relocated to Round Rock from Dallas after retirement.  When I asked her for the recipe, she wrote it out on a piece of paper, leading me to believe that she might have invented it.  After she died, I found it on page 185 of the 1978 edition of The Round Rock Official Good Eat’n and General Gourmet Cookbook, which was among her books.  Called “Four Layer Delight” in that book, the recipe calls for ½ cup more of flour than Grandmother called for in hers.  I assume she thought it was better with less.  She also tweaked the pudding layer.  Instead of 1 large package of chocolate pudding mix, she called for two small packages, one chocolate and the other vanilla, mixed together.

In the many years since her death, I took over the production of what many in the older generation informally call “Grandmother’s pudding dessert,” partly because it was so popular and partly to keep Grandmother with us during the festivities.  It’s popularity has only grown among family newcomers and the kids that have grown up and passed on the pudding dessert craving in their DNA.   As the years go by, there’s little doubt that the dessert will be linked to me and referred to as (cousin, aunt) “Jeffee’s pudding dessert.”

Strangely enough, a few years ago, a colleague at the Attorney General’s office was raving about a dessert that was made for office parties by one of his division’s secretaries.  His description sounded eerily familiar, so I asked if he would ask her for the recipe.  He did and, sure enough, it was the Angel Delight, although she calls it “Chocolate Supreme Dessert.”  She makes it with the same amount of flour as my grandmother, but has innovated a bit by mixing some of the pudding from the pudding layer with the cool whip used for the top layer.  While Grandmother’s top layer was always white (hence, the angel name), her top is a muddy chocolate color.

So, after such ado about this pudding dessert, you will be glad to read that I’m providing it here for you, dear readers and family members.  I am calling it “Madeline’s Angel Delight,” but if you dare to make it and serve it at your own gathering, you are obviously free to call it by any of its other names or make up your own.  I say “dare” because you may be unwittingly starting a tradition and making the dessert for the rest of your cooking life.  You think I exaggerate, but I’ve often thought of the disappointed faces (or lynch mob) I’d face if I dared to make something different.  On the other hand, it’s nice to be appreciated.   So, without further ado:

Madeline’s Angel Delight

   1 cup flour
    1 stick margarine, softened
    1 cup chopped pecans
    1 8 oz. pkg. cream cheese, softened
    1 cup powdered sugar
    1 8 oz carton cool whip
    2 small pkgs of instant pudding (1 chocolate, 1 vanilla)
    3 cups milk

    Mix together first 3 ingredients and press into bottom of 9 x 13 inch pan. Bake at 300 degrees for 15 to 25 minutes til lightly brown around edges. Cool before spreading next layer.

    Mix cream cheese and sugar; fold in 1 cup of the cool whip. Spread carefully over crust (which will pull up if you over-manipulate it as you spread).

    Mix the vanilla and chocolate pudding mixes with 3 cups milk (instead of the 4 cups on box instructions).  Spread pudding over cream cheese layer.   

    Spread remaining cool whip over pudding layer.  Refrigerate well.

I will note for those of you who are not wed to a family chocolate tradition, that butterscotch, lemon, or vanilla pudding can be substituted for the chocolate, according to the office secretary.  She has also been known to sprinkle the top layer with chopped pecans or crushed peppermint, and recommends freezing the dessert overnight and removing it to the refrigerator several hours before serving.

Just remember, you have been forewarned.  Here’s wishing you a bon appetit and a happy and healthy 2012!

For instance, I even admit to a twinge of angst earlier this month when I celebrated my younger son’s last year as a twenty-something.  Maybe part of that twinge was financial angst because the celebration involved my going to NYC and celebrating in appropriate NYC style (including a personal trip to my favorite number “21,” namely “Century 21,” the discount department store).   But there was the  growing acknowledgment that after this birthday, I would have to accept that Dax, my baby, is an adult.  (You might quibble with age 30 as the onset of adulthood, but I think I’m right.)   How can I have two thirty-something children?

And in October, there was our 40th High School Reunion, during which the big topic of conversation was a shared amazement of our impending 60th birthdays.  I kept hearing my classmates voice their surprise.   “Can you believe this is happening to us?”  As if growing up with a 1960s soundtrack of Beatles and Dylan gave us some kind of immunity against old age!?  Who knew we really believed in Peter Pan?

At some point, it occurs to me, we might enjoy life more if we quit thinking about chronology and concentrated on quality and the types of experiences we can have now, largely because we have this rich (and long) past to draw on.  In short, can we have both quality and quantity?

An example that came to mind was the reunion again.  Despite (or maybe as a result of) our dread about the number 60, there was something unique about this 40th Reunion, like a sense of liberation, perhaps.  At first, I thought it was just my own perception, but I began to get notes and comments  from fellow classmates, explaining that they had felt something similar.  One classmate summed it up like this: “At past reunions . . . it seemed that the barriers that kept many of us separated during school days, were still in place. At this reunion, the barriers have largely fallen away. I really enjoyed myself for the first time at a reunion and look forward to future ones.”  Did we have to wait 40 years in order to really appreciate our shared history and humanity free of the artificial barriers?  Maybe.  Was it worth it?  My vote: yes.

But my reveries in quality over chronology really found inspiration from my first cousin once-removed, Campbell Geeslin, a charming widower who still mows his grass in White Plains, NY.  I never met Campbell, now in his late 80s, but I had often heard of him from my mother and other relatives who were more his contemporaries.  His mother, Lee, was one of my grandfather’s six sisters.  She and her husband, Edward, raised Campbell and his four brothers in Brady, Texas.

But, after serving in WWII, Campbell had little appetite for more West Texas or small towns, locating in NYC, the biggest city he could find, to finish his college degree.  After graduating from Columbia, he pursued a career in journalism (writing and editing), beginning in Houston (Houston Post), then Florida (precursor of USA Today), and finally, returning to NYC where he worked on the editorial staff of This Week, People, and Life magazines.  He wrote the 1981 book, The Bonner Boys, a fictionalized version of five grown men who, reflecting on their shared childhood and the different directions taken, come to together for probably the last reunion with their mother.

But after retirement, Campbell didn’t just sit around or tend his garden.  He began writing   children’s books with settings in the Mexico he remembered from childhood vacations.  Capturing that child’s sense of fantasy, his stories are flavored with ingredients of magical realism and playfulness.  The book How Nanita Learned to Make Flan – about magic shoes – was made into a children’s opera, and Elena’s Serenade – about a young girl who wants to be a glass blower like her father – has been optioned for a children’s movie.

We had sporadically corresponded, but given the distance between Austin and White Plains, I never really thought I’d ever meet him in person.  But in planning my son’s birthday visit, I learned that White Plains is a mere 30 minutes by train from Grand Central station.  And, as fate would have it, he was happy to host a visit from me, my son and his girlfriend, Tacie, at which he would serve lunch.   Even better, he arranged a visit from another unmet cousin , Diane DeSanders, another writer, who lives in Brooklyn.  The granddaughter of my great Aunt Jeffee and namesake (one of the 6 sisters), she, too, was on my wish list of family to meet.

I will not bore you with the details of the table Campbell set, the excellent food he served, or all the family talk.  I will tell you, however, that the five of us – over 60 years between the oldest and youngest – gathered around that table for about 4 hours, drinking wine and eating, while we talked of books, movies, our careers, music, writing, working with and for the rich and famous, and life in general.  We eventually had to get up and leave, but only because it was getting late.  As Tacie wrote to me later:  I’ve reflected on that afternoon a number of times – thinking about how unique a situation it was to have us all at the table, with our different backgrounds and life experiences, and how easy and comfortable it was sharing our stories with each other while jumping seamlessly from topic to topic. I can honestly say I’ve never really been in a situation like that before but it was one I hope to be in again!

When Campbell drove us back to the train station, I, like Tacie,  knew something remarkable had taken place that afternoon.  No doubt a large part lies in being in the company of someone who has lived a long and interesting life.  But he has more than memories.  Campbell still writes a quarterly column for the Author’s Guild, reads the latest new books, has meetings with movie producers (and distant cousins), and in short, is actively involved with the world.   Even as I wrote this, he was cooking cornbread for his Texas-style dressing and readying the Thanksgiving turkey for his family’s gathering.  I have no doubt his family loves the tradition.

For this, my 50th blog entry I wanted to share something special and inspiring, never thinking I’d find it at the end of a half hour train ride from NYC’s Grand Central Station.  There, I found a living example that there doesn’t have to be a trade-off between quantity and quality, i.e., that one can survive to see a ripe old age even while experiencing the full ripeness of being.   And isn’t it nice to know that even while our own books get closer to the end, we can still count on some grand chapters?

Bob Edwards is the man with the mellifluous voice who woke me every weekday morning for about 20 years, until he was summarily fired from his Morning Edition hosting job on National Public Radio (NPR).  That voice now comes out of satellite’s SiriusXM Radio, in which I’ve failed to invest yet.  His book fair appearance, however, allowed me to reunite with that voice as he discussed his memoir, Voice in the Box.  Bob explained to the crowd in the Senate chamber that the title refers to the big Zenith radio in his childhood living room (which he still owns) and his fascination with the box from his time as toddler, longing soon thereafter to have his voice be one in the box.  He traced his career from the childhood dream to the dream job of hosting NPR’s Morning Edition for 20 years.  Asked about favorite folks to interview, he identified creative people.  His least favorite are politicians because they have an agenda and it doesn’t matter what question they are asked, they only want to further that agenda in their answer.  Most interesting to me was his rebuke of NPR for trying to run from the “liberal” label.   The result of this a misguided attempt to balance the factual truth with those who would dispute the truth.   Balance is not achieved, he explained, when you counter the truth as it is known to be with the untrue.  All you do is lose  your integrity and credentials as serious journalists.   On this riff he concluded, “Unless NPR starts broadcasting Rush Limbaugh or Glenn Beck, the network will be labeled liberal no matter what they do!”   They should give it up, he said.  The audience heartily applauded in agreement.

Another public radio personality, Lynne Rossetto Kasper was just as fun in person as she is on her show, The Splendid Table, discussing her new book, How to Eat Weekends.  While preparing a few of its recipes, she kept the audience engaged with countless tips about knives, ginger graters, her preference for Kikkoman soy sauce, cutting scallions and carrots diagonally to get more flavor, and real new one for me:  heating up spices for salad dressings with a little oil in the microwave to make the flavor explode.  She also recounted the inauspicious beginnings of her radio show, some 17 years ago.  It started largely as a call-in show and judging on the number of calls, it seemed like no one was listening.  Persevering, Lynne’s family and friends would call in under various pseudonyms,  altering their voices and home town.   She recalls when she got her first “real” caller, she was so excited that she kept the woman on the line for 10 minutes, peppering her with questions not necessarily related to the caller’s questions.   For instance, “Let me ask you, caller, what’s in your refrigerator now?”   Fortunately, Lynne now has plenty of callers and a growing audience of fans!

In talking about his new book, Lost Memory of Skin, Russell Banks raised some of the most important issues facing our lives in the 21st century.  The protagonist in the book is a young man, 23 years old, who has served time for some kind of sexual crime and is now designated as a sexual predator, monitored by  a GPS anklet and having his picture, name, and address plastered on the internet.  He lives under a bridge in a colony of other societal pariahs (which is based on an actual colony in Miami).  The title of the book is based on Banks’ observation that we are becoming increasingly digitized as our contacts with other human beings give way to another kind of contact via the internet, computer games, and on-line pornography.   He is also troubled by how we, as a culture, have allowed Madison Avenue to define women as sexual objects, in ways that those of us who grew up in the women’s liberation movement could never have imagined.   The advertising industry uses sexual images, including sexually suggestive images of children, to sell products.   Grown women are often dressed up as little girls, while little girls are vamped up to look like grown women.   Banks seemed to be asking, “Why are we surprised when the “sexually sick” lose track of the difference?”  And why are they punished while the real perpetrators are rewarded?  And why is it considered to punish an individual with a permanent branding after he has served his prison sentence?  All good questions.

Photographer Michael O’Brien spoke about his book, Hard Ground, which I  wrote about in my prior entry, and explained that this book of photographs of the homeless had its origins when the charity Mobile Loaves and Fishes asked him to take some pictures for a brochure.  He went to a church service in East Austin attended by many of the homeless to photograph them after the service.  O’Brien began attended these services regularly and taking even more pictures of those individuals who wanted to sit for him.  Cooperation was crucial, because the big-frame camera he used with its old-fashioned black hood, required the subject to remain perfectly still for about 15 seconds.  Unlike the multiple snaps photographers can capture  with digital cameras these days, he only took 1 or 2 pictures of each person because the Polaroid film was expensive, each shot costing $6 or $7.   As for the Tom Waits’ poetry serving as interludes between the photographs in the book,  O’Brien had actually asked him to write a single poem to introduce the book.  When Tom finally sent over his “poem,” O’Brien was surprised to find 23 poems.  When O’Brien told him that he had not expected such largesse, Waits quipped, “I wrote one, then another one . . . put them in a room and they had babies!”

Few people knew that Molly Ivins, one of Texas’ most vocal civil libertarians, was a great cook.  Ellen Sweets’ memoir of her friendship and kitchen time with Molly Ivins, Stirring it Up with Molly, reveals a side of the woman that many of us never knew.   Ellen, a news reporter and feature writer, explained that shortly after moving to Texas, she attended an ACLU meeting in Dallas.   The first person she saw was Molly standing outside the meeting room, and determined to meet people, Ellen extended her hand, saying “Hi, I’m Ellen Sweets.  I’m new to town and don’t know a soul.”  From that simple beginning, a fast friendship formed that lasted until the end of Molly’s life.   She recounts that Molly was a really good cook and while she loved chili and Southern food, she would add to her repertoire and hone her cooking skills on trips to France.  Food was also important to Molly because she believed in the fellowship and good conversation that sharing food with friends would generate.  Ellen described Molly’s beautiful big round table that would seat 8, “or 10 if you didn’t have intimacy issues,” a table large enough to engender many great discussions.   As for restaurants, Ellen told stories of Molly liking to eat at Magnolia Café because she thought the wait staff didn’t know who she was, only to learn that they secretly fought over who would wait on her.  Eschewing chain restaurants, she had her own table at Austin Land and Cattle and absolutely loved Jeffrey’s where her favorite waiter, Johnny, took great care of her.  At this, Ellen was surprised when the real Johnny waved at her from the audience.  It was especially poignant to hear Ellen talk about Molly’s final days when she could not eat much beyond chicken soup, but it is the years of laughter Ellen remembers best and memorializes in her book.   Along with stirring up many pots of gumbo!!

Thanks to all the authors who feed our souls and sustain our minds with their words and pictures.  What a shame I have to wait a whole year before this next celebration of books!

Even while I noticed their absenced and pondered their situation, I realized that – with the exception of Leslie – we Austinites recognize very few of the denizens of our streets, making reference to them in the collective categories of “homeless” and “street people.”  The individual members remain largely faceless and certainly nameless.

In earlier days, particularly in the 60s and 70s, most of us recognized Bicycle Annie, also called the Indian Princess, wearing braided hair and pieces of native American clothing.  Her trademark, the basketed bicycle she rode along the streets, was the reason for her other sobriquet, Bicycle Annie.

Even so, as I’ve noted in earlier blogs, many of us didn’t know her real name was Zelma O’Riley and that she started a publication in 1941 while she was in college at the University of Texas called Up and Down the Drag.  We did not know that she believed herself to be presidential material, writing in 1947, “It will take a woman to save America.”  As she explained, her principal campaign plank was preparedness and she ran an advertisement that read “Vote for Zelma O’Riley for First Woman President of the United States –  she is Irish, she is Indian and she will care for you.”

While these are the barest outlines of a life, I’d like to think that knowing about Zelma and her history gives us some insight regarding the others who roam our streets.   It was with great interest, therefore, that I read the article in September’s Texas Observer about the new book, “Hard Ground,” a collection of photographs of individuals among Austin’s homeless.  This is the work of photographer Michael O’Brien, who at an unsettled crossroads in his own professional life, started going to the Mission: Possible! Community Center in East Austin every Tuesday to photograph and document the stories of the Austin homeless over a period of three years.

What struck me the most is his idea that when a photo is “taken” the subject, as common parlance suggests, gets nothing in return.  Accordingly, he used a Polaroid film that permitted him to give his subjects a print, while he maintained the negative.  I wonder whether he was honoring the old Native American suspicion that a person’s soul was stolen in the photographic process, and his gift of the picture returned whatever soul might be lost to its true owner.

O’Brien, on the other hand, aptly describes the print as a testament to a life.  This reminded me of how we take documentation of our own lives completely for granted.   While we can find our faces in countless photographs from phones, digital cameras, and social media sites, it must be a rarity for any of the wandering homeless to have visual evidence that testifies to their presence on this earth.

Pairing these photographs with poetry by musician Tom Waits, O’Brien has produced a very special book of diminished lives that he has accorded the respect and dignity that all of us, as human beings, deserve.  For O’Brien, personally, his achievement is equally meaningful.  He tells the story of how he had been floundering, often unemployed due to changes that had rocked the photojournalism industry, but over the three years he photographed the homeless, he regained his balance and place, finding that this project gave him back his anchor.   Thumbing though the pages of this book, you become aware that O’Brien – in dignifying the life of the pictured individuals – has also dignified his own.

Lately, I’ve been struck by these unintended consequences, primarily by our desires and actions to live a long life, the longer the better.  We take decided action not to step in front of moving vehicles or eat cheesecake in order disprove the actuarial tables.  But achieving longevity doesn’t always turn out that well for us.

Exemplifying this point, “Theories of the Sun” is a play I saw in Chicago last year about a woman who was seeking a cure for a disease that kept her from aging and ultimately dying.  In this twist on the Benjamin Button scenario, Elizabeth Sweeney quit aging in her early 20s and now her daughter is a middle-aged woman who, based on appearances, could be her own mother.  The play centers on her desire to be cured to avoid outliving her daughter.  It’s against the nature of things, she reasons, that a mother would have to bury her own aged daughter.

In an obituary last week, I read that Ruby Lee Duff Cook had blown past the life expectancy figures, staying firmly in this world until the age of 103.  I noticed with admiration that in her younger days she was “addicted to energetic activities.  If these activities involved sweating, so much the better.”  She and her husband were enthusiastic square dancers, while she also kept a pony and loved horseback riding.  Ruby took up golf in her 60s, danced ballroom at the Austin Rec Center until her early 90s, and was particularly happy to work in the yard raking leaves, picking up limbs, and collecting pecans.   All of this sounded like a woman happy in her activity and longevity, and then I read the disquieting parts:  “Ruby remained active in her Sunday School class until all the other members of her class died.”  The obit further reported that “Preceding her in death are (certainly not surprisingly) her parents, all her siblings . . . her husband of 51 years, Elmo V. Cook,  Elmo’s parents, Elmo’s siblings . . . and her older daughter.”

In short, there are real downsides to longevity, particularly when you are the long-lived one, the person left behind to mourn all your loved ones.

Another thing I wouldn’t have expected were some unsettled feelings in the aftermath of my 40th high school reunion early this month.  I was prepared to look back on the weekend and enjoy all the good feelings I normally experience after reunions  (which some of my readers will remember are near and dear to my heart).  But, curiously, I was uneasy.  What’s up with that? I wondered.    Being one of the organizers, maybe I was having a bit of postpartum planning depression now that the big push to beget the event was over.  And then I read what David, one of my classmates, wrote in a thank-you note that clarified that feeling for me.  He said:

“It always seems like unfinished business at the conclusion of these reunions.  The conversation that you didn’t get to finish, the person across the room that you never got to approach, the expectation to run into someone the next night and it doesn’t happen and in fact, at this stage of the game, may never happen.  For whatever reason, the lack of closure this year is a little more disquieting . . . “

Yes, that’s the truth . . . the unfinished business that may never be addressed.  I once heard it said, that after the 40th high school reunion, the number of reunion attendees begins diminishing rather quickly.  I had managed to forget that niggling statistic until David’s words.

Steve Jobs’ death last week and the words he left behind were further reminders of the nature of things.  As his contributions to our world have been circling the planet via internet, I heard a commencement speech he had given at Stanford in 2005, which had a special resonance for me.    There he said: “Death is the destination we all share.  No one has ever escaped it.  And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life.  It is Life’s change agent.  It clears out the old to make way for the new.”

But before I could even think of resuming my post-partum reunion funk, he offered up some advice in that speech that inspired me with its ageless wisdom:  “Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life.  Don’t be trapped by dogma —which is living with the results of other people’s thinking.  Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice.  And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.”  He makes a strong case for not wasting time worrying about longevity.  By his words and, more importantly, his example, Steve Jobs taught us a lot about carpe diem.

Yes, living a long life is a good thing, and getting old and being replaceable is not so good.  But there is little we can do to avoid the “not so good” part of life and a lot we can do to enjoy the good part.   The best approach may be to embrace the ambivalence and try to find some humor, whenever you can.  Which reminds me of something I heard Garrison Keilor say recently on Prairie Home Companion in the voice of American patriot Nathan Hale, “Give me ambivalence, or give me something else!”  

So, how about some cheesecake, friends?!

Gradually, I realized that these Peruvians had been seeded with large doses of European culture and its snobbish aversion to uncultured Americans.  In fact, Lima seemed more European than Latin American, eating Continental style with not a chicken fried steak on any menu.  Back then, you could find menu selections of Canard a l’Orange (Duck with Orange Sauce) or Lobster Thermidor that would make a Frenchman feel at home (or Julia Child trill in delight)! Subject to widespread immigration, the country had been populated with many Europeans who transplanted their cultural norms, languages, and foods in a welcoming soil.  A Swiss man sold cheeses and chocolates and other delicacies from Switzerland from his La Tiendicita Blanca (the Little White Store).  Italians opened restaurants serving food from their homeland, where invariably your dining partner would disparage the “Americanization” of true Italian cuisine in the U.S.  I enjoyed knowing Pierre, a delightful engineer from Belgium who spoke five languages, and another charming man, Eduardo, who came from Germany and spoke at least three.  He might have been a former Nazi, now that I think about it.  Italian brothers Valerio and Gianni had a textile company, speaking an Italian-laced Spanish that was so expressive!  Valerio taught me a betting system he used when gambling in Monte Carlo.

But meeting fascinating people and experiencing some cultural condescension did not cause any rips in the fabric of my American pride.  That didn’t happen until recently, beginning when I saw citizens at town hall meetings on health care reform, act like street fighters, screaming, threatening, and having hysterics at the idea of providing health care for all Americans.  These meetings were called to engage in civil and civic discourse about life, death, putting an end to unnecessary  suffering, and curing disease among our citizenry.  What is it about that subject that warrants uncivilized belligerence – violent displays of ignorance and selfishness?

And what about the disrespect that so many Americans shower on our president, from Speaker John Boehner to the entire stable of commentators on the most shameful network ever permitted to pollute American air waves?  After all, what is the birther issue if not undisguised racism, a move to discredit President Obama because he is black?  It doesn’t matter that a majority of Americans voted to elect him president, preferring him to his Caucasian opposition.  And while you may not support the policies of the man, what happened to showing respect for the office, the face of our nation in the rest of the world?

But even with all that, we didn’t reach the ultimate unraveling of my American pride until these last Republican presidential debates.  During the first one, the crowd actually cheered when the moderator noted that 234 people who have been executed during Perry’s tenure as governor.  And then, Governor Perry was asked whether he had any trouble sleeping at night in regard to this number, to which he responded in the negative because he trusted in the system and knew they all deserved it.  Or words to that effect.

Am I among a minority of Americans who believe that every time that a person is killed at the hands of the State, we should solemnly reflect and pray that this person was truly guilty, assuming we believe in the death penalty in the first place?   Hasn’t the Innocence Project reminded us (in case we forgot) that civilized beings should have at least a little concern that perhaps out of those 234 people—just perhaps—one may have been innocent.

At least Patti Davis, Ronald Reagan’s daughter, seems to agree.  As she told Lawrence O’Donnell a few days later about the debate, “The moment that would have broken my father’s heart was the moment when applause broke out at the mention of more than 200 executions ordered by Rick Perry in Texas. It was stunning and brought tears to my eyes. This is what we’ve come to? That we applaud at executions?”

Describing the first time her father had to order an execution as governor of California, Patti said, “He and a minister went into a room, got down on their knees and prayed.”  That, my fellow Americans, is what decency at the head of an execution machine looks like.   And even more revealing is the inscription on Reagan’s tombstone:  “There is purpose and worth to each and every life,” Now we can argue about when life begins and I admit that I rarely agreed with this man as president.  But I cannot fault his compassion and respect for human life.  Civilized men and women  are not supposed to rejoice in another human’s death.

But rejoice they do!  At the next debate, the faithful cheered at the notion of letting a 30-year old die because he had no health insurance.  Dr. Ron Paul didn’t blink an eye over that prospect.  Has there been an invasion of body or brain snatchers who, as we speak, are replacing the minds of Americans with a version completely lacking in compassion?

These brain snatchers must be targeting conservatives.  New York Times’ Paul Krugman recently wrote, that conservative intellectuals used to support “‘a comprehensive system of social insurance’ to protect citizens against ‘the common hazards of life,’” singling out health, in particular.  . . Now, the conservatives no longer accept government intervention in the name of compassion.  “Compassion is out of fashion— indeed, lack of compassion has become a matter of principle, at least among the G.O.P.’s base.”

I hate to use the word “un-American” because conservatives flail it around almost as much as they do “socialism,” usually directed at our president, but who are these people with whom I share citizenship?
Whatever the answer, I sadly realize that the rest of the world are seeing these same people via satellites and computers.  These are the people who are representing us – all Americans – to the Europeans, Latin Americans, Asians, and everywhere else.  I can’t help but think the word “barbarian” must come to the mind of many . . . along with “burros with money.”

As far as gluttony is concerned, I still pay a monthly fee to Weight Watchers for my online account that keeps me honest and losing a bit of weight.  That’s why I must report that on Saturday I ate a serving of mayonnaise-y cole slaw costing me a bunch of valuable points.  But that’s certainly not the essence of true gluttony.  Us gluttons-in-abeyance know better.

But, I did have some thoughts about a prayer fest called to urge the attendees to call on the Christian god to step in and help us solve the various ills of the country.  As one woman explained on NPR, “We deserve bad leaders, we deserve economic downturn . . . we turned away from Jesus.”  A punishing Jesus?  This strikes me a bit primitive, more like the response of ancient people beset by famine, drought, hard times.  I’m reminded of the scene in Mel Gibson’s movie, Apocalypto with the Mayan priest at the top of a pyramid surrounded by thousands of people cheering on as human beings were sacrificed, assembly-line fashion as the civilization in decline sacrificed to appease the gods and reverse its fortunes.

Although I’m no student of religions, primitive cultures have always been characterized by religious beliefs that included recipes for problem-solving involving the sacrifice of virgins, goats, crops, liquor, first-born sons, etc., to appease angry and/or resentful gods.  Reading Hamilton’s Mythology in 8th grade, it was impressed upon me how the Romans and Greeks had a veritable soap operatic system of gods who, depending on their humors, became resentful, jealous, needy, vengeful, etc.

But regarding the prayer event in Houston, I’m not saying that it’s a bad thing to pray for strength in the face of our daily problems, or to try to find more tolerance and love for others through prayer.  Like meditation, prayer can help you find those things within yourself, whether divinely inspired or not, depending on your beliefs.  But how did we get to a place where a governor (supposedly a leader with ideas about running this country) is urging folks across the country to come to a big prayer meeting to call on Jesus  to come up with solutions to our social and economic problems?  It would be better to pray for a vision of how to make all the players in our legislative bodies and other institutions get along like adults and act as if we were all in this together (which we are, by the way).  Learn to negotiate instead of demand and take home your toys if you don’t get your way.  I wouldn’t think, however, that you need Jesus to guide you to that path.  After all, it’s kind of the way we’ve been governing ourselves since dumping George III (i.e., all years B.T.P. [Before Tea Party]).

But, I’m probably the least qualified to critique this event and the goals of the Governor in joining forces with the Christian evangelicals to stage this happening.  Reverend Jim Rigby, the pastor of St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Austin, however, is qualified and offers up his response to “The Response,” which makes a lot of sense to me.  In his local contribution to the Austin American’s op-ed page Friday, August 5th, he characterized the government endorsement of one religion in a country with such rich religious diversity as unhealthy politics.  Significantly, he made five points based on scripture, which the organizers of this event have ignored.  In his words, more or less:

1.  Don’t make a show of prayer.  Jesus, he said, spoke out against public displays of religion.  In other words, ‘Don’t rub it in other people’s faces.’

2.  God doesn’t withhold rain because we’ve done something wrong.  Jesus said that God sends rain on the just and unjust.   Our love, he taught, should be equally nonselective.

3.  God doesn’t have favorites.  When the Bible says that God is not a “respecter of persons,” it means that God doesn’t have a favorite country o religion.  The idea that God wants Christians to be in charge of other people violates Jesus’ teaching that we are to take the lowest place, changing the world by humble persuasion and good example, not be messianic coercion.

4.  Worship by those who neglect the poor is offensive to God.   The prophet Amos, he notes, chastised the religion of his day for praying to God while mistreating people.  Texas leads the nation in residents who are uninsured, who work for minimum wage and who die from unsafe working conditions on construction sites.  Our state has the widest gap between rich and poor of any other state.

5.  The heart of Christian ethics is being a good neighbor.  Jesus told the story of the Good Samaritan, scapegoats of the day, to teach humility to a rich young zealot who thought he was approaching moral perfection.  The merciful Samaritan, he explained, was an example of ethical perfection.  In contrast, the American Family Association, one of the sponsors of the event, is listed by the Southern Poverty Law Center as a hate group for their stand on homosexuality and Muslims.

As the Reverend concludes, “The ‘prayer’ that is most needed at this time is for each of us, believer or not, to go into our own heart and find the humility and empathy that is at the core of righteousness, political and spiritual.”

Amen, Reverend.  As I consider that we haven’t heard the last of Republican congressmen trying to slash more jobs from the government payroll, dismantle entitlements, and eliminate the programs that help the least advantaged, I wonder – not for the first time – how they ignore the intellectual disconnect and call themselves followers of Jesus, rather than the high priests sacrificing the least among us at the altar of More Wealth for the Few.   Maybe if I pray a little bit harder, I’ll find a way of understanding  these people.  I will never, however, be able to pray hard enough to find a way to forgive them.

Last week, I was surprised to hear from Diane in Wichita Falls, a relative of Bicycle Annie’s who has been researching her life.  Through an exchange of emails, brought about after she discovered my blog entries, she shared with me what she has learned about this well-known, but unknown, woman who once roamed our streets and gained a place in our memories as a local legend.  More importantly, I hope we never forget that even the most unappealing homeless person was once part of family who, we can only hope, cared about them.

So, thanks to Diane, I have the opportunity to introduce you to Zelma O’Riley, a.k.a. Bicycle Annie, a.k.a,  the Indian Princess.  Zelma was from Durant, Oklahoma where her father, John O’Riley was a professor.  John and wife, Mary Catherine Harkins, had five other children including, Lester, Arlee, Zula, Lula, Ora, and Lela.  Mary Catherine was a full-blooded Choctaw Indian who actually came to Durant on the “Trail of Tears.”  The family was purportedly very wealthy, and raised their children quite traditionally.  Zelma, purportedly very intelligent,  moved to Fort Worth for a few years, and then finally to Austin to go to college at UT.   Here she started the publication “Up and Down the Drag” in 1941.

In an edition of “Up and Down” from November, 1947, she wrote, “It will take a woman to save America.”    She apparently saw herself as a potential savior of the country, and explained that her principal campaign plank was:  preparedness.  The advertisement read “Vote for Zelma O’Riley for First Woman President of the United States –  she is Irish, she is Indian and she will care for you.”    Important causes were important to the free-spirited Zelma.  As the true daughter of a strong Indian woman, one of her main cause was Native American rights.

To finance her publication, Zelma sold subscriptions and advertising along the Drag.  Her family believes that after she stopped publishing”Up and Down the Drag,” however, she continued to sell advertising once in a while to fund herself.  I’m wondering if maybe she was delusional and, at times, actually intended to publish it again, but never following through with it.

As Diane says, the stories about her being married to the man of her dreams and his death causing her to go into a depression are not true. She was never married and never had any kids. The house in Hyde Park, also was not true, although the Blue Bonnet Courts where she appeared to have lived is at the northwestern corner of the subdivision.

Diane reports that Zelma visited Durant often throughout her life and visited her grandmother (Zelma’s niece) in Dallas often as well. Strangely enough, Diane’s uncle went to college in Austin and had many encounters with Zelma although he did not know at the time he was her great-nephew.  He only knew her as “Bicycle Annie” for years.  Additionally, there are rumors that she attended Law School at one point to better understand the judicial system so she could better “fight the power.”  The law school attendance can not be verified, although it would not surprise Diane, who characterizes Zelma as a pioneer activist.

Apparently, the niece (Diane’s grandmother) knew Zelma suffered from some mental problems and tried to keep up with her, with not much success.  It was after her grandmother’s death when Diane found Zelma’s obituary and a few copies of “Up and Down the Drag” among her things, which sparked her interest in this unusual relative.  She will share those with me in the future (and I will share here!)

Zelma passed away April 30, 1991, and is buried in Durant in a Choctaw burial ground.

As I write this, I realize that this woman, albeit troubled and in her own way, as unconventional as today’s Leslie, our local transvestite, is significant to me because she is a link to the Austin I knew and loved.   In sharing our memories of Bicycle Annie, she also links me to others who remember her so vividly.  While she could be a bit shocking and offputting, she made little marks in our psyche that tie us to a past in this city.  Also, the longer we live, the more we understand that – while she may have lived in a world of her own making that we couldn’t understand – it never made her less human, less deserving of our compassion and understanding.

Austin sends you prayers and remembrance, Zelma.  I hope you have found a place of rest and peace, Indian Princess.