The Remedy

Okay, we just need to dance to this for the next 5 days and I think everything will be okay. Really, Stevie's always got the cure. Thanks to Seth for reminding me.

(note: I do believe Stevie wrote this song for Richard Nixon...it's so apropos, I think)

Nausea

http://www.pollster.com/

I'm so afraid. I'm afraid of hope. I'm afraid of counting chickens before they hatch. I'm afraid to believe. I literally want to vomit whenever I think about next Tuesday. I feel nauseous and overwhelmed with fear and dreams and suppressed excitement and terrified optimism and hope for a president we can respect, believe in and admire as an icon. It's more than just the disappointment of the last two elections that has me on tenterhooks. It's the hype and hubris that terrifies me. It's the sliver of possibility, the risk and the bracing for disappointment that makes me worry like a kid who can't keep her birthday cake down.

Don't forget to vote, and tell all your friends and knock on some doors this weekend. And some wood. And pray.

What Love Looks Like

Mr. Nestel and Patrick chat before Luca's Naming Ceremony

My little nuclear family are so blessed to have such beautiful friends to share our lives with. This weekend we welcomed Baby Luca to our family of friends. What a delightful baby and his parents are clearly thrilled with him. It was such a joy to finally meet this little person who I've loved for more than 8 months. We spent some time gazing into each other's eyes, which brought tears to mine. And our family enjoyed a typical weekend at Jen and Benjie's; scenic morning walks with the dogs, amazing food, (most of it grown or raised by Jen), beautiful children and outrageous laughter. I love going to Putney and beeing my goofiest self with my oldest friends. All the love and goodness makes me think of the Van Morrison song (oh what a song!), Sweet Thing:

And I will stroll the merry way and jump the hedges first... And I will raise my hand up into the night time sky and count the stars that's shining in your eye Just to dig it all an' not to wonder why That's just fine...

Andi, Luca and Nicole

Luca and Harper

Calling all Cousins, Step-Sisters, etc.

Do any of you NOT recognize these people? And, more precisely, how they love us and our children so well, completely and without reservation? Their delight in life and their loved ones is what I believe in. How beautiful. Look at those faces! Aren't we lucky?
Cheryl, did you take this? You captured something I've always seen and is so familiar and wonderful and comforting...nice work. And thank you.

Betrayed by Rock and Roll

I feel betrayed by rock and roll. I know I'm not the first woman to have this complaint. I like to go to Spearhead shows, G. Love, Greg Brown and Ani DiFranco concerts where the fans are basically hippies and the artists make a point of singing at least some songs about social concerns. Rock n' roll fans, on the other hand, tend to be dirtbags. And I mean that lovingly; I wouldn't mind being a dirtbag. I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks (albeit in a swanky suburb) and I can roll with dirtbags. I've even fantasized about wearing a tube top and drinking canned beer in a trailer. It's all good if you can refrain from gender analysis, also known as the feminist's curse. I also need to remind you that some rock 'n roll is overtly sexist and racist in content (see the Rolling Stones "brown sugar" or the Beatles "run for your life"--and I love the Stones and the Beatles, so I guess I was betrayed a long time ago, right from the outset). The rock 'n roll concert I went to last night was attended by an audience made up primarily of men. Truly, it was about 90 percent men. Maybe this is because women instinctually know that rock n' roll has betrayed us. I don't know for sure the explanation for this huge gender gap, but I would have hated to be a single woman in that crowd, or a lesbian. Not out of fear to my physical being, but because being with a man validated me and lent me credibility; let me in to the club by association. While I don't have male privilege, I have white, heterosexual privilege. When I started asking people around me why the only women on the stage were behind plexiglass, people looked at me like I was wacked, but when they saw the tall, good looking guy I was with, they went back to enjoying the show without challenging me and a sense that things were okay and I couldn't be totally out of line. One person suggested they were behind plexiglass for "artistic reasons". (Does this remind you of anything?) The only woman to whom I posed this question (there were not many of us around, remember) didn't care, just shrugged it off. Which made me cry (don't worry, nobody noticed; I didn't make a scene or anything). Okay, I was overreacting, I know and I think they were behind the plexiglass for reasons having to do with sound and volume, not art or overt sexism. When the last person I asked gave me this plausible explanation, I stopped asking and felt better. But why was I the only one asking?

I know, this all sounds outrageously sensitive. And it is. But let me put it in context: the night before the concert, I co-facilitated a weekly group for men who batter their partners. I've been doing this for about 2 months and I'm still getting my bearings with it. I've led an awfully sheltered existence and never run with men like this, who are overtly sexist, entitled, homophobic and refuse to take responsibility for their actions. And lately I've been reading some research that really questions the effectiveness of groups like this. Some suggest, with good reason, that batterer programs may actually do more harm than good, teaching the men to be better batterers or to use forms of coercive control that will keep them out of trouble but still entrap their partners. Also, since most of us in the battered women's movement agree that the problem of violence against women is cultural and not the problem of individual men, why do we think running psycho-educational groups with individual men is going to create change? So these were the thoughts going through my head after group the other night, which led me to a nocturnal reminder of how very dangerous these men may be to the women in their lives. And how utterly powerless I am to do anything about that fact. It was a terrifying and overwhelming nightmare, from which I awoke with my heart racing.

So, here I am, the next night, at a rock 'n roll concert. The band was great--I loved the music, don't get me wrong. But that's why I felt all the more betrayed. And there was an edge in this crowd of men, an undercurrent of violence that was contagious and made me want to punch the woman who was too much in my space. And the bartender (also a woman) who was rude to me. What was going on here? I missed the hippies. Maybe I really can't roll with dirtbags and that's just a pretty fantasy. But even more, I missed my comrades, my sisters-in-arms. The women who get it and don't think I'm being "too sensitive" when I wonder why the crowd is 90% men and why the only women on the stage are behind plexiglass. They worry about these things, too. My women friends who, like me, have listened to countless stories from our sisters who have been beaten, battered, isolated and terrorized. And who know that these things don't happen in some kind of isolated, individually pathologized way. And who understand the guilt I felt at falling back on my privilege as a married woman when I felt undermined by my lack of gender privilege.

Finally, there was at least one person at that rock 'n roll show who totally understood where I was coming from. Yeah, of course, Neil. He didn't for a second shame me for being too sensitive or emotional. He gave me a hug and made sure I knew I wasn't alone. He gets it and he gets me. He's incredibly cool and smart and thoughtful. And he's always got my back.

Here's a picture of me at the Bootyjuice show last weekend with some of my comrades, high-fiving Carolyn with Misty by my side. I'm very thankful for them. (Bootyjuice is funky, jazzy fusion type music. Lots of hippies in the audience).

I Missed You!

Lately I've been missing the people I don't get to see as much of as I'd like. So this weekend was a huge treat because the amazing, wonderful, funny, hard working, soul feeding Ms Misty came to visit. We climbed Haystack yesterday, just the two of us, which gave us an uninterrupted few hours to talk nonstop in a mad effort to catch up, then I got to make and eat dinner with her and a bunch more people I love and then we went out dancing and partying.

Neil and I came home around 1:00 to relieve Grandpa David, the babysitter, but the others stayed out later (much later. I was impressed) and when I woke up this morning, I really wasn't sure who would be here. It was fun to discover not just Misty on my couch, but Henekis and Alan on the futon and Netdahe and Brook downstairs in the guest bed. Then I got to make eggs and ham and toast and sit around giggling with them all morning. And the kids got to cuddle with Henekis and Misty, always a coveted treat. It was all really sweet and satisfying. I don't envy Misty the 3.5 hour drive home late this afternoon on so little sleep, but I really appreciate that she made the long trip so we could spend some much needed time together.

For some reason I really get a chuckle seeing Dahe in his big-boy-proper-guy sweater.

"Letter to a Young Patriot"

I often find it difficult to engage in political discussions with folks who don't think like me.  I get so angry and intolerant!  This is not something I'm the least bit proud of; it's a flaw and I'd like to do better.  One of my comrades and best friends has grappled with this challenge admirably.  Read about it here.

The Weekend in Pictures

Pat, Lily, Harper and Hazel at the monument George Etienne Cartier. Click on it and make it big because I love this picture.


Pictures, in completely random sequence, of a great weekend in Montreal with the Fays and a stop at the Heath Orchard on our way home. Friends, family and fall...wonderful...and utterly exhausting!

Sally-ann

Sisters, Raetha, Sally and Cindy, circa 1980

Baby Henekis and Sally

Sally with Nellie at Kali and Jen's wedding in August

Yesterday Patrick and I were walking home from his running club and he said, apropos of nothing, "Auntie Sally was so sweet to me to me the other day." He then told me about an afternoon at least a month ago where he was home alone for a short time after school. Sally called and he told her he was alone and she asked him if he wanted her to come over to keep him company and he said "yes" and she did. Patrick said, "She knew I was lonely, so she came over so I wouldn't be lonely." Pat and I then talked about how that is the way our Auntie Sally is: if you need her, she'll be there faster than is legally possible. For me, that truth defines her. I love her.
She wrote the following about growing up and our family. (I must get my propensity for starting emails and phone conversations mid-thought from her.)


And we had the first stereo and more albums and more books than everyone in the community put together, and everyone laughed when they were in our house; and our mother told us stories about loving having a profession (the only woman in the community that worked), of the time she sat Cindy outside the door of the Westinghouse Office holding onto baby me so she could go talk to them without them knowing she had children (lest they took her job away) and she told us stories of the births of her children (when other kids didn’t even know where babies came from); and Daddy told us we could not judge ANYONE unless we did it with our eyes shut and had reasons about their person which caused us not to like them; and mom and dad argued about politics – he wanted her to stay home on voting day so she wouldn’t cancel his vote, but he loved her independence more than the vote; and we had big feasts in the formal dining room in Portsmouth, and in the side yard at Nana and Ganka’s; we partied with the Boardman’s and Sheridan’s and Uncle Billy with Donna when they all came to camp at the same time – all those kids to play with, all that happy adult noise! I listen to the next generations and I think, hummmm, we had the best music, books, laughter, a mom who valued independence and work, high ethical expectations, political discourse, great food parties and so much play. Sounds like our children and their children. I think we told them too much about that time that was so hard, and the mistakes our parents made, and not enough of the rest. I know I’ve made that mistake. When you have a really good young childhood any of the missteps look monumental because your parents don’t seem like parents they seem like the best gift under the Christmas tree.

Charlie, We Hardly Knew Ye

1984

1986



















This morning I sent my mom a text message asking her to write something In Memoriam for Champ, who died 19 years ago on this day. I was thinking of him, looking at the foliage which always reminds me of the day of his death. And Mom texted back, "You are reading my mind." Which made me realize that many of the descendants and other wackos are thinking about Charlie Stoddard today, so in some way, we're together. I'll never forget the day he died. I think it might be like how people remember where they were when JFK died. I was 18 years old and, as corny as it sounds, I remember October 2, 1989 as the day that I grew up. Anyway, I thought about Champ all day today. I think he means as much to me in his absence as he did when he was present. And I think that was true when he was alive, too. My elusive, charming, brilliant and restless grandfather...how we all miss him. We never got enough of him even when he was here and alive. But he's still here.

Here's Mom's words:

I want to say how it makes sense that his oldest grandchild, the one who was lucky enough to remember him best, has given us this gift of remembering (immortalizing?) him in the name of the blog and in the picture. The picture makes me smile every day when I check the blog, still sad, but sweet. I'd like to say something about each individual grandchild and how proud he would be, telling his bar mates about Zoe's writing, poetry and running, Kali's basketball and music, or Dahe's house and his strength, how sweet Kayla is and how funny Henekis is, and about the work she and Zoe do, how brave Shani is to go to NY and follow his dream, how pretty Jordan is and she has the gift of Stoddard sarcasm, how amazingly smart and accomplished Nellie is, and great grandchildren, Harper the artist and Patrick the naturally talented musician... But he would be most proud of what truly good people they all are and how much they truly, truly cherish each other. I can see him with that smile on his face, hand on his cheek and cig in his fingers...

I can see him too. And that smile and twinkle in his eye. Like Mom, I love to imagine how he'd be proud of all of us and I see him and his smile in my aunts and uncles and, especially, my cousins and my children. And what I thought about today was how our family shares humor, food, stories and fun and I remembered that day he died and the days that followed and how we shared our grief and pain. And how when Sally was so sick we shared our fear. And driving in northern New England today the colored leaves reminded me of how my family came together in their pain 19 years ago to grieve and take care of each other and thereby taught me how to be a grown up in this world.





Yes, Champ has undies on his head.









In this picture, Champ's shirt says, "Cindy's Daddy". He wore it every Old Home Day he showed up for.
















Champ at my high school graduation. The last time many of us saw him.

Last but not least, the great cat joke.

Skunks (Saved By the Sugarmaker)

This morning I saw THREE skunks on my run. And not the cute little fella from a month ago. These were big ass skunks. The first one was crossing the road ahead of me early on in my run, when it was still kind of dark. But no problem. I watched it slink off into the brambles and jogged past. On my way back, less than 1.5 miles from home, I was reveling in running under a bright orange canopy of maples on Darling Hill. I was thinking about how this could be the most beautiful spot on earth, right here, right now under these trees, and how great it felt to be running in the rain early in the morning. I was noticing how strong my legs felt and how clear and happy my brain felt. I was so caught up in my joy that I didn't notice the big, giant skunk crossing the road until it was almost too late. I stopped, waited for it to cross, and then noticed it's buddy coming out of the tall grass on the side of the road. And coming right towards me. And this guy was HUGE! Why was it coming towards me? What did it want? Instead of asking, I pivoted and ran as fast as I could in the other direction. I was too scared to even look back for a while. Finally, I stopped and noticed that the thing was no longer charging me. So I cautiously resumed my course, wondering how the f**ck I was going to get home. If I turned and went the other way, it would be about 7 miles instead of a little more than 1 mile. Which would be okay, except I promised Neil I'd be back in time to pack the kids lunches. I really didn't know what I was going to do so I just kind of stood there in the road for 5 or 10 minutes. Boy was I happy to see Dave, our local sugarmaker, coming down his driveway. I waved him down, told him about my predicament, and he slowly backed his truck up down the road while I walked along side. When we got to the spot where I thought the skunks might be, I practically jumped on the hood of his truck. I felt a little silly, but I've seen what happens to dogs when they get sprayed, and I know that it's more than just a bad smell; it's really painful. So after my sugarmaker's rescue, I went back to enjoying my run, but I stayed in the middle of the road and jumped at every little flash of white I saw. Thank god I left Rosie home today.