Auld Lang Syne

Can this year of interminable Republican debates end soon enough? Sing to the tune of "Auld Lang Syne":

Should Newt and Herman be forgot
And Michele and Ron Paul, too?
And Rick and Rick and Jon H, yes,
There's not much more they can do.

For Mitt is all that's left, my dear,
For Mitt is all that's left.
We'll drink a cup of bitterness
And live with what we've got.

Mark: Happy Birthday to You

"Together wing to wing and oar to oar."
From Robert Frost, "The Master Speed"

A Dog's Life: Waiting for Santa

Gifts of the Season

I've noticed that each arriving Christmas grows a little sadder than the year before when I acknowledge those friends and family who are no longer here. Rather than dwell in the sadness, I'm reminded of the gifts that each of these loved ones gave me in their life times and for these I thank them:

Glenn Franklin George, my father, for the gift of gratitude

Margaret Wright Hewitt, my grandmother, for the gift of dignity

Myrtle George Nase, my aunt, for the gift of kindness

Marion Sullivan Straubel, my mother-in-law, for the gift of endurance

Mary Lou Lynch George, my sister-in-law, for the gift of compassion

Susan Elizabeth Bello, my friend, for the gift of courage

In this season when many of us race around buying gifts, impatient and tense, we sometimes forget that the greatest gifts of all are those that last forever.

Oddities

We live in strange times. Often I read the news and wonder how we got where we are--sometimes we seem far off track, and other times we seem surprisingly progressive. Here's what jarred me this week:

That a billionaire who owns the New Jersey Nets will run against Vladimir Putin for president of Russia.

That the Durham Public Schools website posted crucial parent information initially only in Spanish.

That somehow it's OK that the secretary of health and human services, Kathleen Sibelius (acting on behalf of Barack Obama), can overrule F.D.A. scientists and researchers.

That American military base schools are not subject to "No Child Left Behind" (George Bush) or "Race to the Top" (Barack Obama)--and that their students perform better than peers at regular public schools.

That it's still not OK to eat raw chocolate chip cookie dough, even when you make it yourself.

That our love for dangerous and violent sports--especially football and ice hockey--isn't all that different from that which drove Roman Colosseum fans centuries ago.

That advocates for the Keystone XL oil pipeline include TransCanada employees Paul Elliott and Gordon Griffin, both friends of Hillary Clinton--who, in her role as secretary of state evaluates the proposal and recommends for or against it.

That Michele Bachmann's husband Marcus has a Ph.D.

That nasty Newt Gingrich has a shot at Iowa.

That we're still dealing with voter suppression efforts after all these years, and that--fortunately--Attorney General Holder understands the danger.

O Christmas Tree. . .

how patient are thy branches.

Hysterical Mothers

In her book, Overtreated: Why Too Much Medicine is Making Us Sicker and Poorer, Sharon Brownlee analyzes the shortcomings of American medical care. It's an excellent book for lots of reasons, though I was most struck by one doctor's comments.

Cyndra Mogayzel, a primary care physician no longer in practice, operated a successful inner-city clinic in the 1990s largely, she believes, because she took the time to listen to patients. As such, she became expert at handling "hysterical mothers," about whom she has this to say:

"A quote 'hysterical mother' is one of three things. . . One, her kid is really sick and nobody is listening to her. If you think something is wrong with your kid, and nobody is listening, nothing makes you crazier. Two, her kid isn't sick and nobody has bothered to take the time to explain to her what's going on and why she doesn't need to worry. Or three, she is stressed for some other reason--divorce, domestic violence, financial problems--and you need to know what's going on in order to properly care for and protect the child."

Having felt like a hysterical mother more than once, I wish that Dr. Mogayzel could impart her wisdom to her former colleagues. For I find that even doctors who are mothers have dismissed me and my concerns to the detriment of my children's health.

The myth of the all-knowing doctor is simply that. Who observes a child more closely: a mother or a doctor? It seems like a silly question, yet our health care is predicated on a belief that a doctor's 5-minute (at most) interaction with a child yields more information than a mother's 24/7 observation.

No wonder we're crazy. The experts write us off.

Next time you see a hysterical mother, or feel like one yourself, think twice. It's the system that's crazy.

December Landscape: Bark

Now the the leaves have dropped and the flowers have died (except for that beautiful rose), what's left?


The bark of the river birch sheds like a stripper. Up and down its lanky trunk, it produces a flaky parchment that you can actually write on--and roll into a scroll. It's not hard to imagine the writings of ancient people.


This cherry tree is bleeding. A fungus might have attacked it, though it's probably suffering from the concrete pour that invaded its space earlier this year. A hardy tree, it will survive. The squirrels and birds love its cherries. We do, too, with plenty of sugar.


Crepe myrtle bark is often smooth. Here it reminds me of the comment a neighbor made 22 years ago when she peered inside my daughter's stroller and said--in a deep, southern drawl--"I just love bald-headed babies."


Is it me, or do these crepe myrtle branches look like the back side of a human body turned upside-down? A blotchy human body at that. Skin and bark, bark and skin--we're more closely related than I thought.


We end, of course, with the bark of the oak, our country's national tree. Not particularly interesting, as the others are, but rather ordinary. And gray. Like so many of us, and like how we feel as winter sets in.

Sex Scandals

Regardless of what happens to Herman Cain's presidential aspirations as he fights off the latest accusation, the real sex scandal of our time has nothing to do with him. Nor with any of the other politicians--pick your favorites--who have slept with someone other than their spouse. Really, we ought to grow up. These are dalliances.

The real scandal is something altogether different and goes far beyond sexual indiscretion into the deviant world of child predation.

Though Penn State football has moved off the front pages for awhile, the men's basketball team at Syracuse is poised to take its place. There, long-time associate coach Bernie Fine was fired on Sunday for child sexual abuse allegations, and we await the fate of others around him.

We have a curious relationship with our children. On the one hand, we adulate them, celebrating their every accomplishment however insignificant. On the other hand, we desert them, averting our eyes from the reality of predators among us.

On Monday night Syracuse head coach Jim Boeheim defended his support for his friend. Then he added, "What people do outside the program, I have very little if any control over adults." This is a sorry statement, whether or not Bernie Fine is found guilty. It's the thinking that has gotten us where we are today.

True, we may not be able to stop the impulsive behavior of predators. But surely we can find ways to keep them away from our children.

Flowers of a Bygone Era

To see the "Glass Flowers" exhibit at the Harvard Museum of Natural History is to step back in time in more ways than one. Crafted by Rudolph and Leopold Blaschka in Germany in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, these beautiful and scientifically accurate glass models are unlike anything you would see produced today. In addition to the 847 flowers created, the display also features some 3,000 pieces of specific plant parts--stems, seed pods, leaves, pistils, pollen--all startlingly lifelike. You can't believe they're made of glass.

The collection is one of those artistic feats rooted in a specific time and place. Beyond the marvel of the flowers themselves is the wonderment at this father and son duo who blended art and science in a whole new way.

If you find yourself in Boston, make the trip to Cambridge to see the flowers. You won't be sorry.

This Holiday I Wish to Thank. . .

Jane, who cleans our house

Pam, who grooms our dogs

Mark and Katie and Brad, who cut our hair

Pablo, who fixes our cars

Joyce and Clint, who fix our computers

Robyn, who sells us eggs

Ms. G, who teaches our kid

Gene (next door), who's always there

Kay and Nancy, who dispense our drugs

and Ray, who guards the pool.

With them in our lives, what's ordinary becomes extraordinary. For this I'm grateful.

A Dog's Life: Are We There Yet?

The Last Rose of the Season. . .

. . . looks out of place in the yard. Her hot pink color clashes with the brilliant, but weighty shades of fall: golden yellows, flaming oranges, and russet reds. Coy and frivolous, she resists the coming of winter. I cheer her on, this rose, for she knows no fear. She lives as I would like to live.

Lessons from Penn State

1. Beware idolatrous cultures. Whenever someone or something--or both--is revered as godlike and beyond reproach, we ought to peer under more than one rock. Joe Paterno and his Nittany Lion machine reigned supreme for too long in too many people's eyes.

2. Beware paternalistic cultures. Societies with few or no women in power run the risk of grave gender and sexual imbalances. Does the presence of women at the top of an organization help protect children and others at risk? I would say yes.

3. Beware closed cultures. George Vecsey, in his New York Times essay "The Dangerous Cocoon of King Football," reminds us that the leading figures in the scandal so far have been at Penn State for years, practically born and bred there. With few outsiders to challenge the status quo, the culture perpetuated itself.

Penn State football, the Catholic Church, and the Boy Scouts of America all share these traits to the detriment of the very constituencies they serve. Of the three scandals, though, this is the one that none of us can dodge. For just about everybody born in this country reveres either universities or football or both.

If we continue to elevate these two institutions, we must hold their personnel to the same standards that we hold other, less respected institutions. Surely Jerry Sandusky would have been long gone as a public school teacher or a United States senator, since we deride both teachers and politicians.

It's much harder to face the truth about those we love.

Veterinary Rx

Our dogs get more attentive and more respectful medical care than the rest of us do. Here's why:

1. When we take our dogs to the clinic for sick visits, the vets routinely call us a few days later to see how they're doing.

2. All of the staff members at the clinic know our dogs and greet them cheerfully.

3. The vets return our phone calls on the same day.

4. We can find out exactly how much a procedure will cost.

5. Treats are available at every visit.

6. As owners we're never blamed for our dogs' health--the way some dentists run you down for not flossing well enough.

7. The clinic is simply and efficiently furnished. We're not paying for a fancy building or the latest decor.

8. Medicines are dispensed on site.

9. We rarely wait for more than 5 minutes, either in the waiting room or in the examining room.

10. If our vets recommend a special procedure, we know they do so because they believe it's medically necessary, not because they'll make an extra buck.

11. When we check in at the clinic, we're not greeted with the words, "Is your insurance still Blue Cross/Blue Shield?"

12. The dogs are treated with the respect they deserve.

Human doctors and medical administrators could learn a lot from their veterinary counterparts who, by the way, make a lot less money. Speaking of which, you don't get the feeling that money is driving veterinary medicine the way it powers human medicine. Rather, you get the feeling that the patient's health matters the most.

A Day at the Gardens

Every year our family visits the outdoor sculpture exhibit at the North Carolina Botanical Garden. We stroll the grounds,


study the lily ponds,


and lose ourselves in the bamboo.


We marvel at human-made spiders,


nests,


and miscellaneous botanic forms.


Finally, we enjoy a ten-year-old's response. . .


to a nude.

Medical Wasteland

I've been wandering in the wilderness--the medical records wilderness, that is--for 40 days as I've waited for my records to travel from Duke Eye Center in Durham to Academy Eye Associates in Chapel Hill, 10 miles down the road. I should have hired the Pony Express.

You'd think that living in "The City of Medicine," with all its high-tech institutions and technologies, would result in equally high-tech efficiency. Not so. It took 3 faxes and 10 phone calls to complete my relatively simple request.

In the midst of this frustration, I was reminded of T. R. Reid's excellent book on health care, The Healing of America: A Global Quest for Better, Cheaper, and Fairer Health Care. In it, Reid takes his sore shoulder around the world, consulting with doctors in France, England, Canada, and other countries in search of ways not only to treat his shoulder, but more importantly, for ways to improve American health care. For as he notes in his introduction, in addition to our inability to provide services for all of our citizens, "the United States also performs below other wealthy countries in matters of cost, quality, and choice."

When it comes to medical records, France has us beat by a long shot. Everyone over the age of 15 carries a carte vitale, or the "card of life," a green, plastic credit card that contains complete health information since 1998. Patients can take this card to any doctor or hospital in France and their medical history is instantly available. The card also contains insurance and billing records, so that payments and reimbursements are handled automatically. The layers of administrative processing that we encounter daily are simply not needed in France.

We've all been fasting in the medical desert of American health care for too long. For even if we're lucky enough to enjoy the finest medical services, we're still paying for bloat and inefficiency.

It's past time to emerge from this wasteland.

The Wit and Wisdom of Rahm Emanuel's Mother

The October issue of Carolina Parent features articles typical of such magazines: "Breast Cancer Survivors Share Stories of Triumph," "Sweet, Sugar-Free Halloween Treats," and "Preserving Digital Memories that Matter." Words of encouragement fill the pages--from how to prepare for teacher conferences to how to garden with your kids. The darker sides of "parenting" skirt around the magazine's edges, however; snippets on childhood fears and lying are about as dark as it gets (not counting, of course, the unmentioned stories of mothers who didn't survive cancer).

Our so-called "parenting culture" is full of saccharine. The feelings of despair, fear, and anger that often accompany raising children are rarely acknowledged.

How refreshing, then, to read an interview with Chicago mayor Rahm Emanuel in Time Magazine (October 17, 2011), in which he's asked about parental favoritism. "Was there a favorite in the Emanuel family?" asks the interviewer. The mayor responds, "I used to say to my mother, 'You love Zeke more than you love me.' She said, 'No, I hate you all equally.'"

Hooray for Mrs. Emanuel! However fleeting--or not so fleeting--her sentiment was, we need honest and funny voices like hers more than ever. For the humor helps us face the dark stuff, the places we'd rather not go. But go we must, for the sake of our kids and, ultimately, for ourselves.

Fog

Raising children is like trying to take a picture of your kid in a Tilt-A-Whirl. Every so often you spot her, in focus, and you think you've got it right. But most of the time she whizzes around in a blur, despite all of your efforts.

If you're lucky, you catch her laughing more often than not.

Emergency Rx

A trip to the emergency room with my daughter last week reminded me once again of the limitations to our health care system--the supposed best in the world.

The waiting room that night was crowded with at least 50 patients. Many of us sat for 3 hours before a nurse took us to the back--casually directing us to treatment rooms as if we were lolling about on a summer night. Hardly the atmosphere of emergency medicine. What most of us needed instead, I realized, was urgent care.

But the urgent care clinics in Durham were closed, so the only remaining option was the emergency room. Very different from our experience in Ireland 4 years ago, when my mother needed a doctor after 5:00 pm. Easy, it turned out. The neighbor's clinic was open 24 hours, and the night shift was ready for us when we arrived. Low key and inexpensive, the treatment met the need.

You'd think that a nation like ours that has developed so many medical miracles and treatments would have figured out how to deliver these more effectively. But we're locked in by old models of inefficiency and waste, hampered by the special interests of providers and insurers.

Looking for ways to cut the costs of American medicine? The emergency room is one place to start.

Autumn Landscape

Though my yard is not bursting with the fall colors that true southern gardeners produce, it nonetheless holds its own with those in the middling ranks.


The loropetalum is as lovely as its name. Native to China and Japan, it flowers in both spring and fall and requires little effort. It is a member of the witch-hazel family--taking its name not from the Halloween witch, but from the Middle English wiche or pliable. I love the delicate pink flowers. They are like fairies dancing before the cold of late fall sets in.


The soft leaves of lamb's ears are hard to resist. They make me think of The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams, even though rabbits--along with deer--resist these plants. Like the loropetalum, lamb's ears are easy to grow; in fact, they're difficult to kill. This can be a mixed blessing.


Chrysanthemums have always bothered me; they remind me of football and cheerleaders. Nonetheless, I decided to plant two this year and I'm glad I did. They're cheerful, it turns out, in a way that doesn't necessarily evoke cheerleaders. Imagine my surprise, then, to read in Wikipedia that while chrysanthemums symbolize death in several European and Asian countries, "the flower is usually regarded as positive and cheerful" in the United States--except for in New Orleans!


These nandina berries, which are orange now, will turn to a deeper red later this year. The plant itself is considered invasive in North Carolina, though I may be doing something wrong as it's not taken over my yard. Everything about the nandina (also called heavenly bamboo) is poisonous. Does this imply something sinister about heaven?


This impatiens deserves a prize. As you can see, I never gave it the courtesy it deserved of planting it in the ground. It has sat in this pot since May in a section of the yard undergoing renovation. It has survived drought and neglect. Look how beautiful it is.

A Dog's Life: Cassidy. . .

He knows his way into my heart.

A Ray of Hope?

On Tuesday voters in next-door Wake County rendered a second opinion on the reactionary school board they elected two years ago. Though Democrats have not yet regained control of the board, they now hold four of nine seats with the strong possibility of adding the fifth in a forthcoming run-off election. The new members will bring a commitment to ensuring student diversity throughout the district and restoring integrity to the board.

Voter turnout on Tuesday doubled the numbers from 2009, when the current contentious board was elected. A harbinger of things to come?

I hope so. I hope that reasonable people who didn't vote last time will see just how extreme many of our newly elected officials are. This was the case in Wake County; perhaps the rest of the country will follow its lead.

The Messiah

The tributes to Steve Jobs were amazing. Flowers, candles, and apples--his company's store fronts became for a few days shrines where pilgrims could honor his spirit. This outpouring of affection for a brilliant, arrogant businessman struck me as odd. Are people really that attached to their iPads?

Perhaps. But I wonder if something else isn't going on.

We've been searching for a secular messiah in our country for some time now. I count myself among those who saw in Barack Obama the promise of a leader who would deliver us out of our mess. The Republican party, as it lurches from one presidential candidate to the next, is trying to find its messiah as well: Mitch Daniels, Michele Bachmann, Rick Perry, Chris Christie, Sarah Palin, won't someone (other than Mitt Romney) ride in on a big, white horse?

Enter Steve Jobs, an American genius and entrepreneur whose products sell all over the world. Think the United States is in decline? Well, think again. Steve Jobs kicked butt, developing one new design after another. Take that, China.

The trouble is, Steve Jobs isn't and never was going to solve our massive problems for us. No one is, and the sooner we realize that no messiah is coming the better off we'll be. Which makes the Wall Street Occupiers all the more compelling. Inherent in their demonstration is the realization that no such messiah exists.

It's "we the people," stupid; this is the mantra we must tack on our walls.

Weight Matters

The recent eruption over Chris Christie's weight exposed the elephant in America's living room. Political commentators, journalists, and late-night comedians all broke the silence--some of them were vicious and others were thoughtful. No matter the tone, the governor's obesity went viral.

What's going on?

According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, about 1/3 of American adults are obese. A shocking graphic on the Center's website shows an animated map of the United States from 1985 - 2010, where the dark colors representing obesity percentages take over more and more of the country each year. Among industrialized nations, we are second only to Mexico with the highest percentages of obese and overweight citizens; and our children tie with Scotland for the fattest population in the world (see "Economix").

We can't deny it. We're fat, and fatter than most of the rest of the world. Governor Christie's obesity is there for all to see. Whether we laugh uncomfortably about him or defend him passionately, we're squirming at the symbolic portrayal he reveals. Fairly or not, his obesity gets at the heart of America today, the part we'd rather hide: greedy, gluttonous, out-of-control, and self-absorbed.

Above all, we're consumers--consumers who consume more than our share. It's as if we're eating up the rest of the world, and it's not a picture we want to see.

Republican Woes

Sing to the tune of "Johnny's So Long at the Fair":

Oh dear, what can the matter be?
Dear, dear, what can the matter be?
Oh dear, what can the matter be?
Mitt is just not who we want.

He governed in Mass, it's a state full of Democrats
Passed health care laws, they're the work of a Socialist
Goes to a church that we think's filled with bigamists
Mitt's simply not one of us.

Oh dear, what can the matter be?
Dear, dear, what can the matter be?
Oh dear, what can the matter be?
Mitt is just not who we want.

Chris Christie is large and he shouts and he speaks his mind
Fires those teachers and takes on the union men
Isn't a sissy and talks like the rest of us
Christie is just who we want.

Oh dear, what can the matter be?
Dear, dear, what can the matter be?
Oh dear, what can the matter be?
Mitt is just not who we want.

Those Enchanted Evenings

Sitting in a room of older adults at The Forest at Duke--most of them 80 years and over--we listened to Sam, the music instructor, play the piano. As usual, he ended his weekly session on music appreciation with a show tunes sing-a-long. A resident requested "Some Enchanted Evening" from South Pacific.

As some of the residents sang and others nodded their heads and still others seemed asleep, the collective memories of hundreds of enchanted evenings took over the room. Lives nearly over, passions long gone but not forgotten.

For a brief moment, feelings of love and loss rendered everything else meaningless.

Freedom

On Saturday the Triangle Wildlife Rehabilitation Clinic in conjunction with the Carolina Raptor Center released an American Bald Eagle into the wilds of Jordan Lake. The eagle had been found injured and underweight in a Raleigh landfill over the summer and was now restored to health.


Her caregiver handled her like an oversized, feathered baby.


Then she turned her towards the water and prepared to launch her into the sky.


The power with which the eagle took off was stunning. She didn't stumble, and she didn't look back.


After 45 minutes perched high in a tree on the other side of the lake (her bald, white head still visible), she finally flew off, circling higher and higher into the clouds until we could no longer see her, leaving us to ponder--in wonder and in awe.

A Dog's Life: Irish Blessing

May the roads rise to meet you,
May the winds be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields,
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.

When Giants Walked

When I learned on Saturday that three prominent political families had each lost someone--the Kennedys, the Mondales, and the Percys--I found myself transported to 1971, when I was in 9th grade. Our history teachers took us to Washington, D. C., that year, and we were on the lookout for famous senators. I remember the thrill at seeing Hubert Humphrey, Charles Percy, and Jacob Javits.

Imagine any ninth graders now being excited by the sight of a U. S. Senator. Max Baucus, Mary Landrieu, Harry Reid, Orrin Hatch? The list of senators from the 92nd Congress, 1971 - 1973, however, is filled with distinguished names: J. William Fulbright, Margaret Chase Smith, Mike Mansfield, Sam Ervin, Frank Church, Edmund Muskie, Ted Kennedy, George McGovern, Birch Bayh, Walter Mondale, Howard Baker, Mark Hatfield, Barry Goldwater, and Alan Cranston. I could list more.

What's happened? A lot, of course. The money in politics, the 24-hour news cycle, our polarized parties, widespread cynicism, not to mention my own yearning for the past. Still, the senators from the 92nd Congress loomed large in ways that I miss. They represented all of us, not just the narrow interests of their own states. They were public servants of the United States of America, even when we disagreed with them.

Maybe they weren't giants, and surely they had their warts. But they held our respect, they took seriously the issues of the day, and they worked on our behalf. They did the job we paid them to do. I don't think we can say the same of our senators today.

The News is Discouraging . . .

. . . time to post another picture of my kids.

We Weren't There

Where were you when the twin towers were struck? Or when President Kennedy was shot? Or when the Challenger blew up?

We answer these questions over and over again whenever a horrific anniversary rolls around. "I was strolling my 8-month-old baby," or "I was riding my bike," or "I was at work that day."

When my neighbor told me her September 11 story--that she'd been on the night shift and had developed a debilitating migraine, which left her in bed and oblivious to the horror unfolding--I realized how mundane our stories are. Especially when we weren't there, at the site of the disaster. Even President Bush was in the midst of ordinary life, reading The Pet Goat to second graders in Florida.

I wonder why this is, this need to tell our story. Is it to affirm that we're still here and alive? Is it to give meaning to our lives--that even though we weren't there, we're still important to the story?

I'm reminded of the 1950s television program hosted by Walter Cronkite, You Are There. It was a terrifying show where viewers were transported back in time to tragic events. I still remember the fear that gripped me at the beginning of one episode, when we found ourselves aboard the Titanic on April 15, 1912. Another episode took us to Lakehurst, New Jersey, on May 6, 1937; my brothers gasped at the mention of the Hindenburg, but I didn't know what it was and feared all the more the terror that awaited me.

At the end of these episodes, though, and at the end of all of them, we were let off the hook. For, in fact, we really weren't there. We were safe in our recreation room lying on the floor in front of the TV.

Perhaps this is the subtext of the story we tell each other: we're safe, we made it, we dodged the bullet again. Our story protects us. It's a healthy delusion, one that we probably couldn't live without.

Crank Up the War Room

In watching the Republican presidential debate last night, I was impressed by the confidence that all of the candidates conveyed in their opinions--whether or not they were citing facts or reinventing history or dodging questions. Their belief in themselves and in their ability to lead was unmistakable.

If President Obama is to wage a successful campaign against any of these individuals, he must slough off the passivity that often plagues him and get ready to fight. President Clinton's War Room comes to mind, where his advisers aggressively fought off attacks and proactively directed the debate.

The audience last night showed that many Americans embrace ignorance. Lofty speeches and deferential remarks will not readily defeat this passionate movement. Barack Obama needs to come out swinging.

Chinese Wisdom

I may have discovered the root of Barack Obama's current political problems. Forget all the pundits, ignore the press. The solution emerged in a Chinese fortune cookie at Hong Kong restaurant in Durham:

"An empty stomach is not a good political advisor."

Time to feed Bill Daley and the rest of the crew something other than arugula!

Wanted Desperately: Leadership on All Fronts

It feels like the calm before the storm. These last weeks before Labor Day have everyone hunkered down, quiet, recovering from the fury of Irene. Ten years ago we learned in horror what could happen after Labor Day, when airplanes flew as they pleased and took down a nation unaccustomed to such assault.

Our troubles now seem more far-reaching than they did then and cry out for leaders to lead. Will President Obama stand up boldly for jobs creation in his speech next week (see Eugene Robinson, Washington Post) or will he cave to his instinct for compromise? Will Democrats, reasonable Republicans, and Independents stand up for balanced approaches to our financial woes, or will they continue to let extremists set an extreme agenda?

The times call for those who don't normally view themselves as leaders to lead as well. Will scientists remain in their labs while Governor Perry and his ilk make false statements about climate change and evolution, or will someone stand up? Will ministers hide behind their pulpits while politicians turn their backs on the poor and disadvantaged, or will someone stand up?

And will our press and our people do their jobs as well? A media that constantly inflames rather than educates does a disservice to all, and a population of apathy where so few people vote emboldens demagogues.

A nation where no one leads is a sorry nation indeed. The resulting vacuum leaves opportunities for the worst sorts to exercise power. We need only to read history--or to observe the behavior of ourselves and colleagues at work--to understand this simple lesson.

First Day of School

Pearl Buck to Barack Obama

In Pearl Buck's novel Pavilion of Women published in 1948, protagonist Madame Wu recalls a conversation she once had with her beloved and wise father-in-law about the nature of intelligence. Old Gentleman says to her,

"This matter of intelligence--it is so great a gift, so heavy a burden. Intelligence, more than poverty and riches, divides human beings and makes them friends or enemies. The stupid person fears and hates the intelligent person. Whatever the goodness of the intelligent man, he must also know that it will not win him love from one whose mind is less than his." (Emphasis mine)

Barack Obama, take note. You will not win the love of those obstructionist Republican congressmen who seek to bring you down. It's time to speak to the rest of us as the fellow intelligent humans that we are and govern from your head and not from your heart.

Rick Perry Enters the Race

Based on "I do not like thee, Doctor Fell," a Mother Goose poem:

I do not like thee, Governor Perry,
With you as prez I'd feel quite wary
Of how you'd manage climate change
And how you'd treat poor Ben Bernan-ky.

A Dog's Life: Brotherly Love

Words to Live By

The Reverend Paul Byer, my childhood minister at Salem United Church of Christ in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, often concluded Sunday services with this benediction:

Go forth into the world in peace.
Be of good courage.
Hold fast that which is good.
Render to no one evil for evil.
Strengthen the faint-hearted,
Support the weak,
Help the afflicted,
Honor all people.
Love and serve the Lord
Rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit.

Instructions for life that celebrate its mystery. I'm glad I grew up with these words etched in my memory.

In Memoriam

Mary Lou George
September 30, 1953 - August 10, 2011
With love and deep gratitude

Barack Obama: Part 2

A thoughtful, thorough analysis of Barack Obama's disappointing presidency appeared in yesterday's New York Times. Written by Drew Westin, psychology professor at Emory University, it's 4 pages long and well worth reading--though the final paragraph captures the essence of Professor Westin's lament:

"But the arc of history does not bend toward justice through capitulation cast as compromise. It does not bend when 400 people control more of the wealth than 150 million of their fellow Americans. It does not bend when the average middle-class family has seen its income stagnate over the last 30 years while the richest 1 percent has seen its income rise astronomically. It does not bend when we cut the fixed incomes of our parents and grandparents so hedge fund managers can keep their 15 percent tax rates. It does not bend when only one side in negotiations between workers and their bosses is allowed representation. And it does not bend when, as political scientists have shown, it is not public opinion but the opinions of the wealthy that predict the votes of the Senate. The arc of history can bend only so far before it breaks."

Read "What Happened to Obama" and weep.

Random Thoughts on President Obama. . .

on the occasion of his 50th birthday.

1. He gives good speeches, often excellent ones.

2. He caves to his opponents.

3. He negotiates from a position of weakness.

4. He defers too much to Congress.

5. He betrays his base.

I don't know what to make of this guy. Most of the time I agree with what he says, but somehow what he says doesn't translate into action. Is he getting bad advice, or does he have some larger plan in mind?

Whatever's going on, I'm discouraged. I feel like we're all drifting along towards catastrophe--financial and environmental, especially--and the captain still doesn't grasp his job.

Unfortunately, his opponents have spotted the vacuum and they've taken control of the ship, steering us in the wrong direction. The iceberg looms, it's not even hidden, and we're headed right for it.

Real Lives

As the charade in Washington continues, with the Republican Party leading the way in idiocy and irresponsibility, the rest of us are going about our lives with quiet dignity. Family members are taking care of critically ill loved ones and grieving the loss of a baby. Friends are tending to their elderly parents, helping them find comfort in the last years of their lives. Children and young adults are going about the business of growing up.

Sometimes our political system seems so out of touch with the way most of us live and with the concerns most of us have as to be an absurd sideshow. Can't we do better than this?

A Pox on All Our Houses

Our government in Washington is a disgrace. Whatever comes of this charade doesn't begin to address the problems we face. Pervasive ignorance and selfishness at our highest levels demean all of us.

In the words of all of our presidents--whenever they address us--"May God bless the United States of America." We couldn't need it more.

The Color of Evil

When I first heard that a government building had been bombed in Oklahoma City in 1995, I said to my family--"Those people are crazy over there"--meaning that a terrorist group from the Middle East must have committed the crime. A similar initial thought crossed my mind when I learned of the attacks in Norway: Middle East extremists must have chosen an unlikely target for shock value.

We all know the endings of these two stories.

As if reading my mind on Friday--and perhaps the minds of many others--news commentators kept telling us that the gunman, once he was identified, was "blond-haired and blue-eyed." In others words, he wasn't what you think: dark-skinned, dark eyes, dark hair.

Perhaps we are wired in some fundamental way to blame "the other" when it comes to the unthinkable. More often than not, though, "the other" is in our own backyard.

The color of evil knows no color wheel. That we need constant reminder of this shows the depth of both our ignorance and our fear.

Teachers on the Dole

Subsidized housing for teachers? Yes, in Dare County, North Carolina, home of the tourist communities comprising the northern half of the Outer Banks. The second such reduced-rent apartment building in the county opened yesterday. According to Elizabeth Piff, executive director of the Dare County Education Foundation, one classroom can go through 4 teachers in a year because housing is too expensive.

We have a serious problem when we pay teachers so little that they can't afford to live where they work. True, teachers in some parts of the country make good livings. But 31 of our states pay teachers, on average, $40,000 - $49,000 per year, and 5 states pay less than that.

The controversy about public education rages on with new twists about charter schools, testing, teacher incompetence, and the role of unions--all deserving our attention. Until we truly value education, though, and pay people what their work is worth, we will continue our descent into an uneducated society.

The Call of the Wild

To hear the mournful call of the loon on Lake Bellaire in Michigan makes 17 hours of travel worth every bit of it. Something about that haunting wail evokes the beauty of a wilderness I rarely encounter. It's a sound that seems to rise and fall out of mist, casting a spell on those who hear.

How lucky I am to have heard its call once again.

The Bane of My (Gardening) Existence

The Carolina horsenettle is a true nightmare in the yard. Though it looks sort of pretty, its stems are lined with thorns that hurt like hell. Tenacious and pernicious, it never goes away no matter what. Every year I think I have it beat, and sure enough it pokes through layers of newspaper, soil, and mulch. One of its many nicknames is "Apple of Sodom."

Perhaps we could learn from this prickly beast: toughen up, persist, and show up no matter what. For who knows what sort of flower will bloom in the end?

A Dog's Life: It's Too Damn Hot

Scenes from the Eno Festival

Bookish sand carvings, ancient creatures in the annual parade, a hot and tired soul waiting for a cool drink. Best of all, though, were the Star Catchers, a troupe of special needs adults who performed patriotic songs and imitated Elvis. They put the timid among us on notice. As one of them said, "All you need to do is put your mind to it, and you can do whatever you want."

Parenting Skills

During Barack Obama's news conference last week, he made the following statement about his daughters: "Malia and Sasha generally finish their homework a day ahead of time," the President said. "They don’t wait until the night before. They’re not pulling all-nighters."

When asked in a follow-up interview to explain these remarks, political adviser David Axelrod suggested that perhaps President Obama was "just expressing pride in his own parenting skills."

Whenever I hear the term "parenting skills," I wince. What exactly are these skills and how do you acquire them? And are we to give Barack Obama credit for the fact that his kids aren't procrastinators? Perhaps this trait is simply genetic. Or maybe Malia and Sasha have watched too many friends panic on the night before a project is due and don't want to live this way. Or did one of their teachers instill this habit in them?

So it goes with so-called "parenting skills." Who knows how kids turn out the way they do? It's typical, I think, of our narcissistic culture to take credit where none is due.

Give it up. We all have less influence than we think.

Andrew Cuomo for President?

The New York Governor's recent victory with the passage of the Marriage Equality Act in his state has people talking about a presidential run in 2016. Indeed, Mr. Cuomo has managed to vault over all the other emerging leaders in the national Democratic Party.

What a minute. What other emerging leaders? The Republican Party keeps tripping over itself with all of the relatively young and new hopefuls crowding the field, as well as those--like Jeb Bush--who wait patiently in the wings. But among Democrats the field is thin, and old. Think Hillary Clinton, Joe Biden, Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid, and John Kerry.

A new breed needs to emerge. Here's to Governor Cuomo for taking the lead.

Summertime Joie de Vivre

The pool closes for the day in about 20 minutes. Most everyone has gone home. Those who remain enjoy the water for just a little longer: the child perfecting her dive, the adults laughing in the shallow end, the toddler sitting on the steps.

One of the lifeguards wants to do a flip off the diving board, a feat she's never accomplished. The experts, including a 12-year-old, give her advice. She tries once and belly flops on her back. Ouch. More advice. The second time she spins in the air, tucking her legs, and lands fine. Cheers and applause erupt from everywhere in the pool--all of us drawn to the efforts of the young woman and forgetting our own concerns.

What a perfect way to end the day.

Afghani Rhetoric

Listening to the president last night as he announced troop withdrawals from Afghanistan, I was struck by how un-soaring his usual soaring rhetoric was. True, I listened to him on the radio and didn't see his expressions, but his sentences were short and repetitive and included no rousing moments.

This war--along with its twin war in Iraq--has been a disaster. That anyone can continue to defend our presence in Afghanistan, when our own country remains in shambles and declines day by day, is beyond me.

The fact is, there is no soaring rhetoric to describe our ten unproductive years fighting a war that was never worth fighting in the first place.

Talking Trash

Now that Anthony Weiner is gone and we await the next sex scandal--which will arrive as surely as summer follows spring--I find myself wondering why these events have to occupy so much space. Every time a scandal erupts, I ask myself the same troubling questions: What was he thinking? Why didn't he expect to get caught? Where did he find the time? Why do we invade others' privacy so relentlessly? And what about the children, who should never have to learn such details about their dad?

In the end, these events make me sad, and I felt even sadder when I watched Anthony Weiner resign. For as he spoke that day, a heckler shouted him down, calling him "a pervert" and talking trash that had no place in public discourse. Which is what these events do: they cheapen the public discourse.

You might say, as my husband did, that Senator Weiner "deserved this." I understand the sentiment, and I don't defend Weiner. Yet such spectacles involving private behavior--particularly when no laws have been broken--coarsen our already shallow and mean-spirited society.

Maybe we'll get a break this summer, and it will be too hot for anyone to act out. Or maybe our press will miss the next big story. For every time we obsess about the latest sexual transgression among us, we lose sight about what really matters: the health and well-being of all of us, the humanity we share, and the urgent need to take care of each other and of our planet.

Cousins. . .

what more can you ask for?

A Dog's Life: Margie Has a Little Dog

Sing to the tune of "Mary Had a Little Lamb":

Margie has a little dog,
Little dog,
Little dog.
Margie has a little dog
Who isn't feeling well.

And everywhere that Margie goes,
Margie goes,
Margie goes.
Everywhere that Margie goes
The dog is always there.

He follows her around the house,
Round the house,
Round the house.
He follows her around the house
And doesn't let her go.

It makes her family laugh and say,
Laugh and say,
Laugh and say.
It makes her family laugh and say,
"You've brought this on yourself."

The Crown Jewel

This recently-watered caladium at the Durham Garden Center reminded me that the most precious gem of all is not a stone.

Water. We wouldn't be without it.

Stuff

At our neighbor's yard sale on Saturday, we put out our usual array of unwanted junk and made about $36. In preparing for the sale, I realized that I had too much stuff when I found things I didn't even know I had and didn't know where they'd come from.

Too much stuff doesn't clutter just the house. It also clutters the mind and the body and probably the soul. (Not to mention the earth.)

Early Summer in the Yard

The gardenia is named for Alexander Garden, a Scottish-born doctor and botanist who lived for many years in Charleston, South Carolina. During the Revolutionary War he sided with the British; his property eventually confiscated, he moved to London in 1783. Though Dr. Garden never actually studied the gardenia, he was honored by the naturalist Carolus Linnaeus, who named the plant--previously called Cape jasmine--for him. Its scent is intoxicating.


The abelia is also named for a doctor, Clarke Abel, who traveled with Lord Amherst on a diplomatic mission to China in 1816-17. While there he collected seeds and specimens of the abelia, which were unfortunately lost at sea in a shipwreck and pirate attack. He holds the distinction of having been the first western scientist to document an orangutan living on the island of Sumatra.


Pansies are often said to have faces. This one looks a little sad, perhaps because it will die soon in the North Carolina heat. The word "pansy" comes from the French word for thought, penser.


Ligustrum is the Latin word for privet, which is a shrub in the olive family. It is a great screening plant; however, "it is often mis-pruned into green meatballs"--according to Cyndi Lauderdale, NC Extension Agent. Green meatballs! I know what she means.


Roses are everywhere and speak the universal language of love. They are decidedly not mistaken as green meatballs.

Guiding Words

The late Unitarian Universalist preacher Forrest Church, who led the All Souls congregation in Manhattan for nearly three decades, articulated three guiding principles for life shortly after September 11, 2001. His mantra, as he called it, was simple:

Want what you have;
Do what you can;
Be who you are.

Not necessarily easy to live by, these words nonetheless help me to think each day about how to be in the world.

Mma Ramotswe, the protagonist and lead detective in The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series, proposes a similar set of guidelines at the end of Book 11, The Double Comfort Safari Club. She tells readers that her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, taught her "almost everything she knew about how to lead a good life":

"Do not complain about your life.
Do not blame others for things that you have brought upon yourself.
Be content with who you are and where you are,
And do whatever you can do to bring to others such contentment, and joy, and understanding that you have managed to find yourself."

Echoing much of what Forrest Church says, Mma Ramotswe could be his Botswanan counterpart. They both offer wisdom for this Memorial Day, when we honor those whose service to our country reminds us, the living, of the precious gift of life.

For as Forrest Church says, "The purpose of life is to live in such a way, that our lives will prove worth dying for."

The End of the World

I laughed (along with lots of people) at Harold Camping's apocalyptic prediction this week. On Sunday afternoon I told my family I would be leaving them soon, and at 6:00 that night--when the rapture was supposed to start--I said, "I feel like I'm floating." The jokes about these supposed ends of the world are themselves endless.

But then on Tuesday The New York Times ran two articles together: one on Camping's revised prediction that both the rapture and the world's end will arrive now on October 21, and one on the aftermath of the Joplin tornado--the search for the living and the dead. In reading the articles I realized that the monster tornado hit Joplin around the same time that Camping's saved souls were supposed to be ascending to heaven. At around the same time that the rest of us would begin our hell on earth.

Which is exactly what happened in Joplin, Missouri.

We don't need firebrand preachers and Bible-waving soothsayers to remind us that the end of the world arrives every day for someone somewhere on the globe. If we forget, we're quickly reminded by storms or by illness or by death.

If the rapture ever comes, it will surely take all of us for none of us deserves the suffering we endure. It's part of being human.

Red-Eyed Cicadas

Yes, they're back. The 13-year Rip Van Winkles of the South. We haven't seen them since 1998, these red-eyed cicadas, and we each react differently to their arrival: Madeleine finds their din headache-inducing; Miranda does a mean imitation of their dying; Sundance tries to eat every one he can find; Mark and Cassidy seem interested but not obsessive; I kind of like them.

Their music begins in mid-afternoon with a tune that rises and falls in a cadence all its own. Hours pass as they croon their noisy love songs, drowning out lawn mowers and barking dogs. They're everywhere, and there's no mistaking their popping red eyes and glittery gold wings. Pixar would do well to model them for animation.

They'll be gone soon, these creatures of the subterranean world, leaving us to ponder where we were 13 years ago and where we'll be 13 years hence. In the meantime, we'll sit back and listen to their show and wonder how they came to be in this strange and amazing world.

Golden Oldies

Now I know why I've listened to Oldies radio stations all these years that I've driven up and down I95. They take me back to another time I call simply "BC"--Before Cancer.

Thanks to John Lennon, Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, and Queen for reminding me of the good old days.

A Dog's Life: Cassidy

The importance of being earnest.