West Linn and Portland

Please find the patient, doped to the gills, being patient with his doting Elizabeth. 

All I did was ask for a smile.

We will begin this report with the technical stuff. Kirk and his doctors, who are many, have agreed that there will not be more surgery any time soon. Kirk’s cancer is now considered systemic and it will be fought with a medication that fits the profile of its own private madness. The good docs of OHSU (Oregon Health and Science University) have mapped the genome of the cancer and matched it to an existing medication called Dasatinib. He started taking it on 12/07/14 where upon it turned his stomach and gave him horrible headaches. Both of these symptoms have calmed down, he soldiers on and we wait for a negative to be proven.

  There are many saints who made this trip possible. Vickie, Richard, Liz & Tim, you know who you are. Saren and Jake, who simply rented our guest room, took us to the airport. We are standing in a rainbow of love. Because of all of this help we arrived at Portland International at 7:55am and were in Kirk’s hospital room by 10. It was so easy! We went downstairs and got our bags, two of which carried our sleeping bags, and went to the trolley which took us downtown. The connection to the #8 bus took about three minutes and we were on our way up the hill to the hospital. I love traveling in Portland, it’s like traveling in Europe, so easy.

OHSU is on a steep hill on the west side of Portland that was given to Oregon University at the beginning of the last century by a railroad baron named Jackson. It was a hill, he couldn’t lay rail on it. On said hill there are multiple hospitals, a VA, a Shriners and OHSU which is by far the largest. It is in fact huge. We got lost and mightily frustrated but finally achieved our aim, that being, Kirk. He was as you see him, full dressed, with his lung tube already out and waiting for his iv tube to be removed. 

We parked our bags in his room and I began to fidget. That’s what I do in hospitals. Although deeply appreciative of the excellent care they give, what I want from hospitals is to get my beloveds out. Kirk had a splendid nurse who really knew his stuff. This was good because getting the iv shunt off of K’s hand was rather difficult. Basically nail polish remover was used to get rid of the adhesive. I questioned if we needed to get same on our way to Kirk’s abode. No, said the grandpa Philip, the girl loves nail polish and has her own remover.

Kirk was finally released about 2pm. This surprised the patient and the patient’s father. They were expecting about 6pm. I am so glad that they gave him to me when they did. It’s a very good hospital and it would have been just awful if I’d had to burn it down. As has been previously stated, “Just give me my beloved and nobody gets hurt.”

Once out in the world, Kirk took us the pretty way to his home. Our way wound along Terwilliger until we got to the 5, down to the 205 and thence to the great metropolitan center of West Linn OR . West Linn is a lovely little town and Kirk’s place is very cozy. This pleased me no end and I took my grandma place, straightening up the kitchen. People who work or are trying to wrangle a 6 year old and cancer cannot make a workspace the way I want. It was so easy to make sense of that little galley kitchen.

Then I opened the refrigerator. Two big foil pans, one of Culolias mac & cheese and one of barley and chicken. In the freezer was rigatoni and ragout and something else my poor brain can’t remember. Where in the world did all of that food come from? Who brought such love to my son and granddaughter? Her name is Nancy Nicholas Culolias Tyree and she is the younger sister of my best friend. The two Culolias girls put their gorgeous heads together in order to take care of Kirk. Nancy lives in Boring, about 25 minutes from West Linn, and just showed up. Kirk’s roommate Alison told the story. It was in the morning, maybe after nine, when there was knock on the kitchen door. Alison opened it and there laden with food stood Nancy. Alison had never met Nancy, Kirk had never met Nancy. This saint introduced herself as Liz’s sister, deposited her gifts, and went on her way. (Now I must describe Culolias mac & cheese. In a béchamel, multiple cheeses are melted and cooked with sausage and pasta. If you want to make someone strong after illness, feed them Culolias mac & cheese. With that and some salad, one can heal the world.)

Mathilda knew her grandfather very well and was happy to have him back. She is a smart girl and, sadly, has made the connection between her daddy being sick and her grandfather coming to visit. I was pretty new to her. She kind of remembered me from our Thanksgiving visit two years before. For the first day or so, she checked me out. But I was with Grandpa, so I must be ok. 

It was Thanksgiving and the real problem was Mathilda’s father. Kirk has known me, and well, since he was 10 years old. We are two Piceans who have been swimming around each other for 25 years. That knowledge made my son a trifle over-careful on the subject of Thanksgiving Dinner. He was quite concerned that I wanted to make a turkey dinner, with St. Cranberry and all fixings. So I cornered him in the kitchen, gave him the Mammy Yokum single whammy and asked, “What do you want?” What he wanted was steak, New York Strip for him and Spencer for us, scalloped potatoes, brussels spouts, orange and red-onion salad etc. We bought some nice wine, dined well and comfortably. I was so thankful to be able to cook for my family.

Friday it rained cats dogs and wildebeests. We went, en famille, to the Oregon Museum of Science & Industry. This is a terrific place, probably the best of its kind I’ve ever seen. Set in the industrial area right by the mighty Willamette, there are so many hands on displays and things to see and do. Kirk in his wisdom has a membership and the Girl never tires of the place. There is a blue screen interactive display where the youngsters can put on their very own invisibility cloaks. After our science experiments we went to a cozy watering hole of Kirk’s knowledge. He and his father drank very good beer, the Girl drew pictures while dining on really good mac & cheese. I had a good martini and the best burger I’ve ever put my teeth on.

Now I must speak of rivers. I am afraid of rivers. I know the Sacramento, both at her magical source in Redwood Park, Shasta City, and her broad delta that feeds so many. I have seen the great Colorado as a green ribbon, cutting through the Grand Canyon. It was a mile down so it seemed safe. My fear comes from what rivers, big rivers, can and will do. The destruction they wreak is difficult to describe. With all of her locks and controls, the mighty Missouri/Mississippi can cover the middle part of our nation with water. She has done it in the long past, she can do it again. Portland is a city of rivers.

We went to Kirk and Mathilda’s closest city park. Let it be known that there are three parks in the city of West Linn (pop. 25,425) and Willamette Park was Kirk’s choice. While the grandpa did his best impersonation of Charlie Lau and the Girl really hit the ball, I gingerly walked down to the River. This park is where a smaller river, the Tualatin, joins her mother Willamette. The water, in late fall, is grey green and inexorable. The Tualatin, like all of her sisters, must go to the Willamette and She must go to the great mother Columbia and the Columbia must go to the Pacific. They are all scary as hell and so beautiful. What shall I do? 

Sunday we got a lovely visit with Fay and Frank in an handsome and delicious little bistro close to their place. They live very close to the Episcopal Cathedral of Portland. There is good music to be made there and in the larger city.

Portland is no longer an unknown for me. It is a beautiful city with family, friends and real live rapid transit. I am so tired of the stasis of applications and interviews that lead to silence. Ok Portland, what do you need? Give my man a job and we will come.

the Putnams glorious

the Putnams glorious

angels and fantasy

angels and fantasy

I had intended to write about the drive down to Cayucos from Oakland. But I need to tell you about Angels and a fantasy.

Last year the Mommy/Sister did not go to the little seaside perfection that is Cayucos, San Luis Obispo County, CA. They were running around the Greater Southwest like tee toe tums. This year they did, though, so to meet them I drove down 880 to 101, and through the glorious Salinas Valley, thence south of Paso Robles and to the Pacific on the 46. I got to Cayucos and my family’s rented condo just in time for cocktails at Lavone’s, about a block down the street. Lavone is a retired Sierra Madrian and the girls always like to touch base with her when they go up. A watery vodka martini is improved mightily by a beautifully pickled green bean. Back at our own fireside (the Julie always wants a fireplace when at the beach) we planned the next day.

The Edna Valley is part of the Paso Robles appellation, a beautiful alluvial valley surrounded with cinder cones. The finest volcanic earth in the state nurtures the wines of this place. Our first stop was Steven Ross on Tank Farm Road in San Luis Obispo. They have a brand new tasting room with some nice wines. From there to Orcutt Road and Balleyana where we found two lovely Spanish style wines by Tangent. The Albiaño in especial is very nice. As we passed the Madonna Inn on our way back to the beach, Julie and I hatched a plan and did not tell our mother. But more about the fantasy later. It is time for the angels.

My mother is 90, sister Julie was 62 in November and I will be 60 in March. Julie is slim and very active. I am neither and am enjoying the early effects of arthritis. This means that walking with my mother is more natural to me than the sister. Thus, Julie went ahead to Schooner’s Wharf to get a table. The Mommy and I walked, slowly, from the condo down to where Julie had procured the perfect spot for watching the setting sun. We drank and talked and I had almost enough shrimp—but honestly, is there such a thing? With our next day planned out we headed back to the condo. Julie took the car and Mommy and I went down to the beach hoping for a shorter and easier trek to our temporary fireside.

Earlier in that morning we observed, from the comfort of our private veranda, a lovely large family spreading out their blankets and putting up their pavilions. They were just about packed up when we two gimps walked down the little wooden steps to the sand. And then my darling old mother fell. I’d never seen her fall before and although the sand cushioned her a good deal it also hid a piece of glass that cut her heel. While I stood there like a fool, the angels swooped down to help. The father and son picked her up, gentle as a mother. One of the daughters noticed the cut heel and got a clean towel to stop the bleeding. The angels insisted that we get into their beautiful black SUV, and took us to the condo. Whereupon the gentlemen angels, one on each side, carried my mother up three flights of stairs. Julie came out the front door to remonstrate us for being tardy when she realized that the Mommy had taken a fall and was wounded. We thanked the blessed angels as much as they would let us and then they were gone. You may not think of Fresno as a neighborhood of Heaven, but these Chicano angels live there so it must be.

Now we come to the fantasy. As previously stated, Julie and I planned to have a drink at the Madonna Inn. Said drink would end our rambles on Monday. Our first stop that day was See Canyon and their deeply wonderful apples. It is a deep, long arroyo that follows a seasonal stream from San Luis Obispo to the Pacific, whose depths nurture several beautiful apple orchards. In the winter it gets cold down in those gullies and the apples get very happy, even our last winter. See Canyon Ranch is our go to place for apples. A short left hand turn, a white stone gravel parking and a shed full of apples. The folks there know their stuff. In a long shed there are paper bags of apples, tomatoes and small squash. Along the walls are locally made honeys, jams and pickles. At the back of the shed is the tasting table. Just like at a winery, we tasted and chose from a dizzying array of the freshest apples possible. Do you know Chieftan or Redgold? Well, y’otta, go down to See Canyon and check them out. The traveler sees the trees from which the apples come on the way to the shed.

With our apple swag we headed down the canyon to Avila Beach. This is a strange place because it is so new. It had been an oil depot and the land was poisoned. Arco finally ponied up, dug up the poisoned sand and built a new town. Avila Beach is very pretty, with Caribbean colored condos and a sweet main street. It’s all so new that it looks like a move set. With all of that, one can walk out the old pier, look down the steps and into the blue green clear water. And there you will see Pacific seals. They loll. They loll on the steps, they loll on what was the little dock. Sometimes they seem to just seem to loll into the water. With the sun slanting in the water, they are so beautiful. We tore ourselves away and headed up the 101 to the Madonna Inn.

My dear readers, you must understand that I have passed the Madonna Inn all of my life. Having lived in San Francisco and Petaluma long before the 5 was built, our family used the 101 at least twice a year, and we passed the Madonna Inn. In high school—Pasadena High (go Bulldogs)—I had a friend named Pam. Her family traveled the 101 once a year and that’s how I first heard of the Madonna Inn. They stayed there every summer on their way to somewhere. So it has always been there, looking slightly Disney, just off the 101 just south of San Luis Obispo. We drove into a huge parking lot, found an easy handicapped space and walked by a very pretty rose garden. The Disney sense is very strong because of the manicured perfection but all bets were off once we went through the curved wood and beveled glass main doors. 

Once inside we were met by a high ceiling of winding vines, flowers of various purple hues, and fairy lights. A sweet doll on a swing invited us to the main dinning room. The seating is sumptuous in tufted leather, round high backed banquets on the floor with rectangular ones against the left wall. The far right wall is the broad doorway to the night club and I do not use those words lightly. It is a beautiful space with ample seating and a gorgeous dance floor. Live music is played seven nights a week from the bandstand at the top of the room under a big window.

We sat for a drink in a sumptuous side bar with a huge glass backed wall, filled with gleaming bottles. There was no one else in this room in the palace of fantasy except the three of us and a very good bartender. We ordered our drinks and the most rational bar snack in the entire world, a relish tray. No dip; fresh sliced carrots, celery, cheese, peperoncini, salami and Lindsey black olives; is that so hard? I want this in every bar. We sat in beautifully upholstered high backed captain’s chairs in colors of cream, pink (on the dusky side) and cobalt blue. As I relaxed into this luxury, I realized something very important: these chairs were not covered in virgin naugahyde, but leather, on the butter side.

Here is the thing about the the Madonna Inn: everything is real. The carpets are wool, the paneling is wood and all of the seating is covered with leather. The couple who made it all happen might have had questionable taste but they knew comfort. They knew how to make their guests feel welcomed. And so they and their children have done, very well, for many years. No, nobody paid me for this, I’d just never been to the Madonna Inn. If I had been allowed there, before the age of 13, I would have demanded that we stop at this place every time we traveled from the North to the South for so many years. You dodged that bullet Mommy.

The apples of See Canyon became a pretty fine pie, the travels are all catalogued and I am at home in Oakland. Yet all I can remember are the angels of Fresno.

Mommy's 90th

Haste to the Party
Unless we are trying to catch a plane, we never get out of the house on time for a trip.
I had it all planned that we would leave the house at 10am so we could be pulling up to 735 Canyon Crest about 4:30 or 5. We actually were on the road at 11:30 am, making me very afraid that we would be caught in the 210 Pasadena rush hour on the far end.
The cd changer was loaded and we were talking about the nature of Grace, when we got to Tracy and the 5. May the First  dawned clear and  warm in Oakland; the Valley was hot and very dry. By the time we got to Santa Nella I began to notice that my skin was beginning to pucker. By the time we took the long left hand off the 5 on to the 210, I realized that I’m not a lizard anymore. After 17 years in the salubrious climate of the San Francisco Bay, I need to put cream on my skin when I go to my home town. Oh well.
I began the planning for my mother’s 90th birthday in November. I talked to the birthday girl about the whole thing. But, did I tell my sister? No, I thought that Mommy would. More fool I. I sent out the ‘save the date’ cards at the end of February. And people started responding to my sister. So, at the beginning of March my brilliant, gorgeous sister Julie found out that she would be hostessing a party for at least 15 on May 3rd.
It must be understood that I go down for the Mommy’s birthday every year. We watch the Derby (Kentucky), eat deviled eggs, drink mint juleps and enjoy each other’s company. Usually my sister’s friend Susan (another horse fan) joins us, and Auntie Jenny is there for dinner. During the weekend we visit and go the the Sierra Madre Art Faire and often to the Pasadena Design House. Just a lovely, relaxed weekend. But, last year Kathy & Jack came from Houston. That meant that Julie and John had to come over. It was a grand meeting of the clans and from which came the germ of the Birthday Party.
After the Thursday drive I slept late, breakfasted and went out into an unfamiliar Pasadena. With Sestra Julie as my guide, I assayed the place I used to know and saw the new. Stuff changes. Frederico’s, still on the corner of Colorado and Allen, was our stop for birthday breakfast sweetbread. But the whole area around Sears, at Michellinda and Foothill, was entirely different than I remember.
The cake was already ordered. Through the serendipity of a wise and loving sister, our mother’s 90th birthday cake came from the same shop that provided the wedding cake for Philip’s and my wedding, 23 years ago. All hail Carrie the Cake Girl and her wonderful shop Takes the Cake. After prep and cleaning we retired to the Derby, George Wolf’s old place in Arcadia. The food is fine, the drinks are generous and the service is wonderful. This Derby week was so much sweeter because Philip was with me.
The Birthday dawned beautiful, clear and warm. (After the fire, the Sister put ceiling fans in all of the bedrooms. In this family of women who need cool heads to sleep well, ceiling fans are such a luxury.) There was work to do, especially the eggs.
Now, for those of you who don’t submit yourselves to the narrow, finicky work of deviling eggs, you might not understand. The eggs must be as fresh as possible. They must be boiled to get a deep yellow yolk , about but not precisely 15 minutes. And oh dear Lord, let them be easy to peel. And so they were. This year I brought my own equipment and had pre-made my mayonnaise. Deviled eggs are the first thing I learned to make, even before clam chowder. After 43 years of work, I have some reputation to uphold.
The invitations said 4:30 pm for the revels to begin, so we had time to enjoy the race. The big tv, that the Mommy can kind of see, is ensconced in my old room. Upstairs and down the hall, it is the smallest bedroom in the house with a very comfy couch is where we watch the race. I’ve been making mint juleps for Derby Day for at least 40 years. We’ve experimented with various bourbons, Jim Beam 8 year old in especial, and played the whole powdered sugar, granulated sugar game. I know that there are those who insist upon mint as a garnish and I simply beg to disagree. Good bourbon, simple syrup, mint and ice. I muddle my mint first, in a drip of the syrup, then add ice and booze and water. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Everyone knows who won and how. By 4:15 people started to arrive, and they came from everywhere. Richard, Lorna and Nicholas, Auntie Manya, Nancy Jane and Peter all came from Glendora and Riverside. Julie and Max from Azusa and Auntie Jenny from Monrovia. Liz came all the way from her new home in Bodega Bay. Then there is Kathleen and Jack, who came all the way from Houston, Texas, that’s right Texas. With Cousin Johnny and Sandra Buchan to round out the party, there were 17 people in the garden to celebrate the Mommy’s 90th.
The sycamores, old and broad, canopied the party. The sister Julie ruled the barbecue and produced perfect chicken. Salads, dips and all sorts of extras were brought by the cousins. Let me now praise the Cousins. We know their history, they know our flaws, we grew up together. And now that we are as grownup as we are going to get, it is so fine, so sweet, to gather with these smart, handsome, splendid people. We trace ourselves to Dorothy Viola Gibson Jenkins, the mother of our fathers, and honor her by loving each other.
Then, there are the others, those who were and are touched by the birthday girl. They love her because her house was an house of comfort, ease and joy. It is not just that Katherine is the Last Mommy Standing (although she is); it is because she is Katherine. Julie, Kathleen and Liz all came because they love her and she is a lodestar in their lives. Truly, she was surprised and rather diffident when I first started talking about The Party back in November. At first, she thought I was blue skying because, well, she knows me. It took me blindsiding my poor sister in February with the save the date notes, that La Mommy finally realized it was going to happen.
The day passed far too soon, filled with laughter and stories and music. Jack, bless his ears and whiskers, always brings his gorgeous bass-baritone and guitar. He just needs to learn more cowboy songs. Saying goodbye is always hard. At least, Liz is only 90 minutes away from us in Bodega Bay. Houston is so far away and I miss Kathleen every day. But, I’d rather miss her and know that she in in my life and so happy than spend those years not knowing how or where she was.
We were late out the door again on Sunday. Sister Julie was back from church before we hauled all of our stuff, coolers filled with left overs. we headed down to San Gabriel for a very short visit with Auntie Mary. Mary had a stroke some months ago and is staying in a very comfortable and old fashioned place. My sister gave me good directions, if I can remember where San Gabriel Nursery is so we can to turn left to get behind it. But, not being a gardener, I have perhaps gone to the great nursery maybe twice in my whole life.
The instructions were perfect, we found the place. Old, graceful and brightly clean, with none of the antiseptic smell that is so often in such places, we found Auntie Mary. Cousin Johnny was there, keeping her company. Her hair was shorter than I’ve ever seen it and, as happens with so many stroke victims, she had shrunk. Mommy had warned me not to overtax her sister. No more than 5 minutes, she warned. We visited, held her hand, I kissed her and told her how much I love her. This woman is one of the greatest hostesses I know and she taught me so much about how to throw a party. It is very possible that I have seen her for the last time. We left and Johnny came out to remind us that the 10 was just a few blocks away. After thanking such a gentle and thoughtful suggestion, we chose to go back the way we came. Up San Gabriel Blvd. to the 210 freeway and thus to the northbound 5.
Where is my bullet train? Why do we have to drive 6 to 8 hours, in a single family car, to travel less than half the state? We lost an hour and a half because of a jackknifed truck. Ok, here is my rant. Interstate 5 is the most important road in California. And through the Great Central Valley, it is only two lanes in each direction. This is simply bad design. One jackknifed truck on the Northbound 5 and the world comes to an end. We saw warning signs of the blockage and then experienced the longest backup in many years of my experience. There was a small horse trailer just before us. While we were stopped, the driver pulled to the right and I thought he was trying to make an end run. But no, he just pulled over so he could check on his horse. Speaking sweetly and low, the young horseman calmed his mount enough until they got home.
Once past the accident, we went up to Harris Ranch. Philip turned 60 on this trip. He insists that his birthday does not matter. Well, loves, it means the world to me. Sometime I will tell you what my basso means to me.. We take that big right exit from the 5. We pull up, park, walk in and there is a beautiful image of California Chrome. He was bred from a Harris Ranch sire, Lucky Pulpit, to a very dark dam, Love the Chase. Yes he lost the last leg of the Triple Crown but I don’t care, he is champion.
After a lovely dinner we got back on our road home and here is where the trouble begins. Once Philip can smell Oakland, he starts to speed. He gets frustrated with other drivers who won’t allow enough space between cars and starts to tailgate and I get antsy . Once into the Livermore Valley he calms down but the speeding continues (iwanngohome.) The three Crosses at the 580 /238 exchange is a comfort because we take that large right turn and are on the road home. Suddenly we crest one more hill and there is TJ’s and the Grand Lake and one of the most beautiful views of the Bay. We pulled up to the Prancing Pony and immediately heard about our absence from the cats. Joshu, in especial, had to tell us all of the things that happened on Hamilton Plc. while we were gone. Celebrate, my friends, celebrate your family. They will object , claim it’s not important and stick out their lower lips. But ignore all of that, chose a date, plan the party and enjoy. Love never dies.

Waiting for Chip’s Wedding

Cow Hollow, Union and Steiner across from St. Mary the Virgin Episcopal. I don’t know who designed it but it is a full craftsman with more than a little Julia Morgan.

The sun is shining on this wedding day for Chip and John. As is not unusual for members of the Volti family, the usual suspects are gathered in the church for rehearsal and I, being the bass’s chick, am sitting in a nice cafe across the street from the church. Chip and John have been together for over 10 years and it is well over about time that they made it legal. Theirs will be the first same sex wedding in this lovely place where Chip is choir director. I just saw two more wedding guests arrive at this cafe. They are both in tartans, one in a kilt. Chip offered tartans to those without and I realized that I don’t have one. I remember looking at a Buchanan shawl in Inverness, but didn’t get it. Chip’s family is old, Highland and very posh. I, an attenuated daughter of the middle border, was welcome.
More about the wedding later, once I’ve seen it go down.

This seems a good point to ask my friends and relations of the more conservative bent what they have against “mawwage”. What about Chip & John is a problem? They are standing up in front of God and this company and making the promises we all make. “To have and to hold, forsaking all others from this day forward, as long as we both may live.” Nobody laughed when they endowed each other with all their worldly goods. (They did at our wedding because everyone knew we didn’t have a cent.) How do the promises made by these good men and true diminish my marriage? I simply don’t understand.

Back to the wedding. St. Mary’s is a small sanctuary, no more than 300 pew seats. I am so glad that no one called the fire department because the place was packed. I ended up standing behind the back right pew. The dear girl standing next to me and singing in a nice clear mezzo
shared the hymnal. She also lent me her Buchanan tartan shawl so I could hold high the Scottish flag. (I’ve got to get my own tartan shawl.) Volti sang, Bob Geary conducted, I could see Philip and all was right with the world. The only time I could see the happy couple was when the Rector preached the short, lovely homely. The acoustics were a little muddy because of the crowd and the wooden church interior. It all went off without a hitch. The reception was real Baptist, red velvet cake, hot cider, sparkling cider and champagne (well, maybe not so Baptist). Just lovely.
I love weddings
I love happy endings

Here's to Helen Thomas

Hellen Thomas

1920-2013

Now let us praise famous women, and in specific, Helen Thomas. I have heard her voice all my life. That dry, clear delivery, “Thank you, Mr. President…” and then a perfectly phrased, succinct and pointed question that will direct all those that follow. Lyndon Baines Johnson did not like her at all. He didn’t have to be polite to her but he couldn’t help it.  Liz Carpenter and Bill Moyers just had to grin and bear it. Ron Ziegler, the face of the Nixon Administration, tried to ignore her but the rest of the press corps would not talk to him until he’d talked to her. Sweet Jesus, Helen Thomas was so good. And, with all honor and respect to your father, Helen Thomas was not an Anti-Semite. Thomas simply didn’t believe in the state of Israel, and neither do I.

I have loved Judaism since I was 13, when my mother, with terrifying prescience, gave me a copy of A Day of Pleasure by I. B. Singer. Judaism was the first religion I ever studied, even before Buddhism. I started reading Gershom Scholem in junior college and have never stopped. I know that Judaism is not a race, it is a religion, one of the primary religions of the world. It is the source of Christianity and the child tried to kill the mother. That is the history that I live with every day. The Church Temporal tried to destroy Judaism. That simple fact of history has formed my heretical theology. At the end of WWII, Europe and the United States had to face the blood and madness of the Holocaust. We as a nation had to face our sin of exclusion. We did not open our doors. 

We wanted to believe that a single man could make the most cultivated nation on earth crazy. We did not want to see our own common hatred of Judaism. It was looking us full in the face. 

So, when the camps were liberated, we wanted to put the survivors away from our guilt, from our blindness and cruelty. The British began the putting-away with the Balfour Declaration in 1917. A place to put the Jews, it would be so easy. Just put them in Palestine, and after the Zionist movement and the early kibbutzim, it sounded so nice. Europeans in the Middle East! Here comes democracy, the rule of law and so on. But, it was, indeed, all a lie. Palestine was populated, there were people living there.

If one were an Ashkenaz, and specifically, a secular, or even better, non-believing Ashkenaz, then one was a real Jew. One could be Hagana or Irgun, blowing up hotels and police stations and mowing down families and villages to clear the ground for incoming refugees. But because the people who lived in Ramallah listened to Hitler’s imam in Cairo and the poison coming out of Damascus, we have ever since accepted that Palestinians are unworthy of their own land. And so it has gone, for the last 60 years. Palestinian kids have gotten crazier and crazier, with no chance of college or jobs, cant’ fix the house, and nothing to do but blow themselves up and take as many people with them as possible. This is madness.

The Ashkenazim are Europeans. Helen Thomas was right and Europe would have been much better off if it had been required to deal with its own citizens after the War. The great communities could have been rebuilt and the Christian Poles, Czechs, Germans and all would have had to deal with their own guilt and fix their own societies. We Americans would have had to face our own complicity with the Holocaust. Now, 60 years later, we just bark, hey, we support Israel, that’s all we need to do.

Helen Thomas was not an Anti Semite, and neither am I .

Travel Bible

A travel Bible, what am I doing with a travel Bible?

It was a high bright Memorial Day in Oakland and we headed Up the Hill. This means the three-hour trip to Murphys and wine pickup and the three-hour trip home. The music was chosen and I was stoked. As I’ve said before, I do love a drive in the car. If my ears and tongue were longer, I’d just stick my head out the window and let them flap in the wind. But, as usual, I digress.
The travel Bible was bought in a lovely little used bookstore in Mendocino. Philip was rehearsing with the Music Festival; I was on my own and found, of course, a bookstore. In a tall narrow clapboard house there was a fine collection of children’s books but nothing I needed. But there was a lovely small Bible, in leather that hadn’t started to crack. It was so pretty and cheap. What’s a girl to do but buy it and call it a travel Bible. On last Memorial Day, on the road, I read, out loud, St. Paul’s letter to the church in Rome from the Travel Bible.
Why? Because D is in recovery and is hearing a word that he doesn’t understand, Grace. He did me the honor of asking me about the word and what it means. I stood there, at the cash wrap, and started to talk. Very soon I realized that Grace is a subject that cannot be described in a sentence, or paragraph. It is first delineated in an introductory letter from an itinerant evangelist to the nascent Christian church at Rome. Why D agreed to study this text with me is a gift that I don’t understand. But he did. So the Harvard classics scholar, non-believer and recovering Baptist from West-by-God-Virginia will sit with me and the other recovering-Baptist West Virginian and examine St. Paul’s Letter to the Church at Rome. (What is it about recovering Baptists?)
An epistle is a public statement, to be posted in any open forum, for all to read. St. Paul’s letter to Rome is his only true epistle. (The other authentic Pauline letters are personal, addressing specific people, congregations and questions.) The letter to the church at Rome is a self introduction, from St. Paul to a congregation he knew only by reputation. Here he is, introducing himself to people he does not know and wants to know. He wants to know them and he wants them to listen and believe what he says. He also wants them to support him. St. Paul wants to go to Spain and he needs the funds for his mission. For this purpose, the second most important person in Christianity writes the most important letter in our history. 
The Little Blue Opera House, with my West Virginian at the wheel,  passed the Seminary exit on 580 East and I waved at Bishop O’Dowd High School, go Dragons. Then I picked up the Travel Bible, turned to St. Paul’s letter to the Roman Church and began to read it out loud, I had to. Unlike my beloved, I was not raised in the Baptist Church and don’t have reams of Scripture memorized. To prepare for our bible study, I needed to address Romans as a complete statement. For a Christian to read the Book of Romans straight through is rather difficult. You can’t stop and break it down. You can’t ask for direction other than that which St. Paul gives in his complex, lawyerly way. There is no way to ask, why insert the question of sexuality? Why does he talk about it all the time? Why is he so hung up about it? The great soul does get to the point of Grace in chapters 8 & 9. And it is a hard point to make because Paul, who believes in the Risen Lord, in Christ Jesus and Him crucified, is still a Pharisee. He is at war with himself, trying to hold on to free will and accept Grace at the same time. Welcome to Christianity, Father Paul. This work is tough.
In our little bible study, we will use Martin Luther’s commentary on Romans as our guide. Three translations will be used: the KJV (known to the West Virginians as the One True Word of God); the Jerusalem (my college notes are in that); and the Moffatt (because I always turn to James Moffatt, 1870-1944, a great scholar who translated the whole Bible). From these translations and commentary we will try to understand Grace.
Thus we begin this work. The three of us are reading the text, from three different directions. I don’t know what the Mountaineers are getting out of this, but this believer is looking forward to a very good time. It just shows one the value of a travel Bible.

The Prodigal Son

Edward Villela (1960)

George Balanchine, choreographer

Once upon a time, a man had two sons. There was a good and dutiful son who did everything right and never bothered his parents. His younger brother was always a problem, willful and impatient. The younger thinks life at the farm is boring; even while he loves his family, he wants out, he wants away, he wants, he wants, he wants. Thus, the younger son asks for his inheritance and leaves home. The Prodigal asks. He doesn’t wait for the gift of Love, and he is rude in the request. But, he does ask, of his own free will.

Love is the name of our God. It is patient, kind and all of the other attributes delineated by St. Paul. And it is subversive. Love waits to be asked, to be called upon, to be desired. It is always waiting 

What little we know of the elder son is not pretty. He is whiney, he is petulant and he just doesn’t get it. He stayed home, did all the work and never asked for anything. The elder son never asks and Love needs to be asked, asked for, from and to. By that asking, Love demands participation, you can’t just get. The elder son never puts himself out, to ask or to receive. Love must be asked. The elder son just waits for daddy to tell him how good he is. But daddy never will.             The father is the fulcrum of this whole story. This daddy isn’t real bright. Why hasn’t he honored his elder son? Why does he agree to split the property? The father is Jesus’ catspaw, a tool to make a point. (He makes the same point in the parable of the workers. He has to repeat Himself because we are so dim.) And what is the point? That Love is always there, always waiting, always happy to take us back. What Love doesn’t do is acknowledge difference. Have you worked forever, oh, I love you so. Have you just walked in the door, oh, I love you so. This is the most difficult problem with Love (God): it doesn’t differentiate between deserving and undeserving. God just loves.

And there is the rub with the nature of God made manifest as Christ. Love never dies, it never forgets and it never holds a grudge. The elder brother wants to be first, best, but there is the younger brother, begging forgiveness. And God loves them equally. Love is not fair, and that is the hardest thing for us to accept. The good, honest hard working heart is equal to the prodigal, not better. No matter what we do or how long we stray, God is there waiting for us when we stagger back, to our home and family.