Peace, my friend

Caretaker of my soul

Be gentle with me

For I am tender and tired

Battered with the bruises

Of life and loss and love.

My pastor, Sarah L. Kerkes, wrote these words in a collection of published poems, Terra Incognita. They resonated with me today especially as I caught myself sighing over and over throughout the day. Long, deep sighs. 

At first I attributed this to just plain being busy. It happens whenever we relocate from Minnesota to Arizona for the winter months. Leaving our condo is a matter of turning the key and walking out the door. But arriving in Arizona means much to do. The summer desert dust has settled into all the nooks and crannies of our park model, coating all surfaces, windows and sills. Unpacking, restocking cupboards, cleaning and getting reestablished consumes many hours.

But that wasn't the reason for my sighs. 

We heard about coronavirus fatigue. Dr. Anthony Fauci coined the phrase in his CBS 60 Minute interview last Sunday, saying people are noticeably fatigued by the lockdowns, layoffs, shortages, descension into poverty. isolation, lack of socialization, and on and on.

Well, okay, I fall into that category just a very wee bit, knowing full well I am blessed abundantly by only suffering a little bit from lack of socialization. An introvert, this is very little, I might add. 

But it's not solely coronavirus fatigue. It's political campaign fatigue, unrelenting news of racism and white supremacy fatigue, arguments over a Supreme Court nominee fatigue, approaching a 75th birthday fatigue, once again being too far away from my grandchildren fatigue, the recent loss of my brother-in-law fatigue, and my hair graying fatigue.

And I know we all feel a bit of fatigue these days, for some of the reasons listed above and some not listed that are personal to you. I suspect there are many deep sighs out there. 

The poem implores God, caretaker of our souls, to grant us gentleness of spirit. It is gentleness we need right now, a quieting of voices, a hushing of shouts. Gentleness along with understanding to end hatred and violence, and the turning against each other. 

My friend recently gifted me with this lovely stitching made by her hands. I note that she is on the most opposite end of the political spectrum from me. We have had a few spirited discussions, but all with respect. I cherish her and as I look at her gift to me, my heart quiets.

 

When we dwell on love, don't you think our sighs contain less angst? Don't they seem to be made sweeter somehow?

So peace be with you, my friend. Go gently and sigh sweetly.

Thank you for listening to my random thoughts. And if you would like to join as a "follower" I would be thrilled.

Heaven and Earth

When I was in high school music class, we learned about singing in rounds. You know, like Row, row, row your boat and Make new friends but keep the old. 

We were introduced to a variety of multicultural rounds, one being a Jewish round, typically sung by children: David melech Yisrael, chai chai vekayam. It is a simple song consisting of only five words. 

The Hebrew translation to English remains simple as well:

            David David (is) king of Israel,
            David David (is) king of Israel
            David (is) king of Israel living and existing.
            Alive, living and existing
            David (is) king of Israel
            Alive, living and existing - king of Israel. 

Another was a German folk song sung in a two-part round. Himmel und erde. Roughly translated, it means something like: Heaven and earth shall pass away, but the music will never die. 

            All things shall perish from under the sky
            Music alone shall live, music alone shall live
            Music alone shall live, never to die.

These little songs stayed in my head until they were drowned out by Wake Up, Little Susie and Love Me Tender. I am very fickle when it comes to music. Basically I love all genres. (That excludes rap which is noise, not music.)

Summertime came and with it, our annual family vacation which consisted of an 8-hour car trip to visit Grandpa and Grandma on their farm in South Dakota.  For Dad it meant solo driving, for Mom it meant previous days of packing for eight. For six squirmy children - not me, of course - it meant a very long car ride crowded in the back of our Rambler station wagon. When boredom set in and the bickering started among my little sisters - all four of them - I decided to teach them these two little songs so we could sing them together in rounds.  

To my surprise, they were not only cooperative but enjoyed the singing and learned the songs quickly. The time in the Rambler passed in a much more pleasant manner.

Fast forward to 1994 as we planned our parents' 50th wedding anniversary dinner. We decided as part of the program, we'd bring back the memory of those long summer trips by singing the two little rounds. We laughed at the recollection of it, Mom and Dad loved it, and we've talked about it since. 

I don't think we will ever get those little folk songs out of our heads. Their memories serve us well.

Belgian heirloom lace

When I was married (the first time) in 1965, my mother’s long-time friend from her banking career days in New York City sent me two pieces of Belgian lace as a wedding gift. My mother told me her friend’s family was from Belgium and that’s likely where the lace was from.

Fast forward to now. 

I’ve kept in touch with this friend through the years but especially since my mother passed in 2011. This friend is now in her mid 90s. An active woman, she spent her entire career in banking and had been a volunteer at the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts for many years until her recent “retirement.” She regularly meets friends for lunch, a cultural tour, or the latest movies. She keeps up with all the New York and world news. Her life has been a recipe for living fully.

She recently told me she was going through her belongings and had a lot of lace passed down from her mother who first arrived in America from Belgium along with her sister and sister-in-law in 1913. They never intended to stay. But in 1914 World War I broke out and her mother in Belgium died. So all three young women decided to remain in New York City and began working as domestics and cooks. My friend says they never regretted their decision.

Her mother returned to Belgium in 1958 aboard the Hubbard American ship and spent eight months visiting her family in their village near Brussels. It was her one and only trip back to her home country.

When she returned to America from her visit, she brought back a carton of lace. Her two brothers and three sisters had collections of lace and material for making these delicate pieces, usually done in the wintertime and on rainy days. The carton of lace my friend inherited must be well over 100 years old. And to think most lace is now made by machine in China.

Have you seen Judge Judy on TV with her lace collar? My friend says her family made many lace collars which women wore in days past, wearing the same dress but changing the collar each day.

 My friend, my mother’s longtime dearest friend, did go through that carton of lace recently. I am the fortunate recipient of these very lovely heirloom pieces received in the mail this past week.

These pieces are very delicate and of course the photos don’t do them justice. 

It’s interesting that these were made in Belgium. The little I know about lace is that much came from England where there were many lace factories. Most were made with silk since cotton was more expensive due to high tariffs.

These Belgian pieces feel more like cotton was used but I could be wrong about that. In any event, what you can’t see from the photo are the very tiny, intricate hand stitches and what must’ve been painstaking work in their design. Then I imagine the lacemakers working in their homes using the little lighting they must’ve had. Amazing.

They will be used here and there in our home. They are too beautiful to be relegated to a drawer. This is the fifth piece gifted to me and I plan to have it framed.

Thank you, Leonia, my mother’s dear friend and now mine. I’ll always have a part of you and your heritage in these precious pieces of lace. 

Thank you for allowing me to share my thoughts with you. And if you wish to become a “follower,” I’d be thrilled!

Dust if you must

I think I posted this little poem before but it came back to mind these past few days as I find myself "summer-cleaning." (Yes, don't judge, I also spring-clean, fall-clean and winter-clean.)

I've always been one to dust and clean every corner of the house before I felt like I could sit or actually engage in an activity of enjoyment. Not that I'm not enjoying myself while cleaning. I'm one of those rare birds who actually likes the satisfying feeling of cleaning. Making something look better than before. Making something shine. Standing back and admiring the new look of a room cleaned and orderly.

My daughter tells me she is the same way and gets this from me, like a curse. Well, okay, where do you think I got this part of my personality? Of course...from my mother, who else?

So this is the poem:

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better

To paint a picture or write a letter,

Bake a cake or plant a seed,

Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there's not much time,

With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,

Music to hear and books to read,

Friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there,

With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,

A flutter of snow, a shower of rain.

This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,

Old age will come and it's not kind.

And when you go, and go you must,

You, yourself, will make more dust.

So that tells me, if I read it carefully, that not only are there other things I could be doing with my time rather than busying myself cleaning, but that in the end, it's futile anyway. 

Hmmm, something to ponder.

But in the meantime, I'm going through the house room by room, spiffing everything up, washing curtains and bedspreads, emptying cupboards and closets,  reorganizing drawers, all so that I can eventually sit and relax (someday). Stitch a sampler. Read a book. 

The only thing contradictory about this is that people like me, rare though we may be, enjoy the process of cleaning as much as engaging in those other activities. I am relaxed when I'm working. I'm happy vacuuming. 🙆

But in the spirit of the poem, I get it. These tasks or chores or whatever you may call them are really never done. The feeling of satisfaction is fleeting, and the bottom line is you're the only one who even cares. 

So the lesson is to find happiness and satisfaction in pursuing things like painting a picture (I can't draw a stick), climbing a mountain (my knees are bad), swimming a river (I'm water-phobic), and cherishing a friendship. 

Okay, the last one I can do. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

So my new goal is to cherish a friendship (a phone call, a letter, a visit), stitch a sampler, go for a walk, or read a book, equal to the time I spend cleaning. One hour for one hour. 

I think I like it already.

As always, thank you for allowing me to share my random thoughts.

And if you wish to become a "Follower" - I would be beyond thrilled. 

 

Friends and neighbors

I still find each day too short 
for all the thoughts I want to think,
all the walks I want to take,
all the books I want to read,

and all the friends I want to see.

                                                  ~ John Burroughs

These strange days of isolating while the coronavirus floats its potentially-deadly droplets into the atmosphere, I find I am missing my friends and casual get-togethers terribly. Facetime and Zoom may be better than nothing but are poor substitutes for sharing a cup of coffee across the table from a friend.

I've been thinking about friendships in general, and the interesting, varied and sometimes even strange ways in which friends meet. There are the obvious such as one's own siblings, cousins and co-workers. With any luck, you are blessed with friendships from these groups. My own BFF is from high school, another obvious group for that age. Together she and I have celebrated weddings and showers, shared child-raising, empty nests, joys and sorrows. In addition to this cherished friendship, high school brought me and my best friend into a foursome group of friends still close to this day. And no, I won't divulge how many years that has been. 

One of our annual get-together lunches.

But there are the not-so-obvious ways we connect and in which close and long-time friendships are formed. 

Neighbors can just be neighbors, or close friendships can be formed which in my case turned out to be a lifeline. When we lived in Ohio in the early 1970s and my husband's job involved traveling, I developed a medical condition that caused me to sometimes lose consciousness. My neighbor, Sandy, who I already considered a friend, came across the street to check on me every morning. If she saw I wasn't well and needed rest, she scooped up my two kiddos and took them home with her until I was able to get them. Another neighbor became a lifelong friend and I am Godmother to her first-born son. And another neighbor in our condominium resulted in a very strong bond though she has since moved away.

Many years ago, there was an AOL site where you could post an inquiry and get responses. I was researching for a story about my maternal grandmother from Sweden who met my grandfather when he was in the Danish Merchant Marine. Although I had postcards he wrote to her from the ship he was on, sailing the world over, I had no idea what he did or indeed what the Merchant Marine was.

So I posted an inquiry hoping to learn more and received a response from Shelly in Queens, New York. She was researching as well, hoping to learn about her birth parents since she was adopted as a twin infant. I told her my birthplace was New York and that led to us chatting back and forth. Oftentimes these chats just end naturally when the subject of the inquiry is exhausted. But not with me and Shelly. We became friends and our friendship grew beyond our research resulting in several visits to see her in New York, sharing visits to South Street Seaport, Broadway musicals and trudging though a December blizzard holding my luggage up to miss the snowbanks.

And who would think riding the city bus, of all things, would bring a dear friend? It's how I met Laura. We waited at the bus stop together every morning on our way to work, striking up a conversation, then another and another, leading to a dinner invitation at her home. Retired now, we have remained friends.

And simply by offering to recommend a travel service following our 2004 trip to Czech Republic, I received an email from a woman named Sharon in Iowa, asking why or why not she and her husband should book a tour with this particular agency. There was a certain chemistry in our exchanges of information that blossomed naturally into a strong friendship. We meet when we can, sometimes along with our husbands, though they live in Iowa and we are in Minnesota. Last summer, we visited with them in their gorgeous home.

Then there are Facebook groups. Since I am an avid cross-stitcher, I joined a group of stitchers whose love of primitive stitching is what we have in common. There I met Barb. Barb lives in the birthplace of my paternal grandfather in St. Ansgar, Iowa. We started sharing messages about her town, our stitching projects and everyday life. Somehow we were magically drawn to each other like a magnet. She is my most encouraging friend in every way and is there to be my rock when I need one. Hopefully I am that for her as well. We connect by messaging often and meeting at least once a year. 

So friends are found in both likely and unlikely places if you are open to looking. A spark can grow between two people and you'll end up not knowing what you ever did without them.

Are we going to be friends forever? Asked Piglet.
Even longer, Pooh answered. 

👭

As always, thank you for reading and allowing me to share my thoughts.

An uneventful holiday

America's Independence Day holiday is today.

The 4th of July in our country is traditionally celebrated with large family and friends' picnics, grilling hot dogs and feasting on potato salad, baked beans and plenty of lemonade and desserts. This is a day of fun, laughter and relaxation, perhaps a get-away to the lake for boat riding and tubing. Taking in the local parade, kids catching the candy thrown by the various floats, politicians shaking hands, handing out flyers, firetrucks all polished and blaring their horns and sirens as children cover their ears.

Evenings are the best part. Elaborate fireworks are enjoyed complete with ooohs and aaahs as the colorful flashes light up the sky as you sit on a blanket or a lawn chair at the local park (as mosquitos feast on your body, if you live in Minnesota). You might come back home to build a small fire and roast marshmallows for S'mores.

Gooey marshmallows lightly browned over the fire, then pressed over a Hershey bar on half of a graham cracker, then covered by the other graham cracker half. Is there anything better in the whole world? I say no.

Or following the day's activities, you just fall into bed exhausted but happy at all the fun enjoyed.

Well, not this year.

We're left with memories of 4th of July festivities of bygone years. Actually, only last year.
 
This year, like most summer activities we're accustomed to, Independence Day is going largely unnoticed, uncelebrated and sadly quiet. Oh, there are a few things going on with small family gatherings, a few lakes are sporting boat parades, or perhaps if you're lucky enough to have a firepit, some weenie and marshmallow roasts.

But very unlike all other years, we have not heard even a single firecracker go off in our neighborhood. Although those with pets are happy, we are missing even the annoying pop-pop sound of amateur fireworks, sparklers and firecrackers going off into the night as we attempt to sleep. For days before. Tonight I would welcome the sound. 

🧨🧨🧨

We're all missing our local concerts in the park, day camps, town festivals and even joining our neighbors on their porch swing. We wonder when this will end.

But I hope you are finding even some small way to celebrate today. America is still celebration-worthy, despite the corona virus closing everything down and the violence headlining the evening news. Many have fought for the freedom we enjoy to celebrate, or not celebrate, the way we choose. Many don't have the same privilege.

As for us, we are content to be in our air conditioned house in this hot and humid day. Doing whatever we choose to do. For me, that means a luxurious day of cross-stitching. For hubby, a nice afternoon nap. Something on the grill for dinner. Ice cream topped with fresh strawberries.

Happy Independence Day to you, whatever your day brings!🎇

As always, thanks for reading and allowing me to share my random thoughts.

A somber visit

Following our visit to Powderhorn Park in Minneapolis, we decided to continue our drive to 38th and Chicago, the site where George Floyd was murdered and which has now become a memorial site.

We parked about a block away on a residential street bordering several small businesses. An auto repair shop, a laundromat, a deli, a barber shop. Necessities. No frills here in this low-income neighborhood.

And on the corner, Cup Foods, owned and operated by an immigrant family, where the deadly encounter occurred. Over eight minutes of agony, a knee snuffing out the breath of a human being. Needlessly and callously.

We were met at the start of the street by what I assume was a volunteer staffing a casual "welcome tent," set up to distribute free masks if you needed one, free water and hand sanitizer. We, of course, wore our masks and stayed an appropriate distance away from others. All were wearing masks, save for some of the block's locals.

Down the middle of the street, names of other Blacks killed by police were neatly printed in chalk.

The names continued on and on down the street, culminating in the name GEORGE FLOYD at the end.

I can't describe what we felt looking at those names, way too many of them. If anyone doubts that change needs to occur to end systemic racism, our own attitudes, and the prejudice and rush to judgment by some (emphasis: not all) members of the police force, you only need to walk down this street.

It's beyond belief that since this particular horrific event, others have happened and still continue to happen. There seems to be no end to the violence.

What will it take for it to stop?

Outside Cup Foods where the fatal encounter occurred.

Continuing our walk, it was relatively quiet at the end of the block outside the Cup Foods market, as those around us looked in disbelief at the curb on the corner and the flowers and plants strewn on the ground. There seemed to be no words.

Many, perhaps most, of the floral offerings are dead now but nevertheless there they stay, undisturbed from where they were placed.

Colorful murals and art were painted on the fronts and sides of the buildings on the block. Perhaps the only outlet for frustration and anger, short of more violence, that residents have to express their cries for justice is through their art.

Rather than writing more, I'm posting photos we took of the block as they will tell a better story and give you a sense of what it's like living in the shoes of residents in the poverty-stricken vicinity of 38th and Chicago.

As we were leaving, we saw this quiet young man with his sign, expressionless and looking a bit bored. I asked if I could take his picture and his face lit up. "Oh yes, please," he said as if we were doing him a favor. I love this picture.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As always, thank you for reading and allowing me share my thoughts.

Tents and grass = shelter

My husband and I took a recent afternoon drive to Powderhorn Park in Minneapolis to donate some clothes and supplies to the new homeless encampment there. This was in response to a shared Facebook post by a friend that brought this need to our awareness. We had some unused medical supplies, some jackets and blankets, and, our camping days long over, an almost-new sleeping bag.

The encampment, with about 200-plus tents on the park grounds, is a recent undertaking by the city's Parks and Recreation Board with public health support from the Minnesota Department of Health. Known as the Minneapolis Sanctuary Movement, it had its roots in an experiment to provide shelter during the pandemic at a south Minneapolis Sheraton Hotel.

With the protests and nearby buildings burning following the death of George Floyd at the hands of police, the management company of the Sheraton closed down the vastly overrun hotel and its evacuated temporary residents fled and sought refuge at nearby Powderhorn Park. The Park Board brought in portable toilets, trash cans and showers while tents and supplies were donated mostly by neighborhood residents.

We arrived with our offerings to be greeted by volunteers at the donation center, a tent near the street. They were grateful and eager to help us unload our boxes and bags. We learned from them that there are actually two separate encampments in different parts of the park.

Residents of the encampment and volunteers, many from the neighborhood and others, work around the clock providing food, basic medical care, supplies, security and clean-up. A food station is open 24/7. Volunteers have daily morning meetings in a nearby tent to discuss what's going right or wrong, what needs improvement.

There are rules.

There are those who are compliant. And there are those who are not. While we were there a heated argument between two men ensued. We were told that volunteer staff are trained to deescalate, and offenders are redirected. Often residents are on medication but not diligent in taking it. But they are almost never evicted from the camp.

Most camp residents were enjoying the beautiful summer day, strolling the grounds or visiting on lawn chairs outside their tent. Some were at the food tent as it was lunchtime when we were there.

The encampment effort is not without controversy. Some feel the Parks Board should not be "in the housing business," and there are neighborhood residents who are fearful and worried about noise, drugs, unsightly debris in the park, and so on. To that end, clean-up crews have three shifts throughout the day to ensure the park is clean and orderly. We can report first-hand that it was when we were there.

Many in this wonderfully diverse old Minneapolis neighborhood are supportive and help with food, even providing laundry services. Some  are part of an activist group of people lobbying city officials to develop a more permanent solution to provide housing and shelter to this woefully overlooked population. It is imperative that we end the talking and develop some long term solutions. And soon.


Our Powderhorn Park homeless encampment self-designated ambassador took many photos for me and as we left, I took a picture of him, with permission, as he waved and said, "God bless you and have a good day."

We will, Jim. And the impressions you showed us won't soon leave us.  


Local Minnesotans who wish to volunteer or donate can learn more at https://nechama.org/updates/twin-cities-response-to-date/

As always, thank you for reading and allowing me to share my thoughts.