ABC'S? YOU'RE KIDDING!

I just don't get it.

A male student in one of the local high schools gets mad at his teacher during the class period, refusing to do what she asked of him.  He then interrupts the class by "cussing her out." (His words).  He is suspended for willful defiance.  Later he says, "Getting suspended doesn't solve anything.  It just ruins the rest of the day and keeps you behind."

Right here I start being confused.

Interestingly, he then says he likes chemistry and wants to become a doctor.  He also has been a problem student since his first year in junior high school.

Now it appears that a new method of choice for handling such issues has been approved in this school district.  It is a process called "restorative justice" which aims to keep the child in school, and it involves the teacher, the student, some letter writing back and forth, some apologies from both teacher and student, and a sharing of letters with the class.  This "restorative justice" can be done immediately after the outburst (no sending to the office to have the problem ironed out) and overall takes about 45 minutes of time to accomplish.

One student's remark afterwards was "Me and the teacher were friends by the end of the day."

That may be, but the other 30 kids in the classroom lost learning time.  And, I might remind everyone that the real working world into which the mouthy student is going to find himself does not operate on "restorative justice."  You mouth off at your boss, you're history!  Who is learning about authority and respect?

I have read the pros and the cons on this.  Hanging over the problem and any answer is a "civil rights" issue, which is certainly complicating any solution.  But yesterday I read the decision has been made to toss out suspension for willful defiance and replace it with the "restorative justice" program.  Here's the way I see: teachers must be trained now on behavior modification, a psychological treatment approach, based on the principles of operant conditioning, that replaces undesirable behaviors with more desirable ones.  Ahhhh. 

Today's schools are finding that teaching one's ABC's is second fiddle.  That respect for teachers and/or authority is passe'.  Let's face it: Kids Rule!

I still don't get it!

BEING BRAVE

In the manner of recent catch phrases where someone won’t “confirm or deny” something, today I am neither recommending nor not recommending that you read Colm Toibin’s novella “The Testament of Mary” that I recently obtained from the library and read in one sitting. But if you choose to read it, you may love it or hate it.  You may think it is blasphemous or a great piece of fiction.  You may embrace the totality of it or think it should be at a minimum tossed in the trash, and that only because we don’t burn books.  I guarantee you that regardless of how you react to it, you will spend a lot of time thinking about it after you put it down.  Under certain circumstances in your background, you may need to be brave to read it.

I came to read this book because of a review in the L.A. Times on April 22, not about the book, which was published last year, but about the Broadway stage play, which incidentally closed after 16 performances.  I was intrigued with what I read about the how this author presents Mary.  And with my bringing to the book a fairly traditional religious but non-Catholic acquaintance with the New Testament Mary, the Mary that is the mother of Jesus, I wondered if I could even be objective to begin with.  Since most of you know that I do enjoy books with a religious bent to them, and since I figured I’d never get to the Broadway production of it, I’d better read the book.

To start with, Toibin’s Mary is the mother of Jesus but not because of a virgin birth.  She states that her son is a mere man, not the Son of God.  Toibin begins his story with Mary in her old age, living in Ephesus and having some contact with what the reader assumes are the “Disciples” as we know them from the New Testament, but she indicates they really want her cooperation in documenting him as the Son of God and she says in so many words that she can’t do it because it isn’t true.

It is Mary’s voice that Toibin writes in.  In a short 70-some pages, the reader hears Mary as she describes things like the resurrecting of Lazarus, the Cana wedding’s miraculous “changing of water to wine”, other familiar New Testament happenings and of course, the crucifixion.  I must admit that as simple and beautiful as Toibin's writing is, it is very difficult to read.  What I found surprising is that regardless of my own position at this time, I found myself holding my breath as I read powerful words that fly in the face of what I have heard and understood my entire life. 

In November of last year, Mary Gordon, herself a powerful and poignant writer, ended her review of this book as follows:

For “The Testament of Mary” is a beautiful and daring work. Originally performed as a one-woman show in Dublin, it takes its power from the surprises of its language, its almost shocking characterization, its austere refusal of consolation. The source of this mother’s grief is as much the nature of humankind as the cruel fate of her own son. Her prayers are directed not to Yahweh but to Artemis, Greek not Jewish, chaste goddess of the hunt and of fertility, but no one’s mother. Mary’s final word on her son’s life and death is the bleak declaration:….”  I leave it to you to pursue Gordon’s full commentary on this amazing book.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/11/books/review/the-testament-of-mary-by-colm-toibin.html?_r=0

Interestingly, the Broadway show closed long before it was scheduled to end.  The day that it announced it was closing early was also the day it received 3 Tony nominations.  The closure was not that there were nightly protests outside the theatre because of what the protesters called blasphemy, but because the nominations were not for any of the biggies (show, lead, etc.).  They were for minor technical things – a real snub, according to some.  I imagine one can read into that a whole bunch of things, maybe true and maybe not.

At any rate, the play is not the book.  The book is out to be read, if you are interested -- and if you are willing to appreciate a writer’s creativity and his amazing piece of writing.  And brave.

SO WHAT DO I KNOW?!

 

The other day my daughter brought her grandson (and my great grandson) Tyler over to the house to “interview” me – as the oldest living person in the family.  This was not a totally unexpected happening because as each of my many grandkids came to third grade, he or she was always brought to me to answer questions like what I studied in school, what kinds of games we played on the playground, what kind of clothes we wore, and how we learned without having a computer!  Along with this was a chart of some sort they needed to make that showed four generations of their ancestors, which of course was right up my alley.

I am usually not surprised at the things that they ask.  His first question was “What is your name?”  At that very moment Erin and I realized that little Tyler didn’t know my name.  He knew me as “Noni”, which is what our family uses to refer to great-grandmothers.  Erin, of course, is his Grandma, and I am his “Noni.” 

I’m sure that if Tyler lived next door to us and interacted with us on a daily basis that somewhere along the line he would have understood I was called “Bobby” by friends and non-relatives and my real name was Barbara.  But Tyler has only known Jerry and me as “Noni” and “Gompers.”  My given names have just never come up. 

Erin has two much older grandchildren, one graduating from high school this year and one graduating from middle school.  I am also “Noni” to them, but I suppose by now they know Noni is not my given name.  I should ask Erin to find out.  I would be really surprised to learn they too don’t know that.

It is funny how we assume children in our family absorb things by osmosis. 

When Jerry and I married in 1975 we bought a house with a swimming pool.  Our children were mostly married and starting their families, and between then and when we sold our house in 1991, our summers were full of swimmers….little ones, medium sized one, big ones.  The little ones sat around the pool in shallow pans of water.  The medium sized kids went in with water wings on their arms.  The biggest ones were the idols that the younger ones aspired to be like – “Look ma, no water wings!”   Those 16 summers were glorious, for the kids and for us.  I was sure the kids would never forget those days.

And for the most part they haven’t.  But they have forgotten some specifics.  Some time back I asked our now 30-year-old grandson Chris what he remembered about those summers at our house.  He recalled the hours in the pool without batting an eye.  I then asked, ‘What do you remember about the house itself?”  He thought for a few minutes and then said, “I remember that when you opened the back door to go into the bathroom, you had to be careful not to trip over the cat potty box!”

He was right.  But that was ALL he remembered about the house.  To me it was the most wonderful house in the whole world.  For him, it was just a house with a cat potty box in it.  So much for how much a child absorbs!

Getting back to Tyler and his questions, he also asked me what we studied in school.  I told him we studied the same kinds of things that he is studying – reading, spelling, math.  In third grade they are pretty much still in basics.  But later I thought that really wasn’t entirely correct.  We spent lots of time studying and practicing handwriting.  Probably until the time came to start cursive writing, the difference between then and now wasn’t all that much.  But if what I observe on my grandkids’ papers today and what I read about the future of cursive writing is any indication, there is a vast difference in the amount of time they spend on this subject.  For us back in the 1940s, it was practice, practice, practice.  I hear now that good handwriting is on a par with good spelling – not all that necessary any more.  Imagine!

Another thing that Tyler is yet too young to experience is that beginning in seventh grade we had a lot of memorization required of us.   Oh, the poetry that is stored in my brain:  “In Flander’s Field,” “Abou Ben Adhem,” “Daffodils” and the like;  I still to this day can recite a couple of historical documents: the Preamble to the Constitution, and the Gettysburg Address.  In our Sunday School classes we learned to recite the Books of the Bible, (a big help to Jerry in his crossword puzzle working),  the names of the disciples, The Ten Commandments, The Beatitudes and a bizillion Psalms! 

Then somewhere along the way, perhaps even in a high school English class, we had to memorize the helping verbs:  is, be, been, am, are, was, were, have, has, had, do, did, does, may, can, might, must, shall, will, could, would, and should.  I have the feeling that teaching today isn’t all that keen on memorization, either. 

In thinking back on what all I told Tyler, it is just possible that the only thing I told him that was actually correct is that my name is Barbara but my nickname is Bobby.

APRIL'S THIS 'N' THAT

Yesterday at 6:30 a.m. while I was on my walk I watched a driver from Burrtec Waste Industries pull up in front of a huge full-to-overflowing dumpster, jump out of his truck and muscle the dumpster into place so his truck’s arms could hoist it overhead for emptying.  The worker was no spring chicken and not a very big man, but he certainly was solid muscle.  Seeing how much strength was needed to do this, I couldn’t help but think about how tired he must be at the end of the day from all that physical effort.  And it made me grateful for people who do those physical kinds of jobs. 

I have a friend who is just about as religious as I am (which is not very) and not too long ago we were talking about prayer.  He said he doesn’t pray, but each Sunday evening he spends some time reflecting on his friends and family and their importance in his life.  He says it always reminds him to let them know how much he appreciates them.  I thought of this as I said “hi” to the trash man and for what it was worth I thought I’d like some blessings to waft down on this man as he goes about his hard work. 

*****

Several months ago I saw an author interviewed on BookTv about his book “In the Courts of the Conqueror.” The subtitle is “The 10 Worst Indian Law Cases Ever Decided.” The author is Walter R. Echo-Hawk.  The first sentence in this book is as follows:  In the very first case to come before the United States Supreme County involving a significant Native American issue, Chief Justice John Marshall ominously described the American judicial system as ‘the Courts of the conqueror.’  Thus clothed, the Supreme Court handed down a sweeping opinion that appropriated legal title to the United States, even though most of the continent was still owned and occupied at the time by Indians tribes.” 

Those two sentences alone gave me the heebie-jeebies.  My thinking has always been that generally “we” never did right by the Indians and there has been way too much lying and broken vows on our part.  This is a hard book to read and a hard book to read.  By that I mean it is a long, dense, intense book and is going to take far longer to read than the two weeks I am allotted on an inter-library loan, and that reading what I am seeing with my own eyes is almost too painful to read.  I am glad I had exposure to Echo-Hawk on BookTV first.  What he said there encouraged me to go after his book, and reading it makes me wish I was at the beginning of my adult life instead of at the end of it, so I could stand up and be counted.

*****

On a lighter note, I ordered a 4 oz bottle of Vanilla Bean Paste through Amazon.com for a recipe I intend to try.  It’s called “Brown Butter Cookies.”  They had better taste good because with the addition of this vanilla bean paste they will be very pricy.  But that’s not the point here.  The point is that Amazon sent the little tiny jar of paste in a cardboard box that was three feet long and 1 foot wide.  It was overkill if I ever saw it.  Of course there were yards and yards of bubble wrap inside, but that too was overkill if you ask me.  I’m sure I was paying for all that excess in the shipping charges that were included in the total cost, but to be honest, even if I overpaid by half it really wouldn’t make all that difference in the cost; the cookies would still be pricy.  All I have to say is that they had better be scrumptious!  Now I’ve got to find time to make them.  So much for retirement!

*****

And guaranteed to put a smile on your face is a neat computer-thing called “Nude Men Clock.”  The name alone is worth a chuckle, but when you see it you may just get as much delight from it as I do.  (And for nervous Nellies, let me say that it is tastefully done!)

< http://lovedbdb.com/nudemenClock/index2.html>


You can change it from digital to analog by clicking anywhere in the clock.

******

So April is kaput after today.  Seems as Christmas was just yesterday and here we are heading into May.  Do you remember when Christmases were SO far apart and school years were SO long?  Thinking of “Time” reminds me of how much I enjoy reading time travel books.  Of special note are the first one I read, “Lady of Hay,” which exposed me to the genre, the best one so far “Time Traveler’s Wife” and most intriguing, “Her Fearful Symmetry.”   And of course there is the delightful movie, “Kate and Leopold.”  Liking time travel things reminds me that I am not too egg-heady for my own good.

   

CONVERSATIONS ON A MORNING WALK

ME:  Mornin’ (taking out my earbuds).

INTERVIEWER:  Good morning.  Mind if I walk with you and ask you some questions? 

ME:  You’re welcome to come along.  And I’ll answer questions, too, but I have to tell you that I’m not a very interesting person.  I’m not rich or famous or important or anything like that.  My life has been pretty mundane, so I don’t know…..

INTERVIEWER:  You let me decide that.  Let’s see…..I know you are a senior citizen, since this is a senior apartment complex we’re walking in.  But are you employed or are you retired?

ME:  I retired in 2000 when I turned 65.  We, my husband and I, chose this area because three of our six children lived within a short driving distance.  Funny thing, within 5 years one family moved to Alaska, and another moved to Tennessee (although she ultimately came back).  I always thought I would be at home in a semi-rural area; I’ve learned I’m much more of a city girl than I thought. 

INTERVIEWER:  Were you gainfully employed before you retired?

ME:  That’s hard to say.  I didn’t have a career if that’s what you mean.  The last six years of my working life I was the Administrative Secretary for The Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Center in Anaheim, California. That was after we came home from the two year hiatus my husband spent as a consultant in Istanbul.  Before that, for the most part I worked through a temporary agency as a secretary.  I didn’t much like secretarial work, although I was good at it.  But I did like to work on a temporary basis.  The nice thing about temporary work is that if you are good, you get immediate gratification! The company is always happy to get someone who knows what they are doing and they can’t praise you enough.  I most always was approached to see if I’d like a permanent position, but for me the draw of temporary work was that I never had a chance to get bored.  If the job wasn’t right up my alley, then I could move on.  The reason I did this was so that I would have some free time to work on my avocation – genealogical research!  I had the best of two worlds!  I was lucky that my husband had a nice career so I was able to do this.   If I had been the sole support of a family (which for a while I was) temping wouldn’t have worked.

INTERVIEWER:  What was the most interesting job you went out on?

ME:  Well, the oddest job I ever took was a short stint at a company that manufactured smells.  The most interesting was one where I did medical transcription for a company whose owners investigated medical malpractice claims.  I worked there for a long time as a temp, and finally went on a permanent part-time basis with them – two weeks on and two weeks off.  It was a great job, and I only left it because of my husband’s job offer in Turkey that of course we couldn’t refuse!

INTERVIEWER:  Have you had an embarrassing moment on a job?

ME:  Only one, and it happened to be so funny that if it were possible you would have heard laughter from Pomona (where I worked) to New York City (where the person I was talking to on the phone was sitting.)  I won’t tell you what was so funny, but my words got tangled up worse than an old telephone operator’s switchboard lines, and take my word for it, the result was beyond hysterical, way beyond embarassing!

INTERVIEWER:  Hmmm.  Was it bad?

ME:  Bad?  Not bad, but not repeatable either.  Just hysterically and embarrassingly funny.

INTERVIEWER:  OK, I’ll let you off the hook.  Is it safe to ask you what is the most rewarding thing you’ve ever done?

ME:  I’d have to say it was having the book I researched and compiled, “A FINE PLACE TO REST:  AMERICANS IN THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY IN FERIKOY ISTANBUL,” accepted into the Library of Congress.  I spent the two years in Turkey doing local research and then when we came home I spent an additional three years working on the book here in the states, even making one trip to the College Park, Maryland branch of the National Archives to find the original state department records.  After it was printed in 1998 I queried the Library of Congress as to their policy on accepting books.  They said to send a copy and after it was evaluated they would let me know if it met their criteria for accession.  If not, they said they would not be able to return the copy.  So I submitted it with a letter that stated I understood and agreed, but if they didn’t want the book to please donate it to a local library.  I didn’t want all that work to end up in the dumpster.  I’m pleased to say that it was accepted, making me very, very happy.  I am still getting e-mails from people who have “found” a lost relative in that cemetery due to my research.  It’s been very rewarding.

INTERVIEWER:  Good!  Now, what don’t you like to do?

ME:  Don’t laugh.  I don’t like to do anything that has to be done.  I’d rather someone else did it.  Dishes, dusting, cooking, scrubbing out bathtubs and toilets….well, I guess what that is saying is I don’t like to do housework.  It’s a shame I can’t afford a maid.  I’d be SO happy.  But let me tell you this: I am lucky to have Jerry for a husband, because he is the exact opposite.  He’s neat and tidy and does his chores without a complaint (unlike me!)

INTERVIEWER:  Between you and me, I feel the same way about housework!  But let me ask you one last question…… Oh, look, we’re back home again.  We’ll save that question for some other time.  Thanks for talking to me.

ME:  My pleasure!

 

 

LIKE OPENING THE FRIDGE DOOR!

Today's blog is a forerunner of my afternoon project; my intentions then are to open the refrigerator door and divest it of about half of the contents.  Well, not throw them all away, but do SOMETHING with them to make more room. 

 

Likewise, today's column will be patterned after that.  I need to move some pictures out of my computer to make it easier to find what I want.  So here goes:

 

I may have mentioned before that in this particular senior complex, which unfortunately goes through a new iteration every time there is a new property manager in place, now has decided to tout our apartment units as having "one bedroom and a private patio" or "two bedrooms and a private patio."  However, the "patios" are actually our front porches, and they are miniscule....well, not too bad for a front porch but laughable as a patio.  Especially since if you want satellite TV, you can ONLY place the satellite dish on your "private patio" -- not on the eaves or the roof or the lawn.  That space belongs to the owner.  Your private patio belongs to you.  (Interestingly enough, management is the judge of what is and what isn't appropriate to put on your "private patio."  But that's another story.)

The dish itself isn't too unruly, but it has a huge metal frame that it sits on - by measurement 3 feet square.   The size is, I think, supposed to keep it from being knocked around and losing the signal.  However, the strong winds we get in this area are able to move it easily, so apartment owners must weigh it down with either cinderblocks or cement tiles.  We opted for the heavy flat tiles.  I knew it would be ugly, but I told Jer I could live with it.  Better to have an ugly dish than to sign up for the cableTV that is offered us at $200 a month.

However, the ugliness finally got to me.  I told Jer we had to do something.  So this is our start.

We are in the process of turning our private patio into a private garden.  The turf is fake, but the plants are real.  Interestingly, the little white pillar in the center is a souvenir from Istanbul that we brought with us when we moved back to the States in 1993.  It is marble and was cut for use on tombstones.  We needed some heavy doorstops there and this is what our very helpful driver and good friend Ahmet Bey found for us.  We use one inside our apartment for a doorstop and the other one sat on the porch, totally useless, until the dish and frame arrived.  It now is useful! 

This little cactus garden is the latest addition, and it will sit in the empty space above.  I am, in my old age, working up an affinity for cactus.  Yesterday before we stopped at the nursery we were in a drugstore and I saw some cute miniature cacti, shaped rather like saguaros.  At the top of each arm was a bright pink, almost a florescent pink frizzy flower.  I mentally pictured a collection of these cacti sitting on that last paver tile and the price certainly was right, but somehow I smelled a rat.  I began investigating a little closer and discovered the florescent pink frizzy flowers were made of some kind of rattan and had been glued on top each arm.  No way, Jose!   I laughed, thinking I had almost fallen for it!  So when I saw this assortment of cacti at the nursery you can bet I had a thorough inspection of those tiny little flowers on the right hand plant!  Yup, real ones here.

 

Originally we had started out a few days earlier at Armstrong nursery in Upland.  When we went inside to settle up our bill, we spied this mat, and since we had decided earlier it was time to replace our old one, this seemed like the perfect answer.  It is a little smaller than I would have liked, but I just couldn't pass it up!  I thought perhaps Jer might balk at "pink flowers" everywhere, but Knight of the Garden that he is, he was ever the gentleman and let me have what I wanted.

Now speaking of Knights, just a few days earlier I turned off the beaten path on my way home from the market and took a short drive through a nearby older housing development.  I always felt a sense of mystery about it, because a very high fence surrounded it, the lots seemed huge, and so many trees were showing inside that it would seem to have been built in some kind of forest -- which we don't have in this neck of the woods.  Seeing as I had a bit of spare time, I turned the car into the development and found --- well, huge houses, huge lots, and some empty vacant lots indicating perhaps that not all the lots had been sold.  Then as I rounded onto a side street, I was nonplussed by this:

 

In fact, the whole house had been turned into some kind of fairy-tale.  If you enlarge the picture above and look over beside the covered gate, you can see a huge gold angel.  And there are many more things hidden around the yard and on the house, including on the roof.  But it was the knight in shining armor that got me.  Shades of Disneyland!  Coming upon it was such a shock.  Oh that I should know the story of what the owners had in mind with their fantasyland.  And I wonder what the neighbors think. 

I remember many years ago in Westminster a man painted his tract house blue and then put floral designs on it.  He was pleased as punch with his house, but oh my goodness did the neighbors have a fit.  (This was long before neighborhood associations and all the rules and regulations we have now.)  It was a rarity to have a blue house, and in the little mundane town of Westminster it became a "go see" sight!

Now in conclusion, there's just one more picture I'd like to share with you.  My daughter Bryn in Alaska recently had a medical procedure done and was left woozy and pretty much out for the day.  Her hubby drove her home; she laid down on the couch and was out like a light.  The next time she woke up, her husband was taking a picture of her and her support system.  Yes, there are 5 of them. 

Now for the refrigerator!

CATCH A CHICKEN .... er, CHICKEN CACCIATORI!

I cannot believe that after posting on a blog from mid-2008 to the present day I haven't yet shared my recipe for Quick Chicken Cacciatori with you.  I can visualize the young woman who gave me the recipe that I've used so often, but I can't conjure up her name.  At any rate, around this house it is a standard - easy to make, works with lots of different substitutions and has passed the edibility test.

Here's the recipe as it was originally given to me:

1 frying chicken cut up, or 7 to 10 pieces of chicken
1 can Ortega green chili salsa
1 package dry spaghetti sauce mix
1 #2 can tomato juice.

Brown chicken and pour off fat.  Mix other ingredients and pour over chicken.  Cover and bake 45 minutes at 350 degrees.

It's as simple as that.  BUT

The age of the recipe can be told by that "#2" - as you well know cans aren't labeled with numbers any more.  #2 converts to 20 ounces in today's nomenclature.  Next, Ortega used to make a smallish can of green chili salsa, a bit smaller than a can of tuna fish.  And that was in the days when a green chili was kind and gentle, not a jalapeno.  So today I use any kind of mild chili salsa I can find.  And last night I didn't have tomato juice on hand but I did have a can of stewed tomatoes, so I substituted that into the recipe. 

And lastly, I didn't bake it; I used an electric frying pan with a lid.  Once the chicken was browned, I dumped in the sauce and cooked it for 45 minutes.  It came out D-licious!  Normally I cook a little spaghetti with it, but last night I took Suzanne Somers' suggestion and used fresh zucchini in the place of spaghetti!

How is that possible?  She uses a vegetable peeler (or a mandolin or whatever) to make thin slices longways, then quickly fries them with butter and serves them next to any meat that has a sauce.  Sure saves on calories and visually the plate looks very appealing.  Try it.

I love experimenting with foods.  Actually, I loved it a lot more when I could taste the food that I was going to eat.  It has now been six years since my taste buds did their thing, and cooking certainly isn't what it used to be for me.  Nothing tastes right.  An example:  some mornings I get up, pour myself a hot cup of coffee, put a little swig of Hazelnut flavoring in it, and pour it out after the first taste, because it tastes like I've added a couple of spoonsful of salt.  Every bite I put in my mouth of ANYTHING tastes wrong.  There are a few things that taste fairly good, but it is not the good taste that one would expect.  It may not taste like anything identifiable, but whatever the flavor is, it isn't too bad.  But that is a rarity.  I have learned that if I cover something with a strong-tasting sauce, I can most often get it down.  And the worst part of this taste problem, other than the doctors don't pay it much attention, is that my "taste" changes from day to day, so I can't count on anything.  Rats!

Anyway, the Chicken Cacciatori recipe is easy to fix and good to eat if you are not me.  Give it a try!