A Refrigerator Full of Memories

We are halfway through the Thanksgiving weekend and I am grateful for a refrigerator full of leftovers. Even after sending my daughter, Lindsay, back to New York with food for her annual Sunday “Friendsgiving” gathering, my partner, Rich, and I can still do replays over the next few days. Sure, it may get a little boring but it’s not the food that matters; it’s the memories attached to making and sharing the Thanksgiving meal together with family and new friends.

Shut my eyes, and there’s my grand-nephew, Zach, nearly wriggling out of his skin with excitement because I asked him to introduce our meal with his 1st grade class story of Squanto. He taught us how Squanto learned the English he needed to teach the pilgrims their life saving skills in the new world. Kind monks saved Squanto from Spaniards who had sold him into slavery in the old world and he subsequently ended up in England before returning to his Native American homeland. While we caught up with each other over appetizers before our feast, those who wanted to made gratitude plates.

It was easy to set up a crafts table with heavy duty paper plates, magazines, permanent markers, glue guns, scissors and a box full of embellishments. I didn’t how people would choose to express their gratitude, but I was delighted to see how readily they dove into the project. One guest came near the table and said, “I can’t do this. I’m not an artist!” A few plate-makers immediately responded, “Neither are we, but this is fun. You should try it!” And she did. A few chose to share what they’d made when I asked for volunteers. Four year old Millie explained that her plate featured the Lorax “because this is my favorite book,” and dogs, “because I love all my doggies.” My niece, Lyn, created a plate that spoke to her gratitude for living in a country that protects women’s rights and has given her so many powerful women role models to emulate. Our guest, Tyler, featured Woody Allen at the center of his plate because he is grateful for the brilliance of Woody Allen. The range of expressions varied as widely as the people in the room which is so American.

Others had written six word memoirs inspired by Larry Smith’s brilliant six word memoirs site.Tyler understood right away that Hemingway, the writer known for his terse prose, must have inspired Smith when he wrote his shortest novel ever: “Baby shoes for sale. Never used.” Lindsay and I had gone online earlier that morning and cherry picked eight of our favorite Thanksgiving memoirs to give our guests samples for inspiration. My dad, at 85, left everyone laughing with his: “I’m with it. I get it.” And he does. Sometimes his penetrating questions and detailed recollections leave some of us wishing we were as sharp at half his age.

We laughed, created,reflected and then once again feasted on Rich’s amazing fried turkey now augmented by a smoked alternative, the new favorite, and the array of dishes contributed by each family. So even though this has been a tough year of a hard surgery gone bad for me, when I open the fridge I smile. I survey the shelves, celebrate us again and pray that all over the country—no matter what our circumstances—all of my fellow Americans found something to be grateful for on this Thanksgiving.

Voting Lessons

A few weeks ago, an educator friend wrote to me in desperation. “I can’t find any good resources for teaching young kids about the voting process.” She didn’t want a text book. She wanted great exercises that she could adapt to her kindergarten classroom and share with other teachers in her primary school program. I didn’t believe that, especially in an election year, there was nothing out there. But I soon had to agree with her. It was really hard to find “good resources.”

After some digging around I sent her to The Center for Civics Education which has been creating substantive civics materials for promoting healthy democracy since 1964. I also suggested The Constitution Center in Philadelphia which brings the meaning of our foundational documents to life although their lessons were targeted to an older audience. Family activities that appeared to be quite engaging weren’t loaded onto the site each time we tried to access them. And finally, I suggested that she take a look at this lesson plan posted on the Scholastic site. I thought a talented educator could adapt it for bright, younger students.

Most of the other material I found came packaged with political agendas that tainted what was often a decent intention: democracies must engage their youngest members early in order to create good citizens. But the key idea is engagement, not brainwashing.

My plea today is please vote if you have not already done so. Share that fact with your children if you have children of voting age and urge them to vote too. If your children are young, take them with you to the polls. Let them see how important this privilege and responsibility is. Share stories about voting with them. I remember going with my Mom to vote when I was a kid. I never forgot the moment of solemnity when I stepped into the voting booth with her and she pulled the lever closing the curtains behind us to protect the privacy and importance of her choices. The long line of voters told me that every adult there valued the same thing. Tell your children what is happening all around the world as people fight and die for the right to vote and remind them that a long time ago, we too fought for the right to be independent and free so that each of one of us could have a voice in our own government.

Citizenship should be taught in our schools, but it must be taught in our homes. We the people are responsible for our country—no one else.

Remembering 9/11

September 11 is here again.On the east coast it seems to arrive most often with the crystal clear skies and crisp air of the original 9/11. Stepping outside on the anniversary to weather like this transports anyone who was there instantly back to where they were that morning. Somehow the beauty of the day added to the horror. How could something so terrible happen in the midst of such magnificence?

Perhaps that is part of the lesson we have all taken away. Life sometimes works that way. One moment we are celebrating, the next instant we are mourning and then somehow we are rebuilding our lives again.We can't live poised on the precipice, always wary and waiting for tragedy but when it happens, we must not allow it to destroy our lives. It becomes part of who we are. We are changed in our capacity to celebrate as the remarkable families and individuals who lost loved ones demonstrate year after year in their 9/11 memorial tributes. Our nation has watched toddlers turn into teens and children transform into young adults who speak movingly of the impact of this event on their lives. We all have a stake in who these children become. It's America. We're still a community of communities. The circles of influence and impact ripple out and many of us in the years since have discovered a personal connection with at least one family or individual personally affected by a 9/11 loss.

Yes we are moving on, but this will always be a part of who we are. It is one of the threshold events in American history that changed all of us forever. We cannot move forward without understanding what this moment means to us. The poem below expresses how I felt on the evening of 9/11. What's interesting to me is that 11 years later with Osama Bin Laden dead, the war in Afghanistan still on, and polarized political discourse paralyzing Washington, I remain fundamentally committed to these ideas. What I wish for now more than ever is that we pursue these qualities for ourselves- as individuals and as a nation.

September 11, 2001

This is one of those moments.
The kind that instantly sears the collective memory of a people.
This morning our country was raped
by a gang of terrorists.
A penetration so deep, a taking so violent
that we are all still shaking from the violation.
Everyone knows where they were when it happened--
a moment captured in the amber of the psyche,
preserved in a single shared image.
The trade center vanishing into the earth
in a mushroom cloud of debris and dreams,
as final as the Challenger exploding in the sky,
as dramatic as Jackie-in-pink cradling Jack.
With the trade center went the last vestige
of our innocence down down down.

That is the point of course--
to take us down.
To take lives and then our life.
And of course it will not work.
We will stagger and reel as we calculate our losses,
mourn our dead, scrape up the bits and pieces of
shattered lives in our skies and fields and streets and hearts.
And then because we know that evil exists, but we prefer goodness,
because when-given-the-choice we choose life, not death,
we choose blessing not curse,
we will prevail.
The cynics will be out in force flanked by pundits and second-guessers
right and left,
offering their glib assessments, their trenchant prophecies,
as if this was a game and Monday morning matters.
Words will fly as if utterances could heal the wounds
or raise the dead
or rain retribution upon the terrifier.

And we will discover the Truth.
Actions speak louder than words.
All that really matters is the blessing we choose to make of our lives.


Lee M. Hendler
9/11/2001

Something to Celebrate on Labor Day

Labor Day just ended and I’m especially wistful because I couldn't host our annual Labor Day event. It’s a traditional picnic with games and a cookout. We always add a few special activities that connect to the purpose of the holiday. Last year, every guest brought a prop that represented the best job they’d ever had. The rest of us had to guess what it was. I worried the adults might think this was dorky and the kids would be self conscious but everyone jumped right in and our riotous Labor Day charades provided wondrous insights into past and current selves. Unfortunately this year I didn’t have the energy for it. I’ve been recuperating since June from a knee replacement surgery with complications. I still have months of therapy ahead of me. One of my long term goals is to be well enough to host our Memorial Day event.

But every set-back is an opportunity. So here’s my Labor Day celebration:remembering that this holiday's beginnings in the fledgling labor movement struggle to bring fairness, safety and justice to the American workplace can also remind us of the blessings that special workers bestow upon our lives.

I wouldn’t be where I am right now— starting to walk steadily without crutches—without the hard work of a number of people who go to work every day in and around Baltimore. These aren’t the doctors and top tier administrators who usually get all the glory. Nor are they the friends and family members who have given me love and support beyond expression. These are the people who’ve worked with me when I’ve really been down and out for the count. They’ve seen me day in and day out. But it’s the quality of their presence that counts. They are men and women dedicated to their work, aspiring to excellence, always learning, listening—paying attention to their clients and the world around them. When you’re in a bind like I've been, you need them—depending on how bad off you are, you need a whole team of them—to get better. My Labor Day celebration is to thank them because I am the lucky and deeply grateful recipient of their effort.

Thank you to Jim Groschan and his entire team at Groschan and Associates who model compassion, clarity, curiosity and care in every aspect of their operation from phone calls to therapy to advocacy to billing. From our first session together, Jim drew upon his experience and keen observation to see what others dismissed. Sometimes brutally honest but always optimistic (“This will have a good outcome”), Jim helped me to confront complexity with courage.

Thank you to Leyan Darlington whose massage therapy has been a source of healing, deep insight and rejuvenating comfort. Short and compact, Leyan lugs a massage bed nearly her size up and down stairs without complaint, battles traffic jams with a dismissive smile and juggles a complicated schedule to accommodate these inconvenient home visits. Her love of her work comes through her fingertips, the smile lines around her eyes and the resonant bell sound of her laughter. Although Leyan deals for hours on end with people who are suffering, she emanates joy and lightness.

Thank you to Sharon and Dave in the rehab department at the Rubin Institute for Advanced Orthopedics at Sinai Hospital for caring enough to see my pain. The PT course for knee replacement surgery is always painful,and worse when complications arise. Either of them,busy with other tasks, could have averted their eyes, walked past my station, not seen me wincing or shaking in pain, wiping tears from my eyes. But both chose to do something: “This looks too hot, it’s not the same for everyone, honey, you know?” “Can I get you some cold water? I think that might help.” Sometimes you don’t even know what to ask for. Sometimes you are just too broken down to ask. The gratitude you feel for those who are paying attention and care enough to ask does not truly have a name.

Thank you to Karen Levin at Fleet Feet who never lost patience as we tried to find the Cinderella shoe to fit the impossible specs and misshapen foot I offered her. I wasn’t coming in to run, just to learn how to walk again (in some ways I am like a toddler, in others like a stroke victim) and Karen listened with respect and deep attentiveness before she selected options from her extensive inventory. “This low heel will push your foot forward, and the weight won’t be too much to lift. The support should be just right for your foot and this design will help with your toe flex. We'll just have to see which one works best for you.” It took two visits but I am wearing a pair of shoes that help me to stand and walk correctly.

Thank you to Erin Baker, also in the rehab department at the Rubin Institute, who has to hurt me every time I see her. That can't be much fun for her yet she still manages to smile and genuinely connect with every one of her clients. She zips open her bag of ASTYM tools and with firm hands and the confident touch of a competent, informed professional follows the required strokes and motions of the method, but always lets me know what’s coming next, and helps me to moderate my breathing so that the discomfort (which ranges from unpleasant to “Did Tourquanado invent this?”) is more tolerable. Erin was almost as excited as I the first time that I truly walked on my own. She listens thoughtfully to my feedback as we analyze my stride in the amazing anti-gravity machine and understands how challenged my feet and ankles are. As Leyan has been teaching me, all walking begins with the feet. If my ankle won’t bend neither will my knee.

And finally to my teacher, Amy Van Mui who has given me Pilates lessons for over 7 years. I wasn’t ready to return to Amy until a week ago when I finally had the strength and ability to get on and off of her equipment. There is no substitute for the quality of trust that develops in a relationship of this length. The moment that she laid hands on me I began to breathe easier. I knew that no matter what Amy asked me to do (and I knew she would ask me to do things no one else had), she would not harm me, push my body in ways it could not/would not go or cause me pain. Within minutes, we easily reverted to shorthand communication filled with metaphors. The next morning I woke up, got out of bed and walked normally into the bathroom. Next I called Rich so that he could see. Then we both cried.

It was the first time in over ten weeks that I had walked without my peg leg limp. We both knew it wouldn’t last. My knee would stiffen. My muscles would seize or my ankle would puff up. But it showed us a normal gait was possible. We both knew it could never have happened without the help of this exceptional group of workers who have helped me and others every day to find their way to health and recovery. At a time when all too often we encounter indifference, mediocrity or downright antipathy in the workplace, it's heartening to know that there are people out there who still love their work and work hard at being great at what they do. On this Labor Day, it's a great thing to celebrate.

Transportation with TSA and Without

I had a fascinating encounter with two transportation systems yesterday. I got the full service treatment from TSA at Boston Logan when I was deemed an explosive risk. I wasn’t supposed to hear one agent’s offhand comment to another. “ I shoulda cleared my wand on that one. It was me.” So I was pretty sure it was the agent’s fault which made me a little less willing to follow the script of docile compliance. Instead I asked a question, “How could I possibly be a security risk when I requested a body check?” I didn’t want to go through the xray machine AND there was a long line. “Ma’am. Do you realize how serious this is?” “I do, but I also would appreciate it if you look at me while you’re talking to me.” Kelly, the supervisor, kept delivering her ultimatums to the floor or sideways to the wall like she was the potential criminal—not me. “I’m a law abiding citizen who hasn’t done anything wrong.” “And I’m doing my job by keeping my eyes on your bags. I’m going to ask you to step inside this room for a more complete security check. Do you have a problem with that? Is anyone traveling with you today?” Were these trick questions? Did I have Miranda rights? Exactly what were my rights in our fascist Homeland Security world of uniformed wildly unpredictable agents and standards? I suddenly wondered about body cavities and strip searches. What protection and assurances did I actually have once I stepped into that room with these two women and exactly no one traveling with me. But the room was just off the public area and I wanted to make my flight so I followed Kelly and her somewhat sheepish helper (the one who heard the confession from the errant wand discharger) into the cubicle, passed the test with flying colors (just a more thorough pat down) and was interested to see how much more pleasant Kelley became when she no longer had an audience to observe her enforce her authority to terrorize passengers. She never did apologize for the TSA error but she kindly directed me to gate E1A as if struck with a sudden maternal passion for my wellbeing. Did she think that I, the grandma bomber, might have lost my bearings by having been taken 10 steps sideways from the security line? I understood that Kelly was doing her job. But did she have to be so obnoxious about it? Really. Listen up, TSA! If you’re going to protect us, use some judgment. Go to school with the Israelis. Pay attention if you’re going to shake down passengers. If someone CHOOSES a pat down are they a likely security risk? Especially a slim 60 year old woman in a sleeveless t shirt, form fitting jeans and bare feet? Has that profile EVER blown a plane out of the air? Sure you gotta test when the machine gives an error reading but you could have the good grace and sense to blame it on the machine instead of the person. Hell, I, along with most of the other people in that line, am paying your salary! Be decent about it like the tens of thousands of citizens I encountered just a few hours later at Baltimore’s inner harbor out to experience Sailabration, the celebration of big ships from around the world. Thousands of people jammed the pavements and harbor edges, waited patiently in lines, strolled pathways and oohed and ahhed as the Blue Angels streaked above and past us in aerobatic turns for nearly an hour. Children giggled and danced in fountains as a remarkably diverse parade of Baltimore’s families, singles and couples strolled past. Guards policed the harbor edge and pleasantly requested that people not dangle their feet or other appendages over the edge. What delighted me most was that the turnout was to see our oldest form of transportation. People came not for the loud noise of polluting cars racing past them on city streets (Baltimore’s spectacular waste of precious resources on the Grand Prix) but to see large, elegant multi- masted schooners, rolling gently at anchor at docks sprinkled across the harbor. In our car mad society, we are still attracted to the beauty of furled sails, coiled lines, crows nests, steeply arched prows and bright flags flapping and snapping in the breeze. Other than the Blue Angels and the occasional hawker calling out on a portable PA system it was quiet and friendly. You could hear your own conversation and snatches of others as they walked by. There wasn’t much to do but see the boats, gawk at the Blue Angels, eat some food, smile and pass the time with strangers, check out a few booths and a smattering of rides. Maybe that was the point. Like so many others, we came just to be there—it was Sailabration. We came to celebrate the boats and the convivial Baltimore that came to see them. We can navigate on our feet, through the air, on the ground, but perhaps the oldest way –on water—is the one that still captures our imagination and sets us free. And there wasn’t a single TSA agent in sight.

What's So Good About Rituals?

At morning coffee a few weeks ago with Joel, one of my oldest and dearest friends, our conversation covered more than a dozen topics. The topic I’m still stuck on is ritual. I’ve been thinking about ritual a lot these days. I believe that we’re living in a ritually impoverished world and that’s why so many of us feel a bit empty. We say that we don’t need rituals, don’t have time for them, don’t like them. They’re boring, contrived or too formal. They make us uncomfortable because we’re conforming to someone else’s prescription for meaning or action. We reject rituals because we don’t get to choose what we like when the formula is already fixed. Yet we participate in dozens of rituals every day—from the time we wake until we go to sleep—and some would suggest even while we sleep.

A ritual, Joel and I decided in our discussion, might be any repetitive action or activity that gives meaning and purpose to our lives. Without rituals, we’d have a hard time getting through each day. Life would assault us with so many choices it would be unmanageable:  what kind of clothes to wear to work; what kind of food to eat at what time and where; how to begin the day and prepare ourselves for sleep; how to mark and experience life’s special moments—happy and sad.

We all have the right, of course, to reject rituals of other’s devising. Most are intended to create meaning and connection within a community—religious or secular. Just think of putting your hand over your heart and pledging allegiance to the flag. We don’t do it alone, we do it with others.  Participating in the pledge says, “I am a member of the community of the United States of America. I commit myself publicly to its basic ideals by showing respect for the flag that stands for our nation.”

When we disgard a ritual we’ve inherited and fail to replace it, we don’t just lose the ritual. We also lose connections with its purpose and the meaning it was intended to provide. If we don’t say grace, what does the act of eating mean?  If we don’t light candles or say a prayer for special occasions how do we know certain days are special and deserve our attention? More importantly, we cut one more thread between ourselves and the story of who we were and want to be.

Just a few days ago I attended the funeral of a friend’s brother. An accomplished dentist, wonderful friend, community organizer, beloved family man, adventurer and inveterate practical joker, hundreds came to mourn his passing in a traditional setting at a Jewish funeral home. Four moving eulogies attested to his integrity, intelligence, curiosity, compassion, great sense of humor and courage. I sat behind one of his closest friends at the funeral and wondered about the curious small brown paper bag he cradled in his lap. It read “Do not open until instructed.” I had never seen a funeral “party favor” before. When he was called up with his bag as an honorary pall bearer, I knew we were all in for something unusual. The honorary pall bearers took their places along both sides of the main aisle to form a farewell guard. The casket would be wheeled down the aisle and past the guard before leaving the main chapel. Each person opened his bag and pulled out a Groucho Marx set of glasses, nose and mustache or glasses with a clown nose or eyes on a spring. It instantly transformed what is usually a solemn, rather desolate experience into a collective moment of uplift. For a moment, Stephen was with us again playing a last great practical joke on the entire gathering. “Yes, we are all sad but this isn’t as serious as you think. Just another part of the trip. Smile when I pass by.  Remember me with joy.”  And we did. Even the rabbi who was unsure about the idea when it was first proposed saw its wisdom when it unfolded in the context of the service and the community. It was the perfect farewell gesture for this special man.

 Rituals ground us in a world that is less grounding all the time.  Find them, use them, infuse them with your own trademark style, but know that rituals for the good and the bad times in our lives help us to celebrate who we are.

Presidents’ Day is not about J C Penney

It’s bad form to whine but I’m feeling really cranky. I think I’ve got a legitimate complaint. We’re three days away from Presidents’ Day and the only  evidence of the holiday is that some people get a long weekend, the commercials on TV selling everything from furniture to cars, and the shopping specials cramming my email in-box.  I happen to think the tiny Abe Lincoln look alike jamming in front of his school locker for the J C Penney ad is funny, but it still annoys me that our greatest president has come to this.

The man who gave us “Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation: conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal,” is now selling discount department store specials on cable during the recession? Really? Is this the history lesson we want to teach our children? Is this the meaning of Presidents’ Day? Go shopping?  I don’t think we have to haul out our history books and spend the day remembering everything that Washington and Lincoln ever did. But wouldn’t it be nice if we did something to remember their remarkable contributions to our country? I feel 100% confident in saying that shopping is a tribute George and Abe would find more than a little disturbing and perturbing.

 It feels reminiscent of the charge President Bush gave us in the immediate aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. As Americans were still reeling from the impact of that terrible assault, the leader of our nation told us what we should do to prove that our attackers had not succeeded.

“Go shopping.”

 You know what? I don’t want to. There are plenty of times when I can go shopping and get bargains. National holidays were created for a purpose, and shopping wasn’t it even though all our merchants and marketers work very hard to make me think so.  Well, I don’t want to teach my children and grandchildren that that’s what we do on these days.  Each holiday has a special meaning. I choose to celebrate these holidays and their purpose with my family and friends.  I choose to celebrate who we were and who we are and can be as a nation.  Call me cranky or old-fashioned. I call it cool and retro.   I choose to celebrate us.  Give it a try this Presidents’ Day and see what you think. No sales, no stores, no shopping on the day itself.  Celebrate two of our country’s best presidents and the legacy of leadership and civic engagement they left us. Be good citizens and pass on the lessons of citizenship to others. Enjoy your weekend. Enjoy your holiday!

                                         www.freedomsfeast.us/presidents-day