Summer Solstice

Summer Solstice

Day of Magic

steps

When NASA was looking for a teacher to go into space on the shuttle, I applied. It was close to the deadline. I really had to hustle to submit all the application parts in time. I asked my local mayor for a recommendation. She said sure, but would I write it. That seemed too weird. Instead my friend, Rowena, wrote a wonderful recommendation. The mayor signed it.

That letter was so well written and complimentary that it probably accounted for me making it past the first cut. Just the first cut though. I was out of the running long before Christa McAuliffe was named astronaut teacher.

I was lucky as it turned out. I've enjoyed being alive all this time. On January 28, 1986 the Challenger exploded. All aboard died. The Space Shuttle program, too, was killed.

In a way, I have another chance to participate in the USA space program. (I think I can force through a metaphor or something here.)

Tomorrow is the 40th anniversary of Apollo 11 landing on the moon and the famous Neil Armstrong quote: "one small step for man; one giant step for mankind". Tomorrow I'm going to have the first of 3 joint replacements to make me walk well. It will be a bit of an ordeal and entirely insignificant for mankind, but really quite a giant step forward for me.

Of course I'm not looking forward to it. That would be crazy. Oddly though, I am looking forward to the opportunity to test my capacity for courage and grace in difficult circumstances. It's kind of like being an astronaut.

I remember well that Apollo 11 moon landing - July 20, 1969. My only child was almost 4 years old. We let him stay up late to see this momentous event, live, on TV. We tried to explain so he would understand the enormity of the event. When he grasped what we were saying, Greg was incredulous. "Wait a minute," he said. "Do you mean that no one has ever walked on the moon before this?"

The science fiction theme impinged on reality in our family at other times too. A decade later Jimmy Carter was campaigning for a second term against Ronald Reagan. My second son, Mike, was 9 years old. Mike was sure we were fooling him about the challenger's name. He just couldn't believe it. That's because Michael didn't hear 'Ronald Reagan'. He heard 'Ronald Ray-Gun'.

Michael misheard more than once. For years he thought our friend, Dan Thrope, had an infinitely better name: Dan Throw-up. Mr. Throw-Up.

Years passed. More astronauts walked on the moon. The Space Shuttle program was revived. The country took a stand against "The Evil Empire", but also prospered economically, under the stewardship of President Ray-Gun.

And tomorrow I celebrate the bravery and vision of the Apollo 11 astronauts in more ways than one.

Laundry Questions

My youngest daughter is impatient with me because I don't know the finer points of laundry. I do know that you can dump a bunch of dirty clothes and some detergent into the washing machine and then later take fresh clean clothes out of the drier.

She knows this much, and more, herself. She wants details.

A Good Mother, apparently, can answer all laundry-detail questions with authority and accuracy.

"Mom, can I wash my gauzy white blouse with bleach?"

"Sure, Honey."

"It's very fragile though, and the material is thin. Will the bleach ruin the fabric?"

" I don't think so."

"What do you mean 'I don't think so'?"

"Probably not."

"But probably isn't good enough. I have to know whether bleach will ruin this blouse."

"Well, if you have to know for sure, why not google it?"

This turned out to be a Bad Mother comment. The exasperating effect was made even worse by the fact that she mistakenly thought I said 'googler it', which seemed to demonstrate the same near-criminal ignorance of computer lingo as I had of laundry questions.

In fact, I do know some things about laundry. Most of my information was acquired the hard way.

For instance, I learned that you do not machine wash an elegant wine-red velvet dress that has a graceful neckline and long sleeves and covered buttons. You send the dress to the cleaners. I've been able to generalize from that heart-breaking lesson to acquire the broader insight that you do not machine wash and dry any velvet.

The hard way also taught me something about a load of diapers and another load of ordinarily quite washable dresses. Loads of laundry like that - and perhaps this can be broadened to include all laundry - ought not to be left in a New York City laundromat overnight and into the next afternoon.

I've learned other lessons about bleeding dyes, and shrinkable knits, and things in pockets, and fraying seams.

I've learned lots, but not everything. I'm not a laundry psychic. I can't predict the future for every piece of clothing in the hamper.

I'd like to though. I would like to draw on personal knowledge to dispense solid laundry advice at will. But I don't want to learn much more the hard way. I prefer the easy way. And I think I know just what to do.

Arcane "Good Mother" Laundry Tips. I'll just googler it.

Hearts

        The spring I turned 9 was the same spring I discovered bleeding hearts.  I remember

the moment well.

  I can still smell it.  Lying in the grassy slope by a rock garden in our new backyard, I was captivated by the little pink and white hearts that dangled from the stems of a mysterious plant.  The hearts swung a little in the breeze.

The intricate perfection of this flower's form filled me with awe.  

I wished I knew the name of this flower.  In fact,  I remember that moment of regretting my misfortune in not being born as the kind of person who knew the names of flowers, of sea shells, and of night time constellations.

Eight years later, when I was almost twice as old, I met this guy.  He knew the names of things.  It wasn't so much a case of being a certain type of person, he explained to me.  He just looked this stuff up in books.

What a talent.  I wanted in.  I married the guy.

All this time and no regrets.  Now I can recognize bleeding hearts and dahlias, scallops and cowry, Orion and Cassiopeia.   And more.

Ban Ki-moon and UNA USA MUN

    This picture, taken just a couple of hours ago, is of Ban Ki-moon, Secretary General of the United Nations.  He is in the General Assembly Hall, talking to 2000 teenagers.   These students have travelled from many U.S. states and from 17 countries to take part in a 3 day model United Nations conference.

     Ban Ki-moon is both relaxed and animated.  I think he likes young people.  He speculates that a future United Nations Secretary General might well be in the audience and he encourages all to consider a life of public service.

     Public service. In spite of what the skeptics think, it's a powerful idea that is still alive.

     Students from the audience ask him questions.  They are so earnest, so idealistic.  Some questions are undisguised challenges.  Ban Ki-moon is also earnest as he replies.  He is respectful of the idealism.  He is respectful of the challenges.   He tells the students that he can learn from them.  "So can the adult delegates who usually sit in these chairs," he says.  "They, too, have much to learn from your energy and enthusiasm."

     We were dismissed after Opening Ceremonies.  By luck, the discharge pattern put me out early.  I walked south on 1st Avenue past the whole United Nations complex.  Groups of lively students crowded the sidewalks.  There was a bench at 42nd Street.  I sat down.  It was twilight and a light rain had started.  Throngs of students moved past.  They looked particularly alert and happy.  Occasionally something would reveal a bit about a student's cultural identity - a group of laughing girls in kerchiefs, three boys running through an open space shouting out to each other in Italian,  a nun in habit with teenagers crowded against her sharing one umbrella. 

     Mostly though, differences were not apparent.  All those young people looked the same: bright and competent.

     Even the warmest supporter on the United Nations, like myself, recognizes serious flaws in the organization.

     But even the most cynical opponent of the U.N., had he sat listening in the General Assembly Hall this evening or watching on the park bench at 42nd and 1st a little later, even the most pessimistic could not have failed to recognize the hopeful promise of these laughing young people eager to carry our future.    

     

     

May Day Joy

     On another May 1st, when I was 10 years old, my mother described the custom for using flowers to spread spring's joy.

     This is how it works:  On the first day of May, you gather bouquets of flowers from spring's floral bounty.  You tie each bouquet with a ribbon or put it in a lace doily cone.  Then you bring it to a neighbor's front door, leave it on the doormat, ring the bell, and run away quickly to hide.  The neighbor answers the door.  Nothing is there but the beautiful flowers left anonymously on the door step.    The neighbor's heart is filled with the joy of spring.

      Really? I was skeptical.  Why hadn't I heard of this custom before?  Mom assured me that children all over the world practiced this delightful May Day ritual.

     Children like the ones that went to my new school?

     Yes, children everywhere, she said.

     But then why hadn't we given flowers to our neighbors last May Day when we lived on that lovely hillside outside of Portland, Oregon?

     Mom didn't have to explain.  I knew why.  On one side our neighbors were a bunch of sheep.  They would have eaten the bouquet and with no particular joy.  There was an open meadow on the other side - a sea of tall grass surrounded by evergreens.  When I played there, grass almost hid me.  There was not a natural recipient for the May Day joy in the direction of the meadow any more than on the side of the sheep.   Behind the house was woods as far as you could go.  If you were a kid.  In front, there was a stand of pine trees and a forgotten garden that still offered up rhubarb every year.

     In San Gabriel, California, where my mother introduced us to the May Day custom, houses were closer together.  Mom thought it would be a good idea for my brothers and sister and I to deliver a bouquet to our next door neighbors.

     I was resistant.  Two cranky old ladies lived next door.  They kept their window shades down.  They didn't like us.  It didn't seem as if they had much use for joy anyway.  But in this matter my mother was insistently persuasive.  We agreed to bring them May Day flowers.

     There was another obstacle though.  Where were the flowers?  We had a magnificent yard in San Gabriel.  There were 14 fruit trees, not counting the huge walnut tree or the non-bearing grapefruit and avocado.  There weren't any flowers except the lovely camelias on the patio and surely those were out of bounds for picking.

     We selected the best from the ample supply of dandelions.  The milky fluid in their stems ran down our arms and got on our clothes.  There were some violets too.  We added some other pretty things, like feathers and little sticks, to fill out the bouquet.  It looked pitiful.  The short-stemmed dandelions and violets wilted before delivery.  We didn't have any ribbon in the house on that particular day and I doubt we ever had lace doily cones.   Nevertheless, we deposited our homely bouquet on the old ladies' doormat, rang their doorbell, and ran for cover.  The crabbier of the two opened the door.  She looked around, but not down.  She put her hands on her hips and muttered something out of keeping with the spirit of the happy season, and went back inside.

     There weren't any other frolicking children leaving spring joy on their neighbors' doorsteps.  However many children followed this custom elsewhere, it was apparently unheard of in southern California.

     Although my May Day adventure was unsuccessful then, I find myself enchanted with the idea now.  Lilacs are blooming just outside my front door.  They are so pretty.  Their fragrance is is an elixir.  I'd like to leave them on your doorsteps.

     Perhaps their magic can be transmitted electronically.  For anyone who chances upon my blog, I leave you these lilacs, and the spring joy that comes with them.

      

Chandelier

This is the chandelier in the French Embassy on 5th Avenue.  Outside the windows you can glimpse dusk over Central Park