I'm going to go out on a limb right now and predict something: There will be a health care bill passed before the end of the year and it will include a public option.
President Obama is a savvy politician-- probably the best that Washington has seen in two generations. He's also really, really smart and really, really patient when he has to be.
Everyone is crying right now because the White House hasn't presented a bill and the President has not spoken out to draw a line in the sand, letting legislators know what he will and won't sign off on. This is deliberate. The minute he puts a nail down, he provides the opposition with something to hang their hat on. He's not going to give them any help.
Also, by letting things play out, he's letting public opinion (a) form and (b) get back to the individual legislators, each of whom is primarily concerned with getting re-elected.
I agree that to some degree he has pulled a "take-away" on the public option, a car sales technique where the salesman tells the customer, who is drooling over the high-option vehicle but whining about the price, "Well, it's a shame you can't afford this beautiful Cadillac with the sun roof, leather seats, GPS and satellite radio. Let's go look at something in your price range-- I've got a some economy cars with cloth seats and crank windows."
Congress is now the husband who has to go back and tell the wife (the public) why he is jeopardizing the purchase of the Cadillac that SHE has fallen in love with. She's reminding him that they just bought a new, tricked-out truck for him and a bass boat last year, and he wants her to settle for a Chevy Cavalier? And what about that fishing trip you paid for last year and took three of your friends on?
No husband ever wants to have that conversation, and every husband knows how it will end: She'll get her Cadillac. She may have to compromise and get the 22" rims instead of the 24s and she may let the GPS go but keep the satellite radio, but she will have her Caddy.
I just wish the Dems were smarter about controlling terminology. Stop calling it a "public option" and call it a "nonprofit option."
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Stupid Bengal Tricks
It’s amazing how something that can’t talk can reduce you to complete, sputtering incoherency.
This morning, BikerDude had to get up early (at 6:00) in order to get to his 8:00 class, but I wanted to sleep in a little longer. Hah! All of the cats got the idea that since someone was up, everyone should be up, so they began a relentless campaign. After BikerDude had left and before my alarm went off, MonkeyChild's little Mama Cat Denny had taken over the bed-- quite an accomplishment for a cat that weighs less than six pounds. She was simultaneously tunneling under the covers, biting my hand to get me to pet her, purring LOUDLY and chasing off any other cat who tried to get onto the bed.
Meanwhile, Razor had stolen the drain plug from the bathroom sink and was playing hockey with it in the bathroom. Nothing like the quiet sounds of a hard rubber disk being smacked against vinyl floor, porcelain and the walls accompanied by the galumphing of a 15 lb. moose cat pouncing around after it to lull you back to sleep. A few minutes later there was a hissing and swatting match at my bedroom door, but I ignored it. Kaos retreated from his attempts to get on the bed (thwarted by Denny) and took up residence on top of the wardrobe, perched like a gargoyle on one corner and sizing up the opposition as the came and went from the room.
I had just about dozed off when I realized that someone was on the jewelry armoire next to my bed (a little chest on four spindly legs that has all of my jewelry in it and also serves as a bedside table for me at the moment, until I can find some good bookshelves that are the right height). I thought it was Kaos, who generally climbs on everything, but no. It was Razor. Who is (a) MUCH less agile than Kaos and (b) far too big to be climbing on such a precarious piece of furniture. Which he discovered when he let out a startled little yip as he lost his footing and fell to the floor. I turned over to make sure that he was alright and realized what he had been doing up there: Reaching down, opening a drawer and fishing out one of my necklaces!
Do you know how many swear words you can mutter when you are half-asleep? A lot. I think I made up a few.
Which will give me something to pray about later, I suppose, so it all works out.
This morning, BikerDude had to get up early (at 6:00) in order to get to his 8:00 class, but I wanted to sleep in a little longer. Hah! All of the cats got the idea that since someone was up, everyone should be up, so they began a relentless campaign. After BikerDude had left and before my alarm went off, MonkeyChild's little Mama Cat Denny had taken over the bed-- quite an accomplishment for a cat that weighs less than six pounds. She was simultaneously tunneling under the covers, biting my hand to get me to pet her, purring LOUDLY and chasing off any other cat who tried to get onto the bed.
Meanwhile, Razor had stolen the drain plug from the bathroom sink and was playing hockey with it in the bathroom. Nothing like the quiet sounds of a hard rubber disk being smacked against vinyl floor, porcelain and the walls accompanied by the galumphing of a 15 lb. moose cat pouncing around after it to lull you back to sleep. A few minutes later there was a hissing and swatting match at my bedroom door, but I ignored it. Kaos retreated from his attempts to get on the bed (thwarted by Denny) and took up residence on top of the wardrobe, perched like a gargoyle on one corner and sizing up the opposition as the came and went from the room.
I had just about dozed off when I realized that someone was on the jewelry armoire next to my bed (a little chest on four spindly legs that has all of my jewelry in it and also serves as a bedside table for me at the moment, until I can find some good bookshelves that are the right height). I thought it was Kaos, who generally climbs on everything, but no. It was Razor. Who is (a) MUCH less agile than Kaos and (b) far too big to be climbing on such a precarious piece of furniture. Which he discovered when he let out a startled little yip as he lost his footing and fell to the floor. I turned over to make sure that he was alright and realized what he had been doing up there: Reaching down, opening a drawer and fishing out one of my necklaces!
Do you know how many swear words you can mutter when you are half-asleep? A lot. I think I made up a few.
Which will give me something to pray about later, I suppose, so it all works out.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Never enough time
Part of the whole blogging thing is to get practice writing, but never having time to write seems to be defeating the purpose.
I suppose, like most things, it's all about what you make time for.
I would suggest that I am willing to let the housework go so that I can make time for my writing, but, sadly, looking around it becomes painfully obvious that I have already given up on that.
Maybe I can give up reading the newspaper in the evenings?
Anyway, life has a way of staying interesting.
BikerDude and I are entering a new phase of our life with the advent of grad school/seminary. He started last month and it's already been a long, strange trip. We've spent the last four years so focused on him going to school full-time and working full-time and having very little time for anything else that we both have to get used to him actually having free time! He's a full-time grad student now, so you'd think he'd have LESS time, but after the schedule he's kept for the last four years, he's seeking a little more balance.
I'm in favor of this, not surprisingly.
Change doesn't have to be scary... it can be kind of fun!
I suppose, like most things, it's all about what you make time for.
I would suggest that I am willing to let the housework go so that I can make time for my writing, but, sadly, looking around it becomes painfully obvious that I have already given up on that.
Maybe I can give up reading the newspaper in the evenings?
Anyway, life has a way of staying interesting.
BikerDude and I are entering a new phase of our life with the advent of grad school/seminary. He started last month and it's already been a long, strange trip. We've spent the last four years so focused on him going to school full-time and working full-time and having very little time for anything else that we both have to get used to him actually having free time! He's a full-time grad student now, so you'd think he'd have LESS time, but after the schedule he's kept for the last four years, he's seeking a little more balance.
I'm in favor of this, not surprisingly.
Change doesn't have to be scary... it can be kind of fun!
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Eight Year Later
It doesn't seem like only eight years ago.
At the risk of sounding like a cliche, it was such a beautiful morning. A perfect late summer-- the skies were a beautiful blue, it was cool with low humidity and just a hint of fall in the air.
I was running late (as usual) and was in the kitchen and first floor bathroom getting ready to leave for work when NPR, just finishing its Morning Edition broadcast and preparing to begin its morning classical music, paused and Seth Williamson said, "We're just getting news that a plane has hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York..."
There was still a lot of confusion. A plane? What size? Everyone was thinking a small, private plane, but how could a pilot have been THAT confused or lost on such a clear, beautiful morning with unlimited visibility?
Curious, I flipped on the TV and tuned in to CNN, figuring that they would have the most immediate coverage.
I was watching, casually interested, when the second plane hit.
I immediately knew what had happened, and felt a chill go down my spine.
The second plane was unmistakable. It was definitely a full-sized passenger jet, and it flew full-speed, straight into the building. It was clearly deliberate. The World Trade Center had been a target of terrorism just a few years before, and Oklahoma City was still pretty fresh in everyone's mind. I didn't immediately call up the name Osama bin Ladin, but I did recall that the Saudi guy who was behind the first bombing had never been caught.
I watched for a few minutes, then headed for work. The radio stations still hadn't caught up with events-- NPR was playing classical music and everyone else had their regular programming on. I finally found ABC radio on the AM dial and listened to Peter Jennings start sorting things out. He was the first one to use the word, "terrorism." I felt ill.
I got to work and told the receptionist and the facilities manager to turn the radio and/or TV on, two planes had just hit the WTC and it wasn't an accident.
When I got upstairs I told folks as I passed, "Turn your radios on!" Some already had-- word was starting to get around.
About the time I got to my office and got my radio turned on and my computer booted up, word was coming in that something had happened at the Pentagon. Reports were still sketchy: A plane had flown into it. No, a helicopter. No, a helicopter had blown up on the landing pad. No, it was a plane...
All of the news websites were overloaded and no one could get online. The radio now mentioned that a plane had gone down somewhere in central Pennsylvania, and that the Secretary of Defense had shut down all air travel and ordered all of the airplanes out of the sky.
Kristen, an Analyst who worked with me, was frantic. Her parents were scheduled to fly out of Pittsburgh that morning and she wasn't able to get them on the phone. There was no information about the plane in Pennsylvania and she was practically hysterical. We tried to assure her that the fact that she couldn't get through to their cell phones probably didn't mean anything-- communications were either down or overloaded all over the eastern seaboard, so most calls weren't getting through, especially anything north of us.
Meanwhile, Rachael, in the office next to mine, was calmer but still very worried--she had a brother and a sister living in New York, the sister in Tribeca, not far from the part of Manhattan that was under attack. No one in her family had been able to get through, but they knew that wasn't unusual.
Rachael and I tried, on our respective computers, to get onto a news website, any news website. CNN, NPR, all of the networks, the Washington Post, the New York Times... nothing. Too busy. Finally, I got onto the BBC website and we had our first look at the burning towers. We stood watching, horrified, listening to the live broadcast coming through from NPR. While we were watching, the North Tower came down. We started to cry, quietly.
The office was at a standstill. Nothing was getting done. Anyone who had gotten through to a website had several other people gathered around, watching in shocked silence. Several of our IT folks were supposed to be flying back to Charlottesville, some from Dayton, some from New York, and they hadn't yet checked in.
Before we could pull ourselves away, Security came through the building. They were shutting the company down and evacuating the building-- no one could stay behind. Across the street and down a couple of blocks from our building looms a tall, forbidding, fortress-like structure that until a few months before had housed the National Ground Intelligence Center for the US Army. Among other things, it tracked all of the air traffic for the country. Clearly the air traffic was under attack, and no one knew yet who was behind it or how current their intelligence might be. If whoever it was decided to do something to sabotage Army intelligence under such an attack, the NGIC would be a high-value target. Did the enemy know that the building on the edge of the Downtown Mall no longer housed this agency? Who knew? But all of the businesses in the area were advised to evacuate. Quickly.
I shut everything down and left. I went to the blood center to donate blood, but was turned away. The wait was over 2 hours and they were telling people to come back the next day. I headed home and called my parents, who were already watching, then Karen and Marcy who both live in Northern Virginia to see if they had gotten home safely. For the rest of the day I mostly laid on the sofa with my cats and watched the news, horrified, terrified, sad, angry. My only conscious thought, which I knew I would eventually soften, was, "Kill them. Kill them all and let God sort them out."
It wasn't a hot and angry response. It was a cold and furious one.
It turned out that Kristen's parents were fine. They had just taken off when the pilot came over the speakers and told them that they were turning around and landing the plane. I don't know how much explanation they got until they landed. Not long afterwards, Kristen decided to leave Charlottesville and move back to Pennsylvania to be closer to her family and to get her MLS so that she could become a law librarian.
Rachael's family was also fine, although her sister in Tribeca had to move out for awhile until power and services were fully restored.
Our IT folks all landed safely, but could get no further than Dayton. They finally rented a car and drove back to Charlottesville, arriving sometime Tuesday evening.
Unfortunately, two of our coworkers were not so lucky. Two Reed Elsevier employees from the New York office were on one of the flights that hit the WTC. The company devoted a memorial to them and has a scholarship fund in their names.
Over the next couple of days, the thing I remember the most is the expressions of sympathy and grief that came from around the world. Someone on the web compiled a collection of photos and it can still make me well up. It was so beautiful, and so humbling, to see the tributes outside of American embassies and consulate offices around the world--not the official expressions, but the heartfelt tributes from everyday people who wanted all of us Americans to know that we were not alone. It was all meaningful and touching, and I hope that they all know that.
This was also President Bush's one brief, shining moment. His speech at Ground Zero and later before the joint session of Congress were, sadly, the highlights of his presidency. He was never more articulate or more sincere than he was in those moments, which is one of the reasons that I hold him in such contempt. Clearly, he had the skills. He had it in him to be so much more than what he became. The fact that he squandered not only the national and international good will that poured out on him that day but also his own potential to rise up and be a genuine leader is disgusting. Sadly, for me that is going to be the epitaph of his entire administration: He could have been so much more.
At the risk of sounding like a cliche, it was such a beautiful morning. A perfect late summer-- the skies were a beautiful blue, it was cool with low humidity and just a hint of fall in the air.
I was running late (as usual) and was in the kitchen and first floor bathroom getting ready to leave for work when NPR, just finishing its Morning Edition broadcast and preparing to begin its morning classical music, paused and Seth Williamson said, "We're just getting news that a plane has hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York..."
There was still a lot of confusion. A plane? What size? Everyone was thinking a small, private plane, but how could a pilot have been THAT confused or lost on such a clear, beautiful morning with unlimited visibility?
Curious, I flipped on the TV and tuned in to CNN, figuring that they would have the most immediate coverage.
I was watching, casually interested, when the second plane hit.
I immediately knew what had happened, and felt a chill go down my spine.
The second plane was unmistakable. It was definitely a full-sized passenger jet, and it flew full-speed, straight into the building. It was clearly deliberate. The World Trade Center had been a target of terrorism just a few years before, and Oklahoma City was still pretty fresh in everyone's mind. I didn't immediately call up the name Osama bin Ladin, but I did recall that the Saudi guy who was behind the first bombing had never been caught.
I watched for a few minutes, then headed for work. The radio stations still hadn't caught up with events-- NPR was playing classical music and everyone else had their regular programming on. I finally found ABC radio on the AM dial and listened to Peter Jennings start sorting things out. He was the first one to use the word, "terrorism." I felt ill.
I got to work and told the receptionist and the facilities manager to turn the radio and/or TV on, two planes had just hit the WTC and it wasn't an accident.
When I got upstairs I told folks as I passed, "Turn your radios on!" Some already had-- word was starting to get around.
About the time I got to my office and got my radio turned on and my computer booted up, word was coming in that something had happened at the Pentagon. Reports were still sketchy: A plane had flown into it. No, a helicopter. No, a helicopter had blown up on the landing pad. No, it was a plane...
All of the news websites were overloaded and no one could get online. The radio now mentioned that a plane had gone down somewhere in central Pennsylvania, and that the Secretary of Defense had shut down all air travel and ordered all of the airplanes out of the sky.
Kristen, an Analyst who worked with me, was frantic. Her parents were scheduled to fly out of Pittsburgh that morning and she wasn't able to get them on the phone. There was no information about the plane in Pennsylvania and she was practically hysterical. We tried to assure her that the fact that she couldn't get through to their cell phones probably didn't mean anything-- communications were either down or overloaded all over the eastern seaboard, so most calls weren't getting through, especially anything north of us.
Meanwhile, Rachael, in the office next to mine, was calmer but still very worried--she had a brother and a sister living in New York, the sister in Tribeca, not far from the part of Manhattan that was under attack. No one in her family had been able to get through, but they knew that wasn't unusual.
Rachael and I tried, on our respective computers, to get onto a news website, any news website. CNN, NPR, all of the networks, the Washington Post, the New York Times... nothing. Too busy. Finally, I got onto the BBC website and we had our first look at the burning towers. We stood watching, horrified, listening to the live broadcast coming through from NPR. While we were watching, the North Tower came down. We started to cry, quietly.
The office was at a standstill. Nothing was getting done. Anyone who had gotten through to a website had several other people gathered around, watching in shocked silence. Several of our IT folks were supposed to be flying back to Charlottesville, some from Dayton, some from New York, and they hadn't yet checked in.
Before we could pull ourselves away, Security came through the building. They were shutting the company down and evacuating the building-- no one could stay behind. Across the street and down a couple of blocks from our building looms a tall, forbidding, fortress-like structure that until a few months before had housed the National Ground Intelligence Center for the US Army. Among other things, it tracked all of the air traffic for the country. Clearly the air traffic was under attack, and no one knew yet who was behind it or how current their intelligence might be. If whoever it was decided to do something to sabotage Army intelligence under such an attack, the NGIC would be a high-value target. Did the enemy know that the building on the edge of the Downtown Mall no longer housed this agency? Who knew? But all of the businesses in the area were advised to evacuate. Quickly.
I shut everything down and left. I went to the blood center to donate blood, but was turned away. The wait was over 2 hours and they were telling people to come back the next day. I headed home and called my parents, who were already watching, then Karen and Marcy who both live in Northern Virginia to see if they had gotten home safely. For the rest of the day I mostly laid on the sofa with my cats and watched the news, horrified, terrified, sad, angry. My only conscious thought, which I knew I would eventually soften, was, "Kill them. Kill them all and let God sort them out."
It wasn't a hot and angry response. It was a cold and furious one.
It turned out that Kristen's parents were fine. They had just taken off when the pilot came over the speakers and told them that they were turning around and landing the plane. I don't know how much explanation they got until they landed. Not long afterwards, Kristen decided to leave Charlottesville and move back to Pennsylvania to be closer to her family and to get her MLS so that she could become a law librarian.
Rachael's family was also fine, although her sister in Tribeca had to move out for awhile until power and services were fully restored.
Our IT folks all landed safely, but could get no further than Dayton. They finally rented a car and drove back to Charlottesville, arriving sometime Tuesday evening.
Unfortunately, two of our coworkers were not so lucky. Two Reed Elsevier employees from the New York office were on one of the flights that hit the WTC. The company devoted a memorial to them and has a scholarship fund in their names.
Over the next couple of days, the thing I remember the most is the expressions of sympathy and grief that came from around the world. Someone on the web compiled a collection of photos and it can still make me well up. It was so beautiful, and so humbling, to see the tributes outside of American embassies and consulate offices around the world--not the official expressions, but the heartfelt tributes from everyday people who wanted all of us Americans to know that we were not alone. It was all meaningful and touching, and I hope that they all know that.
This was also President Bush's one brief, shining moment. His speech at Ground Zero and later before the joint session of Congress were, sadly, the highlights of his presidency. He was never more articulate or more sincere than he was in those moments, which is one of the reasons that I hold him in such contempt. Clearly, he had the skills. He had it in him to be so much more than what he became. The fact that he squandered not only the national and international good will that poured out on him that day but also his own potential to rise up and be a genuine leader is disgusting. Sadly, for me that is going to be the epitaph of his entire administration: He could have been so much more.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Morning with Bengals
I was awakened this morning at the bright and early hour of 5:45 by the sound of Razor playing hockey with the drain plug in the bathroom. THUMP-scramble-scramble-scramble-THUMP! He then got into a brief spat with Tweak, where she growled and he yowled and they both stared, circled and occasionally took half-hearted swipes at each other. At least he's finally standing up to her, but I wish he'd do so quietly, especially before the alarm goes off...
Kaos prefers to sleep in, but he can be easily persuaded to wake up and join the fun. Usually Razor supervises my morning ablutions as well as any ironing I may choose to do. He likes to sit in the windowsill of the bathroom while I'm in the shower, then jump into the tub as soon as I turn the water off. That is, if Tweak doesn't beat him into the bathroom and park herself on the toilet first. Then he paces the floor and yowls indignantly while she pretends to ignore him, reveling in her momentary victory.
Once Kaos wakes up, though, it's climbing time. He gets on the dresser while I'm picking out my earrings and tries to paw through my jewelry box, then climbs onto my shoulder while I'm trying to get dressed. Once Brian is up, too, it's time to play in the sheets! Both of the boys enjoy a brisk game of "bed weasels," but Kaos can't get enough. I usually end up just making him up into the bed. He rarely misses breakfast, so it's clearly not terribly difficult to escape when properly motivated.
I think tonight I shall reprise the pork tacos that I made the other night-- I've still got half of a pork tenderloin to use up. I've become an expert on 30 Minute Meals-- thank you, Rachael Ray! Although I usually alter her recipes somewhat to lower the fat and calories and cut the pasta measurements in half (who the heck is she cooking for, the Offensive Line for the New England Patriots??!!!). Anyway, Brian really liked the recipe, despite the fact that it was a Weight Watchers one. As he was eating it, he said, "I usually don't really like chicken, but this is excellent!"
"Um, Sweetie, that's because it's pork..."
Sigh.
Kaos prefers to sleep in, but he can be easily persuaded to wake up and join the fun. Usually Razor supervises my morning ablutions as well as any ironing I may choose to do. He likes to sit in the windowsill of the bathroom while I'm in the shower, then jump into the tub as soon as I turn the water off. That is, if Tweak doesn't beat him into the bathroom and park herself on the toilet first. Then he paces the floor and yowls indignantly while she pretends to ignore him, reveling in her momentary victory.
Once Kaos wakes up, though, it's climbing time. He gets on the dresser while I'm picking out my earrings and tries to paw through my jewelry box, then climbs onto my shoulder while I'm trying to get dressed. Once Brian is up, too, it's time to play in the sheets! Both of the boys enjoy a brisk game of "bed weasels," but Kaos can't get enough. I usually end up just making him up into the bed. He rarely misses breakfast, so it's clearly not terribly difficult to escape when properly motivated.
I think tonight I shall reprise the pork tacos that I made the other night-- I've still got half of a pork tenderloin to use up. I've become an expert on 30 Minute Meals-- thank you, Rachael Ray! Although I usually alter her recipes somewhat to lower the fat and calories and cut the pasta measurements in half (who the heck is she cooking for, the Offensive Line for the New England Patriots??!!!). Anyway, Brian really liked the recipe, despite the fact that it was a Weight Watchers one. As he was eating it, he said, "I usually don't really like chicken, but this is excellent!"
"Um, Sweetie, that's because it's pork..."
Sigh.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Settling in
MonkeyChild has been back with us for a couple of weeks now, one of which we spent at the beach while she had the house to herself, which may or may not have eased the transition. It's good to have her back. She brought with her six little buddies, however: Cydnee, former resident kitty, Denny, a small white-with-gray-spots cat who is less than a year old, and Denny's four kittens, the result of MonkeyChild missing the spay appointment, then letting her outside.
The kittens are, not surprisingly, adorable: A solid black girl (Fiona, aka Fifi), a solid gray girl (Lulu), a gray and white tuxedo boy (D'Artagnan, aka Tanner) and a white with gray boy who looks like his mom (Smudge). All six have been confined to MonkeyChild's room until they get their shots updated and a clean bill of health (appointments this Friday). The resident cats are fascinated by the sounds and smells coming out of that room, but so far there has been no interaction. Tweak will occasionally live up to her name, smell someone coming out of the room, hiss at them and run away. Little freak. The boys are more laid-back.
Anyone want a kitten?
The kittens are, not surprisingly, adorable: A solid black girl (Fiona, aka Fifi), a solid gray girl (Lulu), a gray and white tuxedo boy (D'Artagnan, aka Tanner) and a white with gray boy who looks like his mom (Smudge). All six have been confined to MonkeyChild's room until they get their shots updated and a clean bill of health (appointments this Friday). The resident cats are fascinated by the sounds and smells coming out of that room, but so far there has been no interaction. Tweak will occasionally live up to her name, smell someone coming out of the room, hiss at them and run away. Little freak. The boys are more laid-back.
Anyone want a kitten?
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Grandma Wright-Lawhorne
Dave Barry posted a link to an article today about a new fashion trend: Women/models shaving or waxing their eyebrows. He opined that this gives them all of the sexy allure of a lightbulb. I don't disagree, but I was reminded of my grandmother. Grandma Lawhorne (Grandma Wright for the first 11 years of my life, until she remarried) used to pluck her eyebrows until she had removed them completely, then pencil them in thinly with an eyebrow pencil. This was apparently quite fashionable in the '30s and '40s, and is a trend she followed her entire life. Unfortunately, after years of doing this her eyebrows stopped growing back. Also, she had a less-than-steady hand with the eyebrow pencil, so invariably one of her eyebrows would be higher than the other, giving her a permanent surprised look.
Anyway, I wrote this remembrance of her for her funeral in June of 2007. Since I'm thinking of her, I thought now would be a good time to post it:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When my college friends and I were first getting to know each other, we frequently exchanged stories about our families—our histories, hometowns, schools and relatives. Of course, we all tried to keep the various family members straight: Is that your Italian grandmother or the one who lives in Georgia? Do you mean your married sister or the one at UVA? I quickly learned that my stories about my grandmother had taken on a certain flavor when one of my friends asked me, "Is that the grandmother who's a great cook but can't drive?"
Yes, that would be the one.
As for her driving, what can I say? Just as there are no atheists in foxholes, passengers in Grandma's car were frequently forced to contemplate their own mortality—or at least to reflect seriously on their insurance coverage. She zoomed around town—one foot on the brake, one on the gas—a menace to everyone on the road. And the sidewalk. Even parked cars and buildings weren't safe. We frequently marveled at her ability to retain her license, but I think Mark was correct in assessing that no police officer wanted to be the one to give this sweet little old lady a ticket, so they just sent her on her way with a warning. If only they knew…
But as bad as her driving was, her cooking… well, that was in a category of it's own, as well, but for far different reasons. Grandma didn't just fix dinner. She put on a spread, worthy of the farm she was raised on and the eleven siblings that grew up around her table: Two kinds of meat, three vegetables (including, always, a green and a yellow one), homemade pickles, gravy and biscuits. Oh, those biscuits! Mom once tried to get her recipe and quickly realized that it was hopeless. Grandma made biscuits with instinct and skill that required no recipe. She just threw the ingredients together until they "were right"—measuring the flour with a broken teacup and adding the other ingredients with a practiced eye and a pinch or this or that.
And she always had at least two desserts in case someone didn't like one of the choices. The only thing that she could never master in the kitchen was making a cake from a mix. She would read the instructions that told her to simply add water and would exclaim, "You can't make a cake like that!" and would then proceed to add extra eggs, milk, oil, shortening, flavoring—whatever she thought was missing. The result was frequently a dense mess, riddled with toothpicks used to hold the layers together (we kids learned early on to cut the cake bites into small pieces with our forks before eating unless we wished to be speared).
But as wonderful as her cooking was, it was merely a reflection of what was really behind it: Hospitality. Grandma's house was always open to all, and visitors were welcomed with a comfortable place to sit, a big glass of tea or lemonade or an ice-cold Coca-Cola, and an invitation to a meal which few had the willpower to decline. Her brothers and sisters and their families gravitated to her home and her kitchen, as did her friends and neighbors. Grandma didn't always keep up with what was going on in the world and couldn't tell you what the latest Washington, DC scandal was about or who was starring in the latest movies, but she knew where all of her family members were and how they were doing and kept track of the ladies in her Sunday School class, the ladies she used to work with and both her siblings and Grandaddy Wright's eleven siblings and all of their families. If she didn't know the details, she knew the generalities of where everyone was living and their general state of health and well-being. Perhaps being from such a large family and marrying someone from an equally large family contributed to her ability to welcome anyone, any time to her home, but wherever the impulse came from, she lived the Christian virtue of hospitality as well as anyone I have known.
In Hebrews we are instructed, "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." Any angel who may have had the good fortune to show up at Grandma's door would have left comforted and well-fed, and probably carrying a doggy bag with a slice of cake or a few cookies for the road.
Finally, when I remember Grandma's delightfully batty personality and her conversational leaps that no amount of logic would allow you to follow, I can't help but smile. But what I remember, too, is that she was the first person to laugh at herself. Isn't that a wonderful legacy? To have provided comfort and caring and laughter to her family and friends. I'm sure that where she is now, she is calling together all of her brothers and sisters, clucking and fussing and making sure that they are all ok. And well-fed.
I love you, Grandma, and I'll miss you.
Sharon Wright Bower
6/4/2007
Anyway, I wrote this remembrance of her for her funeral in June of 2007. Since I'm thinking of her, I thought now would be a good time to post it:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When my college friends and I were first getting to know each other, we frequently exchanged stories about our families—our histories, hometowns, schools and relatives. Of course, we all tried to keep the various family members straight: Is that your Italian grandmother or the one who lives in Georgia? Do you mean your married sister or the one at UVA? I quickly learned that my stories about my grandmother had taken on a certain flavor when one of my friends asked me, "Is that the grandmother who's a great cook but can't drive?"
Yes, that would be the one.
As for her driving, what can I say? Just as there are no atheists in foxholes, passengers in Grandma's car were frequently forced to contemplate their own mortality—or at least to reflect seriously on their insurance coverage. She zoomed around town—one foot on the brake, one on the gas—a menace to everyone on the road. And the sidewalk. Even parked cars and buildings weren't safe. We frequently marveled at her ability to retain her license, but I think Mark was correct in assessing that no police officer wanted to be the one to give this sweet little old lady a ticket, so they just sent her on her way with a warning. If only they knew…
But as bad as her driving was, her cooking… well, that was in a category of it's own, as well, but for far different reasons. Grandma didn't just fix dinner. She put on a spread, worthy of the farm she was raised on and the eleven siblings that grew up around her table: Two kinds of meat, three vegetables (including, always, a green and a yellow one), homemade pickles, gravy and biscuits. Oh, those biscuits! Mom once tried to get her recipe and quickly realized that it was hopeless. Grandma made biscuits with instinct and skill that required no recipe. She just threw the ingredients together until they "were right"—measuring the flour with a broken teacup and adding the other ingredients with a practiced eye and a pinch or this or that.
And she always had at least two desserts in case someone didn't like one of the choices. The only thing that she could never master in the kitchen was making a cake from a mix. She would read the instructions that told her to simply add water and would exclaim, "You can't make a cake like that!" and would then proceed to add extra eggs, milk, oil, shortening, flavoring—whatever she thought was missing. The result was frequently a dense mess, riddled with toothpicks used to hold the layers together (we kids learned early on to cut the cake bites into small pieces with our forks before eating unless we wished to be speared).
But as wonderful as her cooking was, it was merely a reflection of what was really behind it: Hospitality. Grandma's house was always open to all, and visitors were welcomed with a comfortable place to sit, a big glass of tea or lemonade or an ice-cold Coca-Cola, and an invitation to a meal which few had the willpower to decline. Her brothers and sisters and their families gravitated to her home and her kitchen, as did her friends and neighbors. Grandma didn't always keep up with what was going on in the world and couldn't tell you what the latest Washington, DC scandal was about or who was starring in the latest movies, but she knew where all of her family members were and how they were doing and kept track of the ladies in her Sunday School class, the ladies she used to work with and both her siblings and Grandaddy Wright's eleven siblings and all of their families. If she didn't know the details, she knew the generalities of where everyone was living and their general state of health and well-being. Perhaps being from such a large family and marrying someone from an equally large family contributed to her ability to welcome anyone, any time to her home, but wherever the impulse came from, she lived the Christian virtue of hospitality as well as anyone I have known.
In Hebrews we are instructed, "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." Any angel who may have had the good fortune to show up at Grandma's door would have left comforted and well-fed, and probably carrying a doggy bag with a slice of cake or a few cookies for the road.
Finally, when I remember Grandma's delightfully batty personality and her conversational leaps that no amount of logic would allow you to follow, I can't help but smile. But what I remember, too, is that she was the first person to laugh at herself. Isn't that a wonderful legacy? To have provided comfort and caring and laughter to her family and friends. I'm sure that where she is now, she is calling together all of her brothers and sisters, clucking and fussing and making sure that they are all ok. And well-fed.
I love you, Grandma, and I'll miss you.
Sharon Wright Bower
6/4/2007
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