A Journey to the Deep South

Marty and I just returned from two weeks in Tennessee, Arkansas (for a good 20 minutes), Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana. Considering last year’s February/March trip was to Australia/New Zealand and the year prior was to Argentina, it seemed to fit right in for places to visit.

ATTENTION ATTENTION: This is a journaling moment for me. It’s going to be long and arduous and not that fun to read as it is a brain-dump. It has been difficult to try to process all of this so I am just going to try and write down some of what we did and how it impacted me. Please, please do not read this — it’s not like my other posts. I am, on purpose, not coming back to re-read or edit. If you get on this ride, get on at your own risk and dump out as soon as you like. There is no rhyme or reason or rhythm here…just processing for myself.

Antigentrification Coffee.

Gus’s World Famous Fried Chicken

So, the impetus for this trip was a wedding (more on that later), but because we’ve visited NOLA a few times in the past, we decided to take on a bit of the Civil Rights Trail. Why that? Why now? Why not? Since the murder of George Floyd (among others, but that is the one that shook us to our core), we’ve done a lot of reading and researching. Books such as Isabel Wilkerson’s Caste and The Warmth of Other Sons; Ibram X Kendi’s How to Be an Antiracist; Brittney Cooper’s Eloquent Rage; Ijeoma Oluo’s So You Want to Talk About Race; Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad; Clint Smith’s How the Word is Passed; and the list goes on and on. Not saying this to say, “Look at all of these cool books I’ve read,” but instead to share what we’ve been reading in case anyone wants to see how this shaped the trip we took.

While both of us have visited all 50 states in our country, neither of us ever visited with a tilt or a nod or a focus on our country’s Civil Rights history. Marty and I went to public schools and graduated 12 years apart. He graduated in 1967 (he was younger PLUS he skipped a grade); I graduated in 1979 (I was boring and did not skip a grade and graduated at 18, not 16 — whatever). While both of us learned a minimal amount about the “Civil Rights Movement” along the way, it was literally happening while Marty was a little boy. On this trip, we often thought about dates — “That was happening at my bar mitzvah,” — for Marty, that was 1963 or I was 15 when that was going on. And, let’s face it. Typical teenagers growing up in Portland were not thinking or learning much about what was happening in Selma or Birmingham. Freedom Riders? Bus boycotts? On the news, but not front of mind for someone who was living in a red lined space in Portland. And me? One of my first memories is of Martin Luther King Jr. being shot. I remember photos of water hoses and dogs. My elementary school was integrated almost by neighborhood — we lived not far from Park Hill — one of Denver’s more naturally integrated neighborhoods. But bussing happened from the time I was a little girl. It was just a part of normal life…except that I was never bussed. It was always other kids. A lot of Jewish kids from Southeast Denver were bussed up to my junior high. Bonus for me as I didn’t know any Jewish kids in my neighborhood, except for Debbie Friedman. What I’m not saying very well, here, is that Marty and I — though just a decade apart in years — both grew up fully unaware of what was happening around us. That, of course, is part of our privilege.

My parents were all for Black rights. They regularly talked about how good it was that “the Blacks are being treated equally.” My narrative was that because of all the laws that were passed, everything was equal and better for Black people and that was that. The Black kids I grew up with came from families that were often more professional/affluent than my own six-day-a-week working dad. There was always a Black kid or two at my birthday parties in elementary school. I always liked Marc as he was so cute, but he was a boy so not a whole lot of close contact in elementary…Sabra slapped me once in fourth grade. I may still be mad about that one. I went to church a couple of times with my friend, Bonnie. Her dad was a pastor in a mixed liberal church on Monaco and 32nd or somewhere like that. I just figured all churches were mixed like that one. What did I know? I went to a synagogue. By junior high, we had a few Black friends, but mostly they were girls — cool girls; badass, smart, funny, leader girls — Tammy Knight (may she rest in peace), Mary Haynes, Lisa Kennedy in high school. It’s not that I can’t spout off some of the names of the Black boys in my school — it’s that I didn’t much hang out with them.

So, I just went along with what I was taught never questioning anything. I never questioned when people said, “Stay out of five-points at night.” Heck, I didn’t even really know where Five Points was. Anyway, all of this rambling just to say I grew up very unaware that the entire country’s wealth was built on the back of those who were enslaved. It took me nearly 55 years to have a real look at what we were taught and how we were taught it — and that goes for my Jewish education, too. I was lead to believe that all the Jewish folks were deeply entrenched in helping the cause. I was only taught about the Jewish people who were helping rather than standing in the way of progress.

COVID and the murder of George Floyd changed things. WEA has been involved in trying to create positive change in a culture that is systemically entrenched in White supremacy. It’s messy. Sometimes there are tiny steps forward then large steps backward. Like so many white peeps who want to help, we go about it in a way that makes things worse and traumatic for our Black and Brown and Asian and, and, and colleagues. The good thing is that WEA created a space for many people to explore and learn and talk. While it traumatized so many, it also created space to have conversations with one another and with those who came from different backgrounds. For me, mostly, it created a deep space to have a conversation with myself. That sucked. I realized that I needed to fully re-educate myself about American history in general and specifically to take a real look at how our country built its wealth.

So COVID allowed time to read and to listen to podcasts and to check out the 1619 Project and so on. Being isolated in our homes for so long gave us the chance to sit with ourselves and to have that conversation. Reading was a start. Taking time to talk in both “white allies” and mixed groups — really watching my colleagues of color suffer through what was supposed to be “healing” conversations and so on, agitated the hell out of me. While sometimes I was able to gain a deeper understanding of what it was like to have to deal with microaggressions on a daily basis, I had to own the way I thought and spoke and the way I sometimes continue to do that — ways that add to others’ daily pain. So, again, that sucked.

Then I retired. I kept reading. I sometimes dropped out of groups because I felt they weren’t open to learning more or going deeper. All of that is what made me decide it was time to visit some of the places I’d heard about way back when I was a kid and read about as I grew older.

I was in Atlanta and lucky enough to spend some time learning about MLK there so we began our trip in Memphis — the place where his life was snuffed out when he was just 39 years old.

Marty, always the good sport, has also been reading and learning and watching films. Marty is a naturally curious human being. I love that because he’s willing to go along — even if he’s not sure he would do this on his own, he’s game for learning. Always.

Memphis was a great place to start. The other day, at the wedding, a woman told me she went to college in Memphis. “It’s a dangerous place,” she told me. I told her we were there for just a couple of nights, but that there wasn’t a moment where we felt in any kind of danger. I also reminded her (though I just barely had met her) that she went to college long ago and that maybe it was her perception then. Nope. She stuck to her story. Because we were at a wedding, I didn’t probe her. I didn’t say, “Hey, what made it feel ‘dangerous’ to you?” I just told her we loved it and walked away. I better person might have probed her to get her to face what made her think it was dangerous? But, I am judging. Maybe she thought it was dangerous because she was robbed by a white person and never got over it. Somehow I doubt that, but my fault for not probing more.

Marty stayed for a bit as people from Salve Haven were holding a press conference to try to raise money to refurbish after the fire. Why wouldn’t the city of Memphis do that? It’s a tourist attraction. Why make the Black community be “in charge” of this instead of putting in the money to help? Hmmm.

Okay, back to Memphis. We visited Stax Records — home of Isaac Hayes and Otis Redding. It felt like Stax was where the Black musicians got to be their whole selves where Motown was a little more limiting since those artists were “crossing over” to White radio markets. We had a great time learning about the history and how many artists lived so close to where that company began.

We tried to go to Slave Haven Underground Railroad Museum, but it was closed due to fire…not arson. Just a fire that happened from old/faulty wiring. Slave Haven was a stock yard owned by a German fellow who traded lots of cattle there right by the Mississippi River. He also aided countless slaves as they moved from save haven to safe haven as they tried to escape.

We heard that a lot. It’s in the DNA. It’s in the bones.

We tried to patronize Black-owned businesses; Anti-gentrification Coffee for Marty’s coffee; Biscuits and Jam for breakfast; Cozy Corner for lunch and in a place full of Black people, it is easy to find Black-owned businesses. And, by the way, YUM. Diet completely out the window. Totally, 100 percent worth it.

Every day I said I would eat healthy. Every day, that promise was over before breakfast was finished.

Beale Street that night. You know Marty and me…big drinkers. We were zonked. We listened to a few bands as we cruised by on foot. Earlier that day, we walked across the Mississippi into Arkansas so it was all over by then. We did learn about a Black gentleman named Tom Lee who couldn’t swim, but still managed to save 32 people by pulling them up time and time again on his 28′ skiff. He continued searching for those who were on the capsized steamboat deep into the night. There is a beautiful park that runs along the river that is named for Mr. Lee; with beautiful art work and hammocks for resting and listening spots for conversations. So, you know, we’d have never read about or learned about Tom Lee unless we took our walk to Arkansas.

Lots of artists have pieces in this beautiful park that runs along the river.

The following day, Wednesday, we set out for the National Civil Rights Museum which is directly linked to the Lorraine Motel where Rev. King was assassinated. The motel is part of the National Park Service and managed by the museum. Which. Was. Amazing. (I forgot to say we had dinner, the night before at Gus’s World Famous Fried Chicken. No words. Just juices). The museum, I believe, is Smithsonian affiliated. And, one can tell. The flow and the way the information is presented is engaging. We went for two hours. We stayed for four. We cut out Oxford, Mississippi on the way to Birmingham, but it was worth staying at the NCRM in Memphis for as long as it took to get through.

See how this is put up by the Tennessee Historical Commission? That makes sense. So many of the historical plaques we saw had to be put up privately … and funded privately. Pay attention to this.

Every teacher we ran into, and there were many because they kept telling their students not to cross in front of us (we WANTED them to cross in front of us. It did our hearts good to see so many students through all of these museums) — so many said, “They don’t want us teaching this anymore where we live.” I told them that the trend was like that in many parts of the country — not just “The South.”

Posting all of this to remind me. My stronger photos were on Facebook or Insta.

Last thing you see in this museum is the inside of the room — approaching the museum, you see the Lorraine Motel and the balcony. But here, we see the room where he passed his last moments. Thirty-nine years old. Can we imagine what he might have done given another 40 or 50 years?

The driveto Birmingham was easy. We stayed, that night (and for two more nights) with friend of Karen and Al’s — Esther and Allen. They were so hospitable and kind and fun. The following day (Friday) we were supposed to tour parts of Birmingham and some of the Jewish parts with them, but, once more, we ended up staying at Birmingham’s National Civil Rights Institute far longer than we planned. We also spent time at the park across the street — the one where we can all conjure up images of people being hosed down and bit by German Shepherds. Thanks to Nanette Goss, Marty and I watched a film about the Birmingham Children’s Crusade of 1963 which helped give us perspective on what we saw that day. Of course, we never learned at school that it was children — under 18-year-old children who were arrested by the thousands over those few days. Their parents were too scared. They had far too much to lose. Martin Luther King just about gave up on getting any action there in Birmingham, but the radio disc jockeys got the kids going. They were so strategically mobilized. That’s part of what we never learn — how incredibly, deeply well organized these actions were to get the federal government to move forward.

I always love when people say others are ignorant, but misspell what they are trying to say along the way. Thank you, US Citizen.

Seventy-eight cities? Thousands doing this? Why did we learn about just Woolworth’s?

Shabbat dinner with Esther and Allen and her brother and sister-in-law that night then on to Montgomery on Saturday where we were able to visit Bryan Stevenson’s Legacy Museum and the heart-wrenching, nausea-causing, National Memorial for Peace and Justice dedicated to the victims of white supremacy.

Montgomery is where Ms. Parks did her work. We visited her museum quick, quick just to pop in and pay homage to her. She was quite a woman. So many women played such a huge role in these actions.

In April, 2018, the NYT wrote the following: “In a plain brown building sits an office run by the Alabama Board of Pardons and Paroles, a place for people who have been held accountable for their crimes and duly expressed remorse.

“Just a few yards up the street lies a different kind of rehabilitation center, for a country that has not been held to nearly the same standard.”

From generation to generation.

You walk through a cloister with weathered columns that start off meeting you at eye level, but as you walk through, the floor descends and the columns that were right across from your face are now above so you find yourself looking at them as if you are witnessing a lynching. If you are Jewish, think about walking through Auschwitz or Yad Vashem or any of the harrowing, hallowed and (often) hopeful monuments or memorials where your feet have tread. This is very, very much the same. Your stomach hurts. You don’t think you can take it anymore and you have to continue because you must bear witness to those who died for no reason and at the hands of people who literally got away with murder anytime they chose. No recourse. Stevenson is about to open one other sculpture park there in Montgomery. I wish we could have seen it.

This monument begins at eye level.

As you continue, the floor slants lower and the steel blocks begin to rise.

As you continue, you realize that you are in the same position that so many people were in when they went to “picnics” to witness lynchings.

Lots of room in this memorial as they will be adding more as the research continues.

A mile away sits the first white house of the confederacy. We heard that the governor of Alabama has yet to step foot in the museum. I don’t know if that is true. I believe this whole project is being funded by the Equal Justice Initiative. I don’t know if there is any money coming from Alabama State — I didn’t research that. Every American needs to visit Montgomery. Even if they go nowhere else to learn…the Legacy Museum and National Monument is enough. To see a floor to ceiling wall of jars of soil that families of those who were lynch collected; to learn and relearn how many people died in the Middle Passage on their way from Africa (which was a blessing compared to the atrocities that awaited them as kidnapped, trafficked human beings without any way out); that’s enough. It’s better if you can see more, but if you saw just that (and threw in the Rosa Parks Memorial Museum for good measure there in Montgomery) it would be enough. Sobering, to say the least.

On Sunday, instead of driving the route that the marchers took from Selma to Montgomery, we took side highways/roads. What we leaned during that Sunday morning drive was this: We were the ONLY car driving through town after town. EVERYone was at church. EVERY car was packed into a church parking lot. Sunday morning means church in the Deep South. At least on the route from Birmingham to Selma.

A week ago, last Sunday, was the 59th anniversary of Bloody Sunday — the day in 1965 where residents from Selma joined MLK Jr. in what was to be a peaceful march from Selma some 47 miles to Montgomery to bring attention to equal rights. At least most of us know what was waiting as they crossed that bridge. I say what because I can’t even bring myself to say who. I can say that when you are walking across the bridge, you can’t really see what is waiting for you on the other side because you do have to head up a bit before heading down. Watch the film, Selma, if you want to know more about this. Again, unless you were a scholar, you never learned how much strategy and organizing and risk-taking it took for the people who made this happen to make it happen. It truly is a Moses moment. Again, adults were scared for good reason. They had no reason to trust that MLK knew what he was doing. John Lewis (a local kid — he was 25 years old) was struggling with his own decision about whether to support MLK or stick with the organizing group that he was aligned with. He was beaten to a pulp on that first march. But did we know that King turned a group around on the second attempt? Did we learn that he did that to wait for the court order that finally decreed they had to let the march go on? Why didn’t we learn more about this? Why is this something that is mentioned in a passing paragraph on a passing page in a short, passing chapter in the American History books we read in high school? How could we not deeply understand that the reason the US became so wealthy and so powerful as such a young country is because we enslaved thousands and thousands of people then bred thousands more when it became prohibited to continue importing them from countries in Africa? What the fuck?

The march was inspirational. We had to wait way too long to listen to endless politicians blah, blah, blah about nothing in particular until our vice president came out and spent more of her time using the march/marchers as a national backdrop to talk about the Israel/Hamas war? Don’t get me wrong. I think I have a decent understanding of why Kamala Harris is talking about that, in particular two Sundays ago, but she seemed extremely disconnected from the fact that there were people in their 70’s and 80’s who marched 59 years ago and were standing for some 90 minutes ready to march again to remember and to commemorate and to pay homage and to teach the next generation. A young man next to us was on his phone talking to his grandmother telling her he was about to do the same march she did nearly six decades earlier. There were many different organizations marching, singing, talking, and just marching across the bridge together. We were honored to be with them. If anyone asks, I may not admit it, but this was unplanned. We planned to be in Selma that day, for sure, but I had no fricking idea it was the anniversary of Bloody Sunday. It was total serendipity that Marty and I just happened to get to march over that Pettus bridge the same day that thousands of others did the same.

Is this sign sponsored by the State History Commission of Alabama? Nope. It’s the Equal Justice Initiatve
— Bryan Stevenson’s organization.

This is one of my favorite photos I took that day. I have lots of videos, but I can’t figure out how to put them on this diary entry.

I was hangry when the march was over so we went to a Black-owned food truck. They only took cash. We had 10 bucks. Can I Venmo? Nope. Is there a nearby ATM? Nope, they said. They handed us two huge helpings of chicken and mac and cheese and slaw and tried not to let us pay. We gave them our only ten bucks. But there was an ATM. We found it and circled back and insisted, but they really didn’t want to take any more money. In the end, they did because we are persistent little pests.

In Selma and throughout Alabama, it’s not hi. It’s “Hey, how are y’all doing?” And if you start chatting, they will hang out and chat. They are genuinely warm. It’s not just that you get used to Seattle biscuits forgetting what a real southern biscuit tastes like. It’s living in Seattle and forgetting what a stranger’s genuine interest in your well being feels like. It’s a different world and I have my own deep prejudice toward the Deep South and Southerners and their values and their politics and so on. It’s good to go somewhere and remember that there are warm, caring, curious folks all over the place. Taking time to say five syllables to greet instead of one really means something different. I’m serious.

We stayed in an air b&b in Selma that night and went to a place called The Coffee Shoppe for the morning meal after Marty and I did a solo walk over the bridge. By the way, The Coffee Shoppe used to be a place where Black people were not allowed. Now, it’s owned by a Black woman. Again, Marty said the coffee was magnificent. What we learned that morning is that some of Selma is recovering from the tornados that devastated the small city 15 months ago. Some homes were untouched. Some were ripped to the ground. Some people know how to access the system to get help in rebuilding. Others have no idea. It’s obvious who is who and how that is all happening. Selma is re-doing the Voting Rights Museum. It was closed to the public. We got a better deal by having the honor of marching with folks. That was good.

Lots of work to do in Selma.

Some homes in Selma were untouched by the storm in January 2023

We headed for Biloxi on Monday afternoon. We stayed in a not-Black-owned hotel in the South Beach part of Biloxi. We walked in the pouring rain — that was the late afternoon of pouring rain and we knew we’d be soaked. Showered then did not want to get in the car so headed to Waffle House because they are so much a part of the landscape in that area.

Marty had some normal kind of Waffle House breakfast food for dinner, but I had a steak and it was good, so there. On Tuesday we headed to the Ohr-O’Keefe museum thanks to a recommendation from our friends, Max and Mindy. It is housed in a Frank Ghery bunch of pods and it works that Ghery built the space to house the wild and beautiful collection of George Ohr. What a treat to see pottery created in the late 1800’s that seemed completely contemporary and relevant in today’s ceramic world. The guy was way ahead of his time. The Ghery campus is just gorgeous and across from the Gulf.

Within the museum, we visited the Pleasant Reed Interpretive Center. It’s a reconstructed house that was built by a fellow named Pleasant in the 1880’s. Reed was a man who was born a slave who built his family a home with funds earned in the post Civil War world and before Jim Crow laws took over the South. We listened to interviews with local Black resident who remember living in the “City within a city” and the exhibit taught us about the wade-ins that occurred time and again despite horrific violence. They had their own “Bloody Sunday” where a white mob attacked a peaceful group of 125 walkers and beat them while local police did nothing. When White airmen from a nearby Air Force base tried to protect the injured, they were also attacked. All of this spurred the creation of the Biloxi branch of the NAACP. The US Department of Justice filed a lawsuit to desegregate beaches in Biloxi. It took 12 years, but the beaches were finally desegregated in 1972.

We headed for Ocean Springs, MI, just across the Biloxi Bay and stayed there for two nights. The weather was perfect. The cottages where we stayed were quaint and cozy plus they had free bikes we could use.

We stumbled across a delightful museum called the Walter Anderson Museum. “Beware by whom you are called sane,” reads a sign at the beginning of his work. This artist regularly checked himself into institutions for mental health then regularly escaped. He was prolific in his work in painting, ceramics and more. He had two brothers who were also artists. He was originally from New Orleans and his art is all over Ocean Springs.

Let’s talk, for a moment about food. The food was significantly lower priced than anywhere in Seattle. I know. Lower wages, lower cost of living and so on. I am not making any judgements here…just saying that throughout our entire trip, Marty and I often paid less than $30 for most meals and some of them were at nicer restaurants. It wasn’t until NOLA when the prices crept up and/but OMG, the food on this trip was both heart-attack inducing and absolutely delicious. Ocean Springs seemed super white in terms of both the tourists and those who were owning the galleries, shops, restaurants. It was a little jarring after having been traveling in the area for nearly 10 days. We bought some gifts and enjoyed our time chilling out.

By Thursday, we headed west across the Gulf Coast straight for New Orleans. The first night, we stayed in a fancy and fun hotel in a church, called the Hotel Peter and Paul. The restaurant and bar (yes, we did drink that night — only one cocktail each, but it did us in) were both unique and pleasing.

One thing we did in NOLA was visit the Museum of the Southern Living. We wanted to take a look and see how the word is passed there about Blacks and Jews . . . I was prepared to be highly disappointed. I was not disappointed. Museums are getting better at owning history as it was.

I was wrong AND I learned that Booker T. Washington and a fellow named Julius Rosenweld built nearly 5,000 schools for African American children across 15 southern and border states after meeting one another in 1911. It was quite a collaboration. People such as John Lewis came out of one of those schools.

On Friday, we headed for our Black-owned and operated air b&b — Miss Ruby took time to hang out with us. It was her birthday so we felt extra special. We got to see her on and off throughout our next three nights. We got to see Jaron and Caitlin’s kids — Solomon and Lucia. It was fun to see kid antics without actually having to deal. They are both adorable. It was nice to check in.

On Saturday, we headed for the Whitney Plantation History Museum. If you read Clint Smith’s book, you’ll see it is probably the only plantation in Louisiana that is exclusively dedicated to learning and understanding the facts of slavery. It was home to more than 350 African slaves who were forced to work on the sugar plantation.

It helped up put together more pieces of the puzzle in terms of how the wealth in this country came from the constant and back-breaking work of those who were forced into generations of slavery. It was moving and, like the National Memorial in Montgomery, hard to walk through and very worthwhile visiting. Both Django Unchained and 12 Years a Slave were filmed at Whitney.

Though it is now called the Whitney, it was originally inhabited by a family called Haydel from Germany and it originally was an indigo plantation.

I am not going too deep into this story except to say that he started with 20 slaves then went into sugar instead and ended up with more than 16 times that number of slaves in order to cultivate sugar. This was our ninth official stop on our Civil Rights journey. Were we worn out or bored even though we read and re-read the facts from point to point? We were weary and sad, but we were just as interested in learning — always more to learn. There was a huge revolt of slaves — The German Coast Uprising lead by Charles Deslondes in 1811.

It was one of the largest slave insurgencies in our US history. The slaves killed to White men and 95 slaves were executed to make sure to deter others. It was a two-day nearly 20-mile march and it was organized — think about how many slaves didn’t come from the same culture and had some language barriers. The heads of many of the leaders were displayed on pikes to intimade others.

Why didn’t we learn about the slaves who fought back? Why didn’t we learn that Napolean sold Louisiana to the US because he was scared after uprising and takeover in Haiti? Maybe we were taught that, but I missed that day in school?

Heading from the Whitney back toward New Orleans (it’s just under an hour outside of the city) one could see how it was so isolated and it felt like a million miles from anywhere. That night, we went to the Cory/Alexandra welcome reception. That evening, we were honored to get to spend time with a couple of Berliner kids and their partners as Caitlin was celebrating her 40th birthday. We ate at Coquette where Max used to work. Marty and I both had a wonderful time and felt lucky to be the oldest folks there by more than 20-30 years. It was fun.

Rufus sighting. Healthy food for just ONE meal. He’s a cardiologist so, you know . . .

On Sunday, Marty went walking heading for the Ogden Museum (he never made it) and I went walking heading to meet Rufus W. Max. We all three lunched together then took off to prepare for the loveliest of weddings in the Botanical Gardens in NOLA’s City Park. It couldn’t have been more perfect. The weather, the setting, the flower-laden chuppah, the Second Line after the ceremony, the delicious cocktails and appetizers then in to the gorgeous Pavilion of the Two Sisters where Alexandra’s parents were married a generation before.

The music — how could you not have an exquisite band and Second Line if not in NOLA — was great. The younger peeps danced all night; the rest of us danced and went in and outdoors — especially when the fresh-made beignets were being made on one of the patios. It was amazing to see someone who was in his momma’s womb when Marty and I were married being married to such a lovely young woman.

Poppa of the groom looking happy during that Second Line.

I am NOT a wedding person. Usually, too many people and too much hoopla. This was not. Jeremy (Cory’s brother) made a beautiful toast. Alexandra’s parents and the new couple also spoke (David got his turn as the officiant and Marla had her turn the night before). It was really a lovely event.

I loves me my Marla Peps.

In the end, did I learn anything I didn’t know before from this trip? One hundred/more than one hundred percent, yes. It helped to pull a lot of puzzle pieces together. It contextualized what I have been reading about. Mostly, and maybe for the first time in my life, I might have a tiny bit of understanding of what it might be like to be a professional in this country — anywhere in this country — while also being Black.

I am outraged that every US citizen does not know or begin to understand that this country is the country that it is for one main reason — we kidnapped a workforce then forced them to continue breeding their replacements so we could have free labor and we profited greatly from that. It doesn’t matter to me who else did or didn’t do this anywhere else. It matters that I grew up so completely unaware. Black History month is so fucked up. Every single day is Black History Day because Black people are so intertwined in the birth and growth of our country. The worst part is that we continue to perpetuate myths; we continue to control the wealth; we continue to keep people out and we continue to allow our white supremacist culture to be entrenched in every part of our US society.

Yes…learned about a lot of this kind of disrespect throughout our trip.

Do I have hope? Yes. Do I believe that we’ve made great strides forward? Um…duh. Yes. But one thing I’ve learned over the last many years is that Black people need to be in charge of telling their own story. We know that from books and films and projects and so on and so on. White people want to do the job, even still but we need to get out of the way and let people tell their own story. Do I better understand why so many colleagues I had at WEA are/were full of eloquent rage?

Does it pain me to think that people I know were literally “run out of town” because they dared to live in a white rural area in my home state? Yes. Did this change anything? Will I run out and try to “make a difference” for people who came to this country against their will from Africa? I need to think about that, but I doubt it. I have a friend in California, a white friend, who is deeply entrenched in fighting for the rights of people of color. She walks her talk and she spends hours upon hours working shoulder to shoulder with others to make a difference. I am in awe of her. Will I do that? I want to, but I doubt it. But will I think differently as I speak and own my mistakes when my words create trauma for others? Yes. Will I try to get others to visit and read and learn and re-educate as Marty and I did? Ya’ can’t make anyone do something like this if they feel it’s not something they want to do. This trip was two weeks and the Civil Rights part of the journey was about 10 days. Ten days to learn what we never learned? That’s not that hard if you have the privilege — the means to get you there. Was it a vacation? Hell yes. Was it Argentina or New Zealand? It was different and very worthwhile in a good way. Would I do it again and do it the same? Yes. I feel blessed to have been able to spend time learning. And, oh yeah, the wedding and the 40th birthday of Caitlin and just walking the streets of New Orleans — that made it worthwhile as well.

Okay, I feel I got some words down. Over and out.

Adolescence again?

Preparing to turn 63 in February, I am in a very in-between stage. I know we call those kids who are somewhere between nine and 12, “tweens.” There are bodies of studies abuot how to help tweens navigate the world as they are entering their terrible teen stage (or was that terrible twos? I forget. Not really — just wanting you to think I had a senior moment). No one really talks much about this odd in between middle age and senior stage. I know part of that is because people are living much longer and that people are working much longer before retiring so who even has time to think about this?

I do.

I retired when I was 60.5 because I was lucky to work for an organization that understood what it means to let people who have worked there for more than three decades head out the door, but I happen to know I am NOT the only human who has retired in her early 60’s. Many of my WEA friends and many others who have been fortunate enough to receive a pension for their hard work have also done this so I can’t be the only human thinking these thoughts (and I qualify all of this with agreeing that I am in the world of privilege, but here goes anyway). And I have to think that some of you have been in the same boat.

In many parts of my daily life, I do not yet count as a senior. Most spots, it is 65. Once in a while, I get a senior discount for being 62. That’s all fine with me, but mostly, I need to wait until I am 65. I am not going to get into a philosophical discussion here about whether those who are 65 even deserve to be seniors (we don’t) because we are healthier at 65 than the generation before us but I just said I am not going here.

Instead, let’s talk about my newfound ‘tween years and my adolescent behavior around this stage of my life. Here are some of the scenarios:

I regularly take the ferry from Seattle to Vashon to hang with my friends, Glenda and Alan. I go to the window to purchase my ferry ticket. I fully intend to pay full price because I am not yet designated a senior. The ferry worker looks up when I say, “a ticket to Vashon, please.” I have gray hair. I am obviously retired as I am galivanting around on a Tuesday morning. There is an awkward moment before he says, “um…senior?”

“Sure,” I say. “If you want.”

“Well, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you a senior?”

“Sure, if I look like one and you think I am, I’ll take it.”

“Well, are you?”

“If you think I am, I guess I am.”

This business goes back and forth for a few moments and I realize I am totally messing with these peeps who were just trying to cut me a break if I was a senior, but I’m not. If he thinks I am 65 when really I am just 62.8, I’ll take the discount. But, I don’t. Ever.

I shouldn’t. And I don’t really want to take it because the ferry system is already failing us all enough that I shouldn’t rub it in by taking a discount I don’t deserve. Still, when asked, of course my snarky, adolescent self is going to engage.

Part of the issue is that I hang out a lot with those who are seniors. Marty is 10.5 years older than I. Many of our friends are several years my senior (intentional pun) and they don’t blink an eyelid when those who are interacting with them assume they are seniors. But me? I don’t know. I kind of LIKE being younger than a senior for two more years.

Here’s another scenario. I hop on light rail or a bus with a bunch of people who are all over 65. A young couple, Max and Kayla’s age, literally fly off their seats which are in the “senior or disabled priority” segment of the bus. They are doing what is right. All of the people I am with sit in those seats, but I immediately jump down the throats of the 30-somethings for doing the right thing. I take them on.

“Wait, did you just JUMP out of those seats because you think I’m a senior?”

They look up and laugh with me. But I don’t really let it go. “Because I’m not. A senior. I’m offended that you would think you had to give up your seat for me . . . even though it’s the right thing to do. Today, it is the wrong thing to do.” They know I’m kidding, because I am, but I’m not. It’s part of that “I don’t want to be a senior yet, but I get that everyone thinks I am a senior,” thing.

If I really wanted to counteract, what would I do? Hang out more with our younger friends (because, by the way, when I do I don’t get asked if I’m a senior). Go back to coloring my hair? Make up? Clothing that doesn’t yell, “This person is living the life doing whatever she wants whenever she wants.” Hmmm.

There IS a right way to do this if, as a worker, you don’t want to have awkward conversations with adolescent 62-year-olds. Recently, when hopping on a ferry in Vancouver, BC (the little one that you grab near Yale Town to get you to Granville Island), the kind ferry operator said to me, “Full fare, young lady?” He didn’t assume I was a senior. He called me a young lady and he let me decide whether or not I was a senior. He shut me down before I could engage him in snarkiness. I loved that. I loved him. We’re having an affair. Okay, we’re not. I can’t even remember what he looks like. Oh, oh. Does that mean I’m a senior? Hmmmm.

PS: The other person in that photo is Kayla’s mom, Cassandra. She is six months my junior.

Heart lifting

So, if you are me, or I, which you are not, you may be hiding a part of yourself during these complex and uncertain times. Or not. But I am. All the time. As the daughter of one person whose family was mostly wiped out in the Holocaust and the daughter of one person who moved to Palestine when she was little, I have a multitude of feelings living in Seattle in these post-October 7 times.

Most of my Jewish friends are experiencing some form of what I am experiencing whether from Seattle or not. Some are hard core pro-Israel government. Some are pro-Israeli people. Nearly all of us are enraged that so many Israelis were taken from their beds in the early morning of October 7; that women were brutally raped (is rape ever not brutal?) by Hamas; that innocent kids were killed in a field where they were enjoying a concert; blah, blah, blah — it goes on and on. I say nearly all of us because I know of young Jewish kids who do not feel this way. And, of course, I don’t have to begin to tell you that many non-Jewish peeps are “expert” enough to think they understand what is happening in Gaza and Israel. Like so many others, they get most of their news from Tik Tok and they are right there yelling, “From the river to the sea,” — never mind that so many don’t know which river, which sea or what they are saying. But some DO know and, sadly, the way I am handling this is by simply blocking them off of my Instagram or Facebook account — not because I don’t like or even love them — just because I refuse to have a discussion with people who are not, at this time, able to listen or have a real discussion. Also, it scares me that they are so easily influenced and they don’t know or care enough to understand how easily manipulated they are but that’s a different story.

So, mostly, I am trying to steer clear. It doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t hurt or that I am not literally losing sleep over whether the Jewish people will even have a country over the next several years. I am losing sleep that so many of my cousins are caught up in this never-ending nightmare. I am losing sleep over the fact that so many innocent people have lost their lives, their homes, their loved ones, their souls, but it doesn’t take away from the simple fact that Hamas is a terrorist group that absolutely does not represent anything but hatred and the desire to throw Israel and the Jews and other Israelis into the sea, but whatever. Hate is hate is hate.

So, I try to compartmentalize. It’s the only way to make it work for me at this time. Enter Musa Firat, owner and Chef at Marlaina’s Restaurant in Burien. Marty and I were lucky enough to spend the evening with very dear friends — David, Larry and Liza — Liza and Larry chose it because they have eaten their in the past and/plus we five usually get together for holiday meals in our homes (with or without kids) and this year, we opted to go out. Okay, back to Musa.

Chef Musa is tall and a presence in his Mediterranean kitchen. Larry and Liza mentioned that he comes around and chats people up so I was not surprised when he saw we were “retirees” and immediately brought us a comp bottle or prosecco just because. That was kind and the food was good, too, But what really surprised me is that he came around and I asked him a bit about his history — he is from Kurdistan (and many of you have probably read about or heard about the mysterious genetic connections between the Kurds and the Jews, never mind that the Kurds are also people constantly being conquered and always in search of their own Kurdistan) — but I digressed. Musa tells us, on his own, that Kurds are genetically related to Jews and he tells us he recently threw three people out of the restaurant who were being blatantly anti-Semitic. Musa isn’t yet sure two of us are Jewish so he’s just telling the story. I tell him we are Jewish and thank him for tossing out three folks who flat out said, “Hitler should have finished the job.”

He keeps popping by to chat as we are eating. It turns out the mother of his children, his first (he has had two) wife is Israeli. They met in Chapel Hill. She divorced him, he says, because he made some bad financial decisions, but he followed her (and their two sons) to Seattle for her job even though they were already divorced (for the kids) and he never looked back. He loves it here.

The thing is, as an immigrant — even one who has lived in the US for a long, long time, he can’t figure out why people are allowed to be out on the streets yelling about genocide of the Jewish people. As it turns out, he has a lot, A LOT, to say about the whole situation in the Middle East. I won’t begin to go into it except to say, that when all is said and done, he unabashedly supports (even more than I do) the Israeli government and is absolutely sure that when this whole thing is over, things will be better for everyone — the Israelis, the Palestinians, everyone in the region. He is sure that Israel will destroy Hamas (I disagree) and he is sure that it’s all going to work out (I desperately want to believe him). He made me laugh so many times tonight. It was so fucking refreshing to be sitting with our three non-Jewish friends (I try to be careful about keeping some of what I am experiencing — about my really deep, late-night fears about how rampant anti-Semitism is in “liberal” Seattle) and to have Musa just shooting the shit and putting it all out there, as someone who is not Jewish.

It took me a while to figure out that, well, yes — his sons are (if you go by Jewish law) Jewish. He made clear that he is NOT Jewish and he told stories about how, way before he met his Israeli (first) wife, he was alienated by many others from the Middle East (okay, Arabs) because they thought he was Jewish and refused to associate with him. When he was hanging with Kurds, the others tried to tell the Kurds not to hang out with the “Jewish” kid. They blew off the others then they asked him, the next day, why he said he was Jewish. He said, “I am Jewish.” His friends said, “Since when?” He answered, “Since yesterday (when they decided he was Jewish).” They all laughed and/but the point is he stands up and stood up for Jews way before he had a Jewish wife or Jewish sons. He is an ally and not afraid to speak up — something I am not too comfortable doing.

What I really appreciated about Musa was he laid it all out there, sharing his opinion; his knowledge; his ideas and his prognostications as to what happens next. It was refreshing to feel so comfortable in a public place to just shoot the shit with him.

He told a story (who knows if this really happened, but I wanted it to be so) about an Israeli guy who (was in Portugal? I can’t remember) and who saw hundreds of people protesting in support of Hamas. Musa said the Israeli went out, worked himself into the crowd and started shouting something about ben zonah, ben zonah — He told David, Larry and Liza that it means, “son of a bitch” — I said that really, it means “son of a whore.” He was, “Oh, you DO speak Hebrew.” Not really, but enough to know what zonah means — in the end it is slang for son of a bitch but how funny that an Israeli guy pretty quickly got the whole crowd of people who don’t really know what they were yelling to chant that Hamas folks are all ben zonah. The crowd just went along with what he said, thinking those words were powerful. Did that happen? Who knows, but it was both funny and so possible given that those protesting are so willing to go along without gaining a deeper understanding of the complexities surrounding the situation.

My Seattle self has taught me to just steer clear. My Israeli self loved Musa. My Jewish self felt a little freed up at that restaurant. Also, I felt so safe with Liza and Larry and David. Marty was really enjoying the evening also. He could have stayed and talked all night.

We also had a tremendous time with them. We’ve been friends for a quarter of a century so even if they don’t necessarily want to spend the whole night listening to us ramble on about the war, they are willing to humor me/us.

All I am trying to say, in this rambling post, is that I wanted to remember what it felt like tonight to be surrounded by friends knowing I could be my whole self. It felt great to have an ally who was interesting and smart and it was unexpected. That’s all.

My stepmother died today

I never called Carmen my stepmother unless we were joking around. My father’s second wife never tried to “mother” me nor serve in the role of extra grandmother for my kids nor my brother’s daughter. And that was a good thing.

When I first took a real walk with her in Denver so many millions of years ago, I told her that I harbored no resentment for her. While she agreed to meet my dad in Ohio, she did not make the decision to parade their weekend affair on the Oberlin campus where my brother was asked if that was his mother. That was due to my dear father’s “male cluelessness”. He chose not to understand the impact that would have on my brother. Still, I wanted her to know that it took me a long time to forgive my father, but she was never in that equation. Basically, I was trying to tell her that our relationship was beginning from scratch. And it was.

She was so unlike and so like my mother that it was uncanny. So unlike in that she was super hip — my mom was very bright and well read, but not as styling nor hip as Carmen. Both loved to read and movies and theater and both loved to travel. Both loved good adventure.

And, both were very, very difficult human beings — one because she had such low self esteem and the other because she had such high self esteem. They really were two sides of the coin, both good and bad. And while my parents’ marriage was never okay, as far as I can tell, my mom provided my dad with kids and with a home. He never could have managed without her. Carmen, on the other hand, brought him so much joy and love and comfort. So, they provided my dad with VERY different things, but together, they provided him the life he wanted. He always said he had no regrets and I believe that — even with the rough and tumble marriage he had with my mom. He asked Carmen to marry him first and she said no so he went on. Lucky for him that after my parents divorced, the timing was right for Dad and Carmen.

And today, August 31, just five days short of the two-years since my father died, Carmen died in her apartment in Denver. She loved her apartment and filled it with books and souvenirs from around the world and beautiful art and furniture. She created a life for my dad and her for years then reinvented when he moved to assisted care.

Two years ago today, she and I were on the same team as we watched together while my dad spent his last days breathing. We both appreciated the care takers who paraded through to share “Nate stories” and Carmen shared her own. She was very devoted. The rabbi told us we needed to let go so he could finally let go. And we did. And he did. My husband and our kids and their girlfriends came to a funeral that Carmen planned. Our friends brought dinner that evening to all of us and many friends came to pay their respect and support us. It was beautiful. Sad, but sweet.

Then came the estate. While I was the executor, there were issues as there usually are when it comes to splitting things up. I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that I always felt Carmen gave my dad some of the best years of his life and whatever happened after happened. I learned that we will not let some of the holes in my father’s planning happen in this next generation. In the end, Carmen chose to disassociate by her actions.

We agreed that she would let us know when the unveiling would be — she never invited us to that, but posted in on social media knowing I was not connected and she published it in a newspaper in Denver so we found out through friends. Never mind as Bernie and I had our own unveiling after. It worked out the way it was supposed to work out given where we were in our relationship. It would have been terribly awkward to do it together after all of the other things she pulled along the way, but as I said, people are very strange around money. And so it goes.

She has her own family and when her daughter once wrote to me many years back about the difficulty of dealing with complex moms, I agreed. That was the extent of our relationship. It’s sad that she and her mom were also not on speaking terms for the last three years. Her caretaker says Carmen did get to speak with her earlier this week so that is closure and her grandson and wife and two great grandsons were in Denver over the summer so that must have brought her a great deal of comfort and joy.

In any event, it’s the end of an era. Hoping her memory is a blessing. I know it will be to the caretakers in Denver who took her into their families and really cared deeply for her. She will be laid to rest in a cemetery in Denver. May she rest in peace.

Uh oh

Last time I blogged was November, 2022. Nine months ago. I could’ve had a complete baby while not writing. A few weeks ago, I had the honor and fun of visiting Patricia Ford, Susy Warden and Matthew Ford — three people I love. They allowed me to bring the Rosenkranz family to visit the donkeys and the horses. I love the donkeys and horses. Who wouldn’t?

But the reason I go is that it’s an excuse to catch in with three people I’ve known more than half of my life. That may not be fully accurate on Susy, because she came into the video business a little later, but Matt and Pat, for sure. I edited video at Ford Studio since 1986 when I first moved to Seattle.

Way back then, I started a little business and Bruce M Green designed my business cards and logo. Back then, editing happened in the den which allowed me to eavesdrop (not on purpose, but it just went with the territory) on what was going on. Gene and Pat were not only owners/operators of the business, but also involved in 546 other ventures including grandparenting.

Pretty much all of their customers were made to feel as if they were part of the Ford Family. That also just came with the territory. As a 25-year-old who had recently set down roots in Seattle, I welcomed the parenting, counseling, friendship doled out by Pat and Gene. I could write a book about the aphorisms I integrated into my life from Pat — among my favorites were, “You can never get enough excess,” and/or “Anything worth doing is worth doing to excess,”

Over the 35 or so years I visited the studio on a regular basis, they became family. We watched each other grow up. Because even though Matt is a bit older than I and even though Pat is somewhere in her early 90’s she is still growing up. Don’t get me wrong. All of the Ford/Warden crowd is full of wisdom beyond all of our years, but anyone who has any wisdom knows we don’t have all that much wisdom and that we are continually growing up. Life is so boring if you stop growing.

Anyway, I could ramble on about this, but all this is to say that when I recently partied with Nina, Sebastian, Maja and Mila, Pat gave me a memoir — a book I have started reading.

But before I got to reading the book (which is a good read, so far) I read the rather stern letter inside from Pat to me. She said I needed to start writing and start writing immediately! Pat doesn’t every waste one iota of one minute of any day (although she swears that she relaxes while listening to trees….that is my favorite relaxation method, too), so she thinks all the rest of us need to be producing and giving back to the world, etc.

While this is a very good idea, in theory, it runs completely amuck of my own theory which is, “I love doing nothing” in retirement. I’m coming up on the end of my second year of retirement and I was originally planning (based on what tons of retirees told me) to do nothing for the first year. But that year passed quickly so I re-upped it to doing nothing for a second year. That, too, has been a blast.

People regularly laugh at me when I say I love doing nothing. They scoff and say, “You could never do nothing,” but they don’t know how easy it is to do nothing after all of these years at work. A few months ago, when the French people were in the streets fighting to keep their retirement at 62 instead of moving it up to (I think?) it was 64, I read about their attitude about retirement.

Unlike our Puritanistic view of retirement rendering us irrelevant or being the final chapter or anything like that, they see retirement as the beginning. They work hard then see retirement as the time to enjoy life. I am sharing an article, below, to show you what I mean.

I don’t always agree with the French. In this case, I 100 percent agree with the French. Retirement is the beginning of the fun. It’s not that it wasn’t fun all along, because childhood can be very carefree and innocent and fun. But it can also be tough. I was lucky. Mine was more fun than not.

College time is self-indulgent and privilege and very, very fun. But it’s a pretty short stage. There is a lot of learning that goes on in those years and even more in the 20’s. Byt the time you hit the 30’s, you think you have it figured out but you soooo don’t. Finding your (hopefully) forever beshert (soulmate) is very, very good, but it comes with a lot negotiating and navigating and all of that. Not to mention how having kids throws everything you thought you knew completely out the window.

There’s this line in the Barbie movie where Barbie looks at an older woman who is sitting on a bench reading and Barbie says, “You’re so beautiful.” And the woman says, “I know.” That’s what retirement is. Becoming more invisible to men on the streets and to the rest of the human race definitely has some huge advantages. I love wearing shorts and sweatshirts and jeans. I love wearing earrings only when I want. I love letting my hair just be my hair. Retirement rocks.

So, I’m not sure I agree with Pat about my having to write. I like writing, but I only like to write when I have something to say. I don’t have a whole lot to say. It’s not that I’m not thinking. It’s that I don’t really think anyone is listening and that’s fine, too.

Still, Pat means so much to me in so many ways. She is like Claire Westerman and Donna Dunning. Those three would be my Ruth Handler if I had such occasion to meet a Ruth Handler. So, maybe I think about it. I’ll let you know what happens.

Engaged

NOTE: I wrote this October 10 and never published. Publishing now so we can look back and remember . . .

So, it’s 9:08 in the evening here in Seattle. That means it is 6:08 in Hawaii — on the island of Kauai to be exact. Max is somewhere very near a pier where Kayla and her five friends are heading for a “final night in Hawaii.”. She has been with her girlfriends, there, since last Thursday. They have been having a girls’ vacation.

Max flew to Maui on Friday. He stayed with his Unka Maury and Patricia and flew to Kauai last night where he stayed in a hotel near the airport then bussed up to the north end of the island so he could snag/surprise his soon-to-be fiancé.

Around here, we are on pins and needles. We have been hanging out waiting to hear the impending news and it is going to be happening in the next 20 minutes or so. True that they have been together since they were 21. True that Kayla and Max will be 30 over the next six months (Kayla, in November; Max in April). True that they say the wedding won’t be until 2024.

But, when you’re hanging around at home since Friday itching to get out because your case of COVID has been a non-issue, this is news! So, we are waiting . . . we are hoping that one of the extra five women who will be there might take a few photos or some video and we are so excited for our family because we finally get to gain Kayla Coffee, officially.

We liked her right off — we appreciated that she wore no make up and was comfortable in our home immediately. It’s true that she nearly poisoned Kramer the first time she came here (with Theo’s Chocolate left in her suitcase), but she has made it up to Kramer 543 times over as she tends to be his number two person. When she sets a goal, she meets or exceeds it. She is driven and she has strong integrity and morals. She is extremely compassionate — not afraid to say she doesn’t know something when she doesn’t . . . I love that. She is genuine and loving and funny and we hope she says yes. I mean, she could say no, right? It would be a little embarrassing for Max, but there are five of her closest friends who will be there so Max could, in theory, ask the rest if there were any other takers. I mean, the ring is right there. Speaking of the ring, Max and Kayla had long discussions about what she wanted vs. what he thought she should have. She definitely got her way on that and we are very thankful that Max is who he is and that he knows when to say, “yes, Kayla.” Seriously, they are a team in every way. We love that she is an intellectual, an athletic, an emotional, an everything match for Max. Some of my favorite things about them is that they are both miserable being miserable. When things go badly for one or the other or if they are angry with one another, they just can’t stay in that zone. They can’t deal with it and I love that about them.

When we had boys, I never imagined what it would be like for them to find their beshert — the one that is meant for each of them. I can’t imagine a better match for Max than Kayla Sue. While all of us agree that we don’t want to be near either of them while playing Settlers of Catan, you’d never know that except that none of us play Settlers of Catan with them — EVER. But we’ve played a zillion games of Cribbage, team Cribbage, Mahj jong, Euchre, Hearts, Sevens — and while they are busy racking up countries, we’re proud to say that we have been to a few countries all together — Canada, Italy, Croatia, Spain, USA. Okay, we have a few more to go; but Alaska Northern Lights in February of 2020 immediately before the pandemic FELT like a different country.

Okay, so, now it is 9:21. Is he on one knee? Is he making a speech? At break the fast, the other day, Max was solo as Kayla was tutoring. I got him to tell people on Nanette’s deck that he was proposing and so many of our more veteran KHN members got completely MUSHED out. Geoff and David and Michael and Brian and Laura and Nanette ALL had stories to share or advice to give about how to propose or their own stories (Nanette threw a hairbrush on their bed the morning before Rick proposed . . . but he didn’t remember. Craig got down on two knees — many of us got to attend that wedding so long ago. History with dear friends is extremely sweet)…. but I digressed. Is the sun setting over the pier? Is it raining? Does Kayla have a clue? Did someone accidentally drop a hint?

The sun was supposedly setting at 6:17 there tonight. The weather looks as if was cooperating. We hope it went exactly the way it is supposed to go. I am texting Cassandra and Maynard because, like us, they know. And we know that they are not going to call us right away because why would they or should they? They need to take some private time. So, I’ll just take my temperature here…I am trying to get out of COVID jail and know I need to be fever-free for 24 hours. So far, so good. Not sure I’ve had any real fever the whole time. 98.2. That’s good. Kramer has been so, extremely loyal during this little run with COVID. He, too, is bored out of his mind just laying about but he is so dear.

There is a little breeze tonight. It’s going to make the smoke go away. It has been smoky. Okay. It is 9:41. I am putting this is my draft department because I don’t want to jump the gun. Ciao for now.

November 15 — Back to where we are now. The weather has been picture perfect for days. We are so excited Adam heading home tomorrow for Thanksgiving. We will miss his Kayla, but she has a big Thanksgiving to attend with her family on the East Coast. So much more to write about — want me to keep going?

Bernie and I are heading to Denver soon to have an unveiling of our dad’s gravestone. His wife scheduled one earlier this year but neglected to tell us so this will be the second unveiling. We are looking forward to that. The somewhat pathetic piece to that is she neglected to tell us when it was then posted on social media how disappointed my dad would have been because we didn’t attend. It would have been hard to guess when it was so we really couldn’t attend. A mistake on her part to forget to tell us when it was? Old age? Cognitive failure? Perhaps. But I doubt it. Not going to worry about it other than to say it was very odd behavior indeed.

While there, I will finally get to finish up to estate business. I have done my very best to follow what he said he wanted in his will. It will feel good to be done with that. We are working with a fabulous person to help make sure we don’t make the same mistakes that were unintentionally made by my dad. ‘Nough said about that.

Meanwhile, retirement continues to be wonderful. Looking out the window as i type this watching a ferry cross the Salish Sea with the Olympic Mountains behind. Loving hiking, walking, volunteering, traveling, enjoying. All good. Extremely grateful for what we have — it’s all about health and family. I love that our children will be with us; we will celebrate Kayla’s 30th on that weekend, too. Just haven’t figure out how to do that yet. Okay. Thanks for reading.

Wordle, whirlwind and women

It has been a minute since we arrived home from Argentina. Okay, it has been a month and two days, but it feels a minute. Why? We’ve had a whirlwind of guests, work, activities, and it’s possible I can take a breath, perhaps. Everyone who ever told me that I’d be busy in retirement was correct.

But first, I’ve been meaning to check in on Wordle. When Wordle “took over” the “worldle,” I, like so many, saw people posting some green and yellow and black squares on their Facebook posts. So, I checked it out and bought in because it was quick and dirty and daily and fun. I watched as friends embraced or hated then embraced or denied that they embraced or truly denied spending the few minutes it takes each day. I thought that it was fun. What I didn’t know, at the time, is that is was so much more than those old peeps still on Facebook. I didn’t get that people who were in their 90’s and in their teens would stick with it for weeks and that it would give people something to “check in” on or that some would post every day while others posted with epic fails or serious success. When we were younger, we had shared experiences due to technology and distractions were more limiting. Think the night we all watched the last M*A*S*H or Mary Tyler Moore. Think moonwalk or only a few radio stations or having to go to the movie theater to all experience Jaws or Star Wars or whatever the craze was. Yeah, we had fads like Click Clack and Pop Rocks and the UnCola and on and on, but then we became very niched. Lots of choices. Lots of channels. Lots of silos. So, I must admit that I am pleasantly surprised that my 17-year-old niece and my nearly 29-year-old (and my 25-year-old) sons and my friends who are older than I am and younger and in lots of different parts of the world are all doing their daily wordle. I would love to know how Josh Wardle feels about the fact that there were 90 folks playing in November and now there are millions with no end in sight yet. And, yes, it’s a fad but it’s so fun to think that so many people are doing it. Something about that shared experience makes me very happy. That’s all on that. Moving on to that whirlwind . . .

We returned to this country, and I got to start working, nearly right away, on this year’s virtual WEA RA. But right before that, I got to spend REAL time with my cousins, Mira and Howie. Usually, when they come in for a conference, I am lucky to catch a meal with them. If I get a meal with Mira, dayeinu. But this time, we really got some play time, and it was so enjoyable. The problem is that I didn’t know I’d get that real time. I took it – who wouldn’t as it is very precious time — and my plan was to make up for lost work time (for RA) at night, but Frances, my niece, was also visiting and we had to play a lot of mahj jong.

All that STILL would have been okay until Frances and I left four Theo’s bars on the dining room table on a night we all went out to dinner. Kramer ate them which killed that night as I was enjoying watching him throw up four times and thinking I poisoned my dog. We were up until after one that night so that shot the work time there. I was so lucky I had started RA work before the cousins and niece arrived.

Mira and Howie and I got to see the tulips early this year. It was cold and muddy and fresh and beautiful. Frances and Mira and I got a lunch and tour of UW . . . how cool would it be if she decided to go to UW? Anyway, it was particularly nice to be with all of them and Max got to join us for dinner that night that Kramer tried to kill himself on chocolate.

Then came RA! Do I miss work? After 31 good years at WEA, no. Do I miss people? Yes. I loved connecting with several former colleagues and friends. It was a blast to check in with beloved members, also. I got in trouble twice – I get in trouble with music every year because I am playing songs so fast, I don’t always get to preview words. One song had Dixieland in it . . . that offended some of our folks and was a bummer. I also was playing some kind of silly substitute teacher blues song and, strangely, this year, we could not hear what I was playing so I was playing blind (or deaf, as the case may be – or hearing impaired for sure) – but I couldn’t predict ahead where some of these songs were going. This one went downhill when it talked about a substitute teacher “looking at” 16-year-old girls. AAAAARGH!!!! Epic fail on my part for both these songs.  At least I didn’t play Baby Shark this year. It was great to be back and I am really hoping to do this live in Spokane next year. Poor Larry and Janie have never had a live RA. The first year of their term was mega COVID right before RA. We had our exec committee work through the business we had that year as folks were scrambling just to stay above water then they have had two virtual assemblies so I wish all of us the opportunity to be in Spokane next year. It was a blast.

No sooner did RA end then we went out to a jukebox musical which was sweet but very jukebox-esque then I had to write (not that I had to do this . . . it is one of my favorite things to do) the Passover musical maggid this year which was highly female-centered and very fun to write.

Which brings me to Kayla Stokes who came to visit for a week during the start of Passover which was a pleasure of all pleasures because, you know, we love her. We love all Kaylas in our family. They are very easy to love. Passover was so precious as it was one more year for a more intimate one. The whole time we were in Argentina, we had amazing steaks and meats of all kinds. BUT, Carlton Calvin makes the best meats ever. That’s all. Everything we eat that is red meat is compared to Carlton. He wins. His meats are just in a different class. It’s not that we didn’t have amazing meats in Argentina because we did. We went to Don Julio’s and enjoyed delicious red meat on our Backroads trip and on our own. But then there’s Carlton.  There’s not a whole lot more to say about that.

Kayla was a continuous and very welcome distraction. One highlight was that the two of us went to visit friends I hadn’t seen since right before COVID closed everything down. It was so wonderful to spend time with Susy Warden and Pat and Matt Ford (plus, bonus, Bryce Covey).

For me, that was the sweetest and/plus they got to meet Kayla. And, you know, how can anyone not fall in love with Kayla? They were so bummed that Adam wasn’t there, but the got over it as they got to know Kayla. And she loved them and their stories and farm, but all of that was overshadowed, for her, by their seven miniature donkeys.  

I am pretty sure she is going to quit her Spotify job to become a miniature donkey farmer.

To say she was enchanted would be a huge understatement. We went for a couple of hours and stayed for five. It was a tremendous success for everyone.

Last night, Marty and I were visiting Brian and Michael for Passover dessert – many different Passover cookies + kosher for Pesach carrot cake + ice cream + great company. When we got home, Max, Kayla and Kayla were playing mahj jong on the new card. If one ever needed explanation for the difference in these two couples,  a conversation they were having typified it.

Max and Kayla were inquiring about the donkeys – they liked hearing how joyful Adam’s Kayla was about the miniature cuties, but they were trying to learn more. They were wondering what the donkey do? Can they do anything? They were trying to find the function as both Max and Kayla like to understand the world by understanding the meaning and purpose of everything around them.

Kayla Stokes said, “They can pull little, tiny wagons.” Kayla Stokes loves the art of the the little donkeys.

She just loves that they “are” and how they look. It’s not that Kayla Coffee and Max don’t understand or appreciate art because they very much do —- really, it was just that they couldn’t figure out the purposed of these donkeys. It was such a fun conversation. Kayla Stokes is trying to figure out how to get some miniature donkeys to live with her and Adam in their one-bedroom apartment in LA.

This morning, before Kayla Stokes left, both the Kaylas joined us for a last brunch in White Center. Marty and I have never been with just the two women who make the two children we raised so happy. It was a “shehechiyanu moment” for sure as we have never had the honor/pleasure/fun of being at a meal with just the girls. SOOOOOOOOOOOO good. Sitting across from the two smart, beautiful, compassionate, curious, funny, lovely women, my cup was overflowing. I have a very large cup and it was flooding over with joy. When I think that it’s possible that these two could end up in our family permanently, I try to just take a step back and remember that these independent young women, with brilliant minds, could also make different choices so I try to remember a healthy boundary and just take a deep breath and enjoy the moment.

In the end, what I guess I am journaling about right now, is that not a moment goes by that I am not grateful for all that we have. I try to never take anything for granted. Ever. Not when Kate Ceronsky reminds me how welcome she has always felt; not when I get to laugh with Larry Delaney who is trying to run a conference for hundreds in a studio; not when I get to hug Janie White live as I did a couple of weeks ago; not when I get to hear Pat Ford in all her wisdom or Matt telling a story about when he and Susy were kids; not when I get to see my cousin’s husband, Howie, being the same “cute, funny, litte boy” that he has always been and that while he is on his way to discovering seriously good meds to slow dementia, he can still come up with a quiz game from the back seat of the car on a mini-road trip; not that Max did several Heimlich maneuvers on Marty when he briefly choked on his chicken (which was too dry – I swear, I get to make the chicken next year… although Marty’s matzah balls and soup is NOT to be altered in any way); not when Kayla Coffee and Lian and Kate all go bananas over Carlton’s Texas-smoked brisket; not when Mary and I get to both be tipsy; not when we older Passover types argue about every word, song and tone that goes into our custom Pesach Haggadah; not when my dog feels better after a harrowing near-death by chocolate event; not when Marty and I get in bed exhausted and full from the richness our sons, their girlfriends, our families and our friends (and our doggie friends) bring to our lives.

So, yeah, we’ve been busy since we got back. The best kind of busy in the world. Three last notes – one of my dear breast cancer sisters, Julie Cutright, recently died. I hate using words like warrior or battle or fight when talking about cancer. Cancer fucking sucks the life out of you. Having said that, Julie was a fierce and beautiful example of leaving no stone unturned. I take comfort knowing that she got to attend one of her daughter’s wedding while still very much alive. And Julie, being Julie, asked her mom to knit each of us – her remaining breast cancer sisters, a very beautiful Afghan so we could feel her hugs. No words.

Another friend, Madeleine Smithberg, has just begun chemo today for her breast cancer. She was told it would just be radiation, so this was an extra whammy for her as she begins six months of chemotherapy. She will be fine and/but did I mention cancer sucks? I am holding her in my heart.

And, our friend and KHN sister, Ariel Dietzer had a bad accident and is starting the long road to recovery after suffering a brain injury. I am keeping her and her family in my heart and I hope she continues to take steps forward all in her own time and way. Happy Spring to all of us.

A few long ramblings about Argentina

It’s Saturday night and our living room in Seattle is bathed in bright golden sunlight. It’s the first I have seen the sun full on today. It is springtime. The magnolia trees are blooming along with the cherry trees; the daffs are in full bloom, and I tried to “do Shabbat” today by taking a long, lovely walk with Debbie; being completely wowed by Shannon’s salt lick art; taking a ferry to Vashon to visit with Alan, Glenda, Hannah and Aurelia; just being.

Several people asked me to share impressions from our trip. These are just thoughts. I am qualifying all of this by saying this is stream of consciousness blah, blahing. This is what I am thinking about now. Ask me in a few weeks, and I may have processed a whole different way.

A week ago, this evening, Marty and I were finished visiting El Ateneo, a splendid bookstore in Buenos Aires. We were dining at Pertutti, a perfectly adequate spot just down the street. Marty was eating calzone, a little bummed that he found a little grit in it, which annoyed and worried him. When he asked, they told him that it was not all-the-way ground up oregano. The conversation was interesting because it occurred on google translate and it piqued the interest of the couple next to us who were visiting BA to see a doctor. Guillermo and Maria struck up a conversation with us and we chatted and showed one another pictures of our neighborhood. Of course, we hadn’t visited their hometown and we must do that next time. We were in Argentina for a total of just over three weeks and it’s an extremely large country. Imagine trying to cover the US in three weeks.

You could say we visited New York (Buenos Aires), Niagara Falls – only 40 times better (Iguazu) – and Colorado or choose anywhere with the natural beauty of a small segment of Patagonia. We deep dived in that small segment of Patagonia and in Buenos Aires. We popped into Iguazu. This vacation was different. We stayed in places longer (more what Marty enjoys). We didn’t try do more all the time or too much and while I was disappointed not to make it to Uruguay, I think back to the last three Shabbats – last week with the beautiful walk through the city to the book store; the week before doing laundry in our beautiful apartment (in the middle of a development that is still being developed, but with a killer view); and the week before in my favorite hotel of the whole lot – Hostal Ayelen, where we popped down for a wonderful bit of music at an outdoor spot 100 meters below us – Casa de Te Arrayan – the day before we began our Backroads trip. So, all three of those Shabbats were days of rest which really played into the pace of this whole trip. And, as much as I like to be on the go – and as much as I may have wanted to see more, I think slowing things down allowed us to develop a much stronger bond to the country.

So, I was super surprised to be downright teary-eyed on the last afternoon before we flew out. It is possible it is because I had just heard that our friend, Curt, died or that Magdiel and Mirna were feeling the grief of that loss deeply… or maybe I was emotional because I got a few hours to journal on our last day. Marty left his wallet in our cab the last night, right after we attended La Boheme at Teatro Colon, and though there was nothing in the wallet to cause us any real strife (one credit card which we cancelled immediately), he went down to the “tourist police” to report it missing just in case. It wasn’t stolen. It was just left in a cab. In any event, his bus ride downtown then finding the place and filling out the paperwork left me babysitting our luggage (the luggage behaved beautifully) so I ended up at Gratitude, a café in our neighborhood where we started that last week, just hanging and writing and that may be why my emotions welled up.

Journaling helped me focus on why I so loved Argentina. I will try to explain but this is going to be a long ramble so dump out now if you don’t like lengthy wanderings.

First off, over our time there, I came up with an odd theory . . . dogs reflect their people, and we reflect our dogs. The dogs ALL OVER Argentina were a completely different culture than what I have seen in the US. Unless they are pups, they are very rarely leashed. I mean very rarely. Buenos Aries is a city of more than 15 million people. Traffic is the crazy ballet that anyone who has ever lived in Paris or New York, or any huge city experiences and the dogs do not wander out in the streets. From the first day we arrived in Palermo, we saw people walking down the streets with their dogs, sometimes, half a block ahead or behind. Everyone was so tranquil about the dogs. There are stray dogs everywhere in Patagonia and in BA and there are dogs owned by many residents, but the dogs just have a completely different relationship with their people and with one another. Somewhere along the way, I realized that we never saw a squirrel anywhere in the country. We saw a variety of gorgeous birds and butterflies and monkeys and Patagonian maras (though we never saw them in Patagonia – only in BA), but we never saw squirrels or the wild bunnies you see all over West Seattle or chipmunks or anything. I think our dogs wake up every morning and say, “Today is the day I am going to get that squirrel.” And they mean it. And they mostly fail, but they have hope and drive to try again the next day. Their goals are lofty and they enjoy trying, but I think the dogs in Argentina don’t know about or care about or pay any attention to the squirrels. Maybe they don’t have them anymore or maybe they never had them, but I think they are far less distracted. I think they are satisfied with going out, every day, with their peeps, for a walk on the city streets or a jaunt (with other dogs) in the park. I think they are happy to just be out there experiencing life. I think the Argentinian people reflect that. I think they, a long time ago, figured out that their government was corrupt and that they may no longer (or at least not now) able to travel outside of the country as easily because the Argentine peso is not as strong as it once was. They remember a time when their economy was stronger, but that isn’t where they are currently. So, they can be consistently crazed about it or they can just roll with it. I think they have figured out that it’s satisfying and peaceful to get up and do their work and meet their family and friends and just be comfortable with what they have. They definitely work fewer hours than we do and that seems so much more balanced. They just get what needs getting done without having to have places that are open 24 hours a day. They are so, so, so less frantic and frenetic and outraged than we are. It’s not that they don’t get mad … I mean even the dogs would sometimes yelp at one another or be mad. It’s not that they aren’t politically engaged or that they don’t care. They do. Their literacy rate is 99 percent, and you can tell by looking at all the bookstores. Our literacy rate is an average 88 percent and that includes low literacy to medium to high. So it’s not that they aren’t reading or paying attention or philosophizing. Their health care is free (of course). There are all kinds of inefficiencies and craziness there (ask us about all of the potholes on the dirt roads which actually forces people to meander rather than speed through residential neighborhoods) and there is so much in Argentina that doesn’t work (couldn’t get a public transportation card due to a shortage and supply chain issues) and just engage in a conversation with them about their tax system and so on and so on, but we live in a part of Seattle that has been without a bridge connecting us to the city for years with no real end in sight so there you go.

What I am trying to say is that people hang out with their families and friends and talk and engage face to face for hours at a time. They all have cell phones and they use them but I rarely saw people on phones unless they were talking to someone while trying to show them where they were or what they were doing. I saw people engaging in conversation with one another. I think they are not distracted by squirrels. I think they wake up in the morning NOT saying, today is the day I am going to get more stuff or work more hours to prove something or upgrade to something more expensive, but instead, wake up and say today I am going to get to take my walk and see my friends and do some work. They seem so much less outraged and frenetic and more tranquil, like their doggies. I know. A simple and stupid analogy, but it works for me.

My second observation is about the males in that country. I think you can tell a lot about a country based on how the males treat one another and how they treat females and how much space they require. So many times, during our trip, males went very, very far out of their way to engage with us; to ask us about our impressions about their city or country; to try to help us acquire something we needed; to make sure we were comfortable. I never saw males catcalling females the whole time we were there. I saw males who went about whatever they were doing with warmth and with patience and even when impatient, they were impatient without anger. I can’t explain it except to say there wasn’t one male person in the country who ever made me feel uncomfortable – not even the Chasidic rabbi we met in Once. He was certainly super traditional which comes with sexism beyond sexism, but he went out of his way to make me feel comfortable in his synagogue. Subtle differences, but noticeable all the same. Then men were chill, but helpful. One man, after hearing that we were having difficulty, was distressed. I told him not to worry and that it wasn’t his problem. He replied it was his country and his problem. Another man went to three places to try to get a public transportation card for us. Another man just handed us his and insisted we take it since he had two. We also notice so many places where women were together on their own taking up space enjoying one another. We both noticed this throughout. And when we did get to have conversations – deeper conversations with those who spoke English, we could agree to have different opinions and/but I always felt heard, and I got to listen to them without feeling defensive. It was quite lovely.

To me, it felt like a much more rational society. I know that we were tourists and that we hung out in neighborhoods that were not the “underbelly.” I know that we were warned about being careful in different areas and I know that Argentina is a mess just as we are, but I can’t tell you how their homeless situation seems to be far more manageable than ours. We saw some homeless folks but not the endless urban and everywhere else thousands of homeless people we see all over this country. So, I know I am being naïve when I say what I am saying. I know I don’t speak the language, nor did I get to see all the harder edges. But I do know that we were in a neighborhood for a week that is full of people who get up everyday and head to work and I know that this is a country where 80 percent of the folks who could were vaxed and that wearing a mask wasn’t political . . . it was just something they did for one another. It’s not that some of the folks I spoke with weren’t fed up with the masks and the shots and so on . . . it’s simply that they pretty much just had their opinions while also following what rules were set to protect one another.

People regularly asked us why we chose to visit Argentina. I told the truth. I told them it was because our original trip was scheduled in Australia and New Zealand, but that COVID shut that down and we chose Argentina instead. What a wonderful accident.

I genuinely felt connected to the people in the country. They genuinely wondered if we were enjoying their beautiful country and had a lot of pride when we told them that, yes, we loved all the different parts of the country we visited.

So many friends have asked us if this was a “trip of a lifetime.” It was A trip of a lifetime, for sure, but not THE trip of a lifetime. It was wonderful and/but compare that to going with our family to celebrate Claire’s 90^th birthday in Europe or compare it to going to Israel with some of our dearest friends or compare it to traipsing through several countries with Bruce Michael Green for a few months or compare it to taking our kids to visit every au pair they had growing up and how can you compare? I can’t even compare the Backroads trips. Was Patagonia more beautiful than Bryce and Zion? Not really. But Bryce and Zion weren’t more beautiful than Patagonia either. They are both drop dead beautiful places so, yes this was a trip of a lifetime and so are the others. Will I ever get to experience La Boheme in a grander opera house? Probably not, but does that make this the trip of a lifetime? Don’t know. What made it good is that we didn’t get COVID 19 right before; that everything went smoothly; that Marty’s ailing knee cooperated; that our flights went well despite the fact that I was sure we were going to crash on the way down due to turbulence. That’s the BIG recap. Little stories include:

Scannapieco. One of the top five rated ice creams in the world. I had it six days in a row. Heavenly.

The artwork on buildings all over BA.Everything from jaw-dropping beauty by well-known commissioned artists to people just adding color everywhere via murals, posters, etc. + the art museums.

Favorite artists: The entire Miciu family. If you enjoy art and you care to be dazzled a bit, go here: https://www.colecciongeorg.com/english.html

Favorite museum: Malba

I never even got into the week-long Backroads trip. We’ll never get the chance to have what we had. Three people on tour. We loved our tour mate, Daniel Rodriguez, an attorney from Bakersfield, CA. Good stories. Good laughs. Shared values. Same with our tour leader, Ben. I didn’t even begin to talk about the joy of swimming in a lake or learning about yerba mate or being at people’s homes or ranches or engaging with knowledgeable naturalists. The trip was picture perfect and the pacing was great and everything from kayaking to biking to horseback riding to learning the tango to making empanadas was great. But I am not going to get into that.

Favorite tree: Coihue, but so many other good ones.

Favorite spot in Iguazu: Devil’s throat.

Favorite Argentians: Flor, Antonio, Seba, Pedro, Gabrielle, Matilde, Ivana, Guillermo and Maria and Juan. Who knew that we could connect with folks enough to learn a bit more about their lives, their knowledge, their opinions and their culture.

We were 30 kilometers from Chile; on a river shared with Brazil – so close you could touch Brazil; an hour from Uruguay and/but COVID testing in and out of all countries was a hassle. Don’t know if we’ll make it back to Argentina, but we will return to South America for sure.

Soon heading south

“We started an emigration committee and made some plans to settle in some far corners of the earth. We pored over atlases. We learned the direction of prevailing winds and the likely patterns of fall-out…We ruled out Pacific Islands for islands are traps.  We ruled out Australia and New Zealand and we fixed on Patagonia as the safest place on earth.” This is in the first few pages of the book, In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin. It is recommended reading if, by chance, you are headed toward that destination. And we are.

A week from tonight, (with God’s help, don’t attract the evil spirits, peh, peh, peh,) Marty and I will be on our way to South America. This is our Australia/New Zealand trip that I wanted to take in celebration of my retirement. When I started making plans early last summer, I was sure COVID would be under control. It was SOOOO many months away. Who knew this would drag on and on? Okay, epidemiologists knew but I didn’t, so I planned every detail and paid for flights (a lot of flights), lodging and tours and on and on.

Needless to say, I was a bummed out bunny when I saw that Australia and New Zealand would remain in lockdown for nearly ever. Backroads said we could move to any tour. I wanted to go somewhere warm as I figured it would be rainy/gray in Seattle this time of year (although it feels as if spring is arriving early). Still, I booked the Backroads trip – it’s a multi-sport. Read that as easier than biking every day – two days of biking and many more days of hiking, horse back riding, kayaking, cooking, and chilling. But this time, I would not be duped. Because after figuring out every detail of the Australia/New Zealand trip, I was NOT going to get my hopes up. So I booked flights and Backroads and took a backseat to planning. I spent hours getting refunds from NZ and Australia but lost a total of $14 to administrative fees so felt pretty okay when that was all said and done.

But now, it’s a week away and it seems that we are going on the trip regardless of the fact that only three people are going on our Backroads trip, and we are two of them. Nearly-private trip, here we come. Hoping the third person will want to play three-handed cribbage. And, this time, because of all of the COVID testing, regulating and worry, I dumped the idea of going to Chile, Argentina and Uruguay and we opted for one-test in to Argentina and staying there since it’s the 8^th largest country in the world. Yes, okay, we will try to sneak into Uruguay as it is a one-hour ferry ride from Buenos Aires or a four-hour ferry ride to Montevideo but we will check out what the COVID testing situation is upon arrival and I just simply left the last week open.

View from a room at Arrayan Hotel where we’ve booked in for three nights

A few things that excite me:

• We get to do a street art tour with someone I have been in touch with for the last couple of years as I arranged experiences for WEA folks. She has been a favorite and she remembered me and agreed to meet us for a tour the day after we arrive.
• We booked three extra days on either side of our Backroads trips because Patagonia is supposed to be worth hanging out – one of the three-day stays is in a place that reminds me of one of my favorite places on earth – Nepenthe. Growing up, I hung out A LOT at Café Nepenthe in Denver. Then there is Nepenthe in Big Sur. This hotel called Arrayan just gives funky Big Sur vibes. It has a total of four rooms and it’s close enough to walk into town and has a ton of lakes and hikes and we’ll hang until our trip begins.
• The other three days are in Bariloche. Check it out. Very ski townish. It specializes in chocolate.
• The trip. I am excited about the trip.
• We will be heading to Iguazu Falls after. NOT excited about the mosquitos and very hot, humid whether but, hey, it’s the jungle and the falls are one of the wonders of the world.

A few things that scare me:

• Picking up COVID along the way.
• Picking up COVID before we get there.
• Picking up COVID no matter how careful we may be.
• Dengue fever, malaria, the mosquito borne other diseases and all the usual fears of being somewhere else but that just goes with the territory.
• Flying. I fricking hate flying.

I am slightly worried that Kramer is getting too old for us to travel for a month at a time, but Paul Levin, Maddie Schenck and Kayla Coffee and Max Westerman promise me they will love him up while we are gone. I am nervous that we will be robbed on the street because we haven’t traveled in so long that I think we will just have “naïve tourist” written on our foreheads. But, adventuring we will go. We will leave our house in very capable hands. We will get a bonus visit with Ronda and Jon in Atlanta (breaking up the trip there so we can do a non-stop from Atlanta to Buenos Aires). And trying hard to keep a low profile this week while worrying whether to take two pairs of sneakers or one (okay, I am taking five or six pairs of shoes as feet have to be the most comfortable while traveling – this is the joy of having little feet. One can take two pairs of sandals, hiking shoes, water shoes and one or two pairs of sneakers. I say all this with gratitude, and I don’t, for one minute, forget the privilege we have been given to get to take this trip. Six years ago, on Valentine’s Day, we were in Cuba. It was one of the best trips we ever took, and it had more highlights than one could ever imagine and/but that adventure also had some scary moments. I was pretty sure we would die while traveling in old Russian trucks down very steep mountains at speeds that were way more than anyone should have gone; Marty got food poisoning that will forever remain a story with the folks with whom we traveled; it took seven hours to get our luggage and we were all stuck in one room waiting so there were drawbacks . . . one hotel had only cold water; another had no water after 8pm. So, I am excited about this trip. Just hoping we are not going to get in deep trouble. A little trouble is okay, but just hoping it’ll all be okay. But that is the world in which we live so, as Chatwin says, we are fixed on Patagonia as the safest place on earth. Hope that pans out.

Hoping we can play cribbage and read books up here in 10 days or so.

Martin Luther King and Nate Kellman

Tomorrow, Martin Luther King Jr would have turned 93. Nate Kellman would have turned 101. Though one man had a significantly larger impact in the country, and world, both had significant impact on me.

This will be the first time in my life that I won’t be able to wish my dad a happy birthday. Still, while he has celebrated in grand style for years, his awareness and understanding of the significance of turning 100 last year may have just been another fun day for him, more than a really big deal. Birthdays were never a big deal to my dad. Carmen, his second wife, says that they became a bigger deal to him as he grew older. When we were in Hawaii together when he turned 90, he did seem pleased to hear the whole crowd singing happy birthday to him.

You all have heard me pining about missing my dad (yes, tree pun is intentional). I miss him and his “chochmot” — his spiel, his stories. He loved sharing a birthday with MLK. He respected his work and he was very strong on civil rights. He believed in equality for everyone and he 100 percent “bought in” to the stories white people tell and told of how things were changing and things had changed and that Black people now had all of the same rights that white people had. My dad was proud to live in a country that promised liberty and the pursuit of happiness for all men and he “got it” that MLK’s work moved the civil rights movement further forward, but like most of us, my dad didn’t get that white people systematically kept black and brown people out of our neighborhoods or that our public schools — the very schools in which we were raised and taught, incorrectly, about our history — systematically force Black people to compete with one another just to gain a coveted slot in the “gifted” classes. My dad didn’t know that banks wouldn’t offer the same loan to Black people that he could easily attain. It’s not that he chose to ignore this . . . he just never took much time to think about it. Nor did my generation. We were sold a narrative. We all bought in to all kinds of lies Anyway, I could go on and on, but I won’t. Instead, in honor of my dad’s birthday, I invite those who are reading to listen to (as I did) or read a book by Dr. Brittany Cooper called “Eloquent Rage.”

I just road tripped from LA to Seattle and along the way, I was honored to hear Dr. Cooper’s thoughts (it felt like a very long and wonderful college lecture) about Black feminism. In the end, this incredibly smart young woman wishes her readers joy (as opposed to happiness), endless curiosity and eloquent rage. My father was full of joy and endless curiosity. He wasn’t a big rage guy and though he overcame so much after many in his family members perished during the war, he still benefited greatly by being a white man. Even though he was a Jewish, foreigner when he arrived in this country, he benefited from being a white male. We never got the chance to talk much about this because my own deeper awareness around whiteness and white women and privilege is only taking shape in the years after my dad would have been able to learn more and discuss this. But one thing I know. He did understand that he was lucky even as he talked about being a “self made” man.

I was walking with Michael and Dana Gill’s daughter, Maxine, in Moraga the other day and we agreed that rage is not really something that is moving us forward, but after reading this book, I shall be contacting her to say that eloquent rage is a whole different ball game.

Anyhow, that is what I have been pondering as his 101st birthday approaches. I so wish that MLK could “weigh in” on the state of the world. I can’t help but hope/wonder how proud he would be of the three women who started the Black Lives Matter movement. That’s kind of it for me as I think about my dad and MLK. They are both on my mind and I hope that their birthdays are observed and honored by all of those whose lives they touched . . . whether it was just a few or a few billion.