Let Me Tell You a Secret

Let me tell you a secret:  

I don’t really care about the primaries, 

about Iowa, New Hampshire, Nevada, and South Carolina. 

It makes no difference to me  

until they get together behind someone. 

Till then, it’s smoke and mirrors and confusion, 

which helps if it’s the opposition who is confused; 

not so much if it’s my party fumbling in the dark. 

They all have something good to say.  

Of course, you put your best foot (and issue) forward, 

but who can deliver on all those promises? 

(At least they are--we hope-- sincere...) 

But navigating the rocky shoals of Congress with an agenda

isn't easy 

unless you are willing to lie and cheat and steal 

unless you can threaten grown men into submission 

unless you recruit a goon squad to do your bidding. 

(What are you afraid of, Mitch McConnell, that 

imperils you more than the fate of your immortal soul? 

The outcome of an election? Come, now.) 

But I digress. 

If one could pick and choose among them... 

ah, if one only could!..I’d choose Bernie’s fire, 

Pete’s brainpower, Warren’s empathy, Joe’s conviviality, 

Tom’s environment, Mike’s manager’s mind, 

and Amy’s midwestern practicality. 
We need to pick a winner, though,
and that is a knotty problem:
Who? Who will be an indian 
in a roomful of would-be chiefs?

I want to summon to our cause
all that charm, all that earnestness 

all the honesty and character (and have I mentioned 

character?) all that poise and articulate speech, 

And, please, can we get behind someone 
who doesn’t look angry or petulant  

all the time? And who doesn’t yell or tweet or retaliate. 

Someone who would kiss a baby or two and smile, 
who acknowledges that a world exists 
outside the orbit of the 24-hour news cycle 
and the Twitterverse, 
We need someone to be proud of, 
whose voice we turn up, not off;

who respects the electorate, deserving though 
we may or may not be,

because (let me tell you) 

that is the secret: respect:

For opponents, for the voters,

for the office, for yourself.

Sing it, Aretha: loud and strong.  

It’s been too long since we've seen any.  

Revisiting the Past

It’s been a wild week. Or two. Or three. First, we are currently in San Diego, and have been for nearly two months. We have reconnected with friends here, taken a side trip to Pasadena for the antiquarian book fair, as well as for a lovely stay at the Langham Hotel there. We have had visitors from Tucson (dear daughter and her family) and from back east (my sister and brother-in-law), and visited a few of the can’t-miss local attractions: the zoo and the Scripps Aquarium and Cabrillo Point. We have spoken with our yard maintenance guys (yet another personnel turnover) and our superstar cleaning lady, Magda. We have seen a play, dined at any number of fine restaurants, including the great ones just a block or two away, visited our favorite local book sale, and enjoyed the everyday sunshine here, as opposed to the gloom of an east coast winter. We have also endured an extremely unnecessary and inconvenient bout of coughs and colds (introduced by our visitors) but are on the mend after some serious antibiotic regimens. And we flew to Tucson for...well, for a number of reasons. First and foremost, to spend some time with our daughter, our granddaughters, and Paul. Then, a first visit to Tucson’s annual Gem Show. Then (and probably of equal importance) a reunion with some cousins I’d lost track of for over 50 years.  

Some people might wonder how one loses cousins for that long, and all I can say is that those people might not have large families. My mom was the oldest of nine children, and that fact means that I have approximately 45 first cousins and god-alone-knows-how-many seconds and thirds and once and twice removed are wandering around out there. And that’s just my grandmother’s side of the family. There are reunions, but it’s impossible to round up everyone. Last time I remember attending, the volunteer fire department came out to the park and barbecued chicken; someone lined us up on the hill near the softball field and took a picture. I think we counted 135 people—and there were a lot missing.   

So, to start with, the two cousins under discussion were the sons of my mother’s younger brother, John. He died of leukemia at approximately the age of 40, leaving behind a wife and five children: John, Tom, Chap, Beth, and Anita. John and Anita stayed in Pennsylvania. Beth ended up in Houston, Tom in Wyoming, and Chap..in Thailand. This past year, I heard (from his sister, Beth, on Facebook) that Chap comes back to the states—in fact, to Tucson—for the Gem Show there in late January/early February each year. And that Tom now lives outside Tucson, and that Chap and his wife stay with them for the show. MY connection with Tucson is our daughter, Kay, and her family. So I started communicating, and arranged to meet up with Tom and his wife, Sue, and Chap and his Thai wife, Mam. Breakfast. Saturday at 8 am. We were given the number and location of Chap’s booth at the Gem Show as well. 

Reunions can be iffy. When my uncle John died, Tom and Chap were packed off to the Milton Hershey School in Hershey, PA. Mr. Hershey had founded a school for orphaned boys where they received room and board and education—including college, if they were so inclined. They were thus never there when we visited Dallastown, and pretty much ceased to exist in our world, except for mentions in letters. My aunt Cass remarried and moved away to New York, so even that touchpoint disappeared. In any case, here we were, virtual strangers, meeting up after 55 years, and attempting to fill in the gaps between. Would we even recognize each other? Would we have anything to talk about? Are family ties strong enough to survive that level of separation? The answer is an unqualified “yes”. 

I stopped by Chap’s booth on Friday morning. He knew me instantly—and I, him. The Riedel boys are all short and bald. No mistaking Chap for anyone else in his booth. We talked and we met his lovely wife, Mam. He filled in a few gaps—such as how he went from selling tractors in Pennsylvania (!!) to dealing in gems, polishing and designing and selling them in Thailand. He left us still wondering about the hows and whys of all his travels. He seems to have been everywhere and done everything. Amazing. 

Then, on Saturday, when we arrived at the restaurant, Tom was even more recognizable: he looked exactly like his dad. And he had also inherited the taciturn nature of the Riedels. A man of few words, he was seated next to JC and may have uttered 6 words during the course of breakfast, and most of those were used to place his order. Fortunately, his wife was more voluble. And his brother, as well. I’d brought a few old pictures, and offered to send a letter (45 pages worth) that my mom had written Kay for a school project, describing what life was like when she was 8 years old. Needless to say, much of that narrative included her brother John and all that they did as kids. We talked about the farm where our early reunions occurred. They had lived there and remembered most of what I could dredge up about the place. My grandmother’s sugar cakes were remembered as fondly as I remembered them—and for pretty much the same reason: she always had a Charles Chips can full of them for any stray grandchild that wandered in—tucked away under the sink where we all knew they were. And could snitch a couple, unobserved. I still don’t know if they tasted so good just because they were stolen... 

We talked about food at the reunions—because that’s what those gatherings were all about. My grandma’s devil’s food cake with peanut butter between the layers and white icing streaked with bittersweet chocolate. Her lemon pie, which always had some undetectable flaw (according to her). Aunt Carrie’s banana cake. Chicken corn soup. Swimming in the pond. Going to the barn to see what seemed to be an acre of yellow, fluffy chicks. Watching my cousins ride the big hogs, that squealed and trotted around the barnyard. My uncle killing chickens—and yes, they really DO run around wildly with their heads cut off. Could we find anything to talk about? Oh, yes. 

Have I mentioned that my uncles are not big talkers? And that Tom is the same? Neither is ANYONE in that family demonstrative in the least. I can’t remember ever even hugging my grandma, much less an uncle or aunt. The women cooked and cleaned and the men worked and played horseshoes when they got together. “Monosyllabic” defines the Riedel men.  

And yet. And yet. When we vacated our table and gathered outside for goodbyes, Tom came over to me, arms outstretched for a hug. And said, “Thank you for coming.” Chap brought boxes of jewels to Tucson; we bought a few pieces from him, but the treasure I took home was that hug, and that ‘thank you’.  

A hug and a four-word sentence from a Riedel. Beyond price.