Two hundred and twenty-one years ago today in Philadelphia, the Constitution was signed, giving birth to an experiment in government that has been more successful than the signers ever dreamed. Today is a good day to step back from the current political fray and look at what this document, this idea, this dream has produced.
We have, for over two hundred years, experienced peaceful (for the most part) elections of our leaders. We have seen the civilized transfer of power from one party to another. We have seen slavery abolished, and the right to vote extended to all citizens, regardless of their race or gender. We have seen inflammatory legal issues decided by our courts system, and the results debated and sometimes changed via prescribed procedures.
It hasn't been perfect. We have made mistakes. There have been violent disagreements and protests of unpopular policies, but we have been faithful to that initial statement of our founding fathers: "We, the people..." are the deciders for our country. We, the people, will vote in November and select our leaders once again. We, the people of the United States of America, have been making history for over two hundred years, and this election is another chapter, another illustration of how that happens. Whether we choose a black man or a white man, a woman or a man, a soldier or a statesman, we know that the Constitution is strong enough to withstand whatever storms we may encounter. Times may get rougher, challenges harder to meet; prestige may fade, economics may falter, but we planted our flag over 200 years ago in Philadelphia. It will stand.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Happy birthday, Roald Dahl!
Is there a child alive who has not heard, read, or watched a story by Roald Dahl? If such a child exists, I must condemn his/her parents/family/teachers to one of the lower circles of hell for depriving him/her of some of the best stories available for kids. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Twits, James and the Giant Peach, The Witches...all the wonder and horrors and dreams and fears that populate kids' imaginations, orchestrated and presented in a way that captivates not only kids, but their parents as well. Go back and read them again as a birthday tribute.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Farm to Fork
If last night's Farm to Fork dinner at Del Ray's Evening Star was any indicator of the value of freshness, maybe I need to start growing food crops in my tiny garden. Somehow I doubt if my efforts--in the garden or my kitchen--could produce the results that we enjoyed last night from the kitchen of Chef Will Artley. An ambrosial gazpacho was succeeded by a series of plates (shrimp fritter, scallops, salads, wonderfully crunchy little chips of garlic, beef tenderloin, ratatouille napoleon) that kept topping each other in flavor, innovation and just plain deliciousness. The previous list was from memory--and I'm a person who sometimes has trouble remembering what I ate for lunch!
I also have to say I am pretty much a dessert purist, and the listed dessert that incorporated tomatoes as well as a basil ice cream had me casting a fairly skeptical eye at the menu. However...like everything else on the table, it vastly exceeded expectations and I would have cheerfully pocketed two or three to take home. The wines were ignored in the discussions, but certainly did not deserve to be. When did they say the next dinner in this series will be?
I also have to say I am pretty much a dessert purist, and the listed dessert that incorporated tomatoes as well as a basil ice cream had me casting a fairly skeptical eye at the menu. However...like everything else on the table, it vastly exceeded expectations and I would have cheerfully pocketed two or three to take home. The wines were ignored in the discussions, but certainly did not deserve to be. When did they say the next dinner in this series will be?
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
The trouble with blogs
It's so easy to START a blog..it's keeping it going that is difficult. I don't always have something to say. Though my family might differ with that, I am certain they'd agree that not everything I prattle on about is worth listening to. I've opened this screen at least three times today in the hope that a bolt of lightning will illuminate the room and I will suddenly have an idea worthy of a paragraph or two. Nope. I've pretty much decided that I MUST do an entry at least once a week--which gives me absolution for a little more than 80% of my time. I can live with that.
That resolved, I have been attempting to corral my poetry oeuvre into some sort of orderly topic-oriented progression, so that I might enter a few contests, submit to a few journals, and perhaps, just perhaps, achieve (in that suddenly-free 80% of my time) that devoutly-to-be-wished goal: publication.
It isn't easy. Despite my exalted title (ahem) I am still as uncertain about the quality and value of what I write as I ever was. It's so easy to brush off a compliment or a kind word as simple good manners. (Perhaps that is because of the books I've read and readings that I've walked away from with a contemptuous "I could do better than that!")
In any event, sending my work off to a journal or other publication feels like putting a brand-new kindergartner on the bus--or perhaps, more accurately, flinging them under the wheels of the bus. I read a poem, then I start (figuratively) to comb its hair or tweak its shirt, or lick my handkerchief and scrub away at an imagined spot. It's impossible to believe that it is ready to be dispatched into the real world to be judged and (possibly) found wanting. Far easier to keep it safe at home.
But then, how will I ever know whether it measures up or not? Maybe this is why so many artists (and I include poets among them) aren't recognized until they are dead. They can't let go.
That resolved, I have been attempting to corral my poetry oeuvre into some sort of orderly topic-oriented progression, so that I might enter a few contests, submit to a few journals, and perhaps, just perhaps, achieve (in that suddenly-free 80% of my time) that devoutly-to-be-wished goal: publication.
It isn't easy. Despite my exalted title (ahem) I am still as uncertain about the quality and value of what I write as I ever was. It's so easy to brush off a compliment or a kind word as simple good manners. (Perhaps that is because of the books I've read and readings that I've walked away from with a contemptuous "I could do better than that!")
In any event, sending my work off to a journal or other publication feels like putting a brand-new kindergartner on the bus--or perhaps, more accurately, flinging them under the wheels of the bus. I read a poem, then I start (figuratively) to comb its hair or tweak its shirt, or lick my handkerchief and scrub away at an imagined spot. It's impossible to believe that it is ready to be dispatched into the real world to be judged and (possibly) found wanting. Far easier to keep it safe at home.
But then, how will I ever know whether it measures up or not? Maybe this is why so many artists (and I include poets among them) aren't recognized until they are dead. They can't let go.
Friday, September 5, 2008
After the conventions
I'm beginning to think that the best method for evaluating our national circus (otherwise known as the presidential election) might be the same process used in rating other competitive enterprises: collect the scores, throw out the highest and the lowest, then average the middle ones. That way, we could just ignore all the over-the-top shenanigans (Sarah Palin's speech, for one), throw out all the low blows (but who's counting?), and whittle things down to reality-level.
Accept the fact that (thank God) our system of checks and balances won't permit the fulfillment of the more outrageous promises/consequences and believe that the American public won't fall totally for the exaggerations, misrepresentations, and downright lies that people tell (and the media reports) while under the influence of the convention spotlights. No candidate is a savior, and no candidate is the devil incarnate. Lord knows, we've had some bad actors in government, and politics can generate some pretty reprehensible behavior--but, somehow, we've managed to hold things together for a couple centuries with this system of ours. No matter who is elected, life will go on; perhaps not in the way we want it to, perhaps not without some serious bumps in the road, but on, nevertheless.
I'd like to believe that when I go into the voting booth in November, there will be millions of others like me (and certainly millions of others NOT like me) who will be listening to their own consciences, their own values (if the Republicans haven't damaged that word for all time), and their own beliefs, and will be voting for the people who are most closely aligned with their own views. I'd like to think that when the voting is done, all those millions of people will accept the results and continue to work and be involved in the governmental processes that allow even the minority to have a voice in how this country operates. That is, after all, the way this is all supposed to work.
Accept the fact that (thank God) our system of checks and balances won't permit the fulfillment of the more outrageous promises/consequences and believe that the American public won't fall totally for the exaggerations, misrepresentations, and downright lies that people tell (and the media reports) while under the influence of the convention spotlights. No candidate is a savior, and no candidate is the devil incarnate. Lord knows, we've had some bad actors in government, and politics can generate some pretty reprehensible behavior--but, somehow, we've managed to hold things together for a couple centuries with this system of ours. No matter who is elected, life will go on; perhaps not in the way we want it to, perhaps not without some serious bumps in the road, but on, nevertheless.
I'd like to believe that when I go into the voting booth in November, there will be millions of others like me (and certainly millions of others NOT like me) who will be listening to their own consciences, their own values (if the Republicans haven't damaged that word for all time), and their own beliefs, and will be voting for the people who are most closely aligned with their own views. I'd like to think that when the voting is done, all those millions of people will accept the results and continue to work and be involved in the governmental processes that allow even the minority to have a voice in how this country operates. That is, after all, the way this is all supposed to work.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
Summer's End
Only yesterday the sunshined schoolbus
ceased its daily orbit round the neighborhood.
We shrieked across the schoolyard,
books and teachers in our wake.
Freed from the solitary confinement of our desks
we wrote our names instead in jet trails
across the vast blue board of sky,
multiplied our hours by each blade of grass,
perfected the physics of skipping stones
and measured the depth and flow of creek and pond.
From grassy beds, we studied pinprick stars
in the planetarium of night
and wrapped ourselves in lush damp air
that sparkled with fireflies and magic.
Yet here we stand in August, three months gone--
with our barefoot mornings and lemonade afternoons,
days of watermelon on the porch
and thorny blackberry expeditions behind us,
learning once more the sweet alchemy of a peach
while the juice of summer
trickles through our fingers...
ceased its daily orbit round the neighborhood.
We shrieked across the schoolyard,
books and teachers in our wake.
Freed from the solitary confinement of our desks
we wrote our names instead in jet trails
across the vast blue board of sky,
multiplied our hours by each blade of grass,
perfected the physics of skipping stones
and measured the depth and flow of creek and pond.
From grassy beds, we studied pinprick stars
in the planetarium of night
and wrapped ourselves in lush damp air
that sparkled with fireflies and magic.
Yet here we stand in August, three months gone--
with our barefoot mornings and lemonade afternoons,
days of watermelon on the porch
and thorny blackberry expeditions behind us,
learning once more the sweet alchemy of a peach
while the juice of summer
trickles through our fingers...
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